"The Lightswitch" by C.J. Dates

On March 25^th, 2010, I awoke with the view of the volcano from where I lay in bed.  It was half covered with clouds, as it normally is, with just its slope peeking out from behind the wispy blankets.  The weather was fair for Baños at that time of year.  It was normal to eat breakfast with rain beating down outside, postponing our weeding and planting.  It seemed that this morning, the rain would be patient and allow outdoor activities to commence early.

            I rose and put on some thick pants and Bob Marley sweater that my fiancé had just gotten me as a present.  It holds in the heat, and even has a hood to keep my ears warm on cold mornings.  As I left the room to find Michel, she was waiting just outside the door with her arms wide open for a hug.  I stepped down onto the porch just off our room and let the momentum sling me into her embrace.

            “Hi!” She said enthusiastically

            “Hi” I responded less emphatically.  It is normal for me to wake later than her, and not only does she always have a head start, but I seem to wake up slower to begin with anyway. 

            “Would you like to get some breakfast?”  She asked.

            “Sure, what would you like today?”

            “Umm… Can we have oatmeal today?”  She said as she pulled a blanket back up over her in the chair she had been reading in.  I immediately thought that oatmeal would be preferred to yogurt on the cool morning, so I agreed.

            “I will go down and get it started.” I said as I headed for the steps.

            “Can you wait a few minutes? I want to finish this chapter, then I will be down.”

            “Ok, no problem.” I said.

            I walked down the stairs as carefully as I could.  It was still early, and the floorboards of the old house had a way of telling the rest of the structure of your every step.   Anyone living in the house knew the movements of everyone else as if the walls and ceilings were made of glass.

           

The house itself belonged to an elderly man by the name of Richard Crowley.  Richard was a remarkable man.  He had left the United States when he was 18 years old, to serve in Germany as part of the military.  When asked about his time in Germany he told us; “It was great, all the German men were off fighting somewhere and we got to enjoy the surplus of women.  Plus, I drove a Mercedes-Benz while I lived there.” 

Since leaving Germany he had spent his years moving to any country he desired.  Richard would come into a country and buy some land and an old structure, fix up the house and live in it for awhile, and then proceed to sell it and use his profits to take him to a new country where he would start the process over again.  This unlevel old house, where I was descending the stairs, represented the capstone of his building projects.  In his words, “the house was decrepit. There was one old woman living here when I bought it.  It had dirt floors and walls and nothing else.  When I asked her where she went to the bathroom, she said she would go down to the river.”

Anyone could tell that Richard had poured many hours into the restoration of the house.  The architecture was much like him, simple and serene, but with style where it needed it.  Its most striking feature was all the stained glass windows.  Once he had said to Michel, standing outside on the brick road with a smile on his face, “You live in a beautiful house, do you know that?  Have you ever just looked at the colors?”

And we did live in a beautiful house, all due to Richard’s unique and radical worldview.

I sat at the kitchen table and traced the colors on the Guatemalan tablecloth, waiting for Michel to finish with her chapter.  I thought about making some toast, but for some reason I never actually did.  The creaking floorboards above me, meaning that someone else was out of bed and starting their day, distracted me.  It was Carmen, Richard’s girlfriend.  She was younger than Richard and they had a quiet existence together that was not without care and attention.  They made meals for each other or went together to the hot baths in Baños.  All in all they had independent lives that mostly ran parallel, but when they crossed it was with respect and compassion.

Carmen descended the stairs and went to use the bathroom.  Shortly after, Michel was the culprit of the creaking and she came downstairs, indicating that it was time to start the oatmeal.  I opened the bag of avena and poured it into a pot, added water, and put it on the lit burner.  Before the oatmeal had finished cooking, Carmen came into the kitchen, and with her Ecuadorian accent said,

“The bathroom is very dirty, I would like for you to clean it.”  Michel nodded in compliance as the words came out of her mouth,

“Ok, sure.”

The cleaning woman, whom Richard had hired for weekly sweeping, dusting, mopping and bleaching had not come this week and as a result Michel and I were picking up some new jobs in addition to our usual gardening.  We didn’t mind though, we still felt as if we were getting the better end of the deal.

