"Jiva" A Story of Soul and a Way to See It by O'Dell, Gregory N.

8/6/2019 "Jiva" A Story of Soul and a Way to See It by O'Dell, Gregory N.

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A STORY OF SOULAND A WAY TO SEE IT

BYGREGORY O'DELL


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Copyr i gh t e2008 G rego ry O 'D ellA l ! l righu reserved.

IS B N-10 : 14 19 69 663 7IS BN -1 3: 9 78 -1 41 96 96 63 3

P ub lished by G . N . O 'D e ll S an A n ton io , Texas USA


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T he P athOn th e f i r s t n ig h t, w h ile s le ep in g in "9w arm so ft bed , I sfr tged upona b ea utifo l fo un ta in b ub blin g u p fro m a sm all m ound a top a h ill in th e

m id d l!] su n.I sto od th ere ~ ng at th e su~ o f ris ing spa rk ling bubb les

b re ac hin g th e m o u nd s' r im , sp illin g its c ry sta llin e ic in g o ve r th eh ill to p sa nd .

T h ink ing o f"9 fr iend s, I turned and ca lled to th em as th9 sa trest ing in a ho llow ou t o f th e sun .

Th9 stl!]ed in th e sh ad e n ot w an tin g to c o m e .O n th e n ex t n igh t, w hile sleep in g in "9w arm so ft b ed , I found a

seco nd fo un ta in ju st a s b ea utifo l a s the f i r s t a nd a ga in ca lled to "9fr iends.

I c ou ld s till se e "9fr ien ds sq ua ttin g w ith th eir h ats o ver th eir g esand gave ou t a ye ll th a t echoed back o ff th e ca '90n run .

Th9 stl!]e d in th e sh ad e n ot w a ntin g to c o m e .O n th e th ird n ig ht, w hile sleep ing in "9w arm so ft bed , I scanned "9ow n hori;:pn rea lk ing w ha t I had been show n - A ll M ust W a lk The

P a th A l on e !I s tr a igh tened "9s ta n c e a s lo n e lin e ss cut to th e bone , th en w alked

a tra il lea din g in to th e eve nin g su n:N ever lo okin g b ack to see i f "9fr iend s had com e!


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j~A S':RY OF SOUL AND AWAYTO SEE ITTrue illustration of Soul is problematic, and many claimthat its essence is so profound it renders the description asindescribable. Perhaps this is true; however, it makes goodsense to first knowwhat you're looking for, or looking at,and then try to understand how it acts. Ifweexamine onlythose features that prove to be rationally similar, then itis probable that Soul is at least approachable. IfSoul canbe approached, then it is just a matter of getting closeenough to view it in order to describe and illustrate whatit looks like.

The best approach will prove to be an establishedpath; once in view, further interrogation of the mysteriesof Soul and its purpose can then be left to the individual toexplore on their own. First wewill lay a solid foundation


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for our thoughts, see what Soul actually looks like, andthen its essencemust logicallyfollow.Youth or old age isa needless concern; the trek into consciousness will be assafeas exploring our own backyard. Nor should the deepthinkers of our troop account the trip to Soul to benothingof value, for there is something actuallyto be seen.

Nevertheless, we must move forward with thosewho are willing, and say goodbye to those who are notinterested. The campground fundamentalist canwaituntilour return, when it is safe to believe there is somethingoutside the tent village. Before we begin our journey,proper preparations must be made, or common groundmust be established, and those unwilling or unable totravel must be left behind. Just as with any trek into thewilderness, it would be unwise to force an unwillingperson to go along with us, especially if they believe thatthewilderness stops at the edgeof the campsite. So it is toforce someone to believe there is something called Souland awayto see it.

Beassured that the only leap of faith required for ourtrip is to recognize our park guide as a person of skill.Nothing beyond the direction, length, and expectation ofwhat is to be seen will be required of our hired hand. Weneed not burden her with complex questions of reality, or


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force upon her our religious viewpoints, because after all,she's just showing the way.

What about the children at the camp ground? Certainlythere are children here, and naturally they believe there is awilderness to explore, because they knowweare preparingto go there. There is little difference between a child's viewand that of the typical campground fundamentalist exceptthe child is activating the potential that a wilderness isbeyond the campsite. Not byblind faith but by experience,the child will prove a forest beyond the trees.

