David the Panda and the Hole

So here goes my short fable on the Second Principle.  I know these are, uh, short and not in the world’s best shape.  But, gives me something to think about and something to work on in the future.

David the Panda was munching on another stalk of bamboo, while walking through the forest.  It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining and the temperature was mild.

“Hi David.”

“Hi Ralph.”  Ralph was another Panda that David knew although they weren’t friends.

“I’m really hungry David.  Could I have some of your bamboo.”

“But I worked really hard to dig it out.  If you go look for some yourself, you’ll find some.”

“Please?  I’m starving.”

David knew if he gave Ralph some bamboo, Ralph would always ask David for some.  He would never learn to go find bamboo for himself.  He shook his head and walked past Ralph, continuing his stroll through the woods.  He knew he was doing the right thing – give a Panda some bamboo, he eats for a day, teach a Panda how to search for bamboo, he can eat for a lifetime.

David looked up at the sky, searching for his friend Louisa.  He wasn’t watching where he was going and fell down a hole.

“AHH!” screamed David.  He was scared and didn’t know where he was.  “Help Me!” he shouted.

His friend, Louisa the Owl, fluttered down to the edge of the hole and peered down.  “Well, you got yourself into this mess.  Shouldn’t you get yourself out?”

“What?  How can you leave me here?”  David was hurt.

“How is that any different than what you told Ralph back there?”

“He was just too lazy to get some bamboo for himself!  He didn’t need mine.”

“And are you just too lazy to get yourself out of that hole?  You don’t need me?”

David looked down and refused to reply.  He struggled up the sides of the hole, but would slide back down.  Louisa could make out a faint pink tinge to his cheeks.

“Who are you to judge when someone really needs help?  When someone asks for help, do the compassionate thing, do the equitable thing.  And when you need that very same help, that help will be gratefully given.  How will you ever climb out of this hole without the compassion of others?  How will you ever climb out of this hole if you don’t accept the compassion of others?”

 

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David the Panda and Calvin the Hyena

In honor of Chalica which many are choosing to celebrate, I’m going to try a set of very short fables with the seven principles of Unitarian Universalism as morals.

Once upon a time, there was a panda bear named David.  He was a young panda bear and looked up to his good friend Louisa the Owl.  He was talking with Louisa one day while David was eating a piece of bamboo.  They were laughing together when Calvin the Hyena emerged from the forest.

Calvin walked up to David, pushed him over, and ran away laughing.  Panda David sat back up, and brushed himself off.   “I don’t like Calvin,” said David.

“Why?” asked Louisa.

“Did you see that?  He just pushed me over.  He’s always mean.”

“Ah.  He did, and he had no right to do that.”

“He’s just bad.   All hyenas are. There’s no hope for him. ”

“All hyenas are bad because he pushed you over?”

“Yes!” exclaimed David.  Did she not just see what happened?  For no reason at all, this Hyena came up and pushed him down.

“You ripped out that piece of bamboo from the ground.  In the eyes of bamboo, wouldn’t that make you a bad panda too?” inquired Louisa.

“No.  I need this bamboo or I’ll die from hunger.”  He saw Louisa looking at him with that look on her face and added, “ok, I would die eventually.”

“Things are rarely ever black and white.”

“Except me!” exclaimed David.

“Exactly my point.  The world is rarely ever black or white.  You have to look beyond what you feel about him.  Just because he did something you did not like, doesn’t make him any less worthy than you.  Just because he did something bad doesn’t make him bad.”

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Bagels and Bible

Thanksgiving had just passed, and the bagel shop had transformed.  Ok, that was a stretch, but they had the hanging icicle lights hanging down from the counter, a white christmas tree with boxes of bagels and other goodies underneath, blue and silver garland around the normal sights and blue Christmas lights lining the windows.  The front doors had big plastic coverings that said Happy Holidays in blue with a three blue christmas trees below it.  It looks pretty classy but really completely blocked someone from the outside looking in.

