When I was very young, I developed the slightly unorthodox idea that I would not be allowed to die until I had seen and experienced Perfection. And not being sure of what Perfection was exactly, I was completely open to whatever form it might take in revealing itself to me. I watched and waited expectantly.
Later as a child, when I was riding in my parents’ car one afternoon after a rain storm, I thought that I’d, at last, witnessed it. Instead of seeing a rainbow arching across the newly washed sky, the vault of heaven had opened above me, and its entire shimmering, celestial expanse had draped itself in a spectrum of colors — a graduated, vivid, prism effect, reaching across the sky.
As we traveled through my version of Elysian Fields, I gave myself over to its wonder, feeling certain that the mystery surrounding absolute excellence had lifted its veil and revealed itself to me. I felt honored and privileged for a very long time after that, secure in the knowledge that I had found what I had been looking for.
But as I grew older, and with each passing year, the memory of what I had witnessed first-hand paled; its vivid colors blended together and lost their definition and luster. Had my vision been a dream or a fantasy? More and more I regarded it as a phantom. Or maybe, I thought, that children do see angels and play with fairies and believe in daydreams until the day that sweet innocence has faded away completely, and they never come again.
No Comments Yet