Messages From Metatron Study Group Podcast: SOULMATES

 

LISTEN to our Study Group about SOULMATES: https://www.blogtalkradio.com/cview/2023/03/17/317-c-view-2023-messages-from-metatron--study-group-podcast--soulmates

God Is Dreaming-A Short Story about Spiritual Awakening by Nina Bingham

 

"Get to the root of your projections," repeats Papaji, a beloved guru from India. He is emphasizing a simple but profound sentence; he is saying something of consequence. His gaze pierces the audience until the faint, knowing smile slips from his face. I am listening hard; I realize he is handing us the key. Something wells up that wills me to understand. In a single, fluttering moment the key slips from his fingers and lands at my feet. The devotees encircling him in Satsang are trying, but they cannot connect the dots. While that one sentence, "Get to the root of your projections," jumps out and possesses me. 

My body starts vibrating as if an electric current is passing through it. Startled, I look down at my hand and expect to see it trembling. Curiously, it is still. Another wave of energy crashes through my body, and another, each surge progressively larger like an unstoppable tsunami. My view of the bedroom narrows and goes black-pitch black as if my power chord were plucked from the wall, but I can still hear my heart beating. An unrelenting magnitude is shaking me free of my moorings, rattling me loose of being human until I am devoid of knowing where I am or who I am. Reality disappears like a puff of smoke and escapes me. The volcanic ash of Vesuvius is falling; the lava hits, vaporizing me, becoming my graveyard. Inky black blankets me as I float in thick, endless darkness that certainly has delivered my death.

 Then, as surely as I am destroyed, my soon-to-be new life springs from the bloodless ruins. Like a caterpillar busting its chrysalis, new breath is pumping into my veins. I hear the distant and comforting sound of Papaji's voice calling me back to consciousness, echoing, "Get to the root of your projections." My intellect, newly awakened, belabors this thought about my projections until the lie unravels like a sweater that comes apart when you pull the loose end. In a blissful flash, I see that the universe has always loved me and that I am the universe. There is no separation or division; the cosmos was made for me, by me. And we, all of us, are one. And there is a God, a mastermind-but He is soundly sleeping, and we are his dream. Like a thawing, the cocoon releases its prey, and I cover my mouth to silence a yelp. I am laughing and crying at the same time. I am so overwhelmed; I do not know what to do. 

 

My sight returns, sputtering, as if my eyes have been rewired. Once I have a picture, the world spins 180 degrees and locks back into place. The crunch in my ears is loud as if my neck has snapped, but it is not a physical sensation. Instead, there is a burning in my heart and an intense, stormy, passionate gurgling in my veins. This is raw life, what causes a newborn to gasp and gulp the air, to scream; this is virgin, undefiled Shakti energy, and I have been born again. When the world comes to rest, everything feels different; everything looks different. Even the colors are different. There is a vibrancy, a vitality; everything is full of this nectar shining gloriously from the inside. The world feels soft and inviting like falling into a bed of down; blissful, tender, subdued, hushed. While on the outside, I hear myself laughing and crying, crying, and laughing. 

 

My beloved rescue dog, Romeo, who is my baby and best friend sits at my feet, concerned about his Mama who is now hiccupping with joy and sorrow. His head is turned adorably to the side, trying to decipher if he should sound the alarm. I pat his head and explain through the ruckus that Mama is all right. She is just you and has made you, perfectly furry you, for me, which spins me into wonderment. How did I not see that everything works perfectly for my evolution? Even Romeo’s anxiety causes me to be a gentler, more patient person. My “problems” are enigmas of opportunity. 

 

I am surprised when my wife returns from work. I lost track of time-she could not be home yet! I have been sitting oblivious in silent tears and quiet giggles because my heart cannot make up its mind-splendiferous joy or crushing regret? The giggles are relief and wonder escaping. The sorrow is for not seeing that I am loved, and we are all in this together. Three hours ago, I watched a video of Papaji. I only closed my eyes and opened my eyes, yet three hours have evaporated.

 

Before my wife left for work, we had argued, so I am sure she was expecting a chilly reception. I rush her like a linebacker and squeeze her as tightly as I can, a bear hug so unexpected that she lets out a gasp, "Oh my what's happening?" Unapologetically, I cry all over her and then I start chuckling. I do not want to laugh for no reason because of the incredulous look on her face, yet I do not think I can stop. It must come out, like when a baby is born; nothing will stop it. "Is everything alright?" she asks in a concerned tone. I love that she asks, but I laugh at the absurdity of the question. 

 

"Yes...no-I don't know."

