“Freedom comes with loving… bye and bye
Heart of hearts, I'd rather fly ”
Sophie
On a clear spring day, set to the chirping of sparrows and the rustling of wind through newly blossoming trees, Elsie Biedes pushed open her front door with arms full of groceries, only to trip over the doormat.
Welcome home!
Life was anything but smooth for this woman in her early thirties. Elsie's small apartment was a considerable comfort after her hard day's work as a temp. She loved the soft, warm and inviting color of her apricot walls – though the place was a bit too minimal. Maybe she shouldn't have gotten that degree in ancient history. It was so impractical. And whatever money she did make she spent most of it on clothes. Trying to make the best of her plain looks, make-up and jewelry were important as breathing. Sigh.
Once inside her apartment, she set down the two bags of groceries, threw her coat on the couch, pulled off her dress, and slipped out of her high-heels. She then wiggled into designer jeans, and threw on a T-shirt with sequins. Now she could really settle in.
Sophie, her companion parrot, greeted her with a piercing screech - the trademark sound of the long journey ahead for the two of them. An Electus parrot could live 80 years or more. In spite of this fact, or because of it, Sophie could be downright ornery sometimes – and, this one time – Elsie was in no mood for raucous misbehavior. Still she tried to engage Sophie by Elsie twirling, tipping and tapping her cage…but was just too tired to get the recalcitrant Sophie out of her cage to the playstand. Elsie cooed a few endearments, and gave Sophie a treat.
Elsie had seen Sophie in the window of a pet store, one day that past winter. She felt her heart melting when she caught a glimpse of this beautiful red and blue creature. Sophie looked alone and sad and unloved, so quiet there against all odds - just like Elsie felt.
It wasn't enough that she could earn her own living - get through the day with temperamental bosses, fight crowds at rush hour, go to market, cook, clean – everything a fine upstanding adult was to do. But then what? A philosophical question, certainly.
Recently, Elsie had received a letter that her dear teacher of philosophy had recently passed away. She had corresponded with him since college. Both of her parents were now gone. Life was short. Life was precious. She wanted her life to mean something. Something more. Maybe a pet parrot could capture something that was missing?
But it hadn't worked out that way. Elsie and Sophie maintained a difficult relationship. Sophie seemed obstinate and uncooperative. Elsie was disappointed, and disheartened. She suspected that Sophie might feel the same. Maybe they both needed a boyfriend. So far the right one hadn't come along for either of them.
Another evening of solitude. Elsie resigned herself to modern technology and went to the computer – she answered a few e-mails, checked her answering service, but found no messages. Then the last resort: the small screen. Elsie began switching channels. Images were filling the room – a female talk show host, a skinny fellow cooking lasagna, somebody shooting somebody down some alleyway, somebody kissing somebody through a rainstorm, a puppy selling toilet tissue, a tiger stalking invisible prey…
Perhaps afraid of the tiger and not especially happy about being upstaged, Sophie started squawking, pirouetting and leaping into speed ballet. Her wings began flapping wildly. Elsie turned off the TV, lest the cage levitate and tumble off its stand. Resigned to her destiny for the evening. Elsie figured that there was one thing left to do:
Have tea.
Teatime with Sophie was a special ritual. She set table for two with an embroidered linen tablecloth and napkins, silver forks, spoons, butter-knives, sugar bowl with creamer, and the curly-cue silver-plated teapot she had inherited from her dotty Aunt Matilda. Aunt Matilda may have had no footing in reality and her aesthetics were certainly, well, rococo. But there was something really classy about all this culture. Elsie carted the caged Sophie over close to the table and went to the kitchen to brew the pot of tea.
Elsie was hoping for a miracle of fellowship here. Maybe a few warmer feelings would circulate around the household along with the vapors from that teapot. And so Elsie regularly saved three nights a week, for Teatime with Sophie. At each sitting, Elsie would try a new tea, along with cookies or muffins and the occasional petite fours pretending that she and Sophie were in the tearoom of one of the finer hotels. Parrots being wonderful mimics, Elsie hoped that Sophie would pretend the same.
Elsie tries reading aloud to Sophie. This afternoon, she tackles Ancient Greece by Thomas Martin, a book that has been beckoning from the library shelf for some time now. Elsie has a passion for Greek history. Its culture is the cornerstone for Western society. It shaped millions of minds, so how could it not be the salvation of little Sophie? Well one could hope.
Today an exceptionally exotic tea would be served, straight from Bali, courtesy of her friend Rhoda. Coconut- Orange-Mango. But just as Elsie is about to pour a cup, Sophie manages to reach through the bars of her cage, claws clinging to the tablecloth.
“STOP!” Elsie yells.
Sophie happily chews the linen.
“That's the only good tablecloth we have,” says Elsie, now that she's simmered down. Let's have a cookie instead”.
She pours the steaming brew into two porcelain teacups. The aroma is sweet, thick and luscious. Elsie takes another deep breath. The fruity scent of the tea wafts up her nostrils and deep, deep into her lungs. The fragrance finds its way to a treasure place in her mind. Elsie sips the hot fruity tea and the taste is languidly sweet and soothing. Elsie feels woozy. She notices that a stillness has even overtaken Sophie, whose blurry form seems suspended in her cage without even a perch.
Well, poor Elsie had better lie down! That chaise lounge from last month's flea market is perfect for reading to Sophie, and it's not bad for just resting one's eyes between the lines as well. Elsie makes a few gestures to fluff up the pillows. Her head goes back and back and back into those soft clouds. Ancient Greece is heavy in her grasp. Elsie drops the book into her lap and the small handle on the cover lets out a little “Zing” sound. Elsie thinks she really likes that. She languidly does it again. “Zing”. She closes her eyes just for a moment. But right then, she glides the handle open. The book lays itself out and somehow its very meaning seems to envelop her.
Suddenly it's morning. The sun is opens its misty eye while Elsie bites her lower lip. It would be nice to freshen up. What in the world should she wear? Sophie is already primping – nibbling at her feet – fluffing her wings and ruffling her tail feathers.
Elsie looks around for the babbling stream she hoped to see right about now. Barren. She feels a little thirsty and a little panicky. No one in sight. The yellow earth is studded with stubble and rock but not a drop of anything. Where to go? Elsie and Sophie begin trudging through the path, looking for something – somewhere. This just has to lead somewhere doesn't it?
“Maybe we should turn back, Sophie”.
Sophie does not answer.
Overgrown weeds submerge the footpath. Then a sign appears: “The Road From Here to There”. Where is There? Elsie wonders.
“Something's bound to come our way soon,” she tells Sophie”. Slowly a dark beige and brown wall takes form in the distance. Well, behind there has got to be something….right?
Sophie squawks. “It's all right Sophie. If we hurry we'll be there”.
Elsie picks up the pace…. but the wall seems to recede even as they advance towards it. No matter how fast and furiously they walk, the distance between them and their destination remains the same.
Elsie starts to feel afraid. “Sophie, I want you to know, I love you”. And right then, a gust of wind swooshed upon them and - kerplunck! - Elsie and Sophie land at the foot of the wall. A kaleidoscope of tiny stones, the wall is a little taller than a normal man's height. Maybe, Elsie wonders there are others on the other side? But the farther they walk, the more her heart sinks.
