Ream
Johnson had lost his sight as the result of a bizarre incident which was
impossible to anticipate before it happened. A freak wave as it is called
by ocean going sailors.
For days, weeks, and
months waves come from the same predictable direction. Then, one day, an
unannounced wave comes from a different direction, as big as your life,
knocking your life down. It could be caused by an earthquake, a shift of
a continental plate, or even a tidal wave. You don't believe one
can happen until it does. Then you question everything, even your god.
In a similar way, a
freak ricochet bullet during a convenience store holdup not only shattered
the optic nerve of Ream Johnson, who was an innocent bystander, but it
also demolished his spirit.
This devastation which
results in the shattered self, or soul shock, is experienced by many war
veterans, kidnap hostages, rape victims, and holocaust survivors. Until
such an event, most people are unaware they have been living on the thin
crust of life. For those who have had their spirit broken, it is as if
they have fallen through the floor of life and there is no footing from
which to get up.
Some never recoup from
a fragmented and mangled spirit. Others become more from the experience
because they are not really complete until they deal with an infirmity
which is bigger than themselves. These unique souls have scrutinized all
of existence to decipher their dilemma because for them to understand their
plight is also to be freed from it.
On the day of the holdup,
Ream Johnson, at 50, was the vice-president of a large hotel chain. Ream
looked the seasoned executive part with sandy gray hair and a clean shaven
face. He was handsome in a kindly way and physically proportional to his
six foot height. Not especially athletic looking, yet he still looked fairly
trim in his blue jeans on that weekend.
He was the average
hard working, white collar American male who had followed the script all
of his life. He had a fair share of achievements and disappointments. He
wasn't unhappy, but yet he wasn't happy. He was aware that somewhere
inside him simmered a question hanging in mid air that couldn't be brought
into focus. There was a haunting something which did not fit, wasn't right
or complete. As if he had come to the train station to wait for an old
friend, not knowing who it was, or what train the friend would ride.
Married twice and now
divorced for 15 years, he had never found a woman with whom he stayed in
love. However, his recent romance with Dee Dee broke up for a different
set of reasons.
His second marriage
faltered because he had either outgrown it, or it had run its course. He
found himself seeing another women. It wasn't intentional. Somehow it just
happened. Ream wasn't proud of it, nor did he think it was right. If anything,
he thought it was a mistake.
Not unlike many other
men, the paradox of it haunted him. He wrestled with the guilt, while on
the other hand, he wondered why he should ignore an honest attraction?
It wasn't because he chased every attraction. It was because something
inside him was drawn to it, and so very often there was a second glance.
He didn't marry again because he wasn't sure he would stay committed.
He couldn't tell you what he was looking for, but he knew he would recognize
it if he found it.
Then something extraordinary
happened in his last relationship with Dee Dee before it crumbled. A peculiar,
mystifying, closeness had been awakened in both of them, different from
any previous experience or expectation. It happened abruptly, taking both
of them by surprise. Neither knew how to handle this unique, absorbing,
intensity of their attraction to each other. And for some mysterious reason
Ream's attraction for other women had even been numbed.
This puzzle was on
his mind as he walked into the convenience store the hot 4th of July for
a cool soda. What Ream thought and what Ream was, his past, his future,
all of this was revised in the next few moments.
The gun man had entered
after him so Ream had his back to the robbery. He never saw the gun firing
the freak ricochet bullet which leveled his world into darkness.
The gruesome, jumbled
aftermath of police, ambulance, hospital, operating room, bandaged head
and eyes, was incidental to the state of shock which permeated his every
moment and paralyzed his deepest recesses.
Two weeks after his
admission to the hospital Ream had learned of his irreversible blindness.
He was trying to assimilate the harsh facts in the sun room when the staff
psychologist came to see him.
"Maurice Johnson? I'm
Dr. Abe Lindgren from the psychology unit. Your case has been assigned
to me to help with your adjustment problems."
Ream heard him pull
up a chair. Feeling annoyed at being reduced to an "adjustment problem"
and called formally by Maurice, his response was limited, "Oh."
"I hope you don't object
to me using a tape recorder. It helps us understand the total patient
when we listen to the interview afterwards," said Abe, "right now I need
to fill in the psychological profile. You're visually handicapped, of course."
That irritated Ream.
He reacted with cold iciness, "I know you are trying to help, but the reality
is I'm stone blind, not visually handicapped!"
The psychologist cleared
his throat, and said, "We need to know more about your personality, your
background. The more we know, the better we can guide you. Please give
me a picture of your family life."
