"Then Sigh Not So, But Let Them Go..."

The First Rays of Sun meet The Sea

Once again, it happened in the library. This time in a thick Hindi accent:

“Excuse me, but you have such long hair!” I turn from the bookshelves to observe a small-built, dark-skinned young man approaching. In my arms is a small stack of volumes on St. Catherine of Sienna. “I have only known three women with hair such as yours: my fourth-grade teacher, my mother, and now you.”

“Why… thank you!” I smile, believing it to have been a compliment.

We talk about our majors for a moment. I have a hard time understanding everything he says. He is whispering very softly even though we are in an isolated corner of a really large library. He tells me about his research, and inquires if I am married and settled. I am not yet.

Eventually, and rather suddenly, he says, “I must go check out a book. If you are still here when I come back, we will catch up.” Off he walks.

I return to my search, not expecting really to see him again. In a few minutes, he is back.

“Are you finished?” he asks me.

“No, I have plenty more to do,” I reply, indicating the large stack of books on the desk next to me.

“Well, how do I call you again? Medetit?”

“That’s right, Meredith.”

“What does it mean?”

“Sea guardian, or something like that.”

“That is nice. Mine means, First rays of sun. Well, I suppose I will not be seeing you around because you have graduated. Good luck with your life.”

And he walks away.

I stare at the blank wall in front of me, blinking. Startled by the suddenness of his departure, I realize as suddenly that my entire world view has just shifted. His last words echo in my head and bump against the thought that he, the stranger from a foreign land who wished me good luck with my life, had just changed my life.

~~~~~~~

Good Luck with Your Life

A year later, on a bus from East Jerusalem to the Central Bus Station:

“Where are you from?” asks the twenty-something American guy from across the aisle. He’s complete. Tennis shoes, t-shirt, baseball cap, travel pack. Mediterranean folk say they can always tell an American or a German from a mile away, but I would have given him two miles.

“Salt Lake City. You?” New York, I already knew.

“New York.”

We talked for a few minutes about our studies. (What’s a shiksa like me learning Hebrew for? Do I want to convert?) He, it seems, is high-caliber stuff. His supervisor is the fellow whose books I have been scouring for a recent paper on 1 Enoch. I get the inside scoop, and we enjoy talking about the city as we drive through Meah Shearim.

Mid-sentence, I show him that his stop is coming up. He stands quickly, swings his pack over his shoulder, and extends a hand. I shake it and smile, “Good luck with your life.”

Caught off guard, he pauses at the door and looks at me. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well, thanks.”

~~~~~~~

Life is a sea, with natural inflow and outflow, high-tide and low, every day both welcoming new strange vessels and sheltering timeless friends. It is part of life’s natural course that people should enter and exit. Let them exit. We cannot hold on to them all. The sea would never be at peace if no ship that set sail ever docked again. Those who should remain, will. Those who don’t remain are still important. Such acquaintances, even friendships, that drift away from our lives are the morning sunlight on the surface of the sea: it does not penetrate far, it does not learn to navigate the vast depths beneath. But it lends a great brilliance to the water as it passes by. Let it pass.

The Duel

Jonathan and William entered the large and warm fire-lit room, joining the happy circle of their friends, who were all engaged in delighted laughter:

"Oh Mr. Woodworth! William!" Annike Oak turned in her seat to greet her brother and Jonathan. "You have been missing the most wonderful game! A poetic duel between Mr. Dew and Mr. Alexander." The new arrivals took their seats, smiling and intrigued at the group's happy energy. Annike entreated, "Oh please do another, Mr. Dew!"

Joseph Dew smiled and rose from his chair, "I would be more than happy, Ms. Oak, if my worthy opponent will oblige us all!" He spread his arms graciously in the direction of Rasmus Alexander, who winked at Kassia, released her hand and stood swiftly to accept the challenge.

And Joseph Dew began.

I've heard of dark men far away

Who dance at night and dream in day.

On wildly colored drums they play

And chant in most enchanting way!

'Tis said their tune could cause the moon

To sway and swoon and shine like noon."

Rasmus Alexander graciously nodded, but waited not a second before returning:

"But sir, I've heard of them as well!

Wild flesh they eat, wild potions sell.

'Tis said they pray to Heav'n and Hell,

That they've not ris'n since Adam fell.

Could any beat, then, from their feet

A wise ear meet and sound so sweet?

