Scroll down for new installment. Check back each week.

Jerry arose before daybreak and started making coffee, then he remembered he couldn’t do that. Instead he boiled water and squirted some lemon juice in it, gazing at the honey bowl.

He pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, turtleneck, thick sweater, and hopped onto his overstuffed chair. He stared out the window. The sky, the water, the town below were all rendered in tones of gray. The ferry boat backed into its dock, churning up water and cars slid off in pursuit of their day; seagulls swirled above; up the strait, smoke belched from the paper factory’s two chimneys. 

He leaned over and grabbed his Bible. Five pages into it, he grabbed another book off his bookshelf: Ann Tyler’s Accidental Tourist. It was a favorite of his, and he started rereading it.

He eyed the clock: 7:57. This was going to be a long haul.

He cracked open his journal: 

February 2, 1982. 

I don’t feel like reading the Bible. This is not going to be some scholarly experience. This is going to be a journey to the heart, as April recommended. This is going to be a visit to the other side, entering the The Cloud of Unknowing, the mystical.  

I’m changing. All the potlucks, the chamomile teas, the co-op consciousness, and most especially, April have awakened another side of me. Nature. The Feminine. Gaia. My body. 

I’ve always had stomach problems. Bad digestion. Constipation. Stomach aches. Lately, I feel it softening, relaxing, like heretofore it’s been anticipating a punch.

So much about me is a mystery. Why is that? Am I holding back stuff from me?

4 pm: His stomach growled. Night descended. He took a hot bath and read. After, he pulled on his flannel pajamas, wrapped himself in his robe, sank down into his chair and journaled.

Here’s another thing in the mystery category: The other day, at the Town Tavern with friends, I took a swig of beer, and I couldn’t swallow, my throat just locked up on me. I panicked. It took every self control mechanism I had not to just spew it out in front of everybody. Finally, I relaxed enough to swallow. Weird. Does that happen to other people?

And another: I was in the kitchen at the Salal making oatmeal. I thought I was alone, and when I turned around, there was April. I fell to the floor, I mean, literally, my knees buckled, and I went down, I was so frightened by her appearance. She looked at me like I was crazy. She said I needed to relax. Duh.

The wind rapped on the windows. The house shook. He opened his futon and promised himself, as he lay down and threw a blanket over himself, that he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep.

When he reopened his eyes, it was morning. Woozy, he stood up. Lack of food was taking a toll. 

He resolved he would spend the day listening to music, really getting into it, dancing. He placed Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2 on the turntable. The music flowed, so delicate, so gentle. He was swept into a river of tears. 

Why am I so sad? It scares me, like it’s a bottomless pit. 

I don’t like being alone, depression creeps up.

Then I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull myself out of it. 

I don’t like this.

Jerry slapped on some happy music: Huey Lewis and the News. He hopped, jumped and danced all around the apartment. It didn’t work. A heaviness pressed down on his spirit. He collapsed onto his folded up futon in the living room. 

Across the way, he gazed at his bedroom, with its closed door, as it always was. 

OK, here’s another mystery: Why don’t I sleep in the bedroom? I only go in there to dress. Something prevents me from sleeping there. I’m more comfortable out in the living room.

Nausea replaced hunger. A headache gripped his forehead.

Outside, the sky darkened. Shadows flew past his window. Ravens, three of them, soundless black streaks. 

It pissed him off.

Darkness wraps its arms around me, embraces me in a suffocating hold. I have fallen into a rabbit hole, and down here, the streets are mean. Ravens mock me. I hate them. A cauldron of rage surges within. I gotta learn how to cool it, not fuel it; soothe it, not infuriate it, for with it frothing, I’m gonna kill somebody. Hopefully, not me.

Why am I so angry?

He craved sleep, but didn’t let himself. He tried to meditate, but he couldn’t quiet his thoughts. He nodded off, then started awake, fighting off each impulse to sleep.

In the morning, day three, a knock at the door jarred him out of his stupor. He stumbled downstairs. Someone left a note: Call your father.

How weird. It’s like he knows I’m in trouble, or maybe, that I’m on to something. Synchronicity? 

Grasping the bannister, he wobbled up the stairs. At the top, he lay down. His cheek rested on the cold hardwood floor. As he gazed through the crack under his bedroom door, like a vapor, a memory slithered out.

Night. Summer. The whir of the rotating fan. I’m ten. I’m in my underwear, the cool breeze feels good as I lay on my belly. Dad enters. He starts massaging my legs. He works his way up to my thighs. I feel sweat dropping off him onto me. He slips his fingers under my underwear. He’s caressing my bottom, grazing my testicles.  

I don’t know what to do. Should I stop this? Should I say something? I pray it to stop on its own. My mind rages. Is this wrong? Is this OK? Should I speak? What should I say?

Dad’s breathing is heavy. His hand clenches my bottom. 

Then he stops. He leaves my room. 

Jerry jumped up.

“You motherfucking bastard!” he roared, saliva spraying across the room. He smashed his fist into his futon. “You motherfucking bastard!” Over and over, until he collapsed, throat burning, knuckles raw, arms shaking.

Against the ominous sky, the ravens, their beady eyes peered in.

Where was mom? Did she know about this? She should. I need to tell her the truth about dad, then she will open her arms to me and we will be united.

