Allow

Those moments in our life
when we awaken to see what is
rather than what we wish would be.
We choose in that moment
the value of truth over illusion,
to sustain the perception
or live and love what we are
who we are,
as we are.

In those moments we define ourselves.
We believe we choose who we are,
who we will be,
but more
we choose for others who they are.
We may wish to be
but we are only that which others allow.

Without us there is no they.
No one for they to draw themselves upon
deciding who they are,
who they will be,
as they choose for us
who we are,
who we will be.

For this, no one IS without another.
If no one is there to see,
to hear,
to feel,
we do not exist.

Carefully choose
who you allow others to be.
Above all, allow.

 

Ryujin

Toshizo had walked this road before, when the sky was clear and the sun warm, but now the winds were high and the days dreary. Such was the spring of the Doldrum Years, wet, cold, and without respite. So little solace along this lonely road, dark for the canopy overhead, and the river of mud that wound its way through the Sentinel Forest. He lead his horse having become stiff and sore with the hours in saddle. It felt good to walk, though each step was treacherous. The horse seemed to welome the break, having no more energy than he did, and so their pace was slow and determined. Weary, it would be evening soon, and the end of day, the beginning of night.

They watched him pass, listening to the wind as it weaved through the trees, parting over the walker and his horse. The man was dressed simply in leather and wool, clean but travel worn. His horse well saddled, encumbered only by the sword that hung ready at the front, his bags lashed securely to the back. This was no ordinary soul, but one capable of defending himself should the circumstances warrant. They had no ill intent, but their curiosity lead them to match his pace, and they watched.

He felt the prickle of conciousness, the inner voice that spoke not of anxiousness or fear, but alertness. He did not sense danger, but he knew he was watched, by three, no more than five. He admired their swift silence, moving through the woods, a lesser man would not have been aware, but he was no ordinary man. He knew of these folk, the inhabitants of the Sentinel Forest, though he had never seen one, no one had. There were no tales of fierocity or malice, but then there were no tales of greatness or cleverness either. The tales were of uncommitted mystery. No one feared them, but no one knew them. But there was something else that scratched at the edge of his senses, something he was not yet quite aware of. He continued his way.

They knew he was a ranger, one of the King's men. They knew he was in danger from the presence on the far side of the next hill, but they did not feel compelled to warn him. They had no doubt he would manage, and felt no kinship, but they wished him no harm, for they knew if things were reversed he would protect them. And so, they raced ahead, and passed the word to stir the pot, to make the hidden known. They had no love for the presence.

Further up the road, the man in the dark hooded cloak waited, knowing the ranger was approaching. His gloved hand ran down the nobbled, thick, irridescent skin of the dragon on which he sat, a war saddle between his knees. It was between his leathered fingers that the dragonslayer struck, splitting dragon flesh and bone, bringing the beast to its hindlegs with a fiery roar that burnt the treetops and illuminated the evening sky, casting its rider to the hardscrabble ground, and bringing the ranger's lightening sword to bear.

The ranger stopped, sword in hand, and waited. The presence was discovered, and it was angry.

The Regret of Age

"There was a time in my life when I knew everything and was unaware. I was unafraid, random, energized and free. Now I am aware, and know nothing, find fear is a bedfellow. I am controlled, weak and shackled," he said. They sat quietly for a moment as she mulled over his words. A light breeze played musically upon the leaves, the sun sprinkling down through the fresh green that spring had brought with the rains. They sat gathered beneath the old oak of the field, on a tapestry of fine woven wool, the old man in an armed chair.

"Is this a good thing, to have grown in this way?" she asked pensively and with reservation.

He chuckled. "Much like this gnarled old oak, I grew as was necessary. What sets me apart from the tree is regret. It follows oddly, dear, that who one wants to be is shifted to what one becomes by the forces that limit your fates." His gaze moved across the sky to her lovely face. "My dear... the tales of gallant men and women who stand against the storm, who bravely speak out their thoughts with abandon, who act freely unconcerned of the judgment of others, we tell those tales and raise these people up because that is what we imagine we are, what we wish was right. And yet, we spend our lives denying these paths to one another lest others become our better. We become what we sow, rather than what we dream, and believe in the fairy tales that say we are great. Those tales are what our dreams are made of. But this life, we make this life miserable in our efforts to bring others down so we may lift ourselves up. For what purpose? This dream an illusion. One never can hold it without losing everything else in one's hand..."