 

My wife is staring at my tear-stained face, but now she is both her and me-how strange. I make her put down her things and sit with me at the dining room table. I order myself to stop feeling good and laughing, and I try putting into coherent sentences what I have experienced: that everything is one. I am her, and she is me. The world is just a projection; it is a dream-it is not real. These things come bubbling out of me like water gushing from a rock, but the words sound jumbled. I can tell by the bewildered look on her face that I sound ludicrous. The tears flow, gratitude cascading down my cheeks as I take her hands and express heartfelt appreciation for her unwavering friendship. I earnestly search her eyes, looking straight into her tired and hopeless soul. I see tears that want to come but she won’t let them. I ask her forgiveness for not loving her the way I should have, as I can see how much time I have wasted fighting her and the world, and for that, I am immensely sorry. I am not hiding anything-the good or bad in me is laid bare. 

 

The tears and laughter continue in bursts for minutes until, like a wild snowstorm, it settles into an alabaster blanket, glimmering and serene. My nose is swollen, and my eyes are puffy, but through the haze, my wife’s face stands out as dazzling, and a golden halo shines around her. "Why didn't I see how amazing you were before?" I ask. She smiles lopsidedly and shrugs. She seems perfectly made for me when earlier her idiosyncrasies irritated me. Now I can plainly see what a fabulous person she is.

 

The tears stop, but the giggles will not. I cannot suppress the joy, and when I try to, it makes it worse, and I burst out in peels of crazy laughter. Giggles are bubbling up and tickling me from I do not know where like irrepressible bubbles rising from the bottom of a champagne bottle. The bubbles are celebrating me and celebrating life-and my poor wife is just staring at me. By now, she looks lost and irritated. To restore normalcy, I take her to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant and buy her a well-deserved beer because I am in no shape to cook. She is still looking at me strangely which makes me want to giggle, so I stare hard at my Mexican platter. I am too full of happiness to be hungry, and I am never not hungry for Mexican food. I try to be quiet so she can eat her dinner in peace, and she looks across the table at me sternly, her brow furrowed, and gives me this ominous warning: “Don’t let this go to your head. Don’t go getting a big head because you have had some kind of… spiritual experience.” She spits it out like she is disgusted, and I hold up three fingers like a girl scout pledging, and it causes me to giggle. I wipe the smile away and solemnly promise I will remember her advice. It seems to me that the Universe is sending me a message. It is saying: Be humble, which I have never been particularly good at, but I will try. 

 

On the way home, I insist we stop for pints of ice cream on this frozen, blissful, Wintery night of nights. I am all cuddles, hanging so tightly onto her arm that I might cut off the blood flow. I cannot get close enough as we cruise the grocery store with glaring bright lights and I say, we must celebrate this momentous occasion, but she still has no idea what I am talking about. On the drive home, I am overcome by a ferocious appetite to wrap my arms around her and extol her virtues, to erase any damage I may have done, and to soothe her jagged edges. If I could only transmit a drop of the elixir on which I am drunk. Instead, I stare at her all the way home like a dog stares at its master until despite herself, she chuckles at the stars shooting from my eyes. 

 

I do not sleep much that night because of the adrenaline or whatever this charge is that has infected every cell of my body. I want to make love, anything to get closer to her, but she rolls over indifferently. I sleep only a few hours and rise early. I touch my face as I look in the bathroom mirror. It is still me; the outside belies the same saggy baggy woman. But on the inside, I am different. It is my confidence level that is different. I do not care anymore what others think of me. Yesterday I did. But now I am the master of my destiny-a queen. I think of Mother Theresa who only slept hours each night because there was so much work to do. I crawl back into bed and lay silently, trying not to wake her while contemplating how to help this planet see the truth, and how I might help my lost and resentful wife. We have grown apart; she is on one continent and I on another, yet we share the same bed. My physical eyes are closed, but my spiritual eyes are wide open, and I can see for eternity. 

 

Every day I try to make sense of what has happened, but it defies reason. It was imprinted, like when a person witnesses a shocking trauma. Did I have a schizophrenic break? Possibly, except I have no other symptoms. Am I avoiding reality by deluding myself, drumming up a story that makes life easier? The unconscious mind is crafty enough, I will give you that. But as I said, it happened to me. I guess I do not mind being a figment of God’s imagination.

 

Then an amusing thing happens. When I sit down for puja, my Hindu home worship service, I am completely flummoxed. For whom am I lighting candles? There has always been a God in Heaven. Now that we are all one, God, me, and the world, who am I directing my devotion to, exactly? There is no "you and me" or "me and them" left. There is only US. I clear a space on my altar and honor myself that morning. I light the puja candles and watch the incense burn, all for me. The artificial division I imagined between myself, and God is gone, and the fortress I had built against my wife is destroyed. Yet, I have an uneasy feeling that what I knew as “normal” is gone forever, too. 

