In the prologue, the Alchemist reads a legend in which the Greek character Narcissus falls in love with himself and withers away, so transfixed by his own reflection in a nearby lake that he cannot leave. But the legend does not end with Narcissus' transformation into a flower. It ends with the lake transforming from freshwater to saltwater after weeping for the loss of Narcissus.
"Well, he was very beautiful," say the woodland nymphs.
"Was he?" asks the lake. "I only cry now because in his eyes I could see my own beauty reflected."
And the Alchemist, upon reading this, thinks to himself, "What a lovely story."
I have never quite been able to figure this prologue out. I understand that alchemy is about transformation and the novel is about transforming into something greater than what you were, and about connecting to the pulse of the universe, but this story seems out of sync. It seems to be a story about vanity. A lake so vain it doesn't miss what was gone, but only the reflection of itself.
It's a thought that worries me.
A thought much like the worry love causes me. In my mind, all miracles are somehow linked. If love exists, it must mean God exists. But how can God exist? If we are merely particles buzzing with energy in a world so filled with practicality, how can God be real? And if God cannot be real, as all logic dictates, how can a romantic soul-mate kind of love in this universe? We must be just x's and y's linking with other x's and y's in a frenzy to find the right phermone. How can anyone trust the little voice inside saying yes or no upon dating someone? Shouldn't love, in this world of practicality and energy, be based on decisions, compatibility, and values? Can't we train passion to follow logic? Fend off heart-ache for friendship?
And if that is true, as it must be, why do I so stubbornly resist believing it?
Sigh.
But back to the prologue. Maybe it's about the idea of reflection? Of seeing something of ourselves in others? Of seeing God in surfaces shiny like bus windows and fragile as desire?
I am not sure I will ever be done worrying about the prologue. Or God. Or Love.
But the prologue strikes chords with me at odd times. This is what happens after teaching a book four or five times in a row. It seems to travel always with you. To ring bells at odd moments.
A bell rang in my mind upon reading an essay one of my students wrote.
Keep in mind, this is a student that brings a tornado of emotion into the classroom with her each day. A student who cannot avoid conflict with peers or teachers. A student who is as loud as she is angry, as loud as she might be sad.
We have butted heads. But now we get along.
In her essay, she describes the day her mother tried to kill her. She explains how her mother and mother's boyfriend were drunk as usual and how a disagreement escalated to physical blows. How she escaped and ran into the hall of her apartment screaming for help. How no one came or helped. How only the woman upstairs called her mom saying she didn't want her to go to jail, so keep it down.
She also describes how she went to the principal later for help. How, when her mom attacked her a second time, she went to her room and called the police. How she stayed in a shelter for teens.
She concludes her essay with a quote from Marilyn Monroe that reads:
"I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I'm out of control, and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."
When I read her essay, feeling the weight of each syllable press into my heart, I came to the quote and heard a bell.
"What a lovely story," I thought.
