Episode 94. Delilah's Diaries - A Language of His Own
He is developing a language of his own. My little Noah. And it has no words. He is developing into someone I could never have imagined, if you want to know the truth. I came to this meditation retreat for myself, because I heard the teacher at a talk in Halifax, but the spotlight has come to rest on my son, and so, dear diary, we will have to leave me out of this for now. Or consider me in this only in as much as he came out of me as gold does from the ground.
There are other children here on the land, among the various tent neighbourhoods, and Noah and Sir Barksalot were playing with them for awhile, running wild in the woods while us parents sat and listened and learned to peacefully abide. But then one evening in the main tent, as I settled myself on my cushion and got out my notebook to take notes, I saw Noah appear at the entrance. I wasn't looking in that direction but up toward the teacher's chair on the dais in front of the ceremonial shrine with its flowers and photos and candles and ritual objects. This was my first experience of hearing Noah without him saying anything. He wanted to come sit with me and hear the talk. I heard it as clearly as if he had whispered in my ear. And then I turned and there he was.
The weather has been turning cold, so everyone makes little nests for themselves, and I took Noah into mine, putting him on my lap and arranging my wool shawl around us both. I thought he just wanted to be with me, so I had covered all of his head but his eyes to keep him warmer, but as soon as the teacher began teaching, he wiggled his ears free and craned forward and remained so, intent on hearing every word.
The next evening there was no talk, and the descent into winter was sidetracked by a wild and warm wind from the southwest. The tent flaps came untied and so I awoke in the night to the whiplike sounds of snapping canvas with the feeling that I was drowning in my down sleeping bag. And to the revelation that Noah was not on his cot.
He was outside in the top of a pine at the edge of our clearing. At the foot of the tree sat our meditation teacher, not in his ceremonial robes now but in burgundy satin pajamas with Sir Barksalot in his lap. An attendant stood nearby. All three were watching Noah pendulum back and forth as the treetop swayed with the gusts. I knew my voice wouldn't carry far enough so I shouted at the teacher instead, who replied that my son, as I knew him, was just busy having fun.
I didn't need to use my flashlight. The teacher had his trained on Noah already, and was moving it back and forth in time with Noah's movements. So I was free to put all of my energy into the conversation.
"What the hell do you mean having fun?" I said, continuing to be even louder than I needed to be. "It's the middle of the night! He could get killed up there!"
"Oh, he's been killed a lot before," said the little brown man. "He's used to it. This is just child's play. He'll live a long life, don't you worry. Help many. Hurt few. And you have helped pass him along, like the ground does the gold. So you could rest in that. Indeed, it's time for you to rest. Your husband ... he was not your fault."
He went on to say more about who Noah had been, but I could no longer hear him very well. It was as if I had fallen down an old abandoned mine shaft. Or as if someone had pulled the rug out from under me and there were no floor below. The wind howled. Noah swayed in his flashlight-lit tree. The meditation teacher laughed. Sir Barksalot howled. I think I howled. But it's no longer clear to me.
It wasn't a dream. At least not the usual kind. I told Daddy Mac what the teacher had said, and while he had no explanation for it, he wasn't fazed in the least. "I knew Noah was like that," he said. "I gave him words he didn't even need."
Cousin Minnie, being very intrigued, requested a private audience with the teacher, during which she asked if Noah was exactly that person that the teacher said he was. Her explanation, when she came back to me, drew on her California days.
"If we were talking about a pepperwood tree, you see, it's not like he's the same tree, but the pepperwood leaves, they all have the essence of the tree. They're all spicy. They all make a good stew better."
I didn't understand that either. All I know is that when I speak to Noah now, there is a light in his eyes that conveys things to me over and beyond the topic of our conversation. It's like there are two conversations going on. And the second one is helping heal me somehow, like pouring water on a fire. Or light into darkness.
That's all the sense I can make of it. I wish Mama Bertie were here. I'll be fine. Everything points to the good. But I wish she were here. Some kind of happiness has come. If I could share it with her, oh, wouldn't that be fine! But all I can do is to fill the blank pages of you, diary, that were hers. That were always meant to be hers.
4 November 2018
Texas Jim
Prospect, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca