The Legend of the Dead Idealist

1998-1999

I’m a young man walking down an old highway. As those who came before me, I am of humble origins, and the journey has completely exhausted my meager resources. Yet I have travelled on, as an outcast, surviving on whatever I can forage and the few scraps of food the inhabitants of the land are generous enough to part with. But I am not so very lucky, for I must appear to these people disreputable – beard and dirty feet, the people here wash and shave. The children point and laugh, and the young women scurry quickly away, eyes to the ground. Oh, my sad heart would sing of every hardship of the struggle, but truly, my personal pain is nothing. Suffice it to say that I have travelled here from a distant land, and the pilgrimage has nearly claimed the life I have long been prepared to sacrifice. Yet it seems that I have persevered, for as I stand, I cannot be more than four axons from the final resting place of the dead idealist. It is his story that I wish to tell.

I am sure most readers must be quite familiar with it, for even in my province we have heard the tale of the dead idealist. Indeed, it is one of my earliest and dearest memories. But for that one reader in one thousand that is unenlightened, I will retell the sacred story. I am cognizant that the man’s beliefs and he himself are generally held to ridicule in this culture. "Tried and failed" is the label you all like to affix to anything that has once failed which depends on human love, integrity or goodness in general. But the same is never said when it comes to your absurd new technology, like the moon rocket or the personal computer, is it? And yet your societal values are still running on square wheels! Were any of your sacred technologies perfected on their first trial? Ah, and then you all wonder why your cold, little worlds seem so far gone wrong! But excuse my diatribe, I mean to tell the story of the dead idealist:

Once there was an idealist, it has been told unto me. I must digress again here, for I fear there is some misunderstanding as to my use of the term ‘idealist.’ In your culture, that word is often whored to describe legions of high-sounding and arrogant do-nothings (as the reader no doubt is) who rationalize to their consciences that modern times or hostile surroundings have stifled the expression of their beliefs. But no, the dead idealist, of whom I speak, did not become a great man through empty words, but rather, a life of righteous deed.

They say he was born the same as you and I. There was no shining star or virgin mother – only the routine, bloody process. As a babe he had the same instinctive selfishness and inconsideration as all animals. As a youth, he had the same societal beliefs and warped values as his contemporaries. He sought only to amuse himself, and thought little of the impacts of his actions upon his surroundings. But of course, there comes a time when the conscientious human must take responsibility for the life it finds itself leading, and by and by, the idealist ceased merely to be a product of his society and grew into an independent-minded adult.

In the beginning, the idealist was aware only of a few morally questionable behaviors on the very periphery of his beliefs. It seemed then that all of these could be resolved with a few trivial changes to his lifestyle, and then he could return to living his former comfortable life at peace with himself. Yet in answering these initial questions, the idealist was led to doubt the validity of many of the fundamentals which he and his society had taken for granted. All the commonly expressed logical bases for his society’s moral reasoning seemed contradictory or circular, and he found himself pondering how society, behavior, and morality had come to their present state, and on what exactly they were founded.

It was as if the idealist were at the top of a towering building, looking down to see where it met the ground. He found that the view from his window on the top floor was obstructed by silver clouds, and so climbed down the steps to get a better view. He moved slowly at first, for surely it would only be a few flights of stairs until he could clearly behold the foundation. But the view remained obstructed. After passing down five more flights, a second time, the idealist looked, and still the clouds blocked the view. His pace quickened as he passed down six more flights of stairs, and yet a third time he looked. Still, he saw only clouds. Now the idealist began running down the steps, faster and faster, as if in panic, until finally he stumbled and tripped. He hurtled down the stairs end over end, and in a heap, landed at the bottom of the building. He rose unsteadily, and his head was opened up. The blood flowed down his forehead and into his eyes and mouth. He must have felt great pain, but so focused was he, that he seemed not to notice as he hurried over to the window. And maybe it was the blood rushing down into his eyes, and the bump his head had taken, but it seemed to him that the gigantic tower came up straight out of an immense pool of blood. Paralyzed with fright, gripping the sill with all his flagging strength, the idealist unleashed a terrified scream that echoed up the stairwell, all the way to the top of the great structure.