Ream was brief, "I
don't have any family now. My mother was in her thirties when I came along
and my father was older. They're both gone."
Dr. Lindgren went on,
"What was the order of your birth?"
"Come again?" Ream
asked with an edge of annoyance in his voice, "I don't know what you mean."
Lindgren refocused
"I mean were you the oldest, in the middle, or the last?"
"I was the only," responded
Ream. " Why all this inquisition, what has it got to do with my life now?"
Lindgren explained,
"Sometimes people bring bad things upon themselves to unconsciously punish
themselves. In the end, we choose all that happens to us. You may have
sought obstacles in your growth, creating an atmosphere in which you were
accident prone."
In stiff resistance,
Ream objected to the implications of the statement. "You mean to tell me
I went looking for a bullet to sever my optic nerve?"
"No," said Lindgren.
"You didn't go looking for a bullet, but you may have put yourself in the
way of one."
Then Ream decided
to pull the plug. "Look, what's happened to me can't be reduced to your
textbook readjustment problem. I don't like you or your style. Please leave
me alone."
Perhaps it was better
there wasn't time to think or feel sorry for himself when he was transferred
to the Blind Rehabilitation Unit where he spent 6 months learning the mechanics
of adjusting to a life in total darkness.
A short, slightly plump,
rehab therapist, nicknamed Sarge became his constant companion and temporary
pair of eyes. Past mid-life, Sarge had short auburn hair and big dark green
eyes. She was light on her feet, quick too, and could glide softly through
a room almost without being noticed. She was soft spoken and seemed to
work quietly in the background without being a distraction. Yet, when it
was necessary for her to take charge, she did so with authority and an
edge in her voice that could cut like a knife. Sarge, in getting Ream to
do for himself, did not mother him or pity him. It was strictly business
with her, except that she had a heart in full bloom.
Ream had been vacant
in spirit and absent to himself for several days when Sarge asked if he
wanted to see a staff psychologist. Ream told her he had seen one at the
hospital, but instead of listening to the details of the traumatic event,
the psychologist had evaded them and looked for emotional problems in his
background.
Then Ream said, "The
psychologist distanced me and listened clinically, not compassionately.
He made me feel as if I should take the responsibility for the shooting.
And he called it helping me to adjust."
Sarge asked, "Was his
name Abe Lindgren? If it was him, I don't blame you."
"Yes."
"Ream, keep in mind
there are hidden assumptions about psychologists. Without thinking, we
let them have mesmerizing power over us like primitive witch doctors
or soothsayers. It's an unconscious trap. We unconsciously make them into
gods, believing they, or their therapy groups, have magical power. The
final authority is always within yourself. Don't ever give that away. Only
truth really empowers, and it always does, always." Sarge spoke from
years of experience.
"You're right Sarge,
there's a tendency to swallow what they say whole. There has to be a better
way of getting yourself together," replied Ream, as he relaxed, finding
a friend in Sarge.
She continued, "Every
person has a unique way at arriving of reality. Too often psychologists
try to change people under the guise of getting them in touch
with their feelings. The sum total of a person is more than what one feels.
Everyone is entitled to add up to ten using their own style, without making
a religion of their feelings."
"How can you tell a
good one?" asked Ream.
"The good psychologist,
or teacher, helps you find yourself by validating your uniqueness.
The best add their personal blessing of all you are. However, some like
Lindgren turn a profession's viewpoint into dogma, disguised even from
themselves. They expect you to worship what they say, never questioning.
Ream, question everything."
"Thanks Sarge, that
sure clears the air."
Ream reflected to himself
that Lindgren hadn't begun to relate to his situation. Something much deeper
than his rational, mental state was affected. It felt like the door to
his life was torn off its hinges.
Ream turned toward
Sarge, "It runs deeper than an emotional problem with me. I'm not especially
religious, but I think this is a spiritual dilemma."
"Are you considering
talking to a minister?" inquired Sarge.
"No," said Ream thoughtfully.
"Religious conversion made in weakness is not the answer I need."
He continued, "It's
difficult enough being in a situation like this, but when you're down everybody
wants to give you their private solution. Like you say, I don't want to
waste time arguing about their prescriptions while I could be finding my
own."
Sarge pondered a moment,
adjusting her glasses, "Preachers and psychologists don't have all the
answers. There must be another alternative."
An idea caught Ream,
"If anything, I might be looking for some theological insights outside
traditional religion. Not the far-out stuff, but something reaching deeper
inside me. Something I will recognize from the inside out as the truth,
a truth which sets me free."
