Litter or Treasure?

NESTLED BETWEEN SMYTHE’S SUBURBAN VILLAGE AND THE LARGER city, the baker’s shop sat along a sparsely traveled road. A collection of family-owned dry cleaners that specialized in difficult alterations, sure to impress even the most finicky of clients; a small used book store that prided itself as “a store full of welcome,” and a large grocery store sat on either side of the baker’s shop.

Her first visit to the baker’s shop occurred several months ago. A co-worker recommended the bakery to her, raving about the fluffy deliciousness of his signature pastry—malasadas. Excited to try someplace new, she plugged the address into her phone and headed for her treat. Her mouth watered as she thought about the pastries she would order. A maple bar would be high on her list. And yes, she thought, she would try a malasada, too. She parked directly in front of the shop, yet when she pulled on the front door, she found it locked.

Confused, she stood staring blankly into the shop’s window. She checked the sign. Open at 5:00 a.m. She then checked her watch—4:00 a.m. A bit embarrassed by her mistake, she turned to walk away, but the tinkle of a bell caused her to pause. She turned toward the sound, and the gentle voice of a man called out to her.

“Hello. You wish to order?”

Smythe smiled widely. “Yes, I would. I very much would like to order.”

“Welcome, welcome my friend, please come in.”

Smythe described the baker to her friends as an older, petite, Portuguese man with more salt than pepper in his dark brown hair and the kindest dark eyes that allowed one to drink in divinity. He stood no more than five feet eight inches tall and walked with a slight limp, which, over time, became more pronounced.

From the first day, and almost every day thereafter, the baker moved to the rhythm of Smythe’s arrival. With a broad smile and a starlit gaze, he engaged her in warm conversation while he prepared his shop to open. The smell of pastries wafted through the shop as he busied himself, placing pastries onto cooling racks, setting chairs in place, starting coffee, and heating water for tea. Before ordering food and coffee, Smythe would empty her messenger bag onto the furthest booth away from the door. It looked more like an office desk with her iPad, assortment of books, journals, and pencils neatly placed on the table. She would sit quietly for an hour or so, observing the flow of patrons in and out of the shop, before heading to work.

After the murder, she often sat for half the day, longing for the comforting presence of her friend. This morning would be no different, except now, Artie was at her side.

In order for Smythe to move about the city, Artie developed a three-car caravan of security personnel whenever she traveled. Each member had a law enforcement background, and each vehicle held a two-person, plain-clothes-wearing, armed security team.

As the caravan approached the shop, Artie directed Smythe to park her vehicle in an alley beside the collection of storefronts. The alley was wide enough for other vehicles to pass, but, more importantly, hid their bakery visit from the general public. Artie quickly exited the car, her weapon drawn in front of her as she scanned the area. The only light offering any measure of sight was a flickering lamppost, providing only the dimmest of illumination. She squinted her eyes, slowly turning her head, searching the empty alley for any sign of threat. Prepared for any contingency, Artie stationed one team vehicle in front of Smythe’s car, a second team vehicle near the front of the shop, and a third team vehicle sat in a small area directly behind the bakery. After surveilling the area, Artie opened Smythe’s door, ushering her toward the front door of the bakery.

The baker watched as Smythe’s car passed by his shop and now stood waiting at the door. He smiled widely at the sight of Smythe as the pair approached and unlocked it. “You have brought a friend, I see. Welcome, please come in.”

The overhead pendant lights offered a warm and inviting atmosphere to the shop, rebuffing the chill of the early morning air. Smythe smiled as she entered. It is good to be in the presence of my friend at a time like this, she thought. Clearing her throat, she replied, “Hi, Joao. Yes, I did. I hope you don’t mind. This is Artie.”

“I do not mind. She has been here many times. She seems to come in right at the time the shop opens.”

He directed his starlit gaze toward Artie, “It is good to see you again. What may I offer you?”

Artie nodded toward the baker and eyed the partially filled display cases. Her stomach lurched a bit as she thought about biting into a pastry so early in the morning.

“I’ll wait on the pastries. Too early. I do need a large coffee, though, if it’s ready.”

“One coffee coming up.”

