If you ever find yourself frustrated with the city life, the constant movement, the hustle and bustle, you might consider taking yourself on a walk in any direction. Perhaps you will come across an old woman sitting in a field of flowers, serving tea. You may ask yourself, “Why would she be serving tea in a field? Is it really wise to have a cookfire in a field of tall grasses? Why has she furnished this field like a sitting room? How did a woman so old and frail lug all this furniture out to this field?”
Were you to walk up to this woman, she might tell you of a dream she had, in which a field mouse commanded her to serve it tea in its field. She might mention the merchant from whom she swindled a mahogany end table with a soothing cup of chamomile. Or the rugmaker who gave her this lovely area rug for a blend that made his back pain (born from hunching over the loom) disappear. She might even mention the big, strong man who would carry anything of hers anywhere she wanted, as long as the tea had a splash of something stronger in it.
However, if you wandered up to her, sat down in the arm chair (a carpenter had been having trouble falling asleep) across from her and drank your tea in silence, she would, most likely, begin to fill the silence. See, she would explain, she had never been the best at coping with a silence between two people. By herself, alone, she could be quiet as a mouse for decades, sure, but with another person? Silence was meant for the hungry and the thirsty, she would say, and those are not the types I sit with.
She would tell you that her name was Agatha, or Edith, or Christine — it didn’t particularly matter to her — and that she had been in this field as long as she cared to remember. Sure, there had been something before, a city with carpenters and rugmakers and big, strong men, but really she never cared much for the city, or any of those living in it. Discussing the past was not something she did unless it was asked of her, she told you. She preferred to discuss the here and now, the butterflies and the sunflowers, the way the wind danced with the flames beneath her kettle. The city was too fast for her, too fake (you often felt the same). Looking to the stars only to be met with pollution and fog, well, it just wasn’t the way the world was meant to be. This here, the grass and the open sky, this was what was meant to be.
Once she reaches this point in her lecture on herself, you might wonder, “Is a sitting room in the wild really the way the world was meant to be?” But she won’t pause long enough for you to ask.
The birds, you know, she will be saying as you wonder, the birds out here sing the most beautiful songs. The birds in the city, well, civilization like that confuses them, they don’t know what to sing about. But the ones out here, oh, they sing of love, of beauty, of me sometimes, if they’re feeling nice.
You may notice her very small knitting needles now, and you may think “Where does one find yarn all the way out here? And is that a sweater for a field mouse?”
You and Agatha or Edith or Christine will both be nearing the end of your tea now, and she may mention something about her not being finished with her story, but it is getting rather dark now, and you should probably be getting home dear, it would be dreadful to be caught out in the cold. You may be feeling as though her story had only just begun, but you will set down your mug all the same.
As you rise from the chair, you may or may not wander back in the direction you came from. You will most definitely, however, feel full, feel content, and feel enlightened. If you aren't too confused.
Were you to walk up to this woman, she might tell you of a dream she had, in which a field mouse commanded her to serve it tea in its field. She might mention the merchant from whom she swindled a mahogany end table with a soothing cup of chamomile. Or the rugmaker who gave her this lovely area rug for a blend that made his back pain (born from hunching over the loom) disappear. She might even mention the big, strong man who would carry anything of hers anywhere she wanted, as long as the tea had a splash of something stronger in it.
However, if you wandered up to her, sat down in the arm chair (a carpenter had been having trouble falling asleep) across from her and drank your tea in silence, she would, most likely, begin to fill the silence. See, she would explain, she had never been the best at coping with a silence between two people. By herself, alone, she could be quiet as a mouse for decades, sure, but with another person? Silence was meant for the hungry and the thirsty, she would say, and those are not the types I sit with.
She would tell you that her name was Agatha, or Edith, or Christine — it didn’t particularly matter to her — and that she had been in this field as long as she cared to remember. Sure, there had been something before, a city with carpenters and rugmakers and big, strong men, but really she never cared much for the city, or any of those living in it. Discussing the past was not something she did unless it was asked of her, she told you. She preferred to discuss the here and now, the butterflies and the sunflowers, the way the wind danced with the flames beneath her kettle. The city was too fast for her, too fake (you often felt the same). Looking to the stars only to be met with pollution and fog, well, it just wasn’t the way the world was meant to be. This here, the grass and the open sky, this was what was meant to be.
Once she reaches this point in her lecture on herself, you might wonder, “Is a sitting room in the wild really the way the world was meant to be?” But she won’t pause long enough for you to ask.
The birds, you know, she will be saying as you wonder, the birds out here sing the most beautiful songs. The birds in the city, well, civilization like that confuses them, they don’t know what to sing about. But the ones out here, oh, they sing of love, of beauty, of me sometimes, if they’re feeling nice.
You may notice her very small knitting needles now, and you may think “Where does one find yarn all the way out here? And is that a sweater for a field mouse?”
You and Agatha or Edith or Christine will both be nearing the end of your tea now, and she may mention something about her not being finished with her story, but it is getting rather dark now, and you should probably be getting home dear, it would be dreadful to be caught out in the cold. You may be feeling as though her story had only just begun, but you will set down your mug all the same.
As you rise from the chair, you may or may not wander back in the direction you came from. You will most definitely, however, feel full, feel content, and feel enlightened. If you aren't too confused.