Worlds Within Worlds, and None in Conflict, for There Is No Quarrel In Love (Which Is Why We Can Get Two Favorite Basses and Four Composers in Here)

All photos taken by the author, Deeann D. Mathews, the first two on April 30, the rest on May 3

For me, physical effort in places of natural wonder leads to getting earth-shaking ideas out ... bonus points for having a spectral basso profundo declaiming three-fifths of that in the utmost passion of father-love ... he was not at all in his Laughing Big One mood and thus knocked that laughter off ... as a San Franciscan, I already knew what to expect.

The foreshock:

If you marry, a groundskeeper in Golden Gate Park will love you for your mind, for it is the same mind!

The main shock:

There is no bridge, Frau Mathews. There is no bridge.

The aftershock:

Ach, meine Töchterlein, I see your heart breaking before me -- if there were any other way but this, you know that I would have spared you, but I cannot! I cannot!

And me, being the near-indomitable woman I am, did what the Hayward Fault probably will do to the San Andreas Fault here in due time: roll some infrasonic waves right back, and make sure that everything that can't take shaking is good and gone because of there being two Big Ones, not just one.

The main answering shock:

You know who I am and Whose I am, and it was said of Him, even considering that Judas Iscariot was still present at that moment in the book of John, 'Having loved His own, He loved them unto the end.'

The after answering shock:

If there is to be a bridge, someone must build it. If there is a hill to climb, someone must trek it, and go back and leave a map in reach -- someone else will come, and be called to climb, and their way be made easier ... I see who is not there, but also, who is not there yet. I know that He Who has called me is merciful, and that friends old and new will find their way.

However, I had a bigger problem: when arguing with your ethereal companion from the portal of imagination, one might just have an unresolved problem in your mind and heart... but then again, I hadn't finished hiking the wonders of the Oak Woodlands ... things could not be finished that day.

But what I had was the concept of verticality to work with ... if indeed there is no bridge, then one is in a situation of looking at life as vertically arranged, not horizontally arranged ... for it was said long ago:" The way of the wise goes upward, that he may depart from hell beneath."

And then, there is Rev. S.L. Mathews, my father, who has been telling people all my life while waving his right arm like Carlos Kleiber beating a 4/4: "Look, your relationship with God in Christ is not this way" -- waving his arm from side to side -- "but THIS WAY!" -- waving a perfect upbeat and downbeat.

So, if there is no bridge -- that is, the expected horizontal ties that we fall into of age group, class, ethnicity, and locale do not count for as much after all -- then one gets to look at one's vertical. This is why the thought I have had at times about the park's gardeners and groundskeepers making good friends and mates for me makes sense: they actually fit in the vertical of prolific creativity combined with public service.

I'm on the "white-collar" side, and a gardener or groundskeeper is on the "blue-collar" side, but when looking at it in vertical terms, it makes no difference, because tomorrow I might sign up as a volunteer, and a groundskeeper or gardener might also be an actual artist in addition to his or her connection to the artistry of Creation. The gaps are really not there.

Now having had that thought, now my mind was truly running on a new track -- if there were no bridge, that meant there were huge, impassable gaps in places where connection was expected, but also opened the possibility of there being no gaps where many thought there would and should be between people -- existentially, that's two Big Ones, back to back.

I had also been thinking for two weeks about the contrast between the tie in European basses in my mind ... for Martti Talvela came first, and is loved in a different way than Kurt Möll ... so, neither has supplanted the other ... there is room enough ... but I reconsidered their King Marke, lamenting, and realized: the Finnish bass is horizontally accessible, so emotionally relatable from the first lines. He sees his whole world, his whole life and future, all broken with his heart, and automatically, the strength, nobility, and sorrow of the king is apparent. This is also just about the same as his "Ella Giammai M'amo," grappling with the idea as King Phillip that his queen does not love him, and that his son might be planning to steal his crown and his wife!

Martti Talvela's as a dying Boris Godunov, in Finnish ... his acting is as tremendous as his singing ... one does not need to understand the language for him to bridge what is happening here on a human level, as a dying royal father with a secret sin in his past has to prepare his young son and himself to face life, death, and eternity in just minutes!

