The Labyrinth

Jorge had been working on a story, and I asked to hear it, but it seemed he wanted to tell it, and so he did.

Joroska had always enjoyed enigmas.  Even as a young boy, he did every crossword puzzle, riddle or maze he could get his hands on.

He became truly dedicated to solving problems.  But some were still too difficult for him and escaped his grasp.

When confronted with such a problem, he always followed the same ritual.  He would look at it for a long time, and then suddenly, calling on all his previous experience, he would decide if it was unsolvable.

If it was, he would exhale deeply, and commit to solving it anyways.  In the beginning these problems would frustrate him, but eventually this ritual of analyzing problems became an obsession.

Over the years, many problems fell into this category: unanswerable questions, dead-ended mazes, indecipherable symbols, unknown words, and impossible illusions.

Around that time, Joroska began realizing that a person needed to be successful in life.  Perhaps that's why he started losing interest in problems he considered unsolvable.

Not long after he started one, he would become ridiculously bored and give up.  In the back of his mind, he would criticize the authors of these absurd problems.

He was just as irritated by easy problems, and he eventually realized that there could be a perfect problem. One made to the measure of a given individual.. but only the person themselves could know that measure.

It would be ideal if a person could make riddles for themselves, he said to himself.  But he realized that someone would immediately lose interest in their own problems, since the creator of a problem would know its solution.

But he was excited about the idea of others like him, who wanted to solve such problems, so he started making them:  word puzzles, number puzzles, logical enigmas, and abstract games... but his masterpiece was a labyrinth.

One calm and quiet afternoon, he started building a wall, brick by brick, inside a room in his house, in order to create a full size labyrinth.

As the years went by, he shared his riddles with friends and was even published in magazines and newspapers, but the labyrinth remained a secret.  And it grew ever larger inside of his house.

With each passing day it became more complicated, more intricate, and although he never intended it, he ended up adding more and more dead ends.

This project became a part of his daily routine and not a day went by that he didn't add to it.  At the very least adding a few bricks, but more often sealing off an exit, or extending a path to make things more difficult.

Twenty years later, there was no space left in the original room, and the labyrinth began creeping out into the rest of the house.

To get from the bedroom to the bathroom he would go eight steps forward, turn left, go six steps further, turn right, go down a flight of stairs, five more steps forward, make another right, and then leap over an obstacle to arrive at the bathroom door.

To get to the terrace, he would lean forward on his left foot, tuck and roll a few meters to get to a rope ladder, and climb to the next floor where the terrace was.

His house was eventually completely transformed.

At first, he found it extremely satisfying.  It was fun and sometimes passageways would lead him nowhere, even though he was the one who created them, because there were too many to remember.

The labyrinth was perfectly matched to his abilities, perfectly matched.

So he starting inviting people over to his house... labyrinth.  But just like when he used to solve other people's puzzles, even the most interested visitors would eventually grow bored.
He offered to guide them, but before long they would ask to leave.  And they all made the same comment.. 'You can't possibly go on living this way!'

He began to feel more and more isolated, so he moved into a new house, one without a labyrinth, one where he could entertain guests.

But whenever he met someone particularly smart, he would bring them to his true home.

Just like the pilot from The Little Prince, and his special drawing, Joroska would only open the doors to his labyrinth for those he deemed worthy of the << distinction>>... but he never found anyone who would wanted to live there with him.

The Look of Love

-I think my parents are getting old and senile.
-I think you're looking at them from a different place.
-What does that have to do with anything?  Things are what they are, like you say.
-Let me tell you a story...

There once was a king who fell in love with a lower class woman named Sabrina.  He transformed her life and made her his queen.
One afternoon the king was out drinking and a messenger arrived to inform the queen that her mother had fallen ill.  She knew it was forbidden to use the king's carriage, the punishment was death, but she got in anyways and rode straight to her mother.
When the king was later informed of the situation he said,
-Isn't it incredible? Love so sincere.  She risked her life.  She didn't hesitate.  She went straight to her mother. Incredible.

The next day Sabrina was picnicking in the palace gardens.  When the king arrived, she greeted him and pulled the last item from her basket, a peach, and offered the king a bite.

