Once upon a time,
there was a bird.
It flew and flew for a long time, over great distances, over lakes, mountains and forests, over deserts, countries and valleys, over vast oceans and across mighty fields of thought...
One day, as it was flying over a field of thought, it looked down and saw a little girl playing in the sand. She was throwing up thoughts, bright blue and yellow thoughts, the way children throw up ribbons and balls. And when the thoughts would go into the air, they would take up wings and fly high into the sky, so high that the bird could not see the height into which they soared...
And then, one by one, they would begin to fly back down again to the girl. Upon their descent, the bird would see that the thoughts were bigger, brighter, more beautiful. And they all bore a crown on their heads.
By the time they got down to the girl, she had grown into a woman, a young and beautiful woman with a silent sorrow on her face, a deep question in her eyes, a lovely innocent yet knowing smile upon her lips. For in the period in which her thoughts had flown to heaven, many men and women had loved and left her. Some had loved her too little and some had loved her too much. But none had loved her enough. Now she stood there with the universal question in her heart. The search for her destiny.
A song. Beautiful was the song that came out of the bird, descended down with the woman's returning thoughts. One by one, her thoughts alighted on her breast, folded their wings around her like in an embrace and dissolved into her. As each thought dissolved into her, her eyes became brighter, the sadness upon her features faded away, little by little, the question gradually disappeared, and she gradually grew bigger ... until the last thought had returned back into her, and she stood there, tall, pretty, mature, clear.
Then did she hear the song... the song of the bird... it pierced her heart like a bird's beak penetrating into the heart of a honey flower and told her wild and gentle stories of things forgotten and remembered. Like the sunflower her heart exploded open and she looked up...
And she saw the sun.
And while she revelled in the sight of the sun, for she had never noticed the sun before, the bird flapped it's wings again and flew on, flew away. And by the time the woman, filled with the sun, looked around in the sky for the source of the lovely song that awakened her to the sun..., the bird was long gone.
Once upon a time, there was a bird... and on and on it flew, over fields of thought and gentle growth. Simple is her song: remember the sun, look up -
Dienstag, 6. Oktober 2009
This Way
I was wondering in the dark, searching for my hands, searching for my feet, searching for my voice, searching for my mind. I sought all these things, but knew not that I was searching in the dark. Truly I was wandering too in the dark.
There are friends that stand around us in the dark, more in number than we know, nearer than we sense, they see us but we do not see them. For, self-centered us, we see only ourselves.
There was a self-centered man, and he never saw anything but himself. His own wants, his own needs, his own hopes, his own fears, his own hunger, his own thirst, his own pain, his own joy, his own views, his own creed...
And there he was, wandering in the dark, lonely and alone, thinking he is all alone in the world. Not once does the thought of another cross his mind, for he has long lost the ability to see any other person but himself. A hundred questions trouble his mind, to which he finds no answers. For it is dark. Some helpers stand around him, trying to draw his attention for once away from his own ego, for these helpers have the answers he craves. But he sees them not, for he has long lost the ability to see any other but himself.
What are these rocks that strike and bleed his feet? He knows not, he sees them not. For the light with which to see them is not visible to him. He sees only himself and nothing else. His inner eyes are closed, where is the insight with which to see the inner light? A misty lake has become his insight, therein, trapped, his egoistic love for himself.
So did we wander side by side for decades and centuries, blind to one another, unconscious of one another, for each of us was self-centered. Slowly I started to long for an end to this grey solitude, this heavy empty aloneness. Then did a thought, dimly, strike me, in the depths of my lonely suffering. The thought that this lonely life I led was so sad, so sad that I would never wish it even for anybody else…. - - -
Anybody else? … What strange thought is this that strikes me? Or am I not alone in this world? Can there be any other person here too? Struggling also in this dark blindness? A strange new thought that nagged and nagged, grew and grew in my heart. If there were anybody else, then would that I could find him, maybe even help him, halve his frustration. - Like a miracle, this thought became a light within me, slowly did my inner eye open.
