hopeful ash

by CR Widen

The expansive plumes of incense smoke clear slowly, floating gently upwards to mingle with pillars of light that come marching through the stained glass. As the incense rises, so too does the noise of the organ- they wander together, smoke and sound swelling and falling, dancing through the air. It is an ecstasy of the senses. I wish only to have some wine to taste, perhaps a pleasant thing to touch, and the experience will be whole. I let the sensations wash over me, allowing each to shine in its own way, before refocusing on the matter at hand. Standing, I clear my throat.

“Thank you all for being here today. I know that the air quality is especially straining this time of year- it means a great deal that you have taken the time to be together. There is something that has been bothering me lately- more than bothering, really.”

My voice cracks.

“There is a haze over our community- not just the smoke, mind you, but spiritual, a malaise, a sickness. We are missing something fundamental, or perhaps there is a wound we cannot see. I’m sorry, a better speaker could articulate this more clearly. I cannot truly describe the feeling or its root. However, it is my duty to charge this thing down and do battle with it.”

My hands are white now, strangling the lectern.

“My prescription: love thy neighbor. Not a radical statement, but we must pursue it in a radical manner, we must bring a new energy and vigor to the task. It is not an empty platitude, love, it is an action. You have heard this before, yes, but I have an alteration to make. We think of love as a quest for happiness- it is not. Happiness is but a pleasant refreshment along the path. Love is obsession.”

The podium cannot contain me. My arms swing and punch with every word. I march back and forth and back in front of the altar, faster, faster and faster.

“Take that word- obsession- into your heart, with all its ugly faces, and see the beauty in it. See it! See that that beauty cannot exist without the ugliness. This life that we’ve been granted is a flash of sensation in a sea of mystery- be obsessed with it! Grab hold of it, unashamed, and feel. Every bit of joy and pain is a gift, and I beg you to love them with the whole weight of your soul.”

I sink back into my chair, exhausted. The ceremony concludes with a set of prayers and songs that years of practice have rendered routine, and I turn most of my attention to the crowd. The faces are familiar. One of my quiet passions is determining what brings each one here. There have been many grand dramas staged in the space between the stated reason and the truth. A special few have given me an honest answer from the start- these, I consider friends.

I begin the final hymn with as much gusto as my spent lungs can muster, belting out a few good notes, when I notice an unfamiliar pair of faces hidden away in the back row. They are younger than most, with even, steady smiles.

At the conclusion of the rituals, I keep my attention on this pair. I hope that they will linger. They do. The crowd filters out slowly, and they approach. Both maintain aggressive smiles, and the man gives me a vigorous handshake- the overly friendly sort that is wasted on a stranger.

“Well, padre, I’m impressed. I say, you may have won yourself some new converts. We’re shopping for a new church, you see. By the way, I’m in the health insurance business. Are your insurance needs provided for? We’ll talk later. This is an impressive joint you’ve got here. Oh, meet my wife.”

The woman gives a polite nod as the man finally stops for air. I contemplate which part of his statement I ought to respond to.

“I am always pleased to welcome new members into our community. Did you say you were ‘shopping’ for a new place of worship?”

“Why yes, you’re correct. My employer transferred me here from the big city. I find that churches are good places to meet prospective clients, so we’ve been going to each one in town to decide which to join. And, well, to be frank, you don’t have much competition.”

“Well, I suppose that I’m flattered. I find it helpful to spend time with potential converts- come to understand them. If you’re serious, we ought to arrange something. A hike, perhaps?”

“We aren’t much into that sort of thing, it’s quite provincial. But I suppose it suits this area, and we should make some effort to learn the local customs. Sure.”

“Very well, meet me at the pond at the west of town tomorrow afternoon. Do you have any firearms, by chance? The cat-o’-mounts sometimes wander down from the foothills this time of year, we should have protection.”

“What?”

“Ah, don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

I arrive early. The sun hides somewhere overhead- its exact position is obscured by grey clouds and the pervasive haze. A firm, ceaseless breeze pushes across the pond, scattering miniature waves. It carries a whiff of smoke. Now, too, the sound of footsteps. The couple has arrived. I gesture for them to meet me atop a nearby hill. A quick jaunt later, we are together. Below our vantage point, a vast grassland rolls out to the horizon to meet a distant wall of mountain peaks. Cutting through the turbulent waves of green and brown, a streak of blue- not dissimilar to that of the sky above- charts an unsteady course.

