The cleric looks up, the unexpected company interrupting…well, not exactly interrupting anything specific. Nothing more specific than silent, aimless thoughts.
An observer of this pilgrim through the wasteland of lost thoughts would have readily presumed ennui – and been sorely mistaken. The baseless blank of such a state would be a welcome oasis from these thoughts. These thoughts that encompass nothing and everything. These thoughts that are aimless and yet share in Atlas’ burden.
Focusing on the source of this..could one call it unwelcome?...interruption, the parson’s eyes land upon the familiar visage. The kind eyes of his assistant retain their basic tenor, but are hued with sadness not normally present.
Oh Potter, please not today…not right now…not more. The unspoken prayer rises. Please, just one more moment without someone else’s problems…
But, the unsaid prayer fades away even in the ephemeral corners of the mind, as the standard courteous, if a bit tired, smile assures the intruder of their welcome. After all, this is the job, is it not?
Without a word, the aide eyes hands the clergyman a letter. Glancing down at the envelope, the prelate’s own eyes widen, and then join his friends – becoming shadowed over with a sadness…and then pain.
That damn handwriting…I’d recognize it anywhere. In just a few heartbeats, the loss is relived…the pain revived deep in the furthest recesses of his heart. Outwardly, the saddened eyes are the only evidence of this letter’s impact. A perfunctory exchange of grateful platitudes social custom demands was stiffly exchanged, freeing the intruder to scurry away from this moment.
A plain envelope, delivered by courier- or at least not the regular mail - “From the desk of…” the late Old Fool. The envelope was addressed simply, Dear Friend,
Slightly trembling fingers open the envelope, careful to preserve it. Inside, a handwritten letter from his beloved friend. The handwriting unmistakable, though marred slightly by the viscous drag of old age. Taking a moment to will the rest of the painful recollections away, he unfolds the letter carefully and begins to read,
Dear Friend,
Before I go on, I would beg your forgiveness at the delay. It was not meant as a deception, but merely as a way of making this a timely communiqué. I left instructions with your assistant to wait until he judged this to be a necessary delivery. Were I not on my way to my beloved Potter, I would be receiving you right about now in my own home, if that young man has judged this timing correctly.
A small smile cracks through the somber reader’s expression…You’re right you old coot…I’d be in your house drinking some of that blessed coffee right now if that were at all possible. He stopped abruptly. This admission was doing nothing but rekindling the pain he had just managed to wrestle back under control.
I say this, my friend, because you belong to that very special, very small, and very isolated class of people that I myself know only too well. We go by many names, my friend. We are both secular and mystics. We are lay and clergy. We are sponges, dumpsters, accumulators, relief stations, safe havens, asylum, shelter, stronghold. By virtue of our personalities, professions, or both, we have been given this assignment, this duty, this devoir.
In your own life, my beloved friend, the cause is double – both your profession and your personality have given you this errand in life. You provide the ear to listen, the comforting hand, the safe room for people to unburden. A place where people on the edge of bursting can come release the safety valve. You are the shoring strength of many, the solid foundation of a few.
And yet, through all of this human interaction, through all this sharing and all these emotions, there is but one feeling we do our best to not admit to ourselves. One betrayal of weakness that we’d like to ignore, but must confront. One word that we fear could be the breach that leads to the end. Isolation.
Yes, my friend…isolation amongst so much experience of all of humanity’s most intense emotional states. As the ancient mariner once said, ‘water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink’. For, if you are to remain the sponge, pillar, strength, and repository of so many people’s suffering, fears, insecurity, anger, disappointment, trepidation, and confusion, it becomes primarily a one-way street of human interaction, does it not?
Oh, my dear friend…you don’t know how much I miss your voice right now…
It is your gift, my friend…your ability that few could muster with as much grace and strength. And yet, no one person can be up to that task, can they?
If only you knew old man…today, more than any day, I know I am not equal to the challenge.
