Part Seven - January 1952, 9:00 AM
The next day I walked with Sonia to a cluster of palms
overlooking the sea. We sat, leaning against the trees. It
was quiet and warm. Life seemed kind. It did not force you to
stare at your own face in the mirror and watch yourself
mauled by time and your own folly. The only mirror was the
sea, and it was too big to look into — so big, that only
suns, moons and stars could watch themselves pass and go,
always young, flowing into the vast stream of time.
Sonia listened without interrupting me while I told her
as much as I could remember of the days before Ron's leaving.
She was so still, I felt I was talking to the wind; and my
words floated quietly among the trees bathed in light. When I
finished telling of Ron's letter, I glanced at her. Her eyes
were closed. Silence was unhurried. It, too, flowed along
Then she opened her eyes, and I saw in them much peace
and great faith.
"I am so glad," she said, "so glad for them. I do not
know Mr. Ramar, of course, but it was as if his presence
enfolded us both while you were talking. He must be a very
great being . . . I wonder where they went . . . But it does
not matter. I feel sure all is well. They must be living what
others can only talk about." She turned to me, suddenly. "Are
you not glad also — for them?"
I dared not answer . . . not quite, as yet. My feelings
were still raw from too many self-inflicted tortures. I was
only beginning to know they were self-inflicted.
"Do you know, then," I finally asked, "that Ron and Emerald
really did go to their planets? Has anyone described anything
like what they apparently saw, or experienced?"
"I have no right to say," she answered, "whether or not
they did. All I can say is that what you reported of Mr.
Ramar's words about the solar system and man's cosmic
personality fits in quite well with what many sages and seers
of old have tried to say. Of course, they told it in symbols,
rather than in terms of the kind of facts which our
civilization prizes so exclusively that it has only scorn for
all others. Today, we try to go from objective sensations and
experiments to subjective psychological realizations. Other
races went from subjective experiences to the world of
material objects, which they saw as the mere reflections of
inner psychological realities. Perhaps some men still live
who have retained this kind of knowledge and are adepts at
it, as our engineers are master mechanics. Perhaps there are
beings among us who came from other planets, solar men,
perhaps? Didn't you speak several times of gold — golden
light, golden brown eyes — of a sun-symbol in Mr. Ramar's
studio. Perhaps he is, in some sense which we cannot fathom,
a being from the sun? But why should I go on imagining? I
believe that Ron knows now. And I have faith he will return .
. . in some way. And I too shall know, at least a little
more. You also, Mr Probeck — if you can stop being afraid,
and being bitter, as you appear to have been."
"I suppose I was afraid. But why, why?"
"Never ask why," she interrupted me emphatically, "in
such a way! What do you think is asking in you? Only your
ego, your poor little ego, which gets hurt, resentful, lost."
I looked at her, wondering, still uncertain. Something
in me wanted to fight back, to sneer bitterly: "And suppose
they are merely having an exciting affair, glamour or no
glamour?" But I couldn't say it out loud. Maybe my look
revealed the still bleeding wound to my pride, for Sonia's
expression became stern, "If only you could stop fighting
your real self, your greater self." She rose and we walked
back to the hotel in silence . . . but the silence was not
kind any longer. The wind was gathering force. It blew now
from the north. It was still winter. It was still uncertain.
I saw Sonia only two or three more times, briefly. January
had come, bringing many visitors. She had friends, and very soon
she left for Arizona. She worked every winter in Phoenix, in
an art shop. But she promised to phone me on her return to
New York in the spring.
My time of rest also was coming to an end; the three
months leave I had been given to recuperate were about over.
I flew back to New York — and resumed my work as an editor.
13 February 1952
Now, two weeks of that time have passed, and St.
Valentine's Day is ahead, once more. Two hectic, exhausting weeks of reorganization, conferences, interviews and
manuscript reading. My head has been nearly bursting, after
the long idleness. And the return to the familiar offices,
the desks with new figures occupying them! It is hard. Am I
also "new" perhaps? How new, I wonder. Am I still "afraid of
my greater self?"
Yesterday the pressure became almost unbearable. Ghost
of yesteryear. Old bitterness, old fears, old guilt. Some
chance acquaintance told me Jacqueline died. A car accident
— racing with drunken men on the Hudson Parkway. The car
turned over and plunged into the river. Help came to late. I
had not been the first one to push her toward that end, of
course. And yet, I felt some responsibility. My very fresh
(too fresh and tender!) sense of assurance was being
shattered, it seemed, overpowered by the leftovers of the
past. Was it hopeless? Was I to sink back into the quicksands
of my upsurging subconscious? No. No, I cannot! I must not.
The day had turned prematurely warm, as I wrote earlier.
I had struggled in vain to write a brief story, to fill some
empty pages in the magazine where nothing of the right length
would fit. A stupid way of doing things! Then, when I came
home, tired of the office people, I thought of an editorial.
An elusive idea floated around my brain, something about the
psychological value of fantasy in an age left with so little
faith. I should know! Wasn't I struggling desperately to find
a substitute for the faith I dared not have? Faith in the
inner growth of man, faith in something, within man, one
could call "divine?" Couldn't such faith be renewed by our
creative imagination, if religion, as we know it today, could
not arouse us any longer into being more than what we see
ourselves to be, in the chaos of our cities, of our ghastly
It would have to be written very simply, convincingly.
