The Way of the Well

By Dr. Elisa Robyn

"Everything that has happened to you, every life choice you have made, every road you have traveled has led without deviation to this point, to this moment. I have known who you were for years, even watched you as you grew. When I saw your face in the wine glass at the new moon I knew you were ready and it was time to contact you. The final choice is yours. I offer to guide you to the path of your divine purpose, but only you can take the first step, only you can commit to the journey."

These words from the old woman in the synagogue begin the adventure of Rachel Cohen's life; a journey that will take her through the ten gateways that guard Miriam's Well. In the classic tradition of a heroine's journey she finds friends and mentors, challenges and dangers, family and romance, and her life purpose. A richly written spiritual romance, with real characters and surprising twists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 10, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462073931

Dr. Elisa Robyn

Dr. Elisa Robyn has an M.A. in Geology and a PhD in Educational Psychology, and sees her life as a creative spiritual adventure. She is the Dean of Languages, Arts and Behavioral Sciences at the Community College of Denver. She loves to hike, ride horses, kayak, run, and write.

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Copyright © 2003, 2009 by Elisa S. Robyn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Writers Club Press is an imprint of iUniverse.com, inc.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-26847-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-7393-1 (Ebook)

rev. date: 04/13/2009

Contents

The Legend

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Afterword

Book Club discussion questions:

The Legend

At twilight on the sixth day of creation, the Holy-One-Who-Dwells-in-This-World created the many miracles that were given to humankind, the greatest of which was Miriam’s Well, the Well that provided water for the Israelites as they wandered through the desert. Ha-Shem placed the light of creation in this sacred Well, surrounded it with a labyrinth of gateways, and gave it to the keeping of the women of the tribe of Miriam. It is said that in every generation a gatekeeper will be born to hold open the gateways of the Well, so that the light of divine inspiration may forever shine in the hearts and souls of humankind.

Chapter One

I REALLY DO NOT understand why you will not marry me, Rachel. Is-L there some unresolved issue we need to discuss? Is there something that you are afraid of, some way in which you find me lacking? I am sure that if you would confide in me we could discuss and resolve this. Everyone in your family and mine wants you to marry me. I do not understand what the problem is!

David went on in that vein for a few more minutes, but I had stopped listening, having heard it all several times before. How could I explain my reticence to him or my family? David is intelligent, considerate, fun to be with, and a great dinner companion. In many ways he is the perfect lawyer-husband of my family’s desire. My mother was even dropping not-at-all-subtle hints about my age and her desire for grandchildren. She was probably planning the seating arrangements for the wedding, the guest list having been ready since I was 18. At the ripe old age of 35 I was making her frantic.

David was looking at me earnestly, expecting some logical response, of course. People always expected logical explanations for my rebellious decisions, thinking, I am sure, that if I simply examined my decisions from some logical point of view, they would be able to point out my mistakes and change my mind to match theirs. How odd that David expected just such an explanation now when I had never been able to give him one before.

He really is an attractive man in a well-planned sort of way. His dark wavy hair sits perfectly in place as if trained in obedience school. His cologne is always appropriately subtle, fresh, and obviously expensive. He had provided a fine bottle of Merlot and red roses to set the scene for tonight’s discussion, and had appropriately well-planned music on the stereo. I should have been swept away by the moment. Perhaps David thought I was, but all I could think about was the inevitable phone call from my mother after David reported my continued refusal to be reasonable and marry him. Perhaps part of the problem is that he never remembered that I preferred Pinot Noir to Merlot, and bougainvilleas and orchids to roses.

I did the only safe thing I could think of, played for time. I am just not ready to make this decision. Why don’t we table it for a bit and see how things go?

David actually looked ruffled at this point, which is difficult for someone who is always so perfect. Maybe he felt it was the appropriate way to look. He was not happy with evasions, in or out of the courtroom. I know how things are going to go. That is not the point. It is the appropriate time for things to move forward. If we set the wedding date for this fall, then I can apply for vacation time from my law firm, not miss any important cases and have time for a honeymoon. Now is the right time, not some undisclosed future date. Once a lawyer always a lawyer.

Give me until the weekend to think about it. I will give you an answer by Saturday. It’s Tuesday night. Saturday is just a few days away. Maybe the sky would open up and drop a set of instructions in my lap, or a neon sign would appear telling me which way to go. Maybe a job in some foreign land would appear, requiring me to move for a month or two. Maybe aliens would kidnap me. If I prayed hard enough maybe someone would answer and a miracle would occur.