First, the guide urges the group around the campfireand states something like this:

.~ understanding propels us to the center oftruth, we gain unfathomable momentum, easilyovercoming the speed of light. We quickly pene-trate the etheric sheath of timeless eternity; burst-ing with a big bang of uniform silent stillness asweawaketo a quiet world with horizons stretchinginto the formless - purity of form."Excitement electrifies campfire consciousness. Even the

true campground fundamentalist wants to believe that thereis something ofgreat spiritual valuethat can be found beyondthe limits of their ownunderstanding. Our guide continues:

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"Our bare feet shall trod the cool grass of a mysti-cal garden the Hebrew calls Eden, where Adamwas formed from God's image from moisten dustof this plane."After packing our kits with the necessary items, we

start our trek. A few travelers may drop out early as webegin our Journey, as in every group there will be a fewwho refuse to agree that a tree is a tree, a rock is a rock,and a wolf can be a dangerous animal; so it's fruitless toargue necessity. It's true that our trip could be relative orperhaps subjective; however, the travel brochure promisesthat there will be a point of focus where essential featureswill look exactly the same to all the travelers, so there is agood chance to see Soul even in the off season.

Fiddling, and tightening their wobbling backpacks,twobusinessmen in our troop mumble to each other, ""Whatthe heck. Weare here, what do we really have to lose?" Afew of our children are smiling and watching the chubbymen. They saynothing; they know theywill seeSoul.

A woman from Kansas murmurs an unheardcondescending remark about the Far Eastern couple toa soccer mom -- glancing down when the camera toterslook her direction.

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Behind some tall timbers, a retired physician shovesa whisky flask at an old colleague who grabs the flaskgrudgingly, only on the second thrust. He tilts back theflask, taking a big swig as if an expert, yet his face says,"Only because you're my friend".

The old doctor stashes the flask back into his FifthAvenue hunting trousers as if the contents were rationedfor emergency use only. Fortunately for his colleague, thegood doctor hordes the elixir for the rest of the journey.

It is our good fortune to also havewith us the famedMr. Diggs, on vacation from his editorial position withthe journal A rc he olo gy N o w . He is accompanied by Mr.Ashok Kumar, an expert on Indian subcultures andEastern religious faiths. Mr. Diggs looks inattentively outover a nearby lake, simply called 'Known,' asMr. Kumargestures with his hands, while lecturing in the deaf ear ofthe archeologist. Perhaps Mr. Diggs has heard a similarproposition before.

So much for the campers standing beyond the groupgathered for our guide's safety briefing, while the normof our group, the majority, attentively listen to the guidecompany's rules and policies being presented -- anessential requirement for the trek. A few show irritation


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at the laughing children around their feet, and glancetoward the soccer mom busy with the activities of our FarEastern couple.

A tall man in the group suggests a prayer before thetrip, and they all bow their heads without hesitation. Ourgood doctor bows as he emerges from the camouflage ofthe trees. His companion, Dr.] ackAthea from CambridgeUniversity, rolls his eyes sarcastically toward the sky, hiseyes searching for the mysterious great skygod.

As they pray, Mr. Kumar's voice is carried over theprayer via the lake called Known,

":., SwamiAtmananda rebuts the claim, arguing Jivarefers to the soul, the individual selfand Paramatmameans God, which is in total contrast to the origi-nal text of theVedaswhereas]iva is Soul ... "Many bowed eyes pop wide open as Mr. Kumar

continues his pagan private lecture. Mr. Diggs continuesto look out over the lake as the prayer ends, and Mr.Kumar asks, '~e you coming? Diggs are you coming?"

They both move toward the prayer group now busysorting and stacking, focusing their attention on thesoccer mom dragging two boys by their arms to backpackslying on the ground.

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The bustle quiets down to a solemn, "Okay, we'reready.Which waydo wego?"

Our beautiful guide takes the lead. Our troop beginsat once, single file, up a narrow trail rising on a rockyembankment. A B sure as always, the moment the trekbegins, everyone moans silently, "Whydid I bring all thisjunk?" Everyone except Mr. Diggs, who wiselypacked asif doing archeological field work, and little Lynda, tooyoung to carry anything but herself.

