A man on a long journey was passing through a region that had not seen rain in many months. The land was dusty, stream beds lay empty, and leaves hung on trees like bats. The man needed a place to spend for the night, though, so he rented a cabin from an old farmer.
Not long after falling asleep, he woke to the sound of thunder. Remembering the local drought, he looked around and noticed a large wooden barrel in the corner -- a rain barrel, he thought. He jumped up and rolled it outside to catch any rain that might fall.
Within minutes, the rains did come, and they poured down in torrents. Back in the safety of the cabin, he discovered that the roof had a big hole in one place, and rain was pouring in all over the floor. The storms were so heavy, in fact, that he had to use every piece of dry clothing he had to mop up the mess.
The next morning as he was saying good bye to the farmer, the traveler said, "I have good news for you. I used a barrel from your cabin to catch rainwater for you last night. Unfortunately, I also have some bad news. Your roof has a terrible leak."
"Thank you for your kindness," said the farmer, "but the leak is not a leak. It is the runoff from the roof. I collect it to use for washing."
"But it just pours out on the floor," the man exclaimed.
"That is what the barrel is for," the farmer answered.
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1 comment:
[First, I really enjoyed your parable, so don’t let what follows distract you]
Spackle
To what degree is the oblong shape of a falling raindrop determined by the force of gravity through which water falls? How many raindrops does it take to fill a barrel? Are these raindrops singularities or identical globules? Once exploded to fill the barrel, do all these souls stay individual, or do they meld together into one solid eternity?
The old farmer is always a shaman of wisdom, sanctioned by age and his closeness to the earth. So where’s his daughter with a wooden leg, who runs off with the traveling salesman? And the punch line – asking where to place a barrel to catch the most rain – resembles an algebra problem in capitalist economics more than a disguised meditation on grief and human loss.
Or is it a joke about whose night it is in the barrel? Falstaff was trapped there by the merry wives of Windsor, until he ripened like an old wine and cracked out transformed into Father Christmas.
[Disposable Prose January 31, 2010]
Dr. Mike
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