Searching for Desert Sage

The following is my favourite chapter from Cathy Lee Crosby's book, Let the Magic Begin. I remember reading it at a time when I really needed to hear its message. A cross between "be here now" and allow the flow rather than push for it. It's been more than a decade since, and insights which should have burst like fireworks on my jaded perceptions are just beginning to spark now. It's funny. But truly, we don't learn anything (no matter how many books we try to cram) until we're ready to relax and let the message sink in. This is a kind of long chapter. And I suspect most of you are not going to make the trek through it. But I do know that the ones who are supposed to read it, will read it. Being able to control nothing, I'll just let it go, let it flow and we'll meet somewhere on the other side of the rainbow, k?

It's a date!

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I was driving south to visit my mother who lived in Palm Desert. It was a two-and-a-half hour trip to Los Angeles, and about forty-five minutes before I reached her house. I noticed that my gas needle was plunging toward empty. I exited the freeway and drove into a tiny, two-pump gas station in what appeared to be a relatively small town - a throwback to a more innocent age. As I stood there filling my tank, I noticed a bookstore across the street.

I'd been intending to pick up a few publications on health and fitness anyway, so with a few minutes to spare, I thought, why not? I paid for the gas, drove across the street, and parked near the store.

As I stepped through the front door, I was awestruck at the sheer volume of books crowding the shelves, tucked away in every conceivable corner of the room. The store was quite large, with natural light, yet retained a certain flavor of old-world simplicity. There were even a few spots where one could sit in overstuffed chairs and read. The inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.

I walked up to the counter and found a rather nerdy-looking young man reading what appeared to be a comic book.

"Excuse me, could you tell me where the health and fitness section is," I asked.

He looked up from his "reading," stared at me oddly, and then hollered across the store seemingly to no one,

"Hey, you got a customer!"

Within seconds, a rather stout, white-haired imp of a man came bouncing out from somewhere in the bookshelves. He was dressed like a cross between a natty college professor and a corn-fed Iowa farmer, but in every other way, he looked like any clerk you'd find in a bookstore in small-town America.

"Could you help me?" I asked. "I'm looking for the section on health and fitness."

He eyed me in such a strange way, that I thought perhaps he didn't understand English. So I began again, only slower this time and gesturing, in an effort to translate for him.

"Excuse me...could...you...show...me..."

Peering out through the most amazing blue eyes this side of Paul Newman, he cut me off in midsentence.

"Ah, travel," he replied, proceeding to turn on his boot heels in the opposite direction. "Follow me."

Travel? I thought. Now I know he doesn't understand English!

Before I could utter a word of protest, he headed off through a long row of bookshelves, insistently motioning me forward, until we stood in a veritable literary canyon. There were multicolored volumes stacked floor to ceiling.

Aware that I had paused to take in the sight before me, he whirled around and addressed me straight on in a commanding voice.

"You see, the important thing is...to be ready at any moment to sacrifice what you are, for what you could become," he declared. Then, as an afterthought, he added, Charles Dubois, 1953.

"Charles Dubois?" I asked. "Who in the world is that?"

But the little man didn't answer. Instead, he dove into the shelves again and this time came up with a purple volume. He held it out so I could just barely read the title: The Warrior Athlete by Dan Millman. Then, snapping the book back before I could tell him that I had already read it, he said, "Before you can arrive at any destination you must begin a journey. Am I correct?"

Unbelievable! I thought. What have I gotten myself into now? The only English this man speaks, he's memorized from these books! Where do employers find people like this anyway? How can they hire someone who doesn't understand English to work in a bookstore?

Unaware of my judgment, the bookstore imp kept right on going. "Do you know how many people have stood in the very spot you're standing on right now?" he asked.

"Well...actually, I don't," I said. "Listen, I'm really sorry. But I'm awfully late. You see, I was headed down to my mother's house in Palm Desert and she's expecting me in half an hour. So why don't I come back another time and we can talk."

