Chapter Thirteen

Ninth Step

MAKING CONTACT

In this search our human nature can find no better helper than Love.
                        Socrates, SYMPOSIUM, 212b

THEY STOOD IN THE DARKNESS UNDER THE STARS. AN
invisible line stretched between Diotima and himself, and another line, intersecting theirs, stretched between Melissa and Nestor, as if the four of them stood on two intersecting roads and the center of the breathing darkness between them was a crossroads. In the heart of that crossroads, was the libation to the God.

Standing at one end of the crossroads, Socrates tried to do as he had been instructed. He tried to be attentive, to contemplate by looking with rather than looking at. He tried to love, for "Love transports what is human to the divine, and carries what is divine to us", but the central problem had not changed for him. He did not know how to love.

The men at Marathon had loved, he thought, and they had found a way of expressing their love. Standing together in the long thin line facing the invaders who would take their homes, their children, their wives, their friends, and their lives unless they stopped them, they charged. They thought not of their own safety, but of what they loved. They forgot themselves. Shoulder to shoulder they fought for the man standing next to them and the man standing behind and for everything and everyone that was dear to them. Dust swirled, shouts filled the air as they battled on the dry plain of Marathon, desperate to win before the forces of Empire took Athens.

Engrossed in the contest Socrates came back to the dark mountain with a start. With some chagrin he realized he was not contemplating, and he resolved to call himself back "with a word," as Diotima had advised. He would summon his mind the very instant his mind started to wander, and that would be, he rapidly discovered, almost immediately. Cannily thinking about the word he would use to call it back, his mind shot away like a dog too long kept inside. With some asperity he called it back, and called it back again a second later, and a second after that. Silently, so as not to disturb the others, he pronounced his word, and for precisely the time it took to silently pronounce the name his mind-heart was with him, and the next moment it had sloped off again, until once again he called.

Five minutes of calling felt like an eternity. Calling, Socrates thought, was a tedious business that did nothing and made him feel incompetent. He very much doubted he was going "to contemplate the divine" using this method.

His guides' instructions felt useless, and he became increasingly resentful. He did not want to disturb the peaceful silence around him. He tried to appear to be contemplating, but his overactive mind that would not be still. Trying to follow Diotima's instructions, he suddenly found himself swallowing hard over a lump mysteriously sticking in his throat. The lump did not go away, and he swallowed again, noisily and disturbingly, it seemed to him, in the quiet darkness. Meanwhile the attempt to swallow quietly had stimulated a cough, which he tried to repress, and the strangled cough brought tears to his eyes.

What a nightmare. Surely this was what came from not using his reason in the first place. An examination of Diotima's argument for contemplation would have shown him its obvious flaws.

First, he had never really established the facts of her teaching, and no useful train of reasoning could occur without solid facts. Facts were not, as many people seemed to think, what one wished were true or what prejudice said was true. Anyone was entitled to their opinion, of course, but not to facts which could be established.

Observation suggested that facts were received either through our own senses or from a reliable source. In his case, he had accepted Diotima's knowledge of the subject of contemplation as fact. This was not unreasonable. Most of the time we had to accept a reliable source because no one had the time to prove everything from the beginning. Refuse to accept that wheels rolled or ships floated, and you were faced with the onerous task of trying to prove everything, rather than accepting facts that had been established. Of course, your source had to be reliable. If it wasn't, you were in trouble.

Having established the facts, a person went on to see some self-evident ideas. For instance, if he had established that A and B both equal C, he would understand that A and B equal each other. Eventually a series of facts and self-evident ideas could lead to a proof of truth or falsehood.

It was clear that some people failed to see self-evident ideas because of inattention, a defect of memory, laziness, disturbing passions, or because they simply did not want to face the evidence. Any one of these personal problems might make it impossible for a person to "see" that because A and B both equal C they must also equal each other. And this was, he had to admit, particularly the case when they were discussing not mathematics or ship construction, but truth or falsehood, good or evil. People could see facts and the simple self-evident steps based on the facts, but they rejected the final proof because it was simply not what they wanted to believe.

In his case – this exasperating matter of contemplation – he doubted Diotima and Nestor were reliable sources. But as soon as he doubted them, he had to truthfully admit that he had personal reasons for wanting to doubt them. He doubted them because contemplation did not seem to be working for him, or to put it more factually, had not been working for the time he had been standing here. Whether standing for a short time and failing to contemplate really proved anything about contemplation was doubtful. One might as well say eating was not for you after trying one disagreeable meal.

The real problem, he suddenly saw, was not his teachers, but his hubris. He was absolutely sure he knew what was best for him. He hated to be thwarted. He despised being told what to do. That someone might have a better idea was galling in the extreme. It was awful to admit, but it was true, and he would never be free unless he admitted it.

With a feeling that combined intense exasperation with resolution, he set down the stone of hubris. Silently, he called. He was chagrined he had let so much time slip away doing exactly what Nestor had recommended he not do.

He heard movement around him, and realized, without opening his eyes, that Nestor and Melissa were quietly leaving. Their steps faded away, and he heard Diotima's steps. She stopped beside him. In a low voice he said, "I can't do it. I just can't do it. I'm not any good at this."

"Your attempt to do it is enough," she said, and stood beside him, as she had stood when he faced the fire of his falsehood. He felt her standing shoulder to shoulder with him, covering him on his right. She said softly, "Trust in God, whose purpose – so hard to find sometimes – yet shines out in the darkness."

They stood side by side in the night. They stood separately, yet together, and it seemed to him that the crossroads of their comings and goings had become a temple, a place where a man or woman stood together, supporting each other, like two columns in a temple. Inside the temple, deep inside, was the God he did not know, was not even sure existed.

Again he called silently, but the call had changed. He was not calling for help or pleading for love, but stretching out his hand, the way a friend reaches for your hand, or tousels your head in joy. He was seeking the God like a friend. In the darkness he called to him, trusting Theos would respond, and as he did, he forgot about himself.

As unexpected as a sunrise in the middle of night, the darkness grew luminous. He was flooded with light, brighter and gentler than the dawn. He sensed a presence of “beautiful goodness”, tender and steadfast, transcendent and awesome. He felt loved.

Like wingbeats an amazing idea rushed through his mind-heart.

Socrates did not know how long he stood. He forgot everything but the light of that presence, the wisdom beyond knowledge, the deep, faithful affection of Theos.

Philos, he thought happily. Philos, and his eyes blinked open, and he saw as he had never seen before. The intricate night that Theos had made was surpassingly lovely. Marvelling, he turned, and saw Diotima, beautiful beyond words, her soul shining in her face like a flower.

He gazed at her. He could not yet describe his experience, nor understand its meaning, nor had he any idea of the extraordinary events that would come of it. For now it was enough to see how beautiful the world was, and to feel an indescribable joy.

Unknown to Socrates or Diotima, the keeper of the lodge, who had come up the mountain with supplies that afternoon, crouched in the door, staring at them with speculative eyes.

©2006 CATHERINE GLASS