 

As the days pass, I become disheartened. No matter how I try, I cannot put this experience sufficiently into words; I cannot share the most important experience of my life with anybody. I tell my spiritual friend about it because she turned me on to meditation and chant, crystals and gemstones, and triangle power. She calls it a “spiritual awakening.” 

 

“You’ve wanted something like this to happen, and now it has! But you don’t seem happy about it.” Joan cocks her head to the side, her wise eyes and crinkled nose showing concern, her cotton-candy fluff hair wrapped in a tie-dye headband leaning like the Tower of Pisa.

 

“Ya-well, of course, I am glad, it was…amazing. It…changed me. It changed everything. But how do you share it with people?”

 

Joan tilts her head back and laughs as if she is speaking from experience. “You DON’T! People aren’t going to get it. They are not supposed to get it. This was YOUR gift-keep it to yourself. I have learned to keep my trap shut, even with Harry-I don’t tell my husband everything even though we’ve been married since I don’t know when because he is never gonna get it.”

 

“That’s not the answer I wanted,” I admit.

 

“Of course not, darlin'. You wanted to share it with the world, to shout it from the rooftops!” she flings her long arm dramatically in the air and her saggy skin shakes. My friend was born in the wrong era; she should have been a Hollywood actress. “And how did your wife take it?” she says in a muffled voice as if she is a detective.

 

“Like she usually takes things-she didn’t understand it, so we didn’t talk about it.” 

 

Joan guffaws as she adjusts the folds of her billowy cotton dress, gold bracelets tinkling. “Honey, she is just like Harry. Good at fucking, not so good at talking.” We both burst out laughing. 

 

“At least you get me,” I say, resigned.

 

“Oh, I get you, all right. I AM you-or you are me. The chicken comes before the egg,” she says, reminding me that she is the elder.

 

“It has kind of messed up my life,” I confess. “I mean, do not get me wrong, I am glad it happened. I needed it to happen. But now that I have seen it, I do not know what to do with it.”

 

“Why do you have to do anything with it?” She sounds like a shrewd New Yorker as she brushes the hair from her eyes, her hands looking older than the last time I noticed them, the collection of gemstone rings she is sporting making her appear like a gypsy fortuneteller. Every time I see Joan, she looks like someone new. “Simply enjoy it. You are not going to save the world, honey-not this nasty old world. Let this experience save you, that is all it is meant to do.” In reply, I squeeze her purple, cold hands in my warm hands, and I do not want to let them go because when I am with my gypsy friend, everything makes sense.

 

I decided it is best not to talk about my experience, though I have not for a minute forgotten. I told a few people that I thought might understand, but it did not go well. They thought I might be having a nervous breakdown or that I was manic. Yet, I saw what I saw with my own consciousness, my own intelligence-and when you see something for yourself nobody must tell you if it was real. I have never doubted, not for a minute. Nothing becomes real until it is experienced and that is what happened; I saw through God’s eyes. And what I saw is that God is dreaming. We are nothing but a God damned dream, though I do not know whether I would call life a dream or a nightmare. If we can dream, why can’t God? Weren’t we made in God’s image? 

 

There was only one person I wanted to share this with, and that was my wife, but she never mentions it. Is she scared to talk about it? Doesn’t she believe me? She does not say, and I do not talk of spiritual things because it only makes her hostile. When she sees any sign of happiness in me, she goes out of her way to step on it like she is snuffing out her cigarette. Anything she does not understand, anything difficult is ignored. She clings to denial like a life preserver because she never learned how to swim in uncertain seas. But like a consecrated seed, the awakening keeps growing inside me like a delicate flower willing its way through the concrete. 

 

“Why do you spend so much time meditating? Can’t we watch a movie?” she snarls.

 

“We watched a movie last night,” I respond. “Why don’t you try meditating with me, just once?”

 

“When I want to meditate, I’ll do it myself,” she snaps.

 

           She always has a handy excuse for keeping her distance. Doesn’t she want me to be happy? Can’t she see that I have found a deep reservoir to draw from and would like nothing more than to share it with her? But our paths have been diverging for years. All her roads lead away from me, and nothing I say halts our downhill slide. When she lost her job, that’s when things took a dark turn. That was the first stage of failure. To cope, she began drinking and gambling online. All she does is stare into her computer screen, a black money hole that is sucking her in, and when she runs out of funds, she is in a sour temper while I emerge from my meditation room blissed out to the max and grinning stupidly. We are both getting high, albeit in separate ways. 

