Version 2007.07.20

## “The Sorcerers' Crossing: A Woman's Journey” - ©1992 by Taisha Abelar

### Chapter 6

It took weeks of brain-racking work to compile the list. I hated myself for having let Clara talk me into not including that time in the voucher.

During those long days, I worked in absolute solitude and silence.

I only saw Clara at breakfast and at dinner, which we ate in the kitchen; but we hardly spoke.

She would rebuff all my attempts at cordial conversation, saying that we would talk again when I had finished my list.

When I had completed it, she put down her sewing and immediately accompanied me to the cave. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and according to Clara, early morning and late afternoon were the most propitious times to begin such a vast undertaking.

At the entrance of the cave, she gave me some instructions.

"Take the first person on your list", Clara said, "and work your memory to recall everything you experienced with that person from the moment you two met to the last time you interacted. Or, if you prefer, you can work backward, from the last time you had dealings with that person to your first encounter."

Armed with the list, I went to the cave every day.

At first, recapitulating was painstaking work.

I couldn't concentrate because I dreaded dredging up the past.

My mind would wander from what I considered to be one traumatic event to the next, or I would simply rest or daydream.

But after a while, I became intrigued with the clarity and detail that my recollections were acquiring. I even began to be more objective about experiences I had always considered to be taboo.

Surprisingly, I also felt stronger and more optimistic.

Sometimes, as I breathed, it was as if energy were oozing back into my body, causing my muscles to become warm and to bulge.

I became so involved in my recapitulation task that I didn't need a whole month to prove its worth.

Two weeks after the starting time stipulated in the voucher, while we were eating dinner, I asked Clara to find someone to move me out of my apartment and to put my things in storage.

Clara had suggested this option to me several times before, but each time I had refused her offer because I was not ready to make the commitment.

Clara was delighted with my request.

"I'll have one of my cousins do it," she volunteered. "She'll take care of everything. I don't want any worries to keep you from concentrating."

"Now that you mention it, Clara," I said, "there is one other thing that's been bothering me."

Clara waited for me to speak. I told her that I found it very odd that our meals were always ready, although I had never seen her cooking or preparing food.

"That's because you're never in the house during the day," Clara said matter-of-factly. "And at night, you retire early."

It was true that I spent most of my time in the cave.

When I did go back to the house, it was to have a meal in the kitchen.

Afterward, I stayed in my room because the size of the house intimidated me.

It was enormous. It didn't look abandoned, for it was filled to capacity with furniture, books and various decorative objects made of ceramic, silver or cloisonne.

Every room was clean and dust free, as if a maid came regularly to tidy up.

Yet the house seemed empty because there were no people in it.

Twice Clara had disappeared on mysterious errands that she refused to discuss; during those times, the only other living being in the house beside myself was Manfred.

Those were also the times when Manfred and I hiked into the hills overlooking the house. I had mapped the house and its grounds from an observation point I thought I had found myself.

I didn't want to admit at that time that Manfred had guided me to it.

From my private promontory, I spent hours trying to figure out the orientation of the house.

Clara had indicated that it followed the cardinal points, but when I checked it with a compass, the house seemed to be on a slightly different alignment.

The grounds around the house were most disturbing because they defied any accurate mapping I tried to devise.

I could see from my observation post that the grounds seemed much more extensive than when measured from the house itself.

Clara had forbidden me to set foot in the front part of the house- the east- as well as the south side. But I had calculated, by walking around the periphery of the house, that the two areas were identical to the west and north sides to which I had access.

However, when seen from a distance, they weren't identical at all; and I was at a loss to explain the discrepancy.

I gave up trying to pin down the layout of the house and grounds, and began placing my attention on another mysterious problem: Clara's relatives.

Although she constantly referred to them in an oblique manner, I had not yet seen hide nor hair of them.

"When are your relatives coming back from India?" I asked Clara point-blank.

"Soon," she replied.

She picked up her rice bowl with one hand and held it the way the Chinese do. I had never seen her use chop-sticks before and marveled at the incredible precision with which she manipulated them.

"Why are you so concerned with my relatives?" she asked.

"To tell you the truth, Clara, I don't know why, but I'm very curious about them," I said. "I've been having unsetthng feelings and thoughts in this huge house."

"Do you mean that you don't like the house?"

"On the contrary, I love it. It's just so big and haunting."

"What kind of thoughts and feelings unsettle you?" she asked, putting down her bowl.

"Sometimes I think I see people in the hallway, or I hear voices. And I'm always under the impression that someone is watching me, but when I look around there isn't anyone there."

"There's more to this house than meets the eye," Clara admitted, "but that shouldn't engender fear or worry.

