Journeying
to all the places other than where we are
The forest floor was teeming with interesting stuff. Reggie felt he could get lost in just one square foot of it if he let himself. It was bursting with life, color, texture, and smell.
“Let’s keep climbing up,” Cal said.
“But why?” Reggie asked. “There’s so much here to explore.”
“There might be something amazing just over the hill,” Cal replied.
The distraction of what might be at the top of the hill beckoned, intoxicating Cal with the potential of the unknown.
“But, right here is so interesting…” Reggie thought looking back at the ground he left behind. He walked up the hill with Cal wondering if it would be just as interesting there.
Gigi sat on her front porch overlooking the white sand beach and turquoise-blue water of the Mediterranean Sea. She wasn’t looking out at it, though. She was looking down at her Arizona edition of Lonely Planet immersed in the photographs of the Grand Canyon. She was planning her next vacation adventure, this time to the American Southwest. She looked up from the book and at the view surrounding her. She sighed. Her family home in this small village of coastal Spain was moderate in size but ample in what it provided. Gigi grew up here. It was home and all she knew of the world until she began to travel. In her travels, she discovered other places that offered a respite from the boredom of familiarity. The relentless rhythm of the waves rolling onto the shore. The same old streets that she knew so well. Yes, the people of the village felt like family, comfortable, trusted, known, stable - choking. She needed to get away. She needed some relief from the monotony.
Cecelia drew the blinds to shield the Arizona sun from her television screen. The glare was interfering with her ability to see the YouTube video some influencer made about their trip to the Costa Brava of Spain. She longed for some beach-time to luxuriate in the sparkling clear water of the Mediterranean. She craved the humid air of the sea. Her eyes longed for new colors - anything other than the red ochre monotony of the Kaibab sandstone that encapsulated her small town of Sedona. She moved there nearly twelve years ago to get away from the cold, grey snow of Michigan. Yes, she loved what the high-desert climate offered, but sometimes the glory of paradise turns mediocre. What she craved now is that turquoise-blue water she’s watching on the video. “Who could ever get tired of that?” she thinks.
I light a sturdy, pillar candle and sit on the floor in front of it to begin my meditation. Folding my legs, I settle onto the round cushion beneath me. Next to the candle is a metal singing bowl. I gently pick up the wooden mallet and sharply strike the bowl releasing a deep chime that resonates around my small meditation room. I close my eyes.
I float up above the room and look down at my body sitting on the cushion in front of the candle. Shadows dance in the corners of the room with each flicker of the flame. Rising through the roof of the house, my pace quickens as I climb higher above the city. Passing through a thin, scattered layer of cloud, I rise higher still. Faster, higher, farther. The ground, once below me, is now a large curved ball in front of me. A real-life globe of blue, green, brown, and white shrinking steadily smaller. The sun shines from my right. The moon hangs over my shoulder to the left. I pause for a moment to take in the view. Such a fragile place.
I turn away to the left, the moon sweeping through my view, as I quickly move forward. Currently, Mars is opposite the Sun leaving a void, but only a brief one because my pace has quickened. In a moment I pass through the asteroid belt then into the outer solar system. I’m traveling so fast now that Jupiter appears in front of me in an instant. I slow and approach the gas-giant with respect and caution slowly moving closer until I am just above the magnificent cloud tops. I hover, watching, waiting, listening to a deep hum that vibrates my bones. The song of Jupiter. I take in as much of it as I can before it overwhelms me. I respectfully back away, turn to my right, and accelerate out of the solar system. Seemingly moving faster than light, stars blur past until I exit the galaxy. Then, other galaxies blur past. Galaxy after galaxy. I think, “Let’s go to the edge of the universe. There’s got to be something interesting there.”
Until a moment later a resonating, baritone voice asks,
“Where are you going?”
I screech to a halt and turn around to see a nearby spiral galaxy radiating a pulsing glow, twinkling at me. Waiting.
“I’m journeying to the edge of the universe,” I declare with confidence.
“Oh,” it says unimpressed. Then, after a moment, “Why do you want to do that?”
I pause and consider the question with astonishment, not just because I hadn’t considered it, but because I’m talking with a beautiful spiral galaxy. A galaxy I estimate to be about three hundred thousand light years across, three times as large as my own Milky Way galaxy, and yet still a relatively small one compared to the truly massive galaxies. I am dumbfounded to realize that this galaxy has a consciousness, and this consciousness wants to know why. It wants to know about me. So, I answer humbly.
“To see what’s there.”
“Ok. If that’s what you want to do,” it says, then, casually adds, “What do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I want to go there.”
“That makes sense,” it says politely, beaming at me quietly, waiting.
“Do you know what’s there?” I ask.
“Just more of the same,” it says.
“How can that be? It’s so far away. There has to be something amazing there!” I state with objection.
“Oh, of course there will be amazing things there,” it replies.
“Then why do you say it’s more of the same?”
The galaxy grew brighter as if it was smiling at my density.
“You’ve travelled this far haven’t you?
“Yes.”
“And what did you see along the way to here?”
“Mostly the same thing,” I admit.
“Exactly. And how often did you stop to appreciate all the amazing things you were zipping past along the way to your imagined destination of the edge of the universe?”
Embarrassment flushes over me, and I try to defend myself.
“I did stop and admire the Earth… and Jupiter before I left the solar system.” I say.
“Turn around and see how much you passed up since then,” it replies.
I sidle up alongside the galaxy and look back in the direction from which I came, sitting there in silence for a long time. I then notice for the first time how far I actually travelled. From here I can’t even pick out our Milky Way galaxy from the thousands in my field of view in front of us. “It’s back there, somewhere,” I think.
“It’s a nice view, isn’t it?” it says with admiration.
“Yeah, it’s awesome!” I reply.
“Yes, that’s true. And, it’s no more awesome than any other view you’ll find from any other place in the universe. But, we like it.”
I look around at all the galaxies and notice how similar they all look, and the more similar they appear, the more uniqueness they reveal of themselves. So much uniqueness. More diversity than I could ever hope to experience. What makes any one better than another? I’ve been so focused on wanting something different that I failed to recognize how similar things are, and I’ve been so bored with sameness that I failed to recognize how amazingly different each and every thing is. I begin to sense those galaxies blinking and beaming to their own rhythm as they each go about their business. I sigh, resigning into the knowing that I can never know all of it. A feeling of comfort washes over me. Comfort from the timeless wisdom of this galaxy beside me. I feel like I did as a kid sitting next to my grandfather on the front porch of his mountain cabin. I’m with him, out here, once again. A feeling like I’ve come home, yet so far away from home. Here we are together again, as if I’d never left. More of the same, just different.
“I think I’ll go home now,” I say.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” the galaxy replies. “Come back anytime.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need to. There will be so much to explore right under my feet when I get home.”
Slowly now, wanting to linger along my way back, I travel the great distance with curiosity. Admiring all the galaxies along the way which now seem to be watching me travel by; some amused, some indifferent, some surprised, but all seeing me. And me seeing them. Each overflowing with infinite stuff that I could never hope to fully appreciate. Soon I approach my home galaxy, the Milky Way, which is busy being a galaxy, but still makes the effort to look at me and shimmer. I stop and look back from where I ventured. The view is different but similar.
“It’s a nice view, isn’t it?” the Milky Way says with admiration.
“It is. It sure is!” I declare.
We pause and appreciate this moment, in this point in space, where we are now. Then, after a deep breath and a smile, I turn toward Earth.
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