The Master

When I applied for the job one question stood out on the application. It asked if I had ever been arrested or convicted for an act of moral turpitude. It sounded quite dire and though I couldn’t remember ever being charged with such a crime at the same time I didn’t know exactly what constituted an act of moral turpitude.

Looking up the term in the encyclopedia I discovered a long list of acts which were described as pertaining to moral turpitude. Running down the list I was proud to see none of my high crimes and misdemeanors seemed to be on it.

So I answered no.

Later when they fired me from the job they said it was because I lied on my application. They claimed that I had indeed been guilty of moral turpitude. I wondered how they knew when I didn’t recall any such thing. I decided they must know the world as it is while I look at the world as it isn’t.

Almost everyone knows the world as it is.

Few know the world as it isn’t.

What do I mean when I say the world as it isn’t?

In the spring of my twentieth year, I found myself living in a small village in Mexico secreted deep in the mountains. One day a sea-bird alighted far from its native waters. The people of the village delighted at seeing it there captured it to bring it to a special enclosure constructed just for that bird. They played sweet music for the bird’s enjoyment. They brought the bird all manner of food and drink: fresh ripe fruit, the best sirloin steak, the finest pork, the most excellent wine.

The bird looked at everything with eyes that were dulled over. Anyone who could see it must have understood the bird was very sad. It took not a drink of the wine nor a bite of the food set before it. In three days the bird died. The people were trying to nourish the bird as they did themselves. They did not understand the music they played for the bird frightened it. They did not perceive that such a bird needed to be freely at ease in its natural environment.

We all differ in our constitutions. We all differ in our likes and in our dislikes. We all differ in our abilities and so no one should expect the same performance in one as in another. Giving names specially suited for the reality of what is done is called the method of adaptation. Using it we are sure of success.

I understand the objects of the world that experience brings to my gaze are transitory. They are a product of time. The mystery that comes before experience is the universal source of all things. The mystery comes before time and so it is undying. To realize the mystery is to become undying. To master experience is to live fully aware.

When the world becomes too much I hide myself away. When I know in my heart that my lover is cheating on me or I suspect my boss plans to fire me for work shirked I pack a small bag, jump on my motorcycle, and point it west. Though I have no destination in mind I always end up back in the middle of the mountains.

The mountains master the unrest dwelling in my soul. If I am fortunate I will one day meet my death there under the high open sky instead of finding it while lying in a stale hospital room smelling of disinfectant and sour piss. Walking uncharted paths I discover the roots of the world are not without but within.

In those mountains, days have a habit of turning to weeks. Though my supplies of food run low and then are exhausted altogether I am untroubled. I know the mountains will nourish me while providing whatever I need. I am but a humble servant in the midst of majesty.

Many years ago while deep in those mountains of Mexico with nothing to eat I made a fire to melt the snow congregated on the high northern face. I snapped twigs from pine trees to boil the needles into a tea. It tasted bitter but it provided strength when my body was in danger of failing. I grew to enjoy the bitter taste of the pine needle tea. There was an underlying subtlety to it that was erased by adding sweet honey or sugar.

Experience is like bitter tea. Though it goes down better with a spoonful of sweetness I lose some part of it. Instead of evading the bitterness of life, I revel in it. Rather than denying it. I have become the master of moral turpitude. By understanding the way of the mystery I go beyond the colored edges of right and wrong to walk the uncharted paths of not-knowing.

The master of experience is subtlety. Experience is profound, responsive, and mysterious. The depths of experience are unfathomable. Since it is unfathomable all I can do is describe myself as I await its appearance.

I remain watchful, like a person crossing a winter lake on thin ice. I am alert to danger. I am courteous like a visiting guest. I yield like ice about to melt. I am simple like a block of wood before it is carved.

I am hollow like a deep cave. I am opaque like a muddy river. I wait while the mud settles. I remain still until the moment of action. By not seeking fulfillment I am not swayed by the desire to change.