Au courant
There was a world once which contained only one type of flower and that flower was grayish with just a hint of green and that flower had a rather bland fragrance somewhat reminiscent of olive oil and honey. The flower was the thing the people turned to when they needed a break from their heavy burdens and harsh lives; they had nothing else, they wanted nothing else.
One day a man (or maybe a woman) landed on their shores in a sleek wooden boat overflowing with pink and lavender and purple and red and yellow and white flowers highly fragrant like sunshine on far-flung beaches and freedom in a captive world. The people gathered around and gawked for days on end, standing, not believing their eyes or senses. How could this be? they asked themselves. There is something not right here, they said. Maybe it is evil divination. Maybe the devils have infiltrated our one-flower paradise.
After what could have been years or eons, generations, a youngish child pushed his way through the crowd, gently parting the skeletons of the onlookers—for they had turned hard and unbelieving—and reached the edge of the shore where the boat still floated streaming with the lovely flowers. They had not lost their loveliness.
He sat on the cooling sand and took his shoes off, shook them out and laid them aside. Then he waded into the water to the edge of the boat. The man smiled at the child and handed him a flower.
The child took the flower and turned it this way and that. Yes, it was real. He put it to his nose and drew in deeply. When he gasped, the man smiled wider.
The child asked the man for a few more flowers “for his friends.”
“Are they still alive?” the man asked. “It looks as if they gave something up long ago.”
“I think someone may be,” the boy replied. “In any case, I hope someone is. Maybe the flowers will make them feel better.”
“So they’re sick, are they?”
“Well, you can see that.” The boy swept a hand toward the hordes of skeletons lining the beach, up and down, for miles and miles as far as the eye could see.
“Yes, I see that.” For just a second, it looked like the man would cry, but he merely frowned, gathered up a handful of flowers, and handed them to the boy. “I wish you much luck and happiness, boy,” he said. “I hope your efforts are worth it.”
“Effort is always worth it. And the flowers will make me very happy, if nothing else.” The boy backed away from the boat, not wanting to miss a single scent emanating from the bowery in front of him. The sea had its own scent, but the boy was used to that.
The boy finally turned and left the man and his boat to find another shore, which he eventually did.
For many years the boy walked up and down the beach, in and out and between the skeletons, in search of friends he hoped to share the flowers with, but in vain.
Then one day another boat rowed up to shore with a load of garments and spices the boy had never seen. He again looked for friends to share this incredible find with, but to little avail. The skeletons had little need of either garments or spices. So this time the boy forced courage out of his little heart and did what he never thought he would: he asked the man with the boat if he could go with him, travel with him to distant shores, explore the many places which held many new things, ideas, cultures. The boat man agreed, and the boy loaded up his flowers, waved goodbye to the skeletons on shore, and headed off into the horizon in a sleek little boat with the boat man at the helm. Together they explored new worlds and eventually the boy discovered paper and ink and wrote a book. It was called, When a Boat Brings You Flowers, Sail Off In It, Discover Yourself, Discover the World.
He became quite rich but it didn’t matter because all he wanted was to find the secret that would bring skeletons back to life and the seeds to plant flowers of understanding everywhere. His book, they said, was the first part of that secret, the first seed in that process.
There was a world once which contained only one type of flower and that flower was grayish with just a hint of green and that flower had a rather bland fragrance somewhat reminiscent of olive oil and honey. The flower was the thing the people turned to when they needed a break from their heavy burdens and harsh lives; they had nothing else, they wanted nothing else.
One day a man (or maybe a woman) landed on their shores in a sleek wooden boat overflowing with pink and lavender and purple and red and yellow and white flowers highly fragrant like sunshine on far-flung beaches and freedom in a captive world. The people gathered around and gawked for days on end, standing, not believing their eyes or senses. How could this be? they asked themselves. There is something not right here, they said. Maybe it is evil divination. Maybe the devils have infiltrated our one-flower paradise.
After what could have been years or eons, generations, a youngish child pushed his way through the crowd, gently parting the skeletons of the onlookers—for they had turned hard and unbelieving—and reached the edge of the shore where the boat still floated streaming with the lovely flowers. They had not lost their loveliness.
He sat on the cooling sand and took his shoes off, shook them out and laid them aside. Then he waded into the water to the edge of the boat. The man smiled at the child and handed him a flower.
The child took the flower and turned it this way and that. Yes, it was real. He put it to his nose and drew in deeply. When he gasped, the man smiled wider.
The child asked the man for a few more flowers “for his friends.”
“Are they still alive?” the man asked. “It looks as if they gave something up long ago.”
“I think someone may be,” the boy replied. “In any case, I hope someone is. Maybe the flowers will make them feel better.”
“So they’re sick, are they?”
“Well, you can see that.” The boy swept a hand toward the hordes of skeletons lining the beach, up and down, for miles and miles as far as the eye could see.
“Yes, I see that.” For just a second, it looked like the man would cry, but he merely frowned, gathered up a handful of flowers, and handed them to the boy. “I wish you much luck and happiness, boy,” he said. “I hope your efforts are worth it.”
“Effort is always worth it. And the flowers will make me very happy, if nothing else.” The boy backed away from the boat, not wanting to miss a single scent emanating from the bowery in front of him. The sea had its own scent, but the boy was used to that.
The boy finally turned and left the man and his boat to find another shore, which he eventually did.
For many years the boy walked up and down the beach, in and out and between the skeletons, in search of friends he hoped to share the flowers with, but in vain.
Then one day another boat rowed up to shore with a load of garments and spices the boy had never seen. He again looked for friends to share this incredible find with, but to little avail. The skeletons had little need of either garments or spices. So this time the boy forced courage out of his little heart and did what he never thought he would: he asked the man with the boat if he could go with him, travel with him to distant shores, explore the many places which held many new things, ideas, cultures. The boat man agreed, and the boy loaded up his flowers, waved goodbye to the skeletons on shore, and headed off into the horizon in a sleek little boat with the boat man at the helm. Together they explored new worlds and eventually the boy discovered paper and ink and wrote a book. It was called, When a Boat Brings You Flowers, Sail Off In It, Discover Yourself, Discover the World.
He became quite rich but it didn’t matter because all he wanted was to find the secret that would bring skeletons back to life and the seeds to plant flowers of understanding everywhere. His book, they said, was the first part of that secret, the first seed in that process.