The Perfect Place Of Knowledge

  Philosophy and Language

  Finding myself back out on the green, green grass was quite a surprise. I reflected momentarily on the encounters I had, the lessons learned—the experiences of Science and Mathematics. My feet stopped before the living gate of Philosophy and Language. Again the marvelous flora grasped my attention. Never had I seen more beautiful flowers and plants. The substantial, ancient vines appeared as though they could take the place of Atlas supporting the sky. My very being absorbed the essence of soil and plants and flowers. It was pure and magnificent. However, there, also, were failing vegetation, percolating into the soil to enrich and nourish all the other plants. Dead leaves, stems, and all manner of organic matter were evident and did nothing to mar the overall beauty of the scene. This was the cycle of life in all its glory. I happily entered the gate.

  Just through the living opening, the sight took my breath away. Clouds of many types and colors swirled about in all directions—yet peacefully. Upon closer scrutiny, a pathway could be discerned through the clouds. Much like the granite road I had followed in Science and Mathematics, this path wound back and forth in a switchback, or in this case, a ribbon-like fashion upward to an apex—an unseen end. This path seemed to be constructed of cirrus clouds, smooth and connected into a defined arrangement resembling a road. Eagerly, I began walking up the satin-like ramp.

  Within the first turn or two, I came upon two figures standing on the edge of the path, very nearly in the clouds. Wisps of cloud swirled about one of the men, giving him a beard and robe of vapor. My mind found the knowledge that I was gazing upon the famous (that is not a big enough word) Plato (427 B.C. – 347 B.C.) He was having a seemingly very deep conversation with American philosopher John Dewey (1859 – 1952). Approaching slowly, I heard the question.

  Why?

  Silence took the place of the animated debate. The discussion appeared at a standstill. I found myself stepping forward to offer a quote from the nineteenth century attorney Albert Pike. (Again, the knowledge came to me when I needed it.)

  "Excuse me, sirs, let me offer this quotation: 'Philosophy is a kind of journey, ever learning yet never arriving at the ideal.'"

  The two esteemed philosophers nodded sagely in agreement but remained silent. Dewey suddenly spoke up.

  It is well-known I believe knowledge is not passive. We must have inquiry to answer the question.

  Indeed, my deepest belief is logical argument is required to attain knowledge. However this Place defies that premise.

  After this, they again fell silent. To break the uncomfortable silence, I asked a question that has always bothered me. "How can one ask for information beyond what one already knows when one obviously does not know what knowledge could be had? Else, wouldn't one already have that knowledge?" There was no response so I felt compelled to expand a bit. "Think of it this way. When the teacher asks his students 'is there anything I haven’t told you?' The student must answer: "Gee, teacher. I don't know how to answer that because I don't know what you haven't told me".

  Plato and Dewey's demeanor changed ever so slightly. I sensed something would happen. Surely, one of them would speak great wisdom. But each patted me on the shoulder before he walked calmly into the clouds. Staring after them for a moment, the realization came over me that my question very likely had the same answer as theirs. There is no answer. Before a feeling of frustration manifested, I was distracted by the familiar sound of my father's booming voice. Smiling, my head nodded knowingly. I knew he would be in here somewhere.

  Walking up the smooth, vapor trail was interesting—literally like walking on water. The sensation momentarily absorbed my attention, as I dipped my toe into the cloud-road as if it were made of whipped cream. Yet my feet did not sink and the road held my weight perfectly. This phenomenon was so curious I passed several bends before coming into my father's presence.

  He took me into his arms, and I could feel the love he had for me. There is no feeling like being in your parent's comfortable, loving embrace. Oh, how I missed him on the Other Side. The joy I felt at that moment as my daddy held me close could not be measured. Reluctantly, he held me out at arms' length and released me. I looked at him—drinking in the miracle of seeing him again. I noticed his ear was well and whole, curious, as some of it had been removed due to skin cancer late in his life. He looked robust and healthy and most of all, happy. Ever the polite gentleman, he took me to meet his companions.

  Before me stood the father of all Protestantism—right here in Philosophy—Martin Luther (1483 – 1546). Also present was a more modern day theologian, Arthur Pink. I felt strangely glad to see my father with these men. Luther had the heart and aplomb to question and break with the Roman Catholic Church. He adamantly objected to the common priestly comment, "As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs" to heaven. I had often wondered why so many different denominations branched from the original Luther works. My father stood back as I voiced this question. Martin Luther answered.

  Much as there are many shades of the color blue, so are there many opinions regarding salvation. Beliefs are held by individuals, or they are accepted by sheep. Justification may be attained in any color of blue, so long as it is comes from belief.

