The Journey to Eternity — Chapter Twenty-Two: Those Who Chose to Stay

Chapter Twenty-Two of my book, The Journey to Eternity, shared here chapter by chapter as I write it. Earlier chapters: Chapter One · Chapter Two · Chapter Three · Chapter Four · Chapter Five · Chapter Six · Chapter Seven · Chapter Eight · Chapter Nine · Chapter Ten · Chapter Eleven · Chapter Twelve · Chapter Thirteen · Chapter Fourteen · Chapter Fifteen · Chapter Sixteen · Chapter Seventeen · Chapter Eighteen · Chapter Nineteen · Chapter Twenty · Chapter Twenty-One.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Those Who Chose to Stay

When we entered the City of Consciousnesses, I noticed a change I had not seen before.

The lights moving between the buildings were no more numerous, and the quiet streets looked as I remembered them. And yet something in the way the consciousnesses met was different.

Near one of the buildings stood three figures. Two of them were talking, and the third moved slightly away. The others did not try to stop her. They waited until she returned, and then went on talking.

The sight was so simple that I almost passed it by without noticing.

But after the visit to the Valley of Consent, I could not ignore it.

I thought of the old man who had asked to know that he could leave the connection and return to it of his own will.

Perhaps freedom is not always the ability to reach another place.

Sometimes it is knowing that we will not have to explain why we need distance.

Eliya noticed my gaze.

"What did you see?" she asked.

I pointed at the three figures.

She looked at them.

"They are learning to listen to one another."

"Did they not do that before?"

"They listened to thoughts. Now they are beginning to listen to silences as well."

I looked at her.

"Is there a difference?"

"A very great one."

She smiled faintly.

"A thought that someone shares is an invitation to listen. A silence can be a request that we not enter."

We went on walking.

For the first time I understood how hard this listening could be for a consciousness able to hear far beyond words.

Adara was waiting for us in the library.

Liara and Sahar were already there.

On the large table in the center of the room lay seven transparent tablets, and within them tiny signs moved. Adara stood beside them, absorbed in examining them.

When Eliya entered, she raised her head.

For a moment the two of them looked at each other without speaking.

I knew there was a long past between them, but I did not know how much of it was shared.

"Eliya," Adara said at last.

"I heard you are looking for a way to open the passage."

"We are looking for a way to understand why the earlier attempts failed."

Eliya came closer to the table.

"I want to help."

Adara nodded.

There was no excitement of reunion between them.

There was a feeling of two women carrying a shared memory, who still did not know how to speak of it.

I sat down beside them.

"Before we continue," I said, "I want to ask something."

They all looked at me.

"We talk all the time about the way to bring the consciousnesses out of the disconnected space. But have we asked all of them whether they want to come out?"

Adara lowered her gaze to the tablets.

"We have heard many of them asking to be freed."

"That is not what I asked."

Liara came closer.

"Do you think there are some who prefer to stay?"

"I do not know. But if we intend to let them choose, we need to be ready also for an answer we do not want to hear."

Sahar sat down heavily.

"There is another problem," he said.

We looked at him.

"Some of the consciousnesses do not remember their state before the isolation. It may be that they do not know what leaving means."

"Then we will explain to them," Eliya said.

"How do you explain to someone what an open world is if she has never seen one?" he asked.

A silence fell.

I thought of a child born into a room with no windows.

You can tell him about sky, about sea, about wind.

But will he be able to understand what he is choosing before he sees them?

And if he is afraid to go out, would it be right to leave him there?

I had no answer.

"I want to speak with them," I said.

Adara looked at me.

"With whom?"

"With those who did not ask to leave."

The connection to the disconnected space opened in a small room at the edge of the library.

There was no gate in it.

In its center floated a transparent circle, and within it appeared distant points of light. Adara explained that the circle did not allow consciousnesses to pass, only an exchange of signals that could be translated into voices and feelings.

"Does it keep the boundaries?" I asked.

"As long as we do not try to pass whole memories through it."

"And what if someone tries to reach me?"

Liara came closer.

"Do you remember what I taught you?"

I nodded.

I am here, and I am not you.

This time the sentence did not sound to me like only a way to protect myself.

It was also a commitment not to try to enter someone else without her permission.

I approached the circle.

