Gifts. Luca, casting. 8:20 PM, Laurel Lake, NH. July, 2015.
from Frederic Gros, “A Philosophy of Walking.”, Ch. 7. Solitudes
‘They tell this story about a wise pilgrim: he was following a long road, under a dark stormy sky, down a valley in whose dip was a small field of ripe wheat. The well-defined field, among rough scrub and under that black sky, was a perfect square of brightness rippling gently in the wind. The pilgrim enjoyed the beautiful sight as he walked slowly along. Soon he met a peasant returning home with downcast eyes after a hard day’s work, accosted him and pressed his arm, murmuring in a heartfelt tone: ‘Thank you.’ The peasant recoiled slightly: ‘I have nothing to give you, poor man.’ The pilgrim replied in a gentle voice: ‘I’m not thanking you to make you give me something, but because you have already given me everything. You have cared for that square of wheat, and through labour it has acquired the beauty it has today. Now you are only interested in the price of each grain. I’ve been walking, and all the way I have been nourished by its goldenness,’ the old pilgrim ended with a kindly smile. The peasant turned away and walked off, shaking his head and muttering about mad people.’