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Follow the Sun Fiction by Gabriel Morris I was born in a small village by the sea, far from any bustling city. My father was a fisherman and cared for me immensely. He only wanted the best for me, as do all good fathers. My mother had died of sickness early in my childhood, and so my father took it as his duty to raise me as well as he could; and he tried very hard. My father taught me many things for which I am grateful. He taught me how to buckle my shoes at the age of three. He taught me how to make a bird from leaves that would sail through the air, almost as if it were alive. He taught me how to read the weather from the wind in the trees, and to tell the time by the sun. He taught me how to make a wish from the yellow flower that grows on the nearby hills. He taught me how to eat soup with a wooden spoon without spilling it in my lap. He taught me to treat elders with respect, and to treat my peers as equals. He taught me how to play the drums with rhythm, and to build a fire from dried seaweed and driftwood. He taught me how to hike through the forest without getting lost, and to love the birds and the squirrels as my friends. He taught me that the stars are our brothers and sisters, and that the Moon is our mother and the Sun our father. He taught me how to count—and that I would never in my life be able to count all the stars. He taught me about the seasons, and told me stories of faraway places where, in the rainy part of the year when the sun set early in the day, frozen water would fall from the sky and blanket the land in white. My father also taught me how to be a fisherman—for this he knew best. He taught me about the tides, and the power of the Sun who created the bounty of the sea to sustain the lives of the people, for whom we must have reverence if we wish to be plentiful in our catch. He taught me everything a fishermen needed to know about the fish, clams, shrimp, lobster, octopus, whales and sharks. He showed me the medicinal uses of seaweed. He taught me to coat the fishing nets with the juice of the sea anemone to keep the seagulls away. He showed me the proper ways to cast a line and sink a net, and the most abundant spots for every animal of the sea which we might catch. He showed me the best baits to use, and at what times were appropriate to use them. He taught me how to build a boat—to hull the shell from a downed palm; to carve an oar from a branch of the eucalyptus tree; to make a sail from the skin of the sea cucumber and feathers of the seagull; and to make the anchor from an abalone shell weighted down with rocks. He showed me how to roll up a rope and then sling it across my back like an archer. He taught me how to stand at the bow of the boat on a stormy day, without risk of falling into the dark sea waters that were almost as deep as forever. One day, as my father and I sat in the wooden boat which I had helped him to make, and prayed that the fish would choose our nets in which to sacrifice themselves, I asked him, “Father, how did the Sun create the Earth?” And he told me, “The Earth was born from the Sun long ago.” “Yes, father,” I said. “I have heard this many times. But how could the Earth have come out of the Sun? This I don’t understand.” And he said honestly, “I know only what our stories tell us. More than that, son, I do not know.” And I thought about this all day. The next day, as we sat in the sun beneath a clear blue sky, surrounded by the sea, waiting for the fish to come to us, I asked my father another question, “Why am I your son, and not the son of the drunkard, who wanders the streets of our village and is unable to feed his children?” And he told me honestly, “I cannot answer that question, son, for I do not know.” I considered this all through the day. And the next evening, as we were rolling up the nets at the end of the day, I asked him, “How come you are a fisherman, father?” And he said, “Because my father was a fisherman.” “But how come your father was a fisherman?” I asked. “Well, because his father was a fisherman,” he said. “Has anyone in our family ever been anything besides a fisherman?” I asked. “Of course not,” said my father.