Fortunately, the trail levels quickly, widens, andstretches into a cool shaded forest -- a welcome relieffrom the hot morning sun. Conversation dies a naturaldeath as each member tires of their physical burden, andinstead engages in a hypnotic stride, stepping in cadenceof one foot in front of the other. The children notice thehumming sound of ahuge swarmof bees over the constantswishing of rubbing vinyl packs against American jeans.No need to be alarmed: They've heard this sound before,confirmed by quick nods to each other.

It is the familiar sound of unknown origin you haveheard as a child, in the quiet of nature and surely whileswimming underwater. The mature members of the trailhear it, too. They have learned to ignore this essential

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feature feature of Soul that abounds about us, and is alwayswith us. Little Lynda listens intently as a kind ofwhistle, orperhaps the singlenote of aflute, growslouder then changesIts pitch as the sound emerges from the subtlebuzzing that'sall around. Unafraid, she knows she's not alone.

The older travelers arehappy toviewthe first summit,and chatter breaks out among them, overwhelming thesubtle sounds of nature.

"What did she say?" the thin man with a longbraided ponytail asks his wife of seemingly un-kempthair."Hank's Hang Out.""Yes. Just as it is painted on that rotting sign wepassed," thanked the mother from Kansas.Her name is Jane, I think. Yes! Ms. PlainJane is

the first adult to reach the summit, chasing the two un-controllable boys.

She sees a local teenager under the shadows of a grassroofhut -- stretched outin ahammock over amakeshift bar.

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The children startle the summer worker, and beforeJane can reach the door-less opening, he jumps from thehammock and slides the net of ropes out of sight, lookingback innocently, as ifhe had been working hard all day.

Quietly, the group gathers into the veranda takingseats in hanging hammocks and bamboo chairs.

A roar of conversation erupts while the much -awaitedsandwiches are procured. Each peel back the brown paperdisguising important distinctions between one sandwichfrom the next -- those with mayo, without mayo, withpickles, and so on. Then without a word, each guestfolds the sandwiches back together and begin enjoyingtheir lunch as if one mind sharing the same thing. Twoopportunists find the diversion appropriate to belly upunseen to the bar. The two young men vacationing fromcollegeask for another beer before the first can be servedand waybefore their twenty-first birthdays. They hand thesummer worker a crisp twenty dollar bill and say, "Keepthe change."

The worker murmurs loud to himself, "Why, this isthe first tip I have ever earned!"

"Yeah,just keep 'em coming'!" d raw l s a future scholar.

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: ! < N a . @ ~ o J . . . . t c u w 1 . . ' l O " ! t l: o . . ' j tOur guide stands up and givesa littleprepared speech:Welcometo Hank's Hang Out -- an old hunting lodge

erected for that purpose in the early 1950s -- now a forestpreserve outside the Park's range, and more recently, anoted civil liberties case of public domain. Some ofyou have queried about the ballpark prices. Hank's issupported solely on the sandwiches you are enjoying thisvery moment. Be assured this money covers the meagersalaries of student workers, aswellas the rest of the generalupkeep. Weask those who wish to, and those who can, togivea donation at this time."

One of our college boys says to his buddy, "Sixbucks for a beer! Keep the change. Hell, take mywallet!" Hank's bartender tries to pass a metal coffee canmarked "Hank's Donations" to our businessmen, whoinstinctively glance away.

The can somehow begins circulating, as all membersof the group take their turn stuffing the smiley facedrawnon the plastic top. Lynda's arms stretch high for her turn.The can descends, and she clumsily inserts an open facedfive dollar bill that her grandmother gave her a monthago. Her face glows, sparked by detachment as the candisappears into the crowd with her life's savings.

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Our guide continues, pointing outside:"Probate court has given us, the guide company,the privilege to lease the small cylinder blockbuilding for dry storage for those weary travelerswho wish to lighten their load."The young bartender calls out as ifon cue, trying his

best to sound professional, "Last call to lighten the load!"He holds up a key attached to a piece of lumber,

sized to ensure that it doesn't walk awayagain. The twobusinessmen instinctively glance toward the key and saysilently to themselves, "entrepreneur." The majorityof our group queues up with their loads, as if publiclydenouncing their sins.

One atatime, thepilgrims drop their bagshaphazardlyin the small building, emerging back through the narrowpassagewaywith a glowof forgiveness. Lyndawatches andsmiles wide at the procession, because she has nothing tolet go of.

