A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS
The Gift
IN AN OLD AND DUSTY workshop one day I was enjoying
watching a wood turner at his skillful work. As he bent over his lathe his
countenance bore a look of serene contentment, born of years of toil and
uncomplaining hardship. Peace and kindness had become his garb and a deep and
mysterious joy his inner portion. He worked with confidence. Stability and love
exuded from his work, and in a gentle wisdom beyond his own. I watched,
entranced, unaware that I was soon to receive something wonderful, which would
lead me to understand a little more of the paradox of life and bring peace to
my struggling self.
The wood turner made beautiful bowls, and
platters, and cups; and also trinkets and tiny spinning tops for children,
which he gave away to them freely. He had several times asked me what I would
like him to make for me. I always told him I did not know. Let it be a
surprise. I would let him choose for me. This particular time he looked long at
me. And it was strange, for I felt he was seeing deep into me and that somehow
he knew me there, and even better than I knew myself. Then he took up a longish
block of wood from beside him, and fitted it into his lathe. He was quiet in
his actions; and somehow I perceived that he wanted me to watch him carefully,
and to take note of what he did. I don’t know how I knew this. I just did.
Before he began he looked at me again. Then
he switched on the machine and bent to his work. With his chisel held to the
spinning piece of wood the wood turner plied his craft. Spirals of wood were
being shaved off, and the curls went falling to the floor. Steadily the
square-sided block of wood was becoming round; and then it shrank, smaller and
smaller. A beam of sunlight was shining through the small window above the
lathe, and we were both in its path. It lent an ethereal nature to the workshop
and a golden hazy light covered everything. As I watched, captivated by it all,
I began to feel deeply buried emotions rise; and I felt more fully the feelings
that I had had lately. Though things were going well enough, on the surface in
my life, and all was fine around me, inside I felt like I was ‘dying’ somehow.
Twists of fragrant wood, a light red-gold
colour were still falling in a continuous stream to the floor. But now as they
fell, a stream of bitter-sweetness which had risen to my consciousness was also
falling to the ground. I had been letting my own hopes and desires fade and
diminish for another’s to flourish. Letting others have their way over mine and
stepping back and not demanding my own way in a matter; and letting another
save face, at my cost. But swallowing my pride was choking me. Giving up what I
wanted so another could have what they wanted, and giving up my pleasure for
theirs, it was hard. And this, constantly going below others, this going
underneath and always yielding, was it even right? I wanted to be like my
friend the wood turner; but perhaps I was only being a doormat and acting
simply stupid really? Perhaps I was wrong to walk this way? I felt confused and
not sure what was going on; and I was allowing it to get to me; and it was
starting to hurt.
All these thoughts and questions were
whirling around in me as I watched my friend at his spinning lathe; all the
wood steadily being whittled away. Bright spirals of wood shavings were still
falling to the floor. The air was pungent with their pithy fragrance. By some
irresistible force I was being drawn into them. And once there, as though I was
being exposed; the diffused light from the upper window working; lighting not
just the outside things of the workshop, but somehow the inside things of me. I
could sense resentment rise, and even anger. Where was all this giving leading
to; and what if it was wrong?
Suddenly a picture of an elaborate chair
came to mind; and the knowledge that that was inside of me. It was as though,
if it were possible for a person to sit on a throne inside their innermost
being, then surely I sat on a throne inside me – one from which I was steadily
being deposed! Yes. That was it! It was like I was being dethroned! And that I
was dying – my reign coming to an end! And I didn’t like that. No, not at all!
...And yet . . . I did; and suddenly I knew it was what I wanted, very much.
Spellbound I continued to watch the wood
turner. But now he seemed oblivious of me intent upon his work. Would he never
stop? The piece of wood was now so small it was only a fraction of what it had
been. Then all at once I understood. And I wondered that it had taken me so
long to perceive. It was all happening,
right in front of me! As it always is!
Here I was being whittled down in size, in my innermost being! And ever
further and further! Losing more and more of me, just like this piece of wood!
The lathe stopped. There was almost nothing
left of the original block of wood. Carefully the turner removed the remaining
little object. He held it in the palm of his hand for a moment, gazing at it.
Then he turned to me with compassion; and with a quality of love which I had
not noticed before, he looked deep into my eyes as he handed me his gift.
I took it. I looked down and stared at it.
It was a tiny bowl on a pedestal. It was shaped like an old fashioned wide
brimmed Champaign glass. But it must be a cup for a fairy, for I was sure it
would hold less than one teaspoon! Suddenly it was all too much, and more than
I could bear. The wood turner had seen me, too deeply. I burst into tears at
what he had made of me. But he was right! I was nothing. And less than nothing!
