The White Room
I awaken. Something is different. I blink the sleep from my eyes. Scan my body. Catch my breath. The pain. It's gone. My eyes flicker to the window. The pine trees are blanketed with fresh snow. A gust of wind seizes the branches and the world is obscured in white. A long, smooth exhale. It is over.
The lessons I've learned over the past year:
-- The difference between signs and wishful thinking.
-- For every demon inside of us there's an angel. Sometimes they're the same presence. I've identified mine and given them names. We work together now.
-- You can pass the test, but feel defeated rather than victorious.
I'm a profoundly different person than I was a year ago. Am I a better person? I really don't know.
I've entered a vast, white space. It is utter emptiness, a vacuum of cosmos magnitude, but not desolation. Eerie, but intriguing rather than terrifying. I stand still and listen with innocent curiosity. I have absolutely no idea of what is to come.
There is a recognized form of torture called “white torture”. It's used by certain organizations and governments, including my own. A prisoner is entombed in a soundproof white cell. Her clothes and even the food she is served is white. All communication with guards must be written down. The only sound is the prisoner's slippered feet shuffling across the white floor. And her thoughts. Eventually, the prisoner completely loses her personal identity. She will never return to normal.
Is it really amnesia? We are more than just beings who process the sensations of our environment. When the external is stripped away, we are confronted with the blank canvas of the psyche. Out of the white void, something else arises. If we let it.
I have a new profession. One so alien to me and yet so necessary. I work in a temple of value and worth. Rigid compliance and conformity. The soft rasp of currency gliding through my fingertips. The tinkle of coins. When you touch too much of something it loses its power. It becomes silly.
I close my eyes at night and I'm there again. People have given me money for my work. Stacks and loose bills. Ones, fives, hundreds. Two-thousand and ten-thousand dollar bills. Dreamland denominations. I'm humbled by the generosity. It's much more than I expected and I wonder if I'll get into trouble for taking it. I look over at my coworkers, those above me. “Can I take all of this?”
Their smiles are amused and slightly sad. “Of course you can take it. It's yours. You deserve it.”
I sort through the bills. Some are faded, torn, blood-stained. There is a small stack of twenties with a singed hole through the center, like a gunshot wound. This is all they had to give, but it doesn't mean it's all that you're worth. You are not obligated to accept it. You never have been. I set the soiled bills aside. Mutilated currency is sent back to its origin and it is taken out of circulation. Forever.
The things that I've let go. Fundamental facets of my identity and purpose in this life. Who was I? A world traveler. One who will most likely not be welcome in a brave new normal. I refuse to betray my convictions. Even for the road. The vessel that carries my soul is more sacred than an airplane. I have my wilderness, now. I drift amid my trees, gloved hands caressing bark. Eyes lifted to the sky, following a raven's trajectory. The crunch of my boots in ankle-deep snow. New adventures begin to sprout in my imagination. Whispers fill my mind: permaculture, agroforestry, foraging, herbal medicine. A wonderland surrounds me.
Who did I wish to be? An author published by a recognized house. Alas, my story is not one that's sought by the masses. It was not bitterness, but momentary resignation that blossomed into sweet liberation. I never truly wanted to be part of traditional publishing. I am too wild for that world. I have lost the last of my respect for it. Now, only my energy will be within the pages. It won't be sanitized by outside influences to make it more marketable. I won't be molded into a Brand®. I have enough faith in my ability as a writer. Those who are destined to read the book will find it.
What seems like rejection is redirection into new frontiers. I wait and watch and listen. Try to identify this incredible feeling inside. Indifference, effervescence, wonder. Purity. I have passed the test. There are things I will never again allow into my life. If it means that I finish my existence alone, so be it.
Recede. Come home. No one can hurt you here.
A mischievious smile creeps across my face. I was never really there, anyway.
Years ago, back when I wrote fiction, I wanted to write a story about a woman who believed she was a ghost among the living. There have been so many stories written about phantoms who believe they are still alive, and the story ends when they've discovered that they've passed on and couldn't let go of life. The character I envisioned wanders the corridors of her workplace and the various haunts of her daily routine. She no longer bothers to communicate, because no one has ever acknowledged her. Then, one day, a man speaks to her. He peers deep inside of her and smiles. And she realizes she's alive. She always has been. The others were incapable of seeing her.
The softest hiss of a paintbrush gliding across bare wood planks. The walls of my little shelter. Just enough white to brighten, but not enough to erase the character. I lift my eyes and brush my hair out of my face with the back of my whitewash-splattered hand. The iridescent glow of snow light through the shiny new window. Snowflakes dance against the pristine window pane. I've been writing that story all along. How it ends remains a mystery.