Rites of Passage

I reread this old piece and it occurred to me that I'm in need of a bridge, an altar to toss some cares, wares, and bills.

Rites of Passage

 

I am just a bridge, an old, narrow wooden bridge.  Nevertheless, for many mortals I am an altar, of crude design to be sure, yet a place of rites and decisions.  A site of some significance in the memories of too many to count.

 

Those who seek a place for their small ceremonies always, always, stop in my center.  They turn full circle, eyes drawn first to the craggy rocks below that glisten in speckled sunlight from the splashing water.  The sweeping willows that edge the narrow banks downstream seem to pull most strongly at the wistful ones.  They lean over the railings, as if that small distance will take them closer, and sigh with a kind of contentment at their failure.  The bright points of light reflected on the water seem to hold them there, as if bespelled, and mayhap they are " I am just an old wooden bridge, and thus immune to things esoteric.

 

Awareness came to me the moment the last bolt was tightened, the final nail driven, and I knew only pain.  A number of my railing posts were of green wood, and I knew only the sufferings of their slow death.  I wondered how their pain escaped notice from all but me; and I continue to be baffled at the spiritual beings I have come to treasure but who are deaf and blind to most of the physical world that surrounds and even nourishes them.

 

There was little opportunity in the beginning to satisfy my curiosity.  These industrious creatures,  so alien from the natural animals who live among those who are the forest, would cross in the pre-dawn hours, metal boxes clanging against their legs, their heavy boots juddering and pounding my planking.  They carried ropes and metal tools, and many wore set and determined expressions, as if some task awaited them that required all of their concentration and strength.  I am sure that is so, as, upon their return in the shadows of early evening, there was a weariness about them, the boots still heavy but slower and the metal boxes clanged with a hollow sound. 

 

Time passed with no real change and my interest faded as I slumbered in a state of hibernated awareness.  Many seasons passed before I noticed there were no crossings at regular intervals as before.  Purposeful activity had ceased, and only the occasional younger mortals who ran whooping and laughing into the wooded area beyond, couples who murmured and lingered, and the solitary wanderer traversed my narrow span. I still ponder the fate of the first heavy-footed and earnest crossers.  Were they defeated by what they had marched so loudly to and trudged so slowly from each day? 

 

With only the occasional appearances of these creatures of whom I knew so little, I was able to more fully observe and reflect upon their behavior, and with particular interest, the solitary travelers.  Most wandered aimlessly, with no sense of purpose or destination, and I spared them only the most casual notice. Those who hesitated before taking that first step across my now worn planking, however, alerted me something of significance would occur.  Each movement became fraught with importance, and with time I have learned to distinguish between reverence, grief, and decisions deemed worthy of ceremony. 

 

I remain puzzled by their compulsive need to cast into the waters below their relics and treasures.  Some are flung far with cries of triumph, others are clutched to heaving chests and only reluctantly dropped from the railing.  Do these objects retain their importance after their disposal or lose their undesirable hold and become no longer loved or needed?  I have observed rings, ashes, papers, weapons, clothing, hair, tools, precious metals and gems, money,  photographs " all discarded into the swift moving current and carried to places I cannot know.

 

Even more mysterious to me are those mortals who seem to shed something from within, some inner burden, and their steps become lighter as they continue their crossing.  I am unable to understand how their sense of being could be altered by something unseen.  Does fear have weight?  Do purpose and hope have the same volume or mass?  Can one merely replace the other, thus filling the same void?  What is the heft of poverty, anonymity, honor, fame, wealth, recognition? 

 

There are still others who transform their very existence by the crossing, not simply exchanging one state of being for another.  They become different entities with the same bodies, but with different perspectives and processing information in such a manner that permits a new person to exist.  These are mortals who never return; they are fixed in a forever forward movement, going on to places unknown to me as if pulled by other bridges, other altars, one after another.  These are the special ones, the enlightened who mark each bridge and altar, not with ceremony, but with written accounts of their journeys, real or imagined, and the journeys of others that these self-styled scribes perceive to be important.  While others discard inanimate objects in sacrifice or a bid for freedom, the transformed mortals offer and leave these records behind, visible evidence of their passing.

 

The first tear fell almost unnoticed, but when this salty liquid began to seep into the wood, I felt the change that forever claimed me as an unmarked altar.  With each tear thereafter I have been imbued with greater understanding, and even a kind of love for these bewildering, confusing, but wondrous creatures who decided I was worthy of their small ceremonies and rites.   Only once has blood been spilled and absorbed, and that small discoloration, that rusty stain, is only noticed by the most observant. All of nature’s creatures have blood,  but only humans shed tears.  They weep tears of joy and sadness and each are, now, easily distinguished from the other.

 

What feature of my worn planking meets their requirements; what dry, chipped railing post is the deciding factor for these creatures whose lives require such a place?  I may never know, but with each rite performed, my planking seems stronger, sturdier,  and I am more firmly embedded into the walls of this canyon I span.  This accident of location has ensured my immortality and I will remain unchanged for countless generations to follow who will seek me out for these solitary, but crucial moments in their short lives.  Being witness to their small ceremonies makes me a participant " much as a silent high priest whose presence validates the rite, and I, too, am bound by the confessor’s vow of silence.  I offer no absolution, though some find it.  I only witness and remember.  Forever silent, forever unchanged....I am simply, forever. 