He let out a deep sigh. "People," he said with a shrug. "They have no idea where they have no idea where they're going, and only the faintest idea where they've been."

He held out his hands, indicating the walls of books.

"This is the station," he bellowed. "The books are the fuel. And their knowledge is the train that can take you to your destination."

"Sir!" I interrupted. "With all due respect, are you paid by the bookstore to do this? I mean, to stand here and quote all these lines from the books in the store?"

"Oh, no," he said.

"So you don't work here?" I queried.

"Well, actually I do...In a manner of speaking, of course," he said.

Great, I said to myself. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, with a certified nut case. That's it. I've got to get out of here.

"Sir, you've been most helpful," I said as I turned to the old man mustering up my last available politeness. "Thanks for everything, but I really must be going."

He didn't answer me, of course. I was convinced he never answered anybody. Although it was obvious by now that he did indeed speak and understand perfect English, this was a man who was definitely utilizing a language all his own.

"The journey you are beginning is always sparked by an awareness that something's missing," he intoned. "Something's missing because life is an illusion. It's an illusion because it's the creation of your own mind. And that creation is colored by our doubts, fears, desires, and life experiences. So, we figure, figure, figure. We desperately try to make sense of things. But nothing fits, does it?"

"Well, I'm not sure..." I stammered. Then, deciding that the only way out of this mess would be to simply agree with him and take my leave, "You know? You're absolutely right, I'd never looked at it that way, thanks for filling me in, and now I really do have to..."

"You have worn the robes of success," he interrupted. "But you are still cold. In an of itself, success has no meaning to you. But now, you've stepped up to the plate. The pitcher is on the mound, so let's begin."

Completely frustrated by his seemingly inexhaustible supply of metaphors, I blurted out, "Listen, the truth of the matter is I have no idea what you're talking about. Besides, I am very, very late, and I have to get back on the road before my mother begins to worry."

He looked at me quizzically, and then threw up his hands apologetically.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I plumb forgot my manners," he said convincingly earnest. "The name's Samuel Lewis Hastings. But you can call me Sam. Everybody does."

He graciously extended his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said.

Not wanting to hurt the nice ol' man's feelings any further, I perfunctorily replied, returning the gesture. "Thank you, I'm Cathy Lee, and it's nice to meet you, too. But look..."

"Sam," he said.

"Okay Sam. Look, I don't want to be rude, but I simply came in to pick up a couple of books on health and fitness. You know, trying to get back in shape and all. But I was supposed to be in Palm Desert an hour ago, so I must be on my way right now because my mother's expecting me."

With that, I started to leave.

Darting in front of my path, Sam turned and looked into my eyes with that an intensity that stopped me cold.

"Wherever there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure...," Rumi said, "The house has to be destroyed so we can find the great treasure hidden underneath."

I couldn't believe it! He'd obviously memorized whole portions of these books, not just a few lines. And while I was extremely uncomfortable and unsure of this strange man's behavior, at the same time, I was becoming more and more curious.

Realizing that he had definitely made an impact on my naturally inquisitive nature, Sam quickly grabbed another volume, and with a courtly bow, handed me the book with an almost royal presentation. It had a bright orange cover, on which blazed the words Living in the Light by Shakti Gawain.

"All of us must go through a place at one time or another - that mystics call piercing the veil of illusion," he began. "It's the point where we truly recognize that our physical world is not the ultimate reality and begin to turn inward, to discover the true nature of our existence. At these times, we usually feel emotionally that we are hitting bottom...but actually, we are falling through a trapdoor and into a bright new world...Only by going fully into the darkness can we move through it into the light."

He shrugged dismissively. "Damn, I used to know that passage by heart," he grinned. "Sorry, but I had to paraphrase a bit. It's not important, the idea's the same."

His feigned naivete, was not hitting its mark as far as I was concerned. But he certainly had succeeded in piquing my interest.

