It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It Page 10

  SPEAKING OF RELIGION, HAVE YOU EVER HAD GREEK coffee? Only a few non-Greeks have had more than a couple of cups at one time and lived to talk about it. But if you are a serious coffee drinker, and you don’t mind being wide awake for forty-eight hours, and your health insurance is paid up, and you don’t mind your tongue and teeth tasting like the bottom of a bird cage, and you are used to massive heartburn, then you will just love Greek coffee.

  My first cup was at the fall bazaar at St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church in Seattle. Compliments of Constanzia Gregocopoulos, somebody’s eighty-four-year-old grandmother, visiting from Athens. When she tasted the coffee the church was serving, she raised a ruckus. Said that proper Greek coffee must be served or else. So there she was that afternoon, dressed all in black, surrounded by brass pots and hot plates and roasted coffee beans—also black. Like a sorceress, she bent over her work, muttering to her interpreter.

  “I’d like a cup of coffee now,” say I.

  , says Mrs. Gregocopoulos. (She is almost deaf and bellows a bit at me and her assistant.)

  “She says you must wait.”

  “Ask her why.”

  .

  “She says Americans always want everything NOW and getting everything now is not always good.”

  .”

  “She says God took seven days to make the world and it was good because He took his time and wasn’t in a hurry.”

  “She says that she, Constanzia Gregocopoulos, takes exactly seven minutes to make coffee, in the spirit of God.”

  “She says you will wait and she will make and you will drink and you will like!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” says I.

  And I did and she did and I did and I really did.

  “IS GOOD, YES?” she bellows in my ear.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says I.

  “She says to learn to wait and God will bless you more often and you will live to be old and happy.”

  The old lady laughed a toothless laugh and pinched my cheek in the affectionate way shown to fools who still may find wisdom.

  “ARE THERE ANY QUESTIONS?” An offer that comes at the end of college lectures and long meetings. Said when an audience is not only overdosed with information, but when there is no time left anyhow. At times like that you sure do have questions. Like, “Can we leave now?” and “What the hell was this meeting for?” and “Where can I get a drink?”

  The gesture is supposed to indicate openness on the part of the speaker, I suppose, but if in fact you do ask a question, both the speaker and the audience will give you drop-dead looks. And some fool—some earnest idiot—always asks. And the speaker always answers. By repeating most of what he has already said.

  But if there is a little time left and there is a little silence in response to the invitation, I usually ask the most important question of all: “What is the Meaning of Life?”

  You never know, somebody may have the answer, and I’d really hate to miss it because I was too socially inhibited to ask. But when I ask, it’s usually taken as a kind of absurdist move—people laugh and nod and gather up their stuff and the meeting is dismissed on that ridiculous note.

  Once, and only once, I asked that question and got a serious answer. One that is with me still.

  First, I must tell you where this happened, because the place has a power of its own. In Greece again.

  Near the village of Gonia, on a rocky bay of the island of Crete, sits a Greek Orthodox monastery. Alongside it, on land donated by the monastery, is an institute dedicated to human understanding and peace, and especially to rapprochement between Germans and Cretans. An improbable task, given the bitter residue of wartime.

  This site is important, because it overlooks the small airstrip at Maleme where Nazi paratroopers invaded Crete and were attacked by peasants wielding kitchen knives and hay scythes. The retribution was terrible. The populations of whole villages were lined up and shot for assaulting Hitler’s finest troops. High above the institute is a cemetery with a single cross marking the mass grave of Cretan partisans. And across the bay on yet another hill is the regimented burial ground of the Nazi paratroopers. The memorials are so placed that all might see and never forget. Hate was the only weapon the Cretans had at the end, and it was a weapon many vowed never to give up. Never ever.

  Against this heavy curtain of history, in this place where the stone of hatred is hard and thick, the existence of an institute devoted to healing the wounds of war is a fragile paradox. How has it come to be here? The answer is a man. Alexander Papaderos.

  A doctor of philosophy, teacher, politician, resident of Athens but a son of this soil. At war’s end he came to believe that the Germans and the Cretans had much to give one another—much to learn from one another. That they had an example to set. For if they could forgive each other and construct a creative relationship, then any people could.

  To make a lovely story short, Papaderos succeeded. The institute became a reality—a conference ground on the site of horror—and it was in fact a source of productive interaction between the two countries. Books have been written on the dreams that were realized by what people gave to people in this place.

  By the time I came to the institute for a summer session, Alexander Papaderos had become a living legend. One look at him and you saw his strength and intensity—energy, physical power, courage, intelligence, passion, and vivacity radiated from his person. And to speak to him, to shake his hand, to be in a room with him when he spoke, was to experience his extraordinary electric humanity. Few men live up to their reputations when you get close. Alexander Papaderos was an exception.

