An adventure into the heart of the soul
The Myth of the Garden
I sell mirrors in the city of the blind.
— Kabir (1440-1518)CHAPTER I
There is a point when one passes from thinking that they know to knowing that they don’t know. After the surprise and anxiety of the moment wears off there comes from deep down inside a primal desire to return to that place of knowing, not the imaginary knowing like before, but a real one.
Everything I believed in was changing. Chaos was breaking out everywhere, like before the War between the States, when every act was political. Everything seemed to matter. New perceptions came in waves. Life had opened up her secret door and let in a flood of visions. Adventure was thick in the air and all you had to do to be a part of it was breathe it in. Underneath everything was a whisper to wake up, to do something. I was told that all the stars had aligned and we should anticipate a brilliant moment. And I believed, because anything seemed possible. It was the most confusing, most painful and most beautiful time of my life.
I was twenty-three, living in an efficiency apartment in San Francisco, five blocks north of Golden Gate Park. I paid the bills working the lunch-time rush at a health food restaurant a half a block from my walkup. The remainder of the day was devoted to a Smith-Corona Electra.
I wrote with the assumption that if I put my thoughts out in front of me in solid black and white, I could sort them out somehow. When something is true it rings like a clear bell on a still night. But my bell wasn’t ringing. I searched my gut, my heart, my subconscious and found nothing worth a note. I had writer’s block, writer’s anxiety, a whole slew of writing ailments. I was also beginning to believe that I might be dyslexic.
It was mid summer and the early morning air drifted in my window off the Pacific. I was sitting in front of my typewriter wearing a sweater, thick corduroy pants, and wool socks. My fingers lumbered over the clacking keys hoping the million-typing-monkey theory was true; yet believing nothing but endless gibberish would result. The buzzer went off from the street below. I didn’t want to break my routine even though my mind was spinning like bald tires in slush. A meaningless rat-a-tat-tat splattered the white sheet in front of me. The buzzer went off from the street below and I do not know the next corner I must ..., I wrote as the buzzer went off a second time. The third buzz tapped on the shoulder of my subconscious like Morse code. I could not resist. I went into the hall, down the stairs and into the hazy morning light. Standing on the sidewalk was someone I hadn’t seen in almost two years.
I didn’t recognize him at first. He had let his curly black hair grow and it hung in dark rivulets masking his face. His jaw line was concealed by a downy black beard, the kind only young men can grow. He wore a white cotton shirt with no collar, and around his waist was a toga-like wrap called a dhoti. At first I thought he was some kind of dope-smoking wannabe sadhu I sometimes meet in the Park.
When he saw me his face broke into a brilliant grin. If there is such a thing as a perfect smile, that was his smile, that is how I recognized him. He had changed in those two intervening years. More than the long hair and foreign costume - something intangible - the way he stood, relaxed, comfortable in himself, happy, a peaceful intensity in his eyes.
“Ryan?” I said, surprised. “Is that you?”
“Hi, Nic.” Ryan grinned and came forward, bear-hugging me, his hair smelling of campfires and sandalwood.
“This is a shock,” I chuckled. “How the hell’ve you been?”
Ryan stood back and looked at me. “Good. I’ve been good.”
“What’s up with the outfit?”
He looked at me, no hurry to speak, and said, “I’ve been living in an ashram in India. This is what they wear over there. I just got back, haven’t had time to change.”
“India.”
He nodded.
Feeling the cold, I said, “Why don’t we go up,” I motioned toward the stairs. “Do you have any luggage?”
“Just this,” Ryan indicated a cloth bag which hung over his shoulder on a long strap.
The last time I had seen Ryan Cheverton was at the Cheverton family home in Chicago. U.S. forces in Vietnam had peaked at over a half million, but unlike other young men our age we had no anxiety about the draft. We had honorable discharges and all summer to decompress. Anti-war demonstrations were escalating. Chicago was in turmoil, revolutionaries roamed the streets. It was confusing. For the second time in my life I was embroiled in an inner dialogue attempting to define right and wrong. I had not anticipated a hero’s welcome, but I also had not expected the unwelcomed sense of shame and desire to conceal where I had been for the last twelve months.
“How’d you get here?” I asked as we walked up the stairs.
“Flew in, then hitch-hiked.”
“Flew in from where?”
“Delhi.”
