UpSpark: A New Adult Inspirational Romance (The Five Elements Book 1)

by Nicole Wells

  I sneak in to grab my hoodie, but I’m stopped short at the sight of him. Partly undressed, with wet hair. His back was to me, but he turned at my entrance. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought you were in the bathroom!” I back up and slam the door shut, heart beating. Five years of friendship and I’ve never seen him naked. No, he wasn’t naked, thank god, just missing a shirt. And wearing a towel. Get a grip, Enya. You’re acting more weirded out than he is. He’s a guy, he probably doesn't even care.

  I slowly let go of the door, like it’s at fault and might accidently open. I back away. Should I be here when he comes out? If I’m not, is that making it a bigger deal? I decide to sit at the table, my back to him.

  I try not to think about his back. Or his front. I mean, I knew he was tanned. It doesn’t take a genius to figure what he looked like. Although, I had no way of knowing his hair gets curly when it's wet. Or how much chest hair he had. That he would just have that dark strip of hair on his low abdomen. Oh my God, what is wrong with my brain? The stress of the last few weeks and months must be catching up with me, wreaking havoc on my hormones or something. I think I read about that somewhere, how high stress situations can affect you.

  I startle when the door opens. Stop acting guilty! I try to nonchalantly turn around. No biggie, just one best friend seeing the other half naked. Happens all the time. Totally normal friendship stuff. “Um, hi. I’m really sorry. I really thought you were in the bathroom. I heard the water running ...” I trail off. Obviously I was wrong and he was in the shower.

  He’s chuckling. “Are you embarrassed, Cloverleaf?” He’s still pulling his shirt down. I turn back forward, not wanting to give him anymore evidence of my embarrassment. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. It’s embarrassing that I’m embarrassed.

  I feel him tousle my hair, before he sits down across from me. “Enya, seriously, it’s no big deal. We’re in close quarters. It’s bound to happen, right? Although I’m glad it was me and not you.” I feel him looking at me and I grudgingly raise my eyes to his. They are twinkling with laughter.

  “You do embarrassed better than I do.” He winks at me. I know he is trying to joke and put me at ease. I try to crack a smile. “It was kinda funny, huh?”

  “It’d be even funnier if I got a trademark Enya phrase out of it. Something like, ‘Holy water in the basement, turn on the sump pump!’” He laughs.

  “That was ninth grade! Are you ever going to forget that?”

  “Nope, never. It’s locked away in my ‘Top Secret’ Enya file. And now I can add that you’d make a good alarm clock. I feel wide awake after your scream.”

  “I did not scream!”

  “Yes, you totally did. I remember, because it wounded my male ego.”

  I pick at some papers on the table, tearing off little stubs, “Your male ego is too fragile then.” I ball them up.

  “It’d be hard for any ego to live down being looked at like it’s the Poltergeist, with a scream to match.”

  “Well, the towel threw me off. It’s a lot like a sheet. You know, like ghosts wear.”

  “I don’t think ghosts wear sheets.”

  “You know what I mean!” I throw my whole pile of stockpiled paper ammo at him, but he's prepared and swings a magazine he was hiding, pelleting them back at me.

  We share a laugh, thankfully back to normal.

  Jacob gets up and heads to the cabinets, pulling out some breakfast bars.

  “Hey, Cloverleaf?”

  “Yeah?” I say, anticipating his question and debating if I’m in the mood for cereal.

  “So, there’s this thing I’ve been meaning to tell you about. It’s kinda amazing. A game-changer. It’s called knocking.”

  ——— ———

  IT'S STRAIGHTFORWARD, HEADING TO STANDING ROCK reservation in North Dakota. We’re going to the camp at Sacred Stone Village, and then we’ll drive south through the reservation and into South Dakota. Jacob is riding shotgun — we're both sticklers for seat belts at all times now — and he's telling me about Native American culture and history. It's reminiscent of the stories I read in Minneapolis, and my heart breaks anew. In the harsh light of the middle of the day, though, I also feel anger for almost 500 years of suffering.

