dreams that
flowed as if they were written like running water, written on air, as
the Roman poet Catullus once said, in the depth of a dark winter
morning, I decided that I would take a walk in the afternoon, hoping
that the sun would then appear, and it did, so I went walking toward the
woods through deep white new-fallen snow all around me and entered a
path into the woods across from my house that led toward a deep ravine
below which were deep dark caves that once sheltered runaway slaves
searching for the happiness of freedom, and I thought of them as I poked
under the snow on the odd chance that I might find the green stick of
happiness that Leo Tolstoy's beloved brother, ten-year-old Nikolai, had
once told the five-year-old Leo was buried by a ravine on the edge of
the forest, a stick upon which were written the secret words that would
bring love, peace, and happiness to everyone, and would do away with
death, for their mother had died three years earlier and their father
would die four years later, but I saw nothing and continued deeper into
the forest to try to shed a sad feeling from a lock-down that had
brought my spirits low as I tried to understand why so many people I
knew were so enslaved, their minds forged in manacles, and how sad and
dispirited it made me knowing that they were locked away from me in some
conventional reality sold to them by liars, but perhaps you like the
word depressed and you can use it if you want, but all I know is that
the spirit of happiness had escaped me as I trudged deeper into the
forest between the high pine trees until the trail I walked was
intersected by another and a man met me there, as if he knew I was
coming, a man with a long white beard and piercing eyes and we nodded
and then he continued beside me and asked me what I was looking for,
which startled me, and I was speechless and he said he's been through
here many times, especially by the ravine, and Leo told me he never
could find the green stick of happiness his brother once told him was
buried there but he was not giving up, he never would do that since he
loved his brother who would never lie, he knew the stick existed and
that's why he himself was buried there, and he told me to continue
seeking, because the stick was real and yes, those slaves knew it and
were in that ravine for a reason, so we walked on as a man approached us
who said his name was Albert, and I said Camus, and he said yes, let's
walk together guys, for these woods are dark and deep I know, but look
up at the sky, the clouds have parted and the sparkling sky is speaking
to us, right Leo, who said yes, I remember when Andrei in my book War
and Peace lay wounded on the battlefield and looked at the sky, I wrote
that he realized then that that lofty sky was infinite and that
happiness was possible, that especially in the midst of battle you have
to look up and realize that, that there are deeper reasons for things
and petty concerns shield the spirit of truth and that even in the midst
of war you can glimpse that reality, and it sounded good, I had heard
their spiels before, or had read them to be accurate, they were great
writers but this was my life and I couldn't live in their books, but I
wasn't reading, I was walking, or was I dreaming, and then we came to
the end of the path leading out of the woods and the sky opened out from
the vast tree cover and they were gone and I was all alone again as
usual, dispirited and heading back home on the road by the lake when I
looked up at the sparkling blue sky and light that radiated off the
snowy frozen lake and rose back to the sky in columns of undulating
glory and felt the sun that had warmed the day and heard birds in the
trees and was overwhelmed with a rush of happiness I can't describe but
it was not a dream and I walked in joy for a few minutes, knowing I had
found the stick and that in the depth of winter, as Albert said, I had
finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer, but that it
came and went like running water, like flowing air, but it was enough
for now.