The Mountain is Falling, part two

“What is truth?” asks my Father. (Read part one.)

“You.” I pause. “The forest?”

“And why did it die?”

“It wasn’t the whole truth.”

“A partial truth will never sustain a forest.”

“And there were rocks underneath.”

“Were there?”

I think. “No? Yes? I couldn’t tell. The roots might have got to them. They were buried.”

“A buried truth will keep the water from sinking in.”

At this, I squint at him. “But there wasn’t any water.”

“You didn’t get far enough for anything to change. What was the petrified wood?”

“What do you mean, I didn’t get far enough?”

“What was the petrified wood?”

I sit up, affronted. “No, what is this about not getting far enough? What do you mean?”

Gentle: “What was the petrified wood?”

I squint again, but it’s clear he won’t say anything about that until after I’ve answered his question so, with a sigh: “It was the forest.”

“And what is it now?”

“The mountain.”

“Do you see the cycle?”

The cycle?

Pain.

Fear and confusion.

Stepping back.

Partial truth.

Death?

“What’s the petrified wood?” I ask.

“Death,” he says.

Death.

Pain.

“What breaks that cycle?” I ask.

“Forgiveness.”

“I knew that.”

“If you already knew that, then why did you ask the question?” he says this not as a reprimand. He really wants to know the answer.

“That feels like the forest.”

“The mountain is falling,” my Father says, “and it falls to pieces. Those pieces grow a forest, but the forest dies and its bones are bleached by the sun-”

“They were bleached by the wind,” I remind him.

“Its bones are bleached by the sun,” he continues, “and I bring those bones to life.”

“Is that the only part of the cycle where things can change?”

“I haven’t finished the cycle.”

Eyebrow raised, I say nothing, but I listen. He has caught my attention.

“I bring those bones to life and they form a mountain. The mountain falls and, by my life, the forest grows, bigger than before. It is a process, you see.”

“But I feel like I’m missing something!” I cry. “This can’t be all there is! How do I know the forest will grow into a whole truth? How do I know the mountain won’t fall?”

“Why does the mountain grow?”

“The wind.”

“No.”

“Fear.”

“It comes together to protect itself. And then it gets hurt. What do you think it’s trying to protect itself from?”

“The sun,” I say nonsensically. I don’t know where it comes from.

“Who is the sun?”

“You,” I say, just as nonsensically.

“And who are you?”

“The moon.”

“Where are you?”

“In your arms.”

“Is the cycle still going?”

“It’s on pause.”

“Do you want it to stop?”

“Yes.”

“Then hold me, and let me turn your mountains into forests that will never die.”

“Will it take a long time?”

“It doesn’t have to. But that depends on you.”

“What do I do with the mountain?”

“Give it to me, and I will face it for you.”

“It can’t be that easy,” I tell him. “That feels like the forest, too.”

“A full truth partially received becomes a partial truth in the heart of the receiver. What was missing in the forest this time?”

I bury my face in him. “Animals.”

“So let me sing animals to you.”

And he does, a melody sweetly filling the emptiness that once was a world, the emptiness that is paused time, for to pull out of time for a moment is as if the world no longer exists. Softly spreading tendrils of white, yellow, gold, turning to scarlet, the notes twine the air around us. Notes of green and blue follow, the vanguard of a rainbow profusion as vines bloom and tender leaves open to brush against my cheeks. The buzz of insects chase after the ever-unfolding fragrance, bringing the blossoms nearer to fruiting. Butterflies thread through the space, purple wings vivid as though made of light, but it is the Father who is the sun.

I close my eyes and breathe in the music.

But how do I stop the mountain from falling?

“No,” says my Father gently. “That is the wrong question. How does a tree live?”

It takes in the sunlight. It takes in water through its roots, nutrients from the ground. It is made strong by the wind that presses against it.

“What does the tree do to make sunlight come to it?”

Nothing.

“The water?”

Nothing.

“Nutrients? Wind?”

Nothing. “It draws near to them?”

“Where do you find life?”

“In you.”

“How close am I to you?”

My arms tighten around him in answer.

