Pretense

I was once visiting a faraway town where a distant family member lived. I did not know this town well but I would from time to time wander about the outskirts searching for nothing in particular. One morning I saw an old man standing by the river that ran its meandering course in through the heart of the town and back out again. Being springtime the weeds on the river banks had yet to grow too tall to walk through. The stinging nettles had yet to acquire their bite.

The old man seemed out of place somehow. He was dressed in stiff new clothes too big for his emaciated frame, his hands were trembling as he held them out in front of him as if grasping at some invisible branch on which to lean. He was staring at something in the water. I looked to see if I could discern what he saw but I could not make out anything in the swiftly moving water.

When I looked back a moment later the old man had vanished. I thought perhaps he had slipped into the water by accident. Running to the riverbank I scanned the surface for him ready to jump in to make an attempt at saving his life. But the current must have taken him for I could not see any sign. I looked about. There were no other witnesses. I couldn’t be sure if I had seen the man go into the river at all. Perhaps he had just walked away.

I pretended I had imagined it all. The river stank of dead fish, its waters looked dank and polluted. The waves made a sad hissing sound as they roiled around black oily rocks jutting from below. I’d always been drawn to water but looking into that appalling river I found myself happy that I had no reason to go into it.

Later that day while sitting at a restaurant drinking coffee I overheard a discussion among several women at a nearby table concerning how an old man from a local nursing home had gone missing. The women were talking of organizing a search party to look for him. They were handing out flyers. When I got up to take one of the flyers I realized it contained a photo of the same old man I had seen standing at the river bank that morning.

I wanted to tell them to look in the river for his body but I was afraid they might blame me for the old man’s death. They might wonder why I didn’t sound the alarm earlier when I saw him there. I put the flyer back down and walked away without saying a word.

I pretended I was innocent of any knowledge.

I wondered if the old man was so loved why no one was taking better care of him. They let him wander aimlessly about seeking his death in horrid waters. I wondered what had brought him to the empty defiled riverbank.

I wondered what he had seen there.

I imagined it might have been a fear of the mystery.

Walking back down to the place by the river where I had seen the old man I searched the soggy ground hoping I might see his footprints leading away from where he had stood. Failing to find any sign of his passage I assuaged my guilt by reminding myself that we all return to the source.

There is a season for living and a season for dying.

Standing there staring into that river of dread I recalled how I once held a high position in a great corporation which dumped its pollution into a river like that one. When the job was first offered to me I thought how I could not reject the promotion. When the corporation was bought out by another company I lost my high position. I thought how it could not be retained. I understood that getting the position and losing it did not make me who I was. I didn’t know whether the honor of the position belonged to the dignity it conferred or if it belonged to me. If it belonged to the dignity then it had nothing to do with me. If it belonged to me it had nothing to do with the dignity.

I thought how that old man may have gone into the river grieving his lost dignity. He had perhaps outlived his usefulness. Maybe he lost hold of his self-respect. If I had been on the river bank a few seconds earlier I might have had a chance to talk to him. I would have told him that his self-respect had nothing to do with him. I pretended I might have saved him but in my heart I know we all have our appointed time.

Just as that old man found his, I too will find mine.

By pretending that I know the world when in fact I do not know anything at all I forget the mystery. By understanding the world in its fullness and its glory I ignore the mystery. By reveling in my ego-climbing, those necessary monsters, I neglect the source that is the mystery.

When the mystery is forgotten, then I witness kindness and morality flowering all around me such as women clucking like hens in coffee houses of things which they have no knowledge. When I am full of learning, my great pretense begins. Seeking to name the nameless I forget the mystery. Forgetting the mystery I become filled with desire for truth.

Seeking to persuade others of the surety of my knowledge I enslave their minds while pretending I do the community a great service. When I make war on my neighbors, my family stands beside me. They are filled with devotion for my great pretense. When my community is full of fear and in tatters, then loyal leaders appear to lead us all astray.

This is not the way of the mystery.