He staggered over to his futon, ripped a clean page out of his journal and began to write a letter to her. He related his disturbing memory and asked her to call him. After searching frantically, he found an envelope. With shaky hands, he folded the letter, addressed the envelope and stamped it.

He didn’t want to go down into the dark anymore. He recalled Ken’s advice to be easy on himself. This was enough.

He lurched onto the balcony and gasped for air as if surfacing from the deep. The sun emerged from behind breaking clouds and warmed his face.

This vision quest is over.

Jerry arrived at the Salal at 5am in darkness and finished at 4pm in darkness. It would be another 16 hours until daybreak. Light was a precious commodity during winter. He craved light, some tiny morsel, as vital as oxygen.

And with the darkness, depression tugged at him once again.

Ken Wolfe, a Jungian therapist, lived in a redwood shake house near the bluff. Amidst the tall pines, his office offered a view of the Straits and the Cascades in the distance. On one wall hundreds of books sat crammed into built-in book shelves; on another hung a Kandinsky print and another, an Egyptian papyrus painting. A mountain of papers covered one side of his desk. An old manual Olivetti typewriter sat on the other side. 

Lounging behind his desk, Ken stuffed tobacco into his pipe and lit it. The smoke curled up into the air and emanated a rich, spicy smell. His eyes, behind wire rimmed glasses, conveyed owl-like wonder. Jerry thought he was looking at Santa Claus. He envied his full head of curly white hair.

Out the window Jerry’s thoughts roamed, into the gentle, expansive quiet, a quiet that invited his deepest thoughts, a quiet enhanced by the resonant bong of the distant buoy.

“I need to find God,” said Jerry.

“How do you plan on doing that?” said Ken drawing on his pipe.

“I thought you could tell me.”

“Have you had any dreams about this?”

“Well…no.” Jerry recalled the masturbation dream with his father. He wasn’t ready to talk about that, not that that had anything to do with finding God…or, did it?

“Have you ever meditated?”

“When I was in high school, I bought a book about meditation. I probably was drawn to it because of the cute blond on the cover. She wore a white unitard and sat in a full lotus before a lit candle. It kinda turned me on.”

“You are drawn to God in the feminine form.”

“No. I’m drawn to cute women.”

They both laughed. Ken’s eyes sparkled.

“Anyway,” Jerry continued, “I read the book from cover to cover and one autumn Saturday afternoon I made the bold choice not to go to the high school football game and instead meditate. I sat on a hill and tried to dissolve clouds. I didn’t get any of the big ones, but I really thought I got rid of few small ones.”

Ken nodded with a bemused smile. He slapped his hand on the desk and leaned forward. “Are you ready to get started?”

Jerry jumped and nodded slowly. Who was this guy? Jerry gripped his chair. 

“I want you to go on a Vision Quest,” said Ken. “This was a Native American ritual. When there was a need to speak directly to God, the shaman would go out in the desert with no food and water and stay for three days. We don’t have a desert handy, so use your apartment. Stay there for three days and three nights. Don’t eat or sleep. Don’t speak with anyone. Meditate, walk around, do calisthenics, dance and, most of all, write. Keep track of what you’re feeling.”

Rain scratched at the windows. A nuclear submarine glided by.

“Can I drink?”

“Water, no coffee, no alcohol. You can make lemonade, no sugar. Also, you can have chicken broth or miso for some protein.

“Be easy on yourself. Stop if it gets to be too much. Call me anytime if you need support. Just let me know when you start.

“Are you game?”

“I’ve always felt some kind of affinity to Native Americans.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. They are a feminine dominant culture. Write about that. Imagine yourself part of their world.”

Ken took a long draw on his pipe, then he leaned forward.

“Are you aware of the Jungian concept of synchronicity?

“It seems to be coming up a lot lately.”

They looked at each other, frozen. Then they burst out laughing.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” they both said at the same time. And laughed more.

“Listen for her. She comes in many masks.”

“Yeeeeess,” Jerry said.

***

“You sure you want to do this?” April pulled out a tray of banana chocolate chip muffins from the Salal oven.

“I’ll try anything to get some kind of contact with God.”

“I would go crazy.”

“I think that’s the point.”

“I wouldn’t mess with my sanity.”

“Yeah. So, OK, I’m scared. But excited.”

She passed him a warm muffin.

“Seriously, you need to start a muffin shop,” said Jerry on his way out.

“Let’s talk,” April said as Jerry was finishing his shift.

“Sure,” Jerry replied.

On the outskirts of Port Townsend, Jerry arrived at a small cabin nestled beside a pond.  April invited him in. She wore a white jumper with a t-shirt; her hair fell naturally past her shoulders. 

Inside was a temple of calm. She obviously thrived in the woods, at peace with its quiet. 

“This is one of my favorite pieces,” she said pointing to an elaborate mandala hanging over her bed. Crystals and beads were woven into an encircled web with bleached leather strands hanging below. “It’s a dream catcher.”

“Let me guess. It catches dreams?”

“Do you remember your dreams?” she asked.

“Lately. Some. Disturbing.”

“You need a dream catcher. From a Native American tradition, this will protect you from bad dreams. The Spider Woman, a maternal protector, created it. The cobweb design ensnares dreams. The good ones are allowed to slip through into your sleep; the bad ones are held until morning when they are burned up by the sun.

