SURRENDER WITH A SIGH part IV
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Transcript of SURRENDER WITH A SIGH part IV
Surrender with a Sighpart IV
It's in the imagination with which you perceive this world, and the gestures with which you honor it." Mary Oliver Female Irish Names
DAMHNAIT: "Little fawn." Irish/Gaelic name composed of the word damh "fawn" and a ... DERVLA: Irish form of Gaelic Deirbhile, meaning "daughter of a poet. ...
When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be ~ Lao Tzu
He froze in his tracks. Walking down from the
Unknown Mountains he stopped at a bend in the trail and
looked out over the valley. The sun was setting on the hills
in the west with the last light glowing over the houses below.
Smoke from hearth fires, rooms with lanterns burning inside,
families finishing dinner getting ready for the night’s rest.
Late afternoon light casting long shadows like boney fingers
pointing a farewell. The path marked with large worn granite
stones with each stone hand hewn and placed as a tread along
the circuitous pathway from the Unknown Mountaintop.
Each stone weighing far more than three men could lift. The
mountaintop loomed high above him. He could see the peak
where he had been and then in an instant it was covered in
cloud and wispy twirling fog and he wondered if he’d seen it
at all.
His home was down there somewhere— his family waiting
for him. The young man’s head still swam with the memory
of the ancient knowledge that had been bestowed as a gift
into his hands, that had touched his heart, had medicated his
wounds, had surrounded his grief with light. The memory of
the elder spirit embracing him and the small phoebe
surrendering secrets— such love, devotion, loyalty,
appreciation, patience, trust. His body was still wracked,
his heart torn out and lost, his cheeks still stained with tears
of appreciation from the visions he had received. He felt
annihilated by the double edge sword— one edge the
piercing ache of grieving agony and the other edge the
blinding, liberating light and memory of the divine wisdom.
The cutting stroke cut only deeper with the intense contrast
the light and the dark held against each other. Standing there,
his life felt tenuous, a big grey ball of emptiness and
confusion.
His stomach dropped, and chills ran down his spine. How
well do you remember your daughter’s smile? How well do
you remember that you will not see it again? Even now, he
was still waiting for her smile, her voice, her recognition to
somehow appear. Waiting. He whispered her name,
wishing she could help him get through this tenuous, grey
moment. The air was still and silent. The sun now behind
the edge of the western mountains and the last light seeped
into the dark web of evening. His breathing became shallow
and panting. His body started shaking. A liquid boiled in
his stomach, churned, and the heat rose through his body and
into his limbs. Numbing. The kettle was boiling. A
chemical reaction occurring that emulsified the grey
emptiness into a roiling ball of pain. An iron rage gathered
like an assaulting army behind his eyes and the flames of
their anger scorched his forehead. He wanted to torch the
entire valley with himself in the middle of it. Send down
tons of water and wash it all away.
He reached down upon the trail and tore up a large stone like
he was pulling up a root from his garden. With some kind of
super human strength lifted it, twice his weight, over his head
and with both arms and with a cry tossed it over the edge.
The roar of his voice tore apart the silence of the valley like
an avalanche of raw chaotic energy. The granite boulder
tumbled down the hill— thrashing through the brush, over
knoll and plants, over small insects and burrowing animals,
over grass and newly formed flowers. The rock bounced off
a young oak tree and a startled fawn ran from its nesting
place and sprung into the air like coiled spring shooting a doll
into the air.
Without thought or meditation, but with some estranged
primal instinct that tore through his body, he pulled out his
bow and released the arrow into the air with its course
determined by the insanity and delusion of the rage that was
shattering that moment. Not a true path, the arrow landed in
the deer’s shank. The rock was now on its ordained path
downward, thrashing through the crumpled brush and landed
in the river below with a cacophonous splash.
The small deer slowly raised upon a knee, gathered its senses
and disappeared into the forest with all the speed and strength
its small body had left for the survival of its species.
The moment the arrow had left his bow he knew he had
made a terrible mistake. Some mistakes have a place in the
scheme of your life; some leave a terrible scar that changes
the course of history itself. If he had another arrow at that
moment he felt that he could ram it through his own heart.
