"Art is not what you see, it's what you make others see."
-Edgar Degas
This story was written yesterday. I am a homeless man, and I slept in a parking lot last night, after writing this. You never know what potential is lying hidden in the people you see each day...
This story was written yesterday. I am a homeless man, and I slept in a parking lot last night, after writing this. You never know what potential is lying hidden in the people you see each day...
The Gift of Inspiration
"There's a story that has been lost to time," the old man doing chalk drawings on the sidewalk said. He went on, I just listened, as he drew a big yellow box, with a red ribbon, with his chalk. "It's the best gift of all in here," he continued, "the gift of inspiration."
The chalk artist talked as he continued to draw...
"It happened back in the days of old, medieval times when knights and castles and walled cities were the way of things. A stranger walked through the gates of a city one afternoon, he had only a small satchel, an odd bag over his shoulder, and a sleeping roll of blankets was tied to a strap slung over the other shoulder. He stopped in the city center, and bought some food from the merchants there."
"He began to talk to the people of the city, and told them he had traveled far and wide, and had seen many things. A few people were fascinated by his stories. One thing led to another, and he was invited to the king's court that night, by a nobleman. The stranger accepted, and met the nobleman later, and was escorted to the dinner. By the end of the meal itself, before the dancing commenced, the nobleman began to feel a bit uneasy. It was customary in that city to offer a gift to the king, as a token of appreciation for the privilege of dining in the great hall. The nobleman pulled the stranger aside, and told him of the custom, offering to have a servant go to his house and find a suitable gift. The stranger simply said, 'Don't worry, I have something to give.'"
"As the king and queen took to their thrones, and the fine people of the city offered lavish gifts of silks, spices, gold, and other treasures, the stranger finally was presented to the king. 'Your majesty, I am a humble traveler, I have been to many lands, and I bring you something no other king even knows exists.' The stranger reached into his satchel and pulled out a small earthenware jar. 'In a land, far, far to the East, on an island only a few have set foot upon, there lives a lone wizard. Having heard of this wise one, I traveled to his island, and spent many days searching for the cave he calls home. I finally found him, and spent many weeks learning from him.'"
"'When it came time for me to leave, the wizard gave me this jar. He told me that I would find the city that was ready for the greatest of all gifts. I believe I have found that city, your majesty, and it is your city the wise wizard spoke of. You see, in this jar is a fine dust, like very fine sand, which the wizard spent many many years creating. This magic dust... is the gift of inspiration itself.'"
The chalk artist finished drawing the big yellow box with a red ribbon, and he began to draw a huge castle, in the middle of a walled city. Without looking up, he continued his story.
"The king looked dubious, but intrigued. 'The wizard told me that when I found the right city, which I would know in my heart, that I was to sprinkle a tiny bit of this magic dust, on the head of each of its residents, with each new moon, such as we have tonight. The wizard said the dust would inspire the people of that town to new ideas, to create works of art, new delicacies to be eaten, and new forms of music and dance, incredible plays will be performed, and great architecture will arise, and other crafts such as the world has never seen. This gift of inspiration would make the city the most prosperous in the land.'"
"'I am a humble traveler, your majesty, I have little in physical goods to offer, but I can offer your city this gift of inspiration, if you will accept it.' The king did not think long, and quickly ordered his subjects to form a line to have the odd stranger administer a pinch of dust onto the head of each person. Then the drinking and dancing began, and first the king and queen, and then the others, talked with the mysterious stranger, listening to his tales of far off places, of strange people and odd customs. Before long a few people began sharing ideas that had long been kept to themselves."
"The next day, after hearing several nobles felt "quite inspired," the king had all the townsfolk line up in the city square, and had the stranger tell of the magic dust, and sprinkle a pinch on each person, even the children. The stranger was given a house to live in, and the job of wandering the city to see how the inspiration was taking hold. He began to talk to the people of the town every day, listening to new ideas of all kinds, and encouraging them, helping them gather supplies, or begin a project they'd imagined long before, but never had the nerve to try. A new kind of energy, not one that can be seen, but can definitely be felt and experienced, arose in the city."
"It began the second day when a woman brought a new cake to the town square, a flavor she had never baked before, and with exquisitely decorated icing. Several townspeople tried it, marveled at the new taste, and went home to try new ideas of their own. By the time the next new moon came around, many new sweets, a couple of new beers, and several new stews had been created. The tanner had crafted some amazing bags of leather, finely tooled designs upon them, designs he'd thought of years before. Much to the surprise of everyone, the town mortician, known mostly for his very quiet demeanor, and for carving tombstones and preparing the dead for funerals, began to carve into the stone of the city's outer wall. In a month, in the time not devoted to his normal duties, he had carved most of a relief of the city's founding king on a horse. The carving was incredible in its detail and nuance, and was on the wall next to the city's gate. Travelers and townsfolk alike remarked at its beauty."
