In bygone days when venerated elders shared lessons from a life lived and stories from full, rich experience, people would come to listen, to enjoy, and to learn. Modern civilizations/States have replaced the art of storytelling and experiential knowledge with entertainment, advertisement, sex, and countless other things that can make a quick buck since they can be mass-packaged and sold on the market. I think the tradeoff is inferior. We cannot exchange or replace heritage and a sharing of life with systematized comedy/drama, routinized and hackneyed plots, and a culture gone mad with feeling good. We must create stories of our own to share, to relive, and to pass down. I'd like to do so just here. It is, like many of my posts here, very experiential and tries to make a point about everyday things that may go on unnoticed by most but that make much sense and provide good ground for thinking about ourselves as humans and about the stories we create in our lives, be they good, bad, both, or neither. Lamentably, I cannot tell this story in person so the effects of custom voices and character quirks are lost but please use your imagination.
Undoubtedly, I am just copying someone else's work, style, theme, idea, state, feeling, whatever else (since history and experience repeats), but being reminded of things we already know sometimes is not such a bad thing after all.
[edit] It seems that this really is some adaptation of a folk tale though nobody has helped me pin it down to a country of origin. It felt very close and familiar so I thought the theme was something I had read (and that's why I said it was a copy of another work) but apparently the plot and idea is from another tale altogether, adapted here and put into my words. anyone who can pinpoint the original story please post or PM me, I would love to read the original.[/edit]
Two water jugs
In the land of Kitai, when knights were knights and knaves were knaves, one peasant farmer living on a small track of land by the Xiangjiang river, in the eastern part of Hunan province, toiled away to provide for his family what food they needed. Now this was long ago, before the monster Yanhen was slain by the priests of Eheya and long before great-grandfather Yong-Pin received the medal from the emperor Sileng of the third dynasty. It was a time when the river gods were pleased with men and did not become angry with their deeds. It was a good time to live for this peasant farmer, Ling.
Owning little and being poor, Ling could not afford to buy proper equipment and had even less time and intelligence than money to learn how to make it. Yet the work had to be done so what was available had to be used. It wasn?t bad, really, though the tools often were ashamed when they were taken outside and could see each other and what the neighbors had; they were ashamed of their owner and of themselves. Seeing no worth in themselves, they tried to make the best of things and enjoy serving Ling well.
But it was not always so. Among the tools in possession was a water-carrier with a jug on each end that was used to carry water for cooking and washing. One of the jugs was perfect in every way; it was new, very durable, fired from the right kind of clay, kept water cool and was very shapely. Nobody knows for sure, but it is thought by many of the wise that this jug is the very same jug that held the oceans before time and before the first fishes swam in the lakes. Ling never had a problem with this jug, it was simply flawless.
The other jug proves to be another story. Found in an old refuse heap, it was just thought to be suitable for carrying water, when properly cleaned up that is. Ling took it and put it to good use by making a water-carrier. It has a deep crack running through it, like an old wound that wouldn?t heal and didn?t want to. No matter how hard Ling tried to fix it, the jug was just relentless in wanting to bleed water and so Ling said that 1 and-a-half jug of water was better than 1 jug and decided to leave it alone.
Jugs can be very stubborn.
The trip to the river to fetch water continued for 4 years like this. Like sands moving down rapids, the old jug slowly but surely let water pass through the crack. By the time Ling would get home, the full 2 jugs would be reduced to 1.5 jugs. Ling didn?t mind though, he was an agreeable fellow, the sort you?d want your parents to meet so he was happy that he had more than he did originally. His family was happy they had water and he was happy to work on his land.
One day, a change occurred in the cracked jug. The jug became overwhelmed with emotion, like all the water it had trickled away was suddenly rushing back in and demanding reparations for a job poorly done. He saw his perfect companion and exclaimed, ?Oh woah is me ! How to be this perfect container and do my job flawlessly every time. To work for my owner in such a way that he would have two jugs, each brimming with fresh water, faithful to the end. Why am I this way, broken and decrepit, an old man past his usefulness who must chew soft ricecake when the teeth have fallen out.?
Ling was a perceptive fellow; gentility often brings awareness. He saw that the jug he picked out from the rubbish heap was not happy. Whatever could be the matter? He spoke to the jug saying, ?My faithful pot, you who have given me half for so many years, are you not satisfied with what you have? I cleaned you and washed you, I gave you a chance to serve and to enjoy, you have so much to offer and can hold in plenty of water, why have you become saddened of late?? A fair question, for you see, Ling was right in his own way. Nothing had really changed from the days before of the days long past, just as nothing has changed today. The clay pot simply did not see it this way.
