It happened mid-afternoon, September 25, 2020, the blinds of my study patterned with light, the whir of my concentrator like rhythmic bellows.

I was seated in my wing-back chair, my legs propped up on the hassock, and an opened book in my lap when exhaustion hollowed my awareness and plunged me within an observer role: Up onto my wheeled walker, into my bedroom, then sitting on my bed and looking around. It was not my intent to go there. In vain, I commanded my body to return to my study—It refused. 

Then my shoulder felt the comforter beneath me, then my legs. I waited for what would come next. Long moments seemed to pass. Then, I watched my body, no longer of use; it seemed to fall away from my spirit like outworn scaffolding from a new building. Left in its wake was my spirit resembling a vibrant sprig of evergreen.

In front of me next appeared a large screen, woven with strands of gold and brown rushes emanating from its center. I was alone.

Then, total darkness—Sleep followed for two hours.

Another message from my unconscious to reflect upon—my body-spirit separation felt so effortless, like a natural progression: the used giving way to something totally other. I just had to let it happen. But the screen, suggestive of Oriental artistry, still blocked the full import of the revelation.

I continue waiting—for more.