 

We are encased in impenetrable bubbles that bump into each other once a week for dinner or for sex; rough sex so devoid of tenderness and intimacy that I have stopped expecting it feel like anything but lust. After years of hostile standoffs and raging battles, our marriage has become a toxic wasteland. I have been desperately trying to save us as if it is my mission in life until we are both sick of my schemes. In the end, I admit defeat and filed for divorce. Before I can serve the papers, she packs her Jeep and leaves town, moving in with a new girlfriend that I suspected was waiting in the wings. I had no idea what Pandora’s box I was opening when I began this spiritual journey. It seems to have driven her away, or perhaps it was inevitable. Now that I am on this path, I cannot turn back; I will walk it alone.

 

As soon as the divorce is final, the Covid lockdown descends. I am isolated, a shut-in, and the exhaustive solitude is devastating. The house is too big, so I rove it, walking stupidly from room to room looking for something that should have been there but never was. The space echoes. I have too much time on my hands, but my meditation practice anchors me to sanity. When I broke the news to my mom about the divorce, she told me that when she divorced my abusive father, she walked the beach for months and it helped her to heal. I live in the desert, so instead of walking the beach, I walk the sandy, variegated hills of Arizona, the rust and bone-colored limestone peppered with Saguaro and Joshua Trees and spikes, lots of spikes. I march towards the breathtaking sunrise of sherbet orange and pink like I am training for a race; I go forth with purpose, with intention, never slowing long enough to think about how dreadfully I miss my ex-wife and her handsome face or how she is in another woman’s arms, probably a beautiful woman, or how my bones ache for something as simple as a hug from anyone. I keep walking without looking back because somehow, I must heal. 

 

On one of my walks, an awful thing happened. A dog shoots around the corner of a building, a savage-looking beast on a ten-foot chain. He rushes forward and gulps my chihuahua, slamming his steel trap mouth over his throat. His teeth are tearing, and blood is flying as he shakes little Romeo by the neck the way a shark shakes a seal, trying to shake the life out of him. Without hesitation, I dive down to the punishing cement, my knees hitting hard, and I hear a crack. I am wrestling a canine whose head is as big as a bore’s head, and he is foaming at the mouth, teeth brandished. My grip around his rib cage does nothing to pull him off. My dog is screaming in pain as he ferociously chomps, chomps, chomps, and I am shrieking at the owner for help. She stands removed from the scene with an evil sneer on her face as if to say, I am enjoying this, I’m not going to help, and she does not move a muscle. 

 

I notice the dog’s beady eyes, shark eyes, and I poke his eyes with my fingers because my dog is dying. I am overrun with smeary tears, and the devilish owner is still eerily smiling. The dog yelps and releases Romeo, and he is gone, steaming towards a busy street. Now he turns his full rage on me and bites my right knee. I am on my back, terrified, the monster hovering and growling. I protect my face with my arms, so he doesn’t rip my face off. His owner pulls back the 10-foot chain and can barely control him as he bucks like a wild stallion. I scramble to my feet, and she hollers, “You fucking bitch!” in a horse, raspy smoker’s voice. I am so shocked that she is calling me names that I freeze in confusion, and she says, “You meant to do that! You provoked my dog!” My whole body is trembling with anger and horror, and although I would like to rip her throat out, without answering, I limp away like a zombie dragging legs that barely work, my knee oozing blood from the puncture wound and my ankle twisted. I call out for Romeo who may already be lying dead in the bushes, but I don’t know where to look. We are on a busy road; maybe he was hit by a car. I scream his name loudly and repeatedly like a foghorn, but there is only silence, and I whimper because I fear he is dead. I limp home to call Animal Control and when I look back to where we were attacked, the woman and the dog have vanished. 

 

I approach my front door and see Romeo sitting on the mat waiting to be let in like an obedient boy. He is violently shaking and when I let him in, I notice all the puncture wounds. He is covered with them, too many to count, all oozing blood, his coat matted. I am surprised he is still breathing. He runs into the house and hides under my desk where I do my writing. I keep a magnet of a local animal hospital on my refrigerator, and I call them.

 

My trembling hand can barely hold the phone, and in a wobbly, threadbare voice I say, “We have been attacked. I can hardly walk, and my dog is gonna die.”

 

The calm lady at the vet says they will call Animal Control for me but do not go anywhere, they will need to take a report. After that, they will transport Romeo to the vet’s surgery. I start to yell because I do not care about any report, I need the vet to see my dog NOW. She asks me to stay on the phone and we go through what happened as she dispatches the help. 

 

It is six months later, and though the terror of that day has faded, I walk with a cane now. Romeo survived the surgery, a blood transfusion, and twenty-six puncture wounds. We are survivors. He and I take little walks to get some air, but my knee and ankle will not cooperate anymore. My distance walking days are over. When we see a big dog on the sidewalk, we both freeze. We tried going to a dog park, but Romeo flipped out, and I had a panic attack. And the owner? She slipped out of town in the middle of the night, giving no notice at the broken-down apartment she lived in, taking her attack dog with her. I hired a Private Investigator, but he could not track her down; she disappeared as if the whole thing never happened. There was no settlement; hell, there was no money to cover our medical bills. But I remind myself that this is all a dream, sometimes an unbelievably bad dream.

