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Nirvana_Road _Ivor_ Hughes


ON THE ROAD TO NIVARNA.

Ivor Hughes.

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In a theatrical tone, and not addressing anyone in one in particular .. he loudly proclaimed .. Oh woe .. woe is me! And fell in a heap laughing at his own wit .. one thing was certain to him .. for he had seen it .. teeming millions more .. all in far worse situations .. But it was not from want of bread, coin or roof that was the cause of the distress that ailed him … rather it was an inner cause. For he felt excommunicated from those of his kind …

What kept flashing before his minds eye was a painting titled ;

The Scapegoat .. by William Holden Hunt

 

 

For it summed up exactly how he felt, and he also felt very confused .. rather like a chastened puppy seeking the love of its master.

He sighed heavily for he  knew that the scapegoat was also on the journey, and that such things pass .. on the road to Nirvana. What he had not yet learnt was that self abnegation .. is also the journey of the soul .. and the walking came hard for he was stubborn and proud .. Sailing Oceans, fording rivers and climbing the foot hills .. seeking the mountains of the soul.

The Inn lying in the lush green of the highland valley was a benediction .. his eyes having become accustomed to the wind blown purple heather and the grey green of the lichens on the ancient stones. Lordy me! .. she said .. her eyes twinkled in the while .. You look like you need a hot tub and then some good food and a linen sheeted bed. 

She clapped her hands .. and quick as a flying spark the scullery maid, and her twin the housemaid were at her elbow .. Martha! you heat the buckets for the hot tub and make sure you use a soothing lavender scented pillow in the making up of the bed .. and Mary! .. the food! .. To garnish the table .. A goodly sprig of fresh bay leaves .. soft wholemeal bread .. a pannikin of warm olive oil in which are steeped some crushed cloves of garlic and a shaker of sea salt and one lemon .. oh! and a dozen pepper corns .. some seeds of caraway and fennel with 3 or 4 cardamoms and half a stick of sweet cinnamon from the locked box in the store room. .. and set them on the table .. then handed her the key.

Now Sir .. what is your fancy? she asked the traveler .. To compliment the table, he said .. I will have a good platter of baked flaky sea cod and garnished with a cheese and parsley sauce .. fresh chopped spring salad .. a lump of cheese and what ever fresh fruit you may have. Martha! Mary! .. the Mistress with a clap of her hand commanded! .. and the little maids with a bob and a curtsey melted away.

He leant back in satisfaction .. the table was disorderly .. but contained not a crumb of food .. The Mistress of the Inn had watched his every mouth full .. for she loved to feed people .. and she knew .. that if only for a short time .. peace would reign. She began .. This is not a well traveled road, and inns in the uplands are few and far between .. not enough customers to sustain many, she said .. then straight to the question .. what brings you here ?

I am following my destiny .. he said .. ah! .. one of those! .. she sagely said … well if you need tools for your journey I have a goodly selection that will meet most needs .. I also have the gift of my Mother .. a forgiving ear and a concealed patience .. and the traveler felt a great burden lifted from him .. he was in safe harbor and the ravaged sails and broken spars of his journey could be repaired and made ready for the onward voyage .. on the sea of life .. sailing to sight the foot hills of Nirvana.

The feeling of the scapegoat had taught him how valuable those silken threads of love and acceptance are .. those golden threads that bind us all .. just how valuable they really are .. for that is the root of the yearning for God .. because God is at the root of us all.  

Turning to his hostess, he raised his tankard and said .. Maam .. I thank you! .. It is the Wisewoman that aspires to be the Inn keeper .. You have added a graciousness to that inner journey for me .. and be assured there is no sowing without a reaping.

Ivor Hughes
Dedicated to Darla.
Auckland New Zealand .. December 2005

 

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