  Well, that was heavy, but this was philosophy, after all. Turning to Arthur Pink, I asked for his thoughts. He pondered for a while and eventually said:

  We must believe in the scriptures and what they teach. Different people interpret various meanings. In the end, it matters not what you believe, as long as you believe it. I would never have admitted that on the Other Side, but, like everyone in this place, I have learned.

  At last, something made sense. But I had another question close to this subject. I faced the three men and asked about the relationship between philosophy and religion. All three chuckled. My father put his arm around my shoulders to tell me religion is philosophy. I accepted that answer as it is actually my own belief. But there was one more question I had always wanted to ask. Now was my chance.

  "Daddy, how can the Baptists be the only ones who are right? Why do they believe the Baptist definition of salvation is the sole way to Heaven? For that matter, how can all religions think their way is the only way to a rewarding after-life?"

  My father, my sweet, wonderful Dad, had tears in his eyes. He drew in what seemed to be a deep breath. "My dear Katie-bug, I must tell you that I have seen Buddhists, Catholics, Hindus, Jews, Muslins, all versions of Protestants and many more followers of numerous other religious beliefs in the realms beyond the Other Side. It appears that perhaps there is no set formula to get to Heaven. I believe what I believe, and they have their own beliefs. But I am glad good folks, no matter what religion, are able to experience the after-life."

  I glanced at Luther and saw him grin. Pink also smiled, and my father again gave me a big hug. His love was all around me, and I felt I could stay in that embrace forever. But of course, that wasn't possible. It was time to move on. I was at the uppermost level of philosophy I needed to experience—this time. But this journey wasn't done. My father kept his arm around my shoulders, and, as we walked, Dennis and Patrick appeared and joined us, right in step. Excited, I realized we were headed straight for Language.

  The usage of words and the art of expression have always gripped my imagination. If one stops for a moment to think of what a "word" is, one is struck with an anomaly. A single word used to express a thought, feeling or picture is often not enough. Personally, I lean toward using simile, phrasing usually with "like" to try to make a point more clear. The history of language was a mystery. At the next smooth, white curve stood a person who could perhaps shine light on that subject.

  Ferdinand de Saussure (1857 -1913) was instrumental in defining what the study of language actually was and how to achieve success at that effort. Of course, this new knowledge gave me a bit to go on, so I formed a question for M. de Saussure. "How does a study of language help to understand history?"

  T
he very special place that a language occupies among institutions is undeniable, but there is much more to be said. A comparison would tend rather to bring out the differences.

  It is useful to the historian, among others, to be able to see the commonest forms of different phenomena, whether phonetic, morphological or other, and how language lives, carries on and changes over time.

  Not sure what my reply should be, I looked to my father. He widened his eyes so that the blue shined, and the message was received that he also did not have an idea. Patrick, however, came through for us.

  "M. Sausser, please help us understand your work. We can form our own ideas, but can you lead us?"

  Everyone, left to his own devices, forms an idea about what goes on in language which is very far from the truth.

  "I guess that's a 'no,'" Dennis whispered closed to my ear. Indeed, Sausser had turned his mustached face away from us, apparently in deep contemplation and definitely in dismissal. Four sets of shoulders shrugged in unison. We walked up the smooth, cloud path in hopes of a better experience at the next stop. At the next curve, three men sat in three plain wooden chairs. Friedrich Nietzsche, a major nineteenth century philosopher (1844 – 1900), Karl Kraus, the satirist (1874 – 1936), and the American artist Robert Smithson (1938 – 1973) did not appear to be anxiously awaiting our arrival. This was reflected by each man's visage and by his actions. They remained seated and silent. I nervously offered a question to this stolid group of men. "What is language and what are words?" Nietzsche cast his intense gaze upon me.

  Words are but symbols for the relations of things to one another and to us; nowhere do they touch upon absolute truth.

  Smithson stood, appearing much more animated than the others. Dennis leaned toward me, saying Smithson was actually a "land artist"—not a historical "man of letters." But apparently he had something to add to the conversation.

  Language should find itself in the physical world and not end up locked in an idea in somebody's head.

  "Thank you, sir. Now we're getting somewhere," my father said with relief. "My query is in the vein of the proverbial chicken and egg. What came first? Thought or language?" Kraus deigned to answer this question.

  Language is the mother of thought, not its handmaiden. Yet, you would be surprised how hard it often is to translate an action into thought.

  "My thoughts, Herr Kraus," I began uneasily, "are that thoughts had to come first. Only in visual pictures and memories could thoughts be developed, then labels—words—applied to those sensory experiences. Imagination, too, is visual thought. On an astral level it creates images in the mind that, in order to share with another human being, one must find words to describe. However, sometimes words are not enough to express those thoughts." I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the reaction. There was none. My father chuckled.