He ordered his usual bagels from his usual guy – the worker greeted him by name nowadays.  He had made it on time despite the misty rain that was inter-spliced with moments of real rain and heavy downpours.  He grabbed his usual table after making a stop at the drink station, decked out in more garland, for a cup of Vanilla Hazelnut coffee.

The group of middle aged women was back.  He saw them here every other week it seemed.  He glanced over to the left and they were all dressed in more casual clothes but still a fair amount of makeup.  Even the casual clothes looked to be fairly nice and fashionable.  It was no surprise – this part of town was pretty rich.

They were talking about the Thanksgiving weekend and about someone’s upcoming wedding.  He walked up to get his now finished bagels from the counter, and by the time he got back they were talking about shopping.  That year had been particularly crazy with Black Friday shopping – from shootings to pepper spray at Wal Mart.  One was talking about an event she was organizing to support the troops.  The music changes from songs he remembered from high school to Christmas music.  It was an odd, discordant combination.  As if they weren’t sure they wanted to talk about Christmas yet, but the music was bursting forth despite their best efforts.  And decorations.

He tried not to judge.  And he continued to try to not to judge as he finished his second bagel and one said “ok, we should get started.”

In unison, the women pulled out a copy of the same book.  He looked at it out of the corner of his eye, googled it, and found it was a Bible Study course for women.  His first thought was immediately to judge, and he hated himself for it.  He claimed he was open minded about religion.  But every now and then he caught himself in a moment where he was judging someone else because of their beliefs.  Yes, this group of five upper class women were just talking about shopping and now currently saying that when in prayer, they’re supposed to really think of God sending his only Son to be sacrificed, and what that would feel like.

One woman began to dominate the conversation.  She was talking about being a single mom and how difficult it was.  He had grown up in a single mom household, his dad dying young.  He could begin to feel a connection growing to this group of women, despite them only sitting next to him at a Bagel shop.  She was wearing a light blue pullover that looked like she was about to go running.  Go running despite the rain.  Maybe running because of the rain.

She was talking about how her husband divorced her when she was six months pregnant.  But one night she felt suddenly at peace, and knew God was there for her in the empty house and she wasn’t alone.  It sounded wonderful to him, but his gut questioned it.  She was so in to telling her story, it sounded like she had told it many times.  People’s memories change over times, their stories get more embellished as time moves on.  When he heard any story, he had to wonder what was truth and what was embellishment.

He took another sip of his coffee, contemplating refilling it.  He overheard, “I just couldn’t put my foot on the gas.  My car was on, I was going through the motions.”  He wasn’t sure if she was talking in metaphor or reality – either was equally possible.  And she quickly moved on to reactions from her neighborhood when she was divorced.  Someone else in her neighborhood was widowed.  The way her neighborhood treated her differently from the widow made her really sad apparently.  She was being judged, just as he was judging her earlier.  He felt the sudden urge to interrupt their story and apologize – but how would he explain it?

“Don’t dream it’s over” came on inside the store.  He got lost in the music for a moment looking outside at the rain feeling a little our of sorts.  When he turned his attention back to the group of women next to him, the same lady was sharing a story about meeting a guy on match.com.  She joined, got her money back but would still get emails.  She was out with her friends and a guy recognized her profile and called her by her profile name.  She freaked out and was embarrassed because her co workers wanted to know what was going on.  On the second date, he told her “This is weird.  But I know I’m going to marry you someday.”  And they did.

And they suddenly went back to their Bible Study.  He could not figure out their process, five minutes of Bible Study and then an in depth story from one of them.  This seemed like the Alpharetta version of Sex in the City – five women talking over coffee, talking about their lives, shopping, and Bible Study.  The comparison made him smile.  He decided to let the women talk without his eavesdropping, and looked across the store.  His favorite bagel guy was on break and looking through a big pile of jewelry and bracelets.  And old woman was asking him about the bags of jewelry and he overheard the old woman say that the jewelry looked like fun. He couldn’t imagine why the bagel guy was going through bags and bags of what looked to be costume jewelry but it made him smile.

