Time
He gently pushed the door shut behind himself and heard the delayed click of the latch reengage. He immediately felt the physical peace and thrill of weightlessness. Unfettered as a bird he hung suspended until a sudden stinging slap of the water’s surface dazed his senses. His reality quickly awoke from its deception to the proof that he had been falling. Submerged now, unable to breathe or see, he groped his way toward the surface and seized a quick breath. His arms and legs fought one another in a disorganized frenzy; his torso contorting and writhing, focusing only on the next opportunity for air. He floundered and splashed to keep his head above the water’s surface. The falling spray fell on what seemed to be a large log a few feet away. He made his way to the log and challenged himself to hold on but the span was as wide as the height of a man. He carefully pulled himself along the side of the log hoping to find it easier to manage in one direction or the other, but there didn’t seem to be an end or change in its circumference.
The water was neither hot nor cold and had no noticeable current. There were no visible clouds or stars above or even a breeze on which to gain a bearing. He saw nothing but a faint glow originating from beyond the horizon. The anxiety of not knowing what lurked in the depths beneath sparked a series of short frantic breaths. His heart raced as his legs kicked desperately in spite of their fatigue but failed to propel him to the top of the log. The harder he tried to climb the faster the log rolled out of his control. He hit the log with his fist as children do when they’re not given their way but it continued to roll, for even logs have rules to obey. He grabbed the log in his anger in an attempt to stop it and was pulled under and around over the top before letting go. He stopped and stared at the log’s rolling without anger or senseless whining, and instantly formulated a plan and determined to begin practicing to hold on and to work to get the log to just the right speed to pull him to the top and no farther. He found patience that he didn’t realize he possessed, or maybe patience was the supernatural byproduct of the vision that he believed was worth fighting for. Nevertheless, the hardest thing about this goal wasn’t accomplishing it but maintaining it.
While struggling to balance in the calmness of the moment, a faint sound of rushing water became evident from deep within the black abyss. As he listened, his body awkwardly adjusted in an unsuccessful attempt to compensate for the log’s rolling as it casually dipped him back into the water. He made his way back to his perch and struggled again to balance, but each time he relaxed or thought about anything other than the distribution of his weight, he was plunged back where he began. In the midst of this routine (which accomplished nothing more than maintaining his existence) it came to mind that the longer he did nothing, the less likely it would be for him to do anything. Paralyzing fear disguised itself as apathy manifesting itself in the symptom of laziness. There was no way of knowing how long he laid there prostrate. It was the ominous grown from the darkness that jostled his indifference, fed by the light which seemed to be dimming while the sound of rushing water raged more intensely behind him. An uneasy feeling grew in his gut, but he didn’t know how to let go. It was clear that something needed to be done. He chose the safest available option and allowed the log to dip him into the water. Without letting go, he began kicking and pushing the log toward the light.
The longer he kicked the stronger he became, but, in spite of his effort, the warning continued to grow louder behind him. The light was almost gone when something either coincidental or divinely ordained occurred. The log began to roll. He instinctively held on as his own grip sent him under water and around over the top and back again. His insecurity fastened him tightly to the log as he continued to ride and roll plunging a second time to the opposite side where the water filled his nasal cavity and shocked him into releasing. He waited helplessly as the log continued to roll as if it were propelled somehow, and thought about the irony of his instinct of self-preservation putting him in greater danger. He probed around with his feet attempting to find what the log had hit but found nothing. He evaluated his simple surroundings and saw the design in how the light and darkness were diametrically opposed to one another and the fact that the log was floating directly away from the light. It was certain now that whatever the log rolled over was stationary, which meant that there was a current, but more importantly, there was land.
“Am I being lead toward my destiny?” he hoped in vain as the voice of reason attacked. “Any fool knows that nothing good ever came from doing nothing.” He realized too that he would never make progress pushing the log upstream. He was certainly strong enough now to swim without the security of the log, but his imagination delayed him further by considering the number of unforeseen obstacles hiding in the vast waters ahead, and whether his strength would last until he could find another object on which to rest. Though he couldn’t know precisely of the level of danger of rapids or waterfalls, he had no desire to learn first hand. He did understand now that things, good or bad, unattended, only get worse. The current would likely increase and inevitably put him in a position where it would be impossible for him to free himself without outside assistance. At that moment he felt very much alone, but he didn’t need anyone to remind him of the choice he must make based on the evidence that had been continually before him: light or darkness. He lined himself with the soft dim glow toward the horizon, pushed off the log, and began to swim.