While the baker tended to her coffee, Artie swept the shop with her eyes. The shop was small, holding only four slate-gray booths anchored along the wall opposite three display cases. Less than half a dozen smaller tables sat in the middle of the shop. The white tile, speckled with gray inlaid flecks, held a brightness that glimmered against the white walls. The baker celebrated his heritage by adorning the walls with colorful images of Portugal. Picturesque paintings of simple, white façade homes and cobbled streets, along with lush, mountainous countrysides hung on the walls. As an avid football fan, or soccer as the sport is called in the west, several smaller images of the country’s national football team were well represented.

Artie reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, silver money clip holding several twenty-dollar bills. The baker smiled, waving off her attempt at payment as he handed Artie her coffee.

“You will want pastries later. Remind me and pay then.”

Artie’s stern face softened, and she politely thanked him for his offer. She chose a seat at a table near the middle of the shop. It was from there, she surmised, she had a clear vantage point of everyone entering and exiting the shop.

“For you, Smythe, what may I offer?”

Smythe smiled at her friend.

“An ear?”

She moved to her usual booth and took a seat that offered her a full view of the bakery. The baker gingerly followed behind her, sitting in the opposite banquette. He studied Smythe’s furrowed forehead, glimpsing the sorrow that darkened her eyes behind her glasses.

“Why so troubled, my friend?”

Smythe glanced in Artie’s direction. She remembered the FBI agent’s warning to tell no one what she witnessed, yet she needed to tell someone. She took in a breath.

“They tried to kill me!” She finally blurted out. With tears streaming down her face, she poured out her story.

“I’m afraid, Joao, I am so afraid. I thought—I thought, I was strong, but inside I’m quaking.”

“Hooray for you, my friend!”

Confused and somewhat incensed, Smythe retorted, “What?! Didn’t you hear me? They. Tried. To. Kill. Me! How is this a celebration?”

The baker sat very still. He gazed deeply into Smythe’s dark brown eyes and smiled.

“My friend, you are here, so they did not succeed. This is cause to celebrate. The Universe took care of you.”

Smythe flashed to the day she felt called to resign her position. After arriving home one morning, feigning illness, she struggled to figure out what she wanted out of life. After a time, she felt a question surface from the bottom of her heart that caused her spirit to stand at attention, an expanse blossoming within her. Yet, the mere presence of the question also surfaced a rolling tension. She listened again, asking for clarity. For it seemed here, in the midst of her misery, in the form of a question, was her answer.

Feeling as though pinned against a wall, she paced back and forth in front of her stove. You’re not ready, she thought. How will you survive? What will people think? What will your mother think? This is ludicrous! Yet, the question remained.

She thought about her Beloved, whose presence now overwhelmed her. She knew her Beloved had her best interest at heart, yet the question terrified her. Her response required a level of trust she was unsure she could willingly offer. No longer satisfied with the approval of others, she knew it was time to follow her soul’s calling.

The question then became, quite simply, “Will you trust me?” Smythe knew it required a response. Her head bowed low, she peered out her living room window. She mouthed a fearful “Yes,” knowing full well she was about to resign from her position.

“How did the Universe take care of me? I’m wracked with fear. My mind keeps replaying yesterday’s events. I’m unable to write, and I have armed security now in my house 24/7. This isn’t what I had in mind when I said ‘yes’ so many weeks ago to the Universe! I had other plans. I was going to write, read, learn, create. I’m taking 12 months to pull it all together, living off my savings. I thought I was doing what my Beloved wanted me to do. I took a leap of faith. Finally, I took a fucking leap of faith. And for what?! This? Why did this happen, Joao? How could this happen? I thought I was finally following my heart’s calling, and now this.”

Artie, who sat only a few tables from Smythe, could hear every word her client spoke. The level of vulnerability Smythe expressed was a far cry from what she displayed just a short time ago. This was raw and unfiltered. More importantly, she thought it offered new insight into her client’s psyche. Staring coldly out the front window, Artie’s shoulders began to stiffen. She took in a deep breath and held it for several seconds before releasing it.

“All paths are littered. You must first see, my friend, what the litter is and then turn it into treasure.”

“Well, I would call witnessing a murder and then having my own life threatened as litter!”

“It takes great courage to get up in the face of adversity. Great courage. Even more so when your physical life is in danger. Yet, here you are. You have faced the darkness and overcome.” The baker paused for a moment, searching Smythe’s eyes. “Did you not ask for this?”