  "So, my Katie-bug. What more do you have to add?" he asked proudly.

  "Well, seems to me trying to put an appropriate label, a single word, a name on something in nature is close to impossible. Like…wind. My home on the Other Side is constantly bombarded with wind. Just calling the phenomena 'windy' isn't sufficiently descriptive. This situation requires an adjective such as 'stiff' or 'ferocious.' Or, the word must be use in a comparison—a simile. 'The wind tonight is like a giant took a deep breath and is trying to blow my house off the hill.' Sometimes, words are not enough."

  "But we could have a little more fun with them, Katie," Dennis said earnestly. "It's time for a really big shew!" He used the Ed Sullivan impression, tilting his head, indicating we should take our leave. The three men sat back in their chairs. As we walked away, I glanced back and saw Smithson, the unconventional artist, wink at me. With a much lighter heart, I joined my companions.

  We went round two more bends before coming upon anyone. There was a large group here, and they were all laughing or smiling. We gladly eased up and into the assemblage. Interestingly enough, everyone seemed anonymous. I listened intently.

  In Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, there is a cobbler. When asked what kind of work he did, the reply was, "I am a mender of men's soles."

  And from Romeo and Juliet as Mercutio lay dying: "Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man."

  Guffaws, chortles and snorts of amusement came from the crowd, and my group as well, I might add. Suddenly, my father stepped into the middle of the group.

  "Tell me, wooden you be board sitting on a log?"

  "And wooden your bark be rough?" Dennis added.

  "Come on, y'all. Get cereal." This was one of my favorite plays on words. A general amusement was expressed by the group. Another person spoke up.

  You can tune a guitar, but you can't tuna fish. Unless of course, you play bass.

  What is majesty, when stripped of its externals, but a jest?

  Again, whoops and chortles of delight were heard. Dennis took his place center stage. He assumed a character. When he spoke, it was obviously John Wayne.

  "All right, pardners, listen up. This three-legged dog walks into a saloon in Dodge City and announces: I'm lookin' for the man who shot my paw." Dennis looked around expectantly, receiving a roaring reaction. He sauntered back to our group. I had one more.

  "Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused his dentist's Novocain during a root canal? Yes, he wanted to transcend dental medication."

  "Good one, Katie!" Patrick yanked on my hand. I picked him up so he could be eye level with everyone else. He was so light. Almost no effort at all was needed to lift him. For a moment, I considered his weight might be just his soul—Patrick was a spirit after all. Or perhaps his body weighed less in this Place. Wiggling and kicking me with his feet made me realize he was very real and, he was bursting to perform his pun.

  "Mahatma Gandhi, as you all know, walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail, and with his odd diet he suffered from bad breath. This made him," Patrick paused to take a deep breath. "A super callused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis!"

  The crowed cheered and slapped their thighs with mirth. Quite a few hoots were sent toward our little Patrick, who was very proud of his pun. My dad again stepped to the center. His voice was strong and deep.

  "Once, I tried to make a funny—with my usual success." Dad paused. Timing is everything in comedy. "I sent ten different puns to friends with the hope that at least one would make them laugh. No pun in ten did."

  With that, the group fell into hysterics and shooed us from their midst. Laughing quite hard ourselves, we were surprised to come upon someone on the path between the bends. Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809 – 1904) halted our little company to say his piece.

  A pun does not commonly justify a blow in return. But if a blow were given for such cause, and death ensued, the jury would be judges both of the facts and of the pun, and might, if the latter were of an aggravated character, return a verdict of justifiable homicide.

  "Dear sir, you must take care. You may place the em pha sis on the wrong syl a ble!" My father called out to the former member of the Harvard Hasty Pudding Club. Holmes stepped aside, grinning slightly, and disappeared into the clouds.

  Still quite amused, we must have been swept away with Mr. Holmes, as I was very surprised to find myself under the gate to Philosophy and Language. Struck momentarily dumb, ironically, I turned to look at my companions. They were gone. But someone else was near. Over near a wall of clouds with pastel colors like those of a gentle sunset, sat an ancient looking man. He motioned for me to join him on the bench near the cloud-wall. Sitting on the white, apparently marble, bench I realized the person beside me was Aristotle (384 BC – 322 BC). This most famous and esteemed Greek Philosopher asked what I had learned while in the clouds. The answer was easy.