Without reference to sun, moon and stars, there was no night or day. Without hot or cold there was no season. There was no telling how long or far he swam. Right arm, and left arm, and right and left, over and over, again and again. He examined the rhythm of his stroke, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. His kick was three beats for every arm: Right-two-three, left-two-three. He had become a human metronome. He could alter his feet to four beats to every arm: Right-two-three-four, left-two-three-four. Each type of stoke he used to swim had a unique rhythm and tempo. The breast stroke was a slower tempo: pull-kick-glide-and pull-kick-glide. His consistent movement transformed his body into a rhythm machine. Once the beat had invaded his consciousness, it was difficult to think of anything else. Whether the tempo of the stroke was quick and lively or slow and melancholy, it was a consistent welcome companion. When this internal pulse overpowered the physical sound of the splashing water, something miraculous occurred: a motif was revealed. This small melodic seed of a song enjoined the consistent beat forged from his desire to move forward. And, like any living thing that is properly fed and given room to grow, each idea soon became a mature melody which in turn bore fruit in the form of a lyric. Words; physical musical expressions of complex meaning so potent and powerful, the accountability for which was given to no other creature created by God. Song after song propelled him: Songs of his time; songs of hope; songs of where he had been and where he was headed. He birthed songs that mattered; songs that would only later prove to be timeless.
He looked up only occasionally to monitor his direction. He couldn’t help but think, “How long? Have I been swimming for hours or for years?” He didn’t measure by the day or week but by each new song, and there were hundreds. In addition to the songs, there were ideas, revelations that sparked more new ideas and possibilities. Each joyful thought enabled another stroke. Each stroke was a measured accomplishment, but, more encouraging than this, these were things no one could ever take from him.
And then a crack. He saw lights but not from the horizon. These lights were blinding yet lingered before his eyes like fireworks. Stunned, he floated lifelessly just under the water’s surface. Growing pain and a tender sprouting lump on the top of his head were the symptoms of careless overconfidence. After the flash of light faded, his curiosity urged his fingers to search for a forehead shaped indentation on the log he had struck. He maneuvered himself under the log and swam toward the light stopping instinctively just short of another log. His throbbing skull told him that a change of strategy was at hand. Since the glow of the horizon was in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to see the reflection of an object until it was upon him. He would either have to slow down considerably or raise himself up somehow in order to see what lay ahead. He swam back to the nearest log and lifted himself up to his waist. He saw what may have been a log in the distance ahead, and chose to swim to it. He took advantage of every opportunity to lift himself and scout the distance, and then use each log to push off toward the next. Certainly there would always be something ahead on which to rest, but the things that made him feel secure always flowed in the wrong direction.
The logs were set before him randomly with no way to predict the distance between them. The fear of another lump on his head made it difficult to focus on anything much less a new song. His circumstance was determining his behavior again. Fear had undermined his strength. What had once been focused confidence had become timid and reactionary behavior. He had to lift himself higher still. He grabbed the next log in his path and lifted himself up and swung his leg over the top to a straddle position. The jagged bark of the log cut into his tender thighs and when he attempted to stand, even with his strength and coordination he found it too painful and precarious to balance for even a moment. He made several attempts to bring himself to a standing position and failed, falling again and again on the log’s hard rough surface. This was not at all like hanging on or letting go or pushing off. He wrestled with the frustration of discouragement for a moment and thought it couldn’t be done. But even so, he tried once more, and then again. He remembered the courage he instilled in the beginning by fighting just to hold on and the endurance he forged from swimming and the progress he’d made because he didn’t turn back. He rejoiced in the coordination he found after countless unsuccessful attempts at pushing off the log. He tried to stand over and over, and he fell again and again, bumping and bruising, scraping and cutting. Finally, shaky and awkward, he stood. He was so surprised he forgot to take his eyes off his feet, but it was possible. It wasn’t long afterward before his feet were calloused and he was standing tall able to study the expanse ahead.
