Editorial note: Dear readers, I found this article in my files, having even forgotten that I wrote it over 30 years ago. Reading it provided me the interesting experience of hearing a voice from my past, a young John reminding this old John of things which hold timeless learnings. We all know so much more than we realize. Reminders help give new life to our youthful knowledge still resting somewhere in our brains. It appears here as it was written in 1968.

~ John S. Hilkevich, Ph.D.

     To me, life is but a path on which we all are committed, like it or not. I see a traveler wearily strolling upon the gloom of its darks and misty surface. The slump of his back, the melancholy expression of his eyes, and the bowing of his head all reflect his Hadean existence. He placidly turns his head and peers unto the wayside. Resting much of his weight upon a crude hiking stick, a smile of comforting joy streaks across his face for he sees an array of flowers growing in fine splendor. But as he peers longer, his smile falls into a frown, for weeds are rapidly engulfing them.

     The traveler continues onward. Suddenly the voyager looks up ahead of him, then back at his feet. He throws his stick aside and falls upon his hands as if his feet couldn't move. In panic he gropes for a nearby branch from a leafless tree. With a positive grasp he slowly lifts himself out of the deadly quicksand. Our traveler falls upon the comfort of the secure ground, and sleeps.

     After the sun had set and risen once again, the traveler opens his eyes. His heart is again tossed upon the sea of despair, for before him a mountain looms. With regained strength from his sleep and renewed determination from past experiences, he throws his burden upon the walking stick and begins his conquest of the mountain.

     As the traveler successfully descends the mountain he has conquered, he finds a gurgling stream of water. He shades his eyes and peers into the gloom of the distance, lurking like an animal awaiting his kill. Again his hear sinks in despair. The stream merged into a vast river. The traveler must cross it, for it is too late to turn back. One cannot change his mind after he has begun to travel upon this lonely path of life. Being wise, he dares not cross the river by swimming for the current could be too strong and would carry him far off his destiny. He would build a bridge or a series of stepping-stones and evade the wrath of the river entirely.

     In this interminable chain of hardships, the weeks of the path take their toll. The brush and weeks grow thicker until even walking becomes a difficulty. Our traveler finds it a waste of time to push against the resistance of the weeds and discovers a more intelligent approach. Raising the stick over his head and slashing it down upon the weeds he slowly chops his way through, leaving a clean cut path for another journeyer that way come this way.

     The poor man still traverses the path as miles melt behind him and many more appear before him. At times, the sky is blue and cloudless overhead, and the sun shines brilliantly. But other times the skies become saturated with gloom and restlessness, and the sun in vain attempts to pierce the darkness. At such periods the journeyer must seek shelter, for a storm is approaching. As he finds none, he falls on his hands and courageously tries to crawl through the storm. As the rain pounds upon his body and thunder booms in his ears he grows weaker. The tumultuous tempest demonstrates its mighty wrath upon our traveler like a demon in the dimension of hell angrily cursing whatever righteousness exists in men's hearts. As mighty streaks of lightning streams from the firmament we can see the traveler's body outstretched, raising upon the path of life. He ponders in unconsciousness.

     After the storm has receded and sunlight cracks through the remaining dismal mist and shines on the face of our traveler, he awakes. But the unexpected and unwanted waits for him…the path is now laden with mud, making walking almost impossible. A courageous man would walk the path, despite the possibility of weakening and perhaps dying. The wise would set up a camp and shelter and shall patiently wait for the mud to dry. Our traveler did so.

     Alas our traveler must someday reach his destiny. A spark of rejoicing was quickly fanned by the wonder of reality into a burning fire of intense happiness. Letting his stick fall upon the ground the traveler ran throwing his hands into the skies. Into the horizon he disappears, never again to journey on this path. His days of travel have terminated, and his days of splendor have begun. He has reached his goal.

     What did the preceding story have to do with life? It described something very wonderful and complicated, which at times tends to be unpleasant…what it is to experience the trend of life.

     The path is the basic pattern on an average working life. It is not necessarily yours or mine -- for our lives are most wonderful. But no matter how splendid of a life we live, we can always find a bit of the traveler's life mixed in.

     The gloom, which lurks along with darkness, represents the blindness and insecurity of life. The stick in our hands represents the people, which we love and trust, and those who will share our problems, which we can lean on for support. Some persons have very few true friends or are homeless. This is shown by the degree of crudeness in his hiking stick. The flowers growing along the wayside stand for the comfort and beauty of life and the weeds are the problems that engulf them.

     The quicksand that nearly killed the symbolic traveler stands for traitors whom you trusted as secure ground, but gave under pressure. The mountains are people and governments or societies who try to serious interfere with men's progress in life.

     The traveler's sleep in symbolic of the good times we experience and the happiness we feel. The rivers that cross the path of life are unwelcome crowds, like drinkers and drug addicts. Many have gone bad because they have mingled with them and have been caught in the current of bad influence.

     At times the weeks rule the path. These are problems so great that they interfere with one's living. They can range from trouble on the international level like aggression to national problems like air pollution and riots, down to local and personal problems. These problems must be hoed leaving room for the present generation to walk as well as leaving a cut path for generations to follow. But don't just walk through them like they weren't there.