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The guide gentlybreaks thegroup's concentration andmotions toward the trail. The gathering rambles towardsa focal point in the center of a grassless circle, like robots,while their minds are engaged in some higher idea. Thechildren dance in the center like fairies, pretending to bepagan savagesorbiting a scared fire.

Again, the subtle sounds of nature strengthen as theplanets payhomage to a dwarf star. The children welcomethe heavenly sounds, while the adults imagine what theJoneses will sayupon their return. But this time, one ofthe businessmen hears the familiar but forgotten rhythmof his youth -- a subtle yet unmistakable beating of a drumas it emerges from the melodious tunes about them,beating in cadencewith the marching hiking boots. First,he thinks it's the sound of his own heart, remembers hisyouth just for a moment, and then completely forgets asthe sound fades into the distance.

Mr. Jennings, the tall man who usually leads theprayer, is the first to see a trail marker with "His Point"painted on the side.

He looks to our guide, and she explains, "Wehavetwo more summits before our return trip, and timehas obscured the original summit names. We have

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come to know them as "His Point" and "Her Point"respectfully. We heard from those before us thataround 175 years ago a couple claimed this area astheir homestead. But the story has so many versionsit's difficult to tell which is right. The names havebeen long since forgotten, so we simply call them'His Point' and 'Her Point."As the trail turns, they come upon a tented veranda

and a teenage girl in the middle, working what looks likea hot dog stand. They are all relieved to find that her cartcontains allkinds ofsweetsand evensomemore sandwiches,for those who are still hungry. As soon as our troop eyesthe "No Charge. Provided by... " sign, all the goodies arequickly depleted from her cart except the saltine crackerssealed tightly for ages in cellophane plasticwrappers.

After a while, they begin hiking again, and sooncome upon a marker of stacked stones with black paintedlettering on top labeled "My Point." Our guide explainsthat a feminist group had come before them, and builtthe stone monument. All the women smiled and thought,"MyPoint."

As they look out over the vista, they see an odd-looking shape on the side of a hill. As the adults stand


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squinting their eyesto bring the distance object into focusthe children mimic their movement.

The good doctor laughs and explains to the children,"The older you get, the greater the need to squint to focuson things at a distance, because the cornea muscles get tooweakto elongate. I mean, stretch the opening of the pupilwide to bring the distant object into focus."

One of the children says, "He must have real goodeyes," and then points to the odd-shaped face on thebluff's steppe north side which seems to be caved fromthe rock.

The hill bluff comes into focus, and what they earliermissed in detail, they now allbegin to see. A huge funny-looking faceseemingly carved into the cliff side. Everyearis humming with a beautiful, melodious sound.

Our guide tries to explain:"On my first trip here as an apprentice, the carvedcartoon features struck me with awe. I could notlaugh, for its very presence filled me with a bliss Ihave never known. Something about its complexsimplicity is completely familiar to me."The group eyes a perfect rainbow beyond the cliff


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face, but says nothing. Mr. Kumar puts in his two centsthat no one hears.

They all march toward the cliff face. The huge faceshines in the sun with two huge stretched elongated eyes.

Sally, a young girl amongst the children, calls out,"It's a clown!"

However, the subtle features fadequicklyinto the rockcrevicesasthe illusion of the clown facequicklydisappearsas they near the cliff face. Despite the sun no longer intheir faces, a discouraging steep trail is in view, and oneby one they line up in single file and begin climbing thecliffwall.

Huffing and puffing, the two chubby businessmen arethe last to emerge from the natural steps to ashaded plateauin front of an old abandoned mine shaft. Mr. Jenningsis yelling to Mrs. Jane, who apparently followed severalchildren into the shaft, from the tunnel's entrance.

The guide tries to speak over the loud voices, "It'squite alright. The structure is in good shape and hasrecently been inspected."

Our group huddles around the dark hole looking indespair, as ifsilently saying, .~ the wayup here for th i s?"

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Our guide instructs the troop, "Please, only smallgroups at a time, and leave all your belongings there onthe picnic table. It's very closequartered inside... "

As the group accepts the fact that Mr. Jennings, Mrs.Jane, and the children are 'first come first serve', eagerlyawait their turn.

The group outside the mine entrance can hear thechildren laughing inside, as Mr. Jennings calls out tothem to get close to his "campsite flashlight."

""Why?Can't you see?" the children say in unison,as if in retribution to the narrow beam of the flashlightborrowed from a campsite fundamentalist left behind atthe campground.

