It was a pleasant night, as I boarded the carriage with my companion. So entranced by her enchanting presence that I paid little attention the the uneasy whinny of the horse, nor to the snide gaze of the coachman. The night was young, full of possibilities. There was a subtle glow and magic to everything. All was new, wonderful, and full of beauty. An enthralling evening it was. The coachman drove us down switchbacks from the city to the shores of a placid lake, thawing in the gradual easing from Winter into Spring--and easing from it, a light and gentle fog that caught the glow of my companion. We'd packed a light meal, which scarcely went touched in favour of the enchanting and engrossing conversation. A sip now and then of the wine we'd brought bid our moods sustenance, not that our moods seemed to need it; it was subtle enhancement, but hardly necessary. And my love and grace spoke to me for hours. I heard of life, love, suffering, pain, experience and growth, and more life and love. She spoke to me of the world seen, and the world unseen. More to the point, she spoke in not so many words of herself, viewed through the lens of her experiences. She told me of her nature, her kindness, her wrath, and her capacity for overwhelming love. While she spoke to my mind of many equally fascinating realities, some of which I'd never considered, everything she said spoke to me of the nature of her, the kind of creature she was. I learned the nature of angels, that night, sheltered beneath her gentle wing. The night wore on, and eventually the time came upon us to leave the lake. We mounted the carriage again, to go home. Me, to my cottage, her to the heavens she inhabits, by way of a small, wooded path off the main road, atop the cliffs and leading into a forest, the path hardly visible to anyone not priorly aware of its existence. The carriage stopped at her destination, the wood being closer to the lake than my cottage. And in that moment as she descended from the carriage, and I to see her off, there was a silence. Breaking the silence, the horse did whinny again, and I stole a glance toward it. In doing so, my gaze was caught by the coachman's eyes, which bade me silence. And silent I was. I spoke naught of the evening, nor of my vast love for my beloved angel, who had brought me so much joy and asked for nothing in return. I wanted desperately to do so, and again, the horse did neigh, and in looking that direction at the distraction, I did again catch the coachman's gaze, which said, "Beware," without a sound from his lips. And equally unnerving, the baleful gaze of the steed did sow unrest in my soul. And in admiring silence, I bade her good eve, with a doff of my cap and a bow of respect. In silence, I watched her glide gracefully into the wood, lighting the landscape like nothing I'd ever witnessed. And I spoke not a word, but rather glanced back at both horse and coachman, who looked a bit smug, if memory serves. I boarded the carriage again, and rode to my cottage at a relaxing clip, mind racing over the beauty of the evening. Conscious thought seemed to leave my mind, as my subconscious played over the delight and sheer beauty of the evening's magnificent beauty. Upon arriving at my cottage, I disembarked, and surveyed my surroundings quickly, regaining my bearings as I unwillingly dragged myself from the reverie I'd entertained on the trip. I stepped up to pay the coachman, and stopped dead in my tracks. I looked at the horse, and saw his eyes gleaming in the darkness, staring at me balefully, yet with a mocking air of contempt that chilled me to the core. I realised then, as I had not before. Starting the trip, I had paid little attention to horse nor coachman. Recognition stirred within my splendour-addled brain, as I gazed upon them now. For the horse was none other than Fear, with the power to pull me; the coachman, none other than Insecurity himself, my constant guide and companion. How I failed to recognise them sooner, I know not; but fail I did, in all the splendour usually reserved for such failings and pratfalls of the human spirit. I paid the coachman his wage, and edged away slowly, watching the carriage as it rattled off, sounding supremely confident in a job well done, the wheels clacking against the cobblestones of my cottage's approachway like nails being tapped into the lid of a coffin. I wandered into my home, still stunned. A recollection of the night's events replayed themselves in my mind's eye. I poured myself a stiff drink, for surely I was to need it. Where those two empty and soulless companions have trod, never have I experienced a moment's unadulterated peace. Peace, yes. But always tainted by their presence. I know them of old, and they plague me like a blight upon the soul. It was about half past my third glass of brandy that I realised what I had done. Or rather, not done. Upon reflection, I knew it at the time. There comes a time in every branching of paths when decisions are made. Into that gap, often step these two merciless destroyers of dreams. And I realised how they had played me for a fool. Long have I prayed to my angel--for comfort, for wisdom, for constant companionship upon my journeys in this life. I have grown to love the delicate creature that she is, respect her counsel, and take comfort beneath her sheltering wings. Long have I wished to tell her in person what I have expressed in supplication many a time...that I admire her grace, her charm, her benevolence, and her mercy. But most of all, perhaps, to express my most profound love for the beauty that she is. Yet, upon the moment of decision, that singular moment of choice, my mind hesitated, and my eternal nemeses distracted me, sealing my fate. Why had I tarried? It was important to me, moreso in the soft shadow of what we shared that evening than ever in mere prayer, that she know of the beauty, grace, and salvation she was to me. And yet, I remained silent. Was it just as important to her to hear my expression of thanks for her very existence, much less her deeds? I know not. I dared not presume. I feared not the judgement of angels, but the withdrawal of their favour due to any presumptuousness with which I may have pressed onwards at the time. And I think, deep inside, I feared that I was not worthy of the direct grace of angels, and would not receive it. For prayer is one thing, but the physical manifestation is quite another. And how I craved the grace of angels to be bestowed upon me, and my sincere admiration to be appreciated, such were both my vanity and insecurity. Did my angel care to hear my plea in person? I knew not. I knew I craved her blessing, which was, perhaps, an impure motive which might divest me of any worthiness. And still I craved it as a drowning man craves a sip of blessed, clear water. I stayed my tongue, as I considered all the myriad possibilities. The gazes of the horse and coachman had sealed the moment with a thud like the closing of a casket. I heard it not at the time the sound was made, but clearly distinguished its echoes amongst the surroundings of my study, as I sat, sipping brandy, and wondering if I had sinned beyond forgiveness. Now, as the hour grows late, and I have considered my actions and the price they may cost, I have reached a resolution to pray for guidance from my angel, that I might better know how to serve. Damn the interlopers! Infernal beasts and charlatans, with their unwanted intrusions into my life. That I let them seal the fate of my indecision was unconscionable. So yes, I pray for guidance, that I may know how best to serve the angel whose soft and benevolent care and love have overshadowed me for some time. And as I pray, and wait for answers, wishing they would come forthwith but knowing that they will likely come in the fullness of time, I cannot help but wonder which would have been the greater sin--to remain silent out of respect, or to risk unworthiness, expressing my appreciation, gratitude, and love directly in her presence, as the opportunity presented itself. I cannot know. But I pray for salvation, and live in hope.
