The Enlightenment of Jason Albrecht

By Michael Rawlings

The Enlightenment of Jason Albrecht is a fictional story that speaks to the intrinsic need for spiritual orientation in the human experience. The central character, Jason Albrecht, spends a lifetime of struggle to reconcile religious codification and conventional thinking with the purity of intrinsic desires and realizations. The story follows the life of a carpenter who is intensely interested in philosophy and religion. During the course of Jasons life, he discovers and then teaches a meditation technique that leads to a unique philosophy in contemplating the wonders of the universe while being sustained by enduring friendships-during and, perhaps, continuing beyond his lifetime. Coming to terms in his final years, Jason Albrecht completes a memoir that tells a story of pain, exhilaration and spiritual realization before finding peace in that final hour that comes for each of us. From the precious idealism of youth to the challenges of adulthood, Jason learns that the material world informs an intrinsic Self and that the experiences of the world and human intuition are necessary companions on an individual journey to maturity in Spirit.

The Enlightenment of Jason Albrecht is the inspirational tale of one man's journey to find spiritual identity in a world of circumstance and allegiance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480807365

Michael Rawlings

Michael Rawlings is a financial advisor who has been active in the savings and loan and investment industries since 1985. He has also enjoyed an extensive career in the arts. Michael and his wife, Linda, live in Cincinnati, Ohio, where they enjoy family activities with their children and grandchildren.

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Contents

Preface

A Pathway

A Drive to Detroit and Beyond

The Spectral Frequency of Being—A Contemporary Spiritual Thesis

A Blessed Arrival

A Following

Mt. Lookout

Sojourn in a Distant Land

Contemplation of a Life—Excerpts from a Paper for Graduate Credit

Return to a New Reality

Greetings!

Life’s Mission

Fly Away, Fly Away, See You Again Another Day

Back Home Again

A Final Return

I dedicate the writing of this story to Linda, our children and grandchildren, family and friends—all of whom remind me of the wonder and promise of love.

Preface

The Enlightenment of Jason Albrecht is a fictional story about a search for self-realization. The character, Jason Albrecht, explores conventional thinking in the hope of understanding the mysteries of life in an all-inclusive orientation. But there is a paradox in accepting and questioning religious views and knowing that answers may in fact be unknowable.

Believing that all things are known intuitively and that we may be incapable of knowing all things, reflects a paradox existing within and without our being. Worldly and spiritual perspectives, human-centric and God-centric orientations, are intellectually disparate though unified in the human experience. I believe that humankind is spiritual by nature and to seek God without and within is a challenge of reconciliation for those who seek an understanding of spiritual identity. Humankind seems to have always struggled to reconcile the comfort of codification and conventional thinking, all-the-while following an intrinsic desire to know the unknown and perhaps unknowable, to make intellectual sense of living and dying when intuition fires the imagination. There are many seeming paradoxes explored in the experience of the fictional character, Jason Albrecht.

In writing this book, I have not presumed to know absolute truth nor has it been my aim to criticize any great religion. I seek only to find relevance and common cause in understanding the human experience.

A Pathway

P erhaps I’ve simply lost the moorings of rational thought, or perhaps I’ve found the meaning of life. Through years of meditation and sincere searching, I’ve arrived at an emergent state of mind where daily realities are becoming increasingly surreal and progressively diffi cult.

Thinking back on my childhood, I was always dreaming. Always seeing myself as being in the world and yet not only of it. As a young man, I struggled with whether to pursue a business career and instead toyed with artistic endeavor at the risk of being naïve about the demands of the world. To what end? For what meaning? Who and what am I? These questions seem to always haunt me.

I know now that it may be considered unrealistic or misguided to only follow one’s intuition in living one’s life. Some would even say that such a rejection of life’s realities is delusional and not cognizant of the entrenched demands of living.

I long for the carefree days of childhood, when all I desired was a clear spring day, birds chirping, bees buzzing, and the sweet smells of waking grasses in the meadow. Early in life, I was acutely aware that those who were in emotional distress drew near to me. Their troubles seemed to melt away as a result of a common union. I had been an outsider, not readily accepted as being in the popular crowd in high school, and the effect that I had on others belied my own circumstance. How odd it was, trying to reconcile my world.

