Still the River Flows

I have recieved a number of e-mails asking where I've been, and why haven't I been writing more. Well, I have been writing. I'm working on a book called "Still the River Flows". It should be finished soon, and then I'll begin shopping for a publisher. For now, this has been my focus, and I am quite happy with it. Here. Let me share a short excerpt from it. It is near the end, so I guess I'm giving away a major plot element, but hey. That's life. All comments are most welcome.

Enjoy.

Mead




They took him away on a stretcher, with the blanket pulled over his gently smiling face. He seemed serene, at peace. I’ll never forget the look he gave me right at the end. He just looked into my eyes and smiled. No, more than that, he radiated. He looked at me with such love, the love that every father longs to show his children. And then he began to lean towards me.

It reminded me of the time I was out in the mountains, walking on the grass, in the foothills of the Rockies. I was heading up towards some trees, hoping for a nice long walk in their shadow, when I spotted an eagle flying. This eagle circled round and round, and then suddenly flew upwards. It flew straight up, seemed to go as high as it could, and then came back down to continue its circling. A moment later it lunged upwards again, reaching a little bit higher, or so it seemed. Over and over he did this: circle, up, peak, down. Over and over again. Why? What was he doing? I watched in fascination, puzzled by what I was witnessing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away it was so beautiful.

This eagle seemed to be reaching for something unseen just beyond its grasp, and yet it never stopped striving.

It circled and then turned upwards in its quest once again, but this time, oh this time it was mystical. It reached far beyond what I thought possible. I swear I saw it stretching its neck, sweat on its brow, its wings trembling with the effort, its legs kicking in a vain attempt to give more height, its whole body pushing ever upwards. And then it happened: this majestic creature pushed beyond its limits. It was like watching it let go.

Its body just fell, fell away to the ground, shed like an unneeded coat. I could literally see the moment its spirit left its body. It continued in a graceful, upward arc, while its body was just left behind to fall. It was the most beautiful death I had ever seen, truly sacred there in the mountains.

It was the first time I realized that death is not an end, but a beginning, like birth.

It was soon after that beautiful experience that I found myself sitting with a friend in hospital. He was dying. We all knew it; there was no question. We had spent many hours, days, talking about life and death and beauty and God and “Why are we here” and “What is the purpose” and “Where are we going”, and this is what we had come to understand: death is not an end. It really is a beginning, just like birth.

When you are in the womb, you are building your body, although you do not know why. There is nothing to see, little to hear, and nothing to reach out and touch. Yet, you have to build your body. If you do not develop your eyes, you will be blind in this world. If you don’t develop your ears, you will be deaf. You must develop your limbs, or else you will be severely disabled. You can survive, of course, but life is just that much more difficult.

The question, though, is how can you explain to a foetus why it needs these parts of its body? Although it can hear the beating of its mother’s heart, and the muffled sounds that make their way into the womb, how would you be able to describe the majesty of a symphony, or the sweet sounds of a songbird? How would you be able to convey the glory of a sunrise to one who is trapped in that cramped and dark place? And yet, you know it is true.

What would happen when you tried to tell this unborn child that it is about to leave its “nest” and will go to a better place? How could you convey the pain it must surely suffer as it is forced out of its world into a new one, and then try to assure it that all will be well? How could you speak of the bright lights, the loud noise, the overwhelming scents, and then re-assure it that it will, in time, be accustomed to these senses, and even cherish them?

This is what my friend tried to convey to me in those days before he passed away.

He explained that we are in the womb now, here in this world. Our body, the one we are building for the next world, seems just as useless to us here, as our physical body was in the womb. Here we are building our spirit, with the limbs of compassion and love, mercy and honour, knowledge and wisdom: things we do not necessarily need in this world, but which are vital in the next.

He was the one going, and yet he tried to assure me that all was well.

But then, on that last day, as his gasping breath sounded like nothing more than a coffee percolator, at a time when he had not been able to speak or move more than his eyes for the past few days, then, and only then, did I understand that he was terrified. He was scared of letting go. He had convinced me of the truth of what he was saying, but now he was scared and it was my turn to reassure him.

Now, as I sat there, holding his hand, I was reminded of a ropes course. This was the last day of a camp I had attended, and we were all told that we had to climb a tall platform. We had to climb this platform and jump, letting the rope carry us down. We all knew that we were in no danger, for we had trained on these ropes for quite some time. But that is not the same as standing there and having to jump. At that point some primal fear kicks in and won’t let you move. Every nerve in your body is screaming, “What are you, nuts?” In the end, though, you have no choice: you just have to let go.

I told him of this story and my fear, and how much more joy I felt as I soared down that rope path. And then I saw the fear begin to leave his eyes. He was watching me, so intently. If ever I doubted that he was aware, his eyes convinced me.

And then I told him of the eagle. As I spoke, his eyes grew wider, filled with tears, and a smile passed as a shadow across his face, and that was it. He flew.

That was what I thought of when that old man leaned towards me. He wasn’t reaching for me with his body, but with his spirit. Somehow he crossed that gap that separates us all, and to do so, he had to shed himself of that unneeded body. I watched as he moved, and I could see his body drop with that same uncaring grace that was shown by the eagle.

He flew.



The moment it happened, I knew he had died. But I also knew it was his greatest wish, something he needed to show someone, and somehow I was chosen to witness it. I knew that something sacred had just occurred, and that I wouldn’t be able to convey it.

In the distance I heard a few people scream, and saw one woman lunge towards him. I guess she was a doctor, for she tried to revive him, but I knew it was hopeless. No, that’s the wrong word. His action conveyed the greatest of hope, but I knew she would not succeed in reviving him, for he was where he needed to be.

I can’t say much more than that, except that shortly after that experience I proposed to my friend and she accepted, to the surprise of both of us. Maybe that is what the old man saw. Maybe he knew that I needed to take that leap.
I can’t explain what really happened, but all I know is that I am very grateful. And life has never been quite the same since.