The Bridge Clown

The Bridge Clown


There was on the bridge a clown with balloons that bumped and bobbed upon strings from his white-gloved hand.

Seeing this, the man approached. “I should like one of your balloons,” he said.

“Have you not enough already?” asked the clown, pointing into the air.

Glancing up, the man discovered scores of balloons overhead, their strings converging into his firmly gripped hand.

“Where did those come from” he asked in surprise.

The clown laughed good-naturedly. “Look closer,” he said. The man squinted until he saw, filmy and indistinct within each balloon, a scene from his own experience.

“They are your life,” said the clown. “All that’s happened – whatever went right, whatever went wrong, the things you can’t remember, the things you can’t forget . . . those balloons are you.”

The man gazed at the colored spheres hovering in the sky, peering intently into the remembrances portrayed there. Sometimes what he saw made him smile, but mostly tears gathered in his sad eyes.

“Now,” whispered the clown, as though confiding a great mystery, “If you would leave off being aged and become a child again, let them go.”

At this the man quavered. The thought of releasing the balloons of his life was terrifying.

“If I do, what shall be left to me?” he asked fearfully.

“Only that which the wind cannot blow away,” answered the clown.

The man considered. After a moment he selected a small, limp balloon that had lost much of its air. The scene therein was so indistinct as to be nearly invisible. “Maybe I won’t miss this one much,” he reflected, and let the string go.

At first he felt dreadful anxiety watching the balloon he had held so long drift higher and higher until lost from sight. But once it was gone his heart was lighter.

The clown nodded sagely at him. “Now you know what few come to know,” he said.

Then a strong breeze arose, buffeting the many balloons and tugging at the man’s arm. His fist felt tired and sore from clenching the strings tightly. How long had he been doing this? For always, it seemed.

And recalling what the clown had said, he sighed . . . and loosened his grip.

Ships Beneath the Bridge

Ships Beneath the Bridge


Many ships passed beneath the bridge, gleaming with mysterious cargoes in the night. Always moving, moving, moving. Ever going someplace else.

The bridge let vessels pass beneath without hindrance. But the treasures floating below were inviting, and sometimes one of the bridge people leapt down onto them and sailed away.

One night as he watched such a ship, the man heard a voice coming from the far shore. He looked up and saw his father.

“Where are you my son?” his father called.

“I am here, father – upon the great bridge,” the man replied.

“What do you seek there?” asked his father.

“I seek . . .” But the man knew not how to answer. Then he heard another voice coming from the near shore. Turning, he saw his mother.

“Son,” she called to him from the distance, “Why have you thus dealt with us? Behold, your father and I have sought you sorrowing.”

A great love filled him for these people so dear. And he said, “How is it that you sought me? Knew you not that I must be about my father’s business?”

But they understood not the saying he spoke to them.

The View from the Bridge

The View from the Bridge


From the bridge he had a clear view of the sky, and it seemed God was breathing there. The fulminating clouds were like the lungs of life, livid with oxygen and the spirit of being - flaming in the heavens and bringing warmth to earth and water.

He breathed deeply in response and the spirit flowed into him, shooting fire into his depths and igniting the anguish that clung to his secret shadows. It burned and seared, yet he rejoiced in the pain and wept tears of gratitude.

Looking within, he saw his heart at last. Illumined by the flames, it was a darkened bitter fruit seemingly decayed beyond hope. His tears flowed in earnest as he took the first bite and swallowed.

And remembered the words of Stephen Crane . . .

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

The Bridge

The Bridge

His home was a bridge. Not the kind of bridge that links land on both sides so predictably that a person might not even notice the crossing. But the kind that can suddenly disconnect - part of it going high into the air and isolating one shore from another.

That part – suspended away from everything . . . is where he lived.

How did he wind up in such a precarious place? People liked to say, generally with derision in their voices, it was from choices he had made. They had counseled him to choose otherwise and when he didn’t, they were hurt or angry.

They were partly right – he had taken every feeble and faltering step voluntarily. But at the same time he didn’t know for sure how it had happened.

He would lie awake at night on the hard steel wondering why he was there. The water lapping below would remind him that he had no home, and he would weep.

But sometimes when the moon was full with pregnant beauty, an impression of unseen grace drifted down. He perceived his isolation to be a strange blessing, for the rift in comfortable connections exposed the ancient pain lurking in his heart.

He had always sought the solace of others as distraction from the subtle agony within his own breast. On the bridge he had nothing to turn to but himself. However hard a task, this must be done.

But what of the near shore and the far shore? Yes, someday the bridge might allow passage again. Yet he had begun to understand that peace must first be made with uncertainty and loneliness, and belonging nowhere, and to no one.