The Lesson

We begin with me digging through my estranged father’s attic after he passed away. I hadn’t seen him in more than forty years. He had no other children, and no real possessions other than a run down house outside Phoenix, Arizona which he left to me. I was preparing the house to be sold, and removing the junk, when I happened upon a small, black, Moleskine journal.

It didn’t seem particularly compelling at first, but when I attempted to set it down, I found myself unable. The air in the attic grew thin and cool, as my hands, seemingly moving on their own, opened the journal. There, on the pages before me, was a language I didn’t recognize, yet somehow understood. “Say these words and fortune will find you. Audentes Fortuna Juvat.”

No sooner had the words left my lips than the room started to shake. The light faded into darkness, and the dry Arizona heat, gave way to a cold, wet, darkness, filled with the sounds of scurrying feet and dripping water. Among those sounds was that of steady, calm, breathing.

I prepared myself for what I was about to see. My imagination was running amok. An uncontrollable sense of dread was welling up in me. In a few short moments my life had gone from mundane to supernatural, so I was expecting some form of beastly Troglodyte to be awaiting me in the darkness. What I saw was far more shocking.

The veil of darkness lifted to reveal a version of myself, sitting next to a small fire in a cavern. He looked somewhat younger, stronger, and yet wiser and unafraid of anything. He looked at me with a piercing gaze. “Sit and join me,” he said.

I was mortified and wanted nothing more than to run. My heart was racing, my breath panting. I looked around frantically, but there was no exit. He looked at me knowingly, giving my soul chills. With no other choice, I sat. “What... what is this place?” I asked, with trepidation.

He looked through me. “This is the root of your fear; the place where all of your weakness resides. This is the place from where you must free yourself, or be doomed to reside forever.”

“I don’t understand. How? What are you talking about? This is crazy! Let me out!” I shouted at him, shaking my fists in the air in a wild display of aggression, but he only smiled.

“You live in fear. You lash out in fear. You’re a prisoner in your fear. Freedom, peace, and happiness lie beyond the confines of this prison you’ve built.” His words were cryptic, but gave a clue.

If this was a prison I built, then I must be able to make a way out. I got up and started to look around. The smooth, cold, granite walls were slick with condensation. Following the walls revealed two small crevices, barely large enough for a small child to fit in, yet as I returned to my starting point I was hit on the head by a steady trickle of frigid water. I looked up and could feel my unwelcome companion smiling in the gloom.

Sure enough, a hole leading up, was directly above me. There was a tiny glimmer of light to be seen. The climb on the slippery rocks, up a vertical shaft, by nothing but touch, would be treacherous for a seasoned climber. I was an out of shape, middle aged, divorcee with a dad bod. What hope did I have? There had to be another way.

I went and sat back by the fire to warm up. “Fear is like a stone around your neck.” The other me said. “The longer you wear it, the heavier it gets.” And as he spoke, the fire began to wane.

I had no other choice. I got up and went to the shaft. I grabbed on to a hand hold and pulled up. The fire seemed to grow slightly brighter. I pushed off of a foothold, gaining more confidence, and the stone felt warmer and more dry. Further still and the light from above allowed me to see where I was going. My fear faded with each step, and the climb became easier along with it, until finally, after what felt like hours, when my muscles seemed to have nothing left, I was on a wooden ladder, climbing back into my late father’s attic.

There, on the floor, was the little, black, Moleskine journal. I felt a twinge of fear as I reached for it, then let it go as I picked up the book. An overwhelming sense of hope swept over me as I opened the journal. This time I found something different. A message from my father.

Patrick,

If you’re reading this, then you’ve made it through your trial. Fear kept me from knowing you; a regret I took to the end. I only hope that the strength you have, and the only lesson I can teach you will help you avoid having to live with the same.

Your Father,

Lloyd

I kept the journal, made $20,000.00 on the house, and have lived the best years of my life, with a wonderful wife, a gaggle of kids, and a bunch of pets. It wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the only lesson my father ever taught me in a little, black, Moleskine journal.