As I write this article, I am still assembling the remaining pieces of a mystical jigsaw puzzle that I didn’t realize belonged to me. Perhaps some of you are familiar with that situation; one in which the breadth, depth, and scope of an apparent experience are not fully understood until months, or even years, later. One such event occurred to me in the wide-open spaces of either Utah or Arizona. I cannot say with absolute certainty just where it occurred, but the associated feeling and memory are indelibly etched upon me. The year was 2015….
To set the scene, a little background must first be shared: In 2006, my twenty-year marriage exploded like a tossed grenade that I didn’t want to catch. The details don’t really matter; beyond the fact that I was left spinning from the man, I then thought I was to the version now sharing this account. A lot has changed for the better in the intervening years; due in part to my rediscovery of my love of motorcycling only a couple of years prior to my subsequent divorce. I had no idea that my Kawasaki Vulcan 1500 (Scout, as I affectionately referred to him) would prove to be such an important partner along my highway to healing.
My long motorcycle trips were always solo, or so I believed at the time. I now realize that we can never actually be alone; for only in Him do we live and move and have our being. There was just something magical about the freedom related to motorcycling—of choice, of route, of accommodation for the night, of date and time of departure and arrival. As implied above, the knock which is the heart of this article, occurred one sunny afternoon. Despite the surrounding beauty in which I was immersed, I recall that an ache of loneliness—for family, spouse, and a sense of belonging somewhere—had embraced me and refused to let go.
Out of the blue, I felt the knock. For a reason unknown to me, I had placed my left hand upon the right shoulder of my motorcycle jacket. Within seconds, I felt a warm hand clasp itself over mine; it lingered, so long as to draw my attention and heart upward in wonder. What was happening? Although I was pleasantly bewildered, the hand felt comforting; and I intuitively realized that It was Goodness touching me. With the hope of a repeat occurrence, I found myself placing my hand upon that same shoulder the following day; but the knock, at least in that form, never came again.
During the following few years, I experienced the knock in a different presentation on several more occasions. As part of my coping mechanism to recover from the pain of divorce, I always ensured to set aside twenty minutes for daily meditation. This good habit also served as protection against some of the situations into which I found myself functioning as a paramedic. That same feeling knock would periodically arise in the form of unexpected tears as I was meditating. They flowed without rhyme or reason; for on the surface there was nothing about which to cry. Only now, in hindsight, do I realize that the knocks were connected to the following verse from Revelation 3:20:
Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come into him and will sup with him, and he with me.
When I first felt the knock, I was not yet aware that my higher Self was inviting me to leave Art and the weight of his worldly woes behind; to come and dine—so sumptuously—with the Lord of my Being. Now, as the jigsaw pieces of my apparent life come together, I realize that Grace was calling. I feel fortunate that superficial distractions, which are so predominant in our current world, did not prevent me from answering the knock. Some persons would call these events the arising of Christ Consciousness, Buddha Nature, or the Tao. To me, the term doesn’t really matter—only that we answer the knock. Let IT in.