“Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn. ”
--Benjamin Franklin
The guest continued, “In order to rise above the commonplace, to see the reality of the world around you with unfettered eyes, has been the aim of all philosophies, all religions. To know, means to know all; to know a part of something means not to know. It is not difficult to know all, for in order to know all you must have this very little, but to know this little—you have to have pretty much. So, we must strive to gain this pretty much with the idea of coming to this very little which is necessary for the knowledge of all.” He paused without a glance to his host. Looking into the horizon he recited a passage, first made public just after the turn of the century in the Caucasus Mountains by a most venerated seeker of the truth, “The Great Knowledge is handed on in succession from age to age, from people to people, from race to race. The great centers of initiation illumine the world with a bright light. The revered names of the great initiates, the living bearers of the truth, are handed on reverently from generation to generation. Truth is fixed by means of symbolical writings and legends and is transmitted to the mass of people for preservation in the form of customs and ceremonies, in oral traditions, in memorials in sacred art through the invisible quality in dance, music, sculpture and various rituals. It is communicated openly after a definite trial to those who seek it and is preserved by oral transmission in the chain of those who know. After a certain time has elapsed, the centers of initiation die out one after another, and the ancient knowledge departs through underground channels into the deep, hiding from the eyes of the seekers. The bearers of this knowledge also hide, becoming unknown to those around them, but they do not cease to exist. From time to time separate streams break through to the surface, showing that somewhere deep down in the interior, even in our day, there flows the powerful ancient stream of true knowledge of being.” The chant-like quality of his voice mesmerized the host, who had also looked out into the horizon, trying to see the march of the ages come into focus before his own eyes. “It is this knowledge of being, this 'how' which has always remained so lacking in the various 'ways' pursued by so many. A balanced method provides the ideal path, whereby both halves of the whole individual are developed simultaneously. As being increases, knowledge may be added, with additional knowledge, being may grow... It is the reciprocal maintenance of the machine of man.”
After allowing for a sufficient pause to let the ideas settle into the young man's thoughts, the stranger cleared his throat and returned to telling the story.
“The girls were born, just as Harry had been delivered, with midwife and Belle's sisters in attendance. Again the ancestral voices were jubilant in well wishes and congratulations. George presented Titania and Hipolyta to Harry who was excited and proud at the same time when he held each sister as his father laid her his arms. White Feathers held each in turn, then both together, then passed one off to George, held one for a while, then traded with George, then took the one in George's arms back again so he had both once more. It went on like this for a few hours, until only Harry, who had been watching carefully, could say which twin was which.”
The bath room proved a great blessing to the growing family. Belle wasn't hesitant to bathe the girls every other day if it suited her, and she did. Even White Feathers liked to use the tub every week or so, which he often simply used as an excuse to nap. For the first week or so George was constantly checking for leaks. First the tub, then the toilet tank, then he'd go outside and crouch down under the addition and check the pipes. All was well.
Tania and Poly's crib was in their parents' room for first month or so and Harry wanted to know when they would get to stay in his room with him. Belle looked to George to answer this poser. George took his son into the alcove with the workbench in it and set him on the stool in front of it. Laid out on the surface were plans for another room. Harry had spent so many hours studying the deck plans last winter, he could easily judge how big and where the new addition would go.
“Why do you need the workshop to be so much bigger?” asked Harry at length.
George was slow to answer, “Well, I tried to think about it as if I were you! I thought, if I were almost five years old again, where would I want another room to be?” he rubbed his chin as if reliving the thought. “And I thought, I'd want it beside my father's workshop. Because, I thought, if I were almost five years old again, I'd try and talk my mother and father into letting me have 'my' room right there---where all the gadgets and shelves and tools and projects were always sitting.” He paused just a moment, “So that's why I thought of putting the new room next to the workshop.” He finished by shrugging his shoulders and raising his hands, in exact imitation of Harry when he offered a solution of which he wasn't completely certain.
