And the Truth

She had hiked this trail many times before and it had always energized her, freed her, lifted her above any problems or difficulties she was facing in her life. On this day—a cool, cloudy spring day—Marta could only feel heaviness. Each step of her red high tops only emphasized her agitated state of mind. She sighed when she realized she was only half way to the summit. While running her fingers through her long, curly black hair, Marta considered whether she had the energy or perseverance to push through the heavy, static weight of her feelings. Thoughts of suicide pressed forward to her conscious mind, but she was too weary, too tired to give them any serious consideration.

I should be over it by now, she thought. It's been almost two years since Billy died. God, how could you take my little son away from me?

Marta could still see Billy clearly in her mind's eye, wearing his overalls and red cap, saying "Look, mommy, look at me! Look at what I can do!" The image was so alive for Marta that she paused on the trail, watching herself hug Billy when he caught his first baseball.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a woman's voice asked as she ambled up the trail.

Marta was jostled back from her reverie. What did that woman say to me? she wondered. She rummaged through her backpack and gulped down the fruit juice she had packed. Aaah, it doesn't matter; nothing matters. On automatic, she continued trudging up the hill, lost in her images and feelings of Billy.

"Looks like you're carrying a heavy load."

Marta smiled a fraction, then scowled at the back of the woman's head. Did I see her before?

The woman who had passed Marta twice on the trail was humming a nonsensical, whimsical tune as she walked briskly aound the bend. The summit was in sight, and the woman happily anticipated her arrival, when she would rest and munch on her tomato-cheese sandwich on carrot-vegetable bread. She sang out, asking and answering her own questions.

"What kind of shape is she in?" she asked in a husky voice. "Oh, in very bad shape!" she answered in falsetto. The song appeared to give her great pleasure and she laughed in a lighthearted manner after each couplet.

Marta was disappointed when she reached the summit and saw an older woman resting in her favorite spot, a shady nook of rocks which gave the illusion that it was an entrance to a cave. She had taken Billy there many times. They would always eat their lunches of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches first, then play hide-and-go-seek on the rocks.

"One less attachment between you and God. We all got to go home someday."

What? What did that woman say to me? "Excuse me, were you talking to me?" Marta asked the older woman. The woman looked her right in the eye.

"Miss, I said, 'One less attachment between you and God—if you can stop obsessing about him—we all gotta' go some time.' It's a fact of life. Miss, if I were you I'd start worrying about my own death, or how I could make some real good use of the time I have."

"What? Who are you?" demanded Marta in a shrill voice. "What do you know about me? You have a lot of nerve to talk to me in this way."

"Well, someone has to be straightforward, honest with you. What do I know about you? I know it's about time we met. I've been waiting for you for a long time. My name is Freea," she said as she extended her hand.

Marta ignored the older woman's gesture. "Well, whoever you are, I haven't been waiting for you!" She brushed past Freea and angrily marched on.

Freea nodded her head back and forth. "Well, I guess she told me off," she laughed to herself. "I've got some work ahead of me on this one. Young lady, I've been waiting for you for over twenty years."

Freea had been wandering for almost three weeks. She had visited several parks in the southwest and had headed northeast when a strong impulse had drawn her in that direction. She had made the sketchiest of plans for her wandering time and, for Freea, sketchy had to do with her drawing or dreaming a landscape to view.

Freea has catalogs of picturesque wonders and, through the brushpoint of her playful intent, she arrives. She is like a flash of lightning in a pitch-dark, moonless sky. You can catch her bright impulse momentarily but, in less than a fraction of a second, the flash is gone and reappears in another pictorial postcard scene. Freea loved to drive the blueprints of the freeways of the Ancient Ones—the Enlightened Beings who only exist to Be—to Be playful that is.

"I hear a strong calling. Northeast it is," she called back to the winds of change.

Freea was delighted with the small resort town of Three Crossroads where she had her lunch as she watched the hummingbirds skirt about the many feeders, which hung from the canopy of the local cafe. She learned from the waitress that Three Crossroads had received its name because the town was situated between three parks. She spent the next several days hiking, exploring, and camping out in the parks. She was drawn to spend a few days at the "At Last" campground. She was surprised each morning when she didn't pull up stakes, but was happy to stay put.

She must be coming, Freea prophesied. Could it be, finally, after all these years? When Freea saw the tall, black woman lost in grief and suicidal notions by the path, her heart leaped in joy. It is she, my friend. It's time to awaken. It's time to find out who you really are.

Freea continued to shake her head from right to left long after the dark-haired woman passed her angrily on the path. Looks like I'm right on cue, considering her state of mind.

"Oh, happy day. My Loved One returns!"

Darwin pulled closer to his wife and rubbed her back. He could feel her tense and move ever so slightly away from him. He pursued her attention by continuing the massage. Marta lay quietly, trying to relax into her husband's touch. She knew she had to be honest with Darwin and turned to face him.

"Dar, I'm sorry, I just can't relax. I just can't give you what you want. I'm so tense. It's . . . it's . . . Billy's death, and well—," she hesitated then bluntly asserted, "I think we should separate. I just can't feel anything but anger. I can't fake that I feel anything else to please you. I know you don't want me to fake it, you wouldn't want that."

Darwin sighed and it was his turn to turn away. Damn it, he thought. Fake it. It would be better than nothing. He fumbled for the switch and turned on the reading light. He lit the last cigarette from his pack.

"Marta, I miss Billy, too. We just have to keep trying."

"No, I have been crying and trying for two years now. I'm stuck; nothing is changing. I don't feel better."

"But is splitting up the answer?"

Darwin took a deep drag on his cigarette. He stared into the poster of the Grand Canyon, not really seeing it. Maybe splitting up is the answer, he thought. I want to get on with my life. Billy was a neat kid but I don't want to end my life because his ended. Darwin sighed and wished. Marta, couldn't you just snap out of it so we could have some fun like in the old days before Billy was born, when we used to go hiking and make love in the woods? Why did having a kid have to change everything? he wondered.

"It's not just Billy. Although, yeah, his death did change everything. It's, it's . . . " Marta tried to find the words to express the deeper implications of Billy's passing. "What are we living for? I mean, really. Death can come along and steal—it stole our son. What are we really here for if you can't even depend on love?"

"Give it time Marta. You will get over Billy."

Marta put on her nightshirt. She felt chilled and nauseated. She hugged her knees and rested her head. She could see the face of the older woman whom she had met on the trail earlier that day. What did she say to me? Something about death, attachments. There was something familiar about her. Where have I seen her before? Marta swallowed hard as she hugged her knees harder. She could still taste the bitter words she had spat out at the woman. The waves of nausea intensified and Marta ran to the bathroom to vomit.

Darwin was just in time to catch her. Her head was a fraction of an inch from hitting the bathroom sink.

"Marta! Marta!" Darwin cried frantically.

Marta's eyes rolled under closed lids. She could feel Darwin's fear and forced herself to speak, to assure him that she was not in danger.

"I'm all right." Her voice was barely audible.

"Really, I'm all right," she spoke in a louder, raspy voice. Darwin watched her expectantly. Something is breaking inside her. What to do? A doctor? What? He frantically analyzed options in his mind to soothe his fear that he couldn't handle what was happening. If she leaves me, what then?

"Marta? Do you need some water?"

"Dar, I'm okay, really. I was just feeling woozy. I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm tired. Let's go back to bed."

Darwin wasn't able to return to sleep. He lay in the dark with his eyes wide open, waiting for a sign, something that he could understand and move on. He listened to Marta's deep breathing. Now she is sleeping like a baby and I'm here wide awake thinking about what will happen to me if she leaves. He turned on the light and read a sports magazine that he always kept tucked under the bed.

