The Mind of God, The City of Men
Whispers of the Mill
I was born not far from an ancient mill that stood defiantly against the march of time, its weathered stones and creaking timbers a testament to an era long past. The mill ground wheat long after the rebellious machina of the Industrial Revolution had shaken the world to apathy and madness with their false perfection.
The stones of the grinding wheels calmed my afternoons as I spent days studying the intricacies of light on the skin of grass and water. The rasping of stone on stone was the music I sang to in the summer months, as I sat often with my ear to the side of the mill, my feet in the water, and my head in the heavens.
The people of our town always questioned the reluctance of the miller to surrender to modernity but never openly, for every town has secrets that are more alluring when they remain unspoken. The miller, a tall, gaunt man named Elias, was as much a part of the mill as the stones themselves.
His eyes held the weight of countless sunsets, and his hands bore the calluses of endless labor. Stranger still was the constant grinding, as the source of the grain he milled was yet to be found, though his activities were under hidden observation by more than a few townspeople.
Still, he produced quantities of a coarse, brown flour, which I, too, observed carefully that was taken away each late summer morning by a gentleman in a cream-colored suit. This gentleman, whom the townsfolk referred to as Mr. Aster, was a figure of elegance and mystery.
His presence contrasted sharply with the rustic simplicity of our village, and his connection to the miller was a topic of whispered speculation.
But that sound. The faraway sound of the mill was like butterflies kissing; it hovered and danced, brushed against the surface of my skin, and passed directly through me. In the evenings, the mild rasp would gently pressure me home, lifting me with cottony fingers that gathered around my stilted frame and led me from the site holy to my ears alone.
Though I slept in a bed a mile and a half from the mill, I could still hear the echo of the day’s churning as it savored the heat of my room and spent the night with me. It would sometimes call my name.
Echoes in the Church
At the age of ten, I found myself drawn to the old stone church that stood at the heart of our village, its spire reaching towards the clouds like a beckoning finger. What turned me towards religion was not the brokered sense of community or the depth of its philosophy but a single event that caught me at the precise moment of my veiled living ambiguity.
One morning, I sat alone in a smoothly worn pew, infused with a sense of passion I have never found again.
An orchestra was practicing by the altar for a performance that evening, and I was the only soul without the momentary artistic vision of minstrelsy. As I glanced up towards the ceiling, I began to read the gilt carving of the Lord’s Prayer, a precise and brilliant painting against the dark wooden slab upon which the letters rested in their own shadow.
Suddenly, the musicians burst into “Veni, Creator Spiritus,” a dark and strenuous piece conducted by a visiting maestro whose name I never learned.
The slow introduction sifted a hint of belief onto my shoulders as I silently recited line after line in the rote I had learned through youth. The music was the glamour of being, making me wish I were inside the circle of players and a part of the elegance their style created from breath and motion.
The words of the prayer held me as the melody assumed a more courageous and striking nature, moving the halls of the church itself, working its way into every dark crevice the church contained.
I felt a firmness in my soul as I finished the prayer, an understanding of the fall and rise of the sun, even the hidden meaning of color. In one instant of melody, I was unraveling the secrets of a world far more simple than anyone could ever believe.
The prayer was the introduction to a body of work one can understand but never read, and the music was the voice of God. Through it, I began to believe in myself as well as the world.
CShadows and Light
As the years passed, I grew to heroic proportion in the vague light of parent and plebe. I had no real friends but the world itself, and I was a student of sights and sounds, never letting a single observation escape my mental description. I outgrew my bed, my parents, and then my life.
Not the joy of it, mind you, but the experience of living began to pale in the shadow of all that I saw. The fraction of existence I had was nothing compared to the immensity of the world and the careful designs I saw in its structure.
Within the heart of a compelling and cruel obsession, the call to experience the non-binding intricacies of the world was greater than the respect I gave myself. I wanted to see all that was not essential yet still apparent, the mind of the whole instead of its moving parts.
The complexities of youth were the beginning of a long exploration that brought me to a greater understanding of my purpose and why that purpose was given to me.
I spent countless hours observing the interplay of shadows and light, the way the sun filtered through the leaves, casting dancing patterns on the ground. I became fascinated with the concept of chiaroscuro, the stark contrast of light and dark that Renaissance painters used to evoke emotion.
I learned that Caravaggio used shadows not just to conceal but to highlight the divine within the mundane. This obscure knowledge fueled my own interpretations of the world around me.
The Mysterious Flour
Every day, I spent at least partly in the proximity of the mill. The darkening wood made a fascinating journey of discoloration on its walls. The whorls curved in on themselves and threaded their way into the heart of a board, across the edge, and back through until they met to test the edge of another board.
It was like the introduction of waters where rivers converge.
The townspeople continued to wonder about the miller’s activities. The source of his grain remained a mystery, and the fact that he refused to modernize only deepened their curiosity.
Some whispered that he was grinding more than just wheat, that perhaps he was involved in alchemy or darker arts. The flour he produced was coarse and brown, unlike any other, and it was said to have peculiar properties.
I observed Mr. Aster, the gentleman in the cream-colored suit, who arrived each late summer morning to collect the flour. His presence was as enigmatic as the miller himself. He moved with a grace that seemed out of place in our humble village, his polished shoes never seeming to accumulate dust.
I once overheard the blacksmith say that Mr. Aster’s shadow didn’t follow the laws of nature, that it moved independently of him.
