by Paulo Coelho
Chris couldn’t stand to repeat the whole thing yet again. But she had to—she hadn’t yet achieved any meaningful results.
“Sit there. With your back to the sun.”
She did as Paulo said. And then, automatically, she began to relax. She sat cross-legged, with her eyes closed—but she could feel the entire desert surrounding her. Her soul had been swelling during these days in the desert, and she knew that her world had expanded. It was more vast than it had been two weeks earlier.
“Concentrate on your second mind,” he said.
Chris sensed an inhibited tone in his voice. He could not act toward her in the same way as he did with other disciples—after all, she knew his faults and weaknesses. But Paulo made a supreme effort to act as a master would, and she respected him for that.
She concentrated on her second mind. She allowed all thoughts to come to mind—and, as always, they were absurd thoughts for someone who was in the middle of the desert. For the past three days, whenever she had tried the exercise, she realized that her automatic thinking was very much concerned with whom she should invite to her birthday celebration—three months from now.
But Paulo had asked that she not be concerned about that. That she allow her concerns to flow freely.
“Let’s start from the beginning again,” he said.
“I’m thinking about my party.”
“Don’t fight your thoughts. They are stronger than you are,” Paulo said for the thousandth time. “If you want to rid yourself of them, accept them. Think about what they want you to think about until they grow tired.”
She went over her list of invitations. She rejected some. She substituted others. This was the first step: Pay attention to the second mind until it grew tired.
Now, the birthday celebration disappeared more quickly than before. But she was still composing the list. It was unbelievable how a subject like that could demand her attention for so many days, occupy hours when she could be thinking of more interesting things.
“Think until you are tired. Then, when you are tired, open the channel.”
Paulo walked away from his wife and leaned against the wall. Gene was an expert, and took very seriously the business of not being able to teach anything to the disciple of another master. But, through Chris, he had given Paulo all of the clues that he needed.
The fourth way of communicating with the invisible world was channeling.
Channeling! How many times had he seen people in their cars in the midst of a traffic snarl, talking to themselves, without realizing that they were performing one of the most sophisticated of the magical processes! But, because of its extreme simplicity, all one need do is sit in a quiet place and be attentive to the thoughts that emerge from the bottom of one’s mind.
Channeling has generally been considered a superficial practice. Nothing of the kind! Since the beginnings of humanity, people have known that, if they wanted to enter into contact with God, they had to make room in their soul. They had to allow their spiritual energy to manifest itself, and to create a bridge between the visible and the invisible.
How can one create such a bridge? Various mystical processes address the importance of “not being.” Relax, allow the mind to become empty, and surprise yourself with the great treasure that begins to flow from your soul. The word inspiration means exactly that: the bringing in of air, allowing oneself to drink from an unknown source.
Channeling required no loss of awareness during the contact with the spirits; it was a more natural process for a person to use in order to plunge into the unknown. It allowed for contact with the Holy Spirit, with the soul of the world, with the enlightened masters. No ritual was needed, no incorporation, nothing. Every human being knew, subconsciously, that there was a bridge available to the invisible, a bridge one could cross without fear.
And everyone tried to do so, even without being aware of it. Everyone surprised themselves, saying things they had never thought before, giving advice of the “I don’t know why I’m saying this” type, doing certain things that didn’t appear to make sense.
And everyone liked to spend time observing nature’s miracles—a thunderstorm, a sunset—ready to enter into contact with the universal wisdom, think about things that were truly important.
But at such times, the invisible wall would appear: the second mind.
The second mind was there, barring the entrance, with its repetitive ideas, its unimportant problems, its melodies, its financial problems, its unresolved passions.
He stood and approached Chris.
“Be patient, and listen to everything your second mind has to say. Don’t respond. Don’t argue. It will get tired.”
Once again, Chris went over the invitation list, even though she had already lost interest in it. When she finished, she put a period to it.
And she opened her eyes.
There she was, in that wound in the earth. She felt the still air that surrounded her.
“Open the channel. Begin to speak.”
Speak!
She had always been fearful of speaking out, of seeming ridiculous, stupid. Fearful of learning what others thought of what she said, because they always seemed more capable, more intelligent. Always seemed to have an answer for everything.
But now she was here, and she had to have the courage even to say things that made no sense, that were absurd. Paulo had explained that this was one way of channeling: speak. Conquer your second mind, and allow the universe to do what it wanted with it.
She began to move her head back and forth, wanting to do all that, and suddenly she wanted to make strange noises. And she did so. It wasn’t ridiculous. She was free to do as she pleased.
She had no idea where these things came from—but they were coming from within, from the bottom of her soul, and manifesting themselves. From time to time, her second mind returned with its concerns, and Chris tried to organize them, but that’s the way it had to be—no logic, no censure, but rather the joy of a warrior entering into an unknown world. She needed to speak the pure language of the heart.
