..........

This is a space where men can share their perspectives on their inner journey. The form can be prose, poetry, photographic or handcrafted images. The purpose is to stimulate, even minutely, the transformative process. All art strives to move us to a different place, that place of the soul, that initiatory space, where the call is heard and identity found. Please reverence the space by respectfully entering and sharing.

June, 2002

..........

ALONE IN THE WOODS

A slowly swirling, magnificent kaleidescope of luminous cloud formations illuminated by the setting sun had given way to an impenetrable darkness on the lonely, wooded pathway. Had he come prepared with a flashlight, even a box of matches, he might have been able to find his way. As it was, he was totally disoriented, unaware of the fact that he had been circling back to the same spot rather than heading directly for the parking lot at the head of the trail. He was, after all, a suburbanite sheltered in a man-made structure of bricks and plasterboard surrounded by neatly manicured lawns and architecturally planted bushes. The wilderness was a foreign land, chaotic, unplanned, silent. Weary and exhausted, he sat down on a fallen log, uncushioned, uncomfortable, and waited.

He was not used to waiting, except for the express train if it happened to be a minute or two late. Busy doing something--that was the mantra of his existence. Even on vacation he usually ha his cell phone in his pocket at all times, in case he was needed, for to be needed, to be the one who had to make the decision, meant more to him than anything else, more even than his family if he took the time to think about it. But to think about it was not the way he used his time; it was a waste of time. Time was money, money to give those he loved the life which they deserved, or which he thought they deserved, if he should take the time to think about it. But the doctor had said he needed a rest, so he had deliberately left his cell phone at home, reluctantly, foolishly, as it now appeared.

His sauntering through the woods had not had its intended effect anyway. All he could do was worry about what was going on at the office. It was like record playing over and over again in his head, the call he had neglected to make to an important client, the estimate he had made for the latest bid--was it too high, or too low? He had scarcely noticed the wild flower with its delicately purple, fluted petals and bright yellow stamen, let alone the cloud formations overhead. Ensconced in his world of past and future, an unreal world of ephemeral existence, he neglected to see, to hear, to feel the real world so pregnant with beauty which surrounded him. Now he was immersed in darkness, an absence of light not only in the external world but also in the core of his being. He was alone, abandoned, of no use to anyone. A blanket of despair descended over him, suffocating him, as if the life were ebbing from him, and he had become a skeleton of bones sitting on a log, buried in the darkness.

There was nothing he could do but wait until the dawn, the return of the light which would provide a sense of direction, a movement toward the rising sun which would lead him to the paved road, back again to civilization. In the meantime he was condemned to listen to absolute silence. At home there was always some machine operating: a dishwasher, the furnace fan, at least a clock ticking. The absence of sound was like a chilling wind passing through his bones. He shivered, and arising from the log lay down on the bare, hard, ground as if to sleep.

Faces of fear began to appear before his closed eyes, unknown faces yet strangely familiar, as if they had been closeted inside, waiting for the opportunity to reveal themselves. He was no longer the thinking man in possession of himself; he was overwhelmed with feelings: of regret, of loss,of loneliness and despair. They were sensations he did not realize had always been there, beneath the thrashing and cajoling of public life. For the first time he was forced to confront the turbulent storms beneath the facade of daily routine.

It was more than he could stand. His face was contorted with agony, as if his body knew much more than he could ever admit, knew the truth of his useless existence. He discovered tears trickling over the bones of his cheeks, and his lungs filled with gasps of air as he sobbed uncontrollably, disconsolately. The record in his head had stopped turning. Thought had ceased to exist. He seemed to be standing aside, observing what was happening but unable to comment on it or do anything about it. He was being overtaken by the convulsions of his body. It made no sense; there was no reason for it. The raging flood of feelings washed over him again and again, speaking in a voice he could not understand.

In the darkness there was no measurement of time. It could have been minutes, or hours, that he lay thrashing on the ground, the back of his hands pounding the soil, his legs curling up slowly, then suddenly extending. Finally, the rage oozed out into a helpless exhaustion, and he lay quietly awaiting his fate.

The figure he saw bending over him was there, yet it was not there. It was more a presence than an object of flesh and bone. He wanted to speak, to say something, but his lips were frozen, and he could not form the words. The eyes were piercing, but the smile was kind, gentle, full of compassionate understanding. No words were spoken, yet he knew without a doubt that he was not alone. Nor was he afraid; all fear had disappeared. In its place was a peace he had not known before, could never have imagined before, except perhaps as an infant resting in his father's arms. The struggle was over. The incessant need to dominate and control had exhausted itself. He was willing to let go, to listen. Curious--it was all so curious, so unexpected yet so right. The face above him became radiant with light, for he had understood, and then it was gone.

He must have been asleep, for the rays of the rising sun were already penetrating the forest shadows as he sat up, then rose to his feet. Now he could perceive the direction in which to go. He was beginning to feel his way, to know what was the next step to take but never what the final goal might be, only that it would be something entirely unexpected. He knew only, with absolute certainty, that he was not alone, had never been alone, never would be alone.

James W. Bowers (troldhaugen@webtv.net)