Plate Spinners

In the country of Annulus there is a large community of professional plate spinners. These talented individuals can go about their daily activities while constantly spinning as many as five heavy dinner plates. This communicated to themselves and all who saw them that one could accomplish so much more if enough focus and effort was applied to the skill of multitasking.

These spinners traveled the country in carnivals and harvest festivals to display their incredible skills. At some of these events the spinners would host classes and give seminars on how to become a plate spinner.

All was well, and many throughout the country learned this wonderful skill which enhanced efficiency. Then, as time passed, plates were created much lighter and smaller. The plate spinners began to break new ground by spinning more plates than anyone ever had. The joy of spinning was disappearing and a frantic sense of addition and maximization was creeping into the hearts of all the spinners.

When one would reach the very edge of their ability, then add just one plate more, the obvious happened- all the plates tumbled down. Plates they had spun since early childhood had fallen. It was devastating to the spinners, but instead of considering the cause, they quickly filled their arms with as many or more plates as before because. Stillness had become unbearable, almost an unnatural thing.

The habit of spinning had overtaken their reason. Attempting the impossible is often unwise and though they continued to apply themselves to this new standard of mega plate spinning, the plates continued to fall at the slightest breeze or smallest stone in their path.

Each time the plates fell it was traumatic to that spinner, but, over time, as they experienced more and more traumatic moments a numbness developed. Their ancestors spun fewer but larger, heavier plates than they had, but always maintained a sense of rest and joy. This generation had almost forgotten what rest felt like.

Things seem bleak for this generation but there is hope on the horizon. A movement has arisen within it- moderation. Its followers seek rest and joy, not continual striving. These few are fighting the strong current of popular opinion. Doing less is not always easy. The example of their lives will prove if their philosophy of moderation is possible and beneficial in this day and age.

Ichabod is Dying

He had been a much-desired baby. However, as the pregnancy wore on, life for his family turned from sweet to sour then finally to extremely bitter. Maybe they shouldn’t have named him at birth. Nameless, he might have had a better chance at life, but that is not how things are done among the Pixies. So, he was named, and his name reflected every terrible event of that year- Ichabod, meaning sorrow.

He grew up unloved.

Whenever negative things happened, the community looked to see the proximity of Ichabod to the occurrence. He was thought of as a bad luck charm and quickly became an outcast. He accepted what people said of him and his behavior reflected their expectations. He formed himself into his negative destiny- stooped over, brow furrowed with worry, and eyes cast down to avoid the concerned or angry look of others.

The day Wisdom came to this town the status quo began to crumble. She observed how good-hearted Pixies treated Ichabod as a scape-goat simply because it had always been the way of the community. Wisdom would not tolerate it.

With clear and undeniable reason, she spoke to the Pixies, slicing away their prejudice, until they saw Ichabod for what he was- not the foreteller of misfortune, but a sad, lonely Pixy.

Most of the community intensely regretted their horrible treatment of him. They would change, though it took some longer than others to completely change their way of thinking.

Wisdom spoke gently to Ichabod. He could not hear her voice, but this did not deter her from repeating her truth. Ichabod, you are more than your name. You are more than what others say you are. Depression can be broken. Joy and peace and purpose can be yours. You are meant for so much more. You are not forever destined to be what you have been. You can change your name.

It was not long before Ichabod could hear Wisdom, though he didn’t understand what she was saying. Wisdom saw this progress and continued her work until the day when he understood and, with tears, accepted the truth.

Wisdom gathered the community to announce, “Ichabod is dying.”

Shocked the community was silent, thinking over the sorrow and isolation the young man had been forced to handle for so many years. Tears slipped from many eyes. Then, from behind Wisdom, stepped a new man. No longer stooped, with a smooth brow, he stood tall, confident, and looking directly into the eyes of everyone. Wisdom announced, “Ichabod has passed away, this is Peter.”