“And how does the tree draw nearer to the sun, when the sun has already reached close enough to enter its veins?”

I open my hand to see a tree sprout from my palm. Light pours down on it; it opens its leaves to drink and, in so doing, raises arms to reach back.

“If you try to stop the mountain from falling because you yourself are not connected to life, the ground will not become ripe for a forest. If you tend a forest of partial love, that forest will die. And its death will grow into a mountain until it falls. But none of this is the path. Does a tree walk?”

“No.” I resist the urge to tell him the forest was about truth, not love. His hand in mine was knitting together something in my heart and the distinction became less important. Where else is truth found, if not love? If not him?

“So where does it go?”

Up.

“Come to me.”

But we’re together.

“Come to me.”

As the tree and the sun are together, yet they each continue to reach.

“Come to me.”

The mountain rises before me, a gnarled mess of ancient wood-become-stone. As it falls to dust and the forest grows up around me, I find myself surrounded by butterflies.

I stand in my forest, holding hands with my Father. As I lean against his shoulder, we begin to sing.

The Mountain is Falling, part one

The mountain is falling and the pebbles made from its crushing weight race to me and pile around my toes.

The mountain is breaking and the stones that couldn’t be made any smaller roll over the pebbles onto my feet, digging their jagged edges into my skin.

The mountain is crumbling and rocks form hills around me so I won’t be able to move forward when I come to my senses and regain the use of my muscles.

The mountain is split in two and the boulders race towards me, some stuck in the field of their weaker brethren, others flying past me, a few set to collide and I raise my arms but they bounce and land somewhere behind me, some stopping, others continuing on their incessant way.

The mountain is falling and now its bulk towers over me as it loses its balance and I am trapped against this wall of rock that came to rest against my body and in my mouth and in my nostrils and in my eyes and in my ears and I can’t go that direction but the mountain is falling and the mountain is falling and the mountain is falling…

I am the rock in the avalanche and as I grope behind myself, I realize I parted the waters and the air behind me is clear of disaster.

I step back.

The mountain crashes before me, its great bulk pulverizing all that came from it until lesser parts are dust and least parts are less than dust.

I face the mountain, trembling.

“The way is clear, the way is clear,” booms a voice around me.

“The way is gone,” I say, “The mountain has fallen.”

“The way is clear, the way is clear,” the voice says again as if I’d said nothing. “The mountain is gone.”

The mountain sinks into the ground and the grass grows over it, the trees sprout and reach into tall, spindling birch only to fall and die and decompose as new trees grow, over and over until the dirt covers the stone and there is nothing left of the mountain.

“The way is clear, the way is clear,” says the voice.

“The way is not clear,” I say. “The forest has obliterated it.”

“The way is clear, the way is clear.” I wonder where the voice gets its information. “The forest is ready.”

The forest dies without animals, carbon dioxide used up and nutrients leached from the soil, and the wind bleaches the fallen trunks, petrifies them.

“The way is clear, the way is clear,” says the voice.

“There is no way,” I say. “There’s nothing.”

“The way is clear, the way is clear. The mountain is building.”

The petrified logs shift with the changing seasons as the ground shifts, shift with the winds that dance through, shift with the earth as it moves, restless, beneath them.

The petrified logs clump together and entwine their branches until there is no beginning or end, they hold together, huddled against the cold and the rain.

They form the mountain.

“There is no way,” I say. “The mountain must fall.”

The mountain is falling.

I stamp on the ground, done with this game, and grow until I am a giant, taller than the mountain could ever be, taller than the sun is high and the world is a speck beneath me.

“Where do I go,” I cry, “When I don’t know the way I’m going?”

I lift my face to gaze into the eyes of my Father. He reaches for me and I let him take me into his arms to hold his adult daughter close to his chest.

He takes the world-speck between his thumb and forefinger and quietly smashes it to nothing between them.

“You had a whole world to learn in,” he says. “What did you find?”

“Nothing goes the way I want it to,” I say into his shoulder.