I threw the thing down. Immediately it disappeared amongst the wood curls; and
died in the sawdust. I ran out of the workshop. Was there no help for people
like me? Did no one care what became of us; for surely, I wasn’t the only one?
And it was so that away in eternity...always
as near as one cry, or even a sigh...the angels of heaven were gathered; and
they spoke with one another. They had been given a charge. They were to find
amongst the children of men those who would receive a gift; a rare gift. They
were to find on the earth all those who would accept heaven’s treasure, and
most costly cup. But who would? Who could bear it? For it was despised amongst
humankind! Who would accept it? Who among them would welcome such a thing, and
delight in the gift of the least? Throughout all the ages the angels had walked
to and fro across the earth in search of any who would receive it.
Though they found many, who did at first
appear to accept it, and even to welcome it, often something was not right.
Contrary to all beautiful appearances they saw that beneath the surface the cup
was despised, and refused. The glory was desired, yes; but only without the
suffering of it! The angels were saddened that so few understood the things
which heaven valued. For it seemed that everywhere they went they were turned
away. How few there were of the children of Adam who recognized their greatest
blessings and what truly was to be desired in this life; the outworking of
which could only be found in this world.
Then, one night, one of them entered a poor
wood turner’s workshop; and laying in the dust buried beneath the wood shavings
on the floor he saw something which delighted him. Stooping down he picked up a
tiny little object. He dusted it clean, and then set the thing upon the wood
turner’s table; beside an open ledger there. Then he stood back, and waited to
see what the wood turner would do with it; for he knew the man would soon
return to his workshop. By and by, and before the dawn, the angel left well
pleased. His mission here was complete. He saw heaven’s gift being truly
understood. Not only was it accepted, in loving meekness, it was delighted in;
and through and through! ...Oh, to be delighted
in – this, this! It was the only way for the gift to truly glorify its
receiver. Here was heaven’s secret, seen; and learned! The joyous delight, in
the turning of the lowest and most despised thing into the greatest!
It was late evening, and the wood turner was
at home. As he sat in his chair beside the fire, and looked into its flames
something began to stir in his heart. Presently he got up, left his house, and
returned to his workshop. He unlocked the door and turned on the light, and
went over to his desk to check his ledger. As he opened the book, and turned
over the page, suddenly he noticed something. There, on the table, was the
little thing he had made that day, which had been thrown away and lost. He
stared at it mystified. He could not understand how it had got onto his desk.
It was simply not possible! He knew the young woman had not returned; and no
one else had entered his workshop, or so he thought; and the door had been
locked. The thing was just not possible!
The wood turner continued to stare at the
tiny object; and as he did so, strangely deep emotions began to well up in him.
He wiped a tear from his eye. No one, he thought, was there to see his
foolishness. After a time of deep thought the dawning of a slow smile crossed
his tired but gentle face. He got up and went to the wood pile at the back of
the shop. From a shelf above the stack he picked up a few small pieces of
fragrant red cedar; and set about making something new.
As he worked he thought. Though, more truly,
the cup was better to be kept hidden, the thing was something which he saw the
girl would need, that she might know the truth, and be comforted. And learn to
value that which the world despised of ‘stooping love;’ which in its stubborn
pride it called stupid; and even wrong! Not realizing that the throne within
had not been designed for self! That thought, that it had been for self to sit
upon, had been the world’s worst and most devastating mistake. And the root
cause of all its suffering, throughout all its history from time immemorial.
It was well into the night before he had
finished what he was making. And all the while he had laboured, inspiration and
love had worked through his heart and his fingers as never before, and what he
fashioned was beautiful. When it was done he took it to another bench and
beneath a bright lamp there, took up a tiny tool, and began to carve into the wood
an intricate design of a chalice, held in the heart of a tree. When he was
finished, and satisfied with what he had made, he took from the rag bag a small
scrap of red material, and with it he lined the bottom of the small object he
had made. It was a little cedar box; in which to hide the gift. He set the tiny
cup inside, and closed the lid. The exquisitely carved little box he put on his
desk. The one to whom he would give it would perhaps come by that day?
He knew she would soon return to ask him to
forgive her. He knew her heart and the spirit which was within her. As the
craftsman looked once more upon the gift before he turned to leave, he felt a
pang as of a sword piercing through his own soul, also. An unearthly joy filled
his heart and lit his face; touched by the true gift, which was within. And the
glory of selfless love, which ever observed above, was treasured there; and in
secret living forever kept in heaven’s blessing.
In the workshop, later that same day, and in
preferring one another in love, two received there the gift of the cup of the
least; while heaven...ever as near as a cry, or even a sigh...heard all and saw
all; and rejoiced!
*
- from: A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS; A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories
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