Today I had to bundle up for my daily stroll, still eager to encounter what changes nature had prepared for me. The sparkle of summer has long since gone, and fall’s promise of winter haunts the cold air. Skeletal branches face the Artic draft stiff and leafless, and the mildly ruffled bay waters mirror a darkened sky. I walked alone to my favorite bayside spot, my self-proclaimed hidden cove, where I often keep lonely vigil. One day past I was greeted by a seal that suddenly broke the water’s surface and stared at me. Perhaps he was surprised to see a human so close to his natural habitat.
Two days ago, I was the one surprised to find another human near my little “cove.” He was sitting on a bench, reading a book, his bed roll and rucksack beside him. I had walked past him, not wanting to disturb his concentration. A few feet away, I stopped at the water’s edge. Looking across the bay at the dominant presence of Mt. Tamalpais, I was content to let the moment have its way with me. Then his words broke into my reverie, “What’s that you’re reading?” He had noticed the book I carried in my hand. And so we began a dialogue about many things—about books, world affairs, politics, and the state of America. His perspective was that of a homeless man, like an outsider peering through a crack in the wall. Given his point of view, the world seemed ruled by an evil force ruthlessly persistent in maintaining his estrangement from it. He blamed the Nazis for most everything. They were the evil force that explained it all. After about an hour, I was beginning to feel chilled and told him I had to leave. He rose and warmly shook my hand. It was only at that moment that I noticed his bare, sandal-clad feet. We parted on a first name basis. His name was Thomas, reminding me of his namesake in Shakespeare’s “King Lear.” In the words of Poor Tom, “Who alone suffers, suffers most in the mind.” But who am I to judge: I may be one of Thomas’ Nazis.
Yesterday, I returned to where I had met Thomas. As I approached the same bench, I noticed another man stretched across its full length. He was asleep. Most of his head was covered by a furry hood; his body, by a heavy parka; and his feet, by hiking boots. What caught my attention was the contentment that seemed to infuse his face in repose. Perhaps he was dreaming. If so, his subconscious was rewarding him with a tranquility rarely found in waking states. I remember walking away unable to shake his countenance from my mind. It made me wonder what places or experiences filled my dreams. Unless awakened while dreaming, I rarely remember “what dreams may come” out of my subconscious. If not in purgatory, maybe I frolic in Elysian Fields. But how can one know what passes unawares in slumber: I may be very like this dreamer in quiet repose.
Today I walked the same path and steered myself to the same bench. There was nothing there to arrest my attention or spur my imagination. So I walked on where the paved walkway becomes a dirt path bordering the water. Ahead I saw a man standing on a rock. He appeared from my vantage point to be levitating over the water, standing so precariously on the precipice of the rocky breakwater that holds back the bay. Drawing near, I quietly made to pass him when he turned his head and smiled at me. Without aforethought I said, “You’ve chosen a good vantage point.” He responded, “Yes, I have.” I made another innocuous remark and moved on, but the look on his face stayed with me. He had the same look of peace I saw on my dreamer the day before. But he was fully present and so totally connected that he seemed integral to the scene before him. As I reached the end of the path, I wondered about the nature of my connections. The only meaningful part of my encounter with “Poor Tom” was our warm handshake. The dreamer in repose showed me there was a state of consciousness in which one can find peace and contentment. But his was not a waking state. It offered nothing I could connect with. But the man on a rock was fully aware. His smile seemed to emanate from an inner serenity. The simplicity of his response offered no insight into his thoughts.
Turning around, I was determined to engage him in conversation. I walked quickly back to his vantage point until I could see clearly that he was no longer there. I stood before that same rock and weighed the whim that floated in my mind. Then I stepped onto the rock. It swayed a bit, for its base was not level on the ground beneath it. Momentarily I glanced at the rocks six or seven feet directly below the tips of my feet. Should I lose my balance, I would either have to step back off the rock or, falling forward, be compelled to push off clear of the rocks, diving for the safety of the water. I quickly refocused my wayward thoughts. As I looked out over the bay, my body calmed and steadied on its perch above the water. The ground beneath me seemed to fall away. I floated on the swell of the bay as the rising tide found its course between moon and earth. The air that gently brushed my face pushed the clouds ever so slowly along its northwesterly direction, bringing with it the promise of winter’s rain. I soared with the slow movement of those clouds. I hovered there, caught in the midst of countervailing forces, drawn into a limitless horizon, and lost to the benchmarks of time.
Was it the flash of eternity I felt or merely the presence of silence? Whatever it was, I know that many have shared my experience. These words are but the empty echoes of that silence.