  "I have learned that religion is philosophy. Sometimes there are no answers to questions, but it is worth the trouble to make the attempt to get that answer. Also, that language is expression of th
ought and some folks would disagree with my conclusions, making me question if they are valid or even if it matters. But it seems like the ultimate question remains unanswered. Tell me, did you ever find the meaning of life?

  My dear, in the year 323 BC I published the answer to that question. Perhaps the scholars throughout the ages did not accept that much as you suspect they did not accept your answers. You are a lucky woman, Katie. Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence. Keep on your current track, stay happy and you will live the meaning of life.

  To say I was stunned is an understatement. Aristotle smiled, gathered his robes about him, and walked up the cloud path toward his mentor, Plato. I stared in that direction until he was out of sight. Sitting in a trance on the bench didn't help my brain's workings any, so I rose, walked away from the cloud-filled world, through the living gate, and collapsed on the green, green grass.

  Music, Art, and Literature

  After an unknown amount of time, I realized I was lying in Savasana position, a yoga restorative pose. With legs outstretched and arms at slight angles, it is the pose of complete relaxation. Somewhere in my subconscious, I heard the three pure tones of the meditation bells, just as in yoga class on the Other Side. Slowly, I awakened, stretching and breathing deeply. Unhurriedly rising to my feet, with a serene feeling in my heart, I was ready for the next challenge. My senses were again amazed by the gravity defying upward flowing water and gorgeous rainbow of the gate to Music, Art, and Literature. The reality of the existence of this unusual entrance was manifested as the spray from the top of the gate drifted down onto me. Raising my face into it, I saw the opalescent colors of the rainbow reflected in the air and felt the mist settle on my body. I almost expected to see my skin and shirt covered with those colors, but that was not the case. I was indeed reminded of Dennis' blue-spotted shirt and his mention of Casa Magnetica—the tilted house at Six Flags where balls rolled up hill and gravity was tested severely and failed. Shaking my head a bit in amusement, I turned my attention forward and entered.

  As before, there was a path, winding and leading upward. But this path appeared to be a ribbon, fluttering in the breeze. Yet, it was not a ribbon. The appearance was that of an actual rainbow, lying flat, save for the bending and gentle flowing movement. No means of support were visible—the air was filled with that same translucent mist through which I had just passed. Placing my shoe on the start of the pathway gave me the sensation of being at the proverbial "end of the rainbow." Alas, there was no pot of gold at this end. For all its insubstantial appearance, the path was firm and supported my weight. Though if I purposefully dipped the toe of my shoe into it, like into a pool of water, the surface was broken and multicolored mists erupted. Quickly pulling my foot back and placing it firmly on the path, I began my ascent. The rainbow-ribbon-path moved a bit with my movement and seemed to have a ripple effect, traveling quickly away from my steps.

  Rounding the first bend, I heard music. A piano was being played—quite well, in fact. Hurrying toward the sound with excitement, I stopped abruptly upon perceiving who was at the keyboard. My eyes widened in wonder at the sight of Ludwig van Beethoven (1770 – 1827) sitting beside Freddie Mercury (1946 – 1991) on a long, ornate bench in front of a magnificent, white grand piano. Somehow, both sets of hands were playing the same keyboard at the same time, creating the most glorious music. I dared not approach. Suddenly, Patrick appeared and took my hand in his. The maestros completed their four-handed composition with a flourish and calls of delight. Patrick pulled me toward them. Beethoven rose from the bench and stood back a bit. Freddie (I must call him by that name, as over the years I sang along with Freddie Mercury so often in the car and at home I felt I knew him, though of course that was not reality) patted the bench, as he slid over to the center of the piano.

  Speechless and nervous, I sat on the bench. Having read Freddie was flamboyant on stage—but reserved and shy in private—my eyes glanced hesitantly in his direction. The joy that shined from his face took me unawares. He asked what my favorite Queen song was. My answer was soft and quiet.

  "Oh, my! Such a difficult question that is—there are so many. I suppose 'Somebody To Love' is way up there. And 'Dreamer's Ball.' Oh, but I do love 'Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon.'

  Freddie grinned and immediately began playing the last song mentioned. Expecting to hear him sing, I remained motionless until he nudged me with his shoulder. I looked toward him with panic when he asked me to sing. My words were barely audible, as I protested. It was virtually impossible for me to consider singing in person with Freddie Mercury. He spoke gently to me.

  Oh, my dear Katie. Of course you can sing. I have heard you from your car. Such passion and love you have for my little ditty! Come on. I will start again—you sing—I'll play.