-Delicious! he said.
-I know, said the queen, and extending her arm, she gave him the rest.

She loves me so much! the king later commented to his friends.
Denying herself the last delicious peach... wow.

Years passed and the king's love and passion faded.
One night as he was passing time drinking with his friends, he commented, 'She's hardly regal.. can you believe how she stole my carriage, and what kind of queen offers her king a mere bite of some fruit.

Reality is what it is.. but a person may see it one way or the other.

Be wary of your perceptions, as the wise Baldwin said,
We adjust what we see 'to fit' into the reality we find most convenient.
... Don't believe your eyes!

The Ombú's Sprouts

I had hardly entered the room when Jorge started speaking,
  - I have a story for you.
  - A story? Why though?
  - No reason, it just suits you.
  - Ok..
I trusted him.

There once was a small town.
It was so small that it wasn't on most maps.  So small that it had one small town square, and in the middle stood a single tree.

But the people loved the town, they loved the square, they loved the tree: a great Ombú growing right at it's center.  It was also at the center of daily life; every evening after work, the townspeople would gather around 7pm.  Men and women, freshly washed, groomed and well-dressed would gather in a circle and dance around the great tree.

For years and years, children, their parents, and their grandparents had crossed themselves as they passed by.

For years and years, deals had been made beneath its limbs, crucial matters had been decided, marriages had been consecrated and deaths mourned.

One day, something different, something marvelous started happening: from one of the tree's lateral roots, seemingly out of nowhere, a green chute arose and broke the surface with two green leaves pointing skyward.

It was a sprout!  The first sprout that had ever risen from the great tree.

After the initial excitement had settled, a commission was formed to organize a party celebrating the event.

The commission was surprised however, by the fact that not everyone in the town was celebrating.  There were some who worried that this might bring complications.

It turned out that just a few days after the first sprout broke the surface, another appeared.  And after a month or so, there were a dozen rising from the tree's graying roots.

The glee of some of the townsfolk was met with indifference from others, but this wouldn't last.

The guard of the square noticed a change in the old tree.  Its leaves, yellower and weaker now, fell easily from its branches.  Its trunk, once supple and tender had become dry and brittle.

He gave a distressing diagnosis:
  - The Ombú is sick.. and may die.

That evening as the people gathered a discussion arose.  Some said it was because of the offshoots, and it seemed reasonable, everything was fine until they appeared.

The defenders of the offshoots claimed that it was a coincidence, and that the shoots ensured the tree's future.

As these viewpoints took shape, two opposing groups were formed.  One around the tree and the other around its offshoots.

Their discussions became increasingly animated, and their positions moved further apart.  That evening in an attempt to calm peoples' nerves they resolved to discuss the matter at the next day's town meeting.

But they weren't calmed.. The next day, the Defenders of the Ombú, as they were now calling themselves, declared that the only solution was to go back to the way things were.  The sprouts were  like parasites, sapping the tree's energy.  They had to be destroyed before it was too late.

The Defenders of Life, as the second group had baptized itself, appalled by this declaration, gathered and came up with their own solution.  The tree would have to be chopped down.  Its lifecycle was naturally coming to an end.  The sunlight and water that it used was much needed by its growing children.  In any case, it was absurd to defend the Ombú since it was, practically speaking, dead already.

The discussion quickly devolved into arguing, and the arguing became a fracas with screaming, shouting, and even physical attacks.  The police had to be called in to dissolve the scandalous scene, ordering everyone back to their homes.

The Defenders of the Tree gathered that evening and decided it was hopeless, their ignorant adversaries couldn't be persuaded, and it was time for action.  Armed with pick axes, shovels and pruning shears they would attack and once the shoots were destroyed negotiations would go  differently.

Satisfied with their resolution they started towards the town square.

But as they approached the tree, they saw a group of people stacking wood around it.  It was the Defenders of Life, trying to burn it down.

So another 'discussion' came to pass between the defenders, but now they were armed, angry, and ready to destroy one another.

During the fight that ensued, shoots were ripped from the ground, and the tree was badly damaged.
Twenty or more defenders wound up in the hospital.

