He was in his big, empty house, haunted by silence. He had just turned sixty and was wondering how his life could have passed so quickly. He had been thinking about his twenties for some time. And then doubt crept into his mind: had he really enjoyed it? It turned into an obsession and this doubt, gradually, gnawed at him inside. Was this face in the mirror really his?
Karen, moreover, had left him. She was thirty years younger than he was. Could he replace her? He didn't like the idea, but he was a has-been - he was losing everything, his vitality, his desire. Karen was the straw that broke the camel's back of everything he took for granted.
He wanted to hold everything back but it was like trying to stop a river with his bare hands. He had to face the facts. Nothing belonged to him, nothing had ever belonged to him, not his twenty years, not Karen, not this house, not the Aston Martin in the garage, nothing, absolutely nothing. Someone else would occupy the place, someone else would court Karen. There would always be someone else to take his place while he disappeared, forgotten by all.
He had always wanted to own, to be an owner. But now, in the mirror, he could only see a tenant. All his beautiful years evaporated, had he only dreamed? Had he really lived this life? What did he have left in the end? Even those trophies in the living room, those photos and tennis rackets belonged to the one he was no longer. In the photographs, a young man was smiling, sometimes holding up medals, sometimes surrounded by beautiful women. He no longer recognized himself. He suddenly felt like he was too much in a house that was no longer his. He had no choice but to tiptoe out of the house.
He picked up a racket and raised his arm to sweep everything away. He didn't have the strength to do so and cried silently, hiding. He saw his wrinkled hand and dropped the racket onto the thick carpet. What was happening to him? He had the strange feeling that even his hand was no longer his own. But then what was really his? An intuition, coming from the depths of his being, invited him to consider himself as more than just a body and thoughts - simply as pure consciousness. A consciousness that seemed to have been there all along.
Suddenly the obvious became clear to him. He had hit rock bottom and something strange happened. He felt a great inner peace. He now looked around him with great detachment. He had suddenly taken a great distance from his surroundings and from his thoughts. He was alive. Better still, it was a rebirth, a new life that was opening up to him.
He didn't know how long it would last. So he packed his bag as if he were going on a trip or a hike. What to do now but follow his instincts? He decided to do so while he was standing by his pool, facing the ocean. He was eating a sandwich that he had prepared for himself. It was, it seemed to him, the best he had ever eaten. He started his espresso machine and told himself that he would keep it in his new life. For years he had watched the ocean from this spot, often sipping cocktails with friends. But he couldn't remember the last time he had walked barefoot on a beach.
—
The sand was hot and the wind was whipping his face. The waves came to die at his feet without stopping. They came for him and for all the suffering souls. They were celebrating those who were waking up and it was never too late for that. The sun was high and the seagulls were dancing in front of him as if calling for rain. They were screaming. His head was spinning. He was drunk with a knowledge that required no understanding. He crossed the dunes. The wind lifted the sand to draw a new landscape. It carried the sand, as many grains as memories and certainties. At the end of his journey, he got rid of everything that encumbered him.
The wind died down and he found himself near a group sitting in a circle. Men and women were listening to an old man reciting a text. He took his seat and listened:
- (...) Heaven takes from those who have enough to help those who do not have enough. Man does the opposite. He takes from those who do not have enough to give to those who have enough. Who is the one who is able to give his superfluous? Only he has the Tao.
The listeners rose, some went to kneel beside the reader. He picked up a leaf left on the sand. He was surprised to find that the words were taken from the Tao-te-king of Lao Tzu, and not from a trade union leaflet. He slipped the paper into his pocket.
- Are you new?
He turned around and saw a woman in her prime. She was wearing loose clothing and her hair was braided. Her eyes were clear, bright.
- I've just arrived and I'm a little... lost.
- Come, follow me
Obviously she had not recognized him. Nobody else seemed to know who he was. This was a good thing.
Behind the dunes was a camp, the kind of place he had hated for so many years. They walked among tents, mobile homes, caravans, campers and other vans.
- Do you have a tent?
He nodded.
- You can move into this mobile home. Here we pay by the week
She told him the price, an amount that seemed derisory
- It's OK for me, thank you
He tried to remember the last time he had thanked someone but was unable to remember.
- I'm Diana, what's your name?
- John
- Great! So we'll meet at five o'clock at the ashram there. There will be a guided meditation.
She turned around and waved her hand at him
- By the way John, come with your meditation mat...
"A meditation mat?" he repeated mentally. He put his bag inside the mobile home and looked around. He spotted a place for his espresso machine. But where would he find a meditation mat? He decided to explore the camp, hoping to find a store.
The camp was quite large in the end as it extended into the forest which became denser as you approached the hills. There were even a few Tiny Houses. He walked along a vegetable garden that he found immense. Some were working in it, others were picking vegetables. He would never have believed that beatniks could work. Here a benevolence surrounded each person. People were smiling and not even on drugs. John went from surprise to surprise. Then his attention was drawn to the sound of an Indian flute.
It was a recording that came from a small store. He passed some colorful gas bottles and arrived at a terrace where people were sitting. Dream catchers and wind chimes were swaying softly. There were also a few epiphytic plants that were content with the morning dew and the misting machine in the corner. A young woman came to meet him also dressed in loose clothing. He thought it must be a local fashion. She asked him:
- Can I help you?
- I'm looking for a mat from...
He paused on the last word. A mat of what again? he asked himself.
- A meditation mat maybe?
- Yes, that's it.
He met Diana in the evening for the guided meditation session.
- Your mat looks like new, doesn't it?
- That's because it is. I actually left without one.
- You prefer to travel light, I understand.
They sat down facing the setting sun. Music rose up. The old man he had seen earlier appeared again. His every move was measured. He took the time to sit down and speak. John closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of the setting sun on his face. He felt transported, not to places, but to himself. He followed the words and went deep inside himself. All his problems soon appeared to him like the waves of the ocean, just on the surface. What he took for his life was nothing but fragile and changing waves. From below, it was obvious to him. He had hit bottom again, but this time it was voluntary. He felt the same sense of calm as he had at the beginning of his day. But this time there was nothing accidental about it.
He no longer needed a big house or anything else. Everything he needed was inside him, and all those people for whom he felt a new brotherhood. He felt that he was no longer John but more than that.
Tonight, and every other night, he would fall asleep to the sound of an Indian flute, peacefully.
