Dogwood
Chapter 1
The parable of The King and The Clown
I
Once, on a night no one actually remembers coming to a close, there was a King and a Clown who met on a mountaintop. I should warn you, this is not a story about change, except so far as all stories are about change.
Like the tree that's kissed by lightning or the quiet, precise threshold when the mirror surrenders to pressure, and cracks, The King and The Clown balanced on a razor’s edge of before and after. X marks the spot where they learned that both laughter and grief taste the same when your lungs have spent their breath.
II
The King wore a crown, as kings are known to do. And this crown cast a halo made of silence. Inherited and absolute. Nations knelt when The King approached, and not even a whisper reached The King’s ear. A throne, after all, can be a very lonely place to sit.
And The Clown? The Clown had eyes like April rain and wore bells that chimed like spring. But constant gleeful pleas for a dance, or song, or jest became tiresome when the grateful Clown wanted quiet and the smallest of rest.
Wherever The Clown danced, laughter would trail like a mossy perfume. At once familiar and primordial. Wherever The King stepped, the most earnest of reverence laid a blanket of quiet like morning dew.
III
I should remind you here, this is not a story about change, except so far as all stories are about change. The King knew how to laugh and The Clown cared not for thrones. But on the night that no one actually remembers coming to a close, they found themselves, The King and The Clown, alone on a mountain beneath a dogwood tree.
I do not know what called them there. Or what they saw reflected in each other as they arrived. But whatever it was, the unknown invitation answered, The King and The Clown sat. Not side by side, but back to back.
That night, their souls danced on the mountain to the rhythms of joy and of grief. X marks the spot where they sat and waged wars between the solemn and the frivolous within themselves.
And there they stayed, eyes held fast to the universe stretched out before each of them. No words were spoken, but tears came and went, somersaulting into laughter, only to fall quiet again. From beneath the dogwood, they each sent their breath out like a prayer.
IV
As often happens in these stories, The King and The Clown fell in love. They fell in love with their own view and let their imaginations tumble down the mountainside into the valleys before each of them. They fell in love with what they dreamed for themselves.
At last The Clown said, “I can’t possibly know what you see before you, but your racing heart feels like wings against my back.” The King couldn’t hear The Clown, the silent halo of The King’s crown was, after all, absolute. But The King felt their shared rhythm like the softest of beating wings and was comforted just the same.
Not until the 4th day, after the moon had come and gone and returned for more, The King and The Clown stood, stretched, and each took a step forward. It is said that the dogwood under which they sat has kept its bloom to this very day and that the forest sang in their wake as it widened.
V
Do not worry, now and again The King and The Clown still collide. They are bound to meet again and again as they walk into their own horizons. They circle their worlds only to return the same, but different. Twisted with time.
Some think that The King and The Clown shared a secret spell that was sealed under the dogwood on that mountaintop. But I think they just saw something in each other that broke their worlds open and they needed to sit and catch their breath.
To my own lungs, a howl in joyful outburst is no different than the wailing of my heart’s loss. Whether from grief or joy, exultant or terrible, we open our mouths wide and send the last of our breath into the night to spin the compass before each of us. Vulnerable and empty, we inhale again and when we are ready, we take a step forward.
