Tantric Coconuts

by Greg Kincaid

  Ted continued his line of questioning. “Yes, it would have to be very different. So let’s think about it. What would a savior sound like today? How would she think? How would she deliver her message?”

  “All good questions. Do you have answers?” Angel asked.

  “Yes, I do, and I think you gave them to me. The only way you could recognize a teacher like that today—and this is a crucial point of your Spirit Tech teachings—would be by grasping the levels. No matter the epoch within which these men or women were born, they would have to be at the sixth level of awareness.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Angel said. “So you’re saying today we wouldn’t assess their credibility by the magic they performed or by some physical attribute like a halo; we would simply expect them to be the most highly evolved spiritual beings on the planet.”

  “It also seems fair to assume that however difficult it is to reach the sixth level today, it would have been harder and therefore far more unusual to have evolved to this level one or two thousand years ago. We can pretty safely assume that it was so unusual that anyone who reached the sixth level would have been enshrined in near godlike status—as in fact occurred with each of these three men whose lives we have examined at Spirit Tech. Whole religions grew up around them.

  “So here’s my hypothesis, Angel. What if making the sixth level, while still rare, is much more doable today? We have more resources and we’ve had a few thousand years to practice. Our entire world culture has been profoundly influenced by the teachings of Jesus, the Buddha, Muhammad, and most likely many more sixth-level graduates that came after them. We have more time on our hands to study and ponder. It makes sense to me that in many ways these men successfully transformed the world. Today making the sixth level may not be such a cosmic accomplishment. This could explain why, with the exception of the Mormons, no new religions have come into being in modern times as the result of God choosing to communicate to one man alone. It just seems implausible in the modern world. Today’s sixth graders have to settle for a Nobel Prize, an occasional beatification, or maybe a lucrative publishing contract. That’s about it.”

  Angel wanted to make sure she was following Ted’s point. “Are you’re saying that because we create no new gods, it is very difficult to let go of the few old ones we still have hanging around in the public consciousness?”

  “I think it’s a reasonable theory. Okay, Angel, I’m going for extra credit now.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Let me turn to the sixth level. Father Chuck set it up for me last week. Progressing through the levels is a continual process of emptying of the false self. As we empty the ego, the higher self moves into the vacated spaces. The fifth level, as you have been explaining to me over the last few days, is about the emergence of the higher self as a now-audible part of the psyche. To some extent, through all of the exercises you’ve been giving me, I’ve experienced something that I suspect is indeed this higher self, or what your mother might have described as a higher power. I understand that it was not something you could describe to me; it was something I had to literally experience myself. Thank you.”

  “Yes, the fifth level is of the emergent self, and I too believe you have seen and experienced this part of yourself.”

  “The sixth level can only be one thing. The higher self finally eclipses Mr. Digit. The right brain is restored to dominance, or at least balance.” Ted waited for Angel to correct him if she thought he was headed the wrong way. She didn’t, so he continued. “You opened up an unusual space for me in one of our exercises together. My Mr. Digit personality relaxed its grip for a few moments and I lost my separateness. I was able to merge with something vast and mysterious—it was simultaneously everything and nothing. For myself, I can’t define this awakened state any better than that, but I was able to experience it. If I lived in a different time, I might have run into the village with clay tablets in my hand and claimed that God showed himself to me. Today we have to be more circumspect. I simply remain curious and open to the experience, whatever it might have been, and see it not so much as a unitized experience with God as a symptom of my own unfettered consciousness. I may never achieve this state again. That’s okay.”

  “Do you think this state was indicative of your transformation?” Angel asked.

  “Maybe, but I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Like Father Chuck said, and the Buddha too, I’m no longer interested in sitting on the shore debating the characteristics of the boat. I’m just rowing. I know I may not be there myself—Mr. Digit may still have a firm grasp on me—but still I suspect I might recognize a modern-day sixth grader if she was staring me in the face.”

  “Try it,” Angel encouraged.

  “At the sixth level the false self still hangs around. I suspect none of us can totally rid ourselves of this aspect of our personality. I’m not convinced that it would even be a good idea to be totally unselfish.”

  “If you give all your money to feed the starving masses, you might starve yourself. You’re making the logical distinction between self-preservation and the Mr. Digit worldview or personality. That’s an important distinction.”

  “Here’s how I see it. By doing the Work we can at least dethrone the ego as the master and commander of our lives. The same is true with the superego. The sixth grader is not going to allow archaic rules, tribal norms, or even plain old logical thinking to run her life. She is grounded in and operates to the highest extent possible from her core, true, or higher self. As a practical matter, her concerns are more global and less provincial. She is not a dualistic thinker. She is more interested in putting things together than breaking things apart—cohesion and not conquest; cooperation and not competition. Her world is anchored more by ‘ands’ and less by ‘ors.’ This is her calling. Being postconventional and transrational in her thinking, she will probably have a hard time fitting into a conventional lifestyle. She will seek out others to support her in her convictions.”

  “You’re heading the right way. What else can you tell me about the sixth level?”

