What if?

What if today we decided to act not upon our fears, our hatred or our ignorance but instead acted in love, faith, and an earnest desire to know the truth? What if we were to stop hiding and face the world as it is, knowing that however dark the situation might be, we can still bring to it our own light for others to see, however humble it might be?

What if, when we fall short of these goals, we permit ourselves to forgive ourselves? And when we fail, what if we were to get back on our feet, brush ourselves off, and begin again, a little wiser from our failures? In that way we would also be able to forgive others who have disappointed us, knowing that to err is human. We would then not need to believe that every time someone acted in a way that disappointed us we need take it as a personal affront. They are human, we are human. We are imperfect but capable of much good despite our imperfections. In short, we could believe in others and ourselves more than we have ever allowed ourselves to believe before.

What if we continued to focus upon a great and glorious future for mankind, knowing there is no other path that does not lead to darkness? I know, we’ve been down that path so many times and so many times we’ve been disillusioned. But that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? The path towards victory is littered with so many defeats both big and small. But it would be cynical and lazy for us to say it is hopeless to try. It is disingenuous to say we have not had our successes in making the world a better place. Perhaps we are not where we intended to be but that doesn’t mean we are not on the path. We have no way of knowing how much further we have to go but we are pretty aware of what the cost of failure will be. But knowing the dangers and the costs of failure, we need not dwell on them. If we are to succeed, we must set aside our concerns of such things and concentrate on moving forward.

The start of any accomplishment begins with a commitment. The start to a better world requires that we make a choice, and then pursue it without wavering at every small setback. The climb is rough, no doubt. But the view from the summit will be beyond any imagining.

To turn away from the fight is to turn away from the sacrifices of those who came before us. We stand on the shoulders of giants, we have in our reach the dream Martin Luther King Jr. knew he would not see but worked so valiantly and faithfully towards. So many have given their lives so that we could be where we are now, people who had a bright shining dream of what humanity is capable of, what we can be, will be someday, because we appreciated their efforts, their vision, their love of life.

But we must see such greatness within ourselves as well. We must see that we are all made of the same stuff as our heroes. They possessed nothing that we ourselves do not have, which made their accomplishments all the more remarkable. They were not idols to be worshipped but role models to be emulated. We all have a role to play, we all must do our part. Also, we must accept that others will do their part. Perhaps they need us to be their role models. Perhaps we can influence them. We must not wait around until we are certain everyone is doing their part, we must trust, we must believe. For only in trusting and believing will we ever have the strength to do our part.

This is not some adolescent fantasy I am putting forth, but in fact the very blossoming of our most mature human attributes. We’ve already tried the simplistic desire for a better world. The 1960’s was a time when we tested our immature beliefs in a better world. It has failed, it will always fail. That’s because we need to approach humanity’s future with all of the attention and commitment that we use when approaching personal goals. We must look out for each other the way we look out for family because in a very real way we are family to each other. Every day we have the opportunity to play the role of father, mother, sister or brother to those we meet.

Perhaps it is the very brightness of the possibility that causes some to turn their head away. Sometimes we are afraid to dream because we are afraid of failing. The cost of failure is so very great. The reward for success, too, is immense. We fear to begin, fear the task that is placed upon each of us as individuals. We are mere children, being pushed to stand on our own two feet. We often become frightened and wish to regress, wish to allow our parents to take care of us. But we have no parents, have no institutions nor benevolent leaders to do the hard work for us. We must do it. Ourselves. Each must stand on his own two feet.

But not alone. Each of us has each other. Each of us has a world of caring, loving, adults willing to not merely take care of their own interests but also to take care of the greater society of which we are all a part. We will each of us stumble, but others will be there to help us up. We will each of us see others stumble, but we will not permit their weakness to be a reason for us to despair or desert the path. We will find the strength within ourselves to set the example for others, even as we will surely find so many reasons to find inspiration in the actions and behavior of others. Of this one thing I assure you: you will find others whose work, effort, faith and bravery will humble you, will make whatever efforts you have put into this life seem light. But it need not be a competition, rather it will be a process of learning and discovery. We learn from the good in everyone, appreciate and celebrate the good deeds and accomplishments of the humblest among us.

