Focus and Re-Focus

 

            The quality of life in that particular town on that particular street at that particular time was indescribably low, empty, shallow, and depressing. Leonid had lived in this town, on this street, at this time since the day he was born at home, raised by parents who loved him, who taught him to love others, to sacrifice personal comforts, and to think of the well-being of others before himself. Because crime was at an all-time high, he stayed home with his mother while his father went to work, learning the basics of life and lamenting the danger and ugliness of the world outside of his window.

              On the summer following his eighteenth birthday, he traveled to the high school to take his test for graduation, proving that his twelve years of homeschooling sufficiently prepared him for life as a functioning adult. The four-hour test was unsurprisingly simple, leaving Leonid completely at ease and satisfied that he could not have performed any better. A week later he received a letter from the school district informing him that he received a 99% on the test overall and his diploma.

              By the end of the month, he joined his father on the drive to work for an interview with the accounting department, not a job he desired, to say the least, but because jobs were scarce, he took the opportunity and received an offer to begin work the following week. Two years into the role as an accountant, he could feel his heart and soul withering with the constant barrage of numbers and suggestions from him based on those numbers.

              On the night before his 21st birthday, he made the decision to relinquish his role as an accountant and move away to a different house, a different street, and a different city, longing for someplace that was quiet, peaceful, and clean, uncertain if such a place even existed, he took the huge risk of emptying his bank account, buying a car, and simply start driving west, stopping whenever it seemed reasonable to do so.

              It was the third city he found, actually more of a small town built around agriculture and farming, a community that left him with a feeling of peace and happiness. Knowing that he would do his best work by continuing on as an accountant, he joined a small law firm after seeing their ad in the local newspaper. With a pocket full of money, he paid six months rent at a small and comfortable apartment only two blocks from his new place of work.

              After two weeks of work, he began to feel at home in the town, he made personal, friendly connections with his neighbors, inviting them in for dinner or meeting them for lunch and occasionally helping them with their personal finances. Even though the city was small and quiet, he could still see the pain, the loneliness, and the emptiness in so many eyes around town. His neighbors, the mailman, the young girl at the grocery store, and the older woman working as a waitress at the local diner.

              Seeing their pain and emptiness only brought up the lessons his mother had taught him about helping and providing for others. His new job paid very well, and he began setting aside ten percent of his income to help those in need, to make closer, personal connections with those hurting, and reaching out to those who were clearly suffering.

              Being very careful to not come across as a stalker or a creep, he paid careful attention to when these people arrived at and left from work, how they traveled, where they lived, and with whom they interacted. It was three days later that he noticed the young girl at the grocery store marked with multiple bruises and a black eye that he devoted himself to discreetly finding an answer to the source of her suffering, determined to put an end to whoever it was that was abusing her.

              Parked in front of the grocery store mere moments before she finished her shift, he watched her climb into a barely functional four door sedan driven by a man a few years older than her. He followed them from a distance and could see the man yelling at the girl, strike her a few times, and pull in front of a single wide mobile home on the edge of town. He watched as the young man stormed into the house, while the girl waited in the car, to eventually step into the front yard, to then be grabbed by the hair and dragged into the house.

              Removing a baseball bat from the backseat of his car, he pulled in behind sedan, knocked on the front door, keeping the bat obscured from view, to face the young man with a beer in his hand and an angry face, spewing profanities at him and accusing him of stalking the girl. Leonid grabbed the young man by the front of his shirt, dumped him into the front yard, and beat him nearly unconscious as the girl watched from the front window. As the young man gurgled through a mouthful of blood, Leonid leaned in close and warned him that if he every struck the girl again or even uttered an unkind word, he would return and repeat this process a second time and if necessary and third and even a fourth.

              To drive the point home, he stomped on the fingers of his right hand, climbed back into his car and drove home, giving a small wave and a smile to the girl at the window, who reciprocated the gesture and uttered something that he couldn't quite make out.

              The following evening, he followed the elderly waitress home, to watch her remove her shoes before exiting her car and walking up the sidewalk to enter her home. The next morning before work, he visited the shoe store at the other end of town, leaving them with the instructions to place a phone call to the woman with a message that a new pair of shoes had been purchased for her and that she needed to stop by and pick them up, for they had already been paid for.

