Dear Boo and Bubble,
I can't believe it's been over a year since I last wrote to you on The Bridge Project. Please forgive me for the lack of inspiration, but honestly that's something over which I have no control because it's a quite illusive thing. Today, however, it randomly struck as I was going through some old files saved on the cloud. I ran across a story written over 15 years ago when Captain and I had our sailboat Up Jinks in Guatemala. Don't recall the impetus for it at the time, but it seems apropos to share with you now.
It's hard for me to believe that you are no longer the small children for whom The Bridge Project was originally intended. Calling you Boo (age 15) and Bubble (age 11) sounds ludicrous if you really think about it. But that's who you'll always be to me no matter how old you get.
This is a rite of passage story. I hope you find meaning in it.
Wisdom of the Mountain Master
For years, I had heard about the master…how all who maneuvered the woods and climbed the mountain as a child to seek his wisdom, descended as an adult. Thinking that the timing was arbitrary, I wailed “When can I go? When is it my turn?”
Finally, I did know. My mind filled with anxiety. I yearned to learn the secrets of life’s navigations – where to go, when to move, how to seize the moment, who to trust. Quietly, without fanfare, I slipped from my home. “The master will give me the answers,” I whispered to myself as I slowly shut the door behind me. “He will tell me what to expect on my life’s journey.”
The path to the master’s house was well worn and defined out of the village. The first half of it cut a large swath through a luscious grove of Sugar Maples, their limbs overarched, creating a shaded canopy beneath. The maples gave way to a stand of tall, majestic pine. After some distance, the incline increased, alerting me that I had reached the base of the mountain. I could barely see the master’s house with its small, thatched roof and pale puff of smoke rising from the chimney. My neck craned upward because it was at such a steep angle above me.
For almost an hour, I plodded up the mountainside, the path dwindling beneath me into ruts of rocks which made for rough footing. I grabbed at twigs and tree roots to steady myself. The air thinned which labored my breathing to the extent that I had to rest every few minutes and, even though it had cooled considerably, little beads of sweat popped out above my upper lip and right at my hairline.
Finally, I scaled one last tenuous slope and stepped onto a plateau where a grassy meadow spread out in front. The path cut clearly through the middle with the master’s house standing at the other end. Even though my legs ached from the toil of climbing, I raced downward exhilarated by the accomplishment of getting there. The master obviously saw my approach as he came out on the porch to greet me.
His appearance stunned me somewhat. I had envisioned someone old and weathered, with long grey hair and the flowing robes of a wizard. But he seemed ordinary; his close-cropped hair still held a vibrant brunette, and his clothes were no grander than those of my family. He might have been a farmer or brick mason or a sheep herder for all I could tell. Nothing about his countenance suggested anything extraordinary. He did have a presence about him, though, which made me feel at ease and as I came near, he reached out to shake my hand and welcome me to his home.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he said.
“And I, too,” I nervously stammered back since, as far as I knew, he had no forewarning of my visit.
“It’s always exciting to see someone on the verge of the great journey.”
“I am very ready, master. My time as a child is long since past. My journey is way overdue.”
He chuckled lightly at my chafing. “Then we should get started.”
With his hands on my shoulders, he guided me gently into the house. It was completely modest with only two rooms. While the smaller served as a bedroom, the larger incorporated the living area. One side was obviously the kitchen. A small wood-burning stove stood in the corner. The fire crackled inside offering some heat to the room and sending the smoke I had seen earlier up a crude metal shaft through the roof. Above, a cupboard held some rudimentary cooking utensils and an insignificant larder.
Across the room from this meek kitchen, bookshelves lined one entire wall with an extensive library covering every inch of available space. There were thick volumes bound with leather laces next to small books more professionally finished. Some stood upright, others flat, due to their size. Stuffed helter-skelter in the mix were loose sheets of paper that appeared to be original handwritten manuscripts.
The only window in the room was located on the wall between the kitchen and library. It was oversized with the shutters flung open to encourage a delightful shaft of sunlight to brighten the interior. Underneath the window sat a roughhewn oak table with two chairs. The master invited me to take one of the seats.
“Do you always donate your stove heat to the outside through this window?” I asked. Even though I really wanted to know, I was still startled a little by my own rudeness.
“Well, I see that you are a very observant person as well as inquisitive,” he responded with no hint of irritation. “That’s a good combination. But…to answer your question…what’s important to me is achieving a balance. If I close the window all the time, the house gets too hot. If I leave the window open all the time, it’s too cold. So, whenever things get too much one way or the other, I adjust.”
