Gretchen Goes To Nebraska
by Jerry Gaskill

Seven years ago (not counting today), a small girl with big ideas set forth to a land, somewhere known only to her dreams. Among the tall trees and whispering breeze, in which she sees faint depictions of an inner pointillist forming detailed landscapes, fully dimensional, in various shades of grey (with hints of invading color at a distance), and her boldly hovering, as a spirit would do, above the scenery yet mysteriously also in the midst (an integral part of the picture itself), she hopped merrily along, with a suitcase of memories, a lunchbox of assorted fruits and candy and a knapsack of her writings, her music, and all that is important to her filled to the very top; with an occasional piece of importance making its way out and onto the ground. A few steps ahead, she noticed (hiding timidly in front of an old oak tree; a grandfather oak if you will) a middle-aged lady wearing a faded purple dress with a small floral print and torn at the shoulder. Her face looked as if she'd been crying then wiped her eyes with dirty hands.

Upon the girl's acknowledgement, the lady reached into her purse for a smile, found only one that quivered, looked up and shyly said, "Good luck." Although knowing she'd had none herself, she wished it upon others. She still had hope.

The girl spoke kindly but with a slight tinge of disgust to the lady. "Have you traveled this road before?"

"Oh, no," answered the lady, "I've never been encouraged to start. I can't see much past myself. But I greatly admire your strength and courage to have come from somewhere else to here and still see beyond this point and have no desire to stay, but to continue on."

"But I'm scared too. I have no idea what truly awaits me. I only have hope and I believe in that hope."

"The key, though, is that your fear is not king. But this fear or weakness as you may see it becomes your strength, because you see into the greater and possibly even the greatest and this puts your fear to work in the factory of life to produce your good. In a sense, it becomes your slave. I would rejoice if I were you."

Not knowing exactly how to respond to such a discreet analysis of her journey, she just graciously and simply replied, "Well, thank you."

"Oh no no," said the lady excitedly. "Thank you. You're the one with the glimmer in your eye."

So, slightly confused and very startled at the apparent reality of this situation, she slowly took two steps backwards, her eyes still gazing intently at the lady, turned cautiously to continue, then immediately found herself smack dab in the middle of a corner.

Her head involuntarily dropped towards the ground with a sigh. As her eyes began to focus on the ground, she noticed a piece of paper with writing on it. It looked familiar, yet she knew it was not quite hers. She picked it up and started to read. It said: Dear Broken One, I have no defense at this time, only my empty words of redundant selfishness and vagary. I could struggle to the top of any mountaintop, stand tall, fling my arms wide open and shout all the mysteries of my heart known to me at the time, and still I'd end up walking the path of the redundant vague one. The way I see things, there's just too much to see not to be vague or redundant for that matter. I find, though, in light of all that exists, that my measly penetration into the unspeakable vastness of all there is matters very little if at all to the penetration into all that exists of those who have glued their eyes so steadily upon my reaction to this maze of clarity, pouring out from within, encircling my existence as far as my eye can see, then returning with a new plan and a reconstructed maze of the same origin, leading to the same place. Maybe I'm misunderstanding. Or maybe I'm missing the simplicity of simply not being me. Sometimes I stare because that's where all that I see is.

So you think you've ridden the clouds I have, or heard the crystal music coming from nowhere; or watched skeletons laugh while dissecting your curiosity? Maybe you have. Maybe you haven't. You see, I'm a victim of self-imposed knowledge. I'd fallen prey to the wondrous keeper of the keys out of the garden of Eden and quite a few of his cohorts who dipped seeds of truth into vats of contaminated pride then handed them back to me with a greeting card that said Good Luck. Although I've been rescued, my backyard still expands enough to have those chained offenders lurking eagerly to recompense evil for good.