The old man with the chalk expertly drew a relief of a mounted rider, on the wall of the city he was drawing on the sidewalk in front of me. Still never looking up, he continued his story.
"On the evening of the second new moon, the king held a great party for the nobles, and again the mysterious traveler was invited. The king lifted his bejeweled cup and spoke, 'A toast, to our new friend and hopefully longtime resident, the great traveler, who has been drawn to our fine city to bestow the great gift of inspiration itself.' Cups rose and clinked around the great hall. Sips were taken. The king told of new delicacies he had tried, of his pleasure seeing the great carving on the city wall, and the new works of beauty the city's craftsmen and women had created. The king ordered the noblemen and noblewomen to line up once again, to receive a pinch of the magic dust on the top of their heads from the jar the mysterious stranger held, and kept safe in his new home. The next day, again, the king and his court had the townspeople line up in the town square, even the children, to receive a pinch of the magic dust upon their heads by the traveler."
"That month two new cheeses of exquisite flavor were created by the cheese maker, and sweet rolls, and more leather works, and a fine sword by the blacksmith. The carvings by the quiet mortician continued on the outer wall. More people had more ideas, and shared them with others, and began to encourage each other. The king and queen, their court, and all the townspeople still managed their to do their normal duties. But each found time to do other, more creative activities, as well. The mysterious traveler was now a cherished friend to all, and wandered the town each day, lending a helping hand here and there, encouraging those trying one new thing or another, and laughing, eating, and drinking with the townspeople."
"A few days later, a wagon drawn by two horses entered the city gates. It was the wide ranging home to a traveling merchant who came to the area every two or three months. He parked his wagon, and, with his wife, walked into the town square to find the local craftspeople he had known for many years. He immediately noticed something was different. The people seemed more friendly, and their was more laughter in the air and less bitterness. As he wandered the local shops, he was amazed by all the new items, beautiful items, wonderful beers, and tasty new treats, the town had to offer. A small stage had been erected in the town square, for performing plays and music. The king had ordered the people not to talk of the precious gift of inspiration, for their city was the chosen one, and they wanted to keep it that way. So the craftspeople of the own simply said, "Oh, I had this idea for a long time, and just decided to give it a try," when asked about a new creation. The wandering merchant bought and traded many wonderful things to carry with him and sell in other towns. A couple weeks later, the same thing happened with another of the wandering merchants of the region."
"And so it went, day after day, week after week, month after month, in the walled city that once seemed no different than any of the other walled cities throughout the land. But bit by bit, traveler by traveler, word began to spread about the one city with the carving on its protective wall, and the wonderful and interesting things the people of that city produced. People from cities close by began to travel there more often, to listen to the music, to buy the delicacies, and to trade. As time passed, people from across the region, then people from across the country visited the city with the growing stone carving and the exquisite works of crafts and arts and culinary delights. Within a few years, even back in those times when people and news traveled rather slow, people from far away lands sought out the city, now famous in many, many lands for its creativity and great works. The city prospered in good times and in bad, and people far and wide wondered what its great secret was. That secret, of course, was that on each new moon, each new beginning of that cycle in the night sky, the mysterious traveler sprinkled a tiny bit of dust on the top of the head of each of the townspeople, even all the children. He bestowed on them the concoction of the great wizard, on that small island, far away. The traveler gave them inspiration."
The old man doing the chalk drawing on the sidewalk had drawn the walled city, with many towers, next to his chalk drawing of the big yellow box, wrapped with a red ribbon. The detail in the quickly drawn picture was amazing. Without raising his head, his story continued.
"In time the walled city grew to be the dominant city in the whole region. The city grew. The great outer wall, now completely covered with incredible relief sculptures, was expanded. Brave and incredible new architecture was built in the new area, and huge beautiful gardens were planted and tended to. The most talented people from many other lands flocked to the city, to learn from its people, now masters of many types of art and craft, and always innovators of new things. Each new person was taken aside, and told quietly about the mysterious stranger, and asked to keep the magic dust, the gift of inspiration, quiet. Since the small earthenware jar holding the gift of inspiration was a great secret, eventually everyone knew about it. The magic dust became a legend, and like most legends that travel from their source, it wasn't believed, it became a joke to tell in other cities. The joke protected the small jar that never seemed to run out of magic dust."
