Conversation with a friend

I said, what sort of path is that to walk, up there?

Don’t you think it limits your vision, seeing only what you see, walking only how you go?

You said: what sort of way is that you walk? Don’t you know what I know?

Of course, friend – you don’t think so? Here’s a mere sprinkling of my vast knowledge...

If you did, you would understand me.

You think I know nothing. How wrong you are.

Let me try again.

I think I know what you know. But perhaps I am mistaken. Would you teach me?

Perhaps. Other people walk my way too. And I can tell the ones who don’t understand.   

I said, I’m from barren lands that made me old before my time. I had to learn to be young again. To speak in the voice of my body, my heart. I fear those who do not know my language. I fear the barren paths of abstention. I fear the loneliness of those who hold themselves apart.  

I want very much to be alive, and also wise.

I want the same, my friend. I can see those barren lands, and their desolation. I see how they lie close to overgrowth and poor attention. I only seek to clear the weeds. These weeds grow relentlessly, and it takes a sharp eye to discern.

I’ve heard of this, I said, this path. It’s just… I fear for you. That you’ll forget to take care of the good garden, while you’re clearing away what you think is overgrowth.

But I must eat as well, you said. And I do. I fear for those who take in whatever they see, without discernment.

I see the garden, and the junkyard, and the wasteland. I also see the sky, where you take refuge. You long to see clearly, I understand this. But I choose to stay in the garden, to make sure what we do and how we love becomes wholesome.

It’s good we each have own way. I can see you now, you know. We’re actually not so far apart.  

I know. I see you too.