Mr. Talvela will be understood ... he was able to embrace his listeners with his heart and build that bridge, and that is why I love him. He also was admired by the German bass who was his slightly younger peer ... who nevertheless looked at that whole horizontal ability to communicate and said, "Not my style." Now one might listen to him for the sheer beauty of his voice all day long, but that can be as close as one ever gets because he is not as instantly accessible as the Finnish bass. There is no bridge. One might stand and admire a hill or mountain for ever so long, but one has to commit to the climb before learning all that place has to offer -- and then, once one decides to learn and climb, there is no end to the wonders, for season after season tells its own story. The singing of Kurt Moll is just like that, proving the old adage by me: "When the student is ready, the teacher appears."

Which brought me back to finally getting back around to Herr Möll's stunning rendering of Brahms's "Versunken" -- first get around the idea of this bass who danced across Mozart and head-bopped on Haydn falling in love, and that these are the eyes of Ursula Moll he is thinking of ... that's quite enough to consider ... but deeper still ... a man hears of a place where the stars of heaven can be touched in the depths of the blue sea, and goes to find out, and finds out! He commits, leaving his peers behind -- and thus meets his true match, and achieves! He made this the first song of the entire collection, and does it ever set a tone!

Now THAT is a vertical, with the depths of the sea and the stars of heaven and rainbows in the sky in between -- and, there is no bridge!

With that in mind, I was ready to understand how I at last saw my next trail to oaken wonder through an oaken wonder. I had passed those two trees a thousand times, but now ... I was "versunken" ...

... and in at last stepping off the main path to explore this wonder of light and space hidden in plain sight, then I also realized the extent to which my ethereal companion's thundering of "There is no bridge!" had been meant to protect me, for taking even one person not suited to the exploration along would spoil it. Again, people pass this tree all day long, but their eyes are not open ... and some even could stand under it, and miss it, because ... well, we must create another apparition for a moment ... call her T.K., the initials of one of Web2's most notorious gossip vloggers, and sadly representative of the thinking of people I have left behind because they will listen to that stuff but not come on a walk to a restful place with me, literally or figuratively. And so ...

"Girl, I can't believe these folks, suggesting you should marry a groundskeeper -- people always want Black women to accept less!"

Now that is one way to look at it, except that some set of planners and gardeners and groundskeepers set it up and maintained it such that I could turnabout and see this ...

... and this ...

... and this ...

... and this, just turning a complete circle, and the last with the trail beyond to further wonders, and my final destination, all lit up like jade and gold and peridot, under a lapis lazuli sky ... natural and mineral were meeting and blending and flowing into each other ... but if I had allowed any of the old crew to come with me ...

"Girl, doesn't that fool know who you are and who you run with -- you were the May 3 keynote speaker for the Faith Business Success Virtual Summit, and you have five books out and two courses -- and you are supposed to be out here getting involved with some blue-collar man digging around in the dirt for a living? Get out of here! You deserve better -- you deserve a man who is going to give you the life you deserve!"

Now, this was my actual reality, just then ... the middle of a glorious spring afternoon, with no call of money or emergency requiring me to not enjoy it as long as I liked, able -- seven years after being in a wheelchair -- to walk up or down on this glorious flank of Lone Mountain as I chose, in the middle of the handiwork of God and all the men and women of every color of collar over a century and a half, and caught up as if by two deep eyes by two oak trees into wonder even before going up the trail of the day ... but those who don't see it, don't see it, and there is no bridge.

Under the oak trees, I realized why I had been so utterly and completely drawn away from the masses ... and how my heart bowed down to the One Who had done it, for I saw then: there being no bridge protects me, so long as I honor that protection. Now I understood what that good and faithful echo had been echoing of late, even to the point of thundering -- it was not just that I had been called to leave those I had left, but between me and them there was, as Scripture said, "a great gulf fixed," and it was not for me to bridge it. There was no bridge. They would have to be called up and to climb for themselves, and they would have to overcome the fear of being alone, stripped of the opinions of their peer groups, perhaps even to be confronted by their Maker, in the midst of life.

