JUST THE WEIGHT OF GOD

        (An attempt to clarify my own beliefs, tracing the winding thought and spirit path to them)

Revelation or Wishful Thinking?

There are those have had said they have had life-changing spiritual "revelations,"by a vision; mvoices heard; out of body experiences; feelings of being directed guided, saved or found. And there is a history of mystics who have experienced such and have since been considered spiritual teachers themselves, Christian mystics: Meister Eckhardt, Hildegard von Bingen, Julian of Norwich, as well many from other religious traditions.  

  I do wonder if some of said "super sensible" experiences came from subconscious influences: wishful thinking, desire for comfort, peace, certainty, or to cope with desperate life situations. However, those experiences come, there must a coming down from the proverbial "mountain top" to live by what they now "know," or believe has been revealed as absolute truth. Some may also feel they need to evangelize to share and save other souls. 

    I have not had a clear, powerful spiritual revelation. I have had intuitions and insights shaping my present state of spirituality.

 Of course, there does not have to be a clear revelation for belief of any kind. People may turn to sacred texts, such as the Bible or Koran, as either guiding wisdom or literal interpretations/dictates.  Others, such as myself feel, and thus believe, that no one religion is the true and only one. Neither do I believe that organized religion is a prerequisite to be a good, moral human being; however, I cannot imagine being so without having embraced at least solid values to live by, often contained in religion, but also to be intuited and/or found elsewhere: family upbringing, community, and in sources of research and learning, such as literature, philosophy, psychology, history and science.

    I believe if we were created with the capacities we have for thinking, free will and freedom, then we must think and sort things out spiritually and otherwise for ourselves, not simply blindly following the dictates of any one book or religion. Coming to values and principles on our own often involves a healthy balance of openness, curiosity, observation, skepticism and critical thinking, as well as sometimes "holding" questions instead of seeking answers. Spiritual growth can also involve a re-orientation in our beliefs from time to time, as we explore and embrace what feels right and makes sense to us.

    I realize I may be accused of being hard-hearted, as I have not embraced any one faith, or that I cherry-pick what to believe or not, that I am not able/willing to submit to any one religious tradition. I confess to all of the above, except being hard-hearted. I see it more as open-hearted. I have been called a "free thinker," which was not meant as a compliment, but is I hope an accurate description which I do embrace. I have been given free will, and the capacity to learn "how' to think instead of "what" to think, and I intend to use these gifts wisely and well.

What Kind of God Don't You Believe In?

    A friend of mine who has a clear understanding and practice of her faith of once asked me, "What kind of god don't you believe in?" I appreciated the question, as it made me think of what 

"version" of a god I had been taught about in my Catholic upbringing. That version seemed a micro-manger with a plan for me, to whom I had to confess my sins (to a priest, not directly to God).  There was no mention, as I recall, of joy, love and being created in God's image. I could not have described it then, but since realized what came across was contradictory, patriarchal, anthropomorphic god who "responds" arbitrarily to the prayers of his faithful, his having woefully ignored those of his "so called" chosen people who implored him from concentration camps.

    I do not believe in a god who created human beings simply to worship/adore and obey him, who had, as some Christian sects believe speak of a pre-ordained "elect" group to be saved, while others were created only to be damned. Of course, I also concede that I may be wrong about many things; that is what an open mind is all about, as one can neither know or prove god's existence or not, or what what characteristics are attributed to the god I learned of.

    When I do imagine a god I could believe in, it would be a god as "father," which is in fact, an attribute I have heard in my early religious training. Experience and reason tells me tells me, an ideal father does not want to be adored, worshipped or to instill fear in his children. Rather, a father encourages, supports and comforts his children, is fair, compassionate and unconditionally loves through thick and thin, is firm, but not vengeful, diciplines as needed, but not punishes. Fathers guide children to a certain point, then must trust that all that has been given and taught will bear fruit. Good fathers also expect that children will make missteps, experiment, may make unwise choices, act impulsively or disobey, as Adam and Eve are said to have done to learn and to become better and more worthy human beings.