 

I ask myself why God would dream up the horrors that humans do to one another. It would be easy to get bitter and pessimistic, but then I remember that He has dreamed up beautiful and breathtaking things as well, like my friend Joan, and the Arizona sunset. It is tempting to think that because I went through a divorce and was attacked by a dog that God does not care. But I do not believe that is it. God is seated in His cosmic stadium, and like the ancient Greek Philosophers who wrote plays of comedy and tragedy that taught a moral, God is dreaming this play so we might learn our lessons. And the projection that Papaji said we must get to the root of? Once you discover the answer to that riddle, God will surely wake up. 

Walking Naked: A Short Story About Coming Out by Nina Bingham

There is nothing worse than incongruity, thought J. 

An adult Psychology student who had returned to college to complete her degree, J. had learned that the term “Cognitive Dissonance” meant saying one thing while doing another. 

 

That had been me before coming out. Hiding everything about who I was, masking my confusion, keeping my head down and my secrets safely concealed. Because people, meaning my parents, could be close-minded and cruel. Today, the world is different. More accepting. Or is the world the same, and I have changed? 

 

Back then, she had shied away from her religious parents to avoid dropping what would seem to them like a nuclear bomb. When she was in college and could bear the burden of love lived in silence no longer, she had dropped it. She met with them formally, and as if she were delivering a eulogy, her voice quiet and her brow furrowed as if she could prepare them by her seriousness and solemnity. But it was not them who got hit, but her. She was soundly rebuked, disowned, and erased from their lives. She hoped in time that things between them would get better, that space would erase the words they could not mean; she hoped that time might heal their differences. It did not seem possible, but as the years wore on her parents had become more entrenched in their born-again reasons to keep their distance until they drifted apart all together. She had been cut from the family as one cuts out a hated ex from a picture. Consequently, she had determined to love herself-or was trying.

 

She knew when she was eighteen. She fell for another girl at church, a Spanish girl with white porcelain skin, extra kind brown eyes, and long fingers that were made to play the piano. At 17, Linda was already a concert pianist who spent her Summers playing in orchestras that toured the world. She was a prodigy who had classically trained since she was a child. Her father was a balding wealthy attorney who J. only saw in pictures, and her thick-brogued mother from Spain had molded her into a polite, disciplined, and well-bred young lady, except she had a weakness for the underprivileged, which is why she took to J. 

 

           J. admired her talent and dedication and would turn her sheet music just to be closer and to watch her play. J. would have liked to study piano herself, except her single mother struggled to give her the basics, much less, private lessons. The girls would sleep in the same bed after their late-night piano and giggle sessions when J. was too tired to drive home. As soon as they hunkered down, Linda would grab J., pulling her close, announcing, “Cucharitas! Cucharitas!” that meant, “It’s spooning time.” With passionate Spanish blood and customs, Linda was demonstrative; all her family was affectionate, she explained to J. They were best friends, so Linda lavished J. with praise for the slightest thing. Her words were laden with honey and acceptance, luxurious words that her severe single mother would never say. 

 

J. would pretend to fall asleep, breathing with Linda for hours, never admitting to herself what she knew, that this was love, for what else could this intensity be? When you want to breathe with a person? Crawl up in their skin to be closer because laying side by side is not enough. When listening to their soft breath, the essence of them, is far sweeter than sleep? In the morning, when the anguished night of longing was over, J. built the brick wall around her heart again so she might never lose Linda as a friend. She hoped to preserve things just as they were, never to cross that line for fear of ruining what they had, what was unsung, secret, and as fragile as a long piano note that dies out slowly. In time, J. had faith that Linda would discover her undying love; but her shrewd mother saw through it. She found them one morning in bed spooning, sleeping like two fallen angels in a clandestine embrace.

 

“It was the innocence of friends, mummy,” Linda explained in the hallway as J. anxiously listened from the bedroom. “Girls our age, we feel affection for each other as best-friends do, nothing else! Do you want me to be affectionate with a man instead?”

 

“Better a man,” warned her watchful mother as she wagged a carefully manicured finger with blood-red fingernail polish in her face. “No more cucharitas!”

 

            But the girls did not listen; the nights were too sweet, pure, and soulful to give up. Until a man came into Linda’s life, a stranger, from where J. never knew, though she suspected that her mother had orchestrated it. He lived in the forests of Oregon in a log cabin he had cut and built, a real lumberjack with red and white plaid shirts and a ready, wide smile. Athletic, with muscles bulging, he swept Linda away like a flood that comes unannounced, overpowering everything. The girl’s bond was tossed aside faster than a schoolgirl’s crush. She did not stop long enough to say goodbye. 