  I ask Jacob how he deals with all the emotional intensity and heaviness.

  "You know most of the world gets inspiration from a carpenter who could forgive the people that persecuted and killed him, right?” He pauses, picking over his words.

  “I think the power of forgiveness is huge. Enough to overtake all parts of the world and last for 1600 plus years. And I believe in the humane aspects of humanity. That we are mostly good. I focus on the good”

  He lets that sink in.

  "Really, I think it's all about love. All there is is love. Forgiveness is just another type of love."

  "But it's not just love in the world. You've talked about the four winds, Mother Earth, the spirits. That there are many spirits, even evil spirits, and the Creator is the Chief to them all."

  "Do you remember when you were telling me about the creation story as it relates to Chinese medicine?"

  "Um, no."

  He laughs. "Yeah, it was years ago, but it stuck with me. You said how at first there was nothing — all possibility, all pre-creation. Then that turned into yin and yang. And that turned into the five elements. And that turned into the ten thousand things.

  "Well, it's kinda like that. The first nothing — that's love. And there are all these manifestations, and perturbations, but it all starts with love. It can all still return to love. To that Oneness. You can forgive, because you are also forgiving yourself, loving another expression of the Divine, of which we are all One. Everything, not just the people."

  I drive on, seeing everything around me with soft eyes now.

  "I feel that."

  He smiles. "I know you do. When you're not trying so hard, it's effortless for you."

  This boy. He needs to work for Hallmark. Some New Age branch of Hallmark.

  We let the miles accrue, going from one point to the next, content where we are.

  ——— ———

  AT THE CAMP OF THE SACRED STONES IN STANDING ROCK, WE MEET SEVERAL OTHER PEOPLE, mostly from the Sioux tribe that reside there. Jacob stands a head taller than most, but this place is a great equalizer. Something about the endless horizon of the grasslands helps you find your humble place among all living things.

  We connect with a woman our age, Zonta, who shows us around the camp. She ushers us to a group off to the side, and we join in the impromptu circle, holding hands and chanting together, the same hope in one voice. I feel like I’ve been brought into the fold and wrapped in love and acceptance before I’ve even gotten my bearings. But despite the open welcome, I still feel self conscious, my own hangup with my heritage.

  Jacob has no such qualms. He walks assuredly, like he does this all the time, going with Zonta to different tents, chatting amicably with people our age, respectful and polite with those older. What happened to the socially awkward geek I knew in Maryland? He is comfortable in his skin here, and in his role, whatever that is. I purse my lips in thought, happy to be given space as I ponder it.

  When Zonta introduces him, she says, “This is Jacob, Lenape Turtle Clan from Maryland, son of Spirit Flower, grandson of John Rising Sun, great grandson of Medicine Man Great Thunder.” Some of the people act like they recognize him, but I know that’s impossible, and they are probably just being friendly. He doles out charm and confidence while remaining humble, and I have to actively remind myself to close my mouth. Jacob avoids my gaze except for an occasional smile or sheepish shrug. Sometimes they talk in a language I don’t understand, a beautiful, melodious sound. Sometimes a few curious looks are cast my way.

  We slowly accrue people as we make our way through the camp. Our entourage then walks the lands. I stay near the back, content to continue observing. I hear Jacob speak in his lyrical tongue, eyes half shuttered and voice solemn as
he comes to a stop. An older woman stands near him, looking out over the plains, and speaks in another language, the words unknown to me but the knowledge that they are sacred, clear.

  After a few moments, the crowd disperses, and Zonta herds me and Jacob into a new tent. Apparently, someone is expecting us. Zonta and I hang back as Jacob strides forward. I relish seeing this new side of Jacob and love hearing him speak Lenape.

  “Hè! Kulamalsi hàch?” The older woman sitting on a stool offers a friendly smile. I gather she is Sioux, and understands Lenape as much as I do, but Jacob’s friendly greeting needs little translation.

  Jacob squats next to her, and it’s then that I notice both her legs are swollen and wrapped.

  “She hasn’t been able to afford the medicine she needs,” Zonta explains to me while the woman, as host, follows custom and offers us food.