     I've always questioned, too if God is omniscient/all knowing, also a common attribute, He could not have been "surprised" that his creations disobeyed him, so that so-called "sin" was all part of God's plan, no? And let's not forget that the Adam and Eve's temptation was that they would become like God (in his image.) A wise father/parent does realize that, at times, their children must learn from adversity, rebellion and disobedience, which may result in consciousness and conscience. This is why I believe that this and other biblical and sacred texts are "imaginative pictures/metaphorical lessons to be contemplated, understood and not taken literally.

    Problems arise and develop from encountering unexpected situations, and in response, we make choices to cope and probem solve. Learning to cope is part of becoming an adult and more fully human. At times, what we thought would be a wise choice turns out poorly, and what seemed like an unwise choice may lead us in a more positive direction. Trying to do the "right thing" or what we have been we must do, does not always lead to the desired results, thus the expression learning from "the school of hard knocks." 

    In the Judaeo/Christian traditions, we hear that humans were created in "God's image." I belive it means we are or can become co-creators in our own right, able to bring new things into being: ideas, practical and creative things with the abilities with which we are born. However, we must first recognize and have the opportunity to use our gifts to create the good, the beautiful and the true in our families, communities and professionally, and so fulfill what "should" be a father's intent for his children: to become good parents, neighbors, friends, technicians, teachers, scientists, artists, musicians, writers, poets, thinkers. Unfortunately, there are situations into which people are born that may result in their creating new evils, harm, violence and destruction. Neverthless, I'd like to believe we were created with possibilities greater than we can comprehend or imagine.

Fundamentalism - Belief and Reason

    Fundamentalism of any kind narrows and limits knowledge of self and the world, and may prevent our full development of being created in "God's image."  People may live good, admirable, moral lives without an organized religion or reference to sacred texts, having developed values from other sources and experience.

    My spiritual life has developed from my collective life experiences and influences, including formal and informal education; my relationships and interactions with others, my study and research, based on my: questions, interests, observations, doubts, and my own if not "revelations," then insights and realizations. 

    Very influential for me have been the psychological, sociological and anthropological perspectives of Joseph Campbell, Carl Jung and Erich Fromm, to name of few. Campbell, in his twelve-year research in three volumes, The Masks of God, posed a question I identified as a key reason I reject fundamentalism in any one tradition: He asks:

          

"Are modern civilizations to remain spiritually locked from each other in their local notions….and traditions of...myths, stories, and religions, which essentially drive us 'diametrically apart?'"

 

    It seems that, yes, we do largely remain focused on our differences, rather our similarities, causing all manner of conflict, often with attempts to limit or take away others' freedoms by forcing them to think, believe and live as they do, either in families, communities or governments. 

    It has been a long time coming, but currently a large number of Americans are either supporting or openly promoting "Christian Nationalism," encouraged by elected officials and their followers, who have chosen to ignore the First Amendment to the Constitution:

    "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." Campbell's point exactly! 

    We must remain free to pursue, within the limits of law, the unalienable rights noted in the Declaration of Independence: "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." If we choose to remember or to read history, we know that countries with theocracies eliminate choice, censor and control media/free speech, create false narratives, take away civil rights, discriminate, create fear, chaos, favor the wealthy, and "go after" anyone questioning or criticizing such. Christian Nationalism is thus exclusive, not inclusive, as Christian and other religions teach in one way or another:

• Love your neighbor as yourself. (The current president has said, "I hate democrats," the other half of Americans!).
• Judge not, least you be judged
• What is done to the least of my brothers, this is you do to me.
• Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. 

A noted has rabbi has said that the last proclamation above "IS the whole Torah, the rest is explanation." 

The Brain is Wider than the Sky

   "Our task now is to learn that, if we can voyage to the ends of the earth and there find ourselves in the aborigine, who most differs from ourselves, we will have made a fruitful pilgrimage. . . .We [will] have come to the end of a long journey and see that the stranger we meet there is no other than ourselves." (Thomas Merton). This is essentially what, in some way, all religions, spiritual leaders and advocates for humanity have taught us through the ages.

    Though I do not believe in the stereotypical descriptions of heaven and hell, I can imagine that in an "afterlife" we may be made aware of all that we did or did not do or have brought into being in our time on earth, and maybe experience our transgressions, large and small, as they have affected others and ourselves. 