“Really? How’d you find me?”
“From your letter.”
“I sent that almost two years ago, I could have moved.”
“I took a chance and here you are.”
I remembered - Ryan’s gambles usually worked out. Life always seemed to deal him the right cards. Ryan took it for granted, he thought that was the way it was for everybody. It wasn’t, but he was oblivious to that. In Chicago it became awkwardly clear. The family home in Lake Forest was a monument to conspicuous consumption, located on a large wooded estate, with two in-house servants and four outside ones.
Ryan had taken me around and introduced me to his old school friends. They had glanced at my shoes, watch, my haircut, and quickly categorized me as someone beneath consideration, their faces masking polite dismissal.
It felt odd, like one of those dreams where all of a sudden you realize you are naked in the middle of a crowd, to be so quickly blackballed before even submitting an application. I understood that they were like a high level high school clique. They shared a common history that recognized family name, old money, and an unspoken attitude. It was an invisible aristocracy, you knew if you were in it and if you weren’t, well . . . it seemed silly at first, then unsettling. I told myself it didn’t matter, I had no plans to stay, I’d never fit in, nor feel comfortable. It struck me as unsettling and odd, none the less.
It was a surprise, a revelation - Ryan’s background, as he had never given me the impression that he was any different than me. It made his friendship more pronounced as I realized he ignored the gap in our social status with a child’s indifference. At the same time, this A-list of Chicago’s young men and women held him in high regard. Perhaps it was because he was strikingly handsome, radiated an effortless charm, and was the heir to a sizable fortune; all hard arguments to counter. Or perhaps, like me, they could sense the magnanimous and open heart at the center of his personality. Either way, his friendship toward me eventually allotted me a grudging acquiescence. What was our bond, why did he admire me, I was asked by both the young men and women. I remember only shrugging, not understanding why they asked the question. I was too involved in reassessing my general view of life which included my perception of myself.
“What were you doing in India?” I asked Ryan as they entered my small room.
“Looking for truth.”
“Did you find it?”
“I think so.”
“Really? What does it look like?”
Ryan laughed, “I don’t want to come off sounding pretentious.”
“Too late for that. Not with the way you’re dressed.”
Ryan laughed again and his laugher filled the room.
“The truth is,” he hesitated, “I’m totally broke. What you see is all I own.”
I looked at Ryan, silent, waiting, then replied, “I’m sure your dad is good for a couple of bucks.”
Ryan looked back at me, his look saying I wasn’t getting it.
Ryan’s father managed the family estate: blue chip stocks, a meat processing plant, real estate holdings; investments gleaned from Canadian whiskey motored over the lake during prohibition.
“I don’t think you understand,” Ryan said.
“What am I missing?”
“He’s not real happy with me right now.”
I nodded silently, wanting to appear sympathetic, but not really believing Ryan’s poor-boy story. A little contrition would reopen the doors and the prodigal son would be re-embraced. Money had never been and would never be a problem for Ryan Cheverton.
“Same old story?” I said.
He nodded.
“Any plans to patch things up?”
Ryan shrugged.
“What would it take?” I asked.
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“He doesn’t respect who I am. He doesn’t talk to me or look at me like I’m a real person. He wants me to be his puppet, a little version of him. He doesn’t understand that I am nothing like him. So he tries to control me the only way he knows how.”
“Can’t you just pretend? Does there have to be open rebellion?”
“It’s complicated.” Ryan said. Seeing my skeptical expression, “What?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “you just don’t know how lucky you are. You don’t know what it’s like to have nothing, to not know where your next meal is coming from.”
“What are you talking about?” Ryan said. “That’s my situation right now.”
“Didn’t you eat on the plane?”
“I’m a vegetarian, they were serving meat.”
“That’s my whole point,” I laughed. “You’re on a plane, surrounded by food, refusing to eat. If you really didn’t know where your next meal was coming from, you would have ...”
Ryan’s eyes turned to steel and radiated indignant heat I thought better of continuing, knowing my friend’s quick resentment when his judgment was questioned. Ryan did not know what it was like to be compelled by circumstance; it was his father who issued all the compulsions in his life. There was little value in pressing the point. Ryan’s father had been furious with him when he refused to fight his draft notice. His father had political connections and could have easily pulled the right strings. But Ryan didn’t want anyone’s help. He wanted the exact opposite of what his father wanted. He wanted a life of principle. Ryan had recounted the story of their angry confrontation many times, whenever the stress of our circumstance threatened to overwhelm him. It was his way of reminding himself of who he was and why he was where he was. Ryan had walked into the caldron to become a free man. I was there simply because I didn’t know any better.
