#the hermit and the seed1
The hermit and the seed
The snow had finally covered the great valleys deep in the mountains, which raised their tops towards a still blue sky. Nature was still asleep and could not get out of her sleep coat.
The muffled sounds that the wind carried on its wings were here and there interrupted by the strident and mournful croaking of the jackdaws descending from the peaks. A few rapacious black birds were looking for their food, forming the few black clouds that darkened a calm and limpid sky.
They were like crowds around a point that marked the center of the plateau. Hardly could one tell if the man lying in the powder was asleep or stiff dead. The birds had fluttered over him for some time already. They were waiting for the Lady in black, messenger of the kill.
The fatal croaking, and the cold that seized him, suddenly awakened him. He jumped and began to tremble as if he had a terrible fever. Despite the cold weather, it was covered with a small film of sweat that immediately in contact with the air, transformed into a glossy and glittering down. The cold lethargy did not allow him to quickly recover his spirits. Everything was still in unfathomable mists. How long had he been there, a thousand miles from any inhabited place. What his eyes could see was only the vast expanse of a white desert stretching to the horizon. His bag was near him. He shook his hair a little and silver stars escaped. He was picking up his things, watching that nothing was missing. In doing so, some images reappeared, fleeting, without any distinct order. Just strange sensations, memories loaded with emotions as brief as they are intense. The last image in his memory froze him with fright. Another nightmare, he thought.
What could he do in this deserted place? He did not remember ... He tried to remember but nothing helped. Each time, the few intelligible images of his dream inhibited all the rest of his memory. A strange sensation took place in him. He did not know why, but he made the decision to go on without asking any questions. Everything would come back to him one day. He rubbed his face with a handful of fresh snow, put his shoulder strap on his shoulder, and walked where his eyes were.
Who could know if he remembered the first apparition? Who knew what world he was in? No one on the set to answer these questions. The only thing that mattered to him was to get back on the road. He did not have time. Continue the path that would lead him to the goal he had forgotten. Once again he did not follow the sun's march. Someone or something had to guide him without him realizing it.
He had the impression that his gaze on the world around him was no longer the same. As his footsteps carried him elsewhere, the importance he attached to things was changed. It was as if he had received new eyes.
Towards the end of the day, after a long struggle with the snow and its dusty traps, he reached a valley. Some fumaroles indicated to him that the valley preserved in his bosom some isolated souls. A building with planks and mud was the first mark of civilization he encountered. She looked deserted. Just a little old blackened straw was on the frozen ground. The boards allowed the wind to pass like the day. A shelter for drafts. Despite the twilit that was pointing, he did not feel the desire to spend the night in the arms of this ghost with the black stone hat. He came out and panning the landscape. He searched in the darkness for the remains of those fumaroles who had guided him there. The wind did not manage to run on its wings the daily noises of rustic life. Not a bellow of a cow waiting for the evening milking. Not a rooster who does not boast about a chicken in heat. A lost sheep afraid of the big bad wolf calling his shepherd. But there nothing. Nothing but the silence of winter, and the clear, contrasting shadows on the white mantle. Suddenly, as the wind changed destination his nose was titillated by the harsh and warm smell of a flambé fir. The scent mixed with an odor that teased the stomach in need of food. Fire burning, living soul. He would not stay alone.
The sun was behind the mountains, which were a beautiful color between blue and purple. The sky was burning as usual, ephemeral gold, fire without heat to announce the night. He rushed to walk the few meters that would separate him from a well deserved hospitality. Shadows were outlined on the snow. They were animated by an incessant ballet. They were familiar to him. Men ! Some points of light were scattered here and there, and spread their bundles on the whitened and shining soil. The cowbell of the first cows punctuated the life of this peaceful little mountain village. The inhabitants animated themselves in an incessant ballet. No time to waste. Animals determined the time of men. Yet there were some who did not work that way. They stayed for long hours sitting on a large stone that served as their seat. They rested their chin on top of their hands, leaning on a sticky cane like their bodies. Their eyes strayed into the distant past where their youth had forever evaporated. They conversed with silence, far from all agitation. Sometimes, at the passage of a parent, they saluted him with a slow movement of the hand, without raising their eyes. Their ears were seasoned with the least familiar sounds of their village. Every step had its signature. Everyone had a very special smell. But on this day a different step, a different smell were offered to them. Their steel-blue eyes were toward this strangeness. For so long, that they had not had the opportunity to raise the head, their butts could not keep up with the movement. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, except perhaps that of the fear of the unknown, they stood on their frail guiboles and returned each to his home. Only one of them did not move. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, tracing in the snow some drawings in the dark sense. The stranger appeared at the entrance of the hamlet. The old man did not move.
