“Remember, my son,” admonished the old Indian, “when darkness descends upon you, seek out the fire that burns within your heart, for it is written that nothing, neither the Magician nor his Wraiths, can separate you from my love.”
Instead of finding the fire that burned within, I somehow ignited a small brush fire at my genitals, which threatened to burn out of control, if I didn’t do something quick.
Panicking, I only succeeded in fanning the flames that swiftly consumed me.
“Let go!” commanded the old Indian, from across the void.
“Let go of what?” I demanded to know.
“Let go of the illusion that holds on to you as tightly as you hold on to it,” he replied.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I shouted back.
“You must stand emotionally aloof from the illusion until it begins to dissipate of its own accord,” he responded, “for it is nothing without your participation. Your imagination will then show you the way to go.”
“It’s not working,” I cried out, after I had tried to close my eyes to the illusion instead of trying to disentangle my emotions from it.
“O yea of little faith,” he muttered. “Look around you.”
Opening my eyes, I watched with amazement as the last of the fire died out, for I’d inadvertently allowed the old Indian to distract me from the fire of my desires, long enough, to keep me from fueling it with my emotions. The more I let go of the illusion and refocused my attention elsewhere, the faster the whole scene changed of its own accord, exactly as he had said it would. So did I, with the climax of yet another daydream, suddenly find my self seated at a table in a small European-type café, opposite my soul who had just ordered tea for the two of us, from a waiter whom I immediately recognized as the old Indian.
As I cringed with embarrassment over my handling of this last affair, she laughed. “I see you’ve already met my father,” she concluded.
“Good morning,” said the old Indian.
And for lack of anything better to say, I wished ‘m the same.