And I saw myself in a Valley… walking beside a man who seemed faintly familiar, with the soft sun shinning far away, dimly but visibly. And though I called and called to him, this strangely familiar man, yet he heard me not, felt not my touch. And lo and behold, not he alone, but hundreds, thousands, millions like us were wandering blind in the Valley of Self-centeredness. Unreachable. Alone. So deep was my shock that it loosened my heart and set my tears free. Only half the tears were for me. The rest were for my fellow wanderers, as blinded by self-centeredness as I had until recently been. And yet all they need in order to awaken is just once to think of another... and spare a thought for another. Focus again on the thought that there are also other people in this world, think of their needs, feel the desire to understand and to help someone else.
After the tears had started to flow from my eyes, I heard a voice. There was a woman walking behind me.
"Did you say something to me?", I asked, surprised, as I turned to her. She had a voice like a bird singing. She too I seemed to almost remember.
"Friend", she said, "I have been calling your name now for many many centuries, patiently trying to awaken you to the way that leads out of this Valley wherein you have been groping..."
"And where lies the way?" I asked, still dazed, still grasping this new reality.
And she pointed to my neighbour, he who had been by my side all this time, unnoticed by me, unconscious of me.
"Walk with him a couple of miles. Find out what he needs, and try to give it to him. Therein lies the way."
"But who is he?" I asked.
"You were his friend, to whom he once looked up, once upon a time..., like I too once was your star, before we both went blind. Do you remember?" -
Like a mist slowly parting did I gently recall distant friendships, selfless love, ancient, bright sunlight once upon a time. And as I did, so did the Valley become ever brighter, for this faint Sun had always been there. Only I had gone blind.
"This is what happens," my ancient lover continued, "when self-centeredness takes over within the soul. So do memory, connection and awareness fade... This is what happens when self-centeredness takes over within our souls."
I gazed at my one true love. How could I have forgotten her all this time? ... Then I turned and beheld once more my very best friend, he who had once been to me even as a brother. Softly I called his name, then louder, until I was shouting it. And yet he heard not.
"He hears you not,” she sorrowfully said. “He hears only his own thoughts, and knows not that any other thing exists. And all this he once learned from you," she said softly to me, “For he has always followed you…
"Yet wipe your eyes, stand by his side and keep on calling his name... Weary not, but love him even as you love yourself.”
At first I felt a sense of guilt. And I reflected upon this mystery: You can lead a man in, but not out. The thought of an unending, unrewarding sojourn beside an unresponsive soul suddenly brought a hesitation into me. I looked at the multitude of sleep-walkers around me in the valley, and saw behind so many of them a Helper, bound to each as by an invisible thread, trying to reach them. Tenacious thoughts. They arose again in me. What of my own goals? What of my own wants? A frown, a dark cloud came over my brow, I slowly sunk into brooding –
“Friend – “
Startled I looked up. My gaze, as from far away, settled again upon her. Her hand was upon my shoulder. A smile was her face. A sad smile, it pierced my core. And then did drop the last chain. I turned again to him who had once been my best friend and placed a hand on his shoulder and began to talk to him, calling his name, telling him of the sun and of friendship and of helpfulness and of the way out of the Valley. Out of my words I made a song, which I am still singing…
"And should he one day awaken before Time bids you stop,” my Lover continued, her last words to me, before she left to go there where she must await me, “ … and should he then weary too of selfishness, and desire a way out of this half-lit Valley, then show him also this Way which I have just shown to you, teach it to him gently, and remind him of it should he quickly forget too... - for there is no other way that leads out of this Valley, but the way of selfless love."
When I weary I think of her and of her selfless love. And thus, I am still singing…
There are friends that stand around us in the dark, more in number than we know, nearer than we sense, they see us but we do not see them. For, self-centered us, we see only ourselves.