Harry didn't say anything to this, but continued to examine the plans in front of him. Then without a word, jumped down from the stool and ran through the great room. When he got to the kitchen, he cried loudly, “Mother! Can I please give the twins my room, because they don't have their own room, and please may I have my room be in the new addition to father's workshop... Please!?”
Belle stifled her giggle and kept a straight face as she said, non-committally, “You'll have to make sure it's alright with your father.”
Harry turned on his heel and before he took two steps, “Father! I can, can't I? I can please have that be my new room.?”
George nodded his approval.
Harry turned back to his mother, “He says I can.”
“Well, I suppose you and your father ought to get started!” answered Belle with a grin.
Long before the summer had allowed the autumn to begin stripping the trees of their shade with cooler winds and rain, Harry and his father were moving the furniture around between rooms. They set up the girls' crib, chests of drawers, a rocker, and shelves in the room that had been Harry's. Then Harry arranged his new room to his own satisfaction, and then again, and then again. It seemed to be becoming his new past time, until he at last had used all the arrangements he could devise. He even made sure the workshop shelves stayed tidy and neat, and kept all the tools always in their places.
White Feathers sat in a chair out on the deck and watched as Belle and Harry harvested the produce of the additional pocket gardens which George had constructed at Belle's behest. He was very proud of his niece's husband. Each turn in the meandering overflow channel had been deepened so that when the pond spilled into it and ran down its course, puddles collected next to each of the plant beds. Then through a looser collection of gravel and rocks at the bottom of each depression, the collected puddles seeped into the ground beneath the fertile soils. No one had to carry buckets of water to keep the plants productive and thriving, except when they went for longer stretches without rain.
George was closing the store for the day and straightening his office. He had locked the door and turned for the house when his grandfather asked, 'When are you planning to start Harry's training? Your father and his brother chose not to pursue the tradition, they followed their desire for gold. It was very difficult for me, my heart nearly broke in two, I would spare you that pain, grandson.'
George had been hoping to let their daily life settle into its new tempo before adding another set of rhythms to them. “You are, of course, correct Grandfather. Harry is sufficiently prepared internally, his heart and mind have been opened to the needs of others, his body is pliable, he is ready to begin. I taught and trained Belle before the children were born, I need not have postponed Harry's training so long.”
'Be that as it may, remember:' Wang Lung recited, 'Once upon a time there was no donkey in the Guang. So someone from the Heavenly Court sent one there, but the farmers and peasants finding no use for it, set it loose at the foot of the mountain.
A tiger ran out from the mountains. When he saw this big tall thing, he thought it must be divine. He quickly hid himself in the forest and surveyed it from under cover. Sometimes the tiger ventured a little nearer, but still kept a respectful distance.
One day the tiger came out again. Just then the donkey gave a loud bray. Thinking the donkey was going to eat him, the tiger hurriedly ran away. After a while he sneaked back and watched the donkey carefully. He found that though it had a huge body it seemed to have no special ability.
After a few days the tiger gradually became accustomed to its braying and was no longer so afraid. Later the tiger became bolder. Once he walked in front of the donkey and purposely bumped it. This made the donkey so angry that it struck out his hind legs and kicked wildly.
Seeing this the tiger was very gleeful, 'Such a big thing as you can do so little!' With a roar he pounced on the donkey and ate it up.'
Wang Lung finished the story and George remembered how that story was told to him as a boy before he accepted his own training, and then he heard again the explanation he heard so long ago. 'We master the art because: in order to be able to unite the machine of man, all his lower centers must be active, strong and willing to surrender to the higher center's will. This must be trained in a man, it can not be left to chance. Otherwise he will be like the discarded Guang donkey, helpless before the forces of nature, and never recognized as the helpmate to mankind he was meant to be. We are the faithful, and humble bearers of truth. The wall around the house isn't only for the thief or the tiger, but to keep honest men from the temptations of riches they can not bear unassisted.'
