The Chosen One
Everyone in the town gathered for a big meeting in the town square. People were very angry because there was so much cruelty in the town and everyone seemed to have forgotten how to be good, kind, generous, honest and helpful. The meeting went on for hours and hours because everyone was blaming everyone else for all their problems. Eventually someone suggested, ‘Why not ask the Wise Woman of the Woods what we should do?’
It was agreed that the oldest man in the town should go and speak to her. He found the Wise Woman of the Woods and explained why everyone in the town was so unhappy and not getting on with each other. He asked her what they should do. She said, ‘You must all open your eyes.’
The old man was shocked and puzzled and so he asked, ‘What do you mean by that?’
The Wise Woman of the Woods replied, ‘One of the people living in your town is the Chosen One in disguise and you are blind to this.’
As the old man went back to the town his heart beat fast at the thought that the Chosen One was right there in their town. How is it they had all failed to recognise him, or was it a her? And who could it be? Freddie the fireman? Harriet the hairdresser? Sarah the policewoman? Bertie the bank manager? No, not he; he had too many bad sides to him. But then the Wise Woman of the Woods had said the Chosen One was in disguise. Could those bad sides be the disguise? Come to think of it, everyone in the town had bad sides. And one of them had to be the Chosen One!
When he got back to the town he called everyone together one more time and told them what he had discovered. They looked at one another in disbelief. The Chosen One? Here? Incredible! But here in disguise. So, maybe. What if it was so-and-so? Or the other one over there? Or even . . .
One thing was certain: if the Chosen One was there in disguise it was not likely that they would recognise her or him. So they started to treat everyone with respect and kindness. ‘You never know,’ they said to themselves when they dealt with one another, ‘maybe this is the one.’
The result of this was that the atmosphere in the town changed at once. Everyone was kind, patient and good to each other. Soon people came to live in the town from far and near because people knew this was the best way to live.
From Sight to Insight
My name is Saoirse.
This is the story of a day in my life.
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life, with good reason to frown, for the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day, a young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down and said with great excitement, ‘Look what I found!’
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with its petals all worn, not enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away. But instead of retreating he sat next to my side and placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, ‘It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too. That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.’
The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colours, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, ‘Just what I need.’ But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, he held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time that weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun as I thanked him for picking the very best one. You’re welcome, he smiled, and then ran off to play, unaware of the impact he’d had on my day. I sat there and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see the problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that’s mine. And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose. I smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand about to change the life of an unsuspecting old woman.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
September Blues
As a boy, summer was the season for mushrooms. I woke up early in the mornings during early autumn to go out mushroom-picking under the warm glow of the rising sun before gathering cows for the milking. I learned quickly that most valuable skill for any practitioner of my new profession – how to tell a field which would yield mushrooms from one which would not. Now and then I would reach treasure island – a seemingly limitless, just-popped bunch of pure white mushrooms lovingly caressing the green grass. Summer was above all, though, magical because of the freedom that came with the school holidays.
As a result, the month I hated the most was September because it signalled the dreaded return to school. With the benefit of hindsight, though, I know that I was incredibly lucky because I had a wonderful teacher. One particular incident will live forever in my memory.
The afternoon remained beautifully raw, with a flawless blue sky offering sunlight as pale as malt whiskey – though much less warming. As she rang the bell to summon us back into class, Katy Dobey’s lilac corduroys and clumpy shoes made a bold fashion statement. She normally wore an ensemble that could have been looted from a jumble sale by someone with a severe visual impairment. The wind, having tried unsuccessfully to scrape the light make-up from her blue-green eyes, concentrated on blowing the short brown hair into thick bunches about a face that mirrored the liveliness and contained strength of her nature. She was slim, but not at all frail, with square, capable hands adorned with a wedding ring as broad as a bangle.
Inside the cramped classroom, anticipation mingled with apprehension as she stated that she had an announcement for us. A lengthy theatrical pause ensued as she sat in an ordinary armchair, which enclosed her like a small cave. Katy Dobey’s statements were sometimes as enigmatic as the Dead Sea Scrolls. A chorus of groans greeted the news that we were to have our annual visit from the community doctor. A large frown crossed Katy Dobey’s forehead. Her demeanour was almost always friendly to the point of fervour, but in rare moments, especially if she suspected she was being taken for less than she was, a glacial sternness came over her features and only the resolute hung around to debate. Then her thick-lensed glasses steamed up as she wagged her finger. All thoughts of dissent were suspended and we meekly responded as one, ‘Yes, Miss.’ The width of her smile echoed the generosity of her nature.