Is this not a worthwhile way to live one’s life? Is this not the kind of world view that would bring out the best in all of us? What more valuable things can we pursue in life than peace, love, and understanding? Yes, the idea comes from a somewhat naïve era, but it was a very idealistic one. It was an era that was unafraid to reach out and explore new ideas, break new ground. The ideas that were born of that era were born weak and vulnerable, but they were born. Since that time, they have been battered and abused, been subject to all the nastiness that the world has to offer. They have been tested but still they endure. Though born puny and helpless, they have survived and grown stronger despite what the world has attempted to hurl at them. They survive, and they survive because they are strong and they are true. Peace. Love. Understanding. Hope, too. Let us add that because perhaps there was not enough of that the first go round. And lastly, let us add faith. Faith is the critical piece. Faith is a choice and we must choose. Faith is the piece of the puzzle only adulthood can give. Faith is commitment. Faith is living one’s life in accord with one’s beliefs and principles. Faith is choosing the road that leads to where you want to go and abandoning lesser avenues.

I have faith, in myself, and in you. I have faith in us, in humanity. I have faith because it is the only serious, mature answer one can have to the serious problems that face us. Doubt will not save us, it will only lead us back to the same bad habits that have brought us to this dangerous point we are now at. Doubt born of fear makes us abandon the idea of unity, makes us fracture into warring tribes that destroy rather than create. Doubt leads us to create walls rather than bridges. It is a juvenile reaction to the very real problems that we must deal with as mature adults. It is time.

Love In The Time Of The First World War

My first attempt at writing of love. The year is 1917, and silent movies were accompanied by live musicians, in this case a pianist.

Soon houses thinned into farmland and wilderness. Doug turned around, desiring the company and the light the town provided. How long he walked he did not know, not conscious of where he was going but merely trying to stay on whatever road seemed most well-travelled. Here and there were people headed towards their destinations, but Doug did not know what they were. Perhaps they were on their way to visit family and friends, on their way to houses that provided comfort and camaraderie to those who knew the owners.

For the first time in recent memory, Doug felt alone. Whatever the downsides of a lumber camp, there existed within it a certain comradeship. Interdependence required as much. And before that, even though alone, there were other words more apt to describe what he had been feeling. Fear, frustration, despair, but not a longing for human companionship. Perhaps his time in the woods had achieved the desired aim—he was thinking and feeling normal human thoughts and emotions again. Even the events of the last few months had not been able to prevent the healing that had taken place. Whatever might be wrong with the outside world, it did not have to leave its mark on his soul. He was beginning to feel whole again, and feeling whole, he realized that man was not meant to spend all his time alone.

Music drifted into his mind that seemed to accompany his thoughts. Elegant, beautiful music that stirred in him subtle and wonderful emotions. Anonymous longings sprang up in him like long-dormant flora, feelings universal and timeless. Another soul was touching his, telling him of deep mysteries beyond the understanding of man.

Music. It was a language that spoke of things over which words had no power.

Chopin! Tears came to his eyes and he did not know why. It was beauty, beautiful music beautifully played.

He did not realize it but he began to walk towards the source of the music. It was only a piano, but each note reverberated in him. It was another thing entirely than the music he had been used to of late, a fiddle played by oversized hands accompanied by a concertina and doggerel verses.