    My truth tells me we are not here or were created solely to be obedient, to worship a creator, especially out of fear of sin or punishment, rather, above all to choose and consciously strive to pursue and develop our higher selves, respect and embrace the humanity of others to become fully human--through whatever experiences, resources and sources support that effort.  

    My spiritual life has been a blending of beliefs--a synthesis--somewhere between reason and imagination, inspiration and intuition, embracing everything that supports the common good. Our spirit, mind, body, heart and soul cannot ultimately be understood, defined or contained in any one way to believe or live, in any one book or any one philosophy. 

    Every day I experience ambiguity, paradox, and moral dilemmas. I behold the beauty of nature and the cosmos. I am grateful for the goodness, kindness and love of my family, friends and sometimes of "strangers." I am aware of my own inadequacies, falling short and trying again and again. I acutely and painfully aware of suffering, illnesses and deaths occurring at every moment, near and far. And I contemplate with sorrow what I has been lost to me, as well as the blessings I have been given and what may still lie ahead to receive.  

    It is through my writing that I am able to sort out and clarify what I have experienced, what I think, feel and wish to do and be. There are such complex, diverse, subtle, nuanced and mysterious elements in life that inform or confound our moral/spiritual lives.

    

Martin Buber defines for me what I have attempted to convey in this writing: 

        Real faith means holding ourselves open to the unconditional  mystery which we encounter in every sphere of our life, and which cannot be comprised in any formula. Real faith means the ability to endure life in the face of this mystery. . . . I do not accept any absolute formulas for living. No preconceived code can see ahead to everything that can happen in a man's life. As we live, we grow and our beliefs change. They must change. So I think we should live with this constant discovery. We should be open to this adventure in heightened awareness of living. We should stake our whole existence on our willingness to explore and experience. 

    We must affirm, as philosophers and theologians have throughout the ages, that the source is One; the emanations are many, which is to say, infinite or "Just the weight of God."

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—

For—put them side by side—

The one the other will contain

With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—

For—hold them—Blue to Blue—

The one the other will absorb—

As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—

For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—

And they will differ—if they do—

As Syllable from Sound 

                                                                ~  Emily Dickinson

ANCIENT INJURY

In the evenings, he would read to her, or they would tell stories about when they were children living in towns not far from the one another. They were usually funny stories, but some involved moments wherein a soul impression or something extraordinary was revealed.

    As a boy, he had made and played with a bow and arrow. Once, he saw a small owl and was able to steal up on it and snap an arrow off the bow at close range. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. The arrow went into the bird, and a drop of blood appeared on the white breast feathers. The bird’s bright eyes fixed on him, blinked once then fell to the ground.
    His boy’s heart pounded, as a feeling came over him he had never experienced. He and the beautiful living creature had been so close they breathed the same air, and then it was gone, but never gone were the image of those eyes fixed upon him and the memory of that awakening of conscience, sharply felt and deadly as an arrow.
    There was another story he told once, and only once—of an experience leaving an even deeper imprint. As a marine in Vietnam, where one was always in danger, vigilant for snipers and hiding places from which the "enemy" could spring at any moment (for such is the nature of war), he noticed a odd area on the ground ahead and a heard a movement. A part of the terrain had been disturbed, and a dug out spot covered over. Not taking any chances, he fired his rifle into the opening. As the other members of the detail gathered round, they looked in and saw bodies and found hand granades.They helped him pull two woman out by their ankles two women, the weight of which he feels still. His fellow marines thanked him for saving their lives, and later he received a letter from a general and a medal for his deed--one he wishes he never had to take on.  He does not display the medal and showed it only to her once, then put it somewhere out of sight, like he had the faces of the dead women, whose images became a blood red stain on the remaining white of his still young heart.
    Nothing could ever change what happened that day he had set out and returned that night as someone else he could never again quite recognize in the same way, so he didn’t look. But some images never fade; we all have our precious store of sorrow to stare into, and ways we  learn to blot them out, avoid them, tuck their sharp edges safely away, but nevertheless, carry them inwardly. 

    If we are lucky, we have someone to listen or hold us in silence, an arm round our shoulder, an empathtic, knowing look.  That is what true lovers have ever done when a trauma or secret exchange is shared. We silently carry the pain of each others’ innermost being--all through the night.

