The mattress pressed against my back as I squirmed for a sweet spot on the bed. Laptop open on the nightstand, I closed my eyes to listen to a recording of one of my hypnotherapy sessions.

Hypnotherapist Julie’s taped voice: “… from 5 to 0, allowing yourself to go 10 times deeper … 4, floating down deeper and deeper … 2, drifting down and down. … and 0, that’s right dropping into the deepest core of you.”

I hoped for a breakthrough that would open a portal to memories of my college mentor, Dr. Jackson. Truth was, having heard this recording before, I knew the plot of this rerun, that a migraine was more plausible than a breakthrough. I knew Julie would broach the topic of The Little Girl, and those three words would trigger a stab of pain above my left eye.

I pulled myself off the mental treadmill and caught up with Julie’s voice.

“… today we’re connecting to that deeper mind, that part of you that’s holding all the records …”

I had demanded that Julie leave The Little Girl out of our sessions. I had moaned my discomfort at the mention of her existence. My wishes didn’t matter. She commandeered my subconscious. She carried the pain for both of us. She blocked my path to pleasant memories. I wanted her gone.

I drifted back and forth between my emotional landscape and Julie’s voice.

“… inviting in a guide that knows everything about you …”

My opinions churned, until interrupted by a rush of warmth, like the convergence of two rivers. I was caught off guard by a gentle affection for The Little Girl, the tenderness you’d feel on encountering a fancied-up kindergartner hand in hand with her mother. In the presence of her radiant innocence, I was saved and destroyed.

As “I’m sorry” made its way from subconscious to conscious, The Little Girl appeared at the foot of my bed.
She sat there, as ethereal as my breath and as real as my hand. I dared not move. Not even to shift my mind’s energy toward the word impossible. She posed formally on the bench where I sometimes plop to write, her full starched skirt spread around her like a photoshoot. I recognized the hair, our hair, pulled into tidy pigtails, and I winced at the roots past due for a hot comb. The Little Girl was serene, a child wearing the expression of a benevolent goddess. It did not matter that Momma hadn’t taken care of her.

Had I created the vision on purpose?

She was likely a manifestation of wishful thinking. Likely my overactive imagination. Likely, I was simply recalling a photo from the family album. Maybe all these things were true. Maybe none of them mattered.
Her visit ended, replaced by the dark behind my eyes.

Julie’s voice. “… bring forward all things that are for your highest and greatest good …”

The Little Girl reappeared, standing beside me. Her beaming face was inches from my head on the pillow—if inches existed in her world. She looked at me kindly, as though she were about to pat me on the head. But wait, she was the child; I should have been doing the patting. And then her expression turned coquettish. Was she flirting? She had a hand on her hip. In the other she carried a purse, a little pouch pulled shut by yarn ties. She held her purse out to me, an invitation written on her face. The purse dangled from its yarn ties. The Little Girl gazed at me across the decades, the purse swaying beside my cheek, an offering.

If I accepted …?

If I loosened the drawstrings …?

If I peeked inside …?

My mind reached out for the purse, for us.

“1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Eyes open. Back in the here and now.”

The matresss pressed into my back.

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.


****

“The opposite of a cage is a vulture…”
———Kenan Orhan
——--I Am My Country (in the short story “The Bird Keeper’s Moral”)

My husband’s Buddhist teaching gig took us to Branson MO, where he spoke at a Unity Sunday service. I am no fan of any practice that requires attendance at a sit-down meeting, same place, same time, every week. Call it Buddhism, Christianity, Islam, Hinduism—it’s all church to me. Add to that Branson’s collection of southern drawls reminiscent of sherriffs snatching freedom-hungry diners from lunch counters. In Branson, I felt hemmed in. I hunkered down.

On the drive home, we stretched our legs at Table Rock Lake. The overlook inside the visitors’ center put us at eye level with cypress treetops, where hundreds of vultures perched. Their posture mirrored my prejudice, lurky and hunched. I leaned toward the window for a closer look, but the glass walls caged me. When a scout swooped in, the wake ascended, wave after silent wave drawn ever higher in ever-widening circles. Wings outspread, the vultures worshiped the thermals, transforming this non-believer.

At the Sufi ceremony of Zikr, we formed a circle around Fattah, who played guitar and sang. He taught us the simple dance movements and transporting chants. Holding hands, our thumbs all pointed left to facilitate an uninterrupted flow of energy around the circle. Fattah explained the meaning of each dance and translated the Arabic phrases for us. He invited us to sit down inside the circle if we grew tired. There we would experience the energy from the inside out.

