“A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered, and a decisive victory is won.”
This quote by Joseph Campbell has meaning to all cultures over thousands of years…and that’s a long time.
It’s so true and easy to see. Think of the last book you read or even the last movie you saw. Didn’t the main characters find themselves in a situation that blindsided them or one that they just couldn’t refuse—no matter what? They may not have “ventured” from the common day into the supernatural world—or maybe they did—but they left a place that was safe or familiar to a place that was unpredictable, scary, or even so horrifying with no seemingly good way to escape…but they do.
They escape, make a difference, reshape the world, or better yet, they reshape themselves.
Life Imitating Art or …
These are the stories we as the reader or viewer resonate with the main character—the hero. We actually feel we have become the hero. We relate to the “good guy”, or his/her “treasure” is also our treasure. If we don’t feel that way, however, the story goes thud and it doesn’t sit on top of our list of best stories of all time that we’ve read or movies we’ve seen.
Good storytelling, and some not-so-good storytelling, has been around forever—forever. When you think for a moment, most stories are allegories, unless it is, of course, non-fiction. An allegory is a story in which the character or situation symbolizes something greater than the actions taking place. These symbols tell us something about our life or our community.
Fiction Interprets Life
I literally cringe when I am told something like, “I don’t read fiction, especially fantasy. I only read what’s real.” Oh really? What’s real? Our best stories and best storytellers of all time over the centuries were/are all about interpreting life, or what is real, in new and reimagined ways. Think about it. Even non-fiction accounts and biographies are embellished. Fiction gives us more than the black-and-white of facts, accounts, or events. It gives us the texture, color, brightness, and clarity we seek in life.
Whether our day is mundane or extraordinary, we are the hero of our own journey—yep, our story can be pretty cool too. It doesn’t matter if you are 16 or 66, we all have something to share.
Sometimes our story is all about our very private quest to live a life of our own making and to follow our own truth.
We Face Challenges
Sometimes, as Campbell insists, we must let go of the life we are building for ourselves to find the life we are meant to live. That’s our story—that’s you and me. Don’t we venture forth and find a world full of surprises? Life is full of challenges whether we like it or not. It’s all in how we approach that modern-day dragon that makes us truly a “hero” or not.
Nevertheless, we must champion what’s right for us and stand up to the villains and beasts in our own quest. Sometimes that’s a neighbor, a boss, a system, or a belief. When we do this, however, we begin to harness “fabulous forces”, and unfortunately, a “decisive victory” is won—or not. There’s always the next chapter.
Make Believe or Truth?
Fiction in all its pretense and make-believe actually tells us the truth, that is, if you’re open to it. Since the beginning of time, humans have told tales about what they know best—themselves and their struggles. Whether we read about it or live it, you are the “hero”, and every story told or written over the years is about you. It is how humans have overcome tyrants, natural disasters and the voice within that is not always so kind.
Fiction adds a perspective that with some distance, gives an extra light that’s just enough to give us the clarity we seek.
Stories passed down for thousands of years are all about who we are. We are the heroes of every journey in every story over generations. I’m just not sure if life imitates art or if it’s the other way around. I do know, however, that fiction is all about the truth.
In future posts, I will share my thoughts on the Hero’s Journey and its 12 stages to tell a story.
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Stepping into worlds that I am the first to see before all others and being the first one to meet those living there is a joy unlike anything else I’ve experienced. This, to me, is inspired writing, and I want to share this joy with an invitation to readers.
Reading fiction opens a gate to other worlds, whether in the distant past, the here and now, or light years from now.
Fiction creates a path that unites us with a story’s characters; in best-written fiction, those characters resonate with us. Why?
Somewhere in our lives, we have felt the same deep emotion as the character, shared some quirky behavior, wondered the same thought, or had the same experience. Perhaps we identify with the character’s misgivings or flaws and feel a connection.
Reading fiction makes us think and feel differently.
This is why I read. Why do you? If you don’t read so much anymore, pick up something you’re interested in and start today.
Stepping into Worlds of Writing
As a writer, I dig into a part of me that many folks seem to have misplaced over the years—my imagination. As we get older, it seems to me that our creativity wanes. I’m not talking about “old age”, I am talking about when we grow up and become overly serious. Maybe you are like me and cherish your imagination and lean on it throughout your day, and I think this is a very good thing.
When I write, I pull from inside of me a new land or a place never thought of by anyone else. Maybe it’s a place that seems real or one found in an enchanted forest but the bottom line—it’s new and different as we see this place through our own filters. Our mind makes sure it is.
This, to me, is inspired writing, and I want to share this joy with an invitation to readers.
You’ve Got to Have a Reason
What’s my reason for writing? Simply, I am drawn to illuminate the human condition. Without judgment, light pierces the darkness and is freeing. It allows us to explore what it is to be human. I weave these themes into my works of literary fiction and fantasy.
This is why I write. Why do you? If you don’t write, start today with a journal, a note, or a sentence that captures a moment in your day. It can be a text to yourself! Write anything that means something to you.
Words Spark a Whole new World Inside
If you are here reading this post, you probably appreciate the written word at some level. I’m fascinated with books as they transport us, give us an escape from the out-of-control world, or give us a moment to ourselves to stir up our imagination. Maybe you’re here to gain a different perspective, or to learn something new to spark something inside you—hope so.
So Where Does this Idea of “Living Your Truth” Fit In?