About a month and a half before, Michel and I had lined up a volunteering opportunity with a small school in Salasaca, Ecuador.   Things didn’t end up working with this school, as the organization and leadership was less than we had expected.  We decided it was best to focus our energies elsewhere, and were directed to a small biblioteca in Baños.  We immediately were impressed with the foundation, but were lacking affordable housing in the area, which was necessary if we wanted to stay and volunteer.  A family friend had told us of a man, Richard, who sometimes housed volunteers in exchange for some garden and yard work.  We had met Richard in a local café about a week earlier, but that was the extent of our connection.  Without any other options, I squeezed myself into a small public phone booth and dialed a number.

The phone rang.

“Hola?”  I heard an elderly voice answer on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Richard?”

“Hello, this is Richard. Who is this?”  He questioned.

“My name is CJ, I actually met you the other day when you were playing pool.  I have a question for you.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am here in Baños, and I had heard that you sometimes house volunteers.  Do you still do that?”

“Yes. We do.  This connection is not very good.  Why don’t you just come out to the house.”  An unexpected invitation.

“Umm, yeah, ok.  We will.”

“Are you alone?”

“No, my fiancé is with me.”

“Ok, just get in a taxi and say ‘Lligua.’  Can you remember that name? Lligua.  And then say ‘a la casa de Richardo.’  It should get you here.”

“Ok, thank you, we will be out soon.”

“Ok.”

He hung up abruptly, without saying goodbye.  I exited the booth thinking I had good news, but completely unsure.  After a long taxi ride (taxi rides feel longer when you have no idea where you are or where you are going) we ended up outside the big white house with the beautiful stained glass windows.  There was a sign outside that read; “THE EATING OF STONES IS PROHIBITED.”  Later, Richard would tell me that there was no story behind this sign.  He simply said,

“Notice I didn’t say ‘the eating of bread is prohibited.’”

We were welcomed into the house by a frail looking old man.  He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with red material on the shoulders but the rest of the torso in gray or white.  He led us through some arched doorways, past a woman vacuuming, into what appeared to be a living room.  He moved slowly, and at first I thought that it was due to his aging, but soon I realized it was by choice.  He executed his movements with a thoughtfulness and intentionality, as if they had all been pre-calculated.

“Excuse the noise, it’s cleaning day.”  He said smiling.  He sat down on a couch against the wall, and motioned for us to sit on the couch that faced it.  Between us there was a glass table with a bowl of intricately painted eggs on it.  To his left there was a batik of a Hindu elephant deity with four hands, one of which was holding a similar bowl of eggs.

I explained again our situation as I had on the phone, and he responded.

“Well…” he crossed his legs slowly, intentionally.  “Well.  We would like if you did a few hours of work a day.  Nothing particularly hard.  And there is no reason to work in the rain.”

This already sounded promising.  We had barely even asked to stay, and he was talking details of the deal.

“Let me take you upstairs and show you your room.”

With that, we had our place to stay; free of rent, full use of a bathroom and a kitchen, a short taxi ride outside of town, and all we had to do was put in a few hours each day of work in his garden.

Michel and I ate our oatmeal, and I ended up conjuring up some seconds from the pot.  It was good to have a warm breakfast, and also we would put in some brown sugar called peñol, which had a slight honey taste to it.  According to Carmen, who ran a massage parlor in Baños and had an interest in natural foods and health benefits, the peñol is better for you than white sugar.  The consequence of this is that I would scoop it on my oatmeal more vigorously, essentially robbing it of any benefit it had over other sugar simply by excess.

Richard came down the stairs quickly, as Carmen was already out in the Blazer.  He always had a leaned over, out of balance look to him as he rushed, and he said “Good morning!” to us as he headed out the door.  They were going to the hot baths, where they spent many mornings.  The first few times they went they invited us, and we actually agreed and tagged along once, but since then had declined their invitations.  The first time I said ‘no, thank you’ to the hot baths invitation, Richard responded with; “You’re missing a good chance to sit in some warm water!” At some point over the month and a half, we had declined enough so that they had given up and stopped inviting.