"The king of the city, a sturdy and noble middle aged man when the mysterious traveler first arrived, grew old as his city expanded and flourished. Some thirty years after the arrival of the traveler, the now old and wise king grew ill. The townspeople new his time as there king was nearing an end. One night, knowing he had only a few days of breath left in him, the king called for the mysterious traveler, now and old friend and counselor, to visit him. The king told his servants to leave them alone to talk."
"The weak king smiled, 'My city has flourished since your arrival, my friend, and I am very grateful for that.' The traveler nodded. 'My days are now few, and I must ask you the question I have wished to ask all these years. What is the magic dust, the gift of inspiration, actually made of?' The traveler smiled, and sat on the chair next to the king's bed.
"The traveler began, 'As a young man, I got in a lot of trouble. I lived on a small farm outside a walled town, much like any other. I was a precocious child with far too much energy, and lots of ideas I thought were wonderful. But no one wanted to hear them. No one encouraged me to try out my ideas. In fact family and friends alike told me to shut up, keep my ideas to myself, and do what I was told, and to do no more than I was told. They were not bad people, but people raised to work hard, and to focus on the simple things, and to live as their ancestors had lived. They did not like new ideas, they liked things to remain they way they were."
"But something inside of me told me there must be more to life. I sensed there must be some reason I had all these ideas. In my little bit of free time from doing my chores, I went to a bend in the nearby river, where there was a big sandbar, and a fallen tree on the edge of the sandbar. I sat there and I dreamed of going to a place, a place I imagined was far, far away, a place where ideas were welcomed and appreciated. A place where new things were tried, and great things were created. I knew that place must exist somewhere."
"In those years as a growing child, yearning to roam far beyond my town's walls, I found myself drawn to the merchants, the roaming minstrels, and the travelers of all kinds, telling tales of other places, different people, and far off lands. Finally, shortly after my 14th birthday, I packed a few things, and I ran away from my town. I set out to find that far off land I dreamed of, that land where new ideas were welcomed, and innovation was an everyday thing. I sought that place with great buildings, and works of art, and beautiful music, and even more beautiful women dancing each night."
"But I was a young man with no money, so I began to work for a traveling merchant, and then another, and then another. With him and his wife, I traveled from town to town, city to city, and began to meet many people. One day we came to a great port city, and I saw a huge ship in the harbor, like nothing I had every seen before. I asked one of the workers about the great ship, and in talking with him, he told me the captain needed a new cabin boy. So I left the merchant life, and I took to the seas, working under a wise old salt, a great ship captain, and I traveled the world."
"In each port, I went ashore with the older men, and I drank ale and danced with women, and learned different customs and different languages. I learned the ways of the sailors, and I moved up in jobs on the crew of the ship. I worked my way around the world as a sailor. Some told me I might make a great captain some day. But in my heart, I knew I was looking for that one place. I was looking for that place where ideas flowed like wine at a wedding party, and everyone did great and wonderful things as a matter of course."
The old man with the chalk, drawing on the wide city sidewalk in front of me, deftly drew a great three masted sailing ship. Without looking up, he continued his story.
"The stranger continued telling the king his story. 'But I never found that place. I saw great buildings, fine paintings, sculptures created by master artists. I ate great foods at times, and meager sea rations at others. I worked hard, always ready to head up to the crow's nest of the ship, so I would be the first to see the place I dreamed of as a child. But the more lands I visited, the more I realized that people are nearly the same everywhere. They look a bit different, they eat different foods, and have different cultures. But they all sound nearly they same when they laugh, they all look much the same when dancing, and tell very similar stories over a pint of ale. The all make similar gibberish when playing with a small baby. The all ache much the same over a broken heart, or grieve the same over a lost loved one.'"
"'I also noticed, everywhere I went, the people all had ideas that they told me, a stranger, a traveler, but were afraid to tell their family and friends. Many of these ideas were really good ones, but they were afraid to fail, afraid to look like a fool around the people they grew up with. Like me, as a child, everyone had good ideas they were afraid to try. One night, thinking about this common thing I'd noticed in people around the world, I bought a small earthenware jar from a street merchant, it was filled with a sweet custard that was baked into a velvety crust in the jar. I walked with my jar out along the waterfront, to a quiet, secluded beach, made of the most fine sand I'd ever seen. As I sat on the beach, watching the sun slowly drop towards the horizon, a local craftsman wandered by, collecting pieces of driftwood and shells. I'd seen his work, he made these amazing little sculptures of mythical creatures, dragons and sea serpents, in the marketplace. Throughout that city, I saw his works on shelves and in window ledges. He was a favorite artist of the city, but I had seen his creations in other cities, and even on the desk of the great sea captain I first sailed with. Everyone talked about how he took ordinary objects, a piece of old fishing net, a branch from some driftwood, a bit of seashell, and a few other cast off objects, and made something incredibly beautiful out of those things."