To me, it’s like your fingerprint–your truth. The only person we are with 24/7 from the day we are born until the day we die is, obviously, ourselves. Who we are—who we really are—is our truth. Deep down there is no escaping our truth as it is unique, beautiful, and soulful. It is why you are you and as unique as your fingerprint. If you strive to be true to your core and are trying your best to live authentically, reading and writing is a kind of fuel that moves your personal journey forward.
If you read or write from this point of view, you become the story.
The books we enjoy are written by authors who live their truth. Each word is selected with care. It’s easy to see this in each sentence and paragraph they choose. They capture the soul of a character and share them with us. I count myself among the lucky. They allow us to see, hear, taste, feel, and smell the story.
It’s easy to get sidetracked, but that comes with being the “flawed character” in my own story.
If you appreciate fiction, you will agree with me that the “best” characters are flawed. I happen to be the “best” character to lead my own personal quest.
Cutting of Harp Strings is a literary novel and is all about living your truth. My fantasy series, The Elias Chronicles asks the questions we all think about- who am I? What should I do with my powers? What’s ahead for me? Whether it is literary fiction or fantasy, my books are about what it is to be human with all the emotions that make us who we are.
Stepping into Worlds – More Worlds!
This blog may include reviews and mentions of books that inspire. As an author, I will share more about what I have learned and still learning. I will share thoughts, observations, reflections, musings, and stories that help me on my own journey to live my truth. This informs what I read and write. You may find it helpful or entertaining as well. If you value the idea of living your truth as well as reading or writing, I hope you find a flash of inspiration in my reflections.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Be true to yourself. It is only when we follow our hearts that we may truly know who we are and how we should live our lives. As Socrates said, “know thyself”. It’s not so much about having a dream as we all have them. But those dreams may be misguided.
But by listening to our hearts, it can make all the difference.
The Amulet: Journey to Sirok is Book I of the trilogy, The Elias Chronicles. I wrote this with young AND older readers in mind. Rich in symbolism and life themes that resonate with all ages, I wanted to share a story about the heart. When I received the following testimonial, I was deeply touched as this is what I set out to do.
In the spirit of C.S. Lewis, the fantasy is never about the fantastical; it’s about deeply human and moral concerns: identity, voice, virtue, family, and conflict. A joyous, satisfying, life-affirming read!”
Dr. William R. Muth, Editorial Advisory Board: Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy
Below, I am sharing the first seven pages of The Amulet: Journey to Sirok. I hope you enjoy it and join Elias on the rest of his journey. You will find it is YOUR journey too!
PROLOGUE
Legend of Sirok
When the serpent is slithering inside, you will know it, but only with the gift you will understand how it lives and how it dies.” That’s where she always began.
Like many women before her, Nattymama passed the legend down to all who would listen. There were those, of course, who would hear but would not heed her words. Good fortune, however, came to most who listened.
On the spring equinox at the precise time that winter turned to spring, Nattymama dusted off a tattered, yellowed scroll and read aloud to the children in the center of the village. Her account began where the castle now lay in ruins just to the north of the village on a small rocky mountain.
She told her tale as if it happened only yesterday—or for that matter, she told it as if it might just happen again.
Her story was known to many as The Legend of Sirok.
As a young boy, Elias sat front and center and listened to Nattymama, his grandmother, who brought to life the events that she traced back a thousand years. He hung on to her every word and getting through the scary passages took all the courage he could muster. Keeping one eye closed during some scenes, he patiently waited for his favorite parts. He couldn’t get enough of the battle that played out in his head or the amazing way the story ended. For many years to come, he would hear her voice in his head telling the story just as if he was listening to her for the first time. Oftentimes he thought of what the legend truly meant. He had all but committed the ending to memory.
“…centuries ago, a lightning bolt hurtled upward from the center of the Castle of Sirok. The beam split the clear sky. It was then that the thunder rumbled like a stampede of a thousand water buffalos as bloated clouds, the color of dried ox blood, gobbled up the open sky. All was dark—
motionless. One moment passed and then another, but on the third tick of a clock, sheets of rain began to pelt the kingdom. This storm was like no other as something mystical must have been in each and every drop.
“Hours passed and the rain subsided. Within moments it was certain that the downpour had washed away what contaminated the gilded kingdom. Not long after the rainstorm, curls of black smoke billowed from somewhere near the core of Sirok where huge flames casted an eerie glow on the naked kingdom.
“Still masked by smoke, the sun eventually shone through misshapen holes in the black blanket of clouds above. With little warning, what was left of the suffocating smoke all but vanished allowing more threads of light to reveal the stone structures high on the mountaintop. Without so much as a smoldering ember, Sirok was reborn. Unlike its old, garish facade, it now stood in simplicity and beauty.
“A bird sang followed by another. The water was clean, and the air was fresh. The buildings were bright, and the roads led freely in and out. The people saw each other in a new way. The people smiled.
“Filled with joy, the warrior mounted a horse and rode down the rocky path that few dared to travel. At the foot of the mountain, a hundred or so villagers looked on with blank stares. They said little as they witnessed such chaos that only minutes earlier turned the kingdom into something new—something altogether different from what had stood before.
“Galloping down the rocky path, the villagers focused on the mysterious young man. The only sounds one could hear were the pounding of the hooves drubbing on the rocky soil. Thump, thump, thump! The warrior, who they discovered was a mere boy, raced up to where the villagers gathered. He yanked on the reins much to the displeasure of his faithful steed and spoke to the crowd.
‘“What the evil one seized, the people of the kingdom have reclaimed. With this newfound will, we are now free and have washed our hands of our needless guilt. We have nothing to fear as we now know who we are.’”