Around 9:30 or so, Michel and I donned our work boots, gathered some tools, and trekked out to go down to another property that Richard had built to put in some time in a garden. 

Most of our work at Richard’s consisted of gardening.  We weeded, planted, and watered.  We wielded shovels, hoes, trowels, machetes, and rakes.  Many morning hours, before our volunteer time at the biblioteca started at 2 PM, we would dirty our work pants and hands with the Ecuadorian soil in an attempt to make some chaotic vegetation into a legitimate producing garden.

When we had arrived, the gardens were not necessarily in disarray, or at least not to my eyes.  It was clear that Richard had been caring for his plants with much of his time and energy, and the way he talked about certain areas of the garden made it seem as though he had regrets about his physical abilities.  He would say, “I have not been out here in months” when we worked in the orchard area.  Or in regard to his embankment behind the house, “That USED to be a flower garden.”  I learned quickly that Richard had an extreme respect for his plants, and an even greater respect for the planet as a whole.  When I asked him what he thought about the predictions of a 2012 apocalypse, the conversation was as follows:

“Richard, do you think what they say about 2012 is true?”

“With any luck, it will be.” He responded with seriousness.  I laughed at his answer and he went on.

“Humans have shown the planet what they are capable of, it is time to give the cockroaches a chance.”

He worked with us in the garden when he could; when his body allowed him to.  Other times he would simply sit in the lawn, or lie in the grass.  On sunny days, Richard could frequently be seen lying on his back, face towards the sky, in meditation.  He had almost worn a spot in the lawn where he loved to lay and meditate, like a motionless snow angel maker.

When he did work with us, it was slow and intentional.  When he pulled a weed, it was as if he and that weed were the only things that existed and he focused completely on that.  If you said his name to ask him a question about the garden, he turned slowly, as if his whole self had to be uprooted steadily from his present task.  Indeed, the first day we worked in his garden, Richard set a goal.

“The task for today is to pull one weed without thinking,” he announced, as we started our work, “A formidable task.” He said resolutely.  Because of this task, I thought about how I was supposed to try not to think about anything for every weed I pulled.  Needless to say, I failed. 

“Michel, have you been able to fulfill the task?” Richard asked.

“I don’t think so.” Michel answered.  Richard just chuckled at the irony of her response.

After pulling weeds next to Richard in silence for a few minutes one day, he turned to me and said,

“The beauty of this work is that it will still have to be done long after we are gone.”  With that, he wandered off and lay in his favorite spot in the grass.

After only a half an hour of work at the far end of Richard’s property, Michel and I made the walk back.  Michel had drunk an abnormal quantity of tea that morning, and because we were not near a toilet, it was necessary to return to Richard’s house so that she could utilize the facilities.  We happened to be in the midst of a good conversation about Christianity and nonviolence, so I went with her.  As we walked back the conversation moved onto love and whether it was possible to actually love everyone.  My argument was that it is possible to love everyone, for in doing what is best for one individual you will aide their spiritual growth, thereby allowing them to be better prepared to serve others.  Michel agreed.  Coming closer to the house, I could see Richard’s back as he proceeded through the front door.  He was wearing his same long-sleeved shirt with the red shoulders that he wore on the day we came to Lligua to meet him.

Inside the house, Michel headed straight for the bathroom, while I sat on a bench between the kitchen and the living room.  Carmen flicked the kitchen light switch a few times without the desired response from the light and muttered something in Spanish to Richard.  He rose from where he sat at the kitchen table, and reached up to give the bulb a twist.  Carmen flicked the switch again with similar results and then gave up.  More conversation was exchanged in Spanish and I caught the words I knew like “we need,” “light” and “new.”  At this point, I piped up.

“I think the problem is with the switch.”  I pointed to it as I spoke.  I actually knew nothing about electrical systems, but I knew that the switch seemed loose on the wall and thought it would be a simple remedy. Richard walked by me towards the stairs and muttered something in English.

“What?” I said, as I didn’t hear him.

“Do you do electrical repairs?”  He asked again a bit louder.

