Chapter 48. The Winds of Destiny ~ a Confession at the Gates of Hell

I had been enjoying the volunteer work at Casa De Vida and I’d been meeting with some interesting people supporting the effort. Two such people were professors at City College: Dr. Troller, taught psychology and Dr. Fessler, taught courses in philosophy and logic. Both were Christians, but not at all the Bible thumping anti-intellectual, anti-Darwin, anti-science fundamentalist ilk, that I found in most of the Christian evangelical community of the area. We would meet once a week in the office with Reverend Cordova. Dr. Fessler described himself a Christian Existentialist and Dr. Troller preferred a Jungian take on things. It was good exposure for me as it was the first time I’d been able to delve into some of the ideas and questions I had ricocheting around in my head. In one of those meetings in the office at Casa De Vida, Dr. Fessler described his spiritual awakening.

“I was twenty-five and studying for my graduate degree in music. My studies were going well but I felt empty and I was floundering emotionally. I lay in my dorm room bed considering suicide. I did not believe in God as I was raised in Soviet Latvia. Still, the notion haunted me, and I wondered. Out of the deepest despair I asked God to show himself to me. As I did so I was overcome with a sense of a presence. It was a feeling of love. I cried out, ‘Is that you, Lord?’ and a light … a bright, white, blinding light of love filled the room. I never doubted the presence of God after that.”

These were days of incredible light for me also and, though I had no such dramatic spiritual experience, I felt an opening up to knowledge as though I had come out my own individual dark ages. I had discovered for the first time the simplicity of knowledge and techniques from these three men for sorting out the myth from the magic of it. And through the patience and guidance of Reverend Cordova I looked straight into the horror of my past.

“I need to tell somebody about something that happened when I was in Florida.” I sat in the Reverend’s office at Casa De Vida. This was one place where the pleasure of being open and completely honest with another human being resonated with my new-found thirst for knowledge.

Reverend Cordova leaned back in his chair behind the desk and clasped his hands behind his head. “Let ‘er rip.”

“I’ve always told people that I was in jail in Florida for dealing drugs, but the truth goes beyond that.”

“Most of the time it does.”

“Yeh, well, it was pretty nasty and I’m not so sure the Bible answers my problem sufficiently…”

“Why don’t you tell me the problem and we can work out the rest.”

“I raped a girl back there.”

The preacher had heard worse in his ministry, “Did you do time for that?”

“Naw, I was never charged… and that is why it still bothers me. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself and I sure as hell don’t expect her to forgive me.”

“Do you believe God forgives you?”

“It is damned near irrelevant whether or not I’m forgiven… but I can’t think of any way to atone for what I did. I am enjoying life now and along with that comes an incredible guilt… like, I don’t deserve this.”

“Jesus told the woman at the well to go home and sin no more. You have to believe that Jesus already died, or atoned, for your sins.”

“It really couldn’t be that easy, could it? I mean, that poor girl has to live with what I did to her the rest of her life. Does it matter to her whether or not I’m forgiven?”

“Tell me, Max, isn’t this just another form of self-pity? Can’t you make a conscious decision to treat women with dignity from this day on? Isn’t that enough to compel you to live in God’s grace?

“Yeh, I guess so. But I have this nagging feeling that it doesn’t matter what I do with my life from that day on… that there is no forgiveness and that there is no atonement.”

Jesse leaned forward on his elbows in the middle of the desk and peered into my eyes, “I don’t see a condemned man in front of me, Max. I see a troubled young man unable to grasp the fullness of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross and how to apply that sacrifice to his own life.”

“Well, I can see how it applies to sins… like taking more than my share from the cookie jar, but I can’t see how a man crucified two thousand years ago can do anything for that girl… what we did to her was… aw-shit, Reverend, it just doesn’t make any sense at all to me.” 
The room was silent. We sat there for at least ten minutes: Jesse leaning on his elbows and me sitting across from him looking at my hands on my lap until finally Jesse spoke, “Look, Max,  People always babble on about the historical Jesus. It doesn’t matter to me whether it actually happened in a historical sense; like, when, or where, it happened. What matters is what it represents in spiritual terms and once we accept it the forgiveness flows. There are things I don’t understand; but for me, even with my limited understanding, there is wisdom in believing in the crucifixion and the resurrection of Christ.”

