Читать книгу Painted Oxen - Thomas Lloyd Qualls - Страница 9

The monk awakes from a dream to the sound of rain. The dream is one he has had before. In it he is not dressed in his traditional robes, but in a manner he does not recognize. He is a much younger man on a long journey far from home, and he is lost. The young man set out on his adventure with noble intentions, to discover higher truths about himself and the universe. Though now, cut loose from all that is familiar, he has begun to wander without purpose. And he is near despair.

The young wanderer is looking for an answer to a question he has not yet asked. While he travels, he meets many people, each of whom has wisdom to share. But because the young man is looking for a grand treasure, he cannot see the small gifts he finds along the way. As such, he does not yet understand the true nature of the universe.

At one time or another we are all called to leave the safety of our homes, the certainty of what we know, the illusions of who we are. Not everyone will heed this call, of course. And those who do will risk losing themselves completely. But if we choose to ignore the invitation, we risk never knowing who we might have become. We risk dying without knowing what it is to live.

The monk, too, has left his home. Though he travels not from city to city, but through far more inhospitable territory, over mountains, across valleys, beside river gorges, and along sheer cliffs. He wears little more than his saffron robes. What land and stream cannot provide for him in order to survive, he carries on his back. The sound he hears as he awakes in his shelter—nothing more than a woolen robe stretched between low-lying tree limbs—signals the eighth straight day of torrential rains. At least the rain keeps at bay the snakes and large predators.

He seeks the hidden heart of the world. This journey is his life’s work, and he must be disciplined. Unlike the younger man in his dream, the monk must resist the urge to wander. He must not allow himself to become lost. And he must not succumb to the allure of despair. He must protect the spark of truth that lives inside him.

Prometheus stole fire from the gods. We are the heirs of that divine spark. Used wisely, the spark fuels one’s journey and lights the way. Treated carelessly, the spark consumes its owner and everything in its path.

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Long ago, when he, too, was a young man, his master explained that there are three worlds in which we live. There is the waking world, the spirit world, and the dream world. The waking world is that which we believe is real, and yet it is mostly illusion. Because we cannot see it, the spirit world is the one we believe is fantasy, and yet it is the most real. And then there is the dream world, the least understood of the three. The dream world is the bridge between the other two. The secrets of the spirit world are brought to the waking world over the dream world’s bridge. Though this is far from an easy task. The dream world’s stories are told in a language that is hard to understand. And they are written in ink that is difficult to read in the waking world.

He heeds his master’s words: A dream is not to be taken lightly. A dream is a powerful ally, coming to your aid. A magic tale, written in invisible ink. A golden thread, tying together the worlds.