Usually, I keep the envelope hidden in the desk in my den. I don’t know what’s in it, and storing it out of sight keeps the question of its contents from plaguing me too much. I also don’t want to get it dirty. A smudge of dirt—a smudge of anything—will ruin its perfection and maybe diminish the power of its message—whatever that message is. There is one other thing, and maybe admitting this will help you understand the effect that small, paper rectangle has had on my psyche. It seems to me that as long as the envelope remains sealed, then whatever message it contains is not yet complete; the pen is still writing—the words are still tumbling on the page. I envision a slot machine where the icons begin spinning once you pull the lever. To me, it’s like that—the words are still spinning inside the envelope. Until I open it, whenever I open it, the message inside has yet to be written. Maybe that’s a little flaky, but there it is.
The envelope was given to me a long time ago by a friend of my family. After my parents were gone, this woman became a surrogate mother to me, and I lovingly referred to her as my aunt. Initially, I thought that I had become her caregiver, but I came to realize that she helped me much more than I helped her. I cared for her health—I was at her side when she died, but she mended my battered spirit, and she cared for my soul. She gave me so much, and on top of it all, she gave me the envelope.
I remember the day it happened. Only a week before she died, in hospice, while I sat at her bedside, she handed me the sealed envelope with the enigmatic explanation that it was her final gift to me. It was one of those envelopes that you send greeting cards in. Almost square and coloured a pastel blue, years ago, it would have carried a letter to a friend. She laid her gnarled hand on my own, and in a faltering voice said, “There is a message in this envelope that will teach you everything I have learned in my life.” She held my gaze. “This is the most important thing I can offer you.”
I didn’t know if she expected me to open it right at that moment, but for some reason, her declaration terrified me. What kind of response could one possibly give to such a statement? When I think back on it, I believe it was the sudden sense of responsibility that overwhelmed me. What if I was unequal to her expectations? What if her message was beyond my comprehension? I was paralyzed by the possibility of disappointing her.
I thanked her numbly and slipped the envelope into the pocket of my jacket.
That was five years ago, and I haven’t opened it.
I can’t fully articulate why I’ve left it for so long, but there is a sense of finality to the act of opening that is difficult to accept. As long as the envelope stays closed, and the pen keeps writing, some part of her remains alive. She still holds a last breath. Once I break the seal and look inside, everything stops, and her final words have been spoken.
Yet how long can I hold her suspended in such a state? When does aversion become perversion?
So…usually I keep the envelope hidden within the desk in my den.
But today is going to be different.
It’s a Saturday morning. I sit with a coffee. Music whispers around the kitchen, and I look out on a world of cold and snow. In my back yard, hoarfrost makes the edges of the trees indistinct, as if they have either not yet fully defined themselves, or are beginning a metamorphosis. A fog hovers just past the back fence, throwing up a blank, white wall that masks the world beyond. I turn away from the window, focusing my attention once more on the issue of the envelope.
Yes, the envelope.
Resolution takes hold. I walk to my den, withdraw the envelope from its maple shrine and carry it back into the kitchen. I have avoided this long enough; it is time to let her go, let my aunt’s final words be spoken. I read my name written in her spidery script on the front of the envelope. I select a sharp knife from the drawer and insert its tip into a tiny opening at the edge of the glued flap. I pause long enough to absorb the significance of what I am about to do, then I draw the knife across the top, careful not to cut what is inside.
An exhalation of breath.
The words cease to tumble.
I regard the envelope and read my name a second time—a thousandth time. I run my fingers across its surface, feeling the smooth texture of the paper. Emotion wells, and I fight to suppress it. My vision blurs.
After gathering myself, I squeeze the opposite ends of the envelope and blow into the narrow opening. There is a small, rectangular card inside. I swipe the countertop with my palm, making sure it’s clean, then I tilt the envelope so that the card falls out. It spins once, then lands flat. There is nothing written on its surface. I lift it and turn it over.
“Good morning.” The O’s are elongated, and the words drawn out. I look up to see Sammy wrapped in a housecoat, exiting the bedroom. Her short, brown hair is wet and brushed back.
“Morning. There’s coffee.”
“Thanks.” Sammy approaches, tangles a hand in my hair, cups my chin, and kisses me on the lips. “What’s up?”
“I opened the envelope.”
“Wow.” A moment of silence, and then again, “Wow. So what’s in it?”
“Here, take a look.”
I hand over the card. Sammy glances at one side, flips it over, then looks at me questioningly.
“I know,” I say.
“It’s blank.”
“Yes, it is.”
“There’s nothing written on it.”
“No, there isn’t.”
Again, the look. “So…?” Then a frown and an expression that could only be described as melancholic. “Oh, I’m so sorry about this. You know, she was having a hard time, maybe….”
I shake my head. “No way. She was totally sharp until the end. If there’s nothing on the card, then there wasn’t supposed to be anything on the card.”
“Okay. Then…I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I. What’s the meaning of a blank card? You know what she said when she gave it to me. Does this mean that she never came to understand life? Or that she did, and life means nothing, that it’s empty? That’s an awfully bleak message to leave behind.”