He agreed, if a bit reluctantly. I had seen this same look on his face when the judge had overruled his objections in court. Extricating myself as quickly as possible, I headed back to my own small house on the west side of Denver, knowing full well that he was heading to the phone and a council with my mother.

Later in bed, wrapped in the cocoon of my down comforter, I thought about the situation. Why not marry David? He was good to me, even if he did not have a clue who I was. He was mildly entertained by my personal obsession with the spiritual aspects of life, which was better than most men who found it laughable at best, demented at the worst. Why not cease the struggle and do what was expected of me, do what would make everyone happy? God, what a nauseating thought. Marry David only because it would give my family pleasure, as if their pleasure was more important than my truth.

I snuggled deeper into my nest of quilts and listened to the humming snore of my cat, who was molded into the small of my back, and the sleep-barks of my dog as she dreamed of chasing who knows what. This was comfort, surrounded by those who love me without condition. Protected by those who never questioned the value or importance of my spiritual search. Cradled by the scent and sound of love without rules.

A giggle started to form in my throat and threatened to erupt into the night. I was picturing David fitting into my domestic scene. Would the cat share her side of the bed with him? Would the dog lick his feet in the middle of the night, or awaken him with an early-morning-cold-wet-nose in the face? How could I marry a man who thought the animals were less important than he was, who thought that they would sleep outside once we were married? How could I marry someone who foolishly believed that he was better protection than a 120-pound black furry monster of a dog, who, by the way, was not too fond of him? How could I marry a man with no sense of humor?

The giggle turned into a sigh accompanied by brimming eyes. How could I marry a man who thought all my problems would be solved by my taking care of his house, helping him achieve a vice-presidency in his firm, and by having babies. I had told him of my inner emptiness, of the painful void that I had always lived with, of the search for something that would fill and satisfy the ache. He had listened, yes, David was good at listening. Too bad that he was better at rebuttal than understanding. I still remember his reply, and how sure he was of his answer.

It is all right, I understand. As soon as we get married you can decorate the house any way you want. After our one-year anniversary you can get pregnant and start preparing for motherhood. There will be parties to plan and attend to further my career. You will be busy and the emptiness will go away. All you need is a family to take care of and my career to distract you. You can quit your practice, stop seeing clients and work on your books and workshops, have lunch with friends and go shopping.

How could I marry a man who tossed my spiritual search out the window with the same concern he gave his trash? How easy it would be if I could be fulfilled by raising a family, if the haunting voices that had called to me since childhood would finally be still, if I could be domesticated like a pet. How much easier life would be if I had less drive, less desire and less passion; if instead of dreaming about spiritual quests and teachers I dreamed of babies and a successful husband. How life would change if I could find joy in doing only what was expected of me.

But I could not. Somehow by Saturday I had to come up with a way to tell David good-bye. I had said the words before, but he always insisted on a retrial, telling me that I had not heard all the evidence. My luck, he was going to ask for a jury trial with my mother as head juror. The voices in my head would only scream louder and the void would grow until it swallowed me alive. I prayed for a miracle, any miracle, to happen before Saturday.

I snuggled deeper into the covers, feeling chilled, even though the almost fall night was not at all cold. I was frightened, frightened that I would somehow give up, take the course of least resistance, and lose myself. I was afraid that the voices in my mind would hound me, but I was more frightened that they would go away, disgusted with me for not heeding their call.

The voices had always been there. As long as I can remember they echoed around the dark secret hidden in my soul. It feels like an ache, an empty hollow void inside me that nothing and no one can fill. I have always been different than those around me, always living on the fringes of reality, separate even from my family, especially from my family.

I had created a great life, going to school, getting a degree and opening a successful private practice as a psychologist. I have dear friends, fun hobbies, donate blood and give to charity. My clients improve, finding the source of their worries and creating wholesome lives, while I stayed lost in my own spiritual void.

In my desperation for answers and guidance, I studied with holy people of every tradition, hoping that one of them would be able to see into my own darkness and tell me what lies there. I read voraciously from the great myths of the world, studying the work of Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell for their hidden meanings. I sat at the feet of Buddhist monks and in sweat lodges with Shamans. But still the answer of my own void eluded me.