Instead the grey silence had returned. But now it carried
emptiness, it carried anxiety. It was deafening and he felt that
he was going absolutely crazy. He shook off the feeling like
it was a bad smell that he could stuff into his pockets. It was
his duty as a hunter to follow his kill, find it, clean it and
prepare it with proper respect to bring back to his family, to
nourish them in their time of sorrow. Yes, that was his duty.
So he followed the track of blood. The sun had set and it had
become dark. There was no moon and the only light was that
from a few early stars. The blood was luminescent, but the
cold and dark deterred his search.
He had become lost from the mountain path. He felt
delirious, tripped and fell headlong down the same hideous
route his boulder had taken. He gashed his head, twisted his
ankle, scraped his arm, broke his ribs and then like that stone,
landed in the water. The bruises he inflicted upon himself
were nothing compared to the bruises that had now been
brandished upon the delicate surface of the hillside.
Desolate and discouraged he walked through town looking at
the small homes with their soft lights and soft lives glowing
in the background. His body torn, his heart shattered, his
pride abused, his frustration vibrating and his shame trailing
him as if it were the dark shadow of the fawn’s blood. All of
this he stuffed into his pockets as he walked through the
town. When he arrived home it was close to midnight. The
family sound asleep. His wife rose from her bed at the
sound of his limping footsteps. She also had not slept in
days and had laid awake waiting, wondering, where he had
gone. Her sadness for her daughter was like removing the
blood from her body, the air from her lungs. She cried so
hard that she’d scared herself and she’d cry again. An
endless cycle.
She was so relieved that he was back, finally, but what came
from her lips were the words, “Where the hell have you
been?” A tirade of emotions were set loose about how they
were suffering, and lost and hungry and confused and where
the hell had he been when they needed him, and look at
himself, dirty, wet, bruised, bleeding. “Your drunk and no
good, you’ve always been no good.” Her tears streaming
like a marching army and they were attacking. She meant not
a word of it, her emotions being far stronger than her sanity.
What he wanted to say was— “My dearest love, I am so
sorry I’ve been gone. I was lost without you. I was blind
and was led to a mountaintop. I was held in the arms of a
wise old woman who knew all the answers by asking the
important questions. I cried. Things became clear. But
returning home I became confused again, my anger, my grief,
my wounds, overwhelmed me and I shot an innocent fawn.
I love you, will you help me? Can I help you? We are meant
to do this together.” But what he said was: “I’m tired, let’s
talk in the morning.” His wife too distraught to care let her
anger collapse like a deflated balloon and turned to sleep. He
sighed, the air of a thousand lifetimes escaping his lungs, got
into his bed— the soldier limping back from the mythical
battle, returning unwanted and alone. And that was the last
they spoke of it.
The seasons passed and winter arrived with its first rains.
There was no time that it became easier, sometimes duller,
sometimes for a moment forgotten as he trudged in his daily
duties. It was a year of firsts. His children went back to
their schools; his wife still wore black but slowly moved into
the everyday pace of things. There was a shroud that hung
over everything they did. Their daughter was missed beyond
words and words for it no longer had meaning. By now the
village had cooked their meals, had held their vigils, had sang
their songs, had said their condolence, and now had gone
back to attend their families and their own tribulations and
lives. Did they judge him for her death, did they judge him
for not grieving enough, for too much? Did they judge him
for the confusion that he now brought with him wherever he
went? Did people actually walk to the other side of the street
when they saw him approach?
He had never spoke to his wife or his family about his
mountaintop visions, the old woman, or the small phoebe.
By keeping something so important a secret, by keeping his
feelings hidden inside his shell something shifted and became
sideways. The first few weeks he had searched for the
injured fawn, had left daily to find a sign of it. By now he
imagined that a cougar had found the injured deer and had
made an evening meal of it and so he never went back. His
ability to hunt had never been so compromised. These were
hard times, everyone in the village suffered, animals were
scarce, crops were thin, weather was unpredictable, and his
sense of rhythm and feelings were off. He was left to trap
small game, rodents and birds. Something gnawed inside his
stomach, a vague knowledge of self-incrimination haunted
his spirit, seeped into his daily life. He constantly
daydreamed of that hilltop. Held onto his secret with a
primal necessity of survival. Although her bones were
ancient, her hair thin and white, her skin wrinkled and saggy
she slowly transformed in his mind and became the idealized
feminine dream of love, truth and beauty. He tortured
himself with a relentless idolization.