Nattymama continued, “The villagers standing before the warrior were a field of statues who said nothing, much to the young warrior’s surprise. He spoke again.
“‘Don’t you see? Our misguided ways in Sirok had become a way of life. We believed in the wrong things. We lived behind a veil, but it is a new day for us—and you— as we are the victors.’
“‘So where is he? The evil one?’ a man shouted from the crowd.
“‘He is victim of his own undoing and sealed his fate in the eternal fire of his own making,’ said the warrior. ‘Our resolve is golden. We are the victors,’ said the boy warrior.
“‘An old woman shouted. ‘But what on earth will become of those poor souls who lived in the Kingdom of Sirok?’
‘“Oh, dear woman, you do not understand me. They are free. Free! Their very spirit will make them whole. Sirok will never be the same again; all those who come to know Sirok, to really know it, will be forever changed. Sirok is at our very core.’
“The warrior looked down to his finger that bore a ring that sparkled in the morning light. He thought of the boy who gave up one treasure for another and he lifted his chin with confidence and raised his open palm to the crowd.
“He gazed out to the souls who stood in silence and abruptly tugged on the reins. The stallion reared back on its hind legs and then galloped at top speed up the rocky mountain.”
Chapter 1
Elias
Like a breeze sifts through the morning mist, his brush strokes barely touched the canvas. The bristles of his well-worn brush were thin as many had been lost on previous paintings. This made no difference as his paintbrush was an extension of his fingers. With his right hand, he dabbed a speck of magenta and with his left, reddish-brown.
With a wisp of a stroke his imagination erupted as he envisioned a coiled snake on the other side of a fallen tree. Not far away from the rotting trunk, he created another tale of gypsies who plodded down the narrow trails below the hill. He was bringing meaning to a deep forest as it was taking shape on the scuffed-up canvas. His images were fresh as he blended what he saw in front of him with what he could see in his mind’s eye. It all lived in that moment and began a life of its own on the flat surface.
Elias tilted his head from side to side and inhaled the pure mountain air as he measured his progress. Looking away at the rolling Mátra Mountain range, he could smell and taste a mix of deciduous beech and birch trees that sat on a draft coming from the east. One day I’ll catch this scent in a painting…yeah, I need to figure that out, he thought.
When he had arrived a few hours earlier, the sky was a deep blue with only the faintest veil of clouds on the horizon that played with the smooth and rolling mountain crests. The heavens were now a smear of amber as the spectrum of colors gradually cloaked the sky. This moment was altogether different as he noticed the new colors sharpen above.
Perched high upon a cliff, he was alone as he swapped a blank canvas for what was becoming a kaleidoscope of the Hungarian landscape. This was his haven. He entwined himself with the beauty and love of nature. This was nothing new. From a young age, Elias knew what stirred his heart.
He made his own canvases by stretching remnants of an abandoned gypsy tent over a frame he made from a discarded wooden crate. Nattymama, who was an herbalist, mixed and blended his paints using her own recipe. His brushes were horsehair affixed to slender but sturdy sprigs from a nearby cypress tree. Elias used old forgotten wooden dowels and hinges he found and made them into a sturdy easel. This was all he needed.
Elias’ long brown hair grazed his shoulders. His light brown eyes were striking and ominous to some but opened a gateway to a peace from deep within him. Lean and average height, he could be pensive and appear brooding at times. Although he was private and a little shy, Elias seldom kept his thoughts to himself if others pushed, teased, or tested him in any manner. Like his paintings, he was an original. He was an old soul who was true to his feelings. He, became frustrated from time to time because others didn’t take their time to even try to understand him.
Pausing for a moment, he surveyed the vast and beautiful terrain, and he wondered what he could find if he went deep inside the forest well beyond the trees and rocks that were in plain view. He loved what he painted and allowed his imagination to fill in the blanks, but he wanted to know and experience more.
The forest looked dark, dense, and cold, but that was just an assumption or a guess—he wanted to know for sure. He had never traveled the paths within. Papa cautioned him about the dangers, telling him he could enter at his own risk, but it would be far better to leave the forest alone as there was much to do right around home.
At ease with his own thoughts and feelings, Elias was happy and fulfilled, but he had a darker side too. An inner voice gnawed at him, reminding him that he was different from the others in his family and those in and around the village. What he felt, he shared with only a few, so he expressed himself in his artwork. As he pieced together in his mind who he thought he was and wanted to be, it was clear what caused the special beat in his heart and what created personal joy deep within him.
♦ ♦ ♦
Elias’s home and family farm were close to where he liked to paint. They lived about three kilometers from a small village. With four large rooms and a loft, Papa built their house of white stucco and a thatched roof. Various supporting buildings, including a small barn and a few sheds, completed their home.
Inside their house, the walls were pure white. Large exposed and rough beams separated the living area from the loft, where the children slept. The furnishings were colorful, like his palette, as were the meticulously crafted quilts and wall hangings Mama and other women in the family had embroidered. They delicately stitched them with intricate detail over many generations. One of Elias’ paintings hung over the hearth at Mama’s insistence. It was a warm yet functional home.
They grew wheat. Livestock on the farm included a cow, a few oxen, some sheep, chickens, and a rooster. Mama and Papa were raising three boys and two girls, and Elias was the second oldest boy at fifteen.
Wiping her pale face with floury fingers, Mama stood on tiptoes to reach a bowl from a cupboard. Grabbing the bowl with one hand and tucking it…
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
We’ve all met new people and wondered what might happen next. Will we become friends, or will we remain acquaintances? We may not think about it at the moment, but we have all meet people who will mean nothing to us, or worse, they may become our enemy; that’s life. Like in “real life” self-discovery books explore much more than the character’s relationship with “self” but their relationship with others and society.
