From an Upper Floor

From a journal entry September 25, 2000. . . . .”I meant to come down and write this story last week when it happened but again I did not.   Whether I am becoming lazy or whether just tired,  I don’t know.   But when I was unloading the car of groceries in front of the house,  a car came by with a young woman in it.   She pulled up in front of the house next door and parked.   She got out of the car and approached me with a slip of paper.   She was looking for a street address which she had written on it.   I told her this was the seven hundred block and she would do well to go down the next block to the East.  She was a little thing,  probably in her thirties or so and she said in broken English that she had come to a garage sale a few days ago and when she got home she realized that she did not pay the woman enough for whatever she bought.

I said well,  that is awfully good of you to come back with your money and I know the woman would appreciate this act of honesty.   No,  no,  she said,  my God sees me.   My God sees me.   And  that is why she was coming back.  I said,  thank you,  thank you.   For I had fueled my body with resentment to get my errands done and had forgotten momentarily what I was all about.   I was grateful to be reminded that when I am at a loss for a good reason to do things,  the one reason should be reason enough.   My God sees me.

I brought the groceries into the house and was coming out to put the car away.   I saw a car slow down in front of me and the window slid down.    It was the young woman from before and she said thank you to me again for she had found the woman and returned the money.   No,  I said,  thank you.  She smiled and waved herself away.    I think about her and can see that face with her scarf binding her hair and the smile crumpling a dignified demeanor.   And I am grateful again for being reminded that even with feelings not seen by the outside world,  my God sees me.   Anything that corrodes my Spirit needs to be worked on immediately.”

(And today with so much flooding our circuitry,  it is easy to forget the basic lessons.   I am grateful for the written word.)

Years ago I found the word pewambic on a note on my bedside table.   I called a friend and asked her if she was familiar with the word.   She thought it had something to do with pottery.   I told her that in a dream snippet,  I was on my haunches and doing something in front of me.   I have since learned about the Native Americans of the Pewabic tribe (correct spelling) for whom pottery in the Midwest was named and I also learned that when dreaming I visit alternate realities.   My study has taught me that all worlds are simultaneous.  Even now I find my thoughts stuttering because though I know this is so for my memos bear me out, for all of us to live peacefully we must give space to different perspectives, i.e. what a person sees.

Here I step aside and the Teachers’ notes take over.   “You were working with the hands on a piece of pottery that stemmed from the area where you were.   The ancient civilizations were using the tiles borrowed from the more modern ones.   You were seen working with the tiles and with the pottery from a distant past.   The materials were not as ancient as you depict simply because they were of borrowed times.   When we speak of borrowed times we say that within the past and present or within the past and future, there is a melding that defies the linear description common to where you are.   If for instance you took the computer to another time, it would not have the functions,  but the rudiments would be the same.   The ability to work with the hands would be utilized but the time differential would be such that the illusions would be different, i.e. the materials.

The seepage, (bleed through from other times) would be there in the form of the machine.  What presents so much difficulty is your kaleidoscopic view bringing into focus bits and pieces of several dimensions (perspectives).  You can utilize this state by taking a more comprehensive look with eyes that work a bit differently.   It would seem from a distance to be all of a piece but what is really created is a new dimension.   What you see are many dimensions and the differing perspectives enhances the ability of others to understand those things needing a larger premise.”

And I say only if others are willing to give time to listen and space to be.   It is not easy when what you see is different than what others see.   We cannot climb behind an other’s eyes to see the world.   The child or adult in back of you,  in front or to the side of you is seeing our world perhaps differently.   Inside differences are sometimes harder to live with than outside differences.   As one wise child said,  ‘some of us have birth marks on the inside and some on the outside.’   We must listen to their words.   We must allow space for other perspectives because we don’t grow in understanding unless we draw a larger circle to include those who are different.

We must broaden our premises if we and our planet are to survive.

Do I have more minutes to finish?   There was no time for answers because the little one with a dash was out of sight.   In a few minutes he was back and announced,  I finish.   Having learned to wait while private things were finished,  I waited again while he proceeded to his room.

I followed him shortly to find him in pajamas and ready to crawl into the high bed.   Well, should it be a story to tell or a story to read I asked.   I am ready for you to choose.   Tell me what it is we should do to get you ready for sleep?   And I waited.  Minutes ticked away while the choice was being made.   Patiently, again,  what will it be?

His face took on a faraway look as if searching for a memory.   I recognized the look and wondered where he would go for that memory to take shape.   I knew it well.   It was a look that had been on my face many times with voices telling me to stop dreaming.   I needed to pay attention to what was at hand and not waste so much time dreaming.  So because of those reprimanding voices,   I knew to wait.

He asked if I would sing the one I singed when I singed with other voices.   He knowed that song!

What song is that?   I wondered.  There was no time for me to sing with other voices that he would have heard.   Like this, he said and in his high soprano he sang his Gllloooooooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaand I knew.   Unbelievably I knew.   The music hung on his tongue and in his throat as if he were tasting a delicate sweet.

When did you ever hear me sing that?  I asked.   Before I came to you,  he said.   Before I came.   I heard you singed and my heart singed with you.   I knowed I could tell you some time if I just ‘membered it.    I promised I would ‘member so I could hear it again and again.  I knowed that you would ‘member if I singed it.   And you do!  he said,  you do!

And I believed him because I gave up choir when he was due to be born.   I took this child into my arms and sang the song he so wondrously remembered.   And when I came to the part he remembered his voice faithfully shadowed mine.   And another posit was added to the Memory Bank but who would believe it?   Who??????  Except the many someones  who entered their place of belief every time they bent their knees.

Those are the who. . . . . . .