I can imagine writing a scene in a novel or book about you and I and this life. We’re revisiting the Duberg estate, in the country made up of family estates, a kind of spiritual repository of karma which is so tightly knitted together for us in our relations to our families. We stroll through the gate, the grounds, the house, reminisce about everything left as recorded history in displays mounted on walls and other types of artifacts, and then making our way through garden and backyard in a far corner of the land we come to an old well, barely visible for never being maintained or used. We’re kids, leaning over the wall, peering into the blackness, and I ask (semi-rhetorically now), how far down does it go (posing with a rock in my hand, prepared to let it drop) and you grab my wrist with this look of utter horror on your face, and you say, “You don’t want to know!” The look just paralyzes me, but your consternation melts into a comforting whisp of a smile, reminding me of how much more you’ve suffered on this spot, and I realize such wisdom is priceless and never to be ignored. This doesn’t extinguish my natural curiosity so compounded by the fact of my karmic inheritance which is some sense being incarcerated and thus limited or constrained; by itself, undeserving and unjust.
You release your grip and I let my hand fall to my side, the rock I toss aside, and then turn and glance back at the blackness with only patience in mind. We shall see then, how this all plays out. We begin our hike back to the estate’s compound with you rambling on about how one day all this will be mowed under and landscaped with a fresh grove of trees, going over some list in your head, the pros and cons, and all I can think about and wonder is which one might be least conductive of the demonic. For who knows just what doorways exist in blackness so deep, through which the nightmares of babes might wake up the curse of this karmic unrest once again?
As we close in on the garden and our senses are awash in a phalanx of spring fragrant sprouting, we turn outward and receptive to the primeval beauty of love’s light. Nothing is forgotten, especially buried secrets which are still so black. ~
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