by Earle Looker
Living not far from Charlottesville, both their families attended St. Paul’s Episcopal Church for major religious events but otherwise went to Emmanuel Church in Greenwood nearer their homes. David fondly remembered old white-haired Rev. Bowie, the parish minister, who seemed to be kind and wise in all ways, a sort of enigma to the boys. David and Alan had both been church acolytes and, having been confirmed, helped Rev. Bowie with Holy Communion on Sundays. Afterwards, to the left of the altar, in the preparation room, they would sometimes surreptitiously sneak away with some of the left over wine, but Rev. Bowie never let on that he knew.
Fine homes in the valley had names like Mirador, Seven Oaks Farm, The Cedars, Longhouse, Blue Ridge Farm, Piedmont, Ramsay, Rosehill, Oakleigh, Tiverton, Tuckahoe and Blair Park. There was even an enormous recently-built Italian Renaissance Revival villa called Swannanoa above Rockfish Gap. David’s grandfather had told him it took over 300 artisans eight years to build, complete with Georgian marble, Tiffany windows, gold plumbing fixtures and terraced gardens with fountains. Strange happenings were rumored to be going on behind its foreboding mysterious walls.
David dearly missed his old home and smiled as he recalled it. Approximately fifteen miles west of Charlottesville, it was nestled in a landscape of gently rolling hills made up of small forests, streams, pastures and many large farms and estates. The antebellum house, built sometime in the mid-1830’s, was approached by a long circular drive and was framed by ancient boxwoods and cedar trees. Built in the Georgian Revival style, it was a large, two-story, five-bay, hipped-roof brick structure with a full grade-level basement, a pair of gable end chimneys and prominent front and back two-story porches. At various times, it had served as a boys’ school dormitory, Civil War hospital, tavern and briefly a gambling casino. Also on the property were a barn, stables and carriage house, garden, potting shed, three greenhouses, one in ruins, chicken house, log smokehouse, equipment shed, family cemetery and old ruins of a large stone chimney and hearth. Their large pigeon coop served to supply Farmington Country Club and the better restaurants in Charlottesville and beyond with squabs. David’s bedroom overlooked Stockton Creek, forever gurgling east, its banks bordered by large Virginia pines; beyond, the distant pastures held a herd of contented black, fat Angus cattle.
The Emmanuel Church parishioners, David’s neighbors, were mostly well-to-do, conservative and likened themselves to country gentry, with the slightly inebriated self-assurance and inexplicable false sense of established superiority that apparently came with being an Episcopalian in rural Virginia. After church, many spent the rest of their Sunday at the Country Club over gin and tonics. He remembered the big fuss when, in 1911, modifications were made to the church, largely financed by the wealthy children of Chiswell Langhorne, who lived at “Mirador”, an impressive brick structure built in the Federal style with a deck-on-hip roof capped by a Chinese lattice balustrade; the front facade featured a portico with paired Tuscan order columns. Fox hunts on horseback were popular with the valley crowd on some Saturdays. But although he loved riding, and riding fast, David never cared for this sport; he found it to be arrogant, elitist, cruel and superficial and thus he and Alan would usually give it a miss, preferring instead the company of their friends.
Sometimes, David would go hunting in the mountains with “Gramps”. He admired his grandfather’s understanding, straight talk, humor and knowledge of all things. He loved Gramps and loved being with him – his rough hands, the cherry aroma of his pipe tobacco. Gramps had once told him the Atwood’s were early settlers to the valley and originally operated a tavern, store, distillery and mill on Stockton Creek; they had eventually done well for themselves. When he was just a boy, Gramps had said, Greenwood was a very quiet and even more remote spot with only a few houses, a church, a country store, a small inn on the one village street and only one local village drunk. Gramps was full of humor, common sense and wise sayings such as, “You know, Davie, it may sound like great fun to get down into the mud and wrestle with a pig. But at the end of the day, you’ll just be humiliated, covered in mud, pig shit and whatnot, but the pig just loves it.”