Willy is my child; he is my father

I would be his lady all my life

He says he'd love to live with me

But for an ancient injury 

That has not healed 

                                                        ~ Joni Mitchell

        

SHIVA'S TABLE

She turns her head as the sound of gentle rain becomes a pelting sleet against the window behind her. Weary and chilled, she pulls a wooly throw over her, only her two hands uncovered to hold a bag of chips and a Coke bottle. She settles on the sofa to watch a new show everyone at work had been talking about, Living and Loving in Brooklyn. She wonders what is meant by “living.”

The TV screen flashes psychedelic colors and patterns. The five-minutes of pre-show commercials blare out for Viagra, Volkswagen and Kraft macaroni and cheese.

“Good combination,” she blurts out.

The first scene opens on a lovely courtyard: a beautiful, slim young woman sitting at a table with her  morning coffee. Picture perfect. Something drops from above, past the branch of a tree, as her eyes follow it to the ground.

“A condom!” she shrieks.

Another perfect female opens a French door, peeks out, glancing with a slight grimace at its landing place, as if it were an everyday occurrence. The women begin jabbering about work: waiting on tables and hedge funds. The subject turns to men, their upcoming dates that night and newly-bought lingerie, with allusions to Fifty Shades of Grey.

“This is crap.”

Reaching for the remote, she surfs through the channels: pawn shop dealers, rattlesnake hunters, political analysis, and cooking competitions. She throws it across the room, disgusted at the taste of “some people,” but more so at her having finished off all the chips and half a liter of Coke. Licking the salt around her lips, she drops the chip bag to the floor and places the Coke bottle next to it. She passes her hand over the little roll of flesh above the waist of her pajama bottoms, “Oh, God!”

She stretches her hand to the side table, grabs her reading glasses and places them on the tip of her nose. She picks up Love on the Subway beside her, which she has been trying to get through since last spring. After reading the same page twice, she slams it shut and throws it to the floor.

“This is crap, too.” Leaping up from the sofa, she tips over the vase of holly she had placed there yesterday for a little “holiday spirit,” knocking over the Coke bottle. Picking up the book, the chip bag, the vase and bottle, she stomps to the kitchen and tosses them in the trash. Returning to clean up the spill, she pricks her finger on a holly leaf.

“What the hell?”

Though she had held it in all day, now it bursts through, her breath coming in short gasps. As if in a fog, through misty eyes, she picks up the phone.

“Hey, it’s me, Jessica,” her strained voice near hysteria, her mind wavering between thoughts of what she had hoped and wished for, and the grim reality she now has to bear. Between sobs and stammers, she speaks of dark revelations of the morning and her confession of self-loathing, guilt and shame.

“I'll be right over…hold on,” comes the familiar  voice with Italian accent.

Two winters ago, Jessica had escaped from a dreary town in Ohio to bustling Brooklyn. Her life is not as she had imagined when she first arrived.

“I’m here,” she had reassured her mother. “I’m good, Ma. It’s gonna be alright, so don't worry." She wanted to believe it herself, and it was—at first. "I met everyone at The Studio today. I've gotta do this,” not wanting to return a failure to that wretched town.

Acting was her dream, her reason for being, or so she believed. Accepted to study at The Studio, a well-known and respected theatre company, and having found work as a hostess at a popular corner bistro a few blocks away, her new life had almost begun.

The few things she had brought with her to New York she had carefully positioned around the small ground-floor apartment: a French nightstand under the window facing the alley; a white cushioned chair in the corner near an exposed brick wall; an ornate, black metal floor lamp with a bright yellow shade next to the faux fireplace. Near the sliding door to a small patio, she placed a wicker stand holding a dark-leafed plant dotted with tiny pink flowers, which bloomed through the winter, how she didn’t know. The small, red side-table awaited an affordable sofa to be placed against the wall facing the fireplace. She felt ecstatic whenever she could afford to add something new and needed.

Her favorite find was spotted among props being discarded at The Studio to make room for recent, more desirable donations. She rescued the round, glass-top table with bronze legs in the shape of tree branches. Months later, after searching everywhere, she still hadn’t sat at it, not having found the "just right" chairs to compliment it.