But then again…you did know, didn’t you…
My beloved, I am sorry that I was unable to know you for longer. The few months we did have were enough to impress upon me both your value, and your struggle. My Potter had other designs for me, however, and I am left with aught but this final letter to you – tendered in lieu of the conversation I wish you and I could be having on this day of your reading.
Words of wisdom on how best to do your job, how best to counsel, advise, and withstand, I have no more to offer to you than those you know well by now. Instead, I am writing to urge you to remember to care for that one final member of your flock that will need it the most – its shepherd.
If you are not careful, this lifestyle will swallow you whole and never, ever release you. The isolation will envelop you, sink you, and suffocate you. The burdens of others will become your own. And the burdens of a single life are enough for anyone…even you, my dear friend.
I can almost see that wicked old smile as he penned that…
Few and far between as those in our particular guild may be, we do exist in greater numbers than your wretched liar of an isolation would have you believe. I know I am gone, my friend, and for that no apology or begging forgiveness will change your situation. But, I urge you, with all the strength left in this old heart, to not stop seeking until you come across some more of our brethren.
Even if you must stand fast and alone before the daily onslaught, we all must have a place to let our guard down…to lower from our backs the burdens few could carry…to breathe and share. To be each other’s strength and support.
We, my friend, we don’t get to have a bad day. We don’t get to let the others in on our weakness, for if we fall…then they fall with us. But we do…we have bad days, we fall, we falter, we stumble, we cry out, we weep, we doubt. And without your guildmates, we are left with isolation in which to do this.
I beg, beseech, implore you to not go down this dark path, my friend. The road is steep, slippery, and exponentially more difficult to take each step back. I know in these days of isolation, the thought of the Pottter can seem like cold comfort…compared to a flesh-and-blood guildmate. But remember that your Potter never promised perfect days, never guaranteed a rosy existence, and is no magic genie to remove all pain, doubt, and frustration. Rather, the Potter is the grand master of our very special group. The one ultimate repository, sponge, safe place, haven, refuge, and strength. The one guildmate that will never flag, wane, or be overwhelmed with his own day’s troubles. Take heart in this, even as all else fails you.
Find that partnership…that give-and-take friendship. There won’t be many in your entire life…so cherish those few moments, those days that are so sparsely distributed. I enjoyed our short time together, and hope that in that time I helped ease some of that isolation as well.
But, as I leave you, I leave with a heavy heart…I wonder how you will handle the next step. I have faith in you…but I also understand the burdens and the dearth of relief points in our kind of life.
With this letter, this final opportunity for exhortation, I offer my ear to you one more time my friend…today is a bad day, but tomorrow you will be back out there. So, my friend…tell me about it…what has made today a bad day?
Your brother, your friend, your guildmate,
The Old Fool
The letter remains in the quietly weeping man’s hands a few more moments before dropping to the desk below…
My friend…I’ve missed you so much. You’re right…it is a bad day. There are days where I don’t know if I am going to have the strength to go out there and put on the strong face to that endless wave of need, pain, sorrow, anger, despair, and confusion. It’s a tsunami…slowly building, but infinite and strength and just as relentless. Today, Mrs………
Somewhere, the Old Fool smiles upon his friend across the chasm spanned by words, shared experiences, and personal bond. I am here, and we are listening…
----------------
Cry
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sX_xz5RYkXo
The Unforgiven
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vcd95yxQxs
Wherever I may roam
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jU9XrnF7mnc
Nothing Else Matters
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erPnyi90cIc
The House Jack Built
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGUu_gm9i_g
Until it Sleeps
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjZoIxCx-HY
Hero of the Day
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yaIcyjZ3Bp0
Bleeding Me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9kxNeoRpv0
The Unforgiven II
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmqDtriTUEI
Tears and Rain
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9svxE49Ngs
-- The Old Fool
“If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” -George Orwell.
Blog - Musings of an Old Fool by Juan Lopez is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at lopezj4141.blogspot.com.
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