The Divine Dance
THE NEXT MORNING, SITTING HUDDLED ACROSS FROM THE BAKER, Smythe broached a topic with him. Her lifelong desire to deepen her understanding of the human experience, particularly as it related to her Beloved, interested Smythe, and she enjoyed his perspective.
“Joao, how do you hear God? I mean, do you even hear God, or whatever you call God?”
“Oh yes, I hear the whispers of the mystery.”
“How?”
“Many ways. The Universe communicates in many, many ways. Thoughts, feelings, experiences, and words. For me, lately, it is a feeling. I feel a certain way about something I am doing or saying; a tingle like electricity I feel at the base of my neck.”
“Interesting.”
“I also have a knowing, like a thought. They are like pictures in my mind. Often, feelings come with the images to complete more of what the Universe wishes to communicate to me.”
“I have heard God in similar ways as you’ve described. How do you think experience plays into all of this?”
The baker tilted his head to one side.
“Tell me, daughter, why so many questions?”
“I keep thinking I made a mistake, that I wasn’t really hearing or feeling the Universe. That all of this jumping into the great unknown was just some made-up crap that I just got myself into. Nothing seems to be working out the way I wanted it to. I had this clear path in mind, and it is anything but clear. Forgive me, for I am simply attempting to more deeply understand.”
“The Universe has not ever given us the complete guidebook to our journey, my daughter. There is only an overview. You can choose to walk away at any time, but that would only delay your journey and grieve your spirit. You must have faith—’tenha fe’ in my language.
“It is hard to have tenha—”
“Tenha fe. Only if you make it so. Do not seek to know the how. Seek only to be in the now.”
Smythe rolled her eyes. That could have been a meme. The baker caught her look.
“In so doing, you will follow the next step that opens to all the Universe desires to do through you.”
“How then? I thought I was.”
“My daughter, you had in your words an inspired thought. The Universe whispered to you, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. We must now believe that we can do the thing we are inspired to do. This is where you are now. You must choose to believe or not to believe. Believe, my daughter.”
She smiled. “Can I come back to that?”
“Ok.”
“You’ve used the word communicate versus speak. Are they different?”
“Mmm, yes and no. Yes, often words do not convey the entire meaning of the Universe. So, for me, images happen in my mind, and sometimes feelings, too. It is more complete for my little soul to understand.”
“So, they’re like visions?”
“Yes, in a way. Although the word ‘vision’ has had a variety of meanings and understandings. But yes, I get a picture in my mind, and I know what is being communicated. Often, I find it is so that I prepare for something or offer someone a word of encouragement or knowledge.”
The “shadow of a thought” unexpectedly returned to Smythe’s consciousness. Her breathing became shallow, and a frown furrowed her brow.
The baker beheld the change in his friend.
“What troubles you, daughter? Something has shifted your energy.”
“An old story.”
“I love stories. Tell me.”
“You wouldn’t like this one. At any rate, it’s not important. Do you ever get warnings?”
“Yes, of course. When I go to the market, I may have a feeling to not go a certain way that I would prefer to go, like a path that I am more comfortable going. You know we all have our sulcus—mmm, how you say… ruts. Forgive me. I move often between languages. I sense danger, or I see cars hitting each other. I have learned to heed the feeling or sight. I simply think for a moment and go a different way, and I am grateful for the direction.”
“I think, sometimes, I have a knowing to say go one direction, but my experience tells me to do something else. I’m not sure which to follow.”
“Often, we must take a step in order to know. The Universe will always let us know if we are on the right path.”
“Explain.”
“Joy, my daughter. There is joy on the right path.”
“That’s funny. My mentor does this activity; he calls it feedback. We’re to take a step into action and then pause and listen to the feedback, then take another step and listen to the feedback again.”
“That it is good advice. Does he speak of joy?”
“Yes. He says he doesn’t do anything unless it brings him joy. He just follows the next inspirational thought and listens to the feedback.”
“Good, good. That is correct.”
“But doing it that way seems to take so long. Act, wait. Act, wait. I must admit that I tend to want to rush things.”
“And it is in the rushing where you often miss the stillness of the Universe speaking. Your journey is like a dance. The Universe leads, and you must simply follow.”
Smythe smiled. “I like to lead.”
The baker laughed out loud. “Oh, my daughter, do you not understand. The Universe dwells within you. You are leading as the Universe leads through you.”
“But it often feels like I am dancing in the dark.”
“You want control, but the dance requires you relinquish it. It is similar to hiking at night. I used to do that quite a bit in my home country, especially when the moon was bright in the sky.”
The baker paused for a moment, fondly recalling the days of his youth as he hiked through the mountains of Pico Ruivo, a rugged, volcanic green island with high cliffs. Its sister, Pico da Torres, is the second-highest peak of Madeira.