There's no entrance. Locked out. And they have no key.
Sophie meantime is hanging up-ended from her perch like some yogi, oblivious to danger. How wonderful to be a parrot Elsie thought. A force of wind rushes past them, right into the wall itself like a chisel. An archway appears in that very spot, in front of their noses. The entrance is generously proportioned, large enough for a donkey to stand sideways. Before their very eyes is a bustling marketplace filled with people and wares and animals.
“C'mon Sophie,” Elsie says. “Let's go!”
A carnival of hawking and bargaining, buying and selling - a whirlwind of confusion. But once Elsie settles down and tries to look at one pushcart at a time, she can see what the whole interchange of customer, and peddler is all about: Each want the most for the least. This was basis for survival within any given society, driven by a need for food and shelter . . or the desire to make it rich.
Indeed, there appears to be more than enough food in the marketplace to whet the appetite of every eager housewife - spices, fish, live goats to be milked, live lambs to be slaughtered, olives, breads, cheese, figs, dates, grapes, oil. And what of the others? They seemed to be looking for something . . . more. Happiness perhaps? Dreams could come true with the exchange of a few coins - a new hand woven rug? Some flax cloth? A clay pot perhaps? Such a transaction could make both the buyer and the seller, beautiful, happy, content - for a little while, anyway. And so the marketplace was full of energy and hope. And greed too.
Elsie squeezed through the crowds with Sophie in tow until reaching the community well at the center of the market.
“Let's stop here,” said Elsie “We could use a little fresh water”.
Elsie reached for the handle of the ladle, which spooned the water into the buckets and cups by the well. Until a hand suddenly grabbed her wrist. She was unable to move.
“Can I help you”?
Elsie looked up into the face of an old crone wrinkled beyond repair.
“ I was getting a some water for myself and my parrot,” Elsie said. “It's getting hot and we really do need to freshen up”. But the woman didn't flinch. “We charge for water during business hours,” she said dryly.
“How much?” asked Elsie
“That depends,” said the woman. A smirky smile emerged from her riven features, revealing a row of shiny coins where her teeth should be.
“Do you want the concept, the image, or the experience”? she asked Elsie.
“Just a cup of water will do fine.” Elsie said.
The woman laughed. “You must be new here. This is Philosophy Town. Ideas and images are as real as the physical world here. The abstract may even be more important than the tangible. Therefore, you have three choices with every sales item. For the experience, you buy the physical cup of water. That is the common choice. For the image - our in-house artist executes a superb likeness on papyrus.
Elsie looked over to where a young man pen in hand, was designing a rug for a customer on papyrus.
“It's so good,” the woman continued, “your houseguests will reach for it the next time they're thirsty. That is the premium choice.”
“However” she said, hushed, “ I can offer you the con-cept.” She pauses reverentially over these two syllables. “I can have the word ‘water' – the very word! Written on papyrus for you to keep. It's…” she's almost whispering now “...the icon of the ideal!” But almost immediately, the sacred moment is gone, and she resumes her business-like banter. “Of course, it's nearer to the Gods, being the ideal and so of course, it's the most expensive. It's a hot item for students here. We call it the supreme choice.” Elsie wondered how the students would quench their thirst with a written word.
“Thank you very much for the offer,” says Elsie, reaching for the physical cup.
“Are you sure?” “ You're missing a big chance by not getting the supreme . It was made most famous by one of the more enterprising students of that man over there.” Elsie didn't even glance up. “Yeah, that man Socrates.”
What! Elsie felt the blood rush from her face and she felt a bit faint. “Socrates”? The real Socrates?! The woman laughed, “You seem hot and bothered honey. Socrates is always here. Where are you from that you don't know?” With a crooked finger she beckons Elsie closer. Elsie shudders as she feels the hot breath and leathery lips of the woman whispering in her ear “ Listen. Sweetie, for a few pieces of you-know-what, I can give you the lowdown. Believe me, you won't be sorry. I know everything about everybody around here. He's not happy at home. Stands next to that wall night and day, he does!” The woman drew back to look at Elsie, raising her sticky eyebrows and just as if she, and she alone, were about to impart the secret of the universe announces, “I can give you an earful. These geniuses are all a bit crazy. . .just name your price”.
Elsie didn't hear anymore. Her eyes fled to where the woman was pointing. The man on whose shoulder rests all of Western thought is resting his shoulders against that wall. He was short, heavy set and rather old and scruffy. He did not cut a handsome figure. His talent lay elsewhere. He seemed attuned to the people around him, yet still somehow he remained in a world all his own.
Should she try to meet him? Opportunity is knocking along with her knees. Why wait? Elsie takes out her purse but: Horrors! No mirror! Why now of all times, when she wants to look her best? That's Elsie's forte – clothes and make-up. Right? Shouldn't she is able to coax her looks into quite a striking impression. Elsie feels average in looks, intelligence, charm, and income. However, she knows she is anything but average in imagination. Her imagination tops the charts. She runs her fingers through her hair and straightens her T-shirt. And then:
The Worst!
She sees that some sequins are missing on the front of the shirt. Jaws of the Perfection Monster have opened; ready to swallow her into oblivion for this frailty. She'll try holding Sophie over that faulty spot. This will have to do. Bronx's average meets the world's greatest.
She rehearses to herself, “Hello Socrates, I'm Elsie Biedes from the Bronx… very much out of time and very much out of place. But come to think of it…. that's not so bad. Right?
Her hands feel clammy as she picks up Sophie in her cage. Are those butterflies in her stomach or seagulls?” She'll have to start by introducing herself. And what will she say? “Aunt Matilda has told me so much about you Socrates?” And then there's Sophie. Elsie plunks down the cage real hard. How can she call on Socrates with a squawky parrot in tow? Parrots are hardly original thinkers. On their worst days they're not even convincing mimics.
On the other hand, Elsie muses, Socrates does rather look like an oversized Sophie. They both sleep standing up. They both can soar - one into thought and the other into the skies. Maybe he'll really like Sophie since they have so much in common. Philosophers may even be a kind of bird – one that migrates to land of the wonder searching for that nesting place called truth. She and Sophie tell the truth, at least.
It has been said that Socrates is a man of the people and enjoys talking with anyone. He encourages conversation. So why not with she and Sophie? “But will I even get what he's saying?” wonders Elsie “Or will it all be Greek to me!” He is supposed to actually speak Greek! Elsie hears a mocking voice from her childhood, “Double Dare Ya”
I'll do it!
There is nothing left for Elsie but raw determination. So with Sophie by her side, Elsie resolves to march right up to engage Socrates. At least Sophie seems to be behaving herself at that moment. Elsie sets her course and sails straight over, near where Socrates is standing.
The marketplace dissolves into a glittering sea of silver and gold coins. The Bronx and Philosophy Town are coming together. It's not a meeting of the minds. But ... Elsie can hardly breathe. Her footsteps go crunch - crunch - crunch on the ground, like a watchful Greek chorus chewing their morning Grape-nuts as the scene plays out.
But as she approaches, Elsie notices her nerves steady a bit. He has a kind look about him. Her heart warms a little. She almost likes him. But will he like her?