I mused over this information and the memory flashed across my mind of a seesaw my father made for me when I was a little girl. My cousin and I would play on it for hours, bobbing up and down and periodically attempting to stop with both of us mid-air, our weights balanced against one another to see how long we could stay in limbo. The thought of it must have registered on my face because the master noticed some slight change in my expression.
“Do you find that funny?” he asked.
“No, No. I was just recalling when I was small and played with my cousin on a seesaw made by my father. That’s all.”
“Ah, so you’ve experienced the effort that it takes to maintain balance?”
“I guess so, but it didn’t seem so hard to do...not an effort or anything.”
“Well, you’re lucky then to have had someone to teach you this skill at such an early age. It appears I spend most of my time working on it.” He paused for a moment as if for some reason he needed to contemplate this statement.
“Do you have a big family?” he abruptly continued.
“Not really, but I do have a lot of friends.”
“That’s nice. You can’t have too many friends, you know.”
I wondered then about him. “What about you? You live way up here all by yourself. Do you ever get to see anybody? Other than children like me, I mean?”
“Well now, let’s see. Does it stand to reason that since I am alone, I might possibly be friendless? One could argue so, but before actually answering, I think it’s important to define ‘friend.’ What’s your definition?”
I thought this to be a peculiar question. Surely everybody understood that friends are people with whom you play and laugh. I said as much. “They are my playmates. We do things together like flying kites in the meadow or romping barefooted in the streambed below the lake or diving into a drift of snow. That’s my definition.”
“I see. So, you spend time with friends, they help you while away the hours.”
“Yes, definitely.” I was proud of myself for answering the master’s question with such conviction.
“Ah, but can it not be that the real friend in the matter is the kite or the streambed or the drift of snow?”
“I don’t understand,” I responded somewhat deflated.
“Then I will introduce you to my best friends.” He scooted his chair back from the table. It made a rough scraping sound on the hardwood floor.
This totally perplexed me. To my knowledge there was no one else in the house and I certainly hadn’t passed anyone on the path up the mountain. He signaled for me to join him at the bookshelves, and I followed him.
“For me, many days go by without seeing another person. But these books can solicit from me any human emotion. I laugh. I cry. I am transported to other places. I learn. I grow. With these friends I spend my time and while away the hours. That’s your definition, right?”
“I guess I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“My point is that you are never really alone unless you choose to be and this, to me, would be a very fearful thing.” He paused just for a second, then segued, “Which reminds me, have you ever known fear?”
My mind raced through my life’s experiences and one distinct circumstance immediately surfaced.
“Oh, yes, positively I have.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I used to watch sailboats on our lake with a lot of fascination. We didn’t have a boat, but my father kept some scrap lumber in his shed, and he agreed to let me use some of it to build one. He helped me draw a plan, measure the wood and nail the boards together,” I explained. “My mother sacrificed one of her worn bed sheets for the sail and calculated for me exactly how much canvas I needed in proportion to the size of the boat. She fashioned some grommets in the sail and rigged the lines with a piece of old rope. Father whittled me a rudder out of another wood scrap.”
The master nodded his head as if his parents might have done something similar.
“Finally, the day came when we marched the boat down to the lake. We picked a day that looked just right, with enough wind that I could experience some movement over the water. I worked the rudder hard until the air filled the sail, and I was off. My parents ran along the bank whooping and shouting like children.”
My expression darkened. “Before long, I had made my way almost to the opposite side of the lake. That’s when I heard the first distant roar of thunder. I had been concentrating so hard, I hadn’t noticed that rain clouds were building in the sky and a storm was approaching.”
“Ah hah! I was wondering where this story was going,” he interjected. “What happened next?”
I continued. “My parents frantically called to me to sail back to their side of the lake. I turned the boat around. Rain started falling very hard as if the clouds had cracked open like eggs right above me. The drops pelted my eyes so forcefully, I could hardly see anything. The wind whipped into a fury causing the sail to billow with such power that the rigging rope flew from my hands. I lay down on my stomach and crawled carefully forward a little, grasping for the rope as it snapped in the air like a snake.”
“Finally, I caught it just before the bitter end cracked me in the face and I gained some control over the boat. Soaking wet, my parents shouted instructions to me from the shore. Even though the whistle of the wind and roar of the rain drowned out most of their words, I could understand some of it and responded accordingly.”
I took a deep breath, reliving the horrific feelings of that day.
“The boat crashed ashore bow first which sent me tumbling into the mud. My rudder broke in half, the sail was torn to shreds, but I was safe, and my parents ran up and fell to their knees beside me. I was shaking so hard it took them both wrapping their arms around me to make it cease. Yes, to answer your question, I knew fear that day. You can certainly see why, can’t you?”
The master hesitated for a moment. “Yes, you were no doubt afraid and with good reason. But there is something much more fearful than the experience itself.”
