Last Tuesday, a Google co-worker emailed me. Some friends were visiting The Glass Temple again this month. He knew I was in a difficult place. He said it was like going to the gym but for your soul.
I took the L train. I hated the subway. So many addicts, chasing highs. It seemed a pointless existence. I held tightly onto the railing. Recently, I closed a social media company acquisition. I was promoted. They even gave a conference speaking slot.
The bellman opened the door. The elevator took me to the 46th floor. It was glass on six sides. The wind howled, the panes gripping tightly. There were boxes of pictures that my wife still had to take. On television, Uruguay was winning 4-2. I sat in front. The last text was from my daughter, a month ago. She wrote about her body dysmorphia, from photos that her friends shared. In my inbox, a Slack invite and round-trip ticket. He said I could repay him whenever. I had two months of vacation. I thought about it. The flight was on Friday. Even my taxi that morning was scheduled.
We landed at 5am on Saturday. We then took helicopters to the top. One of us took the glass elevator, as he lived here. We were probably at 13,000 feet. I imagined it crashing. Would it matter? Probably not. The crew cheered when I landed, hugging me as I stepped out. They were drinking something. Non-alcoholic, they assured. We don’t drink anymore. Some of these people I knew for a decade. The temple was a clear marble. Beautiful, but nothing particularly exquisite. I didn’t think it would change me.
I asked who was going inside first. They said it didn’t matter. When you’re inside, you’re alone. I’ll go first, then. The temple was illuminated, but I couldn’t see anything. I took my dress shoes and socks off. The marble was surprisingly warm. Looking behind, it was completely dark outside. My co-workers voices’ suddenly quiet. My heart beat quickly now. The temple was glassed on all sides. Otherwise, empty.
My mind went blank. I couldn’t remember anything. The floor glowed iridescently, garishly bright. I was nauseous. I didn’t want to ruin my suitpants, but I knelt. Soon, I collapsed, my cheeks against the marble. I felt moonlight. The white cold on my neck. It rained. Each star a cold wet drop. Torrents as the galaxies fell. I was swimming in black nothingness.
I grew up in a small town. My father would show me the night sky. It was very polluted. I begged that I wanted to see all the stars. We saved up for a train ticket, but instead his job took us to a strange country. I sat alone at lunch. Sometimes, I scurried to the library so no one would see me. I found home in the books.
When I woke up, it was daylight. The blue sky redolent of childhood wonder. The sunlight rays of sandalwood. I stepped outside. My friends were together, discussing their revelations. I silently indicated that I was going for a walk. I carefully stepped down the mountain. The town was vibrant. Children passed soccer balls between the crowds. I wanted to join them. Every face, wrinkle, was beautiful, tender. People were the way they were because of the universe. None of us chose to be terrible.
I must have walked for hours before I felt my phone in my pocket. It was Sunday, a work email asked if I could meet in a few hours. I didn’t reply.
We flew back to New York the next day. I didn’t say much to anyone. They gave me space. I took that week off work. I walked to the Hudson. I didn’t look when I crossed the street. I wasn’t worried. A homeless person approached me. He shared his life. I just listened. I gave him my wallet. I can’t remember the last time I’ve made someone that happy. I sat on the bench watching the ferries. Everything made sense now. My whole life led up to this moment. It was all an elaborate maze for me to find God. No-one else was real. My journey was complete.
The next week, I searched for homes near the temple. I had deleted my LinkedIn. I had called my daughter. Sunlight streamed through the East windows. On Wednesday, I received an email. They were going again next month. He asked if I wanted to join.