And though I tried hard, I couldn't. The past intruded. It
was then that Emerald's voice seemed to come to me, again —
the first time since I had come back to the city. And I
started writing all these pages which now litter the desk.
I wrote for hours, stopping only twice to make some
strong coffee and munch some chocolate. I have just re-read
the whole story. I feel very strange, should I say,
disassociated? — a nice psychological term, anyway. All
these pages, little bits of mirror. And me, broken up in as
many small pieces! But somehow there is more to me than
these. There is the writer, the watcher, the witness. He,
perhaps, is I. He, perhaps, knows, is secure, has faith!
It must be. There must be something. There must be "he."
How can I be sure, beyond all doubting, beyond all fears?
There must be a way. Who will show me the way?
Through the east window, over Washington Square, dawn comes.
Is it an answer? But when one is as tired as I am, one looks
everywhere for an answer. If one looks intently enough, isn't
that creative imagination? Isn't that faith, a living faith?
There are so many questions unanswered. They dance around me.
Me, the ego — involved, so tightly involved in them; for
they are the stuff of myself, the stuff of my everydays,
which has been challenged . . . and could not respond, expect
by flight, by escape.
Who will answer the un-answerable? God, if there is God,
will you answer . . . ?
14 February 1952, Dawn
Hours later . . . Every story must have an end, even if
that end is only a beginning wrapped in an exclamation point!
And so, this tells about the end which I knew — yes, I know
— is only a beginning.
When I wrote the last words above, I felt so weary I
could only reach my studio couch and drop down on it. I must
have slept a few hours. And I dreamt, if one could call it a
dream. I don't recall much of it. All the beginning is lost.
But there was a sense of climbing a sharp mountain slope, a
sense of effort and of great fatigue. I don't remember how I
came into a large room — perhaps dug into the rock, perhaps
a cave — but there was light, a high ceiling. I walked on
something resilient. I don't know if it was wood; carpeting,
perhaps. Everything is vague in my memory, except this: In
the room stood majestic men and women, simply dressed. They
walked slowly, almost luminous in their motions. Somehow they
drew me into their midst, though I remember no one speaking.
There may have been twenty or more of them. Their rank parted
as I came closer. And my heart nearly stopped as I saw,
standing very still, Ron and Emerald.
Facing them was Mr. Ramar, more radiant than ever. And
on the wall behind him I could see an immense metallic form.
It was like the sun-symbol I had seen in his studio — but
much larger. Ramar was saying something, but I could not hear
the words. The tall men around me were now standing still.
Their eyes, I felt, were fixed intently upon the golden sun-
disc which was hanging on the wall.
Ramar moved forward. Two men stood in back of Ron,
a youth stood near Emerald. As Emerald bent her head, I saw Ramar put one hand on Ron's
shoulder, the other on Emerald's head. There was an
extraordinary hum filling the whole room, pervading me as I
stood, transfixed. A tremendous light seemed to pour through
the sun-disc — as if it were translucent, a window in some
mysterious space beyond space itself. And within the
miraculous light, I saw vast, incredibly deep tender Eyes
condense. A Face which no words can describe. As I write, I
can still see It faintly, very faintly. . . Now, It is gone.
The light pervaded everything, everyone, but I think it
focused upon Ramar. He was lost in the light. His arms were
streams of light. And the light poured into Ron and Emerald.
Then it all faded out. I was in another room, very bare.
Sunlight poured through a high window. There was a plain
couch, a table and chair. Emerald was standing, facing me,
her hands outstretched. Her face was glowing. She said, and
her voice was singing with joy, "Oh, Dick! You have come. How
I stared at her . . . the room, she herself, were
vanishing in a golden mist. Almost desperate, I cried,
"Emerald! Emerald! Is it a dream? How can I be sure? How can
For a moment, the mist held still. It condensed. Emerald
was smiling. In her right hand she held a golden object, gave
it to me. I recognized it. It was the small Tibetan bronze Dorje which I had noticed in her room when I had visited her. She had explained its sacred meaning.
I woke up, suddenly. Warm sunlight was streaming from
the window of my study. I rose quickly, wondering . . .
trying to recall the dream. "I must have dreamt," I thought.
"Why must it be only a dream?"
I felt dazed. It was very light, it must be nearly noon,
I thought. My eyes wandered around the room. My desk, papers.
Yes, of course, I had written all night. I walked to the
desk. I stopped.
On the sheets I had filled with memories during the
night lay Emerald's Dorje. I bent over it, my heart beating
wildly, my head swimming. I touched it . . . it was real. It
I dropped to the floor. I knelt. Tears were bursting
forth, uncontrollably, Joy, ecstasy. Oh, what can I call this
that tore through me like a flood of inexpressible happiness!
Awkwardly, I hit my head upon the desk. Words raced through
my mind. "I believe . . . I know!"
Copyright © 2001 by Leyla Rudhyar Hill.
All Rights Reserved.
Illustation ("Creative Man" by Dane Rudhyar, 1946)
Copyright © 2001 by Leyla Rudhyar Hill.
All Rights Reserved.
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