Marta rolled over in her sleep. Darwin studied her face. A smile was on her lips. Well look at that, she's smiling? Just a few minutes ago we almost had a fight, and she got sick. Now she's smiling in her sleep. Darwin wanted to hold her, to suck on her breast, and have her hold his shaft. I don't dare wake her up, he thought. Darn it. How come when she is fast asleep—alone in her own world—she smiles, and with me she freezes?

Marta slept through almost all of Saturday. It was 5:00 p.m. when she stretched her long, 5-foot-10-inch frame and opened her eyes. Whew! Where was I? I feel so strange. What happened? I'm spinning? Where am I? It took several minutes until Marta realized she was in her own bedroom. Yes, it's all here. My clothes in the closet, the picture of the Grand Canyon, the picture of Billy by my bed. Yes, I live here, I belong here, she asserted to herself. The familiar calmed her. She got up and put on Darwin's extra-large T-shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. She caught her expression in the mirror. There was a softness on her face and a gentle curving up of her lips. She recalled last night's talk and puking into the sink—I don't understand why I feel good, new, like I have a fresh start. This is how I used to feel a lot before Billy died. Billy . . .

Marta picked up the 5 x 7 photo of Billy she had kept by her nightstand for the last three years. It was a picture of her son with his hands held out in anticipation of the ball she was throwing to him. She hugged the photo as she had done for the last two years when she wanted to hold him close. Making that gesture had always placated her in the past; but today, she just felt foolish. She tucked the photo into the bottom of her nightstand and said, "Girl, get a hold of yourself. It's time to let go and time to move on. It's time."

Marta's grief for her son lessened and she moved ahead with her life, on to healthier avenues. She had not really dealt with Freea's direct blows on the nature of her own mortality; she still took the longevity of her own life for granted. But something in her had shifted and her obsessive thoughts about Billy faded from her conscious attention. The details of his face—the slight chip on his front tooth, that one ear (the left or right one?) which was longer than the other—grew fuzzy. She didn't want to remember anymore, and put Billy's photos in storage.

A year later—from the exact date she'd had her run in with the insolent, old woman on the trail—she arrived in San Francisco to start a job as editor of a successful publishing company. She felt that a new job in a city where she'd never lived would usher in a new phase of her life. I've got to be crazy to do this, she thought, but the handsome salary was just what she needed to prove to her practical side that she was doing the right thing. Darwin and she had separated amicably, and he had been dating an airline stewardess for the last three months.

Within a week she had found a one-bedroom apartment very close to the ocean, where she planned to jog after work. The view from her bedrom window was a splendid one of rounded, gracious hills which called her to explore their secrets. She could only resist their call for a few days and, on a Friday morning, she pressed her foot to the gas pedal and made her way up the winding road of Route 1. The fog was lifting and the sun danced, warming all with a renewing, comfortable splash of heat. The piquancy of the eucalyptus trees pleasurized her nostrils. When Marta turned in an almost complete loop on the winding road, the groves of eucalyptus opened up to rolling hills and a breathtaking view of the entire Bay area. She parked her car, took in the view and decided to begin her hike across the way.

"This place. It's beautiful! I love it aleady!" she exclaimed. "It feels gentle and wild at the same time." Marta walked with a slow, inquisitive pace. She wanted to absorb everything that she could see on the rolling hills. I'm going to like living in San Francisco, she smiled to herself. It feels so right being here. It's different from Arizona but I feel at home, like I was meant to be here.

Marta followed the well-worn path for a steady hour of uphill and downhill walking before she decided to blaze a trail of her own. It was a relaxing adventure to make her way through the California oaks, evergreens, and redwoods. Through her steady strides she felt her body as a friend. All her senses opened fully and the animalness of being of the same elements as the nature around her, produced a euphoric, heightened feeling. She felt the wonder of the inter-relatedness of everything that lived and enjoyed its physicalness.

I haven't felt this—this sense of being so alive and part of everything—since I was a little girl, she thought. She felt the mountain had opened her in its own way to feel this heightened clarity. It has a power, this mountain. I felt this in Arizona too, on my favorite summit. But here the feeling is deeper. What is the power this mountain has? she wondered.

Marta noticed a sign that had been crafted from a redwood tree which read, "Sanctuary." She felt an urge to explore ahead. It's probably someone's private property. Maybe I should turn around, she thought. Well, she rationalized, if I am interfering with anyone I can always turn around.

"So, you're back again."

Marta froze. It was the cantankerous, old woman she had met on the summit trail back home. Well, what used to be my home back in Arizona, she thought.

"Well, don't just stand there frozen to the spot with your mouth hanging open. Come sit by my side."

Marta smiled weakly. The old woman was patting a stump that was adjacent to where she was sitting. Come sit here beside me, she gestured. Marta wanted to run, but it occured to her that to further resist this eccentric character would be more trouble than it was worth. I'll humor her, she thought. She is probably just lonely. Marta struggled awkwardly with loosening the straps from her backpack before it fell off her shoulders.

Freea looked directly into Marta's eyes and, with a penetrating gaze, seemed to probe into a deeper part of her than she suspected existed.

"I've been waiting for you for a long time. Where is my gift? Of course you remember?"

Marta felt exposed, completely vulnerable. She wanted to turn away from the woman's gaze but she also wanted to appear in control of the situation, confident that she could stand her own ground. Gift? she pondered. What is she talking about? Without understanding why she wanted to appease the woman, Marta fumbled with unclasping her heart locket and handed it to her.

Once, the locket had stored a picture of her family—Darwin, Billy and herself. But she had removed the picture a few months ago and replaced it with one of a hummingbird. She had always loved the tiny, nectar-thirsty birds that flew so swiftly. She had written a poem in college using the bird as a simile to express the yearning she felt. It was called, "The Sweet Flight of Freedom." She had found the poem when she went through her possessions, while preparing to move to San Francisco. The poem still struck a cord of sweet longing in her after all these years. She had snipped the picture of the tiny bird that she had sketched, and had pasted it into her locket. The clasp loosened and slipped into her grasp. Marta handed the locket to Freea while keeping her gaze fixed on the woman's eyes. Those eyes, she thought . . .

Freea studied the heart-shaped locket and pushed her thumbnail between the crack to open it. It sprung open and a wide smile spread across her face when she was greeted by her ally, her friend of flight, the hummingbird. Freea's manner changed and she spoke in a lighter, softer tone, "At your service, ma'am. My name is Freea. What is yours my dear?"

"Marta."

There was a silence between them and Freea took advantage of it to shake Marta's hand. She held her hand in a firm grasp and pulled it to her lap. Freea could feel Marta's nervousness and recoil from her touch, but this did not deter her from holding, almost caressing, the creamy, coffee-shaded hand which rested upon her lap.

"Marta, who do you think I am—besides an old, crazy woman whom you are humoring?"

Marta's arm was tingling and the sensation began spreading throughout her body. She felt her entire body relax into Freea. What is this energy, this power, this woman has over me? she asked herself. She scares me, she attracts me—but she's gotta be crazy. . .

"Marta, who do you think I am?" Freea repeated her question and let go of Marta's hand. It took a few minutes for Marta to feel that the conduit of energy had been broken. Her body was still tingling. She wasn't sure she could speak. Her heart was racing frantically but her mind was like mush.

"You . . . you," she stammered, "are my teacher."

Freea nodded, "That will do for now. I accept your gift but I want you to wear the locket for me," she said as she clasped it around Marta's neck.