Redeemed

The Sprite had once been strong and brave before her fall. Now she was skittish, fearful and silent. Maral faithfully travelled with the Sprite though the pace was very slow. The path did not allow for two to walk abreast; so Maral took the lead and blocked the majority of the wind.

In the evenings, the silence became overwhelmingly uncomfortable prompting Maral to begin shareing her experiences from her journey. When she ran out of stories, she spoke of her childhood in the forest. For a long time, the Sprite did not respond and Maral felt like she was speaking to the wind. Slowly, however, acknowledgments began to come from the Sprite.

As Maral won the Sprite’s trust, she began to speak of her own childhood. Their companionship dulled the dreariness and harshness of the Shifting Sand wasteland. Time began to pass not unpleasantly for the pair.

The Sprite was fascinated by Maral’s fire dwelling experiences. She chose to become vulnerable and shared her sacred secret about the great promise she had received when she was just a child. She had placed all her hopes and determination in this promise and had been chasing it for many years.

Maral had subconsciously assumed many negative things about the Sprite because she had been reclaimed from the sand but as their friendship developed each assumption was proven false. Maral found that the Sprite had been traveling much longer and over greater challenges than she herself had encountered.

Soon the Sprite’s old strength, gained from her many travels, returned to her, allowing her to take the lead. The pace was almost too swift for Maral, but she managed to keep up. The slight Sprite seemed more resilient to the relentless wind.

One quiet night the Sprite spoke about her fall. She tearfully confessed that she had become dejected as time passed and she seemed to be no closer to her promise. The harshness of the wasteland wearied her body and mind until she began to wonder if all her life had been in pursuit of something unattainable.

On the hottest day, she fully accepted that her promise was a myth. She was so low that she had looked out at the sea of sand for a while, then willfully stepped off the path.

She had been lost for years. The sand was wild and terrible. She had seen horrible things in the belly of the abyss. Then, after suffering much, she felt an unexplainable reawakening. Her promise was calling to her.

It was then the Reclaimer’s rope had found her and the battle to return to the path began. The sand had no desire to lose her and fought ferociously to prevent her escape. She had been a passive participant at first, but as soon as she caught sight of the firm path, she completely woke from her stupor and fought as never before.  

Drained, she stopped talking, Maral was silent as well. The story hung heavily before them. Then, Wisdom’s voice came on the wind. She spoke of perspective.

 Deferred hopes, born from unrealistic expectations, make a heart sick. A sick heart will hinder reason. Hold firmly to your promise without adding a timeline will be a difficult but worthwhile endeavor.  You are not responsible- or even able- to force great things to happen on your own. Only do what is before you to do each day. One can do no more and no less to reach their goal. However, the fulfillment of the promise might appear different than expected. You must find peace with that possibility.  Finally, when discontentment arises, hand it over to the peace of assurance knowing if one is faithfully doing all that one can, the promise has already happened.

Maral was confused, “It has already happened? But it hasn’t actually happened.”

The Sprite’s deep sigh drew Maral’s attention. She seemed as if something terribly heavy had been removed from her person. Smiling said as she laid down, “Its perspective.”

Maral wouldn’t understand what this meant for many more years.

Conversation

Maral shrank back from the stranger feeling small and exposed. His voice was gravely and belonged more to his stern face than the kind eyes she had seen. He continued without waiting for her to respond to his opening observation, “You, like many before you, believed the lie.”

“What lie?” Maral asked in a tiny voice.

“That you are not physically capable to cross this terrible wasteland. Once one agrees that they cannot go one step farther, that their limitations are too much, and that what they face is impossible the mirage appears.” He shook his head sadly, “There are no oases in this dry place. One must persevere.”

Maral interrupted, “But why is there no place to rest?”

The stranger sighed, “Because no one would ever leave the place once found. The conditions are so extreme here that none would have the willpower to leave it.”

Maral wondered if she had in fact seen kindness in this stranger’s eyes.

