Waiting for Autumn

by Scott Blum

  There were several people milling about the smaller building, and I again became acutely aware of the stench of smoke on my clothes. I was so tired from the previous night that I still hadn’t taken a shower since I’d spent the night in the tipi. And in my groggy state, I had put on the same clothes I’d been wearing the day before. I began to feel very uncomfortable and wondered if there was time to clean up before the constellation began.

  Martika appeared a couple of minutes later and said, “They’re ready for you. Come on, let’s go in.”

  At that instant, I was inexplicably terrified of the constellation session. “Maybe today isn’t the right day for me.” I tried to think of a good excuse to leave.

  “It’ll be okay—I’ll be with you the whole time. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

  Although I had just met Martika, I wanted to believe her because she seemed genuinely filled with love and kindness. I was still feeling ultra-emotional from the soul retrieval, and I didn’t really want to be alone. It was nice to be cared for again after so many years.

  “Come on,” she said and led me by the hand into the small building.

  The interior was both elegant and dramatic. It had a round, open floor plan, with a huge fireplace and knotted-wood panels on the ceiling, which featured a brightly painted Native American crosslike symbol carved into its peak. Resting on the dark honey wood floor were several boxes of tissue, and chairs were arranged in a circle around the perimeter of the room. About fifteen women and two men were seated in the chairs, all wearing pale blue and white HELLO MY NAME IS tags. The treefiltered light found its way in through the windows, and the room had the comforting aroma of fresh sawdust and orange blossom.

  “This is Scott,” announced Martika. “He just had some very intense soul-retrieval work done, and he needs our help.”

  “Hi, Scott,” the group said in unison, and I instantly felt more awkward than I had since high school.

  “And this is Hans.” Martika gestured to a tall man with shoulder-length gray hair. “He’ll be facilitating the constellation today.

  “Let’s start with Scott,” said Hans. “Please sit here next to me.”

  I tentatively sat down next to him while Martika’s mouth shaped a smile as if to say that it would all be okay.

  Hans continued, “Before we get started, I want everyone to open themselves up to the field. Breathe in through your nose, deep into your heart, and slowly breathe out through your mouth.”

  Everyone followed his instructions, and the room filled with the windlike sound of breath.

  After a few minutes, Hans spoke directly to me: “What’s on your heart today, Scott?”

  I looked around and everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. I didn’t know what to say but finally uttered a single word: “Sadness.”

  “And why are you sad?”

  “Because my fiancée was killed. And I feel alone.”

  “Uh-huh. What was your fiancée’s name?”

  “Cheryl.”

  “And how did she die?”

  “She was killed by a drunk driver.”

  There were immediately sounds of pity that filled the room—sounds I was very familiar with, and the main reason I didn’t usually talk about what happened to Cheryl.

  “Okay, Scott, who in this room feels right to represent you?”

  I didn’t understand what he was asking. “Um, me, I guess . . .”

  The room echoed with laughter, and I eyed the door to see if I could make a quick exit without anyone noticing.

  “You can’t be an active participant in the session; you have to sit outside the circle and watch once the constellation begins. Inside, the circle will transform into what we call the field, which is the gateway to our collective unconscious that connects us all through time and space. Use your intuition and pick someone who feels akin to the way you do right now.”

  I didn’t understand everything he was saying, but I did realize that I was supposed to pick someone else to represent me during this exercise, whatever it was. I stood up and saw that there was only one other man in the group besides Hans. He had a black biker mustache and a large silver belt buckle. Definitely not someone I could relate to.

  “It doesn’t have to be a man.” Hans seemed to read my mind. “Just pick someone who feels right.”

  I scanned the room and was immediately drawn to a girl in her midtwenties with short black hair, Goth makeup, and black clothes who was trying to avert her eyes so I wouldn’t notice her. As I looked around, everyone else smudged together in a blur of color, while she remained in focus.

  I slowly raised my hand and pointed while whispering to Hans, “Her.”

  “Lori, can you stand please?” he commanded.

  “I’m representing Scott,” Lori said as she walked into the circle.

  “Good. Now who will represent Cheryl?”

  I looked to the name tags, hoping I could find someone with a similar name to make it easier. The tags jumbled in a sea of letters, and I found myself overwhelmed and trembling. My legs nearly buckled under the weight of my torso, and I decided to sit down before it was too late.

  “It’s okay,” said Hans. “Just pick the first person who feels right.”

  “Martika,” I finally blurted out, hoping that she was still in the room. She was behind me arranging the buffet and walked toward Lori.

  “I’m representing Cheryl,” said Martika as she entered the circle.

  “Very good,” said Hans. “Let me help you with the rest. I would like to bring your grandfathers in to help. Are you okay with that?”

  All of my grandfathers and great-grandfathers had passed away many years before. I had been closest with my grandfather on my mother’s side, but I’d only seen him once every few years before his death. The others I hadn’t really known very well. I didn’t have much of an opinion one way or the other, and I heard myself say out loud, “Sure, if you think it would help.” As I looked around, I could see a combination of sadness and compassion in nearly everyone’s eyes as I spoke.

