Somewhere in my esoteric reading I came across a philosophical sentiment that rang true with me. I can’t remember who said it but the basis was that theologians and scholars were wasting their time seeking the answer to life’s great riddle. First, it said, they should concentrate on asking the right question.

As usual I got to thinking about this too much. When I think about things too much I generally do one of three things. Either I get drunk and stare at my shoe until I fall asleep or find a graveled parking lot somewhere and pick a rock fight with the first passerby. In the absence of these, I am moved to poetry. Actually there is a fourth thing I do but my lawyers have asked me not to mention it due to pending litigation.

In this case, however, I was out of scotch and under injunction so I took out pen and paper to record the details of my own lifelong spiritual quest.

The unhappy result is recorded below.

I’ve traveled far.
I’ve traveled wide,
to solve the Mystery of Man.
My search has led me from Tangiers
through dark and mysterious Hindustan.

I’ve fluted with fakirs.
I’ve listened to liars.
I’ve chanted with mystics and monks.
I’ve sung off key with heavenly choirs.
I've put pins in my ears with the punks.

I’ve listened to sermons.
I’ve whispered the prayers.
I’ve heard all that each of them said.
But nothing made any sense to me
til I came to the Temple of Zed.

Inside it was quiet.
Inside it was bare.
No pew or baptismal at hand.
No incense was burning in brazier pots.
No pulpit at which to stand.

The choir was there
in silken robes.
I thought we’d hear a song.
Their mouths opened wide as if to sing.
But their silent hymn proved me wrong.

Then up from the floor
With a creak and a groan
A bare pedestal rose at high noon.
Nothing sat on its platformed top.
I assumed It would be along soon.

The rapt congregation
stopped dead in their tracks.
Their idol still unseen.
Yet they bowed and scraped to the empty space.
Did they have an invisible queen?

I squinted and stared
At the pedestal there.
No object of worship to see.
I turned to my host, oddly dazed and confused.
I thought something was wrong with me.

Then it suddenly hit me.
I’d missed the whole point.
No answers were here to be had.
Their doctrine was naught but a riddle that hid
in the space on that empty pad.

Outside in the daylight,
I turned to my friend
and told him of my suspicion.
He smiled a weak smile with a secret shrug
and delivered a mute benediction.

Yes I’ve knelt to a raja
and bowed to a shaman,
tipped my hat to a priestess, half naked.
But a pedestal bare
was a sight so rare
that I had to inquire
“Is their Nothing sacred?”