Author: Brian

Backpacking in Lower Burro Creek (Part 1)

/ Brian / 1 Comment

Day 1

I sit by Burro Creek, not yet in the proposed wilderness area, close enough to a road to attract those with a Jeep or Subaru. A family is nearby: an older man, his wife, and two young children. The man, who looks to be the grandfather of the young boy and girl, is wearing an NRA cap. So this is not yet undisturbed solitude, but his mere presence neither disturbs me nor deters me from exploring this place. I do begin to feel slightly disturbed when he throws rocks into the stream to entertain his grandkids. But soon they leave, and I am left alone.

Let even the rocks alone; let them be where they are. Leave the rocks alone that do not move on their own. Can we be unmovable like the rocks? Can we be fluid like the water moving over and around the rocks?

Soft like the water and hard like the rocks. My legs are hard from biking but my heart in this place cannot be anything but soft, as I listen to water flow over granite, the soft over the hard. I feel my heart overflowing, love flowing into me. It is the soft heart that spurs me on my journey and decides where home is, and the legs that harden to get me there.

And where do I need to get? Call it nowhere. Here I am. I want to get right in the middle of here. In the wild, no place alone is central because each place is a center connected to some circumference, is a place where we can experience solitude without being alone, or where we can be alone without feeling pain at our aloneness. In the wild, we can get to the core of our loneliness, we can find that the deeper we sink the less lonely we become. It is not so bad to be alone, though we are always forgetting this fact. “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude,” Thoreau writes. I write of solitude and I mean connection. I write of recreation and I mean re-creation. I write of going out and, like Muir, I mean coming home.

I listen to the water; I sit on the rock; there is no need for any other companions at this time. The great longing for connection, the yearnings for truth and beauty and power and love, are here fulfilled. I have always longed to be, and to be myself. Now, I be-long. I am. I am here.

Here, I am.

I let the creek take all my confusion. The creek takes it without being burdened by it. It takes it by not taking it too seriously. It takes it by giving me peace. Letting me be at peace. Let the water let me, let me be by the water. I let myself be. I let myself see.

I let myself go and am held.

We need to let ourselves go. We need to let go of the idea of ourselves as superior to what holds us. We need to go to the wild and behold its beauty. Let go and be held.

But I do not intend to speak for what we must do; I speak for I must do. I find I can speak most clearly in places where humans are awed into silence. I want to speak for that which does not speak through any language human beings can understand. I want to speak with the force of the rivers’ rapids, with the calm of a still-moving stream, with power and with stillness, with the same even-keeled equanimity of the clouds that drift above the creek, languid and fluid at this moment yet containing the power to bring storm. I want to speak like the body of water that connects and cannot be separate from the two banks, that answers all questions without words. I will speak with words until I have learned to speak without them, until I understand the language that no longer needs them.

I sit on a rock by the creek, close my eyes, and say a silent prayer, praying to understand the language of not needing, of being without needing to be otherwise.

I sit on a rock by the creek and try to exist with the rhythm of the water, to be part of its song. I try to listen for the sound beneath the sound. I don’t hear it; it doesn’t matter.

Only where people predominate do I need to listen for the sound beneath the sound. Here, where I am now, in the aliveness, where all things move and exist freely, there is no sound beneath the sound. The sound on the surface is enough. What I hear and see is more than enough. What I hear and see is the abundance of life at the end of the day.

I hear the water in the creek below me. I hear the chirping of crickets around me, filling the darkening sky with their bright song. I see the clouds above me moving to the west, towards the sun, now going down below the horizon.

“Feel the Sound”

/ Brian / 2 Comments

Was I once found?
Am I now lost?
I’ve heard for too long
of what has been lost.
Now I listen
for what can’t be found.

I do respect the thoughtfully worded phrase,
but how much more
do I respect the heartfully felt sound!

How can I feel this sound and be lost?

Listen for a moment.
See
if you can feel
the sound.
You might hear it more clearly
if you put
your ear
to the ground.

Did I once have?
Have I now lost?

What I have lost is precious to me,
more precious than what I have now.
To have is fine while it lasts,
but to have lost is to begin
re-finding,
redefining where your worth is,
realigning with your purpose.

This is how I redefine your words.
When you say you are close to a breakdown,
I hear ‘breakthrough.’
When you tell me you are in the middle of a crisis,
I hear ‘creative tension.’
When you feel hopeless of ever understanding,
I hear ‘recovering the mystery.’

But you do not need me to redefine your words,
or to remind you of your worth,
do you?