  Hans continued with the determined precision of a cheetah stalking his prey: “Allie, you represent Scott’s grandfather on his mother’s side. Diana, you represent Scott’s grandfather on his father’s side. Shelley, you represent Scott’s great-grandfather on his father’s mother’s side. Scott, what country is your great-grandfather from?”

  It took a moment for me to figure out exactly who he was talking about, and after tracing an imaginary family tree with my index finger, I said, “He was Native American. Cherokee.”

  “I thought so. That makes a lot of sense. Devora, you represent the Cherokee nation. Hmm . . . that seems okay, but something’s not in balance.”

  Hans tilted his head back and began to walk around in circles. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see his face clearly, but it looked like his eyes rolled back into his head as he traced a figure-eight pattern with his large feet. This went on for several minutes, and I could tell that I wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable, as I began to see people shifting in their seats while waiting for him to finish.

  Abruptly Hans stopped, and his eyes returned to center. He spoke with a commanding resonance that filled the entire room. “James,” his voice echoed, “you represent the drunk driver who killed Cheryl.”

  Almost instantly, all of the blood in my entire body seemed to rush above my neck, and I could feel my face flush and turn red with anger as the “mustache” walked into the circle. I couldn’t believe he was bringing him into the field. I tried getting up to leave, but Hans gently pushed me back into my seat and whispered something I didn’t hear. I was absolutely livid. I wanted to get up and kick the drunk driver until he couldn’t move. I was dizzy, and shaking so hard that the chair barely contained me.

  Hans spoke up a bit louder: “Did the drunk driver survive?”

  For some reason that took the edge off a bit. “No, he died also.”

  “We’ll deal with that soon enough,” Hans continu
ed, “but now I want you to gently guide each of the helpers within the field to where they feel most natural. Just breathe into your heart and let the field guide you.”

  After taking a moment to recover, I deliberately walked over to Martika, and as I gently put my hands on the back of her shoulders, a tingly sensation flowed from her body, through my hands, up my arms, and down my spine. I let myself lean close enough to breathe in the scent of her hair and was immediately transported to the first time I’d met Cheryl. Martika became Cheryl with every passing moment—in her smell, her posture, and her aura. Within seconds, all of Martika’s features were erased and only Cheryl remained.

  “Just move her to where she feels most natural,” Hans repeated.

  Almost as if someone were pushing the back of my shoulders, I began to guide her to the far side of the circle, safe and away from the rest of the people.

  “Good,” said Hans. “Now the others.”

  I was similarly guided to move my own representative next to Cheryl so that they were standing side by side and gently facing each other. I looked at the rest of the group, and the only person I could see was the drunk driver. Anger returned and filled my heart when I looked at him. Without thinking, I pushed him to the opposite end of the circle from Cheryl and turned him around so he was facing toward the outside of it. If he had to be there, I wasn’t going to let him be anywhere near Cheryl. He had done enough already, and he wasn’t going to do any more if I could help it.

  I looked at the rest of my family—my grandfathers, my great-grandfather, and the Cherokee nation. I didn’t feel a connection to any of them. Cheryl’s death wasn’t any of their business, and I couldn’t understand why Hans had brought them here. I looked at Hans, shrugged my shoulders, and finally said, “I guess that’s it.” As I glanced back at Cheryl, I was shocked to find that I couldn’t recognize Martika at all. She had transformed into Cheryl and was looking right at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when I realized that it was the first time I had actually seen Cheryl in years.

  “Okay, Scott, you’re done for now. From here on out, I just need you to watch and feel. It’s important for you to stay quiet. Are you ready?”

  I nodded my head, and the lights seemed to dim, although I didn’t see anyone near the switch.

  Hans walked up to my representative and asked, “How do you feel?”

  “I feel angry at the drunk driver.”

  He then walked to the drunk driver and repeated his question: “How do you feel?”

  “Shame. Regret,” he said while starting to tear up. “I’m so sorry.”

  Hans continued, “I want you to say to Scott: ‘I am sorry for taking Cheryl away from this world. It is my burden, and I alone will suffer the consequences.’”

  Tears began to pool at the corners of his large mustache as the drunk driver repeated: “I am sorry for taking Cheryl away from this world. It is my burden, and I alone will suffer the consequences.”

  I watched dumbfounded, and I couldn’t feel my feet anymore. I was completely numb inside and out and sensed that I was going into shock. My emotions felt like they’d begun to short-circuit. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I knew I didn’t like it.

  Hans walked back to my representative and said, “Tell the drunk driver: ‘I wronged you by taking on your burden. Cheryl’s death is not my responsibility. It is your burden to carry.’”

  My representative spoke slowly and clearly: “I wronged you by taking on your burden. Cheryl’s death is not my responsibility. It is your burden to carry.”

  After a brief pause, Hans continued, “Tell him: ‘I return your burden to you, and leave you in peace.’”

