The old man and the cliff
A long time ago a very old man lived near the base of a cliff. He lived alone and lived a very long distance away from anyone else. He was alone in these advanced years because his wife had died ahead of him and they had no children.
Every day he would make the long climb around a winding path up to the top of the cliff. Every day he would stand on the precipice and point his face to the sky. He would stand there in silence until his knees hurt. Then he would sit and dangle his feet off of the edge. Most days he would stay silent for the entirety, but on some days he would curse at the sky.
"Why have you given me the bravery to bring my body to the brink, but not the bravery to seek out my wife?"
There was never an answer. He would grow cold, or hungry, or ashamed of his own cowardice and make the long walk back down to his small shack. He would find berries along the path if the season was right. He spent the rest of each day at the base of that cliff. He cursed at it repeatedly.
His first visit to the cliff was intended to be his only visit. He left his home with intentions of making that one last step from the ledge. When he could not, he sought shelter under an eve at the base. Day after day he made attempt after attempt. Eventually he started assembling his shack so he had some comfort each night. There were marks on the cliff wall for each day he had failed. Those marks stretch for some distance and stacked ten rows tall.
One morning he prepared himself for the ascent. He stood at the head of the path and lifted a foot towards it.
"Hello stranger!" he heard yelled. He had gone mad, obviously. It had been so long since he had last seen another person that he could hardly understand the words he believed were imagined. He let his feet continue.
"I say again, hello stranger!" came the cry. he spun on his heals to confront this imagined source of voice. As solid as the very rock he was on, there was a man walking towards him. It was no hallucination. Though he walked with great determination and strength this interloper was impossibly ancient.
"What say you, can you offer a traveler food or drink?". The old man pointed towards the shack, and they met at it's doorway. The old man may not enjoy the fact that a traveling derelict had interrupted his daily ritual, but it was an unkind man that would turn away one hungry or thirsty.
Little was said as the traveler received some stale bread and questionable goat milk. The old man was amazed by the travelers hunger, but shocked by his age. Long ago the old man lost track of his years, but he figured this wanderer to be a score or more older.
After letting the guest eat his fill and drink his thirst away, the old man's curiosity finally pushed him to locate his tongue and ask "What are you doing wandering alone so far from any village or town?"
"I wander, and travel, and explore. That is what I do." was the response.
A bit of silence attempted to refill the room, but the traveler push back on it.
"My wonderful wife died many years ago. On her deathbed she confided in me that her only regret was not seeing more of this world. So I wander, and travel, and explore."
This time the traveler allowed a silence to come and sit with them for some time. The old man refilled the milk, and the traveler drank.
The traveler stood and thanked the old man for being so very generous. As he began to part, the traveler offered some last words: "When I some day join my wife, I hope to have enough stories about this world to be an even trade for the stories she will have about the next."
The traveler departed and was not seen again. The old man did not make the climb that day. Or the next. Or any day for the next week. He thought much about the ancient travelers story. Then the day came when the old man knew he needed to return to his path. He understood the words of that ancient traveler.
His wife had so much warmth and she had loved to talk, and be merry. Laughing, she figured, was what she enjoyed more than anything else. And she was good at it.
A long time ago a very old man lived near the base of a cliff. He lived alone and lived a very long distance away from anyone else. He was alone in these advanced years because his wife had died ahead of him and they had no children.
Every day he would make the long climb around a winding path up to the top of the cliff. Every day he would sit on the precipice and point his face to the sky. He would sit there and talk and laugh and be merry until his belly hurt and he could laugh no more. Then he would eat a lunch of cheese and bread and milk, and tell another story.
Every day he would make the long climb around a winding path up to the top of the cliff. Every day he would stand on the precipice and point his face to the sky. He would stand there in silence until his knees hurt. Then he would sit and dangle his feet off of the edge. Most days he would stay silent for the entirety, but on some days he would curse at the sky.
"Why have you given me the bravery to bring my body to the brink, but not the bravery to seek out my wife?"
There was never an answer. He would grow cold, or hungry, or ashamed of his own cowardice and make the long walk back down to his small shack. He would find berries along the path if the season was right. He spent the rest of each day at the base of that cliff. He cursed at it repeatedly.
His first visit to the cliff was intended to be his only visit. He left his home with intentions of making that one last step from the ledge. When he could not, he sought shelter under an eve at the base. Day after day he made attempt after attempt. Eventually he started assembling his shack so he had some comfort each night. There were marks on the cliff wall for each day he had failed. Those marks stretch for some distance and stacked ten rows tall.
One morning he prepared himself for the ascent. He stood at the head of the path and lifted a foot towards it.
"Hello stranger!" he heard yelled. He had gone mad, obviously. It had been so long since he had last seen another person that he could hardly understand the words he believed were imagined. He let his feet continue.
"I say again, hello stranger!" came the cry. he spun on his heals to confront this imagined source of voice. As solid as the very rock he was on, there was a man walking towards him. It was no hallucination. Though he walked with great determination and strength this interloper was impossibly ancient.
"What say you, can you offer a traveler food or drink?". The old man pointed towards the shack, and they met at it's doorway. The old man may not enjoy the fact that a traveling derelict had interrupted his daily ritual, but it was an unkind man that would turn away one hungry or thirsty.
Little was said as the traveler received some stale bread and questionable goat milk. The old man was amazed by the travelers hunger, but shocked by his age. Long ago the old man lost track of his years, but he figured this wanderer to be a score or more older.
After letting the guest eat his fill and drink his thirst away, the old man's curiosity finally pushed him to locate his tongue and ask "What are you doing wandering alone so far from any village or town?"
"I wander, and travel, and explore. That is what I do." was the response.
A bit of silence attempted to refill the room, but the traveler push back on it.
"My wonderful wife died many years ago. On her deathbed she confided in me that her only regret was not seeing more of this world. So I wander, and travel, and explore."
This time the traveler allowed a silence to come and sit with them for some time. The old man refilled the milk, and the traveler drank.
The traveler stood and thanked the old man for being so very generous. As he began to part, the traveler offered some last words: "When I some day join my wife, I hope to have enough stories about this world to be an even trade for the stories she will have about the next."
The traveler departed and was not seen again. The old man did not make the climb that day. Or the next. Or any day for the next week. He thought much about the ancient travelers story. Then the day came when the old man knew he needed to return to his path. He understood the words of that ancient traveler.
His wife had so much warmth and she had loved to talk, and be merry. Laughing, she figured, was what she enjoyed more than anything else. And she was good at it.
A long time ago a very old man lived near the base of a cliff. He lived alone and lived a very long distance away from anyone else. He was alone in these advanced years because his wife had died ahead of him and they had no children.
Every day he would make the long climb around a winding path up to the top of the cliff. Every day he would sit on the precipice and point his face to the sky. He would sit there and talk and laugh and be merry until his belly hurt and he could laugh no more. Then he would eat a lunch of cheese and bread and milk, and tell another story.
Some notes added April 11, 2019
Some day I want to be a writer, a novelist. Thus far though the ability to coordinate plot and character over long distances has been a skill just beyond my fingers.
I do enjoy writing short stories or parabols about my life. This is still one of my favorites. I was searching for a way to move forward after Xavier’s death. I don’t know if there is an afterlife, but if there is I figure that Xavier will have a lot to catch me up on when I get there. That idea gave rise to the Old Man and the Cliff.
I do enjoy writing short stories or parabols about my life. This is still one of my favorites. I was searching for a way to move forward after Xavier’s death. I don’t know if there is an afterlife, but if there is I figure that Xavier will have a lot to catch me up on when I get there. That idea gave rise to the Old Man and the Cliff.