Reviews

[Chryiss]

A bridge is an unexpected point of view, and yet after reading I think it is a very suitable lens to look at humans. The meaning and connotations of a bridge.. I liked the confusion and wonder of the bridge at times of human behavior and what it came to know about them and the comparison to itself. Your descriptions and thoughts were clear and intriguing. A very well done story~

[richieb]

Carol,
I enjoyed your story. Its content flowed easily. Using the bridge as the voice of your story, you were able to capture the complexities of humans actions. The wisdom of the bridge came through in its voice naturally. You could have used a crossing guard or someone that lived nearby as your narrator, But the bridge sees everything 24/7.
Your strong vocabulary allows the bridge to speak with an educated and sophisticated voice. There are many rituals that occur on a bridge from spitting to taking marriage vows. This story is thought provoking as many readers and most people do not give much credence in bridge crossing.Your metaphors give the reader new knowledge of the happenings on the bridge are far more than physical. Much mental and emotional energy is spent making everyday and crucial decisions.
Your creative talent shows throughout your story. It can easily be accepted as documentary on philosophy of human nature. Well done young lady.
Peace and Joy,
Richie b.

[Wild Rose]

Wondrous. I was enthralled by the story

I will look at bridges differently from now on > Also many other man made structures

[roarke]

I never thought of a bridge as having so many analogies/metaphors. But the way you portray it here CC, it all makes sense. Great observation and empathy. Your narration reads flawless. Thanks for sharing this.

[Macciola]

Incredible, I never thought of how it must feel when all cross it or stay and ponder. You wrote it so well and seem so empathetic with all its feelings that one can connect with it on a human level rather than an inanimate structure. Well done

[Decidious wind]

I absolutely love reading pieces that have a personified narrative. It is a difficult skill to master and you have done so perfectly. Wonderful piece!

[barleygirl]

This is a brilliantly written piece! Choosing an excellent point of view can be one of the most intriguing ways to conceive a message. Here you've managed to show MANY points of view by choosing the bridge's point of view. Very clever & imaginative. Also, the details of each kind of celebration, of the natural surroundings, all your amazing details are so lush & fertile, as far as creating a memorable place. This is an incredible inspiration for me to try a new POV! *smile* (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Carol Cashes]

Thank you so much for those flattering words. The Cafe has shown me a lot of love for this piece and as I told another reviewer, whenever I feel that I have nothing left to contribute, I will return to read these glowing reviews and get the validation that I never seek out, nor need, in my real life. I like that I've inspired you, so many have inspired me, here, I mean...I actually wrote a POEM. *snort* I'm such a plebeian.

[barleygirl]

The Café has been an amazing source of inspiration for me too! *yippee!*

[Stella Armour]

Personification is a wonderful thing to do, to bring thoughts and emotions to a bridge is perfect because it sees and hears so much going on as people come and go. You really gave it life...

I have a few writes like this and i really got lost in the animation of the subjects.. such a fun thing to do, and a little different :)

[Carol Cashes]

I would love to read those - give me some titles to look up.
And thanks for reading this, I actually reread this myself once in a while and wonder where that little spark of original thought came from!

[Stella Armour]

there are non posted on here... give me a couple of minutes and i will post one..

[Stella Armour]

There are "Summer" and "Winter" posted on here and i amjust about to add another one..

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

Original, brilliantly written story. Reminiscent of the premise of Thornton Wilder's "Bridge of San Luis Rey"- but yours is written from the bridge's point of view and looks at wide brushstrokes of humanity. Your bridge feels pain, curiosity, wonder, transcendence. Amazingly, you have this inanimate bridge contemplating the meaning of it's own life as a focus of recurring human "ceremonies and rites" , and philosophizing about it's place in eternity! I could never hope to aspire to write a piece as wonderful and profound as this my friend. I am so honored to be able to read it. Thank you and Brava Carol! Master Class x 100,0000000000

[Carol Cashes]

Well, there goes three coats of mascara, running down my face like the creek under that bridge! Annette, your review is one I will return to on those days when I'm half convinced I have nothing left of value to contribute. Your words touched me, and I didn't even realize that I needed that level of validation in these foggy days I'm only now coming out of. I think this thumpin' gizzard that resides in the place where my heart used to be might have even swelled a little - like a real heart! Seriously, I am very touched and am very glad that you found value in this.

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

God love you Carol! He knows I sure do. So very proud to know you. Xo :):)

[Chris]

THIS one strikes a chord within and nestles deep. I have bookmarked it to reread again.

[Carol Cashes]

I am currently looking for a "bridge". Nothing moves fast in the Deep South, not even water, and I have need of an altar, a place to throw some "cares". I suspect I will have to find an alternative of sorts...

[Carol Cashes]

I go to both Keesler and the Seabee Base on occasion, not being military myself, I'm always vaguely uneasy...like I'm trespassing.

[Carol Cashes]

I go to both Keesler and the Seabee Base on occasion, not being military myself, I'm always vaguely uneasy...like I'm trespassing.

[Chris]

I remember the "Gold Coast" - was at Keesler (and not as Air Force) for a few months. I tend to think a "bridge" is where we build one as we need it.

[Chris]

the site dropped a line of my response - twice...so I deleted to try again.