By now the light beyond the horizon was glowing as strong as it did when he first entered, and he thought, “All this effort to be back where I started?” but he knew only too well that even though he was back at the place where he first began, he was not the same. He was stronger. He was calloused. He was able to lift himself higher to see farther which made him more prepared for the unknown yet to come. Not only was he able to lift himself physically, his songs of joy and triumph lifted his spirit as well. But, there would always be a limit to how far he would be able to see. His physical stature wasn’t going to change, so unless God himself were to reach down and lift him up, for now he would have to be satisfied with what he had. So he swam, not realizing that each stroke was slightly more efficient than the last, or that the trials ahead were becoming more numerous because he was moving faster. And though the distractions made it more difficult to concentrate, the songs he would write now, though few, were more valuable, predicated on each new stage of growth which was considerably harder to obtain.
Standing tall; scanning the distance, he saw something most peculiar. The line of the horizon was slightly curved. “Land?” he thought. “What else could it be?” He leapt into the water with excitement and swam like he’d never swum before. He arrived at a small island and noticed for the first time that he wasn’t alone. There were other people here. He pulled himself through the water to the shoreline and stepped for the first time on dry land only to stumble which made him smile. He had hoped to trade songs and stories with someone, anyone, but even though the light was still very dim, it was apparent that he wasn’t welcome here. There were no smiles in this place; no warm embraces. The people here didn’t seem to need one another. They were content either in or near holes they had dug in the ground while they guarded what they had collected which consisted of little more that smooth stones and sea shells.
A slight rumble from the ground quickly changed the expressionless faces of the island dwellers to a mild panic. “What did they know?” he asked himself as everyone darted into their respective pits. From the direction of the light rolled a large log. It was taller than a man, and stretched the entire width of the small island and beyond the boundaries of sight. In the hustled movement there arose an argument. Two residents were fighting over the same hole. One person had imbedded himself in the hole throwing things at the other person. There was no telling to whom the hole belonged. The fighting became more furious as the log drew nearer. The outsider tried to force his way into the hole along side of the other, but was kicked away just as the log rolled casually over the top of the victor. The weaker man tried to leap up over the log but hadn’t the strength. He limped on just ahead as the log pressed on after him. He passed other people in other holes and pleaded only to be met with more stones and heels. Our swimmer easily rolled up to the top of the log and balanced himself there for a moment. He gazed on from above while his feet effortlessly followed the log’s rotation. He watched as the man was forced completely off the island. His first inclination was to save the man. He could have certainly done so as easily as returning a bird to its nest. But after viewing the disjunctive uninspired inhabitants of this place, he saw a far greater blessing disguised in the suffering in the water offshore. He could still see the man’s eyes begging him for help. He knew the man couldn’t possibly understand that there was only one way to truly save him. He let him go.
He leapt off the log and made his way to the opposite side of the island and departed into the water before the eyes of the relieved and astonished onlookers. He began to swim forward, guided only by the light, and found other islands much the same as the first. But unlike the people on the first islands, the farther he swam toward the light the more people worked together. They constructed cities and cathedrals only to be toppled over and over again. They were friendlier here and seemed to be happy building their castles in the sand. What they didn’t bother to observe was the longer they stayed, the harder it was to move, and saving their strength made them weak. He soon lost interest in lingering near the stagnant illusions of security and kept his distance. He could see how people would be inclined to retire to these places. He passed by the beautiful yet temporary monuments, each larger and more extravagant than the previous without regret.
