The Poet and The Thinker

Posted on March 14, 1994

The soft blue light swirled in a slow and intricate dance, weaving in and out of itself like the fabric of a thousand lifetimes. Slowly it began to stretch, thinning in the middle until it split, with a sound like wings spreading. The two blue lights paused to regard one another. Each was like some miniature galaxy, a spiraling mass of light and stars. They moved with a quiet grace, slowly orbiting each other, as if all the time in the world was theirs to spend.

At last the silence was broken. A voice, deep and rich, floated out from one of the forms, and said, “It has been a long time… I am not sure I remember how to do this.”

There was a bell-like tone of laughter from the other as it replied, “You used the word ‘time,’ as if it had a meaning. I think you remember just fine.”

“Perhaps,” the first said, “but it will take a bit of getting used too. I have always been one of our more ethereal aspects, and I find flesh to be a little disconcerting.”

“You are also one of our most beautiful aspects,” replied the second. “You have a clarity of thought that we find fascinating, but we must surrender this clarity of thought before we can discover its beauty anew.”

The first laughed, “And you have always been our poet, finding fascination in the least of our creations. I suppose, if we are to fully understand this ‘affliction’ of yours, we must resort to extreme measures.”

They both laughed, and with a single thought they began to shift their substance into bodies of blue light. Their features were still vague and indistinct, but they now possessed the standard form of homo sapiens. Flexing hands of blue light, the thinker remarked, “How about an appropriate setting?” With a majestic sweep of the arm, they were seated in a quiet booth in a far corner of an old coffee shop.

“Very nice,” replied the poet. “You always had a flamboyant side to you.”

“Yes, but I must admit I am still having some trouble with this ‘me’ and ‘you’ thing.” The thinker created a cup of coffee and began to stir it absently with a slender blue finger. “When we are one, there seems little point in becoming two, and when we are two, we strive to become one.”

The poet reached forward to take the cup from the thinker and raised it slowly, drinking in the dark rich liquid. Savoring the warmth of the coffee the poet replied, “We are here to learn, and I can think of no better teacher than myself. We are also here to enjoy, love and share. Who better to do this with, then another aspect of myself. Being one is glorious. That I do not deny, but there is a deeper joy in the act of becoming one, in growing closer and discovering.”

“But you only discover what you have already forgotten. There seems little point to that.” The thinker created a second cup of coffee and continued. “And the road back home is so painful. Do you remember the lifetime in France, when our love itself was forbidden. I don’t understand why of all the lifetimes to choose from you would choose to return to that miserable planet. They still believe that only certain types of love are ‘right.’ It is a place of madness.”

The poet smiled. “It is also a place of beauty. I, too, remember France. I remember dancing naked in the morning mists, out among the vineyards. I remember you feeding me grapes. Do you remember making love in the rain? The feeling of the raindrops rolling slowly down our naked breasts. Tell me that it held no joy for you.”

The thinker reached across the table, running blue fingertips across the others hand. When their skin met, lights danced and colors swirled. The thinker softly replied, “Yes, I remember. I also seem to recall getting caught by the owner of that vineyard.” The thinker chuckled, “It seems almost funny now, but at the time we had to run for our lives. We stayed in the forest four months and almost starved.”

“Rubbish,” remarked the poet. “As I recall, we lived off that same farmer’s grapes and each other.” They were both silent for a moment, lost in the memory, when at last the thinker spoke.

“I believe the forbidden nature of our love may have given it that spark of beauty. To know in the depths of your heart that pure love is not wrong, even in the face of such rejection and fear… It made us appreciate the love even more.”

Lacing the blue fingers of light with the other the poet replied, “That is exactly why we decided to live a corporeal life again. We have all the whole of love within us right now, but without an appreciation of its value we cannot enjoy it fully. Besides,” the poet laughed, “we never get out anymore.”

The thinker laughed but soon grew serious. “It will be painful. There are so many possible outcomes. This pattern we have chosen is very intricate, very delicate. There is great risk in what we do.”

“But,” interrupted the poet, “look at the possibilities. Yes, there will be pain and sorrow, but there is the potential for love, without fear, without limits and without measure. It is possible that we may not achieve it in this lifetime, we have a great deal to resolve, but it is worth the risk.”

The thinker was silent awhile, absently swirling the forgotten coffee. “Do you remember the night at the bridge in Calais, during the war? You were male then, and I was your wife.” The poet nodded as the other continued, “When the bridge was destroyed and we were separated, I felt as if my heart would burst. I wanted so badly to touch you, hold you, but I could only watch over my shoulder as we both ran to the woods for protection. I never saw you again in that life. I had never felt such pain, such anguish. I thought I would go mad.”

“We did not truly realize our connection in that life,” the poet replied. “We still believed we were alone and separate, doomed to a life of loneliness. We had grown as far as we could in that life. Do you remember what you said to me when we returned to the whole?”

The thinker nodded, “Fools walk through a life of possibilities, believing themselves to be separate from the very thing they seek. A being of wisdom sits very still and appreciates the endless variety of possibility, and in seeking nothing, finds everything.”

“Perhaps,” said the poet, “we will achieve that wisdom in this new lifetime.”

The two figures sat in silence, gently touching their fingertips. Slowly the tips of their fingers merged, and a music without sound seemed to fill the room, almost painful in its joy, beautiful in its simplicity. They danced without moving, singing silently, embraced by the whole of love, surrounded and filled with its divine energy.

At last they withdrew their hands from one another, and in their place stood a young man and woman, clothed only in a faint mist of blue light. Each held up a hand to the other, holding them a fraction of an inch apart, feeling the heat of this almost touch.

“When next we touch. . .” began the poet.

“May we touch the fullness of our heart,” the thinker completed.

There was a crackle of energy and a flash of light, and the coffee shop stood empty waiting for the return of the two who were one.