Paulo listened in silence, and Chris felt his presence. She was totally aware, but free. She could not concern herself with what he was thinking—she had to continue to speak, making the gestures that came to her, singing the strange melodies. Yes, everything must make some kind of sense, because she had never heard these sounds before, these melodies, these words and movements. It was difficult, and she had the fear that she was fantasizing things, wanting to appear to be more in contact with the Invisible than she really was. But she overcame her fear of the ridiculous, and went on.
Today, something different was happening. She was no longer doing what she did out of obligation, as in the first days. She was enjoying herself. And she began to feel secure. A wave of security washed back and forth, and Chris tried desperately to go with it.
In order to keep the wave close to her, she had to speak. Say anything that came to mind.
“I see the earth.” Her voice was hesitant, calm, even though her second mind made an appearance from time to time, saying that Paulo must be finding all of this ridiculous. “We are in a safe place, we can stay here tonight, lie here and look up at the stars and talk of angels. There are no scorpions, no snakes, no coyotes.
“The planet set aside certain places for itself. It tells us to go away. In those places, without the millions of life forms that walk on its surface, the earth is able to be alone. She also needs her solitude, for she needs to understand herself.”
Why am I saying that? He’s going to think I’m showing off. I’m aware!
Paulo looked around. The dry bed of the river seemed gentle, smooth. But it inspired a terror of total solitude, of the complete absence of life.
“Say a prayer,” Chris went on. Her second mind was no longer able to make her feel ridiculous.
But suddenly, she felt fear. Fear of not knowing which prayer, of not knowing how to continue.
And when she felt the fear, her
second mind returned—and the ridicule, the shame, the concern about Paulo returned with it. After all, he was the Magus—he knew more than she, and must think all of this was phony.
She took a deep breath. She concentrated on the present, on the earth where nothing grew, on the sun that was already hidden. Bit by bit, the wave of security came back—like a miracle.
“Say a prayer,” she repeated.
And it is going to echo
clearly
against the sky
when I come along
making my noise
She sat there in silence for a while, sensing that she had given her all, and that the channeling had ended. Then she turned to him.
“I went very far today. It’s never happened that way.”
Paulo caressed her face and kissed her. She didn’t know whether he was doing that out of pity or pride.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s respect the earth’s desire.”
“Maybe he is saying that to give me a stimulus, to get me to try to continue channeling,” she thought. But she was certain—something had happened. She hadn’t invented all that.
“The prayer?” she asked, fearful of his answer.
“It’s an ancient indigenous chant. From the Ojibway shamans.”
She was proud of her husband’s knowledge, even though he said it didn’t count for much.
“How can these things happen?”
Paulo remembered J., discussing in his book the secrets of alchemy: “The clouds are rivers that already know the sea.” But he wasn’t inclined to explain. He was feeling tense, irritable, and didn’t know exactly why he was staying on in the desert; after all, he already knew how to converse with his guardian angel.
“DID YOU SEE THE FILM PSYCHO?” PAULO ASKED CHRIS when they arrived back at the car.
Chris nodded her head.
“The lead actress dies in the bathroom early on in the film. In the desert, I learned how one converses with the angels by the third day. Meanwhile, I promised myself that I would spend forty days here, and now I can’t change my mind.”
“Well, there’s still the Valkyries.”
“The Valkyries! I can live without them!”
He’s afraid that he won’t succeed in finding them, Chris thought.
“I already know how to converse with the angels, and that’s what’s important.” Paulo’s tone of voice was hostile.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Chris answered. “You already know, but you don’t want to try.”
That’s my problem, Paulo said to himself as he started the car. I need some strong emotions. I need a challenge.
He looked over at Chris. She was busy reading The Desert Survival Manual they had bought in one of the towns they had passed through. They drove off through yet another of the immense desert flats that seemed to have no end.
It’s not just a problem of spiritual search, he continued thinking, as he alternated between looking at Chris and watching the road. He loved his wife, but he was getting fed up with marriage. He needed some strong passion in his love, in his work, in almost everything he did in his life. And that went against one of nature’s most important laws: Every movement needs to pause at times.
He knew that if he continued the way he was, nothing in his life would last for very long. He was beginning to understand what J. had meant when he said that people wind up killing what they love most.
TWO DAYS LATER, THEY REACHED GRINGO PASS, A PLACE with only one motel, a mini-market, and the U.S. customs building. The Mexican border was only a few yards from the center of town, and the two took snapshots of each other with one foot in each country.
At the mini-market, they asked about the Valkyries, and the woman who owned the luncheonette said she had seen “that bunch of lesbians” that morning, but that they had moved on.
“Did they cross into Mexico?” Paulo asked.
“No, no. They took the road to Tucson.”
They went back to the motel, and sat down on the verandah. The car was parked directly in front of them.
“Look how dirty the car’s become,” Paulo said after a few minutes. “I think I’ll wash it.”
