Reconciling Opposites
by Tara Simpson

This must be Samadhi.

I think I have it.

I have realized the cosmic vibration, the ever-present holy sound from which all creation came and by which all creation is sustained.

Noises surround me, extending infinitely with no beginning or end, blending together in concert and disharmony. The constant drumming rain atop my car assumes a tonal quality. The engine is rumbling and rhythmic, reverberating against my thighs and lower back. My passenger drones incessantly; I hear a honey bee on downers.

This sacred resonation is a bit violent. I didn't expect.

My lower neck tingles and a low hiss, like television static, reaches my ears from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sensory data overthrows my mind, pulses through my torso, limbs, and bones. It culminates in my infected bladder, all pressure and stinging severity. This is the current center of the universe.

I have to piss. If this damned vibration doesn't cut out, I won't make it home.

"Uncle Albert, I'm going to find a place to pull the car over." My passenger is interrupted mid-sentence, the unremitting insect drone abruptly halted. A minor victory.

"Pull the car over?" He regards me with the glossy gaze of a man recently awakened from a deep sleep. Once again, Uncle Albert has been lured into a near daze by the song of his own voice—a lullaby I have long tuned out. I've never had the patience for this old man's parroted religious dogma, political angles, and "decent American values."

"Indeed," I say. Snide, yes, but I'm sure he doesn't expect any different from me; none of my relatives expect much at this point.

"What's wrong?"

"I just have to go to the bathroom. It won't take long—I'll be out of the car and back before the next song ends. Oh, wait! You wouldn't let me play the radio." I frown. No wonder I've tuned into the cosmic Om.

Uncle Albert puts his hands down, softly striking his thighs. "You can't pull over on the freeway, Rey," he says with great solemnity. As if his is the final say. I should take him back to the airport.

"I can't go anyplace else. I can't make it home. I am in pain, so I suggest you let me pull over," I reply patiently. I wonder if my discomfort is the result of some lingering karmic punishment.

"This is the interstate freeway," Uncle Albert informs me. "It isn't lawful." I grunt, scanning the shoulder for agreeable-looking shrubs.

Go ahead and tell me how to drive, you relic.

Tell me the nature of everything.

"I offered to take a cab to your house," he continues. "If you didn't want to pick me up, you should have said so."

"Why would I have done that? Mom already has me at her beck and call." I tick several responsibilities off on my fingers: "I've brought the food. I've brought home the dry cleaning. I've played taxi to aunts and uncles, cousins, second cousins, in-laws, and people I don't even know. This is nothing, no trouble. But I HAVE to go. So, please." Uncle Albert lapses into silence, and I sigh. These sinister activities are of my mother's doing—it is her "reunion." Though the word "reunion" implies joyfulness and sentiment, I have learned it actually refers to forced interaction with one's extended family. Thanks, mom.

Uncle Albert steals a questioning glance at the pewter Shiva figurine beneath my rear-view mirror, a charm on a leather cord intended for wear as a necklace. The tingling at my neck intensifies. What will I be this time, a pagan, heathen, an occultist?

"Rey," Uncle Albert begins. He stretches one leathery hand upward to meet the necklace. "What is the symbolism of this figure?"

"Don't touch that!" I shout, applying force to the brakes. The car comes to a halt, and Shiva swings toward the windshield. Uncle Albert cringes as I kill the engine.

An area of dense foliage is about ten yards to my right, and already I am dreaming of relief. Branches are dipping and dancing for my amusement, bending for wind and water. I can hear the infinitesimal splashes of individual raindrops, and feel their impact on the saturated ground outside. A blessing of awareness, no doubt, but the falling water vastly intensifies the urgency of my situation.

"Wait here. I have to go." I fumble with the seat belt clasp and pray for the strength to lift myself from the bucket seat.

"Go!" Uncle Albert says in perfect astonishment.

"Yes, go! Go to the bathroom! I need to go to the bathroom—now—and I will be right back." I wrench at the door handle and the dim dome light illuminates the car's interior. Uncle Albert is washed out, as pale as an apparition next to the dark window. There are no streetlights on this stretch of freeway; I have not seen any for miles.

"You can't park here! This is for emergency purposes! What if an ambulance comes while you are gone and needs to use the shoulder?"

"A what, Uncle Albert?" I gesture at the purple-black night sky and step into an ankle-deep puddle. Oily water travels up the leg of my jeans, cold against my skin. Bouncing up and down, up and down, I remind myself to try and be patient. "It's a little late for traffic."

"I said an ambulance, or any other emergency vehicle! Didn't they tell you about this in driver's education class? Young drivers don't realize that the good men that…they're on the job for the benefit of…" I've got the old man all flustered, but I am a desperate woman. The slam of the car door cuts him off in mid-sentence. Before I run to the bushes, I catch a glimpse of him slumped resignedly against the seat back, lips moving.

"It's 11:30, Uncle Al," I mutter. "I think the ambulance will have a free lane."

I dash into the lush, inviting foliage like a woman in the arms of her lost lover. My strides are awkward and cartoonish—a high speed waddle. The buttons of my jeans prove an unexpected obstacle, and I'm fumbling, knocking twigs to the ground in my haste. Finally I squat…and it's like pissing battery acid.

I grit my teeth. Nothing is ever perfect.

The relief on my bladder more than makes up for the minute or two of relative agony. The bizarre sensory overload that tormented my brain and body for the entirety of the car ride dissipates as fast and mysterious as it came. Perhaps I have not stumbled across the secret—surprisingly painful—flip side of the material world.

I straighten, rain-soaked hair leaking rivulets into my eyes. I should know better than to let minor details like a bathroom stop take control of my psyche. A bathroom stop! Some agitation, a minor physical irritation, and I'm flinging sacred Hindu concepts around like a heretic! It seems rather blasphemous, even in jest. The need to repent is likely a leftover of my Christian upbringing, but just to be safe, I mumble a little prayer to Lord Vishnu, the Sustainer.

On the way back to the car, I see Uncle Albert, lips still moving. I assume he's praying in the old family tradition, to the Judeo-Christian god that I've long since rejected. It seems a rather weak and cowardly reaction; riding in my car has exposed him to new perspectives and a new side of me, nothing life-threatening. I start to roll my eyes, but remember that prayer has scarcely escaped my own lips—the same behavior, though seemingly so different. I recall an old Hindu saying: "There is one truth, only men describe it in different ways."

My neck is tingling again, but my cheeks feel hot, and I know I'm blushing. I overestimate my own wisdom—I have loads left to learn. Determined to repair any damage my sarcasm and naiveté have caused, I return to the car and Uncle Albert.

Tara Simpson was a student in the Marylhurst University Early Scholars Program from 1999 to 2000. Currently pursuing a degree in Child and Family Studies at PSU, she is fond of heavy metal, yoga, and vegetarian cuisine.

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