From the top of a log he stood and viewed for the first time what appeared to be the tip of the sun fighting to peek over the water, and a small island ahead with no inhabitants. He swam toward the vacant island with eager curiosity. He hurdled through the surf onto the beach. There were no pits dug here; no evidence of human remains. “Have I traveled farther than anyone else?” he thought, turning slowly to view the entire island. The notion of something permanent became increasingly inviting. He completed his turn, but something obstructed the view of the light source. The white door stood out of context and alone. For the first time he slowed to pause. This was no place to stay but to choose. But he must make, not merely a choice, but a decision that would change his course and perhaps his destiny. He drew upon everything he knew from his travels; everything he had become, in order to do what was best for himself. He didn’t possess a reliable external belief on which to compare his assumptions. He relied entirely on the storehouse of his own experiences and feelings. As he slowly approached the door he drew strategically from each song and story; each trial and pain. He arranged his thoughts as a chess player would place pieces on a board in such a way to be prepared both offensively and defensively. “Have I made it? Is this the end?” He approached the door and studied it further. He reread the inscription,
“The Way the Truth and the Life;
The path to eternity:
Who is the savior Jesus,
And why did he die for me?”
It looked familiar, like an old friend welcoming him home. “But this can’t be what’s best,” he mumbled to himself. “I haven’t seen anything worth remembering. I’ve only just now witnessed the light and only a portion at that. There must be more. There has to be more.” While he debated the next step, the land rumbled as it had so many times before. The ominous overture preceded the giant roller’s grand destructive entrance. It arose out of the sea of glass and forced the choice. He placed his hand on the knob, turned it and pressed the door open only a crack and saw darkness within. With the log nearly upon him, he shut the door and left whatever the white door offered behind. He leapt over the log and didn’t look back. He had made his choice. Curiosity would serve no purpose lingering over a rejected option. He could just as easily contemplate his decision while he moved ahead toward the light. He knew if he looked back he might never leave this place. If he had made a mistake and there was a consequence to pay, so be it. But was there a mistake made? Was there an irreplaceable opportunity lost? It seemed that staying in one place was more destructive than moving forward. Starting another process before the benefit of the road at hand was completed was hardly satisfying. Even though the obstacles at the beginning of a process seem to be the most difficult, the seemingly insurmountable obstacles are found at the end of the journey. He found himself at the shoreline in ankle deep water. He looked down and saw a length of thin gold chain beneath the water half buried in the white sand. He reached down and pulled the chain out of the sand, and there, attached on the other end was a key sparkling as it spun. The word engraved on the key was desire. He placed the chain around his neck and began to swim.
The sun now appeared to have been placed as a large ball resting on a table, far too bright to behold directly. Nothing else was so pure or revealed so much. The light penetrated the water as glass. He could see his feet as clearly from under the water as he could his hands from above. He lowered himself a short distance below the water’s surface, and opened his eyes only slightly to an intense burning sensation. Even through eyes nearly closed, from beneath the surface, the light revealed a better view than he had had from standing on any log or island. He dove again and again practicing swimming under water. His eyes soon adapted, limited now only by his ability to hold his breat. He dove short distances at first and then longer; each time deeper until he could see what no longer could be comprehended or explained as we understand distance. He saw generations.
He prepared for a dive from atop a log by relaxing and taking several deep breaths. He had discovered that the body can be tricked by exhaling slightly. This reduced the body’s aching hunger for air and prolonged the time a body can function without oxygen. He took his last breath and dove. He swam farther and deeper than he had ever been before slowly exhaling throughout his decent. He turned to face the light, and, for the first time, saw a glimpse of what God sees (albeit from merely one of His perspectives but nonetheless rewarding). He rested there, far beneath the surface suspended without a care for even his next breath. He floated peacefully imagining he was something more than himself, connected somehow through this revelation to something far greater. But something was odd. The light was fading. An underwater current was drawing him deeper. He panicked and struggled until it was apparent that there was no amount of physical strength that would save him. He would never see the surface again. His hunger for breath would not be satisfied. As he was drawn deeper he saw farther until everything became clear and a blur at the same time. It was complete. He saw the beginning and the end. He kept his eyes open all the while the overwhelming and intense pressure grew in the depths. The light slowly faded into darkness. His eyes were forced shut. There was no more air to exhale. His body ached in confusion crying inwardly, begging to breathe. The current pressed and held him against something hard and flat: the door. He searched blindly for the knob, clenched it, opened the door and reached through the suspended wall of water that was constrained to its world confined to the boundary of the doorframe. He pulled himself through and gasped for breath.
© John Lindsay 2010. All Rights Reserved.
