Daina Tabūna

Translated into English by Kaija Straumanis

Once everyone has spoken, the Priestess’s assistant helps pour everyone a tea prepared from special herbs. While the women sip the tea, the Priestess begins to tell them about goddesses. She talks about the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who was killed, hung up on a hook, and who returned from the underworld three days later—over a thousand years before Jesus. She talks about Kali—the terrifying, bloodthirsty, destructive Indian goddess who was nonetheless always on the side of justice. She talks about Gaia and Freya, Māra and Persephone. She explains that each of the goddesses is an offshoot of Mother Earth and as such is a part of every woman here in this room.

                Then they’re told to make themselves comfortable and lie down among the pillows on the rug, eyes closed. Music starts to play and the Priestess guides them through meditation. The women are led through fields and groves, along streams and trees, until they are asked to imagine reaching a staircase that they slowly walk up. When they reach the final step, each of them are to continue their path on their own.

                They had a similar guided meditation in the previous session. When the Priestess’s voice had fallen silent, Alma had felt a bit confused. Was she supposed to be seeing something, was her mind supposed to show her images? Nothing happened. So instead she began to think about the music, how it didn’t match how she was feeling and was more annoying than helpful; keeping her eyelids low, she tried to peek through her lashes to see what the others looked like right then—as if that would help. She wiped her mind of the shopping list she’d unwittingly started to make. Toward the end of the meditation, however, she was able to grasp onto a thread that seemed appropriate: it resembled a jumbled montage of memories from various places. The woods near her grandma’s countryside home; the hidden beach she and her friends had once hitchhiked to in high school; the Bulgarian mountain trail she’d hiked while on a youth exchange program. (She purposely avoided memories connected to Roberts—it was better not to go there.) She remembered the sun, wind, and water splashing onto her skin; she remembered how free and happy she’d felt in those places, if even for a moment.

                But when some of the women shared their meditation experiences, Alma could see that she’d apparently done it all wrong.

                She was surprised, and, admittedly, a bit jealous, over how earnestly these women described the expansive, phantasmagoric things they’d seen—one even included a local celebrity. What did it all mean, the women asked for explanations. You made it all up, Alma wanted to snap. Instead, she offered a few hesitant interpretations.

                This time she’s decided to do what the other women do—give in to fantasy, make up some kind of fairytale with herself in the leading role. If the other women can do it, so can she. When the Priestess leads them up the staircase, Alma runs through a dozen options in her mind: a rickety rope ladder; worn-down lengths of lumber on a steep forest path; wide marble steps. When the Priestess tells them they’ve reached the tenth and final step, Alma sees the same stone steps with the winding banister that she’d climbed today to get here. Then the Priestess falls silent. Now they go on alone.

                Okay, Alma thinks, if those are the steps she gets, then those are the steps she’ll take. She decides to levitate instead of walk, a bit above the floor, like she’s done in a recent dream. She imagines herself floating over the threshold, through the foyer, past the row of coats and boots, and into this very room. In her mind, she sees the other women, eyes closed, lying on the floor or sitting against the wall. Is the Priestess here too? No, Alma decides, she’ll be leader here. She lowers herself very close to a few of the other women, close enough to feel their breathing, see the pores on their noses. Is Alma here? She is, right where she was, between the tired old woman with the cancer-husband and the young, enthusiastic woman with the tunnel piercings. Alma lowers herself over her own body—looks at the tiny lines on her forehead and around her mouth, sees the familiar veins on the backs of her hands, which, resting on her stomach, move slowly up and down as she breathes. It’s not easy maintaining the scene—she has to stay focused to keep the images from faltering or dissipating; but little by little she finds herself enjoying it. She decides to reconnect with her body, dive down into it and then rise up again, higher this time. The meditative music takes a turn and Alma feels impish. Everyone should be floating, she thinks. In one of her recent dreams she’d been able to move objects telepathically. Small stuff at first, like a spoon or a book, but in the end she was even able to wobbly levitate an old-school television. She probably won’t be able to levitate an entire group of people in her dreams any time soon, but here—why not! Alma imagines all the women in the room rising up off the floor as she lifts her arms. Then the windows open at her command, allowing each woman to fly off to wherever she pleases. A few of them open their eyes and fly out immediately, others remain stretched out with their eyes closed, hovering gently above the floor. Alma takes one more look at them and then also whirls out through the window.

                As she floats above her twilit city, she’s quick to realize she doesn’t feel cold. Her clothes are superfluous and she sheds them. Above Brīvības Street Alma floats down to tease unsuspecting passersby. A drunk older man tries to grab her bare leg, but she manages to slip past him. A group of teenaged girls whips out their phones and start to film the naked woman flying overhead; an old woman coming out of the orthodox church crosses herself and starts muttering prayers—Alma sticks her tongue out at all of them. But she gets bored of this quickly, and, making her way past the trolley wires, she flies higher.

                She’s overcome with the desire to leave the city. She flies over the roof of the building where Roberts lives; then her own building flashes in and out of view. Soon she’s passing over a darkened forest and up ahead she can make out the sea on the horizon. In her dreams she’s flown over pine forests and has touched the treetops, has skimmed over bodies of water. But it occurs to her now that she’s never gotten the courage to see just how high up she can go; something has always scared her, held her down. Alma steels her mind and shoots upward.

                She breaks through the clouds, spots the last rays of sunlight on the horizon; then through one more thick, seemingly impenetrable layer of clouds. She flies faster and faster until she realizes she’s reached outer space. She’s left Earth behind. Somewhere along the way her body has fallen apart and scattered, but her consciousness continues onward among the planets and galaxies, asteroids and nebulas. There’s nothing to fear up here. She keeps orbiting among the stars, as if it were the only thing she was ever meant to do.