I had shut my eyes and walked backwards only a little way, trying as hard as I could to pay no heed to the loud noises about me. Someone tried to have me sign a petition, to save some Amazonian moth, but I managed to get past them. Then I stumbled through a door, and I heard a girl’s voice, and she sounded terribly bored; she tried to sell me on a cup of coffee. It was pricey, but didn’t I know that the coffee bean farmers in Ethiopia were poorly paid? I told her that I didn’t drink coffee, but she didn’t seem to care, it wasn’t about the coffee really, it wasn’t even about the farmer. It was about the brand, and what the brand said about me. But I managed to get away. I had backed up even further, and that sound, that constant noise, finally began to abate. It was still then, for a moment, as I went eyes-shut backwards along my way, before finally, in a singular backward stride, my right foot landed with a splash in some water.

I opened my eyes. It was a shallow river, gently flowing, with a forest on the other side. I could have easily waded across, but I noticed an old bridge just a little way along from where I was, so I made my way to it. The old bridge was made of granite stones; it must have been there for thousands of years, so perfectly was it integrated into the landscape about it. On this side of the bridge there was a gate, an iron gate, and it’s doors were swung open, and tufts of grass grew about the bars betraying the fact that it had not been shut in many years. I was about to walk across when I noticed a tall plinth nearby. It was surmounted by an unlit beacon, with a torch at hand to light it. It seemed like a good idea if I did so. That way I would be able to find my way back; it would be my reference point, and orientate me in relation to whatever lay beyond. So I lit it, with a prayer.

Flaming beacon, guide me in my search for truth.

Set me on my way here at your transcendental crossing,

towards a greater knowing of myself,

a greater knowing of that which is in me,

the architecture of me, which sets me upon courses before any choices are made.

And conversely, do not shine for us, here, alone,

may you lead others in their search,

here to your bridge of granite stone.

Amen

Having crossed, I made my way along the gravel path, and the sound of the river began to fade into the background, replaced by the sound of the wind blowing between the dark green pines, and the sound of my feet, with each step crunching below. Further and further into my solitude I went. I remember pulling back the bark from a tree, and the sap sticking to my skin that I rubbed into my hands, black lines of detritus that I could not budge. The tree that was in me, that was under my nails. My breath and the wind, my spirit and the Spirit. A harmony within a harmonious place. We need such solitude, to think our own thoughts, to inwardly orientate our attention, to find our creative self. But distractions come - from without, but also often from within, within the self… Then a screeching sparrow darted out from the wood. It’s words were garbled, but so noisy. I could not help stopping in my tracks and looking at the little thing with astonishment. So much sound coming from such a small bird. I shooed it away, but it would not go. I tried listening to what it had to say, but its words were really difficult to make out. At first, I thought it may even be speaking a different language entirely, but no, it was just such a high-pitched, strained series of words. I focused - it was chirping on about my responsibility, something about what was really important. I asked the sparrow why it had come to lecture me. But the sparrow did not even acknowledge my question, she just carried on. So, once again, I tried to get away, wanting to find my solitude, but this time I had no luck. As I walked away, it followed on, closely. My quickening steps made no difference. Getting increasingly agitated I tried to think of what I could say to banish the blasted thing. That’s when I heard something coming from up ahead. Singing.

It was coming from what looked like a public house; drawing nearer I could make out the sign – it read ‘The Trickster’s Tipple’, and so I went in. There was a gleeful cheer amongst the patrons, who chortled, toasted, and swayed together to the sacred harp music being sung, acapella, by a group in the corner. I sat on a stool at the bar, and the man next to me introduced himself as Oscar Wilde. And then sure enough, the little sparrow, who had followed me in, sat herself down upon the bar top. And her diatribe continued, without even a beat, “It is the principle of it, our obligation to the problems in question, out there, back beyond the granite bridge. It’s about what needs to be done. And whatever this is, is a waste of time! And what of you” chirped the little bird at Wilde, “Don’t you think morality is important?” Wilde looked down at the bird and replied, “Yes, but I don’t think importance is.” And with that, the sparrow fell silent.