The women next to him started backing up.  One had to leave because it was her daughter’s sixteenth birthday tomorrow and preparations had to be made.  She seemed happy talking about the plans and about the bible study recap.  Who was he to judge them?  Just because it wasn’t his cup of tea didn’t mean it wasn’t still a cup of tea.

Lost in his thoughts, he went up to get another cup of the Vanilla Hazlenut coffee.  When he was putting the cream into the coffee, he saw out of the corner of his eyes the women were on their way out.  They might not have realized it, but they had changed him, ever so sightly, this morning.  The rain was still coming down outside but they had helped it turn into a mist instead of a downpour.  He murmured “thanks” under he breath, and moved to add sugar to his coffee.

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Cracker Crumbs were my Crack Cocaine

Cracker Crumbs were my Crack Cocaine

-or-

Free Market Dynamics During Fifth Grade Lunch

Almost every day in my miserable fifth grade year I took my lunch to school, and it would inevitably have a sports drink.  Why?  Who knows, maybe my dad’s death rattled my mom, maybe it was the pain from braces she made me get just so she could get them without feeling too weird, or maybe she liked it therefore I did.  I grew to despise the neon-yellow liquid- another sign my mom just didn’t get me.

But you know who got me?  Ben.  Ben seemed to know, even though we weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination and he had only known me for a couple of months.  Ben sized me and my individually packaged sports drink up and asked if I wanted a trade.

A lunchroom trade!  Maybe I had finally fit in and was accepted into a marginally popular lunchroom clique.  I was riding the sports drink wave to popularity!  Maybe the awkwardness that not only I felt but also my entire class had towards me after my dad died earlier in the year had finally worn off. Maybe he was just really thirsty.  But I knew what I wanted, and he knew too.

Crackers.

Why my mom neglected to give me crackers in my lunch I’ll never understand. Saltines were far and away my favorite food of which I could eat a whole sleeve in only one sitting.  The best ones were when one edge of the cracker had been burned and was brown.  It was all part of my burnt-food obsession that’s haunts me to this day. Usually there were only four in any given sleeve that had burnt edges, but once in while, much to my delight, the stars were aligned properly and my favorite cracker maker must have been on duty and the whole sleeve would have burnt edges.  I can taste it now.  Salty burnt cracker edges were my crack cocaine.

I would always push in the little elevated bumps that were brown, burnt, and salty and collect the crumbs in the plastic sleeve.  When the sleeve was finished, I’d guide the crumb down its plastic prison and into my waiting mouth to give it a warm moist home.  My eyes would roll in the back of my head, my toes would curl, and I would be at one with paradise.

Nothing tasted better than those salty crumbs.

Now Ben may have known the immense pleasure of those crumbs (for it was the love that dare not speak its name) and maybe he didn’t.

Either way he became my cracker pusher.

I would decide on the selling price that day, usually somewhere between 8 and 15.  Certain flavors got better prices – free market economics in its perfect, ideal state.  I’d name the number and he would get up, stealthily sneak his across the lunchroom while avoiding the teachers and hit the seldom-used-but-required-by-law salad bar. He would grab a handful of now-stolen packages of saltines – four to a pack, bring back his haul, count it with his friends, and go back to complete the mission.

He had the goods, I had the stuff.

Maybe Powerade was his cracker-crumbs.  Maybe he had a similar religious experience when he savored our daily haul.

All I cared about was he kept my addiction solid and under wraps, and we exchanged like clockwork every single day, until the 6th grade came and my mom put an end to our free-market narcotic swap, wising up and giving me Diet Coke instead of sports drink.  And I’ve never looked back.

Although I really could go for some Saltines right about now.

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Tinkering

Tinkering with this new domain.  Going to have this part be to muse about writing and post up fictiony stuff.

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