  Jacob graciously pockets the dried meat. Then, he murmurs soothing words as the woman holds her legs extended for his examination. Zonta hurries forward to prop her leg up with blankets. I shuffle in the corner, wanting to help but not wanting to interrupt the sweet moment of Jacob’s tenderness.

  Jacob pulls out a satchel of herbs from his cargo pants, to my surprise. How long has he been carrying that? This boy is full of surprises.

  Together, he and Zonta gently rewrap the woman’s legs with the herbs. Finished, he looks up from his work. She is looking fondly at him.

  “Mother, this is all I have,” he passes her some bills from a different pants pocket, still kneeling beside her.

  She pats his cheek, “Your ancestors must be proud.”

  He does that sheepish shrug again, ducking under her hand and straightening up.

  “Làpich Knewël. I will pray for you in the Lenape way, Mother.”

  I realize what it is he brings to each tent, then. Jacob treats everyone here like they are family, just like he has always treated me. I’d always wondered why he reached out to me that day in middle school, especially as he seemed like such an introvert, but maybe his big heart at seeing someone feeling alone overrode his own shyness. Maybe it’s just who he is.

  chapter 13

  WHEN I MEDITATE THE NEXT MORNING, I see stars. I figure I haven't been drinking enough water, which is harder now that I'm trying to stay buckled all the time. I don't dwell on the fact that the stars are not occurring from a change in position, like sitting to standing. Or that these stars are different than anything I've ever seen before, until a few weeks ago. I try not to think about how I've been seeing similar lights for weeks now when I thought I was dreaming.

  Standing Rock was sacred and amazing, and although the battle isn't over, we left with a feeling of communal determination, pride, and hope. Now, I need to get mentally ready for Wounded Knee, the place where US troops massacred so many people, half of them women and children.

  While Jacob drives, I look out over the barren landscape of the Badlands and try to process the gruesome past. It was the deadliest mass shooting in modern US history. Outside my window, a stark alien landscape of smooth colored rock repeats as we go along. I take in the unreal sights as I try to mesh my understanding of the world against such incomprehensible cruelty. The killing was sanctioned by the US government and awarded with 20 medals of honor, the Army's highest commendation.

  When we arrive, we are both in a somber mood. It is such a sacred spot, and Jacob knew the pilgrimage here would be his spiritual highlight of the trip.

  He parks our RV farther away than necessary, honoring this sacred place. There is something to hiking on foot, the rhythm, and connection to the earth. The slowness of your trek. Taking the time to receive with all your senses: the sun and wind on my skin, the dry taste in the air, the close sound of leaves and grass rustling, the distant sound of people, and the sight of the gentle rise and fall of the green fields.

  When we arrive at first, I feel like an imposter being here. We listen to the stories of the Lakota people stationed here, and we pay our respects to them before starting up the hill where the monument stands. There is a single inscribed pillar with an urn shape on top, marking the mass grave, surrounded by a chain-link fence. It is surprisingly inadequate in its austerity. Poor members of the Pine Ridge tribe are here as well, asking for help. I learned that life expectancy here is the lowest in all the US, and only behind Haiti for the whole Western Hemisphere. We give them all that we have carried on us. This atmosphere just seems to underscore the tragedy.

  I place my hand on my heart, a familiar, grounding gesture to match the solemn moment. As I let myself stand still, mentally dropping anchor into the heart of the earth, I allow myself to be open. I let myself be vulnerable and raw, observing as the sorrow and grief flow through me. Wind whips at my hair and creates a mournful wail in my ear. I reach out and brace myself against the chain-link fence, the metal cold biting into my hand. I feel as old as the stone, as still as the copse of trees around me. I feel like I am observing the ravages of men, the seasons of their coming and going, the devastation of their exploits, the love and hope of their souls. I observe it all in the way of the world, the wind, the dirt, the trees, the birds. Unimpassioned but deeply moved, never the same again. I think about how our bodies recreate themselves, the cells just another cycle of death and birth. I take a deep breath in, taking in these elements, that they may become a part of me. I pull on my newfound sense of oneness and equanimity. It is so.

