The Road to Ali

Ali wears the robe of life lightly around her shoulders.

The Road to Ali

         Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations. — Zig Ziglar


         For Ali the road was never pebbled with doubt or distraction. She carried her staff and cleared the path, one booted step at a time. Neither deserts nor swamps deterred her. Thus she spake and thus it was.

         I ran into Ali yesterday. She remembered my name. No surprise, she never forgets anyone she's met. She had stories to tell but her plants needed watering and zucchinis must be picked or left to overrun the world. She left to buy a new watering can for the chives in her kitchen window. She cheerfully waved, "See you tomorrow."

         The first time I met her Mount Jumbo was sugar-coated and she was on vacation. She had spoken about the past as if she were present to watch the birthing of the nation. When I mentioned this to her she smiled. "No, the birthing of the Sapphire mountains."

         She paused then tossed her hair.

         "They're not so menacing when they're mere muck collecting the bones of the trees and fish that sought that place before the ash descended. Nor were they frightening when they slowly rose and dried out and became a savanna. Animals grazed here before they too were buried by ash. So much ash. Now they have an attitude, heads high above the rest. But I knew this place before the ice and ice dam. I swam in the waters of its glacial lake and sat on the beach basking in the alpenglow... can you see where?" She pointed up to the bench of an ancient shore 200 meters above us. "Yes, I knew this place well, even before it was muck." Her eyes grew distant and I swore I could see stars flickering behind her lashes.

         The second time she asked about me. It was too windy to ski. We sipped; me coffee, her tea. "Herbal is best." Her voice tinkled like icicles. Her laugh, so youthful... She took a sip before her voice shifted.

         "You're wounded," she stated. "You'll heal, but bruises will mark you as having lived. You still have that scar on your eyebrow from when you argued with a door and lost. And that crooked finger will never allow you to be a model for a hand lotion commercial. Every wrinkle? You earned them. Every face has a history. I can read yours like a book."

         The barista's shout interrupted us.

         I turned and she was a young warrior again, dressed in leather armor, carrying an ash staff, like the faded picture of her she showed me. I had told her that it reminded me of a hieroglyph I'd once seen, and she shifted again. "Yes, that was me, but you never could get my hair right." Me? I pointed at myself. "You're older than you think and you scribble and scrawl better than you draw." I was speechless.

         The next time Ali was chatty. A friend had challenged the ski slope and won! Won? "He got down the hill without my help." She looked at my disbelief. "Oh, I'm not always the villain. Not all roads are rocky. Not all slopes come down in a landslide. We both know about landslides and how landscapes change." She stated this in a voice that harbored no argument. "You have the blessing of forgetfulness each time you're reborn. Me? I merely put on a new dress and move on. I bring my baggage with me. And if I dare forget, my staff reminds me that every empty bucket begs for water, that their thirst is eternal. The Elixir of Life always remembers even as regrets wash away." I inhaled a wisp of lavender wafting towards me. "Enjoy this journey, regardless of how hard it may seem."

         I didn't see Ali much after that. She went "home" to work her gardens. Of course, I forgot what she told me. She was a woman-in-black, after all, staff or no staff.

         Years passed. I added a new scar when a spider bit me, a new dent in my pride when I tripped and fell flat on the sidewalk, hand extended. With time the sprain would heal... or not. I still remember the spot and wish I would've noticed the uneven pavement before I made its acquaintance. My memory — is like that — Swiss cheese, flavorful and full of... holes?

         Then there was that year of constant hunger, a dark vortex I never want to revisit. I learned that being lean wasn't always a sign of good health. And what about that decade when I couldn't stop eating whatever sat in front of me? Glutton isn't a virtue either. My life as an accordion, expanding only be squeezed, changed me. I still have the stretch marks that sing out of tune, and my sense of humor still perches on a stool in a small town pub waiting for my return.

         But before I withered and died, waiting to be renewed, I wanted to meet Ali again. Yesterday I did and today she admitted who she was at last, knowing that old-timers wouldn't let me squeal what I couldn't remember and that no one would believe what I slurred anyways.

         Now I etch in concrete where no one will look:

I spoke to the Warrior Princess today. Ali's a defender of everything bright and blossoming. She's a water-bearer. Her magic? To envelop you in beauty and make you open your heart to feel it. Her ever-present bucket holds more than water. She has visited the Fountain of Forgiveness, quenched her thirst, now shares her wisdom with others.

She said she once planted an acorn, tended it for centuries, as it, in turn, sheltered the hungry and homeless. When it died she encouraged the kudzu to clothe its nakedness with kindness. Each spring, festooned with purple pea-flowers, it fed the bees.

Ali wears the Robe of Life lightly around her shoulders. When it tears beyond repair she honors it with flames and finds another. In her immortality she savors the fleeting moment, in her wisdom draws upon the soul source of all humanity. Gliding though the universe she sprinkles the galaxies of stars with its life giving water.

         In parting she whispered so only I would hear, "All life ends with death; after the mourning, life begins again."

         I hope that next time I remember.


© Kåre Enga (29.juni.2025)

WC 1060

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