Painted Oxen - Thomas Lloyd Qualls

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record their legacy as keepers of the secrets of Atlantis. And in Africa, from time to time, these lions appear in their purest white form, in a land called Timbavati, on the Nile Meridian, the meridian of First Time. This is one of those times.

       There was once a Moon Goddess who marked the seasons and had the power to speed up, slow down, and suspend the movement of time. She seduced the seas to rise, the rivers to swell, and the wolves to sing her anthems at night. Because the powerful sun god coveted her seductive light, she devised a way to diffuse parts of her essence throughout the world. She found hiding places at the tops of mountains, the sources of rivers, and caves beneath the sea. And she chose a lion and a lioness, Circa and Siri to carry pieces with them. These were the ancestors of the Kali tribe.

       Though it is said that the moon gift exists in the bloodline of every descendant of the tribe, every so often a new lion is born who carries the moonlight in its eyes and whose task it is to lead the Kali into a new age. It is not known how this gift transcends continents and shows up in the white lions of Timbavati when it is their time. The Great Mystery prefers to leave some stories untold.

       In the light of the full moon, Mahatru, the ancient lion, watches you from his rocky perch as you skulk across the desert landscape.

       The sand floats over the dunes like giant silk scarves, whispering just above the surface of the horizon. You travel at night, to avoid the heat of the sun, but also because lions are nocturnal by nature. Still, each new breath of wind washes over you like a wave of dry water.

       Driven by some invisible force, you move without any true aim or direction. Simply placing one foot in front of the other in front of the others. Making a single line of prints in the sand. Pacing in one direction. Shedding what is already irretrievably behind you.

       At the base of the rocks, you drink from a small stream and then begin to climb. When you reach a crest where you can survey the valley, you stop and lie down beneath a small tree. Exhausted, you quickly fall asleep. When you awake, you hear a voice:

      Welcome. You rise, standing curious and alert. I am pleased to see you have begun your journey, young Aragon. What journey? You ask. There are paths that some of us must travel. The older lion continues, without ceremony. Not of the design of ancient societies or traditions. Not because they are well worn or provide a guaranteed passage. But because they belong to us. How do you know my name? What path are you talking about? I cannot describe your path to you. Or tell you where it will lead you. I can only tell you stories of my own journey. I can share stories of others I have known and the legends that have been handed down. You stand speechless. This is your time, Aragon. You left your pride because somewhere inside your lion’s heart you have an idea that something greater is waiting for you. You don’t know what that something is, yet. But you have the sense of it. And it is strong enough to make you cast aside the security of your pride to go in search of it. The elder lion then walked out of the shadows, as if materializing. Let me explain, my name is Mahatru. I am your guide. Please, come with me, there is much to tell.

      14

      Charybdis

      Lately, I’ve been having these dreams where I’m in the middle of a jungle and I’m looking for something, some place, some time. Though I’m not sure what—or where—or when—it is. I am older, wiser, more surefooted. It seems that my quest is not just a personal one. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I have a sense that the world is at stake.

      I had this thought this morning as I was waking up. How is it we get to and from the dream world? If all things are connected, then the dream world must be connected to the waking world somehow. What is it, then, that binds the two? What is the bridge, the connective tissue, the path from sense to chaos and back?

      I don’t know the answer to that, but I have this theory of dreams I’ve been working on. Monsters, of one kind or another, are common in dreams. And there’s all this stuff in history, mythology, and psychology about monsters and demons and the courageous heroes who fight them. But I don’t think fighting monsters is all that courageous. I think the ultimate act of courage is standing still in the face of a monster. Courage is looking closely enough into its jaws to see it for what it is: an illusion. The monster isn’t real. It’s your fear of the monster that is real. And just about anything in life can look like a monster if the light is just right.

      Trying to figure out what is real is full-time work. Even more so, figuring out what matters, what is essential. I’ve been told I shouldn’t think about these kinds of things so much. That I shouldn’t constantly be searching for these kinds of answers. That I shouldn’t be such a malcontent, because I have a really good life with nothing to complain about. No school shootings in my history, no suicide bombings, no waterboarding. It’s true, there are people who are starving all over the world, people living in war zones, people being made to cover themselves from head to toe and obey misinterpreted scriptures. People who never know love. It is also true that I’m a bit of a malcontent. But that doesn’t mean I should stop questioning. And it doesn’t mean I’m not right about my belief that desire matters. That it is essential even.

      Some Buddhists say we should liberate ourselves from desire. But I believe that’s got to be a problem of translation. Not all desire is bad, is it? Shouldn’t desire be qualified? Shouldn’t there be a distinction between pure greed or obsession and healthy wants or even passion? I mean, isn’t the Buddhists’ quest to liberate themselves and others from sorrow another form of desire? Of passion?

      I believe we should demand the things our souls need. And not compromise. Not push these desires to the slagheap because we’ve been told they serve no useful purpose in our adult lives. Not tell our souls to go to their rooms because we are having this party for adults called life, and they will just be in the way because we’ll be talking about things the soul wouldn’t understand anyway. Not say it’s okay if we aren’t granted these things we need, because other people’s lives suck too.

       All of life is constantly in motion. Desire keeps us moving. Desire inspires us to be brave, to dream, to create. Desire is our divine connection with the creative force of the universe. Desire also drives me to get outside right now, to connect, to start the next chapter, to let my curiosity roam free through this place and its people.

      ****

      The Aussie dons his flip-flops for the walkabout, but I remember the state of the road walking in here and opt to keep my close-toed shoes on. Just an hour later and the Paharganj is completely transformed. The stalls are elbow to elbow with throngs of people, mostly locals, but also backpackers. I should probably tell you that many backpackers prefer to be called travelers. They believe this title sufficiently distances them from tourists, and somehow, I suppose, makes their experience more authentic. There is a legitimate point in there somewhere, but it also seems a little pretentious and delusional. I think backpackers is accurate enough, without having to pick a side.

      I wander through the bazaar’s maze of shawl wallahs, chai stalls, street food vendors, and all manner of other shops selling anything from shoes to incense to jewelry. The streets are so narrow there’s barely room for a car to fit through. And yet there are all manner of vehicles here, including bicycles, rickshaws, and even a pair of camels weaving through the crowd. Along with so many turbans, saris, and children rushing past me, the visual onslaught of color and motion is almost paralyzing. Many of the children want to hold my hand or sell me something, or hold my hand so they can relieve me of something. But I am prepared for that much, with anything of value safely tucked away.

      I want to capture this moment, to be able later to recall in detail the colors and the faces and the goods for sale, to describe these things to others. But my senses are overwhelmed, and I just can’t hold all the fiercely raw beauty. At the same time, I’m struck by another sensation. One that whirls through my hair, fills my nostrils, and runs like a herd of gazelle through my veins. My recognition of it is so faint that it must whisper its name in my ear: I am freedom. Not the freedom we sell in America, not the creative freedom people like me crave, not even the free-love freedom of the Sixties. This is let go, cut-rope, free-fall

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