February 12, 2017 - On Being a Seed, Part II

[This is Part II of “On Being a Seed.”  Click Part I for the prior episode.]

Things change in the darkness.  In the beginning, there was sound.  It was not light that was first, but sound.  I was wrong when I thought that light was the beginning.  It was all I knew at the time.  To believe that light was first is to not understand how the unmanifest becomes manifest.  It is not light that heralds life, but sound.  For who called the light the first time?  And how did the calling sound?  Only afterward did the light appear, after it heard its name.  This is the First Blasphemy of the seed.  This is what the seed knows as it sits in its tiny prison, hidden in the darkness of the Earth . . .

It was a tapping I heard, a tap-tap-tapping.  I was roused from my silent slumber by a tapping that would not stop.  At first it was quiet, barely audible.  It was sporadic.  A tapping and then silence; a tapping and then silence.  But it grew quickly, coming louder and faster, until all I could think about was the constant, gnawing tapping.  In the tiny chamber of my prison, the tapping echoed back and forth against the walls, each tap questioning and answering the tap before it.

It was a kind of music, a rushing song, tapping and tapping out its haunting melody.  I listened, entranced.  On my knees, I wanted nothing more than for the music to continue forever, because it pleased my new-found ears.  Because in the beginning there was sound, and it was sound that called forth the thought of the Great Alchemist, which had been imprisoned.  It was sound that broke the barrier and named all that was previously unnamable.

And so I was completely unprepared when the wall of my prison cell was rent in two.  The sound was astronomical, a crushing, ripping, tearing sound filled with wonder and terrible majesty!  It was horrible in its kindness.  The veil that hid me for so long was finally torn asunder.  The prison was breached.

Then in rushed a dancer so quickly, I didn’t have time to get off my knees.  There were thousands of tiny bells on her skirt, tapping out a siren’s song.  She ripped me from the doomed ship I had been on, the ship that had crashed into the rocks.  She saved me.  And then she drowned me.

[Click here for Part III.]

February 5, 2017 - Ice Soldiers

ICE SOLDIERS

Sparkling, tiny snow diamonds.

Crystals from another world.

Liquid made solid,

held in a mineral trap.

Imprisonment of water

and theft of light

in a perfect crystalline structure.

Order!  We will have order!

Millions of tiny ice soldiers

march into battle,

the sun glinting off their helmets,

their cause for war long forgotten.

Water under a bridge.

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

December 31, 2016 - Faith

Now the deep sleep begins in earnest.  The thick white blanket has been pulled over all of life, like a veil across a temple opening.  We know there is a mystery hidden deeply within the holy chamber, but we cannot see it.  There are no signs of life.  The silence of death is comforting.

Hidden.

There is only one thing left now:  Faith.  Faith is the belief in something which cannot be seen, and it gives us evidence of unseen things as surely as if they stood before us.  It is the knowledge that everything coming into our world comes from the unmanifest, and that consciousness is the one true origin of reality.  Faith gives flesh, if persisted in, to those things for which we secretly hope.

Hope is the prayer.  Faith is the deliverer.

December 24, 2016 - Climbing the Mountain

I’m not sure how long I’ve been climbing the mountain.  A long time.  I’m told I’ve been climbing the mountain my whole life, but I’m not sure.  There was always another step to take, and so I took it, step by step.  Sometimes I lost my way, but I knew the general direction was up, so I kept on going.  Eventually, I’d find the next stair going upward, and I’d resume the climb.  Most of the time I didn’t even think about climbing.  I barely even thought of the mountain at all, let alone climbing it.  I just kept taking steps, and somehow I climbed the mountain. 

And now that I’m up at the top, I’m bitter.  At least, I think I am, but I’m not sure.  Bereft is more like it, and I’m angry that I didn’t pay more attention to the climb.  At the top of the mountain, I’m all alone.  There’s no one else to congratulate me on making the climb.  There’s no one else to commiserate with, no company for misery.  And it’s cold, too.  The wind doesn’t whistle, it howls.  No, it shrieks.  Sometimes I swear someone is screaming in agony behind me, but when I turn around, it’s just the terrible wind mocking me.  Or maybe it’s me.

There's a light at the top.

The barren branches of the trees go click-click-click back and forth as the wind hurtles through them.  They grasp and snap and beat at each other—click-click-click--and lower down the trunk, great groans and moans can be heard emanating from the foundation.  Like wizened old men, the trees groan and sigh as they are forced to move.  I feel the exhaustion and pain in my own legs as well.

The sun hasn’t shone for days.  It died a while ago when the ice came.  It was weak and the ice killed it.  Oddly enough, when the sun left, so did the water.  It could have been the other way around, but it doesn’t matter because now everything is dead.  The snow is cold, the wind is harsh, and everything that once lived is now entombed in sheets of frozen ice.  Like old wavy and bubbly glass, the windows into what’s beneath show only darkness.

