Homegrown Satori

This out of body experience was the inspiration for Homegrown Satori. I sent this letter to Tom Robbins in 2017 along with a small piece of petrified wood. He graciously wrote me back. It made me happy.

-Keith

"Tommy Rotten,

Just finished munching your Tibetan Peach Pie and had to send kudos to the chef. I've dined at your table various times over the years, and have been pleasantly sated, but still hungry for more. like a fat, grinning tick, with your lifeblood greasing my cheeks, I can only mutter through suckles, 'Bring me a bucket!'.

If you have the time, or interest, I would like to share my one, true, affirming moment of Satori.

Nearly 30 years ago, after losing 40 pounds in a month, I was certain I was dying of cancer or AIDS or some other bad juju. As a medic on the ambulance, bathed in blood before gloves were the norm, and a smoke eating firefighter chomping Camels and whiskey one the off days while sowing a few wagonloads of wild oats, I was sure the jig was up. My hens were home, and they were roosting little peckers. To my great delight, I was only diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I could carry that sugar dripping albatross and kick its needle-driven ass. Of course, I had to shake hands with Insulin and agree to play fair.

The day I began sticking pancreas pearl into fat cells was my day of enlightenment. Apparently, low blood sugar is the back gate to Grandma's Zen Garden, and I Peter Rabbited my way under with my first dose of insulin and munched on her sweet nirvana carrots.

I was at a diner with my wife Elizabeth, and small children, Sarah and Hank. I had already taken my dope, so we ordered quickly and awaited our meal. That's when my sugar sled plummeted me down the rabbit hole and I came eye to eye with the answer that has no question. That's because there were no questions, so answers were irrelevant. To label it as such would be an insult to labeling which also was non-existent in this Garden. To describe this Peace in words is like describing Red to a blind man - can't be completely done.

The main Truth I came away with is the unbreakable connection everything has, and We, as a part of everything, are a part of that connection. I was at once the smallest, most insignificant molecule that ever existed, while being the only reason the universe was ever born. The number of other beings was infinite, and we all knew each other and our completer histories, families, quirks, and foibles, and the soup we swam in can only be described as Love. There was complete acceptance as I completely accepted everything I knew, and in that place, I knew everything. There was no Time, never has been, and Infinity was as cute as your sister's baby. Of course, this eternity only lasted a few minutes of our so-called Time. I never passed out, but my children were a bit concerned that Dad was ranting incoherently while Mom was pouring sugar on my pork chops. This trip between Death's bony ankles and up his robe only makes me want to give him a piggyback ride the next time we meet.

I writer this to you because your words have brought me Peace, Joy, and Wonder (and by the way, in that place that is Us, where we are aware of all, the wonder still never stops!). I was worried about the all-knowing part, but God is a kid that's always tasting coconut snow cones for the first time.

Since you're 20 years closer to the big dirt nap than me, I hope I can offer some comfort for your upcoming adventure, a neck pillow for your Trans-Atlantic to Transcendence.

If you ever find yourself on a slow boat to West Texas, Elizabeth and I would love to sit with you on the back porch and eat some home-grown tomatoes until the moon grins, flicking the seeds form our faces. Guy Clark said it best, "Only two things that money can't buy and that's true love and home-grown tomatoes!"

Thanks for always fluffing my pillows. Love- Keith

P.S. I've enclosed a souvenir clock, so you won't miss your flight.

This was Toms letter in response:

"Dear Keith:

Your resent epistle lit up my mailbox like the Texas State Fair with all of the oat buckets on fire; like the French Riviera with every bikini bottom burning, like a lesbian whaling ship with all of the sperm oil ablaze (remember that great scene from Moby Dyke?), like.... well, you get the picture. I don't know if you write for a living or for pleasure, but the verve on display in your letter outshines every page of every tome on the Pulitzer short list. If I wore a hat, I'd tip it so vigorously it would blow the squirrels out of my cedar tree and the raisins out of my cookie jar (so far, I've managed to avoid the sugar reaper, though the doctors say it's just a matter of time - but then, what isn't?)

A million and 23 thanks (adjusted for inflation) for thinking of me so generously and with such flair. I've filed your letter in the hickey-red box where I keep the cream of the epistolary crop. Here's hoping you continue to show your heels to that skinny bastard with the scythe (he badly needs a wardrobe makeover, don't you think?), and should Fortune (or its little sister) ever land me in West Texas, you and Elizabeth better have a suffice of mayonnaise on hand because I can eat more tomato sandwiches than a jackass can eat the latest news.

Thanks again - and please feel ridiculously fine,

Tom Robbins"