And just as suddenly the music changed. It was as if at once a chase began, and if to accompany it came a hunting song or a madcap dance. Looking up to the source of the sound he saw a rather large building and upon it read the sign for a moving picture show. He had come upon a theater, albeit a very humble one. A woman sat at a window, distractedly. The show had apparently already started, but Doug was able to get her attention and purchase a ticket. He entered into a small dark room with perhaps no more than fifty chairs arranged in front of a silver screen no more than ten feet across. And upon it played some drama concocted by one of the major studios. But while in other circumstances he might have been interested in the movie, it was the piano that called to him. It was too dark to see the people inside the theater as more than shadows, but he could see the movement of the pianist. It appeared to him a ballet dance, so fluid and lovely was the body as it swayed to the notes. She was positioned to the right of the screen, facing it so that she could respond musically to what was being shown. Every act and emotion upon the screen was played out more convincingly in the movements she made, more so in the music itself.

Doug could not even recall the movie he was watching, only that it was the most moving he had ever seen. Not the story itself nor the actors but the accompaniment. It lifted everything, from the simplest movement to the look of longing on the starlet’s face. Music infused the story, making it sublime.

Sometimes as the light on the screen was brightest, he could make out her fingers touching down gracefully upon the keys and it appeared to him in his enchantment they moved like tiny faeries in an intricate dance.

He did not see her face and yet he was convinced he loved her. Her grace and gentle soul, the playfulness that let drop hints of her depths like ripples on a pond. He was content to sit in the dark, alone with the music she played.

It was over far too soon. The film ended and the lights came on and-lo and behold! She was beautiful. Beautiful as the music she played, lovelier far than the starlet that had been on the screen. Long brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, with here and there a strand escaping like non-conformists. Her entire person seemed to radiate grace, as though you could not feel uncomfortable in her presence.

And yet Doug felt extremely uncomfortable at the moment. He wished to approach her, make her aware of his existence, and yet knew no way of doing so. He was a stranger in a small community and knew such forwardness would be quite unacceptable. He knew of nothing he could do to catch her eye. Already she was surrounded by others from the audience. And yet Doug could not help noticing there was no one who seemed to be either suitor or husband.

She was young, younger than Doug by several years, but seemed in possession of a maturity beyond her age. His eyes slid from her face as she happened to glance in his direction and in that moment he noticed no ring on those fingers that had danced so eloquently on the ivory keys.

She left amid a group of people, family he couldn’t help thinking, judging by a similar look among a few of them. Doug too exited into the darkness, alone but with thoughts of another, one whose name he did not even know. And all the events of the last few months receded in his memory, and all the concerns of the last few years slipped away. He had sought to flee what had been haunting him, the inescapable truths of a world too large for him, and at last he knew what he had been seeking.

Love was the answer. Love was the cure for all the sickness and ugliness in the world. The revelation came not as a thought but as an emotional welling up within him, like the passionate passages of a nocturne.

Chapter 1 Of Seven Stones

Chapter 1

September 24, 1913 Chicago

     The table rocked slightly in the darkness. Each of those sitting around it held the hands of those next to them.

     “Do not break the circle,” intoned the medium. “Do not let go of the hand you hold.”

     They were all dependent upon each other to ensure not only their safety but to create the necessary link to the other world. They were all at the mercy of the medium, who alone had some experience in such matters. He alone had power to communicate with the spirit world. He spoke as one who was already halfway between this world and the next.

     “If you notice movement above you, if you feel anything touch your cheek, say nothing, do nothing. Do not call attention to yourself and they will not pay undue attention to you.”

     “A moment please,” spoke another member of the gathering, timidly. “I wish to remove my spectacles. I won’t be needing them in the dark and I fear they may be broken.”

     “Do it if you must,” came the voice of the medium, obviously perturbed, “but do not delay or disturb the forces around us again.”

     There was a fumbling in the dark for a moment as the man could be heard removing his glasses and then hands reached out again to re-form the circle.

     The medium intoned the spirits to make themselves known. Over and over he chanted, until his utterances were nothing more than low moans. Soon, even the low moans drifted away into a silence. And then the table began to move, slowly at first, and then more violently, lifting and dropping to the floor. Each of them could feel it through their elbows and hands that rested on the table. A slight audible bump as it fell back to the floor sent shivers up spines.

