Interrupting momentarily this brief journey defined as ‘life’ are events so beautiful and captivating they bid one to forever alter the path that seemed the obvious choice no longer. To some, this event is named ‘inspiration’; a precursor to a hidden trail along one’s personal journey that has been described as a calling to one’s true destiny. Some heed to this call willingly, accepting the unknown with earnest. Others shy away in favor of the secure path before them, henceforth only able to recall the trail’s inlet through the fog of memories and ponder where it might have led. The tale in which I record at present depicts each a man of one choice or the other, and the fate of merely one.
A traveler passing through a dense forest had become terribly lost when dark clouds above threatened a mighty storm. A distant voice beckoned and led him towards a rocky cliff face, an alcove decorated with drying racks for herbs and hand-made tools which surrounded a coily-haired hermit. The hermit welcomed the traveler to share his shelter until after the storm passed. The traveler was grateful, though curious, and wondered why the hermit did not return home before the rainfall. The hermit responded that he was looking for someone, his wife, and would not return home without her. The traveler had not encountered one of her description and the hermit was neither distressed nor surprised.
Years ago, when the hermit was foragering that very forest, a particularly heavy rainfall suddenly befell him, though what was truly peculiar wasn’t the suddenness but rather the completely cloudless sky hanging above the forest’s canopy. In fact, the sun was somehow brighter and a glowing aura illuminated a nearby cliff face that would shield him from the downpour. From this respite could he admire the warm, sparking rainfall interrupted by a distant cry.
Abandoning his shelter and rushing deeper into the slippery forest, he found a woman at the bottom of a muddy bank, cradling an injured leg. Despite being covered in mud, he was stunned by her beauty and the fine silk kimonos that adorned her. He helped her to his home, tending to her wounds and cleaning her clothes. The woman explained she was on her way to a wedding but got lost in the forest. The man offered that she remain until her injuries healed.
Time passed and her injury had long since healed and yet she remained at the man’s home. They had fallen in love and planned to be married but she first must reunite with her family before it was to be so. The man offered to accompany her but she insisted he stay and wait for her. She promised that she would return on their wedding day, when the rain fell once more on another cloudless sky. Since that day, he had been here waiting.
A pitiable silence nestled under the cliff’s edge and slowly the dark clouds dryly parted, allowing the light rays back into the embrace of the trees. The traveler offered his thanks and departed the lonely man, returning to the road and resuming his trek. No sooner than he had, the air grew hot and, in waves, descended a drenching storm. The sun’s light became sharper than even the brightest summer day, just like how the hermit described. It was no coincidence then that not long after the traveler could hear the hermit’s distant shouting receding into the woods, all but overtaken by the rainfall. The traveler gave pause: He considered following the man, to witness if he’d reunited with his lost wife, but he did not lest he become lost, as well. Fortunately for he, a path of fox tracks guided the traveler away and out of the forest. He would never know the fate of the forest-dwelling hermit.
It is only in hindsight and one realizes these sorts of events are plentiful, and yet we frequently overlook them in favor of our focused attention on the road ahead, never to know if we are truly better for having done so. It is a matter of each person to choose their own way with, if not confidence, than conviction. Much like the sun-drenched rain, some things we cannot possess; merely, be so fortunate to have witnessed it at all.
The rainwater forks:
One stream stretches out to sea,
One floods a fox hole.
Douglas Rysdyk 