You have heard me say “Caesar’s world” many times because
that is the world in which we live. The
material world, the physical world, and the complete mess we have made of it
all belong to Caesar. One might say that
he and I are old adversaries, and this would not be a lie. I would say to you that while it is true you
might be a spirit, you are presently encased in matter—in the material world—and
that world belongs to Caesar. And woe to
he who does not give Caesar his due.
Let me tell you that he has dealt harshly—severely—with me in the past
when I have forgotten to give what he has demanded.
It is hard for the spirit to understand that there are
certain rules and laws in this physical world.
It is so funny, so strange, so tragic that the spirit longs and hopes
and prays and schemes to get to the point where it can be “effective,” where it
can cause mighty change in this world not just with suggestions but with actual
physical force…..and then when it gets here, i.e., into a physical body—the only
thing capable of effecting lasting change after all—it freezes in a state of
suspended animation, in a complete panic, blindsided by the sheer force of the
warrior, Caesar. Bend your knee to the
King of the physical world! Behold
Caesar! The spirit trembles, forgetting
its own godhood.
And who, then, is Caesar?
Caesar is the one who has conquered this physical plane. He is the Lord of all he surveys. He runs the governments, he rules the people,
he creates the money, and he writes the laws.
He demands loyalty, rewards worship, and severely punishes those who
cannot (or will not) seem to grasp his rules.
He is the collector of rents and mortgages and all debts. He is the cutthroat financier. He is the shaper of society, the one who
governs social position. He is the King.
Is it any wonder, then, that he and I have fought at
every turn in the road? Is it any wonder
that he has defeated me in every battle of materialism? Should you be surprised that I have learned
to warily and softly walk while in his presence? Do not marvel at this admission, for you have
done the same. Again and again, you have
given Caesar his due, and you will continue to do so if you want to function in
this world. Flesh demands sustenance,
and Caesar harnesses this desire. He says,
“I will sate your need, your glut, but in return you shall adore me. In return, you shall give me what I desire.” And people do.
Alas. It sounds so
hopeless, but it is not. Caesar hates me
because I know something about him that he does not want me to say. I know that there is a physical heart in my
body that dances to a spiritual song, and Caesar cannot touch or stop that song. And when I am at my lowest, I listen for the
magical sound, ha-shah, ha-shah, ha-shah,
over and over the rhythmic sounds of my own heartbeat. If I listen back in time long enough, I can
hear my mother’s heartbeat as well, which danced to the same rhythm. And the mother would say, “hush, hush, hush, stop
your crying baby girl, hush” ha-shah,
ha-shah, ha-shah ….
And he cannot touch that.
He cannot track it with ten thousand bloodhounds. He cannot capture it with the mightiest army—and
I assure you, he has the mightiest. He
cannot stop the rhythm of the heart, played out in the patterns of the world,
rocked gently by the pulsating Universe.
No, that is not his. And he hates me for it. Again and again, he will stop a human heart
from beating, only to have several more crop up. Like drums, they beat a rhythm that will
someday conquer the King. Yes, he hates
me.
It is December now.
The snow is falling, the ice is forming, and the world is getting ready
for its winter holiday, poised on the precipice of death. The merchant, who adores Caesar in every way,
hangs his rusted tinsel in the store shops.
He shouts to the passersby that the world is a physical world and there
is no other world. He bears the banner
of Caesar. He, too, fears the spirit,
the rhythm and pulse he cannot control, the wildness that screams for
fulfillment. So he charms and lures and
bewitches and conjures in the hopes that the people will stay asleep, and many
of them will.
I check inside my velvet alabaster scabbard. The tiny candle is still there, still
glowing, perhaps a bit brighter. I am
not sure. My mind plays tricks on me
sometimes. But it does appear to be
brighter, albeit smaller. I see an image
of an old tree decorated with tinsel, back in the days when tinsel was actually
made of a kind of aluminum (and before that, it was silver). My mother would save the tinsel from year to
year because we were very poor and could not buy it every year. Each year, it would become a bit more worn
and gloomy, but we all still loved it.
At night, it would still shine brightly and reflect the Christmas tree
lights, its wornness forgotten.
“Remember when you used to love me?” the tinsel
asks. “Because you did. You did
love me. Remember when I shone brightly, even though I
was tarnished and old and used up? And I
brought you joy? Remember how we dreamed
impossible dreams together?” Yes, I
remember. I remember the tinsel and the
music, the scent of pine everywhere and the cookies, the handmade gifts and the
winter sports. But most of all, I remember
the holiday spirit, the giving, the sharing, the joy, and ultimately, the
sacrifice. And Caesar cannot touch
that. Oh, how he hates me.
I move forward into snowy December. The tiny candle smolders in the alabaster
scabbard, but I am strong and sure. That
is what I tell myself, and that is what I tell Caesar. To hell with him. If this is the end, it is the end. But so far, the sun has always risen. I am not dead yet. In Latin, those with ears will hear Caesar’s
name, and then they will understand. He
is the Lord of this world, and he is not all bad. A secret part of me admires him and is
smitten by his allure. I am human, after
all, and he appears god-like to my imperfect eyes. I give him his due because, although he is a
harsh ruler, he is effective. As a
spirit, though, I fly veiled and he cannot stop me.