"So," Freea's tone became more abrupt and business-like, "It's agreed that I am your teacher. Then who are you?"

Marta decided to go for the obvious.

"Your student." Her mind was not capable of being clever. It was still sloshing around like oil on a non-stick pan.

"Good, we understand each other—at least you're beginning to understand. You can't get to know someone in a day. The learning, or should I say the unlearning, has begun. Come visit me. I spend a lot of time down the road in that sky-blue cottage. You can see it from here."

Freea pointed to the clearing in the grove of oaks.

"We'll get serious about your training. Come at twilight on Mondays. And don't forget to bring a gift with you—that's the customary etiquette. You'll get to understand it soon enough." With those instructions, Freea jumped up from the stump and sauntered playfully down the dirt trail.

Marta continued to sit on the stump. Her gaze was transfixed on the woman's form. If my legs work, I can get out of here and find my way home. She could hear a song echoing through the woods. The wind blew the words out of her listening range and Freea's humorous ditty escaped her ears.

Marta told no one of her encounter with Freea. The probity and intimacy of the meeting unsettled her. Perhaps if she had a close friend living next door, they would have discussed the possibilities and significance of the meeting. But she knew no one, at least not in the way of a confidant. She kept busy, hoping that the meeting would settle into the background, the unconsciousness of her life. She didn't want to think of Freea, of the older woman's dark, piercing hazel-brown eyes which said, "Do you know who you are? Do you know who I am?"

She thought of calling her friend Darlene in Flagstaff. Darlene always held the wait-and-see, or be-cautious philosophy. In the past, Darlene's mellow, cautionary approach to life had always settled her down from acting impulsively on some of her rawer, angrier feelings. But how could she explain to her childhood friend that she had met a woman who had the strange power to make her mind go to mush and her body tingle? Is she my teacher, or is she really a crazy, old woman? I've got to think this one through myself, she thought. Darlene won't understand. She thinks I was crazy to move to San Francisco. I'd never find a man here, she said; they're all gay. And she would never understand this meeting—relationship—with that woman. Marta didn't want to call the woman by name, not yet. She wanted to keep Freea vague, an other, a shadow, a dream she'd had.

By Sunday morning, a couple of days later, Marta had successfully allocated Freea to a pat rationalization of, "Oh, that crazy, old woman I humored." But, when Monday morning rolled in, Freea's eyes and the touch of her hand holding firm to her own, were as sharp in her memory as if they had just happened a moment ago. When she scooped up warm water to splash herself awake she noticed her hands were trembling and her stomach was nervous. It's today that Freea, that crazy, old woman, told me to return. At twilight, she thought. What should I do?

Marta spent most of the morning shopping for her new apartment and in the afternoon she planned to go to the zoo. She felt drained from apartment hunting, grabbed a bite to eat on the road, and pushed herself to go to the zoo. She walked in a nervous daze around the grounds. She was pacing in the cage of her own imprisoned feelings. She felt sorry for the lions, the majestic king of beasts, who were forced to pace their cages waiting for their daily slab of meat while humans watched and were entertained. How could we reduce such beautiful, fearless creatures to an unnatural, confined life of boredom for our amusement? she asked herself. Marta had loved the zoo in the past. She had a natural curiosity, a fascination with animals; but today, the bars of their cages drew much of her attention. Each cage, she felt, was a life sentence of degradation. She could sense the orangutan's embarrassment, the leopard's boredom, the panther's hopelessness, the gorilla's damaged pride, the wolf's nervous frustration. I never felt this before. I can recognize qualities of feelings in the animals. Is it because I am feeling this, projecting my feelings onto them?

Marta slipped between her cool sheets. It was just past 10:00 p.m., early for her, but she was exhausted and depressed. I just want to sleep it all away, she thought. She just couldn't handle the chore of probing any deeper into the barrage of feelings she had felt today, the shock of touching the pain of the imprisoned animals. She wanted the cool fog of unconsciousness to wash over and absorb her. The fog was her inability (her refusal?) to feel and act on her feelings. The fog, the haze, was the prison she had been taught to live in.

Freea put down her paintbrush and rinsed her brushes in warm water. She gazed at the drawing she had just finished. It was a lioness walking through dried grasses, contentedly surveying the territory around her. Freea was pleased with it and felt her lioness friend—the quiet, serene dignity of her being, the naturalness and grace of her felinity.

Come on, Marta, you have got to break through the fog. Trust your feeling. Freea spoke inwardly to her student. You share the spirit of the lioness. You must begin to remember.

A few months later, busy with her new job and meeting new acquaintances, the meeting with Freea did settle into the fog of Marta's unconsciousness. If she thought of it at all, it was with a distorted memory filtered through her fear and pride. Oh, that crazy woman . . . she would say to herself. The locket which Freea had asked Marta to keep for her, remained in the back of her jewelry box. It lay tangled with the necklaces and earrings which were heirlooms from her grandmother—outdated and old-fashioned. She hadn't worn the necklace since the day Freea accepted it as her gift.

Thank God it's Friday! She was looking forward to the night. She was going on a date—her first in ten years. She was excited, nervous and hopeful that being with Josh would help to fill the loneliness she was feeling more and more.

She was in a quandry about what to wear. She wanted to be comfortable, but also to appear naturally hip and chic. Marta changed her outfit several times until she decided on a long, black skirt with a short-waisted black jacket. She studied her appearance in the mirror and was only satisfied after she applied an extra coat of onyx eyeliner and mascara. Marta was a tall woman with a long, angular face, and when she wasn't dressed to project that "mysterious available woman," her dark sienna eyes would dart about, probing everything and everyone with a curiosity and "right to know" that was more familiarly allowed to the male of the species. Her strong impulses to probe, her need to know, were often stifled by family and friends who wanted her to be more attentive, accepting and nurturing of their needs and desires.

"Why do you have to stir up trouble? We're happy, everything is going well," her ex-husband Darwin would complain.

She would try to be more passive, count her blessings, curse her probing mind, but when she wasn't allowed free thinking space, her inquisitive, bright, mind would turn on others with a pointed sarcastic wit.

Marta packed her make-up into her purse. "This is it, you're looking good, girl," she announced to the mirror. She gathered her sweats from the back of the chair, folded them and left them on her bed. These were her preferred clothes, the clothes that were the most comfortable, and didn't constrict her in any way. They didn't pull at her crotch, or bind her waist, or push up her breasts. For a brief second she considered the possibility of wearing them on her date. We're only going to grab a burger before we catch the movie, she thought. Why shouldn't I be comfortable? No, she dismissed her fleeting proposal. I want to look good for Josh. I think I could be really attracted to him.

It was after the fourth date that Marta decided she was ready to have sex with Joshua. She knew he had wanted it that first night, and she was pleased that he hadn't pushed her hard and fast right away. The friendship was opening between them and the excited anticipation of sexual contact added a stimulating pressure that made being with Josh fun. Like Darwin, Josh had a playful, adventuresome spirit. Both men were consistently up and ready to push the edge of fun—but Josh was more experimental, more sensitive about understanding where his desires led him, while Darwin just collapsed into a satiated, childlike stupor after he'd had "his fun." Marta imagined that sex with Josh would be a playful, sensitive adventure. Heartful lust, she laughed to herself.