Within it moved hundreds of points of light.

Some drew closer to one another.

Others moved away.

I listened.

At first I heard only a dull murmur.

Then voices appeared.

"Who is there?"

"We hear."

"She has come back."

I recognized some of them.

The voice that had asked me to open the door sounded among the others, but did not turn to me.

I did not ask it to speak.

This time I wanted to hear those I did not yet know.

"I want to ask you a question," I said.

The murmur weakened.

"If we succeed in creating a safe passage, will all of you want to come out?"

For a moment a silence fell.

Then many answers were heard.

"Yes."

"Of course."

"We are waiting."

"When?"

But among the voices another was also heard.

Very faint.

"No."

I asked to hear it again.

"Who said no?"

The other voices weakened.

A long time passed before an answer was heard.

"I did."

The voice was feminine, deep and slow.

"You do not want to come out?" I asked.

"No."

"May I ask why?"

A silence fell.

Then she answered:

"Because I do not want to go back to the place I came from."

I looked at Adara.

She listened intently.

"Do you remember where you came from?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Do you want to tell me?"

"Not all of it."

"Only what you wish."

The voice moved slightly away, then returned.

"I had a body."

I felt tension.

"In which world?"

"I do not know what it is called now. It had dark waters and tall trees. We lived in small groups, very close to one another."

She stopped.

"I remember that I once loved that place."

"And what happened?"

"A war began."

The voice grew quieter.

"At first we thought it would end quickly. Afterward we no longer knew why it had begun."

I listened.

"I lost the people I knew. Not all at once. Each time someone else. In the end I remained alone."

She was silent for a long time.

"When I left the body, I thought I would find them. But I arrived here."

"And you do not want to come out?"

"Not if outside I will again have to know people and lose them."

I felt pain.

"But here you are alone."

"Here I know what to expect."

I did not answer at once.

She continued:

"At first I was afraid of the darkness. Now it is familiar to me. I know the distances. I know when the other voices draw closer and when they move away."

"And are you happy?"

She was silent.

"I do not know if I remember what it means to be happy."

The words remained hanging between us.

I wanted to tell her that outside there are beautiful things.

That there are worlds.

Light.

Connections.

A possibility to love again.

But I stopped.

She had not asked me to persuade her.

She had told me why she was afraid.

"I will not ask you to come out now," I said.

"Then will you leave me here?"

I was surprised by the question.

"If that is what you want."

"And if one day I want otherwise?"

"I hope we can create a way that will allow you to choose then as well."

The voice was silent.

"I do not want them to close the door again," she said at last.

I felt the meaning of the words.

She was not asking to come out.

She was asking not to lose the possibility.

"I do not want that either," I answered.

After the voice weakened, another consciousness was heard.

This time it was a young voice, quick and impatient.

"I want to come out."

"I hear you."

"Now."

"We still do not know how to do it safely."

"I do not care."

I looked at the point of light that approached the circle.

"Do you know what could happen?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

The voice was silent.

"I could disappear."

"Or lose part of your memories. Or find it hard to keep yourself separate from other consciousnesses."

"I know."

"And you still want to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The voice came closer.

"Because I cannot bear one more day here."

I felt the pain in the words.

"How long have you been there?"

"I do not know."

"Do you remember the place you came from?"

"A little."

"What do you remember?"

"Wind."

She fell silent.

"I remember wind on my face."

I felt longing.

"Anything else?"

"Cold water. Someone's laughter. I do not know whose."

The voice grew stronger.

"I want to feel something again. Not only remember."

I looked at the circle.

I understood her.

Perhaps more than I wanted to admit.

I too, after I left the body, longed for the touch of water and the warmth of the sun.

But I was free to move between worlds.

She was not.

"I cannot open now," I said.

"Then why did you come?"

The question was sharp.

There was no patience in it for philosophical conversations.

"To understand how we can help."

"Everyone says that."

I felt the words.

"Who?"

"Those who came before you. Those who promised to check. Those who said there was danger."

She stopped.

"I do not want any more promises."

I did not know what to answer.

She was right, in her way.

From her point of view, every additional explanation was another moment of waiting.

"Then I will not promise you anything I am not able to keep," I said.

"And what can you do?"

I thought.