“You weren’t privy to out last argument,” Ryan said.
“I remember the one before I left,” I said. “It was pretty bad. He looked like he was going to hit you.”
“I was a little worried about you that day too.”
“Because of the rioting in Haymarket square?”
“You hadn’t cut your hair all summer and you looked just like one of those raging Bolsheviks. I thought the cops might pick you up and you with your whole attitude, like, you wouldn’t call me for help, even if it meant going to jail.”
“My only barrier was the Rocky Mountains and my car overheating,” I grinned. “Have you spoken with your Mom?”
“I called her from New York before I left for Europe. She believes all the arguments were my fault and wants me to apologize. She was pretty upset.”
“Sorry to hear that. I like your Mom. Why did she think it was all your fault?’’
“It’s easier to be blind, then see the truth.”
“What truth?”
“It’s an odd story. Maybe you won’t believe me either.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
Ryan laughed, “It’s just that it’s a little out of character.”
“Out of character for who? You or your dad?”
“Out of character for me.”
“How so?”
“And a little embarrassing. I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”
“Tell me. I already know you’re a weirdo.”
Ryan laughed, “Are you sure you can handle it?”
“You already know the answer.”
“Okay,” Ryan smiled, “There was this new secretary my dad was interested in, I got to her first. Totally pissed him off.”
“Sounds like you were being a little competitive.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think I did anything wrong.”
“In my opinion, not a good move.”
“He’s married, I’m not. Who was making the bad move?
“I don’t want to be a judge here,” I said, “But it sounds like you just wanted to stick it to your dad.”
“I let him know I knew what was going on and I didn’t approve. Sure, he felt burned, but what’s wrong with that? He doesn’t seem to have a problem burning others.”
“You know something?” I grinned, feeling uncomfortable, “I’m hungry, you want to get some food?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a health food restaurant on the corner, it’s vegetarian.”
“Good choice,” Ryan smiled. “Strictly vegetarian?”
“I work there during lunch. No meat except what walks in on the hoof. That’s how I’m able to afford these palatial surroundings.”
“This is a fine place, you should’ve seen where I was staying in India. No toilet, no hot water, sleeping on the floor.”
“Where did you go to the bathroom?”
“In a field.”
“Like bivouac.”
“Only with a lot more charm.”
We ambled down the stairs and onto the street. A brine-scented breeze blew in off the ocean and a burnished gold light filtered through the screen of fog that gave all the Victorian facades an Edward Hopper-like glow.
My Favorite Restaurant, was on an ocean-side corner of Clement and was in the blue-gray shadows as we approached. The street was a hazy blue with bright patches of golden light. We went in the French doors and were greeted by a healthy fresh vegetable smell.
My Favorite Restaurant was owned and operated by a former Haight-Ashbury activist, Gordon Mack. Gordie was a solid guy with a big heart and a good business head. He had a transcendental vision of food which eluded me. It had come to him one clear San Francisco night while sitting on a rooftop tripping on acid. He tried to explain it to me once--he had had an all-encompassing vision of how the seeds in the soil and the sun and the rain in the sky were all interconnected in the never-ending cycle of life and regeneration. I did not need to know that much about a tofu casserole, all I cared about was the food was healthy and tasted good, that was enough.
They sat at a table in front by a large picture window with a clear view of the street.
“It’s strange,” Ryan said, “being back in America after living on a farm in India for several months.”
“How’d you end up there?”
“It’s a long story,” Ryan said, leaning back in the chair, looking out the window. “After you left, dad started cranking up the pressure. He wanted me to take an entry management position at the plant, There was nothing I could do to please him, so I took off. I went to Manhattan and stayed with some friends for a while. I met a couple of ex-British Naval officers who were transporting a wood-hulled racing yacht across the Atlantic, so I hitched a ride, working as crew. From Brighton, I crossed the channel in another boat and stayed with this girl I knew going to the Sorbonne. She had some friend who were driving a truck filled with supplies to some big religious festival in India. From there, I ended up in the ashram. That’s the short version. It was a bit of an adventure.”