“But how come no one ever decided to be something else?” I asked. And he answered honestly, “I don’t know, son. I have never thought about this before.” I pondered this all evening and well into that night, before falling into a troubled sleep. The next day, as we were setting up the sail to begin another long day of fishing, I asked my father, “How do you know that I must be a fisherman?” And he said, “Well, because I have taught you how to be a fisherman. You know almost everything there is to know about fishing. You know enough now that soon you can find a wife and have children, and your knowledge will support you for the rest of your life. There is nothing more that you need in life.” “But what if I’m not supposed to be a fisherman? What if the Sun who created me had something else in mind? What if I am truly meant to be a blacksmith, or a shepherd, or a priest, or a bard, or a warrior, or a farmer, or a philosopher? What if my purpose is different from the one for which you have prepared me—and I must choose such a life for myself? What if you have taught me everything you know, but I need to know more? What if I sit here in this boat all day, waiting for the fish to come, and I long for worlds I have never known, people I have never met, things I have not yet done? What am I to do?” And he told me as honestly as he knew, “Son, I cannot answer your questions—except to say that I am a fisherman. My father was a fisherman. My father’s father was a fisherman. My father’s father’s father’s father’s father was a fisherman. I see no reason why you should be anything besides a fisherman. A fisherman leads a good life. His work is important, but not too demanding. The community respects him. He is able to feed his family, and to give a little to the poor. He stays healthy and happy. What more is there to ask for in life? I do not understand your questions. But I assure you that your curiosity for such things will soon pass. The things that are most important—which can be satisfied by the life of a fisherman—will continue to be important, and these foolish questions will cease to worry you.” But, for the first time that I could remember—and to my great distress—my father was wrong. And I knew that he was wrong, for the questions did not cease to worry me, but instead plagued me even more with each rise of the morning sun; until soon I knew that I could no longer stay still. I had to find the answers to my questions, despite my father’s objections. And so one evening, as we were pulling the boat onto shore after yet another long day of fishing, I told my father, “I am leaving.” “Where are you going?” he asked. “I am going to follow the Sun,” I said. “I’m going to find the place where he settles down every night, and ask him to explain to me the purpose of my life. It’s time that I discovered this on my own.” “What do you mean, your purpose?” said my father. “You will be a fisherman, as I am. I have taught you well, and you have learned well. What else is there you desire to know? Ask me, and I will tell you.” “But I have asked you, father,” I said. “And you could not tell me. You did not know the answers to my questions, so I must find someone or something that does. The Sun created me, so he must surely know the answers to my deepest questions.” “But son,” said my father, “you have not been far beyond the village before. You do not know what is out there. The sea is not so kind when you are out of sight of land. It is very dangerous. You could die, and we would never know. And besides, you will probably never find whatever it is you seek. Please, abandon these foolish thoughts and stay here where the world is familiar to you.” “But father,” I told him with difficulty, for it was not at all easy to go against his wishes. “I cannot. I can never be satisfied until I find the answers to the questions that plague me. You must try to understand. I will come back someday—but for now, I must go. I have built my own boat in my spare time, and it is loaded with supplies. I am ready to depart.” “Son,” he said now, with fire in his eyes. “No. I cannot let you do this. You are making a mistake. You must stay here and follow your family’s tradition. You have everything you need to be happy here, if only you will forget these crazy notions in your head. They may be calling you, but that does not mean you must follow… “I must admit to you, that I also once had similar dreams, of going off to see the world and of abandoning my responsibilities. But I chose to forget them, and eventually they went away. You, too, can do the same.” I knew that my father was right—but also, that he was wrong. “Yes, father. I could choose to forget them. But instead, I am choosing to find the reason for which I am called. Maybe I will find nothing—and maybe I will find everything. But I will never know for sure unless I follow my questions to the end, wherever that might be, and find the answers which they must surely have. Please, father, I would like your consent, even if you disagree with my choice of action. I am prepared to go without it; but I would rather leave with your approval.” My father thought for a long moment. And then finally, “No, son,” he said. “I cannot approve of that which I am firmly against. You must either stay here with my approval, or else leave knowing that I disagree with the path you have chosen. But I can not chain you here. You will have to learn on your own.” And so, I said goodbye to my father that evening. And with a tear in my eye, I pushed off from the familiar shore to follow the setting sun. I waved to my father as he stood on the beach. And he waved back—a sad, concerned wave—and then turned to walk up the beach and into the trees towards home. With the oar that I had carved from a eucalyptus branch, I paddled all evening until the sun was extinguished by the sea, and darkness bound the sky and the water as one. I threw out an abalone shell for an anchor; and then ate my meal of dried fish in the darkness, with only my brothers and sisters shining down from above for companionship. In the morning, I awoke to the warming sun rising into the sky behind me. But I knew that the place where it made its bed for the night was ahead of me—away from my home—and that I must follow its path across the sky, and not the place from which it had come. A slight breeze was blowing across the surface of the sea. I pulled up the abalone shell and set it carefully at the back of the boat, set my sail made from the skin of the sea cucumber and feathers of the seagull, and then let the wind carry me effortlessly across the water, the waves lapping gently at my bow. Gabriel Morris Gabriel Morris is a freelance writer living in Portland, Oregon,
and the author of the upcoming book "Kundalini and the Art of Being",
published by Station Hill Press (www.stationhill.org;
no affiliation to Stationhill.com). To read more of his writing,
including excerpts from his books, and view photos from his worldly
travels, visit his Website at
http://gabrielmorris.bravehost.com.
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