Many winters ago, when visions were still common on the plains, in a small, prosperous village living in harmony and peace, there was a disillusioned and discontented young Indian boy. As a child, he heard stories of brave warriors that were eternalized as true legends. He dreamed of becoming one of them, believing that he was born to do great deeds and become a famous hero. He had learned to fight, to use weapons, to ride horses, to track and all the other skills necessary for warfare. The village was led by a wise and caring elder who cultivated an optimal relationship with the nearby tribes, keeping any possibility of conflict at bay.
This made the village prosper and everyone lived happily, except this young Indian who, expecting the climax of life and considering himself a born warrior, had no interest in anything to do with the communal life of the tribe. He thought children were irritating and noisy, and did not allow himself to be infected by their joy. Although he did not say so, he despised the elderly because they were no longer fit for war. He did not have due regard for all those who were engaged in other activities for the maintenance of the village welfare, which he considered menial work.
Although he wore the clothes made by the craftswomen and ate the bread that was made there every day, to cite a few examples, he did not give them the importance they deserved, because he considered them mere supports for the great event of his life, the one that would cover him with glory...
The days passed and the war that would immortalize him in the ancestral memory of his people was not approaching, a fact that made him more and more impatient and unconcerned with everything and everyone. One morning, when he woke up, he was alone in the village. Everyone had left. A letter left by the old man who headed the Council of Wise Men explained that they had been warned by nearby villages about an evil and powerful man who came from afar, setting fires and decimating all the tribes he encountered. According to the information received, this was the next village to be attacked and, according to tradition, only the best of the warriors could defeat it.
Such a battle had to be fought hand-to-hand. Carefully, the villagers had left all available weapons, as well as enough food for many days. The young man rejoiced; he sharpened his weapons, painted himself for combat, plotted a fighting strategy and stood waiting for the aggressor. However, the enemy did not appear that day. Nor in the following days. The moons alternated in the sky and the evildoer did not show his face. The young warrior began to ration the food that was finally arriving. His clothes began to get dirty. After a few more moons, he was hungry and ragged. Since he could not go into the forest to gather fruit and hunt so as not to leave the village, he began to feed himself by hunting small rodents that passed by the perimeter of the tribe. He even thought of going to a nearby village in search of sustenance and clothing but if he left the village he would be remembered as weak and cowardly, not as the fearless warrior he was.
He thought about making his own bread, but it was not enough just to collect the wheat, it had to be cleaned, transformed into flour, the dough had to be prepared for baking, the oven temperature and the baking time had to be known. He didn't know how to do it; he was never interested in such simple work. He hesitated to use leather from a store to sew some garments, but he did not master the small craft of cutting and sewing. The basic needs that he could not maintain, added to the interminable waits, were weakening him physically and breaking down the great warrior.
His spirit, destined for great deeds, had become unbalanced and fragile because of small, simple, everyday and insignificant things. Exhausted, he could only go to bed on his last day with all his weapons on him and guard the front door in anticipation of violent intruders. Winter had arrived, the cold had worsened the situation and the mice had disappeared. The last animal he saw that night, before falling asleep, was a raven, an emissary of size, perched on the village totem pole. He felt an unpleasant shiver down his back.
The next day he was awakened by the light touch of the spear point on his chest. To his surprise, the intruder was a small adolescent, almost a child, barely twelve years old, dressed in war clothes and drawing. The warrior, protector of the tribe, smiled and was amused to see that the terrible villain had taken the form of a child. He was an expert in dominating his opponents alone and was sure that his game was short-lived. But when the time came to get up, he could not gather his strength, and his weakened body did not obey the commands of his mind. Like a mountaineer, he rose with great effort. When he faltered and succeeded, he attacked.
The teenager smiled and crouched slightly, the warrior's blows vanished in the wind. The following attempts were a repetition of the same scene. Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps his attack failed and he lost his balance, but the mighty warrior fell to the ground without being touched by the invader. The little one pressed without breaking the skin and brought the tip of the spear close to the warrior's neck. His life was in the hands of an unlikely enemy and he faced an unimaginable fate. At that moment, like a flash of lightning that illuminates the sky in an instant, he realized the greatness of the small and the importance of each part of the whole.
The merciful executioner told the warrior that he could say his last prayer. He raised his eyes to heaven and asked the Great Spirit for a sincere apology for the injustice he had done to his tribe, for their blurred vision and for their erroneous actions against all those who defend the essential and beautiful functions of life in the simplicity of craftsmanship and art. If I had the chance, I'm sure I would have done things differently and better. Feeling a peace he didn't recognize, he closed his eyes and waited for the final blow.
"Everyone deserves a new unlimited opportunity. Otherwise, the great spirit would not be the purest love, and his garden would not be adorned with a multitude of flowers". He heard a voice. He thought he had died and was at the gates of heaven. But the tone of the voice was not that of a teenager, nor was it familiar. In terror he opened his eyes and saw that before him stood the wise old man, the leader of the village. The little intruder stood beside him, having put away his spear. The warrior wept and did his penance. The old man said, "Do not feel guilty or ashamed''.
He had asked for a new opportunity and it had been granted, now he had to act responsibly so as not to waste it again. At that time the entire tribe entered the village and immediately began the renovations and repairs needed after so long a time of neglect. There was no condemnation in any eyes. They also began to care for the helpless warrior. When he recovered, he began to study the philosophy and mythology of his people to pass on to the children. He was delighted to realize that he was learning as he was teaching. As no knowledge is in vain, and as he knew the art of combat and brought with him that energy, he also began to exchange guard shifts at night with the other sentries of the village walls, to prevent the attack of wild animals.
After many and many winters, that warrior became one of the oldest leaders of the Council of the Wise and was always remembered with affection by later generations, even though he had never fought a battle, or at least not in the way he had imagined fighting when he was a young man.
A seed of wisdom, at least that's how I understand it, was lovingly thrown into your heart; sooner or later the conditions will be right for it to germinate if it is good. Time and patience are part of a process common to all things: maturity. It is the path of the maturity of the spirit, from seed to fruit, when it becomes seed again. Each one in his own time, with the confrontation of the battles that are proper and fair to him, not of those that he desires.
Those who do not value the little things will never be prepared to experience the big moments in life; being small is an indispensable step to becoming great. By not recognizing the importance of all people, we distance ourselves from our own essence by ignoring what we really are. Waiting for the ideal moment to be full makes us miss the opportunity to live the gift and the dream; by regretting the imperfect love that the world offers us, we waste the opportunity to make it perfect in us. Don't wait for the oceans to rise. The beauty of life is in the details, in the almost imperceptible transformations that ordinary days offer.
Love, Johnny
The images used in this post belong to @keuudeip from his series 'Hive Stock Images : River stones' in the Stock Images community. @my451r is the beneficiary of 5% of this publication for the use of his images. Thanks you, friend!