Then, walking from the bus stop one breezy spring evening, the fragrance of lilac in the air, she noticed two chairs placed one on top of the other under a blossoming cherry tree. As she picked them up, she noticed across the street, a striking, dark-haired man leaning against a porch post watching her intently. In the raking light cast by late afternoon sun, his white shirt was bright against his face and hair. When she saw him, she waved, feeling a little embarrassed to be seen awkwardly hauling the sidewalk finds. He did not wave back, but kept his gaze on her. His image remained with her as she made her way home—those piercing eyes seemingly looking through her. As she cleaned the chairs that evening, she wondered about the stranger, and had already decided to walk that way again soon.
Oh, how lovely, she marveled at her good fortune when she noticed the metal work on the backs of the chairs was in a vine and leaf design, like the table’s legs. One was brushed in places with silver leaf and the other with gold leaf. ”There, now,” she sighed, with an extraordinary sense of satisfaction. The chairs had found a home across from each other at the little table that had stood alone for so long. She felt that it meant something, maybe that she was settled at last, and that more good things were in store for her.

She had planned to make a cup of tea, sit at the table for the first time, and finish reading The Merchant of Venice, as she was determined to read all of Shakespeare’s plays in her new life, but a drowsiness came on suddenly. Feeling drained, she went straight to bed.

That night she dreamed she was sitting at the table. The windows above it open, the wind howling, and the driving rain coming in. The front door blew open, and the dark-haired man entered and came to sit across from her at the table. They looked into each others’ eyes in silence. His were deep, dark and penetrating, expressing a longing, like her own yearning for love and intimacy.

When she awoke, she did not remember having gone to bed the night before. She felt a little unsteady as she walked over to open the  bedroom door and peeked out, half expecting to find the dark man at the table waiting for her. Her sleepiness faded, but all through the day, the vivid dream did not.

Was there some hidden message or portent in the dream?

    On her way home from The Studio that evening, she felt compelled to walk past the house where she had seen the mystery man. She knew dreams could feel so real, their images lingering, but usually fade and are forgotten in time. The dream did not fade, but remained with her—day and night. She began walking home that way at least once a week, certain that the dream did mean something.

A whole scenario formed, as she fantasized that she would see him again, be with him, make love, marry him, have his child. Sometimes she had to stop herself, No, no, no, no…this is not why I came here. What is wrong with me? She had no answer, but could not shake off the day dreaming and her unbidden desires.

When the weather began to turn cold, she walked the shorter way home, avoiding that street, that house, and the mysterious man who wasn't there. Yet, wasn’t everything in her life now on the upswing? At the bistro, the manager, who had a nickname for everyone, called her aside.

“Hey, J Lo, you gotta way aboutcha, and customahs love ya.” He gave her a raise and a few more hours a week.

With the extra money, she was able to further adorn her living space with a sofa, a bright Tibetan carpet and framed photos of Cobble Hill, the Brooklyn Bridge and Coney Island. She also bought several figures of Hindu gods and goddesses and placed them where they would “watch over her,” or so she liked to believe. Shiva, dancing in a ring of fire, held pride of place on the half shelf above the front door.

She now had a circle of fellow actors who met weekly at a tavern in the Village. Her life was falling into place, but still with a sense that there was much more to come. She attributed every good fortune and coincidence to the dream, the dark-haired man and his “presence” in her life.
Less than a month after she had randomly decided to read The Merchant of Venice, there was an open audition call posted for it at The Studio—an upcoming off, off Broadway production. With the encouragement of one of her instructors and several friends, she prepared and went to the audition. Weeks later, after having given up on hearing, she got a call back and was offered the leading role of Portia. She felt it had nothing to do with her talent. It was destiny.

The good news spread, and a friend put her in touch with Gena, a more experienced actor, who also had landed a part in the play. They arranged to meet for coffee and immediately clicked, though they were nothing alike. Gena was laid back and laughed at everything.

”Isn’t it funny. I got the part of Jessica, and you're Jessica in real life?”

Jessica, more serious and cynical, thought, whatever real life is. “Yeah, ironic…hey, did you get the invitation to the director's pre-rehearsal party?”

