We had stopped at Alberto's pub after the conference. The pub served an excellent selection of fruit juices. "You did a beautiful thing today," I said to Sylvia, "but where did you get the flowers from that you presented to Ross on the stage? There isn't a florist in the building. What magic did you do?"

      "I had them delivered, and I made sure they would arrive on time," she grinned. "Does this surprise you? Of course, there was no magic involved. I had worked with Ross on his project, on and off, for almost three months. Didn't you know that? So, the timing was not a problem."

      Indeed, I was surprised. I had always thought that she had not been interested in these kinds of things. She admitted that I was right, then. "Except now that Ross has made that discovery, it is different," she added. "It's all so simple and makes so much sense, after everything that has happened here, at least in principle it does."

      "But is it really so simple?" I asked.

      "The rivers are a beautiful metaphor," Sylvia replied, "and so simple that a child can understand them. If you make the rivers flow towards you, you can bet you intend to rape in one form or another. This happens when you regard people as a resource that you want draw towards you in order to exploit them, even to the point of using force. In this case you become a black hole. It's as simple as that. Now, if there is an outflow, the opposite happens. Of course, all that can actually be found in this outflow are those gentle qualities that enrich the human scene, which Steve once told you about in conjunction with the original version of the Decalogue. Remember you told me about this yourself, in Washington."

      Yes, I did remember. How could I not? "Only Steve didn't have a name for it," I said. "This is Ross' sanctuary, isn't it?"

      "Metaphorically speaking, yes, I agree," she replied. "Except, Ross made the point that no sanctuary exists without a corresponding outflow that enriches everyone. The two aspects cannot exist in isolation, they depend on each other. There exists no sanctuary unless both aspects are unfolding together."

      She paused for a moment, taking a long sip from her still full glass of fruit juice. We had a small table near the edge of Alberto's domain. The ice cubes in her drink had already melted a bit. Condensation had made the glass wet.

      "Actually, I'm a bit disappointed in you" Sylvia said, after she put her glass down again. "You don't allow yourself to experience how beautiful and rich a deeply honest outflow can be. I had expected that you would embrace Anton more fully with your love for her. She came all the way from Russia, mostly because of you. Why are you not with her right now? Shouldn't you spend all your days and your nights with her, here, rather than just sitting beside her in the meetings? That's what I like about the metaphor of the rivers. It involves movement. Rivers are not lakes. Rivers flow. In this flow we find our riches, and with these riches we grow."

      I stood up and hugged Sylvia, and thanked her for reminding me.

      "The way I see it," she replied, "we have each other always, but you and Anton have but a few days, here. I think she would appreciate being with you." Then she grinned; "Of course you couldn't have done that unilaterally? We tend to honor each other to the point of accepting poverty, and this we deem a noble thing to do. How did we ever get into this trap?"

      "That trap was invented thousands of years ago," I replied.

      Sylvia took her glass up again and started to drink some more.

      I felt as though I was back in Leipzig when I couldn't utter a word to Steve, when a mere, thank you, appeared to be too shallow and no other words came to mind. Indeed, words were inappropriate here, too, so I thanked her with a kiss and left immediately to find Anton. The motion of responsibility had become a flow that had opened doors, rather than creating a barrier such as Erica had encountered when she saw herself forced to draw the line.

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Stories about  Healing from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche