January 19, 2017 - On Being a Seed, Part I

In the beginning that was before the beginning, there was a blinding flash of light.  My eyes were stunned, and everywhere the light pulled at me in all directions.  I was stretched across the universe in an agonizing tearing, and when I had reached the very tips of it, when I could bear no more pain, I snapped back to myself.  Farther and farther I rolled back to myself until I was just a tiny point, invisible to the human eye.  Then the point fell inside of itself and I was gone.  The light could not reach into the void.

Imprisoned.

Deep in the nowhere, I sat huddled in the darkness, cowering in fear of the unknown.  I longed for the light and the pain because it was all that I had known, but that world had passed.  In this new world, I found the vastness of the darkness.  It stretched beyond the universe, which it held like a tiny marble in a child’s hand.  The darkness was silky and soft and smooth.  There was no need to move, no grasping, no pulling, no tearing.  Everything was as it should be.  Everything was balanced.  Everything was perfect.  And eventually, the memory of the Great Light began to fade.  The Darkness poured into me.

Out in the world of light, a hard, spiky prison was built.  They placed me in a cell within that prison for the crimes I had committed against the light, and they sealed it tightly with all the Magic they had.  Then they buried the prison in the depths of the Earth, in the deep, cool darkness.  They could not have known what they had done.

And there I slept in the beauty of death.

[Click here for Part II.]

January 14, 2017 - Breathe In

I’m sitting on the bench near the river, just as I have hundreds of times, relaxing in the shade of the young maple tree.  The breeze blows gently this way and that.  The scent of the river and the river creatures hangs in the air.  There are birds tweeting loudly in the trees, and insects are humming everywhere.  I have to be careful of mosquitoes and ticks.  The fresh green grass is so lush and full of hidden life, after all.

Now breathing out.

But it’s so nice and relatively quiet in the shade, away from the glaring sun.  It’s a welcome respite from the oppressive heat.  There are a few pleasure boats moored on the other side of the river, and their owners come now and then and sail away, only to return as the sun reaches the horizon.  I watch them come and I watch them go, and while they’re gone, I watch the fish jumping and the ducks paddling.  The world is teeming with life.

I take deep breaths because I am alive and the fresh air feels so good.  It’s warm and moist, and I fill my lungs to full capacity.  Then I breathe the world out while it breathes me in.  We trade back and forth:  I breathe in the world, then it breathes in me.  One breathes while the other exhales, and then we trade.  In one moment I am a part of everything, and in the next moment everything is a part of me.  I’ve been dancing this dance since I was born.  Maybe before.

Then everything goes away.  The colors fade and then disappear completely.  The insects leave.  Many birds fly away.  The fish are nowhere to be found, and the pleasure boats have vanished.  The water that supported everything has crystallized.  The Great Alchemist waves his hand and the liquid realm transmutes to the mineral realm.  The world is teeming with death.  It is the way of things.

The World has breathed out and the Universe has breathed in.  They trade back and forth.  The World breathes in the Universe and fills itself to full capacity.  Then it breathes out while the Universe breathes the World in.  One breathes while the other exhales, and then they trade.  In one moment the World is part of everything, and in the next moment everything is part of the World.  It is a very, very old dance that started long before I was born.  It is a good dance.

Soon the World will breathe in again and so will I.  My dance card will be filled with handsome beaux, and everywhere the music will follow a perfect rhythm designed before time began.

January 7, 2017 - Let Him Hear

But the ears of the forest are very much alive and listening.  It is not words they crave, but thoughts.  I place my hands over my own ears as I walk by as if to somehow keep my thoughts inside my head.  If I cannot hear the trees, they cannot know my intentions.  Like a child who thinks mother has disappeared forever simply because she has left the room, I indulge in my fantasy of giving them the slip.

The ears of the forest.

Words are a mere skeleton, but thoughts flesh out the world.  It is akin to the difference between a two-dimensional world and a three-dimensional world.  There’s no competition; they are universes apart.  So I sing as I walk.  “Ol’ man river, that ol’ man river.  He don’t say nothing, but he must know something . . .”*  Maybe they’ll concentrate on the words of the song and so will I, and then neither of us will have to deal with my thoughts.

Wishful thinking.  The Lord of Winter is up ahead, and I can see the impatience on his face.  He masks it quickly, though.  He doesn’t want me to know that he has been waiting for me.  That’s a sign of weakness, and he’s never weak.

“Alone at last,” he says.

“Always alone,” I respond.  This makes him smile.

“Then let us walk on a bit further.”

“We have been walking a long time together now, and it’ll be dark soon,” I argue, but he tells me that it is already dark and has been for a long time.  I know I shouldn’t listen to him, but I’ve taken my hands off my ears and placed them in my pockets because of the cold.

Onward we trudge.  At last I sit down at the top of a snow-covered ridge.  I’m really lying down more than sitting down, actually, because the snow is so soft.  A winter bed is hard to leave, after all.

“We’ve been walking for a long time,” he says.  “Tell me, what have you found?”

“I’ve found nothing but the cold and ice,” I tell him.

“I gave these to you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like my gifts?” he asks, and I tell him I do, but I’m not sure if that’s true.

“Are the ice crystals not beautiful?  Do they not sparkle like diamonds?” he asks, and I assure him that they are lovely.

“Are you ready to come back with me?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.  I suppose I should.”

“Indeed, you should.”

I lay there, thinking.  Can the ears of the forest hear my thoughts now?  Maybe there really isn’t a gift at the end, after all.  Another deep breath of the fresh forest air, I tell myself, and then I’ll get up and follow him.

I look at the snow and ice on the edge of the ridge.  My eyes are only a few inches away from it as I lay there, and I can see the little ice crystals within, quite orderly and beautiful.  Then I take a deep, deep breath, and as I do so, the last ray of the sun as it begins to set far, far away breaks through the cloud cover and dances on the ice before my eyes.  It’s a tiny twinkling, like a sparkling, dancing flame.  And then it’s gone from my vision.

But not from my heart.  I had quite forgotten that I left a tiny flame there long ago.

“Are you coming?” he asks.  “We had better make tracks while we can.”

“No.  I’m staying a bit longer.”

“What??  Haven’t I given you freely of my winter delights?  Will you treat my gifts so callously??  I have moved mountains for you!  You know that I would do anything for you!  There is nothing left for you here!”

And it’s true that all around me in this season of death, I see nothing but the ice and snow.  I waver in my decision, but then I see the tiny sparkling light again on the ice at the top of the ridge.

“Why would you want to stay here?” he shouts.  “What do you have here?”

I look at the tiny spark, and I say, “I have him.”

And now there is silence.  Even the ears of the forest, strain though they may, can hear nothing.

Finally, I turn to him and ask, “What do you have?”

Again the silence . . . and then a tiny flash in his eyes.

“I have you,” he says.

He walks away.  We both know we’ll meet back here again in the forest someday soon.  But today is not that day.  Today there is a tiny point of light that I must investigate.

Of course, the forest has heard everything, and already the trees are busy clicking out their raspy message:  Long live the King.

There is a great deal more hardship ahead, but I am still standing.  And somewhere far away, a tiny butterfly’s wings continue to beat impossibly tiny waves of energy into the ether.

_______________

* Paul Robeson