Back When Tigers Used To Smoke...
A man was walking in the woods when he came across a nugget of truth. Pristine, illuminated, and quartz-crystal limpid, he bent his weary knees to pick it up. Once held in his hands, he became mesmerised by its sheer immaculate beauty. Eternity is what he could perceive as he gazes into the gem. But also a certain innate innocence. The man kept contemplating it for months, some say even years, till it became part of his inner truth. He owned it just as much as it owned him.
When he finally re-emerged from the woods he happened to meet an old friend who, seeing the nugget glowing and shining, glimmering and shimmering, through the man’s hand, got curious and inquired about it. The man hesitated and paused for moment. He then proceeded to tell his friend the story of how he came about the nugget. But then he realised that the more he tries to explain, describe, or conceptualise his experience, the more the nugget in his hands seemed to lose its eternal light and begin to flicker faintly like a twinkling star, the more certain parts of his story seemed almost impossible to put into actual coherent words.
By the time the man had awoken from this deep realisation it was getting darker. He did not utter another word to his friend, about the nugget or otherwise, only nodded his head as to say Adiós before they parted ways. Bewildered by what transpired, the man sought to understand. So he headed to the top of a nearby mountain and asked the Moon.
“O’, you came upon the nugget then wanted to share it but could not do it properly. Well, my Brother, the apprehension of certain kinds of truth is unfathomable. For it lies beyond the intellect, reason, and the senses. But also beyond the language you use to attempt to communicate the experience. The words that attempt to mimic, explain, or describe the experience are not the experience. They are not even yours. No matter how eloquent, words are mere symbols, remember. And they were all one day made up by someone. Without the word, when you objectively observe through impartial eyes without judgment, evaluation, calculation, justification, expectation or conceptualisation, you will be able to look at your truth as though it was the first time.”
Gazing upward, the man questioned the Moon: You mean there is no way to truly convey the sheer everlasting beauty of the nugget?
“Why would you want to do that?, the Moon cuts him off rather abruptly. “Let every man and woman find their own selves and undergo their own transformation. This is YOUR truth to be found, discovered, realised, owned.”
“But what if they don’t?”, wondered the man out loud.
“Then that is that. Don’t concern yourself with others, even if out of love. Let them be while allowing your intuition to be your silent guide. For it is the real Guru in the equation who will help you see things for what they essentially are — behind your human mask, the persona, the cloak, the veil and its intellect and rationality.”
Taking a reflective pause, the Moon finally murmured into the man’s inner ears, almost in a sarcastic tone: “But also never forget: This is only a nugget.”
Partially convinced, yet still replaying the conversation in his mind, the man descended from the mountain. Some say he then went back to the woods. Others that he was never heard of again — as in vanished from the face and body of the Earth.
Following their meeting, the friend remained fascinated by the man’s find. He could not get the mere sight of it out of his mind. Now every time he meets someone on the road he would ask if they wanted to know about the nugget of truth. But because it was not his own nugget, since it wasn’t him who found it, the story told remains his own version — merely a regurgitated second-hand replica, in which an explanation, description, interpretation of the original man’s experience with the nugget of truth were unknowingly added.
Nevertheless, many of those who listened ended up likewise being mesmerised by his version, believing it original and authentic. In turn, those very people began telling the story of the nugget of truth to whomever would listen. Naturally, each would recount their own versions, a pale imitation of the original, which is based on their own level of consciousness — of understanding. And since the followers dispersed throughout the world, each had their own language and dialect. So communicating the story would then become even more subjective, personalised, impressionistic, hence whimsically arbitrary. This process kept self-ramifying ad infinitum.
Many moons ahead in a different epoch with different ethos, after our original man had passed on, followed by his friend, one of the many-hand storytellers of our nugget of truth decided that since the versions became numberless, they needed to get organised. “I will compile all the versions of this great story of how the original man came upon the nugget of truth in the woods into one story in one book in order to save humanity from itself,” he would proudly utter before his companions. “For there is only one nugget of truth which ‘WE’ found.”
Once the plan was set in motion, the storyteller sent far and wide to all four corners of the globe, looking for all raconteurs of the story. When he finally thought he gathered them all, he began writing and compiling and editing and re-editing. Naturally, since it wasn’t him who initially found the nugget of truth nor owned it, what came to be inscribed in the book is still his own embellished vicarious version of the story, which came to be influenced by the various storytellers’ interpretations, opinions, and poetic imagery. After all, this one was perhaps a mere 17-hand author who had never even had a quick glimpse of the gem. Such Téléphone Cassé system made his followers, followers of followers, of followers.
While some parts of the story remain more factual, original, authentic than others — as they are directly and/or indirectly linked to the original finder of the nugget — the essence of the book turned out to be made up of a selected collection of metaphorical fables and parables full of poetic allegories, analogies, and image-making about our nugget of truth first found by the original man aeons ago. In other words, containing metaphorical truth rather than literal truth, which means the implications of the story may be accurate whether or not the details had actually transpired. As a way to teach a lesson… despite the lack of direct, first-hand experience.
