- 1.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Home
- 2.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Gravity of Relationship
- 3.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Light
- 4.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Beyond Voting: Albert and Kristina
- 5.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Energy of Summer
- 6.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Zen Koan
- 7.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Looking at Death
- 8.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Last Time
- 9.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Stick-to-it-ive-ness
- 10.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Forces of Nature
- 11.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Courage
- 12.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – September 3rd
- 13.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – The Illusion of Time
- 14.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – Finding Voice
- 15.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – A Talk Amongst Rocks
- 16.Conversations with Dead People: A Series – How to be in Conversation with the Universe
The Last Time
Pen to Paper, 40 Minute Writing
Carl Jung and Albert Einstein are fighting in my backyard. They have been at it most of the day. I have seen them yell, sit in silence for a long time, and even throw eggs at each other. I’ve been on the telephone with Optimal Health Network customers discussing such things as which enema nozzle is the best to use in the anus; what CBD and essential oils work well in the colon; and, why I did not return a phone call yesterday. Now is my first opportunity to join my two friends since they arrived at sunrise.
As I step into the backyard, Albert screams, “There cannot be a last time for anything.”
“You have made your point, but I do not agree.” Carl responds as he wipes a bit of egg yolk off his shirt with his bony fingers, then sticks his fingers in his mouth and begins sucking on them.
Albert looks at me, furious, and says, “Good morning, Kristina. We were wondering when you might join us. We are thirsty, all this discussing the intricacies of time.”
“He is very stubborn,” Carl interrupts, still sucking on his fingers.
“Even in death, Kristina, he does not get it. The illusion of time and synchronicity have not been met within Mr. Jung.”
“These are persistent illusions to get a hold of, Albert,” I offer.
Carl stops sucking on his fingers, smiles, stands up from the metal chair he had been sitting on, and stretches. I am suddenly awash with Georgia’s visit a couple of weeks ago, the teaching of her dress, becoming all the flowers, the bees, the field.
“Carl? Have you spent any time with Georgia? Her dress? It helps.” I suggest.
“Those poppy fields are full of bees. I hate bees, they terrify me. I was stung real bad once when I was three or five or something. Right in my mouth. I took a drink of a lemonade, as the story goes, and the bee was floating just below the surface. Damn bee was alive just enough to sting me inside my mouth. I will take a different teaching, thank you.”
“Good to know, Carl. Let us not send you to the bees,” I reassure him, grabbing ahold of his other hand.
“Well, how are we going make our point with Mr. Jung then, dear Kristina?” Albert interjects.
“I do not know. Let’s go into the chicken coop and see if we have anymore eggs guys. I hope you have not used them all in your conversation here.”
“Go ahead,” Carl says following me to the garage, “Call it a fight.”
“Carl, don’t you credit Albert for helping you develop the ideas of synchronicity? Wasn’t it Albert who started you thinking about a possible relativity of time, as well as space, and their psychic conditionality?”
“Well, yes, it was,” Carl says as we enter the garage, heading to the back where the chicken coop is. I see Violet there, a ray of light shining across her face, sitting in the nest box. I reach my hand under her, feeling around, and pull out one warm brown egg.
“Let’s go in the house, boil this up for a change; we can split it three ways. Okay?”
They both smile. I see Albert grab Carl’s hand, as they eagerly follow me.
In the house, I fill a pot with water, set it on the stove burner, turn the burner on high, and set the single brown egg in the cold water. Suddenly, I have an idea.
“Albert, I too am having a hard time with the illusion of time, and especially the illusion of space. Albert, you are saying time and space, both, are almost indistinguishable from natural forces such as consciousness, gravity, and electromagnetism? This is what the math shows us?”
“Yes!” Albert shouts, as he pulls out a chair for Carl to sit at the table.
I see the water is boiling in the pot. I turn the burner off, leaving the egg to cook.
“Carl, yesterday, I stopped at a puddle in the parking lot of Woodman’s.”
“What’s Woodman’s?” he asks.
“A grocery store, around the corner. I needed to pick up coconut oil for Optimal Health Network. People use to it to make suppositories, to heal from anal fissures, prostate issues, candida, and more.”
“Whoa,” they both say, snickering to each other.
“You thought of that?” Carl asks.
“I’ve had a lot of help, from clients and customers, for over twenty years now.”
“Anyways, the puddle,” Albert interrupts.
“Yes the puddle. Imagine me: I am standing there, cars are driving around me, and I am looking into this puddle on a black top parking lot. I am blissing out to everything, wondering if I will take a photo, then raindrops fall into the puddle. I am watching, the concentric circles radiate out like they usually do, but unlike usual the concentric circles keep going, beyond the puddle, and right into my entire body. The feeling keeps going, you guys, beyond me. I stand there for a few minutes, feeling myself as these concentric circles radiating out beyond Madison, beyond Dane county, beyond Wisconsin. The cars are driving around me, but I do not move. My heart is expanding. I am expanding, and then I dissolve into the waves, feeling love for everything and everyone. All from a puddle. In a parking lot.”
They are both jumping up and down now. The pots and pans hanging on the wall are rattling. The dogs are circling around my legs, not sure what is going on. “I guess I am getting closer to the nature of reality, eh?” I say, more to myself than to them. They are dancing. The dogs are dancing. I pick up the pot, carefully pour out the steaming water, and set to peeling this single egg for this crowd to eat.
Conversations with Dead People is a series of stories which show up in my meditative practice, Contemplative Writing. With this practice I sit with pen and paper, twenty minutes, and write to a prompt from a meditative space. I share these stories with minimal edits to share the depth, the directness, the deep body sense, I experience with my teachers.
Albert Einstein pops into my writing often, we hang out, giving us both a direct chance to explore the illusion of time. Albert feeds me tremendous encouragement to trust the irresistible urge I have to grieve, and heal, through death.
We also meet Thomas Merton, Georgia O’Keeffe, Carl Jung, and more through this weekly blog, Conversations with Dead People: A Series. Please join us each week.