“Sure,” I responded enthusiastically.  Anytime I got a job that was different from weeding, hoeing, or planting I was thrilled.  I fixed a pipe for him earlier in our stay and also took apart his weed-wacker almost entirely.  After days when he was impressed or especially happy with my work he would smile and say, ‘Take the rest of the day off.’  Michel and I were happy with praise from Richard, he spoke so little that his words were always true.  It made the good news that came from his mouth much brighter.

After examining the light switch briefly, I followed him up the creaky steps.  I stopped at the doorway.  I had been in his room many times before, but it seemed like a more exclusive and private place, as he does meditation there and it always seemed to be in immaculate order.

“It looks like I just need a Phillips-head screw driver.” I said from the doorframe.  He pointed to the toolbox on a low shelf at the far wall.  I was familiar with the blue toolbox.  My relationship with this box became intimate during the weed-wacker surgery.  I headed over to it and searched for screwdrivers as Richard dug through another box full of electrical hardware. 

­­­­­­­

The toolbox sat below the most intriguing wall in the house.  Michel and I had frequently talked about this wall between the first time we had entered Richard’s room to watch a meditation video and when we found out exactly what the wall meant.

Actually, it was not so much the wall as it was what was on the wall.  It was unique.  Everywhere in the house, the walls were bare white.  Although the walls had the occasionally Latino wall hanging or Indian masks, there was nothing every painted on the wall itself.  This is the only wall in the house that I know of that had paint on it other than the uniform white.

In the center of this wall was a large black circle.  It was not a perfect circle, but a circle nonetheless.  The diameter was maybe three feet and the line that made up the circle was probably five inches wide. It looked as though someone had painted it completely with one seamless and smooth brush-stroke.  The hands of someone steady and intentional must have painted this circle.

After a few weeks of occasional trips into Richard’s room and private conversations surmising what the circle could be, Michel and I finally asked Richard straight out.  Sitting in his room one night, waiting to watch a meditation video of Andrew Cohen, I said,

“Richard, what is the story behind the circle there?  Is it for meditation?”

“It’s my self-portrait,” He turned and looked at it and the followed quickly with, “It’s not for sale.”

I went to the wall and investigated it closely.  Sure enough, a small index card with sloppy print was attached to the wall at the lower right side of the circle that read:

SELF PORTRAIT

By

Richard

NOT FOR SALE

Richard later informed me that he had painted it a few months after he bought the house, meaning that it had been there almost as long as he had; 15 years.

Also, later Michel discovered that on the opposite wall of his room was a mirror, in which if you stood directly in front of and looked at your reflection, the circle would wrap almost perfectly around your head.  At least it would wrap perfectly around the head of an almost bald, short and frail old man.

The portrait represented Richard well though.  Certainly better than some self-portraits I have seen people spend time on.  It was simple, it was well thought out, it was well executed, unique, multi-layered, and best of all; empty.  One of Richard’s favorite quotes was from a master named Jean Klein;

“I am the absence of myself.”

Richard once professed to Michel and I that the ONLY thing that had ever interested him in life was “waking up.”  He felt that if everyone were to expose themselves to genuine meditation and self-reflection, then the world would be rid of its problems.

It was hard to believe that he had never been interested in anything but “waking up” considering the things we knew about his past; military service in Germany, hitch-hiking from Greece to India, studying Buddhism in Asia, translating sacred texts from Japanese into English, starting a pineapple farm in Costa Rica, becoming a Sufi in Afghanistan and last but not least, a “sixteen year marriage with a French woman.” However, his philosophy and his lifestyle certainly reflected his waking.  He would say to me,

“If people would just change their perspectives then they would see.  Humans are all about ‘get, get, get’ and this attitude creates a reality a scarcity.  If only we were to adopt the attitude of ‘give, give, give’ then we would transform our reality into one of surplus.”

Richard believed that whatever you wanted to do, if you did it with enough energy and momentum, you could certainly achieve it.  He believed the words “I AM” were enough to transform any situation.  He believed that the world and all the humans in it were simply cells in a larger “Impersonal Self,” and that once everyone could see that, we could solve all our problems.

