It was a Saturday morning, and David woke up early. Though he had wanted to sleep in, at his first stirring, his mind flooded him with thoughts, each one harnessing his attention until forming an unbreakable bond, shaking him from sleep and pulling him into consciousness.
Unlike waking under the stress of work or fear or negativity, as he once had, he woke these days with the pull of his purpose. His dreams, his hopes, they infused him with an unstoppable energy and motion. Often he felt that his dream was the train engine, and he was in the caboose, going along for the ride.
The labels others sought to brand on him no longer limited him. On occasion, he would realize his acceptance of someone else’s dream or someone else’s definition or his own excuses, and he would allow the power of his thoughts to clear away these invisible strings tying him to a life of less. He no longer allowed others to have power over his destiny.
His friends, at least the ones he spent the most time with, were positive and encouraging. Each friend was like a single, perfectly pitched note. When combined, they provided a rich music to his soul. His friends were truly gifts, and he was so grateful. His best friend was his wife, who was, he could safely say, part of his destiny. With Aria by his side, he felt complete, able to become the man he wanted to be.
On this particular Saturday morning, up before the sun, his thoughts were back on when he first saw her in the park, grabbing at papers. How ironic that she was on the same but parallel journey, and somehow their experiences intertwined. She was not at the first appointment with the Old Man all those years ago, but she had discovered the mistakes on her own path.
How that happened was a mystery they would contemplate but never fully understand.
He walked into his study, an office lined with books, filled with his papers. A fireplace was on the far side of the room, and he built a small fire to warm the room before reaching for a worn leather book.
It was The Book of Mistakes, the book that held the wisdom of past experience. The Old Man had willed his copy to the couple with only one condition: they must work to spread its wisdom to those who were seeking it. As the Keeper of the mistakes, he was always in motion. He was always teaching and working to ensure the book’s wisdom would endure.
As he crossed the room to settle in his favorite chair, David caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. No longer could he be called a young man. The gray sprinkled in his hair, the wrinkles from a life of smiles. He sat down, caressing the book, his mind drifting. He glanced up at one of the Artist’s paintings on the wall. Though they had moved in their new role as Keepers to seek out nine new Teachers, she remained one of their closest friends.
As he opened the book, a letter from the Old Man dropped into his lap. The words written could have been spoken, because he could hear them as if the Old Man were in the room talking directly to him.
He recalled the first line of the letter. It was one the Old Man shared with him on his second visit to that café only months after he learned the final mistake.
“Live a life that matters, a life of light and of love and of hope. Your choices can either become the wings of your success or the bars that imprison you in a life of mediocrity.”
Leaning back into his chair, he read those words again with the confidence and assurance that he was doing just that. He reached into his pocket and felt the coins once given to him by a banker who taught him that his value was not determined by others. He had carried them with him ever since that day; never once had they left his possession.
As he sat there in his chair, he smiled knowingly, already thinking ahead to his breakfast meeting with the newly selected individual who would be next in a long line of people he had taught the mistakes. It was part of his life’s work, part of his promise to the Old Man, and part of his purpose.