The Edge

Two months ago I held a man in my arms. I was the first person to touch him in years. He stays in his bedroom almost all the time because he is afraid of people. He is afraid people are going to hurt him and hate him. They might. But what people think has no bearing on his mental illness. He is consumed by what he thinks people think about him. His own assumption of other people’s judgments keep him locked in a 12 by 12 bedroom.

How big is your bedroom?

He is a dancer that doesn’t dance. Except behind the closed doors of the office we were in. There he was a ballerina. A poised-sweaty-deliberate body of art.

He isn’t a very good dancer. But he watched me watch him and saw rapture in my eyes and body language. He danced harder and faster to the unspoken approval I showered on him. His finishing number was filled with anguish and tears and a bow. He got lost in his dance because he felt safe to do so. I recognized him as a dancer.

Who gets you lost?

I held him after that. Tears should have been rung from both shoulders of my shirt. He cried because he spends the majority of his life trapped in a prison in his own head, walls made of unfounded fear. A lie prison. A heavy metal concert of thinking that never stops and is never nice. Some people have a classical music prison, some an opera prison or an oldies prison. The sound in the head, be loud or soft, be nice or vicious, is just that. Sound. Words and pictures that are given meaning with the problem solving ability of the brain. These solved problems that define who you think you are could be your bedroom.

Insanity is not dancing.

My hope is that his tears seeped into my shoulders. I should always be quiet enough to recognize the worst dance and be brave enough to dance my worst dance.

We only die you know.

Madan and India

-India
Madan was quite a man. When I arrived in India alone, he met me in a very crowded airport, with a held up sign with "jai" on it and a smile. Nothing screams safety in India, so his friendship and guidance while there was priceless. Madan was in his early 70's and had never made a pilgrimage across India before so he jumped at the chance to do it with me. He wasn't physically well and he knew that, therefore a final adventure fit right into his schedule. We got on the first train and didn't stop going until we entered every temple, mosque and holy place we could find in the south. We approached every guru and holy man that was approachable and snuck into the presence of the ones that wanted nothing to do with us. We acted like little kids with each other, trying to always one up the other by being "more" enlightened. He would lie to me and say that the holy guy we were speaking with whispered to him that he was more enlightened than me. I would fall into a deep pretend meditation when he wanted to discuss something and make him wait.  We had, 'who is the bigger swami contests' to see who got the best bunk on the next train. We loved each other. It sounds like we were making fun of our experiences, but on the contrary, we were on a very serious journey of self inquiry. Being present with ourselves was our cliche goal.

We succeeded. 

I left India for a while after our long journey was over. I came back a few months later and Madan picked me up at the airport again. I immediately knew he was dying. He looked so worn out from the inside. The rickshaw ride back to his house was pain filled for him and therefore for me. Later, we sat very close to each other on his couch and we giggled like kids while re-reading the notes we made on our epic pilgrimage. We exchanged long excited looks at each other because we knew we wouldn't be able to for much longer.

Eyes close.

I flew back to the U.S and called Madan right away. He was in and out of a coma and his wife put the phone to his ear for me. I sang him a 70's American hit he loved to sing to me. I told him why I loved him. He died that day.

The oceans has waves that rise up and live then sink back down into the ocean again. He was a brilliant wave.