philosopher.

we were walking in the darkened image of harvard square, a slick dew on the streets half-quiet. hands in my pockets, shoulders slumped, and boots carelessly kicking an aluminium can. storyteller on one side of me. philosopher on the other. i looked at the sky and saw nothing but the blurry wash of orange that boston gives a perfect night sky.

storyteller stopped to light a cigarette.

philosopher hooked his arm in mine, "you're really brave."

"what do you mean?" and i looked around the soft light of midnight.

"you'll figure it out."

a week later, i sat on the floor in his room petting his black cat, bael, chainsmoking and praying for i don't know what.

"you're brave."

"what? why? what is that supposed to mean?"

"what you're putting at risk for this friendship with him (meaning storyteller) ... what you've built up over these months of bitterness, this new strong girl is being ripped down by his friendship, and you don't need to see what's built in its place to trust it."

"i guess," and i looked down at the smoke curling around my fingers.

i didn't realize until months later the entire meaning of the conversation ... which is the way it often went with our talks.

winding around our late night mazes of psyche and story-telling, he coached me and taught me, demonstrated and reiterated ... having the patience of a saint, like any good spiritual mentor.

the path we walk often spirals, he taught me, and we come full circle to a different point that is the same. if you look at your life from a heightened perspective, you'll just see spirals and excitement and motion and movement. the patterns of the stars and the earth, and everything in between.

and here i am again, looking up to him, staring helplessly, as a child.

when the voices really started to scare me ... when all i could see were colors ... when the real world was just a blur of spirituality without rhyme ... a hand always came out of the mess, the sky, the land, the heart and guided me through it.