A night time walk One late autumn evening, a certain man set out from his home to take a stroll through the neighborhood. He pulled the door of his house shut softly, shutting within the warmth of the lamp-lit home, cutting out the sound of squabbling teenagers, a harried wife on the phone, and the memory of a briefcase full of papers that needed to be looked at later that night in bed. The man walked to the end of his driveway and paused briefly, wondering whether to turn right or left. It hardly mattered. The streets ran in orderly squares, and if he walked around the block, he would have completed a mile. Content to allow his feet to pick the direction, he turned down the concrete path that ran along the street, just taking care to set a pace that would justify the word '"exercise". The night was chilly but not especially cold. The trees were bare, but the manicured lawns were immaculate - the city had already picked up all the leaves that he and his neighbors swept to the curbs in the yearly ritual that marked the last week of autumn. The multicolored leaves had been forgotten already. Tidy, well- trimmed little bushes hugged the cozy looking houses, tall enough to be pretty, short enough to ensure security. Trees grew at regular intervals along the concrete path, alternating with street- lights. The man could afford to let his mind wander…. in the friendliness of such civilization, there was absolutely no risk of being hit by a branch....the worst that could happen was a toe stubbing on the uneven concrete. Occasionally he looked into the windows he was passing by, noting his neighbors -- none of whom he knew -- going about their nightly rituals. From the outside, each house, though individually designed, looked uniformly tidy, clean and friendly. Cozy. Laughter carried from one house, the aroma of a fireplace from another, a woman called her pet from some unidentified backyard. The man felt very little interest in them. Their lives were almost exactly like his own. They worked hard, they earned enough, they had children much like his own, they attended one of the three churches in the neighborhood. Turning the corner that signaled the end of his half mile street, he wondered if they ever lived with a sense of inadequacy. No matter how hard one worked, there were always others who either worked harder, or achieved more with less effort. No matter how much one earned, there were others who earned more. No matter how much one prayed, there were always others more spiritual, more learned, more giving. . .prettier gardens, bigger houses. . .He wondered if they ever felt tired. As this unusual thought crossed his mind, the man suddenly realized that he was very tired indeed. It wasn't a physical tiredness . . .just a strange mental one. Puzzled by this, becoming oblivious to his surroundings, he turned his mind to the possible cause of the tiredness. He worked hard, but not beyond his capacity, he earned enough, was content where he was, had fulfilled his duties as husband and father, went to church regularly to maintain his spiritual obligations, knew enough about his religion to feel comfortable in his relationship to God, knew enough of God to justify the feeling that the Lord had no reason to find fault with him…. in fact, there was no law, either mortal or Divine that he felt he had broken - or broken and not repented for. But that thought smacked of pride, so he hastily banished it with a short prayer for forgiveness and quickly reminded himself that he was always a sinner. But instead of bringing comfort this time, there was an absence of feeling .. an even greater emptiness. By the end of the next half- mile, all he could come up with was the knowledge that nothing made sense any more . . .how could he have achieved so much and still feel so empty? Was he a total ingrate? Had God not given him enough? Where WAS God? Where the comfort of God? Why didn't God answer? Suddenly he gasped at an unexpected insight. He saw his own mind, and saw the neat little boxes that he kept his thoughts in. Here were the boxes of his family members, there the boxes of his profession. This was the large area of his community work, here the box of God. And within these boxes ran his busy mind, sorting, filing, tidying, putting away everything as neatly as he could. . .carrying it all. . .routines, roles, duties, memories . . it was no wonder that he felt so tired. . just the weight of his own memories was enough to tire him out. And there came the glimmer of a strange paradox . . .he had not felt tired of it until he knew of it . . .to see was to carry the weight. To be blind was to be weightless. |
Feeling
miserable suddenly, he stopped and looked around, realizing that he had
left his familiar neighborhood a while ago. Trees grew thickly around
here. The chill night air carried an unexpected -- and long forgotten
--aroma of decaying leaves. The mannniccured lawns had given way to
longer grass and the path now followed the curve of a drainage ditch with
rushes growing on the other side. Below him, the land sloped downwards
gently, before curving up again towards the hill. In the depression sat
a large Swing set. It was a strangely peaceful scene, clearly lit by the
light of the full moon. Still feeling miserable, the man left
the path and started walking on the grassy slope, feeling
the frosted grass crunch under his hiking boots. He started climbing the
slope on the other side. On the top he saw the stump of a tree and
sat down, wondering what to do next . . . . somewhere within himself, he
knew that he could go back. Yet, what to do next? Which direction
to go? He was lost somewhere within himself. He felt that he
had lost something vital of himself . . .the mind threw up answers.
His security was lost. His blindness was lost. His direction
was lost. . he had lost God! Or was it just his faith? His Trust
? His ambitions? . . .And then he realized that he was
still busy filing away his thoughts into neat little boxes, and feeling
disgusted with himself, tried to stop his mind from flowing down that rut.
Looking around, he noticed a small scattered grove of trees a short distance away. All the trees had shed their leaves except a tall cypress that grew in the midst of the shorter trees and stood out from them. The evergreen tree stood tall and straight, like a finger pointing towards the heavens. It seemed like a sign. The man got down on his knees and tried to pray. But the prayers wouldn't come. Honest with himself, he now realized that his religion had been like so many other aspects of his life. .conformity, keeping up with the neighbors, maintaining the general rules as much as he maintained the front lawn of his house. God seemed so far away, needed so many rules and specific directions to be found, a veritable maze of protocol and prayer and understanding and specific behavior to establish a connection with . . . He had indeed lost his God. He gave up on the effort. His eyes returned to the cypress tree, which still insisted on stubbornly pointing upwards. So he followed the length of the tree and saw the full moon behind it. The moon had been there before, but he had simply not noticed it. Now it was there in its full splendor, just brushing the top of the cypress tree. Staring at the moon he gradually became aware of the increasing beauty of the night. The moon itself seemed
to pull the stars into existence all around it. The depthless heavens
seemed to open
An unexpected chuckle broke through his chest at the whimsical thought. His mother had indeed kept one of those silver mirrors on her dressing table. He let his mind wander unchecked down that direction till it came to a sudden halt. A certain summer night, when the moon had been full, a certain six year old boy, with straight, tireless limbs clad in shorts, running around chasing fireflies till, tired out, he had flopped on the grass. Staring up at the moon he had wondered what would happen if the moon were to fall down in his lap. He would pick it up and put it in his mouth. . .he knew what it would taste like. . .like a silver coin . .so wonderfully cold on the tongue. With the fullness of life that had been a gift at that age, he jumped up and ran indoors to get a glass of cold water. With a blink, he was back in the present, still feeling the coolness of the moon in his mouth. What imagination to think that he could have put the moon in his mouth . . swallowed it, made it his. . . His mind felt wonderfully still, he let his eyes close . . .feeling the peace and the beauty flow through him. Through him and out again . . .it had turned into an involuntary -- and effortless -- prayer of gratitude. Gratitude not only for what he had seen, but also that perhaps, just perhaps, Someone had loved him enough to show him that eternal beauty was just a short distance away and could be carried within himself for ever in that place where a boy could have the moon fall into his lap . . . Faiz Ziaf (with permission)
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