A round of approving murmurs and chuckles filled the circle and some gently applauded as they awaited Joseph's response. Deborah and Kassia caught each other's looks and smiled. A few moments, and Joseph's bright eyes rekindled for another volley:

"A point well made, I must concur.

For I long thought, as you do sir,

That always will man's art confer

Man's vanity or man's valor.

No base man could produce a good

E'en if he should, he never would."

Rasmus jumped in,

"Then how is it you claim the throng

Of wild men with their jungle song

Could in the world of right belong,

Cause righteous men to sing along?

If they are dark how could a spark

Of goodness mark what they embark?"

Rasmus inhaled sharply as he finished. Both men rested a short moment as the others whispered to each other in anticipation. Only Icarus Bickmore did not seem altogether delighted with this particular round, feeling that men who could use a non-iambic meter, certainly ought to.

Joseph Dew's face became a little more pensive, as he continued. And as though reading his old friend's mind, he surprised the crowd by an unprecedented shift to the anapest. Everyone glanced around at each other, as though in search of a rulebook, but smiled and settled as they were drawn in by Joseph's words:

"Yes thought I that only could holy men make

any masterpiece holy or holy mistake.

Thought I ugly men never could beautiful fake,

only righteous men could beauty choose or forsake.

Then I wandered one day into some small town square

and found crowds gathered round a profound painter's ware.

Vivid magic both tragic and bold from the hair

of his brush issued hushes and sighs from all there!

But late in the evening I heard a few say

that the artist was living less wisely than they:

That his painted perfections were only to pay

for his wretched and wicked and unworthy way."

Rasmus waited a moment longer than he should after Joseph paused, contemplating the turn of both meter and meaning, but he soon found his footing:

"And so you discovered your thought was not true,

that the holy men make as the holy men do?

You decided that beauty may come from the pen

of the lowest and darkest, unholiest of men?"

Joseph stilled and smiled,

"On the contrary, friend. The conclusion I drew

was that all men are holy, as I am and you."

The room stilled a little at this, and it seemed as if every wall of SweetRoot leaned inward to hear the finale of the great game. Joseph continued:

"If the sinner should sing some small beautiful thing,

If two wretched arms dance in a heartfelt expanse,

If a scoundrel's black pen creates good, now and then:

'Tis Divinity trying to re-create them.

"And should we shut our hearts from their beautiful arts?

When we praised them with force, before we knew their source?

If the darker deeds tell of a man's inner Hell,

Then his Heaven has outwardly witness as well."

The game was done. And smiling and striking hands, the duelers took their seats. The small circle felt broader than before, as though it might circumscribe eternity.

The Sweet Root of Doubt

"Mr. Oak, I fear I am having doubts," began Jonathan Woodworth, with great hesitation.

Hesitation was indeed his habit, these days.  Since his arrival at SweetRoot, it seemed every bit of logic he conjured up was gently, but conclusively confounded by one of its residents.  He would ask, and be astonished; would seek and be shaken; would knock and be needled; and it was a mark of his soul's great resilience that he persisted, based on the plain premise that those whom he petitioned for knowledge were wise and good.  

"That is right."  William Oak, tall and blue-eyed, continued along their pine-strewn path.  He was brother to Anike Oak, and seemingly always in motion: this time on a mission from Joseph Dew to acquaint Jonathan with the surrounding forest (while Joseph and the other SweetRoot inhabitants entertained unusual guests).  

Jonathan watched him, and thought perhaps it was not William himself who was always moving.  Indeed, sometimes he appeared quite stayed.  But it was everything in his proximity that seemed to whirl a moment, as if to acknowledge him, before settling again, accustomed to his presence.  The first time Anike took Jonathan Woodworth to meet her brother in his sunlit study upstairs, Jonathan had the distinct impression that the room had been in wild motion only moments before, and that it may start up again at any instant.

"It is 'right'?  By that, Mr. Oak, do you mean 'it is good'?"

"I mean it is right.  And it may be very good.  There!  Wild licorice, for which SweetRoot is named.  Do you smell it?"  Jonathan followed him across the fern-lined clearing, and accepted a handful of freshly picked leaves.  "Doubt, Mr. Woodworth, may be the sweetest thing under heaven."

