Samsara
I had just split up with a girlfriend, and she had agreed to drive me home. We sat in silence for several minutes in the car, feeling that there was little that needed to be said.
Near downtown Dallas, we passed an open field, a full city block in size. Small trees and shrubs were scattered throughout the field, particularly near the edges, and the whole expanse seemed littered with stones and branches and small bushes.
The car slowed to a stop alongside the curb.
"I need you to see this," she said. "Get out."
With a slightly puzzled expression I stepped out of the car, and closed the door softly. She turned forward and sped away without a word. I wasn't upset although I felt I should have been. This unforeseen circumstance gave me some time to think.
I began wandering aimlessly through the field, thinking over the events of the past few hours, and the argument we'd had. Occasionally I'd pause to avoid a particularly troublesome log or stone.
Not long later, as I neared the center of the field a tight pair of dark nylon cords caught my attention, suspended in the air at about face level. I followed the cords to find them looped around a silver-dollar-sized pulley fastened to a tree. I reached up and pulled the top cord, watching the action of the pulley as it turned and the bottom cord moved the opposite direction. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, and turned to find a series of polaroid photographs of children hung on one of the cables, as if they were clothes hung out to dry.
I looked at each photograph one by one, wondering if this is what she had intended me to see, and children's laughter filled my head.
Looking back across the field, squinting to bring the other side into focus, I decided to follow the cord the other direction.
As I reached the field's center, the cables were no longer present, and I found myself standing on a large rectangular stone. Looking around me I could make out similar stones set into the ground about 20 feet from this one evenly in eight different directions. I surmised that they must have been arranged according to compass directions, because they roughly followed the layout of the block. In the distance, I could also see a one foot vertically positioned stone protruding from the ground, perfectly lined up with each of the eight radial stones.
I stood there for a long time, sometimes leaving the center stone to walk around among the others. A cold mist began to fall, and the sky grew darker.
I looked back toward the stone arrangement, pulled up the hood of the rain jacket that I was wearing, and began walking home.
* * *
The next morning, I was sitting on a small floating pier on the edge of a cold and turbulent west coast bay. I was not alone: about ten children and several adults were also on the pier, and several of the children had been swimming in the water and were climbing back on the wooden planks.
A storm was slowly rolling into the bay from the sea, and the waves grew steadily higher and faster. The last of the children struggled to climb up the side of the bucking pier, and then stumbled onto the rocky shore behind it.
Without warning, the pier suddenly kicked up at an angle and submerged under the water. I gasped for breath as the cold salty water soaked my clothing, and scrambled to hang on as the waves swept across the submerged pier's slick surface.
At that point I noticed that my navy blue backpack, which had been sitting on the corner of the pier, was gradually shuffling toward its edge and risked being lost in the depths. I realized this one backpack contained everything in the world important to me, and that I had no choice but to rescue it.
Just as I reached where the backpack should have been, I could see it slowly sinking into the darkness. I dove into the swirling water after it, but could not reach it in time.
Still under the water, I could make out a bag belonging to one of the other men on the pier, and I reached for at, so at least not to have come up empty-handed. With the beige bag slung over my shoulder, I swam slowly and clumsily through the tossing waves toward the shore. I had been swept quite a distance into the bay by the current, and finally clambered up onto some rough black rocks. I spat seawater and gasped for breath, laying the bag down at my side.
"Thank you," I heard someone say, and looked up to see the dripping wet form of the bag's owner, holding my own soggy backpack in his outstretched hands.
"Thank you," I returned, handing over the beige bag, and taking my own, and I sat down on the black rock, cradling the backpack in my arms and lap, as the pouring rain beat down on my head. Tears rolled down my face.
Near downtown Dallas, we passed an open field, a full city block in size. Small trees and shrubs were scattered throughout the field, particularly near the edges, and the whole expanse seemed littered with stones and branches and small bushes.
The car slowed to a stop alongside the curb.
"I need you to see this," she said. "Get out."
With a slightly puzzled expression I stepped out of the car, and closed the door softly. She turned forward and sped away without a word. I wasn't upset although I felt I should have been. This unforeseen circumstance gave me some time to think.
I began wandering aimlessly through the field, thinking over the events of the past few hours, and the argument we'd had. Occasionally I'd pause to avoid a particularly troublesome log or stone.
Not long later, as I neared the center of the field a tight pair of dark nylon cords caught my attention, suspended in the air at about face level. I followed the cords to find them looped around a silver-dollar-sized pulley fastened to a tree. I reached up and pulled the top cord, watching the action of the pulley as it turned and the bottom cord moved the opposite direction. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, and turned to find a series of polaroid photographs of children hung on one of the cables, as if they were clothes hung out to dry.
I looked at each photograph one by one, wondering if this is what she had intended me to see, and children's laughter filled my head.
Looking back across the field, squinting to bring the other side into focus, I decided to follow the cord the other direction.
As I reached the field's center, the cables were no longer present, and I found myself standing on a large rectangular stone. Looking around me I could make out similar stones set into the ground about 20 feet from this one evenly in eight different directions. I surmised that they must have been arranged according to compass directions, because they roughly followed the layout of the block. In the distance, I could also see a one foot vertically positioned stone protruding from the ground, perfectly lined up with each of the eight radial stones.
I stood there for a long time, sometimes leaving the center stone to walk around among the others. A cold mist began to fall, and the sky grew darker.
I looked back toward the stone arrangement, pulled up the hood of the rain jacket that I was wearing, and began walking home.
* * *
The next morning, I was sitting on a small floating pier on the edge of a cold and turbulent west coast bay. I was not alone: about ten children and several adults were also on the pier, and several of the children had been swimming in the water and were climbing back on the wooden planks.
A storm was slowly rolling into the bay from the sea, and the waves grew steadily higher and faster. The last of the children struggled to climb up the side of the bucking pier, and then stumbled onto the rocky shore behind it.
Without warning, the pier suddenly kicked up at an angle and submerged under the water. I gasped for breath as the cold salty water soaked my clothing, and scrambled to hang on as the waves swept across the submerged pier's slick surface.
At that point I noticed that my navy blue backpack, which had been sitting on the corner of the pier, was gradually shuffling toward its edge and risked being lost in the depths. I realized this one backpack contained everything in the world important to me, and that I had no choice but to rescue it.
Just as I reached where the backpack should have been, I could see it slowly sinking into the darkness. I dove into the swirling water after it, but could not reach it in time.
Still under the water, I could make out a bag belonging to one of the other men on the pier, and I reached for at, so at least not to have come up empty-handed. With the beige bag slung over my shoulder, I swam slowly and clumsily through the tossing waves toward the shore. I had been swept quite a distance into the bay by the current, and finally clambered up onto some rough black rocks. I spat seawater and gasped for breath, laying the bag down at my side.
"Thank you," I heard someone say, and looked up to see the dripping wet form of the bag's owner, holding my own soggy backpack in his outstretched hands.
"Thank you," I returned, handing over the beige bag, and taking my own, and I sat down on the black rock, cradling the backpack in my arms and lap, as the pouring rain beat down on my head. Tears rolled down my face.