“I intend to take us along that crick for a few leagues and picnic in a little pine grove that I am quite fond of.”

The man’s face contorts with concern.

“Is everything alright? I’ve brought plenty of food, if that’s what worries you.”

“Oh, no. It’s… well, who owns all this land? I’m not comfortable trudging through a stranger’s backyard.”

“‘Owns?’ How odd. Who owns the air that we breathe? Ha, what a thought! Worry not, we have as much right to it as anyone else.”

“That’s- forget it, let’s begin. Oh, but first, did you bring something for those… creatures you mentioned?”

“Of course, I have a pistol. High caliber, good for all manner of dangerous beasts. Just a precaution, of course.”

“Alright, lead the way.”

The pine grove greets us with a cool, perfumed breeze- a welcome reprieve from the smoky heat. I find a smooth area and lay out a blanket. From my pack, I pull an assortment of nuts, fruits, cheeses, and preserved meats. The three of us are famished from the walk, and we waste no time before digging in. The food does not last long. Had we taken the time to savor it, we may have considered it delicious. As we finish, the man stands, clears his throat, and sets a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“Thanks for lunch, padre. It is times like these- good food, good company- that bring me joy. I’m especially grateful for you, my dear. We are so… comfortable together.”

He turned to me.

“Some say that love is a matter of passion. What a childish idea! That much-derided boredom of familiarity is precisely where true love is found. Leave the butterflies to teenagers, I prefer steady companionship: not a feeling, but a choice. It’s a practical transaction- a refreshingly modern notion, don’t you agree, dear?”

He did not wait for a response. Pacing nervously, he speaks again.

“I’m going to go for a little walk, I think. I’ll gather some wood, and we’ll have ourselves a little fire.”

I stand, preparing to dissuade him.

“Please reconsider. It’s a dry time of year and we ought not start a fire if we can help it. And besides, you aren’t familiar with the area. I could go-”

“Oh, enough. Let a man have his adventure, alright? I won’t be gone long.”

He did not wait to hear a reply. After a few moments, he is gone, and the grove is silent once more. I turn to the woman, hesitantly. She shifts and fiddles with an anxious energy.

“So… are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“That’s good.”

We sit silently for another few moments.

“Ma’am, I am curious: what do you think about your husband’s little declaration just now?”

“Well, that is an uncomfortable question. Is it enough to point out that he practically fled after professing his love for me?”

“I see. I take it you disagree, then?”

“It pains me to say it, but I don’t think he’s ever truly cared for me. His talk is all excuses. He cannot admit to himself that he doesn’t love his wife, so he dresses up his disappointment and calls it the real thing. And he considers himself ‘mature’ for doing so. What a cruel joke! I know what it really feels like- the irrationality of it, the fire burning inside. From the heart, not the head. Anyone who prattles on about steadiness and comfort is merely lying to themselves about their own failures. I say anything less than zealotry is betrayal.”

She stops for a moment, nearly out of breath. Her hands are clenched and trembling slightly. I give a small smile in an attempt at reassurance. We sit for a few moments before she speaks again- quieter, this time.

“I’m sorry, father, I’ve been ranting. Quite judgmentally, too. I shouldn’t speak ill of my husband- ‘till death do us part,’ you know. He wasn’t always this way; the world has made him love like a eunuch… perhaps we could talk about something else for a while?”

“Of course, whatever you like. I have been wondering- well, when I first met you and your husband, I asked why the two of you came to church. He answered, but I am curious what you have to say on the matter.”

“Oh, alright… do you want to know why I went to a church, or why I went to your church?”

“An excellent question. Both, preferably.”

“Okay. For the first question: I suppose, well, I’m lost. I’m searching for something- a thread, I suppose, to tie all the dull days together. Not the greatest reason, I know.”

“A perfectly good reason, dear. And an honest one- that’s a rare thing.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. The second question is harder to answer. I think… that there is a certain majesty that others fail to capture. If you don’t have a zeal for life, you can’t be trusted to advise on it. And some, they are so pitiful, so hateful of this world. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, certainly. Continue.”