 

Linda went to the forest with him, taking everything but her piano. Quickly she married without even knowing him. Silently and bitterly J. watched her go, not understanding why. Years later she heard from a friend that Linda had divorced him because he hit her, and she had returned to her piano and watchful mother in the city. The humiliation would not let J. speak to Linda again. This was not the last time that a man took what was hers or what should have been hers. Now in her thirties, J. had dated and won the hearts of many women and did not consider men a threat. They were her brothers, bosses, and guys at work to shoot the shit with. She did not envy them, and she was not afraid of them. Now she was one of them. 

 

It was not always so easy to blend in. After Linda, she sacrificed her true self as if she were a Christ on the cross, a saint who nailed her passion to the wall to please God and her parents. She dated mild-mannered men and refused sex in a confused effort to rid herself of the “disease,” and it was exactly that, a dis-ease with herself as a straight person. J. felt she could not possibly have what she wanted because her parents, female friends, and church would be uncomfortable and worse yet, rejecting. 

 

It was killing her. Every minute, every hour, every month. The years passed, the clock always ticking. She dummied up like a mute, like a mousy, noiseless thing as she watched the hands of time revolve without her. When would she have the audacity to face the truth: she was different, maybe, really different? She was unlike anyone in her family, and there was no one to talk to about it. Growing up in a small town, she did not know a single gay person. It felt like it would always be this way, her against the world. A hopeless, lonely feeling, a resentful, simmering feeling she had come to embrace and wear as a shield, her lot in life. When you are told that being different is wrong, or worse, that it is a mortal sin, you go into hiding, which is why she put off coming out for decades. 

 

Until that fateful day when the air in the cave became so rancid that she hated the smell of herself, her lies, and her pretending. She resented herself, for benign smiles to insulting comments about her short hair and masculine swagger, and just outside she he could see the bright sun beckoning. Disgusted with the denials and buttoned-up shame, she stepped out, legs trembling, into the light. Having been in the dark cave for so long, saying the words to her parents for the first time felt like speaking a foreign language. She shuttered, looked down and declared, “I am gay.” Once the cat was out of the bag, her life was never the same. You cannot walk back an admission like that-it is life-altering. At that moment, J.’s life split in half: before, and after. It is a wonder she came out at all; rejection is painful, stigmatizing, and in some cases, deadly. Despite her best role-playing she was driven to embrace her uniqueness, a truth so magnificent it hurt.

 

But J. felt more than different. She felt truly, remarkably strange, because after announcing her sexual orientation to the world, another revelation surfaced that she had pushed down, ignored, and denied. It struck her like lightning when she heard a friend say the words: you are transgender.

 

“There are freaks, and then there are the super freaks,” J. told her friends. “I am of the latter persuasion.” 

 

That is how she thought of herself: a freak of nature. While lunching together, a compassionate lesbian friend from one of her Psychology classes could see J.’s anguish over her gender dysphoria and reminded her of the story Beauty and the Beast. 

 

            With words as soft as a rose petal she said, “The beast that roars is your shadow self. The part of you that you have not wanted to see. It has been howling to get your attention.”

 

            “So, I’m a beast,” J. said, sourly. 

 

“No. The shadow is your beauty-it is the truth about you. As soon as you face it you’ll be transformed.”

 

             “Funny, but my parents don’t see it that way.”

 

             “People may not agree, but only because they are dealing with their beasts.” 

 

             “You’ve been reading too much Jung,” teased J. 

 

J. came to understand that people only persecute others when they have unheard beasts lurking. Still, it was tempting to listen to the nonsense talk. Religious programs were running the people she had been taught to trust, people she had once respected. These programs had flooded and poisoned her mind since childhood and by familiarity seemed decent and right, but they did not fit anymore. She struggled beneath a skin that did not fit anymore, and like the clothes she had outgrown, she could not put those old ideas back on. It left her feeling exposed, with little to cling to for protection, like walking naked. 

 

***

 

“Let’s go to a nudist beach!” suggested J.’s live-in girlfriend Tracey, her eyes shining. Tracey was years younger than J. Vivacious, friendly, and outgoing, she was just what the reserved J. needed to bring her out of her shell.

 

 

            “A nudist beach? Where did you get that idea?” This was the same girl who woke up one morning and on a lark announced that they were going to take a motorcycle trip from Oregon to San Francisco to see China Town because they had never seen it. And they did. 

 

“I have been before,” she said coyly, batting her lashes, “Just never with you! I want to go with you!”  

 

The thought of getting naked in front of total strangers was not on J.’s bucket list, but she did not want to seem like the elder fuddy-duddy, so she reluctantly agreed.

