The flow- An allegory

I sit heavily by the side of life’s dusty, hot and rocky pathway. My blistered feet are covered in dirt and an ageing suitcase only just bears my weight. I sit morosely and watch others pass by in the flow of enthusiasm. They have clear directions in their heads and hope in their hearts, whilst I try to figure out how to go on.

Questions that seem to have been with me forever have knocked me down. How can someone with such love, such reassurance and such hope, lose all direction? My questions, offered honestly, reach inevitably towards Heaven.

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As I sit, regretting what is past and fearing what is ahead, my feet grow heavier still. I sense the scorn of others who took a different direction. The derision even of those whose destination is less clear or undecided yet. I sense hope drain from me, like diesel in a rusty truck.

Appearing abandoned, I sit mostly ignored and insignificant, whilst a thin layer of dust inevitably covers me. I notice how fine it is, like the crema on a cheap coffee. How it built up imperceptibly as I sat here. I remember that I used to enjoy my coffee once.

Head bowed and heavy, I see a shiny black ant pass my way. Small and apparently insignificant, It carries homeward some prize in its mandibles like a great machine. A scene that has played out before me a thousand times without me bothering to notice. This time, lacking everything I need, I am caught up in the miniature marvel unfolding before me. The ant, unconcerned about everything else, is enveloped in the flow of its purpose.

It strikes me that the ant seems unperturbed by my gigantic presence. ‘How lucky,’ I murmur to no one.

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A cool, onshore breeze gently captures the lines in my furrowed brow and so I look up for the first time today. It is one of those insignificant moments of relief that you miss when you are too busy. It cools me ever so slightly.

With the breeze comes a bird on a wing. It settles comfortably in a nearby tree and I notice that it is an increasingly rare Black Faced Cuckoo Shrike. One of my dearly departed Father’s backyard favourites. He would always point them out to me and humorously return their whistle. It was a rare moment of joy and for a second I wonder if this one is actually him, come to give me hope.

The Shrike chatters and hops about in the shade. I feel all at once joyful, hopeful and yet broken in grief. I know instantly that if it had been my Dad, he’d say “Get up, Son,” in that warm, accepting tone he developed as he aged. He’d say “It doesn’t end here. You’ve got a lot to live for yet.”.

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My father, if he had a voice, would tell me to let go of the past. He’d say that I should spend more time in the present. A lesson he had learnt himself. He’d remind me to enjoy the little things, like the sound of granite crunching underfoot in the early morning on some long driveway in the country.

Dad would quote poetry, probably Kipling, like he’d done many times before. He’d remind me of the ‘Smell of the wattle in Lichtenberg, riding in the rain” so that I’d remember that the big things pass and the little things remain. He’d remind me that poetry is important and that words connect us.

My father would tell me to appreciate how lucky I am that my little boy still likes to hold my hand in public. He’d tell me to relax and have a slow beer in the shade sometimes. He’d tell me I deserve it.

I think that perhaps, God might say much the same thing. Perhaps He is.

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A single tear, born of that moment, slides gently down my cheek and falls. It splatters in the fine dust and is quickly gone in the heat, much like the moment that created it.

Suddenly, as if its job is done, the Shrike is off up the road. It stops briefly at the next tree to look around, then is off in the flow. I notice that finally my feet feel a little lighter and my forehead has cooled somewhat. Years of brokenness have taught me to grab any motivation that passes while I can, no matter how small. In a moment I have re-shouldered my load and I am once again on that dusty road to Salvation.

As I walk, I realise things have changed. There is a flow in my step. For the first time I notice the delectable and not so distant ocean, with its delicate, salty breeze. Though I remain exhausted and covered in dust, the beckoning promise of the aroma of freshly brewed coffee by the beach wafts across my mind’s eye. I think to myself as I walk that I might have a cappuccino and look around for a while.