              Two days later, he visited the diner to happily see the waitress in her new shoes, smiling, and walking as if life had certainly taken a turn for the better. He ordered his meal, left a large tip, and took home his leftovers in a small styrofoam container.

              Wishing he could do more for his neighbors, but desiring to do so on an anonymous basis, he began leaving extra cash at random times in places that only they would find them, trusting that wisdom would be exercised with the arrival of funds to help pay for groceries, electricity, gasoline, or possible medical needs.

              It was on a Friday evening when he arrived home from work that he found a handwritten note stuck to his door with the message, "I know what you're doing, and thank you." In a mixture of happiness and disappointment, and not knowing from whom the message originated, he hoped it was not from those he had been helping. He rose early the next morning to take a walk and see if he could find other opportunities to help and was stopped by an elderly man out walking his dog, who introduced himself as the pastor of a local church and the one responsible for the local food bank.

              "I trust you found my note," he said, offering to shake his hand. "Our town definitely needed someone like you to arrive. I could certainly use more help at the food bank, if you be interested in helping either financially, donation wise, or by volunteering your time." Leonid introduced himself and told the man he would consider his suggestion and would respond by the end of the day, accepting a business card before he departed.

              Just before making dinner, he placed a call to the number on the card, left a message confirming that he would frequently drop off bags of groceries but required anonymity in his donations. The next day after work, he stopped at the grocery store, bought easily three times his normal quantity of groceries and received a heartfelt thank you from the checkout girl for his intervention. Assuring him that her boyfriend vowed to change and would faithfully follow his instructions.

              Leonid now had a new life, new friends, a new purpose, and a joy that filled him like nothing ever before had.

Speaking, Writing, Part Four

 

            Winter arrived early that year with the first few flakes of snow falling the day before Christmas, bringing with it a whipping cold wind and a drop in temperature far below zero. All of the children in the village gathered together at the edge of town, leaving a wild and indecipherable chaos of footprints in the thin layer of snow. They all shared the same concern, that Prokhor would not be warm or safe in the face of this blistering frozen storm. The smallest child there and certainly the youngest demanded that they go together as a group through the woods to the north and demand that he return with them, for his wellbeing was their greatest concern.

              The three oldest boys, though far from wise or responsible, reminded the gaggle of children that traveling in this terrible cold, at the edge of an oncoming darkness would be foolish and would certainly end in frostbite or a loss of direction. As a group led by the three oldest, they walked through town, returning each child to his home until only the three oldest boys remained, who then continued on to the chapel at the opposite end of town. They let themselves into the nave and sought to convince the priest to gather a few men and rescue Prokhor from the oncoming storm.

              With a smile that no cold or fear could erase, Prokhor stood at the edge the forest, watching the children, discuss, debate, argue, and finally disappear into their homes. He slipped away from his position of shadowy obscurity to follow the three boys to the chapel, listening to the conversation through a partially open window, still smiling, overjoyed, and proud of the goodness and innocence clearly displayed by them all.

              As the three teens left the chapel, he hurried back to the edge of the forest, just in time to watch the priest leave as well, travel from door to door to door, eventually followed by three other men with a torch and axes, weapons he assumed for protection as the forest had grown quite dark. As the small group approached the main path into the forest, he stepped out in front of them, identified himself and hobbled into their immediate presence, thanking them for their willingness to help and praising the children for their godly concern for others.

              The five of them returned to town, with each man offering Prokhor space in their home to sleep and a place at their table. As each man spoke, he looked into their eyes which led to the golden space in their hearts, eventually accepting the offer from the third man, for he could see his goodness, his kindness, his concern for others, and knowing that there was enough space and food, without having to take away any from the children.

              Early the following morning, Prokhor rose from his place in the corner of the main living space, helped himself to a crust of bread and a drink of water, to begin a walk through the town, stopping at each home and offering up a brief prayer and words of thankfulness for such a loving community. As he completed his circle around the town, he found himself back at his temporary home, feeling warm and content despite the biting cold and the light snowfall. He crossed the street and sat in the town square watching the snow slowly cover the few footsteps that speckled the dirt paths and patches of grass.

