Through the Looking Glass

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.