"There is magic in this house, in the land, and in the mountains around this entire area. That's the reason we chose to live here.

"In fact, that's also the reason you decided to live here yourself, even though you don't have the slightest inkling of that being the reason for your choice.

"But this is the way it should be. You bring your innocence to this house and the house with all the intent it stores turns it into wisdom."

"It all sounds very beautiful, Clara, but what exactly does it mean?"

"I always talk to you with the hope that you will understand me," Clara said with a note of disappointment:

"Every one of my relatives, who, I assure you, will come into contact with you sooner or later, will speak to you in the same way. So don't think that we're talking nonsense just because you don't understand us."

"Believe me, Clara, I don't think that at all, and I am grateful that you are trying to help me."

"It's the recapitulation that's helping you, not me," Clara corrected me:

"Have you noticed any strange things about the house, other than what you have already told me?"

I told her about the disparity between my visual assessments of the house from the observation post and from the grounds. She laughed until she was coughing.

"I have to adjust my behavior to this new development," Clara said when she could talk again.

"Can you explain to me why the grounds seem to be lopsided, and why I get such different compass readings when I'm down here than when I'm up on the hill?" I asked.

"I certainly can; but it won't make any sense to you. What's more, you may even get frightened."

"Does it have to do with the compass, Clara? Or is it me? Am I crazy or what?"

"It has to do with you, of course: You're the one making those measurements; but it's not that you're crazy. It's something else."

"What is it, Clara? Tell me. This whole thing is giving me the creeps. It's as if I were in a science fiction movie where nothing is real and anything can happen. I hate that genre!"

Clara didn't seem willing to divulge anything more. Instead she asked, "Don't you like the unexpected?"

I told her that having male siblings had been so devastating for me; that I became jaded, and as a matter of principle, I hated everything they liked.

They watched Twilight Zone on television, and raved about it. To me, it was a most manipulative and contrived show.

"Let's see how I can put this," Clara conceded:

"First of all, this is definitely not a science fiction house.

"It's rather a house of extraordinary intent. The reason why I can't explain its discrepancies is because I can't explain to you yet what intent is."

"Please don't talk in riddles, Clara," I begged. "It's not only frightening, but plainly infuriating."

"In order for you to understand this delicate matter, I have to talk in a roundabout way," Clara said:

"So let me first tell you about the man who was directly responsible for my being here in this house, and indirectly responsible for my relation with you.

"His name was Julian and he was the most exquisite being you could ever encounter.

"He found me one day when I had lost my way in those mountains in Arizona and he brought me here to this house."

"Wait a minute, Clara, I thought you said that this house has been in your family for generations," I reminded her.

"Five generations, to be exact," she replied.

"How can you make two contradictory statements with such nonchalance?"

"I'm not contradicting myself. It's you who are interpreting things without a proper foundation.

"The truth is that this house has been in my family for generations; but my family is an abstract family.

"It's a family in the same manner this house is a 'house,' and Manfred is a 'dog.'

But you already know that Manfred isn't a real dog; nor is this house real like any other house. Do you'see what I mean?"

I wasn't in the mood for Clara's riddles.

For a while, I sat quietly, hoping that she would change the subject.

Then I felt guilty for brooding and being short-tempered. "No, I don't see what you mean, I finally said.

"In order for you to understand all this, you have to change," Clara said patiently:

"But then, that's precisely why you are here: to change.

"And to change means that you will be able to succeed in making the abstract flight, at which time everything will be clear to you."

At my desperate urging, she explained that this unimaginable flight was symbolized by moving from the right side of the forehead to the left, but what it really meant was bringing the ethereal part of us, the double, into our daily awareness.

"As I've already explained to you," she went on, "the body-mind dualism is a false dichotomy.

"The real division is between the physical body, which houses the mind, and the ethereal body or the double, which houses our energy.

"The abstract flight takes place when we bring our double to bear on our daily lives.

"In other words, the moment our physical body becomes totally conscious of its energetic ethereal counterpart, we have crossed over into the abstract; a completely different realm of awareness."

"If it means I'll have to change first, I seriously doubt I'll ever be able to make that crossing," I said. "Everything seems so deeply ingrained in me that I feel I'm set for life."

Clara poured some water into my cup. She put down the ceramic pitcher and looked at me squarely.

"There is a way to change," she said, "and by now you are up to your ears in it. It's called the recapitulation."

She assured me that a deep and complete recapitulation enables us to be aware of what we want to change by allowing us to see our lives without delusion.

It gives us a moment's pause in which we can choose to accept our usual behavior, or to change it by intending it away before it fully entraps us.