“But I digress. Imagine you hiked at night. It is not advisable, no, but perhaps there were unforeseen circumstances, and to get to safety, you must go forward in the dark. Yet, your headlamp only allows you to see so far. You must slow your pace and go only as far as you can see, no further. You must go at a pace that allows you to see all that is around you. Otherwise, you will fall off a cliff. That would be bad feedback.”
“Advisable then to slow down and follow the light in front of me.”
“Yes. Follow the whispers of the mystery. Those whispers dwell within you.”
The baker eyed his friend. He studied her change in demeanor. He closed his eyes and sensed the ache within her soul and shuddered.
“Smythe, do not allow your old story to darken your spirit. Release it.”
Smythe bowed her head, pursed her lips, and nodded. “I have. It just comes and goes.”
“Then it has not been released. Look up, Smythe.”
Smythe raised her head and met his eyes. The kindest eyes which allowed one to drink in divinity were now glassy.
“Then it has not been released. I sense your trouble—there is fear, and that fear you feel lives within your heart. Go to the core of it and see what it has to say.”
“I know what it says,” snapped Smythe. She took a breath and willed herself to shove the memory aside.
“Daughter, we can only be free by unhinging the chains we have placed around ourselves. Your freedom is not the thing connected to attaining a goal, but that which lives within your spirit. Release the chain that binds you.”
Smythe smiled at him. “Thank you for the conversation. It has helped, but I have to go now.”
“My pleasure, daughter.”
The baker watched as his friend left the shop. A tear trickled down the baker’s cheek as the door closed behind her. The only sound in the shop was the echo of the tiny bell which hung over the door.
With no one left in his shop, the baker spoke aloud. “What shall we do for her? I feel her ache. It lives within her and has grown cancerous, threatening her progression. She is needed.”
The Universe remained unmoved as
the silence spoke. “While she edges near the abyss of despair and may soon plunge into its waters, she will not drown. She need only use the gifts given to her to find her way out.”
Let Go of the How
THE WEEKS ROLLED BY, AND SMYTHE BEGAN MORE TO FEEL JOY AS she put into practice the baker’s advice. She read, meditated, studied, wrote, developed lesson plans based on her mentor’s teaching, and followed leads for new clientele. Yet, the mundane had begun to settle into an uncomfortable place within her. She had grown accustomed to her unwelcome guest, but found herself in what she thought was a monotonous routine. She limited the time she spent with the baker from several hours per day to a little over an hour and remained in her apartment as much as possible. At the end of the day, she showered and settled into the evening, but every evening also held the same routine. She would read and drift off to sleep in a chair in her living room before cajoling herself out of slumber a few hours later. Padding off to bed, she would sleep for a few more hours before starting a new day.
One early morning, as she and Artie made their way to the baker’s shop, Smythe asked if she could have just a bit more privacy with him than what Artie typically provided to her. To her delight, Artie agreed. The baker smiled widely and, with his usual greeting, welcomed them in. Once Artie determined the shop was safe, she positioned herself in Team 2’s vehicle directly outside the shop with Team 1 posted in the alley.
“What may I offer you?”
“This morning,” she replied, “I’d like some advice.”
He moved gingerly behind one of his display cases and listened intently as she began to speak. He did not lower his gaze nor look in another direction, his gaze piercing deeply into Smythe’s eyes as though reading her very essence. His energy of love and acceptance encompassed Smythe—so much so, it nearly brought her to her knees.
“Ev-Every night is the same,” Smythe began. “After I shower, I plop myself into a horizontal position on my couch or a chair and watch TV with Artie while perusing my emails. Sometimes I read if Artie is still on her tablet, but really, I’m numbing myself out until I am peaceful enough to fall asleep. Slumber comes as it usually does, and then the morning comes as it usually does, and I repeat the day and evening—again and again and again.
“I’ve thought about this behavior, and it occurs to me that I’m in this perpetual cycle of numbing myself. Or, perhaps, I’ve unconsciously developed a rutted routine. At least that’s what I’m sensing. I’m attempting to understand where it’s coming from, but I don’t have answers yet. I enjoy studying and working on my business. But what I know is that I feel this void. I’ve often wondered if I’m doing numbing, and I know others do it—why? Why are we numbing? Hell, Artie and I had a discussion about it. She said that we abdicate thought to numb to fill a void. I just can’t stand it, numbing out that is—especially night after night.”
They both remained silent for a while, allowing the sweet aroma of the air to again still around them.
Finally, the baker spoke. “You will never be enough until you believe you are enough. Now, what may I offer you?” he said, his tongs pointing toward a pastry she had yet to try.
What the hell was that?!
Dumbfounded, she simply made her selection. Once seated, she decided to eat the newfound pastry the baker’s tongs had pointed toward earlier. Her usual selection of malasadas would have to wait. She lifted the delicate pastry to her mouth, taking in the aroma of coriander and cinnamon before taking a bite.
What IS this?! she thought, fighting not to spit it out. The pastry was bitter and dry, and she struggled to swallow it. How and why would he sell this? Did he forget the sugar or honey?