The doorbell rang and, not wanting to appear too anxious, Marta waited a few seconds before she opened the door to a grinning Josh, with a bouquet of mixed flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. While sitting down to a meal of spaghetti and antipasto, Marta wondered how she could bring up the delicate matter of birth control. She had used a diaphragm for the last several years, and it had proven effective, but it would not protect her from exposure to AIDS. I can't ask the guy for a complete history of his past sex life, she thought, and, on the other hand I can't ignore the possible calamity of contracting AIDS. After they washed and dried the last dish, Marta slipped Josh's tanned hand into hers and led him to sit on the couch with her.

"That was delicious spaghett—and you make a great antipasto," Josh teased in a thick, put-on Italian accent.

"Thank you," Marta laughed. Josh turned to gaze into Marta's eyes, pushed his hips close to her and came in for a smoothly-planted kiss.

Marta could feel the kiss take its effect on her. He was soft and gentle and she relaxed into it, letting go of her worry about how she would respond to him. Josh tugged at unbuttoning her blouse.

"Josh?"

"Mm?" Josh answered through Marta's lips.

Marta slid down the couch a bit to get his full attention.

"Josh," she repeated in an attempted assuaging tone. "I need to talk about, well you know . . . birth control . . . " Marta dangled the word "control," and then waited expectantly for Josh's response.

"Oh, yes, what have you been using?" he asked her.

"The diaphragm."

Josh nodded approvingly, wanting to get on to more stimulating matters at hand. He slid in closer to Marta and leaned into a tougher, more probing kind of kiss on her wide, fully-formed lips. This time Marta was not able to relax past her worry. She waited for Josh to wind down and catch his breath and blurted out, "Well, what about safe sex, you know, AIDS and all that?"

"Don't worry, Marta," Josh spoke in an assured, smooth tone. "I don't have AIDS and I haven't been with anyone who has. Before meeting you I was in a steady relationship that broke up about three months ago. I can assure you all is safe." Josh winked, smiled and brushed her long, curly black hair from her face.

Marta felt a bit tense and frustrated. "Josh, it's important for me to be careful. You can't be too safe these days. Do you have any rubbers with you?"

"Marta, babe, I never liked those damn things. You can't feel anything. You can use the diaphragm, can't you?"

Marta's frustration pushed her into sarcastic wit, "Come on Josh, you don't just feel through your dick, do you?" Josh's smile fell off his face and he moved away from Marta.

"That's not what I meant, you know that. I care about you, I really like you," he said.

Marta decided to move ahead, to assert herself even more. She knew she was on dangerous ground. What she said now would change the whole direction their relationship was going. I like Josh a lot, she thought. He is so much fun, light-hearted, childlike and free—maybe a little too childish, she added.

"Josh, I like you, too. I'm just worried. I want to be really safe. I'm terrified of even the possibility of getting AIDS." Marta pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and blew her nose.

"Don't worry, babe. I am clean and free from any disease, as clean as a new born babe," Josh assured her.

"Okay, Josh, I trust you." Marta stood. "I'll be right back. I have to go to the ladies room and insert my friend."

Sitting on the toilet, Marta felt her hormones, her animalness say, "Just go for it, you haven't had any sex for a long time." She unwrapped her diaphragm, studied it for a moment, studied her face in the medicine cabinet and asked herself, what is it, why doesn't this feel right? I like him a lot, I'm horny. She laughed at herself for honestly admitting that ! What are you going to do girl? Making her decision, Marta put her diaphragm back into the off-white bathroom closet, and splashed cold water on her face carefully to avoid wetting her mascara.

"Everything okay in there?" called Josh

Marta opened the door and smiled confidently, almost teasingly at him. "Yes, I'm fine. Josh . . . " Marta now sat opposite him on the rocking chair. "I want to talk a little more about the birth control thing, okay?"

Josh tried to appear unshaken, tried to maintain an outgoing casual, happy, all-is-well stance, but Marta could see that it was only a performance. "Marta, don't worry so much," he chided her. "We'll take precautions."

Marta hung on to the we. "We? What are you planning to do?"

Josh could feel his credibility as a sensitive male was on the line. "Listen, Marta, rubbers are really terrible. Believe me, if you had to use them, you'd hate them."

Marta understood what her once-confused, once-indecipherable feelings were trying to help her see, despite her own biological incessant urging to have sex. His pleasure, his desire, was of the utmost importance, the priority of their sexual liaison—so important that he would dodge his responsibility to have safe sex—sex that was free from producing a dreaded disease or an unwanted child.

"Listen, Josh," she spoke forcefully and firmly, "diaphragms are no picnic either. The jelly stuff oozes down your legs and God knows what the chemicals in it really do. It's not fun for me either."

How can I handle this woman? Josh struggled. Damn it, I hate those rubbers and it's embarrassing putting them on right when things really get going.

Marta continued with her line of feeling and reasoning when she saw Josh was struggling with his response.

"Listen, birth control and safe sex are evils we both have to deal with. Either we can decide to trust that neither of us has the disease, or we both can be tested. As far as birth control, why don't we take turns being responsible for it so neither one of us is stuck with it? What do you think, Josh?"

Josh instinctively felt that Marta had a secret compartment from which she drew unexpected doses of personal power. What really was unnerving him was that she was being so reasonable, and he was being overly emotional about the whole issue. Josh knew he could learn a lot from the woman who now sat before him. He just wasn't sure whether he wanted to learn, to grow up a little more. He knew it would require something very real. Being with Marta more and more, really letting her get under his skin, would be a commitment to growth. His life had always easily, almost magically, presented opportunities and advantages which were generous in comparison to how much effort, time, and work he wanted to put into them. This woman who sat across from him now, with arms folded over her chest scrutinizing him, was an opportunity which scared him.

She was waiting for his answer. He had to make a decision, make his move.

"Well," Josh grew serious. "Let me think about it. It's getting late and . . . "

Marta groaned inwardly. He's not going to leave without deciding this. Please don't, she begged with her eyes.

"I'll see you." Josh picked up his jacket from the chair. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Men!" Marta groaned as the door closed behind him. Oh, I pushed him too hard. I blew it. Marta flung the pillow across the room and kicked off her shoes. I really like him, too. She had a last minute desperate urge to rush after him—to tell him she trusted him, that his pleasure was important to her, that using the diaphragm really didn't bother her (that she liked him?), but she couldn't do it. The bottom line, she said to herself, is I do like him but I don't trust him. How can I when he is being so irresponsible? She sunk deeper into the couch. Well, kiddo, you just scared away the one person who could have eased your loneliness. Marta yanked off her clothes and plopped into bed. She masturbated to release all the sexual scintillation she had felt when Josh was kissing her.

Josh didn't call her the first week after their birth control consideration. Nor the second week. Marta went to the phone several times to call him, to smooth it over, to ease her loneliness and relieve her own biological urges. Her fingers didn't have the strength of her usual brassy compulsiveness to make those buttons, 563-8472, sing in a crescending monotone that completed in a ring. Was her strength of another kind? She knew she had made her point. Could he respond, bestow a gesture of caring beyond his own biological desires and promptings? Apparently not, she sighed.

During the third week, after Marta had lost all hope that the relationship would continue, Josh called.

In a cool but nervous voice he spoke her name, "Marta, it's Josh."

"Hi, Josh," Marta waited for him to expose his intention for calling.

"I've been thinking about our conversation. Actually," he said with a quavering laugh, "I have been trying to forget it but I haven't been able to. What I mean is, I know that what you said was really fair. I'm embarrassed about my reaction to it." Marta's eyes opened dramatically as she stretched and perked her eyelids. "Marta, I really like you . . . um . . . um . . . please don't take this in the wrong way but could we be just friends? I don't mean just friends, I mean friends."

