Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

Aaron said, “Joseph is more sensitive to negative energy waves than most people, so he can hear things on another level.”

I now suspect that Joseph had schizoaffective disorder; untreated, the person may experience delusions and paranoia, and when he hid for days in his cabin he was probably suffering a period of depression.

After we’d been at the commune for a couple of months, Aaron had a vision in meditation about how he could reach a higher state of consciousness and asked that the sweat-lodge rocks be heated longer—they were always heated in the fire, placed in a pit in the lodge, then had water poured over them. He entered alone, saying that he didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, in case something went wrong. He stayed there for hours, while we all waited outside, anxious, with water and fresh fruit for him. When he finally emerged, crawling on his hands and knees, flushed and disoriented, he ranted and slurred about finally reaching nirvana. Then he collapsed.

The members had rushed to him, soaking his body with cold water, trying to drop his body temperature. It took them a while to bring him back. When he was lucid again, he stood, refusing help from anyone, though he was swaying on his feet, and said, “The most amazing thing happened. I died and crossed over to the other side. I did it, I really did it.” He broke out laughing, but in delight, like a man who couldn’t believe his luck. The members were just looking at him in shocked silence, confusion in their eyes. His voice rose, still giddy. “I felt myself lifting, then I was standing beside you all—I even saw Joy drop a cup.”

Joy gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “It’s true!”

“I saw each of you, could hear you talking, like I was inside your minds. Then I felt my body being pulled up to the sky, through a tunnel. At the end there was a bright white light, a glorious spiritual being. My body was filled with so much love and peace.” His face now reflected the pleasure he’d felt, his gaze rapturous and his voice almost awestruck with the memory.

Aaron said the Light asked him what knowledge he’d gained and how he had loved, showing him scenes from his life. Aaron said he could see some souls still stuck in the tunnel and that the spirit explained they hadn’t learned enough and wouldn’t be able to transition, so they’d be sent back to Earth, doomed to repeat their lives. The spirit also told Aaron that anyone who committed suicide wouldn’t be able to cross over until they healed—they needed more time to understand the error of their choices, same with drug addicts. The Light then told Aaron that he had to share what he’d learned. Aaron said, “I felt a pulling sensation, and I was flying backward through the air, then I was in my body again.”

When he was done speaking, there was silence. Everyone was amazed, awestruck that we had this person among us, someone as special as Aaron.

One of the male members said, “Did the Light say what we needed to do so that we could go to the other side when it’s our time?”

Aaron revealed that we needed to share all our belongings, to live as one and let go of society’s quest for material possessions. We had to dedicate our lives to awakening our spirits, so we could become whole and help others. Then he asked members to donate some money for our cause, only those who truly believed, but everyone wanted to prove how committed they were and donated everything they owned. Some even contacted family members, asking for loans.

At the time, Aaron’s vision of the other side had amazed and astonished me, but now, with an adult’s wisdom, I see it for what it truly was. Many people who claimed to have “crossed over” came back with a renewed belief and a deeper feeling that they were put on Earth for a certain purpose, something that was certainly true of Aaron. But in my opinion, most near-death experiences are just a series of physical reactions as the neurotransmitters in the brain shut down. In Aaron’s case, his so-called near-death experience was likely nothing more than hallucinations caused by heat stroke. His vision of Joy dropping a cup could easily be explained by an auditory reaction. He was delirious and might’ve passed out, but his subconscious recognized the sound.

But back then, I believed. We all believed.

My mother, who used to take little white pills to help her moods, saying as she held the bottle in a shaky hand that she couldn’t “deal with us,” had stopped taking them when she began to have healing meditations with Aaron. Now she seemed to be perpetually high, going off with Aaron to his cabin for hours and coming out spacey, like she was in a trance, her eyes half-closed as she wandered around, stopping to pick a flower or a leaf, gazing at it dreamily. I didn’t like how disconnected she’d become, living inside a bubble that I couldn’t touch, but it was better than her dark moods, when I lived in fear that she would hurt herself. I didn’t know if it was the marijuana, being away from our father, or the meditations, but she finally seemed happier. Robbie had also changed.

When we’d first arrived at the commune, he’d watched out for me, just as he had for years. With parents like ours, we’d frequently been left to fend for ourselves. When my father was away fishing, and my mother was sleeping all day, he’d make me dinner, and often my lunch for school as well. He’d also bring our mom food and do all the chores around the house, feeding the animals, chopping firewood, keeping things going until she finally crawled out of her room. I’d help as much as possible, but being older and stronger, a lot of it fell on his shoulders.

If our father was in a rage, Robbie would make me hide, or once even took the blame for something I’d done, saying, “I knew he’d use the belt. I’m tougher than you. I can take it.”

At the commune, he made friends quickly, but he also made sure I was never sitting alone, and when he’d done his chores, he’d help me finish mine. In those first weeks and months, when the members would gather for Satsang or a campfire meeting, I’d look up and see him keeping an eye on me. He was my raft in an ocean of uncertainty, my only safe person in this new world, where all the rules had changed. But then he also started to drift away from me, spending all his time with Levi or the teen girls in the commune—a new one in his tent every night.

More and more, I was on my own.

We were starting to expand. Aaron wanted the young people to go into the village to sell produce we’d grown in greenhouses at the farm market and find other people who might be willing to join our group. It wasn’t hard. The members were fresh-faced and wholesome-looking, our vegetables, herbs, homemade jams, baking, and eggs were always a hit. The members would explain that everything was organic and our chickens roamed free, while they handed out pamphlets on social consciousness. If someone stopped to listen, we’d tell them about the commune, how cool it was, how joyful and free we all were. We’d also pick up hitchhikers, and teenagers hanging around the corner store.

Aaron often went with us, and he could always sense right away who was a good target. Complete strangers would be telling him their heartbreaking stories in minutes. He’d hug them, reassure them, then bring them back to the commune, where we all greeted them with a plateful of food and a seat by the campfire.

While we ate, Aaron would talk about how we were all connected to every blade of grass and seed, and that it was our purpose to spread love and awareness. Everyone would be nodding and agreeing, passing a joint around, hugging each other. After the meal, he’d ask the new people to do a small task; they always agreed. They’d end up spending the night. The next morning, Aaron would ask them to help with something else, moving some equipment or planting, which would take all day, so they’d end up spending another night. Before they knew it, they were living at the commune.