     Before long there seemed to be motion above the heads of those who sat at the table, the stagnant air of the attic being stirred by unknown forces.

     “I feel contact,” the medium shouted suddenly, almost as though he had been stabbed.

     The table dropped and the medium could be heard gasping unevenly as though he was breathing for two.

     When the medium spoke again, it was no longer with the same voice.

     “Greetings from the world beyond the world,” the voice uttered in a sarcastic tone. “To those of you who are open to the truth, I wish you well,” the voice came a step towards pleasantness, for a moment, then changed to a hiss, “but you are unwise to allow those who dare disbelief to be among you. The circle is your one protection from forces even I cannot control. Do not allow that circle to be compromised by doubters.”

     There was silence. Then the table began to rock violently. In the darkness, it sounded as if the medium was convulsing. The madness grew. Soon a bell was ringing, a horn blew frantically.

     Without sight, neither imagination nor the senses could make sense of what was going on around and above and below them. It was an invitation to panic, to abandon any attempt to impose reason on the situation. Just when hearing began to place the source of the disturbance somewhere above their heads, there came again the rocking of the table that was felt beneath their clasped hands.

     As the rocking of the table reached new heights of intensity and the ringing of the bell became more frantic, a beam of light flickered on. For a moment, it only served to increase the chaos. But soon reason began to reclaim a foothold among the people gathered around the table. It was a flashlight held by a member of the circle and it was pointed directly at where the medium sat. Or, rather, it was pointed at where the medium should have been. In the circle of light that bathed his high-backed chair, no sign could be seen of the man responsible for all the noises in the dark.

     “You can come out, now,” came the voice of the man holding the flashlight. The head of the medium slowly rose above the table. On his chest an amulet with a large green stone reflected dimly the beam of light from the flashlight.

     “Using your head to move the table. I’ve seen such methods used many times before. And undoubtedly using a false-back shoe so that you could use your foot to ring a bell. Aided by a compatriot or two, no doubt.”

     The voice that came from behind the light was commanding, the face that stared into the light now timid in its unexpected exposure.

     “You expect these parlor games to fool me, Slatterini The Astounding? A magician trained in the art of deception?”

     Behind the beam of the flashlight, the figure holding it could be observed ripping off a false beard and glasses. The old gray-haired man who had slowly made his way up the stairs earlier that evening now revealed himself to be a clean-shaven man in his early twenties. The frailty had vanished and was replaced with a glare of certainty and vitality. He was young and of no more than average height, but had attitude and confidence enough to assert his authority.

     “By sleight of hand you fool people into believing the preposterous. You play upon people’s fears and longings, conning wealthy widows into giving you not only their wealth but their very ability to reason. You separate your followers from family and society by filling their heads with such nonsense they can no longer maintain normal relationships.”

     The people seated around the table were too surprised for the most part to say a word. The medium, a middle aged man with hair and mustache precisely oiled and styled, stared as much as possible his hatred past the glare of the flashlight. The woman seated next to him, obviously an accomplice, rose in her anger.

     “You don’t understand,” she screamed. “Of course a medium cannot be expected to achieve success with such skeptics to siphon off the proper psychic energy. It is your doubt that has caused the failure here tonight.”

     “And it is my doubt that caused Professor Munchin to make such a show of things, too, I suppose?”

     The accomplice would admit to nothing. With the hair piled atop her head, she seemed a good deal taller than she was. “Faith is of the utmost importance. Sometimes the faith must be encouraged. When there is doubt present, the spirits will not make the connection. Sometimes those in attendance must be given something to stir their faith before the spirits deem the circle worthy of an appearance. Sometimes—“

     “Bosh!” exclaimed the man with the flashlight. “Utter and complete claptrap, coming from the crudest of cons. Not only shall I write an explanation of all that I have witnessed here tonight and send it to the newspaper, I shall incorporate your practices into my stage act along with an explanation of how your tricks are done. The practices of those in your profession blacken the reputation of those in mine.”