Scratching his thick head of white hair, he spoke again. "Oh yes, I remember now! Victor Frankl said it perfectly: What is to give light must endure burning."

Warily, I looked around the store to see if anyone else was listening. Was I the only one hearing this? But the store was empty. Everyone had gone. Even the young clerk had retreated to his TV dinner, undoubtedly having heard Sam's diatribe many times before.

"Look...what I'm trying to find out..." I began.

"Sam!" he exclaimed.

"All right...Sam. Listen, who are you anyway? And what are you doing here?"

There was no answer.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" I insisted.

He grinned and then spoke in a tone that sounded like someone giving directions.

"It's like this. Sometimes a person has to go down just about as far as they think they can go. And then, you see, they gotta keep going. Because before they know it, the bottom's dropped out, the trapdoor's opened, and they've fallen into a whole new world."

That got my attention. Did he know what had happened to me? And if so, how could he have possibly found out? It was true, I had gone down as far as I could go. And yes, the bottom had dropped out. But the part about the new world? I didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

"What do you mean new world?" I implored. "What do you mean specifically?"

"Specifically?" he said. "Ah, let me see, specifically!"

With a twinkle in his eye, he turned and walked further down the aisle to a table where he had placed the books he had chosen to show me. I knew by now that this was my cue to follow, and for some reason I did. Running his fingers across the jackets, almost as if his fingertips could read, he grabbed the orange book Living in the Light once again, and opened it to show me a particular page.

"Specifically," he chuckled, "page twenty-nine. The ultimate key is aliveness. The more the universe moves through you, the more alive you feel. Conversely, every time you don't follow your inner guidance you feel a loss of energy, a loss of power, a sense of spiritual deadness."

My mind was reeling. I felt like I was trying to put together a giant jigsaw puzzle, and couldn't even find the first two pieces that fit.

"Are you telling me what we're supposed to do whatever we sense is right, simply because the feeling comes to us?" I asked.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he said. "To an unenlightened mind, yes."

"But that's impossible," I said. "If you don't know where you're going, how can you achieve anything? There's no structure, no direction, no desire, and therefore, no results. Where do all these things come into play? How can you merely function on 'instinct' alone and achieve anything worthwhile?"

"Ah," he said. "That question is not for me to answer. It is part of your journey. This world was created as a place to learn. It is our playground, our school and our artist's studio. We are here to learn how to consciously channel the creative energy of the spirit and of the Divine into physical form."

An earnest expression washed over his face as he parked himself on top of an old worn step stool standing in the aisle.

"Of course, you set goals," he said. "You have to have a destination in mind to be able to figure our where you're goin'. But you can't be ruled by those goals, and you can't be boxed in by them either. That takes all the surprise and the electricity and the fun out of life. It also lessens your power. When you begin to practice tuning in to your intuition and acting on it, no matter what, life literally comes 'alive' with possibility. When you can let go of control, and surrender to the natural energy and flow of the universe, you are directly plugged into The Source, and therefore, to all the power within you."

"Wait a minute," I straightened. "You're telling me that I'm supposed to literally sense what I need to do, and then just do it without a second thought? Well, that might be fine if you live in a cloistered monastery somewhere. But if you have to live here in the real world, you can't be so footloose and fancy free. You'd never have any control over the results, and you'd never get anything accomplished."

"You can't afford not to," he countered. And then, in a gentle yet extremely pointed manner, he added, "You have been given the gift of life and it is available to you at every moment. What you choose to do with that gift is your business."

Before I could respond he had turned back to the bookshelf. "It takes courage to stay centered in your heart, living your life shooting from the hip," he said over his shoulder.

I could only stare blankly at the figure before me. I was almost numb from the experience of my encounter with him. But as for Sam, he seemed totally energized. He was practically dancing in the aisles, darting from book to book, as if merely touching their jackets as they stood erect on the shelves was allowing him to reconnect with their magic. He continued to recite multiple passages in rapid succession, each time choosing the exact words that struck a deep chord within me.