  “Being less mired in left-brained thinking, she finds that the world opens up to her in seemingly magical or at least paranormal ways. She is so rich in spirit that others experience her as a healer and a nurturer of souls. She sees and observes things with her right-brain, heart-anchored mind that others might ignore as, for example, in dreams. She is the substantive embodiment of love and compassion. She thinks in images and feelings and is highly artistic and creative. She is kind and accepting and approaches life with love and not fear.”

  “I think, too …” Ted hesitated. What he said next came from an emotional place. “She will be the very best human being any of us could ever want to know.” He took Angel’s hand in his own. “She only has two flaws.”

  “Yes?” Angel innocently asked.

  “Not being fully of this selfish world, I would not expect her to excel in selfish pursuits. The world might seem like a very confusing place for her.”

  “You said two things were wrong with her.”

  He took Angel in his arms. “She would have a hard time knowing how to reach out to the ones she so desperately wants to heal. She might be reduced to rather strange methods of transmitting her message.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, she might have to drive around in a beat-up bookmobile with advertising signs painted on the side. None of which would be that bad except for the fact that she can’t drive worth a damn!”

  Angel held Ted tightly. She was not sure if Ted had really grasped the sixth level, but he’d made a very decent stab at it. She was sure of this: what Ted had said was a sweet declaration of love. She whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”

  28

  The next morning, Angel suggested that they take the dogs on an overnight hike. When they got back, they could leave for Pierre to visit Aunt Lilly. Ted had no problem extending his vacation for a few more days. Still, he offered a few conditions of his own. “I’d like
to fly-fish. Also, I’m still hoping to catch sight of …” He wiggled his index fingers above his head.

  “Tatanka?” Angel asked.

  Ted nodded, pleased that Angel had followed his Lakota so well.

  She pointed to the trailhead. “The best way to find buffalo is to look for them.

  Angel had spent many hours in Custer State Park with Larsen, her mother, and her brother when she was young. Less than one hundred miles from her childhood home near the reservation, it was the largest state park in South Dakota and boasted not only the beauty of the Black Hills but also one thousand head of free-ranging buffalo.

  The reservation lands and the adjoining park grounds were not heavily trafficked by human feet. There were still trout in the streams and it was not unusual to come across ancient bones and arrowheads unearthed by a heavy rain. There was a strange harmony between the meadows and the forest-clad hills. It was as if grass and trees took turns dominating the landscape of the Black Hills, each providing a captivating backdrop for the other.

  Ted exited Bertha with a pack on his back and Argo by his side. “I’m ready.”

  “There’s a swimming spot by the river where my father took me when I was a little girl. I’d like to try to find it. Absent a buffalo stampede, we should be able to make it well before dark. It would be the perfect spot for camping and fishing.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  With their packs slung over their shoulders and their dogs tagging along, Angel and Ted set out on their hike in the early-morning sun. Although the hiking was not strenuous, Ted found a sturdy pine branch resting on the ground and quickly fashioned a walking stick. As they proceeded along the barely trodden trail, Angel sang familiar tunes and Ted joined in on the choruses when he could. Periodically Angel would stop, position herself toward the east, and tilt her head back so the sun was on her face. “Ahh, how nice is that?”

  Ted believed that for each human being there is a moment, or perhaps several moments for the particularly lucky ones, where life simply gets no better. On that day everything was aligned for joy. He too tilted his head back and reiterated her sentiment. “Perfect sun! Perfect day. Perfect spiritual consultant. What else could I ask for?”

  Angel took Ted’s hand and held it close to her chest, asking, “Me?” With that small gesture, she suggested that things could hypothetically get even better for Ted Day.

  Several hawks circled high above them in the sky. The sight of two humans and two dogs walking across their hunting grounds was disturbing enough to send the birds gliding away to range elsewhere. The path slanted to the west, in the direction where the elevation and timber increased. In another quarter of a mile the trail intersected a creek. Angel and Ted walked along the creek for about thirty more minutes. The trail generally followed the water and then turned north, where, after several more miles, they came to an even larger stream. Angel hesitated but turned right and followed the river back to the east. After an hour of hiking, she was concerned that her memory of the clear lagoon was faulty, perhaps an amalgamation of several different trips. She was about to give up on finding it when Ted did something strange. He stopped, looked about, and set his pack on the ground.

  “I’ve been here before. I can sense it.”

  “You’ve never been to South Dakota.”

  Ted looked at Angel. “That’s true, but still I feel like I’ve been here before.”

  “Let’s stop, then. It’s as good a place as any.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t want to find that place?”

  “This is better.” Angel was excited for Ted. He was tapping into something intuitive, transrational, and more than that, he was trusting that his world might not always add up. He was letting go of his need to know. His reality was not fixed. “Do you want to fish?” Angel asked.

  “Yes, but first I want to gather firewood. We’ll need a fire to cook.”

  There had not been much rain. The stream was running low and Angel doubted very much that Ted would need the fire to cook. It was not a good time for fishing. Still, she had plenty of granola bars and that was good enough for her.

  Ted undid his pack and carefully set out his fly reel. “Come on, Argo, let’s get a pile of wood together.”