 

“I will give it a go. What have I got to lose, except my self-respect!” Tracey wrapped her

arms tightly around J’s neck and kissed her. 

 

            “That’s the spirit!”

 

***

 

Before they hit the beach, in the parking lot, when they could still escape the coming humiliation, J. complained that she was too fat to be naked in public. She had driven them on her motorcycle and was reluctantly stuffing her riding leathers into the saddle bags. 

 

“You’re not too fat. You’re too white,” Tracey quipped. “Honey, try to think of this a

an adventure!”

 

             “Is that what we are calling it? This is going to be painful,” J. moaned.

 

“Only if you forget your sunscreen. Now stop bitching, and let’s go.” Tracey walked

around the motorcycle and grabbed her hand. “You promised.”

 

“Anything for you,” J. capitulated. The river was concealed by tall, sprawling trees that hid the beach from the road. It was a scorching summer day-too hot for white girls to be buck naked in, but here they were. With every step, J.’s heart began to pound with anticipation. If her churchgoing mother could only see her now! She could not tell if she felt excited or doomed. As the beachfront came into view, there was no mistaking they had found it. There were seniors with saggy baggy elephant knees and hard-bodied teens. Couples leisurely strolled the beach holding hands, and an exuberant volleyball game was in progress. Suddenly, J. felt awkward in her clothes. They found a spot in the warm sand and parked it on their brightly colored beach towels. 

          

              After a few minutes of taking it all in, Tracey said, “Well, shall we?”

 

             “Shall we what?” said J. grinning. “I cannot believe we are doing this!”

 

             “Isn’t it fun?” Tracey squealed. 

 

J. undressed with her back to the volleyball game where most people were, wrapping a big towel around herself. Tracey laughed because she had already taken her clothes off as J. stood over her awkwardly. 

 

             “Jeez! I am too fat and too white for this!” 

 

             “Honey, I’ve seen it all before,” Tracey assured her. “So, when’s the big reveal?” 

 

            As J.’s fate hovered between heaven and hell, she was taking stock of her imperfections. They were glaring; as glaring as her Wintry white legs. But in a burst of courage, she whipped off her towel and landed quickly on the sand with a thud. 

 

             “Was that so bad?”

 

               “Yes!” 

 

Strangers passed them with a cordial hello and neither of them knew where to look. If they looked away while someone was talking, it was rude, but when they tried looking at the beachgoers, their eyeballs kept wandering down to their…birthday suits. As hard as she tried, J.’s eyes embarrassed her by darting to the forbidden zones for a sneak peek. 

 

“What is wrong with my eyes?!” J. said, exasperated. But as the minutes wore on, she started loosening up, mostly because she was noticing other people's flaws. With no clothes to hide behind, the nudist beach was a sea of imperfection.

 

             “Hi. I’m Larry, the beach manager.” 

 

A string bean of a guy who looked like Sam Elliott with a cowboy’s white mustache stopped to introduce himself, holding out his long hand. Being unsure where to look, J. concentrated ridiculously hard on his eyes. 

 

            “First time here?”

 

            “How did you know?” asked J.

 

“Oh, I’ve been doing this long enough to tell who is a regular and who is not…plus you have that first-time look of terror on your face.” 

 

They all laughed. Larry produced a marijuana cigarette from nowhere. “You guys smoke?” he asked. “It’s just pot. It will loosen you up, might even make the day more enjoyable.” 

 

Larry lit the hand-rolled joint and Tracey looked at J. who gladly accepted. “Thank you,” said J. reaching to take a puff. “Why didn’t we think of this?”

 

“It will wear off before you have to drive home,” said responsible Larry through a haze

of smoke. 

 

            "Where are you guys from?" asked Larry.

 

            "We're locals," replied Tracey. 

 

"We get people from all over the world. Even had people from Alaska recently, looked like they had never seen the sun. Maybe they live in Igloos," he said, and they chuckled. "I am always curious where people hear about the beach."

 

            "This is Tracey's doing," said J. "I didn't even know Portland had a nude beach."

 

             "I take all the blame," Tracey responded. "I've been here before."

 

             "Ah, so you're the one that corrupted her," he replied with a wide smile. 

 

             "Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Sam Elliott?" asked Tracey.

 

"I get that all the time; it is the mustache. And my physique." Larry made a muscle with his gangly arm. "I'm just kidding. If I looked like him, I wouldn't be wasting my time at a nude beach."

 

            "Is this a pickup spot?" asked J.

 

"Do ducks quack?" said Larry. "Nobody has any clothes on. It is easy to notice when somebody likes you." They all laughed.

 

"She says I don't know how to flirt," admitted J. "Maybe I should have been coming here."

