The Seventh Direction

PART THREE: Stalking Violet. Episode 35

                       [Old Dorothy narrates —A.A.]

I'd stayed silent a moment, to gather my thoughts and to enjoy her exquisite footwork. 'Dance like a butterfly, sting like—'  when a certain presence came over me. Spirit  was in the room with us. Aces, the dear girl, had stopped messing around and glanced over her shoulder, grinning at me, her face radiant and more beautiful than a moment ago. She'd had that same certain presence all round her—one I could almost see; and she'd looked down at her fists and feet. Aces had sensed the presence too. Oh, she had! Her face was still glowing, but then it went semi-serious.

(And at this point we enter the present. For [from my perspective] there is nothing more needed with regards to my past . . . unless, of course, portions of the past resurface their ugly heads to be reckoned with in the future! And so the time is now:)

Suddenly, Aces spoke: "God made man in His—or Her Image," she winked at me. "Held the Image for man a way, way, back when. Still does to this day and always will . . ." Then just as suddenly she looked confused and her face lost its rosy glow, reverted approximately to normal, lapsed further, and became white as a sheet. I surprised myself and took up where she left off:

"Light burst forth, and man was created the perfect potential-Image," I said: "A microcosm. He was created out  of The Image and within  It as well, concurrently, and It always moves in and through him. But man has been gifted a freewill, and as he meets life's challenges he chooses whether or not to allow The Light, The Image, or spirit, to move in and through him and guide him. But how does he do this? How do WE do this?" I wondered a moment, then: "How do we allow spirit to move? More: how do we allow spirit to move with us?" And I wondered too (but kept on talking) where exactly my words were coming from? "Aces, love, are we only just now evolved enough as human beings, evolved to a point where we can now begin on our own to learn how to allow spirit's movement? Or maybe having had too many dark or hellish experiences, or learned too many times the hard way, evolved enough now to want to learn how—to want learn how rather  than being told? Or have we simply over time forgotten—" I likewise grew lost for words, and looked doubtfully at Aces.

"Too many shitty-experiences," she grinned. I frowned. Not that I had a problem with it—good shit, bad shit, your shit, my shit, enough of this shit! I just wasn't ready for the s-word. "And I don't like crappy experiences!" Oh, so now it's crap! "No, no, no! I don't like dark, hellish experiences and bad feelings: 'Don't you be coming round here!'" she gave fair warning, shadowboxing the air again, and cracking a smile. But her smile didn't quite come off. "That's the way I've felt for a long time, Dorothy, and . . . well, but not nearly as long as you! And I'm only now just beginning to catch myself at it. I mean, stuffing my feelings and not allowing spirit free movement.

"Me, too," I said. "But I know feeling is the key."

"To what?" she said, more demand than question, white-faced still—sickly smirking now like this was some kind game. I was about to respond to her half-mast smile, but instead I wondered firstly back to where that rosy glowing presence round her had gone, and, secondly, back to both of our sudden loss of words. Then dwell-mode for a moment. Then I thought, move on:

"To what, you ask? Well, to everything, dear. Don't you know?"

"A little," she claimed, no smile at all now, "about how we've learned to suppress our feelings. To be very suspicious of them. Maybe even fear. I remember a story. Not sure where it came from. About a toddler who was told too many times that his freewill—his choices were wrong. And I'm thinking now, Dorothy, that that toddler was me," she said, the color beginning to return to her face. "Maybe."