It was about 1807, I think.
I was ten or eleven when the angel first whispered in my dreams. I
remember following that whisper deep down the winding caverns inside
my soul and seeing that beautiful face. I remember staring at her,
unbelievingly. I'd never seen anything so wondrous. I'd never felt
so perfectly complete. I was no longer just a boy, shackled in the
chains of adolescent naivete. Suddenly everything in the whole universe
made sense, with a crystal clarity. She knew that I understood, and
she smiled at me then with a love I can never forget as long as I
live.
I never wanted to look
away. Not ever. But before I knew what had happened, I awoke. My heart
was broken, and the world looked so cold. I felt so small and so alone.
But as I refused to get out of bed and the tears rolled down my cheeks,
softly I remembered her whispering voice.
Without speaking any words
that I could comprehend, she had shown me visions of Peacetopia, a
timeless, spaceless place where love was all that existed. Where everyone
was free and everything made sense. Where beauty and life and love
and sharing were the guiding forces that filled each and every soul
with peace and tranquility, harmony and ecstasy. She had shown me
a world where peace prevailed on earth. In the stark light of day,
I could barely remember the vision she had shown me so clearly, but
the tiny glimpse that remained filled me with joy and hope.
My angel's words gave
me the strength to face the adolescent tribulations I knew I would
encounter. I rose from my bed that day to accept the challenges that
would await the course of my life. I rose determined to be triumphant
in my battles.
In return for my bravery,
my angel did not desert me. She came to me in dreams again and again.
Whenever I truly needed her, and only then, she was there. Each time
she visited me, she spoke without words of that place where living
was all that mattered, and love made everything whole. And though
when I awoke each time I could only recall a glimmer of that vision
of peace on earth, it was enough to sustain me.
It was probably only a
short while after I first saw her that I began to try to capture in
my own words the beautiful visions she'd left with me. My literary
attempts were rough and crude at first, filtered through the eyes
of a child's perception, but as experience continued to mold and shape
me, the craft that I was developing allowed me to cleverly reconstruct
some of the magic she'd shared in those eternal moments.
And so it came to be that
at nineteen I'd had a volume of short stories entitled Peacetopian
Dreams published. In truth I was not prepared for the praise
and accolades that were showered upon me. But all of these paled in
comparison to the embossed invitation a courier brought one spring
morning when the buds on the trees in Central Park were just beginning
to awaken.
The Duke of Weimar had
summoned me to his court. Of course my parents had no idea who the
Duke of Weimar could possibly be; and the thought of my traveling
alone across the Atlantic to Germany was completely beyond reason.
But my publisher assured them it would be a priceless experience for
me to be in the company of Goethe, Chopin, Goya and the many other
creative giants of the early 19th century that often visited
the Court of Weimar. And most of all, the publicity of my journey
would vastly increase the international sales of my book. My father,
now my financial manager, had been a struggling third-grade educated
Pennsylvania carpenter until just that year. Now we lived in a fancy
apartment in New York City and were the toast of the town. His business
sense had become well educated in a hurry, and suffice it to say that
I set off on my journey that very week.
Now, here I was on my
last leg of the journey, riding leisurely in a carriage through the
lush German countryside with two other travelers who had been summoned
to Weimar. Ali Galip Ertem, a philosopher from Turkey, Miranda di
Francesca, a harpist from Tuscany and, I Roger Singer from Pittsburgh,
via New York City, were the newest inductees to the exclusive Court
of Weimar. For the next year we would be submerged in our art, finding
inspiration and feedback from the most creative minds of our time.
Although we shared that
journey from Antwerp to Weimar for three and a half days, we said
relatively little to each other. There were the obligatory introductions
and the polite pleasantries, and a sharing of just a hint of the excitement
each of us felt. But we didn't really share that much of who we really
were. Throughout most of the journey, each of us was caught up in
our own little worlds of anticipation and expectation. And in between
our private daydreams as we gazed upon the trees and hills and tiny
hamlets of the German heartland, occasionally we'd cast a furtive
glance at each other, wondering about the other's life until now,
and what the other's fate would be after this momentous adventure.
We'd stare a moment too long, until our glance was detected. A shy,
but politely embarrassed smile would forgive the intrusion and send
us back into our private reveries.
I must admit that at first
I saw my fellow travelers as nothing more than strangers. But by the
time the Weimar castle was barely visible on the horizon, I found
my daydreams straying more often into the secret lives of my companions.
As I gazed at them, they seemed so very familiar. They both reminded
me of people I was certain I had intimately known and trusted. I would
stare at their faces and in an instant I would remember in my mind's
eye. But the moment of clarity passed as quickly as it had come when
our gazes met, and when and where, and who it was that I had recalled
I could not say. Still I was left with a warm feeling towards them
both, and in their returning smiles, I knew they felt it as well.
