a parable: a more beautiful noise

A man was heading home. His 2-year-old son, in whom the father delighted, was in the back seat of the vehicle. Many things were weighing on the father's mind. After some time, the young boy who hadn't yet learned adequate speech to carry on any kind of a conversation, broke the heavy silence and began singing a simple song.

The song was not a performance. It was not intended for an audience. The child held no concept that his singing could potentially be evaluated by or impressive to someone listening on.

He was merely expressing the wonder in his heart. He sang for no reason other than, it was what he was moved to do at that moment. For this reason, the child's voice resonated in the Father's ears as absolute purity.

The father considered how a singer with flawless execution of technical skills and emotional delivery could never have pleased him nearly as much as the soft, undeveloped voice of this young boy.

The heart-deep song was full of what many would surely consider serious errors and inaccuracies, but it was genuine and true; and the father could not have imagined a more beautiful noise.

The Drinking Dream

Last night I dreamt that a deathly thirst came suddenly upon me and subdued me, not unlike the grip of a noose upon the throat of a dusty and trail-blazed outlaw. I hurriedly poured a glass of ice water and hastily downed it. After emptying the vessel, I was still every bit as dry so I poured another and drank that one down as well. I continued in this manner, only to find that my unrelenting need for liquids persisted even after quaffing 14-15 large glasses of chilled H2O within a couple of minutes.

Strangely, I wasn’t troubled, but was, instead, feeling rather impressed with myself for an astounding feat, thinking, "Wow. It's a good thing I started hydrating when I did. Otherwise, I might've collapsed! I've never known anyone to drink 2 gallons of water in such a short duration and yet remain thirsty. I must have been close to death!"

I imagined myself almost proudly relaying the story later to others at the next office water-cooler gathering. I could foresee the heavy expressions of shocked unease and concern for my well-being. An attentive crowd offering an array of genuine remarks like, “Wow, @m, you sure are blessed to be alive!”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” I’d say heavily, fully relishing their caring attention, “Very lucky.”

Just then, I awoke, and sure enough, I was parched like never before. To give you an indication of how thirsty I was: I got right out of bed without hesitation; something I have not done since the Christmas morning of ’79.

I usually argue sleepily with myself, negotiating my way out of getting up. I do this even as my insides are in pain from a bladder, full far beyond recommended capacity, pushing on its neighbor organs. I usually try to hold out by repositioning myself and thereby distributing the pressure of the bladder more evenly among the other organs and therefore slightly decreasing the pain. Yes, shamefully, I often am willing to withstand actual pain in order to avoid getting out of bed.

So anyway, that’s how terribly in need of water I was. I went directly to the kitchen and just like in my dream I poured a glass of water, only I was too thirsty to care about adding ice like in the dream. The big disappointing letdown was that, after one and a half glasses of water, I was pretty much quenched.

I felt so suckered by that dream, like the dream itself was laughing at the trick it had played on me; like I’d been had; made the fool; like I was all worked up over nothing. Nothing exciting happened at all; I didn’t almost die; I didn’t drink 2 gallons of water in world record time; I didn’t even have a good story to tell.