No.
But in case you’d like a reminder,
here:
When you look at me intensely and say nothing,
I hear ‘I am here,’
and I feel your distinct sound;
I let go of all I’ve lost,
and I embrace what can’t be found.

“The Whole”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

One thousand feet above town,
too far away to hear the music and dancing of Saturday night,
there is almost complete silence,
save for the swaying of tall trees in the gentle breeze.
 
An unnamed sadness is present amidst the entertainment downtown,
while an unnamable joy is present here
in the silent night,
here where the moon’s light
shines through cobwebs and into cabins.
 
It is a good night to be alive
and to be awake.
 
I close my eyes and feel
both the unnamed sadness
and the silent, unnamable joy.
I feel the restless yearning of the drinkers and dancers downtown
as I watch the calm way the tall trees with immovable trunks sway.
 
Why be one or the other, either calm or restless?
I am restless and I am calm,
I sway like the trees and I dance like the wild,
I move with a vital force and I am immovable.
 
The calm, still being within respects the restless, seeking one,
and the restless one who seeks
respects the still one who accepts.
Neither demands to be sole inhabitant,
neither claims to encapsulate the soul.
Each needs the other in order
to be included in the whole.
 
The restless one yearns for the whole to be expressed
in one passionate movement,
one intuitive line,
while the still one looks on with an invisible glow,
blessed with knowledge beyond expression
and wisdom beyond time.
 
Above town and in town,
there is yearning and there is the yearned for,
there is stillness and there is restlessness,
there is underlying sadness and there is overarching joy.
 
I go out and look up at the sky.
Neither darkness nor light covers the whole stretch of sky.
There is the blackness of night and there is the light
from the moon and stars.
Each needs the other in order
to be included in the whole.
 

“The Gift”

/ Brian / 3 Comments

The snow drops from the sky,
And the earth receives the gift.

I wonder:
Is the gift given by one and received by another?

Who is the giver?
Who is the receiver?

Who is the one that lets go of the gift?
Who is the one that holds onto the gift?

Is the gift separate from the one who holds it?
Or:
Is the gift separate from the one who is held by it?

Unlike rain, snow makes little noise as it drops.
The gift is silent, wrapping up in silence whoever uncovers it.
Yet:
Was the gift ever covered?

The birds chirp the silence into song,
The stream carries the silence into movement,
And the trees are held motionless by the silence,
As from the sky continues to fall
The gift
Which transforms everything that receives it.

Nothing is the same when the gift is being given,
Yet nothing changes after the gift has been received.
When is the gift not being given?
When has the gift not been received?

The snow drops from the sky
And the earth receives the gift.

“You Are as I Am”

/ Brian / 3 Comments

For a long time, I enclosed myself, focused on how I was distinct, unique,
How ‘I’ was ‘I.’
I often wondered:
What is there outside and within myself that links me to this realm?
I felt connected only when I observed others connecting;
In some way, their connection included me.

Beyond that,
I could not ignore that I had something in me,
Something I wanted and needed to express.

All I knew was that I didn’t want to be made into someone I wasn’t.
Better to stay with who I was,
Though who exactly that ‘I’ was I couldn’t say.

Who was that ‘I’?

Maybe that ‘I’ was a wanderer, a vagabond,
In the world but feeling apart from it,
Somehow outside it,
Somewhere amidst the gathering dusk on the road heading out of town.
To others looking like the embodiment of freedom;
In reality, free
Only in aching dreams.

Maybe that ‘I’ was a poet, a wordsmith,
Using the pen like a mystic hammer,
Nailing words deep into unseen foundations,
Undertaking the groundwork of the soul.

Maybe that ‘I’ was a hermit, a Desert Solitaire,
Going out into the wilderness alone to listen to the silent intimations
Of an ancient and sacred world,
Searching in the aloneness for a Fountainhead of companionship,
Seeking in the splendid isolation a connection that could not be lost.

Maybe that ‘I’ was a poor tramp, a prodigal son,
Crying out to the empty night like a prophet of despair,
In sacred confusion, in divine discontent,
Searching for dissolution begot by dissipation,
Craving a fleeting solution to an insoluble situation.
And the thirst: forever intensifying;
The thirst: impossible to quench.

Maybe that ‘I’,
Who had no idea
Who it was,
Was not a single ‘I’ at all.
Maybe it was a multitude of I’s,
Each one striving to be the Number One ‘I,’
The original ‘I’, 
The distinct ‘I’,
The ‘I’ independent of all other I’s,
The one and only ‘I.’