"I can come back to you with what we learn from the records. I can tell you exactly what risks we know. And I can ask you what you are willing to try."

"And when?"

I looked at Adara.

She came closer.

"We can return to you after we test the first passage," she said. "We will not have to wait until we find a solution for all of them."

The voice was silent.

"I want to speak with you again," I said.

"Then come."

The point moved away.

After that a third voice was heard.

It was so quiet that at first I was not sure I had heard it.

"I do not know what I want."

I came closer.

"That is all right."

"The others say it is worth coming out."

"And what do you think?"

"I do not know."

"Do you remember who you are?"

"Sometimes."

The voice grew hesitant.

"There are moments when I remember things that did not happen to me. I see places I was never in. I hear names that are not mine."

I looked at Liara.

She remained quiet.

"Do you know where these memories come from?" I asked.

"No."

"Do you want us to try to understand?"

"Yes. But I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if you take out of me the memories that are not mine, nothing will remain."

I felt the words deep inside me.

I thought of the woman who had returned to my body.

Of the memories we shared.

Of the fear we both had of disappearing inside the other.

"We do not have to take any memory from you," I said.

"But then how will you know who I am?"

I was silent.

I did not know.

Then I asked:

"What do you love?"

The voice seemed surprised.

"What?"

"Not what you remember. What do you love now?"

A long silence fell.

At last she said:

"I love it when the other voices speak quietly."

I smiled.

"Why?"

"Because then I can listen without feeling that I am disappearing."

"Anything else?"

She thought.

"I love the blue point that sometimes appears at the edge of the space."

"What is in it?"

"I do not know. It is simply beautiful."

I felt a small joy.

"Then there are things you know about yourself."

The voice was silent.

"Perhaps," she said at last.

When we left the contact room, we did not speak for a while.

Adara led us to the library table.

On its surface three points of light appeared.

"Three consciousnesses," she said. "Three different requests."

Liara sat down.

"One wants to stay, one wants to come out at once, and one still does not know what she wants."

Sahar looked at the points.

"And that is only what we heard in three conversations."

"True," I said. "We cannot decide for all of them as if they were one group."

Eliya approached the table.

"But it is also impossible to create a different way for each consciousness."

I looked at her.

"Perhaps a different way is not needed. Perhaps what is needed is a passage that allows different possibilities."

Adara raised her head.

"What do you mean?"

I thought of the door I had closed in the past.

Of the vote.

Of the only possibility that seemed to us then: to open or to close.

"Perhaps our mistake was that we thought of the door as one decision," I said. "Either they all come out, or they all stay."

Sahar nodded slowly.

"And you propose a passage that opens for one consciousness at a time."

"Yes. With a possibility to stop. To return. To remain at a distance."

Adara looked at me.

"That is similar to what they tried to do in the past."

"I know. But now we understand better what caused some of the attempts to fail."

Eliya placed her hand on the table.

"Not only the passage itself. Also those who waited on the other side."

I looked at her.

"Exactly."

We opened again the record of the only consciousness that had succeeded in coming out.

This time we watched it together.

The small light approached the gate.

Beyond it stood another consciousness.

She did not try to pull it toward her.

She did not enter its thoughts.

She did not share her memories with it.

She only stood at a distance.

"Stop here," I asked.

Adara stopped the record.

We looked at the two figures.

"What was the distance between them?" Sahar asked.

Adara examined the signs.

"The physical distance is not important here. It is the degree of closeness between the boundaries of consciousness."

"Can it be measured?"

"Yes."

She opened another layer in the record.

Around each of the figures appeared a thin circle.

The circles did not touch one another.

Between them stretched a faint line of light.

"They were in contact," Eliya said.

"But did not share memories," Liara added.

Adara came closer.

"And the consciousness that came out could stop the contact at any moment."

I felt excitement.

"That is what we need to examine."

Sahar raised his gaze.

"How?"

"Before we try to bring someone out of the space, we will teach her to create a contact that can be stopped without losing herself."

Adara was silent.

"And if she does not succeed?"

"Then we will not pretend she is ready. But we will not give up on her either. We will keep looking."

We worked for a long time.

We did not know how long.

Adara examined ancient records.

Eliya compared them with memories she had kept from the period when the passage was active.