"'As he walked by, I asked him how he learned to make his amazing little sculptures. The man smiled, he sat down on the beach beside me, as the sun sank a bit above the horizon. He told me that his uncle gave him a small knife as a kid, and taught him how to whittle little figures out of scraps of wood. So he began to whittle in all of his spare time. A couple of years later, still a very young boy, there was a girl he had a crush on who got very ill. He'd always been afraid to tell her how he felt. The word got around that she might die. Not knowing what else to do, he found a scrap of wood, and he began to carve a dove out of it, the little girl's favorite bird. He found some scraps of cloth, a bit of wax, and other odds and ends, and melted the wax, and added on here and there, and he made her a dove. Then, sheepishly, he went to her house, into her room, where the family was gathered around, and he silently handed her his homemade dove. The sculptor said her eyes lit up, and she smiled a glowing smile. It was the first time she'd smiled in days. He said he felt a feeling, a true, good, incredible feeling, that he'd never know before. The girl weakly waved him towards her, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The sculptor's eyes teared up as he told me.'"
The old man with the chalk outlined a beautiful dove with a few masterful strokes, and then set to color it in. Eyes still to his work, continued his story.
"'What happened then?' The traveler asked the sculptor. The sculptor took a breath, trying to hold back his tears, 'Then she took a shallow, coughing breath, and she died. She died smiling, holding my dove. I started crying, and I ran from the room,' the sculptor said. After a couple of minutes, still crying outside the house, I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the girl's grandmother. She said, "I know you liked her for quite a while, why did you never tell her, or give her a gift before now?" The sculptor said, "I was afraid. I was afraid she would laugh at me, or make fun of me, or tell me to never talk to her again." The grandmother continued, "What you did for my sick granddaughter was wonderful, and you little dove you made was beautiful. You should never feel bad for creating a gift to help someone. That was the first time she's smiled in many days." The grandmother grabbed his chin, pulled his face to look at hers, and said, "From now on, whenever you feel the need to make something beautiful, for any reason, I give you permission to go ahead and do it, to go ahead and make it, whatever it is. My granddaughter has passed on, but her spirit, and that smile, will be with you always. I think you will go on to make many other people smile with the things you create." The sculptor could no longer hold back the tears, they streamed down his cheeks. "The girl's grandmother gave me permission to make the things I think need to be made, and I've been making them ever since." He got up, picked up his driftwood and shells, and walked off down the beach, wiping his eyes.'"
"The traveler continued his story to the king. 'At that moment, the setting sun just touched the horizon, and suddenly I knew why I never found the city where new thoughts and ideas were welcomed, and where everyone made incredible things. I never found that city,' the mysterious traveler told the king, 'because in every town and city everywhere, there were people with ideas, but most of them were afraid to try. No one ever gave them permission. I realized it was the same everywhere.'"
"The traveler continued. 'I wiped my eyes and watched the most beautiful sunset, sitting on an incredible beach of fine sand, eating a rich, custard dish, in my little earthenware jar. I didn't think life could be much more pleasurable than that moment. It was inspiring. I knew what I must do. I washed out my jar when I was done eating, and I filled it with the fine sand from the beach that inspired me. I got hired on the next ship leaving the port. I began traveling again. Eventually I made my way here.'"
"The mysterious traveler turned to the king. The king smiled, and in a weak voice, he spoke, 'I had a feeling there was no wizard, but the magic you created with that sand and your little jar, it worked. My city... our city... has thrived, I thank you for that." The king reached out and took the traveler's hand and shook it in deep appreciation. They were both silent for a few moments."
The old man drawing with the chalk began to draw a fire, and I thought maybe he was drawing the fire of creative energy itself. Still facing his work, he continued his story
"Then the king spoke again. "I have another question, one that's bothered me these many years. How is it that your little jar never ran out of the sand from that beach that inspired you?" The traveler got up, and walked to the window, the kings room was high in the castle, and looked out over the city, and the lands beyond the wall. The traveler looked out the window for a moment, then he spoke, 'There's a small beach, a sandbar really, about a mile down the river, I've been going there to sit and think now and then, since I came here. It's quiet and beautiful, and it reminds me of that beach far away, where I talked to the sculptor. When the sand in the jar got a little bit low, I picked up a handful on the sandbar by the river, put it in my pocket, and filled the jar back up when no one was looking, so it never ran out.'"
