Many years ago, on the occasion of my second divorce, I moved into the ground floor of a 1910 home on upper Queen Anne hill. The address on Garfield was a perfect commute to my graphics office in Fremont.

I made a deal with the landlord to do some restoration and painting to reduce my rent. I’d been hard at work for months, fixing up the place with ivory paint and subtle wallpaper.

All this activity was an antidote to my fear of being alone and starting over again, but I also really enjoyed watching my new place be transformed from tawdry to quite nice.

Refinished wood flooring spanned the large living and dining area, with a door to the kitchen at the rear; two bedrooms and bath with claw foot tub to the west.

I was able to hang my sodium vapor lamp, sloughed by a retiring grower, with its big shade from the apartment’s high ceiling, so I had a vibrant garden in the dining room with Madagascar palm, jade trees and begonias. At night, the light was almost ghostly because it was directed down rather than out.

Early one Saturday morning, I realized that if I worked all day I could finish my kitchen project. I’d already melted off 24 layers of paint from the Doug fir cabinets, repainting everything with Candlelight enamel. A tiny blue flower pattern wallpaper decorated the inner wall in the kitchen.

All I had to do was hang a few shelves, do some touching up, and hang my shower curtain, so I ate a banana, smoked a roach I found, and started working.

Fast forward to much later that evening, maybe nine p.m., and I am doing the last task: hanging the shower curtain. I’m standing on tippy toe on the edge of my wrought iron bathtub, with my arms stretched above my head when I was hit by lightning.

Bam!

I stood still on the edge of the tub, balancing as I thought ‘Am I going to die?’ then realized that it couldn’t matter less!

My personality fragmented as I climbed slowly down. I walked across the open room lit by ghostly light and saw God.

There is no other way to describe it. For a long time I thought it was a Gurdjieff-style phenomenon after fasting and holding my arms straight up for over ten minutes.

As I lay on the couch I could see the plants across the room lit by starlight. I felt a higher power, a knowing thing inside my mind but outside me: a super consciousness.

At the same time I could see and feel a grovelling, furry animal that was my body, that was me.

I sat on that couch for twenty two hours.

During that time I realized the power of words, how every word should be considered, never thrown away or used lightly. I’d been seeking a better relationship with myself for a long time: now my dreams came true.

Through meditation, I was able to tap into lucid dreams that helped me change, to become the person I wanted to be instead of the person everybody else wanted me to be.

For years I pondered this experience: how many times do you actually get to see God, right? I told strangers about it. I wrote letters to authors about it, asking questions, trying to find somebody to engage with but oh well.

Then recently, I told this story to my dear, wise friend JF Lewis, who understood exactly what happened. He used to go around helping make homes more energy efficient for the city of Seattle, so he knows about old houses and electricity.

I did get hit by lightning: I completed a circuit between the cast iron tub and the free-flowing ‘Tricity flowing from my sodium vapor lamp and its ballast.

It’s said that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger: I am certainly proof of that. I went on to have two sons when I was 42 and 46, bought the land I always wanted, and am an artist and a writer, happy on Camano. Thanks for listening.