Aye Yai Yai!

Do you understand where I’m coming from?
Do I even understand where ‘I’ am coming from,
And who the ‘I’ is that is coming?
Is the ‘I’ coming? Is it becoming? Is it going?
Going where? Coming from where?

Or has the true ‘I’ been here all along,
Neither coming nor going,
Masked by all these ‘I’s wanting to be it?
These ‘I’s defined by what they seek to be.

What do these ‘I’s seek to be?
What do your ‘I’s seek to be?
What do your eyes see when they really look?
What do your ears hear when they really listen?

Really, listen:
Do you hear Life
Sing itself
To wakefulness?

Really, look:
Do you see the immaterial city
Renew itself
Without ceasing,
Arise
Without sleeping?

Watch it
Begin
Each moment anew.

Do you see?
It does not seek to be.
It is.

It is,
As are you.

It is as you are:
Do you
See?

You are as I am:
Can we
Be?

We are as It is:
Let us
Begin.

 

 

“A Divine Loss”

/ Brian / 4 Comments

You no longer suffer from what is lost,
You know that what you lose is not your loss.
What you lose is not a cause to suffer,
What you lose is the cause of your suffering.
Losing the cause of your suffering:
This is a divine loss.

You are no longer at a loss for words,
As you were when you longed for
The never lost and the only now heard.

You no longer fear losing yourself.
How could you lose yourself?
Who you are is not a gift you can lose.
It is not a gift you are given one year for your birthday,
A gift you put in storage for a later time;
It is not a gift you misplace
And spend the rest of your lifetime searching for.

The time of your life is not Life’s time.
All the time you do not have is the time of Life.
All the time you do not have I do not have either.
All the time, weren’t you searching for
What is not mine and what is not yours?

You no longer suffer from what is lost,
You know that what you lose is not your loss.
You have lost nothing but the feeling that you are lost,
And the belief that you have something you can lose.

Now you take from all and no one feels taken from,
You give to all and no one feels in your debt.
What you have you don’t worry about losing,
What you lose you don’t worry about regaining.
 
What do you have?

 

What have you lost?

 

What do you lack now?

 

You thought in losing you would suffer more,
But what you’ve lost is not a cause to suffer.
What you’ve lost is the cause of your suffering.
Losing the cause of your suffering:
This is a divine loss.

Aimlessness and Purpose

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The log in the river is not aimless, the dolphin in the sea is not aimless, the cloud, though drifting in the otherwise blue sky, is not aimless. Each goes where it goes and does not go where it cannot go. But I am not a log in the river, or a dolphin in the ocean, or a cloud in the sky. I am a man who often feels aimless. It is important sometimes to observe myself when I look at the cloud, observing both myself and the cloud, perceiving how the cloud goes nowhere in particular and perceiving how I am going nowhere at all. I am just standing there, or sitting there, watching the cloud.

I am aimless when I forget what my aim in life is. Is it to glorify God in the highest and bring peace to his people on earth? No. I cannot hope to bring peace to anyone but myself. Is my aim to be on the road, to travel in a home-going way, going always away and always coming home? Is my aim to find my aim, or to pursue the Self in me that needs no aim? Is my aim to engross myself in our material civilization and become one of the many? No. I have a purpose beyond that. Entering society may be the beginning, and is helpful for some things I cannot do alone, but further than that society assists me only as it helps me to realize myself. If I am not doing that, I am not living life, and in that case whether I am engrossed in society or not makes little difference. If I am not living, what am I doing? I am aimlessly drifting toward death, or I am already dead. When death comes, I want to meet it as an equal, I do not want to be taken by it. I want to die many times before Death comes so that when Death comes it takes only what is not me; it does not take the whole man. To be so I am not taken by death I must be a whole man.

My ambitions are turned towards myself, not in a self-absorbed, egotistical way, but only because I am determined to overcome the self that sits down here today, to explore much deeper than the ego-self, to dig down far below what is visible, to find the truth hidden in the invisible. This is my ultimate aim: to bring forth the invisible, to express it in such a way that the reader can see the invisible within herself, and remembers who she is. To be fully myself, I must remember who I am. Only such a man can help another to remember. But it is difficult, and my aimlessness drifts back anytime I forget, if only for a moment. There are many moments when I forget, when I question whether I ever knew, whether I ever can know. Am I not simply a man? And wouldn’t it be better to be a simple man, concerning myself with the essentials of life, physical needs and family? No. Though I practice simplicity and feel it is essential and part of the aim, I am not a simple man who can concern himself only with physical needs and family. I am a man who aims to point people to what is not-man through my own experience of who I am. This is my aim, my purpose.

