The Old Man And The Bee - An Awakening Fable

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Once upon a time, there was an old man who took great pride in his large garden. His neighbors marveled at his green thumb and were impressed by his numerous awards and trophies. Year after year, he won the Best Garden Award, and his garden became the talk of the town. However, the neighbors were unaware of the immense effort it took to maintain this perfect garden. The old man spent countless hours on his knees, weeding and planting, striving to keep up appearances. Some years, the garden flourished effortlessly, with an abundance of flowers. Other years, it was a relentless battle against weeds, demanding every ounce of his energy.


As he grew older, the rigorous upkeep of the garden became increasingly difficult. The old man never had a moment's rest and lacked the energy to truly enjoy his victories. The awards began to feel like mere pieces of paper that said "You won!" without bringing any real satisfaction.

With age, more and more weeds began to appear, proliferating throughout the garden. The neighbors noticed the change, commenting on the state of his garden as a reflection of how the old man was feeling. Embarrassed and exhausted, his efforts to keep the weeds at bay waned. His fingers blistered, his knees became scuffed, and his back ached from constant bending. The once-sharp tools dulled, and soon, he gave up. He sat in his deck chair, with dirty hands, scruffy clothes, and a sullen look of defeat.


As he gazed at his garden, now overrun with weeds, the old man felt a deep sense of anguish. The garden he once cherished had become a source of pain and embarrassment. One day, as he sat in despair, he noticed a bumblebee hovering between the weeds. The bee flitted from plant to plant, seemingly indifferent to whether it was a weed or a flower. The bee found joy in all plants, recognizing the same life-giving nectar within each one.


A broad smile spread across the old man's face, sending wrinkles to the corners of his withered visage. "No bumblebee has ever differentiated between weed and flower!" he exclaimed. "My God! A weed is only a weed as long as I call it a weed. Otherwise, it is a wild, natural flower. It's only because I took what others told me that I've been exhausting myself to make my garden look a certain way. How preposterous! I'm a natural man and I love natural things. I don't care what grows here; they are all plants, they are all nature's divine intelligence. In their essence, they are all plants!"


With this revelation, he jumped up, gathered all the seeds he owned, and scattered them throughout the garden. He gave away all his tools and decided to let Mother Nature take her course.


The next spring, he sat in his favorite deck chair, resting naturally, vividly alert, perceptually open, timelessly aware, and watched. He watched as a surprising array of flowers appeared randomly. He observed how the rain came and went, how the sun shone and hid, and how the flowers danced in response to what suited them best. Tiny micro-climates formed, different insects and birds made homes where they felt most comfortable, and he marveled at the diverse beauty that unfolded effortlessly. There were seeds unsprouted, sprouts just emerging, stalks growing, flowers blooming, and plants returning to the soil.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "There is simply nothing to do but rest and enjoy the vivid spectacle of life, free from any definitions those garden judges gave me." He felt so liberated.


One evening, he made a small fire, burning his directory of flower definitions, his book of garden rules, and the dictionary of flowers and weeds. While he watched the flames dance, a small girl approached him. "Mister," she said, "may I say you have the most beautiful garden I have ever seen? Would you mind if my friends and I came to play here?"

"Why yes, of course," replied the old man.


From that point on, until the end of his days, he sat in his deck chair, resting naturally while the children played joyfully. The birds made homes, the insects went about their business, and the flowers blossomed and withered naturally without any need for assistance. The plants, insects, animals, and children all seemed to know what to do in a perfectly ordered chaos, as if guided by some great eternal wisdom. And the bumblebees continued to dance from flower to flower in sublime equality, completely aware that the nectar from all flowers is the same.


The old man was buried in his garden, which had become a wild, beautiful testament to nature's perfection. A small headstone among the flowers read, "Here lies the old man in his fabulous wild garden. Perfect just as it is."


To this day, the garden remains in everyone's life.


In your life. And you face the same choice: Do you continue to use all your energy to cultivate flowers and kill weeds, or do you rest naturally as this vast intelligence and leave all appearances just as they are, recognizing their innate perfection and beauty? The choice is yours.

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