Inside the tunnel, some fifty feet from the shaftentrance, the walls expand to a dome-shaped room, asthe wide-eyed adults watch the children dancing aroundsome unknown orb of light emitting a mystical blue huefrom the center of the room. Mr. Jennings and Mrs. Janestand like wallflowers at the farthest distance from thecenter of the circle.

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Two of the children sing in cadence, "I Am that 1Am, Sam 1Am!" Other children join in, "I Am that 1AM, Sam 1 Am!" The children continue the chorus,intensifying the rhythm and tone of their melody everystep as it is repeated.

"Children! Hush!" barks Mrs. Plain Jane to the deafears of the children dancing in the blue light.

'J d' . n" ksM J .ne, on t you seeItr as r. ennlngs."What, the light?""No! 1mean ... ah... not really, do you see it?", and

begins laughing while extending his flashlight."Of course, Sam 1 am!" Mrs. PlainJane's face lights

with a crystal white light, as quite possibly her first realsmile cracks the norm of her face.

Mr. Kumar enters the mine uninvited, as if thinkingto himself, "Why, the guide didn't mean me... ," andemerges into the cavern room with eyes wide withexcitement. He begins to givea discourse. He is shockedto find, however, perhaps for the first time in his career,an audience actuallyattentive and waiting to hear what hehas to say!

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Taken abackby the unexpected attention, Mr. Kumarstutters and looks down to the ground, then lifts his headas it bursts with sparkling white light, as he barks in acondescending voice, "This is what I try to explain to mystudents, but they never seem to get it!" His face shines asif it is the first time "he got it" and the children cadence,"IAm that IAm, Sam IAm!"

The Indo-Aryan's rhetoric improves greatly as hedescends from his academic pulpit to the level of theaudience bdow, and explains as if he has solely held asecret for ages, but now, finally, someone sees the light ashe sees it. He thinks to himself, "There may be hope forthese dull minds after all."

Mr. Kumar continues with a whisper as if telling anancient parable in response to the rhythm of the childrensinging, "Of course, Sam I am. If I am Sam, how can Iknow I am not Sam, Sam I am. How can Sam know he isnot Sam- lAm Sam; therefore I am."

Mr. Kumar continues, "You see, children, somethings weknow with certainty bywayof necessity. Wecanrelyon other things by the same sufficient reasoning, suchasmyhand holding this flashlight."

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Surprised, his voice fades as his eyes search for theobjects of his conversation that seem to despair into hisown rhetoric of falsebeliefs.

Ms. Jane sarcastically remarks, "I think thereforeI think."

"No!" cries out Mr. Kumar, "Let me put it in simpleterms. Try to imagine a square with only three sides. Yousee, you can't. A square is a necessary condition."

Mr. Jennings jabs, "Tell that to a carpenter, like myold uncle Jake. Open any carpenter's tool box all the wayback when Jesus was a carpenter. Inside you will find atriangle which they refer to by its proper name 'square."

"Okay, children! Let's move outside so everyone canhave their turn ... " commands Mr. Jennings, and all of asudden the walls of the cave are consumed by the light.Like snakes shedding their skin, their bodies fade awayasthe light ruptures everypore of their bodies. Yet everyoneis still happily singing as the sound of wind roars throughthe narrow confines of the cave.

The sound of the wind drowns out the laughter in themanmade cavern, much likewhen a symphonic conductorbrings down his baton. But in this case, the sound of


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: ! < N a . @ ~ o J . . . . t c u w 1 . . ' l O " ! t l: o . . ' j thundreds of woodwinds bellowing from the depths belowthe manmade tunnel, and a thousand violins, slowlymarchupon them. A massive tidal wave of heavenly music hitsthem, and then crashes again to a quiet stillness; they seethemselves aswhat they really are, deep within their being.

Soul, thelight of their ownminds, thejewel oftheir ownconsciousness, appearing like a snow-white pearl beamingout in all places and all time - a blissful eternal presence,encompassing all places, all times, and all knowing.

"Sarv-Vyapak, Sarv-Gyani, Sarv-Shaktiman,"mumbles Mr. Kumar, inadvertently speaking out theirliteral meaning in his mother tongue, quite taken in bythe magnificence of the moment.

Lynda calls out, but is no longer heard, as a childwhispers, "I am that?"