“I shall begin Harry's training presently,” acknowledged George humbly. So, after speaking with White Feathers that evening at supper, and gaining his reluctant assent to at least sit at the store every day for while, and George was careful not to hint at what a while might mean, he began formulating Harry's study plan.
After breakfast the next morning George announced that he and Harry would go across the lake and be back in the afternoon. Belle smiled in relief that they would begin at last, and prepared a basket for their journey. When George had set the basket and fishing rod in the boat, he bid Harry to join him. As Harry settled himself in the bow, George began to row them out into the lake on the single oared craft. As he rowed, he told Harry the story of the Guang donkey, gave him the explanation and then continued to row silently until they reached the side of the lake. They anchored and George opened the basket, offered Harry bread and cheese, then began to fish.
Harry had listened to the story and its explanation which his father told, very carefully, and finally asked, “What training must I have, and how shall I build this wall that that keeps out the tigers, and protects honest men?” George wondered for a moment how many generations of his family had asked those very questions. He put away his fishing gear and explained the state of man's being, and the structure of man's machine, that it was a microcosm of the great world, and how it was supposed to function. Then he detailed the necessary steps which enabled it to perform as intended. At length, he sat quietly as his son absorbed as much of the information as he was able.
“When may I start?” asked Harry at last.
“Your mother and I have seen to the foundations of your internal training, you may begin external training when you wish.” George added, “But it is not an everyday wish like, 'wishing for more pie,' it is a wish that commands your whole attention. When you decide to begin, there is no turning back, it would waste what you have already acquired and endanger your future desires.” This was perhaps a lot for an 'ordinary' six year old to digest and accept, but Harry was not born to 'ordinary' parents and hadn't an 'ordinary' bone in his body.
“Today, I want to begin today.” Harry resolved simply.
“Very well, you shall row us back then,” answered his father.
Harry climbed to the stern of the boat and proudly grasped the oar and prepared to row. “Hold the oar like this.” George leaned to him and adjusted his hands. “Good,” he said. “Now stand with your feet here.” George set each foot into position. Harry dipped the blade in the water and pushed the handle out, then pulled the handle back. “Wait.” George stopped him again. He got up behind Harry, and, reaching around him, placed his hands near his son's, then went through the movement once more. This time Harry could feel the boat propelled through each push and pull of the oar's motion. George sat back down and let Harry continue unassisted.
He pushed with all his strength, keeping his hands and feet 'just so.' Then he pulled back with all his strength, watching that his body remained in its posture and position. And so he kept at it, until his leg and back muscles ached and his arms and hands were sore. Every so often his father would direct him to repeat a push stroke, or repeat a pull stroke to keep their progress on course. Then ahead of the prow, he could see their tiny dock and their house in the trees beyond the edge of the lake. He pushed himself to greater efforts and got them back home at long last. As Harry settled the boat next to the dock, George commended his strength and his spirit before they tied up the craft and went up to the house. Harry slept very well that night.
The next morning before sunrise, George roused Harry from sleep, told him to splash cold water on his face, arms, and legs and meet him at the boat. George packed the basket into the boat and waited. Soon Harry joined him, took up his position at the stern, set his hands and feet into position and rowed them away from the little dock.
George instructed, “Aim for those two large boulders at the foot of that aspen copse just there, he pointed.” Harry sighted along his father's arm and began the steady push and pull on the single oar, always keeping the craft headed for the two boulders. George lounged in the bow feigning sleep; but he kept careful vigilance on his son's form and progress without Harry noticing.
They finally reached the boulders. George roused himself and pointed to another spot even further up the lake to which he would next like to go. After the briefest rest and only a bite of bread, Harry was compelled to begin rowing again, but this time with the oar on his left side instead of his right. A few moments of adjustment to the new position and they were making for the next destination.
