Always Watching

CHAPTER FIVE

Looking back to those first months at the commune, before Aaron began to lead the group, I realize he wasn’t that old, only twenty-two, but to my teenage mind he was much older. He was so sure of himself, so confident about his decisions and opinions. No matter what the problem was, a fire that almost got out of control, low food supplies, rats in the grain, a sick animal, he never seemed worried. He would just think for a bit and come up with a solution, and it always worked. I’d never met someone who smiled so much, who always seemed happy and excited. For a child with a mother whose moods blew all over with the wind, and a father who was perpetually angry, it was confusing to meet someone who woke up each day like the world was full of wonderful things waiting to be discovered.

It was shortly after my mom, Robbie, and I arrived that Aaron revealed a little about his background. We were sitting around the campfire one night, and he’d been playing his guitar, as he often did. It was amazing how he could pull a tune out of thin air, just from someone humming the first few bars of a song. Some of the little children were climbing all over him, as usual—they all loved him for the toys he carved out of wood and the piggyback rides he gave. One of them had fallen asleep leaning against Aaron, who stopped playing to pull the little boy into his lap. Another member asked Aaron if he ever wanted a family, and a distant look came to his eyes as he stroked the child’s hair.

“You guys and Joseph are my family.” Aaron, who was from San Francisco, had joined the commune with his brother a couple of weeks before us. “We don’t have anyone else.” He glanced at Joseph, who was sitting quietly in a shadow by the fire, watching his brother. Aaron gave him a smile.

A female member said, “You have no one?”

He shook his head. “Nope, and good riddance. Our parents were just teenagers. After they had Joseph, my dad took off, leaving us with our mother. She was an alcoholic.”

Aaron handed the little boy back to his mother, then lifted up his jeans leg, showing us small round scars up and down his shins. “These are from cigarettes.”

Some of us gasped, or made sympathetic noises, and Joy, whom we’d met the first day, reached out to touch his shoulder. “That’s terrible.”

“It wasn’t as bad as this.” He lifted the back of his shirt, revealing long red scars, the flesh raised and jagged-looking. “That’s from when she dragged me naked over broken glass because I’d tried to feed Joseph, after she forgot.” His face was angry as he dropped his shirt back down. “She only cared about herself.”

I had never heard someone talking so openly about their feelings and didn’t know what to think. I had never told anyone about my own family’s struggles. I noticed my brother also studying Aaron, admiration in his face.

Aaron said, “She eventually split. We had to live with our grandfather, until he finally died.” He stared into the fire, poked at a piece of wood, his mouth a grimace. “He was a real bastard.”

He fell silent, gazing into the fire. Joy, her voice soft, said, “Where did you go after he died?”

He roused himself, blinking at her like he just remembered that he was still with people. “We lived on the streets, then we met some people and were taken into an ashram. I studied under a guru for a few years.”

One of the male members leaned forward. “You got to study with a guru? Is that how you learned to meditate?”

We’d all seen him meditating every day, and some were already joining him.

Aaron looked excited now. “It was amazing, everything he taught me, how to live a spiritual life—you guys have no idea what you can do with your own power, it’s untapped,” he said. “I used to suffer from back pain every day. I couldn’t even bend over, but my guru taught me that I was creating my own pain by holding all my fear and anger inside. He showed me how to release it with meditation, and now…” He stood up and stretched, touched his toes.

After that night it seemed the members grew more willing to follow Aaron’s advice. None of us had much experience living off the land. Some of the other members were straight from the city, with vague romantic notions of roughing it and getting back to basics. It had been a tough winter, and many of them were losing heart. But Aaron wasn’t just playing at the hippie lifestyle, he was living it. He must’ve seemed incredibly worldly to most of the kids who’d grown up in Canada and had never even been out of BC. He’d also gained a lot of skills—agriculture, carpentry, how to run a farm—and he was generous and patient about sharing that knowledge. Aaron showed the commune how to build a sweat lodge so we could cleanse our chakras, which when blocked or damaged could affect our physical and emotional health. He also held kirtana meditation ceremonies in the lodge, where we’d all chant as a group, sometimes using musical instruments and clapping our hands, but he mostly taught transcendental meditation.

The young men were always trying to impress Aaron with some feat of strength or bravery, working from dusk to dawn by his side, never complaining, even if they hurt themselves. The girls also followed him around, giggling if he glanced their way, and I’d hear them talking about how good-looking he was, how cool and fun. But it was more than that.

Aaron remembered details about each member, where they were from, what their family life had been like. He suggested that one shy young man take charge of the horses, and the man grew more confident every day, teaching others how to ride and look after the tack. Another member, a woman who always spoke in a whisper, was encouraged by Aaron to take over responsibility for all our meals when he realized how good a cook she was. She too blossomed, ordering the kitchen helpers about, loudly scolding us kids for stealing a snack.