For at that moment, the idealist clearly realized the depth to which his society was in denial; the idea that human life could exist without destroying other life was a blatant falsehood. The way people existed while remaining blithely ignorant of all the harm they caused was criminal. The idealist saw then that the entire human race had blood on its hands that it could never wash away, and which it did not even deign to conceal! "All the waters of the Nile…," he kept dazedly mumbling to himself, overcome by the sudden realization of the horrible wrongs from which he had germinated.

The contrition-stricken idealist, at this moment, did not magically receive a specific procedure for the perfect way to live from a higher power as many of your religion might anticipate. He knew only that he could not continue the blatantly harmful life that he had led before, and would learn more beneficent ways to exist as quickly as experience would teach. Conceptually though, he realized immediately that his life could no more be centered on serving himself before others and indiscriminately feeding his own wants. Never again would he try to dominate just because he could, nor hold the ultimate goal of out-reproducing his competitors. Now, by the definition of your revered Darwin, a human being is merely an animal, following the same rules of nature, living only for itself and for its own, et cetera. Thus one can see through the apparent absurdity of the statement that, bleeding against the stairrail, our hero ceased to be human, or even a natural organism; at that point, he had reached a higher state of consciousness and become an idealist.

All of these complex ideas passed quickly through idealist’s head as half-developed thoughts that he was not clearly aware of until later. He began to recover from the initial shock, and turning from the window, this new being raced up the flights of stairs as quickly as he could, before even the blood could coagulate. But had the idealist paid attention, he would have seen that his blood was no longer red as it flowed down from his brow and before his eyes. Now it was transparent. For no more did that representative of death and destruction flow through his veins, but in its place, pure and clear ideals. These ideals were pumped out from his heart and into every extremity, nurturing his cells with goodness and righteousness. And thus, through unspoken vow, acting righteously became for the idealist as involuntary as breathing.

From that moment forward did he incessantly appraise his relationship with the universe. Verily, the idealist underwent the humbling process of effacing his acquired assumptions about life and, like a child, relearning from the most basic level. Truly this became the focus of his existence, and even in his smallest actions, the idealist thoroughly analyzed their implications toward his beliefs. All aspects of his life did he consider, and most did he change – from how he spent his time and the very words he spoke, to what he ate, what kind of clothing he wore, and even where exactly his next footstep would fall.

Now the idealist hailed from an affluent stratum of society where consumable objects were had so easily as to be of little consequence. Furthermore, this affluent stratum was far removed from the negative consequences of their overconsumption. Through his newfound moralistic attention, the idealist began to perceive things that had earlier, perhaps intentionally, escaped his notice. "Once," thought the idealist, "when the population of this planet was few, this extravagant use of resources would not have much mattered. But now that we are many, the accumulated harm is great."

In accordance with his beliefs did the idealist reduce his use of resources to a more modest level. He spent time thinking about more efficient ways to live, and in addition to changing his own life, he made numerous suggestions to his friends and family. The intimates of the idealist at first found his sudden predilection for reflection on the morality of their lifestyle unpleasantly bizarre. Furthermore, alienation grew up between him and his friends, as the idealist could no longer devote his time to the customary mindless self-amusement. But consequence means nothing to an idealist.

On the way to his vocation, for the first time, the idealist perceived the poor beggars leaning up against the streetlamps and buildings; and then he felt compassion for them. The idealist saw poverty, and began to give his spare coins to those wanting for money. He saw hunger, and started saving the leftovers from his meals to bring for those needing sustenance. He saw nakedness, and brought his surplus of raiment to those lacking clothes. Yet these spare contributions from an individual could not supplant the needs of the mass of less fortunate. Upon reaching his vocation, his charitable contemplation carried over and began to usurp the mental energy he had previously devoted to being a productive employee. But no longer did the profit margin of his corporation seem a great concern while he was aware of the grave problems which existed in his world.

