The Dinner Table . . . Everything Teaches. . .
There was a little boy who sat at the holiday table with all the family and their friends. The table was set with the white cloth and the numbers of gathered friends were many. The little boy sat high on his chair and when the little hand shot out uncontrollably and the cranberry juice spread its stain over the white linen, the face of the little boy crumpled and he said, ‘I can’t do anything right!’
And the mother of the little boy said everyone has accidents and we can make it right. So the paper towel sopped up the juice and another white napkin was placed over the stain and the little boy never remembered the incident. It was an incident but the mother remembered and the little boy was more important than anything at the moment.
The dinner, one of many, would be forgotten and so would the incident. That scar never formed except in the mother when she remembered the face and wondered who told him he couldn’t do anything right? He has done many things right in his life and some things in error. But that incident he never remembered and it formed no keloid because there was no scar.
The rest of mankind will also wash out. The stain will be bleached and man will not hang in the sun and wonder how he can possibly get that stain out of his soul. Too many centuries in the process and no nearer now than when he first catapulted into waiting arms, if he was lucky enough to have those arms waiting.
A son wondered if he should drop Philosophy. He was told that there was no other class worth taking. Except History. And Humanities. And maybe a couple of others like Biology and Literature and the Religions of Man.
Excerpt from . . .
Philip Framed The Mystery. . .
Our tears filled the rivers with fatigue
which filled the oceans with frustration
as the fruits of our fields were dispersed.
All the while we continued to labor
Ahhhh. . . .the mystery?
Who first told us we were no good?