              Still feeling thankful for the number of good and loving people that truly cared for him, he closed his eyes, and began praying for each individual he knew by name, by each family name, and for the entire town as a whole, feeling a remarkable warmth come upon him, melting the snow in a circle around him. It was the sound of giggling that pulled him from his prayerful focus, to realize that most of the children in the community and a few of the adults had gathered around him, their eyes fixed on his elevated state.

              As his feet once again touched the ground, he sat on the bench behind him, and began sharing his thoughts on the practical ways that they, even as fallen and selfish men, can be of service to others and learn to disregard our own comforts and pleasures. As he spoke, he noticed that those closest to him began unbuttoning their jackets, removing their hats and their gloves, based, he assumed on the incredible heat being generated by his person.

              As he spoke, a teenage girl wrote down every word that came from his mouth, knowing the value of documenting his wisdom and instruction, knowing that teaching such as this was incredibly rare and worthy of writing down to eventually share with others, following the certain end of Prokhor's life. This became a pattern for the next two weeks, he would walk through the town, pray for them all, retire to the center of town, and share his thoughts and ideas on any topic that would be helpful to those who desired only to do good. His words all documented by the girl.

              Despite the whipping, biting cold, Prokhor delivered his messages, shared his wisdom, and was overjoyed at seeing a slow change come over the town, with more generosity, more kindness, more civility, and more care for those in need, especially the homeless, the orphans, and the beggars.

              With the arrival of spring, he knew that he needed to step away from the community, return to his little cabin and prayer stone in the far northern woods, knowing that he had spoken all the words they needed to hear to grow, to flourish, and to make an impact, not only upon their own town but also on the towns around them and upon the homeless that wandered between them all. He completed his final walk through of the town and instead of taking his place in the center of town, he hurried off into the woods, knowing that many would try to stop him from leaving if he remained among them too long this final morning.

              He disappeared into the darkness of the forest, weaving on and off of the main path, relishing the beauty of the new growth, the flowers, the blossoms, and the latest round of wildlife that touched every corner of the beautiful world that surrounded them all. After walking for a few minutes, he sat down upon a stump to rest his old, weary, and nearly worn-out body, when he caught sight of the young girl who had so faithfully documented his words. She approached him with her notebook, flipping through it, to eventually hold it out, showing a picture she had drawn of him, as he floated above the ground glowing like the morning sun.

              "Father Prokhor," she asked, "can I have your blessing to put all of this wisdom into a book that people will be able to purchase and learn from?"

              "Yes, my dear," he answered, "but do not charge a great price for this, for the gospel ought to be free to those who will hear it, embrace it, and practice it."

              The girls slipped the book under her arm, kissed his hand, thanked him, and returned to the main path, skipping away from the crooked and tired old man, carrying more wisdom than anyone near or far could even begin to understand. As the girl disappeared, he lifted himself to his feet and began the long walk back to his cabin, to find that a middle-aged man was seated on the ground near the front porch, to then rise to his feet and engage in a long conversation from Prokhor, seeking wisdom and guidance, asking questions unlike any he had ever before heard from anyone in the community.

              The two men sat together until darkness descended and the man asked what he needed to do in order to become godly and wise like Prokhor, emitting a golden light like he and many others had seen coming from him.

              Prokhor answered that the only path to genuine godliness was through unceasing prayer, the destruction of the passions, and love for God and neighbor. "It is only then that you will become like a candle, with every portion of your being glowing like an angel from the throne of our Heavenly Father. Do not look for praise, or glory, or money in your pursuit of holiness. When you seek after being filled with a spirit of holiness, you will become holy and then a thousand around you will be saved. Holiness is the goal you must seek and the path you must follow."  

            Spring came and went, summer came and went, fall came and went, and with the arrival of the following winter, a small group of men approached the cabin in search of Prokhor, to offer him another opportunity to come stay among them, teach them, guide them, and help them become more holy. But as they entered the cabin, they found the old man lying flat on his back, his hands folded across his chest and untouched by the decay of death, having drawn his last breath a great many weeks or even months before.