But that was the cost of the climb ... only those who were willing to commit would ever experience the wonders. Certain of the T.K.'s of the world surely admired me ... but they would never come to where I was, like thousands of people pass Buena Vista Hill daily, but few have ever eaten of its pluots, plums, figs, lemons, and blackberries, or seen its 30-mile views from the Farallon Islands in the Pacific Ocean to Mt. Diablo across San Francisco Bay. Few have ever sat in its high seats, and smiled from the deep peace in the clefts of the eastern side as the wind roars on the western side.

Few in Golden Gate Park -- particularly not at my size and other obvious horizontals -- have been from the top of the northern Oak Woodlands to the bottom. But I would -- I committed, leaving all thought of my former peers behind -- and stepped out from under the two oaks and back onto the main trail that would take me where I was going.

I looked back to where I had been to the top -- the Phil Arnold Trail was an even greater marvel to consider from a little distance when one knew the glories that lay beyond its stunning beginning --

-- but this was my portion for the day.

No sooner had I set foot on that trail, first up a while, and then down, that I heard the Laughing Big One, down far below, laughing merrily.

"Wandere hinab, meine Tochter!"

Hike down, my daughter -- and I knew the word hinab from "Irrlicht," for the character in Winterreise escapes by following the river out of the rocky hard place to which he has been led astray on that occasion -- he hikes down and out of that place, but ultimately, to his doom.

But none of that for me -- for I had left all those who were in that type of wandering behind me, and there was no bridge -- so on I went, and with the sunlight and the scenes around me --

-- this became a journey in which reality became the dream, and dream, reality!

I could keep breathing and conscious because it was necessary to keep walking -- I had not imagined the descent would be as spectacular as the ascent, and the two oak trees had already taken me to the realm of gems ... but this...

... and this ...

Off in my line of sight, I stood eye level with a tree that I many times, on foot or on wheels, passed under at the beginning of John F. Kennedy Drive in Golden Gate Park -- I knew its shape, and by this I knew I was not far from other places that I have been many times ... but to see them from above, like this ...

... and to know the reality above them, like this ...

... and to turn my head to see vistas yet unknown ... quite distantly, the San Bruno Mountains were visible, and seemingly almost as distant, the Kezar Crossover ... I could hear the traffic distantly, but that seemed almost as a dream mingling with the breeze...

... for this was still the reality before me, a seemingly endless vista of gold and green and jade, traced with shadow lace under a turquoise sky!

Above me, at an opening, Sutro Tower appeared ... so I was nearing the bottom ...

... but again ... could there even be an end?

In fact, the last oak tree was just around the bend ...

... and spring's flowers welcomed me softly to the ground!

The sign showed me, officially, that I had now hiked the entire eastern portion of the Oak Woodlands ... there was still some considerable portion to go off to the west on another day...

... and so then the thought came that if I prepared myself, I could come from this bottom to its eastern top in a single day ... for I knew where my rest stops would be ...

... and then it occurred to me ... perhaps I had better sit down ...

... but that chair was almost too big for my short legs .. that was truly a big-man chair... six-foot-forever-and-a-half would be right ... and the Ghost of Musical Greatness Past duly materialized at about 55 years of age, sitting handsomely in his King Marke-reminiscent summer hiking suit with a smile before getting up and helping me into it instead.

"How does that throne feel?" he purred.

"Like back problems and shin splints -- I'm too short -- let's get out of here!"

He laughed and helped me out of the chair, and on we walked on the Promenade until we reached a lovely meadow we had passed through some time before, but now in full spring colors:

I thought of the flames of copper, in their green, on trees that had shown their copper leaves in the fall, but now were like unto the burning bush ...

... burning with the life of spring, and yet not consumed ...

... as far as the eye could see ...

... but at that point, the Ghost of Musical Greatness Past passed his strong arm around me.

"I thought about singing 'Versunken' as you were on your way down, but you are already there, Frau Mathews," he purred gently. "Breathe, my dear, and keep walking!"

So, we rounded the meadow ...

... and upon going back north ...

... I realized we were going some ways up through the Oak Woodlands again, but by the way of the end of the Fuchsia Dell.

Now, in coming to a fork in the road ...

... what should we see but a Park and Rec employee in the midst of his handiwork?

Now, off to the side of that path lay several piles of his colleagues' future task: that compost had to be spread around this region of the park, and if you know that chicken manure is the local base of choice, your nose alerts you to the faint aroma still lingering...