"'You fooled me and my people for thirty years now,' the king laughed. 'I didn't really fool them,' the traveler said, still looking out the window, towards the sandbar down the river, 'I simply told them an engaging story, and I gave them permission to be who they had always been capable of being, who they always wanted to be, that's all.' 'What wonderful magic,' the king laughed, 'It is you who is reallt the great wizard. Again, I thank you.' The traveler turned towards his friend, the king, and nodded.'"
"There was a small farm right by that sandbar on the river,' the king began again, "long, long ago, when I was a young prince, and my father was king.' I knew the farmer well, he had a peach tree there that seemed to grow the juiciest peaches anywhere, and he always gave me plenty when they were in season.' The traveler continued to stare out the river as the king spoke. 'The farmer was a good man, I talked to him often when he came to town, when had more time for such things. One night, during a fierce thunderstorm, a bolt of lightning struck the big, old oak tree outside his cottage, and the tree fell on the house, catching it on fire. It burned all night. Since the farm was set apart from the others, we didn't realize what happened until a hunter walked by the next morning, and found the smoldering ruins. The house burned to the ground in an intense fire. The man and his wife were both inside, but we found very little of them. The farmer had a young boy, too, about 12 years old. He must have completely burned up in the fire, we found no trace of him. It was a terrible tragedy. For years afterwards, I would go to that place when the peach tree was full of ripe fruit, and I would say a prayer for that farmer.'"
The mysterious traveler smiled, and turned back towards the king. He walked across the room to the bedside, and once again sat in the chair. 'Yes, that was a terrible tragedy. The boy was 14, by the way, not 12, and he didn't die in the fire. I ran away. There was something I needed to find. When I finally found it, I came back home and shared it.' The king's mouth dropped open in surprise, and then he smiled. The mysterious traveler smiled back."
The man doing the chalk drawing on the city sidewalk stopped drawing, finishing his drawing of the huge castle, the great walled city, and the cottage on fire, exactly when his story finished. He turned, looked up to me and smiled. "You, like everyone, have ideas you think need to become reality. You have my permission, go make them happen."
-Steve Emig
The White Bear
8/10/2019
This basic story, in one form or another, has been in my head for 20 years or so. The time finally came to write it down. Creativity is like that. The best works have a way of coming into existence just when they are most needed. We don't really create the art. We artists and writers are really a sort of midwives, we shepherd the work from the unseen world into the tangible world, where it can be shared.
The old man with the chalk expertly drew a relief of a mounted rider, on the wall of the city he was drawing on the sidewalk in front of me. Still never looking up, he continued his story.
"On the evening of the second new moon, the king held a great party for the nobles, and again the mysterious traveler was invited. The king lifted his bejeweled cup and spoke, 'A toast, to our new friend and hopefully longtime resident, the great traveler, who has been drawn to our fine city to bestow the great gift of inspiration itself.' Cups rose and clinked around the great hall. Sips were taken. The king told of new delicacies he had tried, of his pleasure seeing the great carving on the city wall, and the new works of beauty the city's craftsmen and women had created. The king ordered the noblemen and noblewomen to line up once again, to receive a pinch of the magic dust on the top of their heads from the jar the mysterious stranger held, and kept safe in his new home. The next day, again, the king and his court had the townspeople line up in the town square, even the children, to receive a pinch of the magic dust upon their heads by the traveler."
"That month two new cheeses of exquisite flavor were created by the cheese maker, and sweet rolls, and more leather works, and a fine sword by the blacksmith. The carvings by the quiet mortician continued on the outer wall. More people had more ideas, and shared them with others, and began to encourage each other. The king and queen, their court, and all the townspeople still managed their to do their normal duties. But each found time to do other, more creative activities, as well. The mysterious traveler was now a cherished friend to all, and wandered the town each day, lending a helping hand here and there, encouraging those trying one new thing or another, and laughing, eating, and drinking with the townspeople."
"A few days later, a wagon drawn by two horses entered the city gates. It was the wide ranging home to a traveling merchant who came to the area every two or three months. He parked his wagon, and, with his wife, walked into the town square to find the local craftspeople he had known for many years. He immediately noticed something was different. The people seemed more friendly, and their was more laughter in the air and less bitterness. As he wandered the local shops, he was amazed by all the new items, beautiful items, wonderful beers, and tasty new treats, the town had to offer. A small stage had been erected in the town square, for performing plays and music. The king had ordered the people not to talk of the precious gift of inspiration, for their city was the chosen one, and they wanted to keep it that way. So the craftspeople of the own simply said, "Oh, I had this idea for a long time, and just decided to give it a try," when asked about a new creation. The wandering merchant bought and traded many wonderful things to carry with him and sell in other towns. A couple weeks later, the same thing happened with another of the wandering merchants of the region."