The Gentleman in Cream
Intrigued, I decided to learn more about Mr. Aster. One morning, I hid behind the gnarled roots of an ancient oak near the mill, waiting for his arrival. As the sun cast long shadows across the dewy grass, he appeared, walking with measured steps along the path. I noticed that, indeed, his shadow seemed to ripple, as if cast upon water instead of solid ground.
Gathering courage, I stepped out from my hiding place as he loaded sacks of flour into a horse-drawn carriage. “Sir,” I called out hesitantly. He turned slowly, his eyes a piercing shade of grey that seemed to look through me rather than at me.
“Yes?” he replied, his voice smooth like silk yet carrying an undertone of something ancient.
“I… I was wondering where you take the flour,” I stammered.
He studied me for a moment before a faint smile curled his lips. “To a place where it is needed,” he said enigmatically. “Tell me, do you often spend your time observing others?”
Embarrassed, I looked down. “I observe everything,” I admitted.
“Observation is the key to understanding,” he mused. “But be cautious. Some things are hidden for a reason.”
With that, he climbed into his carriage and flicked the reins, the horses trotting away as the wheels left barely a trace on the dirt path. I watched until he disappeared into the horizon, the morning mist swallowing him whole.
Unveiling the Secrets
His words lingered with me, fueling my curiosity. I became determined to uncover the secrets of the mill and its enigmatic visitors. One night, under the guise of darkness, I crept towards the mill.
The moon hung low, casting elongated shadows that seemed to reach out like fingers. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and freshly ground flour.
I found a small window at the back of the mill, just large enough to peer through. Inside, the miller was hunched over a table covered in strange symbols and diagrams. Illuminated by the flickering light of a solitary candle, he seemed to be in a trance, his hands moving methodically as he arranged grains of wheat into intricate patterns.
Among the items on the table was an astrolabe, an ancient instrument used by astronomers and navigators to measure the inclined position of celestial bodies. Such an object was uncommon, especially for a miller.
I recalled reading about how astrolabes were considered by some medieval scholars to be tools that could unlock the secrets of the universe.
As I watched, a soft hum filled the air, resonating from the grindstone. It was unlike the usual rasping sound, instead, it carried a melodic tone that seemed to vibrate within my very bones.
The shadows within the mill began to shift, not in response to the candlelight but as if they possessed a life of their own.
The Miller’s Confession
Suddenly, a hand rested on my shoulder. I spun around to face the miller himself, his eyes reflecting both weariness and resignation. “You’ve seen too much,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I just wanted to understand.”
He sighed deeply. “Perhaps it’s time someone else knew. There are forces at work here that go beyond the grinding of wheat.”
He led me inside the mill, the door closing softly behind us. “I am but a caretaker,” he began. “Each morning, beings not of this world bring me grains that are not grains, but the seeds of possibilities. I grind them, not into flour, but into the substance that shapes reality.”
I looked at him, confusion and awe battling within me. “I don’t understand.”
He gestured to the patterns on the table. “These symbols guide the process. The astrolabe helps align our work with the celestial movements. Mr. Aster is one of them, a harbinger of change. The flour he takes is used to weave the fabric of worlds.”
My mind reeled. “But why here? Why you?”
“Because this place exists at a crossroads, a nexus point between realms,” he explained. “I was chosen to maintain the balance, but I grow weary.”
“Can someone else take over?” I asked tentatively.
He studied me intently. “Perhaps. Someone with the ability to see beyond the veil, to understand that shadows are not mere absence of light but gateways.”
Chapter 8: Revelations in the Shadow
In that moment, the miller’s words resonated with the experiences of my own life, the whispers of the mill, the echoes in the church, the patterns of shadows and light I had so meticulously observed. It all began to coalesce into a singular understanding.
I realized that shadows were not made by God to hide things but to slowly reveal them, to give us enlightenment instead of ignorance. The shadows I had seen shifting were not concealing secrets but inviting me to perceive the layers beneath reality’s surface.
The miller placed a hand on the grindstone, and the melodic hum intensified. “Will you help maintain the balance?” he asked.
I nodded slowly, feeling a weight settle upon me but also a lightness in knowing my purpose. The miller smiled faintly. “Then my task is complete.”
As dawn approached, the miller faded into the morning mist, his form dissolving like a shadow at noon. I stood alone in the mill, yet not alone. The grindstone began to turn of its own accord, the hum harmonizing with the awakening world.
Mr. Aster appeared at the doorway, his cream-colored suit immaculate as ever. “So, you have taken up the mantle,” he observed.
“Yes,” I replied, feeling both the enormity and simplicity of the role.
He gave a slight bow. “Then the balance is preserved.”
From that day forward, I tended the mill, understanding that every grain I ground was a thread in the tapestry of existence. The shadows became my allies, revealing truths to those willing to see. The townspeople continued their lives, unaware of the delicate equilibrium maintained in their midst.
I learned that the mind of God was not a distant, unfathomable entity but a presence woven into every shadow and beam of light, every whisper of the wind, every note of music that echoed in the church. The city of men thrived in the patterns we crafted, each life a melody in the grand symphony of being.
In embracing the shadows, I found clarity. In accepting the unseen, I discovered the profound simplicity that lies beneath complexity. And in the constant turning of the grindstone, and the trickling of water revealed from under the waterwheel, I heard the voice that had always called my name, guiding me toward understanding.
