In my dad’s hand, my hand weighed a ton that night. I wanted it to be too heavy for him. I wanted it to plummet from what would be his last tepid sojourn into emergency fatherhood.
In the light from the mall windows behind us, the snowflakes were tinted blue. Everything was beautiful. My vision, which had been deteriorating for weeks since the accident at Deb’s, was blurring the edges between things. This made everything seem more beautiful somehow. I felt as though I was through the looking glass, in a cartoon. Oz.
With my third eye, I could see my mother’s perfect amber aura. She was not burdened in the least by the prospect of abandoning her family.
In astral form, I had been training in the Akashic Library and had learned a lot of emotional discipline by then, but I deemed it reasonable to think that if Jesus wanted her, then Jesus could have her.
She climbed on the bus and I pretended to watch her go. My father was kind, but he wasn’t strong enough either. They had only let him out to be with me when we said goodbye to her.
This is so much worse than any archetypal literary hero’s journey, I thought. I had just read Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey as complement to my understanding of Jung.
He looked sad. I know he loved us all. His face was a blur but a glint of blue light told me there was a tear. When he let my hand drop it was even heavier than I had hoped it would be.
My father faded into the snow. And I felt relief more than anything else. Perhaps they would both be happier eventually.
I had long been my intent to NOT be the typical hero of a hero’s journey, I wanted to mix it up. Cliche is the most egregious affront to truth. To this end, I was not forlorn.
You might say that becoming a sorcerer is little more than understanding that pretty much everything everyone teaches you is just a trick to reduce you to a bank-beholden wage-slave. In that sense magical education is simply daring to seek out all the things you’ve been told you aren’t supposed to know.
I never saw my parents again.