When the traveler arrived at the first houses, he felt the cold sensation that he was not welcome in this place. Yet he ventured further. Everyone had gone home, waiting for the passage of the stranger. They were all behind their little windows, peering into the half-light and hoping he passed his way.
Nobody knew that the old man had been waiting abroad for years and years. He himself no longer knew what had led him to wait in this way, but he had never lost the hope of that coming.
He arrived at his height. The old man's face was slowly getting up. He glowed with a few glimmers of windows that kindled his face a little. Shadows accentuated the effect of wrinkles. A figure worn by time, where every line was like a book of life. This man alone might have the living memory of this village. A parchmented book, with letters written at the bottom of each pore of his skin.
The old man managed to get up with difficulty. He did not want to greet him like that, sitting there and the stranger standing. It was not done. At least, that was not what his parents had taught him. He touched her hand as a sign of welcome. Immediately, his lips began to take off from each other. For the first time in a long time he sent a message of welcome to a man from elsewhere. The traveler felt an intense emotion rise in him. He had not met a long-time soul either. He had grown desperate to hear these few words. The words exchanged, as ordinary as they may appear to us, were like a glass of hot wine warming the heart as much as the soul. The world had not yet lost what was best: usability. In the night and the cold, two souls in search of themselves were on the same path. The stranger knew he would not go away like a soul in pain. But the importance of this meeting, he did not know the scope.
The old man asked him to follow him. They advanced on the road, crossed the village, watched by the others, refugees behind their ignorance. The old man lived apart. While they were walking together, he told him about the wonders of this country, as well as the hidden treasures it contained. He made her discover the two breasts blued by the night which stood out imperceptibly on a background of sparkling stars proper to these winters. Thus, at the turn of a sentence, the stranger heard someone who for the first time in a long time reminded him that he had a first name.
"You see, Jean, it was a long time since we were waiting for you to come to this country, and that is why you can contemplate the work of time on my poor carcass. Every day, I lamented the delay of our meeting. But on this blessed day, you're here, I hope you can stay with us for a while. "
Jean was asking himself a question. Who could he be? He had never been to this valley. He had never met this man. But he seemed to know him as if he had been his father. He knew what he was called. Strange...
The old man went on:
"Before you ask yourself a lot of questions, I have to tell you that I have been able to follow certain people without knowing them, for you it was also the case. I have lived all your adventures, and this from the beginning Somewhere I was not only a passive spectator, but I shared them, suffering from your anxieties, sharing them to better understand them I know that it seems strange to you but It's the strict truth, and for a while you'll be asking questions, because it's your inner personality that drives you to do it, if you did not look for the path, you would not be there to meet me. The One Who Knows put us in touch with each other, knowing who you were, you only knowing what your eyes could discover of the world. The other answers to your questions will come one day. No, you will have to rely on the will of The One Who Knows! "
For Jean, it was clear that, once again, he must be the only one in the world who did not know what everyone knew about him. They all spoke to him of The One Who Knows, even if they did not know how to tell him who he was. If answers were to be given, only The One Who Knows would manage to do so. Where to find it? Where to look for it, to know and not wander aimlessly. He teased his mind of his thirst for knowledge. Before he spoke a word, his guide continued:
"Do not look for the personality of The One Who Knows, he told us that you would come one day, coming from behind the twin mountains, that's all he taught us, do not believe that all these revelations have This is not our will, we are here to help you on the path that carries your footsteps and leads you to your destiny.For now, you need rest. After, with an easy mind, full belly, you will be able, if you wish to think of all that has happened to you. "
Jean said nothing. He listened to the dubitative mine. Another madman, he thought. But a madman who knew how to receive people from outside.
