In the north forest there was a monk who lived apart from the others, and followed his own ways. He was blind, but preferred his own company, and needed no assistance.
At least once a week he would travel into the closest town to make purchases, and despite the distance of several miles, he had no trouble knowing his way. The bent souls along the way- those of strange hungers, the murderers and marauders- steered quite clear, knowing that he was more than able to withstand any force. He was blind, and yet, he could still see, for he believed in things he could not see, and took heed.
He bought tea and fish mostly, and some bread, along with whatever fruit was available… usually bananas. He bought oil to keep warm when the cold months hit and the warmth of the sun faded to the other side of the world.
Sometimes he wondered what went on in those parts that could not be seen or reached, and he wondered if God’s plan for them was the same as God’s plans for the people in his world. He assumed it could be quite different and that it made no sense to speculate on life in far away places, but rather, to do what you know to do, and let the powers sort out the paths. If anything, you can know your own path, whether you can see it or not.
These trips were a mixed blessing, or bitter fruit wrapped up in the warm colors of sweetness. He could hear the women’s voices and imagine what they might look like. There was so much in a voice. He had been told by other monks that it would be foolish to let a voice deceive you, and that women’s voices in particular were often beautiful beyond the bearer. “Every woman sounds like your true love,” was one of the proverbs that several monks lived by, and thus they walked wary, ears closed and heart monitored for faulty inclinations and leanings.
He really did not have to go into town at all. His fellows could have brought him all he needed. He could have, if he chose, made food of the dust of the earth. It was another of his gifts. But it was a gift he used only for those who needed it. As it happened, he loved to go into town and imagine the faces behind the voices of the women who greeted him. Sometimes he thought that he could detect something in the voice of a given woman and his heart would begin to shiver and adjust itself inside its cage. But the moment and the voice would soon pass.
After such a day, he would return home and lie flat on the ground, tears soaking into the wood of the floor, causing rain to fall on the other side of the world. He did not know this, that someone was praying for rain in some dry place. He just knew that this God, this so called lover and friend, had left him dry and full of longing. For all the good he did, nobody really made their way to him. “I must be hideous,” was the thought that pitched tent in his mind day after day.
