Rites of Passage

I reread this old piece and it occurred to me that I'm in need of a bridge, an altar to toss some cares, wares, and bills.

Rites of Passage

 

I am just a bridge, an old, narrow wooden bridge.  Nevertheless, for many mortals I am an altar, of crude design to be sure, yet a place of rites and decisions.  A site of some significance in the memories of too many to count.

 

Those who seek a place for their small ceremonies always, always, stop in my center.  They turn full circle, eyes drawn first to the craggy rocks below that glisten in speckled sunlight from the splashing water.  The sweeping willows that edge the narrow banks downstream seem to pull most strongly at the wistful ones.  They lean over the railings, as if that small distance will take them closer, and sigh with a kind of contentment at their failure.  The bright points of light reflected on the water seem to hold them there, as if bespelled, and mayhap they are " I am just an old wooden bridge, and thus immune to things esoteric.

 

Awareness came to me the moment the last bolt was tightened, the final nail driven, and I knew only pain.  A number of my railing posts were of green wood, and I knew only the sufferings of their slow death.  I wondered how their pain escaped notice from all but me; and I continue to be baffled at the spiritual beings I have come to treasure but who are deaf and blind to most of the physical world that surrounds and even nourishes them.

 

There was little opportunity in the beginning to satisfy my curiosity.  These industrious creatures,  so alien from the natural animals who live among those who are the forest, would cross in the pre-dawn hours, metal boxes clanging against their legs, their heavy boots juddering and pounding my planking.  They carried ropes and metal tools, and many wore set and determined expressions, as if some task awaited them that required all of their concentration and strength.  I am sure that is so, as, upon their return in the shadows of early evening, there was a weariness about them, the boots still heavy but slower and the metal boxes clanged with a hollow sound. 

 

Time passed with no real change and my interest faded as I slumbered in a state of hibernated awareness.  Many seasons passed before I noticed there were no crossings at regular intervals as before.  Purposeful activity had ceased, and only the occasional younger mortals who ran whooping and laughing into the wooded area beyond, couples who murmured and lingered, and the solitary wanderer traversed my narrow span. I still ponder the fate of the first heavy-footed and earnest crossers.  Were they defeated by what they had marched so loudly to and trudged so slowly from each day? 

 

With only the occasional appearances of these creatures of whom I knew so little, I was able to more fully observe and reflect upon their behavior, and with particular interest, the solitary travelers.  Most wandered aimlessly, with no sense of purpose or destination, and I spared them only the most casual notice. Those who hesitated before taking that first step across my now worn planking, however, alerted me something of significance would occur.  Each movement became fraught with importance, and with time I have learned to distinguish between reverence, grief, and decisions deemed worthy of ceremony. 

 

I remain puzzled by their compulsive need to cast into the waters below their relics and treasures.  Some are flung far with cries of triumph, others are clutched to heaving chests and only reluctantly dropped from the railing.  Do these objects retain their importance after their disposal or lose their undesirable hold and become no longer loved or needed?  I have observed rings, ashes, papers, weapons, clothing, hair, tools, precious metals and gems, money,  photographs " all discarded into the swift moving current and carried to places I cannot know.

 

Even more mysterious to me are those mortals who seem to shed something from within, some inner burden, and their steps become lighter as they continue their crossing.  I am unable to understand how their sense of being could be altered by something unseen.  Does fear have weight?  Do purpose and hope have the same volume or mass?  Can one merely replace the other, thus filling the same void?  What is the heft of poverty, anonymity, honor, fame, wealth, recognition? 

 

There are still others who transform their very existence by the crossing, not simply exchanging one state of being for another.  They become different entities with the same bodies, but with different perspectives and processing information in such a manner that permits a new person to exist.  These are mortals who never return; they are fixed in a forever forward movement, going on to places unknown to me as if pulled by other bridges, other altars, one after another.  These are the special ones, the enlightened who mark each bridge and altar, not with ceremony, but with written accounts of their journeys, real or imagined, and the journeys of others that these self-styled scribes perceive to be important.  While others discard inanimate objects in sacrifice or a bid for freedom, the transformed mortals offer and leave these records behind, visible evidence of their passing.

 

The first tear fell almost unnoticed, but when this salty liquid began to seep into the wood, I felt the change that forever claimed me as an unmarked altar.  With each tear thereafter I have been imbued with greater understanding, and even a kind of love for these bewildering, confusing, but wondrous creatures who decided I was worthy of their small ceremonies and rites.   Only once has blood been spilled and absorbed, and that small discoloration, that rusty stain, is only noticed by the most observant. All of nature’s creatures have blood,  but only humans shed tears.  They weep tears of joy and sadness and each are, now, easily distinguished from the other.

