The Ever Changing Moment

THE EVER CHANGING MOMENT

 

Day one: In a Desert Place. 

The day was almost over. The man had spent most of the day driving over one hundred twenty miles west through the desert to a small box canyon cut into the walls of that western mountain range, stopping at a small remote BLM camp­ing area in the entrance to the canyon. Before dark he readied his camp and assembled his tent for the long week-end stay. His daughter and two of her friends came along with him. They made their camp some distance away from him. His intention was to enjoy the surroundings, get in touch with some things about which he was concerned and do some hiking. The others were simply there for some fun.

 The man awoke the next morning long before the rest of the party was up and left camp for a secluded spot he knew existed next to a large southerly-facing cliff. He knew it would be warm there on this cool morn­ing because of the cliff's orientation toward the early sun. He sat against the rock and waited for the gift he knew would come. His gift soon came: the sounds of the desert a strangely calm and peaceful. It was disguised and masterfully presented to him. A breeze came up, mild in its present form. It, too, had mastery about it. No direction or force was suggested by its movement. He would have had to hold up a wet finger to even determine its direction. No real warm­ness or coolness was suggested in the breeze. He expected more of it, but the wind was just there. Its force was constant and ever present, but not imposing on his de­meanor. Every tree, every bush and all the pebbles on the sandy ground were treated by the breeze's wealth but not impounded by it.

Originating some distance away by the icy moun­tain's cap that loomed in the distance to his right, a small stream wandered by him. He could hear its quiet meandering. He presumed it started from melting snows or from deep within the mountain itself. He was satisfied not knowing. The water was cold; he knew that. He had used some of it the night before. It was ever present too; carving a path down the center of the canyon like it had done for eons of time. Gent­ly and patiently all the pebbles and stones along its path were treated by its wealth and some were taken quite away to percolate into the desert sand far to the east.

Except for the noise of the stream it was quiet there by the cliff. But coming from a far distant place there were sounds that kept ringing in his ears. These sounds, while quite consis­tent and droning were often interrupted by the passing of a fly or the faraway chirping of a bird. They were queer sounds…the ones that droned in his ears; and their chanting was con­stant. And then, surprising him with its presence, a bird passed quite close by. It challenged the quiet morn­ing with its calls. Its sounds were sharp, as if speaking harshly to its mate. In some language he didn’t understand it communi­cated to its mate some distance down the canyon. He was sur­prised at the result when the other bird chimed in and answered.

 He had come to this place to see if he could find a larger part of himself inside that listened ever carefully at all he was to be. He was proud of his noble motive, but he knew how weak his will­ing­ness was to hear it. He was attracted to these sounds of nature for a mo­ment only, and then he heard his old self talking louder muffling out the sounds around him. He noticed his chattering to himself; not out loud, of course, just carrying on in his mind in some persis­tent way. Why am I doing this? he though. Am I sabo­taging this moment with my mind chat­ter? He knew he had to return to his silence with the cliff, but knew not how to close this monologue down.

 Take charge. He said to himself. Adjust back. You are in control. Soon he was back there again in the silence of the moment. And just that quickly, all vestige of chatter in his ears was gone. His silent prayer to himself had been, Please let me have my quite time. Let me have this time alone. Rid me of this chatter of my mind. Be captured by this moment; isn't that enough for now? That reprieve began to heal and pardon all he’d been that was not serving him. It touched him and his soul with much relief, and handed him back a portion of his life.

 Through the early morning he continued at his quiet listening post while sitting there against the rock. When he was again in tune to hear this sound of the desert and stream's movement and the breeze's whis­per, it said to him, Be brought to bear with all you have and hold. Be patient. This place of greatness will give up its light and warmth and love to you. While he sat there in calm repose, the wind again touched him gently. The birds sang their songs. The stream ran on continuing to collect and carrying away all it had brought down from the mountain. All he experienced briefly that morning cleared him of much of what he had come to unload there and he felt at peace for some time.

 

Day two: On a Cliff Side.

The second day in this desert retreat was quite different for the man. Instead of sitting by the cliff, in morning's dew, he took a walk and decided to climb the canyon's cliffs on the south side of the stream. When he started out that breathing drone of silence he'd heard before was not there like he had hoped. His inner voice was back, breaking up the gentle sounds around him. It kept up its parley with him, fighting for its place, speak­ing noble thoughts, laying on him its beliefs, its limita­tions and its doubts. It reminded him of his loneli­ness and de­spair.

 At the base of the cliff where he had decided to climb he began to doubt his abilities and his inner voice spoke to him about aborting the climb. But he got hold of himself and found a route he believed was possible. As he climbed up this cliff face reaching elevations far above the canyon floor, he looked around at this desert specter that surround­ed; it was so colossal he had to surrender to it. Doing this, he was able to see beyond this inner voice that spoke to him. He surmised there was no fitting descrip­tion of this place. He would chal­lenge anyone to describe in words the feelings he was having while looking out there beyond himself. He believed no one could write them down in sensible prose. He was seeing the desert as he had never seen it before.

 These stony cliffs he was climbing were rough, tearing his hands and clothes relent­lessly. The boulders’ rounded edges fooled him into believing they were smooth. Their colors blended white with brown disguising the brightness of their inner life made of heat-forged crystals. Their surfaces wit­nessed ageless wear. He saw within some inner pockets of the rocks on which hung delicate and beautiful plants. There were even trees rooted into crevices hard-pressed to survive, but growing anyway cover­ing the cliff's face with their foliage and their rotting leaves. They looked more like monsters more than like trees, gro­tesquely clinging to their place of choice. These grow­ing, living things rooted there in steady grace were remnants of a seed whose one-time bursting made a statement to its host, Let me live and be and grow, and there they stayed.

 He continued climbing, now holding onto the roots of these trees that he passed, scaling those vertical precipic­es with caution and considerable fear. He took some chances hoping to gain that next ridge and reach the top, but with no ropes and unexperienced skills at climbing he was no match for the challenge. Over and over again he stood beneath another overhang, unable to go on. Calling upon some inner hidden strength he would try again and again a different route with no avail. Finally, he decided to return to the camp below. He had done enough for one day. He had tested his strengths and experienced his real limita­tions. His chattering mind had thrown in the towel long before he ever reached these limits, but he had ignored their voices and taken a few more steps anyway. With this climb he had gone beyond his supposed boundaries; something he had attempted to teach others many times before: that their perceived limitations often held them back from what they want to have or be. He had learned a lesson he knew he would not forget for some time.

 When he reached the bottom some hours after his beginning assault on the cliff, he stood there look­ing back upon that rigid face and heard the desert sounds he'd heard before. No chattering mind this time. He heard a stronger message. While on those mountain cliffs he had listened close and perceived his heart beat's rhythms. He'd breathed and heard his breath and listened in. He had caught the sound within. Those sounds were his…his desert there within him.