  Jacob and I feel profound spirituality as we descend the hill. In a trance-like state, I still feel like the elements of the earth. A large black bird is circling in the sky, and in my mind's eye, I see us as the bird would see us. Just two specks in the undulating fields of green. Just another two souls briefly lit in this world of transience, holding, for an even briefer while, the flame for those tragically lost.

  ——— ———

  I SEE STARS AGAIN during my afternoon and evening meditations, and even at other times of the day, too. This is such a solemn time, I don't mention anything to Jacob, but it's happening frequently enough that it's catching me unawares. Nothing else is amiss, and I determine again to drink even more water to see if that affects it.

  They are beautiful, like sparks from fireworks, even changing into a kaleidoscope of colors if I focus on an individual one. I think this would normally alarm me, but it generally happens during meditation when I’m already so peaceful. I observe it, practicing not going into any story, and just being with it.

  My cell phone ringing brings me fully out of my meditation, and the sparks disperse like the lingering trance in my mind.

  “Hello?”

  “Enya! So glad I caught you!” My mom sounds extra chipper. I think we both are finding our own way through our grief.

  “Yeah, reception here can be spotty. What’s up?”

  “That’s what I want to know! How’s it been?”

  I give her the highlights since we last talked.

  “I’m really proud of you. It sounds amazing, the places you’ve seen. And you sound different. This road trip has done wonders.”

  I transfer the phone to my other ear, cradling it with my shoulder, “It really has.”

  We’re not in a huge rush, so I rearrange the rocks I’ve gathered while I talk. I’m in the bedroom, where I prefer to meditate if we’re stopped. I’m adept at doing it on the fly, but we were due for a pit stop, and I always take advantage of those.

  “And I bet Jacob really appreciates your company,” my mom says.

  The rocks are various sizes, and I try to order them accordingly.

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure I got the better end of that bargain,” I tell her.

  No, I definitely prefer them as a linear reflection of our travels. Here was that campsite in Michigan, so long ago. Here, Standing Rock. I pick that one up, its cool heft comforting.

  “He’s been an amazing support for me through all of this. I really don’t think I would be okay with things if it wasn’t for him.” I include my flint rocks from Dad. I put one at the star
t of the line and one at the end.

  “Sounds like a story there.”

  “Hmm,” I offer noncommittally. “It’s really brought us closer together. I think we both learned things about ourselves. New parts to our personality. What about you?”

  “Well, I’ve taken up motorcycle riding.”

  “What!?” I drop the rock with a clank.

  “Just joking. You’re expeditions just have me thinking I’d like to hit the highway sometime too.”

  “Mom…” I laugh-cry, trying not to picture my mom in mid-life crisis leather. Is every mother-daughter relationship plagued with this turning of tables?

  “I’m sorry, honey. I can’t help it. It’s just so good to hear your voice. Even in exasperation. And worth it to hear your laugh.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. I really am doing fine.”

  “I can tell. I’d ask you to thank Jacob for me, but I know you won’t go there. You’d say something about lameness. Which is really about not being able to walk, by the way.”

  “Mom...” This time I groan-whine. No matter my spiritual accomplishment, she can bring it out in me.

  “So, I did take up Pilates. There’s a yoga studio right off New Hampshire Avenue, did you know that? They were offering free classes so I figured, why not? Now’s the best time I’ve got to do it. And can you believe, Cindy was there! I always wanted to hang out with her outside of work. And did you know it's not just for girls? Alex was there too! Apparently the after-work hang out place these days is not a bar but a yoga studio!” I let my mom ramble on, glad she’s found some friends to center her. I look at my rocks, glad I have my friend to support and ground me, too.

  ——— ———

  BY THE TIME WE'RE HEADED TO WIND RIVER CANYON, I'm psyched at the promise of camping under the stars and the change of pace, physically and emotionally. It's been six days since we started, and I've been feeling the wear of living in a moving house. The weather should be clear tonight, and I think we'll climb on top of the RV to watch the stars.