For some unknown reason, I was no longer afraid of this country wordsmith, and in fact, was becoming strangely entranced by him. I felt like I was watching a master performance artist at work, an aged Robin Williams in bookstore-clerk drag.

With neither preamble nor pause, he forged straight ahead.

"Ever heard of Fernando Botero, the Colombian artist?" he asked, breaking through my thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Turning my attention to a hand-carved wooden plaque hanging on the wall, he quoted Botero's words without so much as a glance in their direction. "When you start a painting, it's somewhat outside of you. At the conclusion you seem to move inside the painting."

"And of course...Eugene, I've been forgetting all about you, haven't I?!" he continued, reaching across me to touch the spine of a thick art book. "Eugene Delacroix! Now there's an artiste! What moves men of genius, or rather what inspires their work, is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said, is still not enough."

Fully enjoying his own creativity, he jumped to another section of the shelves. "Or you might prefer Degas," he quipped. "Yes, of course! Rich with understanding, movement, and passion! He's perfect for you! Only when no longer knows what he is doing, does the painter do good things."

He laughed again as if relishing this private joke, then bolted to the end of the entire section. "Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage - Anais Nin," he continued.

"Paul Gauguin: I shut my eyes in order to see."

Then wildly pointing to yet another book he recited eloquently: "Amos Ferguson: I paint not by sight but by faith. Faith gives you sight."

He was totally consumed and I was dizzy from just watching the spectacle exploding before me. This venerable enchanter was filled with a passion I hadn't experienced in a long, long time. Not only did he know the passages, but he seemed to know the entire books as well. I got the feeling that he almost lived amongst their pages, as if they were a part of his soul. The mere thrill of touching them seemed to electrify him.

"Hold on to your hat!" he practically shouted. "We're just getting started."

I looked at my watch. I was extremely late and wondered if I could call my mother. But I knew Mom would understand and would want me to stay and listen.

"I don't suppose you're Jewish," he cackled. "The Talmud is a pretty amazing piece of work. Every blade of grass has its Angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'"

He smiled at me warmly.

"You're in luck, my dear," he said, once again picking up on my thoughts perfectly. "I've got plenty of time to whisper this afternoon."

In that instant, I became aware of Sam, the person, for the first time. I no longer focused on his strange manner, or his rather odd-looking clothes. Instead, I began to see his warm, joyous nature shining so brilliantly that it overshadowed any of my remaining judgments or doubts.

"Never mind the title of this one," he said, interrupting my musings. This, of course, brought my attention immediately to the words printed on the front of the book he was holding in his hands: The Pathwork of Self-Transformation by Eva Pierrakos.

He began to shuffle the pages like a card dealer. "Oh yes, here it is," he said. "For those feeling uncertain, here is the key." Finding the page he was looking for, he handed me the book and asked if I would read it aloud.

Through the gateway of feeling your weakness lies your strength.
Through the gateway of feeling your pain lies your pleasure and joy.
Through the gateway of feeling your fear lies your security and safety.
Through the gateway of feeling your loneliness lies your capacity to have fulfillment, love and companionship.
Through the gateway of feeling your hopelessness lies true and justified hope.
Through the gateway of accepting the lacks in your childhood lies your fulfillment now.

"About as good as apple pie, isn't it?" he said.

After a long pause, I turned to Sam and connected in a way I could not have anticipated. "Do you think a person's journey through fear and pain is truly the doorway to happiness?" I asked.

"I'm saying nothing," he replied with a knowing smile, as if acknowledging a secret just between the two of us. "I'm just a bookstore clerk. All I know is what I read."

He began to laugh the freest, most genuinely funny laugh I'd ever heard. It was contagious. We both began to howl. He was obviously orchestrating a game that he realized I had no idea how to play, and he was having a ball. I felt he was throwing only the basic 'rules' at me, just to see how long it would take for me to figure out how to play. He must have known that I was athletically inclined, because he had woven his web in the form of a game. What better way to focus m normally wandering attention.