Flying, Part Three

 

            Prokhor knelt on the small porch of the cabin the men of the town had built for him, thinking back to the visit he received from three thieves who had heard about him and his supposed wealth. He had finished his prayers that evening and was walking back to the cabin from his hollowed out tree to find the three men searching through his few belongings, angry, confused, and threatening him with harm if he did not give up the incredible wealth they believed that he possessed.

              He held up his hands and offered to give them everything, asking them to sit down on the porch while the brought out everything that he owned. After a few moments, he returned with a bag of rocks, a threadbare blanket and the wooden plank that was the bed upon which he slept. Each of the men erupted into a tirade of profanity and further threats, eventually resorting to physical violence against the old man. They each took turns striking him with closed fists, kicking him, and finally beating him with longer pieces of firewood.

              As Prokhor eventually lay motionless in the dirt of the cabin pathway, the men once again tore through his cabin to once again find nothing of value, to simply destroy everything they could, leaving the well built and beautiful cabin utterly ruined. With a mouthful of blood, several broken ribs, and only one functioning eye, he watched the men walk away from their chaos, leaving him with the faith that his God would intervene and send help in one form or another.

              Having grown tired of sitting and remembering the pain and damage from the horrible, bestial beating he received, Prokhor rose from the porch, balanced himself with his cane and though once a relatively tall man, he was now considerably shorter with a hunched back, and any movement always filled his entire body with pain.

              For as much as he hated to spend time sleeping, he knew that at least four hours was necessary in order to keep him from slipping into a slumber at a moment's notice. There was always work to be done, firewood to gather, food to gather, and prayers to be spoken. The absolute necessity of this life made the requirement of some sleep unavoidable, so he retired to his cabin to then wake with the morning sun to eat a few handfuls of bread and greens.

              He finished his small meal and hobbled to the well to draw a cup of water, as the temperatures that day had already risen quite high, even for a midsummer day. He replaced his cup and began to walk toward the hollowed out tree to suddenly remember an unusual dream that had filled mind during his brief sleep. As if hovering above an entirely darkened landscape, he looked down upon what seemed to be just a few points of light, like small candles flickering in absolute darkness. He lowered himself to the largest of them all, possibly fifteen or twenty, and recognized his own image within the flame, to be startled with the view, as if he was looking into the surface of water.

              The recollection of the dream brought two conflicting ideas or approaches to mind. The first was that if he was a light amidst so much darkness, he needed to be doing as much as possible to increase his influence, to burn brighter than ever before, and hopefully ignite others to burn brightly as well. And secondly, he felt insecure, ineffective, and ill equipped to lead, to teach, or to prepare anyone other than himself for walking the path toward spiritual health.

              He rested his left hand upon the tree, paused for a moment, looked inside, took a deep breath and struggled to stand up as straight as he could, but did not succeed. Turning away from the tree, he proceeded to walk further north into the deeper and darker forest, thinking that greater seclusion, less involvement with the world, and more aggressive and faithful prayer was key to becoming something greater, someone more holy, and someone more prepared for guiding and helping others.

              Driven and motivated with a passion that he had only slightly picked at in his past thirty years, he walked until coming across a massive flat stone brightly illuminated by the sun through an open patch of forest canopy. He struggled toward the giant stone, crawled upon it, raised his arms, and began praying, feeling as if something new and wonderful had taken place in bringing him to this new stage in his life.

              Uncertain as to exactly how this next phase of his life would proceed and what fruit it would create within him, he returned to the flat stone every morning to kneel, to pray, to focus, and to take full control of his passions, feeling the weakness of his flesh slowly dissipate with each successive day. Many weeks had passed as part of this new routine, he eventually reached the stone a final time to feel a light snowfall coming down upon him. He started to adjust himself to kneel in this place like he did each day but found that his body refused to bend, demanding that he remain on his feet and pray while standing up.

              Certain that he had no other choice, he raised his hands and surprisingly felt remarkably light and disconnected with everything physical and tangible in the world around him. It was when a branch touched his head that he realized he had ascended from the stone, hovering at least seven feet above the physical earth, to then disregard this incredible phenomenon and redirect his attention to the words of his prayer.