snow mountain alaska

What is essential for me is something deeper than the physical and visible. Many people remain on the surface of the water. They float along like the log in the river and do not feel the need to go faster or slower or deeper. Where they are at all times is the only place they can consider being. What they see at all times is all they can imagine seeing. It does not even occur to these people that they could be anywhere else or be seeing anything else. Nothing exists but what is directly in front of them. In times of weakness, I envy these people’s easy contentment. But in reality I know I am not one of them. There are a few who do not float in this way. As these few become conscious of where they are and who they are, they say to themselves, ‘I cannot float here. I was not made for these waters.’

So they sink for a time, though only half by choice, and so become only half-aware of what lies beneath the surface. When they have risen to the surface, by their own tortured choice, they look back and see in a hazy way the confusing contents of what he has already traversed. They resent the part of the river they have already gone through. It was not the way they wished it had been. When going through rapids they wished for serene waters. When all was calm, they were restless for the rougher water. Now they struggle to look ahead. They are tense and troubled thinking about what could trouble them around the next curve, yet they cannot help thinking about it. They want to know what will come beforehand so they can know how to approach and confront it. How can they know what to do when they do not know what is to come? Their lack of knowledge and understanding force them to go under again. Maybe going below the surface now they will find the answer to what will come above it later. The aim of those who sink is ultimately to come to the surface, to be on the surface, but their purpose on the surface demands that they have sunk far beneath it. They must find the tide without resisting the riptide. They cannot float without having sunk, and they will sink until they learn to float.

The drifter becomes so when he says, ‘I am not fit for these waters,’ fully believing and knowing the truth of what he says. Though born fit, in life he like everyone else becomes unfit. Not everyone sees that they are unfit for the waters. Many people feel they are fit and are deluded. But the drifter sees clearly how unfit for the waters he is; he feels it like he feels the tug of the rip current pulling him downwards. His aim in life is to again become fit for the waters he was born fit for. In fitful spurts, by relentless struggle, he continually sinks and comes back to the surface. He wants to say, ‘I can float here. I know how to float without drifting and sink without drowning. I know now what I need to do. I know now what I need to say. I know I cannot do otherwise.’ But he cannot say or do any of it until he truly believes and knows it, and this might take a long time, a lifetime, or it might never take, and so in the end he will be taken in Death’s hands, his own hands empty and his mind unclear, having never reached the clear and pure water of his own true nature that would fill and fulfill him. If he reaches that pure water, he will love it all, and will make no distinction between the pure and impure.

Road Trip to the Grand Canyon, Ooh's and Aah's, Creative Greetings, Life Plans, Favorite Words

But back to the primary aim. I follow the Self that leads me and can follow no one else. I can lead no one but whoever follows their own lead. If I cannot follow my own lead, I will certainly fail to lead anyone else. I must go from painful loneliness and isolation to a solitude that cannot be compared, an aloneness that slowly deepens into ultimate connection. My natural state, and the natural state of all humans, is loneliness, isolation, and aimlessness. Knowing my aim and living it takes away loneliness. The aim brings with it the aloneness; the two cannot be separated. Anything that distracts from that aloneness distracts me from the aim. If I pursue only the companionship needed to alleviate my loneliness without the connection needed to deepen my aloneness, I am forgetting my purpose, I am forgetting what has worth. Anything that distracts me or leads to forgetfulness is worthwhile only if it brings me back to remembering.

I am worthwhile when I remember, when I follow my lead but am not led blindly, when I seek my aim, when in myself I feel at home, when in everything I see beauty, when in every sound I hear God.

This morning there are few sounds. I hear the coffee pot, the wall heater. My hands hammering on the keyboard is the most obtrusive sound, and it is the sound of my greater self disciplining my lesser self, like the hammer pounding in the nail to build the foundation of the house. It is hours before the dawn. Without these hours, on days when I wake up late, I start the day already alienated from who I am, already distant from my deeper nature. I feel a sense of irretrievable loss on those days that for most people would be out of all proportion to the cause. Those are lost days, and with too many of those I become lost myself. The aimlessness is born out of the distance between surface and depth; it is the head-banging, out of control teenage offspring that drifts between the deep and shallow.