Mr. Kumar, for the first time in his life, speakswithout self-motivation, and says, "Yes, I am that! They allspeak as one while viewing their lives beneath the heightsof their new found awareness."

Not a question arises amongst them as they view theirlives in the lower world created by intelligent design-- ajourney for experience with purpose, and meaning.

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The spelunkers wonder, "How did I ever forget thatIAm, IAm Soul."

The next moment they are standing in the cave, eachand everyone in a 36o-degree viewof a ball of white light-- the light of Soul. Faces shining and unafraid, they allquietly step out, one by one, making room for the others.

Mrs. Jane loudlymumbles, "The Good Lord waswithme all the time!"

Lynda catches Mrs. Jane's hand and says, "Never,never, never forget" and the children begin a pact bysayingover and again, "Never, never, never forget!"

They emerge as the crowd at the mine entrance gawksand twist their heads in bewilderment, not knowing whythe emerging troop looks transformed. The next groupenters the tunnel, as the twobusinessmen annoy the guidewith charts drawn with sticks in the dirt; mathematicfigures showing returns on investment.

Mr. Kumar has Mr. Diggs's ear again, but this timeMr. Diggs is actuallylistening. Mr. Diggsbegins showingKumar the remnants of what could havebeen an ancienttribal site at the mouth of the cave, asMr. Kumar tries toexplain to him in vain that the sitewaspossibly occupied

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by ancient people thousands of years before the earliestknown human dwellings inMrica.

Each member of our group has their chance to bebaptized by the light of the mine, and emerge from thetimber frames, except one of the businessmen and Mr.Diggs.Neither of the businessmen wanted to venture intothe cramped cavern, and had flipped a coin to see wholost and must go in.

Mr. Diggs and Mr. Kumar were busy measuring andlogging information about the site, and about the entranceto the cave.Mr. Diggshad comeprepared as ifto performfield research. Mr. Kumar is talking while Mr. Diggs ismarking a spot with a yellowstring,

"Diggs, I tell you, aswediscussed at the lake, theJiva ismuch like a mask. The Jiva is a mask of the soul. The bluestone of the bluff was ingeniously used by these people toshowaJivamaskhiding theAtma, or the soul, aswecall it.It is the first step to an independent life and individuality,whereweall struggle for answers through science... "

Little Lynda interrupts him: "Mr. Kumar, never,never, never forget."

"Yes! That's enough. Here's a quarter," instructs

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the foreigner. "Go play with the other children," andcontinues to rattle on about statistics, records, andartifacts. Mr. Diggs is so consumed in his study that henever so much asventures past the opening of the cavernto seewhat's inside!

The enlightened businessman who emerged from themine shaft as the loser, tries to explain that the site needsto be preserved and made available to all people, as hisfriend looks hiswayand says,"Come on!What's this? Youcan't be serious! Are you serious?"

Taken backbythe quick rebuke, the first businessmaneyes the ground as he recovers his normal self, "Oh, no,I was just joking about how much initial capital wewillneed to get this place started to a point of OPM."

"That's the Frank I know," exclaimed his companion,"When do weget our hands on other people's money?"

The group did not require any instructions for thereturn trip, as they merged systematicallyinto the correctformation, while the businessmen and the archeologistsstaggered behind.

Our guide looks back at the train of people, andsmiles at all the happy faces lit with the bliss of the mine's

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mystical light. The guide proudly wa lks straight, withchest pushed out, and pivots on the spot like abandleader.They all follow with the familiar cadence of tennis shoesand jeans, surrounded bywhat sounds like a huge swarmof buzzing bees.

They descend back down the trail in the coolnessof the evening, passing once again "My Point," or "HerPoint," and then "His Point" . Next, they pass the desertedhot dog stand as they make their wayback down the trail.Soon they are greeted by Hank's Hang Out's bartender,grinning from ear to ear, as he says, half to himself "Itnever fails... Happy trails!"

The businessmen eye the bartender, and Frank says,"Hey, how about a couple of beers?"

The bartender disappears under Hank's grass roofand pulls two ice-cold ones from a metal bin of half-melted ice.

The coffeecanwith the smiley faceproves to be muchmore popular on the waydown, as each person digs deepin their pockets and hurriedly stuffs its puffy face. Lyndahas a hard time chasing and reaching up high for the can,till it rounds the bar, where the two businessmen stand,turning their heads awayas ifthe can were a virus.

