The People Could Fly

Yesterday, I read a children's book, The People Could Fly, by Virginia Hamilton, illustrated by Leo and Diane Dillion.

"Long ago in Africa, it is said, some of the people knew magic that enabled them to fly. But when they were brought to America as slaves, they forgot the magic. All but one old man. When he could tolerate no longer the suffering of his people, he whispered the magic words and, one by one and then in flocks, the slaves rose up and flew to freedom." - front jacket of The People Could Fly

I'd not mastered flying yet before I gave up. (Although I had participated in a few other miracles.)

I too had "forgotten" the magic.

I slipped into old patterns.

According to a book on North Node astrology (a.k.a. karmic astrology), I'd retreated to my habitual South Node: "wounded, withdrawn, workaholic" sense of self, instead of evolving the "Evelyn" that emerged in 2006 which eerily accurately the book describes as "psychic, generous, inspirational."

I spent slavish hours consumed hoeing the soil of Jungian shadow "stuff." I was too exhausted by the churning and cultivation of it all to recall how to fly out of karma, straight up into grace.

This is the turning point. No old, tired habits. Expect psychic, generous, inspirational Evelyn.

I am going to relate a tale of what happened last night, and either it makes sense or it doesn't. Unfortunately, there are many personal little winks and inside jokes that the Universe speaks to each of us that are near undecipherable to others without giving you a lot of background context. Yet, something about last night also seemed universal. I am jotting this in a hurry, so here goes:

I was walking in the evening, the perfume of magnolia in the light breeze. I was thinking about a talk that I'd missed on Jung and theater. I was pondering if I ought to berate myself for missing it simply because I didn't have the $10 fee. Or if I'd missed it purposefully since I'm spending more than enough mental and emotional energy on the subject (not only my life as the "stage" metaphorically, but also ideas of using loosely-scripted theater as a form for processing the shadow, etc.).

Then the thought occurred, almost spontaneously (some of my thoughts seem more labored than this): "Only the ego spends so much time studying the machinations of the ego."

At that moment, I pass by a "free" box. (Hardly need yard sales in urban areas as you can put anything on the curb; I've found on the street toasters, books, clothing, microphones, and miscellaneous just when I needed them.) The box had been rifled through pretty thoroughly already.

Only two things caught my eye. The first was the movie DVD, The Number 23, which is about absurd level of synchronicity the main character finds around the number 23 (bordering a bit on obsession).  Seen it once, so I didn't even touch it. The second was pages from a book that might yield interesting raw material for a collage. I had to pick it up to see it was a chapter from a Buddhist text.

The chapter is titled, "There is no Ego."

Hehe. I get a good laugh out of it. Definitely not an inside joke. I think you'll get it too.

I continue on my journey and I'm thinking about how I ought to have studied some Portuguese, or at least brushed up on my Spanish before going to South America (soon, very soon -- even if I have to show up penniless in Rio, I am there.). Anyhow, I was thinking about how my Spanish accent could be better when around the corner, a couple walk by me. I catch a fragment of their conversation, and what I recall enough to relate here is: "...and her accent..."

Nothing special. A 'wink wink' that yep, There is no Ego. I walk less than half-block. I see the big dumpster I often walk by obliviously. (I say obliviously as it's never caught my eye before.) On its side in huge letters: One Source Disposal.

Recently been re-reading Florence Scovel Shinn. One of her affirmations is, "I cast this burden on the Christ within and I go free."

Basically, I used a form of this affirmation exactly four years ago today. A tale within a tale, then: I had used my housemate's car without asking his permission for a short errand (he'd taken his bicycle to work). He pretty much always says yes when I do ask, so I don't know why I didn't, but I didn't. So while I'm in the parking lot, and I turn the spare key to take it out of the ignition, it breaks. Half the key is stuck in the ignition. Uh-oh.

I immediately feel disproportionately guilty. Horrendous and horrible. It's pretty intense sitting in the car being washed by this tidal wave of guilt. I try not to resist it, even though it seems to have unleashed emotional panic that was of the unending and not familiar to me. I was journaling my feeling-thoughts thinking it might calm me to witness them. I realized, "Even if this guilt is allowed expression and I just be with it, there will always something else to feel guilty about. Guilt is unending if I try to solve each one by one."

So sure it's written down in some journal what I say/do next, yet I distinctly recall it was the unspoken, earnest intention that mattered. I gave over the guilt -- all of it from now to forever -- to Kuan Yin, or maybe 'twas the Holy Spirit. At this point, it doesn't matter whom (as there is no separation). I just gave it away in the same vein of "casting the burden" -- once and for all. Next thing I knew is I still felt the waves of guilt, yet now there was an undercurrent of unshakable calm. I was aware of both the guilt and the blissful peace simultaneously present.