But then since every human being has a unique level of consciousness, understanding through their own language and dialect, some cannot see the book for what it essentially is. They blindly believe that it depicts actual historical figures, true events, and real happenings, as well as miracles, mythical entities, and cosmic, far-reaching poetic fancies and phantasmagorias.
Even more moons ahead, long after the compiler had passed on, some of the other storytellers began quarrelling. Apparently, each believed they were the sole raconteur of the nugget of truth story. Few, actually, claimed they had an ancestral link to the original finder, as an attempt to compensate for their own doubts in the authentic truthfulness of the story while adding legitimacy to their own versions. But of course, the originator lived such a long time ago, that he then came to exist in a different time-space realm, making any unconfirmed claim to the existence of a link highly questionable, at best. As such, throughout the coming eras countless fiery, devastating wars and epic battles were fought between the different storytellers, each followed by the readers of their own version. With some believing, while others deluding themselves into believing, that they actually own, not just the story, but the nugget of truth itself.
Partially convinced, yet still replaying the conversation in his mind, the man descended from the mountain. Some say he then went back to the woods. Others that he was never heard of again — as in vanished from the face and body of the Earth.
Following their meeting, the friend remained fascinated by the man’s find. He could not get the mere sight of it out of his mind. Now every time he meets someone on the road he would ask if they wanted to know about the nugget of truth. But because it was not his own nugget, since it wasn’t him who found it, the story told remains his own version — merely a regurgitated second-hand replica, in which an explanation, description, interpretation of the original man’s experience with the nugget of truth were unknowingly added.
Nevertheless, many of those who listened ended up likewise being mesmerised by his version, believing it original and authentic. In turn, those very people began telling the story of the nugget of truth to whomever would listen. Naturally, each would recount their own versions, a pale imitation of the original, which is based on their own level of consciousness — of understanding. And since the followers dispersed throughout the world, each had their own language and dialect. So communicating the story would then become even more subjective, personalised, impressionistic, hence whimsically arbitrary. This process kept self-ramifying ad infinitum.
Many moons ahead in a different epoch with different ethos, after our original man had passed on, followed by his friend, one of the many-hand storytellers of our nugget of truth decided that since the versions became numberless, they needed to get organised. “I will compile all the versions of this great story of how the original man came upon the nugget of truth in the woods into one story in one book in order to save humanity from itself,” he would proudly utter before his companions. “For there is only one nugget of truth which ‘WE’ found.”
Once the plan was set in motion, the storyteller sent far and wide to all four corners of the globe, looking for all raconteurs of the story. When he finally thought he gathered them all, he began writing and compiling and editing and re-editing. Naturally, since it wasn’t him who initially found the nugget of truth nor owned it, what came to be inscribed in the book is still his own embellished vicarious version of the story, which came to be influenced by the various storytellers’ interpretations, opinions, and poetic imagery. After all, this one was perhaps a mere 17-hand author who had never even had a quick glimpse of the gem. Such Téléphone Cassé system made his followers, followers of followers, of followers.
While some parts of the story remain more factual, original, authentic than others — as they are directly and/or indirectly linked to the original finder of the nugget — the essence of the book turned out to be made up of a selected collection of metaphorical fables and parables full of poetic allegories, analogies, and image-making about our nugget of truth first found by the original man aeons ago. In other words, containing metaphorical truth rather than literal truth, which means the implications of the story may be accurate whether or not the details had actually transpired. As a way to teach a lesson… despite the lack of direct, first-hand experience.
But then since every human being has a unique level of consciousness, understanding through their own language and dialect, some cannot see the book for what it essentially is. They blindly believe that it depicts actual historical figures, true events, and real happenings, as well as miracles, mythical entities, and cosmic, far-reaching poetic fancies and phantasmagorias.
Even more moons ahead, long after the compiler had passed on, some of the other storytellers began quarrelling. Apparently, each believed they were the sole raconteur of the nugget of truth story. Few, actually, claimed they had an ancestral link to the original finder, as an attempt to compensate for their own doubts in the authentic truthfulness of the story while adding legitimacy to their own versions. But of course, the originator lived such a long time ago, that he then came to exist in a different time-space realm, making any unconfirmed claim to the existence of a link highly questionable, at best. As such, throughout the coming eras countless fiery, devastating wars and epic battles were fought between the different storytellers, each followed by the readers of their own version. With some believing, while others deluding themselves into believing, that they actually own, not just the story, but the nugget of truth itself.
And then, the original man slowly opens his eyes to find his friend sitting beside him around a campfire. He thought he heard the echo of a voice somewhat repeating itself yet could not tell what it said the first time. “So, will you tell me about it, the nugget of truth you are holding in the palm of your hand?” The man smiled then got up and left without uttering a word, disappearing into the misty woods. He has seen enough in his heart to know better.
*Inspired by a two-liner anecdote I once heard: God and the Devil were walking when they stumbled upon a nugget of truth. While God picked it up, the Devil instantly said: “Let us go organise it.”
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