Marta looked into the eyes of Mother Theresa in the picture she had hanging above the phone. A celibate relationship with a man? With Josh? she asked inwardly to the mother. An awkward silence passed between them (the three of them?) as she stared at the wrinkled face of the mother, trying to decide how she felt about Josh's proposal.

"Marta?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. Wait, let me get this straight. You just want to be friends—no sex between us, ever?"

"Well, yes. I mean, it's hard to say never." Josh struggled for words. "Marta, you blew my mind that night, forced me to look at myself. I enjoy being with you but I feel that what you are offering me—what I can understand of it—will get all messed up if we see each other as romantic possibilities. It's not that I'm not attracted to you . . . Oh well, does this sound too weird or what?"

Marta was sure she could see Mother Theresa's smile broaden. She winked hard and looked at the picture again. Those eyes remind me of someone. Who?

"Josh, all right. I would like that, but on one condition . . . "

Josh's pride had already been stretched to maximum tension and here she was asserting herself again. She is different from any other woman I've met. I don't know if I can handle this.

"The condition is that we take a firm vow to stay friends and never allow ourselves to see each other as sexual or romantic possibilities." What am I saying, why am I asking for this? Men and women don't relate this way. Is he gay? she wondered.

"Yes sir, I mean ma'am," Josh answered firmly. "Let's keep it clean. Friends yes, sex no."

"Well, Private, carry on," she quipped. "Want to go on a hike Saturday afternoon, my friend?" She liked the sound of saying my friend instead of thinking my boyfriend—boy? hmmm . . . he's in his thirties. "Let's meet about 1:00 and go over to Waking Woman of the Heart Mountain."

God, is she pushy, or does she just know what she wants? Josh asked himself. Usually, when he dated a woman he came up with the plans, or they discussed their ideas for a while together. I have to say one thing for her, she is up front.

"Yeah, sounds good, Marta. I'll swing by your place at 1:00 on Saturday."

"See you then, bye."

"Mother, oh mother, can you believe this?" she asked of the poster as she hung up the phone. Her heart felt light and she danced around the kitchen almost bumping into the table.

Marta felt happy as they drove up Route 1. Josh's aqua Volkswagen bug, kept in exemplary condition, chugged up the winding, hilly road persistently but slowly. She felt no desire to talk for the sake of making Josh comfortable or interested in her— she was absorbed in the colorful wildflowers which paraded themselves on the hills. Josh felt a little awkward with the silence and hummed a song to himself.

Neither of them had been hiking much through the rainy, winter season so they decided on a moderate trail of about three and a half miles. Marta enjoyed walking with Josh. He didn't tackle the hike with a competitive attitude. He enjoyed—along with Marta—stopping frequently to drink in the sights, sounds and smells of the rolling hills. She asked him a few questions about the native plant life. He had a good working knowledge of it because he had once worked as a gardener.

They both felt the titillation—a sexual tension between them. Josh was struggling with letting these instincts pass unheeded. Marta allowed her mind to drift to future projections of times and events she could share with him. Her fantasies wove a theme of intimacy and closeness in which sexual expression was not entirely absent. I can't believe that I thought up that vow and that we are going to stick to it. Where was I coming from? she wondered. She was uncertain, confused in her admonition of sexual responsibility and the vow of celibacy between them. She felt more attracted to him now, but she realized that the attraction was not just a bodily one, or a possible fulfillment to ease her loneliness. She was feeling into the man and she admired his honesty and humility.

Josh was surprised when Marta picked up speed after an hour of hiking. She became so energized that she broke into a trot or a skip, and Josh was reminded of a young filly. This is her element, her sport, he thought. He let her go on ahead and they met a few minutes later at the bottom of the hill. Marta pointed left or right, as two trails were now present. Josh pointed to the left. He wanted to get into the shade—the hike had heated his body and the redwood grove would offer a stretch of cooler temperature. Marta blanched when she recognized the tree stump where she had sat with the crazy old woman several months ago. Her stomach was filled with nervous trepidation. Her perspiration increased and her knees felt like clay putty. "Freea, that was her name," she said in a low whisper.

"Look, Marta," Josh called out from behind her. "There's a cottage at the edge of the meadow and forest. I wonder who lives way out here?"

Marta pretended she didn't hear Josh and kept walking ahead, which was a considerable effort in will power because her knees were shaking and her feet felt like they were attached to twenty-pound cement blocks.

"Hey, Marta, wait up. What's the rush?" Josh reached out and touched her shoulder lightly. "I wonder if anyone lives here? Looks lived in."

Marta stopped in her tracks and turned around. She took a quick glance at the cottage and noticed the adjacent flower garden.

"Oh, someone does live there. Look, a woman . . . she's picking flowers." Josh waved. Freea waved back and then beckoned them to come closer. Josh immediately responded to the invitation and walked towards the grey-haired woman. Marta reluctantly followed, staying behind Josh and hoping that Freea would overlook her presence.

"Marta!" Freea called out. "Is this your gift? He'll do for now," she laughed. Josh turned around to ask Marta if she knew the old woman who stood before him. He collided with her, and caught her before she fell. "Sorry, I didn't know you were there."

Freea shook her head, obviously amused. "Marta, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Marta tried to hide her embarrassment. "Josh, this is Freea. Freea this is Josh."

Freea extended her hand and shook Josh's. He smiled and the thought crossed his mind that if she were 30 years younger he could really fall for her.

"Well, Josh, it looks like you're my gift. Would you help me out by carrying in the pile of wood by the door? It'll be getting chilly soon. You can pile it by the woodstove in the living room." Josh didn't question Freea and he graciously took to the task she had asked him to do.

Freea welcomed Marta into the living room. Marta took off her backpack and sat down on the sofa, not knowing what to expect next. After Josh stacked the wood, Freea asked him to fill up the woodstove and start a fire. While he enjoyed the chores, he wondered how Marta knew this woman and what the nature of their relationship was. Freea was sitting in an overstuffed chair with a quilt draped over it. Her posture was relaxed but upright, and her hands rested on her lap—the right one cradled over the left. She watched Josh strike the match and ignite the newspaper and kindling. She signaled thank you by nodding her head, and gestured to Josh to go sit with Marta. Freea closed her eyes and was very still. Marta waited for her to break the silence. When Freea did open her eyes, she gazed directly into Marta's eyes, then into Josh's, and then closed her own eyes once again. The quietness, a silence, the Presence of this Silence, permeated the room.

Marta felt very awkward. Was the old woman falling asleep? No, that gaze—it's like she sees right through me, or sees all of me, she thought. Marta had to close her eyes; she could not let herself be seen that directly.

Josh watched Freea. He could see that she was not falling asleep, that she was calling them to be more awake by sitting in the Silence. Josh had practiced meditation for a few years when he was in his twenties and he felt that the old woman was leading them, instructing them in meditation.

Marta saw that Josh was comfortable with whatever Freea was (or wasn't) doing. She closed her eyes again. This can't be happening, she thought, as she felt a force stand in front of her and a hand of Light press lightly on her heart. Her chest tingled. Her body relaxed its tension of borders. "Who are you?" Marta asked inwardly.

"I am your own form, I am Love," are the words that sang to her being.

The fire in the stove was crackling and popping. Freea stirred and uncrossed her ankles. She opened her eyes and smiled a warm, knowing smile at Marta.

"Surprising how much you can say in Silence. A hell of a lot more than anyone has ever said with words. Josh, why don't you grab that old cushion and use it on the rocking chair. You'll be a little more comfortable."