“You told me she was happy, even with the cancer.”
“I thought so. As much as she could be, anyway.” The stirring of unresolved loss, and I have to pause and steady my breath. “Her body was wasting away, but she seemed…I don’t know. She seemed…fulfilled, content. She’d had a pretty good run.” My voice catches as I say those words.
“Then she wouldn’t leave a message like that. Could it be a joke?”
I laugh quietly. “A last chuckle from beyond the grave? I like that. Yeah, could be.” I laugh again, savouring the idea. “Could be.”
But even as I say these words, a part of me knows they cannot be true.
The waitress sets the drinks on the table, says something that sounds like “cheers,” then smiles and walks away.
Alex, the friend I’ve come to meet, watches her leave then looks back at me and confesses, “You know, I think I’m in love with that girl.”
I act surprised. “With Carla? Really? I’d never have guessed it. We only get so much time, buddy. You’ve got to find the nerve to tell her.”
He nods sagely, “Someday. Someday.”
Carla glances back at the two of us then disappears behind the counter. I now have Alex’s full attention. We’re sitting in a small booth tucked along one wall of the rectangular shaped bar. There’s a lamp hanging directly above Alex’s head, and it illuminates my face sufficiently to be reflected in his glasses. Tiny, twin images of myself gaze at me expectantly across the table. “What’s the crisis?” Alex asks. “Your text was cryptic.”
“Yeah, cryptic sounds about right. You remember that envelope my aunt left me?”
His eyes widen, “You opened it?”
“I did.”
Myriad reactions flash across his face. He takes a sip of beer, considering, then asks: “And…? What wisdom has come down through the ages?”
“You tell me.” Careful to avoid ringlets of condensation, I slide the envelope across the table. Alex, treating the epistle with due reverence, reaches inside and withdraws the card, looks at it, then, of course, turns it over.
“Huh,” he says.
“What’s your take?”
“There was nothing else?”
“Scratch.”
Alex laughs. “She was a sly, old bird, that one. I loved that lady.”
“You and me both.”
Alex places the card back in the envelope, shakes it, taps it lightly on the tabletop, then draws the card out a second time and examines it.
“Anything?”
“Strangely enough, no.” Then a thought. “Hey, have you tried brushing it with lemon juice?”
I snort. “You mean, like invisible ink?”
“That’s lemon juice, right?” He holds it up to the light as if trying to look through it.
The idea is worth a grin, but it doesn’t fit with my aunt’s sense of humour. “No. I mean, yeah, I think it is, but she’d never do that—too gauche.”
Alex studies the card for a long moment, then suddenly looks at me with bright eyes. “You know what this is? This is a koan, a Zen koan.”
“A Zen cone? Is that like really fulfilling ice cream?”
He laughs, “Not exactly, but you get credit for that one.”
“And?”
“A koan,” Alex spells it for me, “is a phrase, a saying that a Zen master gives a student, and through contemplation of that phrase, the student gains enlightenment.”
“So it’s some kind of profound insight?”
“No, I think it’s the opposite. It’s something that doesn’t make any sense, at least not on the surface….” Alex stops talking and stares into space.
“Like a blank card?”
Seeming not to have heard, Alex continues to stare for a moment, then he nods and looks me in the eye. “I don’t think I can explain this, but I know of someone who can.”
Now, two days later, I am sitting in the lobby of a hotel three hours from home, and I’m waiting for my audience with the Stone Buddha—the person Alex thought I should see. Our discussion prompted the memory of an announcement that had been posted in the bookstore where Alex works, and Alex thought that if anyone could, this individual—this Stone Buddha—would be able to resolve my conundrum.
I couldn’t find an explanation for this man’s unusual name, but it doesn’t seem to have lessened his reputation. His real name, I read online, is Donovan, and he is considered a Bodhisattva—an enlightened soul who has chosen to share his wisdom with all who come seeking knowledge. For the past year, he has been travelling Europe and the Americas, and, almost as if orchestrated by some higher power, the Stone Buddha has come near to where I live.
To get here, I rose early and took a quiet train ride in an empty car. Once out of the city, the passing snow-covered prairie reminded me of the surface of the card—the train sped past in a continuous span of blank, rough paper that had yet to be written upon. In the early morning twilight, my ghostly reflection stared back at me from the window, an echo of myself superimposed on that white landscape.
From the train station, I caught a taxi to the hotel where the Stone Buddha would be waiting.
And here I sit. I’ve sent a message to his room, and all that remains is for one of his entourage to come down and tell me how many hours I’ll have to wait before I can see him.
I’m expecting someone officious, or maybe wearing some kind of monk’s robe, so when the young, tanned hipster steps out of the elevator and walks toward me, I’m a little taken aback. He has a friendly, smiling face with day-old scruff and somewhat tousled blond hair. Faded jeans and a worn, blue t-shirt complete the beach-bum persona. This is the front man for the Stone Buddha?
I stand, somewhat nervously, and take his extended hand when he draws near. A hearty shake, and he says, “Hi, I’m Donovan.”