  At the last session on the last morning of a two-week seminar on Greek culture, led by intellectuals and experts in their fields who were recruited by Papaderos from across Greece, Papaderos rose from his chair at the back of the room and walked to the front, where he stood in the bright Greek sunlight of an open window and looked out. We followed his gaze across the bay to the iron cross marking the German cemetery.

  He turned. And made the ritual gesture: “Are there any questions?”

  Quiet quilted the room. These two weeks had generated enough questions for a lifetime, but for now there was only silence.

  “No questions?” Papaderos swept the room with his eyes.

  So. I asked.

  “Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?”

  The usual laughter followed, and people stirred to go.

  Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room and looked at me for a long time, asking with his eyes if I was serious and seeing from my eyes that I was.

  “I will answer your question.”

  Taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into a leather billfold and brought out a very small round mirror, about the size of a quarter.

  And what he said went like this:

  “When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and we lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found the broken pieces of a mirror. A German motorcycle had been wrecked in that place.

  “I tried to find all the pieces and put them together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine—in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find.

  “I kept the little mirror, and as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child’s game but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of light. But light—truth, understanding, knowledge—is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it.

  “I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have I can reflect ligh
t into the dark places of this world—into the black places in the hearts of men—and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life.”

  And then he took his small mirror and, holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window and reflected them onto my face and onto my hands folded on the desk.

  Much of what I experienced in the way of information about Greek culture and history that summer is gone from memory. But in the wallet of my mind I carry a small round mirror still.

  Are there any questions?

  ONCE ON A MIDSUMMER’S EVE, in the farming village of Puyricard, near Aix-en-Provence in the south of France, my wife and I were taken to a celebration of the Feast of Saint John. (Which Saint John I do not know. There are many. If he provided a reason to celebrate with music and dance, then good on him, whoever he was.)

  When the first star could be seen in the night sky, the villagers lit a bonfire in the dirty playfield of the school, and a folk band began to play—guitar, bass drum, shepherd’s flute and concertina. Music that was close at hand and long ago at the same time. In a universal two-step, couples danced, encircling the great fire—their only light. Lovely. A scene from a novel, a film, a hopeful imagination.

  At the first intermission, the couples did not leave for refreshment, but stood staring into the bonfire. Suddenly an athletic young man and woman, holding each other tightly by the hand, ran and leaped high in the air through the fierce flames, landing safely just beyond the edge of the coals. As the crowd applauded, the two embraced and walked away, wearing expressions of fearful joy, having tempted the fates and emerged unscathed to dance once more. Make no mistake about it, what they had done was quite dangerous.

  And it was this leaping through the fire that was at the heart of the Feast of Saint John.

  It worked this way: If you were lovers, married or not, or if you were just friends, even, and you wanted to seal your covenant, you made a wish together that you would never part, and then you rushed the fire and jumped over while holding hands. It was said that the hotter the fire and the higher the flames, the longer and closer would be the companionship. But it was also said that if you misjudged the fire and got singed or came down in the coals on the other side or lost your grip on one another while jumping, then evil would come to you and your bond. Not to be taken lightly, this.

  So the young of heart and fleet of foot jumped early on; as the evening grew darker and the fire burned lower, the more cautious made their moves. Some did not clear the fire; some jumped too soon and some too late and some ran to the fire only to stop short, and some broke their grip, with one partner jumping while the other held back at the last moment.

  Though there was much laughter and cheering and teasing, it was also very clear that this was ancient and serious business. Not just another party. Once a year, late in the night of high summer, with music and dance to lift the spirit, you took your love by the hand and tempted the fire of destiny.

  At evening’s end, when only glowing coals remained, there was played a traditional tune signaling a last dance. As the final note of the shepherd’s flute faded, the villagers encircled the soft glow of the embers and fell silent. The village couple married longest caught hands, and gracefully, solemnly, stepped together over what once was fire. At that signal of benediction, the villagers embraced and walked off into the starry, starry night toward home, and all the fires of love ever after.…

  AMERICANS, IT IS OBSERVED, PREFER DEFINITE answers. Let your yea-yea be your yea-yea, and your nay-nay be your nay-nay. Yes or no. No grays, please.

  In Indonesia, there is a word in common use that nicely wires around the need for black and white. Belum is the word and it means “not quite yet.” A lovely word implying continuing possibility. “Do you speak English?” “Belum.” Not quite yet. “Do you have any children?” “Belum.” “Do you know the meaning of life?” “Belum.” It is considered both impolite and cynical to say “No” outright. This leads to some funny moments. “Is the taxi on fire?” “Belum.” Not quite yet.

  It’s an attitude kin to that behind the old vaudeville joke: “Do you play the violin?” “I don’t know, I never tried.”

  Perhaps. Maybe. Possibly. Not yes or no, but within the realm of what might be. Soft edges are welcome in this great bus ride of human adventure.

  Is this the best of all possible worlds? Belum.

  Is the world coming to an end? Belum.

  Will we live happily ever after? Belum.