I love the chapter I’m sharing below. It’s when Eli meets Aiden. Even when I re-read it, I pick up something new.
Like the characters we meet and journey with them, many times we just don’t have any idea where a relationship is going until it organically unfolds. There have been times that I wished I could check my proverbial crystal ball. Sometimes I have thought “why now” or “why this person”?
We carry baggage to every introduction of every new person we meet and so do they. In good fiction, so do the characters we come to love.
Fate?
Is it fate? I mean who we meet and who we don’t? If we showed up early, late, or not at all what may have we missed out on without even knowing it?
If you’re like me you’ve asked more than once, “what if?”. Do people enter our lives for a reason? Is all this fate?
If you enjoy books that explore the complexities of relationships and the journey of self-discovery, Cutting of Harp Strings should be your next read. Well, at least I hope you to read the excerpt I included below.
First, a little about the story…
Eli’s life is in limbo. He’s searching for a sense of peace but can’t seem to find it. That all changes when he returns many years later to the place where he first met Aiden.
Back those many years ago, Eli and Aiden were polar opposites, but despite their differences, a rare friendship blossoms. A friendship that neither had ever experienced before—or since. Caught off guard, their relationship deepens but like a gut punch, a promise that Aiden made to himself changes everything. Eli is left to pick up the pieces.
In Cutting of Harp Strings Eli artfully weaves together a narrative of friendship, living in the moment, and love.
Self-Discovery Books
It’s a story of self-discovery and will take you on an emotional rollercoaster of joy, heartbreak, and ultimately, utter bliss that, I think, is sure to stay with you long after turning the last page.
Why?
Readers have told me that the story is full of engaging characters and has an evocative and visual plot. They have shared with me that Cutting of Harp Strings is an unforgettable coming-of-age self discovery book that leaves them reflecting on the beauty of true friendship and the power of love.
I’m happy with that…so please read….and let me know what you think.
TWO
August 1973
I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I was sure that Father Meinrad told me this room number. Double-checking, I pulled out of my pocket a small crumpled-up piece of paper where I had written the room number.
“Yep,” I said, aloud.
Turning the knob, I didn’t know what to expect or whom I would find. With hesitation, I wrapped my head around the unwieldy oak door to take a look. No one was there. Creeping in, I dropped my duffel bag and knapsack on the bare tile floor and took a deep breath. Thinking I was intruding, I just then considered going down to the TV room to wait a while but, with a rare moment of certainty, I thought otherwise. After all, this was my room too.
In both oversized windows were two enormous box fans buzzing and gusting winds in different directions. I turned them down one notch and began looking around but disturbing nothing. I began to size up this guy, after all, I would be living with him in this space for the next two school terms. Tacked up on the wall behind his dresser were pictures from magazines of sports stars. I saw Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain among the collage. Tucked partly behind his mirror was a recent news clipping of Mark Spitz highlighting his seventh Olympic gold medal. Fluttering to one side was an obscure obituary of someone named Sir Francis Chichester who at sixty-five, I found by scanning the clipping, sailed around the world alone in his ketch called Gipsy Moth IV.
“Hmmm. How odd,” I mumbled to myself.
I didn’t want to disturb anything, but I wanted to know everything. On his stereo was a new album. “Aerosmith—Dream On…he can’t be too bad—maybe.”
Mountains of books were everywhere except the bookcase in this twelve-by-something room. Zen, art history, and architectural design,
you name it, he had books for all his interests. Unusual bookmarks poked out from the pages. Spoons, Popsicle sticks, and a sock accounted for a few. A tee-shirt, gym shorts, and an assortment of tennis shoes were scattered and strewn about. His knotted school necktie hung from a lamp, and his blue blazer and khaki pants draped from an ancient gray radiator under the windows—I could only wonder what he kept in his closet.
At first glance, the cell, as the monks called them, was a whirlwind of chaotic prep school life, but I sensed there was a kind of order to things. It was an order that, perhaps, only the caretaker might know the code. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Maybe I would care some other day.
On a stack of books on his desk, was his journal. Peeking behind me at the door and then back at the notebook, I laid my hand on its cover. Flipping it open, a sinking feeling came over me and closed it with a slap. Peering back at the door, I shook my head letting out a puff of air. Beginning to act a bit like a voyeur made me feel strange and didn’t like the feeling. Even so, I was intrigued with him and speculated if we would get along. If what he collects, and what he reads, and how he keeps his space was any indication, it would seem this year would be dreadfully long.
Among the mayhem, much to my surprise, he had both beds impeccably made, so I had no clues as to which bunk was his. Feeling like a stranger heightened my anxiety. Wasn’t so sure I wanted to deal with a new way of living, considering I would be spending this year working my ass off to get into Georgetown next fall. Maybe weird, but not knowing where I would lay my head tonight was bothersome. Sleeping was important. With confidence, I chose one and sat down. I slowly leaned back on my elbows just thinking about this hiccup in my life.
BAM!
Without warning, the door flew open nearly blowing off the hinges. I sprang forward. My uneasiness escalated and my heart raced faster than Spitz’s Olympic record times. Like the hinges on the door, I sensed things were not going to be secure the way I was used to, like it or not. I didn’t know why, but my gut told me that I had better take my steps cautiously.