"And how do you intend something away?" I asked. "Do you just say, 'Begone, Satan!'?"

Clara laughed and took a sip of water. "To change, we need to meet three conditions," she said:

"First, we must announce out loud our decision to change so that intent will hear us.

Second, we must engage our awareness over a period of time: We can't just start something and give it up as soon as we become discouraged.

Third, we have to view the outcome of our actions with a sense of complete detachment. This means we can't get involved with the idea of succeeding or failing.

"Follow these three steps and you can change any unwanted feelings and desires in you," Clara assured me.

"I don't know, Clara," I said skeptically. "It sounds so simple the way you put it."

It wasn't that I didn't want to believe her: It was just that I had always been practical; and from a practical point of view, the task of changing my behavior was staggering in spite of her three-fold program.

We finished our meal in complete silence.

The only sound in the kitchen was the constant dripping of water as it passed through a limestone filter.

That gave me a concrete image of the gradual cleansing process of recapitulating.

Suddenly, I had a surge of optimism.

Perhaps it was possible to change oneself; to become purified drop by drop, thought by thought, just like the water passing through the filter.

Above us, the bright track lights cast eerie shadows on the white tablecloth.

Clara put down her chopsticks and began curling her fingers as if she were making shadow pictures on the tablecloth. At any moment I expected her to do a rabbit or a turtle.

"What are you doing?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"This is a form of communication," she explained, "not with people though, but with that force we call intent."

She extended her little and index fingers, then made a circle by touching her thumb to the tips of the two remaining fingers. She told me that this was a signal to trap the attention of that force and to allow it to enter the body through the energy lines that end or originate in the fingertips.

"Energy comes through the index and little finger if they are extended like antennae," she explained, showing me the gesture again. "Then the energy is trapped and held in the circle made by the other three fingers."

She said that with this specific hand position we can draw sufficient energy into the body to heal or strengthen it, or to change our moods and habits.

"Let's go to the living room, where we can be more comfortable," Clara said. "I don't know about you, but this bench is beginning to hurt my bottom."

Clara stood up and we walked across the dark patio, through the back door and hall of the main house into the living room.

To my surprise, the gasoline lamp had already been lit and Manfred was asleep curled up next to an armchair.

Clara made herself comfortable in that chair, which I had always taken to be her favorite.

She picked up a piece of embroidery that she had been working on and carefully added a few more stitches by passing the needle through the cloth and pulling it out with a graceful sweeping motion of her hand.

Her eyes were steadfast; intent on her work.

To me it was so unusual to see this strong woman doing needle work that I glanced over curiously to see if I could catch a glimpse of her handicraft.

Clara noticed my interest and held up the cloth for me to see.

It was a pillowcase with embroidered butterflies perched on colorful flowers. It was too gaudy for my taste.

Clara smiled as if she sensed my critical opinion of her work.

"You might tell me that my work is sheer beauty or that I'm wasting my time," she said, taking another stitch, "but that wouldn't affect my inner serenity.

"This attitude is called 'knowing your worth.'"

She asked a rhetorical question that she answered herself: "And what do you think my worth is? Absolutely zero."

I told her that in my opinion she was magnificent, truly a most inspiring person. How could she say that she had no worth?

"It's all very simple," Clara explained. "As long as the positive and negative forces are in balance, they cancel each other out and that means that my worth is zero.

"It also means that I cannot possibly be upset when someone criticizes me, nor can I be pleased when someone praises me."

Clara held up a needle and, in spite of the dim light, she quickly threaded it.

"Chinese sages of ancient times used to say that in order to know your worth, you have to slip through the eye of the dragon," she said, pulling the two ends of the thread together.

She said that those sages were convinced that the boundless unknown is guarded by an enormous dragon whose scales shine with a dazzling light.

They believed that the courageous seekers who dare to approach the dragon are awed by its blinding glare, by the power of its tail that with the minutest flicker crushes anything in its way, and by its burning breath that turns to ashes everything within its reach.

But they also believed that there is a way to slip by that unapproachable dragon.

Clara said that they were confident that by merging with the dragon's intent, one can become invisible and go through the dragon's eye.

"What does that mean, Clara?" I asked.

"It means that through the recapitulation we can become empty of thought and desire, which for those ancient seers meant to become one with the dragon's intent, therefore invisible."

I picked up an embroidered cushion, another sample of Clara's work, and tucked it behind my back.

I took several deep breaths to clear my mind.

I wanted to understand what she was saying, but her insistence in using Chinese metaphors made it all the more confusing to me.

Yet there was such an urgency in everything she said, that I felt it would be my loss if I didn't at least try to understand her.