Josh rocked back and forth on the chair. Except for an occassional joint, I haven't felt this loose, this mushy, in years—since I meditated with Master Sayra, and that was at least six years ago, he thought.

"Josh, did Marta tell you about our relationship?" asked Freea.

Josh shook his head no. Freea shot a tough glance at Marta and said, "I wonder why?"

Marta froze. Oh God, she thought, this crazy woman has a knack of putting me on the spot. She really gets to the meat of the matter, and it looks like I'm going to be prime rib cut tonight. God, they're both staring at me; I'd better come up with something good.

"Freea and I met the last time I was walking through these woods." God, she shivered, what do I say next?

Freea jumped in, "Yes and we had a very nice conversation. She gave me a locket of hers that I admired. It was so kind of her. I asked Marta to keep it safe for me. Right Marta?" asked Freea.

The locket? Marta asked herself. Oh, that locket, my heart-shaped locket in which I pasted a picture of a hummingbird. She nodded her head affirmatively to Josh.

Freea stood up. "Well, my friends, I want to get an hour of painting in before it gets completely dark. I'm happy that you both came by." Freea showed them to the door and Marta was relieved to see that the meeting was over. "Marta," Freea took her hand and held it. "Girl, you got a lot to do and a long way to go. Don't waste any time. See you Monday at twilight, and don't forget your gift to me." Freea shook Josh's hand, and he felt that she was gently pushing them into the night and on their way.

Twilight was cloaking the land and sky in varying shades of grey. The friends had to keep a good pace so they would not lose themselves in the approaching darkness. Josh felt light, giddy, and energized. It took a focused concentration to keep his attention on the disappearing path. He could hear the crunching of Marta's footsteps right behind him and feel her inner turmoil. What is Marta's relationship to Freea? She is apparently uncomfortable around the older woman, mused Josh. Freea, Freea . . . that name is not new to me. I've heard it before. Yes, now I remember. My mother was involved with a woman named Freea. Freea, yes . . . she is supposedly God-Realized. Freea, yeah, she taught women. And there was some negative publicity on her in the nineties. Yeah, it's coming back now. My mother was involved with her when I was in high school. My dad didn't like it much and when the bad publicity came out he forced mom to stop her practice with Freea. What was the bad publicity about? What was she accused of? Darn, I wish I'd read those papers dad threw at me. Mom had been changing—asking dad to teach her about the finances and to include her in all the decisions. And she had wanted to go back to get her degree, too. Yeah, they were fighting a lot, all the time. Dad gave her an ultimatum, "Freea or the family," and then the scandal with Freea came out and mom settled back into her old self and the way they used to do things. But nothing stayed the same, everything got worse. After that, there was a cold war going on between them that was so cold I came home from school less and less. And the day after I received my high school diploma I left for good.

Marta sighed with relief when she saw the humped shadowy form of Josh's car. Once they were inside, she felt safe again, distanced from Freea and the shocking effects of her Presence.

"Josh," Marta began her diatribe, "I'm sorry about being stuck with that crazy woman. She's got a lot of nerve if you ask me. Telling you to load the woodstove, making us sit there while she went into some kind of trance. Well, I guess it was pretty harmless."

Josh put the key into the ignition and the engine choked a bit before it purred smoothly. He put his foot on the clutch, popped the transmission into first gear, and pulled onto the curved road. "I'm gonna be honest with you, like a true friend, right?" Josh slowed down to master the almost 360-degree curve that was coming up. "You've shown me that you can cut through nonsense and get to the heart of the matter. I admire that about you. It scares me too, though. What just happened with Freea—you're not being straight with yourself or me."

"Josh, well . . . ," Marta paused to sort out her feelings. He's got a lot of nerve, or is it honesty, she thought. But I like that. I tried so hard to forget that crazy, old woman and our previous meeting—and I thought I had. But today had to happen. What does this all mean?

"Marta?" Josh asked in a soft tone, "Can I say something you might not want to hear?"

Marta sighed a deep heavy sigh. He is going to say it, he is going to make it real. Her eyes watered and she fought back the tears which were trying to escape down her cheeks. "Go ahead, I trust you."

"That woman you call crazy. She's not crazy at all—intense, yes, but not crazy. She is your teacher, isn't she?"

Marta was thankful it was a pitch dark moonless night, so Josh could not see the tears running down her cheeks. With the back of her hands she wiped the salty water. "Josh, I don't know, I don't understand any of this. That woman has a strange effect on me. She is calling me to something that I know in my gut I must go towards, but I am just as afraid as I am attracted. Yes, she could be trying to teach me, to be my teacher; but I don't understand what she wants to teach me. I feel that everything—my son's death, my divorce, leaving my job to take a new one in a place I hadn't even visited before, pushed me here to her. I've tried to forget her, called her crazy. What does she want of me?"

"Marta," Josh laughed to lighten the moment. "Just take it one day at a time, or one meeting at a time." He reached for her hand in the dark. "You've already pushed me in ways that frighten me, and I'm as attracted as I am afraid too, but I'm going to keep coming to be with you. You don't compromise yourself to make it safe or comfortable with me. That's what I like about you. I'm sure that's all Freea wants from you, too."

"When I look at it that way, it feels simple. I can handle it. I'm going to do some serious thinking about this, I can't push it away anymore. It takes too much energy, and sooner or later I'll bump into her again. I might as well face it. I don't know who in hell that woman is, but I have a feeling I'm going to find out."

Josh slowed down to merge into one of the three open lanes on the bridge. I have a feeling that both our lives are going to be changing. It's going to get real interesting.

Marta spent the rest of the weekend alternating between rambling through Golden Gate Park and pacing her one bedroom apartment. I must be clocking over twenty miles, she thought. She was still very afraid of what Freea represented and didn't really understand what Freea was offering her. Marta felt there was no logical way of judging the situation. Freea didn't offer her a background of accreditation, or a formula from which to make a judgment. Rather, she offered the Silence, an intensity—a knowingness, and a relationship. That woman could really be dangerous. I don't know what she will do next and yet . . .

On Monday morning when Marta left for work, she knew she would go to see Freea that night. Nothing had ever frightened and attracted her so much at the same time. Her curiosity, her drive to probe into things, demanded that she solve the puzzle of this woman named Freea and what she was truly offering to her. After making her decision, her mind quieted and her body expanded like a cat in a prolonged stretch after a long nap. Her body purred and Marta recognized that she had also felt open and purring when Freea had gazed at her.

She remembered Freea's instruction to bring a gift, and she purchased a bouquet of calla lillies from an open flower stand before she made the turn to Waking Woman of the Heart Mountain. She was also wearing the locket around her neck, to show Freea she valued it. Her car, an older, compact foreign model, which she had named Freedom Flight, chugged up the final hill, and Marta found the dirt road which Freea said would lead directly to the cottage.

She knocked at the cottage door with her heart and stomach twitching, sloshing, and beating in a fast modulation. Freea came to the door within seconds, and Marta awkwardly extended the flowers—almost dumping them on the floor. Freea had to make an agile movement of bending and scooping at the same time to catch the fallen flowers.

Oh God, thought Marta, what a klutz I am. Freea admired the flowers and graciously arranged them in a triangular, rose-pictured vase.

When Marta relaxed, she was astonished at Freea's appearance. Why, she doesn't look as old as I thought? She must be years younger. She is really an attractive woman and that dark-blue, silk dress is obviously expensive and well-tailored. Marta thought of how she had seen Freea before—her jeans had the dust of dried mud on the knees; her shirt had a button or two missing; her sneakers were old and beat-up looking, and they probably hadn't been washed once in all the time she had owned them; her hair was disheveled like she had been in a wind storm. Tonight her hair was obviously coiffured in a short, attractive no-nonsense hairdo. Maybe she is not as old or eccentric as I thought. She looks . . .