To avoid that sense of aimlessness, that feeling of being lost and without purpose, I will do anything to recklessly seek purpose, perhaps with the purpose wrecking poison itself that leads only to greater lostness. My aim is to live in those the depths, but it is a daily struggle. Instead of mourning the alienation that begins the day, I work to understand it, to overcome it, and to get beneath it. And sometimes simply to sit in it, to sit in the distance like the traveler sits on the southbound train, a fierce light in his eyes, beholding the horizon he is held by, the horizon that calls him onwards. My discipline must be stronger than my self-pity, my desire to wake up stronger than my desire to stay asleep. If my body is awake but I stay unaware of my deeper nature, I might as well stay sleeping. It comes to the same thing. Either way, I am dreaming, not fully awake, and not even half-alive.

I am alive to the extent that I am awake; to the extent that I am connected with what I consider to be my deepest, most essential Self. Without a connection to that power, without feeling myself to be that power, or without feeling that power to be within me, nothing I do can make any difference at all. I can do nothing alone, without that power, but I can also do nothing without admitting and welcoming authentic aloneness. All true doing comes from being truly alone. Though I might be in the midst of an aimless material civilization, surrounded by crowds of people; though I might be a stranger, far away from any friend or relative; though I might be utterly alone, if I welcome the aloneness, I am welcomed home.

79c4e-tetonroad

“The Rest”

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A night of rest from scholarly struggle,
from work of an external degree,
for an infernal degree.
And how do I rest?
I rest my back against the chair,
and I begin once more the struggle with myself.

I don’t understand the external struggle,
I don’t know how much good it does,
I don’t think much of it.
I forget to think too much tonight,
I forget all but the rest,
I forget all the rest and remember.

There can be no rest, I think,
as I rest my mind from the part I play
and bring my wakeful attention to the rest.
There is no best way, I think,
only to rest from all idea of first and best
and bring wakeful remembrance to the rest.

What is the rest?
Can the rest be reached by resting?
Can the rest be reached by working?
Can the rest be reached by unrest?
Can the rest be reached at all?
Should I rest in it, or should I wrest from it?
I reach for the rest and grasp nothing.

One student reaches her hand up high,
but the teacher does not call on her.
The student reaches too eagerly,
so readily that it is clear she is not ready.
No.
If she were ready she would not reach.
If she were ready she would not need to be called on.

What would she need if she were ready?

Something in me won’t rest until it finds rest.
It will never find rest.
Something in me loves to struggle,
and believes it struggles towards the rest.
Something in me rests and looks and
does not look to find.
Something in me is called in,
and does not ask why.

The rest is not history,
The rest is not to come,
Here I rest and here I am.
Am I here in the rest?
Here I rest, and the rest is also here.
Here I rest in who I am.

One student does not reach her hand up.
She tells herself that she does not know the answer.
What she tells herself is not wrong,
but it is not wrong that she does not know the answer.
Should she wait until she knows the answer?
Should she wait until she is ready?

What does she need to be ready?

The Fly: A Short Story

/ Brian / 1 Comment

It started when I woke up and heard the fly in my room. I did everything I could. I read, I meditated, I sang, I did push-ups, I typed on the keyboard, I even tried praying to relieve the burden of this fly. The fly was still in the room. Sometimes it would stop flying and land somewhere. These were peaceful moments. Most of the time, though, it flew around. Those were hostile moments. I left the house for a while and forgot all about the fly. When I came back I remembered. It was still alive and flying! I tried a few times to kill it, but I could not manage to do so. It’s hard to kill a fly by simply clapping your hands. Flies are elusive and exasperating insects.

I could have left again, let the fly buzz around until he got tired or died. I couldn’t do it. This was my house, not the fly’s house. It was cold and rainy, a day to sit contentedly inside and watch the rain fall down, not a day to be outside. But I could not be content with the fly in the house, it brought me to the end of my patience, I really couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand it or sit down with it in the house. I could do nothing but become increasingly irritated. I sat and tried to read again. Nothing doing. I could do nothing but think about the fly. It had completely taken over my attention. There was nothing else in the world but the two of us, the fly and me. I thought about why the fly had come. There had to be a reason. Flies don’t just appear out of nowhere without a reason. I thought about it some more and could not think of one single reason why this fly was in the house.

Was there no reason for this fly? If there was no reason for this fly, then did that mean there was no meaning in this situation? The dread!

The apparent meaninglessness of the entire situation filled me with horror and forced me into action. The meaning here would reveal itself, I was sure of it. I needed to be sure. I would learn what this whole thing meant by killing the fly. From the death of the fly the meaning of the situation would come to life. But first, the fly must die!