     The blue and cloudless sky is symbolic for times of prosperity. But depression and certain individuals, like the sun, who try in vain to pierce the gloom of depression, may interrupt such times. We then must seek shelter for the storms of war are arriving. Many can find none, but try to live through it. The rain ~ physical hardships ~ pound on us as thunder ~ propaganda ~ bad news ~ booms in our ears, and lightning, standing for powerful weapons that scare mankind, flashes in our sight. We ultimately weaken.

     Finally, after the storm is gone, there is life the undesirable mud. The mud is a symbol of hate, prejudice, pride, financial drops, loss of loved ones, that still linger on after the war has expired.

     Sometime this path of life must terminate. The incident where the traveler throws his hands into the air and runs to the horizon has no particular translation. Though it is obvious that his life full of anguish has come to it ends, we still do not know what awaited him beyond the horizon ~ for each man has his own goal and own horizon. Until a man decides what his horizon will be, he will live for nothing.

     Thus, be not a swimmer in an ocean of anguish contenting yourself with just letting the waves carry you to and fro, but swim oblivious of the current, and hunt down your island of ecstasy.
 

        Love is whatever it manifests itself as being. The intensity of love can be seen by the intensity of its manifestation.  Here are a few descriptions of intense, love manifestations.

         It was about two years ago on a summer day. As I walked out of the house, I noticed something moving in a bush. It was a wounded, baby robin. Its wing was extended, as he was chirping furiously. As I drew my hands around it, I discovered the mother was watching me. I assumed that the bird on the roof, sitting with pride and dignity but keeping such an unusual watch on me, was its mother. With a nervous cry she extended her wings in disgust and departed. Later it was confirmed that the bird was the maternal parent for day and night I could hear her cry out her warning to me. She would constantly circle the house!

         Soon after, another bird joined her, perhaps the father, and together they worked for the freedom of my bird patient. There came flocking together a swarm of adult robins. At the time I assumed them to be relatives, but now I know that they were just creatures according to their own kind drawn together, probably by the common initiative, war against the enemy and by love. So all they did was to circle the house together and sing to each other. I did pity them, but I also pitied the wounded baby and I was determined that he would be kept in my care until he was strong enough to participate in the fight for survival.

         There were many incidents of the parental, outward manifestations of love… Love and restlessness was sensed more than usual today. I let the now, well-trained baby robin rest in my room, with the window open. The bird was very cooperative. I suppose I could write two stories… one on the love that existed between the baby robin and my family, and another on the love between the robin and its parents. We had gone out of the room for one minute…we knew the mother was close. We left the bedroom door open about an inch, and my parents, my sister and I watched patiently. The mother appeared on the windowsill, with a worm in her mouth. She twisted her head and looked anxiously about the room, both with terror and curiosity. It was now in enemy territory. She was risking death (so she thought) to satisfy love. She drew enough courage to fly upon on desk. She rejoiced at the sight of her child, but wouldn't waste any time and attempted to fulfill the purpose of her presence…to feed her baby.

         My sister behind me stirred. The mother looked up in our direction. Terrified, she dropped the worm and flew into a closed window. Like a fly against a screen, she vainly kept flying at the glass. My father gently clenched the bird and pointed it to the open window. It gave its last shriek -- whether it was of relief, terror, or thankfulness, I don't know. Was the love of her child that important? We found it was, for she returned again, once more risking imprisonment for love.

         My family was eating dinner when I heard the screams of the mother. I recognized her at once, her cried resonantly singing in the sunset. The baby robin was about 10 feet behind his mother, following as fast as a wounded robin could go. The mother kept looking back and yelling and though she was telling him to hurry up. I drew up to the baby and the mother gave her last chirp. Unable to aid her son now, she flew off.

         A week later, on a Saturday morning, to my dismay, sorrow and even a sense of happiness, the baby robin was gone. Whatever happened to him I don't know. I would like to believe that his mother came and claimed him once more, this time successfully, and that he was ready to survive despite his wing handicap.

         I could see the likeness of a "love complex" starting. I could see that this bird was attached to my father and me and showed his appreciation for his care in numerous ways. But then, apparently, the mother hated me. This was natural. The mother's love was battling against his human relationship with us. It was interesting to see who won. We are glad we don't have to dig worms for him anymore. Digging for worms if for the birds.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

         There's another love story acted by birds. It happened while I was still a resident of Philadelphia. This time it was a romance between a canary and a parakeet. I was about 5 years old, but I still remember it well.

         We owned a parakeet and a canary. They both lived in the same cage. I never did realize the relationship between the two, but when I had, it was something to remember.

         The parakeet could leave the cage whenever he wanted. All he did was curiously poke his beak around the latch of the cage, and when the door opened, he flew to freedom…remembering always to shut it so the canary wouldn't escape. To my relief, he always returned. I wondered why he would always come back. He would do this every time, always leaving, locking the cage behind him, always returning, every week.

         On a windy day the cage swung hard hanging on the clothesline. It fell, pinning the canary, suffocating it. Nature had brought her into the world, and had brought her out.

         This happened while the parakeet was gone on his routine flight in freedom. When he faithfully returned, he flew on the clothesline and peered into the former habitat of his female friend. I watched him. I remember that so well. He twisted his head anxiously upside down. No, she wasn't home. He left. Never did return.

         This confirmed to me the parakeet returned only for the canary. He was sacrificing freedom for the pursuit of his love, the canary. This spirit not only exists in humanity, but among the animals. It is a universal force, dominating all dimensions.

John S. Hilkevich, Ph.D., Director
www.prayergear.com
counserv@aol.com