I am indebted to William Lee "Billy" Clayton III and to
Bhagavan Das
who inspired this conversation.
Foreword:
I've written
Three Stairs At A Time
like a
paintingcollage
(creativeinterpretation)
rather than like a photograph (factual account). It comprises
1)
vignettes which really happened in the past,
2)
one or two possibilities for the present / future, and
3)
a dream sequence.
"You're up!" she says to me, smiling. She's not smiling with amusement.
Hers isn't even a greeting smile really. Although she's happy, it isn't
a smile because she's happy. Rather it's a smile for
what's about to happen for me. And she knows what's
about to happen for me. "Thank You!" I say, slowly and pointedly.
"You're welcome" she says. It's a bit too cliché‑ic
for me - at least it could be. But, after all, it's just
my
interpretation.
So I say again "No really, Thank You!", more firmly this time. "You're
welcome," she says again, with exactly the same intonation as before,
"have a good meeting.".
To get to our meeting, I have to go down a flight of stairs, cross over
an open space, then climb up another flight of stairs. Carefully,
slowly, sedately I turn and head toward the first flight
of stairs. But as soon as I reach the top of the stairs, it's as if the
afterburners of my
F15 Strike
Eagle
jet kick in. I'm
catapulted
down the stairs. I'm taking three stairs at a time and
still I can't get myself down them fast enough. My hands grasp the
railings on each side. Now I'm actually pulling myself
down the stairs with my arms - even faster than my legs
can move me. Yet I still can't do it fast enough.
When I'm four stairs from the bottom I jump for the floor, landing
about five feet in front of the staircase, breaking immediately into a
run - no, a sprint. I'm flying so fast I nearly lose my footing
after my second stride. The thing is I'm so alert that I'm
thinking faster than I'm running ... so just as a
face plant seems imminent, I still have enough
presence
of mind to lower first my one hand and then my other hand to
the floor coming up fast to greet me - for a brief moment I'm running
on my hands and on my feet before I recover my balance and
am able to resume running fully upright ("Phew!" escapes
my thoughts and pops audibly out of my mouth) continuing to fly, barely
slowed, toward the second staircase.
Closer and closer
... I can't wait! Five feet from the second staircase I
leap toward it, landing securely on the fourth stair. Carried forward
and upward by my momentum I run up the stairs, again
taking three stairs at a time, making (surprisingly) very little noise.
In one bound I reach the top of the stairs with a leap from the third
stair from the top. It's enough of a leap to carry me up two
more stairs - that is, if there were two more
stairs. Reaching the top of the stairs is a triumph. Ordinarily,
reaching the top of a flight of stairs is seldom deemed to be a
triumph. However, reaching the top of this flight
of stairs is exactly that: a triumph.
Now, finally, I'm in front of the door, completely out of breath
... and ecstatic. Breathing in gasps, my chest expands and contracts,
heaving rapidly. I pause, catching my breath. I ready my fist and am
about to knock ... but then, on second thought, I hold back. As my
chest heaves slower, I realize I've got more to do before proceeding
than merely catching my breath. So I stand here, flat footed, slack
shouldered, until I'm really calm and totally relaxed. Now
my breath has normalized completely. Everything in the corridor is
quiet and still. For the first time I notice recessed shelves with
vases filled minimalistically (ie brilliantly
minimalistically) with
orchids,
and huge white
canvas
prints daubed with plain black
watercolorpaint
from oversized brushes
demonstrating
the gentle yet electrifying Japanese
Zenart
of calligraphy.
I straighten my collar and tuck in my shirt where it's pulled up from
my belt. Slowly I raise my hands, lower my head and, with the heels of
my thumbs against my temples, smooth back my hair on the sides, patting
it down on the top with my fingers. When I'm finally ready, collected,
and the hyperdrive which got me here has come to a completely empty
stop, only then do I reach out and knock on the door - once, pause, and
then only once again.
Without waiting for an answer (given the protocol for this scheduled
occasion, it's not expected), I grip the doorknob and turn it. It has
some weight to it, a nice heft. As the door opens,
I see the room's interior pleasantly lit - brilliantly so in fact, but
not overpoweringly bright. With my hand still holding the doorknob, I
call out
decisively
but not too loudly, announcing myself: "It's Laurence.". A moment of
silence which seems like an eternity, follows. I'm happy - no, elated -
no, ecstatic. It's a very high space. I'm here, fully
present,
not expecting anything, glad and appreciative to be with whatever's to
come
next.
It's a space of anything's possible. Mostly it's a space
supercharged with love and
anticipation.
That's when, mingling into my reverie, I hear his unmistakable voice
coming from somewhere inside the room: "Oh good! Hi Lar.
Come in.".
At the sound of it, in a split-second I go from standing stock still to
one powerful flowing movement entering the room completely. Then I pull
the door firmly closed behind my back until it latches (not slams) with
a solid click.