  After taking a deep breath and gulping down my butterflies, Freddie played the intro. At the appropriate moment, I sang the tune with the words he had written some thirty-five years previously. The piano was emanating the celebration of the wonderful little song. Beethoven's upper body was swaying back-and-forth. If his arms had been above his head as well, he would have appeared to a member of the audience at a Queen concert. We finished the song to Patrick's applause. Freddie took me into his arms and held me for a moment. Then he stood back with Beethoven, and they melted into the multicolored mists. I sat at the piano for a moment or two, savoring the remarkable experience. Patrick pulled me to my feet. I objected to leaving, stating sadly that I didn't get to ask any questions. The little boy laughed softly and replied, "Katie, you're not the only one who gets to ask questions!" I chuckled, joining his amusement, and we walked hand-in-hand up the rainbow.

  A couple of bends up the path we heard guitar music. Plus, one other sound—higher and very sweet. A trio emerged from the mist—they were playing their hearts out. Two guitars and a mandolin in those most capable hands made a lot of music indeed. Buddy Holley, one of the originators of rock-and-roll (1936 – 1959) was standing and strumming a large acoustic guitar. The father of bluegrass, Bill Monroe (1911 – 1996), had one foot propped up on a stool, as he picked the mandolin as no one else could. And seated in a simple chair was "Mississippi" John Hurt (1892 – 1965), one of the most influential old time music and early blues players, finger picking his acoustic guitar with amazing prowess. The gentle, genial visage showed this was a likable man.

  To find these three individuals with expertise in such different types of music together may seem odd. Yet, rock definitely has its roots in blues, and blue grass was undoubtedly influenced by blues, so really everything always comes back to "the blues." Indeed, Mississippi John personally influenced all three genres. The music these three pioneers were playing was as fluid and extraordinary as the flowing streams in the front gate, yet as light as the pastel colored vapor that surrounded us. As is the custom in bluegrass music, each instrumentalist took his turn with a solo while the others continued playing background. Holley and Hurt's feet tapped the rainbow path surface, causing little wisps of mist to appear. Right on the beat, a puff emerged, then another, and another until a mass of translucent color was swirling about all our feet. They burst into another three part chorus and finished with an unusual, yet magnificent chord.

  Three sets of eyes turned in our direction, and we felt compelled to move toward them. The colored mist parted and whirlpooled, as we slowly walked. Each of the trio carefully set his instrument on a stand of the shiniest chrome and softest rubber. Patrick hurried to Mississippi John and hopped up in his lap. He whispered something in the gentle man's large ear. I saw a smile widen across Mississippi John's face, as Patrick jumped down to the path, his feet causing an explosion of vapor. His little child delight warmed me deeply, as he again grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the group. The mellow master, sitting placidly in the chair, cast his large, dark eyes toward me.

  Little Patrick tells me your mama's favorite song was "You Are My Sunshine." Miss Katie, I'll play it if yo
u'll sing it for me.

  He reached for his guitar and started playing the old time song. The others picked up their instruments and joined in. Again flabbergasted (I can sing—but not all that well), I shook my head side-to-side in protest. Patrick jumped up on Monroe's footstool and assumed the role of conductor. At his cue, I found myself singing the words of the chorus to the wonderful old song from 1939. But I didn't know all the words. The players kept going, and the words kept flowing. We did all four stanzas of the song with me singing words I had never even heard before. Chalking it up to the general knowledge seemingly either loaded in my brain or appearing when needed, I enjoyed the session immensely. A moment of quiet fell upon us, and I grabbed the chance to ask a question. "You were all among the first, pioneers, really, of different kinds of music. Don't say it isn't true. Yes, you were! How did you come up with your music?"

  Buddy Holly, the fellow Texan, adjusted his glasses. He moved toward Patrick and me, apparently speaking for the group.

  It was really strange. I had these sounds in my head. I think we all did. But when I opened for Elvis, I just couldn't do western music anymore. For me, rock-and-roll was born. These guys are the same. It was just there, and we got it to come out of our heads just right.

  He stepped back to stand with the other musicians. I expected them to disappear, but they went right back to playing—puffs of mist on each beat, solos, expert "pickin'" and all. It was great. I actually reached down and picked Patrick up off the stool and quickly set him firmly on his feet. Great puffs of mist shot out of the path, and I feared he might fall through. But he jumped up-and-down twice (causing even more mist to emit) to prove the path was solid, took my hand, and we walked away from the sounds of the strings. Glancing back, I saw Mississippi John wave goodbye to me. I returned the wave with a glad heart.