The old man's house was in sight. A small light flickered over the front door. A glow in the night that he had always been careful to maintain, in case the one he was waiting for would arrive without him being present. The door was not locked. He pushed it with his cane. The interior was like that of an oven. He fumbled on the side. His fingers rested on a tallow candle. He handed it to Jean and asked him to light it to the outside. A gesture not so innocent as it could seem. A light in the night to guide the traveler, another waiting to shine to continue the journey ...
The little house was coming back to life. The old man approached the rustic fireplace. He took a few twigs lying on the ground and put them into the cold jar of the hearth. He took a lighter of tinder from his pocket and made the spark spark the light. Holding it in his hands he blew on it to spread the incandescence. A small volute of smoke escaped. He brought the lighter closer to the twigs. Hands on the floor, head to side he blew confidently on the twigs that caught fire in the wick. The room was filled with a flickering orange light, the rhythm of the sparks that rose in the chimney. The fire was well taken, he laid down some branches and rubbing his hands he returned to Jean:
"That's it! A few minutes, and we'll be warm, sit down somewhere!"
He removed the few clothes that were lying here and there, thinking to find a place where Jean could put his buttocks.
"Do not pay attention to disorder, it's only apparent."
Jean smiled. How long had he heard those words: order, appearance. He looked around him. What he could distinguish could not leave any doubt. The one who was his host was almost as poor as him.
"I know, it's not the Hilton," the old man mumbled, "but here I am at home!"
Jean thought that he would be at home, but there, in the state of the house, it was better to be somewhere else. He had to build shelters that were better designed than this hovel. This idea, which crossed his mind, was soon annihilated by a stronger feeling. What was important was not the rusticity of the place, but the warmth of its occupant. It was what he felt best. Being poor in these conditions, but so rich in this inner warmth, it was more than being a great five-star hotel manager, where the coldness of marble mirrors and golds are all too common. The clothes do not make the man.
"Sir ..." The old man cut him off:
"Hush," he said, "listen to the sounds of the night!"
He pointed to the ceiling that let the sounds of the wind through the thatch of the roof. Jean looked up, and listened. From the corner of his eye, the old man looked at him. He continued :
"Your head is like my roof. She has holes that let the wind through. But what's more funny is that for you the wind takes what is inside. You wonder about everything that happens to you, but each time you forget the essential. The wind, my young friend, the wind removes what you believe to keep. It gets you into neurons, otherwise you would have exploded a long time ago. Look for memories of what happened to you. Even what happened in your strangest dreams. The signs are there. The answers too, but the wind you blow on erodes the shape and the bottom. So, how could you know which way to go. How could you know what goal you have to reach? The wind has not carried the essential to nothingness, because I am the master of the wind!"
He was blowing on Jean's face. His arms were beating like a bird ready to rise to the sky.
"The One Who Knows how to give you everything so that you know where to go ... To believe what I know, your destiny is great, but how terrible. He has chosen you. You can not disappoint without disappointing yourself. Do not continue to believe that you are the only one to choose freely what you want to do. You are not free of your choices. You are in the hands of The One Who Knows, and it is He who lets you believe in your freedom until the day when ... "
He put his hand in front of his mouth. His eyes widened as if he had just realized he had said too much. Jean wanted to answer, but the old man said:
"And what the hell!" He looked up at the sky. "There must be someone who tells him what to do! We do not have all eternity anyway ..."
Jean was sure that this time he was in the land of fools. He tried to get up, a dodge towards the door, his bag in his arms, but the old man hastened to sit down.
"You can not leave now, understand all this, you will have to understand the subtlety and the essence of all these things, otherwise you would continue to wander without knowing what the goal can be. I can teach you a few bits of ancient knowledge that will be of great help to you for the future. Some of these things will be familiar to you, because you have learned them on the job, for others you will have to listen, then the time will come will make you understand the meaning. "
As the old man spoke, Jean felt like the presence of something that was born in his mind. This thing seemed to come from far away. Fear was invading him, he was trying to build a mental barrier between this thing and him.