“This place is made to be hard.” Suddenly, his arm shot up and cast the rope that had been resting upon his shoulder out at the horizon. It sailed with magnificent speed but landed upon empty sand. He began to recoil it. Maral realized he had not stopped speaking during this odd action; she forced herself to focus on what he was saying, “You doubted yourself and chased a mirage, but you were not swept away by it. That speaks of great strength and wisdom.”

During her entire experience with this stranger, Maral had been feeling weak and foolish. His words took her shame away but left the humility; she felt taller.

“The Shifting Sand wasteland is difficult but it is not impossible. When you feel you can go no farther, go farther. Prove to your mind and your will that the limitations placed upon you are imagined. Everyone is far more capable than they realize, but most will never discover the deep wells of ability without the harshness of this place. This place demands that you delve deeper into your stores of strength and fortitude than you otherwise would.”

Again, his arm cast the rope into the distance. This time it caught something. Maral couldn’t imagine what he was doing. He began pulling in the taut rope. He continued speaking with only a mild strain to his voice betraying the amount of effort he was expending on his rope.

“It is not easy or comfortable and most will never attempt to cross this. They will never discover their potential depth.” Now for the first time he paused his monologue to completely apply himself to the task at hand.

In these moments, Maral’s mind ran over all he had said. She was surprised to realize that the clinging sand, her torment since she fell, had finally fallen off. She felt free and able to do anything.

She intended to tell him this, but when she looked up, she saw that what he had lassoed was a tall female Sprite. They both were struggling against the sand that appeared to be sucking her down. Maral felt powerless, but then the stranger with a final mighty pull hoisted her up to the firm path.

The Sprite was crying and choking on sand. He disentangled himself from her aggressive hug to offer her some water to wash the sand from her mouth and eyes.

When he spoke to her it was markedly more kind. “You have won little sister,” She cried harder. “You will not fall again. Rest here tonight; tomorrow you will continue your journey.”

The Sprite looked at him, astonished that he would send her away so soon. He only smiled, “There is one here who will walk with you.” He indicated Maral.

Stranger

Maral was covered in a sticky sand which could not be brushed off. After her tumble from the firm path, she had imagined- with exposure to a few days in the relentless wind as well as her own attempts at brushing the sand off her person- that she would be clean. She was wrong. What did happen was that her skin became raw and terribly sensitive.

Nevertheless, though she was physically in a sad state, her mental condition was much improved. What accounted for this was her habit of straining to hear the words of Wisdom. They didn’t come easily as before this season of wasteland wandering but she worked tirelessly to hear and clung to whatever reached her. With her mind absorbed with this work it left little room for contemplating her uncomfortable environment.

After many days and night of traveling in this manner, she suddenly had the eerie sensation she was not alone. Looking up from her dusty feet she saw a stranger. He was an amazingly odd-looking individual with ragged clothes and a rope. She froze.

She was sure he was as aware of her presence as she was of his, but he did not look at her. His intense gaze was locked on the horizon. Fearfully, she crept past him as quickly and silently as she could manage. However, he never once transferred his attention.

Still, she made good time to get as much distance from him as she could before she returned to her normal pace. She pressed the weird encounter from her mind and returned to her former pattern of listening to Wisdom’s voice.

Though it required all her concentration, Wisdom’s voice was clear and unmistakable. Maral froze as she received Wisdom’s instructions to return and speak with the odd unknown one. Her fear propelled her forward, unwilling to follow the instructions, but no matter how far away she walked from the stranger, she was called to return. Wisdom, it seemed was unyielding on this point.

With a deep sigh, she turned. As she retraced her steps her logic argued with her- this was unwise and dangerous. This mental battle distracted her from the weary acknowledgement that much ground was being retraced. She had lost large amounts of energy and time by delaying her response to Wisdom’s instructions.

