You to You

I’ve told you about a writing retreat I was on years ago with writer Emily Hanlon. Here’s a story from that retreat.

There were about twenty of us women, from all over the U.S., and all ages, staying in an abbey house in a little village in England and we could explore the village during our free time. There was a man in town who ran a little shop of tourist items and had just about everything in it. He was the seventh son of a seventh son--very prophetic in some cultures. We called him the Blessed Be man, because each person who went to see him got a tchotchke item and a personalized message from him, and the messages always ended with the words Blessed Be.

Each day the writers would gather in group sessions to write and discuss, a.k.a. group, and we’d know who’d been to see the Blessed Be man based on the awesome and colorful new things they’d bring in. Having visited the shop, these writers would march in, tall and proud, with items in hand (or on head) that made clanging or tinkling sounds. They held themselves differently; their postures were a little straighter and their eyes had a sparkle and we knew they’d just had an extraordinary experience at the Blessed Be shop. We’d settle in to group and listen to their stories before we’d do any writing.

One day, my friend wore a lumpy emerald green hat that stuck out off her head nearly a foot in all directions. Emily herself brought in a little totem-pole type staff with dangling beads and a turtle on top of it.

After a few days, I went to see the Blessed Be man myself. Of course I did. We all did. But he was so busy flirting with the Dragon Lady--a redheaded woman from our group whom he’d started calling The Dragon the moment we walked in the door--so the others and I just wandered around the shop looking at all the trinkets. By my third trip around the store, I simply interrupted them. The Dragon Lady introduced me. [I wish I could remember her name because I liked her. She did yoga in the mornings and invited any of us who wanted to get up early to join her, no experience required. It was earlier than I wanted to get up but I did it anyway and found most of the writing group was there. At least, the good people were there—you know what I mean. In any group setting you can make friends with some people as if you’ve known each other forever, and then there are those you avoid like the plague because they’re needy, dramatic, fussy--you know the type. Anyway, the Dragon Lady was one of the best. She was into homeopathic medicines, yoga, and good wine.]

So I asked the Blessed Be man point blank, “What about me? Do you have something to tell me?”

And he looked at me, so I in turn, got a good look at him. He was tall, thin, with sandy brown hair that was neither short nor long. He was probably in his thirties but had some weathering to his face that made him seem older. He wore long, flowing clothing like a cross between a hippie and a Pope. And he gave me a message that was unforgettable.

“You are The Goddess,” he said. (This was not the message; that’s still coming.) He said it simply and then went back to flirting with The Dragon. And he didn’t even try to sell me a tchotchke.

So I turned this over in my mind. Not “a” goddess, but “the.” I thought about this, feeling like I should know better. But, seriously; What?!? And I just hated to ask. “I’m sorry. Goddess? What does The Goddess do?”

In order to face me, he pulled his eyes away from The Dragon--with visible effort--but he did not let go of her hand, I noticed. “When you come to a door,” he said, “You open it and go through.”

Not what I was expecting, but these were just words. The look on his face, though, now that was the message. It was kind. It was direct. It said: You don’t need me to explain you to you.

Sometimes you find yourself waiting to hear just the right words--words that will unlock the answers for you and the world will make sense. But most times, deep down, you already know the answers.

So the next time you travel halfway across the world and find someone who can explain the universe to you, maybe—just maybe—think twice. Because you likely don’t need anyone to explain you to you.