Once again they arrived, and as before, George roused himself and pointed to another spot further up the lake to which he would next like to go. And again after the briefest rest and only one bite of bread, Harry was compelled to begin rowing once more, and this time with the oar back on his right side again. Three more destinations and three more changes from his right to left and left to right, three more bites of bread, and all the while with George seeming to doze in the bow. Then they were back at their little dock. It was only a bit after noon and Harry was ready to have some lunch, which his mother provided: a piece of fish, a hunk of goat cheese, and a small potato. Harry was too ravenous to question the menu. He set upon it at once and devoured the meager morsels.
When he finished, his mother asked him to please till a certain portion of the garden so that they could begin planting their autumn season vegetables. Harry fetched the gardening fork, with its long handle and tines and walked to their large garden area first, to begin his chore. Belle waited for him and with a smile, exchanged the garden fork in his hands for the small hand trowel she carried. He looked up at her in confusion.
“Dig this way,” she said simply, and setting the trowel in his hand 'just so,' showed him the expected motions. She left him squatting like a frog, tilling the garden. “Be sure to change hands every twelve strokes or so,” she called back over her shoulder, and he tilled the garden.
The shadows were lengthening and the air was becoming chill when Harry dragged himself back into the kitchen. “Clean the trowel please,” came his mother's voice from the great room. He dipped the tool in the bucket and washed the dirt and grime until it shone again. He laid it carefully on the counter and went into the great room. A plate of food was set out for him so he set down at the table raised a forkful to his mouth. He began to chew but promptly dropped off to sleep with the fork still suspended over his plate, his head only slightly drooping.
George smiled to Belle and she returned it with the pride they both felt for their boy. He went over to where Harry still sat, took the fork from his hand and set it down, lifted him into his arms and carried him to bed, tucking him gently in under the sheets and quilts.
Next morning, and the next morning and the next, the routine repeated. Until a week later, when George went to rouse him as usual, Harry was not to be found. He searched the house, but there was no sign of him. As he passed the bay window and looked out, there was his son waiting for him on the dock, his hair still wet from the cold morning water.
George walked down to the boat, took up his position in the bow and they started off toward another part of the lake. Before they had gotten too far, without waiting to arrive where the boat could be steadied, George told Harry to shift sides of the oar. With a bit of fumbling, Harry switched to the other side of the oar.
“Wait.” George said aloud. “Shift like this.” He traded places with his son and demonstrated the movement. It was a fluid transition in which during his pull stroke he lowered his body, kept his back straight, swiveled on the balls of his feet and rose up on the other side of the oar without a splash nor the blade losing its powerful stroke through the water. “Here.” he said simply, and they traded places once more.
Harry took up his position made a couple usual strokes, then at his father's command he shifted sides nearly as he was shown. “Almost,” said George. “Set your feet first, then be sure the oar doesn't notice you've moved. Try again.” This time Harry complied smoothly and was on the other side of the oar with very little wobble. “Better,” his father commented. “Watch where you're going,” he added as they were drifting quite a ways off course. Harry had no sooner brought them back in course when George called out, “Shift.” Harry made the maneuver as smoothly as before and resumed from the new side. George settled into his usual posture in the bow and every odd moment or so would call 'Shift,' to which his son would readily comply.
Belle started Harry on planting. It was similar to his previous procedures and employed the same tool as before, but she asked him to begin from the same side of the garden each time. He followed her directions and started to walk round to the other side when he had finished the first row.
“Wait,” his mother said, and he stopped mid-step. “Don't walk all the way around; walk back the way you came.” She demonstrated once. It was a squatting walk, though backward and without being able to see where she was stepping. “Mind you don't squish any of our tender new seedlings.” With that she went back to the house.
Harry found that it wasn't quite as easy as his mother made it look. He finally noticed that if he picked a spot beyond the garden, which was aligned with the row he was walking, he didn't wander so far off---Just like the way he piloted the boat.