With a continued sigh, it said, ?My master, good Ling, you have washed me and have given me life, this is true, I have served you well and have enjoyed carrying water. But I want more. I look at what bad luck I have been given and I am saddened. This is not enough. The jug on the other side is perfect, a god. It carries always, never complains, always looks great, rarely needs cleaning and keeps the water very cool for your children. It is filled to the top and does not let the water out. Look at me, I have a deep wound, a crack that lets water pass and now it comes back to haunt me.
Ling was not sure what to say. Having used the jug, he was happy it was in his life since a jug-and-a-half is better than one jug. So he said, ?We will gather water today again. On our way back, when we get near the house, there is a row of beautiful and fragrant flowers that smell so sweet this time of the year. Many butterflies fly there and my children love chasing after them. When we pass by, take a look and enjoy the flowers.? Not wanting to appear rude, the jug agreed.
On the way back, it saw the flowers and saw that really, they were quite good. It was not comforting since the jug leaked water but at least now the flowers provided comfort and were very beautiful to look at.
After 3 weeks of this, the jug again became saddened, more greatly that before. It said to Ling, ?My master, you have given me much, it is true, though I still do not have what this other jug has. Why do not you patch me up so I am perfect??
Again, Ling enigmatically replied, ?on the way back, after the field and near the freshly planted bamboo, there are flowers, take a look at them. Again, the jug agreed.
It wasn?t really a solution. What about those flowers? Sure, they smell nice and look great, but the jug was still leaking water ! What good are the damn flowers when the jug can?t be as good as another and has to suffer? These thoughts haunted the jug day and night. Seeing this, Ling decided to show our cracked jug the flowers.
On a Friday morning, sometime after the tin-tin bird yells ?Karunaaaa-aaa?, the two jugs were carried by Ling on the way back to his house. They came to where the flowers were and Ling stopped. He pointed to the flowers and they stood there for what must have been eons looking at the beauty. Then, ponderously, like an old man worn down with hard labor, he said, ?I found you in an old heap, full of throwaways and ruins. You were precious in my eyes? and I love you. I cleaned you and made you mine. I put you to good use with this other jug who is able to carry water to the brim and provide for many. Without you, I would spend an extra trip down to the river to carry water. Now look at these flowers. Every day I go up this path to bring water to provide life for my family. The flowers only grow on this side. Every time I walk up from the river, you spill water and it trickles down from the crack. The flowers grow on your side. All the water you have spilled these years in the times I have walked has spilled onto the earth and look at the flowers that have grown along the path. Everyday I see these flowers, I get lost in looking at the colors and smelling the smells. Without that, I would not cherish my morning work as I do. The water you have spilled and cried over has fallen down yes, but look at where it fell ! On the other side, where the perfect jug has carried water flawlessly for me all these years, there are no flowers, there is not the same richness gained as the water you have bled through your wound. I could not ask for a better jug than you. I have picked you and you are mine.?
The cracked jug was thrown into rapture. The years of shame at not being able to see what water shed does melted with realizing that without its faults, it could simply not produce the flowers enjoyed by its master, by others, by animals and by the jug itself. It saw that the perfect jug was not capable of this, fulfilling the function only of carrying water. By spilling water, many flowers grew and thrived, where they are still enjoyed today.
In Hunan province, by the Xiangjiang river, where the fall festivals welcome in rich harvests, Ling, an old farmer owned two clay pots fastened on a stick to carry water. One was perfect and did its task without complaining. The other thought that since it didn?t come from good clay and was not wanted by the world, it was inferior. What it didn?t realize is that cracks and flaws produce flowering results.
If you take a boat upriver, you can still find the old man Ling toiling at his small plot of land and if you look carefully, you will see a row of flowers, right before the house that bloom year-round.
____________
Why did I write that story? What does it have to tell us? I think we find ourselves sometimes feeling like we are no good, like we have cracks in our exterior that spill out water. And so we are ashamed, we cannot bear to continue on with things. We are in some way deficient, lack love, lack money, lack the right genes, lack fortune and luck, or whatever other damages we have encountered as a result of being thrown in the rubbish heap of life. Thinking that we are below the perfect pots, we don?t take time to examine what flowers are springing up around us.
Or perhaps we think we are the perfect pots, doing everything right and on track with everything in life. Who are these inferior, dumber, sub-par people who are in the world around us? Why are they so stupid? Can?t they just give up their silly stuff, learn to cope with life, be strong, so we can all just move forward in human development and finally move on to a different civilization type?
If we think that we are perfect, then maybe we need to get cracked a few times so that flowers will grow. If we think we are imperfect, then maybe we need to take off our shoes and look what our flaws can create instead of picking blackberries all the time.