The following morning the town square was a different scene.  The Defenders of the Tree had raised a barricade around it and four members stood guard at all times.

The Defenders of Life, on the other hand, had dug pits around the remaining offshoots and encircled them with barbed wire.

Things had intensified throughout the rest of the town as well, each group, in their eagerness to gain support, politicized the situation, demanding that the rest of the townspeople choose a side.  Whoever chose the tree was as seen as an enemy of the Defenders of Life, and whoever chose the offshoots became hated by the Defenders of the Tree.

Finally it was decided to bring the matter before the justice of the peace, and during that part of the year it happened to be the priest of their small church.  He would give his decision Sunday.

When Sunday came a rope divided the town square, separating the two groups, but they nevertheless attacked each other verbally.  The uproar was terrifying and no one succeeded in getting anyone else to listen.

Suddenly, the church door opened, and an old man with a cane, followed by the eyes of both groups, began advancing down the hallway.

He must have been more than a hundred years old.  He in fact founded the town in his youth.  He planned its streets, tilled its wild lands, and of course, planted the Ombú.

He was respected by all, and his words were incisive, just as they had been his entire life.

As he moved forward, many outstretched their arms to assist him, but he refused, and with some difficulty nevertheless ascended the dais and spoke.

- Imbeciles! - he said.  You call yourselves the Defenders of the Tree and the Defenders of Life... defenders!?  You can't defend anything if your sole intention is to harm those who think differently than you do.

You don't realize that you are all mistaken.

The Ombú is not a rock.  It is a living thing with its own lifecycle.  Part of that cycle is giving life to those who will continue its mission when it dies, and preparing its offshoots to become new trees.

But the offshoots and the tree aren't separated.  They can't survive if the tree dies, and life makes no sense for the tree if it has no way to continue in the form of new life.

Prepare yourselves Defenders of Life.  Train and arm yourselves.  The moment will soon arrive for you to burn down your parents' houses with your parents still inside.  They are aging and will soon be a burden to you.

Prepare yourselves, Defenders of the Tree.  With your recent training tearing up offshoots, you should be prepared to tear your own children up from their roots, and murder them as soon as they want to replace or supercede you.

  You call yourselves 'Defenders'
  The only thing you want to do is destroy...
  And you don't realize that by destroying
  and destroying
  you destroy inexorably
  everything you sought to defend
  Reflect!
  You haven't much time...

And with that, the old man slowly descended from the dais, walked back through the silent crowd... and left.

Jorge remained silent, but I kept crying and crying, and eventually I got up and left.  I was tired but clear minded...
  There was so much to be done!

Wings are for Flying

That day, Jorge had a story ready for me.

When he got older, his father said to him:
-My son: not everyone is born with wings. No one is forcing you to fly, but I think it would be a shame for you to limit yourself to walking when God gave you wings.
-But I don’t know how to fly – replied the son.
-True… - said the father. And so he led his son on foot up a mountain to the edge of an abyss.
-Do you see, my son? It’s empty. When you want to fly, come here, take a deep breath and jump.
The son had doubts.
-What if I fall?
-Although you will fall, you won’t die. When your cuts and bruises heal you will be stronger for the next attempt.- the father answered.
The son went back to town to see his friends, whom he had walked with all his life.
The most close-minded ones said to him: Are you crazy? Why? Your father has gone half-mad… Why do you need to fly? What’s it good for? Forget it...
His best friend tried to reason with him: Even if your father is right, it’s too dangerous! Wouldn’t it be better to start more slowly? ...from the top of the stairs or from up on a tree, but… from a cliff?
This advice made sense to him, so he climbed a tree and summoning all of his courage, he jumped. He spread his wings, and beat them with all his might but fell awkwardly to the ground.
Walking along with a big bump on his forehead he saw his father.
-You lied to me!- he said- I can’t fly. I tried and look what happened. Look at this bruise! I’m not like you. My wings are just for decoration.
-My son – said the father – In order to fly you have to create space in the open air so that your wings can really spread out. It’s like a parachute. They only work from a high altitude.
To fly you have to begin taking risks.
If you don’t want to, maybe the best thing is just to give up, and keep walking forever.