The closest that I have ever come to an answer was given to me by a Shaman in southern Utah. She journeyed to the upper world in quest of the answer to the hole in my soul. When she returned she told me that she had seen a guardian standing in front of a locked gate, preventing her from entering the sacred space beyond. The guardian told the Shaman that I had an important role to play, something spiritually important to do on this planet, and that the doing would answer all my questions. But, the guardian added, she is the only one who may pass through this gateway and find her path.

The Shaman held my face in her hands and looked loving into my eyes. You alone can fill the hole. You alone can discover the sacred path. Follow the voices that guide you and the road will open before you.

The empty hole inside me remained as a constant reminder that there was something I was supposed to do. David laughed at my search, found light humor in it, convinced that life with him would cure me of my insanity and need to roam.

Then one day I stumbled upon the legend of Miriam’s Well, a well holding the water of life that was given to the care of the women because they had refused to worship the golden calf while Moses was on Mount Sinai. That story resonated with some echo inside of me, and from that moment I knew that I was searching for the gatekeepers of Miriam’s Well. It is impossible to explain to one’s mother why the search for enlightenment is more important than the search for the correct marriage partner. But still I searched.

The tears were running down my face as the thoughts circled like a lariat in my mind. The thought that there was nothing more in life than marriage to David was tearing at my heart, or maybe my soul. Either way, it was physically painful. The tears that had started as streamlets turned into rivers. I slept fitfully after my evening with David, sweating and crying through a labyrinth of dreams that were forgotten upon awakening, leaving only a dull headache and a feeling of slowness behind. My eyes felt dehydrated and swollen from the tears that had poured out all night long.

Lucky for me I don’t have clients today, I thought as I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. I might scare them off with this face. I got dressed in running clothes and shoes, brushed my wild brown hair into some semblance of order, from which it would escape as soon as my back was turned, and made myself a cup of tea.

The morning chores kept me busy for a while. No matter what happens in a woman’s life the dog still needs to be fed and walked, and the cat still needs milk. I wandered into my in-home office, worked on my computer, up-dated some files and listened to my messages. Returning phone calls seemed beyond me this morning, and the silence of the house was driving me crazy. I could feel the phone about to ring, carrying either David’s logical rational voice or my mother’s be-reasonable tone to my unwilling ear.

I stood up abruptly, picked up my journal, purse and keys, and headed for the car. I did not have the strength for a hike in the mountains, was too upset to get on a horse at my trainer’s barn, and had no one I wanted to talk to, but my favorite bookstore was open and waiting to greet me without questions. My favorite retreat was waiting for me, and I headed there without delay.

Chapter Two

BOOKS AND STORIES ARE such a great comfort. They expect nothing while opening doorways into unknown worlds. I was a bookworm as a child and loved hiding behind the curtain of the window seat in the family room surrounded by my imaginary friends and books. This morning, the only place I wanted to be was this store, surrounded by books, with a cup of green tea in my hand.

I gathered a small selection of books and magazines, found a comfortable chair and sat myself amid a pile of information and entertainment. I sat reading, finding comfort in the written word, the smell of paper and the sound of quiet. For the moment I was alone and had no need to make any decisions or choices. Sunlight streamed through the large picture windows warming my chair and my heart. The trees outside the windows were just hinting at autumn colors, the days were still long and warm, sensuous and enticing, though in typical Colorado style the weather people were predicting unpredictable weather.

I must have been daydreaming because I did not hear her approach. An older dark-haired woman was suddenly in front of me, staring at me as if she were matching me against some image in her mind. She gazed at me until I was ready to squirm. I tried to return this microscopic gaze, but I had difficulty meeting her eyes, which were the color of old polished mahogany outlined with black, and seemed to have a life of their own. Then she spoke those odd words that would change the course of my life, though I did not know it at the time.

I know you, she said in a light singsong voice, as if the words were a prayer. I saw you in the wine glass on the new moon. You are Rachel. Come to me in the synagogue and we will talk. You are the one she meant me to talk to. The one seeking the Well of Miriam.

I was stunned. She had obviously mistaken me for someone else, someone else named Rachel, which did seem to be a bit too much of a coincidence. Who meant her to talk to me? My tongue was stuck in my mouth, leaving me, for once in my life, speechless. Miriam’s Well, the words rolled around in my mind and picked up speed, outpacing my rational mind. How many people could be seeking Miriam’s Well of Light? If I believed in coincidences, which I do not, her words might not have shaken me so much. As it was I felt unable to reply.

