Destined: The Coming of the Next Great Master

I was sitting on the porch, pondering a concept of belief I had read about in a very fine article by Saraswathi. The chamomile tea and setting of the sun brought a drowsiness. I must have dozed off...

Whether in a dream or a vision, I could not tell. A smoky mist obscured all detail. Center-scene, a figure standing erect, faceless. I could not determine nationality, age or gender.

Instinctively, I knew to call this one Believer.

I was suddenly positioned behind Believer, who extended a right hand, fingers outstretched. Ever so slowly, Believer swept the hand from east to west, across a panorama of what appeared to be an endless grandstand, filled with witnesses.

"This..." declared Believer, "...my studio".

Then, kneeling low, Believer gently pressed a palm against the grainy surface beneath our feet. The fingers searched out the tiny cracks in the asphalt as if their existence mattered in some distant time. It seemed a gesture of respect.

The dichotomy of this textured slab struck me: the athlete, in pursuit of the prize, seeks firm contact, yet is forever pulling to be free...

"This..." came the pronouncement from Believer, "...my canvas".

We walked a short distance and immediately there appeared before us a strange four-footed creature - half horse, half machine. Nostrils flared, ready for action, yet purring with the precision of a Swiss watch.

I was stunned at the sensitivity and tenderness with which Believer caressed the techno-steed. Again, a demonstration of respect for the beast I somehow knew was both master and servant.

"This..." Believer proclaimed, "...my brush".

A fade-out followed.

The slowly emerging scene of a forested slope told me I was back home.

A large oak tree caught my attention as the words of Believer lingered in my heart. It occurred to me how that mighty tree had met its destiny. It had simply followed the code hidden in its seed long, long ago.

It did not resist. It did not entertain doubt. It did not strive to become what it was destined to be. Is the resolve in the heart of Believer any less than the resolve of a tiny acorn to become a giant oak?

Somewhere a very young Believer straddles a toy car. Even at this tender age, a sense of destiny is taking root. In time, imagination will give way to reality. A certainty and quiet confidence is smoothing the path to a studio where the next great master will approach the canvas, take up the brush and give us a masterpiece.

photo credit:  www.daddydrama.com