Two Sizes Too Small

That afternoon I knew what I wanted to talk about: I wanted to continue our discussion of force.

Every time we talked about it in the office it made sense, but when it came time to act, I couldn't do it. As attractive as it sounded in theory, in reality I couldn't keep up.

-I'm getting the feeling that if I don't use a little force once in a while, I won't be able to get along with my life. Honestly, I don't see how someone - anyone, achieves that goal.

-You're right about one thing - said the Fat Man - I've spent the better part of the last twenty years trying. I haven't always succeeded. I think it's the same for everyone. Pacifism is a challenge, a practice, a discipline. It takes training.

At first, it seemed impossible. What would they think of me if I started missing meetings? If I wasn't listening attentively to people even when I didn't give a shit what they were saying? If I didn't thank the men whom I despised? If I just refused to do things I didn't want to do? If I only worked four days a week and gave up the extra pay? If I stopped shaving? If I let myself smoke until I couldn't quit? If...?

-I wrote something once about the idea of necessary force. It's a social construct. Part of a fixed ideology which draws a bleak picture of humankind. If we are, in fact, lazy, evil, selfish and neglectful, then it's necessary for us to force ourselves to be better.

But Damian, is that really our nature?

I was fascinated, not just by what Jorge was saying, but by my own fantasy of what it would be like to live life in a perpetual state of relaxation, never fighting myself, calm, never rushing, never questioning myself.

But, what's the first step?

-First - he continued, as if he were reading my mind- you have to rid yourself of a misconception that we are taught from birth - A fundamental part of our culture:

You must struggle in order to achieve anything of true value.

As the Americans like to say: that's bullshit. Anyone, regardless of their perception of reality can sense that, but we structure our lives as though it were an absolute truth.

Some years ago, I described a clinical syndrome. It's never been recorded in any of the medical or psychological journals, but we all suffer from it. I call it "the two sizes too small" syndrome, and here's why...

A man went into a shoe store, and was approached by the salesman.

-How may I help you, sir?

-I'd like a pair of black shoes like the ones you have in the display.

-No problem. Let's see, I'd say you're about a size 12, right?

-No. A 10 thank you.

-I apologize, but I've been doing this a long time, and you might be able to squeeze into an 11, but not a 10.

-Size 10, thank you.

-Please, can I measure your foot at least?

-Measure whatever you want, but I need a 10.

-The salesman pulled out one of those funny devices they use to measure feet, he measured and with tremendous satisfaction pronounced "size 12!"

-Tell me, the man said, who is paying for these shoes? You or me?

-You

-Great. In that case, I'd like you to bring me a size 10.

-The salesman, surprised and dismayed, left to get the shoes. As he was pouring over the boxes, it dawned on him: the shoes aren't for him, they're a gift!

-Here you go, size 10 black.

-Can I have a shoehorn please, he said.

-You're going to put them on!?

-Of course!

-They're for you?

-Yes! A Shoehorn please?

The shoehorn was essential. Without it he couldn't get his foot inside that shoe. After various attempts and as many ridiculous positions, he managed to get his whole foot in it.

He winced and groaned as he took a few paces around the room.

-Ok. Great, I'll take them.

The salesman cringed at the thought of the man's toes being crushed against the fronts of those shoes.

-Can I wrap them for you?

-No thanks. I'll wear them.

The man left and walked, as best he could, three blocks over to the bank where he worked as a teller. At four o' clock, having endured six hours with his feet in these shoes, his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, and tears started streaming down his face.

His coworker at the next window over had been watching the whole time and started getting really worried.

-What's going on? Are you sick?

-No. It's my shoes.

-What's wrong with your shoes?

-They're tight..

-Why? Did they get wet or something?

-No. They're two sizes too small.

-Are they yours?

-Yes.

-But, your feet! Don't they hurt?

-They're killing me.

-?

Let me explain - he said.

He gulped, and then he said,

-My life doesn't give me much satisfaction. Lately, to be honest, I'm rarely happy.

-Ok

-I am hurting myself with these shoes. It's terrible ... but, in a few hours, when I get home and take them off ... imagine how good that will feel? It will feel incredible! Can you imagine?

-It seems crazy, right? It is crazy, Damian.