Gena laughed the answer to Jessica’s question,”Yes, I did. I am so excited about it. Why don't we go together? Can’t wait to meet the director. Don’t know him; hope he’s not a tyrant.”

“Sure, let’s go together, why not? I don’t think he’ll be a tyrant…not sure why, but… ”

“Great, let’s do it. What are you going to wear?” Gena wanted to know, while Jessica fell into a dream.

From the moment Jessica got the part, she imagined  the play’s director, Leon Lorenzo was the dark-haired man who had arranged everything exactly as it was happening and would happen—world without end, amen. She asked around, and searched everywhere for an image of him, his address or any personal information, but found nothing to connect him with her imagined paramour.

She took to reaching up to touch the little golden figure of Shiva above the doorway whenever she left or entered her apartment, like a ritual blessing with holy water at a church door. She would remain on the threshold for a few seconds to remind herself she was on the brink of … something.

All of her free time was devoted to memorizing Portia's lines, reciting them in the shower; during lulls at the bistro; in elevators; on the subway and late into the night. Anticipating, yet apprehensive about going to the director’s party, she began to methodically plan what she would wear, how she would smile, what she would say—when at last she would meet him face to face—her mentor, her lover, her all. She lost five pounds, splurged on a short black dress with tiny silver sparkles in a small swirl around one shoulder, and black boots with grey patent leather dots around the top—perfect.

When the night of the director’s rehearsal party arrived, she spent hours at the mirror, applying make-up which she usually did not wear. She straightened and arranged her hair, which she usually left frizzled. All the while, the practical part of her knew she was out of control. The director was not, could not be, the dark-haired man. But the deepest part of her did not believe the other part.

Ready or not, here I go, wrapping herself in a magenta, mohair shawl, Jessica touches Shiva above the door, stands still for a moment with her eyes closed, then is out to meet Gena at the subway station. There she was, waving crazily as Jessica approached waving back and picking up her pace. Gena was a vision in white leggings, pale blue silk Indian tunic; blue and white veil over her head, embroidered with darker blue, silver and white filigree designs. The street light shone behind her like a halo, as snow flurries began falling around her.

Gena looks like the Virgin Mary.

“Mother of God, it’s cold!” Jessica shouted, as she hurried toward Gena. “You look heavenly.”

“Thanks, Jess. You too, bee-oo-tee-ful.”

“Neither one of us is dressed for this weather though,” Jessica said through chattering teeth. Joining arms, they stepped onto the escalator and down into the depths of the city.

After manic small talk, alternate expressions of anxiety and humor, they arrived at the Upper East Side apartment building. Dreading to be the earliest, overly eager guests, the women went around the block in the frigid air, laughing in giddy anticipation, then came back to squeeze into the small foyer and pressed the nose of a brass gargoyle bell.

In the elevator, Jessica felt a gurgling in her lower abdomen. When she caught sight of herself in the mirrored walls, she didn’t recognize her reflection. Whatever confidence she had earlier dwindled into self-consciousness.

I’m overdressed. I look ridiculous. Even Gena looks better; at least her appearance has conversational value. What am I doing here, anyway? How did I get this part? I want to go home. 

And she didn’t mean to Brooklyn.

When the elevator doors opened, the women turned left, but hearing voices and music spilling out into the hall in the other direction, they backtracked to the door opened to a candle-lit room. They stepped in, unnoticed at first, making their way amidst small groups of the guests, some looking as put together as Jessica had hoped to be. Others were in jeans and tee shirts, and plenty others outfitted for at least as much conversational mileage as Gena’s “get up” had.

Everyone stood mingling, smiling with drinks in hand. When she was spotted by a few of her Studio friends, who pointed and brought attention to her as Portia, others gathered around to introduce themselves, offer congratulations and ask questions.

A glass of wine was put into her hand by a short man with penetrating green eyes, flowing white hair and charming Italian accent. He called her Portia, identifying himself as Shylock. He put his arm through hers and led her across the room to meet the other cast members, but she was distracted, looking past shoulders and heads, scanning the room for that one face and those eyes.

All the while, he talked non-stop of the theory of Shakespeare not being the author of the plays, interpretations of The Merchant of Venice, and the upcoming rehearsals. She began to sense “Shylock” was scrutinizing her—reading her thoughts, intuiting her wild expectations—all crunching against one another into the fantasy of what she wished for, not what she knew to be true, yet she could not bring herself back from her habitual, frenzied imaginings.

