Among other dangers our imagination had created, we still had
to resolve the upset between us at the upcoming tea party. The White Rabbit was
causing me great agitation. His constant
muttering “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date” was getting on my
nerves. His universal cuteness—that white
fuzzy symbolic presence whose velvety ears and little bobbed tail just didn’t
add up to the total picture of this fretting bespectacled top-hatted Leporidae
who kept zipping back and forth in front of us—his energetic worries spilling
into and onto our energetic waves that caused me accumulative angst.
I purposefully sat with the quiet Dormouse and ever-grinning
Cheshire Cat , who together, were politically correctly honouring the occasion at
my table--at the Red Queen’s court –the upcoming wedding celebration---awaiting
tea to be served.
I couldn’t help having been drawn lovingly toward this Dormouse,
whose calm demeanor and obvious inner strength which were revealed through her
warrior courage and presence as she sat unruffled by the frenzy of this white
fluff bouncing back and forth around the court.
The Cheshire Cat just grinned and sat back in Buddha grace,
apparently observing the richness of the colourful characters—as if and
obviously so at peace with the menagerie of souls arriving to partake in this
festivity—appearing grateful, loving and at one with the moment—with the
unfolding—the oneness of perfection of it all.
Oh, the Taoism of it that he exuded in his smile from cheek to cheek in
blissful contentment.
Most certainly the Cheshire Cat, as content and blissful as
he appeared, was already on something, and less than likely emoting with anyone
outside of his close circle–besides, now the Dormouse and he were engaged in a
quiet love exchange—his eyes gazing into hers, as they expressed their devotion
and appreciation towards one another.
I noticed the White Rabbit’s clock bob striking 1:37 and I
sensed my gut tightening. Now that the
courtyard was full and spilling over and beyond the flatness of the edges of
the earth’s circumference, the Bride and Groom from somewhere,
appeared—Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” played the Bride’s solo as she walked
into the Groom’s arms while the Caterpillar muttered something to the celebrity
wedding couple as they kissed and floated off---as magically as they appeared
in the midst of this chaotic gathering.
My gut contractions continued until I connected the source
of my anxiety—the rabbit hole—I’m not a rabbit, I thought. I am a writer, and I am not Alice. I am not any of the characters and do not
know why I am appearing at this tea party—this wedding, in this royal
court. I am a voyeur, perhaps. And I don’t know how to ascend up through the
rabbit hole back to the real world, back out of the hole through which I
followed Alice, who followed the White Rabbit-- who then cavorted with all the
other characters beneath this earthly crust down into this Wonderland.
Perhaps though, just perhaps, this world beneath the rabbit
hole, where all is not what it appears, but which is all but what it is and
isn’t---where appearance matters to those who care or to those who create
appearance. Perhaps it is the judgment
held by others who live insecurely within their own beings that is the result
by the makers of illusion and angst that sits so firmly in guts and causes
distress…….
Perhaps all is correct and as it need be, with those who
jitter, frit and skidder about while others sit in peaceful harmony—appearing
to hold a loving, accepting sense of themselves, and that, therefore, this
state of being is what becomes their reality.
Perhaps outside, inside, above, below, upon, against-- all
opposites and all similarities--are apart of possibilities without any right or
wrong, but all a part of the whole—perfect, complete and one.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the rabbit hole is the way—The Tao--the
access to our Soul—to the archetypes within whose differences, similarities—all
bejeweled with gifts and riddled with flaws, allow us the distillation of our
journey—our choices, our unique path that culminates in whatever manner we
choose—loving, compassionate, kind, or perhaps the karmic ongoing
resistance—any way, it is our journey, however we dream it-- rich, pleasurable,
and sometimes angst-driven, but certainly as colourful and perhaps potentially
confusing and unreal as Lewis Carroll presented to his readers so long ago.