“You’ve convinced me.”
Kayley, one Gordon’s waitresses, came to our table, her eyes smiling, her skin radiating a soft glow. She had strawberry-gold hair woven in a thick single braid that hung down the middle of her back. My emotions swelled like when a child I witnessed my first fireworks display. I felt my strong pleasure expand beyond my chest and inspire smiles on both Kayley’s and Ryan’s faces when they looked at me.
“How’re you doing, Nic,” she smiled.
“Good,” I said. “This is Ryan, an old friend of mine. Guess where he’s just been?”
“I’d have to say India.”
“You’re a psycho,” I joked, my lips feeling stiff. I had hoped for a light tone, but my words seemed to stick in my throat.
“You’re the psycho,” she laughed and I felt irrationally glad that my momentary stiffness had gone unnoticed.
She turned to Ryan, “Nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure.”
Her eyes connected with Ryan’s a little too long, the seconds dragged by. My first fire-fight bewildered me, strangers shooting at me with the intention of killing me, I felt that now. The same stab of uncertainty entered my gut as if some evil physician had just injected me with some destabilizing serum. I turned and looked out the window, not wanting my queasiness to show. It had happened before. I had been a good prospect, until my friend entered the picture. Beside Ryan, I was inconspicuous wallpaper. Kayley had deep Icelandic blue eyes and Ryan’s long dark curls made him look positively poetic. It was normal that they be attracted to one another. I was filled with the dread of just having made a life-altering mistake.
“What?” Ryan asked, looking out the window.
“What what?” I said thinly.
“Did you see something?”
“No.”
“Do you need menus?” Kayley asked.
“No.” I said and ordered two bowls of Gordon’s famous bean soup, a hearty vegetable stew, a meal in itself.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asked after Kayley left.
“Yea, sure. Fine.”
“Good. I’m happy to see you.”
“Same here.”
“You were drunker than me,” I remembered. Ryan was blind and thought some bar hostess was in love with him. She had been bleeding him all night, getting him to buy her watered-down drinks.
“I was totally bombed,” Ryan said. “But when you pulled out that .45, I swear I came completely sober. It was like the booze totally evaporated out of my system.”
“I remember. You started paying real close attention after that.”
There was a lull in the conversation, but the silence was comfortable. Many times we had sat together without saying a thing.
“You should have listened to me earlier,” I said. “And we never would have ended up in that mess in the first place.”
“Not that it’s a good excuse, but I was wasted. I couldn’t think straight.”
“It doesn’t take more than a warm body to convince a man he’s in love.”
“Being drunk on your ass doesn’t hurt either.”
Ryan imagined this bar hostess to be his girlfriend and she played him like a tilt-proof pinball machine, until his pockets went empty. It was then time for her to go, move on to the next paying customer. She was leaving with this Chinese businessman and Ryan was too far gone to grasp the scenario. He thought she was for real and he was feeling possessive.
I didn’t know who the Chinese guy was, I think maybe somebody important because he had a very expensive suit, jewelry, and two bodyguards. Whoever he was, he lost patience and snapped out a stiletto. His two friends came up beside Ryan ready to grab his arms. Adrenaline shot into my head like a runaway train. Merde! I thought—Ryan is going to get stabbed!
I wore khaki pants, a size too big, not because I was a sloppy dresser, but because the deep pockets hid a .45 caliber automatic. I carried the piece out of habit. In country, when we visited the bars and boom-boom girls of Sin City, they were supposed to wear body armor, steel pots, and carry loaded weapons. I usually just stuck a .45 in my pocket. The little frontier town on the other side of the Song Ba had suffered sporadic attacks from the Viet Cong, but one can’t have a good time if you’re worried about getting zoomed and body armor and a steel cover are obvious reminders.
I pulled out the weapon and stepped forward. I didn’t point it, I held it down by my side, casually, but where everyone could see it. When I had everyone’s attention, I talked real slow to calm everyone down. I told the gentleman we were leaving, please forgive our bad manners, but we had to be on our way. As we passed the bar near the front door on our way out, I asked the bartender for a pint of brandy, he gave me a bottle of V.S.O.P. cognac and told him it was on the house.