Very quickly did his changes in attitude become manifest in great upheaval. So miniscule was wealth to the idealist that he renounced his esteemed occupation to dedicate himself to serving those less fortunate. Further, the idealist realized that his family had very many possessions that they did not regard highly and rarely used which had the potential to mean a great deal if they could be given to those who struggled so greatly with the very little they had. Attempting to quench their suffering, with increasing generosity did the idealist give away his and his family’s possessions to the less fortunate. Though they had tolerated his initial moral attitude change, at the extreme of the idealist's acting upon it, his family was implacably dismayed, and the idealist was disowned and turned out of their home.

He relocated to the very edge of his village and built himself a spartan one-room abode. All of those unfortunate souls whom the idealist had helped now returned the favor to the poor idealist, for he had no means of survival, and by this time, all knew of the goodness in his heart. Although the idealist was now unable to provide them with any material aid, congregations still thronged about the idealist. Now instead of bestowing objects upon them, the idealist began preaching a message of goodness. His teachings were done to bring about a greater consideration of others and a greater responsibility in individuals for the condition of their planet. Whereas the goal of many was to leave their mark upon the world, the idealist hoped he could hammer out the dents that they had left.

Though the suddenly poor idealist now had to concentrate more time on work and survival, his lowly economic position brought his moralistic reflections to even higher plateaus. Living among the less fortunate provided the idealist a much more honest viewpoint from which to judge his former lifestyle. Though previously the idealist had had trouble understanding such an alien concept, now that all the green paper insulation was ripped away, the consequences of actions could truly be felt. Now the harms were before his eyes whenever they were open, and quickly, he realized that innocent luxury costs a terrible price.

Once the idealist had used electrical power with impunity. The blue-sparking electricity had sure seemed clean when it had come out of the outlet! He hadn’t been aware then or even tried to understand that there must have been some payment for this power. Yet now there were no longer miles of high-voltage wire separating him from the means of generation; now, the idealist lived directly beside the great power plant which created those pure blue sparks. Now he saw the tall smokestacks reaching up to the sky as if they were making an offering to god of the stinking black clouds they released. Now, in his new neighborhood, the idealist suffered from his society's use of electricity. Under certain atmospheric conditions, the smoke would cause the idealist to cough and his eyes to become red and watery, and many of the neighboring elderly and young children suffered chronically.

Once the idealist had worn clothes promoting corporations, stores, or displaying trivial advertising slogans. Once he had not thought about the manufacturers and the unethical or downright evil practices used in their production. Yet now he witnessed his neighbors’ children being paid less than the minimum wage and being forced to work sixteen hours days under conditions of physical abuse to produce garments several cents cheaper, for shareholders who were going to resell these items at prices tens of times greater than the production costs. Certainly, the idealist could not afford to buy new clothes now, but he would be very careful nevermore from these merchants of shame to buy (however, rather than wastefully discarding such garments of these as he already owned, the idealist turned them inside out or defaced the logos and corporate names).

Once the idealist had been satisfied knowing only that the trash he set at his curb would be removed weekly. Certainly, it must have been disposed of somewhere, but the idealist did not care so much even to have a mental image of where that might have been. Now he was also situated near his village's refuse pile. Huge trucks came from the rich neighborhoods to the pile day and night, dumping full loads onto the existing mountain. The idealist had been past the dump and saw so many useful things that people had thoughtlessly thrown away, which would probably be replaced by other things which would also just be thrown away one day too, and on and on. Some of his neighbors had told him that the site of the dump had once been a beautiful place with a history, a place where people had enjoyed themselves and felt feelings and dreamed dreams. But this would never know such things again - now the idealist could hardly keep himself from retching as he walked past this place as quickly as he could. It pained the idealist to know that he had contributed to the destruction of this once-beautiful place.

Once the idealist had been able to use meat to meet an important part of his nutritional requirement. At that time, he merely had to go to the market and find it in packages ready for consumption. Now, the idealist lived beside the slaughterhouse. Every day, the idealist smelled the smells of death and heard the sounds of final agony. The idealist became aware of the amount of suffering involved in the meat producing process, and the idealist could never again smell or look upon packaged meat without feeling the sickness he felt in watching and hearing an animal being slaughtered. "Barring imminent starvation," thought the idealist, "I can no longer eat meat."

