The Celestine Prophecy: An Adventure Read Free Page A

to meet back at his house that afternoon, but when I arrived he wasn’t there. I waited three hours and he still didn’t show up. Finally, I had to leave to catch my flight home.”
    “You mean you weren’t able to talk with him any more?”
    “That’s right. I never saw him again.”
    “And you never received any confirmation about the Manuscript from the government?”
    “None.”
    “And how long ago did this take place?”
    “About a month and a half.”
    For several minutes we ate in silence. Finally Charlene looked up and asked, “So what do you think?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. Part of me remained skeptical of the idea that human beings could really change. But another part of me was amazed to think that a Manuscript which spoke in these terms might actually exist.
    “Did he show you a copy or anything?” I asked.
    “No. All I have are my notes.”
    Again we were silent.
    “You know,” she said, “I had thought you would be really excited by these ideas.”
    I looked at her. “I guess I need some proof that what this Manuscript says is true.”
    She smiled broadly again.
    “What?” I asked.
    “That’s exactly what I said, too.”
    “To whom, the priest?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said that experience is the evidence.”
    “What did he mean by that?”
    “He meant that our experience validates what the Manuscript says. When we truly reflect on how we feel inside, on how our lives are proceeding at this point in history, we can see that the ideas in the Manuscript make sense, that they ring true.” She hesitated. “Does it make sense to you?”
    I thought for a moment. Does it make sense? Is everyone as restless as me, and if so, does our restlessness result from the simple insight—the simple awareness built up for thirty years—that there is really more to life than we know, more that we can experience?
    “I’m not sure,” I finally said, “I guess I need some time to think about it.”
    I walked out to the garden beside the restaurant and stood behind a cedar bench facing the fountain. To my right I could see the pulsating lights at the airport and hear the roaring engines of a jet ready for take off.
    “What beautiful flowers,” Charlene said from behind me. I turned to see her walking toward me along the walkway, admiring the rows of petunias and begonias which bordered the sitting area. She stood beside me and I put my arm around her. Memories flooded my mind. Years ago, when we had both lived in Charlottesville, Virginia, we had spent regular evenings together, talking. Most of our discussions were about academic theories and psychological growth. We had both been fascinated by the conversations and by each other. Yet it struck me how platonic our relationship had always been.
    “I can’t tell you,” she said, “how nice it is to see you again.”
    “I know,” I replied. “Seeing you brings back a lot of memories.”
    “I wonder why we didn’t stay in touch?” She asked.
    Her question took me back again. I recalled the last time I had seen Charlene. She was telling me good-bye at my car. At the time I felt full of new ideas and was departing for my home town to work with severely abused children. I thought I knew how such children could transcend the intense reactions, the obsessive acting out, that kept them from going on with their lives. But as time had progressed, my approach had failed. I had to admit my ignorance. How humans might liberate themselves from their pasts was still an enigma to me.
    Looking back over the previous six years I now felt sure the experience had been worthwhile. Yet I also felt the urge to move on. But to where? To do what? I had thought of Charlene only a few times since she had helped me crystallize my ideas about childhood trauma, and now here she was again, back in my life—and our conversation felt just as exciting as before.
    “I guess I got totally absorbed in my work,” I said.
    “So did I,” she