Dance of the Naked Shadows

It is 9 am in the foothills.  Most people have left for work, leaving silence in their wake.  East window of my home glimmers with the pale light of a rising sun.  Silhouettes of leafless branches sway on the curtains, creating a breathless beauty that can only be appreciated in solitude.

I watch in awe, savoring how right it feels to have left the shackles of a traditional job.  I am grateful for this opportunity.  I am grateful for the support of my family, and grateful again for finding the courage to make the decision.  I am fully aware that there are many who would want to, but cannot; and many who can, but will not.  It is the latter to whom my heart goes out.  Having unfulfilled desires might make one restless, but what, I wonder, do absent desires do?  Absent – not in an unrippled zen way – but in a way that only profound self-neglect can give rise to?

Outside, wild wind is howling.  It is going to snow this afternoon.  The skies have grown homogeneous in anticipation, and the cloud-canopy has dropped to a cozy low.  Cozy low – or stifling low?  It all depends on perspective, and mine settles for cozy this moment.  I sit with a cup of coffee in my palms, watching the morning show of dancing branches on my East window.  It looks wild outside.  But in here, it is beautifully still.  Inside, there is no sound except the gentle breathing of The Hound while he sleeps.  Outside, the raging wind continues to blow.

Such a difference – inside and outside!  Who would open the doors of their homes on wild winter days, all to invite a blizzard?  Who would forsake the warmth and stillness within?  Who would exchange their comforting silence for mad winds of the external world?

Yet we do it all the time.

How often do we not give up quiet corners of our souls to the crazy tumult outside?  Why?

Blizzards will always blow, storms will always rage around us.  Our job is not to go out and try silencing them – for we would soon be overwhelmed.  Our job – our very necessity – is to build a shelter inside our own minds: strong enough to withstand the winds, warm enough to sustain life.  The walls of that shelter can only be built with stillness and silence.

It is what makes frosty winter mornings shimmer with magic.  Having one’s quiet spot…having one’s safe spot.   

Freedom is only a Choice away

The morning began like many others. 

Jarred awake by the shrill ring of an alarm clock, I crept out of the covers and tried in vain to rub sleep out of my eyes.  The tousled bed seemed mockingly inviting.

I had fallen asleep the previous night with a cold and clear sky peeking through my window.  Hours later, a breathless pre-dawn air maintained that stillness.  On that dark and silent winter hour, every sound, every breath, every movement felt like sacrilege.  Yet I dragged my feet to the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. 

Holding the warm cup of coffee between my palms, I walked up to the window, wishing to savor a moment of silence before the madness of work hours shattered it into a million pieces. 

Gentle steam wafted off the cup and warmed my face, carrying with it the aroma of coffee beans grown on the faraway slopes of ancient Guatemalan volcanoes.  I took a small sip and looked outside.   Instantly, all traces of sleep fell out of my eyes. 

Overnight, the landscape had changed. 

‘Winter Wonderland’ is a term loosely tossed around to describe any ordinary snow-covered landscape.  But what I saw outside my window that day was truly deserving of that name.  Throughout the night, hoar frost had worked patiently, coating every inch of surface exposed to the air.  White was the color of the day.

Frosted branches

 On an impulse, I decided to walk to work that day.  It was a decision that changed my life.

It was still dark when I left home.  As I made my way across the city, beauty greeted me at every step.  The sky was beginning to glow with a pale light of early dawn.  Cold air hung thick and motionless.  Nothing stirred – neither a branch, nor a leaf.  Everything was coated with pure white crystals, still untouched by the grime of the day.  Dusted by this powder, pavements shimmered each time glimmers of light drifted down in the darkness. 

  

It was a moment that spelled timelessness.  Yet I was aware that I needed to be somewhere on time.  Reluctantly, I hastened my steps though all I wanted was to stay still and take in the surroundings.  I longed to be part of that silence, without disturbing the fragile magic that surrounded me. 

Instead, I found myself rushing through it like a mindless brute destroying that which it can never create.

Pedestrians walked past me in haste, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding enchantment.  After a while, cars began to appear.  Each pair of beams tore through the silent darkness, dissolving its magic until it transitioned into mundane.  As I walked on a bridge spanning over a half-frozen river, I turned my head to a side.  At the end of the bridge, a narrow trail branched off the road, leading down to the riverside. 

I looked at my watch: there was still some time left. 

I stepped off the road and on to the trail.  It was like stepping into a different world – a raw and achingly beautiful place, almost like a parallel universe that one had to deserve before gaining access.

Hoar frost

I moved away from the bridge, away from the sound of increasing traffic, and into the hushed silence of a pristine world.  The pale fog that lay over the river and its banks soon enveloped me into its fold.   Gradually I began to discern sounds within that silence.  Sounds of ice melting on the banks, warmed by the heat of a rising but still-hidden sun.  Every now and then, a crack sounded, a chunk of ice calved and fell in the water with a splash.  It was a silent splash, an understated splash, a splash in tune with the rest of the symphony.  Ice fallen in the river melted with a hiss, being touched by warmer water, until it cooled the water but warmed itself… losing itself.

In the distance, tall buildings of downtown reared their heads, exhaling smoke and steam into the air.  Their lighted windows glowed harshly, unnaturally.  They promised warmth and comfort, safety and security.  But in exchange they claimed a price.  That price was freedom.      

My spoken-for freedom stirred from its sleep that moment.  Lately, it had been stirring uncomfortably often, making me question things that ought not to be questioned.  Like previous times, I pushed it down again. 

Then, without looking at the watch, I knew it was time to leave.

Walking on the trail again, I climbed back from the banks and found the road I had left.  I knew I would reach work on time that day.  I knew I would honor my commitments. 

Yet a corner of my mind knew something else: that the freedom had stirred itself awakened that day; it had stretched; it was gaining ground.  It would not be denied this time.

I knew I would leave my profession once my term was over. 

It was time to begin a new journey.  And this is a part of that tale. 

Now when I walk the trails, grey buildings in the distance no longer intimidate me.  Their lit golden squares blink like fellow-conspirators, sharing the knowledge that freedom is only a choice away.