“That’s not true.” His voice is gentle and he holds me out to bend down and look into my eyes. I choose to meet his, though mine are downcast. “What did you learn?”

“There’s no way out,” I say. “There’s the mountain and the rockslide, the forest and death, and none of them are right. None of them are real.”

“What is real?” he asks, casually. “Someone once asked me that of truth. What is the mountain?”

“Pain,” I say, and close my eyes to hold him tight again and nestle my face into his shoulder.

“What is the rock field?”

“Fear and confusion.”

“Why did you step back?”

I pause. “I didn’t want to be buried.”

“Good. What is the forest?”

“Life.”

“But it died.”

I sigh. He sits, and I rest on his lap as I think.

“It’s me.”

“You think you’re missing something?”

“Maybe? I know I’m not, but what if I think I am? What if I’m operating out of this assumption that I have nothing but plants and all this oxygen but no one to breathe it?”

He doesn’t answer, but gently asks again, “What is the forest?”

“Nothing. It’s a lie.”

“What kind of lie?”

“But isn’t it some sort of truth, though? Because it did live, for a little.”

“What is truth?” But he says this seriously.

“You.” I pull out my head to look at him again, speaking with the earnestness of a child concerned that her parent doesn’t know something terribly important.

“What is truth?”


Read part two.

The Crystal Mountain

Somewhere in the world is a crystal mountain. People often ask it why it's made of crystal, to which it replies:

"Why does green make you feel happy?"

To which a number of psychologists opened their mouths, but the mountain quickly added:

"It's a rhetorical question. I don't know why I'm made of crystal. Why would I know the answer to that?"

To which the philosophers opened their mouths--

"Rhetorical question, guys."

Now, inside the mountain were several angler fish and goblin sharks, and they could be seen through the sides of the mountain. They swam about within the mountain, completely unperturbed by the implausibility of their own existence. Various people tried to ask the fish how they could possibly survive inside a mountain, and how they could survive without food, for none of them were ever seen to eat.

This proceeded to do nothing but give the mountain a headache, about which it complained loudly.

At the centre of the mountain was a star, which shone very brightly at night and faintly during the day.

"How does it change brightness like that?" the people asked the mountain, correctly assuming that trying to ask the star this would end the same way as the fish interrogation.

"What about my questions?" asked the mountain. "Why do you get to ask me all the questions? Don't I get answers, too?"

The adults all looked at each other, trying to figure out if they should be offended.

"What answers?" said a five-year-old.

"Oh, I like this one. This one's smart." Then the mountain leaned in close - complete with its implausible fish and changeable star - and continued in a quieter voice. "Why do people say they'll be friends forever with someone only to not call them when they move away?"

"Dunno."

The mountain harrumphed. "Well, why do children make fun of one child just like them and exclude that child from their number?"

"Because they're weird."

"Really?"

The five-year-old thought about it. "Probably not."

"Then why?"

"Dunno."

"You're not being particularly helpful."

"Sorry."

The mountain leaned back. "Does anyone else have an answer?"

All the people around the mountain began speaking all at once, but none of them could agree on the answers to the mountain's question. After more of this than it could stand, the mountain shouted at them all to be quiet and leaned in towards the five-year-old again.

"I gather no one else knows the answers to those questions, either. They just take more words to finally say it. Why don't they know the answers?"

The five-year-old, who had never considered that adults might not know something, had to think very carefully. "Maybe they're not old enough yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes when I ask questions, my parents say:" the five-year-old pointed a finger at an imaginary child and said in a lower voice "'You'll understand when you're older.'"

"What do you do when they say that?"

"I stick my tongue out at them. Then I play with my toys." The five-year-old held up a set of Lego. "These are my favourite."

"I've never played with toys before." The mountain looked sad. "I don't even have toys."

"Do you want to play with mine?"

"May I?"

"Yeah! Here, you can be this one…"

So, while all the people looked on, the mountain and the five-year-old sat down together to build a kingdom, with a unicorn and a dragon and lasers and spaceships and mountains and cars and aliens and knights...

Frankly, they ignored everything else so thoroughly that all the people left them to their play.

It was the best day ever.