Trance – Short visits with an honest God

Decades ago, the Headmaster of Magdalen College stood and told the guests to rise and bid farewell to the experience of High Table. “Do not linger,” he adjured. Though we may have been inclined to hold on to the experience a little longer, we obeyed. The Brits have a way about them.

“Yes, they do,” God snickered as if we shared an inside joke. “Stiff upper lip, you know. They still haven’t learned to linger very well, let alone dawdle or tarry.”

I gave God a puzzled look. “Don’t those words mean the same thing?”

Professor God stepped to the podium and cleared her throat. “To linger is to revel in the twinkling glory of gowns and frippery. To linger is to dig into your purse, pull out hidden cash, and spend it on the moment or a stray notion, untallied time on a beach watching seagulls or the setting sun. Lovers linger.”

She gazed beyond me. Then continued.

“To dawdle has a touch of defiance. Sometimes, the dilly-dally is designed to dismay those holding the door. Dawdling is the other side of dread or the empty stare of a mind that’s taken flight. Avoiders dawdle.”

I could relate to dawdling. I do it frequently. God chuckled and shuffled her notes.

“Now, to tarry is another way of tinkering with time. To tarry is to tithe from your cache of tightly wrapped and labeled hours—the ones you use to prove your worth. Tarrying is a calculated intention, a contribution to a promise you believe is true. The hopeful tarry.”

“No,” I said. “Tarrying is torture.”

“Ooooh?” God tipped her head in that maddening, knowing way she has.

My consciousness began to fracture as I tried to explain.

“If you tarry in the garden, the Garden might ask, ‘Darling, why are you here?’ and you might acknowledge your fear. The lifted glass is emptied. The tables are being cleared. The holy ghosts have shed their robes and are digging up the Commons.”

The trance deepened. The Hive Mind of the Mystical dragged me further into the fog. Hungry soil seethed beneath my feet. The contours of connection undulated like waves in a primordial sea.

“I do not know where I begin or end,” I managed to whisper.

“Nor does anyone,” the Garden said. “Tarry with me. I’m lonely.”

I shook my head and the sun broke through. My shadow and I ran for shade. “Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder. “But we’ll have other times.”

“That we will,” the Garden smiled wistfully. “That we will.”

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Meditation, prayer, or even simple quiet times are thought to be beneficial, but there are no guarantees. In timeout, stimulation is reduced to the view of the corner and the scooting of the chair upon which the offender fidgets. This consequence of naughtiness is supposed to reduce agitation and encourage reflection, but it often visits holy hell on the mind screaming for more adrenalin. Try it sometime. Naps don’t count.

Staring off into space is somewhat different. The body slumps. The eyes glaze over. Brain activity appears to be reduced to breath and balance. Scientists have yet to determine if the space being stared into is internal or external, just as they cannot completely verify the source of dreams.

“These are dusty byways,” Road Grader interjects. “On certain neural pathways, the ruts can get deep and dangerous. The gravel sluffs off to the sides. Sometimes, a load of crushed rock has to be hauled in.”

Unfortunately, I understand what Road Grader is saying. When access to meaning is choked off by franticality or self-indulgence, even primitive stillnesses might provide a faint trail back to intentionality. But these accidental down times can go wrong, or peter out into the vast nowhere, leaving you uncertain where to stand.

Road Graders of the Soul do precision work, leveling, removing debris, and clearing the Way. If the Road Grader roars into your blank stare and begins widening your consciousness, don’t panic. Offer pastries and fuel.

“Now that’s some good advice,” Road Grader declares, slapping me on the back a little too vigorously.

“Ow!” I yell. “I’m not a monk in training. No hitting.”

“Sorry,” she says. “But I like having your attention.”

“Why?” I ask, still smarting from the slap.

“What else would you be paying attention to?” she asks.

I stall. She waits.

“Okay. Fine. My attention drifts to the sorry state of the world, my list of things to do, my ailments, and/or how to consume less sugar. I might even ruminate on revenge or rehearse edgy rebuttals. I can’t go around immersed in lovingkindness all the time.”

“Of course not. But you can go around making things a little easier for those in need.” Road Grader pats her lap and beckons. I climb aboard like a thrilled little kid. She won’t allow me to maneuver the levers that adjust the blade, but she lets me steer, and for hours, we level the playing field beneath us in deliberate, glorious circles.

“This might be my new calling,” I exclaim joyfully. “Just smoothing the way. Removing bumps.”

“Maybe,” Road Grader grins. “But don’t forget about backhoes. Digging in is fun, too.”

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Tag: Trance

To Linger

Road Work