The old talker did not give a damn. Before Jean could do anything, the hermit stopped him:
"Oh, do not look for what is attacking your mind. But do not try to push it out of you. This thing that seems to be aggressive is not. It's acting on you like a crazy guard, guarding a bit of your lucidity. I'm sorry I can not tell you more! If you trust me, listen to this. No wall, no defense that you would attempt to erect will ever be strong enough to hold the breath of that thing, and that fight you would lead would be your loss. You can not win against it, but you can win with it."
He had grabbed Jean, hugged him and shoved him by the shoulders. Jean continued to squeeze his bag, the only precious thing he had in the world. He tried to resist the old man's assaults, but despite his great age, he had the strength of a Hercules. And then, those long days of walking had not been to fix things. He was tired, ready to accept everything that was said to him as long as there was something to eat, and a place to sleep. He let himself be abused like a bottle in the sea, lowered his eyes like a little boy caught in the act, stealing jams.
"Time, it will take time for you to understand", continued the old man without having stopped shaking Jean the coconut tree, "time to feel all those things whose origin you do not remember. Learning this knowledge will help you solve some puzzles. Believe in my old experience, this kind of teaching is not easy. Certainly we have been chosen, each one his role, but we remain nevertheless men of the world, with all the imperfections which are us own. Even for angels, all these things are not as easy as one can believe. Each one's role ... "
Jean managed to lift his head. He had yielded under the words of the old man. But instead of letting go and putting himself under his control, he was rather stunned by the answers he had received. For the first time, a human being had anticipated his thirst for knowledge, and answered some of the questions he asked himself from time to time. He did not say anything!
Was this the foundation of his revolt? By dint of too many mysteries, the man, without answer, could only rebel against the establishment of the world. Jean did not want to be confessed. He still had his pride. He tried a rude trick. Seeking in him all the energy of anger he says:
"Listen, you old fool, I've never asked something to anyone. All your schemes do not look at me. If you know everything about me, you know that I had to leave the world and not be in front of people like you. Like you there were many who thought they knew everything about the personality of other men. Like you, they sought to appropriate by this means, the souls of people, to better oppress them. No thank's! I have given. This same world does not interest me. This power does not interest me. All these bondages are for slaves. I am a free man. Alone, but free!"
The hermit had finally let go. At the words spoken by Jean, he felt a great sadness that invaded him. He looked down at the dirt floor. His hands were joined, and back to his parchment lips covered by his bushy beard. He closed his eyes, searching deep inside him what words would convince his young host. How to shake that mountain of selfishness that was before him? He knew that he had before him a man who was seeking escape. Escape from the world to flee oneself. That was Jean's motto. She had forged herself in her head like a hard steel. The earthen pot against the iron pot. Unless the fusion takes place ... It was necessary to find the fire that would devour this steel. To make him rediscover the love of the world and his beings, to remove the slags that covered a pure soul, and to help him walk for the great road that remained to him to go. Would he be able to overcome it? He addressed a prayer to The One Who Knows. He alone had the strength to heat the crucible. The man raised his head, his eyes still searched in the distance, as if the walls were transparent ...
"All your arguments are valid ... But understand that for you, they are only an excuse. One day you have to make a choice. You can not do otherwise. In the depths of you, I know it is find a soul that is called to a definite task. But you do not know which one. You are afraid of it ... Even your long solitude has not been able to erase from your hidden memory what you have to do. All is here, in you, a chrysalis ready to bloom. And you, you are still trying to prolong the winter of your senses, while spring is ringing at the door of your mind. This searched solitude has only diminished you, without you being aware of it. More than that, you can’t even figure out the right reason for your wandering around the world..."
A heavy silence reigned in the hut. Was it the sign of his openness to the world?
He lowered his head. His stratagem did not work. Plus, he knew the old man was right. What about a man who knows everything about you, when he meets you for the first time? Would the butterfly decide to come out of its scabbard?