Before she can say, “Sophie sips Sassafras” Elsie finds herself standing in front of Him.
Should she disturb him? He looks so self-contained, so complete, so perfect just standing to the side of the brown and beige wall… contemplating heaven knows what… with his eyes closed. It's now or never Elsie thinks, and takes a deep breath, before saying:
“Hello Socrates”.
Her mouth forms the words. Elsie's voice did not come through; her speech did not make a sound. She clears her throat and, a bit louder this time, says
“HELLO SOCRATES!”
Still no reaction. Despondent, and feeling somewhat foolish, Elsie gives Socrates one last try before going, before turning away….for good.
“ Socrates?”
And then: a voice. “That's a very large charm bracelet you have dangling from your arm, young lady.”
Could this be true? Socrates: Speaking to Elsie? Startled by the reality of their dialogue, Elsie's arm weakens, and soon she lets Sophie's birdcage – and Sophie herself—fall out of her grip. Sophie plunges to a crash landing. She is indignant: she squawks with fury and fervor. At that, Socrates finally opens his eyes. That's when Elsie realizes that they have been closed the whole time.
“How could you see me and my so-called charm bracelet with your eyes closed?” Elsie asked him.
“It requires a little bit of the heart, a clear head and a divine gift,” said Socrates. “ And what was your name again?”
“ I'm Elsie… Elsie Beides from the Bronx and this is my pet parrot. Her name is Sophie”.
Socrates closes his eyes again. Could he see Elsie anyway? She could not say. But since she still had her nerve, she decided that –at the very least—she wanted to be heard.
“I was wondering if I might talk with you,” she asked.
Silence.
“ Or perhaps even study with you a bit?” “Women don't usually study with me. But since you seem to be dreaming about it, we could try it. What would you want to talk about?”
Elsie's mind goes blank. There was so much - where to start? Elsie looks down at Sophie who is engrossed with using claw and beak to taste, rip and explore a bunch of grapes on the ground beside her.
Well, it's just that… something seems to be missing from my life. I seem to be looking for something else, something more.
“Well, Elsie, that's a common yearning:” – more. The real question is: more of what?”
“Yes, Socrates, that's the hard part.”
“On the contrary! That's the fun part. Yearning for Something More is a defining trait of nature. Why, we all want the next breath, the next meal, the next sleep time, the new sunrise. After attaining life's basics, that yearning is the vitality for exploring this wonderland called earth. There will always be something more to uncover, to learn to wonder. Wanting ‘something more' is the Oompapa of life.”
“The what of life?” asks Elsie.
“Oompapa. Yes, let's call it that.” Socrates chuckles, perhaps struck by his own odd metaphor.
“Yes, that's what I thought you said.”
“If not for this Oompapa we wouldn't be talking with one another now. Look what Oompapa helped discover – it's brought – us together here at this very moment!”
Elsie can't help but blush.
Socrates continues:
“People find that Something More in the marketplace with each new purchase or each new sales profit. Others find it in the accomplishments of an active life. Still others find a spouse, or lover ……or something else to fill the longings of the heart. That is until they come upon a fool like me who thinks philosophy offers that Something More. I seek the truth and discover wonder – which, as you may already know, is not always the same thing.”
“Socrates, you are one of the most important philosophers in all of history,” Elsie blurts out.
“No, Elsie,” he sighs. “ I don't really know all that much. I just ask the right questions. My own yearning never stops. I feel contentment for a little while, and then there's always another question. Then again isn't that what life is all about – yearning and searching?”
“Well, I don't want to be a philosopher, Socrates. I'm just Elsie Biedes from the Bronx. But I do like talking with a real one. I like talking with you .”
Socrates shakes his head. “Everyone's a philosopher, Elsie. I just do it full-time. Philosophy is all about how we look at things and about becoming aware of how we look at things! If you want to get poetic, you could also say that philosophy is reason breathing down the neck of the absurd. Reason is still in its early stages, but the absurd has always been with us. And every philosophy worth its reductio really ends up in the same place, asking the same question. Speaking of: What in the world are we doing here?”
For a moment, Elsie almost starts her own story all over again. She's Elsie Biedes from the Bronx and she arrived here because…. well, what is she doing with her life? She doesn't have a lover, not even a career. What has any meaning for her?
Just then, Sophie is making a big commotion about that sprig of grapes.
Sophie! Sophie means something to Elsie. Sophie is full of Oompapa, Elsie thinks.
“When can we begin our lessons, Socrates?”
“We've begun already. Think for example about this fact: Everything is continuing. There's no beginning and no end.”
“But don't you think Socrates, that death puts the final halt to things”?
“Well, this is something we cannot know, Elsie Biedes from the Bronx. What we can know is that we are beginning now to use a special language.”
“What would that be?”
“The language of the soul”.
Elsie feels the flush of a suddenly powerful idea. Her own soul has a language of its own? Tears come to her eyes. And then all of a sudden, Elsie becomes extremely self-conscious. “Socrates, will you watch over my parrot while I go to the market place to find a mirror and freshen up? My mascara is running.”
“What's a little mascara, Elsie”?
Now, there's a question. But for some reason she feels her cheeks growing even more uncomfortably warm. That mascara must be boiling an ugly and messy brew, right there in public! Elsie's imagination constructs thin black rivulets of eyeliner and liquefied powder cascading down past her chin. She shudders to think of what she must look like. Why did Socrates open his eyes again anyway?
Ah yes, a question to ask. Elsie struggle with her composure. I don't know if I'm up to it, Socrates. How can she ask the biggies like “Is there a God?” “What do you think it takes for people to stop fighting with one another?” “Will she see her parents again in another life?” “Why are some people rich and others poor?” “Why isn't she pretty like her friend Polly?” I'm not sure what to ask first.”
“I think,” Socrates, continued, “ questions are like flowers. Some are dry and scratchy like thistles. Others are dainty and delicate like violets. And many bloom into fullest comprehension. All questions like all flowers are beautiful. Why don't you pretend you're giving me a flower and let's see what happens?”
This is obviously a clever distraction, and for the moment, Elsie forgets about the ugly mascara. She likes this game, “All right. I'll give you a Forget-me-not then.”
“…..then again, you can't help not forgetting me - you barely know me!”
Socrates winks.
“So my forget-me-not question to you is this: would you like to know how Sophie and I met?”
Socrates glances at the birdcage, then back at Elsie.
“You've even made the Gods curious.” He says, shifting around a bit, before settling in for a long tale. I'm all ears.”
“Well, my friend Polly Ander and I were in a pet store shopping for a toothbrush for her cat when…”
“You were you shopping for what?” asks Socrates.
“A toothbrush for her cat.”
Socrates expression is poised between bemusement and genuine concern.
“We were deciding between the red and the yellow brush, when all of a sudden we heard a loud screech. Oh it was loud ! We were a little scared, of course, but even more curious. After wandering a bit we came upon the section where this young fellow was selling birds. We could see that the screech must have come from a dear, unhappy Macaw. Obviously he wanted a home, -- a loving home.”