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Slowly the can is lowered, all eyes on Lynda as sheselflesslypushes in the quarter Mr. Kumar gaveher. Thesmiley facecan is placed back on the bar, its mouth stuffedwith bills of all denominations.

The bartender yells, "Luggage claim!" as if he werethe maitre de of a city hotel.

The group moans as it moves to the small building.One after the other they pick up their packs. It is quitean interesting sight to behold -- variously engineered anddesigned backpacks and bags of light weight nylon, eachboasting the manufactures name such as "My Burden,""Your Own Burden," "Their Burden" and so on.

Lynda stands at the door laughing while rememberingeach of the pilgrims saying, "Never again" as they droppedtheir karmic load on the wayup.

The two unruly boys rush in and grab their packs,dragging them out along with the Far Eastern couple'scamera-bag strap tangled with theirs. The Eastern manyells in a heavily accented voice, "Hey boys! Stop there!You not want me chase little asses down!"

Mrs. Plain Jane quickly retorted, "Don't talk to themthat way!They are just kids."

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A fewvolunteers pick up and wipe the mud from thecamera lenses spilled onto the soggysoil which had beendampened by the icewater run -off from the beer bin.

The Eastern man looks at his wife, mumblingsomething in his native tongue.

Mrs. Jane yells, "Hey, I heard that!"Frank at the bar says, "Yeah, sure, but just what did

he say?"The guide tries to cool the group down, instructing,

"Okay, one at a time, please. We'll be back at the campsoon enough."

Our group once again gathers about the escarpment,looking over the snake-shaped river and lakebelow. Theylisten to the good doctor separating theVelcro loops fromhooks on his trouser pocket. Heads turn as the silverbottle bottom is pointed toward the sky.

The doctor looks back, as ifto say, ''And?''They turn back to the vista, wondering whya man of

such education and means would stoop so low. All startthinking ahead, and ofwhat needed to be done in the daysto come: getting ready for work, getting the kids to school,and so on.

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Finally, they are back in the camp and are greetedby the camp site fundamentalist, who naturally stayedbehind.

Mrs.J ane eyesher friend from Kansas, Kate, and says,"You wouldn't believe what that man said to the boys!"

Kate turns to her husband and says, "I told you wewould be better off down here!"

Lynda catches Mrs. Plain Jane's hand and says,"Never, never, never forget."

"Okay, Lynda! I don't havetime for games right now!"Little Lynda's head sinks as she walks away.Everyone else is in a hurry, nudging through the

crowd toward their bungalows or the bathrooms, whichalready have long queues.

After showers and a quick meal, they all sit around thecampfire, whilethosestillbright with thelight, try to s h a r e theexperiencewith Soulwith the campground fundamentalist.

The Eastern man had made amends with Mrs. PlainJane, quietly slipping a five dollar bill each to both theboys to shut them up.

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He tells astory of his youth hoping the fundamentalistmight understand the experience of the mine and Soul.The story is about twoyoung pilgrims that left their villagein a quest to find the truth. After walking for a long time,they cameupon awall which sealed the outside world fromheaven (hemoveshis hand as if climbing, while explaininghow the twoyouths scaled thewall). "On top," his eyeswideopen for the fundamentalist, "they sawirresistible beautyall around, and one of the pilgrims jumped over the wallto the ground inside. He motioned for his partner to joinhim, but his partner refused by replying 'I cannot bearleaving my family and friends behind without showingthem paradise first." Thus, the fist man became the livingsymbol of an ancient secret sect, while the other a symbolof community and religious belief."

The story draws a comment from one of thefundamentalists: "That'san interesting story,buddy, but whatdoes it haveto dowith thejourney youmade to find Soul?"

So it was all through the balance of the night, thefundamentalists arguing in a rational mechanical way,rejecting outright any positive thing about Soul that theenlightened group had experienced.

As they allwent to bed, those who's auras had dimmedFrom the questioning, drifted back into Soul justas they

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zipped up their slipping bags. Even the children, whowerealready fast asleep, were still experiencing Soul in theirdreams-- laughing, joking, and telling funny stories --only to awaken in the morning to unhappy people talkingabout work, scrambling, arguing, and trying to get out ofcamp as fast as they possibly could.

The guide gathers the group together to say good-bye, passing a booklet around with a questionnaire, withcountless tiny bubbles to fill in with a Number 2 pencil,each getting his turn. Nobody fills in the essayportion ofthe survey form.