There was a self-centered man, and he never saw anything but himself. His own wants, his own needs, his own hopes, his own fears, his own hunger, his own thirst, his own pain, his own joy, his own views, his own creed...
And there he was, wandering in the dark, lonely and alone, thinking he is all alone in the world. Not once does the thought of another cross his mind, for he has long lost the ability to see any other person but himself. A hundred questions trouble his mind, to which he finds no answers. For it is dark. Some helpers stand around him, trying to draw his attention for once away from his own ego, for these helpers have the answers he craves. But he sees them not, for he has long lost the ability to see any other but himself.
What are these rocks that strike and bleed his feet? He knows not, he sees them not. For the light with which to see them is not visible to him. He sees only himself and nothing else. His inner eyes are closed, where is the insight with which to see the inner light? A misty lake has become his insight, therein, trapped, his egoistic love for himself.
So did we wander side by side for decades and centuries, blind to one another, unconscious of one another, for each of us was self-centered. Slowly I started to long for an end to this grey solitude, this heavy empty aloneness. Then did a thought, dimly, strike me, in the depths of my lonely suffering. The thought that this lonely life I led was so sad, so sad that I would never wish it even for anybody else…. - - -
Anybody else? … What strange thought is this that strikes me? Or am I not alone in this world? Can there be any other person here too? Struggling also in this dark blindness? A strange new thought that nagged and nagged, grew and grew in my heart. If there were anybody else, then would that I could find him, maybe even help him, halve his frustration. - Like a miracle, this thought became a light within me, slowly did my inner eye open.
And I saw myself in a Valley… walking beside a man who seemed faintly familiar, with the soft sun shinning far away, dimly but visibly. And though I called and called to him, this strangely familiar man, yet he heard me not, felt not my touch. And lo and behold, not he alone, but hundreds, thousands, millions like us were wandering blind in the Valley of Self-centeredness. Unreachable. Alone. So deep was my shock that it loosened my heart and set my tears free. Only half the tears were for me. The rest were for my fellow wanderers, as blinded by self-centeredness as I had until recently been. And yet all they need in order to awaken is just once to think of another... and spare a thought for another. Focus again on the thought that there are also other people in this world, think of their needs, feel the desire to understand and to help someone else.
After the tears had started to flow from my eyes, I heard a voice. There was a woman walking behind me.
"Did you say something to me?", I asked, surprised, as I turned to her. She had a voice like a bird singing. She too I seemed to almost remember.
"Friend", she said, "I have been calling your name now for many many centuries, patiently trying to awaken you to the way that leads out of this Valley wherein you have been groping..."
"And where lies the way?" I asked, still dazed, still grasping this new reality.
And she pointed to my neighbour, he who had been by my side all this time, unnoticed by me, unconscious of me.
"Walk with him a couple of miles. Find out what he needs, and try to give it to him. Therein lies the way."
"But who is he?" I asked.
"You were his friend, to whom he once looked up, once upon a time..., like I too once was your star, before we both went blind. Do you remember?" -
Like a mist slowly parting did I gently recall distant friendships, selfless love, ancient, bright sunlight once upon a time. And as I did, so did the Valley become ever brighter, for this faint Sun had always been there. Only I had gone blind.
"This is what happens," my ancient lover continued, "when self-centeredness takes over within the soul. So do memory, connection and awareness fade... This is what happens when self-centeredness takes over within our souls."
I gazed at my one true love. How could I have forgotten her all this time? ... Then I turned and beheld once more my very best friend, he who had once been to me even as a brother. Softly I called his name, then louder, until I was shouting it. And yet he heard not.
"He hears you not,” she sorrowfully said. “He hears only his own thoughts, and knows not that any other thing exists. And all this he once learned from you," she said softly to me, “For he has always followed you…
"Yet wipe your eyes, stand by his side and keep on calling his name... Weary not, but love him even as you love yourself.”