"Sam, can I ask you another question? Am I the only one who can see you? I mean, are you real?

"Well, I sure hope so!" he chuckled. "Cause my car's going to look pretty strange driving down the road with nobody in it. I'm as real as you are. A good, solid hunk of muscle and bone. Only difference is, I know how to pan for gold."

Just when I thought I was getting the hang of this, he had lost me completely.

"Pan for gold?" I asked.

"Yep," he nodded. "You know, alchemy. You've heard of alchemy, haven't you?"

"Well," I stammered. "I've heard the word but..."

Without a pause, he chimed in. "A medieval chemical science aimed at achieving the transformation of base metals into gold. Or, the transformation of something common into something special."

He grinned a prospector's grin. "Some people call it magic, I suppose."

He quickly flashed a purple book cover.

"The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho, an insightful fable about the quest to fulfill one's destiny," he continued, weaving his own thread of unique luminosity. "No heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second encounter with God and with eternity."

That's it! That's the final straw! I thought to myself.

How could he possibly have known the perfect arrow to pierce my heavy armor? After a few moments of stunned silence, I suddenly felt the urge to tell him everything - every single little detail about what had been happening to me over the last five years - the losses, the illness, the bankruptcy, the lawsuits. But before I could get a word out of my mouth, he aimed his crystal-clear blue eyes directly into mine in a way that let me know he already knew. Again, it stopped me cold.

"What you need to understand is this: Before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way...That's the point at which most people give up. It's the point at which, as we say in the language of the desert, one 'dies of thirst' just when the palm trees have appeared on the horizon."

The absolute truth of his words echoed in the deepest part of my heart. I felt weak. I looked for something to lean on, but there were no posts or pillars nearby. Taking a couple of steps backward, I literally fell into one of the upholstered chairs I'd seen on my way in. For the first time in my life, I was absolutely filled with an overwhelming sense of the meaning of our life on this earth. The particulars weren't totally evident, or even important. But at last I could see the whole picture, once and for all. I finally realized what the jigsaw puzzle would look like as a finished picture.

Good old Sam, however, this eccentric, yet compelling bookstore sage, kept right on rolling. He had me on the ropes, and wasn't about to let me get away.

"You see, as the old woman in The Alchemist said, 'You came so that you could learn about your dreams, and dreams are the language of God.'"

My head was spinning with the profoundness of it all. But Sam didn't stop for rest.

"When you want something," he continued, "all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it."

I was trying desperately to understand the complexities of this newly felt sense of awe and wonder.

"But Sam!" I exclaimed. "I don't know what I want! I used to think I knew what I wanted. But somehow, I've forgotten."

"Not a problem. Not a problem!" he repeated. "Just decide to go forward and seek your treasure. Know that every hour you spend is part of your dream. And that, as the alchemist told the boy, will allow you to discover things along the way you never would have seen, had you not had the courage to try things that seemed impossible for a shepherd to achieve. The closer one gets to realizing his destiny, the more that destiny becomes his true reason for being."

"Sam, I feel so stupid," I said. "I feel like I've missed so much! It seems like I've wasted all this time."

"No, no, no," he said. "Each, in his own time. You see, you did exactly what you had to do. You've been on the journey all along, you just didn't realize it. The only difference is, now you have reawakened your destination. It's all so simple, really. Life is simple. Like the alchemist who learned that the world has a soul. He realized that, whoever understands that Soul can also understand the language of things...Many alchemists have realized their destiny and discovered the Soup of the World, the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life...But these things are all so simple that they could be written on the surface of an emerald."

"Well, that's easy to say, Sam," I said. "If you understand the Soul of the World. But how do you do that? How do you actually go about understanding it?"

"First of all, realize that you are an alchemist. We all are," he explained. "And the answer's right in that book you're holding. How do I immerse myself in the desert? Listen to your heart. It knows all things, because it came from the Soul of the World."