"Things are not always what they seem, are they?" Freea asked. Marta was jostled by Freea's direct line into what she was thinking. She thought she had hidden her astonishment at Freea's appearance well. Obviously not, she realized.

"Sit down, Marta." Freea sat down, crossed her legs and ankles, and rested as the Silence again. Marta understood the signal and closed her eyes to sit in the Silence with the older woman. She kept her eyes closed but could feel Freea's gaze on her from time to time. Within a short while she noticed her body was relaxed and the nervous tension she had felt in the beginning of the meeting was gone. Her mind was calm and even the thought that repeated, "this feels so good, so healing," didn't stick, as she dropped her guard from going deeper into the peace of the Silence.

"Enough for now," Freea spoke. "Sitting in Silence and feeling is natural and pleasurable to our beings. What did you experience while you were sitting, Marta?"

Marta was reluctant to talk. I don't ever want to move, or talk. I don't want to break away from this peace, she thought, but she knew she must try to answer.

"I felt really at peace, that there was no place I needed to go or to be; and nothing I needed to do, other than to be right here."

Freea smiled. "What I can teach you is how to live in that peace permanently as your true condition, no matter what is going on around you or with you—pain, pleasure, catastrophes—this peace I call the Self, God. It will never abandon you. In reality it is what you truly are. People are not what they appear to be or what we have been taught to be. I noticed that you formed an impression and opinion of me by how I was groomed in previous meetings. Why do you think I dressed this way tonight?"

Marta fidgeted for a moment. "I did form an opinion about you which had a lot to do with how you were dressed, your age, and how you looked. Seeing you dressed in this way has forced me to take another look."

"Good. Next time you visit me I want you to change your look entirely. Present another image or self. What is your self image? What does it tell others about you? How do you use your body to represent yourself?"

Marta could feel the meeting was almost over and that she was going to be dismissed soon.

"Please bring in a small pile of wood before you leave." Freea got up from her relaxed pose on the chair. "And I suggest that you begin a practice of sitting in Silence for 15 minutes in the morning and 15 minutes in the evening. Just sit, observe your thoughts, bring your attention back to the act of merely sitting if you get lost in a tantrum of thought. Feel what it feels like to be you."

Marta nodded and surprised herself by asking, "Can I give you a hug?" Freea wrapped her arms around the tall woman and felt her friend try and then succeed in letting go of some of her bodily armor.

"Thank you, Freea," Marta said as the door closed behind her and she walked to her car. The air was damp and cool now, but she was not cold. "So she is my teacher!" she declared to the night. She knew that from now on she would never refer to Freea as that crazy, old woman.

When Josh called Marta the next day, she told him of meeting with Freea, and he noticed that she now called Freea her teacher. Josh was intrigued by Marta's assignment to change her usual image. "Have you any ideas yet about this new makeover?"

"Josh, it's only for a meeting. I think Freea just wants me to loosen up my self image. I'm just now beginning to think about it. How do I see myself? What kind of person do people read of me by the clothes I wear, my hairdo, my color?" Marta took off her wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed her brow. "Josh, did you figure out that I was mixed, I mean a mulatto? My mother is white and my dad is black from Jamaica."

"That accounts for the hint of exotic underneath the pushy, intelligent woman," Josh teased, emphasizing the word intelligent.

Marta reflected that most black folks could see the mixture but most white folks wanted to deny what was before them because her features were a subtle mixture of both races. Often people asked her if she was Spanish or Mexican. Her skin was a creamy, coffee color which looked like she had a permanent Hawaiian tan. Her parents had been divorced when she was eight and her father had raised her since then. He was a college professor at the University of Arizona, so her background was from an environment of academia. Her father and mother were a compromising blend of both progressive and traditional values and ideals.

"Marta, you got me thinking about my own self image," Josh bantered. "Did I ever tell you that I am an illegal alien?"

"From what planet?" Marta asked jokingly.

"Actually my parents were cross-galactic travellers and they met on assignment one day . . . "

"So that's why you're so weird," laughed Marta.

"Yeah. Marta, will I be allowed to see your disguise, I mean make over?"

"Hmm, okay, come over at 7:00 on Monday. I leave at 8:00 for my meeting with Freea."

Marta was perplexed about how to change her attire and looks for the Monday night meeting with her teacher. After much fantasy about her new image, what she settled on was conservative and attractive. She had her long, black, wavy hair cut just under shoulder length. She bought an aqua-blue jumpsuit. She had never worn a jumpsuit before because, as a big-boned woman, she felt it would emphasize her bigness and her generously round rear end. The door bell rang while she was touching up her mascara.

"Be there in a minute, Josh," Marta called out. She put on her glasses, gave herself one last check, and opened the door.

"Josh, what!" she exclaimed, at loss for further words.

Josh laughed. He knew he had really shocked her. He had undergone his own image change that week. He had shaved off his moustache, and his sandy, brown hair was cut very short, almost a buzz. A pair of glasses with sanguine-colored frames rested on his nose, and a pair of red high-top sneakers were on his feet. Marta had never seen him in a suit and he now stood before her in a reddish, freckled-brown suit with a black leather tie.

"Aren't you going to offer me a seat?" Josh asked, when he realized they had been standing there for several minutes. "You look great, Marta. Your hair, the jump suit are great."

"Josh!" Marta feverishly exclaimed. "I can't believe it! You really changed everything! What a shock! I didn't even know you wore glasses."

"Well, yeah, but I usually wear contacts when I'm out. What do you think of all this?" Josh gestured to his outfit. "Besides being shocked out of your mind? You know, I thought what people wore, how they looked, really didn't affect how I thought and felt about them, but I'm beginning to understand it has a lot more effect on how I see and relate to people than I'd actually like to admit."

"Yeah," Marta added, "when I first met Freea her grey hair was wildly unkempt. She had dirt and paint stains on her baggy jeans and her flannel shirt even had a button or two missing. I couldn't look past that. I just saw her as a poor, old, eccentric, crazy woman. Maybe she is an exception to any rule," she lightly surmised.

"Yeah, Marta, she just might be. Maybe any other woman looking that way might not be all here, but Freea has an intensity. I could feel warmth radiate from those eyes of hers. She seemed very much aware of what was happening, directly observing it all in a subtle, playfully amused way."

Josh continued on, changing the subject. "Oh, I showed a couple of my pals my makeover. You know, they were actually offended that I cut my long hair, and they said I really changed. 'Guys, it's still me,' I told them, but I could see they felt I had changed. They'll get over it, I'm sure; but it was wierd how it affected them. Well, maybe I am changing," Josh quipped.

"Yeah, our education is beginning. Hey, I'm a college grad—daughter of a Ph.D. professor! I guess all those books and thinking hasn't stopped me from reacting to people and situations with the usual judgments."

"Yeah, we have adapted to life on Planet Earth in a lot of schizoid ways. I hope you aren't too offended to hear my confession—I was attracted to you because of your beautiful, round ass—pretty sexist, huh? Maybe the attraction was really deeper, but I was thinking with my hormones again," Josh admitted with a laugh.

Marta peered into Josh's eyes, "Can't say I'm not guilty of that either," she laughed. "I just like to think I'm above all of that, too. Joshua, you're a pretty special man. Maybe you aren't from Earth at all."

Josh grinned. "I'm not that special . . . maybe I'm just working up my courage to get you in bed again. You shocked me the first time with the passion of your logic."

