Garden Gate

Posted on December 22, 2022

Beyond the Garden Gate

“Words”, muttered the Scribbler, “are stupid things. Inadequate.”
“They are frivolous. Annoying. Like dust. On a long pilgrimage.”

He settled back to ponder the allegory. In his wonky mind, (tottering from triviality to insanity), (and back to mischief), he saw a long, winding, dusty road. On it, striding purposefully towards the distant hills, he placed an old man. The Seeker. Wearing a dark, flowing robe, a staff in hand. Dust particles swirled around endlessly, and had even made themselves at home on his robe, head, and beard. Sometimes they even thrust themselves, unwelcome, into his ears. Or they grated. Between his teeth.
He often wished he could spit them out.
The Seeker was pondering Reality.
Something amazing.
The Great Nothing. The deep, deep Silence, of the Universe.
The echo of Timelessness.

An unwise pursuit, he knew. For he had met so many, who were utterly convinced of their all-knowing wisdom. They would lecture him. Sometimes, quite sternly. He. For his part, would half listen, or at least pretend to, meekly, and try and bow & bob his head. At the right moments.
It seemed to the madman that many such satisfied ‘Christians’, content with their labors, had in fact, barely opened the small gate into the huge garden. And stopped there. Satisfied. Lecturing others from their position of exalted knowledge. A shuffling footstep (or two), inside the creaking garden gate.
However, in their world view? In their opinion of their own insight?
They had made it. No more questions.
Reality. Conquered. Mystery, solved.
All queries, answered. Contained in a pretty little box. Tied. With a ribbon.

Our pilgrim wondered. Was their canned passion, their seemingly totally assured stance, a product of their love for him? As they said? Their caring? Or perhaps more the hiding-crushing of their own insecurity?
Their unspeakable… doubts?
For if you really believed? Really-really? Would you not be utterly fascinated? Eager for the Quest? Rather than the hint of staid lip service? The “Oh, yes, we got that! We saved. Carry on” platitudes?
He wondered about the long path through the garden. Way past the creaking garden gate. Up the tall steps. To the huge, massive, oak paneled front door. With the bronze knocker, barely within his struggling reach. He had heard that behind that door? Lay merely an outer chamber. Before a hall. That led, to the great corridor. Miles long. At the end of which, up more flights of stairs?
They had said? Lay the Great Hall. Where the Great King, wise beyond any human understanding, sat on his throne.
But… it might be fiction. Beyond those distant hills? No garden. No garden path. No steps. No Long Corridor. No Great Hall.
Could it be true?
The Great, wise King?
Waiting? For him?

He trudged on. Marveling. At the wonder of it all. Excited.
Totally unable to accept.
A mere shuffling step. Or two. A platitude. A religious insurance policy.
Inside that creaking, old,

garden gate.

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