He was dripping with sweat and wearing cutoff jeans and black Chuck Taylor sneakers. Without uttering a word, but with a glance, he shot past me to one of the fans to cool himself. As they were before, he cranked up both fans to their highest setting. With his side and back toward me and with his hands on his hips, I had to notice his chiseled definition. Through the skewed windowpane and the flickering fan blades, strange patterns made by the sun played on his torso. He didn’t seem real. He was about my height of six feet, and that was where the similarities ended. His brown hair was thick with a luster and accents of the summer sun. Seemingly molded with a sculptor’s plan, he had a natural outline of long lashes that framed his blue eyes. I later learned the girls at our sister school loved his eyes and thought he was so adorable. His jaw and cheekbones rolled together in absolute harmony. If there was ever a classic nose, it was his. He, of course, had an even tan. As we all have flaws, his were not visible—that’s enough to piss off anyone.
Rolling his head in fluid rotation, his actions shifted from his self-focus to that of me. As he guided his neck from side to side, he said something that I could not make out.
“What did you say? The fans are too loud, I – didn’t – hear – you,” I said drawing out each word and cupping my ear with my hand.
In a single motion, he switched off one fan and turned toward me. Poking fun, he said, “My – name – is – Aiden. You’re late. The semester started ten days ago. I thought the place was all mine until Father Meinrad stopped me five minutes ago. What a bombshell.” He shook his head.
His choice of words aggravated me, and I responded the way I felt. “Oh, yeah, I’m Eli, and sorry if I’m spoiling your little plans, but are you always an ass?”
“Geez, hold on. Get a grip. I didn’t mean anything by it. I figured it was just too good to be true—that’s all. If you want to know the truth, I was hoping they’d move someone in here.” He totally switched gears and looked at me with a smile. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. Let’s start over—hey roomie. I’m Aiden.”
I couldn’t change my mood that fast and muttered with disinterest something like. “Yeah, yeah—hi I’m Eli, whatever.”
“Okay, that’s a lot better wouldn’t you say?” Aiden asked.
“Yeah, I’m all for fresh starts anyway. I’m here, aren’t I? So, if I may ask, what happened to your last roommate?” I asked with raised eyebrows.
“Absolutely, you may ask. Go ahead and ask,” he said crossing his arms.
“All right already,” I let out a sigh.
“Okay, okay, just trying to add some levity.”
“Uh-huh,” I said rolling my eyes.
“So, anyway, my last roommate was this guy named Brody. He’s still around. He flunked a few classes, and the monks didn’t like that. He went ballistic, but that didn’t have anything to do with his grades because he hates me anyway. He’s got issues and he made me the reason.”
“Oh really—issues?”
“Yeah—issues. I’m over all that and don’t care one way or another,” he said with a flicker of a smile. “Hey, I hope you get good grades—and don’t have issues. I don’t want you, the monks, or your mom or dad coming after me.”
Aiden began to tidy the room and nonchalantly said, “Looks like I did take over the place, but I just didn’t figure on a new kid coming in…anyway, what’s mine is yours. Yep, I know how hard it is to be thrown into strange situations.”
“Don’t worry about it. So, tell me more about Brody.”
“Huh? Nothing more to tell.” He stiffened up and looked away, so I knew he wasn’t going to budge. He changed the subject. “So, Eli, what’s your story? I mean, why are you just getting here now?”
“My mom, well, my mom passed away a few years back…”
“Oh man—didn’t have any idea. Sorry for the crack about irate moms and dads.”
“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, Dad had this thought that to better prepare me for college, I needed to spend my senior year away from home. Literally a week ago we, I mean he, settled on St. Augustine’s. In the last year, he’s hardly been at home, so I think that’s the real reason.
“Cool. It’s all good. You’re here now.”
“Dad says I should be away from distractions. He presumes coming here would help me, you know, with the Fathers watching out for me. He says it would give me an edge getting into college. Yep, he thinks this is my ticket to Georgetown.”
“Well, it sounds like he’s got it all figured out,” Aiden said.
“Yeah, well, you don’t know my whole situation.”
“Oh?”
“They appointed him ambassador to Belgium, and he is going to spend a lot of time out of the country. When he is here, he’s going to be pretty busy—even busier than before. He decided that it would be best if I went to a school like this one. I always wanted to be a lawyer—like him. So, if this place helps me to get into Georgetown, then this is a good place for me to be.”
“Yeah, a boarding school,” Aiden interrupted. “But old Father Meinrad may have put you in the wrong room. I mean, I’m a distraction and I know it. I look for distractions. Like, distraction is my middle name. To me, that’s a good thing. Anyway—you’re here now.”
There was a long and awkward silence. I ran my fingers through my hair and felt myself tense up starting with my toes shooting upward.
“Well, I’m not planning to be around much on the weekends. We’re
only a couple of hours from D.C. so I plan to go home on the weekends when Dad’s there.”
“Hmmm. I think you’ll be here most weekends…anyway,” Aiden said. “There are some cool things to do around here. Lots to explore…and the Shenandoah River is pretty excellent this time of year. That’s where I just came from.”
“No—no. Thanks, but I’m not here for that. I’m here to get my diploma and move on.”
“Yeah, yeah yeah—I hear ya. You’re not some kind of a dork, are you? If we’re going to live together, we may as well try to hang out and have a good time. There will be plenty of time for studying. Didn’t mean to scare you with all that distraction talk.”
I was getting aggravated, and a sigh seeped out. “Hey Aiden, I just don’t need all this right now. Okay?”