I had to laugh, out of pure frustration more than anything else. I felt I had lost my connection with him for sure. What he was saying was coming across to me like a foreign language. I needed some specifics! I needed direction! I needed a clear explanation!

As if anticipating my every thought, Sam was answering my questions before i had even asked them: "You now see everything through a veil of associations about things...You've 'seen it all before.'...You see only memories of things, so you become bored. Boredom, you see, is fundamental nonawareness of life; boredom is awareness, trapped in the mind. You'll have to lose your mind before you can come to your senses."

Well, if that was all it was going to take, I was off to a grand start! Bring on the straitjacket! Enlightenment comes upon hospital discharge, I thought.

Sensing my difficulty in grasping his point, Sam didn't miss a beat. He placed The Way of the Peaceful Warrior beside me onto an increasingly formidable stack of books. After giving me some much-needed time to digest all that was running through my brain, he quietly sat down cross-legged on the floor in the center of the aisle and motioned me to sit beside him, which I did. He carefully unwedged a thin volume from the bottom shelf with the toe of his boot, slipped it out of the stack, and placed it on his lap. I could see the title, The Urban Shaman, by Serge King. Sam waited a long time before speaking, uncharacteristically choosing his words carefully.

"Why is your world so full of darkness, when you want to attract the light," he asked finally.

He hit me right in the gut. A real sucker punch, and I never even saw it coming. I couldn't breathe. I had no answer, because it was a question I had asked myself so many times within the safety of my own thoughts.

He began to speak slowly and deliberately.

"Extending into the metaphysical realm, we come across the idea that thoughts will telepathically attract their equivalent. In other words, to put it very simply, positive thoughts will attract positive people and events, and negative thoughts will attract negative people and events."

I wasn't sure if he was paraphrasing, because the way he spoke and the words from the books had become indistinguishable. I couldn't really tell where the text ended and Sam's words began. He checked my face for a reaction. He could see that I was taking it all in, but wasn't ready to comment. Sensing this, he continued driving his point home.

"Nothing ever happens to you without your participation. For every event that you experienced, you creatively attract it through your beliefs, fears, and expectations, and then react to it habitually or respond to it consciously. Cathy Lee, you are connected to the Universe. It's a part of you and you are a part of it. And you always have been."

It was the first time he had used my name. It was almost as if his infinite wisdom had been brought into a narrow focus, a perfect beam of light aimed directly at me. I'd heard and felt every single word. And sitting there on the floor next to Sam, I realized that he had instinctively known about the hole in my heart all along. He also knew that in order for it to disappear forever. I had to full that hole for myself.

Without saying a word, he rose and walked stiffly to a back room. He soon returned carrying his jacket and a well-worn paperback book which he proceeded to place reverently in my hands.

"This is one of my favorites: Millman's The Sacred Journey of the Peaceful Warrior," he said. "It's my own personal copy. I carry it with me, as you can see. It's a little torn and tattered, but I want you to have it. The main thing I want to emphasize now, is that the world mirrors your new level of awareness."

Something seemed to have changed in Sam. There was a depth of understanding that was becoming more and more evident. When he spoke, it was as if all the knowledge of the world was speaking. When the afternoon's incredible odyssey had begun, he seemed like nothing more than a happy-go-lucky, slightly off-center character, who just happened to possess a great command of the written word. What I was beginning to realize, however, was that the "lines" he had been reciting were simply vehicles through whcih he was driving home the "truth" in any way he could. And he was delivering his message in a manner that I could both comprehend and experience at the same time.

"Like attracts like," he said. "And people whose home base is the first floor are attracted to first floor kinds of music, books, drink, food, sports, and so forth. The same is true of the second and third floors. Until your awareness rests securely on the fourth floor, in the heart, your motives are ultimately self-serving."

He gently took both of my hands in his, helped me to my feet, and stared deeply into my eyes. "It's time for you to climb to the higher floors, my dear," he said simply. "That's where your true destiny lies."