  After an unusually long silence, my representative looked at me and then slowly returned her gaze to the drunk driver and whispered in a shaky voice, “I return your burden to you . . . and leave you in peace.”

  I put my head in my hands and began to sob uncontrollably. The soreness in my heart was replaced with a stabbing pain, and I couldn’t stop crying. I was releasing years of anger that I’d previously inflicted on myself, and for the first time since Cheryl’s death, I was able to release my burden. It’s not my fault. I began to mouth the words over and over. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.

  The sobs of others surrounded me, and after my tears dried up, I felt like an emotional washrag that had just been wrung out. I instantly felt lighter as the guilt and anger in my heart began to dissipate. The constellation seemed to be working, and for the first time I was thankful to be there.

  “Move at will,” Hans commanded the group, which brought my focus back to the representatives in the circle.

  Everyone in the group began to move toward one another in the center of the circle, without comforting my representative. Several attempted to avoid her altogether, while the others acted like they didn’t see her, inevitably walking right into her, bumping her and literally spinning her around. Cheryl kept trying to get away from my representative, and every time my representative followed her, one of the others would run into her and nearly knock her down. This went on for almost three minutes and made me extremely uncomfortable.

  “That’s enough,” Hans finally said. “Stop moving.”

  I was relieved and hoped it was finally over.

  Hans weaved between each of the people in the field and stopped in front of my representative and asked, “What do you feel?”

  “I feel alone. Like nobody wants to be with me,” she replied.

  Tears began streaming down my face again, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  Through my emotional fog, I heard Hans continue: “That’s because you are supposed to be dead. You were supposed to die with Cheryl.”

  I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. He then repeated slowly and deliberately, “That’s because . . . you are supposed to be . . . dead. You were supposed to die with Cheryl.”

  I had thought that a million times, but thought that people in Hans’s position were obligated to make others feel good about living, not tell them they were supposed to be dead! I got really angry at him and wanted to get up and leave, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. In fact, my entire body wouldn’t move. I was frozen there. Stilled, and forced to listen to his abuse.

  “Usually destiny works hand in hand with free choice, but on occasion one can overtake the other, as it did in your case. Probably because you have a developed sense of intuition, you were able to sense that getting in the car didn’t feel right.” Hans continued, and his words began to come clear: “But the universe is a finely tuned machine, made up of billions of living things, all predetermined to move on a particular path, weaving in and out, without interfering with each other. When someone dies, traditionally that path is freed up for another living being to travel on.”

  My head started to spin again, and I wasn’t sure I was following him anymore. He then looked directly at me and continued speaking: “In your case, the universe expects you to be dead, and the paths you are walking on are interfering with the paths from other souls’ destinies. It’s as if an old side road has continued to be used after a new freeway has been built right through it. It’s very likely there will be run-ins because the side road is no longer supposed to be used.”

  I started to understand.

  “That’s why you feel so lonely, and why things have been so hard for you since Cheryl’s passing.”

  I began to wonder if my recent string of bad luck had anything to do with what he was talking about. Before Cheryl’s death, I would always find a parking space right in front of whatever store I was going to, I never had to wait in line for more than a few minutes, and I had great friends who would do anything for me. And it was true that after Cheryl’s death, everything became much more difficult: I could never find any parking spaces, I would constantly be waiting in long lines for the simplest of things, and my friends nearly all abandoned me.

  The more I thought about it, the more examples I came up
with, like my recent habit of literally bumping into others when I was walking down the sidewalk. It was as if since Cheryl had died, most people couldn’t even see that I existed. Even coworkers I would see every day had trouble remembering my name.

  Hans explained, “It’s also the reason why you’ve been holding on to Cheryl so intently, because you were destined to be with her through death. However, you’re not dead, and you need to be reintegrated with the living—and she needs to be allowed to move on.”

  My head wouldn’t stop spinning. I had just been told that I was supposed to be dead, and I was preventing my fiancée from crossing to the other side because I’d been holding on to her after she passed. Although I thought Hans might be right, it was still disturbing, and I felt more confused than ever.

  He turned his back to me and faced the circle once again. “Cheryl, tell Scott: ‘It was simply my time to go. I will see you again, although not for a while.’”

  “It was simply my time to go. I will see you again, although not for a while,” Cheryl said to my representative.

  “I love you, but you need to let me go,” Hans continued.

  Cheryl repeated, “I love you, but you need to let me go.”

  I gasped as tears caught in my throat. I was finding it hard to breathe, and the lights fell to blackness as Cheryl’s spirit finally moved away from me. My sadness flowed into relief, and for the first time since her death, I began to feel at peace with her passing.

  “Because you’re no longer on your natural path, you haven’t been able to draw from the strength and support of your ancestors,” Hans told my representative. “Your ancestors are willing to help you integrate a new path alongside theirs so you will no longer feel alone.” He put his hands on the shoulders of my maternal grandfather and moved him to the left of my representative. He then guided my paternal grandfather to the right. My great-grandfather went to the left of my maternal grandfather, and the Cherokee nation to the opposite side.