All the self-deprivation made the idealist’s life more difficult, but certainly he was glad to take on these burdens, for it was the only way he could maintain his will to keep living. His family had watched the idealist’s progress with sad surprise. Surely, they thought, he would let go of this foolishness upon living on the streets like a beggar for a day. They had only meant this as a lesson to him, but after seeing that the idealist had only become more resolute in his idealistism, his family gave up on him completely. Being disavowed by his friends and family pained the idealist greatly, though he could do nothing about it. Still, great as this pain was, it would to be added to.

For though all the others abandoned the idealist, staying at the idealist’s side and partaking equally of his sorrow was his betrothed. With her, the idealist was very much in love, and certainly, his betrothed had more than proven it was mutual. And yet, and yet, a sick feeling about the coming marriage was born deep inside the idealist. It grew slowly, and the idealist began to understand the unnatural situation of marriage. For even his betrothed, whose great devotion was unheard of, could not help but feel lust toward other men. The idealist was a very sensitive man, and of course, noticed this, and knew it was only the natural order of things. He knew also that her desires would remain forever unexpressed; undoubtedly, this creature would remain loyal to him for her whole life. To anyone else, such would be all they could expect or desire, but that was exactly what unsettled the idealist. Though he had an eye for no one else, the fact that he would be a constraint upon the person whom he held most dear was too much for the idealist.

Thus it was out of the idealist’s unbounded love that he could not ask her to give herself to him exclusively. He tried to explain that he would rather suffer greatly than impose the least constraint on another. But no amount of explanation was sufficient; naturally, his betrothed could not understand how such an action could be caused by love. Rather, she saw it as showing a complete lack of feeling, and, as if such a sudden announcement were not enough of a crushing burden, after all her exertions for him, her misinterpretation of the idealist’s feelings scalded her ever the more deeply. She went away from him in a cloudburst of tears, yet sadder still was the idealist, who was equally sad for himself, and even more so for her.

So distraught was the idealist that he disassembled the abode he had constructed for himself and carried the pieces out into a secluded clearing in the forest, where he raised it again. For many months the idealist was not seen in the village. None knew what had become of him. He spent most of these days just lying on his bed, foraging once each morning and again each evening. To nothing more could he motivate himself. Guilt bore down heavily upon the idealist, making even the smallest actions a struggle. The idealist was so depressed that he saw no more in colors, but only lifeless shades of gray. Winter neared, and the idealist’s foraging brought less and less reward, but he cared little, for food had no more taste. But as he had prepared nothing for the coming season of deadness, he knew must return again to his former village.

Upon his arrival, many former associates could not recognize the bearded, weak, and emaciated idealist. But, fortuitously, his former betrothed to be passing through the streets as the still depressed idealist limped toward his family’s house to throw himself upon their doorstep. Though his outer façade appeared different, she recognized his sad form immediately. His once-betrothed was now married to another, but this did not stop her from at least putting her arms around the neck to welcome back the sickly, sad-faced idealist. The bad feelings she had once felt were borne away like dead leaves in the wind at the moment she saw his depression. Even though she still could not understand the idealist’s behavior, the sight of him still so sad over her gave incontrovertible evidence that his good feelings for her must have been very strong, indeed.

She and her husband cared for the convalescent idealist over the winter, and because he saw his greatest love happy again, recovery occurred rapidly. Spring arrived, and the rejuvenated idealist was back in his solitary abode in the forest clearing, farming for himself enough to provide for the entire year. In his spare time, he went into the village to teach to the children and all others who would listen.