I was light-headed, and nausea was gnawing at the bottom of my gut. I got up from the chair and said, “Thanks for all you’ve done and for hearing me out, Reverend.” I walked out the door to the office and emptied my guts into a bush by the front steps to Casa De Vida. With that gesture I left Christianity. It was on friendly enough terms, but I’d had enough of the Bible and it was time for me to leave what I would afterwards refer to as “the Dark Ages.”

City College was a wonderland… a true Renaissance. Over coffee in the Campus Center Cafeteria I sat with Dr. Fessler and Dr. Troller toward the end of my first semester. Dr. Fessler wasn’t one to hedge, especially with friends, he said, “You seem to have taken to studies well enough, but your tests don’t show it.”

“I don’t know why that is. I seem to choke when I am tested but it really doesn’t matter unless I am to become an academic.”

“Not all of us are meant to be academics, Max. You might find your purpose in another calling.” Dr. Fessler was patient but had very little understanding of anyone struggling with academic studies.

‘Yeh, I know, Dr. Fessler. You know I can write papers okay but when it comes to tests I get confused. It is like when I do a syllogism… it gets all tangled up in my mind and before I know it I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

Dr. Troller listened and then after Dr. Fessler excused himself he asked, “Have you ever heard of A.D.H.D.?”

“Naw, what is it?”

“It’s stands for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. From what you have been saying and what I know of your past drug use, I’d say you have most of the classic symptoms.”

“Is it a permanent condition,” I’d never heard of it, “or, will I eventually outgrow it the further I get away from drugs? And what are the symptoms you see in me?”

“The way you described your ability when tested… Did you have trouble as a kid in school? Acting out, missing homework assignments, easily agitated, and couldn’t sit still?”

“Yeh, I suppose I was a character of sorts.”

“Trust me, you still are,” He laughed. “But, of course, most adolescents go through these phases. But if you can see a trend… an overall trend into adulthood it. A.D.D. could explain your use of drugs and alcohol to self-medicate.”

“Can it be treated? I mean, I hate having this confusion with finals coming up. No matter how hard I pay attention in class and no matter how hard I study…”

“In some cases, like yours, I’d say treatment might not be necessary at all. Many writers, artists, musicians, and even scientists, have learned to have creative and successful lives without even knowing they had anything like a disorder.”

“They work around it?”

“It is akin to knowing you are an addict. Once you know that you have a disorder it can help you to work around the problem… knowing your limitations.”

I wasn’t comfortable with just having limitations. I asked, “I’m wondering, is there anything about this business that can be considered an asset?”

“It makes sense that if you have reached adulthood and have had reasonable success in spite of the chaotic impulses most with ADHD are driven by… it makes sense that you would have developed some instincts and intelligence not necessarily called upon by so-called normal people. How were your mid-terms?”

“I did okay. Aced English lit, did well, as you know in Psych 101… only average in Western Civilization. And that one bugs me because I truly grasp the subject and enjoy the lectures, but I just can’t retain any of the details at test time. The same goes for Dr. Fessler’s philosophy class.”

“I wouldn’t worry yourself too much about it. City College is where we find out what we want of education. It is a time to explore and you have been doing that.”

We’d been sitting in a sort of lobby area next to the cafeteria. The art classes were held in the two rooms adjoining the sitting area. I stayed there after Dr. Troller left, considering what he had said, when one of the art classes came out to the lobby to critique the current project. It was Instructor Kent Rack’s oil painting class. I watched as the students propped their paintings against the wall, sat smoking cigarettes and chatting casually as Instructor Rack began his critique on the first painting of a still life that I felt, frankly, looked a mess.

“What I see in this painting is good composition. The forms leave room for more clarity, but I trust you are headed that way.”

He nodded towards the student whose work he was speaking of, circling some muddy messes on the canvass with chalk. “Can you tell what you have in mind for bring these forms forward more?”

The student nervously ventured a solution.