"You might be called cynical, grandfather... ", she offered.

"Yes, perhaps by the young who have not been burned in the crucible of experience and age."

"I plan to be brave!" the younger of the two women exclaimed.

"A truly great person will tell you, my love, that they want not to be brave, for when you a brave, people want to hurt you. Whom the gods will destroy they first call great. That is where courage is born, and I have no doubt you are courageous, but you will be hurt grievously if you are brave", he replied. The younger woman smiled, stood and hugged him tightly.

"You are a wise man, grandfather... but I will be brave nonetheless."

"Thank you my dear.... but that is where the regret comes. For I have not been brave. When life offered me moments for bravery, I chose instead to remain silent. I chose not to be hurt, or to have those who love me be hurt, and instead chose the lower road. I don't know that this was brave, or good."

The young man, leaning against the tree spoke for the first time, "M'Lord... Sometimes minor aggravations must be borne in silence for the greater good."

The old man looked into the younger man's eyes, "Aye, Sir Trent... but what is the greater good? To lay down when one should stand, for personal safety and imaginary freedom, or to stand and risk all so that others may find long lasting peace and true freedom? I have remained silent, and lost personal peace to gain momentary freedom. For what purpose? I regret."

The younger man nodded in respect, seeing the tear that gathered then made its way down the old man's face. He loved this man, more each day, for what he had done, noticed by few, that gave them all life, that even now the old man seemed to have forgotten.

"I think, old man, that you have been more courageous than you might allow...".

At the Dagger's Edge

Of course it was an awkward moment. Sensio in this situation at all was odd. That Vitani stood so close behind him, also uncomfortable. It was the knife in Vitani's hand pressed against his neck that made him feel most curious and out of sorts. As if being an Italian in Spain wasn't curious enough. He needed to get some control over his life, he thought.

"He knows you for the godless heathen you are, Sensio!"

"He has know this since I was a child, Vitani. I doubt this has suddenly come to his attention and warrants my having to kill you," Sensio said softly. That he was speaking softly made Vitani more anxious than Sensio's threat. Sensio had already planned Vitani's death despite being at the dagger's edge. That Vitani was not dead already spoke of their friendship, and Sensio's discipline. He pushed Sensio away forcefully. Sensio stepped away, turned slowly, his hands rising in an offering of non-retribution. Vitani knowing Sensio as an honorable man, and his friend despite their roles, lowered then sheathed his dagger.

"I mean you no disrespect, Sensio. But he sent for you, and you did not come."

"What could he possibly want that warrants this foolishness?"

Vitani stepped to then sat at the low table, spread with a small breakfast of wine, cheese and fresh bread. Sensio rubbed his neck lightly. He remained standing, alert, knowing Vitani was not likely alone, but with whom he did not know. He did not fear his friend, but he did not understand why the Monsigneur had sent Vitani for him this time. He never came at the Cardinal's bidding, something the Cardinal had long let go of. Something was wrong, and he was wary. The Inquisitors in Spain were unfettered of late, and fear ruined the day. Anyone whom someone had crossed was capable of being named a heretic and quickly taken to God's fiery justice.

Vitani shrugged his shoulders, "Perhaps if you came to Mass, you would be at peace and not so suspicious. I am the Captain of the Cardinal's Guardia. I am told to go and return with Sensio del Milenaisea in shackles, so I went, and here I am, though not sure I wish to return. It could ruin my breakfast."

"Surely the Cardinal knows I would not come, even with you. And we have no doubt you could not compel me," Sensio replied thoughtfully. He had unconciously made his way to the large window, his unfocused gaze passing over the widening vista below, filled with a morning sunlight as it was evey morning this time of year. A cart filled with wood pulled by two men struggled up the road to the villa. He ran his hand across the moss on the sill, enjoying its cool velvety smoothness. It calmed him. He needed calming.

"True," Vitani said idly, "He tires of you knocking over his fires."

"You mean the ones with people on stakes over them?"

