A View from Above
I was home alone that evening sitting squarely in the middle of the couch, my body leaning heavily into the cushion with both arms outstretched on the top, left and right, my eyes were closed. It was quiet, no sound from any source, manmade or Mother Nature; complete silence.
The exact year escapes me but I’m reckoning it was in my late teens or early 20s. The little farm house where I lived was on a dead end road with only one more house a mile farther to the south. It was a shack really, occupied by Vietnam vet who preferred his privacy and rarely strayed from it.
During those years I worked and played too hard and too much, accomplishing little if anything good and sacrificing my health in the process. Everything seemed to be in turmoil and deciding which path to follow for personal fulfillment and financial independence was not an easy undertaking. I tried to break away from it all and join the military, but even they rejected me. A very slight case of scoliosis (curvature of the spine) prevented my inclusion into the service.
So there I was, sitting alone, a candle was burning, at peace and content with no particular thoughts running through my mind; an odd contradiction from the chaos that was boiling around me. And then it happened.
I felt a strange numbness that went from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, yet had a sensation of feeling every molecule of my being. It was weird; pleasurable, not scary, but far from ordinary. My skin expanded, separated, pulled itself away from the bone, from me, and I was floating, hovering over myself, looking at myself sitting quietly on the couch. “Cool!” I remember thinking.
I continued to rise, through the ceiling and the attic and the roof and then above the house. From my peripheral vision I could see the trees along the fence line and the gravel driveway that led up to the first outbuilding and smokehouse. A serenity that I've never experienced filled me.
Higher and higher I rose, now seeing all the surrounding trees and buildings and scattered machinery and implements. The lights from the traffic on the interstate were visible now as were the lights from the city. It wasn’t necessary to turn my head to look at anything particular as I kept floating up and up and everything came into view.
I knew it wasn’t a hallucination or induced by any nefarious substance. It was real and it was happening and it was wonderful.
Higher still, the nearest town of Parkville was twinkling in the distance, then Riverside, then the airport 10 miles to the north. The stone buildings and the campus of Park College and the neighborhoods and highways 9 and 45, the surrounding lakes: Riss, Waukomis, Weatherby and Houston, just like I’d seen them many times before when traveling by plane.
Higher still, warm and comfortable. The earth was getting smaller and it was a beautiful blue, white wisps of clouds feathering this way and that across the planet, like photographs from the astronauts. I was never so alone yet never so in touch with everything below. No fear or doubt, just complete and utter joy. And then I thought to myself, “This is unbelievable.”
“Whoosh” with lightning speed, the invisible rubber band umbilical cord sucked me back down in the blink of an eye and I was on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, everything is quiet and the candle is still burning. I didn’t move. I just sat there, wondering and pondering but not really thinking anything for maybe an hour. And then I thought, “What the hell was that?”
Was it a lesson from God? How could I be so brash to think he’d want to teach me something about love and life? How could I be so close minded and naïve to think that he wouldn’t?
Was he lifting me? I can’t say. He’s certainly holding me now and he always will be. It doesn’t get any more real than that.