At first I felt a sense of guilt. And I reflected upon this mystery: You can lead a man in, but not out. The thought of an unending, unrewarding sojourn beside an unresponsive soul suddenly brought a hesitation into me. I looked at the multitude of sleep-walkers around me in the valley, and saw behind so many of them a Helper, bound to each as by an invisible thread, trying to reach them. Tenacious thoughts. They arose again in me. What of my own goals? What of my own wants? A frown, a dark cloud came over my brow, I slowly sunk into brooding –
“Friend – “
Startled I looked up. My gaze, as from far away, settled again upon her. Her hand was upon my shoulder. A smile was her face. A sad smile, it pierced my core. And then did drop the last chain. I turned again to him who had once been my best friend and placed a hand on his shoulder and began to talk to him, calling his name, telling him of the sun and of friendship and of helpfulness and of the way out of the Valley. Out of my words I made a song, which I am still singing…
"And should he one day awaken before Time bids you stop,” my Lover continued, her last words to me, before she left to go there where she must await me, “ … and should he then weary too of selfishness, and desire a way out of this half-lit Valley, then show him also this Way which I have just shown to you, teach it to him gently, and remind him of it should he quickly forget too... - for there is no other way that leads out of this Valley, but the way of selfless love."
When I weary I think of her and of her selfless love. And thus, I am still singing…
Touching A Flower
There are friends you know that you have stored deep within your heart...
These friends are blown in by the wind, borne in by a river... a golden river.
There are people you know that even if you were parted from them, you will never forget them...
There are spirits which share with you a part of your wanderings through creation.
Those to whom you entrust your secrets, knowledge about your faults and questions and contradictions... and you know that you are one. That you share so many similar things.
A flower. Who can touch, who can break, who can soil a flower? Who dares?
A woman once said to me: life is a forest, a jungle, full of wild trees and wild beasts, wild sounds and hunters and preys and the sounds of the forest. You will meet everything, each thing in its own place. Separated according to their species. But there is one thing which you will see everywhere. Always you will see a flower somewhere.
It will appear unexpectedly from beneath hidden rocks, betwixt twisted trunks, hover above unreachable branches, glow in the rays of the moon, there will always be a flower somewhere.
Think not that every flower you meet you are permitted to touch...
Though they warm your heart, raise your spirits, brighten your soul, relieve your mind, inspire you and encourage you..., yet think twice before you touch a flower, consider well before you pick one off its stem. Maybe the simple pleasure that the sight of it has given you, is all it is supposed to give you. Ask yourself: are you worth it? Will it blossom and bloom in your hands as beautifully as it blossoms and blooms on its own? Is the soil of your heart ready to keep a flower alive? If not, wait... wait for when you will be ready to touch it and plant it in your heart. There will always be one flower waiting for you...
And should you wander into the desert of life too, your longing to see a flower is what shall see you through. Yet shall your longing not be in vain. For you bear your flower within. Always within. Watered by your love, sunned by your gratitude, rooted in your heart, it will always bloom by your side.
And so I set forth… but I confess that her words I forgot. Many a flower that delighted my heart I snapped and inhaled and left to wither by the roadside. So crashed I triumphantly through the jungle like a King, littering the path behind me with the fading sadness of flowers I had touched and crushed and left to wither in my restless memory.
In the desert it is eerie and burns like a furnace. Thorns bleed my bare feet, one for every flower I once carelessly crushed. How I long now for a flower, for the sight of a flower again. This eternal desert which the forest has become. I remember all the flowers that litter my past. Would that I had planted just one inside my heart, in my life.
Yet there is one. Brief had been our meeting, short my sight of her. I had reached for her, but strong branches had kept her beyond my reach. Her smile was all I got and oh how this I treasured. She alone comes back to my mind now, over and over and over again. And as I trudge on through the desert, it is the hope of seeing her again that keeps me alive.
The one flower I left unhurt is the one that shall heal my wound.