He’d also trained in vibrational healing, the ability to move his own energy through others. When a member complained of back pain, a headache, or various other ailments, Aaron offered to take them for a private meditation in his tent. He’d use his hands to clear their meridians, and the pain disappeared. One man who struggled with arthritis was soon limber again, and a woman who’d had problems conceiving was quickly pregnant. Coyote and Heidi, who were Levi’s parents, had also been told they couldn’t have another child, but Aaron said he could help them, and she too became pregnant.

It was after Heidi got pregnant that Aaron told us the way to achieve enlightenment was through a strict discipline of daily rituals and that we needed a leader for it to work. Everyone voted for Aaron. He said, “I’ll only agree if you promise to think of me as the head of our family, not your boss.” He put us on the same schedule that he’d lived with at the ashram. First thing in the morning we’d practice meditation. Next we’d feed the animals and have breakfast—all meals were eaten in silence, so that we could savor our thoughts. The commune was also strictly vegetarian, but the table was always overflowing with food: whole wheat bread, honey, brown rice, beans, blackstrap molasses, bran, fruit and nuts, goat cheese, vegetables fresh from our garden. We’d meditate again, usually in the meadow, where we were open to the earth’s magnetic field. Then we’d do more chores.

After lunch, when we’d have a period for reflection, he’d send us out on long walks, so we could tune into nature’s healing vibrations, or we’d chant in the lodge, and maybe take a swim in the summer. Then we’d work some more, building cabins, or out in the fields and gardens, followed by a silent supper, another session of meditation, and sometimes another swim or walk.

Not long after Aaron assumed leadership, those evening campfires changed. Instead of sitting around singing every night, we now sat in Satsang, a Sanskrit word meaning “gathering together for the truth.” We’d talk about things we’d experienced that day in our practice, some members crying, or laughing, even angry. Aaron would explain how they could deepen their self-recognition and release any destructive emotions, awakening to their life’s purpose. I was amazed to hear my mother admit that she’d finally let go of anger toward her father, who’d left her mother for another woman when she was a teenager.

We also spent a lot of time learning about the benefits of sustained living and making plans for the future, so that the commune could be completely self-sufficient. Aaron said, “We’re only stewards of the land, and we have a responsibility to treasure it.” He said that every environmental disaster was the earth groaning in pain—and he hated logging companies with a passion.

We were all willing to accept Aaron as our leader, but his brother Joseph was another story. He was quiet, but not in a peaceful way, more like he was about to explode over the smallest thing. He looked a lot like Aaron, but on him everything was slightly distorted. His lips more turned down, his skin paler, and his face, thin, angular. His hair was also thin, and he wore it braided and tied back with a leather strap.

The two brothers were close, though, and I never could tell if Aaron was even aware of how nervous his brother made everyone else. Aaron said his brother was an empath, who knew when someone was faltering. We’d be in quiet meditation when Joseph would suddenly stand up and scream at someone. Once he slapped Heidi in the shoulder, and we all sat there stunned. Coyote looked like he wanted to fight, his fists tense, but Aaron whispered something to him, then calmly took his brother off to his cabin to clear his chakras.

Aaron told us that Joseph could also feel who needed the most healing or who was struggling with a spiritual lesson. They were at risk for becoming sick, so Aaron would go off with them privately, while we continued with our chores or meditation practice. They were usually female members who needed his private counsel, which he explained was because we were more intuitive and therefore more susceptible.

Sometimes Joseph stayed in his tent for days, refusing food, and meditating for hours. Aaron would praise Joseph for his commitment, so then other members started doing the same thing. After some sweat-lodge ceremonies, Joseph would start ranting, “There’s evil spirits in the woods—I could hear them singing.” Sometimes he would also hear music.

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.

No wonder people stayed. The commune was the perfect place to be if you were lost, afraid to take control of your life. It was the opposite for me. Something about Aaron made me shy and nervous, and I was frightened of Joseph. Looking back, I now understand it was because I was a child of abuse, too, and could sense volatility in others. Aaron was intense, and for a child who’d grown up with a manic mother and an alcoholic father, intensity equaled danger.

By the end of May, we’d swelled to sixty members, and the commune was a constant hum of activity. Aaron had handpicked two male members, Ocean and Xavier, to be Spirit Counselors to work with anyone Aaron felt needed more help, or whom Joseph had gotten a bad feeling about. Maybe that was when the tide started to turn, when things stopped being so simple. Ocean and Xavier would stand there, eyeing us and whispering to each other, as we waited, sick with tension, wondering who wasn’t living up to their potential. Then Aaron slowly began to implement a system of punishment.

At first the infractions were usually something simple. If a member had taken an extra share of food, they wouldn’t be allowed to eat our next meal. If someone broke their meditation to go to the bathroom, they’d have to sit away from the group. Then things grew more serious. If a member argued with another member, they were tied together and had to work in the fields side by side. When a few members went to town for supplies, one later said he’d seen another use some of the commune money to buy a newspaper, something Aaron had strictly forbidden.