This story is made up to serve a purpose. My stance is extreme too, but it's worth the trouble of trying on the suit to see how it feels.

I believe that nothing of true value can be obtained by force.

I left with the last sentence he spoke ringing in my ears, offensive and rude,

Force... is for constipation.

The Doorman at the Horhouse

I was half-way done with my program, and like many students, I suddenly decided to reconsider my decision to study. So, I talked to my therapist about it, and I began to discover that I was the one pressuring myself, forcing myself to continue.

Here's the problem - the Fat Man said - As long as you keep thinking that you have to study and get your degree, it will be impossible for you to enjoy it. And if there isn't at least a tiny bit of joy in it, parts of your personality will play tricks on you.

Jorge had recited this so many times that he didn't believe in force. He said that nothing useful could be achieved by it - but in this case, I think he was wrong. What about the exception that upholds the rule?

-But Jorge, I can't stop studying - I said - In the world that I want to live in, I’m nobody without a degree. It's like a guaranty.

-Could be. - said the Fat Man. - Do you know what the Talmud is?

-Yes.

-There's a story in the Talmud about a common man: the doorman at the horhouse.

No job was more looked down upon or worse paying in the entire city than doorman at the horhouse... but, what else could he do?

The reality was that he had never learned to read or write, he didn't do much else. He had no other jobs. The only reason he had this one was because his father had been the doorman before him, and his grandfather, and so on.

The horhouse had been passed down from fathers to sons for decades, the position at the door included.

The elderly owner died one day, and his restless, entrepreneurial son was put in charge. The young man decided to modernize things.

He remodeled the rooms and arranged a meeting with the staff to reveal his new plans.

This is what he said to the doorman: I want to know how many couples enter each day, and I want you to stop one out of every five to find out how they were treated and what they thought could be improved. You’ll come to see me once a week with your report and your comments.

The doorman was trembling. He wasn’t lazy, but…

-I would like nothing more than to do that for you sir-

stammering – but I … I can’t read or write.

-Oh I see. I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t pay another person just to make the reports, and I don’t have time to wait for you to learn to read and write, I’m sure you understand…

-But sir, you can’t lay me off. I’ve done this my whole life, and so did my father and my grandfather…

The young man cut him off.

-Look, I understand how you feel, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. We’ll give you a severance, that is, some money to help you until you find another job. Good luck.

And, with that, the young man turned around and left.

The doorman felt like his world had been turned upside down. He never thought this could happen. He went back to his house, unemployed for the first time in his life.

-What am I gonna do?

He remembered that sometimes, when things at the horhouse would break, like beds… or wardrobes, they would give him a hammer and nails and have him fix them as best he could. That might make a good temporary job, he thought, until something better comes along.

He rummaged through his house looking for tools, but all he found was a couple of rusty old nails and a set of pliers. He needed a complete toolbox, and he could use some of his severance to buy one.

When he got to the front door, he remembered that there was no hardware store in town. The nearest one was two days away by mule… “What do I care?” he thought. So he set off anyway.

He returned with a beautiful new set of tools. Before he could take off his boots, there was a knock at the front door. It was his neighbor.

-Do you have a hammer that I could borrow?

-Sure! I just bought one, but it’s for my new job… I just got fired.

-Oh… I’ll bring it back tomorrow as early as possible?

-Fine.

The next morning, as promised, his neighbor came knocking at the door.

-Look, I’m still not finished, why don’t you just sell it to me?

-I can’t, I need it for my new job, and the nearest hardware store is two days away by mule!

-I’ll make you a deal – said the neighbor – I’ll pay for the trip.

That would actually give him a job to do for the next four days…

-Okay

When he got back there was a man waiting on his doorstep.

-Hi, Did you sell that hammer to my neighbor?

-Yep.

-I need some tools. I’ll pay the cost of the trip plus a little extra, on top of the price of the tools. Not everyone has time to make that trip.

-The doorman opened up his toolbox, and his neighbor removed a clamp, a screwdriver, a hammer and a chisel! He paid as promised, and left.

If that was true, a lot of people could use his service.

On the next trip he decided to take a risk and buy some extra tools.