“When you recall a dream, that is a gift from the shadowland. They are hard to decipher, using a language we are not practiced in, but they are potent with insights into your life.”

Jerry ran his fingers across a snow white sheepskin draped over the base of the bed. A collection of sizable crystals enhanced her bureau.

April led Jerry outside into the backyard. A magical garden offered a bounty of tomatoes, basil, zucchini, raspberries, snow peas and more. Beyond the garden, aspen trees competed for sun amidst old growth pine. About 300 feet away, a pond glittered.

She stopped at a brightly colored hammock and patted the fabric.

“Sit,” she said.

Jerry hopped up.

“Perpendicular, so your legs flop over the edge.”

He now occupied a front row seat to a symphonic sunset in adagio tempo, featuring a magenta sun dipping behind the Olympics.

“I’ll be right back.”

She returned with two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. Handing them to Jerry, she alighted onto the hammock next to him. She pressed a pillow behind Jerry’s head and tucked one behind hers, then she received one of the mugs of tea from Jerry and leaned back with a sigh. 

Jerry’s double shift stress dissipated into the air like the tea’s vapor.

“I’ve been watching you,” April said.

“What have you seen?”

“You’re a fish out of water.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You’ve been hurt bad.”

Jerry nodded and gazed upon the now lavender peaks.

“I feel like I’m wrapped in gauze and slowly peeling it off,” he said.

“How’s it feel?”

“Shaky.”

“Have you found God?”

“Shaky.”

“What’s it going to take for you to let Her in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look around you, Jerry, right now. You are communing with God, right now.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

 “It’s like love. When someone asks if you are in love and you have to think about it, then you aren’t. If somebody asks me do I believe in God, I have to think about it. That tells me I don’t.

“I want a miracle,” Jerry continued, “like one of the stories in the Old Testament, like hearing Him, Her,…” 

“You’re forcing God to be something She’s not. There is no deus ex machina.”

“Well, He did, plenty of times, in the Bible.”

“Our understanding of God is evolving. Your God doesn’t exist. Feminine energy needs Her place on this planet, or we’re not going to make it. I love my feminine. And most of the world doesn’t. Most of the world is afraid of it, wants to dominate it, wants to kill it.”

They swayed in silence until the first stars twinkled.  April hopped off the hammock. “Time to go.”

“Something I said?” 

“Of course not. It’s the rhythm, Jerry. The day is done.”

“Well, ok.”  He slid off the hammock and faced her, then leaned in for a Port Townsend hug. 

Not to be. She turned quickly and headed inside.

As he cruised home, he caught himself humming If I Only Had a Heart.

A Salal worker extended an open invitation for a potluck at her house. Jerry jumped at the opportunity. He wanted to get in with this crowd. Far from the Princeton type, these were alternative life-stylers, with names like Sunshine, Dakota and Winston, outfitted in Goodwill clothes, bodies pierced and tattooed, with long hair both men and women, and, to a person, eyes clear and welcoming.

When Jerry arrived, the party buzz spilled out through the open front door. He placed his Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider offering on the kitchen counter, turned around and there was April in an earth tone smock. She threw out her arms and Jerry readied himself for a tribal custom of Port Townsend: the extended body hug. 

His eyes connected with hers. They moved toward each other with arms outstretched. He lowered his torso, aligning his heart to hers. They wrapped their arms around each other and oozed in. Breathing synchronized; bodies melded. After a full minute, they released and returned to a warm eye embrace. 

“Let’s get you on that piano. Come on!” April said. She pulled him into the living room where, already in progress, people jammed on guitars, bongos, tambourines and maracas. Jerry slid onto the piano bench and dove in. The energy sparked. A one-four-five chord progression went round and round, up and down, one two three jump, one two three jump. People danced with abandon.

When they stopped, everyone gaped at each other, eyes wide, then a collective whoop sailed skyward. 

The group gravitated into the backyard where the potluck offerings awaited. Symphonies of organic greens brimmed over their wooden bowls. Casseroles rich with nuts, rice and tofu lined up next. Finally, there was carrot cake moist as loam slathered with cream cheese icing and drooling chocolate chip cookies. Hibiscus iced tea washed it all down. 

In a short time only crumbs remained. 

“So, really, what are you doing here?” asked April.

“Zihuatanejo. Heaven on earth. You gave me the idea. I’m on a hunt, a God hunt. And I figured this might be the place. I mean, if you can’t find God in heaven, where can you?”

“God hunt? That’s so male. You don’t hunt God; you commune with God. You don’t worship God; She’s right by your side; She’s everywhere 24/7.” 

“Well, that’s not exactly how they described it back in seminary.”

“Brother, you are not in Kansas anymore,” she said with a wink.

When the sun slipped away, the sweat ensued. A canvas teepee about 15 feet in diameter held red hot rocks in its center. Under the cover of darkness, everyone casually disrobed. Wow. If Bryce could see him now. What Garden of Eden had he entered? Furtively, Jerry followed suit.

Into the teepee crawled naked men and women. They sat around the stones in a circle. Jerry positioned himself next to the exit. He pushed his fingers under the edge of the teepee for a scrap of cool air, ready to bolt.

April sprinkled sage infused water onto the stones. They crackled like wet logs in a fire. The steam scalded Jerry’s lungs. 

She beat her drum with a steady beat and sang:

The earth is our mother

We must take care of her

The earth is our mother

We must take care of her.