In the beginning, the idealist’s following was still relatively small, but when the word spread of this idealist who lived such an exemplary life, it began slowly to grow. The idealist forsook so much self-indulgence in the name of his beliefs that the amazed people thought it miraculous. Flattering as such a characterization might seem, the idealist was instead very dismayed by its insidious implication that others could not also aspire to such a life. Such a belief was, of course, contrary to his most basic message. By deifying the idealist, there could be implicit justification for apathy toward leading a strenuously righteous life, and so the idealist railed against the notion that he was anything but a common man. Yet the more he protested, the more the people used the term "miracle"; and the more the people used it, the more the crowds gathered and the further the idealist’s fame spread.

And it so happened that his legend diffused first across the countryside, then through his province, and finally into the surrounding nations. Seekers came from all around to hear the idealist teach his lessons, to touch him. In the idealist's presence, it seemed that the people had changed, and for a time, it seemed that the idealist's hope for the proliferation of his message of consideration might be realized. But when the pilgrims went away, they took up their old, inconsiderate lives like a novel that had been set down. The idealist found that, though many had a desire to live a righteous life, none other would make it the singular desire of its life. Always there were other things put first, like money, comfort, and pleasure, which required impossible compromises.

It seemed to the idealist that all the pilgrims had come to him expecting simply to receive righteousness and take it back with them; they wanted to put something inside themselves, and then move on to other things, as if righteousness were a task they had somehow completed. But there has never been a prefabricated idealism; the goodness inside the idealist was something that had to be worked for constantly! The idealist likened living a righteous life to the building of a tower. Every beam of it must be laid carefully, or the entire structure above that beam will be out of balance with that below, and the entire structure will eventually collapse. Life was not reaching a destination, but undertaking a journey – the people who came unto him simply could not understand this. Though deeply frustrated and saddened therefrom, the idealist was young and new and still believed in the possibility of changing others’ minds.

Years passed and the idealist was no longer young, yet inside him, his hopes did not age, and by and by it seemed that at least some of his fellow villagers had heeded parts of his message. But nothing had changed with the visiting pilgrims. No matter how deeply the idealist pondered, and to no matter what extent he exuded righteousness, it was never sufficient to change the peoples' lives. Difficult as it was, finally the idealist accepted the and unpalatable fact that drastically changing the world was beyond his limited power. Though the crowds waited for him in the village, the idealist was very disturbed at this and remained in his secluded hut, thinking intensely about what he ought do. For weeks did the idealist not appear in the village, and the throngs grew restless.

The idealist, whom anyone who had known him would consider the most saintly person in existence, remained on his bed feeling guilt from his self-perceived weakness and inability. And the idealist had never forgotten how to perceive the harm his existence brought; as he brooded now, the nagging questions which had long been quietly corroding away his conscience now he faced.

The idealist had long since sworn off eating meat. However, it occurred to him that plants, too, were alive, and although they were not as closely related to humans, the idealist wondered, was it not doing wrong to the plant to eat it? And so he began to reduce the amount of vegetation he consumed to only as much as he needed to barely survive. He began to lose weight, and only ate enough to maintain what little body-weight he carried on his bones. Surely, it was even more wrong to take advantage of something so powerless as a plant! Similarly, the idealist had for a long time used utmost caution in taking a step for fear of stepping on a small creature such as an ant or worm; now, too, he avoided stepping on plants, treating blades of grass as if they were cats’ tails.

The idealist was no man of science, but he had learned something of thermodynamics and energy. He knew that there was only so much energy in the world, and that once it was used up, the energy would preferentially dissipate into ever less concentrated and ordered forms, and would probably never be useful again. Having realized this, the idealist would no longer move - not even to sustain his life. The idealist just lay as still as he could, feeling guilty even for the amount of entropy he was generating.

Several days after this realization, the frail idealist passed away. His once-betrothed had sought him and found him at the last moment, but his life force had atrophied to such an extent that he had been beyond hope. She and her husband buried the dead idealist in the same tranquil clearing in the forest near his lonely abode. A great sadness was felt in the passing of the idealist, and for a while it seemed as though his ideals might be carried on, at least by some of the people of his village.

