Wondrous is a piece that I originally drafted in April 2021 as a 2800-word short story inspired by my mystical poem The Offering. That’s all I’ll say about it, as I don’t want to give anything else away.
I wasn’t fully satisfied with the short version, though, as it was more a fable than a modern story —that is, something with settings, characters, and a plot arc. In doing revisions, I decided that wanted to expand it into something that’s perhaps more like a novella (we’ll see how long it is in the end). It offers plentiful opportunities to apply the ideas of mystical realism as explored here in Deus in Fabula, and thus makes appropriate material to share alongside the topical essays.
At the same time, I didn’t want to have to write the whole thing before sharing any of it. So, following Charles Dickens’ example, I’m going to serialize the story in chapter-by-chapter installments. This choice means I limit my ability to go back and edit the earlier material until such a time as I want to put the whole story out as a single piece. We’ll see what happens! I’m sure to learn a lot along the way.
At the end of each installment, I’ll provide a few prompts for comments, as your responses and feedback are important and will help shape the story as it evolves. Mind you, I make no promises as to how frequently I’ll draft and post a chapter—but pleading might help. :)
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Eliza's breath draws in. A shallow breath, her belly expanding but a few millimeters. Hardly a breath, really; more of a seepage, which she perceives only as a cooling in her nasal passages.
Hong, she says in her mind, echoing the sound of the breath itself, her awareness centered in the forehead. She notes an enlivening hint of rose, doubtless from the drop of the scented Lourdes water with which she crossed herself between the eyebrows at the beginning of this sadhana, this period of withdrawal from her outer life into inner stillness, into inner worship.
Her breath relaxes out. A warming sensation accompanies the softness of the flow. Her belly relaxes in, the only discernable motion of her otherwise stilled body.
She follows the exhale with its sound, sah, letting the tailing "aaaah" of this ancient mantra prayer extend itself into a short pause before the breath comes in again. She observes the coolness. Hong. The breath flows out and she observes the warmth. Sah. Pause. In. Hong. Out. Sah.
Eliza marvels at the spaciousness between the two syllables and the activity that yet churns within her despite the outward motionlessness. In the six seconds of each breath, she feels a half-dozen throbs of her pulse throughout her body, a surge originating in the fullness of God's presence in her heart. In a trice, the pulse is but a fan upon the fire of love within her breast, a fire of radiance without heat, devotion without passion. Like a stream of scintillating embers, that love floats upwards, tranquilled thrills of dancing joy gathering with every breath, with every hong and every sah, at the center of the now-dry cross upon her brow. Almost indiscernibly, her lips curve upwards at the edges.
Within the dark quietude of her meditation room, beneath even the muffs upon her ears, Eliza yet perceives a half-dozen sounds—frequencies high and low, a subtle, distant thunder, sometimes like wind, sometimes like water, or a hum. The residual static of her retinal nerves, too, present occasional flickers and sparks upon a canvas of deepest indigo. But soon she ceases to notice either in her concentration upon the breath. Upon hong, upon sah.
Bubbles of wordless thought percolate into her awareness from the subliminal strata of consciousness, invading the rhythm of the prayer. She knows her defenses well. On top of hong sah she overlays the translation, I am…Spirit. I am…He. Affirming oneness. Yet her mental skies have still more room for ripples of reflection, currents of cogitation. It is a battle, but a quiet battle, free of anger of animosity yet demanding an energetic response. She adds another overlay in the Jesus prayer: hong/I am/Lord Jesus Christ…sah/Spirit/have mercy on me. East and West together. The breaths and prayers of saints and renunciates and devotees throughout the ages, all breathing with her, yielding, too, to a simpler formula that rejoices from the hidden chambers of from her heart: I love/hong…you/sah.
The pauses lengthen, the interior space expands. Behind the prayers and mantras, Eliza calls upon further reinforcements, adding lines of a favorite poem. I was made for—hong-sah—Thee alone, for dropping—hong-sah—flower of devotion gently—hong-sah—at Thy feet on the altar of the morning.—hong…sah—My hands were made…hong…sah…to serve—hong…sah…hong…sah….
Sparing a sliver of will from her concentration on the breath, Eliza draws her right index finger in toward her upraised palm with each inhalation. A tiny movement, no more than her belly. She relaxes the finger with the exhale. Just enough to distract the body and deflect other rogue thoughts that momentarily raise their heads before retreating to the shadows.
The spaces fill with silence, with the wordless prayer of pure feeling, or pure love. The pauses lengthen further, further. A flush of peace courses through her form, as when she falls asleep. Eliza is yet fully awake, awake perhaps more so than bombarded by the world's stage-act. After a few more breaths, she no longer senses the periphery of her body, the clothing on her skin, the blanket wrapped around her, even the floor and cushion on which she sits. Muscles, bones, movement all dissolve into a round but formless body of being, like a cosmic egg.
She is at once weightful and weightless, sinking into a fathomless deep while yet expanding beyond her room, beyond her home, beyond her community, beyond…beyond.
And yet….