We knew that we would discover much together over the next year.
The disconcerting but
exhilarating deja-vu feeling I'd experienced was magnified tenfold
when the carriage rolled through the gates of Weimar. It was as if
I knew what everything would like before I turned my head to look
at it. I felt as if I'd already spent a lifetime here at Weimar. It
was an overwhelming feeling that bubbled inside, gurgling up into
my conscious brain, delivering the factual proof of my previous adventures
at Weimar. It was almost there at the tip of my awareness, when the
carriage came to a halt, and Miss Di Francesca and Mr. Ertem rose
from their seats and stared at me inquisitively before they stepped
down into the courtyard.
Weimar still looked familiar
as I stepped down as well, but only in a vague tenuous way.
Our bags were seen to,
and we were escorted to our quarters where we'd live and create and
call home for the next year. My room was simple but elegant, and I
could feel whispers of the creative works that were created and yet
to be created in this very room. I knew that I would be inspired here.
That evening, after we'd
rested, we were to be introduced to and dine with our host, the Duke
of Weimar.
We were led to a giant
hall. I could see sparkling chandeliers inside hanging from cathedral
ceilings over tables set with the finest silver, crystal and china,
and the smells of countless exotic delicacies drifted out to greet
me. There were about a hundred already assembled inside in evening
attire, engrossed in quiet conversation, or gustatory pleasures. The
twelve new arrivals, myself and my two traveling companions included,
were being greeted at the doorway by the Duke himself, who heartily
and warmly welcomed each of us in turn. "Karl August, Duke
of Sachsen-Weimar-Eisenach, at your most humble service," he offered,
as he shook each hand. "Welcome to my home," he continued and he would
address each by name without a prompt at all.
I watched his face carefully.
He was exactly as I'd anticipated. Middle-aged, tall, dark with a
thick mustache and warm, passionate eyes. I watched his eyes sparkle
with each introduction. I could see that he was aware of and truly
appreciated the creative treasures that each of his guests had brought
to life.
When it became my turn
in line, the Duke turned to me and his eyes blazed as if he'd recognized
me, and had been waiting forever for my arrival. He said nothing for
a moment, but his eyes spoke volumes. "Welcome, Ward!" his eyes screamed,
though his lips did not move.
Something stirred in me.
He could see in my own eyes that I had heard his silent greeting.
But he could also see that I did not yet understand. It seemed like
forever, but finally he held out his hand, and with a quivering smile
and a trembling voice he said, "Welcome Roger Singer. I am so glad
that you have come." And with a warm smile he nodded and gestured
me into the hall.
I sat at the New Arrivals
table and gazed around the room, listening to the orchestra playing
and the gentle waves of conversation rising and falling all around
me. We were as different as humans can be. Young and old and of every
creed and nationality imaginable. And yet there was a similar creative
fire that burned in each pair of eyes I gazed into. In the presence
of so much creative energy I marveled at the thought of the works
of beauty that would be created here.
Those next few months
passed quickly by. They were so fulfilling, for indeed the creative
spirit was alive everywhere I turned. Everyone seemed to be overflowing
with its radiance. Each day each of us spent hours of solitude wading
in its waters, flowing in its endless reservoir of an infinite wealth
of stories yet untold, then joined in salons and over meals sharing
and nurturing each other's creative passions.
No one was more nurturing
than the Duke himself. He attended nearly every salon and certainly
every formal recital. He seemed always to be there in a small circle
when a creative work was being shared. He would also visit each of
us in our chambers, from time to tome, with words of wise counsel
and infinite patience and gentle prodding. He was so filled with passion
that one could not leave his presence without feeling that creativity
itself was a sacred and precious gift never to be taken for granted.
It was as if he hungered
and fed on the creative spirit. But as the Duke fervently drank his
fill, rather than diminish the creativity of the guest who had shared
his work, one found his own creative flame even brighter and more
consuming.
And so it was that in
just a few short months I had created a sizable stack of treasures
-- poems and stories, drawings and songs. I knew that they would be
well received when I returned home. They had touched the hearts of
my fellow creators here at Weimar, and without a doubt I knew that
these works were destined to touch many other lives for generations
to come. But there was something deeper crying out from within my
soul, longing to be born. Something great. Something wondrous. All
my works would be mere trifles in comparison.
I would begin each day
certain that this new work I'd begun would be the one. It would burn
inside and passionately flow, but when I was done, I knew it wasn't
the elusive treasure I'd aimed for.