We got outside and I half carried, half pushed Ryan for two blocks until we were able to flag a cab. My nerves were wired and in the back of the cab I opened the cognac and took a stiff pull. I offer the bottle to Ryan but he waved it aside. The next day Ryan never mentioned the incident, in fact, he never spoke of it again, until now.
“I wanted to thank you,” Ryan said. “I always felt I owed you one.”
“I thought about that night a number of time,” I said, “but I never saw it working out any other way. I just did what I had to do. You don’t owe me.”
“You’ve backed me up ... more than once. I appreciate that.”
“Yea, well, it’s all cool. What can I say. You didn’t come all the way from India to tell me you owed me?”
“No. I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here.”
“You’re not sure?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve cleared my schedule. So feel free to ramble on.”
Ryan laughed. “I’d have to go all the way back to the beginning and ask, why we are we here?”
“To get something to eat?”
“No, I mean, here in this life.”
I paused, looking at him, thinking. “I’ve been trying to figure that one out too. I don’t know if there is an answer and if there is one, if one can wrap it up in words. I’ve got an open mind, are you saying you know?”
“In a way I guess I am,” he smiled sheepishly. “There is something, a greater power; and you’re right, I don’t think there is a way to nail it down specifically. But you can experience it.”
“If you’ve found God and that works for you, that’s great,” I said. “But I’m not one to buy into some elaborate mythology no matter what the pedigree. I’m not into pre-established philosophy. I’m an everyday, practical kind of guy, the robes and chanting give me a chill.”
“Me too, practical, direct. You know that, “Ryan said. “When I was in India my bad dreams went away, they haven’t come back.”
“That’s good. That’s really good. I’m happy for you.”
“I guess you deal with it by being a writer.”
“I don’t know if I’m dealing with it,” I said. “Some things just go away on their own. Things do. Time heals.”
“I guess I needed something more.”
“There’s nothing wrong with something more,” I paused. “So you’re all religious now?”
“No. Truth is not a religion. It’s an experience.”
“But everybody’s truth is different,” I said. “Some religions think eating pork is bad, but beef is okay. Others think eating cow is wrong, but pig is fine. I guess you’re playing it safe, you don’t eat either.”
“You’re talking about a belief system, truth is not a belief. It’s not a philosophy or a particular point of view. It is what it is.”
I looked at Ryan carefully. “I’m trying to be respectful here,” I said, “but that kind of talk irritates the piss out of me. Circular logic: truth is truth, life is life, what’s happening is what’s happening. It’s a bunch of buzz words that mean nothing. Perfect in their vagueness. Oh yea, it sounds like you’re saying something really profound, but it’s a proverbial cosmic wink, relying on a lot of contrived assumptions.”
“You’re coming off a bit hostile,” Ryan said.
“I want to know what’s real, sure, but that feeling is exploited by anyone with a half-baked philosophy. There’s a lot of crap floating around these days. A lot of people are taking advantage of the lack of clarity. I definitely don’t buy into the everything-is-everything gobbledygook. You forget, Berkeley is just over the bridge.”
Ryan waited, looking at me passively, then said, “More than once, you’ve gone out of your way for me, put it all on the line. I wanted to do something for you. I thought you might like to know what I’ve found. I’m not trying to lay some kind of trip on you, but I do feel a certain obligation.”
“Please. Feel obligated no longer. You’re absolved,” I smiled. “I just want to live life the way it’s supposed to be lived.”
“Fair enough. Same here.”
“But you can do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“You remember our waitress?”
“Yea, she’s nice,” Ryan said, nodding in her direction. “She’s coming right now.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” I said, “and I’d like you to keep your hands off.”
“Sure, no problem,” he smiled. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend.”
“She doesn’t know it yet either.”
Ryan laughed, “I see. No problem. Consider it done.”
Kayley set two thick ceramic bowls of soup on the table. She took her time placing the basket of hot rolls between us, arranging things like she didn’t want to leave.
“So how did you two meet?” she asked, adjusting my tableware.
“We met in the army,” I said.
“The army?” she turned to Ryan. “You were a soldier?”
He nodded, flashing his brilliant smile.
“I can’t believe that,” she said. “You look like a spiritual guy.”
“I’m not,” Ryan grinned, “I only look like one.”
She turned back to me, “Is he putting me on?”
“Behind that mild mannered charm beats the heart of a trained killer.”
