below

Most of the time when someone goes under they see things they've never seen before. Or, things they have forgotten about, or maybe: things in a whole new way. And you would think this is a good thing, or at least, that they might take a gander while they are down there, the surface seeming like some neverland, and make good use of the time. Say howdy to that long-lost love from the eighth grade, finally see just what happened to the favorite green shoe that left behind its strappy over-priced mate. Maybe take a good long look at the person they once were, or whatever else comes swirling by nicely backlit by that white light. Uh, no. Most of us kick and scream and if there was a way to truly know, we would feel ourselves crying our eyes out. And flailing abit, of course, there is always a bit of flailing, even for us pros, and even when it is not our first time, even when we think we saw it coming; which is really the only difference between the pros and the neophytes in this case, the pros usually get a smidgen of that teensy voice just before everything gets dark and that voice tell us in the same nano-second that we realize it, that our number is up.


But like I said, this all comes as a surprise to even the old hands. After all, nobody goes there because they plan to. And I am including the people who think I can just jump and it will be over. They have no clue, clearly. Firstly, there is more time than you think.  Lots and lots of time, once the flailing stops and once that teensy voice is the only thing you hear. Not only does everything sound different, but nothing looks the same.


I am pretty sure these days that I write because I see things in a different way and that if I just beam these little thoughts often enough or long enough, or get the knack of just the right pattern, somebody out there might flash a light back at me and I would know they get it. I have a ten year-old who does this, flashing his red ever-ready juiced flashlight into the dark sky, on and off, on and off, off the back deck when he is supposed to be in bed and sleeping. I myself as a child was big into beaming the oj carton-sized flashlight my dad owned, under my bed and onto one of the eggs from the kitchen fridge; maybe just enough warmth, the light sending its message through the cold shell, would be enough. 


The odd thing is that most of what I know, and by that I mean of course, what I see or have seen, or think I might see, has come from many times under the surface. And of course you can be in the middle of nowhere and the nowhere a vast desert, and you can go under. Or there in the comfort of your pink bedroom with the aqua shag carpet that was not the carpet you wanted, but was a remnant and on sale and your mom thought it would look just fine. The surface gives a shit about where you are and how you came to be there and how your hair looks and if you said it just right, and if you look good or bad or seriously odd during the flailing bit. The surface of course decides to call it flailing, and notices. Let me say this: under there, nobody gives a shit, least of all you, least of all the you that suddenly speaks through that teensy voice. Whatever voice that spoke to you before, your dad, the teacher from high school with the crooked glasses and bushy eyebrows, the ex, the boss, whoever, is gone. It is just you, and lots and lots of time, and the surface seems like many lifetimes ago.


Which is why you see things differently and things you had forgotten about and things you did not know you might ever see and what I hope, my gift to you, my trinket carried back from so many trips into the deep and no hope and no way, is that what you see is that life is a beautiful and rare thing. And that going under is itself a gift, a chance to see what you thought and to decide if it is true, or if you want that as your truth. Afterward, of course you will see things differently, and of course the surface seems glassy and like a mirror and reflects back to you exactly that which you beam toward it.