Everyone joined in. Jerry loosened up and sang along. He felt safe in this canvas womb. There was no need to compete, no ladder to climb, no height from which to fall. 

Unite my people

Be as one, Be as one

Unite my people

Be as one, be as one.

The singing grew strong. Harmonies intertwined.

It’s sacred ground we walk upon

With every step we take

Her sacred ground we walk upon

With every step we take

Unite my people

Be as one, Be as one

Unite my people 

Be as one.

The group continued to sing the song over and over till at last it faded then stopped. Sweat poured and consciousness faded.

Then they sang:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind but now I see.

Twas grace that taught

My heart to fear

And grace my fears relieved

How precious did that grace appear

The hour I first believed. 

In the darkness of that teepee, soaked in sweat and harmony, simple lyrics heard a hundred times before pierced Jerry’s heart. A sweet agony consumed him. Tears rolled down his face. He attempted to understand what moved him so deeply. 

“Amazing grace how sweet the sound,” — God is not a judge. He is not a father up in the clouds who I never please. That’s not God; never has been.

“That saved a wretch like me.” — I am selfish. I am self absorbed. I make plenty of mistakes and will continue to do so. 

April is right. God is all around, always visible. God is within me; I am soaked in God.

 “I once was lost but now am found,” —  I am the lost sheep now found. As much as I’ve been looking for God, God has been looking for me.

So instead of feeling like I’ve got to find God, all I need do is allow God to enter, allow an intimacy unlike anything I’ve ever known. Instead of fighting Him off, surrender and let Her in. 

“I once was lost” — It’s one thing to be lost; it’s another thing to realize I’m lost. I was looking for the wrong God and in the wrong way. God is not hunted. This is a different God altogether. This is not someone I have to walk on eggshells to make sure I don’t upset.  This God unconditionally loves me. — “but now am found.”

They stumbled back out into the crisp night, gulping cold air into their parched lungs. Jerry rolled onto the cool grass like he was on fire. With eyes wide open — “Was blind but now I see.” — he gazed as if for the first time at the ocean of stars above, savored the cool breeze on his scalding flesh, and tasted the salt of his sweat and tears. 

Could he be anymore alive?

 O God, O God, with every beat of my heart.

At the Salal Cafe meeting Jerry felt like he was back in seminary and its esoteric debates. Only instead of debating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, the discussion was about two-ply versus one-ply toilet paper and bacon versus soy bacon.

Cynthia, wearing a faded smock and lemon colored tights, led the meeting. 

“OK. Who’s here for the waiter positions?”

Jerry raised his hand. 

“Have you waited tables before?”

“Oh sure,” Jerry lied.

“I’m good. Let’s take a vote.” 

A few mumbles.

“You’re hired.”

“When do I start?” Jerry asked.

“How’s tomorrow?”

The following evening Jerry arrived promptly, clean yet rumpled. He really needed to stop living out of his car. 

A party of ten assembled around one of the community tables. It was the owner of the building, and he was entertaining his blended family. Jerry scrambled up some menus and passed them around.

He nodded at the litany of orders, yet when he returned to the kitchen he stared at his indecipherable scrawlings. He looked up; April gaped at him.

“You,” she said.

“You,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” 

“I work here.”

“I work here.”

“It’s my first day. I’ve never done this before, and I’m blanking on my first table.”

“No, wait a minute. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you mean here here.”

“Yes.”

“I moved here.”

She frowned. 

“Bring out some oysters for everyone, on the house, and ask again in a charming way. Just be honest, let them know this is your first day but you’re aim is to give them the best service they’ve ever gotten. Then do just that. Keep their water glasses full.” Grabbing some steaming dinner plates she moved on.

When the evening was over, April was gone before he could thank her. Henry, another waiter, taught him how to roll a cigarette using Drum tobacco. He savored the smoke and quaffed a beer in no rush to leave. He was not looking forward to another night in his car.

Across the street, the Town Tavern was in full swing. Jerry decided to check it out. Inside, a beautifully honed mahogany bar ran up one side with barstools in front. Behind the bar reigned an equally long mural of a bare breasted, zaftig woman draped over a divan. Underneath her was a long mirror, in front of which stood an impressive display of liquor in three tiers. A nose pierced woman bartender offered him three beers on tap, Guinness, Anchor Steam and Miller. Jerry chose Guinness.

The floor was beer soaked and covered with peanut shells. Toward the back, a band worked its chops. The dance floor was filled. Jerry ambled in that direction. In the middle of it all was April, all sweat and hair.

This wasn’t just dancing; this was a tribal blowout; not couples, but the entire floor dancing together in one orgy of movement. Men had their shirts stripped off; skin shimmered. Jerry dove in and within minutes fell into the hypnotic trance of the quaking beat, now at a fever pitch.

He steered towards April just in time for a slow number. When it ended, they disentangled.

“Come here often?” Jerry asked.

“You gotta stop following me,” she said with a smile. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. Great dancing with you.” She drifted towards a group of friends.

“Right,” Jerry said, and he headed towards the door.

To find his car.

The next day while walking towards the Salal he spotted a For Rent sign. When he arrived at work he called the number. A wobbly voice answered.

“Be right back,” Jerry shouted to Henry as he whizzed out the front door.