I called my housemate, and explained the situation. He didn't go ballistic. Within the next fifteen minutes I spotted someone in a AAA-approved tow-truck helping an elderly lady get into her locked car. I walked over to him, and he was able to assist me after her.

The clincher is, I went to see Adyashanti in satsang that evening. He asked us how would we define the room we are in? Do the walls define it? Does the air inside? If you counted all the furnishings too would that be the room? How would you really delineate it? How do I define 'me'?

Who am I?

The next day, a day of reckoning is recounted here: It was an awakening. I basically dropped into the query, Who am I? and didn't come "back" with any individual. (I distinguish awakening from the freedom of enlightenment at this moment knowing more, or better yet less, than I did four years down the path.)

So One Source Disposal reminds me we can give over all the "karma," all the "wounds," and all the "shadow" to the One Source that is beyond either light and shadow, plus encompasses them both. 

"Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I will meet you there." - Rumi

Just rise from the fields.

That is flying.

"He raised his arms, holding them out to her. "Kum... yali, kum buba tambe," and more magic words, said so quickly, they sounded like whispers and sighs.

The young woman lifted one foot on the air. Then the other. She flew clumsily at first, with the child now held tightly in her arms. Then she felt the magic, the African mystery. Say she rose just as free as a bird. As light as a feather.

"The Overseer rode after her, hollerin. Sarah flew over the fences. She flew over the woods. Tall trees could not snag her. Nor could the Overseer. She flew like an eagle now, until she was gone from sight. No one dared speak about it. Couldn't believe it. But it was, because they that was there saw that it was." - The People Could Fly, by Virginia Hamilton

Bonus: Best description I've read recently on "how" to fly. Freedom beyond light or dark.

Bonus: {Virginia Hamilton} Author's Note (from illustrated picture book version):
"The People Could Fly" is one of the most extraordinary, moving tales in black folklore. It almost makes us believe that the people could fly. There are numerous separate accounts of flying Africans and slaves in the black folktale literature. Such accounts are often combined with tales of slaves disappearing. A plausible explanation might be the slaves running away from slavery, slipping away while in the fields or under cover of darkness. In code language murmured from one slave to another, "Come fly way!" might have been the words used. Another explanation is the wish-fulfillment motif.

The magic hoe variant is often combined with the flying-African tale. A magic hoe is left stilling hoeing in an empty field after all the slaves have flown away. Magic with the hoe and other farm tools, and the power of disappearing, is often attributed to Gullah (Angolan) African slaves. Angolan slaves were thought by other slaves to have exceptional powers.

"The People Could Fly" is a detailed fantasy tale of suffering, of magic power exerted against so-called Master and his underlings. Finally, it is a powerful testament to the millions of slaves who never had the opportunity to "fly" away. They remained slaves, as did their children. "The People Could Fly" was first told and retold by those who had only their imaginations to set them free.

Art credits: Every bit of art on this post is by the illustrator couple Leo and Diane Dillon: They say, "Art inspires, lifts our spirits, and brings beauty to our lives." Lovely interview with both of them where I grabbed the 1) first illustration at Dexigner blog 2) via exhibit poster for Visions and Dimensions Selected works of Fantasy & Science Fiction by Leo and Diane Dillon via the blog, File 770; 3) cover art for The Earthsea Trilogy, by Ursula Le Guin (great kid's and young adult book and happens to be about the shadow) via an Ursula Le Guin fan site.

Comments

[Marilyn]

Florence Scovel Shinn...wow, haven't read her in decades (wonder if i still have any of her books...thx for the reminder). love the signs you got along the way. when i first woke this morning i suddenly remembered that i had a book of essays on the shelf next to my bed...hadn't looked at it in months. opened it randomly to a Wayne Dyer essay...where he was talking about standing at the bow of a ship...with the wake representing our past...yet trying to STEER with the wake, rather than using our intention to propel us forward. (it came to mind when you mentioned old patterns.) it was about being a waking dreamer.

[bob jain]

great post!

[zuma.livejournal.com]

i clean the local library at night. i saw this book at the library earlier this evening and was stunned by it.

i loved the story, as well as i could read it hastily, and even appreciated leo & diane dillon's work more than usual (which for decades has admittedly been lukewarm, but there nonetheless).

so, to show this book to my wife, i Googled it up and found your good blog among the hits. a cut above, i saved the url...