I went again into action. This time the fly would not get away. I followed him into the bathroom and shut the door. There, let him fly around in there, I thought. That settles things.

Before too long, I had forgotten about the fly and settled in to read. Sometimes I would stop reading and bask in pure contentment: the peaceful stillness of the day, the mix of rain and snow gently falling on the window, the warm cup of tea in my hand, I needed nothing else. The simple pleasures of life! What else was there to need? Needing was for unhappy people, the ones who were always intolerably irritated with absurdly minor issues.

Intolerable was the word. The irritability of other people always exasperated me to no end. How could anyone be so irritated! And how truly minor the issues were that made them so upset. I didn’t see a bit of sense in it. There was no meaning in it at all. What disturbed everyone all so much was as pointless as a fly. I was glad to be rid of those constantly irritated and discontented people, glad to be rid of all my burdens and worries. As the cold rain fell down on the window outside, I felt arise within me the warmth and sunlight of true contentment!

Soon, having drunk a pot of tea, I found I needed to go pee. Serenely, I opened the door and walked in. Immediately the fly flew out. How quickly the mind forgets of its troubles!

I forgot right away about having to pee and went to chasing the fly for a second time. Again, I tried to trap it in the bathroom, but it was too smart for that, so I was forced to look for another way to remove the loathsome pest from my presence.

I chased it for a quarter of an hour around my 350 square foot room. In such a small room, with such a small insect, such a vast and endless problem! It was madness, and it needed to stop. I chased it above the sink, I chased it under the table, and finally I chased it to my bed where it stopped flying.

I stood on the bed. The fly was in the far corner, on the ceiling, and I could tell it was afraid. The fear in the room was palpable. I stood there and waited, my entire attention fixated on the fly. This time it would not get away, I was sure of it. I thought about what I would do if it got away. I could not fathom the possibility. It was simply unimaginable to me that the fly would live for another minute. I pushed the thought out of my mind.

The fly took off again, while I clapped frantically like an epileptic at a piano concert. Did it hear my clapping? More to the point, did it understand the intent of my clapping? Above all I feared that the fly was under the misperception that I was clapping in support of it. On the contrary! I despised its very existence! I wanted to nip that misunderstanding before the whole situation got completely out of control. I wanted nothing more than to end this fly’s life, to kill its buzz, and not to give it my support by clapping, that senseless human form of expressing non-verbal approval. But the only way I knew to kill it was to clap it between my hands. That would be the last clap and the final curtain. Whatever misunderstanding my clapping might bring about would not matter after the fly was dead.

With the rage and fury fitting for such a critical and crucial moment, I roared at the fly,

“I clap to kill you, not to praise your efforts!”

Still, the possibility that my intent might be miscommunicated was too grave a threat. The complexity of the situation made my head hurt. I wanted the fly to know I was trying to kill it, and not be under the misperception that I was trying to express to it my approval. I wanted it to be in fear in its last seconds, not basking in unwarranted and nonexistent admiration.

I picked up a book. This way there could be no misunderstanding. I would kill the fly by use of the book. I tried that for a while without success. No, that could not be the way. I could clap the fly faster than I could hit it with a book. Anyways, what if the fly imagined that being killed with literature was more flattering than being killed by flattery? Misunderstanding be damned! It did not matter how this fly died as long as it was very shortly dead.

Well, what can I say? Something changed in the manner of my pursuit. I became more focused, more driven. I readied myself, I zoned in on my target. It became more of a chess match and less of a bullfight.

The fly took off away from me, and I took a desperate lunge. I clapped one time, opened my hands, and saw the fly fall below me to the ground. It twitched once, twice, three times, and then it was still. It would no longer torture me with its insane buzzing.

I took a deep breath and sat down again. Outside everything was the same. The mix of rain and snow was still falling gently on the roof, the trees shook gracefully in the wind, and the deer and coyotes roamed the hills. I waited for the contentment to come back, the way it had been hours before when I had forgotten about the fly in the bathroom. I waited to bask in the glow of a task completed, a job well done.

But something was not right. Why did I not feel more alive now that the fly was dead? Where was the freedom from every care, the loosening of all my burdens that I was sure would come when the fly was gone? I was free from the fly’s odious existence, so why did I not feel free? I had been sure the reason the fly had come into my life was because of the freedom I would feel after its death. But I felt no freedom! The dread!

In the fly’s absence I could still feel its presence. In death its hold on me was even stronger than it had been in life.

I waited.