     “Here is my card, sir,” he said to Munchin, producing it seemingly from mid-air. He walked towards the medium and placed it boldly into the other’s breast pocket. “You are formally invited to see my performance at the Aragon Ball Room, this weekend. It promises to prove quite instructive.”

     No longer walking like an old man in mourning, he walked towards the stairs that led from the attic with the practiced movements of an experienced showman. With no further words, he strode out of the house and into the gloom of twilight. As he walked, he whistled to himself as he twirled a chain that had on it a rather curious pendant with a green stone in its center.

     Back in the attic of the brownstone house, a lamp was lit. What had appeared a moment earlier to be a group of strangers now talked quite familiarly with one another.

     “He’s gone,” said a voice coming from the stairs.

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yes. He hopped a street car headed north.”

     “Damn magicians,” said the one who was called Professor Munchin, “they should stick to amusing children with card tricks.”

     “It’s Houdini who got them started,” said a heavyset man who was dressed in a suit of such finery that it left little doubt as to his wealth and position in society.

     “Houdini’s going to get his before long,” said Munchin. “But this Slatterini fellow has proven to be a rather useful idiot. Whatever publicity he provides should keep our real work from being discovered. No better cover than to have the world believe we’re scam artists, eh?” Munchin chuckled, as did the heavyset man, pleased with themselves.

     “Well, now that that’s taken care of, suppose we proceed with the real order of business for the evening,” said the woman who moments earlier was feigning outrage.

     “Are you sure you’re still up for it?”

     “The longer we delay, the more I fear to do it. Let us put it off no more.”

     “Very well, then. Let us gather around the table.”

     Removing one chair from the gathering, the six individuals resumed their seats at the table. Hands were once again clasped, heads bowed in the dim light of the gas lamp. Led by Munchin, the group began a low humming while swaying slightly to an unheard rhythm.

     Where the presence came from they did not know. Whether it made its appearance in the center through an opening they had created, or whether it wormed its way through their individual life forces to become a single entity in their midst was impossible to say. They only knew they felt a seventh spirit among them, separate from the group and yet oddly connected.

     It was hard to know where one of them stopped and the other started. Clenched hands reached deeper than the surface, seemed to merge into the other until it almost felt as if each was clutching the beating hearts of those next to him. And in the middle of all was this strange new entity, as though it were the solution that enabled them to dissolve one into the other. And as their hands seemed to reach deeper than the surface, so now this apparition seemed to reach into the hearts of each of them, like spokes in a wheel.

     “What’s happening?” said the woman to the left of Munchin, a concerned quiver in her voice.

     “Stay calm,” Munchin said, exhibiting none of what he preached.

     The members who sat about the table no longer swayed but began to shake as if in convulsions.

     “There’s something wrong!” screamed a member of the circle. “We can’t control it.”

     “Don’t worry,” said Munchin, “I have the amulet. Whatever I summon must respect it.”

     “Where is it?” screamed the woman.

     Munchin looked down, panic welling up on his features. But panic soon changed to pain as something seemed to grab a hold of him, as if a hand reached up inside his chest and around his heart. Soon, all of those around the table shared the same look of agony on their faces. A vague shape above the table was noticeable, its features indistinct except for a malevolent grin. It was only a few seconds before they all slumped forward dead onto the table.

     Seated on a wooden seat aboard a streetcar, a young man snuck a glimpse of a pendant that he half-pulled from his pocket. His expression was one of intense curiousity.

     “I hope they don’t notice this missing.”

