This is going to take some focus. So close your facebook browser, pause the TV, take a deep breath, and read.
There was a certain country where things
used to go rather oddly. For instance, you could never tell whether it was
going to rain or hail, or whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. It
was impossible to say whether the next baby would be a boy or a girl, or, even
after he was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross.
In strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of
uncertainties, it came to pass one day that, in the midst of a shower of rain
that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, turned
all its drops into molten topazes—while this splendid rain was falling, something
happened.
It was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a coronation, but
something more important than all those put together: a baby-girl was
born—and her father was a king, and her mother was a queen, and her
uncles and aunts were princes and princesses, and her first cousins were dukes
and duchesses, so the little girl was Somebody; and yet
for all that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry!
I told you it
was a strange country.
As she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that she
was Somebody, and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it that she quite
forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it for a fundamental,
innate, primary, firstborn, self-evident, necessary, and incontrovertible idea
and principle that she was Somebody. And the worst of it was
that the princess never thought of there being more than one Somebody—and
that was herself.
Far away to the north in the same country,among the hailstones, and the heather, and the cold mountain air,
another little girl was born, whom the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess
her mother, And yet, would you believe it? she too
cried the very first thing. It was an odd country! And what is still
more
surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess were not a bit wiser than the
king and the queen, for they too, one and all, so constantly taught the
little woman that she was Somebody, that she also forgot that there were
a
great many more Somebodies besides herself in the world.
It was, indeed, a peculiar country—very different from ours—so
different that my reader must not be too much surprised when I add the amazing
fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the things they had,
were always wanting the things they had not, often even the things it was least
likely they ever could have. The grown men and women being like this, there is
no reason to be further astonished that the Princess Rosamond—the name
her parents gave her because it means Rose of the World—should grow up
like them, wanting everything she could and everything she couldn’t have.
The things she could have were a great many too many, for her foolish parents
always gave her what they could; but still there remained a few things they
couldn’t give her, for they were only a common king and queen. They could
and did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by much
care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on fire; but when
she cried for the moon, that they could not give her. They did the worst thing
possible instead, however, for they pretended to do what they could
not:—they got her a thin disc of brilliantly polished silver, as near the
size of the moon as they could agree upon, and for a time she was
delighted.
But, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon was a
little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. Her nurse
happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it, and instantly
came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. Presently, through the
opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon, far away in the
sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there all the time; and her
rage increased to such a degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, I do
not know what might have come of it.
Of course as she grew, she grew worse, for she never tried to grow better.
She became more and more peevish and fretful every day—dissatisfied not
only with what she had, but with all that was around her, and constantly
wishing things in general to be different. She found fault with everything and
everybody and all that happened, and grew more and more disagreeable to
everyone who had to do with her. At last, when she had nearly killed her nurse, and was miserable from morning to
night, her parents thought it time to do something.
A long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of pine-trees, lived
a wise woman. In some countries she would have been called a witch, but that
would have been a mistake, for she never did anything wicked, and had more
power than any witch could have. As her fame was spread through all the
country, the king heard of her, and, thinking she might perhaps be able to
suggest something, sent for her. In the dead of the night, lest the princess
should know it, the king’s messenger brought into the palace a tall
woman, muffled from head to foot in a cloak of black cloth. In the presence of
both their majesties, the king, to do her honour, requested her to sit, but she
declined, and stood waiting to hear what they had to say. Nor had she to wait
long, for almost instantly they began to tell her the dreadful trouble they
were in with their only child—first the king talking, then the queen
interposing with some yet more dreadful fact, and at times both letting out a
torrent of words together, so anxious were they to show the wise woman that
their perplexity was real, and their daughter a very terrible one. For a long
while there appeared no sign of approaching pause. But the wise woman stood
patiently folded in her black cloak, and listened without word or motion. At
length silence fell, for they had talked themselves tired, and could not think
of anything more to add to the list of their child’s enormities.
“How very badly you have treated her!” said the wise woman:
“Poor child.”
“What! Treated her badly?” gasped the king.
“She is a very wicked child,” said the queen; and both glared
with indignation.
“Yes, indeed,” returned the wise woman; “she is very
naughty indeed, and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault
too.”
“What!” stammered the king. “Haven’t we given her
every mortal thing she wanted?”
“Surely,” said the wise woman. “What else could have all
but killed her! You should have given her a few things of the other sort. But
you are far too dull to understand me.”
“You are very polite!” remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on
his thin, straight lips.
The wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh, and the king and queen sat
silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. The silence lasted again
for a minute, and then the wise woman folded her cloak around her. Yet
another minute passed and the silence endured, for the smouldering wrath of the
king and queen choked the channels of their speech. Then the wise woman turned
her back on them, and so stood. At this the rage of the king broke forth, and
he cried to the queen, stammering in his fierceness:
“How should such an old hag as that teach Rosamond good manners? She
knows nothing of them herself! Look how she stands! Actually with her back to
us!”
I will stop there for the moment.