Jonathan looked up at him sharply.  He had never been taught such a thing, and until SweetRoot he would have declared himself certain of its falsehood.  But he had quickly learned under Joseph Dew's expert eye that declaring oneself certain is a potentially condemnable thing: "Certainty is not impossible.  I am certain of many things myself.  But all truth is part of one grand whole, Jonathan, and it is an infinite whole.  If you say you are 'certain' of something, you may be right that it is true, but in your mind I believe you are drawing a line around it, binding it unto itself and cutting it off from the whole.  You are 'certain' of something, you say: and now that little truth, of which you are so certain, has no room to swell, to shift, to be added upon in your understanding.  Be certain of the whole truth, Jonathan.  Be convinced of that great and good infinity.  And surely!  Be convinced of line upon line and precept upon precept.  But never cease to ponder any single truth, which you have artificially isolated from the whole, simply because you are convinced you are 'certain'."

"I have been taught that doubt removes us from God," began Jonathan... with great hesitation.

"On the contrary.  Few things have more potential to bring us to him," William smiled as he brightly, if somewhat recklessly, tucked a bundle of stems and blossoms into his front coat pocket for Anike.  "You say you doubt, Jonathan.  For the time being, I will not ask you what you doubt.  But how exactly do you think about your doubt?  I believe you stated that you 'fear' it."

Jonathan shifted in his place, "Yes, perhaps a little.  I don't like the feeling, William.  I fear it is unworthy of one who wants to live as I do.  I fear it because..."

"Because you want to believe," interjected the broad and benevolent Oak, planted there so steadily in his fern and licorice grove.  He laughed deeply, and placed a firm hand on his companion's shoulder.  "Because you are convinced that believing is good.  And when you feel doubt, you feel guilt.  You feel your soul is in rebellion against the greatest light in the universe; like it is trying to question the sun while it stands high in the sky.  It is a great contradiction, isn't it?  To desire the goodness of the sun, and even feel it warming the backs of your hands, while your deepest heart (which cannot see the sun so well as you) wonders if it might indeed not be."  William Oak cast a hand to the sky and laughed like a child delighted in telling his favorite riddle.

Jonathan smiled and shook his head, watching what he perceived to be the most confident and knowing joy.  "Mr. Oak, how I wish I knew as you do.  But it does indeed strengthen me to see you."

The whole grove stilled a little, as William lowered his laughing eyes from heaven and set them on the pathway home.  "That is good, Jonathan. 'To some it is given to know, and to some it is given to believe on their words.'  I too always wanted to be among the knowers.  But doubt has been my constant companion."

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, his brow and eyes lined now with wondering hesitation.  But William continued his lively pace along the path, sweet dusk now filling the gaps in his stride.  "Joseph Dew knows things I have only dreamed of... and yes, things that I have hoped for and at many times, believed in.  And once I feared my doubts, oh so greatly, because they made me less like him.  But then I remembered Jacob."

Jonathan had yet heard of no Jacob at SweetRoot, and wondered again how many mysterious ministers its walls had welcomed, and in some cases withstood.

William Oak went on, "The greatest wrestling match in history.  The greatest, that is, next to your struggle and mine to know the truth."  They were nearing the boundaries of Joseph's garden now, and both removed their shoes.  It was a SweetRoot custom, during the warm seasons, to soak a little earth into the feet before retiring to the evening indoors.  "Genesis thirty-two.  You remember Jacob's scuffle with 'the man' near Jabbok?  It lasted all night, and nearly to the break of day, Jonathan.  And finally, Jacob had him.  And he would not release him...until?"

"Until," Jonathan slowly nodded, "until he agreed to bless Jacob."

"Yes.  But more than that.  The opponent with whom he had travailed all the night gave Jacob a new name at the break of dawn.  Jacob became Israel.  There is never a new name, Jonathan Woodworth, without a new covenant.  And never a covenant without power, wisdom, might and intelligence.  And knowledge, Jonathan."

Jonathan Woodworth stared up at the dimming sky, his heart pounding riddles into his chest, but his mind gently understanding.

"Wrestle, Jonathan.  Feel doubt, for you must---it is hardly avoidable for men like you and I---but do not fear it.  Let it lead you to the wrestling match.  Let no question remain inside of you.  They burn from the inside!  Ask them all aloud, Jonathan!  Pose them directly to God.  And listen and study and sweat, and keep the earth beneath your feet.  Do not cease until the night is fled."

They reached the warm wood doors of SweetRoot, and stood on its porch as they turned their faces outward to the night.  "Do not cease, Jonathan, until the dawn breaks in your mind.  Until you have earned the right to demand your covenant.  And strengthened by the labors of the night, go forth in thanks and joyful expectation of another night's struggle.  Ah, Jonathan, there is nothing sweeter under heaven."