"And so it went, day after day, week after week, month after month, in the walled city that once seemed no different than any of the other walled cities throughout the land. But bit by bit, traveler by traveler, word began to spread about the one city with the carving on its protective wall, and the wonderful and interesting things the people of that city produced. People from cities close by began to travel there more often, to listen to the music, to buy the delicacies, and to trade. As time passed, people from across the region, then people from across the country visited the city with the growing stone carving and the exquisite works of crafts and arts and culinary delights. Within a few years, even back in those times when people and news traveled rather slow, people from far away lands sought out the city, now famous in many, many lands for its creativity and great works. The city prospered in good times and in bad, and people far and wide wondered what its great secret was. That secret, of course, was that on each new moon, each new beginning of that cycle in the night sky, the mysterious traveler sprinkled a tiny bit of dust on the top of the head of each of the townspeople, even all the children. He bestowed on them the concoction of the great wizard, on that small island, far away. The traveler gave them inspiration."
The old man doing the chalk drawing on the sidewalk had drawn the walled city, with many towers, next to his chalk drawing of the big yellow box, wrapped with a red ribbon. The detail in the quickly drawn picture was amazing. Without raising his head, his story continued.
"In time the walled city grew to be the dominant city in the whole region. The city grew. The great outer wall, now completely covered with incredible relief sculptures, was expanded. Brave and incredible new architecture was built in the new area, and huge beautiful gardens were planted and tended to. The most talented people from many other lands flocked to the city, to learn from its people, now masters of many types of art and craft, and always innovators of new things. Each new person was taken aside, and told quietly about the mysterious stranger, and asked to keep the magic dust, the gift of inspiration, quiet. Since the small earthenware jar holding the gift of inspiration was a great secret, eventually everyone knew about it. The magic dust became a legend, and like most legends that travel from their source, it wasn't believed, it became a joke to tell in other cities. The joke protected the small jar that never seemed to run out of magic dust."
"The king of the city, a sturdy and noble middle aged man when the mysterious traveler first arrived, grew old as his city expanded and flourished. Some thirty years after the arrival of the traveler, the now old and wise king grew ill. The townspeople new his time as there king was nearing an end. One night, knowing he had only a few days of breath left in him, the king called for the mysterious traveler, now and old friend and counselor, to visit him. The king told his servants to leave them alone to talk."
"The weak king smiled, 'My city has flourished since your arrival, my friend, and I am very grateful for that.' The traveler nodded. 'My days are now few, and I must ask you the question I have wished to ask all these years. What is the magic dust, the gift of inspiration, actually made of?' The traveler smiled, and sat on the chair next to the king's bed.
"The traveler began, 'As a young man, I got in a lot of trouble. I lived on a small farm outside a walled town, much like any other. I was a precocious child with far too much energy, and lots of ideas I thought were wonderful. But no one wanted to hear them. No one encouraged me to try out my ideas. In fact family and friends alike told me to shut up, keep my ideas to myself, and do what I was told, and to do no more than I was told. They were not bad people, but people raised to work hard, and to focus on the simple things, and to live as their ancestors had lived. They did not like new ideas, they liked things to remain they way they were."
"But something inside of me told me there must be more to life. I sensed there must be some reason I had all these ideas. In my little bit of free time from doing my chores, I went to a bend in the nearby river, where there was a big sandbar, and a fallen tree on the edge of the sandbar. I sat there and I dreamed of going to a place, a place I imagined was far, far away, a place where ideas were welcomed and appreciated. A place where new things were tried, and great things were created. I knew that place must exist somewhere."
"In those years as a growing child, yearning to roam far beyond my town's walls, I found myself drawn to the merchants, the roaming minstrels, and the travelers of all kinds, telling tales of other places, different people, and far off lands. Finally, shortly after my 14th birthday, I packed a few things, and I ran away from my town. I set out to find that far off land I dreamed of, that land where new ideas were welcomed, and innovation was an everyday thing. I sought that place with great buildings, and works of art, and beautiful music, and even more beautiful women dancing each night."
"But I was a young man with no money, so I began to work for a traveling merchant, and then another, and then another. With him and his wife, I traveled from town to town, city to city, and began to meet many people. One day we came to a great port city, and I saw a huge ship in the harbor, like nothing I had every seen before. I asked one of the workers about the great ship, and in talking with him, he told me the captain needed a new cabin boy. So I left the merchant life, and I took to the seas, working under a wise old salt, a great ship captain, and I traveled the world."