Jerry sprinted full tilt back up the hill. He rang the doorbell and just when he wondered if it worked, a hunched over woman cracked open the door.

“You must be Jerry,” she said.

“That be me.”

She opened the door wide and eyed him up and down. “I need first and last month’s rent and a $250 deposit.”

Jerry wrote the check and handed it to her. He thanked her, received the key and then raced back down to the restaurant. 

“Jerry, where the hell you been? We gotta rush going on,” Henry sniped.

“Owe you.”

When he finished his shift, he dashed over to his new place. The house clung to the edge of the Uptown bluff, a two-story Victorian home painted gray with forest green gingerbread siding. The street itself had no curbs or sidewalks. Cars roosted haphazardly along gravel shoulders. 

Grappling with his duffle bag, he thrust the key into the side door lock. He shouldered the door open and ascended the stairs to his apartment. Another took up the ground floor.

He crossed the living room and made a beeline through its French doors out to the balcony. Leaning on the white filigreed railing, his nostrils vacuumed up the pristine air; his body slowed to a standstill. A ferry boat churned out of its dock leaving a tail of foam behind. A flock of seagulls followed. In the water’s current, he lost himself in thought.

Port Townsend was different from anything he had ever known. It was like he had broken through some membrane into a parallel universe, one that had always existed but he just hadn’t been privy too. Could the world be this beautiful, this unfettered, this quiet?

He breathed in deep.

And the women were different, like April. No make-up. Long hair. Natural curves. Loose fitting clothes, like drawstring cotton pants and thick wool sweaters.

He turned to check out his new digs. Worn beige carpet covered the living room floor; knotty pine paneled the walls. A white tile bathroom harbored a claw foot tub. A tired kitchen had a mottled brown linoleum floor and double sash windows, the kind that stayed open with a propped cook book. Vapors of grandma, Vicks VapoRub and Ben-Gay, lingered. To Jerry, this apartment fit like a seasoned pair of jeans.

Once he unpacked his stereo, he christened his new home with George Winston’s Autumn. He first heard Winston in a Sacramento ice cream store. His simple piano improvisations captivated Jerry. Unlike the high flying acrobatics of Keith Jarrett, whose style was emblematic of New York City, rushed and anxious, Winston’s music, like Port Townsend, was unhurried, earthbound, with a touch of melancholy.

At dusk, Jerry strolled down his new street. Just a block away stood a small Presbyterian church, nothing like Westminster. The plain, white clapboard structure held a modest bell tower atop its sloped roof. Next to it stood another building in the same style. Probably fellowship hall, he thought. He tried its doorknob, and the door popped open. In the empty darkness, he made out an upright piano pushed up against the wall. He entered and slid onto the piano bench, flipped open the keyboard cover and began to play. It was the first time since he had quit his lessons in middle school.

As he lost himself in a Winston inspired improvisation, Jerry rocked back and forth. A crescendo of raw emotion coursed through his fingertips. With so much longing and pain, he grunted and growled. His cellar door burst open, releasing phantom fears of so many years. Tears streamed down his face. 

A presence moved behind him, like a sea breeze. He didn’t look up, locked into his musical confession. All his childhood training was still intact, only instead of memorized notes, these were inchoate feelings he couldn’t even put into words. 

He held a final chord, allowing it to soar into the rafters and beyond.

Arms wrapped around him in a fervent embrace. He gasped, then recognized her smell.

“Keep doing that,” April whispered in his ear, then took off.

Jerry rolled off a Seattle Super Ferry onto Bainbridge Island, then across a bridge onto the Olympic Peninsula. The narrow highway cut through the trees like a center aisle in a cathedral. Green saturated the tapestry, from carpets of moss to groves of ferns, from stands of pines to acres of junipers. Even the lichen covered rocks were green.

The last rays of sun cast a rich sepia tone on the land as he rounded highway 101 and turned up towards Port Townsend. Entering the town, he cruised down Water Street past Victorian buildings replete with ornate concrete fascia, none more than four stories tall. 

The road ended and so did land. He parked and climbed out. In front of him and on both sides The Straits of Juan de Fuca hugged the little outpost, a polyp on the northeast tip of the Olympic Peninsula.

Had he arrived at the edge of creation where primitive forms crawled out of the roiling sea foam to run amok in the untamed forests? For a boy from New Jersey, it sure felt like it. No amount of stained glass could capture this inspiration. In the distance the elder Mt. Baker glowed. Mountain ranges bowed before it, the Olympics to the west, the Cascades to the east. To the south, Mt Rainier offered its own wisdom. Jerry’s chest swelled from the rapturous surroundings. 

He glanced at his watch, almost nine, yet it was still light. He couldn’t believe it. He ventured away from the water and up a hill where he discovered Chetzamoka Park. This postage stamp-sized park was as cared for as a bonsai tree. A single picnic table, an ornate Victorian gazebo and a compact swing all placed just so. With bare feet he strolled upon the velvet softness of emerald grass. Its gentle slope ended at bluff’s edge. Jerry gazed out towards Whidbey Island. A capacious container ship chugged by, and then the cathedral quiet resumed. The bong of a distant harbor buoy called all to worship.

He returned to his car, grabbed his sleeping bag and trekked back to the park. Unfurling his bag on a choice patch of grass, he climbed in and revered the canopy of stars above. 

