On The Human Condition

"Wanderer, there is no path. There is only the walking." (Inscription on a monastery wall in Toledo, Spain.) (I) "Wanderer... " (The Body) Wanderer, tell me where you have been, and I will know who you are. Tell me where you are going, and you will be a mystery to me. What will you say? Does the past hang over your path like a broad-brimmed hat, blocking your sight of immediate things? You must practice leaning backward stretching your neck, craning your eyes. These gestures will make the world visible, even as darkness drops from the sky, slips through cloud banks, gets entangled in the leafless trees of this low country and spreads across the rough ground like a stalking beast. I see you are a man of high country habits: you move too fast for this clime. You will arrive too soon at your destinations, people won't be ready for you, they will struggle to find conversation which suits you. They will spill precious beverages trying to serve you. And the premature wine will lack flavor... But somewhere on our crowd of citizens, you will find one dazed denizen who speaks your language, even with your accents. It will be a homecoming of sorts as you share favorite poems each of you has learned by heart. When you retire for the night in a makeshift bed even the blankets will remind you of your lost homeland. And the grief you have carried for days and nights past counting will fall into the deepest abyss of sleeping and vanish. (II) "... There is no path.... "(The Mind) Knowledge plays tricks on us: it pretends to be universal, when it is only local. It promises happiness to those who strive to learn, but its pursuit brings loads of sorrows the learner must carry - for how long? But the mind is cavernous, its sorrowload is scattered over the floors of thought, and the burden lightens over time. Two types of learners contend to make their knowledge swell in relevance: some sit in chairs or walk under arbored lanes as they contemplate in silence the nature of things. Others sit at desks and in a frenzy of writing produce page after page of erudite speculation or dazzling fantasy. Which is the worthier occupation? I myself, a mere dilettante beset on both sides by these passionate advocates, have sampled both. I conclude: on odd days writing trumps contemplation. On even days - Oh, take your pick! When the South Wind breezes through our campus on its passage to the sea, then the writers breathe in its dense energy, and write passages of amazing and incandescent wonder. Meanwhile, those in contemplation breathe the same charged air, and their thoughts, still and focused, permeate space and lodge in minds like mine and we sense a heightened awareness render us still and focused. When this mood of mind fades, we will read the writers' frenzied words, words, words. (III) "... There is only the walking."(The Soul) I am the third speaker. It is my time to turn time into purpose and purpose into triumph! Have your heard of this philosophy? It goes by various names but its essence never changes. It tells us: you can do what you will, but first you must prepare that god within, your s-o-u-l, to receive its truth from itself. That is the abundance within that continually pours its power into body and mind and MAKES YOU WHOLE... The only sin is laziness. So stand up, brush the crumbs from your shirt, grab your cane, and take the first big step into your future. And the steps will almost magically follow one after another, and your body will assume a gait in sync with the currents of your mind, energized by the power of your soul, in the fullness of your being. And your mantra evermore will be: There is only the walking.