I was only an average student in high school, and my home was not a place without heartbreak. We lost Mom to cancer far too soon, and Dad never recovered. When I graduated from high school and the time came to break free and explore the world, I seized the opportunity to follow my own pathway to adulthood. While attending a university in Michigan, majoring in philosophy with minor studies in music theory, I found the love of my life and established several enduring friendships.

During my undergraduate studies in college, I discovered a concept that I now affectionately call the fifth piece, and I realized that there was a kind of nexus between music and philosophy. I became aware that when four musical voices are in agitation and in balance, the sound of a fifth piece emerges as the sum of four parts; in other words, a thirty-first voice emerges as the sum of thirty individual voices. In an ideal musical performance, the focus of individual parts gives way to a nurturing of this fifth piece as it is floated above and held buoyant by the careful efforts of voices in concert. I learned that the aim of a master musician is to create and keep afloat the fifth piece, perceiving its form, its personality, and its ethos (which exists of an aggregation), to instigate and support the sound of the fifth piece, following it to where it leads.

I found that such a concept of material parts yielding a nonmaterial super-reality in producing musical sound is oddly consistent with an intimate interplay of the influences of the material world and human spirituality. In other words, activity and contemplation in the experience of being human also exists within a resultant super-reality, i.e., a fifth piece, held buoyant in philosophy and religious institutions.

Perhaps one of the most compelling descriptions that I encountered during my study of the nature of music is detailed in the nineteenth-century book On the Sensations of Tone, As a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music by Hermann Helmholtz. In his work, Helmholtz describes the existence of what he refers to as summation tones and a marked dependence of resultant tones on the strength of fundamental simple tones. The book explores the nature of the overtone system and the interaction of frequencies in the perception of sound. I had to continually remind myself that Helmholtz’s book was not about spirituality but was about the science of sound as a basis for understanding music.

A year after graduating from college, I labored in a logging camp in northern Wisconsin, trying to make sense of life. It was thankless work that provided little opportunity for rest. One day, as my short-lived summer logging job was coming to an end, there was a conflict among the workers. Short tempers flared when coworkers felled a large spruce tree without taking the usual care. The monster crashed to the canopied forest floor, landing too close to one of the workers and pinning him by its branches.

The man was not seriously injured, but his sense of security was shattered. In panic and anger, he freed himself and came flailing at his fellow workers—me included—to exact some manner of consideration. Shouting came first, then a fistfight, and suddenly, I found myself embroiled in a melee. As the event played out, we fell exhausted from each other’s grasps and expressions of exasperation turned to chagrin and then to laughter. That evening, as we found reason to laugh about the near-tragic event, we experienced a closeness that only comes with sharing mutual circumstances.

Jason! a coworker had said, what in the hell were you doing, thrashing around, trying to stop the fight!

My effort to explain didn’t seem to hit the mark, but did instantly quiet the group, and I remember thinking that I must’ve said something peculiar-though what was said, I don’t recall.

Soon after that night, with a satchel full of wages and with unforgettable memories, I set out to find college friends who were likely pursuing an ambitious plan of which I had been a part, at least in the planning stages.

The imaginative plan, made with John Hamm and Becky Schiller during the final months of our college years, was coming to fruition as the winter season approached. (I had met John our senior year, in a class called Meditation and Eastern Philosophy. The course was part of my curriculum as a philosophy major but was an elective for John, whose father was a Baptist minister in Nebraska.) John and Becky were now at work on the plan, within a few hundred miles of my logging job, at the Schiller family summer place in the rural northland of Wisconsin.

Becky had earned an undergraduate degree in architectural design and was from a strong, second-generation, German family. She inherited the family place when her father passed away, but the cabin on the property had fallen into ill repair over the years. John, also of German heritage, had graduated with a degree in agriculture and the striking couple were impressively stoic and formidable in appearance. John, tall and slender, with blondish hair and European features, and Becky, with coarse, ruddy-red hair often pulled back in a bun, were a loving couple who believed that the cabin would serve their interests and provide for a life together. The Schiller family log ranch-style cabin, of two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen area, and a mudroom, sat next to a working well that fed indoor plumbing. A cistern collected rainwater for simple bathroom needs, the plumbing being aided by a leach field. The residence benefited from rural utilities for electricity, but the primary source of heat was a large stone fireplace. John and Becky’s renovation plan called for constructing a root cellar and a utility building for tools and supplies, putting up firewood for the winter, and establishing a garden—the latter to be impressive in both size and capability.

