Christa Victoria

(1) A Place Called Home

It was still cold in London although summer had arrived. The skies were filled with an endless formation of clouds while the amber glow of a brilliant circle of light against a darkening backdrop revealed the assemblage point of the universe. This was a time of day where the changing of the guards took their rightful position in the heavens. The sun faded as the moon gained its power. Traffic lights morphed into iridescent greens, yellows and reds as they stood apart from the dimming city commotion. A tall, slender figure clad in heavy black clothes stepped off the bus onto Worple Road. She drew the coat collar tightly around her neck and adjusted the woolen scarf as a chilly wind picked up, swirling bits of dust and debris around her ankles. Hands shoved deeply in her pockets, she walked the rest of the block that was soon to become a familiar path. The key in the door, the sound of the consenting “click” as it opened and Vicki was home.

She stepped into the foyer dimly lit by the glow of light emanating from the kitchen. Smells of sweet onions sautéing on the stove wafted into the semi-spacious room tickling her hunger. It had to be Heller. Although a little more than two weeks had passed since staying at the boarding house, Heller was the only one she’d seen cook, with exception to one other tenant who graced the kitchen late afternoons with an annoying, pungent smelling meal. Vicki wrinkled her nose and shifted her attention towards the mail strewn across the small wooden table, secretly hoping a letter awaited her. Even though Italy was now becoming a distant memory, she had lingering thoughts of the love she left there. She swooned momentarily lost in the memory of his powerful arms, his smile, his eyes. And the lie she caught in them. The cold hard truth was he left HER there. Alone. While he gallivanted off to Northern Italy to play nurse to some young, rich widow filled with stories of woe and a very large collection of historical paintings that needed to be photographed. It would take weeks. He gladly accepted the task and felt compelled to comfort her in any manner necessary while she grieved over the passing of her ancient, decrepit, scandalously rich husband. She had inherited a dynasty after only two years of marriage. How much crying could she do…all the way to the bank? And Vicki’s love of a lifetime was right there, calling her sporadically with untrues and tall tales while manipulatively enraptured in the grieving widow, her outstretched needy arms, and her spoils. Sick, Vicki thought. What the fuck was she swooning over?

Pain edged in as the points of her new leather boots began choking her toes to exhaustion. She frowned from the intrusion and turned towards her and Heller’s room. A sudden loud thud resonated from somewhere in the house near the stairs. Vicki froze. An eerie sick feeling slipped into the pit of her stomach. What was that? Could it have come from the landlord’s room? She examined Tim’s closed door for a moment before tiptoeing over to listen. Faint snoring sounds seeped through the wooden barrier. It certainly wasn’t him. Could’ve been anything, she determined. Maybe one of the upstairs tenants dropped something heavy onto the floor. Must’ve been more tired than she realized. Gotta be the shoes, she thought as the points squeezed its occupants even tighter. She managed a small chuckle just before another loud thud resonated in the foyer. It was much louder than the first and had unequivocally come from the stairwell. The pit of her stomach became heavier. She took in a short gulp of air and exhaled sharply trying to dispel the load that had settled within. Had anyone else heard it? She waited. No one had come running out from their rooms, and Heller was still busy cooking in the kitchen. The stairs creaked and Vicki swung around hard, straining to focus into the darkness. Her eyes fell upon something even murkier than its surroundings, perched on the landing. She stared until her eyes watered, her brain trying desperately to articulate what sat crouched in the shadows. Hello, she called out cautiously but there was no response, no sound. Reflections of headlights from passing cars glowed eerily through the stained glass door animating two fiery pinpoints of light on the thickened shadow on the stairwell. Something was tracking her. Vicki shifted her stance. Her eyes widened as the play of light came closer and her imagination kicked in. Flickering eyes scanned her every move. Drenched with unease she inched backwards. Was something actually there? Was she being watched? Was it ready to pounce? Her hand anxiously groped for the light switch. Where the fuck was it? Nervous fingers patted the wall until they found their target. Vicki flipped the switch. An onslaught of light gushed onto the stairwell filling every crevice. She stood breathless, eyes glued to the landing, watching for any flicker of movement. The stairwell reeked of normalcy. Vicki didn’t move until her mind released its grip and the pit of her stomach began to lighten. Edginess still lingered as she entered her room. A long day had just ended and she had fallen victim to its illusions. She was lost in thought. Something beyond Vicki’s comprehension was settling in and she, an unknowing participant in its evolution.

This was the first of many experiences staying with Heller on Worple Road. The boarding house had an international flair with people of different cultural backgrounds. There was German, British, Irish, Scottish, West Indian and now American coexisting in the two-story house. Four bedrooms were located on the second floor. The second level tenants shared a large bathroom complete with tub and shower. The smaller bathroom downstairs had only a shower and was used specifically by the occupants whose bedrooms were on the ground floor, that being the landlord, Heller and Vicki. It was located just beyond the kitchen and on the other side of the back porch. Upstairs tenants were not allowed access. Common areas shared were the foyer, kitchen and back porch where a washing machine, dryer and two mini refrigerators lived. Vicki had met all but one tenant on separate occasions, and found them to be warm and friendly. There was still one left to meet. Heller, oblivious to his new girlfriend’s disturbing episode, called out from the kitchen.

‘Vicki, is that you?’

