In April of 1999 I reluctantly attended the unfurling of the Aids Quilt. Afterwards, thinking I had survived the event, and apparently not aware of the pain remaining, I cheerily said to my driving companion Anasuya, "Let's get some snacks at the local 7-11." Instantly suspicious, knowing my binge eating was at best a furtive event never shared, but having a sweet tooth herself, she quickly opted for discretion and acquiesced. Watching in wonderment as I bought enough Via Venettas, Hagan Das and Dove Bars to feed a family of ten, I quickly assured Anasuya of my plan to share since I had recently read in a magazine it's best to invite a few people to a binge party, accomplishing two things: one you don't eat alone in misery and two you might also make a few friends. While it wasn't a traditional four star binge, I ate more than enough to satisfy both my psychological malaise and appetite. Quickly retiring to my room to sleep, I woke suddenly at three in the morning with two attention-getting matters: one, indigestion and two, the words" soul redemption" clanging in my brain. In wonderment I turned this phrase over in my mind. Soul redemption was not a common phrase in my experience, being of the Jewish and not Jesuitical lineage.
However, in the quiet of the early morning, the memory of my beloved friend Danny, who died of AIDS ten years ago, surfaced. I remembered how angry I was, blaming God for allowing this man whom I felt to be an angel incarnate to suffer a long and lingering death. In retrospect I shut a door inside myself with a sign over the door reading " Don't get close to any more gay guys until AIDS is over." At the time it was thought to be a predominately gay disease. Trusting in reincarnation, I remember as a last minute admonition, stupidly saying to him on his deathbed, "Promise me you won't come back gay," and his face halfway contorted from pain and amusement saying, "Uma, I am coming back gay because I like it." I laughed at my ridiculous request and also at how spunky he was to the end.
My spiritual teacher was there at the presentation of the Quilt and she gestured to me with a thumbs up sign. I quickly understood that she acknowledged by my appearance that I had finally reconciled an old anger and bitterness. But from my stopover at 7-11 it was clear I had not totally consumed the pain. Fear usually catapults me out of my body, not in a mystical or an out of the body experience, but in a way that I become unaware and unconscious. Yet in the midst of that and in the middle of the night I had the unusual experience of feeling that by attending the event, I had not only reconnected with myself but retrieved the piece of self I had lost when Danny died. It was both a feeling of connection and liking of myself.
I also realized that if one doesn't consume pain totally in the moment of trauma, something else will be ingested or consumed that is not good, be it food, alcohol, drugs, or relationships. And addiction becomes an outlaw post where parts of the self or soul remain hidden and disconnected, waiting to be uncovered and retrieved.
Enter the shaman or Hero. The notion of soul retrieval and shamans is big these days. Shamans are people who have confronted their own fears in a big time way, survived them and come back to help us. Apparently, not taking a well-deserved vacation, they are still willing to travel down to Hell or other similar hot places to retrieve somebody else's soul. Some of these shamans present a rather imposing demeanor, with drums, feathers and amulets, and I would imagine few inner children would resist returning to their selves upon coaxing from the shaman. I have my own feelings about somebody else retrieving my soul. God knows most of us have been to hell ourselves and can be our own shamans. Sometimes I think of being the Wizard in an unauthorized version of the Wizard of Oz saying to people," You've been to Hell. Rise and become a shaman." Ultimately, I feel we must become our own heroes and do our own retrieval or redemption.
For me redeeming my soul means being willing to pay any price to escape from the small space my fears, addictions and egos have placed me. Both as child and adult, I loved stories of the Quest, the Hero's Journey, Search for the Holy Grail. Subconsciously it became my journey to connect with what had been lost. Those medieval knights were symbols of a willingness to confront whatever fear or demon stands in our path on the way to retrieving and rescuing that divine light that lies extinguished for a time.
What makes one enter upon a Hero's Journey searching for the original self? It is not painless. but becomes a choice between two pains. One, the pain of leaving what has become a queasily comfortable life and two, the pain and fear of entering a new door of awareness.
What makes one continue? Is it the realization that there is no real stopover or quick abatement of the pain you feel when your best friend dies? I call it the death of illusion, the time when the stopover turns into quicksand and you must search for higher ground before your soul disappears into an abyss and you have to redeem it all over again.
For those of us on the spiritual path, death of illusions comes daily. When I was 17 I read a book by existentialist Albert Camus called The Myth of Sisyphus. Sisyphus stole fire from the Gods and for eternity he was condemned to roll a rock up a hill. As soon as it reached its destination it came hurtling down. At that age, the story mainly confirmed my own idea of life as a repetitive no-point exercise in existential despair and hopelessness.
Now it is interesting that he has again become my hero for different reasons. As I see him now, Sisyphus is not daunted by the fact that he is always pushing the same rock up the same hill. He does not tear his heart out with regrets for his actions nor does he hate his tormentors. Rather I think he accepts himself and his acts. While pushing the rock Sisyphus has chosen to stay aware of the sun on his back, the energy of his muscles, perhaps the singing birds. Even though his efforts appear to be for naught throughout eternity, he chooses to stay alive and aware.
There are some people whom I have read for and had a glimpse into lives so difficult and painful that I am humbled through seeing that their souls and hearts are not only intact but still open. They have refused to bear ill will or enmity towards life or any of the people who have inflicted pain on them. These people have become my guide lights now. Like Sisyphus, they have chosen to stay grateful and alive. If I were to again become the Wizard in my own play, I would confer acknowledgment upon them and say, "Go now in peace; you have redeemed your soul."