Privately we were aghast. Dr Stewart was a short, stocky man whose pugnacious features and brisk, assertive gestures might mark him as a former professional boxer. He usually looked about as cheerful as a man trying to get a cyanide capsule out from behind his teeth. When he formed a set of opinions he was slow to rearrange them. He was to visit us to check our eyesight and hearing.
Almost as one we turned around to look at Stephen. His thin-framed glasses under the high waves of strawberry-blond hair, partially concealed his shrewd, rather pouchy face. Nonetheless it was clear that his normally boyishly pleasant expression was a study in anxiety.
Stephen had been in a car accident six months previously. His face had been disfigured, though the scars were fading. Looking back into the blank spaces of memory, we were unpardonably cruel in the comments we made about them. Stephen’s self-confidence had taken a battering. He also suffered from intermittent hearing loss.
Katy Dobey decided to give all of our hearing a little test. She asked us individually to put our right hand up to our right ear and to repeat back a sentence she dictated to us. There was a collective intake of breath when it came to Stephen’s turn.
He was obsessed with butterflies. The fascination arrived like talking, too early to remember. I would have bet my last thrupenny bit that Katy Dobey would have asked him something about butterflies – but not for the first time our teacher fanned the flames of imagination and surprised me.
Stephen’s face lightened like a cloudless dawn as he confidently repeated Katy Dobey’s sentence, ‘I wish you were my little boy.’
Travel Companions
Once upon a time Truth and Falsehood met each other on the road.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Truth.
‘Good afternoon,’ replied Falsehood. ‘And how are you doing these days?’
‘Not very well at all, I’m afraid,’ sighed Truth. ‘The times are tough for a fellow like me, you know.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Falsehood, glancing up and down at Truth’s ragged clothes. ‘You look like you haven’t had anything to eat for ages.’
‘To be honest, I haven’t,’ said Truth. ‘No one seems to want to employ me these days. Wherever I go, most people ignore me or mock me. It’s getting discouraging. I’m beginning to ask myself, why I do it.’
‘And why the devil do you? Come with me, and I’ll show you how to get along. There’s no reason in the world why you can’t stuff yourself with as much as you want to eat, like me, and dress in the finest clothes, like me. But you must promise not to say a word against me while we’re together.’
So Truth promised and agreed to go along with Falsehood for a while, not because he liked his company so much, but because he was so hungry he thought he’d faint soon if he didn’t get something into his stomach. They walked down the road until they came to a city, and Falsehood at once led the way to the very best table at the restaurant.
‘Waiter, bring us your best food and your finest wine.’ All afternoon they ate and drank. At last, when they could hold no more, Falsehood began banging his fist on the table and calling for the manager, who came running at once.
‘What the devil kind of place is this?’ Falsehood snapped. ‘I gave that waiter a gold piece nearly an hour ago, and he still hasn’t brought our change.’
The manager summoned the waiter, who said he’d never even seen a penny out of the gentleman.
‘What?’ Falsehood shouted, so that everyone in the place turned and looked. ‘I can’t believe this place! Innocent, law-abiding citizens come into eat, and you rob them of their hard-earned cash. You’re a gang of thieves and liars. You may have fooled me once, but you’ll never see me again. Here.’ He threw a gold piece at the manager. ‘Now this time bring me my change.’
But the manager, fearing his restaurant’s reputation would suffer, refused to take the gold piece, and instead brought Falsehood change for the first gold piece he claimed to have spent. Then he took the waiter aside and called him a thief, and said that he was going to fire him. And as much as the waiter protested that he’d never collected a cent from the man, the manager refused to believe him.
‘Oh Truth, where have you hidden yourself?’ the waiter sighed. ‘Have you now deserted even us hard-working souls?’
‘No, I’m here,’ Truth groaned to himself. ‘But my judgement gave way to my hunger, and now I can’t speak up without breaking my promise to Falsehood.’
As soon as they were on the street, Falsehood gave a great laugh and slapped Truth on the back. ‘You see how the world works?’ he cried. ‘I managed it all quite well, don’t you think?’
But Truth slipped from his side.
‘I’d rather starve than live as you do,’ he said.
And so Truth and Falsehood went their separate ways, and never travelled together again.
Eight Levels of Charity
Level 8 – The donor is pained by the act of giving.
Level 7 – The donor gives less than he should but does so cheerfully.
Level 6 – The donor gives after being solicited.
Level 5 – The donor gives without being solicited.
Level 4 – The recipient knows the donor but the donor does not know the recipient.
Level 3 – The donor knows the recipient but the recipient does not know the donor.
Level 2 – Neither the donor nor the recipient knows the other.
Level 1 – The donor gives the recipient the wherewithal to become self-supporting.
MAIMONIDES, D. 1204