“Yeah, man. I hear you. I gave you your first distraction,” Aiden said sarcastically. “You should know, Eli, the Robes might not say it, but they want us to have some distractions. Saturdays are made for distractions. That’s the way they want it. That’s the way we want it too. We don’t see them, and they don’t see us. Today is Saturday and I’m making the most out of it.”
Aiden was more interested in thinking of other things and offered his own perspective. “You may never want to go home on the weekends—or ever.”
“Oh really?”
“Let me tell you…Saturdays…it’s our day. Everyone needs a day off. Even the Robes.”
“You keep saying Robes, what’s a Robe?”
“They’re a who not a what. They’re the good Fathers, you know, the monks—the guys wearing black robes who run this place.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. But you don’t call them that to their face, do you? I mean you say, Father, right?”
“Eli, yes call them Father—for a smart dude, you may be a bit slow on the uptake. The kids here have called them Robes forever, you know, behind their backs. Sometimes they overhear us, and they really
hate it. So, watch out when you use the word because some of them have a fierce backhand slap.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks for the tip,” I said facing my palms out his way and shaking my head.
“Anyway, what I was trying to say was that the coaches, who are not Robes, rotate to keep track of us on the weekends. It’s like one coach per class and we have seventy or so in each class so it’s loose, very loose. I spend time running in the woods. It’s much better than on the track or on campus somewhere. It’s just better.”
I didn’t think he would ever shut up. When he did, I wasn’t sure what to do, but at least now, I knew the slang for priests. Yep, I didn’t think this arrangement was going to work out.
“Well, that sounds great and all, but I think I’ll pass. I’ve never been much for hiking or exploring, so count me out.”
“Once I get you off-campus, you’ll see.”
“No, I don’t think so. Don’t think it’s going to happen. Being close to the dorm is fine by me, and anyway I think I’ll be spending time in the library getting ready for college.”
“Sounds like your dad, I mean you have a plan, but I don’t know… the Robes won’t just let you study all the time. I’m telling you.”
Aiden seemed to have an answer for everything, so I thought I should change the subject. “Well, I’m going to try out for the basketball team.”
“Cool. All right. We do have something in common. Yeah, b-ball—cool.”
Somehow, we managed a moment of quiet. Thank God. Aiden leaped backward onto a bed. He landed squarely in the middle of the mattress while clasping his hands behind his head. Finally, I got my answer and now knew which bed was mine. So, I began to collect my
duffel and knapsack, threw them on my bed, and unzipped all the compartments. Out of the corner of my right eye, I could tell he was interested in what I was doing. Using my body to shield my belongings, not that I had anything to hide, I unpacked. Just wasn’t ready to offer the same courtesy Aiden had extended to me earlier.
Seeing all I needed to see, I decided that this arrangement was awful and was ready to talk to Father Meinrad. He told me earlier in the day that if I didn’t think my roommate would work out, switching rooms was not a problem. He said that several students were without a roommate. A guy named Luis, I remembered him telling me, who lived right down the hall didn’t have one. Yep, Father and I needed to talk.
After a few minutes of uneasy silence, Aiden lost interest in what I was doing and blurted out, “Okay, didn’t mean any harm. Sorry to intrude.”
He bolted up from his bed, yanked off his worn sneakers, and peeled off his shorts. He grabbed a towel hanging from a closet doorknob, sniffed it, and he left the same way he entered. He headed down the long hall to the bathroom for a shower. Just in time, as I was ready to punch someone.
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
Without seeking it, profound spiritual growth can arise in the most unexpected places—from a child’s reaction, a stranger who enters our lives, or even our neighbor; thus, the Zen master next door.
Zen stories and philosophies transcend all spiritual belief systems. Our belief systems are quite similar; however, some individuals don’t always recognize this. I’m not sure why. However, because of these similarities, connections, and integration of philosophies we share, I decided to write about them. I wrote short stories called parables for enlightened everyday living. Each story focusing on seventeen significant philosophies that capture Zen in our everyday lives and are present in most belief systems. You may see yourself or someone you know in these parables. I hope so.
During the publishing process, Daniel Pink, author of A Whole New World and many other books, said:
“What an inspiring way to learn about our very soul, The modern parables in Zen Master Next Door are captivating and left me wanting more.”
I can’t review my own book so I will leave that up to others, but I certainly enjoyed writing it. Here’s one Zen story from Zen Master Next Door (3rd and latest edition).
Enjoy!
EDDIE ZEN
The energy of the mind is the essence of life.
Aristotle
Listen to the voice of nature, for it holds treasures for you.
Huron—Native American
When knowledge becomes tattered, wisdom springs.
Eddie Zen
Start with the truth. At least that is what he told Judd, his neighbor of nearly a decade.
“Answers to questions most important to humanity always lie within us. Come on, certainly you’ve heard that before,” Eddie said with a frothy tone. He started conversations this way, bypassing any normal greeting.
On a warm breeze that filtered through the trees in Eddie’s front yard, arrived the rich fragrance of juniper from Judd’s garden next door. Eddie’s yard, now speckled with boxes, chairs, tables and bookcases, was once a pristine postage stamp-sized lot but now resembled a yard sale without the swarms of bargain hunters.
Judd dropped by on a lark, not knowing that his elderly neighbor was moving that very day. But that was common practice for both men. Judd was unaware of much around him, while Eddie was unpredictable at best.
Replying to the older man, Judd nodded his head. “What’s going on here? Where are you going?”
“I’m moving on…just moving on. But don’t worry about that, because I’m trying to give you something to think about. Think about it, the answers you search for come from wisdom that’s passed down through the ages. I repeat, in case you aren’t catching on, it’s about wisdom—w-i-s-d-o-m.”
