When I fall, I shall rise.
Back on that mountain, I saw a new path, a new hope. But sometimes the ground swallows you up.
The pages flashed through my mind. I wasn't scared of death — I'd seen it before. I was petrified of not living.
By day I would research, sketch and write. By night I would twist and contort beneath the sheets yearning to bring a new code back to life. Time was running out like grains of sand through my fist. And here I was again, flat on a bed, IV drip above, cold needle piercing my vein. Doors opening and closing, fluorescent lights passing overhead. Muffled voices around. Were these the last moments of my life? Again?
I thought of the faces of my children, my wife and the worthy few on that dark unforgivable day. I had left them alone — without me. I ground my teeth and recoiled on the gurney. I cannot leave. I must not go without the trail first.
Both death and life came to me many times. For one thing, I was born with a systemic congenital defect. The fate of a line full of relatives cut down in mid-life. Ten years ago I was told: urgent surgery or death — and, even with the surgery, I might die anyway. I was appointed to a medical team that included a clinical psychologist and hypnotherapist, to make sure I was in the right state of mind — and to prepare me for the possibility of death. My mother died of the same curse. I was just 19. I spoke to her the week before and said "When are you going to start living, mum?" Her death felt like falling, drowning in the middle of an ocean.
The surgeon's hands were deep in my open chest. Then, for a single heartbeat, the cold air of the theatre, the fluorescent lights and the clinical shadows fell away — suspended. Amidst all the noise of life, the bullshit, the broken bones and the gaping wound — a familiar siren called out to me.
I have been lost, dehydrated and alone in the misty wilderness of bear and wolf country. The distant chorus of snarls and howls drew closer, becoming louder, seeping into my bones until they penetrated my thoughts. Of flesh ripped apart and sharp blood-stained teeth.
The siren of that deep resonant wound called out again — r-i-s-e. Like a memory written into the dust of my bones. And I did.
I have witnessed life in gloriously simple detail because I have witnessed death. Not a book written by some evangelist profiting from people's pain, not theorised but a universal thread, a simple pulse, a knowing. Something I could never quite put my finger on.
I had been searching for the answer nearly all my life. I had ditched the manufactured self. I had lost my old marriage, friends and a career. But I needed to know what this pulse was — why was I able to survive? What was calling me? What was it saying?
It was whilst being on the side of a mountain twelve months ago that it started to fall into place. I felt the footsteps of a mountain guide in the distance, long before we shared the moment above the clouds. Blue sky overhead, fog and mist in the valley below. I felt the surface of the rock that spoke of a millennia of shaping from the elements and the people of the valleys. I heard everything and saw the simplicity of it all. The pure silence of the mountain wrapped around me. And then — the familiar siren called out, except this time it wasn't about survival. This was the beginning of the answer. A doorway cracked open just enough — inviting me to go through or turn back into the churn of modern life.
On the journey home I contemplated the open door. Ignore it and return to the discontent of the relentless synthetic machine, or step through into a new world.
I cleared my schedule and resolved to be the architect of a brave new chapter. Months of research and design. I decided on four realms, one call, one opportunity. My body had been sculpted, my mind eager and agile. I had created the structural framework and laid out the foundations. It just required the detail of the finish. I was close.
But now, here, passing through bland hospital corridors I wondered if, once again, this was the moment of my death. I had been carrying a handicap all along. Perhaps my life was an inevitable romantic but tragic quest. Another thin thread of life consigned to be just another inaudible ding in human history.
My body was in pieces. My knees were screaming in pain, I could not lift my arms and a hot piercing jolt in my chest sent the familiar signals to my brain. Perhaps this is the time after all. When my body finally gives up. I reclined and released the strain — I could feel myself accepting my fate. But then, from somewhere deep down in the pit of my soul — it happened again — the same echo, the same siren.
And I did.
The room seemed to widen. Colours sharpened. Even the hum of the machines sounded different — less like a warning, more like an invitation. The concerned muffled voices faded, the bleeps and pings of the machines returned back into their shells. Quiet — again.
I returned home a week later and was given the all clear to return to a 'normal life'. Ha. I pumped my arms, moved my legs and bent my body through the pain until I resembled the real self I had become once more. I resolved to work through the pain, the obstacles, the distractions, the naysayers and my own inner conflicts — because if I only do one thing in life it must be to answer the call. To step through that open door.
I now stand on the precipice of an open doorway to new realms — a proving ground for a simple, resonant note — of a life worthy of living.
This is where the trail begins.
Maybe I'll see you on the other side.