It still seemed that all too soon she was near the stranger. Cautiously, she approached him. He was tall and terribly thin, but didn’t have the air of someone hungry or demented. Now that she was really looking at him, she noticed his stature was one of strength and dignity regardless of his unkempt appearance and clothes that spoke of poverty. She was dazzled by the contradictions surrounding this stranger. She was much closer now and her fear had evaporated. She saw his eyes, still locked on the horizon, had intelligence and kindness, though his face looked rough and weather beaten.

She wondered if perhaps she had judged him too harshly. Maybe he was not as unwelcoming as a first glance might suggest, but then he spoke. Remaining motionless he said matter-of-factly , “I see that you fell.”

The Reclaimer

The history of the Reclaimer is a mostly forgotten story. What is known is that he was not born a Reclaimer. He did many things mostly great, but a few terrible; then one day, almost as a penance for his terrible deed he wandered into the Shifting Sand wasteland and became the Reclaimer.

He is tall, slender, and odd-looking. His face bears intimidating scares and a large crooked nose. His general appearance is unkempt and heavily weather-beaten. His clothes are of no value or fashion. He has lived in this unwelcoming environment for so many years he seems to have become part of it.

He has nothing but a thick, coarse rope. This he holds as he stands tall upon the risen path, always looking out at the timeless, sun-scorched desert.

The few travelers that pass him upon the path scurry by, trying to avoid drawing his attention. He takes no notice of these; his focus is for others, those lost. He sees a speck on the horizon. In one fluid motion he swings his lassoed rope into the air and releases it. The rope soars an unbelievably far distance almost as if it were a living thing, towards the speck.

Occasionally the rope lands in the empty sand; undeterred, he recoils it and waits, alert for the next opportunity. Other times the rope finds its target. He tightens his hold as he begins his long, exhausting work.

His arms and back were strong from years of this continual work. Sweat from his exertion drips into his eyes. Not a moment is spared to wipe his stinging eyes.

The Shifting Sand sensing the threat of losing some property, lays a firmer grasp upon its possession. At this point the speck can be seen clearly, a Truvian.

This is the point which the lassoed one has to decide if he or she will join in the fight with the Reclaimer or give up. Some find the burn of the rope more terrible than the prospect of being lost in the sea of sand. These slip the rope off and are swept away.

Others refused to be lost a moment longer; these struggle against the sand. It is a fierce battle won inch by painful inch, until they have reached the firm ground of the risen path.  

The Reclaimer offers his hand to the exhausted but victorious one. What is needed to recover and restart their journey of living is offered them. Then he returns to his lonely post, scanning the horizon for others. There were so many.

All who live in Truth, if you should find yourself in the Shifting Sand wasteland and come upon such a one as described above don’t be afraid of or think poorly of him. Give him respect and offer the food and resources you can spare. You might one day be a speck on the horizon.

Shifting Sand

Maral stood mesmerized before the vast Shifting Sand wasteland. She had been warned that if she were not constantly vigilant, she could slip off the raised, firm path to be swept away in the current of the sea of sand.

Her heart sank at the magnitude of what lay before her while her mind cried out, Wisdom are you still with me?

I am here. It will not be easy but you can get through this.

Though the body of sand was reported to be constantly moving, it appeared motionless. Maral picked up a small red pebble and tossed it out into the never-ending expanse. Instantly the pebble was carried 100 yards toward the horizon. Then, as if identifying the rock as an inanimate object, it was hurled back in Maral’s direction.

With extreme caution and good dose of trepidation, Maral began her journey. Miserable and lonely, she talked to Wisdom about everything she was experiencing, but found she had to strain to hear Wisdom’s voice.

Nagging thoughts and questions buzzed around her mind- You have lost your way. Why are you doing this? There is no end to this hell. Wisdom has abandoned you.

The voice of Wisdom was with her, but the attention Maral spent on these thoughts- even in getting rid of them- was distracting her from Wisdom’s voice. It faded until it was almost silent while the nagging thoughts grew louder as the days passed.