  While Ted found firewood near the shore, Angel set up the rest of their camp. From the first armload of wood Ted brought to her she decided to get a small fire going. She rummaged through her pack for matches and went to work.

  Angel had the fire well established when Ted began to fish. To her surprise, he got not one quick hit but three. In fact, as sunset approached, Angel and Ted were lying on the ground laughing. The fish seemed to be jumping onto his hook. It was one of those days.

  Angel stared at the stringer. “I don’t get it. This is not how fly-fishing works. You spend an entire day slapping at the water and, if you’re lucky, you catch one or two. What’s going on here?”

  “I’m a natural—what else can I say?” Ted couldn’t figure it out, either. He looked about and knew only that there was something magical about this spot.

  Angel grabbed the rod from Ted. “Enough fishing. Let’s eat.”

  Ted cleaned the four largest fish and released the rest of his catch. The fish, roasted over the flames from pine boughs, made a nice meal—slightly bland but, after the hike, fine dining.

  Ted ate both of his fish, but Angel pulled off pieces of her second trout to add to the dried dog food they had carried in for No Barks and Argo.

  When the sun was fully set and the meal was behind them, Ted had no desire to speak further of spiritual matters. It had been such a delightfully carefree day that he just wanted to continue in the flow. They had no cards, so Ted just lay down on his bedroll, stared up at the emerging stars, and tried to let whatever was welling up inside him bubble to the surface. A barely perceptible grin came across his face as the idea emerged—from where, he did not yet realize.

  He had never once uttered these words, not once in his life. Maybe the ghost of Astaire forced him to do it. Ted leaped up from the ground, grabbed Angel’s wrist, and said, “Let’s dance!” He waited for her to respond.

  She looked at him, rather surprised. “Ted Day dances?”

  “He does now!”

  Angel was hesitating, so Ted pulled her up into his arms. They both closed their eyes and swayed to the rhythm of nature: the wind, the stream, the distant cry of the coyote. They were all part of the band. Angel started dancing in a very free and rhythmic swaying motion. Ted did his best to imitate her moves. The lighting was just poor enough that neither of them needed to feel self-conscious about their movements. The dogs sensed the excitement and began jumping up and down, wanting in on the action. Ted allowed No Barks to jump up and place her front paws on his chest. He led her around the fire prancing about on her hind legs. Ted tried a quick two-step with the wolf dog. He looked at Angel and said, “Two-legged moon dancing!”

  Angel laughed. “My dog is jealous! She wants you all to herself.”

  Ted let go of the wolf’s paws. “You can cut in if you’d like.”

  “No. I think you two make a nice couple.” Angel couldn’t resist the urge to dance around the campfire like an elated Lakota. Like a Lakota in love. Like a Lakota in her element. Like a Lakota who enjoyed life down to its sugary fruit-cocktail core, along with her sweet place within it. She shuffled her feet in small, quick steps and danced around the fire pit, tipping her head first down and then back up again. Both dogs followed behind Angel, apparently equally in the moment. The pine logs popped and crackled and the scent was life itself. Angel began a Lakota chant.

  Angel’s song stirred something within Ted. It was as if her notes were plucking the strings of his heart. He watched the red embers pop, rise, and disappear into the starry night sky. Angel stood and looked at Ted. She was quivering, but it was not cold.

  Ted snuggled in close to Angel. He found his hands reaching behind her head, which she gently tilted back, but this time not to accept the warm
rays of the sun. Ted smelled everything good on Angel. Coconut soap in her hair, the pine scent from the fire on her shirt, and the fresh stream water on her lips as their mouths found each other, first softly and gently and then excitedly. As the lyrics of the moon slowly fell silent, they fell to the ground, wrapped in each other’s arms. Angel’s space and Ted’s space was now their space.

  When the moon was high in the night sky, Angel interrupted Ted’s bliss to describe her dream from a few nights past. “I was reading to the children on the floor of Bertha, but she had been restored to a bookmobile. What do you think?”

  “Even I know what that means.”

  “Really?” she asked without hiding her surprise.

  “Sure, don’t you remember what Singleton said?” She didn’t answer, so he continued. “He said that our schools desperately need a spiritual curriculum. That must have triggered your dream.”

  “Did I ever tell you how Bertha came to Aunt Lilly?” Angel asked.

  “No, but now that you mention it, I was wondering.”

  “The children on the reservation are very spread out. Many parents don’t have cars or other transportation, so they can’t drive their young ones to a library, and there is certainly no money for books. Years ago there was a grant for the bookmobile, but the money went away and the school district had to sell the bookmobile for scrap. Lilly bought it to live in, and one of her husbands helped her to convert it into a residence. That’s where it came from.”

  “Good for Aunt Lilly, bad for the children on the reservation.”

  “The reservation desperately needs teachers. I only need one more semester to get a degree. Perhaps Bertha was trying to tell me I should be a different kind of teacher.”

  “I think you would make an excellent teacher, but what about the other part of the dream—restoring Bertha to her former glory?”

  “Restoring Bertha would be impossible. It would cost too much money.”

  “How much is too much?”

  Angel rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Maybe twenty or thirty thousand dollars? On the reservation that would be a fortune; might as well be five million.”