We spoke of Enlightenment on a few occasions.  The things he said about it I will never forget.

“It’s unmistakable.  You see it and you say ‘so this is what everyone has been gnawing at each others skulls about.’”  Richard said he knew people who had become Enlightened and stay that way for the rest of their lives.  He said he was one of the ones who has been Enlightened, and it has worn off, but that with meditation sometimes it comes back again and will last for maybe days, maybe weeks, but he has never attained it permanently.  Richard’s prescription for the key to Enlightenment was simple: stop thinking.  He told us another one of his favorite phrases,

“Thinking runs parallel to life, but never touches it.”  He believed that thoughts robbed us from experiencing things as they are because we are constantly evaluating, naming and categorizing and then evaluating and naming our categories and then evaluating our evaluation….

“To break out of the cycle of thinking is to be free,” Richard would say, “to think is to be a slave.”  He discouraged chess, cards, social gatherings and even small talk as it all led to an excess of thinking.  His philosophy on thinking was the reason he gave us the weeding task; his philosophy on giving was why we had a home in Ecuador.

Richard handed me the new switch and I took it with my two screwdrivers down to the kitchen.  Using the tools I removed the old switch from the wall.  Being careful not to touch the contact points at the same time, I unthreaded the screws that fastened the wires in place.  Once it was fully unattached, Richard inspected the simple switch and said,

“What could even go wrong with that thing?”

I fastened the wires in place on the new switch and tested it out before securing it to the wall again.  Sure enough, the light responded positively to the new conduit.  After attaching it in its place, I turned my attention back to the old switch, to see if I could ascertain the problem.  As I shook it near my ear and flicked it on and off a few times Richard said,

“Put that thing in the trash; I don’t want it getting mixed in with the other ones.”  It was a simple as that to Richard: the new switch worked, the old one didn’t, and so we might as well eliminate it from our existence.  The solution had been found, and we must execute that solution with enough energy and enough momentum to make it a reality.

Feeling proud of successfully fixing the switch, Michel and I left Carmen and Richard to their late breakfast.  We went back down to the end of the property to continue more weeding and raking.  Our conversation of non-violence turned to wedding planning, and for the first time since our stay in Lligua, we slacked off a bit.  Consistent raking turned into periodical weeding.  Periodical weeding turned into sitting in the shade.  At some point, when we felt content with going back to the main house, we started walking back.  We were excited about lunch, as it was going to consist of leftover vegetable lasagna that we had cooked the night before.  There were two servings left, because anytime we offered food to Richard, he consistently declined.  He had professed his fear to us of our cooking, because we would mix things like bananas and potatoes.  He even commented the previous night that “he had never seen carrots in lasagna before.”  His dismissal of our food always left us with ample refrigerated leftovers and had provided us with many hearty lunches.

Returning to the house, we saw the car of Richard’s friend Ray.  Ray and Richard had been friends for fifteen years, essentially the entirety of Richard’s life in Ecuador.  Ray came to visit the house occasionally, and even more frequently; Ray and Richard could be seen shooting pool in a local café just down the street from Ray’s restaurant.

Inside the door, we took off our boots, and I handed the tools to Michel. 

“I will go start heating up the lasagna, if you’ll take these upstairs.”  I said.  She agreed and we parted there, her going up the creaky steps and me into the kitchen to prepare lunch. 

I was just lighting the stove when Michel came over to me and said without warning,

“Richard died.”

A few minutes later, we learned the details of Richard’s death.  Without eating his breakfast, he informed Carmen that he would be right back.  He left his coffee and untouched toast on the table, went up the creaky steps one last time, went across the bridge to the garden one last time, laid down in his favorite spot on the grass for one final serene time.  Using a pistol, Richard freed himself from all thoughts, all evaluations, all thinking and attained a perpetual Enlightenment.  With all his energy and momentum, with all his intentionality and stillness, Richard truly became the absence of himself.

In honor of Richard, without thinking, I descended the creaky steps and went to the kitchen.  I rescued the broken light switch from the garbage can and flicked it on and off a few times.  Richard didn’t want it getting mixed in with the “other ones.”  Now, it never will.