Plum’s Door
Janine Canan
Justine knocked several times on Plum’s door. When he didn’t answer, she carefully opened it, and stepped inside. “Plum, are you here?” she called. “Upstairs, Dear. Come on up.” Justine took the stairs two at a time, and strode into the bedroom.
Plum sat on the bed, surrounded by collapsing piles of books. “Now you know why an old man needs a queen-sized bed,” he chuckled with a twinkle in his eye. Justine sat down on the edge of the bed, and Plum took her hand in his, and squeezed it. “To be honest, I prefer these dear friends to the poverty people around me call relationships--doings based primarily on convenience, finance, vanity and lust. Arrangements in which each person is scarcely aware of the real existence of the other. And these,” now his voice turned tender. “What are they--?” His trembling old hand swept over his books, as if conducting an orchestra. “These little boxes contain vast worlds. They are the outer manifestation of inner lives.”
Justine got up and paced around the room, glancing at the thousands of volumes that filled the surrounding shelves. Beautiful artifacts from Plum’s travels--statues, clay pots, weavings--were wedged inbetween them. “No, I never became a writer. Never had the time. Too busy thinking. I could spend ten lifetimes thinking, there is so much to think about. And sometimes lately, I think I’m beginning to have my first real thought. When I finally get my thoughts, I’ll be able to begin my philosophy.”
Justine settled down into the worn leather chair across from Plum. “What do you think life is all about, really, Plum?” Her tone was serious now. “Why are we here?”
“According to my books,” he answered without a pause, “there are three theories. Love, Power, and Work. The Love people say the universe has a heart, and all of creation is nothing but a sublime goodness machine invented by God--for our own good. The Power people, on the other hand, believe the universe is founded on supreme Malevolence, an emptiness at the core of creation which man must resist falling into--with every dyne of his minuscule force.
Whereas the Work Theory proclaims that human beings actually make a difference in the final outcome of Creation, depending on their choice of good or evil. This is where morality comes in--a word, incidentally, I positively dread, for it has been used as a synonym for hate more than any other word I know. That’s why I say, just give me my beloved books, my thoughts, my dreams, my observations, and my endless ruminations. But please keep that obscene word out of it.”
Justine’s attention was riveted. “And which theory do you believe in, Plum,” she asked with passionate urgency rising in her voice. Plum leaned back slowly until he touched the wall. Suddenly he looked hundreds of years old. Something like a tear was pressing itself out of the corner of one dim blue eye. He had little hair left, and what there was of it was white as a ghost’s. He clasped his wrinkled hands together. “Naturally, I’d like to believe in the Love Theory--like all those fortunate saints who see nothing but Love everywhere--in every frown, under every rock--as if the whole cosmos were nothing but a giant gorgeous flower pulsating with triumphant joy. --And I’m working on it.
Meanwhile--until Grace reveals Herself to me naked, until She comes and tells me personally that God really is Love--I’ll believe in the Work Theory. It gives me sufficient hope, and seems to agree with both my optimistic nature, and all of the suffering I’ve been through and seen with my own eyes.
Ah, let us not even speak of those demons who say that existence is nothing but an empty power game, in which the petals of the cosmos are made of plastic, and even the skin of the Gods is fake.
My dear little Justine, the universe is most certainly a circus. It has a ring for love, a ring for power, and a ring for work. And I wonder how many other rings there may be as well. The universe is like one of those busy, yet harmonious Tibetan paintings. Agnostics, like ostriches, hang around the periphery, burying their heads in the sand. And just beyond them I see the tormented crazies, buried up to their heads, mouths producing a cacophony of petty resentments.
You see, the older I get, and the weaker my eyes become, the more I can see. Oh, It has curves, all right--it has the power of an eternal thunderbolt. It is happening. Beauty is created constantly everywhere. And love--I am sure of it--is yet to come. There are ideas, like the idea of love, that connect us. And mystic streams that heal us. And there is never-ending harm. The whole is a splendid vast writhing joyous and suffering Serpent, shedding Her skin as She wiggles along, perpetually revealing a new Self that rises from Her own pure delight. I have always loved those lines of the Tantra which say: All the limitless universes are a fraction of an atom in the unity of my being, all the numberless lives in the universes are a wisp of vapor in one of my breaths, all the triumphs and tragedies, the good and evil in all the worlds, are merely my unconsidered, spontaneous play.
Ah, Justine, It is luminous, explosive, awesome and miraculously funny! Do you get the incredible joke? Can you hear the roaring gusto of Her laughter? There really is nothing but this sound, my child. Awful, perhaps, but listen closely!” Now Plum stood, and moving toward her, fell down at her feet. “Can you hear all of Her voices--each different, and all of them laughing. In that laughter is everything. And it is so important to laugh along, and never stop laughing. There simply isn’t time for anything else. So take my hand, dear, and join me in a good laugh--it will add a little spice to the side-splitting symphony of laughter. Oh, let the tears of laughter roll shamelessly down your cheek, as her skins keep falling away. For laughter is the very sound of change.
--Now there’s a thought.”