“Ah yes, don't we all,” Socrates sighs. Elsie remembers then, what the old crone said about Socrates not having a happy home. Was Socrates' heart as heavy as his mind? Elsie wondered. She continues:
“My friend Polly took pity on the bird. It was big and beautiful. So many colors - blue and gold and black and white, and red even. Surprisingly, it was very friendly. It would even roll on its back and let you tickle its tummy. We were enchanted to see a wild creature like that be so playful and tame. It had been yearning for a little attention. Polly thought it was clever and feisty enough to handle her cat. While the salesman was writing up that purchase, I went over to the other bundle of feathers in the nearby cage. This little bird had been dwarfed next to the Macaw. The bird seemed to know that its friend had finally found a new home. …and then I found out that she was on sale! Can you believe that, Socrates? It seemed written in the stars for me to buy her!”
Elsie's prompting goes unanswered. Socrates is very quiet, and once again appears confused and amused. Maybe Socrates does not believe in the power of the stars?
“Anyway, when I got her home, I didn't know what to do next. I never had a pet bird before. I named her Sophie. You know, she had looked small next to that Macaw. But once I started actually living with her, I found that she isn't so small or as quiet as all that. In fact Sophie seems to grow more unwieldy and more contrary every day. Even her beak, is an obstacle between us!”
Socrates laughs.
“I guess you can say that Sophie is neither fish nor fowl.”
“She looks pretty fowl to me, Elsie,” he teases.
“What I mean is she's neither tame or free. I thought I was rescuing Sophie from a loveless life in a pet store. But the real reason I got Sophie was because I was the one who was lonely in my own loveless life. And now we're both still as lost as we were before.”
Elsie feels a burden is lifted from her heart. Once again--
Elsie cries.
And then Sophie squawks.
Elsie sees that a stray dog has taken a shine to Sophie and is sniffing and circling her cage, wagging his tail. “Shoo! Go away!” Elsie barks, and chases him off while Socrates looks on.
“So many hapless creatures,” Elsie says, picking up Sophie in her arms. “But I can't take them all home with me. Do you by any chance have a tissue, Socrates?”
“I use the hem of my tunic, Elsie.”
“Oh, I see.” Elsie says, sniffling. “I just don't know how I could have come here so unprepared
“Will you be needing a toothbrush…. for Sophie?”
“Birds don't have teeth, Socrates.”
“Oh, I see,” he says
Elsie and Socrates are quiet for a while. They sit with Sophie between them, surveying the hubbub in the marketplace.
“Socrates,” Elsie asks. “I have a question. Wait: does it count if I give you a sprig from a pine tree?”
We don't have to be dogmatic when it comes to flowers or trees, Elsie.
Well then, Elsie says, “Do you ever get lonely?”
“We all get lonely, Elsie. Loneliness can be a good thing -. it can make us reach out to one another. It just so happens that you reached out to a parrot.”
Socrates reaches out to pet Sophie, who is still gazing at the marketplace. “A very fine parrot if I may say so. By the way, what kind is she?”
“She's an Eclectus,” Elsie says.
“Eclectic?”
“Eclectus”
“Electric?”
“E-c-l-e-c-t-u-s.”
“ ‘ Elect –us.' A political bird, I presume?”
Sophie squawks.
“Politicians are bird brains,” mutters Socrates. “Speaking of, I have an appointment with the council of Athens coming up….”
“You know, Socrates, Sophie's originally from the Solomon Islands. But you wouldn't know that; they haven't even been discovered yet.”
“If they haven't been discovered as yet, then how in heaven's name did she get here?”
“She came with me from the Bronx, remember?”
“Well, Elsie the Bronx haven't been discovered yet either.”
“Now where were we? Oh yes. It might surprise you, Elsie, to see that loneliness is really the Scotch Tape of any society. Did you know that? It helps motivate us to be together and endure the foibles of others.”
“How do you know about Scotch Tape?” Elsie asks.
“I've always been ahead of my time.”
Just then Sophie tugs on Socrates' tunic. “Please Sophie! This is all I have. I'm not a rich man!” Elsie pulls Socrates' tunic out from Sophie's voracious beak.
“So if we let our loneliness teach us the ways we're really the same, that's when we have an us. Some relationships in fact go beyond the us into a complete harmony - a oneness - I am You and You are Me.”
Elsie blushes. Socrates is no longer just a sage. He is a man and she is a woman. Elsie has those seagulls in her stomach again.
“Now come with me, Elsie, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine”.
Socrates takes Elsie's hand and leads the way. Elsie is surprised at how rough Socrates' hands are-- not the hands of a philosopher! But yes, now she remembers: Socrates had been a stonemason for a time to support his family. Is it any wonder he became so skilled at carving out ideas, and penetrating the surface of thought? Elsie's head pounds just thinking about it: How could a poor, young boy grow up to become…Socrates?
Before she can say “Socrates the Stonemason Sips Sassafras,” Elsie is in a lush olive grove – the same one, she suddenly recalls, that she and Sophie were in before from “here to there”. How did that happen?
Socrates leads Elsie and Sophie toward a small clearing. There are swooping trees housing myriads of dark purple olives with branches like the wavy tresses of a Goddess trying to sweep the earth clean with every breeze. Elsie breathes in the fresh air and feels healthy. Even Sophie seems uplifted, gawking and squawking all around. Maybe Sophie senses that this place is similar to the Solomon Islands, where her ancestors came from?
“There he is!” Socrates cries.
“Who?” Elsie asks.
“Over there Elsie. Look to where I'm pointing.”
“I can't see a thing.”
“That's the idea,” says Socrates.
“Come, we'll get a little closer.”
Elsie and Socrates nudge gingerly closer to one of the swaying branches.
See him now?” Socrates asks.
Elsie can faintly discern a small form clinging to the branch. It looks like….a chameleon? Elsie chortles in veiled disappointment. Elsie has never liked slimy creatures.
“This is a friend of yours?”
“Isn't it a beauty?” Socrates says.
“It's a homely thing in my opinion.”
“This Chameleon is a master. A master of harmony.”
.
“Well,” considers Elsie. “It does look like one of the leaves, I suppose”.
“If only we were as gifted! The marvel of it - that he maintains his own shape while harmonizing with the environment . . .. . yet, even as he becomes one there remains two - he and the object he's on!”
Elsie shrugs.
Socrates maintains a steady gaze at the chameleon. “We're meant to harmonize with one another, Elsie”
“You mean, like, the way we create an us ?”
Socrates nods.
“The Chameleon gives us a reminder,” he says. He harmonizes visually but we - ?
“We? Oh . . . you are talking about empathy and rapport, is that it?”
“Yes, Elsie.” He says. “That's it!”
A flower of understanding has bloomed at last.
Inspiration has blossomed flowers of fire. Elsie will save the animals of the field, the birds of the air, and little Sophie from nowhere land.
“Is there a place where Sophie and I could stay for awhile?” Elsie asks as she, Sophie and Socrates make their way back through the olive grove.
Socrates smiles and says, Elsie, this is a dream. You don't need a place to stay in a dream.”
“Even so, I'd like to have one. I have a job to do.
“Well, then, there is a small hut back in the olive grove. Women who weave baskets use it as a place of shelter when we have rainstorms, which is seldom. It's a few donkeys' length from where we were. Just keep going in the direction we were facing when we saw the chameleon.”
