The
mist was heavy, as I walked through the meadow.
As on most mornings thereabout, I waited until the early light came
burning through, turning the gray soup to gold, my castle unfurling its shadows
across my sodden path. The emerging sun
was a luminous fire finally clearing the air of all haze. At its behest I surveyed the distant
mountains. They were a study in grandeur
– always new, always spectacular and strangely forbidding!
Then
I saw him – standing on the mountain. I
cannot say how. Surely my mortal eyes
could not have identified anything or anyone from that distance? And yet I knew he was there, not perched upon
some peak, but standing on the green and rocky slope. It was when I heard his call that I was fully
assured that this was no hallucination.
He was not shouting. There was no
bellow from a cave, no blast, no amplified voice. He spoke softly, but I knew he was miles
away, deep in the forestation. And I
somehow knew that he would wait for me, however long I took to come, however
long my castle held me in thrall.
My
memory of the next few hours is as misty now as was the air that morning when I
awoke from sleep. But I remember that I
heard myself singing a new song, a song of blessedness and expectancy. I was not a lone voice; I was part of a
chorus. The birds and all the
four-legged animals joined in. The
lowing of the deer harmonized with it.
The brook babbled with me hinting of that mighty river somewhere in
those mountains that I had heard of but never seen. I walked; I did not run. It was a moment of rapture, even though I was
still on the ground deep in the dense growth.
Perhaps he would lead me to that river.
I
expected to reach the foot of a slope, where the flat earth suddenly gave way
to an incline, but soon I realized I was on the mountain already and it felt
just like the valley, like any other turf.
I had no sense of elevation. I
could not tell where the level ground left off and the slope began. He had moved up further, and I knew I would
never come close enough to him for me to touch him or take his hand or cling to
his long arms. I could not see all of
him, only his head above the foliage or his feet along the shaded path. But I was close enough to see his hand waving
me on.
Surely
I was going to be led to the top, to a new vantage point from which I could
survey the ground I had spent my whole life covering! I expected transcendence. Why would he have brought me all that
distance, if not to open a new door, a door to heaven itself maybe, or at least
a foretaste of it. Had I not felt that
morning upon awakening, before going outside, that this was to be a new and
special and supreme day for me? Would he
have called me out, if he had not deemed me ready for a place in the company of
angels? Or at the very least he would
lead me to the bank of the mighty river.
But
I knew by and by that this was to be a different kind of pilgrimage. He led me into a thicket so deep I could only
see the trees – around, before, behind and above me, concealing the sky. We walked into dark and shadowy paths, ones I
could never have found the courage to follow by myself. Without his figure before me, however distant,
I would have stumbled, struck my legs on rocks.
The song my heart sang had drifted into a cautious minor key. Doubts fluttered all around me, like
worrisome fireflies. The sun began to
give way to the darkness of the night.
How could the whole day have passed so swiftly?
I
became frightened. I was far away from
the castle I had heretofore called home and knew not if I could find my way
back to it. I tried to call to him, but
my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and unspoken words stuck in my
throat. I was growing more fatigued by
the minute. Streaks of light from the
setting sun, poking through the trees, played across my face, as if teasing me
before they disappeared altogether.
Finally it was dark, pitch black dark.
I could not see my hand in front of my eyes.
Terror
shot through me like a volt of electric current, as I felt strange hands begin
to touch me and stroke my face and rub my back.
Were they human hands? At first I
was not sure. They were like no hands of
a human I had ever encountered. They
were roughhewn, coarse, and clammy. I
recognized none of the words coming out of their concealed mouths, but I began
to hear mutterings and cryptic conversations in broken syllables. The vernacular began to swell, and within
minutes they were a babbling chorus grinding and fuming in their ferment. While the language was foreign, I knew it was
one that no lower animal could utter.
And I sensed that whatever the drift of their dissonant dialogue, I was
the subject of it. They were in dispute
about what to do with me, this stranger who had crashed their nocturnal
scene. Perhaps I was to be a human
sacrifice. Perhaps this was an
inspection to see if I was prime, if my flesh and bones would satisfy their
deity.
