The Philosophy of a Leaf
Introduction
This simple tale provides a segue between Vol. I of Change, and Vol. II. The many connections, hidden in plain sight, we shall explore in an upcoming post, as we begin to open up a new range of topics in this, our second year of Change.
For now, sit back and enjoy.
—The Editors
The Philosophy of a Leaf
Long, long ago, before the dawn of history, there was a man, neither young nor old, neither short nor tall, neither ugly nor comely, his large-boned olive brown face clean-shaven, his densely matted hair piled high on his head to form a strange and intricate high column decorated with hundreds of tiny silver shells, who walked slowly down to the sea carrying under his arm a plain leather pouch, ancient and cracked from wear.
At last he found a cool spot overlooking the glinting blue and turquoise waters, under the shade of an ancient tree, of a species long extinct, whose name I have forgotten.
He sat himself down with a long sigh, and drew from the pouch a scribbling stick, a cake of brown ink, a small bronze flask of rainwater infused with sugar and mastodon musk, and an old leather case of blank beige sheets.
Carefully he opened the flask and dipped his scribbling stick in to soak. After some time had passed, again sighing a long sigh, he drew the stick from the flask and rubbed it—at first gingerly, then furiously—on the dark brown cake of ink and found it to be dry as dry.
“Oh bother and blast!” he cried aloud, above the roar of the waves, “Blast and again! Forsooth this is a judgment upon me, for it is not seven minutes nor seven hours nor seven days nor seven weeks nor seven months but seven long years I have gone without a single inspiration worth the ink, and now my scribbling stick has gone so dry and rotten from disuse that it will not take water nor ink! What an indictment for one who calls himself a philosopher! In truth I know no longer who nor what I am, save only a failure and a disgrace to my tribe!”
Solemnly he replaced the seal on the flask of water and returned the tools of his trade to the pouch in which they had so long languished. He sighed again aloud, and stared out mournfully at the sea.
Silently he prayed, “Oh ye gods, how you mock me! I sought to throw light upon the world you made and bring light to men, seeking knowledge and wisdom down these long years, doing only as you have bade me. And then you abandon me and are silent and not for seven days nor seven weeks nor seven months but for seven long, barren years you leave me without guidance or inspiration, until I know not if I am a philosopher or a nothing, no better than a leaf on this tree that blows here and there in the wind. If you cannot deliver me from this blind groping after answers, then at least release me from this terrible task I have sworn to you to complete.”
And then he ended his prayer as he had been taught to do from childhood, by repeating the names of all the gods he could still remember and pronounce, and making the holy sign with his tongue.
The sea glinted. The breeze was cool and bore the fragrance of the blossoms through which it had traveled. The philosopher’s mind grew as blank as the pages sealed back in the pouch on the grass beside him.
Time passed.
At last his eyes happened to light upon a leaf not seven paces away, a leaf indistinguishable from all the others around it, but just where his gaze came to rest. He stared fixedly, for a time, at this altogether unremarkable leaf.
“No,” he thought to himself at last, addressing this leaf in silent soliloquy, “no, I am no better than you. Indeed, you are the better philosopher. For you do not stop to ask, ‘Who am I? Where do I fit? What is all of this for? What must I do? For you simply are what you are—not even a leaf, for that would be to categorize you after the manner of men, but you simply are as you are.
“When the breeze wafts, you flutter. When the sun strikes you, you glint in the sun. Slowly you turn, imperceptibly, to catch every ray and every beam that can reach you from the sun that gives you life. You do what you do, simply by being who you are, in harmony with all around you.
“When the rain washes down upon you, you yield to let the waters fall to earth as they will. You are cleansed and refreshed and you glint and gleam in the light when the sun reemerges from hiding, the glints and gleams echoing, quite unconsciously, the sparks of light upon the sea that forms your backdrop.
“When each day the god of night triumphs over the sun for a time, you rest, silent but for the gentle rustling against your fellows as the evening breeze flies past you.
“And each time the sun again triumphs over night, it marks another thousand of men’s minutes that have passed. Each day a thousand minutes and for each of those minutes you live out the life of the self that is only the self, neither green nor brown, neither leaf nor man nor god, no different from the self of any other leaf or man or god or ocean or lump of clay or cake of ink.
“You seek no special excitement, and so you have perfect composure. You wait and all comes to you in its own time, and in this way the gods provide for your every need. When it rains you are cleansed and refreshed and you do not wish for sun. When the sun dries you and warms you and gives you light and nourishment, you do not ask for a drink of rain, nor wish nor dream of what is not.
“You are not a slave to your desires and fantasies, but a free spirit, self-possessed, living without illusion, content simply to be as you are, accepting all in simple, unquestioning gratitude and piety.”