"In each port, I went ashore with the older men, and I drank ale and danced with women, and learned different customs and different languages. I learned the ways of the sailors, and I moved up in jobs on the crew of the ship. I worked my way around the world as a sailor. Some told me I might make a great captain some day. But in my heart, I knew I was looking for that one place. I was looking for that place where ideas flowed like wine at a wedding party, and everyone did great and wonderful things as a matter of course."
The old man with the chalk, drawing on the wide city sidewalk in front of me, deftly drew a great three masted sailing ship. Without looking up, he continued his story.
"The stranger continued telling the king his story. 'But I never found that place. I saw great buildings, fine paintings, sculptures created by master artists. I ate great foods at times, and meager sea rations at others. I worked hard, always ready to head up to the crow's nest of the ship, so I would be the first to see the place I dreamed of as a child. But the more lands I visited, the more I realized that people are nearly the same everywhere. They look a bit different, they eat different foods, and have different cultures. But they all sound nearly they same when they laugh, they all look much the same when dancing, and tell very similar stories over a pint of ale. The all make similar gibberish when playing with a small baby. The all ache much the same over a broken heart, or grieve the same over a lost loved one.'"
"'I also noticed, everywhere I went, the people all had ideas that they told me, a stranger, a traveler, but were afraid to tell their family and friends. Many of these ideas were really good ones, but they were afraid to fail, afraid to look like a fool around the people they grew up with. Like me, as a child, everyone had good ideas they were afraid to try. One night, thinking about this common thing I'd noticed in people around the world, I bought a small earthenware jar from a street merchant, it was filled with a sweet custard that was baked into a velvety crust in the jar. I walked with my jar out along the waterfront, to a quiet, secluded beach, made of the most fine sand I'd ever seen. As I sat on the beach, watching the sun slowly drop towards the horizon, a local craftsman wandered by, collecting pieces of driftwood and shells. I'd seen his work, he made these amazing little sculptures of mythical creatures, dragons and sea serpents, in the marketplace. Throughout that city, I saw his works on shelves and in window ledges. He was a favorite artist of the city, but I had seen his creations in other cities, and even on the desk of the great sea captain I first sailed with. Everyone talked about how he took ordinary objects, a piece of old fishing net, a branch from some driftwood, a bit of seashell, and a few other cast off objects, and made something incredibly beautiful out of those things."
"'As he walked by, I asked him how he learned to make his amazing little sculptures. The man smiled, he sat down on the beach beside me, as the sun sank a bit above the horizon. He told me that his uncle gave him a small knife as a kid, and taught him how to whittle little figures out of scraps of wood. So he began to whittle in all of his spare time. A couple of years later, still a very young boy, there was a girl he had a crush on who got very ill. He'd always been afraid to tell her how he felt. The word got around that she might die. Not knowing what else to do, he found a scrap of wood, and he began to carve a dove out of it, the little girl's favorite bird. He found some scraps of cloth, a bit of wax, and other odds and ends, and melted the wax, and added on here and there, and he made her a dove. Then, sheepishly, he went to her house, into her room, where the family was gathered around, and he silently handed her his homemade dove. The sculptor said her eyes lit up, and she smiled a glowing smile. It was the first time she'd smiled in days. He said he felt a feeling, a true, good, incredible feeling, that he'd never know before. The girl weakly waved him towards her, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The sculptor's eyes teared up as he told me.'"
The old man with the chalk outlined a beautiful dove with a few masterful strokes, and then set to color it in. Eyes still to his work, continued his story.
"'What happened then?' The traveler asked the sculptor. The sculptor took a breath, trying to hold back his tears, 'Then she took a shallow, coughing breath, and she died. She died smiling, holding my dove. I started crying, and I ran from the room,' the sculptor said. After a couple of minutes, still crying outside the house, I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the girl's grandmother. She said, "I know you liked her for quite a while, why did you never tell her, or give her a gift before now?" The sculptor said, "I was afraid. I was afraid she would laugh at me, or make fun of me, or tell me to never talk to her again." The grandmother continued, "What you did for my sick granddaughter was wonderful, and you little dove you made was beautiful. You should never feel bad for creating a gift to help someone. That was the first time she's smiled in many days." The grandmother grabbed his chin, pulled his face to look at hers, and said, "From now on, whenever you feel the need to make something beautiful, for any reason, I give you permission to go ahead and do it, to go ahead and make it, whatever it is. My granddaughter has passed on, but her spirit, and that smile, will be with you always. I think you will go on to make many other people smile with the things you create." The sculptor could no longer hold back the tears, they streamed down his cheeks. "The girl's grandmother gave me permission to make the things I think need to be made, and I've been making them ever since." He got up, picked up his driftwood and shells, and walked off down the beach, wiping his eyes.'"