  Patrick and I practically skipped up the rainbow path to the next bend. The air was so beautiful and the atmosphere very, well, uplifting. Up ahead, the end of a black lacquer grand piano came into view. Voices could be heard. The piano playing was wonderful—and familiar. My childhood piano teacher, Kay, was playing and singing beautifully. She had been a close friend of my parents, my father even named me after her. With a wonderful talent playing piano, she had the ability to ad lib and flourish—things I could never grasp. Her death at age 62 was a shock. Behind her stood my father and Dennis. They were doing a rendition of the 1909 spiritual, "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" with Dad really nailing the bass notes. When finished, my father motioned for me to join them. He explained they were going to do a four-part harmony song and needed an alto. This time I did not hesitate. This type of singing I had done all my life and was quite comfortable standing between my father and Dennis. Beethoven walked up, and I put my hand on Kay's shoulder to indicate his presence. They nodded politely at each other. He stood quietly beside Patrick. Kay played a lively intro, and we sang "Standing on the Promises" with Dad and I singing "standing on the promises" while Dennis and Kay sang "stand…ing…" holding the notes longer. Maybe you had to be there, or if you know the hymn, this makes sense. Regardless, we sang as we used to after Sunday night church. Some of us would gather at the piano and just sing. Dennis asked if we could do "Up From the Grave," and we all laughed to his sweet chagrin. Kay rose from the piano to give me a great hug. We truly loved each other. She smiled in her own fabulous way, then walked toward Beethoven. They moved off into the mist in deep discussion. I realized at that moment I never heard the master, Beethoven, speak. But, even better, the three loving personages who brought me to this place were again my companions. We moved on up the path, leaving music behind and heading into Art—a noisy, happy group.

  At the very next bend sat a woman and a man, intently studying a canvas. The woman looked up as we approached, and I recognized her instantly. There was my best friend's mother sitting with Claude Monet (1840 – 1926). Inez had passed away about two years before this visit. She was a wonderful, gentle woman—immensely talented in art and gardening. One of the best compliments she ever gave me was when she stated I understood "color." I loved her like a favorite aunt.

  Katie, oh Katie! Come here and meet Claude. We are trying to capture the exact color of the bluebonnet. What do you think? It's close, but not quite right.

  After taking a close look at what they had created, I responded that it was indeed close. My companions hung back, but Inez nodded a greeting to my father. Apparently they knew each other, though on the other side they never met. But I knew instinctively they would be friends, given the chance. Suddenly, I had an idea. I asked if they had a jar with a lid. They did. Motioning for Patrick to come to me, I let Inez in on the proposal. She excitedly agreed it might work. So, I had her kneel down beside Patrick and asked him to jump up and down slowly. Inez asked me to stop for a moment and hurried back to the easel. She had Monet drop a bit of the blue they had been working on into the jar. Then she was ready. Patrick jumped. As expected, puffs of colored mist burst from under his feet. Inez caught the mist in the jar and quickly closed the lid. She stood, swirling the jar around, gently mixing the ingredients. When satisfied, the jar was handed carefully to the waiting Monet.

  The impressionist master cautiously opened the jar and dipped a fresh brush into the new paint mixture. As he made a bold stroke on the canvas, we all held our breath. Monet turned to Inez with a glowing smile. She looked closely at the splash of the most amazing blue. Success! They were thrilled with the result and motioned for me to take a closer look. It was perfect—a silvery, translucent true blue that could only been seen in nature in the Texas Bluebonnet. Patrick and I gave each other a "high five," as the artists turned back to their work. But before we parted Monet called to me.

  My dear, be sure to take good care of the paintings Inez gave you. They are masters in their own right.

  "No need to worry about that. They are safely and proudly displayed in my dining room. Hey, M. Monet, you should discuss gardening with Inez. She's an expert." The master beamed at me.

  My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece.

  That quote was not unexpected. By all appearances he did not realize he had been led straight into it. I again thanked Inez for the paintings and told her the grape hyacinths she had given me were coming up. Her smile was beautiful.

  You are most welcome, my dear. Oh! The violet wonder of the grape hyacinth! Claude, that is our next challenge.

  My little group walked away—the artists now deep in concentration in their own colorful world. At the next bend a man stood alone with a huge block of stone. Dennis told me it was marble. I briefly wondered why I didn't already know that. The man's face was contorted in concentration—and a bit sad. This was Michelangelo (1475 – 1574). Nothing more need be said. He turned his attention to us, giving me the opportunity to ask a question. "How were you able to accomplish such magnificent works in both paint and sculpture?"

  The sad eyes turned to me. He walked a few steps forward, stopping within arm's reach. The answer he gave seemed to come from deep within his being. With outstretched hands he said:

  If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn't seem so wonderful at all.