His romanticized memory turned into longing for something
he could not reach and so he reached for nothing— he and
his wife drifted apart. They found it easy to blame their
sadness, their confusion; they found it easy to use the lack of
intimacy created from the exhaustion of their grief, their
daughter’s death; they found it easy to use the complexities
of healing their family and the fear of survival when
prosperity seemed so vulnerable for the reasons they were
drifting apart. They slept nightly in their separate worlds.
And the dark winter nights and the strange weather
continued.
On the hillside something else was occurring. The granite
trail to the mountaintop was changing. The stone that had
been removed opened a space for water to course through.
As the water changed direction it found the scar that he and
his rolling stone had created. The water following its new
course dislodged more stones from the path and the scar
became deeper. Plants were uprooted, small families of
rodents and nests of insects were destroyed, small trees with
honeybees were extricated and washed down the slope.
Suddenly the delicate balance of the pristine hillside and all
its abundance had been tilted from its natural axis and the
water rushed into a gorge 10 feet deep one day and then 20
feet wide the next. Rocks rolled into the river along with
trees. Fish were trapped; otters and beavers were maimed.
A dam of debris blocked the runoff and a lake began to form
and smothered more land and animals under its wet blanket.
Enough water rising to wage a war of nature against man
where man stood no chance of survival.
His life seemed to be going through the motions of living.
His wife also was suffering from the wounds that life had
thrown upon them but he had lost his patience with her
sorrow. She could cry, why couldn’t he? He had seen truth
and beauty on that mountaintop and all this was so dismal in
comparison. He felt unloved, but more—an undefined
anxiety beset against him by injuring the deer, damaging that
moment; transforming everything that was given to him as
sacred into a feeling of profane. Perhaps he was to blame for
his daughter’s death. Perhaps that was what everyone was
thinking behind his back. His wife and children, did they
think that, his friends, the village? Did his family really
need him, love him. Did he even deserve their love?
He slept little and tried not be preoccupied with such painful
considerations. But this night he had a dream that awoke
him in the night. He saw himself hurling the rock and the
fawn leaping into the air. The fawn and he locked eyes again
and this time he felt the tip of the arrow enter his chest. He
tried to run for safety but found the trail falling apart under
his feet, he stumbled and saw the granite trail now awash as a
raging torrent with treacherous waterfalls and jagged rocks.
There was blood on his hands and wherever he looked he
saw his handprints on everything. He saw the huge reservoir
of mucky water held together with nothing but twigs the size
of toothpicks that seemed logically impossible. Destruction
Looming. The world rushing towards him. The eyes of the
fawn still upon him he followed it to a clearing. A field. His
daughter’s voice whispered:
Out beyond ideas
Of wrong doing and right doing
There is a field
I’ll meet you there*
And then everything slowed down. As if he were walking
onto a magical stage. It was nighttime yet a strange light
emitted from the trees. There was music coming from
somewhere, a low hint of a quietly plucked string instrument
with someone humming. He could smell cinnamon and
chamomile. There was a red lantern hanging from a leafless
tree in winter form. It was dark but there was light and he
could see something moving, dancing, skating. It was his
daughter. The first time he had seen her in a dream and he
watched her ice-skating on thin ice that seemed to hover like
a haze over the meadow.
*poem by Rumi
She was beautiful and magnificent in just the way she was in
his life— tall and present, smiling and radiant, laughing and
happy, wise and joyful, dancing and out of control with
laughter. Her skating was spinning, turning, small awkward
leaps, graceful and light, but also always on the verge of
falling. A fatherly concern ran through his body. She was
going to fall. He ran towards her. A shift in the dream and
he recognized his family there also watching her reckless
skating. Bring a chair he shouted to his children.