My mouth opened with effort. I am sorry but you must have mistaken me for someone else, though I am interested in Miriam’s Well. Why don’t you sit down and we can talk?

She nodded once, quickly and firmly, the dark brown hair staying still in the bun at the base of her neck and acted as if she had not heard my words. Yes, you will come to the old synagogue on the hill Friday, two hours before sundown and we will talk. With one more abrupt nod she turned and walked away, leaving the scent of fresh-baked bread behind her. I was sure I could hear her humming a lullaby as she moved through the crowded store. Was it my imagination or did the crowd open in front of her as if unconsciously aware of her presence?

I am a rational adult. Well, I usually am a rational adult. I have been mistaken for other people before, even told I had a twin once. But this was decidedly weird. I had been reading a book on Jewish mysticism, so maybe she surmised I was Jewish, but what did she mean about the wine glass, and how did she know about the Well? How did she know my name? The ancient legend of Miriam and the Well is not commonly known. In fact, many circles scoff at the story. How did this strange old woman know that I would not laugh at her, that I would understand her words? She seemed positive that I was the right person, not even acknowledging my denial.

It did occur to me to chase after her, though I hardly saw the point. She wanted to believe that I was someone else. Besides, she had quickly disappeared out the door, and I did not want to be seen chasing after an old woman. Just my luck some relative of mine would see me and report it to my family. One more reason to worry about Rachel.

Of course, I could just keep the meeting. It was tempting. My family has never believed in religious traditions. Holidays were not religious celebrations as much as opportunities for my grandmother to orate on the stupidity of the belief in God. Any belief in the non-physical was quickly verbally lacerated, a process sure to exorcise the demon of superstition. Yes, hang a mezuzah on your door, but do not believe that it has any meaning. Yes, go to temple on holidays, but do not believe in God. Because of all this, my attraction to the mystical was always suspect and resulted in my being the receiver of many lectures on the subject. At one point I had expressed an interest in studying to be a rabbi, a thing not often done by women. My family reacted as if I had declared my intention of becoming a professional ax murderer (are health benefits provided I wonder?). To enter the orthodox synagogue for this unorthodox meeting called to my sense of irony.

Today was Wednesday. I had two days to think about it, and think about it I did. How odd that I had prayed for something, anything to happen before the weekend, and something had. I decided that I at least needed to go and tell the woman that she had been mistaken, she was looking for some other Rachel. That seemed only fair. Besides, what a joke, I had been following teachers for years, in some cases paying for the right to listen to them, and now someone beckoned me. In the end, I felt compelled to go.

So that is how I found myself, two hours before sunset on Friday afternoon, standing in front of an old storefront in Denver. The front was dusty and windblown, a disguise that hid the building from the casual eye. The wind had blown aspen leaves against the walls, delicately gold-plating the exterior. I walked through the unlocked door into a different world. Here was shining wood smelling of polish, stained glass and white walls. The rug on the golden wood floor was worn and thin, but clean and well cared for. I could smell the olive oil from the lamps that hung in front of the ark in the sanctuary. The door to the sanctuary was ajar, and I could see the waiting seats upholstered in maroon velvet.

I felt the same musical silence that haunts the Anasazi ruins at Mesa

Verde. There it is the rocks that sing. Here the sound seemed to come from the ark containing the Torah, the holy scrolls. For a moment, it seemed that I was standing in one of the ancient kivas, surround by the echoes of prayers and chants sung long ago. The golden wood became red rock, the smell of olive oil blended with the scent of sage and cedar. For an instant I stood between worlds, not sure which one I belonged in. I shook my head and the sensation passed, and I was again in the present, coming to meet the old woman, whose name I did not know.

Looking up the stairs on the west side of the building, I saw her waiting for me. She beckoned to me, and I climbed the stairs to the women’s section, a small loft above the main sanctuary. The railing was smooth and polished by the passage of many caressing hands. It felt warm to my hands, as if the passage of lives and times had brought it quietly to life. She said nothing as I followed her into the loft and took a seat beside her, front and center. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, a prelude to meditation. Decidedly weird.

Her silence lasted long enough to make me uncomfortable. I do not know what she meditated on, but I found myself reflecting on the sheer curtain