The Circle of Truth - The Wooden Hut

Inhabitants of the village awoke to yet another frigid winter morn. The mountainous terrains were garbed like brides, their countenances beaming with effulgent brilliance and unadulterated innocence. The Sun, still reticent, took refuge behind these resplendent brides. Unbeknownst to the villagers engrossed in their daily preparations, this day held particular significance for many in the West—it marked the 201st commemoration of Jesus Christ's birth.

With keen enthusiasm, the villagers orchestrated their customary rites. They embarked on a two-hour pilgrimage to a temple perched atop a modest hillock, where they venerated their deity. Winter's harshness curtailed their temple visits to a monthly occurrence. En route, they encountered a cadre of iconoclasts—youths who questioned traditional dogma—engaged in enigmatic activities. These skeptics were dispersed at various locales, some near the cascade and others at the hillock's base.
Time unfurled, its diurnal and nocturnal phases interweaving as they inexorably progressed. The iconoclasts toiled through the season's most inclement conditions, engrossed in undertakings beyond the villagers' comprehension. After a succession of snow-laden cycles, temperatures finally began their upward trajectory. The mellifluous symphony of cascading water and avian songs heralded the advent of spring.

Spring unfurled its verdant tapestry in sync with the villagers' customary pilgrimage to the Hilltop Temple. This year, however, a novel spectacle awaited them. A pair of iconoclasts occupied a makeshift wooden abode at the base of the hillock. Dismissing it as another subversive jest from the nonconformists, the villagers commenced their ascent, traversing the jagged stone stairway reminiscent of a sinuous, obsidian serpent.

A mere quarter-hour shy of reaching the temple, the villagers were startled by an anomalous sound. Glancing downward, they beheld a sight that defied credulity: the wooden structure was ascending the hill. Paralyzed in awe, they watched as the hut glided effortlessly skyward, arriving at the summit adjacent to the temple within minutes.

Indeed, the iconoclasts had managed to scale the elevation in a fraction of the time traditionally required, thanks to their innovative conveyance.

The maverick orchestrator of this mechanical marvel ought to have elucidated to the villagers the principles underlying its operation—how they harnessed the cascade's waters to power a mechanical elevator designed to expedite the journeys of the elderly and young alike.

Regrettably, instead of laudation, he met with exile, accused of dabbling in maleficent sorcery. His cohort was similarly ostracized, their engineering feat discredited as an unstable venture, perilous regardless of its magical or mechanical origin.

The valley was awash in a vivid tapestry of blossoms and kaleidoscopic hues. Under a radiant and scorching sun, the harvest season had reached its culmination, heralding the advent of festal celebrations.

Buoyed by the hope of possible absolution, the ostracized iconoclasts arose on this special day—a day set aside to extol newly anointed heroes. Cautious optimism suffused the rebels as the village chieftain proceeded with the ceremonial accolades. But when the laurel of "Hero" was bestowed, it was not upon a face they recognized.

Indeed, the honored individuals had used the wooden hut that rendered them pariahs. The structure, once decried as an unstable folly or a product of dark sorcery, was now revered for its efficacy in ferrying the elderly to the temple precincts in mere minutes. The irony was palpable.

Epilogue (The Journey)

"Illuminated by the sun's incandescent glow, the shadows rendered were diminutive. The equine sentinels completed their encirclement of him, their gaze settling upon a pair of distinct markings adorning his feet."

These markings were the vestiges of a viperine encounter—the bite of a black cobra. A meticulous perusal of the narrative (Blog - The Journey) would elucidate the following triad of pivotal elements towards its denouement:

1. The well remained a disheartening distance away.
2. The mounted figures were rapidly closing the gap.
3. The cobra was conspicuously absent from his immediate trajectory.

Upon the horsemen's arrival, why was he subjected to the venomous incision of the cobra? What implications does this hold?

Driven either by sheer desperation or calculated intent, he veered toward the cobra rather than the sanctuary of the well.

Alternatively,

He reached the grim assessment that he would fail to access the well promptly enough to evade capture, opting instead to direct his path toward the looming cobra.

So what transpired? Was the cobra's bite inadvertent, or did he willfully court the serpent's venomous embrace?

The underlying query remains: What catalyzed this sequence of events?

In the second last paragraph, the' Fear' aroused for the first time in 'The Journey.' The Fear of Failure. The fear casts doubts on your abilities. One of the reasons for the fear was his solitude.

"The worst solitude is to be destitute of sincere friendship."

- Francis Bacon.

And trepidation seized him in its suffocating grip.

"Man often becomes what he believes himself to be.

If I keep saying to myself that I cannot do a certain thing, I may become incapable of doing it.

On the contrary, if I believe I can do it, I shall surely acquire the capacity to do it, even if I may not have it initially".

- Mahatma Gandhi

The chasm that separates triumph from defeat is often bridged by fear. Exceptional collaboration can relegate this gnawing dread to distant obscurity. However, in moments of solitude, this fear—specifically, the apprehension of failure—emerges as the most malevolent specter one must confront and vanquish.

Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.

- John 14.27 (New Testament)

May fear and dread not conquer me.

- Buddha (Majjhima Nikaya 6.8)

The Journey

He embarked on a quest to unearth the origins of the anguished outcry; traversing the labyrinthine forest, he stumbled upon disoriented and frightened children. Bestowing them his sustenance, he recognized that their intended goal diverged from his own. Nevertheless, he chose to recalibrate his objectives, if not his fate. He intuited that leading these young souls to their intended refuge was his inescapable dharma. With resolve, he veered onto a constricted pathway, wending through dense undergrowth.