Becky had presented her plans for the cabin as we brainstormed about it in the last year of college and John had made no excuses for needing some help. Both he and Becky had pleaded with me to be part of the effort, and even though we’d gone our separate ways upon graduation, they assumed it would only be a matter of time until I arrived.

At the end of senior year, over drinks one night and in a heady state, the three of us nailed down the details, which included my joining them after they initially established residency and made some progress. Becky had invited her best friend, Mary Timmons, to join us for drinks that night for a rousing, hopeful graduation celebration.

Mary was a beautiful and confident, young African American woman who saw the world as it should be, not as it was. As a prelaw student, she was ambitious and being with her was stupefying. That night, we were transfixed upon each other. Although she was coy and our gazes landed somewhere deep inside, we recognized the attraction and thought that we might be soul mates. But alas, she had made arrangements to further her law career and would be off to Boston in a matter of weeks.

The first winter and summer after graduation (while I was logging), John and Becky made some progress at the family cabin. They started a garden and began a root cellar, but progress was slow. Becky was now pregnant, and as a second winter loomed ahead, time was misting away.

When I arrived in the late summer, the surroundings far-surpassed what I had imagined. I could not have been more impressed. The cabin was set against the base of a small, wooded rise of a modest mountainside. Long, sloping fields of grasses and summer wildflowers extended to the south where a crystal-clear brook wound its way to a year-round stream in the distance. A mile or so down the slope, the stream connected with a tributary that boasted trout and small crustaceans that clung against the currents.

The vast garden was impressive as well—though not much of a surprise, given what I knew about John—boasting herbs, tomatoes, zucchini, potatoes, squash, strawberries, and other bounties. The spoils of small game from the surrounding area were also dressed, packaged, and stored with vegetables in a root cellar positioned next to the garden site.

A nearby town offered hardware and grocery stores, schools, a church, and several offices of local business. The nearest hospital was located in a larger town about an hour’s drive farther down the road, and John’s twelve-year-old Ford pickup truck was ready and available for whatever the need.

John and Becky were fast preparing for the winter season when I arrived, and we spent the entire first day drinking dandelion wine and preparing a feast in celebration. We decided that I would pay for my room and board by helping cut and stack firewood, completing the outbuildings, and tending to other necessary renovations as would likely present themselves. With Becky expecting a child in a few months, my arrival turned out to be very welcome, indeed.

The days were long and rewarding, and our friendship deepened with every passing day. We spent evenings partaking of wholesome food and drink and engaging in the same kind of compelling discussions of philosophy and religion that John and I had enjoyed only a short time before, as undergraduates.

I quietly continued with a routine of daily meditation, and John prayed on our behalf, before each meal and before turning in for the night. Our views were complementary but distinct, and out of respect for each other, we always pursued a common goal of merging our disparate views.

One late, crisp fall afternoon, when traipsing through the nearby forest hunting for rabbit and wild turkey, John and I came across a wounded buck. The very young deer presented itself with three deep scratch wounds of about eight inches in length on its rump and favored a severely injured rear right leg. The animal was resigned to its fate, frozen in shock and terrified at our approach, and we sensed the presence of its attacker lurking just out of view in the dense forest. We apparently had saved the gruesome confrontation from completion by walking onto the scene.

What luck! Venison for the taking! John exclaimed. We’ve got a problem, though. The freezer is full of venison and other provisions, and there’s little room left. I’m not sure how we would dress and store a kill of this size.

Already a reluctant hunter, I had gone along with hunting excursions as necessary to our needs. Now, here, faced with the cold reality of ending this exquisite creature’s existence, I almost could not breathe. As we crouched and laid our rifles aside and moved slowly to stroke and calm the beast, I found myself announcing obstinately in hushed tones, I’m going to gather this animal up, take him back to the house, and call a veterinarian, John.