The
hands then took hold of my shoulders and arms and began leading me through the
dark. I was not a stranger to
darkness. I had known the darkness of
night after a sun-drenched day, but this dark was far more frightful. What would it hold?
Within
minutes the blackness was pierced by a tiny orange point of light. As we moved closer, it grew in size, until I
distinguished the sight of a campfire.
The light and the heat it gave off I welcomed, but the sight of it
was
alarming at first. Was this the
sacrificial flame that would consume me?
Were these the flames of hell about to choke me? Were these companions of mine devils or
damned souls? But then the hands
released me. Suddenly no one was
touching me, and I knew much to my relief that I was not a prisoner. I had entered a circle of humanity in which
no credential was required of me, no oath, no initiation rite – a new kind of
kinship. And at once there was no
hostility in the flare of the campfire.
No fire-breathing dragon was present.
The flames were strangely endearing.
I had been called to this place – this dark, remote, wilderness abode
and I was not a lone pilgrim any longer.
I
danced with joy in the bright glare. The
fire warmed my face. The fear of the
dark subsided. Whatever secret this
place kept I knew it would be a blessing to discover, if he ever gave me leave
to discover it. Round and round I went
in my frenzy and frivolity. Half of me
felt like a pagan, a fire worshipper.
But the other half knew he was somewhere round about, and that he was
the author of this new epiphany.
I
shouted with a new voice, my throat at last clear and resonant. “Oh great One, sing to me, keep my soul safe
until the daylight returns.”
I
danced and danced and danced, as if there were no one else on earth but me,
forgetting for the thrilling moment that I was not alone, that I was being
watched, that in front of the fire I was the most visible of all, and perhaps
the most vulnerable.
But
by and by I saw him standing at the edge of the crowd, and there was the river
behind him.
There
was the river at last!!!
I
had thought it would be a surging river, but it was calm and gentle, and its
very gentleness drew me to it. And he,
the one I had followed, seemed empowered by it to minister to the throngs. He was placing his healing hands upon them,
stilling their tempests, assuaging their pains, calming their fears. I discovered I was in line, being pushed
closer and closer to him. I was prepared
for a long wait, but before I knew it I was in his space, and I was distressed
to find that I could not look him in the eye or even touch his arm. But others behind were not so
restrained. A scurvy hand reached out
and around me, apparently waiting for his healing touch. But the One before whom I thought I stood did
not respond to it. The hand waited,
shaking in mid air, feebly attempting to arouse the compassionate heart that we
all heard beating. How many anxious and
daunting minutes did it take for me to discover that that heart was my
own? The malodorous hand wanted to touch
and be touched by me, and at once many were clamoring – for me! Me, their fellow dirty pilgrim! Me, the one who had not known his way through
the dark forest! Me, the scion of
privilege reduced to the child of fear!
Beseeched by the hungry and solicitous throng!
My
reticence to touch the One in whose steps I had walked suddenly was gone, in
the blink of an eye. But when my hand
darted out, I found that he was not there; I did not see him. I had just been standing feet and inches
away, but now even as I craned my head in all directions I could not find his
form. I still felt his presence – spirit
but not substance. At once I
understood. He had left them all in my
care – the sick, the crippled, the battle scarred, the squatters in ragged
clothes, giving off acrid smells, their faces ashen and streaked with old and
familiar torments, even the deranged. I
was part of the ragged throng, though we seemed not to be of one tribe or one
nationality.
I
fell to my knees, I cried. Without
speaking a mortal word I was emptied of all illusion, of all craving for my own
private nirvana, for some scented path to the eternally ethereal. I was shoulder to shoulder with the sufferers
all around me. There was no easy escape,
nor did I wish for it. All day I had
thought my pathway was but the means to reach him, to embrace him, to wrap my
arms around his shoulder or snuggle in his arms. The journey I had supposed was only something
to endure, the forest only something to surmount. The means toward the glorious end! But now, transformed by his evanescent
spirit, I knew at last that the journey itself was his gift to me, the
pilgrimage that would go on and on. My
castle no longer beckoned to me, and from the crest of the mountaintop I looked
down and saw that it was not a castle at all.
Now everything in creation was inviting – the air, the soil, the
transforming flame, the life-giving river.
Everywhere
was now home.
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn
about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.
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