The following story was told to me by a great and good man named Masimba Hwati. His artwork has been showcased in several countries and for good reason. After you read this piece, I strongly recommend you look him up. I would typically end this piece with a specific website, but his name and works are appreciated on numerous websites. I strongly suggest you look him up. And now, without further ado, it’s my privilege to bring you a moment he shared with me.
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A Walk with Masimba
The price of witnessing the grandeur of the Great Mystery is the sacrifice of one’s ego. It is to know the immutable truth that we are practically unnoticed in the boundless sojourn of time and space, left to our miniscule choices for the split second we know as existence. But those who have had the courage to place their egos on this altar, who have gouged out an eye for the value they put on wisdom, have been bestowed a divine insight. Where there once was the trifle of their supposed self-importance, what remains is a blessed symbiosis of humility, gratitude, and catharsis. To paraphrase Frank Herbert, “Where there once was ego, there will be nothing. Only everything remains.” Like leaving Plato’s cave or charting undiscovered countries, the courage and fortitude necessary to reach this perspective is, by the nature of that which is undiscovered, rare.
But Masimba knew this already.
Hell, he wore this knowledge the same way he wore his Christianity, quietly wishing that others might join in celebration, but resigned to the freedom everyone has to lead their own journey. Such a mentality is often a side effect of not simply walking your own path, but of travel itself. After all, to know yourself is to know your place in the world. And having traveled to eight countries on his expedition to know himself, he already viewed the world with wider eyes, cultures bleeding into him through the periphery of life itself. And in this one instant, he was in Nova Scotia, where night can carry frigid torrents on the backs of howling nor’easters, scourging biomes to bend amidst the fury of the squalls.
But the sun was just remembering the other side of the planet, dusk having only started to reach for its enveloping purchase. Knowing that freezing gusts could soon begin a war of attrition on the warmth of his face, he took a quick look to the heavens, found the intent in his heart, and began what he refers to as a “prayer walk.” These walks, which can be found wherever you find feet, were more than simply a means of exercising the body. They were intended to connect the body, mind, and soul with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. With the comfort of experience supporting him, this world of interconnectedness placed at his feet unfolded in subtle brilliance.
As the stars began to appear, so did their reflection, taken in the form of a thousand-thousand fireflies twinkling in a frenzied fit to be known. Parting like the sea to form Mose’s course, they gave reverence to Masimba’s footfalls and the body that those footfalls carried. A reverence underscored by their desperate need to fill his wake. The crisp wind began a slow wail through stems and leaves and flowers, as though at once both mourning and celebrating the origins and legacies of fallen and forgotten flora and fauna. Riding the melody played on a zephyr, owls hooted, coyotes howled, while crickets played the strings.
He didn’t know how far he would go in this unfamiliar, living tapestry. Didn’t know the terrain underneath the lush, waving societies of moonwart, horse-tail, and grapefern. He hadn’t thought of the homes built between roots and rocks and dirt that, if one wasn’t careful, could act like little landmines of nothing. All he knew was that he was alone and not, venturing through a field toward the silhouette of trees slowly being swallowed by the shade of the earth. That those trees held beasts and briar and dark thoughts best left to those used to living beyond the periphery. Thoughts that beckoned to him. That promised the easy life. Into the woods where, quoting Hunter S. Thompson, “he that makes a beast of himself gets rid of the burden of being a man.”
And yet he held his head high, confident in the sanctity of his appreciation for those dark things and what they illuminated. Hearing the beat of one drum answered with its echo. Knowing that day or night, in the spark of a lightning bug, or the flash of lightning itself, God is in the photon and the shadow equally. Manifest in and between all things. Awesome and boundless and forcing Masimba to know how small he was under the gaze of the infinite. In the simple act of walking, as he has done before and since, he proffered his ego to worship and witness the Great Mystery. And once again, he was blessed with humility.
But once he reached the forest he was met with a decision. He could saunter back through the field, where peace beckoned through lazy, lush brush, hands in his pockets so that he could take his time and enjoy himself. Or into the woods with the beasts and brambles and dark thoughts just beyond the periphery.
And, like each of us, he chose.