              His inexplicable ascension became a regular part of his daily prayer, lifting him from the weight of his own body, the pain that racked him every moment of his life, and allowing him to disregard all else, feeling himself draw closer to God each moment. It was after several months of this transition from prayer within a hollowed out tree to prayer in the open upon a stone, ascending above everything physical, that he knew he made the right decision to pursue further growth.

              Returning to his cabin only once a week, he could see that those from the village had been regularly visiting him, seeking his guidance, and leaving him gifts, usually food stuffs of some kind. On his most recent visit, he encountered a handful of children sitting on his porch, who leapt up at his arrival, to tug on his clothing, pull at his hands, and run their fingers through his beard, asking where he had gone for so long. He explained that he needed to find a new location to pray and grow closer to God but also that he was always available if they needed him.

              He and the children began a round of hide and seek in the forest around the cabin. Though he was old, stiff and full of pain, he still gave of himself to them, finding such joy in their innocent excitement. As dusk began to fall, he sent them off to return home for fear of small children becoming lost in the woods without parental oversight. Overly tired from the play with the children, he retired to his cabin to sleep until the next morning. As he rose with the sun, he caught a glimpse of the same children hiding just within the tree line to the south but pretended to not see them or hear them.

              As he walked further north to his prayer stone, he could hear them following him and he maintained his routine of standing on the stone and ascending from the surface to draw into a deeper connection with God. He peeked through one eye on occasion to see the children staring at him in awe and whispering among themselves. An hour passed and eventually the children returned from the way they had come.

              As darkness began to fall, he prayed that news of his prayerful ascension would not become too widely known, trusting that responsible adults would think that they children were being silly and making up stories. But the next day arrived after his standard four hours of sleep to bring a remarkably large crowd of children and adults standing at a distance, in hopes of seeing Prokhor ascend as the children had described.

              He was filled with mixed emotions over being revealed by the children but trusted that this was a message from God that he needed to use his wisdom, his experience, and his prayer filled heart to influence and guide those who would listen. The words that came to him at that moment were "I will teach transgressors your ways," which prompted him to let go of his own desires and follow this new opportunity.

Breathing, Part Two

 

            Swimming in a sea of conflicting emotions and thoughts, Prokhor woke that morning several hours before the rising of the sun, struggling to construct a plan for departing to the northern forests to live in solitude, distinct from and separate from the noise of the world and the attention of the monks and abbot. Fully awake and frustrated, he rose from his board and blanket to creep through the moonlight, moving from shadow to shadow to finally find his rest in the chapel before the icon of the Theotokos.

              He enjoyed two hours of solitude before the other monks arrived for the first service of the day, filling the chapel with activity, light chatter, and a feeling of ambivalence. The service progressed like it always did, drawing him into a state of bliss, glory, beauty, and a feeling of unity with his fellow monks and all those who had reposed over the past nearly two millennia. In an effort to not draw attention to himself, he exited the chapel with all of the others and blended into the background as the others disappeared to their various obediences.

               When the courtyard had cleared, Prokhor slipped back into the chapel and returned to his kneeling position before the icons. As this had become his normal routine for the past two years, he had begun to develop the practice of breathing in a square shape, whispering the words of the Jesus Prayer, top left, bottom left, bottom right, top right, to repeat the process until darkness settled upon the monastery.

              Once again creeping through the darkness to return to his cabin, he kneeled once again in his private corner and continued his labors until the moon reached its zenith, to then steal four hours of sleep before beginning the cycle again. Something clicked within him that particular morning, feeling stifled, frustrated, controlled, and hindered, instead of returning to the chapel, he disappeared into the forest and walked for over an hour, coming upon a hollowed out tree. He scraped the build up of debris from inside and knelt therein to continue his prayers.

              He felt as if he had entered heaven itself, with no sound or disturbance from his fellow monks, no need to distract himself with remaining obscure and unobserved, he prayed from the first rays of the morning sun until the moment of exactly midnight, to steal four hours of sleep. He made the occasional deviation in order to find enough food for one partial meal a day.