But like a ripple in a pond, after several generations, all that the idealist had worked for had died away. The townspeople had reverted back to their former behaviors, and the throngs of religious journeyers that had once flocked to the town no longer came. Weeds began to grow thickly in the field where the dead idealist lay. A young oak tree sprouted up beneath and toppled the small stone monument that had lain over his resting place. The idealist’s grave was forgotten, as was his name. The man himself was almost completely out of the memories of the villagers when strange things began to be noticed near that old place in the forest.

It took a great amount of time for the elements to penetrate the coffin in which the dead idealist lay. But of course the worms will always win in the end, and so they eventually began the final assault on the corpse of the dead idealist. Yes, they bore through the casket and devoured the organic flesh, but even the detritivores could not break down the ideals which ran so strongly through the idealist in life, and would retain their power even after the death of their originator.

Through the casket the formless ideals began to leech, out into the soil, where they were taken up by the roots of the plants and up into the stem and from there through all the cells of plant. Strange things began to happen. Where before the weeds and grasses had grown with the intent of choking off their nearest competitors, now they grew only to such an extent so as not to overly crowd their neighbors, and took care not to tangle up their root systems. The oak tree over the resting place would grow no more branches so low that it would excessively block the sun from the smaller plants below. The poison ivy growing up the young oak tree did no longer secrete the irritating oil by which it earned its name, but learned instead to give off the soothing fluid of the aloe plant.

And strange effects too, beset the grazing forest animals which happened to ingest pieces of the plants which had taken up these ideals. For though they went along with the nutrients into the stomachs of these primary consumers, neither could the ideals be broken down even by the acids and bacteria in their guts. Rather, they spread through all the cells in all the limbs of the animals, just as with the dead idealist. Similarly, too, the behavior of these animals was affected; now it seemed their every action was thoughtful and caring. No longer did the ungulates graze completely down to the earth or the insect larvae devour the entire leaf. Instead, they balanced the available resources that both they and their source of energy might prosper.

Inevitably, some of the primary consumers of the ideals fell victim to predation. But again, something strangely wonderful occurred. As the strong jaws of the lion closed around the neck of the poor faun, those same ideals which originated from the dead idealist were transmitted to the lion’s mouth. And rather than snapping off the head of that fearful faun, as the lion could easily have done, the jaws surprisingly opened, and the faun was released. Yes, so strong are those ideals, that now the lions in that section of forest eat grain, and even the tapeworms, in a small voice, ask before taking.

But though the idealist has been dead for centuries and these wonderful things have been known for nearly as long, they have sadly been relegated only to that small partition of forest. This has caused some confusion among us believers. Some say that the dead man’s ideals have become diluted; the division of the ideals of one man among all the living organisms of in one square axon, they say, would certainly be as much as could logically be suffused. But that is not what I believe, what I know in my heart to be true. To me, the diffusion of ideals is similar to the sharing and spreading of love. The more love is given away and shared, the more it will grow and be shared further, as if feeding upon its own incomprehensible power. This I know to be true, for I feel it deep inside myself. Yet the question arises, "why has the phenomenon been confined to a small section of forest?"

Certainly this question has wrestled my soul, and been one whose supreme importance has motivated me to invest my life in searching for the answer. But now, having drawn so near to the spot, I clearly perceive the answer my soul had intuited long ago. This small section of wild forest where the idealist was lain to rest is in a sense separated from the rest of the world. For it is, on all sides, surrounded by the manifestations of human development. Before considering deeply, the listener might interject, "certainly pollen from the trees containing your ideals can be carried past these human developments and into the world. And certainly man cannot control the flow of insects and earthworms, let alone even the deer and rabbits. If any of these carried your ideals, certainly, they should be spread by now across the entire world!"

Of course the objectioner’s hasty words contain some truth, but yet they are not the complete truth. Though humankind cannot physically stop the transmission of organisms in a given region, the transmission of ideals is a different matter altogether. For it must be remembered that consciousness makes the human an altogether different being than the animal. To the beast, which has no choice in its action but is guided by instinct, the ideals could work their magic with no input of will from its mind. Obviously, this is not the case for the human, which is blessed with being able to freely choose to do that which it knows to be good or that which it knows to be evil. Thus it is impossible for externally generated ideals to have any effect on a human being. All idealism in man must spring from within his own soul. But alas, even with the example of the dead idealist before their eyes, even with the example of all the beauty distilled from his beliefs, he has refused to rise up from the ways of unnecessary destruction which he has instinctively followed since his ancestors’ days as prokaryotes. And thus it has been the only choice of man that has served as the barrier preventing these ideals from being spread through the world.