"Is it not remorse that makes you act in this way? Perhaps your soul also does not know how to answer these questions yet. It's difficult. I know it from experience. There are times when a whole life is not enough to see the beginning of an explanation. Moreover, if your soul is deaf to the words that are given you to hear, you risk to let you embark on side roads. This path is lined with false indications that will not get you anywhere. To follow them, perhaps they will hide for a time the bitterness of your soul. But the song of the sirens flew away, remain alone with your doubts and your ancestral fears. Your first job will be to accept the past as irrevocable, without ever wondering what you could have done to not find you here tonight. The first step of healing your soul depends on it. After, the effort made on yourself, will you be able to undertake the access to the transfiguration. I know you can do it. Otherwise, He who knows would not have brought you here. I also know that you will not be easy to deal with, but this is my lot. We each have a way to go. On this path, we can find ourselves alone, and in danger, as they lie in wait. But also, we can meet several, walking at the same pace towards this goal that we must achieve. Each the crutch of the other. Each his wealth. Each one his knowledge of a part of the Whole ... Together, the All illuminates the way!"
Jean remained silent. The old man was damn right. He could not say anything contrary to the truth that he had hidden so long. He won by K.O. He, would have fulfilled his mission. The seed sown by the old man was well established. It could sprout in Jean's mind. Every word the old man utters would be like drops of water that would nourish an expansive plant called Jean.
Jean put down his bag. He was not afraid of anything anymore. He sat down in a corner, and as he was used to, he immediately began to make his mind wander beyond the real. He was as absent. The old man noticed it and smiled. It was almost certain that his mission was coming to an end. He was happy to see that his teaching was serving. He said nothing, just watching Jean's lips mumbling in silence. Like question marks, his eyebrows jumped from time to time. Sometimes a slight pout seemed to indicate that he left for the future the explanation of such and such thing. He also spoke with his hands, mimicking the words to better absorb them. He was no longer paying attention to the old man. True solitude had seized him. The old man would have had a heart attack, he would not have even noticed.
The hermit turned on his heel. He looked for what he could do for dinner. An old pot was on a makeshift shelf. Raising the lid, a stench of smell pervades the whole cabin. "Ugh!" He said, then he closed it, putting it in the same place.
He who had united the two men on the path of truth could only inspire them. He never had to let them rest. The law of free will was the only guarantor of an illusion maintained for the fulfillment of the destiny of the worlds. He has never clearly shown the image of the goal to be achieved. Only the last one who will come to the end, having conquered all the trials, overcome his fears, that one will know. When one is able to hear this call coming from elsewhere, the ears must be able to hear the spoken words, words that often disagree with our intimate conviction of the moment. The important thing is not to turn around. Go ahead to serve, to understand, to love. To turn back, it would be like letting oneself die, trying to go from one world to another without hope, other than to come back and find better living conditions to succeed the way. This series of reincarnations can only be static. This would be the most terrible of the spells reserved for a soul. Start all over again, relive everything without knowing what to change. Gnawed by remorse, and some memories of a life that is erased but still present in the memory. Whoever had united the two men on the path of truth could only inspire them. He never had to let them rest. The law of free will was the only guarantor of an illusion maintained for the fulfillment of the destiny of the worlds. He has never clearly shown the image of the goal to be achieved. Only the last one who will come to the end, having conquered all the trials, overcome his fears, that one will know. When one is able to hear this call coming from elsewhere, the ears must be able to hear the spoken words, words that often disagree with our intimate conviction of the moment. The important thing is not to turn around. Go ahead to serve, to understand, to love. To turn back, it would be like letting oneself die, trying to go from one world to another without hope, other than to come back and find better living conditions to succeed the way. This series of reincarnations can only be static. This would be the most terrible of the spells reserved for a soul. Start all over again, relive everything without knowing what to change. To gnaw at remorse, and some memories of a life erased but still present in memory.