Liara tried to understand how a consciousness could be taught to keep its boundaries without forcing on it a form that was not its own.

Sahar examined the structure of the passages.

And I listened.

At first I felt I was doing less than the others.

They knew how to read ancient signs, understand systems and identify movements of consciousness.

I did not know all of that.

But each time a proposal arose, I asked how the consciousness who would have to use it would feel.

Would she be able to stop?

Would she know what was about to happen?

Would there be someone to listen to her if she was afraid?

Would we be able to distinguish between consent given out of understanding and consent given only in order to stop suffering?

The questions slowed the work.

Sometimes I felt I was disturbing.

But gradually I saw that they were changing the way the others thought.

We were no longer looking only for a way to open a passage.

We were looking for a way that would not take from the consciousness the possibility to choose even after she entered it.

At some point Sahar rose from the chair.

He looked exhausted.

"I need to rest," he said.

Eliya looked at him.

"We can continue."

"I know."

He smiled.

"But if you find a way that requires me to hold the passage, I had better be able to stand on my feet."

Adara nodded.

"Go rest."

Sahar left.

I watched him go.

For a moment I envied him.

He was tired, and so he could stop.

I did not feel tiredness in a body.

But my thoughts were laden.

I decided to move away from the table.

"I want to go out a little," I said.

Liara looked at me.

"Do you want me to come?"

"No. I will return."

I went out to one of the gardens at the edge of the city.

It was quiet.

Between the trees moved small lights, and in its center stood a round pool.

I sat down beside it.

I did not need to sit.

But I loved the movement.

It reminded me of my human life.

Of the moments when I would go out to the garden, sit down, and allow my thoughts to calm.

I looked at the water.

I thought of the three consciousnesses I had heard.

One was afraid to come out.

The second was afraid to stay.

And the third was afraid she would not know who she was if she changed.

There was no one solution that would suit them all.

And suddenly I thought of my human life.

How many times do we speak of happiness as if it were one thing that everyone must want?

There are those who find it in family.

Others in freedom.

There are those who seek stability.

Others need movement and change.

There are those who prefer a quiet life.

And others cannot bear one day without discovering something new.

Perhaps one of our greatest mistakes is that we measure the lives of others by what would have made us happy.

I thought of the woman who had returned home.

She wanted the human life.

I chose eternity.

We both carried the same memories.

And yet we wanted different things.

If even two consciousnesses born out of the same sequence did not choose the same way, how could I expect thousands of other consciousnesses to want the same thing?

"May I sit beside you?"

I turned.

Before me stood Mira.

I recognized her at once.

The same woman who had kept the memory of her little son in the kitchen, as if time could stop at the moment when he was six years old.

"Of course," I said.

She sat down.

For a while we sat in silence.

"I heard you are trying to open the disconnected space," she said.

"Yes."

"Is it dangerous?"

"We are still learning."

She nodded.

"I have thought of you since we met."

I looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because you asked me whether I remember my son as he was, or as I want to remember him."

I felt discomfort.

"I hope I did not hurt you."

"You hurt me a little."

I lowered my gaze.

"I am sorry."

She smiled.

"But you also made me think."

I looked at her.

"About what?"

"About the fact that I have been keeping that same day for a very long time."

She looked at the water.

"I remember him standing in the kitchen, asking for something more to eat, laughing when he dropped a dish on the floor."

She stopped.

"But he had other days too. There were days when I was angry at him. Days when he cried. Days when I had no strength to play with him."

She smiled sadly.

"I kept the most beautiful day, and over time I began to feel that everything else was less important."

I was silent.

"I do not want to erase the memory," she said.

"You do not have to."

"I know. But perhaps I want to stop living only inside it."

I looked at her.

"What would you like to do?"

She thought.

"I want to see a new place. A place I was never in with him."

I smiled.

"That sounds like a beginning."

She nodded.

"I am afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if I am happy in another place, I will feel that I am leaving him behind."

I felt the words deep inside me.

I thought of my children.

Of the fact that I too had continued on the journey while they remained in the human world.

"Perhaps love can be carried even when we are not standing in the same place where it began," I said.

Mira looked at me.

"Do you believe that?"

I thought of the home.

Of the woman who had returned to it.

Of Eliya.

"I am trying to learn."

