On the Soul

I certainly do, he replied, I always have, and lest the day should come that I see nothing more than the ordinary, for if my sense of beauty falters, how then can I find and follow that which is good?

Of course, I said, what a sorry state we should be in if beauty left not a mark on us, but I would think that hardly possible.

I’m afraid, my son, it is all too easy, he said, as one ages, they see that those who do not surround themselves with beauty are bound to forget it. It is often in times of great prosperity where one is at the greatest risk, as it seems to be that the more one associates with the treasures and bounties of this world, the less one is aware of the beauty, but so too the ugliness, of their own soul. We must be careful of the calm before the storm, for we tend to mistake the pleasures and ease of life born out of wealth and luxury for our own virtue and goodness. And while arrogant and blind, we unknowingly lay the seeds of our own ruin, until our folly is revealed to us in a cascade of tragedies too heavy to bear and thereupon, we understand the true meaning of poverty and the bitter misery that accompanies it. After all, the lapidist can only polish his diamond once he knows he has one. Until then, the diamond will remain rough, asymmetrical, and in all other aspects lesser than that which it is capable of being. And if this is not terrible enough, the lapidist will surely but unknowingly damage the diamond with each careless knock until there is simply no diamond left to polish.

Certainly Father, I said, such is the story of those who go too long without knowing themselves, for it is only inevitable that they lose themselves so thoroughly that any chance of redemption which had once lingered soon vanishes. But suppose, Father, that the lapidist does in fact know of his diamond, and upon his travels, a strange almost other worldly figure reveals to him a perfectly cut and polished diamond in the palm of his hand, with the sharpness, symmetry and clarity that only a true lapidist could produce. Would that vision not be too much to bear for the common lapidist? Would the sight of their neglected diamond not trouble the lapidist most upon seeing the beauty of the stranger’s diamond. Surely Father, such a sight, while momentarily blissful for all, would soon erupt a kind of bitterness and frustration from deep within the ordinary lapidist, which, when left unrestrained, kills the very memory of the diamond’s beauty, in a desperate attempt to forget the distance between themselves and where they ought to be. Must they not return to an ignorance and condemnation of that which they so deeply yet secretly loved and admired, for to admit of its existence is to confront the worst of themselves, but also to obligate themselves to a station so gruelling and seemingly unrewarding?

By God, he replied, there is no greater reward than to commit oneself to what is good, and to do so with no less vigour having seen its greatest enemies. And not with a view to a reward, nor to receive recompense or repayment in this life or the next, but to do so for its own sake. But one thus committed, cannot help but find the greatest pleasure in knowing they pursue the most beautiful and worthwhile thing of all. And if a great price, perhaps even the greatest price of all, is to be paid in its stead, they will pay it without fear or hesitation. To such a rare soul, meaning and doing a good thing is reward enough. But I suppose that is not entirely to your question.

It is most definitely a part of it, I said, but for the moment I would like to know the nature of the more common souls and their natural disposition towards beauty when she is in her most bare and honest form. I know I probably ask too much of you, Father, especially at such an hour of the morning, and while you have told me many times before, for which I am very thankful, I remain in great need of hearing it once more, such is the condition of youth.

O Theodore, my son, he replied, do not be so hard on yourself, for your soul is more beautiful than you know, and while you are young in years and liable to forget and err, I feel that you show great promise. And it is I that should be thankful, for I have been blessed with a privilege few have ever enjoyed. And if I ever considered your questions beyond my obligations as a father, I would at that very moment, cease to be worthy of such a divine privilege, and I would hope that the Almighty himself, would deliver you a true father, and send his wrath upon my wretched soul.

But what is this privilege you speak of, I said, which is so seldom enjoyed?

For a father to look at his son and see the true beginnings of a just and good man; to know that deep within him lies a pure and near unlimited potential for good, and that while he be only a young prince now, he will in due time, become a man worthy of the title of king, not over any of his fellows, but over himself. Not only will he have the trust of his father and the rest of his family, but of all men and women, and they will gladly bestow power upon him, but his greatness will compel him to refuse it with grace, until necessity calls him forth, to which he will answer faithfully and honourably, and for only as long as the days of necessity last. That, my son, is the privilege to which I refer. You will one day understand the true meaning of what I say, until then, trust my judgement and follow the divine path that has been laid before you.

Certainly, Father, I said.

Now, he said, let us return to your question. But before we make our way down from the clouds, let us admire the grandeur of the view and bask in the warmth, for the highest things ought to be that by which we judge all lower things. And if upon seeing the darkest and deepest crevices of our own souls, we are ever to improve our imperfect condition, what hope do we have but in knowing that we at some brief point in time caught a glimpse of the height to which the human soul is capable of ascending?

Truly none, I said, it is our only salvation. But considering my vision is in greater want, and my brief acquaintance with the highest of all things, I depend on you to introduce me, as far as word and deed can, to the Good and to the soul whom God calls its true and most devoted lover.

