Sounds of rushing water thunder in the near distance. It’s the cacophony of the river Styx reverberateing from one side of the canyon to another.
The thunder lacks clarity, familiarity, comprehension . After all, we’ve played in canyon streams for decades. There is a comfort, a healing which comes as barefooted we cross the soft rounded stones which lead to waterfalls and natural dams.. the sound gives us comfort.
Why is our acoustical antennae disoriented. Some force from the mystic beyond is unexplainable.
Words to describe the Styx as it rushes past? Groping, we search our internal thesaurus. Lost, we’re lost.
Why are we nervous, hesitant? The closer we tread to the river bank the paranormal feels close by in the reeds and on the embankment. Brushing against us, creeping Charlies cause an instant rash, a burning.
We want to know more, hear more, understand more; then why are our internals giving us messages of uncertainty and fear?
We’ve trekked for decades . Familiar values, beliefs, comforting friends, life has moved on a predictable course. Slowly the walking path to the Styx becomes less predictable. We double check our memory bank… we are losing touch with past events.. our body aches, tires, talks to us in the dark of the night. Comforting guideposts which lead us safely to the waterfalls of the Styx are less and less present.
A hiker coming away from the river asks “ Sir, can I help you?” There it is again..Others addressing me in the context of my aging face, limping gait, the shadow of a dimmed youth. The ravages of time cannot be disguised. We are indeed old.
The trail to the Styx has no place to turnaround.. no way to return to our youth. Stopping at the river’s edge comes a recognition that there is no turning back. The Styx is the carrier of the inevitability of life’s end.
We are alone. The sounds we can’t identify – we have never heard them before. We have never seen or heard the end of life’s inevitability before. God stands in mid stream. Arms outstretched. We look into the stream. Paranormal beings tell us not to step off the river bank.. Dante waits.
Clashing, thunderous sounds emerge from the river. Just beyond is a vista of peace. How do we get from point A to point B? We are alone. Our friends and family have passed on. It is just us.
Alone.
Hurry because the clouds are gathering: night is near: how long do we have?
rlhassociates 