Let
the breath go - do you have an odd sense that someone has just told you
more about yourself then you wished to be known? Or worse - have you
already begun to form a list in your mind of those that you think could
benefit from reading such a story? Ah yes - therein lies our deepest
faults. How often do we in our Somebody-ness claim that today's children
are self-entitled little brats, as we ourselves clamor in line to get
whatever new item has caused that gut-pulling "I will not be satisfied
until it is mine" feeling we so love to quench.
Know, as always, that I speak of myself as well when I meander down the roads of
examining the human condition. We all think we are Somebody - even if
our own pet obsession is lamenting how un-Somebody-like we are. It is
still eyes-focused-backwards, how much more Somebody-obsessed could we
be than that?
I first
heard this book as a child - but as children so often do, I forgot it. I
recently found a picture book of an abridged version of just the
princess side of the story in a used bookstore and devoured it; feeling
both convicted and inspired - and all the while feeling as if I had
stumbled upon both a precious treasure and a forgotten melody so
beautiful, it must be divinely inspired.
I
have done my fair share lately, of examining how we as a society raise
our children. It is a topic close to my own heart, seeing as I am
currently raising children - I often read books, study those around me
and listen as mothers, fathers, grandparents and especially those
without children of their own (Who can sometimes see behavior problems
that we, as parents have missed in our arrogance and experience.) speak
their thoughts on the matter. Everyone has an opinion on this
subject...have you noticed that? Especially those who's opinions consist
of "Everyone should be free to raise their own children as they see fit
and no one, NO ONE better judge the decisions I make!"
Now,
to a point, I think we all agree with this - especially in today's
elitist society. But all too often it is taken too far. This attitude
breeds isolation - we seperate ourselves so entirely from those that
could be of help - that in times of need, no one dares to speak a word
of advice, for fear of being thought of as judgmental.
I,
on the other hand - as many of you well know, delve into this topic
quite a lot - whether I should or not! As it is on my mind a lot. I
spoke once of
Bringing Back The Mommy Guilt a
post that had close to 500 views (about 3 times what I normally have on
this blog) and not one comment. Of course, that could be because I am
so long winded that no one actually got to the end....I suppose I should
probably work on that.
Now
to make a short story shorter - the Wise woman takes Rosamond away from
her parents, hidden beneath her cloak. She bids the girl clean her
cottage, requires of her harder work then the princess has ever had to
endure in her pampered life. And for all that - the girl glories in her
anger at being misused and forced to work in order to eat. In her
attempt to escape the cottage, Rosamond discovers a passage that leads
her to several grand pictures - one in particular draws her eyes:
A blue summer sky, with white fleecy clouds floating beneath it, hung over a
hill green to the very top, and alive with streams darting down its sides
toward the valley below. On the face of the hill strayed a flock of sheep
feeding, attended by a shepherd and two dogs. A little way apart, a girl stood
with bare feet in a brook, building across it a bridge of rough stones. The
wind was blowing her hair back from her rosy face. A lamb was feeding close
beside her, and a sheep-dog was trying to reach her hand to lick it.
“Oh how I wish I were that little girl!” said the princess
aloud. “I wonder how it is that some people are made to be so much
happier than others! If I were that little girl, no one would ever call me
naughty.”
Oh
how easy it is to look at others and wish we were not who we were made
to be! It is perhaps the biggest strike in believing ourselves to be
Somebody - wishing instead we were a different Somebody or hating the
Somebody we perceive ourselves to be.
Now-
on to our story. The daughter of the Shepard was named Agnus. And she
too, was being watched by the wise woman. And although she did not have
the fine toys and clothes as Rosamond did - she was stunted in other
ways:
She was not greedy after nice things, but content, as well she might be,
with the homely food provided for her. Nor was she by nature particularly
self-willed or disobedient; she generally did what her father and mother
wished, and believed what they told her. But by degrees they had spoiled her.
And this was the way: they were so proud of her that they always repeated
everything she said, and told everything she did, even when she was present;
and so full of admiration of their child were they, that they wondered and
laughed at and praised things in her which in another child would never have
struck them as the least remarkable, and some things even which would in
another have disgusted them altogether. Impertinent and rude things done by
their child they thought so clever! laughing at them as something quite
marvellous; her commonplace speeches were said over again as if they had been
the finest poetry; and the pretty ways which every moderately good child has
were extolled as if the result of her excellent taste, and the choice of her
judgment and will. They would even say sometimes that she ought not to hear her
own praises for fear it should make her vain, and then whisper them behind
their hands, but so loud that she could not fail to hear every word. The
consequence was that she soon came to believe—so soon that she could not
recall the time when she did not believe—as the most absolute fact in the
universe, that she was SOMEBODY; that is, she became immoderately
conceited.
Ah
how things have changed! So terrified are we as a society today - that
our children will have "low self-esteem" that we now look at these words
and feel offended. "Of course I will praise my child!" we think. Read
it again - there is a forgotten truth here, of which we need reminding.