"Yes, those fires. You are a good man, the city knows you, respects you, and admires your voice for their fate. But you have been named a heretic, and this the Cardinal knows: you are an annoyance he can no longer allow. He is aware that if you are found you will be burned and there will be anger. If you are not found, he will burn the city to find you, and there will be anger. Anger either way, but the flock is always angry about something, and one way ends without you as the thorn in his crown. Needless to say, that is the ending he prefers. He does not love you, Sensio, no more than he loves your brother, the King, though you did not hear me say that. He knows that to bring you to Tomas de Torquemada will rip this city apart, and yet he cannot let you continue your godless ways, knocking over his fires and saving people from God's fate. He wants you to come to him to confess."

Sensio raised an eyebrow with a smirk, "Seriously?"

"No, of course not," Vitani said mockingly. "He knows he will be denied by you, and that the city will be burned." He pulled his dagger out and cleaned it's blade on the table's edge. "What does he care? His home is in the country." Vitani began eyeing Sensio's breakfast.

"Hmm... seems I have a new purpose," Sensio said, turning, crossing his arms and legs, leaning with his back to the window, watching Vitani watching his breakfast. He could feel the rising sun's warmth across his broad shoulders.

"He feared as much. You know you cannot kill Father Tomas. He knows that you cannot. At least he believes you will not."

"We all know I can, and that I must. Its not dying afterwards that is the trick, a small wish, a matter for a moment's thought before action," Sensio said matter-of-factly.

"Ah... I think that is what keeps him awake at night. A Prince of the people who does not fear his death, yet plans well to avoid it." Vitani poured himself a cup of wine, and cut off a piece of the cheese that was Sensio's breakfast, now apparently his. "Even the Pope fears death...", Vitani continued, "Faith is always nervous. The more faithful, the more nervous."

"You are eating my breakfast," Sensio protested distractedly.

"The least of your worries. So now, what to do, what to do?"

 

In the end it will be morning...

He put his beer down with a thud. "Ya know, I'm not so fond of this thinkin' thing. Seems to me thinkin' is what got together this mess we find ourselves in. If there'd been no thinkin' just shootin' and slashin', the thing would be done and I could be nestled in some bosom. Thinkin's the thing that screwed the lot of us!"

"Ah, Jenoah, I can see how thinking ruins the whoring and partaking, but its thinking that has allowed me to keep your head upon your shoulders so that you might continue with the 'slashin' and shootin'.' "

A third man joined the two, pulling up a chair, tugging his long beautifully brocaded coat in place, saying to the comparatively desheveled chap, though he was speaking to the Captain,"Honestly, Martin, it's 'shootin' and slashin'', get it right chap. You should know these things by now, Royal Navy Captain and all. I have no idea how the two of you find yourselves together, considering one is a male trollop, and you, well, Martin, you are not."

Martin smiled and took the hand the giant of a man offered as he sat. "Bartholomew! I heard you died!"

"Many have tried, few have succeeded!", Bartholomew laughed.

Jenoah smiled and also shook the man's hand, which was gentle though it could crush the equally strong Jenoah's paw like a nut. His old friend was solidly built, and it is said that many have tried to kill Bartholomew, that he had died a few times, and yet, here he is.

"Captain Martin rudely asked me my opinion regarding this'n operation we are about to bestow upon the Spaniard. I think its a waste of men, time and effort, is what I think, but I too see no way around it. Honor is a terrible reason to die."

Bartholomew chortled, "Jenoah, you are always of one opinion. If it keeps you from the ladies and the wine, then its a waste of time! I am not sure that is what Martin wants to hear... surely you have an idea?"

Martin smiled, and offered, "Bartholomew, Jenoah feels that we should sail as Nelson, 'Straight at 'em'! I have the notion he is quite right..."

Bartholomew was not impressed. "If you'd like we could save you the trouble, and sink the Fianna right here at the pier, and Jenoah could get to his rightful business!"

"Jenoah, I think I agree with Bartholomew. A direct attack would end not with your debauchery, but with your feeding the fishes."

Jenoah smirked, understanding. "We will feed the fishes at the end of the day anyway, why not guns ablazin'? I think the Spaniard is wary of trickery, and the straight on attack would unsettle him. He has his fleet, you have the Fianna and Hermes, two frigates against several ships of the line. Remember Captain, the victory here is not in the sinkin' but in be in the delayin'!"

