Wondrous — Chapter 4: Impact, part 1
(An experiment in writing fiction in installments)
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NOTE to subscribers: this chapter is split into two posts due to length. Part 2 follows next week.
Previous chapters:
Chapter 1: Eliza, in which we meet Eliza and share her vision-impression of Christ handing her a newborn. The introduction also contains background for the overall story.
Chapter 2: Threshold, in which Eliza, somewhat distracted at work, takes the afternoon off, visualizes her future as a mother, and, feeling that she is about to conceive, senses a soul with her.
Chapter 3: Incarnation Part 1 and Part 2, in which Eliza seeks out the conditions under which the soul will descend into its nascent body.
Chapter 4: Impact, part 1
A stillness, a calm, descends over Eliza. The tumult of the past two hours has come to a sudden halt, and in its place settles a profound quietude, as if all the kinetic energy of the swirling soul has all at once condensed into a single point of tremendous potential—the potential that will, in time, become a complete human body. Yet even now, that potential vibrates with intense charge, the guiding soul preparing to enact the first of trillions of cell divisions to construct this child’s complex and intricate form. The potentiality will again become kinetic, dynamic.
Eliza draws a hand to her abdomen. Is that a warmth she feels, or is it just an imagination, an expectation? Either way, the currents of joy are unmistakable, a million tiny bubbles, like the foam of a freshly poured soda, floating and bursting and fizzing and tingling upon her every cell, an aliveness heretofore never witnessed, scintillations of life-bliss on top of the underlying fullness that is the product of her usual meditations. And why not? There is indeed a pristine focal point of newly-incarnated eternal life within her, a connection to that timeless realm of Being that sings in the hearts of the very atoms.
A soft smile draws upon her face, her breath pushed out by the sheer—what is it? Beauty? Exaltation? Glory? She cannot find a suitable word—can a mere word embody a kind of living vivacity into which you would wholly surrender yourself, one that yet is, at the same time, terrifying? For to lose oneself into that glorious, exalted Beauty…would that also mean to lose awareness of the experience, to lose awareness of the one having the experience? What does it mean to lose one’s center of experience, to lose the part of perception that can even label Beauty as Beauty? But oh, I would give myself to Thee!
A coolness tickles her cheeks and Eliza realizes that tears are flowing from her eyes, that her lips have parted, that her breath is pulsing like her heartbeat…no…it comes in fits and starts, heaving at times, then held in surprise and awe. She understands, now, the words with which Saint Catherine of Genoa tried to describe Purgatory—a state in which the searing power of God’s love must incinerate the dross the soul before that soul can return to its Creator. It’s as if the portal through which this soul descended from higher realms yet stands ajar.
She tries to pull her energies inward again, focusing her consciousness upwards, between the eyebrows. I would go through that door, Beloved! But…no. Her effort to withdraw into that portal rebounds, like it’s been repulsed by a powerful magnetic hand.
No…NO.
Energy rushes back down her spine and throughout her form with an unmistakable message: this is not the time for withdrawal. The rightness of the moment, and the path of her new reality, demands physical constancy, an attentiveness—her body has become a vessel, a sacred chalice to hold and nurture another.
Surrendering unto this responsibility is now her highest duty.
Accepting this truth, Eliza relaxes the tensions from her muscles, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. The radiance spreading from her womb suffuses her with a curious lightness, a counterpoint to the weightful depths she’s experienced before. Now, as then, she cannot sense the hardness of the chair pushing upon her, or the pressure of the floor on the soles of her feet. The textures of her clothing disappear. Where her body sits in space she cannot tell. Its boundary, its interface with the surrounding air, indiscernible.
Stillness again washes over her and once again she perceives the musical patterns of that clear but otherworldly voice: atmanivedana. The clarity of the word echoes in her mind. As it repeats, mantra-like, it loses its distinctness as a thought or a sound and becomes a feeling, a feeling that almost, if not perfectly, matches that the moment of intensity when she held herself open, the moment that this wondrous soul coalesced into its nascent body.
As if someone flipped a switch, a fresh thought, clearly a product of her own ratiocination, percolates to her conscious awareness. “That’s so interesting,” she says to herself, “so interesting that I needed to be the right space, both within and without. This soul must be very particular.”
But she gives the matter no further thought as a flurry of fresh images now gather around the fact of her pregnancy. Indulging the flow, Eliza begins to envision the months ahead—a growing fetus swelling her abdomen and the many changes that she and Adel will make to their home in advance of the infant’s arrival. In her mind she converts the guest bedroom into a nursery, with a properly padded crib, a changing table, a wipe warmer, a rocker for the nocturnal feedings that undoubtedly come with the territory. Other spaces, too, as she might see them in one of her architectural design programs, populate themselves with bouncy chairs, a motorized swing, a play mat, another changing table—lots of spare diapers. Then outlet covers, baby gates, foam bumpers on sharp corners, perhaps replacing their dinnerware with an unbreakable sort. Eliza recalls the baby-proofing efforts of her co-worker, Nadine; she’ll need to pay her a visit again one of these days. And there will be time for that.
Unable, perhaps, to absorb any more and realizing that her musings on the mundane details of material existence have returned her to outward engagement, Eliza opens her eyes. What has it been? Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? She doesn’t remember when, exactly, she arrived at the temple, but no matter. She inhales deeply—time to move on, time to take the next step in the long journey ahead.
