A Room with a View, III

Part Three

We discuss The Flow and learn the purpose of the room.

(Part One, Part Two)

I am learning at a more rapid pace, and more about the essence of things in the room as well as the outer world. Things I have long desired to know seem to be revealing themselves. There is an increasing awareness of freedom within this room and most remaining traces of fear are gone. I believe that this may be true for you. I said that I had no trace of fear, and I re-affirm that.

Regarding the outer world, it is, I think, not as vast as this room. I am going to use only one word for it now, combining those three into one, to signify its diminishment: “outworld” seems right to me, but I believe Outworld is slightly better. Outworld conveys something of its reality as well as its transience, yes, and keeps the reality of both worlds at hand. Thus, it shall be The Room also. So, The Room and Outworld; it is written. And the two worlds: They are not The Room and Outworld; they are Outworld and Beyond. Beyond is beyond the veil. The Room is between the two and therein lies its purpose. I will tell you what I know of that purpose, later in this Part.

We have spoken on occasion, you and I, and there is an overlay of understanding that is very slowly developing. If I were to use an Outworld image to describe it, I would say that it is like a soft merino wool blanket of a color that you have chosen. Enough about that, because it is an image. It is very difficult to write about now, requiring too many words to say but one: understanding.

The Flow is the source of it all, and even that is not quite it. It is One, and yet there is more still: The Presence is the source of The Flow, and they are One. The Flow is in Outworld, as I said, and it is in The Room, and most certainly it is from Beyond, sourced in The Presence. Inadequacy lurks here, so I will turn to metaphor, and tell a true story of water. This happened in Outworld years ago . . .

My friend and I both had jobs that allowed us to explore. Randy owned a furniture store. He’d inherited it from his father and felt duty-bound to run the business, but he escaped frequently. I was the Executive Director of the County Chamber of Commerce and the Office of Tourism, and it was part of my job to explore [Remember, this is a true story covered, warmed by a blanket, itself covered in metaphor].

Buckeye Falls is the tallest year-round waterfall east of the Mississippi River. It is located in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee, very near North Carolina, and is older than both states and all states and even all countries, as precisely as old as those mountains. And my friend and I wanted to see it. From where we lived it was a short drive to the national forest where the falls is located, so we left mid-morning and found the creek that is fed by the falls. There are a few published guides now, even some with photographs, giving detailed directions for the hike to the base of the falls, and they all say that the hike is strenuous. My friend and I had no such guide and we carried no camera, and cell phones had not been invented, and the word strenuous meant very little. 

And there was no trail to follow . . .

But, we had the flow of the stream as our guide, and we followed it. We began by walking, and then we were hiking and we stayed as close to the water as possible. We followed it up, against gravity, upstream, sometimes having to veer from sight of the flow, but remaining within the sound of it. It was not possible to see ahead very far, and certainly not as far as our destination because of the incline and the dense forest, so we just went with the flow, but moved against it. Occasionally, due to obstacles, we had to cross the stream and climb up on the other side of it. We were now climbing more than hiking, and we saw smaller tributaries coming from all sides, but always from above. Our guide was the main stream however, so we remained close to it.

There were pauses along the way, guided by momentary obstacles which became focal points for conversation. We stopped moving for brief minutes but did not take a break. After a couple of hours of this, there were so many side streams coming in, that we had to reaffirm our commitment to the main current occasionally. Trees were everywhere, rocks, moss, vines, and that smell!

Primal, isolated.  

Eons-old, the rocks. Centuries-old, the trees. Seasons-old, the moss and vines. Unknown, the smell. An ageless scent of life and flow and tenacity and sheer will to survive. And thrive.

Always, however, it was confirmed to us as we moved up, that we had chosen well, and finally we heard the sound. Unmistakable, it was the sound of water hitting water. A slapping echo came at us as we moved up and up, and then more obstacles and around them and then . . . 

We came upon a pool, not large, but a ruptured flat plane of pure water spreading out and extending itself like a woman’s hair over the back of a chair. The pool was feeding all of the side streams we had seen, and above the pool was the falls. Buckeye Falls.

We looked up and could not see the top. Not nearly could we see it. But we could feel it as its mist came down to us. And it had traveled farther still because the falls was not a seamless vertical drop but was a certain rush that leaned down the mountainside. We could see that Buckeye was the name of a silver-haired old man, taller than 700 feet, who was not resting, but lying at a slight angle against an entire mountain, and the pool was a puddle hiding his feet. 

We found a place to sit and ate something that we had brought in our pockets, but we were fed by the wonder of the journey. 

And from the pool, we drank at the feet of the giant.

The Flow, I have learned, is multi-tiered and comes to us from all sides. It never stops, but spreads out to reach more, to touch more, and it always finds a way.  No obstacle can stop it. Impossible to contain, it moves through history and nourishes all of life, ancient and new, and it quenches the thirst of those of us who drink from it as we move. It becomes our movement and our guide through the unknown. We sense its mist and its rush and its fall and we drink. We do drink from it, freely with no care, because it comes from above. Higher than all unholy, it is sourced from outside our sight.

And that is the purpose of The Room: to clarify and multiply and verify The Flow, and to provide a way to bring us near to its source: The Presence in the Beyond, The One Behind the Veil.

Come back for Part Four in which we learn from those who speak Latin. And we return to metaphor and the Outworld journey beyond the top of Buckeye Falls.