I see three roads leading out from where I stand. Below me, a trackless dune -- I could ski down it in my bare feet; but it's a dark sea at the bottom. Ahead of me, a wide path, which I'm on, at the base of a cliff -- the escarpment blocks the heat of the sun, but for a few places where the sun sneaks through; I'd like to eat lunch there in the sun, to warm myself; but it's a rocky, precipitous mile from here. And above me, a hard climb (I'll need chalk and shoes, or hinds' feet) but I see mountain meadows, and flocks of sheep. I hear the twitterpated birds and the bouncy children's song, the many voices, which never grow up. It's sunny up there, but shaded by fruit trees. And I see there are others there, picnic baskets in hand, eating brie and salami. The smell of Jasmine wafts down the face of this cliff -- I want to go there, but it is a tall cliff. Is it worth the work? The path ahead is not too rocky; I won't suffer too much between those rare sunny spots. I could be happy on this path; bearably at least. I could be loved on this path, and love. The suffering of this path will develop my character too, so it will be good in the end. I'll cling to this path, and with my hands cuffed, I'll navigate these rocks; and, if I'm strong and good and persistent, I will not slip off down the dune into the dark sea.
Laughter though... laughter bounces down this cliff to my side; it frolicks about me, taunts me. There is no laughter on this level path (laughter will not be obligated, or chained). All the laughter is from above, from the brooks in that sunny meadow, from the picnic baskets and the children's song. It's a hard climb, up that cliff, but the laughter navigates it so easily, and there are others there. A girl in bare feet, I saw her back a few miles; she climbed it -- a blonde girl in bare feet. I want to call to her, ask her to join me on this level path. With her company it could be more than bearable. Perhaps we could force laughter to join us. No, no. The delight in her face... the life in her eyes... she climbed this wall with bare feet -- and me with my shoes... I should climb it too. But she and I could be friends, her in the meadow, peering over the cliff, shouting to me on this path below. And I'll shout greetings back. It's not too far, we could be close, relatively. But she'd spend all her time with her back to the meadow, for me? No, no. I will not be so piteous. I will not chain her to me with my charm. So then, I will walk this rocky path alone. If I should fall? Who will lift me up? Well there's less risk of falling on this level path, than on that cliff. That cliff could kill me. But the meadow... she climbed it with bare feet. And what of those travelers on this path behind me? Should I say, this is the better road, don't risk that climb? There are sunny places where laughter may join us, though for a moment. They crane their necks, listening to the laughter from the orchards above us. No, I'll climb. The blonde girl with bare feet... the gardens where I can lay between the jasmine... the shepherd (I can hear his tenor soaring, like an albatross, out above the dark sea; it is mindful of the path below; it watches me).
I remember the shepherd from when I used to walk in that meadow, before I saw some wild cherries growing beside this level path. He was always laughing. This is his laughter around me now, floating around me like gnats. I would swat it away -- but I remember when it clothed me. Isaac, they almost called me, because laughter was my garment. Then I took this level path, for the sake of those cherries, and thus this sad burden I put on like a shirt -- and how! How should I climb that cliff to the meadow and to the shepherd and to that blonde girl with bare feet, how should I climb a cliff with this extra baggage? Who will hold this for me while I climb? And how would I lift it up this cliff to the meadow (there are no ropes up there). Those up there can't possibly expect me to leave my burden behind. This suffering is who I am! No one will pardon my mediocrity if they can't see this burden I carry. They will say to me, "What burden? What weight? Why should you be sad? You're as free as we are, and we are happy." Oh, happiness, cheerfulness, laughter... it's all too much work. Suffering is easier; it lets you off from the hard tasks. If you have a bad back, you don't have to help with the farming, or the warring, or with moving rocks to build a wall. People pity you when you're sick, and they leave you alone. They write you off, and they don't expect anything amazing out of you. You get to lay on the ground and moan. You may get muddy, but at least you don't have to think, or work, or help anyone, or create art, or prepare feasts. People will bring you the leftovers from their grand feasts and feed you in the mud. It's much better on this level path, with this burden... with this excuse. I'll not climb that cliff, because none of the others up there get to have any burdens. To be completely free and uninhibited, to have no excuse not to create masterpieces, not to write that epic novel, not to worship the numinous with stanzas... to even face the possibility of success and glory -- oh! it scares me. No, no. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I should possibly succeed. I'll carry this burden thank you; at least I know the weight of my fear -- and it's bearable, so long as I stay on this level path.
The sunny spot is not too far; I know there will be some joy on this path. When I have joy, even with this iron shirt on, then I WILL laugh. I will mock those on the burns and hills above. I will shout to them, "I did not toil up that cliff, and I did not sacrifice my burden, and I'm still happy." They will look at me and envy me, for I will be happy, and had an easier time of it too. I will turn my back to them and they will wish they had followed me. They will wish they had kept their burdens too. No, no. They will not even hear me. My shouts will be drowned by that dark sea whose waves crash beside this path. My taunts will be smothered by the laughter and the songs which are flowing over the edge of the cliff like a summer breeze.
They will not even see me to envy me. I will be invisible to them, to the shepherd, to the girl with bare feet. I can't stand to be invisible. I can't stand to not be heard; I hate to have to shout to be noticed. Up there they all have friends. All their imperfections are obvious, naked; and overlooked, covered. They are known, and still loved. They doff their iron shirts and take on linen. They dress for the constant seaside summer. They sing and laugh, drink fine wines with their fancy feasts. They never are alone. Even solitude is not lonesome, for it is voluntary -- it is play, like a child who enters an imaginary world for the car ride to a friend's.
I want to want to climb that cliff; I think I belong there. I miss the blonde girl and her eyes like the sea. I miss the Shepherd who always led me to sunny meadows. How will I tell my muddy hands and my wayward feet to turn and grip this cliff? I am afraid of heights, irrationally so, but still my palms will sweat and I may die. But perhaps death and failure are worth the risk -- for if I should fail, should catapult off that rock... I should die and then the Shepherd will come and carry me to the high places (for only in dying do I become useful). And now I remember his promise. I shall attain the heights, if I should turn my way to tackle this cliff. I will not need chalk, nor shoes, for the girl with bare feet began without shoes, and ended with feet like a mountain goat; this cliff will not frighten her again. I stand at these three roads, a gimp, unresolved, but knowing should I face this face, I'll find mine, and the Shepherd will ensure I reach the top, and he will call me Isaac again, and will give me a towel for my wounds, and will give me a linen shirt, which is light.
And I hear his words to Cain: thou mayest.
Now, to want, to want to climb. Oh, Jesus, friend, be my desire.
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