Watching Clara embroidering, I was suddenly reminded of my mother. Perhaps it was that memory that induced in me a monumental sadness; a longing that had no name.

Or perhaps it was listening to what Clara had said; or just being in her empty, hauntingly beautiful house, under that eerie light of the gasoline lamp.

Tears flooded my eyes and I began to weep.

Clara jumped up from her chair and stood beside me. She whispered in my ear so loudly that it sounded like a shout, "Don't you dare to give in to self-pity in this house.

"If you do, this house will reject you. It will spit you out, just like you spit out an olive pit."

Her admonition had the proper effect on me. My sadness instantly vanished.

I dried my eyes and Clara continued talking as if nothing had happened.

"The art of emptiness was the technique practiced by Chinese men of wisdom who wanted to go through the dragon's eye," she said, taking her seat again:

"Today, we call it the art of freedom. We feel it's a better term because that art really leads to an abstract realm where humanness doesn't count."

"Do you mean, Clara, that it is an inhuman realm?"

Clara put her embroidery down in her lap and looked at me. "What I mean is that almost everything we have heard about this realm, from sages and seers who sought it, smacks of human concerns.

"But we, the ones who practice the art of freedom, have found out from firsthand experience that this is an inaccurate portrayal.

"In our experience, whatever is human in that realm is so unimportant that it is lost in the vastness."

"Wait a minute, Clara. What about that group of legendary personages called the Chinese immortals? Didn't they achieve freedom in the way you mean it?" .

"Not in the way we mean it," Clara said. "Freedom to us is being free from humanness.

"The Chinese immortals were caught in their myths of immortality; of being wise, of having liberated themselves, of coming back to earth to guide others along the way.

"They were scholars, musicians; possessors of supernatural powers.

"They were righteous and whimsical very much like the classical Greek gods.

"Even nirvana is a human state, in which bliss is being free from the flesh."

Clara had succeeded in making me feel completely forlorn.

I told her that all my life I had been accused of lacking human warmth and understanding. In fact, I had been told that I was the coldest creature anyone could ever come across.

Now Clara was saying that freedom was being free from human compassion, and I had always felt I was missing something crucial by not possessing it.

I was on the verge of tears of self-pity again, but Clara came again to my rescue.

"Being free from humanness doesn't mean such an idiotic thing as not possessing warmth or compassion," she said.

"Even so, freedom the way you describe it is inconceivable to me, Clara," I insisted. "I'm not sure I would want any part of it."

"And I'm sure I want every part of it," she retorted:

"Although my mind cannot conceive it either, believe me, it does exist!

"And believe me, too, that someday you'll be saying to someone else whatever I am saying to you now about it. Perhaps you'll even be using the same words."

She winked at me as if she knew for certain that this was going to happen.

"As you continue to recapitulate, the entrance of the realm where humanness doesn't count will appear to you," Clara went on:

"That will be the invitation for you to go through the dragon's eye.

"This is what we call the abstract flight.

"It actually entails crossing a vast chasm into a realm that cannot be described because man isn't the measure of it."

I became numb with dread. I didn't dare take Clara lightly, for she always meant what she said.

The thought of losing my humanness, such as it was, and jumping into a chasm was more than frightening.

I was about to ask her if she knew when that entrance was going to appear to me, but she continued her explanation.

"The truth of the matter is that the entrance is in front of us all the time," Clara said, "but only those whose minds are still and whose hearts are at ease can see or feel its presence."

She explained that to call it an entrance was not metaphorical because it actually appears sometimes as a plain door, a black cavern, a dazzling light or anything conceivable; even a dragon's eye. She said that, in this respect, the metaphors of China's early sages were not farfetched at all.

"Another thing the ancient Chinese seekers believed was that invisibility is the corollary of having attained a calm indifference," she said.

"What is a calm indifference, Clara?"

Instead of answering me directly, she asked if I had ever seen the eyes of fighting cocks.

"I've never seen a fighting cock in my life," I told her.

Clara explained that the look in the eyes of a fighting cock is not the look found in the eyes of ordinary people or animals because those eyes mirror warmth, compassion, rage, fear.

"The eyes of a fighting cock are filled with none of these," Clara informed me:

"Instead, they reflect an indescribable indifference, something also found in the eyes of beings who have made the great crossing.

"Instead of looking outwardly at the world, they have turned inwardly to gaze at that which is not yet present.

"The eye that gazes inwardly is immovable," Clara went on. "It reflects not human concerns or fears, but the vastness.

"Seers who have gazed at the boundless have attested that the boundless stares back with a cold, unyielding indifference."