“Daughter sit! You are going to hurt yourself.” He
was holding the leather-laced boot with its sharpened blade
on its sole. “This is the problem, we need to take off these
contraptions.” And he tenderly knelt in front of her and held
her leg in his lap and slowly removed the shoes. He held her
foot in his hand. He looked up to her. She was smiling at
him— benevolent, not saying a word. Every feature in
perfect detail. Her white foot in his hand and then it came
over him in a wave of reality. This has to be a dream— my
daughter is gone!
And he awoke sitting up, his arms still in the position as if
her were holding something in his hands. He knew that
field. He knew that trail. He knew that river. He knew that
deer. He knew that foot. So he put on his shoes.
“Where are you going, it’s the middle of the night?”
his wife asked. Her voice was sleepy and sweet. Even with
the strangeness of him leaving at this weird hour she was
concerned for him. He stroked her head, feeling an immense
love well up in him.
“I have to take care of something. I’ll be back soon,”
“Be careful,” and she closed her eyes.
The night was dark and he had thought to bring a lantern. As
he got to the forest the lantern was only making it more
difficult to see. He blew it out. The night washed around
him like ink in a bottle. Voices were behind him.
“Dad we can’t see.” He turned and was surprised to
see his sons, his daughter and his wife following him and
behind them other voices in the night. “We were concerned,”
was all they said.
“Walk carefully, feel the earth below your shoes. Let
your eyes adjust to the light in the trees,” he said. “I know
where we are going”
The trail soon became lit by a dim glow. He walked
faster and the light glowed brighter.
They arrived at the field the same as in the dream.
The leafless tree there and in it the red lantern. The wounded
deer arrived in the meadow again looking him in the eye and
lay down below the tree. The field again washed in a light as
if it were stage directed and lit from the heavens. He walked
forward. The ancient woman was there carrying a white flag
and kneeling before the little fawn. Her eyes met his and
stared deep into his body, mind and spirit. Even though it
was night, it seemed like there were bees flying around her
head.
As she spoke, her words went through him like a wind in the
trees, his skin felt pricked, the hair on his arms electrified,
body shaking like a leaf. He watched his family and they
also were standing there watching the scene blow through
them like a breath from somewhere unfathomable
and the things you once loved, living only in flickers, this small fawn with bones and hair and teeth rattling its tiny dark frame and with a sigh I surrender and even still, we die
She spoke in whispers but there were no mistaking her
words. “All this comes and moves and grows and falls and
settles. It comes in myriad of ways and forms. Think of the
sun crossing the sky, its daily charge across the line above
your heads. Think of the moon rising in its forms and how
the patterns also move across your life. You live in a
multiplicity of worlds. They move through you. You must
listen to this”
The family settled in to listen closer
“I want you to say this with me: ‘Divine Archangels and
Guardian Angels, we are here to ask for your assistance and
know that our words, forms, thoughts and inspirations are
being heard and manifesting into this or something better for
us now in a completely satisfying and harmonious way for
the highest good of all. I ask for your assistance in healing
our wounds, clearing our minds, and showing us a path with
divine intentions.’”
Perhaps it was already happening, or perhaps it was the
moment, but the darkness of night had transformed with a
translucent earthy light so that you were able to see the
outline of the forest around them. More bees flew around
her head.
She reaches down and stroked the bleeding fawn and began
to speak to it:
“What I am holding here is not the innocence you shot, this is
not your daughter in my arms, it is you that I am holding. It
is your heart that flickers towards death; it is your wound that
is bleeding in my hands.
It is you that is dying and living in this moment.”
“I know the pain that is flowing from your heart, the
confusion, the agony, the hole in your being, but I see this
also— it has always been there. It has been there longer than
you can remember, even longer than this life. We can hold
these things for lifetimes. The grief you feel from your
daughter being swept away from that cliff is the deepest cut
of all; yet it still another cut from the sword that slices over
the open wound in your chest. It is also the cut that can set
you free. Someday, you will understand her gift. But first
you must surrender the wound. You must believe that this
blood is your life and your death and you choose life even
though death will always choose you. It is all occurs in the
blink of an eye. A moment caught between the space
between time. But you must choose and you must surrender
and it must come with the softest of breaths, the calmest sigh
from your body as you sit in this field. Surrender with a sigh
all that is hindering you. Surrender with a sigh that which
slices your heart. Surrender with a sigh that which denies
you from your spirit’s love and joy. “
Head bowed. “Surrender with a sigh,” he whispered.
