The pilgrim
Desperation had propelled him to travel. After months of seemingly fruitless seeking, through means that seemed entirely serendipitous, he happened upon the Sacred Place, and there he learned the Sacred Name.
He sojourned there for a time to imbibe wisdom from the residents of the Place, and to strengthen his new life and habits.
Finally, he knew it was time to return to his home across the seas, in a rude city where he’d never felt at home. Once there, he found the level of noise and confusion to be far more repellant than he had found them in the past, for now he knew of other possibilities.
He found his hometown almost unbearable. Impelled by economic necessity, however, he took a simple job delivering packages and settled into a life, though still with great difficulty.
One day he walked into an automobile supply store with a box cradled in his arms. He sat down at the counter on one of the tall, revolving-seat customer chairs, awaiting a clerk who could sign for and accept the package.
With nothing to do, he waited, saying the Sacred Name to himself. Suddenly, though, he was seized by inspiration. He took his pen from his pocket, and there upon that counter that was pockmarked with numerous carvings and graffiti scrawled by bored customers, he printed—in neat, thick, mid-sized letters—the Sacred Name.
A moment later, the clerk came and he went on his way. From that day on, though, the returned pilgrim had a mission: Whenever and wherever he could do so without being noticed … in restrooms, on bulletin boards or on outdoor walls … he’d scrawl that Name. Never huge, but always clear.
Finally, he felt some relief from the torment he’d known since returning. He went about his secret mission devotedly, as he continued his daily job, and experienced a measure of peace. Life was tolerable.
On weekends he’d go to a cafe, order a drink and read the books he’d brought back from the Sacred Place. A fellow customer would almost always approach his table, and politely excusing the interruption, inquire of the book and the picture on its cover. The devotee would patiently explain.
As time went on, the inquirers would return and engage the devotee in further conversation. After still more time, they began to ask whether there might be regular gatherings they could attend.
The years went on and in what he’d once thought of as the “town without pity” where he’d been born and raised, he came to feel nothing but sweetness and compassion for the residents. He wanted to help them as much as possible. Several of his companions at the now-weekly gatherings began to inquire whether they, too, could go to the Sacred Place. He encouraged them to do so and gave them all the information they’d need.
The years, then the decades, flew past. The pilgrim retired from his delivery job and spent more years enjoying his peaceful, vibrant life. As he lay on his deathbed, he was surrounded by dear friends who would say and sing the Name with him, and they assured him they’d carry on his work.
As the pilgrim neared the fateful moment of transition, he could no longer think of a single regret he had. He thought back to his Pilgrimage so long ago and that first writing of the Sacred Name upon the auto supply counter’s surface after his return. He fondly recalled the slow transformation of the city around him, under the influence of the Sacred Name.
Master and moth
As a Master was walking along one day, on a path through a meadow, he happened to look down and see a moth crawling along in the grass to his right.
“You seem to have lost your capacity for flight,” the Master remarked. “That must seem like a cruel fate.”
“Indeed, it’s a hard life,” said the moth. “I’m unable to ply the skies like a normal moth … to partake in the fundamental activity of my species! I survive, but my days of true ease and elegant flight are over. My life feels as if it’s been cursed.”
The master, who was sensitive to all beings, was touched by the moth’s words. “My dear moth,” he replied, “Would you like me to restore your ability to soar in the skies?”
The moth stopped crawling and turned to face the Master. “More than anyone can imagine!” he wailed. “To be on the wing is to be truly alive! Could such a thing really happen, Master?”
“All things are possible in Love,” said the Master, as he bent down and stroked the wings of the moth.
Immediately, the moth felt strength return to his wings. Remaining where he stood, he began flexing them up and down, and became totally captivated by his experience of their rekindled animation.
A moment later, he looked ahead of him to convey his gratitude to the Master, but the Master was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a magnificent, many-coloured tower of flame!
“This is his true nature!” breathed the moth in awe. “He has somehow revealed himself to me, even as he has healed my infirmity.”
The moth flexed his wings again and then rose into the air. He’d known the heady joy of flight in his younger days. Now, suddenly, a completely new desire had captured his heart and wouldn’t let go!
The moth flew one-pointedly ahead, straight towards that bright inferno before him. In a moment, had anyone been present, they would have heard the crisp, brief sound of his incineration.
The moth, having discovered and fulfilled the higher purpose of not only his capacity for flight, but his very existence, was no more.
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images: Max Reif