Ali Galip and Francesca
did indeed become my closest friends there at Weimar as I'd first
envisioned. Their works were so inspiring to me, and I could see that
my creative attempts touched their hearts as well. That made me so
glad. When I tried to explain how I felt, though, they didn't quite
understand. They felt completely fulfilled in their own creative passions.
They'd never created more beautiful work in all their lives. The spirit
at Weimar was helping them to aspire to their truest potential and
they were more than satisfied with the fruits of their labors.
"Your works are so beautiful,"
they cried in disbelief. "How can you call them mere trifles!"
I knew that the Duke understood
before I even shared my longing with him. When I finally did get up
the nerve to discuss it with him, he gazed at me with a knowing look
and he sighed deeply. "Come, Roger. It's a lovely night. Let us go
for a walk and listen to the songs of the stars."
The sky was magically
alive with twinkling diamonds, and the whispering summer breeze brought
a symphony of fragrances and the melodies of crickets and frogs. The
world was alive.
We walked along breathing
in the night in silence, listening, watching, and feeling the pulse
of life itself flowing unbridled all around us. "Passion is the door
into eternity," the Duke of Weimar began softly as we sat along the
wall and gazed out at the moon and stars shimmering in the lake below.
I wasn't sure what to say.
"Love and creativity ..."
he continued, just as softly. "Those are the most powerful passions
of all. And the most transcending forms of love and creativity are
those which focus on empathy and compassion and brotherly love. Eternity
is so close in this court with all the camaraderie and creativity
alive and growing here at Weimar. Can you feel it Ward? It's not like
this out there, out in the real world. There are so many darker passions
running rampant beyond these walls and in that reality forever is
so far away. Imagine how truly alive the world would be if everyone
used their creative passions to illuminate the interconnectedness
of all life as we do here..."
He was watching my eyes
in the darkness. He knew that I knew he'd called me Ward, the
same name I'd heard his eyes see in me the first day we met. He could
see that the name stirred something in me then. But he knew it wasn't
enough to awaken the memory he was seeking to find.
The Duke of Weimar sighed,
and I felt he carried a deep and troubling sorrow as he turned away
from my gaze and stared out at the brilliant stars. I knew that later
we would both pretend that this evening he'd had a momentary lapse.
Or tomorrow perhaps we'd swear it never happened at all. But for now,
he would share all that was in his heart, and I would listen, though
I could not totally understand.
"Selfless love can bridge
the gap between Now and Eternity for both the giver and the receiver,"
he continued. "In an instant it allows us to see ourselves in someone
else."
By the time I vaguely
understood what he was saying, he had moved on. "An artist has the
unique gift to leave a door into Eternity open for many who come across
his work. Yet both the gifts of the selfless giver and the artist
are fleeting. They allow us to transcend our mortal bodies, but only
for an instant. You, Ward, you will birth a new eternal doorway. You
will deliver the key that will allow the NOW to last forever. Roger
will spend his whole life seeking that perfect creation that will
unlock that door. You will succeed, Ward. Maybe not in this reality,
my friend. But somewhen you will share the gift of eternity." The
Duke of Weimar breathed deeply and long. His voice trembled when next
he spoke.
"When you see me then,
sometime in the future or the past... I...I may not be as fortunate
as I have been in this existence where I've been allowed to taste
eternity so often. I may have to serve darker passions until your
power delivers me to that place I long to be."
He was silent then, staring
out at the stars. I had no idea what to say. I felt such admiration
for this man. Such a deep bond. But I didn't know what he wanted to
hear. "If I can ever help you, dear Duke, please know that I will."
With his face turned away
to the stars, I knew that the Duke of Weimar was crying. "Thank you,
my dear friend. I know that you will."
We never spoke of that
evening again. That year passed by and I was deeply sad to be leaving
all of my friends. But the memories that we'd shared would never leave
me. And they would provide for all of us the inspiration for thousands
of other works yet to be born, that we would bear into this world,
which in turn would inspire others to dream and live.
I have yet to create that
elusive work which still burns in me as passionately is it did all
those years ago. But I keep trying. When I lose hope and faith, my
angel comes to me in dreams, and I remember strange visions of pasts
and futures I know I have lived somehow, somewhen. I remember people
I've loved dearly in those times, and though the faces rearrange and
the details of those lifetimes mix and blend, somehow behind them
all I sense a karmic story is interwoven. In each of those lifetimes
somehow Ward is my deepest essence and I am bound to the promise I
had made to the Duke of Weimar; and in that promise I know lies the
secret to creating that perfect work I seek to bring to life. And
my angel whispers in each dream that I must keep seeking and dreaming
and creating and living to fulfill that promise. And so I do, and
someday I will.