It is Spring and the April rains will soon come, especially here in Seattle, bringing with them more growth and more food for the apple and cherry trees that are in bloom right now. The peasant farmer Ling no doubt is waking up and getting ready to bring water from the river, since he is poor and cannot afford to buy expensive tools that the world says are absolutely necessary for a multi-million, modern farming enterprise. If you ever paddle against the current into the eastern plains of Hunan, make sure you visit Ling. Tell him linuxboy sent you. Stop to smell the flowers while you?re there.
There are not enough stories being told and even less created. What?s your story? Mine is about a farmer named Ling?
Cheers !
Undoubtedly, I am just copying someone else's work, style, theme, idea, state, feeling, whatever else (since history and experience repeats), but being reminded of things we already know sometimes is not such a bad thing after all.
[edit] It seems that this really is some adaptation of a folk tale though nobody has helped me pin it down to a country of origin. It felt very close and familiar so I thought the theme was something I had read (and that's why I said it was a copy of another work) but apparently the plot and idea is from another tale altogether, adapted here and put into my words. anyone who can pinpoint the original story please post or PM me, I would love to read the original.[/edit]
Two water jugs
In the land of Kitai, when knights were knights and knaves were knaves, one peasant farmer living on a small track of land by the Xiangjiang river, in the eastern part of Hunan province, toiled away to provide for his family what food they needed. Now this was long ago, before the monster Yanhen was slain by the priests of Eheya and long before great-grandfather Yong-Pin received the medal from the emperor Sileng of the third dynasty. It was a time when the river gods were pleased with men and did not become angry with their deeds. It was a good time to live for this peasant farmer, Ling.
Owning little and being poor, Ling could not afford to buy proper equipment and had even less time and intelligence than money to learn how to make it. Yet the work had to be done so what was available had to be used. It wasn?t bad, really, though the tools often were ashamed when they were taken outside and could see each other and what the neighbors had; they were ashamed of their owner and of themselves. Seeing no worth in themselves, they tried to make the best of things and enjoy serving Ling well.
But it was not always so. Among the tools in possession was a water-carrier with a jug on each end that was used to carry water for cooking and washing. One of the jugs was perfect in every way; it was new, very durable, fired from the right kind of clay, kept water cool and was very shapely. Nobody knows for sure, but it is thought by many of the wise that this jug is the very same jug that held the oceans before time and before the first fishes swam in the lakes. Ling never had a problem with this jug, it was simply flawless.
The other jug proves to be another story. Found in an old refuse heap, it was just thought to be suitable for carrying water, when properly cleaned up that is. Ling took it and put it to good use by making a water-carrier. It has a deep crack running through it, like an old wound that wouldn?t heal and didn?t want to. No matter how hard Ling tried to fix it, the jug was just relentless in wanting to bleed water and so Ling said that 1 and-a-half jug of water was better than 1 jug and decided to leave it alone.
Jugs can be very stubborn.
The trip to the river to fetch water continued for 4 years like this. Like sands moving down rapids, the old jug slowly but surely let water pass through the crack. By the time Ling would get home, the full 2 jugs would be reduced to 1.5 jugs. Ling didn?t mind though, he was an agreeable fellow, the sort you?d want your parents to meet so he was happy that he had more than he did originally. His family was happy they had water and he was happy to work on his land.
One day, a change occurred in the cracked jug. The jug became overwhelmed with emotion, like all the water it had trickled away was suddenly rushing back in and demanding reparations for a job poorly done. He saw his perfect companion and exclaimed, ?Oh woah is me ! How to be this perfect container and do my job flawlessly every time. To work for my owner in such a way that he would have two jugs, each brimming with fresh water, faithful to the end. Why am I this way, broken and decrepit, an old man past his usefulness who must chew soft ricecake when the teeth have fallen out.?
Ling was a perceptive fellow; gentility often brings awareness. He saw that the jug he picked out from the rubbish heap was not happy. Whatever could be the matter? He spoke to the jug saying, ?My faithful pot, you who have given me half for so many years, are you not satisfied with what you have? I cleaned you and washed you, I gave you a chance to serve and to enjoy, you have so much to offer and can hold in plenty of water, why have you become saddened of late?? A fair question, for you see, Ling was right in his own way. Nothing had really changed from the days before of the days long past, just as nothing has changed today. The clay pot simply did not see it this way.
With a continued sigh, it said, ?My master, good Ling, you have washed me and have given me life, this is true, I have served you well and have enjoyed carrying water. But I want more. I look at what bad luck I have been given and I am saddened. This is not enough. The jug on the other side is perfect, a god. It carries always, never complains, always looks great, rarely needs cleaning and keeps the water very cool for your children. It is filled to the top and does not let the water out. Look at me, I have a deep wound, a crack that lets water pass and now it comes back to haunt me.
