Childhood to Adulthood

What is man? Is he not more than a highly refined extract of dust? Agreed, that man fell from the pinnacle of perfection on which the Creator placed him but must he by his actions, still, pull an already fallen race even lower than Eden's tragedy? Must he by his atrocious whims force the obscured vision of a lost paradise further still into the dim recesses, even the abysmal darkness of the nether regions? Must man continue to be the reason for a baffled creation?
It is no wonder that he has lost touch with Cosmic Intelligence; no wonder that nature has refused to open up her treasure houses to divulge her eternal secrets to him. Is it any wonder then, that while the trees understanding the music of the wandering wind, joyously dance to its rhythm and the melody of a gentle flowing stream still drifts into the heart of an overflying swan, he, the appointed lord of creation, still wallows unashamedly in pitiable ignorance of all that lies under his survey

At birth, he exerts himself in that first cry of life, forcing fluid from his lungs, creating room for in-rushing air that would sustain that newborn spirit - an innocent spirit, undefiled, unpolluted and unspoiled by earthly conferences. This is the spirit lurking within that fragile child that carries that seed of greatness which bears the capacity to feed a starving world. This is the spirit, pure and noble, which all mortal children are born with but which no one ever carries wholly into adulthood (only a handful succeed in carrying a portion of it, and today they stand as Nature's elected noblemen). Each cry he uttered while he laid supine in his cradle was a pledge to the Creator to do the bidding of his mortal destiny and each smile was a starry-eyed declaration of eternal devotion and love. The Truth lived in him and abundantly so too - much so that it picked him up to sit, taught him to crawl, urged him to stand up and helped him plant one foot in front of the other in a walk; each of these developmental milestones was a prompting by the Creator to him to find and fulfill his destiny.
This pure, innocent and divinely endowed child grows up and accordingly, he is tutored in several schools - the school of "social manners", the school of "civil politeness" and the school of "mastering the art of not being himself." Along with the incessant practice of the creeds of these earthly "schools", comes the ebb and death of that divine seed of nature that was buried in his soul. Gradually, through a series of choices, he forsakes the noble path to greatness, choosing rather to tread the path of least resistance where every selfish whim is gratified and every ill desire is satisfied. He forgets in the moments of his earthly reveling the admonition of his Guardian Angel, who whispered in his ears while he was in the womb for nine months. The more adept he got in the practice of the creed of these "earthly schools", the farther away the voice of the Creator that kept him company in his maternal nidus waned. The voice grew fainter and fainter and faded out altogether.

Soon, that pure child becomes an impure man, skilled in the world's many chicaneries - the beauteous harmony of childhood is lost in the distorted spectacle called adulthood. The starry-eyed declaration of eternal devotion and love then takes on the tangible reality of a treacherous betrayal. He still seeks a destiny but a destiny that desires to please one person and one person only - Self. The whisper of the Creator in his ears is lost forever but the the solemn Truth of his eternal mission permanently resides in him. Now and again, that Truth stirs in him and urges him to ascend above his base existence but he fails to arise each time, not because he is totally destitute of the wherewithal to honour such noble promptings but because there is so much that belongs to the earth within him. And as a consequence, a man that was born with that mystic seed of greatness innate, a man that was meant to be part of the whole of nature, perpetually remains a spiritual midget - a dwarf god! - subsisting at the brink of existence. A man, whose place is with the Creator, to feast at the table of noble spirits, still remains trapped down below by his choices - groping through life's dark maze and groveling for the dross of the earth.

Man's destiny is untouched and intact - that is, to seek The Truth, as Heaven would have him know The Truth, assured that in its pursuit, divine assistance is undoubtedly attainable. Nature is alive and remains ever true and pure with a song in every flower and tree branch that sways and a poem in the oblation contained in the whistling of a bird and the laughter of a child.

But man?

His soul is disturbed and quite unblessed, with deception without and decay within. That deception pressures him into a hapless mould, while the fulminating decay deforms what it sees, deceives when it talks and destroys when it acts. The Creator is all-seeing, all-wise, with depths of knowledge beyond fathom. Man is in no way a pawn in the hands of the Creator. Options are laid out before him and it is his responsibility to choose. Let no man say that he has no right to choose, for in every man, there lies the potential for the making of something that exceeds mere earthly brute. Destiny is not some abstract disembodied force - it is people and the choices they make.

Man's face may appear calm, his nature, serene and his eyes, lit with excitement. Man's features may look so but oh, they lie! Look well, and look carefully: behind that face lurks a monster, within his placid demeanour rages a tempest and close at the heels of that ocular light is the furtive encroachment of darkness.
The tempest rages within him - listen as it blows away every noble entrenchment in him and with uncanny selectiveness leave only that which corrupts and destroys. Listen and you shall hear the howl of whatever bit of divinity that is left inside him which has been made almost completely destitute of the will and courage to seek out and follow The Truth. Listen to the battle of the winds within him and you shall hear the tumultuous conflict of love, hatred, excitement, joy, pleasure and pain. Listen to the battle of these elements, hear the shrieking of the blast while the palace of his soul rocks unsteadily and great stones are torn from the crags and forest pines are hurled north and south and east and west. Hold your breath a while and listen. Oh mortal, wretched, wretched mortal; what pain . . . what ecstasy . . . what anguish . . . what promise . . . what bumpy rides he must take between sloth and glory, between glory and sloth.

Who will still his raging storm? Who will calm his angry sea? Who will shield his eyes from the blast of this bitter wind and make him catch a glimpse of what Divinity has made him a repository of and by so doing start a quarrel? For if there exists a difference between what a man is and what by the potentials resident in him, he knows he could have been and can be, there would always be a conflict, a quarrel within him - a righteous quarrel that starts out as a smouldering ember, and engenders into a burning flame, granting him no respite or lease of ease till he escapes the tenacious cling of the earth and takes up his rightful place in the assembly of the stars.
If immortality is to be attained and Heaven won, he must listen to the quarrel within him - these battle of the winds. He must seek the child that is lost in him: he must sit at the threshold of twilight by gently whispering waters, breaking in diamond radiance upon a pebbled beach, he must seek the hills, draw strength from the silent grandeur of the mountains and commune with nature. Beyond the hills lies the pearls he seeks, beyond the hills lies the peace his heart pants after. He must look beyond the hills and call upon Heaven to save him from his one true foe - himself.