The baker remained behind his display case and nonchalantly observed her while arranging and rearranging his pastries. Choosing not to offend him, she continued to eat the pastry.
The last bite cannot come soon enough.
The baker watched until she ate the final bite. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he quietly sighed.
“In life,” he began, “people often force themselves down the same path every day, even if it disagrees with them. They rarely deviate from it. You are a writer, and for a long time, you forced yourself to remain in the business world. Day after day, you struggled to swallow the bitterness of your job. You could have simply put it down so long ago, but you did not believe you were enough to do what your heart wanted you to do. But you finally listened to it. Yet, you are again unhappy. You will never be enough until you believe you are enough.”
“But I know that I am enough, I just don’t know how to create the life I want,” Smythe said, somewhat surprised at the whining disposition she felt within her.
“The Universe always guides us; you only have to ask. Then, watch and wait for the response and trust the change you wish to make will happen. I will tell you a secret that you will need to hear countless times: the how of the Universe is not in the predictable. Let go of the how, Smythe, and stay in the now.”
The baker brought her a glass of water to wash away the bitter taste of the pastry. He smiled and excused himself for a moment to tend to his creations that sat on cooling racks in the kitchen.
Smythe sat perfectly still for a moment.
Let go of the how. Control. I still want control.
The baker returned and began to add additional pastries to his display case.
“It’s control again.”
“More than that.”
“More than control?”
“Yes. Control is ultimately what you want.”
“I don’t understand. What is more than control?”
“The predictable, for in the predictable lies control. Let go of the predictable. That is what you have noticed, yes?”
“Yes. It’s been a lifetime of it.”
“Yes, for us all. Yet, the joy is discovering the Universe does not live in the predictable. You may shift now. Keep going, my daughter, and do not give up.”
“I will, but I can’t guarantee I won’t swear like a sailor along the way.”
The baker howled in laughter. “My friend, you have made my day.”
Smythe smiled. She wrapped up her original choice of pastry and ordered an additional two dozen malasadas and a coffee. Once the baker completed her order, she bid him a good day and left the shop to see Artie standing right outside the door.
Surprised by her delight in seeing Artie, Smythe smiled and handed Artie a coffee. She bent down and placed a bag on the concrete before reaching in and pulling out a small pastry box.
“Here, this box is for you. I’ll drive so you can eat.”
Picking up the bag that held a second, larger box, she added, “This box is for the other teams.”
She walked over to Team 2’s vehicle and handed the driver the box. She returned to her vehicle, entered in on the driver’s side, and started her engine.
Opening the box, Artie grinned. “You do care.”
Smythe turned to Artie as she fastened her seatbelt.
“I’m sorry, I just needed to talk to Joao alone. It wasn’t about you. It’s just I’ve had this nagging thing inside of me.”
Artie held her first malasada between her fingers, her eyes fixated on the Portuguese sugar-dusted doughnut.
“No explanation needed, I’m just happy you thought of me.”
Smythe headed home, but true to form, rather than remaining on the most direct route, Smythe chose a scenic route to return to her apartment, veering from the caravan. It caused her to lose the lead car instead of remaining sandwiched between the trailing vehicle. The lead car would eventually adjust to the route, and, once again, sandwich her between the other team’s vehicle. This behavior was an annoyance that caused Artie to insist she turn around, take the more direct route, and allow her team to do their job—on more than one occasion.
“It’s too dangerous, Smythe. This area is too crazy remote. It’s beautiful, yes, with its rolling hills, but it’s a needless risk,” Artie had said. Today was no d
ifferent.
“Smythe! C’mon. Turn it around or pull over and we’ll switch drivers. Those are your only two options. Remember, driving is a privilege that I offer. I can easily revoke it!”
“You’re eating. I’ve got this.”
“No, you don’t got this. I’ve got this. Turn around!”
Smythe continued to drive and watched the passing grassy hillside beside the two-lane road. The road began to gently curve from left to right, lulling her into peace. She noticed the ride was smooth and smiled. It seemed the road had recently been re-paved. This stretch doesn’t allow me to safely pull over. Therefore, Artie’s demand will have to wait, she reasoned.
She continued to drive, longing for the smell of the ocean, remembering the ocean breezes of a few short years ago. She would find a quiet place to park along the side of the road and pull over, often scooting in between an encampment of RV’s. At the beach, she would walk along the ocean’s edge, allowing the water to lap against her ankles, leaving a sandy residue of a thousand lifetimes across her feet. She remembered the coolness of the air as it tingled the hair along her forearms, the scent of salt and sand infusing her spirit.
Her eyes gazed around the rolling hills.
But I’m here. God, am I the only one who always seems so restless? Am I the only one who longs for the vision of my heart to manifest right now?
Smythe thought about her conversations with the baker.
The now versus the how.
She began to understand her restlessness was of her own making. She was wishing for a different future; a future away from where she currently resided.
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