Agnas never went into rages like the princess; and would have thought
Rosamond—oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in one of her
passions. But she was no better for all that, and was quite as ugly in the eyes
of the wise woman, who could not only see but read her face. What is there to
choose between a face distorted to hideousness by anger, and one distorted to
silliness by self-complacency? True, there is more hope of helping the angry
child out of her form of selfishness than the conceited child out of hers; but
on the other hand, the conceited child was not so terrible or dangerous as the
wrathful one. The conceited one, however, was sometimes very angry, and then
her anger was more spiteful than the other’s; and, again, the wrathful
one was often very conceited too. So that, on the whole, of two very unpleasant
creatures, I would say that the king’s daughter would have been the
worse, had not the shepherd’s been quite as bad.
For
the sake of time, let me skip ahead - Agnas is taken as well and also
asked to clean the womans cottage. She, being a clever girl does her
work without question - yet still she is filled with anger and
resentment as she sees her Somebody in the mirror and works to fix only
the outside - and not that which is within.
I
truly beg of you to go and read this whole story, for I am skipping so
very much. I honestly believe that this story should be handed out to
new parents as they take their children home from the hospital. It
should be required reading for all, the young and old alike. For there
is much to learn within these words. I myself grow quite convicted as I
read this book - as I should. For words such as these: "From thinking
herself so clever, Agnas came to fancy that whatever seemed to her, must of
course be the correct judgment." Truly strike me to my core.
As
you may have guessed - the girls switch places. Through the pictures
they both travel, and I am again convicted as the shepherdess takes
little Rosamond into her home and treats her as she should have treated
her own daughter:
But the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser
concerning other women’s children than concerning their own. Such will
often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your
children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are trying to
carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and there is none left for
doing what they have themselves said. There is one road talk never finds, and
that is the way into the talker’s own hands and feet. And such never seem
to know themselves—not even when they are reading about themselves in
print. Still, not being specially blinded in any direction but their own, they
can sometimes even act with a little sense towards children who are not theirs.
They are affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people
incapable of seeing except sideways.
How often I have said how much I cannot abide those that hint at parenting advice. "Well, you know what I did for my children (being X-Y-or Z) and they were
sleeping through the night/potty trained/obeying the first
time/cleaning up their room by (pre-determined accepted time-frame for
said task to be accomplished). I do my best not to fall into that
category - but sadly I do not always succeed. And I beg your most humble
forgiveness if I have ever offended you in this matter. Perhaps it
needs to be a change of modes on the part of the complainer. Instead of
venting - let us ask for help. Let us ask for prayer - but know, that in
asking you will receive! So then let us be receptive. You do not have
to take advice, we are always free to do what we believe to be the best
for our own children. But there is a very good chance that we could
learn something useful in the asking. Something we may never have heard;
that we never would have even thought of, had we not first asked. Let us parent together! As in life, we were not meant to do this alone.
The
story goes on, and again I beg of you to read it. Promise me you will?
The princess makes her way eventually back to the wise woman - it is
through pain and humbleness and losing her "Somebody-ness" that she
finally begins to learn. Oh why are we always so surprised when good
lessons are hard?
"Rosamond," said the wise woman. "If you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere
wretch, you must submit to be tried.”
“Is that something terrible?” asked the princess, turning
white. “No, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of.
Nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever has come
well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come out of it, always
looks back with horror, not on what she has come through, but on the very idea
of the possibility of having failed, and being still the same miserable
creature as before.”
“You will tell me what it is before it begins?” said the
princess.
“I will not tell you exactly. But I will tell you some things to help
you. One great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it before it
has really begun, and say to yourself, ‘Oh! this is really nothing to me.
It may be a trial to some, but for me I am sure it is not worth
mentioning.’ And then, before you know, it will be upon you, and you will
fail utterly and shamefully.”
Life
is hard. Learning is almost never pain-free. But think, think for a
moment back on who you once were. Think of the stories you can tell, the
problems you have mastered, the lessons you have learned. Now think of
the miserable creature you would still be today, had you not endured
that pain. Just as labor brings about new life in the most literal sense
- so do our trials bring about new and great beginnings - and the
giving up of our own Somebody-ness to become who were were truly meant
to be.
Let us live this life together. Let us not complain, except when we wish
to learn. Let us not give advice, except to humble ourselves as
teachers. Let us always, always be learning.
I
often think on what kind of person I wish to be when I am old. I know
that I wish to have white hair. I know that I wish to have several
knobby canes that are creative and exotic and great conversation pieces.
I know that I wish to have lots of grandsons and at least one
granddaughter. I know that I wish to live with my probably very crazy
husband in a very small house with a very large shop so he can create
things to his heart's content. And within that shop, I wish to have a
cozy nook where I can read and write to my heart's content. I
also know that when I am old, I wish to be very much wiser then I am
today. I wish to have stories, I wish to have mountains I have conquered
and I most certainly wish to no longer be the miserable creature I am
today. I pray everyday that I can give up my Somebody-ness in order to
become the truly real Me. I know it is not an easy road, but it is a
good one.
I will not tell you how the story ends - for I truly wish for you to read it in its entirety yourself. Here again is the
link. But know this; that as it is in all good stories, it does not end happy, but it does end well.
And that is all my double story. How double it is, if you care to know, you
must find out. If you think it is not finished—I never knew a story that
was. I could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but I have already
told more than is good for those who read but with their heads, and enough
for those whom it has made look a little solemn, and sigh as they close the
book.