Jean was struggling with all these ideas. He did not know what to think anymore. Did he have the opportunity to change something? He did not think so. In the past he had tried to act in this way but nothing had happened. He knew he could not change the course of history, even his own. If those around him did not want to move on the path ... easier to drag your feet than to jump over the pitfalls of life. Although he was naturally narrow, he was not stubborn. From the moment that he was shown the thing, he was able to appropriate it. That's what the old man knew. Jean only needed love and fraternity ... In the past he thought he had not met these feelings in his fellows. Then followed the long march in escheat, without aim and without illusions. Just wait for death, the last moment ... The deliverance ... And never think back one day in this perverted world. But his destiny had caught up with him. For what he had to do, another could not take his place. It was Jean who was chosen by The One Who Knows. He had his reasons ...
In the hut, two beings that life had moved away by time and space were in fraternal communion. One was from an urban generation, cold and cynical. The other still had the feelings of the men of the hot and oily earth who delivers a message of love. Two different worlds, but the same quest for an impossible love of others, without loving oneself. Both were like prisoners in a jail with golden bars. Getting away was not an option. They both tried the impossible. Would they have done so had they been aware of what they were going to lose? What brought them together was this detachment from the effects of the cause. They had conceived the idea that one could jump over the ditch of fear, go to places where men's minds had never ventured. Reprimands of others who preferred to remain servile and cowardly. The soup was good, the chefs were watching ... But for our two acolytes, the soup had a bitter taste. Did not it contain that substance that makes you docile? Did she not have the faculty of leaving men and women without the need to ask themselves the simplest questions about the origin of all this malaise that is rife in the world? The answer could only be heard by the leaders ... They, the stubborn ones, the obstinate ones of the question had revolted against this status quo. Reprimand of society that does not break the chains, even if they are in gold. Condemnation to loneliness ... Do not contaminate other slaves with your wacky ideas ...
Solitude is the cure for finding the way. When all the questions have jostled in your mind, whether there was an answer or not. The only thing that needs to be done is not to ask any more questions about the meaning of life. Many scholars had burned their wings, attracted the wrath of their peers, because they often had a metro in advance. At this point, the mind could only rely on The One Who Knows. Another form of slavery ... That's what we say without thinking. It is convenient to have another form of power over one's head; a soul to whom to rely when the understanding of the world stumbles on lack of knowledge. Nevertheless, curiosity is still there. Suspicion ... The cultural heritage is perhaps only a bad lead ... So begins a discussion. First, with what we believe to be nothingness, can be oneself. Then slowly a voice is heard that upsets our received ideas. She makes us discover what the golden prison did not allow us to hear. So, they envisioned that their life would not be enough to understand everything. The temptation was strong to drop everything. Little by little, the idea that it was not the understanding of the All that counted, but the sharing of impressions, discoveries, which was imposed on them. Go to others, share the treasure with them, as we share the bread between brothers. There was their freedom. This teaching can not be done one way. The teacher learns from the pupil, and the pupil learns from the master ... Free men aware of their ignorance as well as of their respective knowledge ...
One day, this old man would teach Jean what the world can conceal hidden things for those who can not see through the illusion. He would remind him of the faculties of seeing and hearing, of understanding the forces that generate this universe. He would be a new conqueror, seeking the first matrix of a modest universe, only allowing himself to be discovered with humility. If this first essence could be found by Jean, the old man knew that he could accomplish the destiny that animated him.
He had finally found a piece of sausage hanging in a small corner of the fireplace. He turned to Jean who was still silent. His back bent, his hands clasped and resting on his knees, he looked at the black soil beneath his feet. Black soil as its state of the moment.
"Well, do not think about it anymore, what you need is to eat and sleep. Tomorrow, if you want it and when the night has brought you a lot of advice, you'll know what you have to do... "
Jean looked up. The man was right. An empty stomach can not think. A mind eaten away by body fatigue can not think.
They settled down in front of the fire crackling in the small fireplace. The silence had settled between them, but one could feel like a feeling that brought them closer together. Sweet light of the fire that warmed them ... She took in their shining eyes the bursts of compassion, the remains of loves flew away, the hope of a better future. Tomorrow would be a new day ... Hidden under the mantle of winter, the seed would begin to rise to the pure sky of The One Who Knows ...