“Good, good, that is what I was hoping you’d say…”

He then went on to the next painting and proceeded to encourage and make a few positive suggestions for this one too. I could see that the professor wasn’t there to tear down or prick the sensitive ego of the young artists but rather to probe and explore the potential of each one. I watched each piece Instructor Rack went over and became drawn in by the supportive air of his critique. I decided then and there which courses I wanted to take the next semester.

It didn’t take long for me to find my place in the art classes. The smell of turpentine and oil paint permeated my clothes. I was up all night before the canvass. The more I painted the more I loved it. Most of what I painted was purely for the sake of seeing what colors… what paint could do on the naked white stretch of canvass. My spirit was being renewed and this vision inspired me to go beyond painting pretty pictures and into the essence of color as an expression of the inner soul. The guilt and shame of my past was gradually being pushed out the back door. I made room for more… more… I didn’t know more of what… just more of that creative spirit.

I moved into a studio on State Street. These studios were rented out by the bank after the Santa Barbara Medical Center moved to a newer building. The realtor who managed the building stipulated that the studios were working spaces and not to believed in. Of course, nearly everyone who rented a space, lived there in spite of the rule. I had a space with a sink in a small eight by eight room that opened into a larger space, fifteen by twenty. That room had French windows at one end and two thirds the length of the other. This made the lighting most agreeable for painting. I built a storage loft in the small room in front where I hid my mattress behind curtains. I used the sink for sponge baths but the gym at City College for showers. The address was 1421 State Street so some of the artists there called ourselves the Fourteen-twenty-one Conspiracy. It was a community of off-the-wall young artists and equally edgy entrepreneurs. A few of the young artists, men and women, and one girl, (sixteen of age) Celeste, took to sun-bathing on the roof of the building. I brought my easel and paints with me there too. I went everywhere by bike. I hauled large canvasses to classes by bicycle, holding them precariously like a main sail to catch the winds. Sailing along Loma Alta to City College I was a man possessed. It was a fresh… a lively place to be immersed in and it was probably obvious to any casual observer that I had hit my stride.

Santa Barbara has South facing beaches and she’s nestled under a range of mountains that run parallel to the coast from there. It only takes ten minutes by car or twenty minutes by bicycle to be on a trail in pristine chaparral or wading in the surf from most places in town. I reveled in the freedom I was experiencing; both academically and spiritually. This whole business I went through with the Christian faith introduced me to the concept of forgiveness, but it was the landscape of Santa Barbara that liberated my spirit and brought me peace.

I rode up into the mountains above Montecito on Cold Springs or Rattlesnake Canyon trails and sat hours at a time on more than a few occasions. The experience I had while on Waikiki Beach so long before had come back to me on one such night only this time I wasn’t tripping on acid. I went through every lie and fear that led to the horror. Where had that anger come from? That rape was compelled by a lack of power. That rape was committed out of anger over rejection. That drinking, and the use of drugs, was to fill a hole… a vacancy that was there when my soul shrank. The fuel of all of this was fear. I saw myself as I truly was. I needed help and that help was with me all along. As the full moon rose before me, I spoke out, “Why… why can’t you show yourself to me as you did Dr. Fessler? Why do I have to be satisfied with hints and feelings? Where is my white-light?”

I sat on a sandstone boulder above the creek. The sound of the water below and a wisp of a breeze wafting through the chaparral punctuated the musty aroma of the earth around me and spoke gently to my heart, “Isn’t this enough?”

“Yes, this ought to be enough.” I admitted. As soon as I had done so it was as though a blindfold had come off: No great revelation. No overwhelming sense of love in sentimental terms… just a sense of clarity. The rock was a rock being a rock. The stream was streaming. The moon was mooning. Everything was just as it was meant to be. I smiled and climbed down off the giant sandstone boulder. I remembered the monkey dream… and the mama cat… “You are home now, go to work, Max.”