“What? Ask for this?!” Smythe narrowed her eyes. “Why would I ask for this? Who would ask for this? No one in their right mind would ask for this!”

“Did you not say you heard a calling deep within you. Something that kept tapping you on your shoulder?”

“Yes, but—”

“So, the journey has begun!”

Smythe sat, stunned, her mouth agape.

“My daughter, you are so attached to the ‘how’ things should be to get the thing or experience you desire. You live in the busyness of getting on with your life, but you have forgotten to live in the present be-ing of your life.

“What do you mean, Joao?”

“You seek to become something and to live from that place. You do not understand that you are already something. There is nothing to become but who you really are. You must simply be present in each moment that comes your way. That, my, friend is be-ing. In the be-ing of your life, you will follow the path set before you. But you made a decision and believed that was it—that all would be well, didn’t you?” Not waiting for her reply, he continued.

“It is good to have a vision of what you desire. But you must also let go of how it happens by remaining in the moment of be-ing. Now, there are always, how you say… circumstances along the way, and you must always respond. That is a form of be-ing. This killing, it is litter, yes? Tell me, what is the treasure?”

“I don’t know, Joao.”

“Yes, you do. What is the treasure?”

This was not what Smythe was expecting or hoping for. She wanted a hug from her friend, comforting words, even. Instead, she was experiencing tough truths. She thought again of her mentor Philip Caulfeld. In the first chapter of his book, he discussed taking full responsibility in every area of life by managing the reaction to the events as they occurred. It was a difficult chapter for her to navigate, yet, in the end, she recognized that she had not been taking control of her responses. She had been allowing life to happen to her—making excuses, blaming, complaining, and avoiding every bad decision she made. The good that occurred, she attributed to nothing more than luck or her Beloved’s intervention. She had fallen asleep within her life, and this form of sleepwalking slowly developed insidiously over the course of her life.

“So, you’re saying I am responsible for this mess?”

“Did I?”

“How could I be? I didn’t ask to see the murder. I didn’t ask to get involved.”

“Yet you did, and here you are.”

“So, if I got cancer, I would be responsible for that, too?”

“You smoke, no?”

“Yes, but—yes.”

“I know the Universe, yet, I do not know how the Universe works. But, all things in our path may hold a treasure. What is your treasure?”

With her head bowed low, Smythe sat and reasoned with herself. She remembered all of the times she read about or watched someone engage in a heroic event. Someone who had overcome their challenges. Someone who, against all odds, stayed the course and attained their goal. She remembered the conflict as part of the hero’s journey. The hero ventured out into the unknown to obtain what they sought. They faced unexpected conflict, but ultimately triumphed over adversity. Her face softened as she recalled wishing for that same kind of courage and steadfastness. She wanted to overcome all odds and become a success story in her own life.

“Courage. I wanted courage, but it doesn’t feel like courage. It feels like fear.”

The baker beamed with delight.

“When we see people who face great struggle, we only see the action. We imagine they stood strong with this thing called courage. We imagine the person felt nothing but a conviction to do that which they were doing. Yet, my friend, we do not see the inward struggle. We do not see their fear. Think on this. I must, for a moment, tend to my creations before my other guests begin their arrival.”

Artie sat, smiling to herself. She understood only now the importance of this human in Smythe’s life.

Smythe began to reflect upon her responses to events great and small along her own journey.

It’s been fear. So much fear. My life, ruled by it. So afraid of taking a risk, afraid of failing. What had Philip said? “Fear is nothing more than fantasized events appearing real.” I could have struck out on my own so long ago, followed a different path. But I allowed myself to be ruled by fear cloaked as practicality. It just kept me stuck, never really moving toward what I truly wanted.

Eventually, she began to understand that when her mind focused on fear, it placed her in an emotional cage. She reviewed some pivotal past decisions and noticed when focused on the “what if’s,” she attempted to outthink and control every situation in which she found herself. She often reacted out of fear. Fear, she comprehended, lived only in her thoughts and was based on past events and experience. She had listened only to the bellow of her ego in the recent past, the constant “I,” instead of her heart—the songstress of the “I AM.”