These friends are blown in by the wind, borne in by a river... a golden river.
There are people you know that even if you were parted from them, you will never forget them...
There are spirits which share with you a part of your wanderings through creation.
Those to whom you entrust your secrets, knowledge about your faults and questions and contradictions... and you know that you are one. That you share so many similar things.
A flower. Who can touch, who can break, who can soil a flower? Who dares?
A woman once said to me: life is a forest, a jungle, full of wild trees and wild beasts, wild sounds and hunters and preys and the sounds of the forest. You will meet everything, each thing in its own place. Separated according to their species. But there is one thing which you will see everywhere. Always you will see a flower somewhere.
It will appear unexpectedly from beneath hidden rocks, betwixt twisted trunks, hover above unreachable branches, glow in the rays of the moon, there will always be a flower somewhere.
Think not that every flower you meet you are permitted to touch...
Though they warm your heart, raise your spirits, brighten your soul, relieve your mind, inspire you and encourage you..., yet think twice before you touch a flower, consider well before you pick one off its stem. Maybe the simple pleasure that the sight of it has given you, is all it is supposed to give you. Ask yourself: are you worth it? Will it blossom and bloom in your hands as beautifully as it blossoms and blooms on its own? Is the soil of your heart ready to keep a flower alive? If not, wait... wait for when you will be ready to touch it and plant it in your heart. There will always be one flower waiting for you...
And should you wander into the desert of life too, your longing to see a flower is what shall see you through. Yet shall your longing not be in vain. For you bear your flower within. Always within. Watered by your love, sunned by your gratitude, rooted in your heart, it will always bloom by your side.
And so I set forth… but I confess that her words I forgot. Many a flower that delighted my heart I snapped and inhaled and left to wither by the roadside. So crashed I triumphantly through the jungle like a King, littering the path behind me with the fading sadness of flowers I had touched and crushed and left to wither in my restless memory.
In the desert it is eerie and burns like a furnace. Thorns bleed my bare feet, one for every flower I once carelessly crushed. How I long now for a flower, for the sight of a flower again. This eternal desert which the forest has become. I remember all the flowers that litter my past. Would that I had planted just one inside my heart, in my life.
Yet there is one. Brief had been our meeting, short my sight of her. I had reached for her, but strong branches had kept her beyond my reach. Her smile was all I got and oh how this I treasured. She alone comes back to my mind now, over and over and over again. And as I trudge on through the desert, it is the hope of seeing her again that keeps me alive.
The one flower I left unhurt is the one that shall heal my wound.
Levels of Understanding, Mountains of Change, and No Horizons…
There is a land without a horizon. If you stand upon this land and stare with a keen gaze far into the distance, you will see, not a horizon, but at the farthest, most visible line, a mountain range.
And when you have arrived this Mountain range and climbed these difficult and painful Mountains of transformation you will, at their top, find yourself upon a plain, a plateau, which to your amazement you will realise to be the level surface of another land, another level, upon which you may stay and experience or further wander. And when you again cast your gaze far into the distance, towards the East, there from where the light comes, you will one day see again, not a horizon, but another Mountain range…
And so we wandered, a band of insatiable restless seekers, from one level to the next, slowly coming to comprehend that life and development is an inner journey of many stages, arranging themselves like a flight of stairs in ascent, or descent, one step, one level, of maturity following upon the other. And as you climb the Mountain which is the end of one reality, so you ascend the Mountain which is the lowest point of another.
There came a day when we paused upon a plateau and, looking back, saw our past descending like a flight of giant steps behind us, curving gently downwards like a winding stairway round and round an invisible pillar of life, around which our gazes also bent. And as we followed the sight of the descending steps of our former levels, so did each of us recognise his and her own distinct footprint left upon each plain, silent, unobserved by those former friends and newly sighted wanderers we could see trudging down there upon those lands, standing around or shuffling left and right. For where we had seen Mountains and sought them, they had seen only a misty future and a horizon of clouds. And where we had felt restless, they had felt at home.
