The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [36]
“How’d you get so foxy?” they wanted to know.
Middle-aged by now, but Anthony looked like some strapping Adonis. “Well,” he explained. “Let me tell you what I’ve been doing these last thirty-three years…”
Up until then, it had been cool for Christians to live simply, abstain from marriage, starve themselves, pray and work in service to the poor—but they’d done it all without leaving home. Anthony preached total withdrawal from the rat race, attracted crowds of pagan and Christian followers. He founded a monastery of scattered cells—didn’t want anything to do with stately buildings and well-laden tables. When that community seemed to be running well, he headed east toward the Red Sea. In a desolate place near a spring of fresh water, he established a new hermitage. Passing caravans and shepherds left gifts of dates, bread, and onions. Ten thousand monks and twice that many nuns followed him, and his example sparked a sweeping monastic movement.
Anthony was 105 years old when he finally gave away his hair shirt, his old cloak, and the two sheepskins he’d slept on, saying, “Farewell, ye that are my heartstrings, for Anthony is going and will not be with you in this world anymore.”
When you need to clear your head, just pray to that old hermit Anthony. He’ll soothe your depression, your inertia, your claustrophobia, and your funky skin conditions. His feast is celebrated in mid-January when cool Saturn rules the sky. After all the ruckus of the holidays, Anthony reminds us that the cure for both alienation and loneliness is solitude.
If you’ve abdicated your right to create your own life story, vow to take it back. If you’re ruled by your possessions, give them away. By a toxic lover, diplomatically take your leave. By addictions, wean yourself with compassion, and if that doesn’t work, go find a quiet shelter on a mountaintop, far from liquor stores and dealers. Welcome angels as you breathe through your parade of demons.
When you’ve finally cleared your head—after thirteen hours or thirteen years—descend from the mountain and do your work in the world.
The only sound now, the crickets. Or are they cicadas? The evening is a chill. Blanket of stars. Darkening moonless night.
Inside the cabin, I fumble around by candlelight, find a single pan on the bottom shelf of the freestanding cupboard, help myself to a multigrain roll.
I take a few small logs from the woodpile on the porch, gather sticks in the dark behind the cabin. I should have prepared the fire before sunset.
In a blackened round of granite stones between the cabin and the shore, I arrange the firewood, waste a whole book of matches trying to light the thing. I hope Magdelena falls from her trapeze and Lupe doesn’t catch her. Splat.
Finally some promising embers. I blow just hard enough to redden them. Sweet blue-orange flames. Life must have been a bitch before matches.
The water takes forever to boil, tiny bubbles gathering at the bottom of the pan like a reluctant audience. I mix enough soup for two. Maybe my invisible host will show up. Maybe I’ll save it for tomorrow.
The salty hot from my Sierra cup burns my tongue, soothes my throat. I chase it with watered dandelion wine. I count shooting stars, breathe the cool mountain air. Silence is part of the sound here, and if you listen long enough, the past becomes an echo and the future just a likely story. I could leave the world of people and hurt forever.
Chapter 13
AFTER-SCHOOL CAKE
I must have been about eleven years old the afternoon I walked home from school under thick gray clouds, said goodbye to