Giving in as he usually did, Judd said, “All right already— so where does it come from? This wisdom.”
“Good question,” Eddie said, drawing in a slow breath while scratching his day old stubble. “It started with our first ancestors and flowed
on year after year, decade after decade and century after…well you get my point,” he said squinting as he looked to the gray, hazy sky, thick with summer’s humidity. “Anyway, although this wisdom has been fermented like a good chardonnay many times over for many years, it is now tucked away. Seldom does modern man give it much weight.”
Eddie sat down on a dusty, wooded trunk and yanked off his horn-rimmed glasses. He held them up, and he peered through the lenses, and put them back on. Taking a long, deliberate breath, he continued. “Today we rely more on science at one end of the spectrum or blind faith at the other. Wisdom is overlooked and seldom part of our decision-making. Don’t you think?” Judd obliged nodding his head.
As the movers in the house packed Eddie’s belongings, it dawned on Judd that he was always drawn to Eddie’s musings and now seeing him leave the neighborhood, an instant sense of emptiness plopped in his abdomen. With downcast eyes, Judd told him that he wished he had taken the time to get to know him—really know him.
Eddie was a rather imposing but gentle man. Standing a hair over six feet tall, he was slender and looked like a man ten years his junior. He always donned frayed oxford shirts that draped on his torso like bed linens on a grandmother’s clothesline. His silver hair was thick for a man of any age, impeccably combed and parted to the side with the straightest of parts.
With an easy smile and radiant disposition, Eddie unwittingly drew Judd to him and always did. Despite his incessant ramblings, Judd knew Eddie was a singular sort. A ready smile punctuated Eddie’s discourse.
“Ah, you know me well enough. Don’t worry about that. Get to know yourself! Get to know others and learn from them. Get to know the guy next door. This is what I’m talking about,” he told Judd, springing from his seat and walking to a lopsided pyramid of boxes.
He began fumbling through a crumbling, corrugated container. For a moment, Eddie said nothing. He looked perplexed as he shuffled papers in the container. Losing his concentration from moment to moment, he paused as he examined an ancient fountain pen and a softball-sized sphere of rubber bands.
“Are you looking for something?” Judd asked.
“Yes. Why, what does it look like I’m doing?” he said with a sigh. “It’s in here somewhere. I want to give you something I started and I insist you finish it. What I’m looking for will show you what I mean.”
Eddie continued to rummage through boxes. As he did, dust emanated from each box flap, filling the immediate area with a ripe tang.
Eddie stopped for a moment, looking up without his signature gleam and paused. “You’ve always been kind to me and listened as I’ve spouted off at the first moment you’ve gotten home from work. You have been kind enough to speak with me while you’re out in the yard. Even at last year’s Fourth of July block party, I pulled you away from the beer cooler to throw you a thought, and you were there with a catcher’s mitt to snare it. Whatever I threw out there, you were willing to give it the kind of attention I was looking for.” He smiled and nodded as if proud of a son.
Judd, always neatly dressed and clean-shaven, was in his late thirties, had a muscular physique and short-cropped blonde curls with steely blue eyes. His usual look was a golf shirt, khaki shorts and flip-flops.
Married to Ashley for nine years, they had two children. Rarely taking time to think beneath the facade of many issues, Judd spent time taking care of his young family with little time for introspection. He wasn’t so different from most folks. Eddie knew this.
Judd could not imagine what he was hunting for, and as Eddie rifled through dusty boxes, he suddenly felt empty-handed, wanting to reciprocate. He thought of nothing of worth that he could conjure up to give the old man. This worried him. Judd told him that.
Preoccupied while looking through his belongings, Eddie gently gestured to him, waving his hands in the air while saying, “You’ve given me plenty. But, I guess you don’t realize that, now do you?”
Before Judd could utter a syllable and from calm to excitement and without warning, Eddie blurted, “Ah, yes. Eureka! Here it is!”
Before rescuing the gift from the box, Eddie peered down at the prize. There was a glow about his eyes. He took a breath and pulled it up and out. As if it was a gold brick, he handed Judd a ream of yellowed paper, tattered and dog-eared at many of the edges. Tinged with a scent of mildew, what Eddie held, Judd knew, must be significant. As Eddie flipped through and peered at many of the pages, Judd saw that what he was handing him was a collection of handwritten stories.
Taken by the gesture, Judd asked, “Why are you giving these to me? I mean, this looks like a lifetime of work. You ought to keep it.” At best, he was bewildered.
Eddie put his hands in his pockets and, leaning forward on his toes, explained, “I don’t need them where I’m going. Besides, my hands can no longer tolerate holding a pen for very long. Perhaps you can read them and put them to good use in some way. Maybe it will get you off your duff and get you to write something too. You know it is in you. It’s a gift…by the way, they’re parables.”
Overheated from his search, Eddie sat in a recliner under a maple tree in his front yard, waiting to be loaded onto the moving van. He looked up intently at the massive tree boughs, as his thoughts accompanied the expression of resolve on his face. He motioned to Judd to pull up a kitchen chair from the mountain of boxes on the other side of the slate walkway, and to join him.
In the fashion of Socrates dispensing philosophies under an olive tree, Eddie began to expound. “When we read stories, you know, it is natural for us to pull personal meaning from them. This in itself is a good thing. Don’t you think? Writers like it when this happens. As I like to think, it may lead to introspection—I like that word. But at the very least stories help us think. Are you with me?”
Judd was a trifle confused. “So what is it all about? I mean, you always tell me that the answers are inside of each of us. I bet that’s all here. The answers you have found in you?”
