The Day Time Stopped

My spiritual teacher, the man from Wales, told me I had to pass my tests by 90%. All was by experience—as on a day when I was cleaning the refrigerator and the parts were on the living room floor—blocking the path from the open slider door to the counter. It hadn’t occurred to me that it was three o’clock, the time when the owner returned from school, and that this was important.

He arrived, was visibly upset, and let me know it. I saw a clean refrigerator within a half-hour. He saw chaos. My intuition in this moment was to listen, say little, and quickly put the refrigerator together.

By seeing through his eyes and not turning my view into an argued defense, I passed a test—observed by invisible guides and known by the omniscient man from Wales. I improved at seeing my friend and others through their eyes and could better adjust what I said and did to their patterns.

One day, I was on the south side of the farm when I realized—time had stopped. I had a view of the east field—the garden, a dogwood and red bud row, a magnolia, three cedars in a group, two live oaks side-by-side, the spar-varnished meditation studio with its front wall four feet higher than the back, the peach orchard, and, distant, the pear and persimmon orchards, a disused bee hive, and barely visible—a wire fence and woods.

I thought—This day is going to be very long. The sun was out. The air was warm. I had nothing to do; I just stood there—neither excited nor afraid. I felt suspended— wondering.

Eventually, time returned.

My realization is, “There are moments when observation and participation can be conducted without scientific understanding but simply by surrender.”