He spread the word around town, and his neighbors stopped traveling all that way to get their tools.

Once a week, the tool salesman would go buy whatever they needed. He quickly realized that if he found a place to store his tools, he could make fewer trips. So, he rented a small storage shed in town.

In time, he widened the door. He added a window with a display. He transformed the shed into a hardware store: the town’s first.

The customers left happy and came back. He didn’t even have to travel anymore. He bought so much from the store in the neighboring town that they started sending him his orders for free.

All of the workmen who lived closer to his store than the other hardware store started shopping there too.

One day it dawned on him that his friend, who was a metal worker, could make hammer heads for him… and pliers and chisels….and screws and nails...!

To make a long story short, ten years later, through honesty and hard work, he became a millionaire manufacturing tools. He became the most powerful businessman in the region.

So powerful, in fact, that one day, to mark the start of the school year, he decided to donate a new school to the town. It would be a modern school where they would teach up-to-date skills, and the arts, in addition to reading and writing.

When it was finished, the mayor and the superintendent organized a ribbon cutting ceremony and dinner in honor of the founder.

Just before dessert, the mayor made a toast and handed the businessman the keys to the city. The superintendent embraced him and exclaimed: It is with tremendous pride and gratitude that we ask that you do us the honor of being the first to sign the school’s charter.

-The honor is mine, he said. Nothing would make me happier… but I don’t know how to read or write.

-You? –balked the superintendent. You don’t know how to read or write? How did you create this – empire of industry – without knowing how to read or write!? It’s unbelievable! Imagine what heights you might have attained had you known!

-I can tell you – he responded calmly – If I had known how to read and write, I would be the doorman at the horhouse.

The Man Who Thought He Was Dead

I was still thinking about the story of the two frogs.

-It's like that poem by Almafuerte  -I said  -

'Don't let yourself be conquered, even when you've been conquered.'

-That could be  -said the Fat Man.  But in this case, I think it's more like 'Don't let yourself be conquered before you've been conquered.' Or, if you like, 'Don't declare yourself a failure before taking the test.' The reason is that . . .

And before I knew it, Jorge was telling me another story.

Once upon a time there was a man who was always worried that he was sick with something, and he was even more concerned that he might be dying.  One day, with all these fears floating around in his head, he began to think that it was very likely that he was already dead.  So, he asked his wife.

-Love, will you tell me something? Am I . . . dead?

She laughed and told him to touch his hands and feet.

-See?  They're warm!  Good then, that's how you know you're alive.  If you were dead, they'd be very cold.

Her answer made sense to him and eased his mind.

A few weeks later, on a snowy day, the man went out to chop some wood for the fire. When he got to the forest, he took off his gloves and started chopping.

Without thinking about it, he touched his cheek and noticed how cold his hand was. Remembering what his wife had told him, he quickly took off his shoes and socks and, to his own horror, confirmed that his feet were very cold too.

There was no more room for doubt in the man's mind, he was absolutely sure that he was dead.

-It wouldn't be right for a dead person to be walking around chopping wood  -he said to himself.  So, right then, he dropped his axe next to his mule, he lay down in the snow with his arms crossed over his chest, and he closed his eyes.  

Soon, a pack of dogs approached and discovered his saddlebag, which contained some provisions.  When they realized that no one was protecting the bag, they rent it open and devoured the food.  The man thought:  "They're lucky I'm dead, or they'd really get a beating." 

The pack kept sniffing around and discovered the man's mule tied to a tree.   It was an easy target for the sharp-teethed dogs.  The mule squealed and kicked, and the man thought to himself that he would've liked to save the mule, if only he weren't dead.

After only a few minutes they devoured the mule, and while a few stayed behind to gnaw at the bones, the pack set off in search of more.

It wasn't long before one of the dogs caught scent of the man.  It found him lying motionless in the snow.  It approached slowly, very slowly, because to the dog, men were treacherous and cunning creatures.

Within moments the entire pack had surrounded him, their teeth shown, saliva dripping from their jaws.

"Now they're going to eat me- thought the man- if I weren't dead, it would be a different story."

The dogs closed in . . .

. . . and seeing no movement, they ate him.