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A New Holiday

I came across this today and felt the need to share:

I felt it today, a certain change in the air, like a spiritual spring has finally arrived. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do: I know that as of today the human race has finally found its footing and is ready to move towards accomplishing the destiny it has always been striving toward. Our record so far has been of struggle and misunderstanding, of hopes followed by disillusionment. But we’ve finally realized both the inevitability of the struggle but also the inevitability of the victory. It’s going to be quite a journey, but we now know where we’re going. We know that while we are free to worship God in whichever way we choose, or to not worship at all if that is what we believe, that we need to respect the practices of others who are not harming anyone else. And if we see another of our brothers or sisters in error, it is up to us to show by example and perhaps by gentle persuasion the path of peace, of hope, of love. I feel it, know it to be true, this burning love for life inside of me. It is a love not only for the life I have been given but by extension a love for all the life that is. For life is life no matter what vessel it resides in. We are all rays of the same sun.

And that is why at eight o’clock this evening, March 19, I stood and looked outside from the highest window in my house with a candle in hand. I looked upon all of the houses I could see from this window, and knew them to be filled with people just like me. I knew all of them were capable of love, and that it only needed to be given the proper conditions to flourish. I knew all of them were in need of love, and that I had a vital role to play in giving love. I knew all of them, just like me, were going to err and stray from the path and that we all needed to work together to get to that future that awaits us all.

It’s a simple message. It requires no religion or government or corporate sponsorship. It just requires individuals who realize that they are connected to the rest of the world in a very deep and beautiful way. You just need to know that the light will shine through any darkness.

I looked out tonight, and mine was the only candle lit. But I would be back again next year on March 18, and every year for as long as I lived, and someday I would look out and see every household with a candle, or a flashlight, or whatever kind of light they wanted to shine.

If you feel it too, if you know in your heart that we are all connected by the heart, I invite you to shine your light on March 18. And I invite you to share the words I wrote. Do not share a link, or tell where you found these words, just share the idea. Let the idea stand on its own and do not let any other thought or “ism” attach itself to it. It doesn’t matter where the idea came from, it belongs to everyone.

China Hearts

A short story that it took me nearly 30 years to get around to finishing:

 

Most anyone who was familiar with this street would have recognized the weathered man standing outside the little shop of curios, though it was doubtful any of them knew his name. He could often be seen standing uncomfortably in front of a little curio shop, gazing at the items displayed in the window when he thought nobody was paying any attention to him. He appeared somewhat old but sturdy, as though the demanding work he had done his whole life had both aged him yet kept him healthy and free from the vices that idleness often attracts. His clothing was of the coarse and sturdy variety, typical of a man who earns his living by the sweat of his brow and the toil of his body. His face was weathered like a tree trunk, adding texture and lines to a face that had already been good at hiding whatever thoughts or emotions were occurring behind it. But it was perhaps in his hands that the tale of his life could best be read. They were thick tools for heavy work, looking almost more like work gloves than hands. So much did they bear the mark of his toils that they almost looked like root vegetable fresh-dug from the earth. He appeared out of place in this neighborhood of sophisticated city dwellers, but not enough so to call attention to himself. Although rough, there was nothing threatening about him; indeed, he emanated a gentleness that belied his tough exterior. There was a meekness in the way he kept to himself, a self-consciousness in the way he avoided bumping into any of the constant flow of people who walked past this busy street.

His existence had been one of hard work, struggling with nature for his meager wages. The work was brutish, leaving his body covered in dirt and dust and his mind numb from drudgery. But when he had a day off, he would often walk into town to drive the numbness from his mind, making sure that he was well washed and wearing his finest clothes, which really weren’t very fine. He had contemplated buying the type of clothes he saw those in the city wear, but he had no idea how to go about choosing such items. And besides, he knew that such clothing would only accentuate his other differences, the browned skin, the calloused hands and the dirt under his nails and in the grooves of his skin that could never be completely removed.

