Scholar's Vision

I feel strangely elated. I will certainly grieve hereafter, but in the end it will not matter.

One day I may chronicle the events leading up to my removal from the curacy of the archives, but today I can only rejoice — solemnly, to be sure — in an unexpected blessing that renders insignificant the utter ruination of my career: I have been granted a vision.

The Archives comprise a dead body, which should be treated with all respect and gentleness, because of its venerable age, but after all what is it? — a corpse, a thing, less than that — the mere record of a thing: the thing itself absconded long ago, returning to its elements, no longer itself, a thing, but all things. What is left behind is what we are, what [illegible].

It was no writing from the archives that precipitated the vision; in fact, I am at a loss to explain whence it came, nor do I think it matters at all. But I can describe the occasion, which gives me pleasure to remember, and I am sure that I will often require the solace of this recollection.

As had become my custom whilst working in the archives, I arose before dawn and went out to walk, intending to reach some promontory from which to witness the sunrise if the weather was clear, or at least to be abroad as the light came up and the world awakened.

Snow had fallen heavily for the previous two days, preventing me from leaving the house, but on the third morning when I opened my eyes I could see the stars shining brilliantly in their watches, and I dressed quickly and with excitement.

Outside it was very cold. Only the main road had been cleared, and the snow piled on either side reached nearly to my shoulder.

At first I felt rather nervous, hurried, anxious for the somehow perfect perspective or vista to appear, willing to stop and listen, but worried about meeting others on the road, not wishing to see anyone, wanting no interruption, no distraction, nothing to break my mood of calm joy in anticipation.

After a while, however, I started to shiver, and began to think of going back, but pressed on, still restless, not yet ready to give up. I stopped to look at ice masking a rock face, a stand of adolescent birches, a distant glimpse of mountains across the valley, already lit by the sun.

A vehicle passed, then another, people going in to work. A third driver saluted me, but I was too late getting my hand out to wave back. I then decided to wave to everyone who passed, regardless of — well, of what? — whereupon I found myself moved, particularly by the thought of those who might think me strange; in fact I believed that most of these unknown folk would be happy to be so greeted, perhaps especially by a stranger.

The meaning of the wave is this: hello sister, hello brother.

But then I saw that the same could apply to the trees, the rocks, the snowbank along the side of the road. I even stopped and patted the snowbank, called it by name: Brother Snowbank. My eyes filled, and I began to sniffle.

And to laugh. Of course it was silly, to be moved by sudden fellow-feeling for a heap of snow! But more profoundly silly, it seemed to me, was the grief and rage that had been devouring me since I was ordered to relinquish the archives.

My brother Snowbank was the creature of only two days' existence, but he did not mourn or curse because he would be gone in two more. Nor did my sister Birches groan or complain under the weight of snow that bent them to the ground, but rather gleamed with joy in the rising light.

I believed I was having a vision. But I was only being broken open for it.

I continued onward, until I finally reached the giant weeping beech at the point where the lane joins the road from below. Of course there was no lane to be seen at all, the snow was much too deep. But I knew it was there even though its shape could not be discerned. In fact, knowing it was there permitted me to see its shape.

A woodpecker drilled a distant hollow trunk, which echoed with a vaguely booming sound. A few birds sang, far away, but the silence in which I stood was as it were impenetrable, even when the wind blew through the pines, making them sigh, and the naked branches of leafless beech clacked together....

The sun breached the horizon. And the Vision struck me to the ground.

I shall never be able to put this into words. But as I lay on my back gazing at the hanging branches, I began to see the tree as a writing, its shape forming a kind of character, or a word, or a sentence... And if we could only read the writing — yes, well then what? That is what I cannot explain.

In a way I was reading the writing of the tree, the writing which was the tree, but all I understood was that it could be read. And then the realization spread to include every thing, its shape its story, all shapes' stories, all the language of this earth, even the shapes of roads in our minds, of houses torn down or fallen long ago, still standing proudly or derelict in memories, imaginings... and stories we tell...