Joseph Voelbel

The Pilgrim walked on his path in short resolute paces. A wind swept in from the west bringing specks of leaves with it that formed little eddies around his ankles. Though it was still a several day journey eastward, his forehead remained fixed on the mountainous peak. He eyed that celestial ball of fire hovering in the sky, which slowly descended upon the mountain’s silhouette, gilding it with that golden cloak which glimmered during this royal passage of day.

A small sack cloth slung over his shoulder bounced against his spine as he walked. It contained three uncut pieces of quartz crystal, an anachronistic post script from an Argentinian author pertaining to the first use of a parenthetical, and a polaroid of his Father in front of an all-white Buick in a 1970‘s midwestern American suburb.

The Pilgrim lie on his side. Ashes fell upon his face from the kindle fire consisting of twigs and dried bark, which burned low upon the ground. An old lady with a donkey hitched to a wagon passed by. The churning of the wagon’s wheels creaked out into the night like the moans of some antique mechanical mammal. As his eyelids closed, amidst this veil of night, The Pilgrim’s thoughts journeyed into what became an elongated tunnel. The end of which contained a reoccurring vision he’d had since childhood of an inside-out firefly, flapping its red, orange and yellow wings, on a blindingly white day, above a crisp green lawn.

The sun rose and fell three times while this vision remained fixed firmly within him.

That next morning The Pilgrim reached the foot of the mountain, where a spring fed pool awaited. The Pilgrim thought, “these waters are fresh from the veins of Mother and carry its vitality and constitution. I will wash myself here in a ritualistic fashion.” He placed his palms in the prayer position and closed his eyes, then disrobed, waded into the water and slowly let the oxygen out of his lungs until he’d immersed himself entirely. The pressure of his knees tucked into his chest, and his gut spiraling into a ball of steel, allowed for warmth in his core at the bottom of this cool mountain fed spring. Once there, he wondered not and knew not. Not but the image of a fire-fly, that polar star of his spiritual aspirations, fixed in an ever-North.

The Pilgrim began his ascent as if he’d never lost sight of it. He’d first seen it as a ten year old boy, after his teacher passed him a note, written in all caps with red felt tip pen (at a modest height and equidistant spacing) upon a the inside cover of a book that contained portraits of all his classmates. It read, “Aim for the stars,” the Young Pilgrim looked up with suns in his eyes, right then, and for the first time, he saw wings flapping all around him.

The Pilgrim seemed to travel faster than his surroundings, they whisked passed him on the path like the frames of reality viewed from moving trains, as if he were the film, and different parts of himself lit up as they slid through the window.

The Pilgrim placed his head to the ground at the mouth of the cave. Entering slowly he sat in front of a kind being with a warm face and a soft glow, who began pouring him a cup of tea.

“You may ask three questions. But first, have some tea and let us drink in one another.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

They drank their tea on a cloud of silence. At length, the Pilgrim spoke, “Pray tell, wise one, what can you teach me of God?" The radiant being took a small sip and presented an amicable smile,

"Keep God on your lips, for holy words are like a honey that attract the ears of those who listen for sweetness.”

“Yes, of course. Pray tell, wise one, what can you teach me of Spirit?”

“Always accept an offering of water, for this is Spirit in form, and it is being given unto you."

“Yes, of course. Pray tell, wise one, what can you teach me of myself?”

Light caught the surface of The Pilgrim’s tea and it shimmered, “A new star appears in the night’s sky each time someone awakens.”

“Am I awakened?” “Three questions, Young Pilgrim.” The Pilgrim bowed, and rose silently. As he

backed away, the wise one’s voice entered his mind, but in the timbre of that elementary school teacher, and at the decibel of a whisper.

“Stars are God’s fireflies.”

Carried by this thought, The Pilgrim passed beyond the threshold of the cave.