Perspicacity

The Marriot Library is a peculiar place. My adventures there are endless, and somehow they include, more often than not, run-ins with mysterious gentlemen who manage to appear quite arbitrarily and unannounced later in my life. And hmm... their names are almost always unusual. I will share more about them later.

This time I was "studying" for finals with my friend, whose name, in order to preserve anonymity, I will translate into English: Perspicacity.

Why were we not really studying? Because Perspicacity and I have the awful habit of relating our readings to real life, trying to find an appropriate application for them, quoting relevant experiences from our pasts, and inevitably getting wildly off-topic.

X was the subject this time. He is Perspicacity's roommate, and I am not calling him X to preserve his anonymity. We call him that in real life because he is a former believer, who left of his own free will, and who now runs something of an online crusade against religion.

"X thinks that religion is responsible for a disproportionate amount of this world's atrocities, and its ignorance," Perspicacity said as he packed up his laptop.

Certainly, X had a point: who could deny that religion is a historical divider, and that even when it is not itself at the root of a conflict, it frequently serves as a pretense?

But, "my dear Perspicacity, religion is also the source of the greatest goods in the world: lending believers hope and reasons to live well. Wouldn't a world without religion be a world without altruism?"

Perspicacity was standing above me now, slinging his backpack behind him for the trek home (where he no doubt intended to concoct something extraordinary for dinner). He tilted his head to the right and, looking down at me, asked, "Is it really altruism when a person does something with the belief that he'll be blessed in the next life for doing it? Or cursed for not doing it? It sounds almost selfish."

I stared up at him wide-eyed. With one fell swoop of a sentence he had unearthed in me the large question I had buried so carefully, along with its answer, years before---not to hide them, but to secure them and make them a part of me, for the day I would need them: "How can I truly serve God with a single eye when I know he is going to reward me for it?"

I had never been able to put into words the conclusion I had come to, and so I knew I wasn't going to be able to give Perspicacity a very satisfactory answer. All I was able to get out was this: "If your life were on the line, and I had a split-second decision to make in order to save it, the farthest thing from my mind would be my eternal reward. I know from personal experience that people sometimes can be motivated purely by love of others, and love for God."

He left then. I stared blankly at my computer screen wondering how I could have expressed the intensity of my feeling on the subject. A couple hours later, an e-mail appeared from Perspicacity himself. It was a reference to a tradition about a female Sufi saint of whom he had said I reminded him---before our library conversation:

One day, she was seen running through the streets of Basra

carrying a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other.

When asked what she was doing, she said:

"I want to put out the fires of Hell, and burn down the rewards of Paradise.

They block the way to God.

I do not want to worship from fear of punishment or for the promise of reward,

but simply for the love of God."

I actually began to cry for my swelling heart. That's what a heart does when it realizes its hidden secrets are known, and truly known, by someone else. Some secrets aren't meant to be told to others, but are rather for us to discover in others, and joyfully too. Who could have known that Rabi'a al-'Adawiyya al-Qaysiyya would uncover her secret in me, so many centuries after she had buried it in herself?

And how many around me, I wonder, are waiting to be discovered?

Veils are Sewn to be Seen Through

Rachel Navia, her long black arms dizzily contriving whirlwinds of cream, stood erect and veiled over the kitchen table.

The door edged open and Jonathan Woodworth made a timid entrance into the room.  "[Ahem].  Ladies, pardon me, Mr. Dew asked me to deliver these tomatoes from the garden..."  He had grown used to the fact that, though he was everywhere else beloved and welcome, in the kitchen he was a stranger in enemy territory.  Best to approach its door humbly, white flag in hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Woodworth!  Come in, come in!"  Deborah Dew accepted the basket of tomatoes from Jonathan's hands and replaced it overflowing with unshelled peas.  She indicated a chair in the corner, and with a cogent glance suggested he occupy it.  Jonathan smiled and surrendered with a graceful bow, making his way to the chair.  He issued gentle greetings to the other women in the room as he began to split the green pods.

"Hello Ms. Oak, Mrs. Alexander, Ms..."  He stumbled a little as he searched for a face to accompany the tall, slender figure of Rachel Navia.  But the graceful dark arms protruding from beneath her veil revealed quite clearly their mistress's identity.  "Ms. Navia..."