John could only glance at me as if I had lost my mind!

Although perplexed at the suggestion, he accepted the solution with certain apprehension while I removed the scarf from around my neck, dabbed the wounds, and bound up the leg the best I could while the young buck remained largely frozen in panic and resignation. I guessed that the animal couldn’t have been more than about forty pounds, and the walk back, cradling the injured animal in my arms, thoroughly exhausted us by the time we arrived at the house.

The bales of hay that we had stacked in a newly erected tool barn, to use along the foundation of the back of the house, made for decent bedding for the fading deer, as we situated him.

Dude, it’s not going to last the night, John lamented with a focus that surprised even me. I hurriedly gathered blankets, some lettuce, some of Jake’s dog food, and a pail of water. Jake was the trusty but stray, outdoor shepherd that frequented our place.

Go call the vet in town, and tell him to come out as soon as possible! I’ll stay here until you get back, I directed. The animal began to find some comfort in the sound of my cooing and, after a little while, licked some water from a cup I offered. When John returned, he struggled with recounting the vet’s response. In short, he had said that if the animal was still alive in the morning, we should call again, and he would come out to look at the leg—but he would make no promises that any treatment would be successful.

There was a little pot-bellied stove in the tool shed, and I stoked a small fire in it as I settled in to spend the night with my unlikely patient. It was a tough night, the beast struggling with pain as I remained watchful. I finally fell asleep around three in the morning. Then at daybreak, we summoned the local veterinarian to come out and consider our predicament.

When the vet arrived, after about an hour of tense moments, the wounds were clean and dressed. We set the leg in a simple splint in a cloth sleeve.

What do we owe ya? John asked.

Let me think … just let me know how things go in the next couple of days, he said as he headed back to his car, shouting sheepishly as he began to drive away. I think you guys are crazy!

The snow was beginning to swirl, accompanied by a bone-chilling nine degrees. As the unlikely nursemaid, I remained almost entirely in the company of my patient for the next three days and did little more than meditate, feed the stove, and force sustenance upon the beast. Wanting to do whatever I could to encourage improvement, I often placed my hand on the leg at the point of the break and focused the warmth of my grasp.

On the morning of the fourth day, after I awoke to stoke the morning fire against the cold morning air, I moved toward the animal, and to my amazement, it stood up! I momentarily froze in disbelief and then rushed to the house to call the vet to notify him of the miraculous development. The doctor arrived within the hour to examine the patient and was dumbfounded at the apparent healing.

I don’t know what to make of this, but you boys appear to be on the verge of a dilemma. Shaking his head, he walked to his truck. No charge, boys! Good luck—you’re gonna need it!

It was only a few days later when the obvious choice came, and we were in agreement to leave the door of the tool shed open, come what may.

I was truly thankful to return to the comfort of the cabin and the companionship of my friends in the evening. John and I reengaged with a vengeance in our usual evening banter about religion, agreeing that prayer was speaking with God and meditation was essentially listening for God—a small but important distinction. Prayer was asking for guidance, and meditation was listening for guidance in search of God in human experience, and in this agreement, there was substantial common ground in our discussions. I talked at length about an evolving belief that consciousness was a stratagem of frequency, resonating within us in sympathy with the universe. I suggested that to harness an understanding of spiritual reality, one would have to consider the existence of essential aspects of our being that are not perceived by the five physical senses. I forwarded the idea that spirit extends beyond a physical nature and is accommodative of prayer and meditation, both quieting thoughts in favor of perception and guidance of intuition. We could agree that we all struggle to bring the actuality of spirit into the physical world of our lives—though perhaps by different means.

There certainly were questions to consider here. Can we tune ourselves to a resonance in spirit and thereby affect outcomes in our daily lives? When we pray for forgiveness and for the strength to know what to do with challenges in life, are we not tuning wakefulness to an internal presence beyond a world known by physical senses alone? Are we speaking with ourselves in prayer and meditation, in a conversation with God consciousness, seeking lives awakened in a spiritual reality found within ourselves?

John and