And then a few of them would notice the footprints, and maybe feel something happen inside, and follow then them footprints with their eyes curiously… until, with a startled surprise, one or two would make out far in the distance, a mountain range where formerly they saw only a misty final horizon. Amazed they ask themselves where these mountains suddenly came from. Each mountain will be a hard climb, my friend, for with each upward step you must also actually climb over an obstacle which you bear within.
A word of hope for them. For these eastward-gazing people with a question gleaming deep in their eyes we whispered a word of hope, and then turned around again, to experience this new land upon which we stood.
Hard had been the ascent through the Mountains that led into this land, and one or two had fallen behind, trapped still in these mountains, unable yet to complete the transformation. But a few of us had indeed found the plateau at the top.
It was a strange land, for gaze as we may into the distance, on this one we saw no new mountains in the distant future… only land and clouds and a seeming horizon. It was a beautiful and mysterious land… and years have passed now since it has held us in its embrace. We have forgotten to look to the East, seeking the New… This new land has become, finally, our home. For many years now.
Some, I tell you, meanwhile have become bored here… and journeyed back down to their haunts of yore, welcomed back by many a comrade on a recycled rung, horizontal heroes of their own yesterdays. But the most have remained here on this new won plane, experiencing and experiencing…
Years of experiencing, experiences that satisfied some… but left a few seeking for something new. These few increasingly bear a thoughtful look upon their faces. Until one day they said to the rest of us, ‘Do you see these footsteps that disappear in that direction?’ They pointed towards the clouds.
‘No, we said them not,’ we replied, after following their gaze.
‘And do you see those Mountains far away in the distance?...’
We raised our eyes and saw only clouds at the horizon.
‘No, we see only clouds. There is nothing more, nowhere further. We have reached the summit.’
But these Few would not be satisfied, and one day when we woke up, they were gone, restless souls, towards the cloudy mists in the future.
Often have I stood, silent, on my own, and gazed after their footsteps, for one of them had been my good friend. And I have gazed and gazed towards the Light coming through the clouds in the East. And sometimes when I intently gaze, my heart full of longing and a quietly persistent question, the clouds seem to disappear, and I slowly make them out, vaguely, rugged mountains of reflection, far far away. While on other days, when I simply curiously look across, all I see are clouds hovering above a final horizon. Quiet thoughts cross my mind.
I wonder if upon a mountain which I cannot yet see, a spirit pauses at this very moment, and turning around, sees me upon this level which he has left behind, sees the question in my eyes, and whispers for me a word of hope.
More and more, such questions arise within me. For as much as I love this strange and beautiful state of being, this mature level of thought, this comfort zone and stable throne, and my circle of friends who inhabit with me this point of view, yet stirs within me an old restlessness anew, urging me again to think ahead, to look up, for there is a new perception somewhere and no horizon comprehensible to me.
What are those mountains I increasingly seem to see there, in the distance? Inviting and imposing at the same time. Peaceful and rugged. Why should I brave them if indeed they do exist? But, if they do, what land lies again upon them? Maybe somebody stands upon them now and whispers words of hope for me. And maybe these thoughts I think, and think are mine, in truth are his, calling me.
Restless spirit, be sure of one thing: there is always something more…
And when you have arrived this Mountain range and climbed these difficult and painful Mountains of transformation you will, at their top, find yourself upon a plain, a plateau, which to your amazement you will realise to be the level surface of another land, another level, upon which you may stay and experience or further wander. And when you again cast your gaze far into the distance, towards the East, there from where the light comes, you will one day see again, not a horizon, but another Mountain range…
And so we wandered, a band of insatiable restless seekers, from one level to the next, slowly coming to comprehend that life and development is an inner journey of many stages, arranging themselves like a flight of stairs in ascent, or descent, one step, one level, of maturity following upon the other. And as you climb the Mountain which is the end of one reality, so you ascend the Mountain which is the lowest point of another.