‘Yes Heller, just give me a moment,’ she answered easing off her boots. The painful reminders were tossed into the freestanding wooden closet as she sunk into the soft cushions of the aqua couch, stretching her aching toes towards the crackling fire, embraced by its soothing heat. Vicki depended upon the gas lit fireplace to ward off the cold London seemed to offer at any point throughout the year. There was always a slight chill in the house and Tim was cheap on heat. It’s summer now and we don’t need to run heating, became his daily mantra. He’d check the thermostat from time to time to make sure his rules were being adhered to after discovering someone had been naughty and upped the temperature. Incandescent flames bathed fire into her cheeks as she leaned in closer, relaxing her guard and eventually melting the dark specter that had swept through her mind. She didn’t move until Heller’s voice prodded her once again.

Hurriedly she slipped into black sweats and a pullover and took a quick glance around the room. The round aqua table in the alcove was a mess. In one sweep, loose papers were stacked neatly, both high back chairs scooted under the tabletop, white window shears drawn, and the heavy aqua colored drapes pulled closed. Vicki refolded the brightly colored afghan and smoothed it evenly over the back of the couch. Satisfied that everything appeared in order she closed the door and walked into the kitchen. Peeled, sliced potatoes crackled and popped as Heller dropped them amongst sweet onions sizzling in hot oil. More potatoes lined the cutting board ready to be sliced.

‘Don’t worry Heller, I’ll finish the rest,’ Vicki said kissing him lightly on the lips. She ran her hands under the tap and grabbed the towel, drying them before taking over the task.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ he checked with her.

‘No problem sweetness. This is a breeze!’ Heller cracked a smile and headed for the door.

‘Heller?’ Vicki stopped him. ‘Thank you for welcoming me in your home.’ I think, she said under her breath.

‘You are ever welcome in my life!’ Heller blew her a kiss and walked out of the kitchen. Vicki, smiling to herself, picked up the butcher knife, allowing the sharp blade to sink into a skinned potato. She cut two slices but never arrived at the third. Standing motionless, her breath caught, knife frozen in mid air. Her head instinctively turned towards the doorway, eyes remaining absorbed in a mechanical stare. Fear had slipped in once again, gripping her attention.

PREFACE

This book is a very important segment of my life. It is my journey. The shared experiences with my best friend and mate Gela were profound, incredibly loving, difficult, growing and mirroring. In learning to let go of him now, I can only give thanks, for without his loving energy this saga would not be experienced nor written. The first draft, a chronological account of events was extremely important to me, just as it all happened. But I eventually learned this is not necessarily the best read. Finally after many rewrites and several years later, as wisdom and knowledge shaped my growth, I allowed myself to let go of exactness and lend to the journey. Oh, what a journey! And that ol’ question…if you had it to do all over again what would you change? Not a thing. Not one thing. The spiritual journey that light and dark forces initiated are all instrumental to this book. I cried many a tear, oceans of them, finding them valuable to cleansing the heart. Laughter has lent itself to a lightness of being and an appreciation for life. Struggles, so many of them, have left me at times sitting absolutely motionless, holding my breath, daring not to move lest I break into a million pieces.

The incredible learning lessons passed on to me by those who have been instrumental to my growth and knowledge have become sacred teachings expressed within these pages. The search for self in the spiritual, materialistic and realistic world has pushed me constantly forward. We’ve all been the teacher and student at the same time, elder watching youth stumble through the trials of life, or observer peeping the observed. It’s unavoidable and part of the human experience. There is a middle ground, however, where both are able to communicate oneness. On The Path reflects a way to the middle ground through a sharing of unique experiences.

I have met teachers all over the world and I have made an account of those who walk in the light, and those who manipulate the light for their own personal gain. And then there are dark forces that always seem to creep in making certain situations horrifying. Although I’ve experienced many teachers and guides, there is one teacher, Ananda, for the last 10 years, that has influenced me strongly enough to include his teachings in the Final Gate of this book. His bold, brazen, raw lectures are so electrifying I chose not to alter or substitute his words for my own. What you read is true to his expression and experience.

Through example, Ananda has shared techniques to enlightenment and bottom-line truth. He has taught me and many others to “stand in the totality of yourself no matter what you are” and has been influential to my stripping away layers of illusions and crust, so that I may finally…come to me. And now, with his health failing, the letting go process will inevitably have to happen, once again. In these precious moments he is teaching us how to die in order to live our lives with joy. Ananda is the living example of truth personified.

It is my sincerest desire and goal to become the ‘beacon’ of light for others, as Ananda has been for and to me. Knowing that I am not invincible, I am not immortal, I AM going to die, propels me to live life fully, embracing every moment whether wee or grand. “Be present now…now be present!” his voice booms. It is my destiny through this saga, to pass these teachings on, sharing the meaning of laughter, tears, loving and letting go, for in this life all of us are truly the vehicle, the journey and the destination...on the path.

With light, spirit and love,

Christa Victoria

Christa Victoria

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Let Go of the Pebbles (A Promise to my Inner Child)

Monday, March 12, 2012

On The Path - The First Gate - Chapter 1 - A Place Called Home

On The Path - One warrior's fierce, spiritual journey into the unknown facing love, laughter, fears, and letting go....a true story by Christa Victoria (c) 2008