              Several months had passed and the first few flakes of snow began to fall, which brought a sliver of concern to his mind, as he had no source of heat or stored food stuffs as the ground would soon be frozen. When the next morning arrived, he made the decision to return to the town of his childhood, as it had been a number of years since he had seen his parents. Walking a path wide and clear of the monastery, he found the small road to the town to then enter a city that he no longer recognized.

              He found the home of his youth, tired, old, and worn out, to be greeted at the door by his mother, who informed him that his father had passed away two months prior, leaving her with no income, protection, or company. He was pleased to learn that the priest and parish members put in extra effort to provide for her needs and occasionally visit to assuage her loneliness. Though he hated the idea of losing his independence and solitude, he knew that caring for his mother was the loving thing to do.

              He spent the rest of the week gathering firewood, organizing and cleaning the home, and performing a number of odd jobs to earn some money to purchase food for he and his mother. The coming grip of winter cold was close and his responsibility for he and she pressed upon him to sacrifice in a way that he had never before had. By the end of the week, he had filled the wood bin, started the fireplace and stopped up the many cracks and crevices that were allowing in cold air.

              The transition from solitude to regular company and small talk of things inconsequential was a difficult path, but he knew his mother needed him and that sometimes change was good and necessary. Three more days into a new routine, he slipped away from the house to find more work in order to buy groceries, to find himself surrounded by more than a dozen children, all vying for his attention, as he was a new face to them, who seemed kind and considerate.

              After cleaning horse stalls for most of the day, he received his payment, stopped at the grocer, and was followed home by the same group of children, who then followed him into his house, bringing a level of excitement and joy to his mother. As he was the only child, she had no grandchildren and ultimately became known as Mother Agathia, with more and more children finding their way into her home and into their hearts, Prokhor finding himself a new man with a love for children that radically changed his perspective on everything.

              As the winter drew to a close and the life of spring began to make its appearance, he became well known throughout the town, as the parents of these children too began to interact with him. He began to tell stories to the children of monks and saints from recent times and from the distant past, eventually telling them about his private hermitage in the deep north, to give them directions to come visit him any time.

              When the temperatures rose to a livable level, he walked to the edge of town, knelt before all of the children, who surrounded him like ants at a picnic, to bless them all, to always obey their parents, and to always do what was good, right, and loving to others and to God. He made his way back to his hermitage, steering himself clear of the main monastery with its abbot to easily slip back into his former cycle of prayer, controlled breathing, a little sleep, silence, and the occasional meal.

              The overpowering heat of summer arrived and brought with it a visit from easily two dozen children, who swarmed the area calling his name until he finally emerged from his hollowed out tree stump, overjoyed with their arrival, their innocence, and their excitement. He called them all by name, asking for updates on their behavior, their obedience, and their relationship with their parents.

              Summer began drawing closer to fall when nearly a dozen men arrived at his tree stump and informed him that they would be building him a proper cabin in response to his love for them, for the town, for his mother, and for the children. He tried to persuade them otherwise, but they insisted and began the work despite his protests. Within three weeks, the small cabin was complete, and Prokhor decided to use the cabin for sleep and for eating, and to continue to use the tree stump for prayer.

              He returned to his cabin late one evening to find a note attached to the door, informing him that his cabin would be sufficient for his needs during the winter, and that the families of the town would care for, interact with, and provide for his mother. Realizing that his future had been decided for him by God through the hands of the townspeople, he began to gather firewood and food to keep him through the coming winter.

              His life became a glorious pattern of prayer, visits from children, providing guidance to visitors from the town, and eventual separation from the passions that troubled him. He could feel himself growing older and weaker until one evening the woman from his visions once again visited him, instructing him that he must continue providing advice and direction to those who came to him, the number of which would greatly increase over the next several years.

              Prophesying his soon repose, he wrote a note that read, "Acquire the spirit and thousands around you will be saved," and then he pinned it upon the outside of his door. Like a dream or a vision, he could see his own grave being regularly visited by hundreds if not thousands, eventually coming to realize that his prayers, his lampada oil, and the dirt from his grave would be the source of healing for those in need. 

            Though he did not know when, he knew that it would not be long until his time of struggle in his hunched and aching body would eventually come to an end.