Once more his routine didn't vary for days on end. Days became weeks and the weeks were looking like months. The gardening chores became floor scrubbing, and then became stick collecting. Instead of covering the ground in his squatting walk backwards and forwards, he was supposed to cart wheel or hand spring and pick the twigs with his hand, or hands, as he passed over. Then from his new spot do the same again without taking a step in any direction. It took several days before he was able to collect enough for one morning's fire, let alone enough tender for the winter as he had been directed to do. Every morning he was at the boat waiting for his father; every evening he could now stay awake through his supper. He was, however, growing bored with the lack of excitement his 'boat training' offered. And this built up inside him.
His stick collecting progressed, and he became very adept at always getting the twig he aimed for, sometimes two or three at a time. One afternoon several days later when his mother set him to his task, and as he sprang to his first twig, she called, “Wait.” He knew something was coming. “Do it backwards.” she directed and went back to the house. 'Do it backwards' he repeated sullenly. 'How am I supposed to see what I'm aiming for if I spring backwards?' he mused. He peeked over his shoulder and looked at the ground behind him. He fixed on a twig and leapt. Then he tried again. And again. And again. Although his first several attempts were miserable, he tried yet again. He looked over his shoulder once more; after so many repetitions of going forward, he at last relaxed and let his trained gaze spot a succession of twigs amidst the chaos on the ground which would be in his path if he began to spring a particular direction. He leapt in a back handspring; a twig was under his left hand. He sprang again; another was in his right. He shifted the twigs to one hand in mid-air and grabbed the next one with the free hand, then landed. He looked into his hands at the twigs and smiled. He was still springing around the yard, backwards and forwards, squat-walking a bit between and leaping off on another tack, when Belle called him in for dinner.
The next morning when his father strolled to the little dock to begin his rowing practice, he didn't get in but stood immobile, not letting his father pass to the boat.
“Father,” he began, having decided that he was not willing to row another stroke. “What is the point of 'rowing the boat' and 'just so' and 'shift'? He punctuated the commands in a vague mockery of his father's voice.
George didn't answer. He turned to the side of the little dock and grasped the fishing gaff leaning against a pier post. He held it by the gaff end with the handle pointed at Harry's stomach. Harry didn't know what to expect. George shoved the butt end of the handle into Harry's solar plexus in a sudden and quick short jab. The boy winced and bent over. “What did you do that for?” he exclaimed.
“Let's try again,” said George calmly and without expression. “This time 'row the boat'.” He jabbed again and said loudly, “Row the boat,” as Harry's right arm deflected the wooden handle aimed at his chest. But George didn't stop there, he jabbed at the boy again, “Row the boat” he called, and Harry deflected the pole again, but from the other side. George pulled the gaff away and made a swinging arc aimed at Harry's head, and once more he called, “Shift.” As the pole slashed at him, Harry went through the motion of shifting from one side of the oar to the other. His hands caught the arcing pole and tossed it harmlessly to the side. George swung quicker this time, calling “Row the boat,” again it was deflected. The gaff in George's hands was a blur of jabs and arcs and heavy blows. Each time he called out, “Shift,” or “Dig garden,” or “Pick up stick,” “Scrub floor” or “Pick up stick backward.” Harry was leaping and twirling, deflecting, blocking and dodging with every new onslaught. When after a half hour or so George at last paused, he set the gaff back against the pier post. Harry stopped too, still poised, balanced on one foot atop the last pier two feet above the deck of the little dock, the lake washing rhythmically below him.
“That's the point,” said his father without any inflection of emotion, and he turned and walked back into the house. Harry blinked, realized his precarious perch and stepped down still stunned at the morning's developments. He steadied himself, went over to the boat, stepped into his usual position and cast off for a point of his own choosing across the lake. Every now and then he 'shifted.'