I couldn't utter a word: I needed to sponge up every drop of this moment between us. He was right and it did seem simple! I had been playing on the lower floors, while my heart had been longing to take the elevator to the top.

"You have opened the door to the alchemist within you, harnessing the power of the gold in your soul," San smiled, surrounding me with a blanket of comfort I had never before known in my life. "In other words, just embrace the true self. For when a woman has owned her passionate nature...her thoughts will grow wild and fierce and beautiful. Her juices flow. Her heart expands. She has glimpsed the enchanted kingdom, and the vast and magical realms of the Goddess within her...When a woman conceives here true self, a miracle occurs and life around her begins again."

After what seemed like an eternity, during which he gave me the full amount of time I needed to absorb the meaning of these compelling words, Sam used his humor, as always, to dissipate the intensity of the moment, and to guide me back to reality.

"I never get that one right anymore!" he apologized. "My memory must be going. I used to have all of these memorized word for word. But I guess when you've lived the books long enough, your experience and the words get all mixed up."

"But Marianne won't mind," he said. "She understands what I'm saying."

I guess he didn't feel like speaking for a while, because he took the book, A Woman's Worth, turned to page thirty-two, and handed it to me, pointing out the following passage:

"When we break free and see the game for what it is, we will let out a howl...We will hear the holy choir of angels, our eyes will brighten, and our smiles will burst forth. We will see the angels and know the angels, and do lunch with them, and speak their case. We will be intimate with the stars and ride rainbows to ancient lands. We will light up like lamps, and the world will never be the same again."

I slowly closed the volume, and stared silently at the floor. Tears began to drip down my cheeks. Although Sam and I had been together for a mere five hours, it had seemed like a lifetime. The sheer joy that was swirling within me, was more than I could handle. I loved this man! He had taken the void in my heart and helped me to fill it with a light that was impossible to describe. I felt totally complete, and yet alive with an infinite connection to everything. Slowly, Sam reached out and rested his hand on my arm.

As I looked up, I said only two words, but I knew Sam would understand the enormity, and depth encompassed in both of them.

"Thank you," I said in a whisper.

"Guess it's time to close," he said softly, knowing that the connection had been made, the gift had been delivered, and the bond between us had been cast in gold.

He grabbed his coat. I grabbed my purse. Silently, we walked together toward the front door. Just before we stepped outside, I took one last look at the room to record every minute detail indelibly in my mind. When he knew I had finished satiating my memory, he reached out and shut off the lights. We stepped out into the crisp night air, and he locked the door. It was dark out, but the sky was lit with a full moon and a veritable carpet of twinkling stars. The last thing I remember before Sam disappeared down the sidewalk was him standing a few feet in front of me with his hands in his pockets, reminding me to listen to my heart because "it knows all things."

I watched him amble down the street, and then turned and walked to my car. As I climbed in, the books he had given me spilled from my arms onto the floor. As I was stacking them back to the seat beside me, I noticed that The Alchemist had flipped open to a page into which Sam had placed a well-worn leather bookmark. Had it been intentional? Of course it had. There wasn't any doubt in my mind. He'd known all along what my destiny was to be.

Holding the book carefully in my hands, I began to read the explicitly marked passage: "There was a moment of silence so profound that it seemed the city was asleep. No sound from the bazaars, no arguments among the merchants, no men climbing to the towers to chant. No hope, no adventure, no old kings or destinies, no treasure, and no pyramids. It was as if the world had fallen silent because the boy's soul had."

So this was the "Soul of the World". I finally understood what Sam had been talking about. And indeed, it was so simple that it could have been written on the surface of an emerald.

Slowly, I closed the book and sat for a long moment, taking in the penetrating sound of a world fallen silent. I had heard something like it before, but this time, it was a pure unbridled silence in which all things seemed possible. I had joined with the Soul of the World, and the exalted pulse of its beating heart within me, was the most beautiful feeling I had ever known.