2
David had come to see the world anew as though looking “through a glass darkly”, as in a visible darkness. ‘How did I become this despicable, unlovable, twisted person I am today,’ he thought. ‘Why do I feel this way? Am I to be punished? Is there no one who can just shake me, bring me back? Maybe a doctor could prescribe some sort of stupefying tonic to bring this down and end the pain? But no, I must figure this out on my own. Whisky helps, but then I’m right back where I was before – no respite from this hopelessness, this aching anguish.’
Sadly remembering Alan and Anne, how alive they had been, now both dead! – Still too hard to believe. – He was becoming increasingly withdrawn, seriously out of sorts, very depressed. Some days he ate little, if at all – what was the point after all? He was just wasting space. There was little that held any interest for him; he had great trouble concentrating. Reading, a solace that usually worked, no longer did; reading anything just put him to sleep. But sleep held no respite from the pain; he always awoke totally exhausted.
Not unlike the dead man walking, he could not even bring himself to see Celeste, in spite of her letters repeatedly asking to meet; he just could not let her see him like this. The thought of doing so evoked agonizing tears of remorse and a dull ache in his chest. Neither would he respond to Gaspard; he felt the old Frenchman was sorely disappointed with him for a whole host of imagined reasons and could see right through him, with those blue piercing eyes, and all his assumed pretenses.
‘So much death and those endless dead-letters to write, waiting, always waiting,’ David thought.
The delights, eternal beauty and lights of Paris no longer held any amusement or attraction for him. David no longer went to clubs or cafés – the patrons all seemed so happy, with a purpose that escaped him – a confirmation of just how miserable he had become while others were living lives of love and purpose. And the bawdy come-ons from the painted mannequin whores in Pigalle left him cold. This deadening agony had been going on for days now, so much so he was becoming convinced it would never end.
In spite of promises of what appeared to be a new love, a new beginning, a bright future, a career, the horrors of the battlefield continued to terrorize his waking and sleeping dreams. ‘Alan – a bullet to the head! Anne and her unborn child – so tragic! Those men I killed, one just a boy.’
Why could he not just develop some simple terminal illness, something tangible and honorable, but not this – this lingering indefinable ache of hopelessness and despair? He had never been suicidal, but now mused that in an uncaring universe and a world full of evil and illusion, to “not to be” might just be the way to be – a gentle passing into oblivion – and then – what? – he did not know, but at least it could be a new beginning, a new body, a chance to get it right next time around – if such a thing were possible.
David had long been dwelling on Anne, a life gone so sadly wrong, and the pain she must have felt before taking that one final leap – a resolution, a plan of action, resigned to the finality of her death. But she was the lucky one, he thought. He was seeing Anne now as more a kindred spirit, even a sort of mentor, more than he did Celeste. Anne had been haunting his dreams, crying for him, taunting. He recalled the myth of when Orpheus descended and confronted Hades and Persephone, he sang a song so sweet they had to grant his wish of bringing Eurydice back up from the dead. How much he wished he could – or at least join her. Increasingly, more and more each day, he was coming to empathize with her, with an understanding – or so he thought – of the intensity of that pain she must have endured after she lost Alan and faced with the prospect of raising his bastard, unwed, unloved, in an unforgiving and judgmental world. Taking another slug from the whiskey bottle, David felt its burn down his throat, and silently congratulated himself on his new insights.
One ordinary evening, drinking once again to feel, if just a little bit, more human, he was startled when Gramps appeared to him – ‘or his spirit? – was this really – a ghost?!’ – accompanied by a cool, pine-scented mountain breeze and the smell of wood smoke. He was in some green wooded glen by Stockton Creek gurgling over stones. Champ, David’s much loved old retriever, now long since gone, and a feathered Indian were by his side. Alan, smiling widely, with Anne by his side, stood behind them.
“Gramps! Alan!” he cried. “Is it really you? But Gramps, you’ve been dead for five years now, killed in a riding accident up on Three Chop’t Road – you didn’t see the black bear nor he you until it was too late.”