Anike Oak noted his hesitation and explained, "Rachel is contemplating some serious matter, Mr. Dew, and in consideration for those of us whose own faces are not accustomed to viewing (or adopting) so harrowed and desolate a countenance, she veils herself that she might not cause us pain.  She knows, as women know, that if we saw her grief we would share it."  Anike untangled her hair, now wound around the knitting needles from which she had been distracted, and blushed a little.  "But it shall pass to a peace soon, and she will remove the veil."

Jonathan resumed his shelling, having accepted easily enough the young woman's explanation.

He could have chosen no response more frustrating to Anike Oak, who viewed such blind acceptance (even acceptance of Truth, from an Authority) as the equivalent of retreat.  He ought, she thought, to have had at least some single question occur to him.  Look how silently he stares at his basket of peas!  Pursue, Mr. Woodworth!  

"We all wear them, on occasion, you know."

Jonathan looked up quickly and caught her daring stare, and for the first time since he met her he felt that perhaps he could hold his own... but all illusion was shattered by the sound of liberated peas landing on his shoe rather than in his basket.

He looked down as quickly, scooping up the renegade peas and continuing his work.  "For the same purpose, Ms. Oak?  To protect an observer from empathetic pain?"

"Ah, now we are asking questions!  Deborah!  Mr. Woodworth has asked a question!"  Mrs. Dew gave her a reprimanding look, but Anike caught the wink as well.  "He wonders why women veil themselves."

"Now just a moment, Ms. Oak.  Why they veil themselves?"  Jonathan's hands were still now.  "I have always viewed the veil as an institution imposed upon women by their men, and have heard many scholars discuss it as such.  Certainly the women of the east, who are required to veil at all times in public, would not do so if it were not the man's law."  With secret eagerness he awaited Anike Oak's inevitable overthrow of all his preconceptions.

Unexpectedly warm, she began: "Really, Mr. Woodworth.  This may be the case in some places and in some times, or perhaps it has evolved into such.  But how could it ever be so simple!  How could men ever perpetuate such a practice---in which they do not even participate---by themselves!  The women must have some reason to 'put up with it' if they do not indeed themselves perpetuate it."

Kassia Alexander, who had observed until now in uncharacteristic silence, chimed in: "Protection, for one thing, Mr. Woodworth.  I have, now and then, found myself in both Persia and North Africa, and how I wished I were veiled on the market street!  Wandering eyes, wandering words, and on occasion, even wandering hands have found their way into my hair.  Sometimes in the presence of my husband!"  She unconsciously stroked her thick blonde braid.

"Privacy, Mr. Woodworth,"  Came Deborah Dew.  "And power too.  Even Joseph, the most intuitive of men, has trouble discerning my thoughts when he cannot examine my mouth, my brow, my temples... and you say it is the man who is in control of the veiled woman!  She, who through her veil can see all, controlled by he who can see nothing but pale outlines and colorless eyes?"

Anike Oak's eyes were brighter and more fervent now.  "You must not forget, Jonathan, that there are two sides to every veil.  And you must ask thoughtfully: who holds the true advantage?  Who poses the questions?  Who grants admittance?  There is only one time in a woman's life that it is a man who removes her veil.  And even in that case, she gives her permission first."

The conversation paused a moment, as the corner of every eye caught the gentle spin of weightless fabric at the other end of the room.  Rachel Navia, who had washed her hands and dried them on her bright, cream-splattered apron, removed the veil from her ebony face.  Perfect serenity settled in its place.

Jonathan felt a sensation he had never before known, and which he would not define until much later in his education.  Gazing upon the freshly unveiled face, he felt himself a seer.

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, unraveling the spell of revelations she had sent swirling about the room.  The other women were less affected by it, having grown accustomed to Rachel's dreaming and waking, and yet they stilled themselves, awaiting her first words.

"You must not be afraid, Mr. Woodworth, of these hidden worlds.  I see the veil disturbs your mind, and that my sisters have perhaps portrayed it as too imposing, maybe even impenetrable.  I tell you that no veil is sealed against the earnest desire, the faithful identity, and the proper petition."

Rachel Navia quietly folded her veil and tucked it in a pocket behind her apron.  "Mr. Bickmore once complained to his late wife that he had to go about exposed, while women might veil themselves at will.  (Though you may know there are some Saharan communities, the Taureg in particular, in which the men do go veiled.)  He also worried over being separated from her face when she herself was veiled.  She penned a verse to comfort him, and he has carried it diligently on his person since her passing.  I believe it may give you some insight too, Mr. Woodworth:

Think not that what's hid isn't yours---

The tides often cover the shores!

Fret not that a veil lies between you:

For veils are sewn to be seen through.