Elsie knows that deep in Sophie, lies a sweet tame civilized bird. A loving friend. And she and Sophie now know how find it. “Socrates, would it be all right to leave Sophie here with you while I go to the market place to get some equipment?”
“Why of course, Elsie, Sophie and I will have fun discussing world affairs and the weather.
“Thanks so much Socrates. I'll be back soon.”
Elsie heads towards the marketplace, with her lopsided walk. Nobody seems to look twice at her T-shirt and designer jeans. Is she in a different dimension of reality? She wonders. Or is Ancient Greece more tolerant than she presumed?
Elsie turns around to wave goodbye to Socrates, but as soon as she has left him, he is swarmed by a group of young students. He is busy now. Engrossed in dialogues, throwing ideas into the air, exchanging ideas…or pretending he has no ideas at all.
Elsie scurries through the marketplace, desperate for a mirror. It's an obstacle course, of course. Even a winged chariot would have trouble passing through. But soon Elsie comes upon a stall that sells pomades, sponges, trinkets for the hair – ancient Greece's answer to a beauty parlor, she surmises. There is a delicate fragrance in the air, one that Elsie seems to remember from somewhere or other….hmmmm…could it be coconut – orange- mango? It was a scent as familiar as…her own face. Maybe it was a sign from Aphrodite that a mirror was near?
Just then, at the end of the beauty-supply chain, Elsie sees a splash of dancing light, showering all who pass by. Finally: A reflective surface! It occurs to Elsie that she is not unlike the character of Narcissus, staring at his image in a puddle. How strange that she forgot to bring a mirror along for her journey! A mirror to self-conscious Elsie is as indispensable as a monocle to a nearsighted Cyclops. How could she?
“Excuse me,” Elsie calls to the person whose back is turned to her. “Socrates is waiting for me, so I'm in a hurry. I'm looking to buy a small mirror. I really need to freshen up.”
A lovely young woman, no more than twenty years “old,” turns towards Elsie and, with a voice as melodious as Orpheus' harp, replies, “Please, I don't mean to be rude, but Socrates waits only for wisdom”.
“Oh, but of course,” Elsie says. Then she blurts out: “This is an emergency. You see, I've been crying. And with the heat and all, my make-up is a mess. I must look like Medusa. I want to put my best face forward.”
“Pardon me again, but I doubt whether Socrates puts much stock in people's appearance. But if it's important to you, I'm sure he won't mind. You do know this is Philosophy Town?” asked the young woman. Elsie laughed, “Yes, I've been introduced to the sales custom. There seems to be a triplicate choices for each sales item, if I'm not mistaken?”
The young woman smiled in simpatico, perhaps because she knew about the old crone at the well. “With the mirrors the choice is a bit different. We have three brands – we call them Beauty. Belief and Blemish – each reflects a different aspect of the buyer. Which would you prefer?”
This was an easy decision for Elsie. “I'll take them all.”
And without even batting an eyelash, the young woman said, “Then you'll get a discount: Blemish is free. Most people are wary of looking at themselves in that way.” This cheers Elsie up immensely; she always liked a bargain. After all, she had bought Sophie on sale.
“What is the price for the other two?” asks Elsie.
“That is determined by you,” the woman says.
This is an unusual place indeed, Elsie muses. A price chosen by the customer? One that reflects your sense of fairness?
“But if I'm unscrupulous, you will suffer.”
“Perhaps, but the suffering will return to you in kind, at one time or another.”
“Well, then, that would mean that by paying you, I'm actually paying myself wouldn't it?” Elsie is pleased with her unexpected expertise in this: that Phil 101 she took as freshman must have taken seed after all.
The young woman looks straight at Elsie, with a kindly but nearly expressionless gaze. She doesn't even reply, but raises three small mirrors. Which is which? Elsie is immediately captivated. She loves games. Excited she implores, “Don't tell me. Let's see if I can guess.” Elsie has obviously lost her sense of urgency. Socrates, it suddenly seems, can wait.
“I'll set them out for you.” The young woman proceeds to lay each one carefully on the counter of the stall. Elsie notes that each is brilliant shiny metal. The one on the left is in the shape of a heart, in the middle is a rectangle, and the one on the right is in the shape of a triangle. “Which will you try first?” asks the young woman softly.
Elsie, always the romantic, is immediately drawn to the heart. “This one.” she gushes. Elsie picks up the heart, takes a breath and gazes at her reflection. She stares only a moment at the face she sees. Her worst fears are confirmed.” “Yep, my make-up is gone. Tears and the heat have done their worst. This tricky mirror is obviously Blemish.”
Her curiosity piqued, Elsie quickly picks up the glossy rectangle that lies in the middle. She glances at the young woman for a little moral support and looks within the mirror. There she is again! Only this time lipstick leftovers mix with streaked mascara to make a blotchy facial mess. “Oh this must be Blemish. Oh my goodness! I'm all mixed up.” “May I try the heart again, please?”
Elsie, unwittingly, puts her hand over her own heart, and summoning her courage, looks into the shiny metal. That's her all right. No make-up. Natures own. She's…well… o-kay. She looks again. She actually thinks she likes what she sees. Can this be true? Her image is interesting. There's a subtle radiance enhancing her features, and she looks…all right. One could even say …pretty. And there's not even a tiny bit of make-up. Incredible! This can't be Belief mirror. Why, she wouldn't have believed it possible. There seems to be a soft glow emanating from deep within her own mirror image, a pleasing harmony. The untamed features of her eyes, nose, lips – now no longer clumped over by make-up, display like buds to blossom. (Dare she think it?) “Yes! In my own very special way I'm rather beautiful! ”
Elsie, her spirits now ascending in radiant flight, is suddenly awestruck by a captivating thought, which – though she isn't even thinking of this at the moment – might have struck anyone as quintessentially Socratic. She is radiantly Unique! And Unique is Beautiful ! If she can be beautiful, then anybody can be!
And then, Elsie is dumbfounded. Those freshman seeds are sprouting again. Beauty must be a thing actually shared by those who are, in themselves, unique. But how can that be? How can unique beings share anything? If they are truly unique…. can they?” What strange thoughts one notices in Philosophy Town! Suddenly Elsie is stunned by her own precociousness. And then she remembers the young woman standing there. For some reason, she is embarrassed. Her cheeks flush pink.
Oh let me try the triangle! What an enchanting game this is! And it gleams so! Elsie holds it in her hand, this way and that, and gazes at the reflection. The image comes into view. Of course, it must be her own…No, it's not. She is amazed instead to see there a tiny golden bird, no bigger than a sparrow fruitlessly banging her wings, a fluttering flapping orphan. Elsie lowers the mirror. She is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, she does so rather timidly. “ This is the Blemish mirror. That's the way I felt about my looks, about my life.” Suddenly she seems strangely calm. “And that's why I came here. Looking for a way out. May I look at the rectangle again, the middle one?
For the second time, Elsie picks up the rectangle and looks within its glistening surface. Yes, there I am, just as I thought, streaked and straggly. Now this all makes sense. I believed I looked a mess.” Then she smiles. This must be the Belief mirror and not the Blemish.