Gramps removed the pipe from his mouth, his kindly visage turning to face David, and said, “You know, Davie, there is this inevitability of destiny we all have. You cannot escape it, and as well we shouldn’t. It is only through extreme trials and tedious effort that your spirit can be renewed – fulfilling a sort of contract with yourself. Remember how the ugly duckling became the great swan, the envy of all?”
“But Gramps, can’t you just come back to us? Nana cried so much her left eye twitches now, her visible loving remembrance of you,” David pleaded.
“No, Davie, I cannot. I have had my journey, and that was that, no regrets – left for a much, much better place, here with my good friend of the ages, Oshkenon. And surely you recognize your old friend Champ. But I’m with you. Remember, Davie, nobody is going to just hand you wisdom. You will only discover it for yourself after taking a journey of self-discovery no one else can take for you or spare you. Now you must learn to just stand on your own two feet and get on with it. OK?”
David implored, “But how can I do that?”
Gramps proceeded to try and explain, “Davie, you’ve been so damaged by the insults and trauma of battle and the loss of your friends. But you have also lost a part of yourself, part of your soul if you will, by compromising your true principles and morals and by facing situations too terrible to be acceptable or through fear. War is messy and always morally ambiguous; each man must make a choice. You already know that glory is only for those fools, who bask in their own illusion. But remember, aggression is the source of our problems, not the solution. The so-called winners and the damaged ones often turn out to be the same people. But the only ones who can be called winners are those who have strengthened their spirits by overcoming adversity through will, sacrifice and self-awareness.
“However, a few rare souls, through passage of trials and training, accomplishment and then enlightenment do develop an inner strength that enables them to face danger and horror without becoming damaged, cynical or crazy. Only then will you have earned the right to be called a spiritual warrior, and this means a life commitment. You know, there is a great difference between a warrior and a soldier. A soldier is trained to follow orders, respect authority, subjugate his individual thinking process and will to the command hierarchy. Now, a warrior is more autonomous and independent, embracing discipline, study and long intense training sometimes at the sacrifice of comfort and convenience. You must understand your own principles, what’s right for you even if it flies in the face of convention, and not compromise them. Yes, Davie, it’s easier said than done, but possible, certainly possible, and only through adversity does come strength. And it’s been said the two most powerful warriors are indeed patience and time.”
Alan and Anne, waved while slowly dissolving into a white mist.
Gramps continued, “A true warrior knows the only enemy he has is himself and what he has yet to shed light upon within himself. He must develop an attitude of persistence in the face of difficulty, pain, discomfort, discouragement, disillusionment, fear and the prospect of failure and utter doom without quitting. If his resolve wavers, failure and defeat are certain. The ancient samurai knew this. Remember, Davie, your enemy never forgets your weaknesses. A spiritual warrior also has clarity of intention, is ruthless and impeccable. Clear intention is uplifting and practical, it can always be applied – not through the soldier’s ruthlessness – mean, hurtful, self-serving – but rather a ruthlessness that says ‘I will love in spite of any challenge’. Now, impeccability allows your energy to be free of negativity and attachments so you can direct yourself into Spirit and expand your awareness of this world of illusion into the true worlds in Spirit. And now, listen, for here is my secret, a very simple secret for you to come to understand: Davie, it is only with the heart that one can see correctly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” 11
Gramps silently and slowly dissolved into a mist, saying nothing more. David called for him. There was a long pregnant silence, seemingly forever, but then a foreboding of something evil and wrong overcame him, that he was no longer alone. Suddenly, a host of demons and beasts – dark, vile fallen angels, all spines, blood and claws, sharp and painful agony and torment – swirled around, taunting and mocking him. With foul salivating, gaping, fanged, poisonous jaws, coming closer – closer – and closer …
David awoke terribly confused and terrified, trembling in a delirious sweat; the sheets were soaked and crumpled. “What the hell was that?! What just happened”, he shouted out to no one. ‘A dream! What a dream! Gramps! Come back. So clear, so emphatic’, he thought.