... and upon seeing this -- this return to reality -- I resolved in my heart that I would keep no company with those who saw such men as less than, when such men were the stewards of my peace: that was my reality, and I would hold to it. I went down the path to offer him words of appreciation, and lit up his day as mine had been lit up!

This caused my companion to remember something, a rare recording of his ...

"Let me keep myself out of trouble at once here with two caveats: no actual Roseleins -- or Rosalyns, in English -- were harmed in the singing of "Reiterlied" by Löwe, and, further, we know that the Riders of today, if they continue to kiss-and-run, will be the Wanderers of tomorrow, with no home to go back to. We grant all that up front, Frau Mathews, so you do not miss the broader lesson -- you who can apply this in an unselfish way!"

A young man finds the joy of his life, one spring morning with the light all gleaming in the new foliage high up ... and becomes one with the wind, at last felling even the oaks in its strength, never settling, and kissing every rose blooming warm and sweet that it passes ... but ever passes, for the wind never rests... it rides on ... so, before the end of the song, the Rider has already become the wild man, and absent his horse has but one more step to go to be the Wanderer!

"But he, being young, does not know that yet," my companion explained, "and, being young, might get tripped up by those two deep eyes and stay put before long!"

"Is this why you are just about to start laughing in the middle of the lines about him being willing to give his blood to keep riding?" I said, and he smiled.

"I might have been just a little tickled in my forties, remembering being that age!" he said. "But here is the lesson from this rarely heard delight by Löwe: dedication to one's path of life does require separating from the mass, and avoiding the usual entanglements. Now that poor fellow is kissing every little rose, forgetting: roses have thorns! Remember where he is also going: into the shining valley! One good gopher hole down there, and --."

I broke out laughing.

"You see why I may have been just a bit tickled?" he said. "I don't think either of us would be 20 years old or so again!"

"By no means!" I said.

"Yet the idea is: once you know, you know," he said. "Now, you and the Rider are going in opposite directions, though in the same vistas."

"You are moved by a different kind of wind, as well ... oaks can be felled when necessary, of course, in its power, and little roses can be left unharmed ... for I believe an old master teacher named Nicodemus had this explained to him."

"In John 3, indeed, for there the movement of the wind is used to describe those moved by the Spirit of God -- though no one not so moved can see where the motivation comes from, they can observe the results, just as no one can see the wind, but can observe what it does."

"And so we take the analogy to the wildness of the wind as the Rider sees himself to the perfect balance of purpose to which you have been called -- it is still a life outside of the common way, and requires as much acceptance and devotion to that as the Rider has ... but it is a blessing, not a curse, to those near it. No little roses harmed and no oaks blown down except as necessary ... most often a fresh breeze, often welcomed for its cooling properties ... never wild, out of control, but fit to purpose."

"Yes ... yes ... ." I said. "For the winds have their purpose in all seasons, as all things do in the hand of their Maker. Sometimes this is much more apparent and lovely than other times ... ."

"... but to be out of step with the world system, and to be in step with this, going upward ... ."

Again ... so many jewel tones with gold pouring down from a turquoise sky ...

"Breathe, Frau Mathews. Breathe!"

By this time we were at the edge of the meadow across from the Fuchsia Dell --

-- and there were many quiet places to sit in the sun. Now, other trails beckoned -- I had not completed the Phil Arnold Trail proper because I had decided to go up hill into the Oak Woodlands proper, so another spring walk was at hand for another day --

But this was my destiny for the moment ...

... and wouldn't you know it: the bench was named for a gardener!

The days are long and the sun high in the sky in May ... the passage of time suddenly meant nothing ... if I had not seen the stars in the deep blue sea, then I had glimpsed the jewels of the primeval garden of God, somewhere back even before Lucifer had decided on his career change to Satan ... and walked all down through its gems back to my own world ... but the boundaries of my own world had changed.

There is some knowledge one can receive that changes the realm of one's life ... all this had been here, a hundred years before I was born, and I had passed under it all a thousand times. But I could not know any of it until I came alone, and accepted that if I was to have these things, then I had found my life as it would be, and there was no bridge or carrying mechanism for anyone else.