“The owner of the motel wouldn’t like to find out people are using water for washing their car. We’re in the desert, remember?”
Paulo didn’t answer. He stood up, took a roll of paper towels from the car, and began to wipe away at the dust. Chris remained seated.
He’s upset. He can’t sit still, she thought. “I’ve got something serious to tell you,” she said.
“You’ve done your work very well, don’t worry,” he answered, as he used up one paper towel after another.
“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about,” Chris insisted. “I didn’t come here to do work. I came because I thought our marriage was beginning to fall apart.”
She feels the same way I do, he thought. But he continued with his cleaning.
“I’ve always respected your spiritual search, but I have mine, too,” Chris said. “And I’m going to go on with it. I want you to understand that. I’m going to continue attending mass.”
“I go to church, too.”
“But what you’re doing here is different, you know? You chose this way of communicating with God, and I’ve chosen a different one.”
“I know that. I don’t want to change.”
“But meanwhile”—she took a deep breath, not knowing what his response would be—“meanwhile, something is happening to me. I want to speak to my angel, too.”
She stood and went over to him. She began to gather the paper towels scattered on the ground.
“Do me a favor,” she said, looking directly into her husband’s eyes. “Don’t leave me in the middle of the road.”
THERE WAS A SMALL DINER NEXT TO THE GAS STATION.
They sat near the window. It was early in the morning, and the world was still quiet. Outside was the desert, the immense, packed surface…and silence.
Chris missed Borrego Springs, Gringo Pass, and Indio. In those places, the desert had a face: mountains, valleys, stories of pioneers and conquistadors.
Here, though, the immense emptiness was all there was to see. And the sun. The sun that before long would color the world yellow, raise the temperature to 115 in the shade, and make life impossible.
The man behind the counter took their order. He was Chinese, and spoke with a strong accent—he could not have been here for very long. Chris imagined how many times the world had turned to bring the Chinese man to this luncheonette in the middle of the American desert.
They asked for coffee, bacon, and toast, and sat there in silence.
Chris looked at the man’s eyes—they appeared to gaze to the horizon, the eyes of one whose soul had grown.
But no, he was not engaged in a holy exercise, or trying to develop his spiritual side. His was the gaze of boredom. He wasn’t seeing anything—not the desert, not the road, and not even the two customers who had come in so early in the morning. He limited himself to the motions required—put the coffee in the coffeemaker, fry the eggs, say, “Can I help you?” or “Thank you.” The meaning of his life appeared to have been left behind, or to have disappeared in the immensity of the treeless desert.
The coffee came. They began to sip it, in no hurry. They had nowhere to go.
Paulo looked at the car outside. It had done no good at all to have cleaned it two days before. It was covered with dust once again.
They heard a sound in the distance. In a few minutes, the first truck of the day would drive past. The man behind the counter might put his boredom and eggs and bacon aside, and go outside to try to find something, wanting to be a part of the world that was on the move, the world that passed by his diner. It was the only thing he could do; watch from a distance as the world went by. He probably no longer even dreamed of leaving the luncheonette behind and hitching a ride on one of the trucks to somewhere else. He was addicted to silence and emptiness.
The sound grew louder, but it didn’t seem to be that of a truck engine. For a moment, Paulo’s heart was filled with hope. But it was only a hope, nothing more. He tried not to think about it. The sound came closer and closer, and Chris turned to see what was happening outside.
Paulo stared at his coffee, afraid she might perceive his anxiety.
The windows of the restaurant rattled slightly with the noise. The counterman tried to ignore it—he knew the sound, and he didn’t like it.
But Chris was fascinated. The horizon lit up with metallic reflections of the sun. The thundering engines seemed to shake the plants, the asphalt, the roof, and the windows of the restaurant.
With a roar, the Valkyries swept into the gas station. And the straight road, the flat desert, the tumbleweed, the Chinese man, and the two Brazilians in search of their angels, all felt their presence.
THE WOMEN, ON THEIR POWERFUL MOTORCYCLES, SPUN one way and then the other, dangerously close to one another, their machines shimmering in the hot air, their gloved hands toying skillfully with danger. They shouted out, as if to awaken the desert, to say they were alive and happy because it was morning.
Fear gripped Paulo’s heart. Maybe they wouldn’t stop there, maybe they were only trying to remind the counterman that life, joy, and skill still existed.
All at once, the rumbling stopped.
The Valkyries dismounted, shaking the desert from their bodies. They pounded the dust from their black leathers, and removed the colorful bandannas that they wore over their faces like bandits to keep the desert out of their lungs.
Then they entered the luncheonette.
Eight women.
They asked for nothing. The counterman seemed to know what they wanted—he was already placing eggs, bacon, and bread on the hot grill. Even with all the commotion, he continued to appear to be the obedient servant.
“Why is the radio turned off?” asked one of them.
The counterman turned it on.
“Louder!” said another.