My darling Yulya…. a PLACE that best defines my Creative Spirit, is a place I have long regarded as my “Sanctuary”. And, like the poet, Rainer Maria Rilke once remarked so very, very long ago in his beautiful: book “Letters to a Young Poet”
“How can one not be fearful who, but seldom, enters into his sanctuary?”
The name of that place, my “Sanctuary”?
Big Sur, California!
I knew Big Sur would be my Sanctuary when, in 1971, fifty-five years ago, I pulled my VW Bug to the side of the road and onto a steep promontory overlooking the blue-green water, where Sea Otters floated sans souci on their backs as the sun prepared to disappear for the night, and where the colors on the far horizon appeared to have been lifted off the palette of Eugene Delacroix by the goddess of the Full Moon night to come….
A young man with scarcely twenty-two years under my belt, my world had come crashing down upon me the year before as I made my way from place to place selling copies of a small book of poems I had self-published, titled “This Church For Sale.”
Earlier that same day, I had made my way south, driving from San Francisco along Highway One, traversing the Pacific Coast. Relying on cigarettes and coffee for sustenance, I felt myself in full retreat from everyone and everything that had entered into my life before that night unfolded….
As the sun began its descent, I made a small fire beside my VW Bug and watched in awe as that immense, reddish-golden orb sank beneath distant waves now the color of gun-metal blue. Alone at that moment the sun disappeared, I had to remind myself to breathe. A cold wind blowing onto the shore prompted me to wrap my gray woolen poncho around me and huddle close to the fire I made.
What I saw, staring directly into the flames, I cannot tell — I will keep those thoughts to myself, as a testament to what was but is no more. The flights of fancy and dreams young men fill their heads with at that age. So much nonsense, yes? The sound and fury, and so much of it, maybe all of it, the endless drama signifying nothing, and yet the heart beats on, not bothering to ask, “Why?”
As the fire burned to a conclusion, the fog rolled inexorably off the ocean onto the shore, bringing with it an uninvited dampness, overflowing with salty air…. and a phantasmagoria of night sounds and shapes and every so often out of the darkness, the cry of an animal, calling to its mate or anything, actually, willing to answer.
The following day, as the dawn approached, the fog had withdrawn, seals were barking, and waves crashed against the granite rocks three-hundred feet below the promontory that cradled me through that long, dark night, a night void of moon or stars to comfort me…
The fire I made the night before had long since died out; the firepit I made smelled of soggy wet ashes. Embers lay in a heap, like so many charred corpses. Not a sight that inspired glee…
Too large to sleep in my VW Bug the night before, I had simply positioned myself — as much of me as I could fit — underneath the side of the VW to stave off the dampness and leave me only with the smells of grease and motor oil to contend with.
“What? Was I not once young and handsome, like Phlebas the Phoenician — was I not a young god bestride mountains then, those many years ago?”
A legend in my own mind back then, as it is with most, if not all, young men…. Hmm?
Dawn! But no coffee, hot and fresh in my cup to drink; no cigarette to smoke. Thanks for nothing, Aurora!
I rolled from underneath my VW and got to my feet. I rubbed the salt that had settled on my face away from my eyes.
As I approached the driver’s side door, I noticed straightaway that my window was down. Would I next find fecal matter (scat) inside, from a seagull, perhaps, taking respite during the fog-bound night? Or a raccoon, perhaps?
No!
What I DID find, what was there to greet me, and had been through that dark night, was a MONARCH BUTTERFLY with orange and black wings, resting atop my steering wheel, facing toward the ocean.
What I felt, seeing that beautiful creature there, so perfect and still, I could not contain, and it left my body with a loud gasp. But as I continued to stare at that unmoving butterfly, what the ancient Egyptians regarded as a symbol of “The Soul, “…
I felt such Joy as I had never experienced…. A tremendous heaviness left my shoulders where I had been carrying it. With the greatest of care, I reclaimed the driver’s seat and sat there… perfectly still… enthralled by the butterfly. And yet, it did not move. It remained perfectly still…. until I realized, this beautiful creature had settled there to die, and die it had; perhaps, that I might be reborn.
Postscript: I have that same butterfly with me to this day, in a sealed jar which, for reasons sufficient to myself, I put several holes in the lid… perhaps… just perhaps, to acknowledge that nothing…. NOTHING ever truly dies.
I have lived many times.
I have been a part
of all things
and each time,
to each thing closer to Creation,
I arrive ready
to begin again
until I am….
— Taken From “This Church For Sale, ” by Jon Christopher, 1971
Reflection: Inside the Sanctuary
“When I first read John’s letter, tears came to my eyes.As someone whose life and art are deeply intertwined with the philosophy of 'Memento Mori', I was shaken to my core by his phrase: 'Nothing ever truly dies.' These are not just words; they are a manifesto of hope for all of us who constantly reflect on the finitude of existence and the fragility of the moment.John’s talent lies in his incredible ability to transform the pain of loss and the fear of the unknown into tangible cinematic imagery. For a time, his 'Sanctuary' in Big Sur became my sanctuary too. Through my canvases, I sought not only to recreate his past but to capture that very mystical point where death meets rebirth in the form of the Monarch butterfly.This project has become personal proof for me that as long as memory and art endure—nothing ever truly fades away.”
