The Little Green Stick

When I was little I uttered things - sometimes impossibly, blindingly wise things - that still astound me today, because I can remember them; and I can remember the source from which they came. That is why they they astound me.

Their source was not the fun, warm tickle of unbridled fantasy. I remember that one; I was aware of it even as I indulged in it.

That was not it.

And much later, not little anymore but still very young (as I am and I am likely to remain, as long as I am I), I was enraptured by a quote that I thought I had read somewhere: that Rumi, the Persian poet, once said about music, that "it contains a secret that would transform the world if found out".

As it often happens, I could not find that quote again; and I did search for it far and wide.

But I am used to that. 
I did not invent that quote. What happened was that I read something - definitely by Rumi, or quoting him - that contained that same thought, more or less, and my ever thirsty and alert inner sentry that looks out for the hidden ancient routes to the mystery of the World, grabbed that nugget, the essential thought, and ran with it, transforming it into something my soul could sing to.

And why not?

That's how fairy tales and legends are born, too.

They may not correspond exactly with the perceived outer appearance of things, but they are the truth - a truth - nonetheless.

I am faithful to my ancient "fancies". I know the place where they originated really is the place I am yearning for (we all are). And themselves they are still the most reliable compasses to that ancient land of Life ever young.

For the same reason I revere the loyalty to their infant wisdom of the heart in other people.

And yet, I was somehow surprised when I found out that Leo Tolstoy, one of my top four favourite writers and the author of my favourite novel, was faithful to the silent, wide-eyed wisdom of his own young heart.

The grumpy old man really was young at heart and remained so until the day he died.

He was younger than he thought. His last voyage - his last desperate effort to overcome what he thought was the coming darkness - shows that: that he was younger than he thought.

That is why he had to struggle.

And the place where he chose his bodily remains to be buried shows Tolstoy's poignant faith in that his old age was no wiser than his early youth.

If there is such a thing as a "perfect" burial place, this is it.

The Little Green Stick

Go see it.

Or go read Tolstoy's writings.

There is nothing that you have thought or felt that won't find some resonance in his words.

Tolstoy makes you feel human.

And he makes you feel that being human is actually a good and noble thing.

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Greeting to the Unknown Human (and Non-Human, Too)