“Understand that this is not the surrender of your warrior
spirit, this is not the surrender to the foes that march upon
your fields, or threaten your family. You stand with your
feet on the ground like the deep-rooted trees that withstand
devastation and floods and you protect, provide, teach, and
heal. You build and then you re-build. You give strength
and prosperity to your family. This is the law of the land.
You will be a force to be reckoned with. But you must stand
in this field of truth and you must empty your pockets of the
things you’ve hidden and repair this path you have altered
and rebuild the sanctity of this pristine habitat.”
He felt the words like a judgment and his heart sank. He
suddenly felt condemned and wondered how his family
could still love him. “Surrender with a sigh,” he said.
“Judgment is the arrow that enters your heart. It is the same
as your arrow that fell this fawn and as you know, they
always fly from untrue hands. These arrows contain no truth
in their aim, they arrive from scarred fields and decimated
histories. Not feeling loved is impossible as this light in the
trees is always around you and as it shines through you, it
shines from you. There is no shame in knowing this, in
believing this, in writing this, in singing this, in teaching this
to your children. It is shame when you don’t.
“Understand that the wound bleeding in your chest is from
your arrow dipped in the poison of shame, and anger, and
confusion, and doubt and judgment and fear.
Surrender the wound back; give the arrow back!
Close your eyes, plant your feet, breath out— this will
happen.”
It was cold, but her words hypnotized him. A bee landed on
his head. He did not move. “Surrender with a sigh,” he said.
“In this cold night air lit by the light in the trees— find your
family, see them and look into their hearts. See for the first
time the wounds that they hold there. And behind them, see
their friends and your friends and their friends and see how
their hearts are scarred and how their wounds have made
them. See what suffering we all carry. The world will
appear differently at this point. The lines between truth and
deception will become self evident. This crooked, poisoned
arrow must be removed from your heart.
Surrender with a sigh, he said
See the eyes of your family behind you. See how they love
you. See how they need you. You heal your wound by
seeing, understanding, their wounds. They heal their
wounds, by seeing how you have healed yours. This is not
about the words I am saying— it is about the world that you
are living and how you are living it.
Her voice echoed in the field. The sun hit the tree and shafts
of light could be seen like rays from the heavens, like visible
fingers waving her flag. The bees circled. Surrender with a
sigh.
“These wounds are healed and still we die. Death is the
moment of truth. It all passes in a flicker of light. There is
no choice but to live and love in line with the earth, with your
family, with truth and light. Live now.”
“The things you once loved,
living only in flickers
This small fawn, with bones and hair and teeth
Rattling its tiny dark frame
And with a sigh I surrender
And even still
We die
The sun for a moment blinded his eye and in the glare he saw
his daughter. And like the dream she was spinning in the air.
He could hear the music of strings. He could see the flicker
of white hummingbirds and iridescent dragonflies around
her. Everyone could see her like an angel. The gift had
returned.
In that moment the small fawn sighed its last breath.
In that moment he felt his mind, body and spirit clear.
In that moment the bee stung his forehead. In that moment
he understood the destruction and the necessary repair of the
path set in front of him.
In that moment the ground trembled.
In that moment a large roar deafened their ears.
In that moment the temporal dam holding back the brown
waters from the erosion broke loose.
In that moment he remembered, waters rising, the light in the
trees, and then surrendered with a sigh.
In that moment the community of villagers were safe on the
high field looking down upon their threatened homes.
In that moment the winds came again. In that moment rays
of light exploded onto the stage like bolts of lightening.
In that moment he felt his daughter holding his hand and each
person who loved her, holding their hands.
In that moment they all wept together.
And Surrendered with a sigh.
Surrender with a Sigh