After Mira left, I remained by the pool.

The conversation with her reminded me of something I had forgotten amid all the preoccupation with passages and systems.

Not everyone who suffers needs a great rescue.

Sometimes a person needs someone to sit beside him and listen.

Not solve.

Not promise.

Only allow him to say aloud what he had not succeeded in saying before.

I thought of the consciousness that did not want to come out.

Perhaps she did not need us to open the gate for her now.

Perhaps she needed to know that there was someone who would keep speaking with her even if she chose to stay.

I decided to return to the contact room.

When I arrived, I found Liara alone.

She stood before the transparent circle.

"Are the others still working?" I asked.

"Yes. Adara and Eliya are examining the records."

I came closer.

"I want to speak again with the consciousness that did not want to come out."

Liara nodded.

"I will guard the boundaries of the contact."

The circle lit up.

I listened.

This time I did not call all the consciousnesses.

I asked only to speak with the deep voice I had heard before.

A long time passed.

Then an answer was heard.

"You came back."

"Yes."

"Did you find a way to bring the others out?"

"We are still working on it."

She was silent.

"I wanted to ask you something else," I said.

"What?"

"If you choose to stay, would you want us to keep speaking with you?"

A silence fell.

"Even if I do not come out?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I thought about the question.

"Because your choice to stay should not make you invisible."

The voice was silent for a long time.

Then she said:

"Yes. I want that."

I felt joy.

"What would you like to talk about?"

She thought.

"About the trees."

I smiled.

"About the trees that were in your world?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about them."

She told me about tall forests.

About trunks so wide that several people had to stand around them to encircle them.

About leaves that made a faint sound when the wind passed through them.

About dark fruits that would fall to the ground at the beginning of the cold season.

She told me about the smell of the earth after the rain.

About the light that penetrated between the branches.

About paths she had known in her childhood.

The more she spoke, the clearer her voice became.

I did not try to see her memories.

I did not ask her to share her feelings with me.

I only listened to the words.

At some point she stopped.

"I forgot that I remember all this," she said.

"Perhaps you did not forget. Perhaps you simply have not spoken about it for a long time."

She was silent.

"You know," she said at last, "I still do not want to come out."

"I know."

"But I want to speak with you again."

"I would be glad to."

"And perhaps next time I will tell you about the river."

I smiled.

"I want to hear."

The contact weakened.

When I returned to the library, Adara stood beside the table.

Eliya examined a transparent tablet.

Liara entered behind me.

"We found something," Adara said.

I came closer.

On the tablet appeared two circles and a thin line between them.

"We succeeded in identifying the conditions that existed in the successful exit attempt," she said.

I felt excitement.

"What are they?"

"There were three central conditions."

She pointed at the first circle.

"The departing consciousness was able to identify her boundary and to stop a contact of her own will."

She pointed at the second circle.

"The consciousness who waited outside did not try to pull her or to share memories with her."

Then she pointed at the line between them.

"And the contact between them remained open even as the distance changed."

I looked at the signs.

"That is, she did not have to choose between being alone and uniting."

"Correct," Eliya said.

"She could come out knowing that someone was waiting for her, without losing herself."

Adara nodded.

"But there is a problem."

I felt tension.

"What?"

"We still do not know how to teach a consciousness that has already lost part of its boundaries to restore them."

I looked at the tablet.

"Then we will begin with those who are still able to keep themselves."

Eliya looked at me.

"And what about the others?"

"We will keep learning. We will not use the success of one to pretend we found a solution for all of them."

Adara smiled faintly.

"That is a responsible beginning."

We decided to prepare a first attempt.

Not a wide opening.

Not the release of thousands of consciousnesses.

Only one passage, for one consciousness who would choose to take part after hearing everything we know.

Sahar returned from his rest.

He examined the structure we had prepared.

"A narrow passage can be created," he said. "But we will need to make sure it does not pull in additional consciousnesses."

"And what if others try to enter?" I asked.

"Then we will have to stop."

I looked at him.

"Without closing the contact for all of them."

He nodded.

"Without closing the contact."

Liara came closer.

"Who will be the first consciousness?"

I thought of the young voice that had asked to come out at once.

Of the desire to feel wind on her face.

"I want to ask her if she is still interested."

Adara nodded.