“There was a time, around the Renaissance, when the church had nearly rediscovered a sort of paganism. They had grand feasts, sculptures of nude beauties, awe-striking cathedrals- and saints! We worshipped man: flesh and blood and love and action. For a time, it seemed that we might move beyond our distant deities. But some men decided that they liked being slaves and desired nothing more than guilt and suffering. And we have not since recovered. A shame. But I saw a spark of the old fire in your sermon yesterday. It’s what we need: fiery renewal.”

“Ah, you’re too kind. I try my best to inject some vitality into the proceedings. And, as you’ve noticed, orthodoxy has never been my strong suit. That being said, I must disagree with your point about ‘moving beyond distant deities.’ I think that we must always have that anchor or something like it, something higher than ourselves. I would not be here today if I did not believe in that, at least.”

“I suppose I was unclear. It is not the deity that I am opposed to, but the distance. I wish for that higher purpose to be internal, rather than being… outsourced, so to speak. It is braver that way, and truer. Find the divinity in all things, I say”

“I see. Almost Teilhardian, then. I respect that.”

“Indeed, I am glad.”

She hesitates, then speaks again.

“I hope that you won’t consider this rude, but how- as a priest- are you able to live up the ideals of your sermon? I do not mean to be forward, but it seems that there are certain… limitations. An ascetic lifestyle, that is.”

Now, it is I who hesitates.

“I am not offended, ma’am. It’s a fair question. I will be truthful to you, because you seem to be an honest sort, and you’ve been truthful to me. Frankly, I do not live up to the ideals. Quite the opposite, really. When I see beauty, I am repulsed. It is envy, I think. A feeling of immense jealousy that such a desirable object could exist and not be mine. I’ve long struggled with this material desire. But I was never much good at satisfying it; things like money, women, success, they never came easily to me in my youth. So, I stopped trying, to avoid the failures. This is why I became a priest- though I didn’t know it at the time. I wished to eliminate all possibilities of pursuing worldly pleasures because, well, that was a perfect excuse for not having them. When I speak to my parishioners, I am not guiding them- I am warning them away. I am trying to mold each one into the person I wish I was. I do not regret everything, of course, but I see now that I have only half-lived. Still, I’m grateful to the priesthood. I am suited to it.”

“I’m honored that you’ve shared this. It certainly sheds a new light on your words. I wonder, perhaps-”

The husband bursts into the grove, beaming ear to ear and moist with sweat.

“My, it’s getting hot out there. Such a strange thing, getting warmer as night falls. What have you two been up to?”

“We’ve been discussing the sermon I gave yesterday. Your wife has some truly special perspectives on these things- we ought to discuss this more in-depth.”

“Ah yes, she does have fun with her distractions. Speaking of the sermon, I’ve been meaning to say something. You see, I have this closing line for my sales pitches- works like a charm. Goes like this: ‘The best things in life are not free, but they are on sale, and they can be yours today- only if you act now.’ And I was thinking I’d take some bits from your little talk to make another closer, you know, something to really get the checkbooks open.”

As he finishes speaking, the woman leaps towards me, jerks the pistol from my belt and fires a round through him. Ringing. Then, silence. She drops the gun, shaking, sobbing. Too late, he’s blown away. His face is peacefully blank. Perhaps, I wonder, he’s finally found something he was desperate for.

I pick up the gun and stuff it into my bag. The woman is stiff now, with vacant eyes. I lead her, as gently as I can, out of the grove. We stumble through needled boughs into the last of the day’s sunlight, but the plains are not dark. As one sun sets in the west, another seems to rise to the east. Yellow and orange glow brightly all along the horizon; tufts of ash flutter down from above, drifting leisurely along their way. Smoke swirls across the sky. In the distance, noise. A broad roar, washing over the dry grass like a warm ocean wave.

“I- I’m sorry, father. I didn’t mean to do it. I just couldn’t take it anymore; I couldn’t watch him corrupt anything else. Everything he touched… he didn’t understand. He was hurting his own soul, and I loved him so much, really. What have I done…”

“Let your mind be still, if only for a moment. Find peace, whatever sort you can.”

“I suppose… will we go back to town now?”

Her eyes are distant, still. My voice feels heavy.

“No, friend, let’s stay awhile. It’s all so beautiful. I don’t want to run.”

The ash falls thick and heavy now, through shimmering air made dense by heat. The plains are painted all around with a youthful, primordial gray.

Photo of CR Widen

BIO: CR Widen is a hobby writer from Upstate New York. CR has a Bachelor of Science in Biology and works full-time as an environmental sustainability professional.