The young woman silently and gently gathers the mirrors and offers them to Elsie, “These are yours now.” “No…no thank you. I don't need them. The blemish mirror is shaped like a triangle because it's like the point of an arrow. It pierces through the heart and through one's beliefs.” The young woman does not respond. “ All I really need to is to find a cloth to wipe my face clean.”
“Don't leave just yet. Here is a cloth. It has cleansing power from the waters of Persephone, the goddess of the underworld. Here's a special mirror you can use”. The young woman carefully unfolds a moist red and blue cloth and gives it to Elsie, as if it were the most precious fabric in the world. Elsie is reminded of Sophie who is also red and blue and… precious. In the same respectful manner, the young woman hands Elsie an oval mirror quite larger than the others. The mirror glistens. Elsie can barely see her reflection because of the light.
Elsie takes the moist cloth from the woman's hands and in doing so, has a strange feeling. Why waters from the underworld? It doesn't sound very pleasant. Oh well, the young woman has given her so many things to think about, she will try this. How bad can it be? And with hurried strokes, Elsie wipes away all residues from her face. Clear! She feels unabashed nakedness.
The young woman stands, eyes gazing downward. Elsie is more than grateful and fears being intrusive, but she has to know, “Who are you that you are so polite and kind to me”?
“I am Awareness. It's my job to help a person see what they already deeply but unconsciously know. But unfortunately -”
Elsie would like to ask again, but just then is staring at that blue and red cloth and is reminded that she must find the fabric and weaving section before the marketplace closes. She thanks the young woman, hands back the oval mirror and cloth, passes through the splashes of dancing light, making her way to where the fabrics would be sold.
She doesn't hear the young woman continue saying, “…unfortunately with my job, sometimes I'm far from being kind or polite.”
Elsie returns from the marketplace. She finds Socrates in dialogue with a few of his students. Sophie seems to be following the heated discussions like a kind of sporting game. But as soon as the young men see Elsie, the crowd quickly disperses.
Elsie stands before Socrates in a blue and red tunic, hot off the loom.
“Elsie!” he exclaims. “You look like an overgrown Sophie.”
“I had this tailor-made,” says Elsie, showing off her tunic. “Sophie and I are embarking on a new journey. In honor of your friend, we're calling it The Chameleon Project .”
Seeing the puzzled look on Socrates' face, Elsie explains to Socrates that she and Sophie will be in taming training. Its foundation will be empathy and rapport.
“So you see, Socrates,” Elsie says. “Sophie and I will become an us. In fact we will hope to become one. Like my friend Polly and her Macaw Willy. No longer will Sophie be betwixt and between – neither wild nor tame. Sophie will be able to come out of her cage, sit on my hand, enjoy togetherness. I'll have a true companion. Sophie will be mine .”
There is a deafening silence.
“And what does Sophie think about all this?” asks Socrates.
They both turn to Sophie who nonchalantly is performing a self- pedicure. Sophie's feet look a bit like the chameleon's, Elsie notices.
“Elsie: what will The Chameleon Project entail”? Socrates pleads.
“Above all, I wish to enter into Sophie's heart. I shall aim to establish trust.”
Silence again.
….by taking on a new appearance,” Elsie adds. “I am now channeling Sophie's own mother !”
“Well, Elsie, I do see that you have changed your appearance. But dramatic presentations can be a bit dangerous. Appearance can be mistaken for the reality itself. Elsie, are you really Sophie's mother? If you begin with a falsehood, how can there be trust?”
Elsie pretends not to hear Socrates. “Second - I will appeal to her palate. The menu I have planned consists of warm slushy rice, sprinkled with tiny currants. Strawberries with slivered almonds, and topped off with a carrot or two so she can show-off her magnificent watch-out beak.”
“Well, Sophie seems rather fond of plain grapes,” Socrates concedes.
“Next will be praise. I am told this is important to a parrot as long as it is heartfelt and not flattery. Otherwise it does not enter the soul.”
Socrates strikes up a smile.
“We shall have playtime. I've found some extra baskets in the hut and I shall fill them with colored cloths. I shall place in them all kinds of tasty treats.” Then a practical matter finally occurs to her. “Well, I'll also include a stone or two so the baskets won't tip over. These creations will serve as a playground, sandbox, and jungle gym.”
“Fun,” said Socrates. “Maybe I should start an exercise program?”
“Of course, at first I will have to tie her to them so she doesn't fly away.” Elsie continued.
“On second thought, I'll continue my long walks instead,” Socrates, decides.
“Then at the end of a day the bedtime story and prayer.”
“I am a firm believer in quiet time and meditation,” Socrates says.
“The Chameleon Project is designed so that Sophie can be free. Freedom comes with love. She will be free within our relationship… if not in her natural habitat.”
“This is ambitious, Elsie. From the bottom of my heart I wish you luck. But do try to remember, in all enthusiasm, you are not conquering the Western world. You are taming a parrot.”
“Thank you Socrates! We'll come back next week.”
Elsie excitedly scoops up Sophie's cage and moves with unbridled energy towards the olive grove. Sophie squawks. “She doesn't want to leave you Socrates. I think she's grown fond of you. Just as I have.
“The Chameleon Program isn't working.”
“Elsie! I've been worried about you. What happened? And where is Sophie?”
“Sophie is at the hut. I've been to the marketplace to get some special herbs for her diet. Maybe that will help.”
“Help with what? Elsie, you don't seem yourself. And you look like you've been eaten by a chameleon. Your tunic is torn and dirty. Your hair is uncombed.” Socrates squinches his nose a bit. “And you need to bathe.”
Elsie sits down for a moment. She feels comforted to be next to Socrates.
“Sophie is. …complex.” She tells him.
”How do you mean?”
“When she comes towards me, energy patterns of circles, triangles, squares, and rectangles make a vibration field. This field pulsates with multi colors and subtle attitudes. It requires focus of mind in order to relate to her. Sophie becomes Falcon Fierce and then Sweet Birdie, and I can't keep it up.”
“I see,” says Socrates.
“Falcon Fierce is sinister and gives me the chills. She turns to the side and her silhouette seems to grow dark and huge. There is an ominous feeling in the air. I'm not sure what she will do next. I give her a treat and then she is Sweet Birdie again - full of playfulness and fun. She does all sorts of acrobatics, She is curious about everything. She even eats the food right from my hand! I feel there may be hope for us to live in harmony and light-heartedness…until Falcon Fierce rears its ugly head!”
“She's your Sophie,” Socrates says gently. “If you want Sweet Birdie you have to think Sweet Birdie. We try to keep our eye on the light not on darkness.”
“Yes, Socrates, I'm sure that's true. But…there's something else I haven't told you.”
“And what is that, Elsie?”
“ I've started seeing people as parrots. Everyone has feathers and a beak. Elsie confides, “ Why, I even told the woman who sold me the herbs how much she looks like a sexy raven.”
“Now that's something I have got to see for myself!”
“Oh, Socrates - I praise Sophie, tell her how beautiful she is. My longing for harmony turns to light. Light becomes the sun burning away all difference – lips, beak, legs, claws, feather, skin. Two beings remain. One in a cage of reeds, the other caged in human limitation…”
“…and?” asks Socrates.