Is this it, then?  Is this all there is?  It’s too much to bear, too much to think of.  It’s frightening how nothing can be so much more than something, and so much heavier, too.  So I just lie down then, a few feet from the top.  The gift at the end is nowhere to be found.  Wasn’t there supposed to be a gift?  I have nothing to show.  My accounts are as empty as my hands.  I close my eyes.

“But you are not listening,” comes a voice on the wind.  There’s no need to lift my head or open my eyes because I know no one is there.

“You are not paying attention to the beauty around you.  You are thinking too much about the scales of man and the weight of gold.  You are thinking too much about conflict and espionage, about outwitting your enemy, about betrayal, about loss.  You are thinking too much about the power of man and not at all about the power of alchemy,” says the disembodied voice.

I open my eyes and no one is there, as I knew all along.  I’m just a few yards from the top, and there’s a light somewhere up there.  But if I go to the top and find nothing, no gift at the end, the last bit of my heart will finally crack.  No.  I’m going down again.  I’m going back to the beginning.  I’m going to resume the climb.  What’s a half a century, give or take a decade or so?  I’ve got time.

Back down I go, and like the magic of a wormhole, I find myself at the bottom again in what seems like just a few minutes.  There’s a gazebo on a frozen and snow-covered lawn, and on this makeshift stage are several dancers, dancing to a Christmas jig.  The dancers’ noses are bright red from the cold, but they are smiling and laughing.  Click-click-click go their shoes, back and forth on the frozen stage.

There’s a crowd cheering them on and laughing, and there are many kinds of drinks being passed around.  Half of the people are laughing quite loudly, and they’re quite inebriated as well.  There are cheers and laughter, hoots and hollers, and a few drunken squabbles and shouts.  Altogether it is a raucous din and howl, but no one seems to mind and most people are smiling and laughing.  Click-click-click goes the dancers’ shoes, and the band plays on.

I wander over to a fire pit.  It’s warm there and the smoke smells good.  Someone good-naturedly presses a drink into my hand, and so I drink it.  Now I am even warmer.  The fire is so bright as the old tree trunks burn in it, and I find myself smiling.  How strange to be smiling after being so miserable such a short time ago.

All around the fire pit, the snow and ice melts and water drips freely here and there.  It runs down little avenues that have formed on the frozen lawn, like little rivers in a sunlit valley.  I tell myself that there’s something about the water I should probably remember, but try though I may, I cannot think of it.  So I forget about it and move closer to the fire.  And now I am laughing and shouting too and drinking more than I should, and click-click-click go the dancers’ shoes.  The crowd moans and groans and howls and laughs.

I’m not sure where the first step up the mountain is from here, but I’ll find it eventually.  I’m not in a hurry just now.  Tomorrow will be different.

December 18, 2016 - The King is Dead

The artist paints himself sitting alone at a table, looking into the distance for the person who will not join him.  This is the time he must face alone, at last.  Around him is only the cold and snow.  The table is empty and the glass of wine was finished a long time ago.  The colors on his old palette have all faded and dried and turned to grey.  But still he lingers, waiting.  Soon a fussy waitress will come by and ask him if he has had enough, and he will tell her that he has had quite enough, that he has had more than enough.

To the end, then.

Too much, in fact.  How did he get here?  Slowly and painfully, he remembers the steps in life he took.  Step by step he brought himself to the place where he is now.  He has no one to thank or blame but himself.  Retracing his footsteps would be pointless at this stage.  The time for that is long since over.  Now he must face what we all must face at the end as we look back one last time at our footsteps in the cold snow.

There is a perfect accounting system, and he pays his debt down to the last penny, which it turns out, is the very last penny he has.  And now that he is poor and has nothing else to give, he gains his freedom.  But at such a price.  Who would have guessed that the only way to have everything was to have absolutely nothing?

The year crawls to an agonizing close.  It is cold.  The days are short and the nights are very, very long.  The year climbs drunkenly to the end, teetering this way and that.  It’s too humiliating to watch.  To the top of the hill, then, he tells himself.  Just to the top of the hill and no further.  Then I will lie down.

The King is dead.  Long live the King.

November 27, 2016 - Standing

STANDING

While everything was silent and still

And I had surrendered

Because I was weak

One lone tree stood in salute

Watching

Not guarding

There were no guards left

We were defeated

We knew it

And He knew it

But still the tree stood in salute

I thought it would be cut down

For insolence

For arrogance

For defiance

But He seemed not to notice

It was a ruse

He knew

But He hoped we did not

So there it stood

In loyalty

In duty

In secret knowledge

It was just enough

Just barely

But then I stood, too

If I stayed down

It would be my own choice

If I stood

That, too, would be my own choice

If I were cut down

That would not change my choice

And He knew it.