Yes, the grain of pollen or the earthworm can leave the isolated section of wild forest and enter the domain of mankind; however, the ideals inside will remain. When surrounded by thoughtless or willful destruction perpetrated by humankind, the pure ideals in these emigrating organisms will return back to the blood of the imperfection which surrounds them. Just as love must be accepted before it can be spread and grow, so must the ideals.

While relating the story of the idealist, I have approached and entered the isolated forest where he was buried, long ago. I step lightly among the grasses and trees, following what seems to be a rarely travelled path. I hear birds singing with delight, and see indeed, the lion grazing next to the faun, as though they are brother and sister. They do not stir at my approach and I move near to them. I stroke the lion’s mane, and it purrs as would a kitten. The faun leans forward to lick my extended hand. It is like a dream of heaven.

I see too that the trees and even the smaller plants have been spaced out from each other enough so as to prevent overcrowding, as if the entire forest were the orchard and garden of an extremely patient caretaker. Everything seems so completely wonderful that I fall down into the smooth grasses and weep softly to myself, for it is nothing like the world of inconsideration to which I am accustomed. For several minutes I lay like this, until I begin to feel a gentle breeze blow the grasses against me. It is soothing, and I am gently urged back to my feet.

I arise and after a few moments, come upon a clearing with a solitary oak tree. I see the overturned stone monument marking the very place I have sought. The oak tree over the idealist’s grave is no longer a sapling; it is perhaps the biggest and sturdiest tree that I have seen. I realize too, that it is the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen. The branches spread out in a hemisphere of random symmetry and have the same proportions as a young mother’s arms. Moving closer, I reach out my hand toward the rough bark and run my hand caressingly across, as if it is the face of a beautiful woman I have long admired who has just deigned to meet me. I give the tree a hug, though my arms do not fit even halfway around the trunk. I bend to read inscription on the small stone monument, but it is in the local language, of which I am illiterate. The tranquility of this setting completely overwhelms me, and I again lay down to the smooth grass at the foot of the oak. I have no more desire for worldly things, and feel that it would be so easy to swim through the soil and lay down beside my idol, the dead idealist. This peace, it is the peace I seek, and I have finally found it. The journey has exhausted me, my struggle, my… .

But suddenly, I understand that this is a selfish wish, and the feeling of peace immediately leaves me. I sense that this is not my place, and that I am still young and yet need no rest. I begin to forget myself and my old wants, and I do not need to break open my skin to know that the blood inside me now runs clear. Before, when I had dreamed about finally reaching this hallowed ground, I had always imagined that I would bend down and taste the grass around the idealist’s grave, so that his ideals might perfuse into me also and allow me to experience the bliss of his righteousness. Yet this journey has showed me the truth that every person has the choice of action, and that the power to be an idealist is within each of us. We humans do not need to eat a blessed piece of grass or make a pilgrimage to a holy site; all that is required of us is to perform that acts that characterize an idealist. Yet simplicity does not here imply ease, as is evidenced by the fact that all humanity has in the end turned away from the ideals. But I am not like they. God, please, do not let me be as they!

With newfound strength, I leave this place of comfort and tranquility. I know that it is my destiny to return to the inconsiderate world that is my home and use the abilities I have been granted in transforming it into such a place as the place of the dead idealist. With utmost reverence, I step even more lightly on the grass than before, but I sense now that the grasses do not mind my footsteps, so long as my path is true, and I do not worry unduly over it. Perhaps, like the dead idealist, I shall not persuade the entire world, but I know too, that like he, I shall not be a failure as long as I try. For there will be others, after me, better than I, and I will be satisfied only to work for our dream of the coming world of righteousness. Amen.