There came a day when we paused upon a plateau and, looking back, saw our past descending like a flight of giant steps behind us, curving gently downwards like a winding stairway round and round an invisible pillar of life, around which our gazes also bent. And as we followed the sight of the descending steps of our former levels, so did each of us recognise his and her own distinct footprint left upon each plain, silent, unobserved by those former friends and newly sighted wanderers we could see trudging down there upon those lands, standing around or shuffling left and right. For where we had seen Mountains and sought them, they had seen only a misty future and a horizon of clouds. And where we had felt restless, they had felt at home.
And then a few of them would notice the footprints, and maybe feel something happen inside, and follow then them footprints with their eyes curiously… until, with a startled surprise, one or two would make out far in the distance, a mountain range where formerly they saw only a misty final horizon. Amazed they ask themselves where these mountains suddenly came from. Each mountain will be a hard climb, my friend, for with each upward step you must also actually climb over an obstacle which you bear within.
A word of hope for them. For these eastward-gazing people with a question gleaming deep in their eyes we whispered a word of hope, and then turned around again, to experience this new land upon which we stood.
Hard had been the ascent through the Mountains that led into this land, and one or two had fallen behind, trapped still in these mountains, unable yet to complete the transformation. But a few of us had indeed found the plateau at the top.
It was a strange land, for gaze as we may into the distance, on this one we saw no new mountains in the distant future… only land and clouds and a seeming horizon. It was a beautiful and mysterious land… and years have passed now since it has held us in its embrace. We have forgotten to look to the East, seeking the New… This new land has become, finally, our home. For many years now.
Some, I tell you, meanwhile have become bored here… and journeyed back down to their haunts of yore, welcomed back by many a comrade on a recycled rung, horizontal heroes of their own yesterdays. But the most have remained here on this new won plane, experiencing and experiencing…
Years of experiencing, experiences that satisfied some… but left a few seeking for something new. These few increasingly bear a thoughtful look upon their faces. Until one day they said to the rest of us, ‘Do you see these footsteps that disappear in that direction?’ They pointed towards the clouds.
‘No, we said them not,’ we replied, after following their gaze.
‘And do you see those Mountains far away in the distance?...’
We raised our eyes and saw only clouds at the horizon.
‘No, we see only clouds. There is nothing more, nowhere further. We have reached the summit.’
But these Few would not be satisfied, and one day when we woke up, they were gone, restless souls, towards the cloudy mists in the future.
Often have I stood, silent, on my own, and gazed after their footsteps, for one of them had been my good friend. And I have gazed and gazed towards the Light coming through the clouds in the East. And sometimes when I intently gaze, my heart full of longing and a quietly persistent question, the clouds seem to disappear, and I slowly make them out, vaguely, rugged mountains of reflection, far far away. While on other days, when I simply curiously look across, all I see are clouds hovering above a final horizon. Quiet thoughts cross my mind.
I wonder if upon a mountain which I cannot yet see, a spirit pauses at this very moment, and turning around, sees me upon this level which he has left behind, sees the question in my eyes, and whispers for me a word of hope.
More and more, such questions arise within me. For as much as I love this strange and beautiful state of being, this mature level of thought, this comfort zone and stable throne, and my circle of friends who inhabit with me this point of view, yet stirs within me an old restlessness anew, urging me again to think ahead, to look up, for there is a new perception somewhere and no horizon comprehensible to me.
What are those mountains I increasingly seem to see there, in the distance? Inviting and imposing at the same time. Peaceful and rugged. Why should I brave them if indeed they do exist? But, if they do, what land lies again upon them? Maybe somebody stands upon them now and whispers words of hope for me. And maybe these thoughts I think, and think are mine, in truth are his, calling me.
Restless spirit, be sure of one thing: there is always something more…
Abonnieren
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