THE WHISPER

There’s a wind that blows through hollow tunnels, deep at the core of my being. And it carries a whisper that speaks to me, like God from the burning bush:

“Why do you lie there shriveled up?”

“Because I am in pain. Creator of the Universe, if you are what you are then help me!”

And there’s thunder and lightning but the rain doesn’t fall. It hangs there over the words.

“I have no power” he says. “There is no creator. I do not create. I continue. I am that I am and You are that You are.”

“Yes, but I am in pain.”

“That’s where you’re supposed to be at this time.”

“I am?”

“Yes! You are!”

“And this pain?”

“This pain is a part of it. Part of the unity, of the continuity, part of the order of things. You are a petal on the flower, a spoke on the wheel, the word in a sentence, the adjective, one of the colors of the rainbow, a shade or a hue. You are a finger on the hand of the clock of time. You are the changing of that which is everlastingly the same. You are the source of rebirth and renewal, the smallest of the small without which the whole would not be complete. And your pain . . . your pain is needed right now. How do you feel?”

“The pain is gone. Dust, off the table. To know there’s a reason makes it bearable. If it has to be pain then it isn’t. It’s just what’s happening now. I must be speaking to myself.”

The light changes. There’s a shudder in my room and the wind blows the whisper away. And I stand there restored, elated, enlightened, exalted. There’s a glow around my being and I dance in it through seasons of illumination. There’s joy in my life, and flowers and bees. My love drips like honey and there’s sap on the bark of the trees.

Then the colors change and I stumble. And the colors fade and I fall. And I moan and I groan, and I pity myself and huddle in the closet of my life. And it all looks so dark and hopeless when the wind blows the whisper back into my life and it speaks to me again.

“What child is this that needs so much reassurance?”

“Oh! It’s you! I’d forgotten. Where am I?”

“You are in the middle, at the core, in the eye of the storm, where it’s happening. You are at the exact center. Where the mileage in front of you and the mileage behind is the same. Where the arrow of infinity can shoot out of you or into you and still reach forever. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be! There is no space between us. There’s a door inside of you and you can walk through it and come out of yourself . . . then . . . you’ll be me.”

“Am I talking to myself again?”

But I breathe easier. I’ve swallowed the whisper and I feel it deep inside. Now I see once again the beauty around me. As if someone had wiped the windshield of my eyes and everything is sharp, crisp, and in focus. I strut about with the air of someone who thinks he knows something . . . but isn’t sure.

Jay Frankston
Little River, CA 95456
wlp@mcn.org