Sarge smiled," I know
what you mean, and now that I think about it, I know just the right person.
He is a theologian and professor of comparative religion at the university."
Two days later Bob
Howard, Sarge's professor, came to visit Ream. He was the type who
naturally and with ease grasped philosophical concepts. He spoke not with
fancy words, but with intelligent simplicity. A white-haired, portly philosopher,
his voice was strong and full, yet sometimes broke gently with compassion.
He stood slightly stooped under his suspenders, carrying years of humility
and life on his shoulders. He had the patience and demeanor of a kind uncle.
Ream didn't dilute
his questions, which were straight forward and penetrating. Bob's
responses were direct, but seemed more like suggestions than answers, allowing
Ream his own choices.
As their conversation
progressed, Ream wasn't sure whether or how he was religious, but he needed
some bigger perspectives than he had ever looked for before. He wanted
these to be his own, not a lifeline thrown to him.
After a get-acquainted
period in which Ream determined he was not going to be force fed religious
dogma, he asked, "What kind of reality is there for a blind man?" and "If
one is not sure about God or organized religion, how does one proceed without
becoming entrapped ?"
The conversation lasted
several hours. Bob Howard had the innate ability to leave pauses in their
conversation to let ideas form inside Ream. He wasn't selling anything,
just visiting the great spiritual thoughts of life in detail. Occasionally,
he spoke with unshed tears pooling in the bottom of his blue eyes.
Ream was careful to
ask Sarge to take notes when something specially struck home. Then he asked
her to condense it to one page and title it, and when it was finished,
she had written:
One must follow his deepest sense of being; doing and becoming what is born out of that being. When you follow it, all kinds of things jump out of life to help. There is something about the integrity of such a life which draws inspiration and grace from the heavens.
Institutional religion sometimes becomes a shield between us and the experience of God. Not until we have broken with our childhood gods of punishment and shame, and abstained from the addiction which makes religion into a god, may the sweet, calm, honest presence of God appear in the heart.
There comes a moment
in every man's life when his spirit screams for insight and only his solitary
self can lead the way. The solitary self knows a path back to itself is
best, and inevitably the path leads towards God.
If one is to meet God,
it must be alone. The individual's connection to God cannot be mediated
through other persons, credos and dogmas, but must be immediate and private,
for even to speak is to disturb the silence necessary for the experience
of God. If God's church is anywhere, it is in nature and in love.
Sarge put the notes
in a red three ring binder for Ream. His conversation with Bob Howard had
been a turning point in his life.
In parting, Bob told
him, "Keep me posted on your progress, and especially if you discover anything
unique. I'll be interested to know what meaning, if any, you find in your
experience."
Ream decided he was
ready to leave the rehab center when insurance money provided enough income
to live comfortably and pay a housekeeper. Two weeks later he had moved
to the country.
Ream had previously
vacationed in Sedona, so he chose it for its solitude. Sedona was
a small vacation community in northern Arizona.
Because
of its captivating golden-brown, red mountains, it was known as "Red Rock"
country. It had an almost magical, mystical appearance, making it the subject
of much Indian folklore, and a beacon for religious diversity.
Daily, tourist buses
brought hundreds who visited this natural wonder. The initial sight of
the great gingerbread mountains inspired many to stop at the first possible
viewpoint to take pictures. At this gateway to Sedona, you had the
impression you were entering another world when you came to Sedona. Perhaps
so.
For this, and perhaps
for other more mystical reasons, Sedona seemed to attract a dramatic collection
of mankind. The local population was a concentration of artists,
writers, psychics, and healers. Sedona had an international reputation,
recognized by the metaphysical community as a "Vortex." It was designated
as one of eight such places in the world, a focal point of the earth's
energy and force.
The town had a high
turnover of residents. The red rocks initially attracted everyone, but
many found their power too great and left. The rocks and the solitude had
a profound effect. It was said you did not really become a Sedona resident
until you had lived there for three years. Many came and went within a
few months. Some came to escape while others came to heal. There were many
who came to find themselves. And there were those who came to die.
There were the time
schedules and clocks of the city, and then there was Sedona time.
The pace was almost magically relaxed, so time seemed to float. Life simply
unfolded.
Whatever you really
were, Sedona would unmask. The Sedona effect accelerated and magnified
the core of what a person was. If your marriage was good, it would
get better; if it was bad, it would get worse. Many attributed this to
the energy of the "Vortex."
If a person was not
ready to confront his own truth, he should not come to Sedona. Sedona would
deliver your truth in its time and way, and then you might choose
to leave, making room for the next pilgrim.