I have a brother down-under. We trade stories almost every day. I know it hardly seems possible that the two of us, with such dissimilar lifestyles would ever even touch base more than once or twice a year. Yet the depth of this morning’s conversation helped me see once more that our connection is deeper than kin, and more complex than the crossing of chromosomes in the evolution of race. Let me take you there.
We were both relaxed in our places, I on the recliner in my suburban home, and he in sandals, maybe barefoot. Yet it was as if we were together—met half-way on a tropical island—paradise of color and ancient sea breeze. Time did not call, but left us to the whim of every past event we shared in recollection. Slowly flowed the river and quick, like an egret’s pick for minnow-bits after waiting with evening’s shadow to claim the east bank. He told me once he watched one for hours, not knowing how patience could apply to his world of survival. Then, he said, the gangly bird, white and sure, turned and looked at me, looked me in the eyes. I became the egret. I was surrender. Home on the wind.
And there was the Museum of Mobridge. We viewed the displays of glass and steel, historical vignettes of lives we never knew—each somehow becoming part of us in the eternity of now. From the mezzanine, where we had tea and strudel, we watched the morning light on two levels change the forms from crimson, gold, and ships dancing to the beauty of maidens in the secret of our dreams. Caves of illusion re-lit with wisdom unwound and not worded—even by Rumi, Keats and Thoreau. It’s told in many forms by all.
We took many journeys. More than usual this morning—to heavens and hells. Comfort and protection in the brotherhood of wisdom dreaming. Better to drink with a friend than alone. And better if its water after long days of thirst. Oasis in the desert. Lights in the darkness renew. Danger only comes with fair warning, and fortune is not free. Soul equals Soul, they say. He does. And I . . . .
I’ve never met my brother outside my recliner or rack. I’m not even sure in what age he lives. There is this daydream world together. Nights too we journey. Its contemplation is an exercise of Soul.