“What could that possibly be?”
“That you may not learn from it. Tell me, what did you learn?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that it ended.”
“Precisely.”
He saw my consternation at this remark and suggested that we sit back down again. “I’m being very rude. Could I interest you in some hot tea?”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
He scurried off to the kitchen leaving me at the table by myself. By now, we had been talking so long that mid-afternoon had descended, and I marveled at the sun-drenched scene out of his window. Although indiscernible from the front of the house, the back jutted out over a precipice that plummeted straight down off a craggy rock face of the mountain. This gave an unfettered view of the valley below and the far distant vista. I leaned forward a little to focus on recognizing anything familiar to me.
“Quite a spectacular picture, isn’t it?” he proffered as he brought a tray to the table with tea bags, two cups, a sugar bowl and creamer. “The amazing thing to me is that the farther away you are from something, the less threatening it is. Like that bridge over there.”
I strained to see what he was talking about. He pointed out the window and I followed the line of sight until a quite picturesque bridge appeared.
“Doesn’t look like much from up here, does it? Not very long, you can’t hear the water roaring underneath it. Just part of a pastoral scene.”
“It’s lovely, though,” I responded in support of the bridge.
“Well, let’s suppose that this very bridge is the one you’re going to have to cross on your journey. I guarantee you when you are at its edge and go to take your first step, it will be much more intimidating.”
Our conversation had been so random up until then, I had forgotten the real reason I was there. The master was supposed to be preparing me for my journey into adulthood. We had frittered the day away on small talk.
“Master, it’s getting late, and we have yet to speak of my journey. I am excited but apprehensive as well. Tell me, what can I expect?”
The whistle of the teakettle on the stove spiraled upward to a scream and the master withdrew into the kitchen to retrieve it. He poured the steaming hot water into my cup first and then his own. Dabbing the teabag up and down, he stared reflectively out the window.
“There are only two things I can tell you about your journey. First - once you start it, there is no turning back. Oh, you will want to, but life won’t let you. Every footprint you leave on the path evaporates with each new step, no longer marking the trail home, but forcing you forward. Second – once you’re through, everyone and everything significant in your life will be simultaneously both familiar and foreign, the same yet different.”
His explanation left me vacant. “Master, I asked you to tell me what to expect.”
“This I can not. Every journey is unique. Only the beginning and the end are the same.”
This truly confounded me. If he continued to be so cryptic, how could I ever know what to suppose. “But how do I know I’m prepared? We haven’t even talked at all about what I will require to endure my life’s journey.” I spoke deliberately trying to keep my annoyance hidden.
“Oh, you’re wrong. We’ve talked about it all day.”
“We have?” My mind raced over all the things we had discussed. Nothing registered as apropos to my concerns.
“And, my child, you are ready. You have all that you need to cross the metaphorical bridge.”
“I don’t feel that I know anything more than when I entered your door,” I said indignantly, some of the irritation beginning to surface.
“Then you must trust - trust me that I tell you the truth; trust your parents that they’ve provided the skills you will need; and most importantly trust yourself to understand what they are.”
He fell silent and took another sip of tea, although by now the brew had chilled. If my temper had any impact on him, he didn’t show it. I sat very still across the table, watching him, absorbing what he had said and tamping down my anger. The sun’s cast on the vista outside the window indicated that late afternoon had set in.
“My, my,” he said suddenly. “It’s getting late. I’ve enjoyed the day so, I didn’t realize. You must be on your way while there’s still daylight for your return to the village. The upper path is much more treacherous going down than coming up, especially if darkness is falling.”
I pushed my chair back. He did the same.
“Before you go, could you help me close the shutters? I can do it myself, but it’s much easier with two and the cold night air will overtake the house pretty soon.”
“Of course,” I replied. “You need to keep your balance.”
He chuckled at this.
We stationed ourselves on opposite sides of the window and unlatched the shutter guards. He instructed me to pull mine in first. It was cumbersome and surprisingly heavy for my strength, but I managed. He gathered his shutter to the center and clamped the two together. With the light extinguished, the room darkened almost completely. The flickering flames of the stove provided only enough illumination for navigation around the house.
Together we walked through the room to the door. Still not quite sure exactly what I had learned, I awkwardly thanked him for his time.
“I wish you well,” he said. “Maybe someday we can talk again. I’d love to know how things go.”
I walked down his steps and tromped back across the meadow. As I came to the end and climbed the upslope that marked the path’s descent, I turned to look at the master still standing on the porch. He smiled and waved. Strange – his face, his countenance, the house, the meadow – they were all the same, yet there was something else – what was it? They were also somehow different. I realized at that moment my journey had already begun.
