Paths

In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost…

I know it's said that strange things, peculiar things, happen from time to time; but to have my street suddenly transform into a forest went beyond anything I'd ever imagined or heard. I found myself on a dirt path that branched about thirty feet ahead. One path continued fairly straight - a bit wavy though. The other? Not even close to straight. So crooked, in fact, that it appeared to slither, if, indeed, paths had that ability.

The forest of that path, the truly crooked one, sported stunted, gnarled trees in a twilight world where shadows flitted from mostly bare branches and half-seen creatures skittered along their base. Along the winding path the light penetrated much more and the forest looked almost like any normal forest. Almost.

And I stood at the branch looking at me! More to the point, I stood blocking the path that followed the winding path while leaving the crooked unobstructed.

Confused?

Yep, me too.

And I seemed to beckon to me, or me beckoned to I, or I beckoned to I…

Ahhh, never mind.

I moved to within a few feet of the me blocking the path and stopped. Making sure to stay out of arm's reach and ready to run if need be, I regarded myself. I believe, also, that myself regarded me. I tried to not think too hard about it.

I know what you might be thinking. Mirror image. If only! The other me, the blocking me, looked to be a mockery only. I still found myself in the same sweat pants and stain shirt (I only wear certain shirts when I eat because I'm known to have spillage) I wore while going to the road to get my mail. He sported what appeared to be jeans and a v-neck tee; but the disheveled, torn, and grimy clothing made it hard to be sure. No shoes that I could discern, only holey socks. In that I suppose we were most alike.

He continued to regard me through dark, sunken eyes. His skin, unlike mine, had an ash-like quality to it. His body, thin, emaciated, and barely looked able to support itself. I locked eyes with me and quickly looked away. I saw things there. Awful things. Things I wish never happened. Cold crept around my belly and wormed up my spine. I recognized that me. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why? WHY, you ask? LOOK AT ME! I'm a shadow of you, more hollow than anything. I used to be substantial. WE were substantial. You fed me. Gave me sustenance. Now I barely eke out an existence."

"You lied to me. Manipulated me. I did things I'm not proud of because I believed I would feel better about myself!" I couldn't look at me. I hated me. And he hated me for following the less crooked path. The time came I denied that part of me, or at least as much as possible. We truly can't completely deny ourselves. At least not in this world; but that part of me refuses to go quietly, continually whispering in my ear. Continually trying to get me embracing things of this world again, glorifying power, sex and money. All of which I tend to lump under power anyway.

"You remember the picture?"

Of course I remember the picture. We're each other. We know our thoughts. I'm attempting to influence me again. In a movie the villain in an art gallery pointed to a picture blown up larger than life size of a middle eastern man with a gun pointed at another middle eastern man's head, who cowered on the ground. The villain asked the hero which one they preferred to be. Having never considered it, I found the question profound. I always felt like the cowering man, the man without hope; but that 'me' tried to get me to be the man holding the gun. The man in control. The man with the power. Far too often he (I?) succeeded.

That didn't work in my favor. Hollow, pyrrhic victories were all I got out of it. At the time I didn't see it. Cruelly torturing insects and small animals as a child because I feared, thankfully, taking my anger out on others. Ohhh, the other me filled my psyche with visions and fantasies of revenge against them, but something held me back. As an adult being known as someone who 'spoke my mind,' regardless of who it affected. One night stands with women for which I had no feelings at all. Solomon had it right stating 'All is vanity.'

Even Ray Bradbury got it right when he wrote in Something Wicked this Way Comes: "Most men jump to give up everything for nothing…"

I did. I lost everything. It stunned me just how quickly that fall came. But in losing everything, I gained so much more. "There is a third choice in that picture."

He recoiled because he knows. He is me and I am him. I know he won't give up. He can't. I explained it anyway, "I am the one in the picture you don't see. The one standing between them, full of hope in my Savior, unafraid, wanting to lift the cowering man up and instill love in the other to drop his gun and let go of the hate. Wanting them to embrace and accept each other. And if I should die in the attempt, I stand before God. This world is empty. It holds little for me except for the chance to grow closer to Him."

His face twisted in fury and he stepped up, putting his face mere inches from mine. "So you find God and cast me aside as if I'm nothing!"

Two thoughts quickly occurred to me. One is that it's a good thing I'm not suicidal, or I believe I would've killed myself. The other is that I really need to brush my teeth.

Then I realized he tried to set me up. Not that he would've gained much sustenance, but he was desperate. "What arrogance for me to think that I found Him! I never looked. I lost everything because of listening to you, to myself; and like the lost sheep HE found ME! I realized he sought me all along, but I allowed YOU, the worldly me, to hide that. In losing the world, I gained a far more precious treasure. For that, I thank you."

I continued, "And the day will come when I shed you for good, and that the path before me is straight."

I almost thought he would wail, such was the pain on his face. For the moment, his arrogance gone, he turned away and trudged up the crooked path. The forest and paths disappeared and I found myself again on my street by my mailbox. Singing 'I Can Only Imagine' to myself, I retrieved my mail and headed back to my house.