The instant he planted his initial step, he sensed an oppressive burden descending upon his shoulder, its mass incrementally intensifying to nearly buckling his knees. Subsequently, an ethereal voice reverberated. He was uncertain whether the utterance emanated from his innermost being or the enveloping obscurity, but it presented him with a dichotomy.

Option One: Should he shepherd the children to their end point, he would be obliged to bear an insensible but ponderous wooden crucifix. Additionally, any advancement would irrevocably enable his faculty to retrace his steps.

Option Two: Abandon the children in the treacherous gloom and reorient himself backward.

His gaze met theirs, reciprocated by beatific smiles. He discerned that he represented their beacon, and turning back was an untenable option.

The odyssey proved arduous. He consecrated all his victuals and hydration to the young ones. Ultimately, they arrived at a riverbank as the sun retreated behind the forest's veil. Their temporal perception blurred; they could no longer delineate day from night. Opting to repose adjacent to the river's edge, he shut his eyes yet still envisioned constellations etched into the celestial dome, a recurring phenomenon of late. His memory replayed the variegated fauna they had encountered along their route. The spectral voice resurfaced, furnishing him with another bifurcation of options.

Option One: The children might venture solo across the river, albeit at the cost of losing some. However, the survivors would gain liberation, and his burdensome, intangible crucifix would dematerialize, thus clearing his path toward his personal objective.

Option Two: Alternatively, he could escort them individually across the fluvial expanse, ensuring their collective emancipation. Nevertheless, he would be compelled to trek an additional distance to locate a life-giving well. Quaffing from this source would replenish his vitality, facilitating his onward journey sans the cumbersome crucifix.

He remembered Robert Frost:

Woods are lovely, dark, and deep
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The sun heralded the advent of another resplendent day. Though the crucifix weighed heavily upon him, its mass was rendered inconsequential by his engrossing commitment to ushering the young souls across the river, one by one. Grasping their hands with unyielding surety, he navigated the river's superficial expanse, occasionally feeling the sediment beneath him displace due to its potent undertow.

Upon successfully shepherding all the children across the aqueous boundary, a sense of elation enveloped him. He discerned the luminous smiles within their souls and the emotional mist in their eyes before they dissipated into a realm of untrammeled liberty—a world unmarred by apprehension. His satisfaction was immeasurable; he had irrevocably altered their destinies.

The cross's weight, somewhat obfuscated by his altruistic preoccupations, now asserted itself with an unprecedented gravity. Merely a mile separated him from his end goal—a mile punctuated by the persistent mass of the wooden crucifix. The morning mist lingered, resembling a demure Indian bride. A melodious serenade permeated the air from a nightingale perched momentarily upon his burdensome crucifix. The bird then alighted upon a fractured signpost that proclaimed, "Worship or possession of wooden crosses prohibited in this jurisdiction."

Undeterred, he pressed on. The path to the well was laborious and fraught with pain. As he approached, he discerned the well's stonework, sensing the aqueous promise it contained. Yet, did he truly experience thirst? A distant avian melody accompanied the subtle but growing clamor of what sounded like drumbeats or perhaps hooves rapidly closing the distance. He glanced backward, enumerating four mounted figures in pursuit, then shifted his focus to the well—a mere stone's throw away. Imminently, all would be concluded: his thirst, the onerous crucifix, and suffering.

An impending realization coalesced within him: Should these horsemen intercept him before he arrived at the well, his destiny would be recalibrated anew. A deeper, instinctual recognition dawned: fear was the progenitor of monstrous apparitions, replete with elongated wings, sanguine eyes, and fearsome horns. Another survey over his shoulder revealed the horsemen gaining ground while the well appeared dishearteningly distant. His ears then registered the ominous hiss of a black cobra—albeit not in his direct path but alarmingly closer than the well. He also perceived other visages, figures intricately woven into the fabric of his life, soul, and physical being, all expectantly awaiting his return.

Illuminated by the sun's incandescent glow, the shadows rendered were diminutive. The equine sentinels completed their encirclement of him, their gaze settling upon a pair of distinct markings adorning his feet.

Being on Top of the World

Standing atop Mount Everest, you're engulfed in a tempest of contrasting emotions—elation and exhaustion coalesce, yielding a profound sense of unparalleled accomplishment.

Yet, upon introspective contemplation, one must ponder: What truly invigorates the spirit?

Is it the moment of triumph, standing isolated in the frigid void at the summit?

Or is it the relentless gauntlet of trials and tribulations that Everest unfurls in your path as you ascend?

The hypothetical of reaching the apex via an elevator poses an intriguing thought experiment. It's doubtful that the thrill would be comparable. The crucible that tempers your mettle comprises the challenges you confront along your journey.

There were junctures where the prospect of success seemed unattainable.

There were instances where all optimism evaporated into the thin alpine air.

Yet, an indomitable will, an unyielding desire to attain your coveted destination, propels you through the tapestry of obstacles.

Once the euphoria of summiting subsides, an existential query looms large: What is my subsequent odyssey? Perhaps your insatiable appetite for challenge turns its gaze towards the abyssal depths—deep-sea diving, perchance?

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My heart sings a sad song.

It’s the sheer waiting.

Which makes me driving

Out of my mind

And makes my heart faint.

I remember your tender kisses.

The feel of your hands, your caress

But now, there is no sense in dreaming

Without you, my life has no meaning.

Your fragrance makes me burn.

Inside my heart, yearning

Touch you, to kiss you.

But I miss you, I miss you.

Your wet lips and your smile

Love makes it worthwhile.

Do not let me cry anymore.

Hold me like you did before.

All night, you were kissing.

Everything that I have been missing.

Your love makes me blind.

And caress me sweet and kind.

Your tender touch keeps me under,

And your looks, I feel the thunder.

We need a kind of weather

Where our love lasts forever.