Joan types a message

If anyone had been watching her, they would have seen Joan suddenly sit a little straighter with a perfectly erect spine, shoulders gracefully back in a posture of readiness, yet also like the straight back one would use while in a meditative state. Joan was not really a meditator, though she had been trying to be as of late. She wanted that glowing, awareness look that those who practiced the esoteric arts of New Age thought seem to generate. It was similar to the drug induced state and eyes that those at the Grateful Dead concerts ended up with after a few hits of acid. She had no general knowledge of this, but her father had told her all about it. Before becoming an environmental activist, he had been a photo journalist, even had a book on the followers of the Dead. He said he found their lifestyle too tempting (what with his new wife's traditional value set) and had decided to make a bigger change and dragged them both on the life altering course of saving the world's resources. He thought it would shake up Joan's mother, though she still clung to some of those traditional ideas like big weddings. Somethings would be an abomination if they changed.

Joan's finger glided across the keys, typing out an involved message. It was to no one in general, and yet to everyone. If it were for her father, he would be proud of the results of the rat-ta-tat of the keys. The words Joan were typing were old concepts, poetic in their ideas and reverberating a longing of soul trapped in the confines of the body.

The words followed smoothly, like a river on its natural course, following a natural course, bending here and there, stretching out before her with no end and no beginning. She typed with all the energy of the universe, not just her own, a consciousness other than any she had know. They came not from her heart, not from her mind, not even from her own spirit, but a deeper source. Had she been reading as she typed, Joan would have been baffled by the concepts her fingers created on paper or totally bored.

But it did not matter what she thought about these words. Had she wanted to, she would have been unable to stop them. They would have found an outlet one way or another. So there she sat, eyes closed, typing flawlessly, unaware.

Joan was not there.