In the end, she knew fear often caused her a paralysis—one that stunted the life she was capable of creating, building such a thick brick wall around her soul, she could no longer clearly hear her songstress. Brick by brick, so afraid of making the slightest mistake, she eventually sheltered herself from what she truly wanted—a life of possibility.

Instead of thinking about what could go right, and moving in that direction, I’ve allowed myself to be ruled by what could go wrong.

As she continued to examine her past choices, she remembered one of her book treasures, Conversations with God and Uncommon Dialogue by Neal Donald Walsch. “Through God,” he had written, “the way to reduce the pain you associate with earthly experiences and events, both yours and those of others, is to change the way you behold them…” He went on, in part, “You cannot change the outer event, so you must change the inner experience.”

Muttering to herself, she remembered a quote, “Our actions are based on only two things, love or fear.” Both have a different energy signature.

As a sponge sitting in warm soapy water, gently used to scrub away the dirt from a well-used plate, Smythe sat soaking in all of her previous readings. She understood that fear was simply an emotion of the past. A signpost of previous experiences. She only had to pay attention and make considerations about the choices set before her now. Here, in this moment, she could choose to change her internal responses to her here-now present moment, or choose the old pattern of fear.

Easily brought to tears, Smythe’s eyes began to water.

No more ostrich hiding, even though my emotions are barking a different story. I can break my soul’s heart yet again, or I can continue to take the next step.

Her concentration was broken by the sound of Artie’s voice. She stood standing at the counter, asking the baker for three malasadas and a new creation he just placed in one of the display cases. Artie turned toward Smythe and asked if she wanted anything.

“I think three malasadas and a coffee, if you don’t mind.”

Artie smiled and nodded to the baker to add the additional items. Smythe rummaged through her messenger bag and found her wallet, sliding out of her seat to join Artie at the counter. She took the box from the baker, laid her cash on the counter, and returned to her table. Artie picked up a newspaper next to the cash register before walking quietly back to Smythe’s booth and handing over her coffee. Smythe separated the pastries and placed them on two plates, handing one to Artie. With a simple nod, Artie turned toward her own table.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Smythe asked.

“Nah. You and the baker have yet to finish your conversation,” Artie responded tenderly.

Artie offered Smythe a smile and returned her own table. She opened the newspaper, scanning for information on the upcoming trial and Smythe’s role in it. She stopped to bite into the baker’s new creation and savored the sweet, delicate texture of the pastry.

God, this is good.

The baker returned to Smythe’s booth and slid into his seat. Smythe looked down at her coffee.

“I look back and think of how, just a few years ago, I was swept up in a reduction in force event.”

The baker tilted his head in confusion.

“A layoff is the simplest explanation. My position was eliminated. At any rate—I would have never guessed that some years later, I would be sitting here, starting my own business, defining the thing I do for a living. It’s as if I am rediscovering the seeds of my life. Yet, in the midst of it all, I’m forced to deal with a murder trial with me as its star witness. All I ever wanted to do when this all began was to follow my Beloved’s direction. In essence, I wanted to offer others some measure of hope and assistance in the midst of their own circumstances. It seems a bit ridiculous now.”

The baker appeared to look past Smythe to the hallway that led to his kitchen. When he finally spoke, the air seemed to still, and a palpable peace settled into the very fabric of the shop. He spoke so softly that he appeared to only mouth his words.

“When the sun only begins to rise, a wind often arises with it. If it has been windy through the night, the force of the wind often becomes stronger as the light of the morning sun begins to break through the darkness of nighttime. Yet nothing can stop the sun from rising—not even the force of the wind. It is similar for all things. When we emerge from our slumber and set out on our journey, many things occur along the way. They are neither good nor bad. They just are. We must overcome that which we perceive as struggle and keep going.”

He paused for a moment to allow Smythe to think. With a glint in his eye, he continued, “Just as we are to reach that which we have been moving toward, the forces of life become even stronger, but they exist only to teach us that which we have learned—and perhaps to test us. Just perhaps. I do not know of the testing part, but I do know that courage and fear are two sides of the same coin. Both sides light our way. Face the fear of your past and move through it. Remember, you are in the process of be-ing and undoing.”

“I thought I knew what I wanted, but with the chaos around me, I find myself unsure.”

“Allow the mystery of the unknown to guide you, my daughter. Think on these things.”