“I will fetch you another glass of the excellent Pouilly Fuisse, no?”

“The what? Oh, yes, thank you,” though she was already feeling a bit tipsy.
She continued to search the room, anxious and disheartened. When Shylock returned, she blurted out, “Where’s Leon, the director? You'd think he’d have the courtesy to appear and introduce himself by now, don’t you?”

“My dear, Portia, the merciless, I am Leon; I thought you knew.”

Handing her the wine glass, he clinked his to hers, ”Chin-chin.” Then he took a small silver spoon out of the breast pocket of his black velvet vest and tapped it on his glass to call the room to whatever order was possible. He welcomed everyone, made announcements about the rehearsal schedules and handed out play books and folders, none of which Jessica paid any attention to.

For her, the rest of the evening blurred, her foolish hopes crushed. On the way home, she said nothing in response to Gena’s constant chatter, seething with resentment that Shylock, the director, unbeknownst to him  and unintended, had already exacted his pound of flesh.

That was six months ago. Now, on this evening, she tries to calm herself waiting for Leon to arrive to confess  her obsession with the dark man, her illusions about how she thought her life would be, and the dreadful revelations of that morning.
       Since her starring role in The Merchant of Venice, she had no callbacks, even though the play had a successful run, and she had received rave reviews. She had gone to very few auditions, despite encouragement and references from Leon. Her group of friends had fallen away one by one. 

Have I isolated myself from them…from everything?

“Hey, business ain’t what it useta be, J Lo,” her boss had called to tell her that her hours had to be cut back.

Maybe my turning up late and calling in sick too often is the real reason? Maybe acting was not the reason I came here. Now this!

She had long wanted to tell Leon, to whom she had grown close during the run of the play, of her secret and crazy imaginings, but never had. Now, she waits at the door to hear his footsteps. The sleet has turned to snow, dropping lightly to the earth below and falling against the window pane. She stares at the blank TV screen, waiting, waiting, always waiting.
There, oh, there he is. 

She pulls open the door before Leon can knock and reaches for him, inhaling the cold of the icy flakes on his jacket.

“Shhh, now…shhh,” he whispers to her as she rests her head on his shoulder. Leon strokes her hair, “Now, come, sit with me.” Jessica holds on to him as they walk to the forsaken table, where she sits for the first time across from him, he on the silver chair, she on the gold. She tells him of her obsession with the dark mystery man, her imaginary savior, and of the morning’s grim discovery.

She recounts how the night before she had walked on the street where she had first seen him—having become almost a sacred ritual. From across the way, she looked to the house where the dark-haired man had stood watching her that spring evening.

“There was yellow tape stretched around the sidewalk and porch. When I saw that, I thought someone must have hurt him…or killed him. I rushed home to see if there was any news on the TV or radio, but there was nothing. I left the radio on all night…almost a sleepless one, waiting to hear about…of a tragedy…anything about the house or person in it. Then, this morning I tried to make sense of what I was hearing on the breaking news. There was a victim—a boy, and a suspect—a man.”

She told Leon, now completely shaken and in tears,  how she rushed to see on the news her dream of the dark-haired man turn to nightmare. She watched as he was taken out of that house in handcuffs. He was not the victim as she had feared, but a perpetrator, not an inscrutable lover, but a predator who had kidnapped a young boy, kept him in a cage and abused him for over a year.

Leon takes Jessica’s hands in his, having heard of the tragedies of the shattered fantasy, and fate of an innocent child.

“Oh, Leon, I’m so ashamed, what a crazy, selfish…that boy…that poor child. Maybe I could have done something…anything. And I…I…”

“My dear, Jessica,” Leon sighs, “it is you who must now have mercy on yourself. You could not have known…or done anything. How…how?”

“But, I…”

“When illusions end, Cara mia, life can begin.”

He takes her hand. They sit in silence looking into each other’s eyes, at the once lonely table, she contemplating the destruction of a foolish dream, and imagining the creation of a new reality.

From time to time, she casts her gaze to Shiva  dancing in a ring of fire