As Eliza gathers her jacket and purse, she sees that she’s no longer alone in the sanctuary. At least half a dozen others are scattered about the chairs, each one silent and still, including the greeter who sits just inside the open doors. Typical adults like herself, most of them, she notes. One of them fairly young, like the attendant, two a little older. The one standout, squatting cross-legged on the floor at the back, is a white-haired and white-bearded man in faded orange robes that draw a sharp contrast with the blue carpet. His hoary countenance reminds her of a photograph she saw long ago on the wall of an English professor’s office at her college, a portrait of India’s Nobel Laureate poet, Rabindranath Tagore. This man, like Tagore, radiates a similar aura of wisdom and devotion. Probably immensely interesting to talk to, Eliza reflects, but for the moment he seems engrossed in his own inner spaciousness.
She moves with care to the doors, mindful to minimize her noise. The greeter stands with a smile, then follows her into the foyer and closes the doors behind him.
As Eliza dons her shoes, he says, “Thank you for coming here today. I think all of us were deeply inspired by your presence.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, not long after you arrived an hour or so ago, as I was sitting here doing some simple data entry, I was suddenly overcome with a surge of…well, a kind of peace...no, it was more power than just that, more ecstatic…. The best I can think to describe it is like the surge you feel when you realize you’re in love or find a clear, intuitive answer to a problem that’s been weighing on your mind, or when you’re deeply moved by a most beautiful piece of music. I mean, my eyes filled with tears and I almost sobbed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Eliza replies, though she isn’t sure what there is to be sorry about.
“Others in the offices upstairs must have felt it, too,” the man continues. “One of our ministers came down to ask if something was going on. I just pointed to you, our guest, and, well, whatever it was you brought, everyone just wanted to share in it. So, thank you.”
Eliza does not want to press for details, nor does she want to reveal her particular experience. Did they, too, feel the incarnation of this soul? It sounds like a stretch to her; perhaps it’s just coincidence. Whatever the case, it’s too soon to try to discuss the matter. She’ll have enough of that later when recounting her afternoon to Adel, let alone trying to explain it to strangers.
“Well,” Eliza stammers, “I....you’re welcome, I guess. I don’t know what I had to do with it.” A little lie? she wonders. “But, well—”
The man holds up his hands. “Forgive my impertinence, miss, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I just thought I’d mention why you found yourself with some company.”
“Thanks.” Eliza checks the time on her phone without really thinking about the time at all. But the afternoon was certainly wearing on. “Well, I must be going now.”
“You’re welcome any time. So long.”
Outside, Eliza takes on a few deep breaths to reset herself and rejoin the world, as it were. She considers texting Adel but decides against it. Right now she needs...needs—what? A little grounding, perhaps? To settle in with being pregnant for real?
Yes, that’s an idea. Eliza decides to send one message right away—not to Adel, but to her doctor’s office to make an appointment and get a referral for an obstetrician who no doubt will be a presence in her life for the next year or more.
When she stows her phone and looks up, the brilliance of the azure sky, adorned with bright, puffy clouds, thrills her heart. Oh, so lovely! she prays, sharing the thought with God but also with the soul of her child. Has she never noticed how enticing the sky was before? Of course she has. She’s marveled at many sunsets and sunrises, at the subtle glow of light in the high desert, in the dance of clouds over tropical islands, but…but not like this. The leaves on the trees, the flowers on the bushes—even the blades of grass—announce themselves in brilliant vibrancy.
She spots a yellow warbler, too, aflame in its joy as it flits among the bushes. Even the browns and grays and blacks, the shimmer of passing cars, the muted tones of brick and mortar and pavement and municipal paint standards, strike her like she’s a child who just opened a new box of markers or paints.
The sounds, too, resonate within her heart—the warbler’s chirrups, the drone of a passing insect, the church bells once again heralding the half hour, motors, swishing tires on pavement, a distant siren. Ah, such sweet melodies! Even the grinding of construction vehicles a block over, mixed with the rhythmic strains of back-up signals, alight upon her ears like the violin romances of Dvořák or Clara Schumann or the music that would emanate, were a painting to sing, from a Monet.
Even the cacophony of scents that alight upon her sensibilities—the cut grass, the seasonal flowers, the pollen from the cedars, the concrete dust, the car exhaust —all blend together like a special curry or a sanctified incense.
Eliza inhales deeply a few times, eyes closed, absorbing the richness of the world around her. She smiles gently as she draws a hand again to her abdomen, then laughs at herself.
Dear God, the man in the foyer is right: I’m in love. In love…in love with this baby, even as I was after that vision.
Didn’t I promise you a greater capacity for love? reflects the presence in her heart. A depth of love yet unplumbed, a love that will be a lifelong blessing—
Yes, Eliza replies, …and a pathway, as Christ suggested, of greater devotion to You. But oh! There’s so much to do!
To be continued in Part 2.
Chapter notes and comment prompts:
I called this chapter “Impact.” What are your thoughts on the kind of impact that Eliza might encounter?
As with previous chapters, most of the story is Eliza’s inner perception and thought process with only an occasional thought that’s clearly verbalized (and italicized). How does this work for you, or not?
(I’ll repeat this last question in every chapter.) 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?
Please also report any typos or passages that you find unclear or problematic.
(If you like this post, selecting the ❤️ to bless the Algorithm Angels.)