So, I went to work. I managed to finish my courses at City College and continued on at UCSB. I was driven by a vision and worked single-mindedly towards carving out a career in art. Through this effort I fell in love with and married young Celeste. We set up shop together, both working part time at regular jobs while painting and sculpting. A few years later I found myself at Cottage Hospital in the delivery room with Celeste. She was in her tenth hour of labor… completely dilated. I was helpless and, even though I had been with Celeste for all the birthing classes, I had never felt so unequipped to be useful. With the coaching and breathing exercises all I had to hold on to, I watched in wonder as Celeste’s face contorted and twisted there before me. I held on, my mind racing, “This is why we’re here. This is what it is to be a man. This is what all the bother about love and commitment, honor and duty to womanhood is all about.”

None of these values were at all abstract at this point. I knew I was in for the duration no matter what and, when our beautiful daughter, Ariel, was lifted to Celeste’s breast where she suckled Mama’s tit, and I knew it was love and love would be for life.

Ariel was born wide-eyed, needing no slap on the butt - or whatever they do that they don’t do - to begin wailing and she looked right at me as if to say, “I am your penance, Dad.”

She calmed down and suckled, “you will forever be atoning for your past. Love me. Honor me. Respect me.” 

I was on that rock in the hills again. I was with the mama cat and her cubs above Taos. I was with the heart of compassion and the suffering I’d caused, and the suffering caused me was mine to own. The experience would stick this time, with no promise of heaven or threat of hell to compel me. I had finally arrived at the heart of compassion and the heart of compassion was there to nurture and protect me on this mission of life.

Recalling the line from the Spoon River Anthology; I saw that I had allowed the winds of destiny to drive my boat and tried to put meaning into my life only to end in the madness of restlessness and vague desire. Nonetheless, I had launched my boat into the sea and would no longer be afraid. The Hoss Bozz curse was obliterated and, yes, maybe it will all work out okay for me after all.

“What did you decide to name her?” the nurse practitioner interrupted my revelry.

“Kuan-yin,” The name slipped softly… almost a whisper… out of my mouth as I gazed into the infant’s eyes.

“No… no,” Celeste, exhausted, barely spoke clearly enough to be heard, “Ariel… it is Ariel… ” Mustering all her strength she protested, “the Tempest spirit, we agreed!”

“Yes, I’m sorry, it is Ariel…my mind was somewhere else there for a minute. It is Ariel… we agreed.” I smiled… it didn’t matter what she was called, she would always be Holy, the Christ, or Goddess of Compassion in my heart.

I understood in that precious moment what it was to be forgiven, and further understood that compassion calls for responsibility. The mama cat was there with her cubs. Responsibility is a commitment. Compassion isn’t how I impress God. Compassion is simply a responsibility that I return to, like my breath. Without compassion the soul suffocates. Breathe compassion and I breathe life. All of this happened a time ago and then I understood all of this and more when I changed Ariel’s first diapers. As I breathe, God breathes… these are the winds of destiny that landed me here today.

The years have been good to me and life has moved on but, every now and then, I reflect on the people who passed through my life back then. I wonder about Glenda and hope she became a veterinarian. I wonder about the guys I dropped acid with: The people who survived Altamont; Miriam; Norm; Maggie; Brian and Mason; Magic Maya, Sunflower and the girls from Georgia; Stan and Dennis; Eddy and his brothers; Mrs. Nobel and her daughters; Ray and crazy David; Joe; Bob-O; Serena; Pam, Skip, and Glen.

The ones I do know something about are missed also. The last I heard of Dick Carter was reported in the 1999 Chronicle that he retired to Modesto before Altamont speedway closed in 2008. Brazil ended up in Chile before Allende fell and his name was among the fallen with Victor Jara at the Estadio Chile. The Reverend Cordova took over his father’s ministry in Texas; Dr. Fessler passed away from a heart attack before he was fifty; Dr. Troller retired and moved on.

A Confession at Hell's Gate:

Something must be said about Daphne. I see Daphne in every woman, from Celeste to Ariel. It is not enough to know that I owe my respect and a debt I will never pay in full. There will be no redemption until I breathe my last breath. 

Mama Kachina cat still stalks me, making sure I get home with all my bullets, my rifle unused and well oiled. 

Should I ever forget this, there will be a price to pay in this life.

~ The Beginning's End ~