 

What feature of my worn planking meets their requirements; what dry, chipped railing post is the deciding factor for these creatures whose lives require such a place?  I may never know, but with each rite performed, my planking seems stronger, sturdier,  and I am more firmly embedded into the walls of this canyon I span.  This accident of location has ensured my immortality and I will remain unchanged for countless generations to follow who will seek me out for these solitary, but crucial moments in their short lives.  Being witness to their small ceremonies makes me a participant " much as a silent high priest whose presence validates the rite, and I, too, am bound by the confessor’s vow of silence.  I offer no absolution, though some find it.  I only witness and remember.  Forever silent, forever unchanged....I am simply, forever. 

Reviews

[emmajoy]

' Does fear have weight? Do purpose and hope have the same volume or mass? Can one merely replace the other, thus filling the same void? What is the heft of poverty, anonymity, honor, fame, wealth, recognition? '

'There are still others who transform their very existence by the crossing, not simply exchanging one state of being for another. They become different entities with the same bodies, but with different perspectives and processing information in such a manner that permits a new person to exist. These are mortals who never return; they are fixed in a forever forward movement, going on to places unknown to me as if pulled by other bridges, other altars, one after another. These are the special ones, the enlightened .. '

Superb words, a flow of observation, veiled warnings, new rules to consider, and, more, far more. A voice that comes from the roots of Thought itself. With hushed voice you've woken so many sleeping emotions, turned mere human understanding into something richer. You've shared your exploration and left a near unforgettable trail. You've become, ' .. ' " much as a silent high priest whose presence validates the rite, and I, too, am bound by the confessor’s vow of silence. I offer no absolution, though some find it. I only witness and remember. Forever silent, forever unchanged....I am simply, forever. ;

Profound, beautiful writing.

[Carol Cashes]

I am...touched by your review. I am humbled yet emboldened as your words validated my thoughts and my personal understanding of human nature. Whenever I feel that I have nothing of value to say, I will remember this review of this piece, and tell myself to dig a little deeper. Thank you for that.

[emmajoy]

Read it with thoughts tumbling, CArol.. and when time is quiet, will do so even more. Yours is an incredible piece of heart-writing. x

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Love this to bits
I'll re read again and not tire

[Carol Cashes]

Thank you, to be re-read is the ultimate tribute! I'm glad you liked it, I worked hard on this one and it's one of my personal favorites.

[Jacob Clifford]

Very original. I've always wanted to write a story with an inanimate object being the voice of the story, but this is better than anything I could have made. You managed to make a bridge relateable and human. I would gladly listen to this bridge's stories if it tried speaking to me.

[Carol Cashes]

Thank you, Clifford, but I've read your work and I have no doubt you could spin a yarn around a stick! Since I wrote this, I've often looked at other objects: imagine how many butts a park bench has seen! I started a parody of this piece called The Fridge, but it became serious when I realized I was writing the story of a young couple, then the kids, then just the old man, and...well, it needs work. Inspiration really is everywhere...

[Chase Dylan]

Only humans cry... What an alarmingly "human" thing to be coming from a bridge... The absorbed potency of memory... The fog of salt... Stains and rain... Blood... Little creatures ceremonies... Wow... CC, this was beautiful... I am simply forever, as silent I wage against times cage... Masterfully penned...

[Carol Cashes]

I am humbled by your review, Silente. Thank you for reading this, it's one I really worked hard on and I'm grateful for those readers who stepped onto the bridge to hear its tale.

[Chase Dylan]

Aye, most welcome indeed... A step it was, and to be remembered...

[Samuel Dickens]

Really impressive. Not only does this bridge have a voice, but it is also wise and benevolent, made so by years of contact with mankind. People sometimes say, "If only those walls--that chair--that car--could talk. Well, now we know they might be a wealth of information. I have a thing for bridges, but never thought of giving one a voice. This is unique and exceptionally well written.

[Carol Cashes]

Thank you. I worked hard on this one - some pieces just seem to fly out of your fingers onto the keyboard. I wrote a parody of this piece called The Fridge. May take a look at it, update/edit and post.

[Maria]

Wow, this is truly awesome. Throughout each paragraph, I was there on that bridge, you created and would look about, and I really loved how you took the time, to show how the bridge in itself was built and came to be, aware of its surroundings and its observation, of the humans, that would walk, back and forth, and so on.
Truly a great piece of work, and truly enjoyable. Great Job!

[Carol Cashes]

Thank you so much. I labored over this piece more than any of the others. I appreciate your reading it.

[Maria]

Sure thing, you are truly gifted at writing.