Where is Father?

He stopped reading suddenly. —Caught in a vortex of inhuman thought. He unconsciously gripped the edge of his writing desk as though it were an anchor to the familiar world. He struggled to think more deeply, but something kept pulling him back. He was distracted by all thoughts in all worlds incongruent with his own. Maybe there are no absolute truths… 

Quantum Cosmology: Part 4 seemed to float away from his lap as he leaned back in his desk chair. He began to perspire as his mind led the campaign to apprehend a truth long-evaded —always just out of reach. Damnit. 

It hurt. The chime from the clock broke his trance. 11 p.m. Up late again seeking the philosopher’s stone.

_________________________________________________________________

“Son?” 

“—Father?”

  “What is essence?” 

“Yes Father, essence is that which makes an entity what it is and without which it would not be that kind of entity.” 

“Good son, and what is nature?” 

“—Nature is essence viewed in the dimension of activity,” he answered with the stern resolve of a soldier well-trained but not yet battle-hardened.

“Excellent. It’s time for a new lesson. Go pick up the pencil from the table.” 

Obediently, he walked to the table and picked up the pencil and waited for further instruction. It didn’t come. Standing there awkwardly and sensing a moral lesson, he asked with curious trepidation, “—what now?” 

“—Now what?” His father quipped with shrewd humor.

A little irritated he said, “I’ve picked up the pencil as you said; now what am I supposed to do with it?” 

Lighting a match, his father brought it near the bowl of his pipe patiently drawing in a deep breath. Exhaling, the center of the bowl glowed with a mysterious, alchemical aura releasing a vaporous spirit of forthcoming thought. The smell of his choice tobacco animated the air, “…was it not you who picked up the pencil?” 

“Yes,” he responded curtly. 

“Well then it seems unfair for you to ask me what to do next.” 

“But you told me to do it,” he accused his father. 

Drawing on his pipe, his father spoke from his colossal armchair through the plume of smoke, “Yes, that’s true. But did I impel you against your will to pick up the pencil? —Was it not of your own volition?” 

He felt stupid. Annoyed, he answered, “It was my choice…” He couldn’t say what was really on his mind —that defying his father was never an option.  

“Ah so you chose to pick up the pencil…” his father stared at him from across the office through the growing cloud of smoke. His face was partly veiled by it, but behind his eyes seemed to be the wisdom of ages. They looked back at him with restrained fervor, “…now what are you going to do with it?” 

What’s the quickest way to end this conversation? “I’m going to put it back down.” 

_________________________________________________________________

Sitting up from his desk chair he saw the headlights of his wife’s car shine through the window of his office. She had been out all day. He heard the car door close quickly and hurried footsteps up the front walk. Something was wrong. The hairs on his back stood up. He turned in his chair toward the open door of his office. She came up the stairs; her face was grim and pallid; she had been crying. 

With creeping panic and dread he asked, “What’s happened?” Approaching him she broke into tears, “—James, your mother tried to call you, but she said she couldn’t get through…” Sensing what she was about to say, he interrupted her, “—What-has-happened?” Tears flowing, she got on her knees by his chair, and putting her hands into his lap, looked up into his eyes, “Your mother called me as I was driving home. She said your father was taken to the hospital. He had a heart attack. She called 911, but he wasn’t breathing when they got there.” At hearing this he felt his body go numb. His soul had instantly drifted away from time and space. 

His wife looked up into his face now distant and distraught. “James…do you understand what I’m saying? We have to go to the hospital…your mother is waiting there.” …But where is father?

_________________________________________________________________

Catatonic, he looked upon the lifeless vessel that once held his father’s soul. He held his father’s hand. —His own shook with with grief. This can’t be real.

The room was dark. Outside the nurses were preparing for a shift change. They answered their last pages and made ready for the next wave to take over. Inside was the sound of rain upon the window. It seemed to be playing a quiet requiem. His mother and wife sat on the other side of the bed weeping. The moon reflected off the sterile white sheets covering his father’s lower half. James looked intently at his father’s closed eyes hoping they might open with renewed light.

_________________________________________________________________

“—Oh really?” his father exclaimed with delighted incredulity. “Well go ahead then; put it down.” And just before he touched the pencil to the surface of the table, “—but you might consider…the cost.” 