Ling was not sure what to say. Having used the jug, he was happy it was in his life since a jug-and-a-half is better than one jug. So he said, ?We will gather water today again. On our way back, when we get near the house, there is a row of beautiful and fragrant flowers that smell so sweet this time of the year. Many butterflies fly there and my children love chasing after them. When we pass by, take a look and enjoy the flowers.? Not wanting to appear rude, the jug agreed.
On the way back, it saw the flowers and saw that really, they were quite good. It was not comforting since the jug leaked water but at least now the flowers provided comfort and were very beautiful to look at.
After 3 weeks of this, the jug again became saddened, more greatly that before. It said to Ling, ?My master, you have given me much, it is true, though I still do not have what this other jug has. Why do not you patch me up so I am perfect??
Again, Ling enigmatically replied, ?on the way back, after the field and near the freshly planted bamboo, there are flowers, take a look at them. Again, the jug agreed.
It wasn?t really a solution. What about those flowers? Sure, they smell nice and look great, but the jug was still leaking water ! What good are the damn flowers when the jug can?t be as good as another and has to suffer? These thoughts haunted the jug day and night. Seeing this, Ling decided to show our cracked jug the flowers.
On a Friday morning, sometime after the tin-tin bird yells ?Karunaaaa-aaa?, the two jugs were carried by Ling on the way back to his house. They came to where the flowers were and Ling stopped. He pointed to the flowers and they stood there for what must have been eons looking at the beauty. Then, ponderously, like an old man worn down with hard labor, he said, ?I found you in an old heap, full of throwaways and ruins. You were precious in my eyes? and I love you. I cleaned you and made you mine. I put you to good use with this other jug who is able to carry water to the brim and provide for many. Without you, I would spend an extra trip down to the river to carry water. Now look at these flowers. Every day I go up this path to bring water to provide life for my family. The flowers only grow on this side. Every time I walk up from the river, you spill water and it trickles down from the crack. The flowers grow on your side. All the water you have spilled these years in the times I have walked has spilled onto the earth and look at the flowers that have grown along the path. Everyday I see these flowers, I get lost in looking at the colors and smelling the smells. Without that, I would not cherish my morning work as I do. The water you have spilled and cried over has fallen down yes, but look at where it fell ! On the other side, where the perfect jug has carried water flawlessly for me all these years, there are no flowers, there is not the same richness gained as the water you have bled through your wound. I could not ask for a better jug than you. I have picked you and you are mine.?
The cracked jug was thrown into rapture. The years of shame at not being able to see what water shed does melted with realizing that without its faults, it could simply not produce the flowers enjoyed by its master, by others, by animals and by the jug itself. It saw that the perfect jug was not capable of this, fulfilling the function only of carrying water. By spilling water, many flowers grew and thrived, where they are still enjoyed today.
In Hunan province, by the Xiangjiang river, where the fall festivals welcome in rich harvests, Ling, an old farmer owned two clay pots fastened on a stick to carry water. One was perfect and did its task without complaining. The other thought that since it didn?t come from good clay and was not wanted by the world, it was inferior. What it didn?t realize is that cracks and flaws produce flowering results.
If you take a boat upriver, you can still find the old man Ling toiling at his small plot of land and if you look carefully, you will see a row of flowers, right before the house that bloom year-round.
____________
Why did I write that story? What does it have to tell us? I think we find ourselves sometimes feeling like we are no good, like we have cracks in our exterior that spill out water. And so we are ashamed, we cannot bear to continue on with things. We are in some way deficient, lack love, lack money, lack the right genes, lack fortune and luck, or whatever other damages we have encountered as a result of being thrown in the rubbish heap of life. Thinking that we are below the perfect pots, we don?t take time to examine what flowers are springing up around us.
Or perhaps we think we are the perfect pots, doing everything right and on track with everything in life. Who are these inferior, dumber, sub-par people who are in the world around us? Why are they so stupid? Can?t they just give up their silly stuff, learn to cope with life, be strong, so we can all just move forward in human development and finally move on to a different civilization type?
If we think that we are perfect, then maybe we need to get cracked a few times so that flowers will grow. If we think we are imperfect, then maybe we need to take off our shoes and look what our flaws can create instead of picking blackberries all the time.
It is Spring and the April rains will soon come, especially here in Seattle, bringing with them more growth and more food for the apple and cherry trees that are in bloom right now. The peasant farmer Ling no doubt is waking up and getting ready to bring water from the river, since he is poor and cannot afford to buy expensive tools that the world says are absolutely necessary for a multi-million, modern farming enterprise. If you ever paddle against the current into the eastern plains of Hunan, make sure you visit Ling. Tell him linuxboy sent you. Stop to smell the flowers while you?re there.
There are not enough stories being told and even less created. What?s your story? Mine is about a farmer named Ling?
Cheers !