Oh, so this is actually the guy. I’m surprised. No waiting, no entourage, just a sun-bleached Bodhisattva. I’m expecting the Dali Lama, and I get Neal Cassady.
Donovan notices my reaction and laughs. It’s a clean, wonderful laugh, at once relaxing and engaging. “Yes,” he admits, “I get that a lot.” His eyes shine. “Would you like me to go change? There’s a tricivara in my closet. Would that help?” Up close, I can see that he is not nearly so young as I thought, but I can’t really judge his age. His skin looks healthy, but it seems weathered by sun or wind. Rays of laugh lines fan out from the corner of his eyes.
I don’t know what a tricivara is, but I stammer, “Ah, no.” Then I catch that infectious smile, “I’m good.”
He gestures, and we sit in the plush lobby chairs, regarding each other across a glass tabletop with plastic flowers in an imitation antique vase.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
Now that it is time to describe the envelope, I feel alarmingly unsure of myself. How can this enlightened soul not mock my ridiculous situation? I hesitate.
As if understanding my reluctance, he sits back, and his gaze drifts to the window looking onto the street outside. “I love newly fallen snow,” he says conversationally. “I didn’t grow up with it, so this is all a little exotic to me. From my room upstairs, I can look over the surrounding rooftops, and this morning, they were all so…,” he searches for the appropriate word, “…clean. Those squares of white lay spread out across the city, like tabula rasas….” He frowns, “No, that isn’t correct. What’s the Latin plural?” Then he waves away the question.
That’s it, I think, feeling the first stirrings of comprehension, a tabula rasa—a blank slate. “Funny you should say that,” I begin—the desire for illumination overcoming my sense of inadequacy, and then I launch into the story of the envelope and my aunt’s enigmatic card.
After I finish my somewhat disjointed recollection, Donovan remains quiet for a moment, obviously thinking, then he leans forward and asks, “May I see it?”
I pull the envelope from my pocket and take out the card. Before handing it over, I feel compelled to check both sides, just in case the words have tumbled during the train ride. There’s still nothing there.
The Stone Buddha takes the card from my hand and, for a long moment, holds it extended toward me. It’s long enough that I almost take it back. Is this another weird message, like the card itself? It’s frustrating, disconcerting, but if Donovan notices my reaction, he shows no sign. He just smiles. Eventually, I sit back, and he draws the card close.
I watch him study its surface, as if reading something of great importance. Like a blind man touching Braille, he runs a thick finger across its surface. Considerable time passes, uncomfortably for me, then he turns the card over and nods at what he sees. I have the momentary apprehension that he isn’t looking at the card at all: He’s looking through it.
Still smiling that beatific grin, he looks up and quietly asks, “Do you have a pencil, a pen, perhaps? Something to write with?”
I’m pushed a little off balance and stutter in response. Then I remember that I do have a pen in my pocket. I hand it to him.
This time, thankfully, he takes it without hesitation.
And then he does something unexpected.
He lays the blank card flat upon his knee, and hunching over, blocking it from view, he writes something on its surface.
I’m stunned, then my emotions spin into chaos. He’s written on the card. He’s written on the card. I don’t know if I am angry at his audacity or grateful for what I hope will be clarification. Probably both.
Before I can decide what I’m really feeling, he gestures for the envelope, slips the card back inside, and returns them to me. His smile seems mischievous now, and then he leaves without another word. I’m left sitting in the silence, surrounded by the freshly fallen snow.
On the train home, the envelope rests heavily in my grip. This time, though, I am not going to wait years to see what is inside. I open it a final time, cradle the card in my hands and regard the flowing script of the Stone Buddha. He has written two words: “Life is”. There is no punctuation, so I am not sure how to read the message.
Life is?
Life is….
Life is.
Frustration overwhelms me, and I have to look away. I stare out the window, out over the passing landscape at first blurred with my tears. But clarity finally comes. I study that passing stretch of parchment, that continuous empty page, and I realize that there is no such thing—a blank slip of paper is simply an unfinished action.
A tabula rasa.
I look around the passenger car at the gathered commuters, each with his or her own story.
Then…those final words become clear,
and I feel washed with light.
I hold the card between my fingertips, and slowly, lovingly, tear it into pieces. The writing becomes fragmented, and the letters float away, spinning through the air.
I take the pieces and drop them into the recycling container at the front of the passenger car. Returning to my seat, I realize that this is better. The card has become something more. Freed from limitation, its edges have blurred and now stretch beyond my grasp, out, out toward the horizon—clean and true like the laugh of the Buddha and the smile of my dying aunt.
It’s words will never cease to tumble.
And anything can be written upon it.
Kenneth D. Reimer lives on the Canadian Great Plains with his wife, Lisa, and a cat named Nazca who likes to bite him on the leg. He has three degrees, including a Master’s in English, and this education often causes moments of cognitive dissonance. Although Moby Dick is the greatest novel he has ever read, and he recognizes Hemingway as the master of the short story, if he were stranded on a deserted island, he would hope to have in hand H.P. Lovecraft’s collection of unearthly horror tales: The Lurking Fear.
