I remember the time we were alone in some remote canyon, and I watched, mesmerized, as he scaled the wall in front of me. The veins in his arms and legs were bulging, and every muscle in his sinewy body seized as he skillfully placed his hands and feet in all the right crevices, his naked flesh glowing with sweat.
I was awestruck by the grace and swiftness of his movements, his near-superhuman strength and endurance. Tears began pouring down my cheeks as I realized he was the most strikingly beautiful human being I had ever seen — still is.
No one on the street would give him a second glance: his initial presence is quiet and unobtrusive, and while reasonably handsome, his face is not unlike that of a million other men.
I still remember the first time I saw him walking in the door, though — I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I’d never experienced a moment so rapturous, and nothing has matched it since. My heart leapt inside me as if I had rediscovered a long-lost companion, although, to my knowledge, I’d never even seen him before.
Our connection wasn’t immediate at all: the first time we were alone together, we barely spoke a word. I was too busy trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of what my gut was screaming at me. Back then, I lacked the courage to trust my inner guidance.
In truth, he also irritated me a little — he was so distant and aloof, so maddeningly lost in his own thoughts until something triggered him to speak. Honestly, he was a lot like me. So this is how other people perceive me, I thought.
When the flame finally lit between us, though, the fire became all-consuming. He was the only person I’ve ever met whose mind seemed to operate on the same wavelength as mine. Our conversations were deep, absorbing, and intoxicating, often lasting for hours.
He made me feel rejuvenated and alive: his presence was warming, comfortable, and familiar. I quickly felt I knew everything about him, somehow — not his biographical details, necessarily, but every line written on his soul.
The act of discourse with him elevated me: having been stuck in an emotional and spiritual abyss for years, I witnessed new sparks of light and hope descending on me in the darkness.
I admired him for his honesty and directness, his gentleness and humility. I judged him to be a deeply honorable man, perhaps the only one I’ve ever met. For the first time in my life, I studied another person’s character and found my own lacking.
His integrity and sincerity were refreshing, and I recognized that the deception and hypocrisy I had long turned to for survival no longer served me. His essence inspired me to change my behavior, to honor my own quiet nature.
The way out of my malaise was still unclear, but my senses were quickened and my imagination aroused. Long fatigued and embittered by a succession of frustrations and defeats, I finally found the strength to make the first steps toward a higher path again — to dare believe such a path even existed.
His arrival signaled the start of a time when the fragile form of an existence that I had constructed for myself began to disintegrate. I can neatly divide my life between the period before I knew him and the many years since.
I knew his presence in my life would be brief: he was only stopping for a little while, on his way to the far-off desert.
When he eventually left, I dreamed that his old home had burned, and as I walked among the charred remains, I spotted a single chair, untouched by the flames. I sat in the chair, alone, and began to contemplate.
His memory still inhabits my mind at least once a day, and when it does, I say a prayer of grace for him.
I believe grace is transmitted to any person when it’s petitioned on their behalf by another. When I pray for him, however, I suspect the effect is especially potent, guided by a powerful but invisible line of connection that somehow links us — and always will.
Wherever he may be, wandering in that desert, a part of my soul is still with him. One day, perhaps, we’ll meet again.