She has been here many times. At this boundary. Years ago it was but sporadic, an unexpected blessing with no seeming cause, never something she could produce at will. But these last years, as the spiritual enthusiasm of her youth matured into a profound faith and acceptance of God's time, a time no more like humankind's than its ways are His ways, as her grasping for such experiences surrendered to calm, patient expectation, like a loyal canine awaiting the homecoming of its owner, she found herself more and more entering—nay, relaxing—into this state without any effort other than devoted concentration.
A concentration that, more and more, has birthed a new pain, an anguish of separation.
She has been here many times. At this boundary. At this door to which she's found no key, the veil past which she could not see. And once again her pangs of prayer. "Father-Mother, I know you are there just beyond my sight. What must I do to penetrate this barrier? Tear it asunder, my Friend and Beloved! Or I will lay siege with my love!"
Eliza draws her inward forces into the spine, then directs that power, like a battering ram, upwards to that point where she'd made the cross of rose water, the Christ center between the eyebrows, that point of concentration, and there thrusts it against God's castle of stony silence. I love you, O Lord, she says in her mind as the first blow lands, with all my strength. Then, again, a surge flowing up her spine strikes another blow of utmost love. Again. And again. And even amidst the continued assault, she smiles at God's playfulness, the reticence of the Beloved to reveal himself, rejoicing that even in this apparently futile effort there is yet a bliss of knowing. She knows that whether it be days or years—however long it takes—she'll keep calling, keep knocking, keep repeating this siege of devotion. And in this certainty she is more and more free from the lures of the world, the temptations that would draw her away from God.
In that bliss the battering softens, then ceases altogether as a peace descends upon her like a waterfall of light. God has responded. Not to reveal himself fully, not to grace her with the mystical union she seeks, but a response nonetheless that says, "I am here, dear child, I am here." She knows, too, that this is as much as she can yet endure, the words of St. Jean Vianney floating through her mind: "If only you knew how much God loves you, you would die for joy!"
Not yet time to die, she reflects, to which the Peace seems to answer, "No, not yet, dear one."
Eliza now returns to bodily awareness, here upon her cushion with her blanket draped around her shoulders. But no, Lord, she prays, focusing herself again, resisting the usual urge to get up and go about the business of the day. There must be something more, some way to reach You, some way to remove the imperfections that yet keep me from You, some change that allows your grace to draw me into You….
Her mind reviews her life as it is, which leaves no cause for complaint where the measures of the world are concerned. A comfortable home, an engaging career as an environmental architect, a loving husband of 17 years now in Adel, her life partner since they met in high school, her life partner who embraced the spiritual search alongside her, embraced levels of simplicity—renunciation, even—as their search inspired them.
If you ask me, Lord, I will leave it all behind. She affirms the inner freedom that she and Adel have discussed and explored over the years. The search for God is paramount; their relationship stands in support of that quest, and if it ever became an obstacle…well, they've promised each other to not allow selfish desires to become chains upon their souls.
Perhaps it's time for her to withdraw. Is that your call, dear God? She knows she is willing, if that be God's will. In her mind she visualizes herself, as she's done before, in a convent or ashram, taking formal vows, donning habit or robes, bringing her life into drastic starkness of purpose, far away from the complexities of the householder, the stewardship and upkeep of possessions in her care, the mixed bag of personalities in her professional environment, and even the energy in maintaining an intimate relation with another even as harmonious and supportive as Adel.
It would be so natural, she thinks, enamored by the possibility. Even logical.
Yet she knows that human logic and the human view of "natural," constrained by limited perception and still more limited wisdom—tainted, too, by the wiles of the ego—doesn't always reveal the truest answer for the soul. Thy ways are not my ways, saith the Lord.
She shakes her head and dismisses the image. Then what is your way?
And another image forms within her inner gaze—an impression more so than a vision. The Christ stands before her smiling in blessing, nodding—laughing perhaps? A countenance that says, "Do you really want to know?"
Yes, Lord, yes. By all means yes!
The Christ bends over for a moment, then lifts something that he places ever so gently, so lovingly into Eliza's arms.
Something that she'd never expected—a possibility she dismissed long ago but one that she now draws close to her heart, knowing its truth.
A newborn child.
She has something to tell Adel.
Chapter notes and comment prompts:
This opening chapter needs to establish the protagonist of the story and her story problem or goal. Has it accomplished that?
Was the ending of the chapter a surprise? What kind of emotional or inpletional1 response did it evoke in you?
How do you relate to Eliza’s inner experience during this time of prayer and meditation? Is it inviting? Inspiring? Frightening? Unrealistic?
Based on this chapter (along with the title and the one hint about what the story is about), what questions do you have that you hope the story will answer in future installments?2
Please also report any typos or passages that you find unclear or problematic.
See Emotion, “inpletion,” and devotion part 1 and Emotion, “inpletion,” and devotion part 2 for a discussion of this term I’ve invented.
A fun anecdote from the Wikipedia page about Charles Dickens and his episodic writing and open questions: “When The Old Curiosity Shop was being serialised, American fans waited at the docks in New York harbour, shouting out to the crew of an incoming British ship, ‘Is little Nell dead?’”