For some time the philosopher continued to think along these lines. At some point, he knew not when, he rose from his spot and went into the rushes to select a choice candidate for a new scribbling stick from amongst the reeds.
Quite unconsciously, rapt in thought, he carefully trimmed the stick with the knife he drew from his pouch, skillfully fashioning a new scribbling stick in the vaguely familiar way in which he had last fashioned one—as it dimly seemed to him, a veritable lifetime before.
At last he dipped the stick in the flask, and drew ink from the cake of brown ink that glistened in the sun like the waves of the sea. And for the first time in seven long years he began to write all that he had been thinking and more.
When at last the great work was completed, the true metaphysical system of the world set down and patiently honed, another seven years had passed as if in a dream. Yet every one of every thousand minutes of every day during these seven years he truly lived the philosophy of the leaf that he had been patiently unfolding and expounding.
His work done, he set out into the world to preach, for he was destined by the gods to be a great sage and teacher of men. In a thousand lands and a thousand tongues he and his disciples took this great wisdom to suffering mankind.
And it is said that for more than 10,000 years the world was accordingly at peace, and men lived in harmony and contentment and conviviality, weathering the storms of life and enjoying what beauty they could find in each moment in each of the thousand minutes that filled each day of their lives of unrelenting toil.
When this great age of man had passed, for everything passes, the Great Work in its integrity was lost, but the teachings were not lost forever.
For it is said that for thousands of years, during which the arts of reading and writing had long been lost for an entire age, men scattered here and there, living in huts on stilts in the middle of lakes like so many herons and worshipping in caverns in the bowels of the earth like so many ferrets, passed on the great teaching by word of mouth—now this piece, now that.
By the time men finally left their lakes and caves and once again lived in cities and towns as in the most ancient days, and the arts of reading and writing were finally rediscovered, the scribes set down whatever fragments of the teaching could still be recalled, and praying to the gods for guidance, men began to reassemble what pieces of the truth they could, in all languages and amongst countless tribes.
And it is said that the teachings of the world’s great religions, and all the humanities and arts and sciences, the quest for knowledge and wisdom as we have known it for the past three or four thousand years, are all but reassembled fragments of the lost teachings that the gods had sowed in the heart of the ancient philosopher, and that he recorded with his scribbling stick—teachings which the gods revealed again and again to the prophets of later ages, whose words had at once the ring of familiarity and truth because they had long been written in men’s hearts as the Great Teaching was passed on from generation to generation.
But as for that man who walked down to the sea that fateful day, a man neither better nor wiser than you or I, as he taught us he was not, considered himself certainly no better or wiser than that leaf upon which his gaze fell when these truths first filled his heart. For he always insisted, to the end of his days, that his teachings were but a translation and exposition of the philosophy of the leaf, who by its silent example revealed to him all he had foolishly long fancied the gods to have hidden from him.
“No,” he would say, “Not I, but a simple leaf is the great philosopher, the true author of all of these teachings, and I am but the humble disciple of this leaf, whom I regard as my master and authority.”
But my story is not yet told.
For unbeknownst to this ancient philosopher, all of these humble and profound teachings, all of these great truths, had been discovered before him. For there is nothing new under the sun.
Some time before him, no one can say just when, there was another who also sought the truth and despaired, another who cried out to the gods to enlighten him. Shivering with cold, drenched in the incessant rain of a winter’s day, buffeted by strong sea winds, this other seeker too once prayed as he had been taught to do, calling the gods by all the names he could remember.
“Release me from my torment,” he cried, “oh you who have made me, wretch that I am, of no use to anyone. Tell me who you are and who I am and what this wretched life is all for!
“I toil and suffer in the hot sun and the freezing winds, in the parched days and in the drenching rains, in times of famine and times of plenty, and still I am the same miserable wretch, night and day, and know not what nor who I am nor why I must endure this meaningless travail, abandoned to my fate.
“Who are you to have made me so, and to leave me to suffer like all the others around me, nameless and united only in our suffering and pointless endurance? Who are you? Tell me that!”
For the first time in his life, neither short nor long (for he was neither any longer young nor was he yet old), for the first time in all his grindingly repetitive days of suffering without hope, a voice spoke to him in his heart, giving a simple reply.
“ ‘Who are you?’ you ask,” said the voice, so still and quiet, so sweet and gentle and compassionate.
“I am that I am. I am what I am. I am who I am. No more, nor less.”
For some strange reason, the seeker trembled not any longer with cold but now with fear, and yet with a warm, familiar sense of peace and contentment welling up within his heart. “And I?” he asked, “what of me? Who am I? And what am I? Tell me this, I beseech you, if it is indeed you who made me who speaks to me now, and not some figment of my poor, starved imagination.”
“You are who you are,” the voice said gently in reply, “and you are what you are.”