With his long, thin finger pointing to his own chest, Eddie answered. “Precisely. I did say that, but it doesn’t mean I know all the answers. In complexity, there is simplicity. In simplicity, there is complexity. Answers are not always the result of equations or any logical order—if so, we would unfetter all the mysteries, be superhumans, and not, well, just humans. There is nothing perfect about any one of us. I however, think that stories, not just mine, are like beautiful sunflowers. They hold beliefs and values that somehow creep and root themselves into most civilizations. Like a tall sunflower staring us in the face we sometimes still ask—so where’s this flower?”
The workers were moving his life’s possessions with such disturbing ease. “This move shouldn’t be this easy and this fast,”Judd thought.Eddie saluted the movers as they filed by him. Except for Eddie’s recliner, all of his belongings that once covered his yard were securely in the truck.
In spite of the commotion around him, Judd began to think of all the times he and Eddie had talked and he was only now beginning to connect the dots like the excuses Eddie made by walking over to Judd’s house, ringing the doorbell to borrow a dictionary. “Eddie needs a dictionary? How come I didn’t think that was odd,” Judd scolded himself. He thought of the times that Eddie would show up with a beer in hand when Judd cooked burgers on the grill, or wanted to borrow a snow shovel in May. These were times that Eddie had something to say. Sometimes Judd listened and other times he was preoccupied. “I wish I had listened all those times,” Judd thought.
Eddie continued, “We’re all the same. The mores and ways of life are probed and pondered today just as they were by those who resided at Stonehenge or by the ancient Greeks, or the Bushmen of Africa or the contemporaries of Confucius, or the greeter at Wal-Mart or the neighbor over the fence, or me or you. Did I leave out anyone? These truths are worthy of another look, don’t you think? Perhaps two or three more looks. That’s all I’m saying.”
As Judd looked away for a moment and turned back to answer, Eddie seemed to have vanished. Scanning the yard, Judd noticed that Eddie was slowly climbing the front steps of his home to determine the progress of the workers. Judd stayed, enjoying the warmth of Eddie’s lingering presence. Although it was getting close to noon and hotter than ever, he was content as he imagined what the old man was all about. He began flipping through the ragged paper and found himself easing back into the recliner. He thumbed through the musty pages, reading snippets of different stories and passages. He found himself mesmerized.
Judd, put the bundle of papers on his lap, took a breath, got up, and began to search for Eddie. More questions swirled in his head.
Eddie walked to the rear of the house, orchestrating the movers. Judd caught up with him and followed.
After a moment, Eddie pulled himself away from the mundane and in awkward silence, walked to the main staircase six feet from his opened front door. He sat down on the eighth step. He crossed his legs at his bony ankles and placed his graceful hands to the back of his head. Sunbeams shot through the door. He watched the workers as they swiftly moved in and out of his house.
Eddie’s home was empty. He stood and then moved with a lightened gait, as if a burden melted away. He walked outside and down the brick stoop one last time.
Judd picked up his pace to join him in the front of the house. The movers were busy repositioning the recliner in the recesses of the truck. It was done. With a yank of a canvas strap, the back door of the truck slammed shut. Just like that, his belongings were stowed away, never to return.
Eddie shouted, “Remember to deliver the furniture and boxes that are marked in red and send the rest on to the Salvation Army.” The men nodded and Eddie waved them on. He turned back to Judd.
“My parables, if you can call them that, are an attempt to show that there is meaning in all the ordinary things we do. Life lessons can be learned wherever we are, whether in a bustling city, on a farm in America’s heartland, or in a suburban neighborhood. There is much we can learn from the taxi driver, the stock broker, the dairy farmer and the neighborhood hairdresser…oh yeah, I learned a thing or two from her over the years,” he said smugly. He sighed, placing his hand on Judd’s shoulder. “In a way, they teach us who we are. Wisdom is not only right in front of us—it is within us. The truth that evades us lies within. It always has.”
The moment fell silent. Eddie turned to look at his house one more time. He faced Judd and with a toothy smile he said, “I’m ready.”
A moment later, he walked to his car and got in. Still smiling, he waved to Judd. Judd reciprocated.
“I’ll visit,” Judd said.
“No you won’t. You don’t know where I’m headed. Do me one better.”
“What’s that?”
“Look inside and add the next chapter.”
With that, Eddie drove away, not waiting for his neighbor’s response. Judd’s mind was empty and he said nothing. In solitude, he was motionless. But when Eddie was out of sight, his mind was now replete, and silently bade him a farewell with a promise.
“Goodbye Eddie. I will.”
The Kingdom of God is within you.
Jesus
Be a lamp to yourself. Be your own confidence. Hold to the truth within yourself, as to the only truth.
The Buddha
In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after the Truth.
Gandhi
Seek not good from without; seek it within yourself, or you will never find it.
Epictetus—second century
Ask questions from your heart and you will be answered from the heart.
Omaha—Native American
*****
Sometimes it takes storytelling to convince any spiritual being what he or she should already know. Truth comes from within. Simple? Maybe, but truth leads to wisdom, which is the tenuous center amid science and faith. What is truth? Who is truth? We must pause to discern how truth is real and part of our daily lives. But it is not enough to know oneself. As truth lies beneath our bones, so it lies beneath our neighbor’s bones as well. Simple?
*****
Want to read more parables of enlightened everyday living? Here’s the book.
What did you think of Eddie Zen? Let me know in the comments below.
About E.G. Kardos
I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write. Here’s more about me and my books.