“…and recognition of that sameness sparks a transformation. Sophie and I become ONE!”
“Elsie how does your Sophie respond to this?”
My Sophie is worse than ever. I think there maybe a streak of madness in her.”
“Heavenly Zeus!” Socrates blurts out. “How do I get involved in these matters? I have enough troubles, Elsie, with my family, with the city council and with my own mind. Why does anyone have to impose one way of living upon others? Why not we let well enough alone?
Elsie is nonplussed.
“Elsie, how do I look to you right now?”
Elsie says meekly, “Like a wise old owl.”
“Do I look like Socrates to you?”
“You look like a wise old owl…. who needs to lose some weight.”
Thank you, Elsie. I'll give that some thought,” he says, adjusting his tunic. Seriously, though, I feel uneasy with your visit. Remember who you are, Elsie. When you have empathy and rapport the magic of it is this: there are still two even as you become one.
And You still have you .
Socrates moves back to stand by his special spot near the beige and brown wall.
“So go on, Elsie. I must continue thinking now.”
“And I must fly home now,” she says.
“Why are you waving your arms in the air Elsie?”
Elsie flaps her arms like a grounded chicken.
“Good Gods! Heavenly Zeus! What has come over you Elsie?”
And with that he turns around and starts running in the direction of the sexy raven.
Against his natural inclination, Socrates makes his way through the bustling marketplace. Usually, he likes to sit and watch from his special spot by the beige and brown wall. Being a part of it all, - this massive display of “contemporary” consumer culture - feels contrary to his nature. It reminds Socrates of the many things he can do without. Imported goods may be valuable but the exchange of ideas is priceless.
Then he spots a woman, - selling herbs and spices .How could he not? She has black shiny long hair and glittering gold earrings. She is attractive in an earthy-goddess sort of way. She tells fortunes and is said to be “right on the money.” Most of the time, her predictions come true – as if she were given privileged entrée into the world of spirits. Like Cassandra, she is.
But she does not notice Socrates standing at her stall, enjoying the pungent smell of the herbs and spices – a potpourri of remedies for appetite and health and virility. She is sorting out some garlic for a customer when Socrates finally announces his presence by clearing his throat.
“I'm looking for a young woman in a red and blue tunic. She said you sold her herbs the other day, for her pet bird. Do you remember this woman?”
She looks up at Socrates and lets loose a broad, sensuous smile full of innuendo.
“Well if it isn't Socrates!” she says. “ And is that what coaxes you into the marketplace: a young woman is it?” She makes little clucking noises drawing breath through her teeth.
Socrates, for all his meaningful thoughts, does not know what to say. Were he a parrot he might have given a squawk.
“Well, Socrates, you're out of luck. I can't help you. But I can tell your fortune Soc-ra-tes,” she says, rolling out each seductive syllable on her tongue. “How about it?”
Socrates doesn't have to answer: she goes ahead and takes his left hand all for herself.
“ I see in your hand right now…that many women may come into your life. All you have to do is welcome them.” The woman leans over him pushing out her fulsome bosom and draws her middle finger over Socrates' palm. Then once she's finished her reading, she swirls her own hands around as though scrawling a message in code to the Gods.
“Thanks anyway,” Socrates says. “Maybe some other time. Bur are you absolutely sure that you haven't seen that woman in the red and blue tunic?
“Come to think of it, a strange creature did come to me yesterday. It was wearing something rather indefinable in red and blue. Anyway, I've been making it, or her, a potion of Echinacea and garlic to be picked up this evening.”
Socrates feels apprehensive. Is this woman taunting him? Socrates wonders. Maybe she's referring to one of those drunken loons from the Dionysian Festival?
“Was this…someone…. named Elsie?” he asks.
“Elsie? No, I haven't come across an Elsie. Just this unusual creature that I hear lives in the olive grove now. Sees itself and everyone else as a bird. Called me a sexy raven. A sexy Siren would have been more to my liking, but one must always be polite to her customers. “What we think in our head - we create for ourselves in the world.”
She taps Socrates' forehead.
“Oh, Socrates, the things I could create for you . . . Are you sure you won't change your mind?”
“Thank you anyway. Here's a coin for your efforts.”
With slow measured steps Socrates heads towards the olive grove.
The hut isn't far from the marketplace. Socrates is going to see once and for all what is going on there. The sun relentlessly beats down upon him. He feels a bit light-headed but if reason can be trusted, the olive grove will be shady and offer him some relief.
Socrates leaves the marketplace through the entrance in the beige and brown wall, and turns towards the grove. From here it looks more dense than usual. He winces from the heavy gusts of wind stirring the long branches of the trees. The branches are like tresses let loose from a Goddess's hair. Are they trying to sweep him away? He can't even see through the tangle of trees.
He's been walking too long. He should be there by now! Could he have taken the wrong direction? He looks to the left. What was that low hissing sound? He looks to the right. The trees are getting darker; they are beginning to look purple. Is he seeing things? Socrates wipes his eyes and looks again. The branches are now writhing appendages to the arboreal creatures of the grove. “Oh ye Gods! A grove of snakes.”
Hiss! Hiss!
The snakes dip and droop and slither up over his scurrying legs. They coil around and around him. Hissing! Hissing! And streaming up from the forest floor, tripping him up along this slithery path.
There's the hut!
A large snake manages to reach his upper body, gliding along his shoulder, slowly menacing itself around his neck. Socrates, in a moment of Herculean strength, grasps its belly and tries tearing it off. Slimy pressure clings and tightens. A forked tongue pitches him sharp staccato kisses. Now, if he could only reach the door to the hut….
Thwack!
Still holding the knob, the force of the opening door, pulls him to the floor. The snake is ripped from his shoulders, - tumbles to the ground and slithers away.
Gasping to fill his lungs despite the thickness in the air, he sinks to the floor to get his bearings. His neck stings. His whole body feels crushed and dirty. The hut is dark and hot. There is an eerie silence.
A fog pervades the room. Within the misty air, he spies floating shapes like some strange geometry. As Socrates' eyes become accustom to the darkness, he slowly detects a hoard of three-dimensional rectangles, and triangles, circles and squares. They are faintly red, purple, orange, deep blue. They glisten and nudge him and float on past. Is he hallucinating? Where on earth is Euclid when you need him?
“Elsie?” he says.
It occurs to Socrates that this might be that vibration field of Elsie's imagination. But how can he see into her imagination? Is he walking into a part of Elsie's mind? Her heart? Or is he, Socrates in her dreams? Or worse, her nightmares?
He sees a few scattered baskets on the floor. A pile of some straw, a makeshift bed perhaps at the far left of the room. A birdcage…. that is empty
And then his world freezes. Shapes of rectangles, triangles, circles and squares hang suspended. He gropes toward that bed of hayseed…and spies something lying beneath.
“Elsie!” he cries.
He digs through the sticks, only to find a human-size red and blue bird with an enormous beak that lies in the nesting bed staring up at him.
“ For the love of Zeus,” Socrates says. “Please wake up!”