"For you are indeed the keynote speaker, the author, the course creator, the dedicated Hiver -- you are living the dreams of many, Frau Mathews, without the things your peers think are required to live those dreams -- but what they fail to realize is that there was no bridge for you either. You had to be called up, and you had to choose to follow the One Who called you, all the way to here. The gap that cannot be bridged -- what makes this your reality while it is the dream of others -- is that you believed, and you acted, and you kept on with both of those, and your reality is the result.

"The other part of the gap that cannot be bridged, Frau Mathews, is that people who must have their unjust buckets of the value of people based on race, class, creed, and all the rest -- they cannot walk with you. You are past that, Frau Mathews. I reminded you about the groundskeepers to purpose last week -- they are in the same nexus of art and Creation as you are, just on the groundward side, supporting life and beauty from that direction. You know this and have been speaking to gardeners and groundskeepers and appreciating them for years, subconsciously knowing the truth ... you also treat delivery men and postal workers and all manner of 'blue-collar' people well, always. You know better than the foolery your peers believe, of course!"

"My father is a retired longshoreman!" I said. "Of course!"

"And your grand old soldier, when not on active duty, excelled in many such positions as life afforded him," he said.

"Yes!" I said.

"So, of course you know, Frau Mathews. You always have. But now, without distraction, know it. In all of its beauty, know it."

"And see, now, I can make to you the point that I did not press last week, because I have such deep respect for the tenderness of your heart, and the depth of your love ... a love that, even having moved on, still looks back in hope, and prays God's mercy on all those you have left behind, and even seeks to leave lifelines. I honor and respect that about you, Frau Mathews, and desire that you know only those who will cherish that about you ... which, actually, is why there is no bridge, because the One Whom I echo designed it that way for your protection.

"I understand that now," I said. "All I had to do was have that T.K. flashback, and imagine her or any of hers on a day like this would ruin it -- I understand that now."

"An utter disaster, no matter the color, race, creed, or gender -- people lost in useless comparison cannot enjoy a day like this, because this exists above and without reference to all that. Now, since they cannot come up --."

"They would, by means of their conversation, drag everything around them out of the natural peace and exhilaration," I said.

"Not only that, Frau Mathews. Guilt by association. You are an African American in unusual spaces for you in San Francisco. You have heeded the wisdom, not knowing exactly why, of not walking often with anyone much higher than the level of the common valleys of Golden Gate Park, since your grand old soldier is a little past the age of wanting to scale these hills. But he, as a military veteran, knows how to comport himself in every environment -- he is situationally aware."

"In like manner, on the Internet, Frau Mathews, the doors you are going through now require you and those around you to be situationally aware. You literally cannot afford the company of a fool, just like that flashback you had told you that on a day like this, you could not afford the company of a fool. You had to be free of distraction, and free to follow the One Who has called you ... free to follow His leading, through wonder after wonder, and to be blessed. This cannot be done in the presence of the conversation of those who love their favorite ... well, I shall say it in German for your practice: Irrlichten."

"Wills-o'-the-wisp -- erring lights," I said.

"And so dedicated are they that they would be blind to what you see, Frau Mathews, while even in the midst of it."

"I also say this to you, Frau Mathews: indeed the One Who has called you is merciful, and good, and will call and lead whomever He wills. You therefore have a right to your position on being concerned with laying down lifelines. He Who has called you is also just, and so protects and rewards whomever He wills, however He wills, which is also why, though I pushed no further, I also will not be pushed back from my position: there is no bridge, Frau Mathews."

"Wait ... wait ... what?" I said.

"You have only thought of that bridge not being there in terms of the utter doom it means for those caught on the other side for too long ... you keep putting out lifelines and making additional efforts because you sense that reality more deeply than those you are concerned for -- as you said, you are loving them to the end. You have endured your share of Judas kisses, and said to yourself, 'If my Master endured it, who am I not to?' You are not wrong. I do not chide you for your deep humility any more than I do for your deep love."

"But just as the Oak Woodlands are for the enjoyment of those who will take the climb, even though they are accessible to everyone equally, so too are the rewards of a disciplined life of service, following Him Who has called you.

"Martti Talvela and I have one more thing in common: you never should have known either of us, as the world counts men that rise, because of the situations we faced as children. He had to overcome the complete loss of home and country -- where he was born was taken by Russia from Finland.