“He’s putting you on,” Ryan added quickly. “No killers here, but we were both in the military. That seems like light-years away now, a totally different life.”
“You have to tell me about it sometime,” she smiled at both of us.
“It’s not that interesting,” Ryan said, “but, sure, I’d be happy to.”
She went back to work.
“I have a bad feeling she likes you,” I said.
“I won’t be a problem, don’t worry.”
“That’s why I don’t like hanging out with you. The women only see you, I become invisible.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re a good looking guy in a rugged, manly sort of way.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about. I don’t want to get involved with anybody right now regardless.” Ryan shrugged and looked out the window.
“Good, because I think she’s got the whole package.”
Ryan grinned knowingly, then his smile faded, “Remember when we’d sit around late at night and talk after everyone else had gone to sleep.”
I nodded, thinking back to those night when they spoke in whispers until the sun came up.
“Remember we said we’d always be real with each other?”
“I remember.”
“You said you wanted to know what was real?”
“I said I wanted a list with everything real written down on it.”
“What’s on your list? Find anything?”
“I think that’s why I write,” I said. “It’s like looking in a mental mirror. You understand yourself when you see your own thoughts written out in front of you.”
“So you think writing is it? Writing is your meaning?”
“Yea, I guess,” I said. “I hope you’re not going to continue quoting me because I’m struggling here to find something, something that makes sense. I’ve found a few things that work for me, that’s all. I can’t say I’ve found any universal truths or anything.”
“I remember one night you said, life is a miserable heart-breaking mistake. It made me sad to hear you say those words, but I knew what you were saying.”
“I don’t feel that way any more.”
“Do those feelings even come back?” Ryan asked.
“It’s hard to see people chewed up and spit out and not be affected. You saw what happened to the guys who pretended like it didn’t bother them, who pretended that it didn’t matter.”
Ryan nodded.
“The first time I saw a guy get hit,” I said, “I was in a hole with him. The shelling had stopped and this clown stuck his head up to see what was going on when a late round hit some fifteen feet away; a piece of shrapnel sliced his head clean off.“
Ryan looked at me and said nothing.
“He was my age, not much different than me,” I continued. “We’d just been talking. He was worried about something back home: his girlfriend, his mom, something. Next minute, he’s slumped over, leaning against the wall, only now he doesn’t have his head anymore. Just a geyser of blood spurting up.”
Ryan looked down at the table staring into nothingness.
I could hear the darkness, as tangible as rushing water. It was closing in around me. Everything went quiet as if the earth had stopped turning and everything was perfectly still, listening. I don’t know why he’d probed that subject, but Ryan had joggled the right switch. The icy shadows moved forcefully in, washing over me like storm surf over a swaying deck.
“I swore I’d remember him,” I said softly, “that somebody would make sense out of his death by remembering who he was and why he died. I remember making that promise as I zipped up his body bag. But now, I can’t remember his name. He’s mixed in with a whole bunch of other stuff.”
“Trying to make sense of it, only makes it worse.”
“That’s my obsession,” I said, “trying to make sense out of nonsense.”
I smiled thinly and felt my body tense as if I were holding it against a door that some force was trying to crash open. I remembered when the force was greater than me, greater than all my strength. I would not want to think about it, but could think of nothing else. The door would melt into nothingness under that force and the dark would enter in. Out of the dark came two clawed hands, one sank its talons into my heart, the other’s claws pierced my mind. With a firm grip they begin to pull with a slow steady patience, greedy to drag me into the insatiable realm of shadow. Self-doubt and defeat. In the dark I could sense the presence of something I had to resist, the Prince of beasts, timeless in his patience. When he recognized I was resisting, he whispered in a soft and soothing voice, telling me: it’s not that bad, to end it all and sleep. No more pain, no more struggle, no more humiliation. His whisper was a sweet disease, I resisted. It was a game of patience, back and forth, between pulling and whispering, waiting for me to weaken. I knew I could not listen, it was painfully clear. If I listened I would eventually let go of everything human - everything joyful - of life. It was as if I were possessed by an evil demon, yet looking in the mirror of soul, I saw with unmistakable clarity, the dark beast was me - my weaker self, my indulgent self, my pathetic, self-pitying self. I could not surrender to that. By all that is warm and true and holy, I resisted, but it was a soul-draining battle, there was little sleep and the sweat ran cold.