The Milky Way frothed. Orion, Pleiades, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper stood out amidst the chaos of sparkle. And there was a shooting star! And another! The sky quivered with activity. Along the horizon, soft at first then stronger, a luminous green, gauzy haze rippled. Even the sky was green with the Northern Lights! Under this symphony of miracles, Jerry descended into deep sleep.

When he reopened his eyes, a Park Ranger hovered over him.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.

“I’m so sorry. Yes, sir. Right away.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not the first one to sleep here. Not bad, huh.”

“I’ll say. By the way, where’s a good place to grab some breakfast?”

“The Salal Cafe. On Water Street.” 

***

Jerry eyed the menu. On the front it stated “No Bosses Here.”

A goth woman clomped over to his table and nodded. Jerry ordered poached eggs and coffee. 

On his way out he spotted a posted notice: “Waiters wanted. Collective meeting today 4pm.” 

***

“You’re where? Doing what?” said Bryce on the phone.

“Port Townsend, Washington. I caught a scent of God and it led me to here.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m on a hunt. Remember? 

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll lose your job.”

“I hope I don’t. I hope they understand.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

***

“You’re where? Doing what?” said dad over the phone. Jerry heard what sounded like a pencil snapping.

“Port Townsend, Washington. I’m finding God,” Jerry answered.

“Have you completely lost your mind? You should be finding work. You’re destroying your life. You quit your job and now you’ve run away to some godforsaken place.”

“It’s called Port Townsend, dad.” Jerry imagined his dad in his Manhattan office gazing down below through a haze of pollution at a gridlock of yellow taxis.

“It’s shirking adult responsibility.”

“What’s more important than finding God?”

“I’m going to be blunt here. You’ve got problems. I’m no minister, but I know that it’s about serving. You don’t chase your every whim. It’s not about you, Jerry. It’s about God.”

“Right. And I need to find God in order to serve.”

“Rubbish.”

“Anyway.”

“Jerry.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

They took off when the others had turned in. The headlights bounced back and forth off the trees and highway as they wended their way down the mountain and into Calistoga. On the cozy main street, they parked, walked a short distance and broke into the Saturday night din of Johnny’s Bar. The only two seats available were two stools at the bar. 

A bar tender zipped over and took their orders: Sauvignon Blanc for April, a Calistoga water for Jerry.

“So, what brought you here?” Jerry asked. 

“I meet with a group called Dream Catchers. We’re women who interpret dreams. Dreams have great meaning, you know. Anyway, someone there mentioned this workshop. I liked the idea of studying Jesus without it being attached to any particular faith, stripped of all the religious trappings.

“But I thought you were Jewish.”

“Culturally Jewish and always seeking. Lately, I’ve been reading A Course in Miracles and attending a Unity Church. The author of that book was Jewish. And she channeled Jesus.” 

“What do you think so far?”

“Who I am I must become, I get that. It’s the only way to know God. And to know who I am requires that I know the parts I want to deny and to embrace them. It’s the whole bag. So yeah, I like this workshop. I’m learning.”

“John Petroni gives me the willies.” 

“I know what you mean: his eyes.” 

“His eyes.”

“Tortured…”

“Soul,” they both said.

“Jinx,” said Jerry.

And they both laughed.

“Do you believe in synchronicity?” asked April.

“The album?”

“It was a concept conceived by Carl Jung. He described it as a meaningful coincidence. Well, I feel like it’s God’s way of talking to us, if we choose to listen. ‘He who has ears to hear let him hear,’ right? In Port Townsend, where I live, synchronicity is the lingua franca. You just think an intention, and you get a response. Say, you need to talk to a certain person. Don’t even bother picking up the phone. Guaranteed you will run into that person that day.”

“So when we both walked into that bathroom, that was synchronicity? What was God saying?” Jerry asked.

“We both need to deal with our shit.”

They both laughed. 

“Actually,” said April, “You gotta crawl through your shit in order to get to heaven.”

“Sounds like a good sermon.”

“Read Stephen King’s Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption. In the final scene, Andy, the hero, crawls through a sewer pipe full of shit to escape prison and get to Zihuatanejo, a sleepy fishing village in Mexico, but it’s his vision of heaven. The novella is an allegory. I wonder if King knew that the word Zihuatanejo is from the Aztec language and means place of women. Heaven is a place of divine nurture. And that perfectly describes Port Townsend. It’s the Zihuatanejo of the Pacific Northwest.”

“Hmm.” Jerry flashed on the absence of nurture from his mother. Maybe that was why he envisioned her dead. Maybe that was the source of his rage. “Where in the Pacific Northwest?”

“Two hours northwest of Seattle. It was supposed to have been the end of the transcontinental railroad but they never made it past Seattle. Too bad for Seattle; good fortune for Port Townsend. Seattle became another typical male dominated harbor filled with brothels, while Port Townsend became a haven for the feminine.

“The mayor of Port Townsend’s a woman, a professional jazz pianist; the chief of police’s a woman, most of the store owners are women. The whole town has this harmony about it, like we’re all connected, all one giant organism, moving in concert with each other. Nature and nurture.” 

“I could use a little nature and nurture.” 

Jerry gazed at the mirror behind the bar. People surrounding them looked like they were from a Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville convention: over-tanned Californians flashing bleached teeth, talking way too loud and way too often. 

“Let’s go,” said Jerry.

