Alone at Last-part 4

As we slowed and turned off the highway onto the gravel ranch road that led to the haystack, I briefly stopped the car and without a word put the car in park, turned and kissed Sally. She eagerly returned my kiss—her tongue seeking mine. I slid my hand up under her blouse—she did not resist.

By the time we got to the haystack a wall of clouds was advancing across and consuming the near peaks of the Front Range. The trinity of Long’s Peak, Mount Meeker and Mount Lady Washington—which normally rose above the range—was now lost in the grey silence 50 miles away.

I parked off the shoulder as I did the last time and got out. As we approached the haystack Sally had the window down and was looking hard at the hay monolith. I had intended to go around and open the passenger’s door but Sally was out of the vehicle standing in the gravel road staring at the stack—which for some reason seemed a bit larger than the last time I was here.

I stepped around to her side and watched her face while she first fully took in the huge cube then slowly turned to take in the 360 degree view. I could tell she was not just looking at the scene but feeling, hearing, tasting, smelling the setting. The temperature was dropping, brief gusts of wind sent little puffs of dust up from the road, the Rockies  were fast disappearing into the wall of thickening gray. Overhead the blue sky was quickly turning the color of silent stone.

“It’s like the Kaaba,” she said softly—in a slightly reverent tone—“the first building, built by Adam.”

I thought about what Sally had said. I looked at my pile of hay bales—momentarily comparing it to the most holy site in all of Islam. I had always thought of the Kaaba as achingly mystical, timeless, transcendently sacred—beyond the understanding of mortal men. My haystack just wasn’t quite on that level but I could easily see how an intelligent, sensitive person like Sally might experience it that way. It was a very special place and structure.

I stood behind her and put my arms around her.

“For me it’s an ‘Aleph,’” I said snuggling my nose into her fragrant hair.

“The first letter of the Proto-Canaanite alphabet?” she said a bit puzzeled.

“It is,” I responded, “but it’s also the element of air in Jewish mysticism and begins the three words that make up God’s mystical name in Exodus—“I am that I am.” It’s also found in many mystical amulets and formulas.”

“It’s in the Tarot deck too—I think,” she returned, “isn’t it?

“The magician—number one of the major arcana,” I responded.

“”What does the name mean for you—in this instance?” she said, “it sounds like a stipulative term.

“More along the lines of an idiosyncratic or personal mythology construct, “I explained. “just a thing I cooked up to give a name to a private experience.”

“How so?” she came back as she stood further taking in the moment, “are you comfortable sharing it?”

“Sally I thought you’d never ask,” I said as I slid my hands up onto her breasts, gently squeezing and fondling them.

She caught her breath slightly and leaned back into me a bit.

“An Aleph, for me,” I went on, “is a place where you can step back from the physical and social world. A place where you can see the entire universe and be apart from the normal press of life, time, experience and even—the self (with a small “s”) that is a slave to that world. It’s a place of quiet, healing rest, comfort and sometimes even—of redemption.”

She nodded silently—it seemed to me she was in her mind—blending my presence and the power of this place. She brought up her hands, placing them on mine and gently pressed them deeper into her breasts.

I threw a couple of blankets up onto the top of the stack. We climbed up, made our way to the center and settled down wrapped in the blankets.

As she sat there with me she was restless. She was looking around and glancing up at the sun—now a silver-gray disk in the sky. I could again sense that hyper-alertness and could tell she was feeling it too.

“Do you feel that?” She said, “a tingling in the third eye—the Ajna Chakra.”

“The enlightenment chakra,” I returned. “Yes I do—I felt it before when I was here. Is your vision suddenly clearer?”

“It is,” she said, “and are your thoughts sharper?”

I said they were.

“Jim,” she exclaimed turning around to face me. “We’re at the convergence of two Ley lines. Do you know what they are?”

“Psuedo-scientific Earth energy grid lines,” I responded, “do you believe in that stuff?”

“I didn’t think I did,” she replied again looking up at the sun. “And did you know that school house and this cube of hay bales are oriented perfectly with the four points of the compass. Jim—this is a power spot.”

For perhaps half an hour we the watched the weather turn the surrounding plains dark and melancholy and snuggled together while light snow blew around us. I couldn’t see it but Sally said she could actually see the energy of the wind—almost like an aura. I sat with my arms around her and found myself empathizing with the wind in its unending journey. The nameless, searching wind that blew across this land before the coming of man and will blow after he is gone, indifferently buffeted us, bits of straw around us quivered and blew away. I kept my arms wrapped around her under the blankets as we both gazed into the evaporating distance—the emptiness and solitude bringing us deeply together.

There were moments when Sally had her eyes closed—at first I thought she was sleeping but later came to realize she was drinking in the endless silent energy—drinking from some unfathomable spiritual reservoir. It occurred to me that this was not really my Aleph—or Kaaba—or power spot—but hers—and I was only an escort whose function was to bring her here.

“I love this place—it’s sacred,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been journeying toward this spot my entire life—like I was always meant to come here. But as much as I love this I’m getting hungry—and cold,” she said as she peeked over the blanket—covering her nose to keep it warm against the wind, “and I’m starting to get a headache.”

“I know a place we can go that’s nice and warm,” I said in a soft, teasing voice, “where we can lay down and rest our third eyes,” and kissed her neck.

“Another Aleph?” she smiled.

“No,” I said. “A motel—about 30 minutes from here—if you’re OK with that. It has a great view of the Thompson River Valley and the Front Range.”

“I thought you’d never ask Jim,” she smiled coyly.

End part four

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