  There was no way I was going to contradict this verbally, with the man so near he could touch me, so I simply accepted such a master could not comprehend his talent was far beyond the average person. No doubt hard work is key, and perseverance, too. But, in my humble opinion, one must have talent and opportunity to be able to make good use of the rest. This was without a doubt the saddest person I had encountered in this Place. We turned to leave, as he again faced his block of marble. One could only imagine what shape he saw within that stone—an image he must set free.

  Shaking off the heavy experience with Michelangelo, the four of us walked up the rainbow path toward the next opportunity with hope. Two men stood with heads close together in apparent deep conversation. Edward Hopper (1882 – 1967) and Paul Cezzane (1839 – 1906) both looked up at the company ambling toward them. Cezzane appe
ared particularly pleased and spoke to us as a group.

  Ah, yes. Join us. Join us. We must have another opinion. M. Hopper and I agree; yet, we must further discuss. What, you ask? Emotion! Feelings, passion in art! I believe a work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.

  And though I agree with M. Cezzane to a point, there are other things which can inspire art. For example, if I could say what I wanted to say in words, there would be no reason to paint.

  Suddenly, a third person, a woman, Georgia O'Keefe (1887 – 1986), walked quickly up to our group with long hair flying in an undetectable wind. A highly-educated woman for her time, O'Keefe seemed comfortable in our varied group. I personally noticed with her arrival we outsiders were no longer allowed to take part in the conversation. Indeed, even Hopper was excluded.

  Paul, both of you are correct! Emotion has a part, yes, but I found I could say things with colors and shapes that I couldn't say any other way—things I had no words for.

  Madame O'Keefe, your background is so dissimilar from my own time in France. Your upbringing so different, you may not know emotion as we Europeans do.

  My dear M. Cezzane! Where I was born and where and how I have lived is unimportant. It is what I have done with where I have been that should be of interest.

  Bah! Even the sun's reflection on a cloud in the sky after a rainstorm evokes a human emotion. The flutter of the leaf of a small tree in the midsummer breeze creates passion. Ah, you Americans, you cannot understand.

  Quite suddenly, my companions and I became somewhat uneasy—an unexpected emotion in this Place. The artists sensed each other was on edge. That wasn't supposed to happen here. They quickly took their leave, disappearing into the mists in three different directions. My father put his arm around me, and Patrick took my hand. Dennis looked intently where the artists had been, then at us and shrugged. With that gesture the tension was broken, and we could again move affably ahead.

  Three switchbacks were traversed before anything or anyone could be seen. The area was now Literature, evidenced by the eerie quiet and a round table group which was uncharacteristically silent. Since asking questions and learning seemed to be the purpose of this journey, I stepped up. "What does it take to be a writer?" Ernest Hemingway (1898 - 1961) stood, offering this answer:

  There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter…and bleed.

  Christian Nevell Bovee (1820 – 1904) also rose and had this to say:

  I hold any writer sufficiently justified who is himself in love with his theme.

  There is no doubt that writing is difficult and one must be committed to one's theme. So, I posed a different question. "Should one search for a way to speak truth?" Two more men rose to their feet. This answer was given most solemnly by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 – 1882).

  The highest compact we can make with our fellow is: Let there be truth between us forevermore.

  The other person spoke up, more cheerful than the rest. Mark Twain (1835 – 1910) had this to add—with a chuckle:

  Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are economical in its use.

  A bit confused at this point, I asked, "What is a writer supposed to do?" This question sparked Christian Nevell Bovee to speak again.

  A book should be luminous…not voluminous.

  Another person stood. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616) seemed to agree.

  When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.

  The last seated person at the table rose and turned to walk toward the mist. Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900) had this parting comment.

  This morning I took out a comma, and this afternoon I put it back in again.

  The entire group, except Hemingway, who joined Wilde to dissolve into the mist, resumed their seats—and their silence—at the table. Shakespeare had taken the chair nearest to me. My father seemed to want to ask a question, but was distracted by some unseen sensation. The answers I had wanted were given in riddles—not unexpectedly. Such rhetoric proved to me literature is an art. On a whim, I leaned toward Shakespeare and whispered, "Loved the 'cobbler mending soles' line." This most famous of playwrights seemed to stifle a smile. With that small victory, we left the reticent group to walk on up the rainbow path.

  The next turn brought more pleasant company, Helen Keller (1880 – 1968). The earthly disabilities appeared to have been cured, as she turned her attention to us with a sweet, sweet smile upon hearing our approach. Her companion was Dr. Seuss (1904 – 1991). Remembering Helen Keller's story and having read one particular quote in recent months, her famous words came to mind. "Knowledge is love and light and vision." Seeing her contented and peaceful face brought me a gladness that was refreshing after the pall of the last batch of literary giants. Miss Keller held out a delicate hand to me—I gladly, but gently, grasped it. A torrent of feelings and information passed between us. All her years of sensing through touch must have made her exceptionally sensitive to other people's inner emotions. She transmitted back to me that we were of kindred spirits—good-hearted, loving, and open to a higher purpose than most. She looked deeply into my eyes, as she spoke out loud.