When she felt she could go no farther, she saw something in the distance. Rippling in the waves of heat was a paradise complete with shade trees and a large pond. Desperate for relief, Maral ran toward it.

It appeared, at first, to be directly in front of her, then shifted slightly to her right. Thinking of nothing but diving into the water, she stepped off the risen path.

As she fell the mirage vanished. She threw herself toward the risen path but her feet landed in the sea of sand. The current yanked at them to drag her away from the path. She scrabbled and clawed at the burning sand forming the side of the path. Terrified her heart and mind focused upon Wisdom and cried for help.

The voice of Wisdom was clear and gave her exact instructions. It was miserable and arduous work, but she followed all of Wisdom’s words without question or hesitation. Finally, she reached the top of the risen path.

After some of her adrenaline ebbed and her breathing returned to normal, she took stock of her situation. Up to this point she had exercised her best efforts to remain as sand free as possible, now she was covered in grime and grit.

Focus on my voice especially when it is not easy to hear, Wisdom said. You can make it through this difficult place. There is still some distance ahead, but it will not last forever. Speak with me, lean upon my strength, and you will not become distracted and fall again.

Blight Part Two

The WOM, sniffing the air, led Bello all that day. They soon met another field worker. The WOM explained that there were seeds in the field that would be detrimental to the land if not immediately tended to. The demonstration of Bello, as he wrestled to pull up a found seed, was enough to quickly spread concern to the entire town.

The WOM visited the Gnomish village in the neighboring forest and found as expected the same blight in the forest. The Gnomes could smell the scent, but were unable to uproot the blight.

The WOM arranged to combine- and then divide- the force of Gnomes and Giants to work effectively in both the fields and the forest. 

Deep in the night, the WOM gathered everyone from their work, “That was very good work you have done today. The same should be applied tomorrow and for a week or more. This nameless blight’s purpose is to kill all living things in the soil. They are always growing and spreading. You must be vigilant in uprooting and burning all of them in a pit far from town.” The WOM looked steadily at the Giants and Gnomes present to allow this news to sink in.

“The wind has sown this. Though you have done nothing to bring this trouble upon yourselves, you will reap the consequence if not handled immediately and thoroughtly.  This blight was once removed from Truth, but, clearly, it has been released. I must leave at once to seek the source. What is before you will take determination and a tremendous amount of work, but I know, together you can do this. Goodnight and goodbye.”

The WOM would not listen to any offers of a bed for the night or concerns about the lateness of the hour or the darkness of the night. He was friendly but firm as he set off at a quick pace.

The WOM was correct; the work to clear the fields and the forests was very difficult. The worst part was that there appeared to be no end of the blight. Soon the quality of work began to grow sloppy. Gnomes found only the most pungent of the seeds, and the Giants began to yank up those with such force the entire root was not excavated. This continued all throughout the planting, tending and growing seasons.

Crops did not grow. The forest began to thin. This should have caused immediate alarm and action but their weariness made them careless. What could have been saved was lost.

Blight Part One

For the first time, in as long as anyone could remember, the WOM was on the move. The sight of the Fallen had awakened his sense of stagnation. He had not left his grotto in far too long. He wanted to get a good look at the world and see what she had become.

Ten miles from Kern, the Giant Settlement, the WOM began to smell a disturbing sent. Now, well into the spring planting season, rows upon rows of furrowed, good soil filled the horizon. He would have smiled and breathed deeply of the scent of freshly tilled soil had not that other smell tormented the edge of his memory. What was it?

As he entered Kern, he was pleased to see the Hidden Valley’s flowers blooming in every garden.

Bello, headed back out to the fields after his lunch, spotted him. “WOM!” he yelled and happily ran to him. He hugged the very old man, “How happy I am that you have come to our village! Come and meet my family.” He directed the WOM towards his house. “Mama!” he called.

She graciously welcomed him into her house. Giant hospitality was aggressively generous; a standard Giant size cup of tea and scone were placed before him. As he nobly applied himself to the meal, he listened to the entire story of the desolation the “butterflies” had wreaked upon the Fallen.