***

Who I Am I Must Become ended with the benediction, “In this strange season when we are suspended between realization and expectation, may we be found honest with the darkness and more perceptive with the light.”

Jerry, back on the highway, headed back to his church. The further he drove, the more troubled he became. Was he now right with Jesus? Hardly. So now everything’s fine? Of course not. He’s a renewed minister? No way. So what was he doing?

Jerry veered off the highway, pulled over and stopped. Silent God was no help, yet perhaps Jerry was listening in the wrong way. Perhaps there was another medium of communication, this synchronicity that April was talking about. He looked around. Vineyards everywhere, fat with grapes. Was that synchronicity? And, if so, what was God saying? 

Vineyards were a common metaphor in the Bible and especially the New Testament. “I am the vine; you are the branches,” said Jesus, John 15.5ff., “He who abides in me, and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.” Seek the vine, perhaps that was the message of how to proceed.

 This was a new way of making choices, blind, not seeing, yet knowing. Life off the highway would offer no clear direction. Guidance comes not from the rational mind but a new center within the body, a homing device to take him to his true home.

He turned his car around and headed in the opposite direction, towards the Pacific Northwest. 

“Today,” said John to the assembled group, “we are going to have an unusual chat.

“There are many voices within you, no? Well, today speak with your evil one.

“Most of us learn how to resist its demands. But think hard and you can probably remember a time when you succumbed.

“Disperse into the woods, choose a spot where you can be alone. Imagine the evil part of you outside yourself and have a conversation. We’ll take a half hour.”

Jerry broke into a sweat as he hiked off trail. He found a clearing amidst the trees with a flat boulder that he could sit on. No one else was around. 

He situated his evil side on another rock about ten feet in from of him and tried to imagine what he looked like. 

“What are you doing here?” Jerry asked.

It was Thomas! His salt and pepper beard was much longer. His disheveled hair would snap a comb. And he had lost weight.

“I’m your evil self,” he said matter of factly.

His eyes burned; his voice grew cold. “I hate niggers; I hate kikes. Kill them. Women are bitches. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em.” 

“OK. You’re scaring me.”

“Hey, Jerry. What did Hitler say to Eichmann when he paid him a visit?”

“Don’t care.”

“If I’d known you were coming, I would have baked you a kike.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m you! There’s evil in everyone. You. Your father.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Things are not what they seem. Keep your eyes and ears open, Jerry.”

The distant bell rang out. Thomas’ eyes pinned Jerry to his spot.

“Don’t go back,” said Thomas.

“Now wait a minute.”

“Oh, yeah, you must. It’s the right thing to do,” he said with a sneer.

“They’ll worry about me.”

“You’re not that important.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“Eat from the opposite side of the basket.”

Touché. This guy was starting to make sense. He’d always tried to please his elders and superiors. What about that time when he blew off the hunger meeting. That was one of the happiest times in his life. Why not see where this goes? Jerry stayed put.

“Well, thank you so much,” Thomas said, dripping with sarcasm. “How does that feel?”

“I’m a little nauseous, a little spacey.”

“On the way to finding God, you might lose those who are dearest.”

“You don’t make much sense.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Read Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, chapter five.” 

And with that, he was gone.

Jerry hurried back to the lodge. Dinner was underway.

“I am so sorry,” he said to Sheila.

“Are you all right?”

“I fell under the sway of my evil voice.”

She smiled and glided off.

He slid next to April with his dinner.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“I got delayed.”

“Missed your plane?”

“I could explain it better over a drink tonight.”

“Look,” she turned and faced him. “This is not a pick up bar. We’re doing serious work here, and I’m getting a strong come-on vibe from you which is really pissing me off. Do you understand?”

“Loud and clear.”

Jerry’s knife sawed through the silence. He chewed hard and fast.

“I’m sorry,” said April. “I’m sure you’re a good guy. Just turn it down a few notches.”

“I’m really an insecure mess on the edge of a nervous breakdown…there, how’s that?”

“That’s a start.”

“And I really would like to talk with you, nothing more.You know, just a break from all this.”

“It’s not allowed.”

“Whatever.”

“So, now you’re a bad boy on the dark side?”

“Come on…”

April turned the faintest smile.

That night they offered their palsied selves to the great mother god, Gaia. Under a blazing full moon, they processed up a hill where lay a circle of stones. One by one each placed their piece inside the sacred space. Jerry placed his towards the edge. They surrounded the circle holding hands.

“Oh, great Mother,” intoned Sheila, “bend down and cradle these wounded souls. Hold them to your breast. Your nurture we gratefully accept. Amen.”

After the ritual, people lingered, speaking softly. Jerry noticed this man glowing in a white garb was stepping perilously close to his clay figure. April swooped over. “Careful,” she said to him.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

Jerry said sarcastically, “Yeah, what’s the big idea? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

“I would never think to do that,” he said, dead serious.

“I’m just kidding,” said Jerry. “Thanks, April.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I am Mohammad.” A young man, probably in his 20s, and trim, his eyes glowed bright with intensity.

“I’m Jerry. Where are you from?”

“Jerusalem.”

“New York?”

“No,” he laughed. “Israel.”

“Wow. And you came all that way for this?”

“Oh no, I am doing my doctorate at UC Berkeley, comparative religion. May I look at your palsied person?”