He splashed the grimy sleep from his face and began to revive. His head pounded; even the sound of water gurgling, spiraling down the drain, offended him. His mouth felt like an entire platoon, its troops bloodied and mud stained, had been marching through it all night. And his breath reeked of last night’s alcoholic abuse.
Once refreshed, David knew he needed to write – and write now; there was no time to waste or he would forget. He flung open the windows, let in the morning light and soft breeze, stretched, pulled out his notepad and began.
CHAPTER 18
Burdens of Sisyphus
“It is a matter of living in that state of the absurd.
I know on what it is founded, this mind and this world straining against each other
without being able to embrace each other.
I ask for the rule – of life, of that state, and what I am offered neglects its basis,
negates one of the terms of the painful opposition, demands of me a resignation.
I ask what is involved in the condition I recognize as mine;
I know it implies obscurity and ignorance;
and I am assured that this ignorance explains everything
and that this darkness is my light.”
~ Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays”
“Sisyphus” by Gustave Doré (1832 –1883)
Patience and time. David’s illness had largely dissipated, replaced with a revitalizing hope and improved health. He came to understand Anne’s suicide as an act done to rid herself of the pain of her illness, a trajectory sadly swirled out of control. His earlier outlook of anger and thoughts of her depression as just an excuse, with suicide an easy way out – for her and possibly for him – had been replaced with resignation of accepting what was. He knew he had been struggling to reach the heights and overcome these deep burdens of his soul only to be thrown down into the depths of depression. Yet, he had remained himself – alone, solitary, forlorn. But, as Camus wrote, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy” – because – “the struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” David’s decision, as someone in a transition, was to either break away from oppressive conformity and take full responsibility, or retreat into the comfortable safety of the ordinary and avoid the anxiety of taking any personal responsibility at all. He chose wisely.
David knew he was becoming more and more disciplined, internally and externally, with an impending mastery of himself, the “universal enemy” of self-ignorance. He was also more focused mentally, with an attitude of persistence in the face of any difficulty, pain, discomfort, discouragement, disillusionmen
t, fear or prospect of failure. For this, he knew he had to continue practicing and training himself.
He mused and wrote, ‘When existing solutions, assumed truths, beliefs and past decisions are exposed for what they are – unrealistic – transformation can occur.’ This new insight allowed him to view from a more appropriate and empowering perspective. He saw how he needed to begin transcending his own comfortable country club culture and obedient soldier conditioning so as to truly become a “world citizen”. ‘I must find my own unique spiritual truths, independent from any existing religions, philosophies or dogma,’ he continued.
With an inner peace of mind he had rarely if ever experienced before, David committed himself to growing his heart and soul – to love unconditionally – to becoming a creative human, taking full personal responsibility for his thoughts, feelings and actions.
‘The war is over; it’s now time to move on. Life is precious and intended to be joyful, seeing the ultimate good in all situations, and creating a life worth living,’ he wrote. With a new-found courageous confidence, he could now face, not ignore, the absurdity and anxiety inherent in being human and with a broader sense of protean awareness, ‘as though I am standing upon Afton Mountain looking down over the valley. This is a discovery of myself, a not unsettling loss of myself as pure ego – not a death but a resurrection.’
He continued to write furiously, ‘But it is not so easy to be patient, and it does take time. But this patience – surely it must be more than a waiting game. To be patient, I must have faith in having done all I can in the situation and knowing when to leave it alone. I now believe what Mother had said, which annoyed me at the time, that everything that is happening is happening the way it is for a reason – and the reason, he now knew, is the focus, the mental attitude, the lessons, the learning. Once I have learned a lesson, I must also learn to sit peacefully and wait, unconcerned for the outcome. But so many people have become complacent with life and the status quo. Perhaps they’re not really lazy at all but just lack the patience to do one thing, taking one step at a time, with hard work, commitment and necessary waiting, to get a thing done. My intention now is to access my innate strength, authentically connect with purpose and express my passions. My heart holds the key to living in harmony and in loving accord with others. I know I need to open my heart to deeper levels of feeling and appreciation,’ he wrote.