 

"There's more flirting going on here than...I was going to say like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, but I mixed my metaphor." He took a long drag on the joint and held it in. "These things are great-except they give you brain damage." He let out a stream of smoke and started to laugh, then choked and coughed. 

 

             "A little brain damage never hurt anybody," Tracey replied. 

 

            "Except I don't have many brain cells left," he added.

 

             "How long have you been coming here?" asked J.

 

"They don't make you beach manager for nothing! I found this little oasis after the ’Nam War. It healed me. I could come here and forget everything. People at a nudist beach don't care if you smoke too much pot, or are too skinny, or too fat. There is no such thing as an in-group; it levels the playing field. Here we are all the same. Well, there’s a few differences," and he smiled his adorable cowboy smile. 

 

"That’s really beautiful," replied Tracey as if she were already floating. J. turned to her and thought, my girlfriend is a lightweight.

 

"There's something spiritual about this experience. It changes you," replied Larry, and J. thought that the pot must have a grip on Larry now, too. He offered the last puff to J. who gratefully accepted because she did not want to be the only one left out of the euphoria. 

 

An attractive woman across the sand called Larry's name, waving, and bouncing enthusiastically. "I guess that's my cue. Speaking of flirting, it's time for me to help a damsel in distress. Now you see why I do it," he whispered to J. as he winked playfully.

 

    "Damn, you got a good thing going here. Thanks, man, for the pot-I owe you one." J. held out her fist and Larry returned it for a fist bump. 

 

    "You kids let me know if you need anything, alright? You have a real nice afternoon," and the welcome wagon sauntered away; his tiny, wrinkly butt headed for greener pastures. 

 

    "Wow, what a cool guy," replied Tracey. 

 

    "He's been coming here since the Korean war," said J. "That's like...a hundred years!" The pot must have hit because J. could not add to save her life, even on her fingers.

 

    "If you keep coming for that long you might get as comfortable with it as Larry."

 

    "That's never ganna happen," replied J. "But I admit, this wasn't such a bad idea after all." 

 

"Are you saying that I was right? Was I right?" Tracey made a tickling motion at J.’s plump tummy. 

 

    "Don't go that far, woman," J. said playfully, and she leaned over and planted a kiss on Tracey’s willing lips. 

 

The afternoon wore on as the women giggled raucously, stuck to their beach towels like someone had super-glued their butts. They watched the nude volleyball game with amusement but declined offers to play. Neither of them got up from the seated position to try the water because that would mean they would have to stand upright. However, they both took a much-needed nap. Larry’s magic cigarette had made the day fly, and as the afternoon sun started to retreat, they were feeling naked again. Their innocence was fading fast, and by five o’clock, the sun was going down and the spell was broken. 

 

    Not wanting to seem like squares getting dressed on the beach, they covered up with towels and scurried fast to the trees, their clothes wadded up in front of their sunbaked privates like Adam and Eve when God went looking for them in the garden. They hid in the bushes, quickly pulling cool clothes over stingy skin. Before leaving J. sought out Larry to say goodbye. He was still with the buxom blond and had a shit-eating grin on his face. 

 

    "We just wanted to say thanks again," said J., holding out her hand.

 

    "A pleasure meeting you.” Larry pumped J’s hand. “Come back anytime now that you know somebody. I will always be here," replied Larry with a twinkle in his eye, and he turned his attention back to the woman who was completely enchanted by him.

 

***

 

Once home, they sat on the couch enjoying the breeze of the fan, skin glowing nuclear red, slathering on aloe-vera gel and discussing their adventure. 

 

“I think everyone should go to a nude beach, at least once, because it isn’t easy!” exclaimed J.

 

              Tracey congratulated her. “It took a lot of guts to get that far out of your comfort zone.”

 

“Being there showed me that once the barriers are removed, we are all imperfect. All of us.”

 

             “Maybe that’s why people do it,” replied Tracey. “Maybe that’s the point.”

 

             “Huh?”

 

“Whether it’s at the nude beach, or during sex, or when you’re coming out, it’s stepping out of perfectionistic programming so you can be yourself.” 

 

“Being yourself…” echoed J. “Yes, that is what it let me do. Be completely myself in front of other people. I am not going to say I liked it or that I would go back. But there was an element about it that was…liberating.”

   

            “You liked walking around naked,” Tracey teased. 

     

“I think part of me did! To say: “This is me-like it or not” to the world… it’s…a good feeling.”

 

“Then I’m going to have to get you naked more often,” she cooed, and she kissed the sweet spot on J’s temple where she did all her thinking. 

 

“Honestly, it felt good not to have to hide anything today. That was the first time the world has seen all of me.”

 

            “Maybe that’s the message from today. Be yourself, J., just be yourself.”