Beloved Sun, why such a sideways glance? On every hill, in each vale, Flora outdoes itself in a bid to gladden the eye of Ra with swirling tapestries of scarlet, gold, maroon and green. The rivers are in a hurry to flow down to the sea, to greet the salmon as it leaps in the other direction. Fare thee well, blessed summer.
Within the change there is a wind, stirring, lifting the branches.
The birch-leaves scatter, heart-shaped coins, dropping upon the grass.
While holding a piece of jade, taken from a mountain of serpentine, I close my eyes.
There is no more eye, only aye. And there the golden shower is unceasing. Thoughts descend in translucent geometries, as if in crystal-flakes and keys to knowledge not yet unlocked, as a snow that does not chill, ushering in a winter of transformation.
Again and again in my thoughts I would catch myself wandering alone on a path winding through a wood. Branches hung over the path on both sides. The way forward was always in the dark. My hands would reach forward to feel in front of me in the blackness, and then I would take a step. Then another step, and yet another.
The murky flavor of this forest was tinged with despair, and yet I continued stubbornly to wander through this wilderness for many years. Somewhere in the distance, a firefly was dancing, I promised myself. I reached back into the past for the memory of faint voices of encouragement; then I would move on with a sigh.
When I was embraced, it was only by a dark angel, who reflected the dusky indigo depths of my own gloom. My dream-darlings, I turned my back on you and stubbornly marched ahead. I memorized a script of suffering, and wore it out in repetitive recitations. Often, I sank into an oblivion where exhaustion was my most constant companion.
There were a few hints, like the time I remembered a dream from early childhood: sunlight on a grassy knoll, and the certainty that roses were blossoming there.
But for the most part, such has been the way of this life. A silence verging on muteness. A series of impossible, tenebrous longings. The preference to remain in obscurity, behind the trees.
The rain comes again, pattering along, and the sodden breath of the boreal forest permeates a mildewed wooden pavilion. You tug a wool cardigan closer around your neck in a twitching gesture, hoping it will create the illusion of warmth, and watch curiously while a young girl and a boy extend a terry-cloth towel between them, so that it hovers just above the keys of an upright piano. A third figure, a 12-year-old boy named Tim, sporting a beige Fedora, stretches out his palms until they disappear beneath the towel. He grins impishly. His unseen hands reach for the ivories.
Three notes, struck in measured succession. That is all it takes for the pimply pranksters and the trees to disappear, and for the music to launch you into a deep abyss, a scarlet-burgundy crushed-velvet lily, with indigo highlights. Are those flashes of sound emerging from the piano, or from your own soul? The tones rise and fall as if ocean waves are striking and circling a light-house, and some frigate--it must be your ship--is pitching to and fro, but in spite the slashes of anguish, there is the hope that the ship will find its harbor, quite soon, in fact.
This is how Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C Sharp Minor might resonate to a fresh pair of ears.
If your senses later become a bit dull and jaded, perhaps you could give the music a rest, until you are able to conjure the memory of listening to it for the first time.
And what if the mother of knowing appeared in a cloak of unknowing, and her messages to you in the past were from the future to yourself? How long have we waited for her words? Perhaps thousands of years, while our hearts slept in the mountains, and we skimmed the earth's surface.
During 1990, while living in Moscow, I watched a documentary film on Nikolai Vavilov that I will never forget.
Nikolai Vavilov, the son of a Moscow merchant and the grandson of a peasant, graduated from an agricultural institute in 1911. For the next two years, he studied in England, France, and Germany. In 1916, not following in his father's footsteps but instead his own youthful passion,Vavilov began collecting seeds around the world.
Vavilov braved the mountains of China, Iran and Afghanistan, explored the plains of the United States, and Mexico, contracted malaria in Syria, and floated along the Nile river. During his journeys, he learned 15 languages, traveled to five continents and visited 64 countries. He was a personal witness to the effects of famine, including hunger and disease, and dedicated himself into service as a defender of the world's future food supply. He was one of the first scientists to actually listen to the stories of farmers around the world, who told him that seed diversity was important, and he formed the theory that seed varieties had originated in ancient agricultural centers.
In 1920, Vavilov demonstrated that if all the variations known to exist in the most studied species of a given group are arranged in a table in a certain order, almost all the same variations in the variability of characteristics will be found in other species. Variety, he said, was necessary to maintain the world's food supply.
In 1921, Lenin chose Vavilov as the founder of a department in Leningrad to study seeds, which later became known as the Vavilov Institute in St. Petersburg. He brought thousands of varieties of plants, seeds, tubers, and 31,000 wheat specimens to this institute.
In the 1930's, a student of Vavilov's, Trofim Lysenko took a stand against Vavilov's Mendelian genetics in favor of a more utilitarian view: that more successful varieties and production could be induced. After his death, Lenin was replaced by Joseph Stalin, who had no patience for Vavilov. The forced collectivization of farming practices led to more famine in the Soviet Union, which Vavilov had feared. Stalin decided to make Vavilov a scapegoat. After being invited to collect seeds in the Ukraine in 1940, Vavilov was arrested by KGB agents, charged with espionage and the destruction of Soviet agriculture, and disappeared into the Gulag.
Knowing that the city was under attack from Nazi Germany, and that the people of Leningrad were starving, fourteen of Vavilov's assistants locked themselves into what is now known as the Vavilov Institute to guard his seed bank. Several of these scientists died of starvation during the siege of Leningrad, literally dying of hunger within a few feet of what might have sustained them. Several of Vavilov's scientist colleagues were also executed for such heinous crimes as the study of the habits of peas and runner beans.
Vavilov died of malnutrition in prison in 1943 in Saratov, not far from his family, who did not yet know where he had been taken.