"Really?" asked Marta. "Josh, you can't hit me with this now, I gotta run to make the meeting." Marta scooped up a bouquet of carnations wrapped in clear plastic which she intended to give Freea as a gift. "We'll talk tomorrow."

Josh walked out behind her into the foggy evening. He had tried to tell her of his illegal status in America but felt the time was not quite right. He had lost almost all traces of his British accent in the last year. No one ever remarked on the origin of his ancestry anymore. He was a jack of many trades—carpentry, graphic arts, painting, plumbing. He had learned various trades to survive, and most often had no trouble finding employers who would pay him money up front. He was tired of the fear that his lifestyle and choice of country provided him with, and had been close to making a decision to go back to England. But that was before he met Marta. That was before he had the disturbing dreams about his mother. Freea was in them, too.

The dreams, and Freea's role in them, had confounded him. She was either laughing at him, or goading him to take a risk, to understand, to face himself. But what was it that he needed to understand, to face? One of the dreams repeatedly haunted him. Freea was introducing him to two women who both looked like his mother. The difference between the two was acute. One of the "mothers" was angry, old-looking, haggard and sickly. She sat in her rocking chair day in and day out mumbling bitter words.

The other "mother" was an energetic, bright-looking woman in good health. She was apparently an artist and was surrounded by a wall of paintings, with an easel and palette of paints in front of her. When he walked towards the brighter woman the angry, bitter one moved between them. She spoke vehemently, "You're just like your father. I spent my life caring for you, giving you and your father everything. But I never received anything back from you. You will pay for this, you will," and the old hag pointed a cursing finger at him. Josh was terrified of the woman and the pain she was in. He noticed Freea watching, studying him.

Josh thought of his mother often now. He knew there were a lot of unresolved feelings between them but he avoided resolving them. He hadn't written her in over two years.

What really happened years ago when his mother was involved with Freea for a brief time before his father laid down the law that she couldn't continue her study? He wondered. Who is the other woman/mother in my dreams? Was she the woman my mother wanted to become and would have become if she had continued her study with Freea? He wanted to ask his mother about her connection with Freea, about that part of their family history, but he wasn't ready to push into his own unresolved, angry feelings toward her and his father. Josh turned off the engine and sat for a moment in his Bug, allowing old buried feelings to surface. He tapped his key ring on the steering wheel. I wonder how all this ties in with Marta and with her becoming a student of Freea's?

Marta was surprised when she arrived at the cottage doorstep and was greeted by a stranger. The woman introduced herself as Ursula and, in a very formal, polite manner, guided her in to see Freea. Freea acknowledged Marta's presence with a bemused smile and gestured for her to sit on the couch across from her.

Ursula quickly dismissed herself. Marta watched the exchange between them. Her manner towards the teacher was one of an acolyte. Ursula was attentive to Freea's remarks and it was clear there was a deep level of respect and love between them.

Marta was curious about Ursula and her herstory with their teacher, but it was obvious that she would not be given a moment to inquire—Ursula was getting ready to make her departure.

Freea spoke up, "Marta, my friend Ursula is a good woman to get to know. I have asked her to drop by on occasion during our meetings." Marta wasn't sure what to say, so she just smiled.

"I am happy to meet you, Marta." Ursula extended her hand. "I must leave now. It is your time with Freea." She bowed her head slightly, gazed into Freea's eyes, and closed the front door of the cottage behind her without a noise.

Freea was posed to sit in the Silence. Marta sat Indian style in front of her teacher. Her mind was very active and she tried not to get lost in its wanderings—to stay focused and present. Marta felt a strong impulse to open her eyes. When she did, her teacher was gazing into her eyes. Marta could feel herself being pulled into a state of calmness through Freea's eyes, even though her mind was still active with distractions of its own. Like a radio that never turns off, she thought. Freea was pulling the plug on the radio, broadcasting the message of the Heart: be with me now, with yourself. Freea ended the meditation period by uncrossing her ankles and smiling at Marta.

"I suggest you start a journal to record our meetings, to use as a chronicle of your adventures and understanding of Freedom."

Marta nodded. She uncrossed her legs and rubbed her right foot. It had fallen asleep.

"How is my gift—Josh, is that his name?" asked Freea. Marta smiled, thinking of Josh's image change. Marta conveyed to Freea the story of Josh's makeover and her shock of seeing him at her door with a buzz and a pair of red-rimmed glasses. Freea clapped her hands in delightful appreciation of the story. "I see you have been a help to him already, but remember Marta, he is my gift."

Marta was perplexed about why her teacher called Josh "her gift." If pressed to understand, her gut feeling would have told her that Freea was hinting that Josh was a student of hers also.

"Are you two lovers?" Freea asked.

"Well," Marta paused, struggling with how to explain the vow of friendship and celibacy between them. "We are just friends, we have chosen not to be lovers. We even took a vow to remain sex-free," laughed Marta, "but I have a feeling that in the near future we will become lovers."

Freea was serious now, "Marta, if you both keep your vow I feel you can help each other more. Consider this matter very carefully. Do you think that this vow came about because you and Josh needed it?"

Marta raised her eyebrow, a facial gesture she always used when she was reflecting deeply.

Freea added, "Think about it some more before you casually decide to break it."

"All right," Marta agreed, "I won't break the vow casually. I'll give it some deeper attention if we decide to have sex together."

As before, Freea ended the meeting abruptly. Marta recognized the signals, gathered her purse, and put on her shoes. She made an attempt to emulate Ursula's tender acknowledgement of respect for her teacher by bowing slightly, but she just felt foolish.

"Oh, wait a minute. You can't leave without your next assignment. Sit down, I'll tell you what it is. It's to do a walkabout. From sunrise to sunset walkabout. Bring food, water, and your journal with you. I suggest a state or national park—a lonely stretch of country is a good place to do it."

Marta was already envisioning where she would wander when she opened her car door. Oh, how interesting, I'll spend a whole day hiking. It'll be great.

"What did she say about your new look?" Josh eagerly asked Marta.

"She never made any mention of it."

Josh continued his eager, curious probing of Marta's meeting with Freea. She shared some details, some of her feelings, but excluded the conversation about her interest in becoming Josh's lover. Marta was uneasy with Josh's endless questions. I barely, if at all, understand what is going on between Freea and me and where it's leading.

"Where are you going for your walkabout, Marta?"

"I'll never tell!" Marta shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. "Listen Josh, I have to figure it out yet and I'm not sure I want to tell anyone about it until it's over, okay?"

"Yeah, I'm getting ahead of myself. Sorry, I'll back off." Fascinating . . . a walkabout. Josh rubbed his chin and then, in a familiar gesture, spread his fingers through his hair temporarily forgetting his buzz until his fingertips met with short bristles.

Marta teased, "Where are you going for your walkabout? It seems we are in this together so far."

"I was already planning in my mind . . . "

"Josh!" Marta gave him a good hard push and he landed on her soft corduroy couch.

After Josh departed, Marta put on her favorite sweats and curled up in bed with her new purchase, a large journal with a black and white striped cover. She let her thoughts scribble onto the pages. She thought of Ursula and wondered how long she had known Freea. Marta sucked on the black tip of the ball point pen and closed her eyes for a moment. She recalled the scene between Ursula and Freea—Ursula's bright attention, the grace and loving connection between the two women. Perhaps they are related, relatives . . . there is such a strong resemblance between them. "I hope I will have a chance to get to know Ursula," Marta wrote, "Freea on the other hand will probably remain as mysterious and as frustrating as the first time I met her."