  The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart. Katy, your success and happiness lies in you. Resolve to keep happy, and your joy and you shall form an invincible host against difficulties.

  Releasing my hand, she turned to her companion with a delighted smile, as if to turn the conversation over to him.

  Today, you are You—that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.

  Laughing, we could not deny this truth from Dr. Seuss. He could not resist relaying one of his passages.

  You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go. I like nonsense—it wakes up the brain cells.

  The whole group laughed out loud. Dennis slapped my Dad on the back. Patrick jumped up and down, yes, causing puffs of rainbow mist to shoot out from under his feet. Helen Keller took Dr. Seuss' hand in hers and they both looked toward me. He offered a parting statement before they backed away.

  From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere!

  We gave them a round of applause, clapping our hands while moving them in a circle. Each gave a slight bow before moving out of sight. Feeling quite buoyant, I commented dreamily, "This is a place one can see the music…and hear the colors…" before leading the group to the next curve. However, it was not a curve. We appeared to be at the end, the top, the pinnacle of Art, Music and Literature. Shocked, I looked to my father. He grinned proudly. Dennis came over and nudged me with his shoulder. Patrick took my hand firmly in his. We stood on a platform of sorts. Gone was the rainbow path. This area was covered—no, it was a deeply carved parquet type floor of glistening wood, except in the cracks of the pattern one could see the tiniest streams of water flowing, converging—spreading all around to eventually fall over the edge of the surface. Only then did I notice the mist had vanished, and the floor was completely surrounded by trees and plants. We were at the top of the gate. The upward flowing water filtered through and over this platform and trickled into the innards of the living gateway to give it the sustenance needed to flourish. This amazing accomplishment, to be at the top, almost boggled my mind. But I recalled Dr. Seuss assuring me I had brains in my head and felt much more comfortable. Just before I voiced a question as to what was next—what was next appeared.

  Leonardo da Vinci (1452 – 1519), one of the most diversely talented persons in all of history was standing among us. Not before us. He was between my father and me, looking curiously at what we were contemplating—the movement of the water. Leonardo da Vinci raised his chin to an upright position and took a silver lyre in the shape of a horse's head from his voluminous robes. He played a note which asked what had been learned. I was
struck dumb for a moment or two, but the thoughts conceived at the previous couple of stops had indeed brought something to the forefront of my mind.

  "First, I have learned something I already suspected: that, much like most folks, I am a good-hearted, happy person with some talent, lots of love and emotion. Oh, and a pretty good sense of humor." My companions chuckled and I swear Leonardo grinned, as he plucked another note on the lyre. "Second, music is a joy everyone can experience simultaneously. Strangely, now I see Literature and Art are quite similar, though the media are quite different. Art (to my amateur eye) can be broken into three types: Realist, Impressionist, and Abstract. I believe Literature can be similarly classified."

  Leonardo interrupted me with a single chord played on the lyre. My flow of words halted until my father asked for an example of that theory.

  "All right, y'all. Think about this: Realist: Michelangelo in Art—Helen Keller in Literature." My companions nodded agreement. "Impressionist: Monet in Art—Ernest Hemmingway in Literature." Again, nods. "And Abstract: Picasso, of course, in Art—William Faulkner in Literature." By the blank reaction my companions displayed, this comparison apparently necessitated explanation. "Well, abstract art is understood and appreciated by certain people, meaning: not everyone 'gets it.' Faulkner's writings are critically acclaimed and called great American Literature. But when I did an Honors English thesis on Faulkner, I just didn't 'get it'. Reading his novels was such agony and so confusing I dared not ever read another. Incomprehensible, too deep, too symbolic, too…well…weird. Get it? Abstract. Isn't it interesting we didn't see either of them?"

  Leonardo strummed a beautiful chord on his silver, horse-head lyre. He smiled at me and nodded indicating he "got it". The lyre disappeared, and the master grasped me by the shoulders. Looking deeply into his eyes I saw unimaginable knowledge and wisdom—much more than I could fathom. Leonardo stepped backwards two steps. I realized at that moment he never spoke out loud. My last memory of him is quite curious. He looked up into the cloudless sky, frowned a bit, then glanced briefly at me while simultaneously snapping the fingers of both hands.