“Of course.”

He reached down.

April snapped on her flashlight.

“Ahhh, this boy has suffered much. Is there a story behind it?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Are you Christian?” Mohammad asked.

“Yes,” said Jerry.

“And you?” he asked April.

“Jewish,” she answered. “You?”

“Muslim,” he said.

They stood in silence, then Mohammad erupted in laughter. In moments, Jerry and April both joined in. Just when it seemed to subside, another outburst occurred. Tears streamed down Jerry’s face. 

“What’s so funny?” Jerry confessed through his receding giggles.

“The three desert religions stand before the wounded child in wonder. That about sums it up: patriarchs looking for their mothers,” said Mohammad.

“You must come to Israel,” he continued. “How long have you been married?”

“Oh no, we’re not married,” April blurted.

“Still, you both must come. We will exchange addresses.” 

“Yes,” Jerry said.

“Well, I will see you in the morning. And don’t forget to journal,” said Mohammad. 

Jerry moved closer to April. “No, really, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” she said and with the coolness of the moon strode off.

The next morning breakfast was taken in silence. Jerry listened to a symphony of breakfast sounds. Spoons tapped on ceramic bowls, coffee splashed into cups, feet scuffed across hardwood floors.

Jerry assembled some yogurt, granola and fruit and took a chair on the lawn that overlooked Napa Valley. Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony filled the air. Tendrils of morning fog laced through the vineyards below. In the distance a trinity of hot air balloons, brightly colored turquoise, yellow and orange, ascended into the sky. 

Jerry drifted into a daydream: He was standing in line waiting to view a coffin. When he arrived he peeked in. His mother lay ashen. The minister thrust a trowel into his hand; Jerry scooped up dirt and slung it onto his mother’s face.

He snapped out of the daydream. “What the hell?” he said out loud. 

Lacrosse shirted man gave Jerry the stink eye.

The more Jerry thought about it the more he was convinced something was terribly wrong with his mother, maybe even she was about to die.

He explained this to the instructor John before the morning session.

“Every man has to go through letting go of his mother,” he said with a grave look, then entered the classroom.

Well, yeah, ok, but it begged the point. His mother was dying now. He needed to talk with her directly or he might never have that chance again. He would never forgive himself if she died and he didn’t say goodbye.

Jerry had no idea what took place during that morning’s session, he was so distracted. At the end, he bolted out of the room and stormed over to the main lodge.

“I need to make a phone call to my Mom,” said Jerry to Sheila. Two formidable crystals and a giant feather lay on the desk between them.

“Well, you remember the agreement you signed,” Sheila smiled.

“Yes, but this is urgent. My mom’s dying.”

“How do you know that?” Her iceberg blue eyes accused him. Of what crime, Jerry didn’t know.

“I had a premonition. I’ve never had a premonition before. I believe it’s true.”

She pondered this.

“I tell you what,” she said. “Walk the circle trail and have a conversation with yourself. One voice is the child that needs your mother. The other voice is the independent adult. When you’ve completed this walk, if you still want to go into town, then I will grant your wish.”

“Sure.”

Off he bounded wanting to make this walk as quick as possible.

“OK, talk,” said the adult voice.

“I saw mom,” said the child voice. “She was dead. It scared me. Why did I throw dirt on her face, like I was mad? Maybe I am. Really mad. Maybe I want her dead. Maybe I caused her death. I gotta know she’s not dead. I don’t want to feel guilty all my life, that I caused her death.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, cowboy, slow down. You don’t have that much power. Remember  you have no evidence to back up this feeling. It’s just a feeling.” 

“Yes, but I believe in this feeling with all my heart.”

“Feelings are not to be trusted.”

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have any.”

Jerry, speed walking, turned the last curve.

“Look, we’ve got to wrap this up,” said the adult.

“You’ve got to back me up on this, which is something you don’t do much, by the way,” said the child.

“Didn’t know that. I do want to have your back.”

Back in the lodge, Jerry said, “I need to make that phone call.”

“Very well,” said Sheila with a touch of a smile. “Let’s take you into town.”

After a short wait, a younger woman pulled up in a beat up pick-up truck and off they motored. 

“I’m not crazy,” Jerry said, breaking the silence.

“No problem,” she said.

He leaped out when they parked at the curb. A pay phone stood nearby.

“Mom, are you OK?”

“Jerry, hello, let me get your father.”

“No, wait. I need to ask you. Are you OK?”

“Yes, of course. I’m fine. It’s a little warm today, so we’ve had to turn on the air conditioning.”

“I had a vision about you. You weren’t OK.”

“I’m fine. Let me get your father.”

He climbed back into the truck where the woman was waiting.

“Everything’s fine,” Jerry said.

“No problem.”

“And I’m not crazy.”

So what was that all about, he wondered. His child was convinced his mother was about to die, and then thought it was his fault. Did he really want her dead? Was he really mad at her? Suddenly, shooting up, came a memory:

“I wish you were dead!” Jerry shouted. He must have been five. He stood in the living room. She was in the kitchen.

“Don’t say that. You can’t mean that,” said his mom starting to cry.

“Yes, I do! I wish you were dead.” He felt this terrible power. He was hurting her; he wanted that.

She continued to cry.

Snapping back to the present, he wondered why he had said that. He couldn’t remember the circumstances. What had she done that made him so mad?