Here in the city, people lived differently than the others who shared his life. There words were fairer, flowed more smoothly. Their clothing was more for show than for work, and their manners more refined. He would often be content to sit on a bench and watch the people in their day to day business, moving effortlessly and knowingly through complicated social interactions. They possessed an understanding of society and how to gracefully move within it that he had never had a way of learning. But for him the heart of the city was the little shop that displayed intricate and delicate items for purchase. They spoke to him of lives lived without hardship, where things were made not merely for their usefulness but because they were beautiful. Most of the items there were made to be displayed, to be placed upon a mantel or in a curio cabinet, only to be looked at. Things made of crystal and intricately crafted fine metals, gold gilded porcelain and statuettes made of marble, jade, pearl and rarer material still from all parts of the globe. These items represented to him places that he could never hope to visit, experiences he would never have, people he would never be or even know. Such things would be quite out of place in his humble little cabin. Everything he possessed had been made of rough-hewn wood, blackened iron and unadorned pottery.

And yet. To own just one of these items, to possess something that stood apart from the base tools and utensils of his existence. Such a thing would be worth coming home to at night, worth the effort and struggle that was his life. He needed something in his life that could be adored, that spoke to him of something beyond need, something that existed without regard for mere function.

So he stared through the window, with each visit seeing something new displayed along with items he had wondered at before. When someone appeared to be walking towards the shop, he would start slowly in motion, walking a short while only to stop and stare again from a distance. He was afraid of what people might think of him if they caught him staring into the window, afraid they would mock the unsophisticated man who thought he was something he was not.

He would watch those who strolled so un-self-consciously into the store as if they were born for such things, as if it never occurred to them that such things might be too lofty or unobtainable for them. It must be admitted that the man felt a trace of jealousy when watching such people enter the shop and make purchases so casually, leaving the store with precious items that he had gazed at so lovingly through the shop’s window.

And then on one of his trips to the little shop he beheld an item more beautiful than any he had seen before: a heart-shaped crystal hung from a fine lace in the upper corner of the window. Though unadorned with gold or silver, its simple radiance caught the light of the noon-day sun and sparkled it back at him from its many finely cut facets. As it twirled ever so slowly upon the lace that held it, its myriad details would throw off various colors of the spectra, eclipsing the beauty of the other items around it. Upon seeing this crystal heart, he came to cherish it more than anything he had ever seen.  His trips into town became more frequent, his time spent gazing in the window of the little shop less spent concerned with what passerby might think. The idea came into his mind like a flash, that this precious item would be his. It horrified him to think that he might one day come to stare into this window only to find that some other person had taken it for their own. He had little money on him that day, but walked back that evening to the little shack he called home with the intent of returning the next day.

The pay he received for his labor was meager, but his needs had been more meager still. With little needed to satisfy his wants, he had managed to save what he believed to be a considerable amount over the many years. He would take it, all of it, and go back into town tomorrow. It would be enough, he was sure. Pretty sure, at least. All that evening his mind vacillated between thoughts of the crystal heart, of how happy he would be to bring it back home with him, how horrible it would be if someone else had bought it in the meantime. Perhaps they would not sell it to him, perhaps his life savings would not be enough for such an embodiment of beauty. And so one moment he would be thinking of where he would put the crystal heart in his small home, and the next moment he would be contemplating life if he should never see it again. He slept little that night.

He was up early the next morning, even for him. It was far too early to wander into town, far earlier than the little store opened. But he spent the time preparing  himself, wanting to make himself as presentable as he knew how to be. He scrubbed his fingernails with an old brush until his fingers nearly bled, trying to get the last of the darkness out from under them.