Meanwhile, Elsie is hearing a voice from way far away, of someone that she once knew. She tries to move towards the sound but her body is encased in straw, her mouth is glued, and her own words are nothing but faint imaginings.
“Elise, wake up. Speak!”
Elsie's mind tries to enter the area where that familiar sound is. She tries moving her lips - two cymbals crash together….
”Lost,” is the only word that comes out.
“No,” says Socrates. “You are found!”
“Sophie's gone.” Elsie sobs.
Tears streak over all her face. And of course Elsie is out of tissues! Socrates, ever so kind, offers Elsie the hem of his tunic…. but she declines. When in Greece, do as the Greeks do thinks Elsie, and uses her own. She's been wearing her heart on her sleeve for so long, now – what's a little extra mascara?
Socrates, meanwhile, appears as though a parrot's got his tongue. He stares at Elsie, he eyes urging some sort of explanation from her.
“I was afraid of her,” she finally says. “ I was afraid of her can-opener beak”.
“We have no cans to open.”
“Aren't you supposed to be ahead of your time?”
“Well, yes, I'm the only fellow in Ancient Greece who has a friend from the Bronx.”
“You're making fun of me.”
“Never.” Socrates smiles, in spite of himself.
“I tried and tried,” Elsie cries.
“Maybe you tried too hard? Empathy and rapport – is not push and pull.”
“What good are all your ideas, Socrates, if one can't put them to use? They're not practical.”
“My ideas are good enough for me, Elsie.”
“Good enough for an overweight old owl who can't even earn a decent living! Gone, my Sophie's gone. .”
“In truth Elsie the ability to have any ideas at all, places us in the most select company of the living creatures. What we do with our ideas, however, shows that our membership here is tenuous at best. Let's work on this situation with reason. I want you to get up, wash your face, and tend to your duties.”
“What's the use? It's all illusion anyway.”
“Well if the world is make-believe, it's still our job to believe we can make sense of it.”
With great effort Elsie sits up. “I'm sorry for what I said before.” She shrugs. “ It was terrible of me.”
“It's all right. I'm used to insults”
Elsie sees and walks over to Sophie's cage on the other side of the room. She carefully and tenderly picks up a sprig of grapes on the bottom of the cage. “Sophie loved these --what's left of them anyway.” Elsie holds one of the chewed remnants in her hand. It becomes flat . . …and then, before her very eyes, the sprig changes into the shape of a heart. She turns the heart over. “It's a mirror! Just like the one in the marketplace.
Socrates: Look! This is the Beauty mirror. I wonder if I'll see something beautiful?”
Elsie looks into the shiny metal.
“Sophie!”
“She's never left you Elsie. She's with you in another dimension.”
“How can that be?”
“Everyone has a Sophie.”
“ But….I don't understand.”
.
“ Sophie is another name for wisdom after all. She flies between the heavens and earth – a messenger of the divine.”
Elsie reaches out to touch Sophie but her hand goes right through Sophie's image.
“She's filled with light.”
“We all are. But it's difficult to see.”
“Why is that, Socrates”?
“Shadows dim our view.”
Socrates steps back a little. “Sophie sits on your shoulder so she can whisper in your ear. Listen to the quiet you will hear her.”
“Oh, why didn't you tell me this before Socrates? Tell me more.”
“Sophie goes by many names. Myself, I'm used to calling her ‘Intuition,' but I may just have to call her Sophie from now on.”
“Why couldn't I see this for myself?”
“We were caught in your dream.”
“How did we get free”?
“You must understand that some hearts are not to be captured, or rescued, or tamed. You had to experience Sophie's loss– painful as it was. Perhaps, just perhaps our own hearts are not to be tamed either. The hearts of Socrates and Elsie. What do you think?”
Elsie thinks.
“ I must go now,” says Socrates, before Elsie can answer. My Sophie is going to show me the way to my new home.”
“Oh take me with you, Socrates. I will follow you anywhere.”
“Go home, Elsie Biedes from the Bronx. Sophie and I will always be with you – in your heart”.
Socrates with Sophie perched radiantly on his shoulder, glides back into darkness -- away from Elsie, away from the room, into some other space, that may be some other dream.
Elsie tries to run after Socrates and Sophie as the two fade into only a glimmer….
Elsie opens her eyes to find Sophie intently staring at her.
“You're here!
Elsie notices that the teacup and saucer have fallen to the ground and have broken into jagged pieces. The tea stains form patterns of melting flowers on the front of Elsie's sequined T-shirt and designer jeans. Ancient Greece is askew. - half on the floor and half balancing on the leg of the chaise.
“I must have fallen asleep. That's not very polite at a tea party, now is it?”
Sophie squawks.
“You know, Sophie, I had the most remarkable dream. I dreamt that you are a special bird – more special than I ever imagined.”
Sophie is flapping her wings, and screeches for Elsie's attention. She is balancing one leg on her perch; the other is up on the side of her cage.
“Look at you Sophie! The splits! You're are more special than I ever imagined!” And yet there is something I must tell you.”
Elsie hands Sophie a couple of sunflower seeds.
“Sophie,” Elsie begins. “Other people seem at ease with companion birds, but that's other people. You're such a wonderful creature. You're smart and gifted in so many ways. You can see ultra-violet, you can be bi-lingual, you understand the earth's magnetic field, you're beautiful, and most of all: You can fly.”
Elsie moves closer toward Sophie in her cage.
“Still the fact remains, Sophie, that I'm the boss. And you seem to resent that. But in another sense, we are both boss and both captured – by our fate. You were bred to be tamed. The magic of being tame is that the more you attune yourself to me, the more independent you can live here. You will be able to come out of your cage, to fly around the room, to have play dates, maybe even to go outside with me. But right now, you're going to have to live under house rules. And soon we will both learn how to live, harmoniously, together…and apart.”
Elsie gives Sophie's cage a gentle tap a reassuring gesture of affection.
“You know what Sophie?” says Elsie. “ I can't let you fly free. But we can be free. Freedom is in you and me – in us.
I so much want us to be close and love one another. I know you do too.”
Elsie gets up from her chair. She gently puts the broken pieces of cup and saucer with teapot on the tray and makes her way towards the kitchen.
“I'm hoping to live in the dream,” she calls out to Sophie, “ that often times comes true – in which the wonders of nature and the civilizing forces of man - unite in perfect harmony . . . “
Sophie reaches through the bars of her cage. Her claws cling onto the tablecloth. Pulling it every so slightly, the plate of cookies falls to the floor with a crash.
“It's OK, Sophie. It's just a plate! And every cookie leaves a crumb. I love you! No matter what.”
“ELSIE!”
This greeting of the higher primates - a symbol of civility, reverberates out the window, through the night and the day, over oceans and mountains and foreign lands to the Solomon Islands, up to the stars, through the Phoenix constellation, to the edges of the universe and back down to….Elsie in the Bronx and to Sophie in her cage.
“Oh Sophie! Hello! Hello! Where did that come from? My Sweet Birdie! Your First Word!”
And so, together but apart, Elsie and Sophie try their best to live with one another.
Elsie continues on to the kitchen. She knows that coconut-orange-mango is for very special occasions. And for a little while at least, she sees Sophie and the world in a whole new light.