The time taken just before sleep to tell stories about life
is time well spent. The story of the juggler seem to lend itself to
devotion to a purpose that out shines all other acivities that the
juggler might have been taking part in. This is a great way for people
to see into the perceptions of a person who loved what he did and was
tested on the conviction he had towards his art. The distaste of the
people for the juggler seemed to be an example following one's own
path regardless of the opinion of another (the world).
I am intrigued about the perception of the land giving
permisson for those who exist on it to leave. Is leaving a permanent:
never to come back or does leaving with permission from the land mean
coming back with the knowledge of an experiences that is entirely
personal to share with the community. Only the traveler knows?
On Jun 28, 6:08 pm, Benjamin Chaucer <benchau...@gmail.com> wrote:
> Childhood stories and Healing.
>
> I remember stories from my childhood in patchwork-like fashion, sown
> together and tattered at some edges, while others remain vibrant and
> look brand new. Some edges have blurred all together and I question
> whether or not they were ever edges at all. I remember bed time as
> being the primary dispensary for the stories that made up my
> increasingly growing understanding of the way that the world worked.
> I heard stories of explorers, of deserted islands, of lost families.
> I heard stories of dragons and faraway lands and princes and
> magicians. The creation story that was believed and held true by my
> family started with the big bang and ended with an infinite reality in
> which the cosmic possibilities were as limitless as the wonder of its
> creation. Although my father’s creation story held scientific
> meaning, it offered little I the way of purpose. One story however
> has stuck out and remains with me to this day, the story of the Holy
> child, or as I called it as a kid, the whole wheat child.
> The Holy child is a story of a beggar in Italy, a homeless ragamuffin
> of a boy who juggles to trade for his daily meal. His name is
> Giovanni. Giovanni joins a traveling circus and spends his life
> juggling on the road. At the end of his juggling career he is booed
> and chased out of town by unruly children and returns to his hometown
> to die. In his village of birth, Giovanni encounters a precession of
> people marching into the church, following he finds a celebration for
> a statue of Mary and her son. The statue had become, inexplicably
> sad, and the townspeople were attempting to cheer it up. Giovanni
> watched and once all the people left, he began to juggle for the boy
> in the statue. He juggled faster and faster and faster and faster,
> until he fell and died on the floor of the church. The monks in the
> church upon noticing the dead clown, gasped and ran to his side.
> Shocked they looked at the statue in front of the dead juggler; the
> boy was smiling and holding a golden juggling ball.
> This story holds power for me in several of its narrative knots.
> The boy is a juggler by trade and loves his works, enjoying the road
> and the company of his troop. His actions and life, although simple
> make him happy and healthy as a result. He came from poverty and
> returned to poverty, a idea that reinforces the fact that we cannot
> escape who we are, and that the place from which we are born hold
> importance throughout our life. Malidoma Patrice Soma a Shaman from
> Zimbabwe said that in order to leave the place that we are from we
> must first receive permission from the land itself. It is interesting
> to note that Giovanni didn’t do this and subsequently returned home.
> And last, the magic of the healing itself. The story suggests that
> the power of the juggling itself had enough beauty to heal a stone
> statue, turning the sad son into a smiling child. Although this is
> not a story of creation it is a story of a life lived well and has
> helped me as I attempt to live my own life in a fashion as graceful
> and beautiful.
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