THE URGE: A SHORT STORY
He
was a professional house painter when he was a young man, and they were the
happiest times of his life. What he
liked about it was that it was direct experience so-called, the real world;
there was nothing philosophical about painting a house.
Now that he was an old man, though, he could no longer do that kind of work, despite still feeling the urge. He felt it so much so, in fact, that he would like to make a spiritual practice out of it, not the painting part but the working with his hands part, making something with my hands. It would be bhakti, devotional yoga, directed toward his Chosen Ideal, Jesus, who was a carpenter. If what he made was useful to others so that he could donate it to them, so much the better.
A pitfall to it, however, was feeling that he might need to be thanked for what he made and donated. He didn’t want to be thanked for it, or, for that matter, thanked for anything. He could only do the work therefore, if he did so anonymously, in the shadows. Yet, he wasn’t sure whether the absence of encouragement by others would be sufficient to keep him at it. He was only human, after all.
If there was another drawback to it, it was boredom, getting tired of the work over time. He would have to come up with a variety of projects or products to keep him interested, and honestly there were only so many of those that he could imagine.
A third negative was that it would become like employment, like a full-time job, and as a retired person, this was the last thing he needed. Bhakti yoga was not meant to be a job.
This left him wondering whether the pull of physical work that he was feeling was really, in the end, an attempt to recapture his youth, those happy times. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed it was, so out the window went the whole idea. He’d just be retired and watch television all day.
Or would he? A week later he was teaching other people how to make things with their hands and donate them to those who could use them, still bhakti yoga, and he was happy, happier than he'd been in years, in fact.
Now that he was an old man, though, he could no longer do that kind of work, despite still feeling the urge. He felt it so much so, in fact, that he would like to make a spiritual practice out of it, not the painting part but the working with his hands part, making something with my hands. It would be bhakti, devotional yoga, directed toward his Chosen Ideal, Jesus, who was a carpenter. If what he made was useful to others so that he could donate it to them, so much the better.
A pitfall to it, however, was feeling that he might need to be thanked for what he made and donated. He didn’t want to be thanked for it, or, for that matter, thanked for anything. He could only do the work therefore, if he did so anonymously, in the shadows. Yet, he wasn’t sure whether the absence of encouragement by others would be sufficient to keep him at it. He was only human, after all.
If there was another drawback to it, it was boredom, getting tired of the work over time. He would have to come up with a variety of projects or products to keep him interested, and honestly there were only so many of those that he could imagine.
A third negative was that it would become like employment, like a full-time job, and as a retired person, this was the last thing he needed. Bhakti yoga was not meant to be a job.
This left him wondering whether the pull of physical work that he was feeling was really, in the end, an attempt to recapture his youth, those happy times. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed it was, so out the window went the whole idea. He’d just be retired and watch television all day.
Or would he? A week later he was teaching other people how to make things with their hands and donate them to those who could use them, still bhakti yoga, and he was happy, happier than he'd been in years, in fact.
posted by Donald L. Simons at
11:21 AM
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