"But before that we will have to tell her exactly what we know and what we do not know."

"Yes."

I returned to the contact room.

The circle lit up.

I called the young consciousness.

She answered almost at once.

"Did you find a way?"

"We found a possibility for an attempt."

I felt her excitement.

"When?"

"Before we decide, I want to explain to you what we know."

"I am listening."

I told her about the narrow passage.

About the need to keep her boundaries.

About the fact that she would be able to stop the contact, but we did not yet know whether she could return to the disconnected space after coming out.

I told her also about the dangers.

About the possibility that she would lose part of her memories.

About the possibility that she would find it hard to keep herself separate.

I did not try to soften the things.

She listened.

When I finished, she was silent for a long time.

"Are you afraid?" she asked at last.

"Yes."

"Then why are you willing to try?"

I thought about it.

"Because you are asking. And because we think there is a way that may allow you to come out."

"And if I decide not to?"

"Then we will not try."

A silence fell.

"I want time to think," she said.

I felt relief.

Not because I hoped she would refuse.

But because for the first time she did not sound as if she was willing to agree to anything just to get out.

"Take the time," I said.

She was silent.

Then she added:

"I want to speak with someone who already came out."

I looked at Adara.

She seemed surprised.

"We will try to find such a one," I said.

"Not only to hear about her experience," the consciousness continued. "I want to ask her how it felt."

I smiled.

"That is a good request."

When the contact ended, I returned to the table.

"She asked to speak with the consciousness that came out in the past."

Adara lowered her gaze.

"We do not know if she still exists."

"Then we will search."

Eliya came closer.

"There are records of the place she reached after the exit."

"Can we get there?"

"Perhaps."

Sahar looked at the tablet.

"If she is still there, we can ask her to tell about her experience."

I felt excitement.

But this time it was different.

Not the excitement of one about to discover an ancient secret.

The excitement of one who found a question that could be answered together with the others.

Before we went out to search for that consciousness, I asked for a moment to myself.

I stood by the library window.

Through it the city could be seen.

I thought of the three consciousnesses I had heard.

One asked to stay.

One asked to come out.

And the third asked to understand who she was.

Three different requests.

None of them was less important than the others.

And suddenly I understood that the choice to let others choose is not always comfortable.

Sometimes it requires us to watch someone stay in a place we would want to bring her out of.

Sometimes it requires us to stand beside someone willing to take a risk on a way that frightens us.

And sometimes it requires us to admit we have no answer that can ease her fear.

I thought of my human life.

Of my children.

Of the fact that one day they too will choose ways I will not understand.

Perhaps some of them will frighten me.

Perhaps I will want to stop them.

But if I truly loved them, I will have to learn when to extend a hand and when to allow them to go.

Not out of indifference.

Not because I do not care.

But because they too have lives that are not mine.

Eliya approached me.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

I looked at her.

"Yes."

"Where shall we go first?"

I looked at the tablet on which the route of the consciousness that came out in the past appeared.

It led to a place I did not know.

There was no sign of a familiar city or world in it.

Only a small space, surrounded by faint light.

"There," I said.

Eliya nodded.

She did not ask if I was sure.

She did not try to decide in my place.

She simply stood beside me.

I thought of our conversation in the room with two windows.

Of the way we learned to know each other anew.

Then we set out.

As we moved away from the library, I felt the connection to the disconnected consciousnesses remaining open behind me.

I did not hear all of them.

I only knew they were there.

Some waited.

Some were afraid.

Some began speaking with one another.

And some chose to remain in silence.

I no longer wanted to turn them all into one story of rescue.

Each of them carried a life of her own.

Even if she had no body.

Even if she did not remember her name.

Even if she had never seen the light beyond the space in which she lived.

I understood now that the question is not only how to open the door.

The question is what we will do after it opens.

Will we be able to stand aside and allow each one to choose?

Will we be able to accept decisions that will hurt us too?

And will we keep listening to those who choose to stay behind?

I did not know.

But I knew that this time I would not make do with a general promise to find a way.

I want to learn the way together with them.

Because perhaps freedom does not begin at the moment the door opens.

Perhaps it begins at the moment the one standing beyond the door understands that we will no longer decide for him whether he should pass through it.

End of Chapter Twenty-Two

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