As you know, my son, he said, while witnessing and receiving another’s good deeds is sure to be more effective than hearing the good word spoken, a true introduction to these things can only be achieved through a harmonious application of both deed and word, and any attempt by way of either one alone will penetrate the soul only skin deep. However, even a harmony of deed and word applied from without will never be more than an introduction, for it is merely the spark by which the fire begins and not the wood which increases and sustains the intensity of the fire. A true acquaintance with the Good is found only upon subjecting one’s own soul to critical examination, and with that knowledge, reforming the soul by laying one’s own hands to righteous acts. But my boy, the truth is that your introductions began long ago, in the suppleness of early youth, slowly instituting order among the chaos within, so that one day when you were ready to take the reins, you would be able to recognise and follow the Good, not out of mere habit or a fear of authority or a blind obedience to doctrine, but out of a true understanding.

Father, I cannot help but think that I am far from ready to command my own soul, for I still sense the chaos within, and I fear that without you, I will become enslaved by it, and even worse, that I will forget my slavery and take pleasure in the delights of my mistaken freedom, confusing the darkness for the light, ignorance for knowledge, the bad for the Good.

Theodore, he said, if there is one thing you should fear, it is what you speak of. To have a chaos within is to be human. To be rid of it, is to become a God, and one who strives to be something more than human, in the end, becomes something less than human, a truly evil thing indeed. And to be ruled by it is to forsake the only part of you capable of goodness; without it, there is no true choice nor lasting satisfaction, but only an insatiable grasping for more, whether it be for bodily pleasure, power, wealth or honour; and all that was good in your life, you will have cast away, neglected and utterly destroyed; until in the moments before you perish, you realise that your insatiable desires were really a longing to be loved and to be whole, and also to give love and with that love make others whole, so that there is no emptiness in this world, only fullness, for as long as we remain ignorant of the nature of our own souls, we all will remain in want, without the one thing which truly satisfies us and brings a lasting peace, the Good. As to you being ready, let me be the judge of that.

Father, of course, I said, you are the only one who I would trust to make such a judgement.

Then trust me when I say you have but one thing left to learn from me.

I think I know what you refer to, I said.

Few ever really come to understand this truth, he said, and yet it is one of the simplest. So, what is it?

Forgive me, I said, if this is long winded, but a couple of nights ago, I had the most peculiar dream; it all came to me in strange images yet the meaning of it all evaded me. Every time I thought I was close to catching its meaning, it would, like a bird, fly away to another distant tree. For some reason, however, as you spoke of my last lesson, the dream came rushing back to me with unmistakable clarity. Perhaps it is nothing more than my imagination, but I cannot help but think the answer is buried some where in this dream, somewhere within me.

Excellent, my boy! he said, it all lies within, that I am sure of.

To decipher it all may take some time, I said.

Take your time, he said, and leave no stone unturned.

It all began in a dark void where I was made not of flesh but of white light, with nothing but the distant echoes of voices all too familiar. Until an orb of light sprang forth from within me, giving dimension to the void as it travelled into the distance, whereupon it halted and transformed. I set about walking toward it, but the closer I came to it, the once faint echo of voices, became more and more clear, yet ever more unfamiliar. Among the voices was a chorus of childish laughter, joyful and pure, and the sweet sound of a woman, lovely and loyal, yet strong and fierce. But then, in the final stretch before the orb, the chorus dispersed into distinct and mature voices, each one singing their own unique verse, and the woman’s voice had taken on another quality, a calmness, a contentment, a kind of charm befitting a wise and elderly woman, which enchants all those who hear her and brings comfort to even the most unsettled of souls, a true mother to all. Then, with the orb within reach, the voices sung no more and the orb vanished. In its place stood an old man with a gentle smile and a twinkle in his eyes, he shook my hand and said:

All is as it was supposed to be; what was given was used and what was not was found. Go forth in peace and rest knowing that you gave all that you had, and did all that you could, to come closest to that great ideal.

To him I responded, you are mistaken, I am only a boy, I know nothing of what you speak of, of a great ideal.

There is no mistake, for you and I are one. There are others like me, but you ought not to see them, for they are the worst of you, not the best, they are the Many, not the One.

I found myself bare foot and on my way to the harbour for a swim. But it was only once I passed through the dense groves which surround the harbour, that the light fell upon my body and I realised that my body was very much aged and that I was no longer a youth, but an old man, a man who would soon have to give up the dance, for the beautiful music of life was nearing its end. Strangely, it felt utterly wonderful and peaceful, as if all had been done as it was supposed to. Nothing in the past was clawing me from the present, nor did I fear the mysteries of the future. Thankfully, I had no troubles finding my way to the water, for the agedness of my body was, to use your own words, only skin deep. The passage of time had been felt most of all by not the body, but by the soul, for what was once a young cygnet was now a beautiful swan. When I arrived at the promenade there was a great company of people