After conveying his relief that all had turned out so well, he expressed a desire to see the fields. Bello was only too happy to comply with his request. Entering the first field the WOM asked, “Do you smell that?”

Bello took in a deep, satisfying breath of cultivated soil. He smiled, “I believe you are referring to our oxen fertilizer. I know it can be overwhelming at first, but soon it will be like nothing at all. The year we imported dragon fertilizer, whew that was the year…”

“No” the WOM interrupted, “It smells… tangy.”

“Tangy?” Bello took in another breath. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

The WOM walked with his nose in the air and his eyes shut. Bello followed closely and steadied him every few feet as his stumbled upon his beard or a rock or into a small hole.

Finally, in the middle of a perfectly furrowed row, the WOM squatted down. He explained that this area had not been seeded yet. But the WOM wasn’t listening; he began digging in the ground. “Could you uproot this seed?”

Bello had to get his face every close to the ground to see the tiny black speck. “Sure” Bello pulled at the minuscule object. Surprisingly, the seed did not budge. Little by little the seed was forced to release itself from the ground. It's root was at least a foot long.

“Here,” the WOM produced a leather pouch. Bello wrapped the root into a ball and dropped it into the pouch. “This is what produces that tangy smell. I have no idea how this has come to be here, but it is deadly. It will poison the land.”

“It is so tiny. How much harm can it really do?” Bello asked incredulously.

“More damage than you can imagine. Come, there are more. We have work to do.”

To be continued….

Fog

Maral strolled through a beautiful country, enjoying the pleasant weather she had as her traveling companion. The birds sang, the flowers tossed their fragrance all along the path, the warm sun smiled down upon her.

She was content and felt a good purpose drawing her onward toward Babalonia. Wisdom had explained that there she would discover her next step toward her ultimate goal- the Eternal City.

She wished that Wisdom could have accompanied her. Things never stay the same. Maral understood that the essence of Wisdom was still with her but not physically as she had been. Wisdom had told her that this was a new season of maturing. She could hear the voice of Wisdom whenever she listened. She would never be really alone. Maral was not altogether confident in this, but she put on a brave face.

Maral cleared the cobweb of negative thoughts from her mind and enjoyed the lovely day. Without warning everything changed. The sun dimmed, the bird’s song, with all other sounds, muted leaving only the echo of her own breathing. Everything became hazy. Maral stumbled as she tried to figure out what had happened. Timidly, she continued down the path which now felt unfamiliar and mildly ominous.  

All too soon, her state of contentment was replaced with a haunting notion that she was lost. Her body felt drained and worn out. The purpose calling her had dimmed. She wanted to collapse upon the grass and rest. But her heart prodded her onward. What had happened to her?

Only days before in the City of Enlightenment, she had experienced the incredibly powerful event. Just moments before, she had enjoyed the peaceful beauty of nature. Now, all that seemed ages ago and pointless.

Wisdom’s voice came to her faintly, “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

Maral raised one heavy foot, then another, and on and on she trudged. The sluggish plod experience seemed to last for an eternity but actually it had been only a few days before she felt an easing, slight at first, then suddenly everything returned to the way it had been before the unknown difficulty.

The sun broke in upon her dreary thoughts and shattered them. The joyful bird’s song seemed magnified after everything had been dulled. She found she was still on her path.

She looked back and saw a fog hovering just behind her. It lingered for a moment then dissolved.

Wisdom’s voice was clear and strong, “The fog was sent by the East Wind. It is a terrible snare which has trapped many in its body. It comes without warning and settles thickly upon a wayfarer. Its goal is to get them to stop, give up. It achieves this by creating the elements that causes them to feel lost, shiftless, and without purpose. As you continue through the fog, it clings tighter to you, compelling you to give up. But if you refuse to stop, regardless of the difficulty, it is powerless. You did well. Continue on.”