I only dropped acid once, over forty years ago. I spent the clear August afternoon in a lush Connecticut garden, breathing in the piquant scent of ripe tomatoes, and eating sun-warmed raspberries from the vine without the use of hands. The brilliant sunlight seemed dim in the face of the unmanifest light–Nur in Arabic–that clearly birthed the plants, the space, my body. From this unseen, bright capacity erupted everpresent, unnameable isness.
When the drug wore off, so did the slantwise seeing. That day echoed earlier childhood experiences, and the remembering and longing ignited a potent search.
Thirty-six years later, I finally admitted to a precious and trustworthy friend that my quest had failed. I had not found the peace or the clarity I sought. In his wisdom and generosity, he pointed me home. That was seven years ago in August. I took his suggestions to heart. Over time, beliefs fell away. Patterns strained, screamed, and eventually crumbled. My understanding of love expanded. On the outside, much appears the same. On the inside, life as I knew it upended. Searching screeched to a halt. Longing dissolved.
Today, no longer slantwise, the light returned.
Although I still hang out with pointing friends, direct experience is the only reliable touchstone.
It does not fail.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2014
photo credit, with gratitude: Barnstorming blog