The boy does all the right things. He copies the sutras, learns the doctrines, practices the crafts, studies the theories, weighs the evidence, absorbs the wisdom of the ages. He learns the story of the universe. For years he studies traditional ways.
And then one day, sitting by a shaded stream, he sees an imprint in the mud. Then another, and another. He recognizes them: they are hoofprints, deep and fresh, traces of something massive. The years of study tell him: these are the signs of the ox.
And so he follows.
But . . . .
But something is wrong with the picture. Look at the eyes of the boy: they're on the sky! Doesn't he know that oxen don't live in the sky, don't graze on the clouds and drink in the rain? The boy is seeing things. His senses are deceiving him.
How can we straighten him out, you and I? Well . . . if you got out of that tree and into the story, you could buzz around the boy, bite him on the nose, get his attention. Then I could shout in his ear:
Wake up, young man!
You've got it backwards.
Ideas don't come from the sky.
They don't wait up there,
eternally pure,
clear as glass,
deaf to the call of gravity,
Until
at some appointed time
in some appointed place
in some anointed One
they drop like wingless angels
to find a place in flesh,
spirit descending to earth.
No!
Ideas germinate in mud,
rise up
through bone
and blood
and brain,
looking for
a pen,
a brush,
a reed,
a chisel,
a voice,
a people
to coax them out
and lift them up
to find their place in the heavens,
flesh turned into spirit.
Young man, watch where you're going!
Keep your eyes on the ground!
Chill, says the artist, there's nothing wrong with the boy. There's nothing wrong with the picture. Yes, his head is in the clouds. Yes, he sees some apparition there. But soon he will mature. Soon his eyes will catch up with his feet. And it's his feet that matter: they know the secret of mud. Just look! The feet of the boy are following the tracks, and he's beginning to run!
The nose of the ox reaches the heavens, says the poet. And I think: the Idea has caught the scent of something coming its way. That's why it's turning now--into an open meadow, where grass grows fresh and sweet. It's a place to be seen, a place of revelation.
The Idea stops and waits.
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1 comments:
I looked at the picture before reading interpretations of the artist and poet, and saw butterflies instead of ox footprints. Butterflies are symbolic of rebirth, a new life form. A caterpillar crawling on the ground, dies, and is "resurrected" as a a butterfly, capable of flight, and infinitely more beautiful than in the previous life.
Is that a pail or bucket he carries in his left hand? Perhaps a means of carrying whatever he is gathering.
If he is looking up while running very fast, and in tall grass, no less (something I would never do ... sort of like texting while driving) he might very well stumble and fall. Is this but a momentary distraction from his earthly pursuits or objectives; perhaps an approaching storm or a formation of birds? Is his observation worth the risk he's taking? Must he always keep his "eye on the prize?" Are there not lessons to be learned from looking up, as well as down? (Or for that matter, all around?) How might the artist depict the use of his other senses and their contribution to learning more about the world in which he lives?
More questions to ponder before looking at Picture 3 next week.
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