  Can we do without the weapons of war?

  I don’t know, we never tried.

  Is it hopeless to think we might?

  Belum. Not yet.

  THE SPIRE OF THE GREAT CATHEDRAL IN ULM, GERMANY, is the tallest steeple in the world—529 feet. Seven hundred thirty-eight stone steps take you to the very top. I counted them. And if you can still breathe and focus your eyes when you get there, you can make out two prominent landmarks: the foothills of the Bavarian Alps south of town, and the high bluffs overlooking the Danube River to the east.

  In the late sixteenth century, Hans Ludwig Babblinger lived here. A maker of artificial limbs, a craftsman with special skills and some local fame for those skills. Since amputation was a common cure for ills and wounds, he was a busy man. As his hands worked, his mind was often elsewhere. For Babblinger was one of those who imagined he could fly.

  In due course, he used his skills and dreams and the materials in his shop to craft wings. And as fortune would have it, he chose to try his wings in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps, where upcurrents abounded. One day, one wonderful day, in the presence of reliable witnesses, Hans jumped off a high hill and soared safely down. Sensational! Babblinger could FLY!

  Shift of time and scene. It is the spring of 1594. King Ludwig and his court are coming to Ulm for a visit, and the city leaders want to impress him. “Get Hans Ludwig Babblinger to fly for the king!” Of course.

  Unfortunately, because it suited the convenience of the king and the townspeople, Babblinger chose the nearby bluffs of the Danube for his demonstration. The winds there are downcurrents.

  The great day arrived—musicians, the king and his court, the town fathers, thousands of ordinary folk, all gathered at the river. Babblinger stood on a high platform on the bluffs, waved, crouched, and threw himself into the air.

  And went down into the river like a cannonball.

  Not good.

  The next Sunday, from the pulpit of the great cathedral, the Bishop of Ulm called Babblinger by name during the sermon and shamed him for the sin of pride.

  “MAN WAS NOT MEANT TO FLY!” thundered the prelate.

  Cringing under the accusing wrath of the bishop, Babblinger walked out of the church to his house, never to appear in public again. Not long after, he died. With his wings and dreams and heart broken.

  Recently I was a passenger in a glider surfing on a thermal wave at five thousand feet. Babblinger and the Bishop of Ulm came to mind. Below me I could see a hot-air balloon, an ultralight aircraft, other gliders, and three parachutists swinging down from the sky. Above us, a 747 wheeled east toward Chicago, slanted up toward thirty-eight thousand feet.

  How I wished I could call Hans Babblinger from his grave to a seat in the glider and say, “Look! Look and be not ashamed. Man was meant to fly.”

  Historically, the symbol of the pulpit has been the pointing, damning finger. Accusing men and women of sin, failure, wickedness, iniquities, and the pride of thinking for themselves. Preaching that on this earth there is no hope—in this life there is no glory.

  I say the pulpit should stand for wings. Not angel wings or eagle wings or any other wings you’ve ever seen. Wings of the holy human spirit—wings that lift heart and mind to high places. Wings for all the Babblingers in our midst who will see them and leave inspired to try again and again to stretch human possibility.

  Wings like that can’t be seen, I guess. You hav
e to believe in them to see them in your imagination, and you have to take risks in dangerous places to see if they work.

  Most of the people who go to the church at Ulm now are tourists. The few solemn folk who sit beneath the ancient pulpit during Sunday services are outnumbered by the hang-gliders flying in flocks off the foothills in the bright morning air in the great cathedral of the world.

  Wherever you are, Hans Ludwig Babblinger, I thought you would like to know.

  THE SUFIS ARE MYSTICS IN THE ISLAMIC TRADITION. Their leaders are famous for their teaching stories—short anecdotes that seem light and simple at first telling, but that contain a seed of great wisdom. The stories are never told as preachments. It is left to the hearer to do with them as he may choose and to take on whatever level of meaning suits him.

  Thus it was explained by an Islamic scholar traveling with me on a bus in Switzerland. (Retired teacher from Algeria, who was weary of hot, flat places and wanted to be in the mountains.) These were his two favorite traveling tales from the Sufi masters.

  A famous religious teacher—a saint, in fact—was passing through a small town. It was known that he carried with him the secret key to understanding the meaning of life. A certain pickpocket approached him, searched him with his talented fingers, found nothing, and turned away, empty-handed. All he had noticed were the pockets.

  A famous teacher was invited by a prince to go lion hunting. When he returned, he was asked how the hunt had gone. “Marvelous!” And how many lions did they find? “None—that is why it was so marvelous.”

  SOMEWHERE OUT THERE IN THE WORLD IS A YOUNG woman who, if she reads the letter that follows, will sing out, “Hey, that’s me—that’s my story!” This letter is written out of gratitude—from me and all those who have heard her story from me. Out of one person’s moment of comic despair has come perspective for all.