"Hmm... your point is a good one, Jenoah, and bears more thought. Leave us, if you will, and thank you for your time." Martin watched as Jenoah nodded at Bartholomew's parting words to the officer, and left them alone, rejoining his motley friends.

"He is not a learned man, but there are few lieutenant's with his experience. I should have kept him..."

Martin leaned back in his chair,"For what, Admiral, to follow you around like a puppy? He would drown himself to end the misery."

Bartholomew nodded, "As I have wished to drown myself many a time since this business began. Sending my friend to his death. Jenoah is right, and you know it. You will not survive this nasty business, but you must do it. Your affairs, and those of your men, they are in order?"

"Yes...", Martin replied, solemn now, "Yes. Only the unmarried men are to remain."

They sat silently for a while, watching those men as they paid life its last respects.

Bartholomew spoke first. "Do you think they understand, that they all will most certainly die in the morning? That they are being sent to the slaughter so others surely not as worthy may live?"

Martin remained still for a moment, staring across the room, a silence Bartholomew knew well to wait through. "I think that what they know is that life is short and miserable with death, that this is their life, and that when it ends it ends."

Bartholomew lifted the glass of red wine to his lips, "Ahh... but that's the trick, eh? When it ends, to not end it badly..."

Entanglement

Cigarette in hand, he moved gracefully from where he was standing, crossing the dimly lit room, the sun passing brightly through the dirty glass of the window panes onto the floor. He grabbed the chair, one of the two pieces of furniture in the clean simple room, set it before the window, grating across the unvarnished wood floor. He sat ungracefully, as a man tired from his labors would, carelessly, wantonly, defeatedly, and loosened his elegant cravat. He turned briefly to the other piece of furniture, a huge table littered with his papers and books, found the empty ashtray, and flicked the end off his cigarette, turned back to the view out the window, and sighed, throwing his wig onto the mantle, nearly missing and tossing it into the fire.

This is yet another day, much like yesterday, certainly one expects much the same as tomorrow will be. In one critical way it was different, because today he had ended a man's life by exposing him for the fraud that he was. He took no pleasure in it, and was weary of the work it had taken. Three relentless years. Three years of hiding, constant threat of danger, death even. In fact, Mathau had died because of this effort. It became a task he could not put aside, for its subject was so insipid that he was compelled to put an end to the charades just to embarass the man out of everyone's misery. This would make a lot of people angry, he knew that. He had already angered many, and there were some who would no longer acknowledge him for fear of association. He also knew there were so many who feared the man, and would take great pleasure in his collapse, for they too knew the truth but lacked either the courage or the means to illuminate him. He knew the danger would only worsen, given the circumstances, and that while tomorrow was certain the day after not so much.

He took a puff from his cigarette, and continued his purposeless gaze through the window into the busy street below. He could hear the streetcar, the honk of an automobile among the clomping leathery smell of the horses in front of their carriages. From this fifth story room he could see the factory near the city center, and imagined he could see the deepening layers of soot from the thick coal smoke that emanated from its horrific stacks. The factory made shoes, he thought. The steeple of the cathedral ironically posed across the river from the factory made him smile. It would all fall down. He stroked his small, closely cropped beard, flicked his cigarette again, and sighed wearily, rubbing his eyes.

The loud, forceful knock on the door startled him and he dropped his glasses as he turned with a sense of urgency at its unexpected demand.

The Bubble of Happiness

I am reminded of a moment when one of my mentors threw his hands up and said, "Everyone has to be happy, everyone on Prozac". In context this was not, and from him never would be, a Cruiseian diatribe, but I think about it often because his point is made again anad again. Everyone is so easily offended (when really annoyance is allowed, but they demand that they are offended. There's a huge difference). No one wants to see, hear or speak of the evils in our lives, the bad times, soft or hard, the suffering of others. We should be ashamed... its being empathic that makes us human, empathy is a core of reason. We become less when we demand the bubble of happiness not be broken, finding offense to deflect the blow. So much happiness is truly there that we need not coat ourselves with it to keep the cold sorrows of life away. They are a part of life, and without them life is not real. Illuminate the darkness and fill it with understanding, reason and action to amend. As Gandhi said, whatever you do may seem insignificant, but it is important that you do it. Live, happy and sad, live life as it is, not as you wish it would be.