WORK IN PROGRESS
(Life, Me, You, This Newsletter)
Vol. III, Issue 3, February 1, 1999><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>><<>><
A CHANGE OF PACE
This issue of Work in Progress is a bit different from
usual. It is longer, it is all one piece, it is fiction, and I
think it is one of the more powerful pieces I have ever
written. I felt it an important enough parable to include
in Work in Progress, as a way of reaching almost 800
readers. Please feel free to forward it to others, with
attribution please.
The piece is important because it is too easy for most
of us to see the way that others do things as wrong.
When we make other people wrong we put them down,
often as a way of suggesting that we ourselves are
higher, better. Even more importantly, we erect
barriers between us.
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THE LEGEND OF THE VILLAGE AND THE
MOUNTAIN by Diana Robinson
Historians could not guess, nor storytellers imagine, how long
the village had nestled at the foot of the majestic and
mysterious mountain. Majestic it was as it towered so high
above its surrounding mountains, mountains that looked like
mere hills in contrast. Its peak was forever shrouded by
clouds so that no living soul could claim to have seen its
summit.
Nor could anyone tell when or how the legend had begun, the
legend that brought people to the village by the hundreds, by
the thousands. The legend held that only by dying at the
summit of the mountain could one be sure of being reunited
with loved ones in the next life. There was no other way.
And so they came, the hopeful, the dying, the anxious, all
seeking to reach the reward of that single mountain peak,
each seeking the guidance of the villagers as to how to get
there.
Perhaps once the villagers had been united in their efforts to
aid and guide these pilgrims, but no more. There were many
paths around the base of the mountain, each starting out as
though it led toward the top, with no clear indication which
was the right one.
For it was indeed the mountain of the dying. No one ever did
return from that soaring summit. Some pilgrims, and some
guides, failing in their mission, had returned after turning
back part-way along their journey, but none had returned
after reaching the summit. For this reason, traditions had
grown up within each faction of the village as to which of the
many passages up the mountain actually led to the peak.
Each faction worked with oral tradition, physical and spiritual
training, and mountain climbing skills to prepare for the
specific tasks needed on the route THEY believed was right.
This belief had gradually come to guide and govern every
aspect of life, so that all residents lived their entire lives in
preparation for the journey as it was perceived by their
particular faction. Before each elder approached the age
where physical deterioration might begin s/he would be
equipped to lead that faction’s current clients to the summit
along the chosen route. And each sincerely believed that their
rivals’ clients were being led to disaster. But no proof was
ever brought back to the village to still the controversy.
Throughout remembered time this debate had split the village
people, turning neighbor against neighbor, family against
family, sometimes even brother against brother. Each camp
vied to lead the pilgrims up the mountain. Each refused to
acknowledge that any other could properly guide them to the
summit. Each relied on a different path.
Now it happened that one family was so deeply split that its
four sons each espoused a different route. As boys, very
close in age, they had played together, worked together,
cared for each other as deeply as only brothers can. But as
they grew older they disagreed so strongly that they could
hardly stand to be in the same room together. The village
people were sad, for the four were greatly loved. They were
powerful leaders, admired by all. But they could not speak
civilly to each other. As they grew older their lives became
more and more separated. By the time they became elders
they did not even know the names of each others’
grandchildren.
Then came the time when they would lead an expedition to
the summit. By coincidence, each was judged to approach
the age of pilgrimage at about the same time, each assembled
and equipped his pilgrim-clients, and each set off for the
rigors of the journey. The village mourned it loss, as it
mourned every leader who left.
We cannot tell what happened en route. We know, from the
reports of those who had returned previously, that each of the
four routes involved careful discipline, teamwork, and that
each was perilous. As usual, however, once the groups had
embarked on their adventure, no word as to their progress
would return to the village.
Then, one night, there came The Dream. Each faction of the
village had its own Wise One. We might call them priests,
shamans, prophets. They rarely spoke with each other. But
The Dream changed that. Perhaps it was a miracle. Perhaps,
if The Dream spoke truth, the event sent such waves of
emotion down the mountain from the brothers that it
penetrated the dreams of all these Wise Ones as they slept.
For one morning they emerged from their houses, each
seeking to speak with the others. The villagers were amazed
to see them walk together into the ancient, dusty building
where, it was said, all people had once joined together in
unity. They spoke in whispers, these Wise Ones, so that
those bold enough to peer through the windows could not tell
what was being said. They nodded their heads, shook their
heads, appeared to argue. Then, finally, they seemed to
agree. Together they wrote at some length. Together they
sealed what they wrote into a box. And together they
descended into the lower levels, out of sight. When they
returned the box was gone. Three days later the Wise Ones,
too, were gone. It was whispered that they had left to ascend
the mountain, even though it was not yet their time. They
were not seen or heard from again, and no one could find the
box that they had hidden.
Eventually the village was all but abandoned, its population
decimated by the lack of cooperation between factions during
times of hardship. Then, much later, earth movements
toppled the ancient building. Those who sought for survivors
and cleaned up the debris found a vault, previously hidden but
now cracked open. In it was a box, and in the box were the
papers said to have been written by the so-called Wise Ones.
The first page told of their arguments as to whether they
should give word of The Dream to the people of the village.
Regardless of the joy it would give, they said, one was
unwilling because he was uncertain as to whether The Dream
could be true. Another spoke of the disruption to village
traditions that would result. Another believed his people
would lose faith in him if he spoke against the old beliefs.
And the fourth pointed out that their new knowledge would
leave a need for only one Wise One, not four. This last was
the most persuasive. They chose not to spread the word.
They wrote of their distress if they were wrong in keeping the
secret, and of their decision to make the mountain ascent
alone so as to end their own uncertainty.
Then they wrote of The Dream, experienced by each in
identical detail.
They dreamed that they were at the mountaintop, standing at
the peak, above the clouds. They knew that whatever
happened to those who reached the peak would soon happen,
and expected that they were about to die. Below them they
heard sounds of people approaching, but they could not tell
from which direction. The sounds were dispersed, confusing,
as if they were coming from all around. Then, suddenly, from
north, from south, from east, and from west, came the four
parties, led by the four estranged brothers. Contradicting the
village traditions, every path had led to the mountain peak.
Reunited, the brothers fell into each others’ arms with tears
of joy. Then, after thinking for a moment, they held each
other even tighter with tears of bitter sorrow as they realized
that their knowledge was for them alone. They were about to
leave the world, and they could not share their discovery with
the village below. The feuds between their families and
friends would continue. No one in the village would ever
know that the bitterness and the disputes were for nothing,
that every route, of every faction, when followed carefully, let
to the same place, to the place of joy and reunion.
In the dream, there was suddenly a great sound of wind,
clouds covered the scene, and the Wise Ones awoke back in
the village, knowing that the four brothers and their clients
had left the earth, and believing that in their dream they had
seen truth. Yet, each for his own reason, they did not speak
the truth to others.
For as long as the village existed, the feuds continued.
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How often do we condemn something as wrong, not
because anyone is is harmed, but solely because it is
not what we would have chosen for ourselves?
Whenever we make these arbitrary judgments we are
personally responsible for the erection of barriers that
divide human from human, and so rend apart the family
of humankind.
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Copyright 1998 Diana Robinson. Work in Progress may be
reproduced in its entirety only, including this copyright line.
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