One raw spring day, I took my then 2-year-old daughter to see the Disney version “Alladin” at our neighborhood movie theater in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. It was meant to be a big day for Alex, her first big screen movie! Yet after all these years, I remember a scene in that movie: a key slips into a lock and the entrance to a cave slides open. What seemed to be barren desert is revealed to contain wonders, treasures. The boy who seemed to have nothing was being offered riches beyond comprehension.
Once in college, during a stretch when I felt bereft and bewildered, I had I vivid dream. I was stranded in a ghost town on the prairie. Yet under that shuttered and lifeless place there was an ancient city, an extraordinary structure with arches and pillars, everything inlaid with brilliant jewels, veined with canals filled with dark, flowing water. I traveled through the city in a kind of gondola, amazed that such a world could exist under a place that was so godforsaken.
Many, many years later I have come to understand that being in the wilderness is a crucial part of the journey. If we can bring an allowing awareness to the experience (and sometimes, often, if we can just weather it) the key will turn in the lock and reveal the cave of wonders, the underground city will appear. Be brave. Or just be a little bit willing to soften and sink into your felt experience. Here for inspiration is “Diving into the Wreck” by Adrienne Rich.
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it….
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light….
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
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