A Puzzle

Sally was sitting on the back porch, putting together a new puzzle her mother had just bought for her. She liked puzzles very much, even though she put them together rather distractedly. Her mother was hovering nearby, busying herself with watering the plants and cleaning the porch. Sally was nearly done with the puzzle when, as happens, she got distracted. She saw a very strange creature hopping around the backyard, dancing through the rose garden. The creature was so bright that Sally had to squint her eyes just to look at it. She puzzled for a moment then said to herself,

"Oh! I know, I know, that's Love hopping around there, that's what. I know because Love likes to dance, like Jenny and I do sometimes when the radio's on."

Satisfied, she looked back down to what she was doing, but got distracted again and called out,

"Mommy, mommy! Look over there! Do you see?"

Her mother was turned away, tending to a flowerbed adjacent the kitchen. Without turning around, she replied,

"That's lovely, honey."

Sonata With Some Furniture

Old hands with well-worn veins lit a cigar in 1948. It was a little cigar, kept in a box in a drawer of a dresser. Outside it was raining. Some time before, the hands were folded on the windowsill when they saw a dresser in the street. Some time after, the hands were holding, lifting, setting the dresser down by the open window. Then, that cigar, kept in a box in a drawer of the dresser. The hands reached, held, rolled it across the palm. Once to the lips and down again. Tossed around here and there, every finger got a touch. Now again to the lips and held between.

A long time before, the hands had been laughing at something funny and chanced to see a chair in the street. They lifted, took, set it down in the kitchen, but, the legs were uneven. Into the cabinet, snatch the matches, set them under the left forward leg. There, that's alright.

The hands, now, outstretched, found the chair and leg with matches underneath. Holding them in hand, the hands poised one finger at the matchbook-end and pushed: bright red everywhere as the other end slides out. The left reaches in. The right watches on.

Pressed to the surface, the long silence before, the match is struck.

e.r./or

A woman was walking alone. Everything was going alright until she turned pale and collapsed. It was a big and busy street, but, strange to say, she had been the only person walking. Everyone else (and there were many others), had just been standing around. When the woman fell most of them were alarmed, but, some of them weren't. A group of the alarmed people quickly ushered her to the emergency room.

An old man was seated comfortably, perhaps permanently, on a bench nearby. As the scene unfolded before him he thought that the woman, from the look of her, might be deathly ill, the poor thing.

Once inside the hospital the party was directed to a small room at the end of a long hallway to await the coming of the doctor. The sick woman was lying wearily on a table while the others stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder, timidly excusing themselves to each other for the discomfort.

This soon gave way to more bold and forward conversation. It was generally agreed that the woman was gravely ill, and, what's more, there was suspicion that the same thing could befall them at any moment, if it hadn't already. This fear made it impossible for them to look at each other. Fixing on the walls, ceiling and floor they spoke:

“This woman is sick!”

“What's wrong with her?”

“Ouch, my foot!”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Where the doctor?”

Suddenly the man who had just trampled his neighbor's foot stood on a stool by the table, apparently with the intention of taking the situation in hand. He was perspiring heavily, but, as it were, with dignity. With an impressive voice he addressed the ceiling:

"People! Quiet! We're all uncomfortable, but with her -"

he broke off but immediately recovered himself,

" - with her the situation is worse, much worse. While we wait for the doctor, and, of course, he has to be coming soon, we should do our best to get to the bottom of this. I say we owe it to ourselves to do so."

The crowd murmured.

“We owe it to ourselves?”

“What does it mean?”

“We're next.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Where's the doctor?”

All at once the room fell silent. Steps were heard echoing in the hallway. Everyone in the room held their breath. Closer, louder. They shut their eyes, listening intently. Closer still. The steps were resounding in their temples. The man on the stool jumped down and rushed to the door, pressing his eye to the keyhole. He saw nothing. He turned away and listened. The steps paused, continued, grew faint, and disappeared.

One of the crowd, a big fat man who had once confided to a friend, “you know, I have perfect vision; when I was a child they said I had perfect vision, and I still have it,” lowered his head and began sobbing gently.

Every once in a while someone hushed the room, thinking they heard the steps again. One man said it was only mice in the walls, nothing more. Another suggested it was someone bringing flowers to their loved ones who were sick and dying, and at least it's good that no one was bringing flowers to them yet.

The woman, meanwhile, had almost completely escaped their attention. They began fussing over themselves, adjusting their clothes and clearing their throats. One man raised a probing hand to his head and felt around for a long time.

“Everything has to be right -”

“- for when he comes.”

“If it's not -”

“- then he won't.”

“Everything has to be right.”

Only one man was absent from this chorus – the single advocate of the dying woman. He was standing on the stool again imploring the crowd to help her. Suddenly an idea occurred to him, an idea which he had been dreading. With a shaking voice he asked,

“Maybe – do you think – one of us –”

he shuddered and grew pale,

“ – can one of us be the doctor?”

The crowd gasped in horror. Everyone instantly turned and stared at him with flashing eyes. Suddenly one man struck him, then another and another, until he was severely beaten. They picked him up, very alarmed at his condition, and placed him on the table next to the sick woman for when the doctor comes.

Erroneous Monk

The cherry blossoms were in full bloom when the foreigner left on a pilgrimage. He walked for a long time, through many seasons, and when he came upon an old temple he was met with the unhappy news that the beloved master there had just died. Although he was exhausted, the foreigner expressed his wish to pay his respects, and was escorted to a shrine set up in honor of the master in the main hall. All of the monks and high priests had assembled in the hall for mourning. The foreigner was now before the shrine and bowed deeply to the floor in prostration. He remained there for several hours.

"Look at the devotion of the foreigner!" whispered the others, "We bowed for but a few minutes and he remains motionless for hours. Truly, he is enlightened. Let us construct a shrine in his honor."

Soon after the foreigner slowly got up, feeling very refreshed and happy and immediately set out again to continue his pilgrimage.

A Clear and Present Manger: The Role of Religion in American Politics

God's gone slummin' here in America, cruising the aisles of the House of Representatives for a vessel to inspire to act in His name and it's forever changed the complexion of our politics, this we know. But why? Why has God left us for the mean streets of D.C., prostituting His divine will for this bill, that proposition?

The clear answer is that he's only lurking around there 'cause He's not getting what He needs at home. That's usually the case, isn't it? His home, of course, is in the hearts of men, and his foray into the political arena is a symptom of our domestic neglect.

That's right folks, blame yourselves.

This age actually promises to be very fruitful in a way, insofar as it relentlessly saturates us with everything that is without, so as to lead us back within, where everything exists in perfect splendor -

you know, like a kingdom.