When I sit in the park I often fantasize about meeting a great sage that has immense powers to help me, to have the ability to break down my barriers, to have answers without my asking, to make me feel comfortable and desire to open up, to ease my pain and anxiety.
I Am The Sage
The scratches are more visible than I remember. The bubbles toward the back reach the surface in timed gurgles through a menagerie of rolled stones, smooth ovals of glass chunks, and tiny seashells. Clean water agitates the surface when it enters the vessel and intersects with the flow of air, launching varied bubbles across the top. It’s a race to reach the confines of the tank. Few make it. I remember the scratches. Especially the long deep one.
A voice from across the room snaps me back into reality and out of the fish tank. “I want to make simple but beautiful things, and walk on the sunny side of the street,” says a calm and comfortable voice. The words fill the room as if launched into the air for anyone to catch. The cadence of their voice is easy to follow, calming, making their presence inviting. Oddly, I compare its rhythm to that of a slow rippling creek over bedrock, as if the words were born out of the idea of my previous thoughts. Maybe they are the lone bubble that won the race.
The words are familiar like their face. Wide eyes are surrounded by slanted folds that meet at the corner, and are framed by long locks of gray hair peppered with dark streaks. Their eyes are reflective over the top line of their glasses suggesting the spectacles are for reading only. Their eyes are hazel. So are mine.
They continue, “I want to find the opposite of war, and celebrate a love story.” They speak while moving their attention around the room, finally coming to gaze into my eyes as they finish the statement with, “...celebrate a love story.” I am comfortable but confused. Looking back toward the tank holding water nothing has changed except for the new cluster of air bubbles racing across the surface. Oh, and the fish have exposed themselves, four tetras and an overgrown sucker. The scratch is still noticeable.
By my side a window exposes the color of morning daylight. It could be any day in winter. While the sun angles sharp through the glass, the wind, a low hum, sneaks through thin cracks in the window frame. Any concern of the breech is thwarted by the calming tone playing on repeat, as air squeezes through the tight gaps.
The music, as it would have to be called, is rich and shifts between an orchestral ensemble and the breadth of a large chorus. Wind whistles most often, but not today. It is an elaborate selection of instruments playing on repeat. Well beyond white noise. Through the whir of breaching airflow, I hear the calm voice again from across the room say, “I want to elevate and spread kindness and compassion like fresh air on Sunday morning.”
I haven’t heard my own voice today. Not knowing if they are going to answer me, I crack the seal and ask them, “Is today Sunday?” The days of the week are an abstract pattern on a piece of paper that hangs on the refrigerator, and blurs together like a child’s crayon-drawing of their favorite dessert. I think hard and find the anchor that provides the starting point, and count forward. I answer my own question with a whisper, “It is Sunday.”
The angle of the sunlight continues to suggest morning hours, but only if I know where I am. I say out loud, “What time is it?”