The sand was wet under our bare feet. Alexandra insisted on taking my hand and leading me into the shallow waves that lapped at the muddy beach. With her rolled-up suit trousers and my similarly shortened jeans, we must have looked quite a pair.
I looked at her and laughed, “You’re doing this because I mentioned waves?”
“I’m doing this because whatever you’ve done, it’s connected with something young in me and brought out a sense of abandon and adventure!”
In truth, I was now the one who was unprepared. “And the train to London?” I asked.
“I’ve disappeared,” she chortled.
“Disappeared . . . as in without trace?”
“They’ll worry!” I added, wondering why I was obsessing about her bold actions.
“They’ll be frantic!”
She began to laugh hysterically, then bent down to scoop some sea water into her cupped hands, which she proceeded to hurl at my head in an arc of salty spray. In slow motion, I watched it come towards me, my perception of the wonder of it keyed by the sheer energy of her actions, which had pushed me into that special state of heightened attention. Stilling the body’s reactions, I let the essential smile light my face as the shower of liquid diamonds kissed my skin in a million tiny explosions and turned my eyes to look at her.
“What–?” she said, a second later. “What was that?” Her hands were still in front of her, dripping. She had been fully conscious of what had just happened.
“Well, you did it” I replied softly. “What do you think happened?”
“You kind of slowed down time!”
“Or perhaps stepped into the heart of time might be better?”
“Yes,” she said, “Something like that.”
“It’s always there,” I continued. “It just requires your full acceptance of the moment – the now . . . When that is done there is no time . . . just the wave, which is undistorted reality.”
“And how do we give our acceptance to the real like that?”
In reply, I picked up a old stick, a salty remnant washed onto the beach by the powerful tides of the estuary. I used it to draw out a rough enneagram.
“To give our acceptance to the now, we have to cast off all the baggage that comes with the outer layers of the Nine.”
“How–” she began, but I interrupted her.
“To do that, we have to work through them and seen how each one gives the world a perceptual and emotional tint; how the real, loving and objective world which is always present, is tainted in seeing by what our fears and reactions have taught us”
She stopped all other movements, gazing at the stick, which I was walking around the circle of the Nine, station by station. Something else in the potent now around us was calling. I turned to look along the beach, then called her over, pointing along the shore, with the sandy end of the stick. “The boat – look!”
The sailing boat lay on its side near the water line. It was still serviceable, but old and battered. “That’s a bit like what life does to us all,” I said. “We learn to sail the waters of life in a certain way, conditioned by the shape and size of our own little boat, which is formed by our reactions to life – our own shell.”
“And separate ourselves from life’s depths in the process?”
It was my turn to smile – her response had been magnificent. I nodded and said, “Yes, but the wave always adjusts the moment, the now, so that each second contains the power to give us what we most need, what we began to lose at station Nine here–” I stabbed the end of the stick into the upper point of the enneagram, watching her wince with the power of the gesture.
“When we were afraid of its awesomeness?” she asked, meekly.
I shook my head, making sure the gesture was gentle. “When we turned our back on our own true nature . . . because it hurt too much to remember what true life was like in the face of the storm that swept us out to sea . . .”
She was silent for the rest of the next hour. She was still silent as I put her on the London train, trying to brush off the last of the sand from the pin-strip fabric of her trousers.
“We can begin next time,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek as I passed her the last of the black bags.
“Begin considering each of the Nine from the unified perspective of the wave.”
“Oh brave new world . . . I’d like that,” she said, gently; waving and smiling like a little girl as the door beeped and closed, and the long snake of elegant metal left the station to begin its three hour journey. The memory of the expression of innocence on her face stayed with me for the next few hours – it was a very happy sight . . .
Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee is usually published on Thursdays.
All images and text ©International copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2015.
Contact details and an outline description of the Silent Eye School are on the other pages of this blog and via the website at www.thesilenteye.co.uk