Mr. Jennings gathers the norm of our group, themajority, for prayer. As they gather together one finaltime, they arejoined by the camp ground fundamentalist,the good doctor, and Dr. Althea from Cambridge.

Mrs. Plain Jane catches up with her misbehavingboys as they mistakenly take a wrong turn into the prayergroup, succumbing to the solemn bowing of heads as theirmother glares down and says, "Just make one move!"

The soccer mom looks to her brood as if they willget the same treatment as the hippy couple, who in turngazeat both mothers and take note, like social workers inan abuse case, then glance at each other and whisper in

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Mr. Diggs' and Mr. Kumar's rent-a-car is loaded byporters who appear to have snuck awayfrom their jobs atthe local airport. One of the porters asked Diggs "Is thisall you have?"

Diggs nods his head.The other porter looks at Mr. Kamur's truck load of

equipmentand suitcases, back toMr. Kumar, and then bothporters look back to Dr. Diggs, as ifsaying "Is this guy forreal?" Mr. Kumar's self-confidence is stung by the gesture,and from this dayon, he can no longer see Soul, too.

Lynda's mother, Gene, calls to Lynda, while themotor of her station wagon rumbles. Lynda quickly getsinside as they start the long drive home. They had notdriven very far before Lynda's mom starts to deliver agrocery list of what Lynda had to do to get ready for herfirst day at school.

Lynda smiles and says, "Never, never, never forget!"As if on cue, her mom's chatter stops abruptly with a

glowing smile, and nether saysa thing the rest of the wayhome. Lynda stares out of the window, imagining that sheis flying over the station wagon all the wayhome.

As they turn into their driveway off Common street,55


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Lynda's dad, who refused the invitation to the weekendretreat, greets them. He eyes the glowing girls as if heshould have gone, then quickly asks Lynda, "How's mybirthday girl? How oldwill you be tomorrow?"

Lynda replies, "Six. You know that, Dad!"He recovers and says, "Keep out of the den until your

birthday party tomorrow."Lynda darts to the den to find a drooping paper sign

that reads "Happy Birthday, Lynda!" surrounded by half-price Christmas ornaments that her dad bought at thedollar store last year that Lynda's mom would not let himuse to decorate their Christmas tree.

After dinner, Lynda's mom sends her to bed. "Youhave to get up early for your birthday party."

Lynda climbs the staircase that leads to her bedroomat the far end of the hall, while singing, "Never, never,never forget, Sam I am."

Lynda's dad turns to her mom. "Forget what?""WesawSoul at the retreat.""You mean you found some soul at the retreat?"Her eyesdrop, and she says,"Yes, that's what I mean."

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They continue the conversation after he turns off thebedroom lights. She says, "Really,Jim, what I meant was,we sawSoul."

Towhich Jim respondswitha sleepyvoice, "That'snice."The light of her face darkens as she questions what

shewas shown in the mine, and drifts off to sleep. Whenshe awakes, shewill no longer see Soul.

Lynda and her dad had the party going well beforeLynda's mom awakes in the morning from the children'slaughter and makes her wayto the decorated den.

She peeks into the party den, anxiously scanning allthe familiar faceswith colorful cone party hats and snail-shaped whistle blowers. The group of little children, allsitting around the table, desperately trying to act likeadults, as Frankie, a boy Lynda just met at the campoutretreat; runs around the seated children, blowing acardboard horn in each face as he passes by.

Wanda, Lynda's best friend, turns to Lynda and says,"Frankie is so childlike, I don't think he will ever growup," as she removes her paper cone party hat.

The other boys and girls do the same. Lynda is thelast to take off her hat. Lynda then saysto the now mature

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partygoers, "Some people never, never grow up! On this dayand evermore, Lynda will not see Soul, too.

Frankie, many years later, is still blowing hiscardboard horn ineverybody's faces:"Hwe examine only those features that prove to berationally similar, then it isprobable that Soul isat least approachable. HSoul can be approached,then it isjust a matter of getting close enough toview it inorder to describe and illustrate what itlooks like."May I never, never, never forget!

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"Jiva" A Story of Soul and a Way to See It by O'Dell, Gregory N.

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Transcript of "Jiva" A Story of Soul and a Way to See It by O'Dell, Gregory N.