February 6: A Mystery, My Sister, Mystical Fairy Tale

What [A. I. Explixa] next said remained forever with Ives:  "Some men seek enlightenment, others not, but find it in any case . . . . In some the divine is present, a thimble's worth, in others, it is like a sea . . . . Buddha, the Christ, the prophet Mohammed--in other words, the great mystics--are but receptacles for the grace and wisdom of the Eternal Principle:  'God flows through all of us, to some degree' . . . a Mystery.  His is a presence that is only an intimation of what stands outside of time and yet makes it possible."

At this point in the novel, Ives has had a mystical vision.  One that he doesn't understand, because it is outside of his Christian realm.  It isn't a flock of angels singing in the heavens or the Virgin Mary with a bleeding heart.  His vision is of the world's goodness.  He sees sidewalks breathing and the sun spinning and colored winds.  The vision fills Ives with euphoria, and, yet, for the rest of the book, he struggles, seeking an explanation for his experience.  A. I. Explixa, an Indian mystic, provides the wisdom above.

I just came from the hospital where I visited my sister.  She is once again septic.  The wound in her back developed yet another abscess.  She's full of infection.  Her hospital room was dark when I got there, but she was awake.  She offered me a Diet Pepsi.  I sat and talked with her, asked her about her dinner, her treatment.  I told her about my daughter's ballet recital tomorrow night.  And then, she looked so tired. I said, "If you want to go to sleep that's fine."  Pretty soon, she closed her eyes.

I sat in my chair, staring out the window.  Snow had just fallen, so the world was soft and white.  I said a little prayer for my sister, asked God to watch over her.  Heal her.  I felt this incredible wave of sadness wash over me, and the final vestiges of light just sort of winked out of the sky.  I was overwhelmed by this grief for several minutes.  I thought about my brother who died last May.  I could almost feel him in the room with us.  Like he was standing by my sister's bed.  It wasn't frightening.  It was . . . oddly comforting.

After about ten minutes, I got up, kissed my sister goodbye, and left.  But I still feel that sadness hanging on, like a damp coat.  I don't know if that qualifies as a mystical vision, but it certainly changed my whole emotional state tonight.  I went from frenzied to melancholy.  I don't know which is worse.  And I don't know what the melancholy is for.  My sister.  My brother.  The whole situation.  Left-over grief.

Once upon a time, a man named Bob was fishing in a boat.  Bob didn't catch a thing all day.  As Bob was pulling up his anchor, a seagull landed on the bench next to him.  Bob tried to shoo the bird away, but it just looked at him, as if it had something to say.

Bob shook his head.  "Unless you can tell me where the fish are biting," he said, "you have nothing that I'm interested in hearing."

The bird coughed, cleared its throat.  Then it said, "Jesus said, 'Eat my body, and you shall have eternal life."

Bob nodded, grabbed the seagull, wrung its neck, took it home, and cooked it for dinner.

Moral of the story:  Bob's a mean bastard.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Something we tend to forget