The cost? What cost? He stared fast at his father, “—what cost?”

“Loss-of-life,” his father answered indifferently. 

“You mean I’m going to die if I put this pencil down?”

“—Maybe. Who knows such things…” His father looked down toward the arm of his chair. He seemed to be thinking about the question.

He didn’t know what his father meant, but he clapped the pencil to the table. 

Without looking up, his father said, “So you’ve made your decision then?”

“Yes, but I don’t see why it matters.”

His father adjusted in his chair, and drawing again on his pipe said, “It matters, because all our lives depend on it —from this point on.”

How could all of our lives depend on a pencil? He looked back at his father with intent curiosity. 

“Come. Sit down son,” his father motioned to the chair opposite him. And not really understanding why, James asked, “but what about the cost of my choice to sit?” Without skipping a beat his father said, “—Oh don’t worry, I’ve taken care of that for you this time.” Not looking at his father he climbed into the chair. His knees barely hung over the edge. 

His father looked upon him with perfect compassion. And sensing his son’s impatience, he sighed and said, “When you elected to put down the pencil, you removed yourself from the universe of possibilities wherein you kept the pencil in your hands, in effect killing that other version of yourself. And the consequence of your decision has already begun to ripple across time changing your thoughts, actions, this conversation, and all future events falling into the wake of your choice. So to answer your question, could you die if you put down the pencil? the answer is a precise maybe. You could have died had you chosen to keep the pencil in your hand.” James was relieved to know that he didn’t make the wrong choice even if he didn’t necessarily make the right one.

“I see father. You are talking about free will versus predestination.”

“No son. Even if I were, I am troubled by your use of the word versus. Free will is not in opposition to predestination.”

“But father, if I was predestined to put the pencil down then I am necessarily excluded from the choice.” 

“Well said son. You are becoming quite the logician. However, few things in life are so simple. And what I am really talking about is the systemic burden of choice.”

Systemic burden of choice? -System: of or relating to a system; a component of a system. Burden: a heavy load; a responsibility. Choice the capacity t—

“Very simply, it means that for every choice an individual makes, he has an intellectual and moral responsibility to himself and those around him to consider the consequent outcomes.”

James was gearing with excitement, ready to retort, he said, “But father, how can I fulfill the intellectual responsibility? I cannot possibly calculate the outcome of every-one of my actions.”

“You misunderstand… this isn’t a debate.”

“—But you’re always saying I should—” before he could finish, his father interrupted.

  “I love you James” 

James was suddenly caught off guard. His father rarely displayed emotion. He had always taught James to appeal to his intellect. But now he was growing uncomfortably tense. He wanted to respond —to say I love you father, but he couldn’t muster the words. His father stared back at him as though hoping to hear him respond in kind. 

He leaned forward in his chair, “…you’re growing up James and becoming more self-possessed. Soon you will surpass my intellect, and when that happens I won’t always be there to protect you from the world or from yourself. Like everyone else you will be mantled with the responsibility to make the best choices in the circumstances you’re dealt with the limited information you possess.

Don’t be afraid to make mistakes, but always consider the cost. You are the sum of all my hopes and dreams. And when I breathe my last, I will have invested all that I am into you. And I want you to know on that day… I want you to be certain of one truth.”

Afraid to cry in front of his father, James fought to restrain his tears; though, it was audible in his voice when he asked, “What truth?”

His father answered with quiet purpose, “that you already possess everything you need to go forward with your life. —All the questions, you have the answers already; all the obstacles you will face, the solutions are inside you.” 

_________________________________________________________________

It hurt. The thought of the cost for his search for truth. It had cost him time. Now there was no more time to spend with the man who had set him on his path —no more time to ask questions, to converse …to say I love you. The life he had lost was not his own but his father’s. And now his search for ultimate truth seemed so wantonly insignificant. 

I couldn’t see it then. It was never about the truth. All these years I have been having an inner dialogue with my father when I could have been speaking with him in the flesh. 

But why did he charge me so young with this heavy burden? I was only a child then. Just a child —not ready for truths so demanding —not ready for this truth. 

Bitter tears ran down James’s face. He couldn’t bear the thought of being deprived of his mentor, his friend …his father. 

“Son?” 

“—Father?”

  “What is essence?”