When he could stand it no longer, he made his way into town, trying to walk slowly so that he would not be there too early. But when he arrived, the store was not yet open. He rushed to the window as quickly as he could without appearing obvious to the few people that were on the street at such an early hour. The heart was still there. The knowledge lifted his heart even as it did nothing to calm him. He stood staring into the window until he became aware of the shopkeeper who walked to the door and opened it, glancing at him as she passed. The sudden recognition that he had been caught looking in the window made him flush with embarrassment that bordered on terror. He had been caught looking in the window of the shop, caught believing that he was worthy of such items. He walked away, his desire for the heart frustrated by his fear of not being worthy. He walked on, cursing himself, cursing life, cursing the fact that he was not one of those who could effortlessly walk into such a place of beauty.  He walked on until he realized the shop would soon be opening, and that the heart may reach the attentions of others who might also wish to have it for their own. He forced himself to walk around the block so that he would not call undue attention to himself, but he walked so quickly that people looked at him wonderingly. He reached the shop window and stared in the upper corner, thrilled at the sight of the crystal heart once again. And once again, he felt the utter inability to force himself into the shop, felt the complete lack of knowledge regarding how to go about such a transaction. He glanced about him in his practiced manner, making sure he was not standing out. As he did so, he noticed someone walk into the shop. Dread filled him again, at the thought that he had waited too long and might forever miss his opportunity. But if he had been afraid to walk into the store before, he was terrified at the idea of going in there when others were inside. He waited for the person who had entered to come back out, only to see two more people enter. The two exited shortly, but in the meantime, still another person had entered to look at what lay inside. It seemed an eternity of people walking in and out of the store until he was sure that it was now empty. And the heart was still there.

He could delay no longer. It was a greater act of courage than any he had performed in his life, but he forced himself to walk to the door and pull it open. He had never experienced such agony in his life, terrified that he would not have enough, or that they would simply refuse to sell it to such as him.

Inside the store, he found the shelving to be entirely too close together, the aisles insufficiently  wide. He walked slowly, cautiously, terrified that he might knock one of the items off the shelves. His shoulders seemed to him to be impossibly wide, his gait unsteady like a drunk’s. The shopkeeper stood at the counter near the door, but he avoided looking at her. She was a shape at the edge of his vision upon which he placed an imagined look of scorn. He concentrated on navigating the too-small aisle, ignoring whatever finery lay on them except to make sure not to knock into any of them.

Turning left, he now walked back up another aisle, approached the window. There was the crystal heart, slowly, barely, turning on the delicate lace that held it suspended. He looked at it and through his fear it lured him on. The sun shone through it, the first rays of the morning sun as mere playthings that it tossed about playfully.  He approached it as though it were a holy relic, hardly daring to raise his eyes to gaze upon it.

He knew he must now claim it as his own, knew that if he backed away in fear today that he would never have the courage, it would be lost to him forever. Rather than ask the shopkeeper to take it down for him, he decided to do it himself. His self consciousness around people had only intensified now that he carried within him his secret desire. Reaching up, he slid the lace from the hook it was suspended by with more care than he had ever given to any task he had ever done. He felt the weight of the crystal heart hanging from the lace now, discovered it to be lighter than he could have imagined.  Feeling its lightness, he imagined that it must also be more fragile than he had believed. He became terrified of the idea of it hanging loosely from the lace lest it sway and smash into something as he walked his way towards the counter. Holding the lace with one hand, he cupped the heart with the other. Feeling it to be reasonably secure, he released the lace and with that hand also protected the delicate ornament from any conceivable harm. Holding it now in both hands, he gazed at the heart that was now all but his. So great was his fear of letting it fall from his hands, he began to imagine that the sweat that now appeared upon his palms would cause it to slide from his grasp. With an involuntary reaction to an imagined movement of the heart, he gripped it more tightly than he intended. In that moment, he could feel the heart shatter from the pressure he applied on it. He looked in agony as the precious object of his affection broke apart into tiny splinters that sunk like teeth deep into his skin. Tears of pain welled up in his eyes, but it was not the cuts in his hands that were to blame. He let loose an uncontrollable sob, which caused the shopkeeper to become aware of him, which in turn led him to remember her presence. He managed to put aside his grief, set the pieces of crystal down as delicately as he could upon the shelving that stood behind the window. He walked as quickly as he could toward the exit without causing further damage. He stuffed his bleeding hand deep into the front pocket of his work pants, pulled out his money, his life savings. Without daring to look at the shopkeeper, he placed the money on the counter, left the shop, and never came near the little store again.