"But he found what the One Who had called him had gifted him with, and what he was to do with it -- and so he reaped the reward of that and blessed the world, and then went home to be blessed evermore! It did not matter what bucket -- poor refugee comes to mind -- the world would have put him in. He was faithful, and received a reward here that presages what he shall enjoy forevermore -- and it was just that he should have received both here and there, for he walked by faith to his last step, believing in Him Who had promised!

"It must be so, Frau Mathews -- every prattling person who sings well in the shower and only in the shower and leaves comments critiquing Martti on YouTube nowadays could not have been allowed access to the stages he commanded then or now. All would be spoiled if it were so -- but it is not, for there is no bridge. He was there because that was his reward for walking faithfully, in obedient belief that although the world saw a poor Finnish refugee child, he had been given a voice to use for the glory of the One Who called him through his masterful stewardship of that wonderful voice and all he sang! And his hymn singing -- Frau Mathews, he and you have that in common!"

"Oh, Mr. Talvela, singing a hymn with text I know from Scripture ... many times I have thus rejoiced and sung along in English!"

"That is where his joy rings out. Martti was a big, calm, quiet man, and so those moments were rare -- but that is where he meets me in The Creation, just overwhelmed with joy -- that last repeat of 'Kiitos olkoon Jumalalle' -- "

"Oh, give thanks unto the Lord in his mother tongue, a shout almost mighty enough to shake the earth and the heavens!" I said.

"That was the prelude, a glimpse -- when you have your alto spot in the choir above, you will hear the reality of Martti Talvela, singing that hymn -- but imagine what that moment was for him! To have that voice, and to have kept it faithfully, to give you and everyone listening that fore-echo of praise that shall ring across the heavens -- that joy could not be given to everyone! That reward was for him alone!"

"Oh, I see what you are saying now!" I said.

"Of course you do, you who chose him and me as your favorites out of all European basses, when not sitting at your piano at home and in your church, carrying that whole building up in the joy you have as composer, arranger, pianist, and choir director! Of course you do, Frau Mathews -- you are one of us, not regarding any of the unjust buckets of type of music, race, gender, and time period that would say you are not! We are all in the same vertical!

"There are rewards that come only with the climb, with the obedience to the calling. The Rider from Lowe's song half understands, but is going downhill -- yet if he realizes he is called higher, that level of dedication will serve him well, for that is necessary! But when it is all ordered and set forth right, Frau Mathews ... oh, then, all things come in the way!"

At that point we began the last of the walk back toward the two oak trees...

... as the new hour came in quietly...

... but there was still no hurry, and so we rested again, the peace of that place requiring that acknowledgment!

"This is your portion, Frau Mathews," my companion said gently. "This is not being denied to anyone else, but it is given to you, in the way in which you are walking. Have no fear: He Who called you is just, and also merciful. If at any time those you have left behind choose to commit to the climb, they too will find their joys in the way, and find them as full, and deep, and high as those you have found. Leave all of the burden of that responsibility to Him. You have done no wrong in leaving all the lifelines you could. You do no wrong in being fully here, past all controversy from those who will not climb."

He paused, and made his voice even gentler.

"So you see, there was no quarrel between us last week, because while the Rider notes that lovers may sometimes quarrel, he does not have the capacity to resolve anything because he is too immature. But with maturity, we enjoy the truth of the matter: there is no quarrel in love, Frau Mathews. You deeply see the side of loving, and you do no wrong in loving those given to you for that purpose. I show you the side of being loved, and that you do no wrong in being loved, resting in the love of Him Who has called you, and leaving what is no longer assigned to you to Him. I have been echoing it from the beginning, and will continue to do so, because there is no end to the Love Who has called you, in Whom indeed, you may safely rest: Nur ruhe, Frau Mathews. Nur ruhe."

Understanding and relief flooded over me then ... for there was no quarrel in love, and I did not have to make an impossible choice. Another layer of heaviness lifted from my heart, and was replaced by a deeper sense of rest.

All good things must come to an end ... but as I stopped by the two oaks one last time, I realized some blessings are so deep that even though circumstances must move on, the future is forever changed. There were worlds within worlds, the everyday and the extraordinary so close as to be touching, and passages between them not assigned as the quarreling world thinks they should be ... but the worlds are not in conflict ... for there is no quarrel in love.