Hearing this, Joseph flew into a rage and started to whip the man’s legs with a branch, screaming that he’d bring evil influences into the commune. We watched, horrified, until at last Aaron intervened, and it was decided that the man should be made to drag the plow through one of the fields for a day. We were all upset, but not at Joseph. We were angry at the man for disrupting our peace and harmony, and even after Aaron declared him rehabilitated, we ignored him for weeks.

When a young man smacked his girlfriend in the face because she’d been flirting with another member, he was told to pack his belongings. He was driven a mile away and left to find his own way back to town. No one ever checked to see if he’d made it.

Then Aaron created a small group called the Guardians, who were to patrol the commune at night, watching for wildlife or anyone trying to steal our supplies, especially once we started growing marijuana and magic mushrooms. Robbie was ecstatic to be chosen, along with Levi, for this task.

The women didn’t have many roles—caring for the children, cooking, and working in the fields or greenhouses mostly. But they did a lot of hard labor, and our mother’s arms became tanned and sinewy, her hands rough. I saw less and less of her that spring. Late in April, Aaron had decided that children over five years old should be kept in separate cabins, near another small building that was used for the school, and raised collectively. He said, “Children belong to everyone. We’re all their mothers and fathers.”

Some parents balked, but Aaron explained that this was necessary for our spiritual growth as we needed to connect to our true selves and not our earthly attachments. I remember being confused by this and ashamed. And so the parents agreed, terrified that if they didn’t, their children wouldn’t achieve the perfect state of spiritual insight and tranquillity that we were all trying to attain.

One morning, after we’d been there for several months, Aaron gathered us together after breakfast. The air still smelled like coffee and baked bread, fresh mint and sweet fruit, but I’d barely eaten. I was upset at my mother that day. I’d asked her if I could see some of my old friends from school, and she’d drifted away with a vague smile, saying, “We have new friends now. Just be happy.”

Aaron warned us that it was easy to grow apart, even in a large group, and said we needed to practice a “sharing” exercise, to bring us closer. He asked us to write letters, confessing any wrongdoings and negative thoughts, no matter how shameful or darkly hidden. He said it was to seek our own truths, an inner examination that no one will see, but when we were done, he’d gotten another vision. We needed to read them in front of the commune, to let go of all separation, even in our thoughts.

When people protested, he said, “It’s the only way to clear yourself from your past. If you aren’t ready for this step, then you shouldn’t be here.”

The crowd quieted. No one wanted to leave.

Aaron pointed to the young man who looked after our horses, and said, “Billy, I know you’re ready.”

Billy stepped forward, his face flushed, and read from his letter, admitting that he’d experimented sexually with a cousin when he was a teenager—a male cousin, and that he still had fantasies about men. We listened, embarrassed, as he stammered through it. We waited for Aaron’s reaction, and when he reached out to embrace him, we all breathed with relief. Other people ventured forward to share their sins, and each time Aaron praised them. It was painful. People were sobbing, or silent, heads downcast. Others stared around with glazed eyes, looking shell-shocked.

Then it was my turn.

I confessed that I’d snuck food to the animals and had angry thoughts about other members. My hands shook, and I was crying so hard I couldn’t finish. Aaron grabbed the list and read my final confession. Then he handed the list back to me.

“You’re not done.”

“I can’t. Please, I don’t want to.” I met his eyes, begging for leniency, but he was impassive, his only expression one of disappointment.

“Don’t you want to be like the group? Everyone else shared theirs, and if you don’t, you’ll disrupt our harmony.”

I looked around at the angry faces, Heidi touching her belly, her face scared. I read my last confession, my voice quavering. “I love my mom, but sometimes… sometimes I hate her. I wish she was more like my friends’ moms. I wish she was normal.” I searched the crowd, finding my mother, her blue eyes filling with tears. I held her gaze, my own tears dripping down my face. Trying to convey my thoughts: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just angry.

She turned away.

By the time we’d been at the commune for five months, I had retreated into myself, barely speaking. I spent all my time with the animals and began to have fantasies about running away. I might have tried if it hadn’t been for Willow, a pretty, doe-eyed teenage girl, with caramel-colored hair that hung to her waist, who joined the commune that June. She told me about the places she’d hitchhiked to, the people she met on her way. She also told me I was going to be beautiful when I grew up. She gave me a beaded necklace, draping it around my neck, teasing me with her husky laugh for being shy. That day she’d been wearing faded bell-bottom jeans and a man’s cinnamon-colored leather vest with tassels, which hung on her small frame, her feet bare, and one toe sparkling with a ring. I didn’t know if I was going to be beautiful or not. I just knew I wanted to be like her. I wanted to be free.