“But I am a nothing,” said the seeker, “and you who have made the world and life and spirits—why, you create all, and recreate all moment by moment! What do I do, for my part? What must I do?”
To this the voice replied, in a tone that bespoke great and simple humility, “I do what I do. It is my way, and my enjoyment. I live out the self that is only the self that I am. For I am that I am. And it is no different for you. You do what you do. Nothing more nor less.”
At these words the voice stopped, the breezes fell suddenly and strangely silent, the sun’s rays emerged from behind a cloud, and all at once, wordlessly, the seeker was enlightened.
The voice was not to be heard in such a way again for many thousands of years. But the seeker reflected deeply on the all but inexpressible truth that had filled his heart.
Time passed, no one can say how long.
At last those closest to him, those who had been his friends all his life, said to him, “What has got into you, man? You are changed and we hardly know you any more. We struggle and toil and these days you stay put and do nothing. You move slowly and without care for the future—or for the past, come to that! What will become of you? Have you no place in this world, no calling in this life?”
The seeker replied, calmly, smiling, in the way he had of smiling. “I very much do have a calling, at long last, and for the first time in my life it is a true calling. For it is my duty now—for knowledge is a great responsibility—to be a great and humble philosopher, and share with the world the truth that the gods, in their mercy, have revealed to me. That having been given such light I may now, in my turn, bring light to the world.”
“You!” they replied with scorn, and cackled together in mocking laughter. “You, a sage! That’s a rich one! I suppose you’ll want to change the world next!”
“Not next,” replied the seeker, “but now. For that is the purpose of my prophesying and of my preaching. The end of my philosophy is not just to understand the world, but to change it.”
His fellows looked on at him with amazement. “So what is this so-called philosophy of yours? What is this great truth?”
Quietly and patiently, for the seeker was one of few and simple words, beautiful and clear, he expounded his philosophy.
When at length he was finished, all who had listened to him with rapt attention applauded their approval, for that was their way in those days and amongst such as they, when a wonderful sermon had been preached or wise words spoken.
But the one closest of all to him, who had always counted himself the seeker’s best friend from the old days, looked upon him with a pitying, wistful look.
“Dear friend, you have spoken beautifully. Your words have a power and truth in them like I’m sure none of us here has ever heard before. At last we amongst you, who have heard your philosophy, can begin to understand something of the meaning and power and beauty of our lives where all before seemed so futile. But do not deceive yourself, my wise friend, how will you share your philosophy with others?”
“As I have taught you, “ replied the seeker, “I am who I am. I do what I do, as is my enjoyment. I seek no recognition.”
“Even so,” replied his friend, “you preach in your way, and your words are wise, but men will not be able to understand them. You speak in a way that we, your friends, can perhaps come to understand, but you do not speak the language of the untold masses of men.”
“I preach as I preach,” replied the seeker, “and those who understand will understand.”
“But how will men understand your preaching at all,” his friend continued, beginning to lose patience, “when you cannot even speak to them in words they can understand? And if you want to change the world, do not forget that the world is ruled by men, and certainly not by the likes of you!”
“I will teach in the only way any true teacher can teach, and the way the gods have taught me in my turn. I shall teach by example.”
“But no one will ever even notice you! Preach as you might, by words or by example, never forget that for all your wisdom, you are, in the end, only a humble leaf on a nameless evergreen tree, here beside the sea.
“Worse, you are merely one leaf amongst countless others, your voice lost in all the rustling of all the chattering unenlightened ones around you.”
His friend sighed, and measured his words: “Nothing but a leaf! Do you understand, wise one? And even your wise example will only be lost amongst the likes of us—lost amongst the foliage.”
“I am who I am,” replied the seeker, “I will do what I do and wait for men to come to me. Even if only one man understands my teaching, that will be enough to vouchsafe this teaching to all men. For all who hear it will wish it to be heard, and men will speak it in their own way to other men. No, I shall be content to teach by example. And I shall wait. It is what I do.”
At this, his friends shuddered and turned away. They broached the subject no more.
Time passed.
Winter came, then spring.
Summer came at last.
One day, as the seeker was preaching, rapt in his philosophy, he vaguely heard a man’s voice cry out.
“Oh bother and blast! Blast and again! Forsooth this is a judgment upon me, for it is not seven minutes nor seven hours nor seven days nor seven weeks nor seven months but seven long years I have gone without a single inspiration worth the ink, and now my scribbling stick has gone so dry and rotten from disuse that it will not take water nor ink! What an indictment for one who calls himself a philosopher! In truth I know no longer who nor what I am, save only a failure and a disgrace to my tribe!”
The leaf, glinting in the warming gleams of the sun, stretched and turned, never ceasing his silent preaching.
And he never paid the man any heed at all.
The End
© Copyright 2008, 2023 Dr James Wilk
The moral right of the author has been asserted