Autumn had indeed arrived. The girls were almost sleeping through the night. Harry did his chores and spent afternoons reading or practicing writing by making inventory lists for his father's store. Belle tended the growing girls, and wove silk fishing lines for the store, or blankets, or rugs. George ran the store and inconspicuously attended meetings of the village elders just to keep abreast of any developments which might impact his business. He and Harry built rods or bows and arrows by special order. White Feathers spent days, sometimes weeks at a time with the family, helping here and there with little tasks and offering advice, always graciously received. The ancestors had voiced their genuine approval of Harry's successful and ongoing training in mind, heart, and body. The gardens produced sufficiently for their winter needs. In short, life for the Livingsons was set to a pleasant cadence of peace and productivity.
The model of the Livingson's new additions---the bath room, holding pond and decks---sparked a local surge in home improvements through the village. Business at the little mercantile was up, along with requests for building suggestions and planning advice. Old Man Winter returned for another year and forced a hiatus in most outdoor activities and projects. Several other homes in the village and valley now boasted indoor bath rooms, and far less muck ran down hills into the rivers, streams and ultimately into the Tahoe. Belle was very pleased.
Over the dim cold days of December before the Christmas season was in full swing, Harry made an interesting discovery about his little sisters. While they were admittedly only six months old, they were sitting up and babbling to one another as they rolled a spool of silk back and forth to each other between their pudgy little outstretched legs. Naturally, Harry didn't find this so startling as when he picked up the ball of silk and hid it in his mother's weaving basket. When he came back a few minutes later, they were at it again with the same ball of silk.
He repeated the ploy four or five times before calling his mother to watch the remarkable activity. She observed the girls from the kitchen doorway as Harry repeated the experiment, and they did indeed wait until Harry was out of sight, fetch the ball of silk, and begin their play anew. Belle was smiling broadly when Harry came back to the kitchen for her comments on his discovery.
“Well,” she said, “it's not really so different than what you used to do with your father's spools of thread in his workshop when you were about their age.” Harry looked at her trying to visualize the event. “He was constantly searching for where he'd mislaid the things, and there you'd be rolling it off and scooting after it,” and still smiling, she went back to preparing the supper.
The next time Harry just had to call his mother's attention to the girls' antics was just after the New Year. He had just changed their nappies and set them on the kaleideoscopic rug in front of the hearth with their blocks and wood rings scattered round them. He went to his room to get a book; he was going to read to them. When he returned, they were each at opposite ends of the large fireplace standing against the walls and gazing at the neatly stacked blocks and teetering wooden rings balanced atop, all on the rug they had just abandoned. Belle did voice a bit of surprise this time, but about the girls teamwork, then related to Harry some similar anecdote about his own toddlery. Harry decided that whatever his sisters did henceforth, he wouldn't trouble his parents with his own observations. This decision would lead to some singularly entertaining events for his parents in the months to come.
The first occasion, in early February, Belle had asked Harry to take lunch to his father in the store. Harry laid the book he was reading to the girls on the table as he left for his brief errand. When his mother came out of the kitchen a moment later to go to the bath room, her daughters were sitting on the table top flipping through the pages of the book. Belle quickly set them back on the floor and made a mental note to chide Harry for leaving them in such a precarious place. Next was when his father walked through the great room from the store to the workshop and nearly tripped head over heels from one of his cane blanks having been set between two chairs in the middle of the room while the girls were trying to wrestle down a hanging blanket from the wall near the window. As he caught himself and recovered his footing, they stopped and stared up at him with big green eyes and innocent expressions across their little faces. He reminded himself to tell Harry not to leave chairs and such in the walking paths of the house. The third event absolved Harry of the careless acts of which he had been blamelessly accused.
The vernal equinox was in two days and a celebration of sorts was in preparation at the Livingson house. White Feathers was helping George with inspecting the inverted boat hull for any needed repairs and preparing it for this year's coat of varnish. Harry was sweeping the gravel path from the house down to the boat dock. Belle was pruning boughs from the Tallows and dragging them to the wood pile for chopping. Tania and Poly were left to their own devices on the deck---Oversight One. Belle had left the front door open to the house in order to let the warmer breezes waft through it and freshen the rooms---Oversight Two. No one was keeping a constant eye on the twins---Oversight Thre