For three dances, we chanted the simple phrases and danced the simple steps around Fattah. Dance number four included the phrase “La illa ha. Il Allah.” I was excited to learn this one. During many previous Zikrs, it had escaped my mastery. But I finally got it. “La illa ha il Allah.” While chanting these words we were required to drop our neighbors’ hands, spin slowly in place, with our individual hands held high. No sweat.
We came to the spin. “La illa ha. Ill Allah.” I uttered it perfectly. I sounded like a native speaker. But something was wrong with my feet. They hadn’t moved.

We repeated the sequence. This time I executed the spin flawlessly. My raised arms expressed the universality of the movement. I was at once a Christian parishioner raising my hands to receive the Holy Spirit, a Hare Krishna delighting in Krishna and a Sufi praising Allah. My spin was unsurpassable.

But something was wrong with my mouth. I was thinking Arabic, but I was saying “Fa La La La La.”

I asked Fattah to repeat the phrase for me. “La Illa Ha Il Allah, Dawn. Remember? We sang it in the last dance. It’s exactly the same.”

Fine. A second ago only a couple of people knew I was stuck. Now everybody knows.

We began again. I sang the phrase beautifully. I spun gracefully. But not simultaneously. Each time we approached the spin, I stiffened in concentration. The feet dutifully obeyed my commands. The mouth only managed la-la-la-la-Allah! The Allah was emphasized to prove to myself that I could utter at least one Arabic word while spinning.

I was frustrated. I was tense. I felt awkward. I knew for sure I had to learn this step. I knew I should be able to. I was proven wrong every time. In anticipation of the spin, I could no longer enjoy the rest of the dance. Mired in aversion and resistance. Closed off to the spirit of the music. This was my reality.

The more I resisted, the worse I felt. Just in the nick of time, my brain shut down.

I broke ranks, sat down in the middle of the circle, and created a new reality.

I hugged my knees and rested my forehead on them. With eyes closed, I let the melody of voices and guitar seep into my skin. I relaxed. I opened my eyes, and that’s when I saw the feet.

Everybody had them. They moved in and out of my field of vision like a slide show. Graceful feet, awkward feet, hesitant feet. My new reality was made entirely of feet. Some floated past on a pillow of air. Others dragged invisible 10-pound weights. Feet in Birkenstocks, feet in tennies, feet in sox.

The ability to spin in place while speaking Arabic was rendered moot in this feet-centric reality.

I raised my head to further explore the landscape of my new world. Faces floated by—moons orbiting around me.

I felt as though I were being honored in an ancient tribal ceremony. I inhabited a new reality, of my own creation. Where a few minutes earlier I had been a fish out of water, I was now the guest of honor. I was thrilled that they had all shown up to celebrate me.

One of the women returned my gaze as she danced by. Then her neighbor noticed me, smiled back in mid-chant, and floated away. It was contagious. Soon most of them smiled down at me as they danced and sung their way around the circle.

Some didn’t look at me at all, eyes closed in a self-induced trance. They drifted in and out of my vision, unaware of my invitation to dance. They were ballet soloists, focused inward. I noticed a second of disappointment that they did not play with me.

But I laughed with those who did, and our laughter harmonized with the music. They were celebrating around a campfire and I was the fire - sung to, smiled into, and danced around. But they weren’t celebrating me. Celebration was happening. The experience was impersonal and completely satisfying.

Stepping inside the circle, I had created a new reality. It was one small step in an evening, one giant step in a life. Bare attention made it possible. Feeling dense and awkward and knowing for sure that I had to learn the dance, I was headed down a road toward self-criticism. But without forming an opinion about them, I acknowledged the emotions I felt. Because I was being mindful of my feelings, I felt an opening. In that opening I saw the possibility that I did not know what I thought I knew for sure. In that split second of not-knowing, choices were presented to me. Suddenly, I had a choice in how to respond to the circumstance. I chose the path that led to celebration instead of self-recrimination.

Finding no resistance to hold them, the emotions passed right through me on their selfless journey through the atmosphere. Sitting down in the middle, I was still participating, but choosing a different way to dance. The circumstance that had threatened to deflate my mood had instead lifted my spirit.

My life is also my creation. Sometimes I’m hypnotized by emotions and habits. I act without seeing myself clearly. I drift away on my agitation, mistakenly thinking that something external caused it. That’s my reality.
In each situation, I can choose a different response, and create a new reality.

When I am mindful, the music of life invites me to dance. Sometimes I choose to boogie. And sometimes I dance by sitting it out.