Spirit Gold

by Robert Hampton Burt

     A man was traveling on a long journey. The weather was cold and often rough.
Savage tribes sometimes threatened his survival. The landscape was beautiful,
but dangerous wild animals could frequently be seen or heard not far from the
path he was on.
     
He carried his life's work with him in a heavy pack strapped high on the
middle of his back. It contained hundreds of tiny objects, each of solid gold,
which he had made with his own hands over a period of many years. They were the
result of his deep and abiding love for beauty and art. Priceless they were,
lovely, and perfect. He would never again possess the means by which to make
them, or even be able to acquire such means. He was old now. His vision was no
longer clear, and his fingers had lost their ability to manipulate the materials
with the agility needed. The years still available to him were not many. Therefore
these small, solid gold objects represented to him a treasure almost as important
as himself.
     
After walking a long distance through a dark wood, the pathway opened onto a
sunlit pasture which the path went through. It led to a narrow bridge. The bridge
spanned a small stream, on the other side of which was a large field. The sky was
clear. There appeared to be no danger. He started across.
     
Even almost halfway across, there was still no sign of trouble.
     
But as he stepped upon the middle section of the bridge the stream became a
chasm, the sky turned dark, and a beast of grizzly horror rose from deep within
the now-churning waters below.
     
Safety seemed only a few footfalls before him. The span behind seemed
impossible to make. He made a choice. He could not go back. Therefore he stayed
his course.
     
The river raged and rose toward the bridge.
     
The beast nipped his pack and swallowed it so fast that he could not believe it.
     
Everything was gone, his years of labor lost inside the beast.
     
There was no time for him to feel grief. He had to keep going. The bridge was
twisting and tossing. It was all he could do just to stay alive.
     
Finally he made it to the opposite bank. The stream was small again. Its waters
were calm. It was not a chasm. There was now no sign of the horrible beast. But his
treasures were gone.
     
He lay himself gently down upon the grass and waited to feel the tragic grief
which he knew must come.
     
But as he waited he felt no grief.
     
What he felt was relief. It was only then that he realized what a burden his
treasures had been. All he had lost was his burden.
     For a time h
e rested. Then he rose to journey on.
     S
ome distance later, he slept beside a tree.
     
At dawn he rose and returned to the path.
     
Shortly before noon, he came to a monument of stone, which stood beside the
path. On it, framed within the chiseled figure of a vine, someone had carved this
unrhymed verse:


The purpose of art
is served

in the act
of creating it.

All works perish,
but the fact
of their having been accomplished
cannot be undone.

Above all,
The result
Of every effort
Resides within oneself.

     
When he had finished reading, a spirit spoke to him, in the form of a small,
quiet voice within.
     
It said, “All that really matters is that you have come this far. The loss
of your work prevented the loss of your life. If you had not been carrying it,
the beast would have taken you. But do not worry. The real product of all your
efforts will always abide in the deepest foundations of your soul."
     
There was a moment of silence. He read the verse again. Then the voice
directed him: "Complete your journey."
     A
nd so he journeyed on.



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