"The traveler continued his story to the king. 'At that moment, the setting sun just touched the horizon, and suddenly I knew why I never found the city where new thoughts and ideas were welcomed, and where everyone made incredible things. I never found that city,' the mysterious traveler told the king, 'because in every town and city everywhere, there were people with ideas, but most of them were afraid to try. No one ever gave them permission. I realized it was the same everywhere.'"
"The traveler continued. 'I wiped my eyes and watched the most beautiful sunset, sitting on an incredible beach of fine sand, eating a rich, custard dish, in my little earthenware jar. I didn't think life could be much more pleasurable than that moment. It was inspiring. I knew what I must do. I washed out my jar when I was done eating, and I filled it with the fine sand from the beach that inspired me. I got hired on the next ship leaving the port. I began traveling again. Eventually I made my way here.'"
"The mysterious traveler turned to the king. The king smiled, and in a weak voice, he spoke, 'I had a feeling there was no wizard, but the magic you created with that sand and your little jar, it worked. My city... our city... has thrived, I thank you for that." The king reached out and took the traveler's hand and shook it in deep appreciation. They were both silent for a few moments."
The old man drawing with the chalk began to draw a fire, and I thought maybe he was drawing the fire of creative energy itself. Still facing his work, he continued his story
"Then the king spoke again. "I have another question, one that's bothered me these many years. How is it that your little jar never ran out of the sand from that beach that inspired you?" The traveler got up, and walked to the window, the kings room was high in the castle, and looked out over the city, and the lands beyond the wall. The traveler looked out the window for a moment, then he spoke, 'There's a small beach, a sandbar really, about a mile down the river, I've been going there to sit and think now and then, since I came here. It's quiet and beautiful, and it reminds me of that beach far away, where I talked to the sculptor. When the sand in the jar got a little bit low, I picked up a handful on the sandbar by the river, put it in my pocket, and filled the jar back up when no one was looking, so it never ran out.'"
"'You fooled me and my people for thirty years now,' the king laughed. 'I didn't really fool them,' the traveler said, still looking out the window, towards the sandbar down the river, 'I simply told them an engaging story, and I gave them permission to be who they had always been capable of being, who they always wanted to be, that's all.' 'What wonderful magic,' the king laughed, 'It is you who is reallt the great wizard. Again, I thank you.' The traveler turned towards his friend, the king, and nodded.'"
"There was a small farm right by that sandbar on the river,' the king began again, "long, long ago, when I was a young prince, and my father was king.' I knew the farmer well, he had a peach tree there that seemed to grow the juiciest peaches anywhere, and he always gave me plenty when they were in season.' The traveler continued to stare out the river as the king spoke. 'The farmer was a good man, I talked to him often when he came to town, when had more time for such things. One night, during a fierce thunderstorm, a bolt of lightning struck the big, old oak tree outside his cottage, and the tree fell on the house, catching it on fire. It burned all night. Since the farm was set apart from the others, we didn't realize what happened until a hunter walked by the next morning, and found the smoldering ruins. The house burned to the ground in an intense fire. The man and his wife were both inside, but we found very little of them. The farmer had a young boy, too, about 12 years old. He must have completely burned up in the fire, we found no trace of him. It was a terrible tragedy. For years afterwards, I would go to that place when the peach tree was full of ripe fruit, and I would say a prayer for that farmer.'"
The mysterious traveler smiled, and turned back towards the king. He walked across the room to the bedside, and once again sat in the chair. 'Yes, that was a terrible tragedy. The boy was 14, by the way, not 12, and he didn't die in the fire. I ran away. There was something I needed to find. When I finally found it, I came back home and shared it.' The king's mouth dropped open in surprise, and then he smiled. The mysterious traveler smiled back."
The man doing the chalk drawing on the city sidewalk stopped drawing, finishing his drawing of the huge castle, the great walled city, and the cottage on fire, exactly when his story finished. He turned, looked up to me and smiled. "You, like everyone, have ideas you think need to become reality. You have my permission, go make them happen."
-Steve Emig
The White Bear
8/10/2019
This basic story, in one form or another, has been in my head for 20 years or so. The time finally came to write it down. Creativity is like that. The best works have a way of coming into existence just when they are most needed. We don't really create the art. We artists and writers are really a sort of midwives, we shepherd the work from the unseen world into the tangible world, where it can be shared.