I have had to learn again and again in my life, Jonathan, that the seeker shall indeed find."

To be continued...

The Changeling Stanza

I recommend you read the description at the left of the page before embarking on this journey.  Welcome to The Beginning!

"So, Mr. Dew.  What is your opinion of our authoress's recent claims?" asked Jonathan Woodworth, the most recent initiate into the presence of the inimitable Joseph Dew.  (And what an initiation!  To be described, naturally by means of a trite and poorly placed flashback, in future entries...)

Joseph stirred his tea, jovially concocted from the long blades of lemon grass blasting gracefully skyward from every corner of the yard.  "I assume, Mr. Woodworth, you refer to her claim that it was peer pressure which brought her, so helpless, into the blogging world.  Well, you and I might both easily refute her, for what man knows himself who does not know his maker?"

An uncomfortable, meek clearing of the throat from Jonathan's corner of the sun-speckled porch.  "As you may imagine, I have these past few days begun to doubt very much that I do know myself, Mr. Dew.  And as to my maker... you have quite called that matter into question as well."  Jonathan was more at ease in the presence of Joseph Dew (There it is again: "The presence of Joseph Dew."  But that is precisely and most perfectly what it was.  Presence.  Repetition can be important anyway.  Why throw out the mot juste simply so you don't have to use it more than once?  Seems an illogical practice.  So long as it does not inhibit poetry, if you give me the perfect word once, by all means give it to me twice.) than he had ever been in any other situation in his life, and far less at ease in his own presence.  Indeed, his own presence was to him a new and very large question, the answer to which he now constantly sought in the cosmic depth of Dew's eyes.

"Mr. Bickmore!"  Hailed Joseph Dew to the ponderous figure crossing the green and lively weed-strewn lawn.  "What is today's contemplation?  I do hope it is iambic."

It was sure to be.  This was Icarus Bickmore, whose every footstep was perfectly measured, but whose tongue was invariably traversed by consistent uneven feet.  He considered it his curse:

 "Iambic line may seem to thee

To fit, to flow, not forced nor free.

But lacks it, sometimes lazily,

That shifting shadow: Mystery."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bickmore!  I see your point.  The best poetry follows pattern, surely.  But the real effectiveness of real poetry is that it builds pattern, and thereby expectation, and then suddenly breaks with it.  The break!  Surprise.  Alteration.  Yes, the changeling stanza: a perfect fit and yet an apparent substitution, deletion, or gloss at the same time.  The ideal challenge for any poet."  The lemon-grass tea was now gone, and Dew had moved on to the second course of his every meal: a book, the pages of which he somehow managed to consume and continuously turn, even while participating in so involved a discourse.  "What do you think she was really saying, Icarus?"

"'It is an empowering tide,' she wrote,

'That draws us out to cybersea

on simple waves of anecdote

or strokes of ingenuity!'"

Growling, Mr. Bickmore dug into his pockets to produce a metronome.  Turning it on, he tried to repeat his statement, searching desperately for at least a trochee---and anything but a rhyme---but to no avail.

"Icarus," said Mr. Dew with some seriousness, "My friend, you must know that will not help.  A man who wills to change his nature cannot simply alter it.  He must re-form it, and in order to do so he must have some knowledge of his original formation.  He must know something of the great Former."

Intrigued by the actual content of Mr. Bickmore's verse, which seemed to him to have been quite overlooked by Joseph Dew, Jonathan asked for an explanation.  "Are you saying it was some other force that brought her to this point, Mr. Bickmore, something other than the persistent request of acquaintances that she inform them of her life by these means?"  

Mr. Bickmore folded his arms, lifted his chin, and despairingly turned it only slightly to the right.

Joseph Dew smiled.  "It's a little harder on him than usual today.  Who can blame him?  Such an expansive and flexible mind, trapped in a little iamb!"  He offered Mr. Bickmore a chocolate by tossing it down to him from the porch, shattering both the rigid frown and frozen pose.

And Joseph Dew spoke, turning his beam once again to the resilient, searching eyes across the table.  "Jonathan.  You have not seen the hand that wrote you---though you've not a doubt in your mind it exists, or at least existed.  Yet you do know this: you must know, as every breathing thing knows, that you are important.  Even more, that you are crucial.  You cannot believe that you were written into existence, into a breathing and thinking and even creative existence, on account of any trifling force or reckless whim.  You, Jonathan Woodworth, are here to alter the universe."

To be continued...