Be My Eyes Young One.

Two people sat underneath an old oak tree in the early spring. The older one wrapped with a lap blanket and prayer shawl to keep away the chill; the younger one in a hooded cloak over a simple robe. They talked of the colors of a bed of tulips next to the benches. After a time, the older one said:

“I need you to take a journey young one. Do you recall the first path we walked when you became my student?”

“Yes, Master Reeves. Garden of the Gods, it was summer.”

The old man smiled and spoke.

“Yes, that’s the place. Go son, be my eyes, come back and tell me what you see.”

“I will master.”

“Remember it all!”

“Yes master. We will speak when I return.”

The initiate wrote in his journal:

After a long train ride across country, I have arrived at the Garden of the Gods in Southern Illinois. I remember when you and I first walked the trails in the early summer. You opened my eyes to the beauty and majesty all around me. The thing I most remember is that you made me feel happy; you always had a smile to share. You are no longer able to walk this walk with me since the disease (hypoplasia of the optic nerve) took your sight, so I will write down what I see, smell, hear, and feel so that you may remember and others may know what I now know, again, all thanks to you Master Reeves. Yes, writing is what I love, and I can inspire others with the written word. There is an uneasy sense of urgency; I need to return home very soon, but the reason escapes me. When we meet again, I will ask if you have any ideas or understanding. You are truly an inspiration to us all. You have adapted with courage to living life without seeing.

After gazing at the starry skies, a light sleep in my tent and granola for breakfast I fill my thermos with piping hot tea and lace up my walking shoes, hoping that the memories from that first visit will come flooding back to me. Lots of water has passed under the bridge since then but I have hope. I will embrace the journey. I remember your first words of wisdom – take only small steps, take the time to notice everything, feel all. The trail entrance beckons me – come walk a while, search your heart, be free. Only a moment of sadness that you are not here, and I remember that I came to honor you, not allow sadness to consume me. There is no turning back. Trusty journal and pen in hand – here I go.

Around the first corner I spot a field of bright yellow daffodils, dancing in the morning breeze. The inner part of the flower is a reminder to turn my head and listen, listen to the sounds in nature. The outer petals remind me to reach out, even if it is out of my comfort zone. I need to trust my hunches (intuitions if you will), they will not steer me wrong. The daffodil shows me strength and warmth. It is time to continue.

I touch the ancient stones and feel the coolness. Everything smells so fresh from the early morning rain. I spend a little while sipping tea on one of the larger rocks – the same one where we sipped lemon water in the July sun. I walk slowly, breathe deeply, and observe. All manner of greens are in the leaves of the trees and bushes with touches of lavender, white, and pink flowers peeking out from time to time. I spot the delicate violet leaves and pick five to have in the evening. You taught me to have no more than six leaves a day. 

Everywhere I look I see new life. Prairie phlox and echinacea (purple cone flower) are plentiful as well as delicate little coreopsis flowers. Spring Beauty reminds me that there are two sides to every story since the flowers are white with pink stripes. Dutchman’s Breeches teach me to let my playful side out from time to time. The butterfly weed we saw during our first visit has bright orange flowers, but they are not blooming yet – summer will be their time to shine. One of my very favorites is the spring larkspur – such a royal velvety purple and the Virginia bluebells. So many flowers, so many colors to drink in, each flower teaches me.  

I hear the waterfalls and spend time gazing at the flowing water, dipping my hands in the pooled water at the bottom. Life goes on. I stay one more evening and enjoy a meal of cheese crackers filled with peanut butter, tinned salmon, and diced pears for dessert, but I wake suddenly with a start. I must return home now! With an unspoken promise to return another time I bid farewell to this sanctuary and board the train. More flowers pass before my eyes as the train goes through fields and near riverbanks. A feeling of unease takes over me the closer I get to the place I call home. Suddenly, the reason is clear. Black armbands greet me, one of our number is lost.

There is sadness in our midst. I cannot share my writings of the journey with you since you left the earth before my return. Stunned, I am unable to speak or write. I go silently to your grave with two daffodils to honor you and my heart is heavy but after a period of silence I realize something.  My heart tells me it is right.  I will publish the journal and dedicate it to you – in that way you will live on. Just then, a small hand reaches out for mine. The child is your grandnephew, and he looks just like you. He has your smile and that look in his sparkling eyes. I place one daffodil on your grave, and the other I give to him. Young Reeves smiles. I can teach him the way you taught me. Rest in peace Master Reeves and fly high with the Spirit. I will continue the work and take young Reeves with me. The writings will guide others to find and follow their paths; I will let the words flow and remember your teachings with gratitude and joy.