Anti Violence - Blog Posts

Spell Salvage

The spiritual malleability of soft clay is no different from that of baked clay. What a substance can harbor is only limited by sentient will, including ours—and his.

An old clay figurine sage sat on his breezy porch, watching children play in the square, while yet another family moved into their village. He smiled as he remembered a time when he was dreamy, energetic, and ambitious, just like them. But those days were long gone. Now, he had seen the pain of war, the misery of poverty, and the fear of death. And he had learned that the only way to overcome these things was to let them go. Letting go was the most tender kindness you could show yourself.

With the arrival of new families over the past years came new little clay figurines that also turned alive when no human eyes were set upon them. A few of these figurines were kind and respectful, but most were not. The robber figurines were the worst. They were always picking on the old figurine sage and stealing from him the mineral rocks and plantings clay figurines would painstakingly gather for energy boosts and comfort, taunting that his mantra was letting go anyway, so why did he care if they took his things? Eventually, even the kind figurines started to pick up the habits of the robber figurines despite themselves. Amid the rampant greed and selfishness, the sound of sageliness had the tune of major fraud. If the halos were not lying about their motives to the halo-nots, they were lying about the nature of the world. Yet, should a sage genuinely believing in his own teachings really be faulted? But we digressed.

The old sage chuckled and gently chided the robber figurines, some of whom bristled at being seen as inferior to a decrepit chap when life and their circles had been washing over them with the tenets that might was right and wantonness was sense. Patting one robber figurine's shoulder, the sage genially offered his remaining little vintage collections to the gang to inspire magnanimity in these lost souls. Collective silence fell over the robber figurines for a second. The sage nodded with a warm smile. But then the robber figurines broke out into uproarious laughter.

They threw his stuff wildly around his place like a lunatic circus band. A couple of sharp items tore through the thatched roof. The old sage looked on with jovial eyes. What were possessions in a transient life? He left it to the young 'uns to reach this realization themselves someday since preaching did not help them.

One day, a clay figurine found an ancient piece of paper describing a lengthy spell that could return amnesiac souls trapped in clay figurines to their otherwise permanently comatose human bodies. Word spread around. The robber figurines succeeded in nailing the incantation of the spell. They became humans again, burned up the paper, and quickly took advantage of their new power. They began to bash, shove, and drum on the old sage, who was helpless to defend himself. The figurine sage called for help, but no figurine or human came.

After days and days of relentless abuse, the sage's body was covered in bruises, wounds, and scars. The ex-figurines relished their power over the old sage, and grew bolder, stepping up the severity of their abuse. As his strength and will continued to ebb away, the sage grew desperate, terrified that he might not be able to survive much longer under the onslaught of attacks. Yet, every night, he whispered to himself as rain and snow from his cracked roof seeped into the cuts on his body, "All is impermanent. Fate is in the mind. Let excruciating pain drain away. Let agony and misery be mere flurries. Untrap all negativity. Release all memories. Let go, let go."

One evening, the sage was so weak that he could not even chant anymore. He lay on the ground, discolored and broken, while a flock of larks flew overhead. Maybe, a harrowing ancient wind started to sing with increasing amplitude inside him, it's time to let go of letting go. Letting go was not always the sole or secure means of finding peace.

So he struck at the ex-figurines with all his unsteadily recovering strength the next time they came. They were stunned for a full half-minute. This time, a small, sensitive boy noticed the sage's plight and rushed to his side — only to be casually shoved out of the way by the ex-figurines coming back to their senses. Completely rehabituated to their human bodies after so many months, the ex-figurines were by now a formidable wall to a youngling unaccustomed to self-defense, and as good as invincible giants to a tiny, battered clay figurine. The loopholes of physics were already sealed up. In her indignant glee, one kid used so much force that she accidentally smashed the figurine sage into smithereens. Tinted fragments and powder that broke off from him coldly sailed through the sunlight before lying scattered in their little diorama of a world. The old sage was badly injured, and the boy knew that he could not save him.

From a distance, the sage raised his crumbling hand slowly as if he could stroke the boy's red face. "Cry not, child. It's okay," he smiled weakly. "I've really let go of everything now."

The old sage took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He dreamed of the children playing in the village square. In this dream, at this moment, they would eternally play, learn, and grow. And with that, he died with a faint, peaceful smile, surrounded by the birdsong of the forest. His entire body would eventually molder into dust that the wind would carry away, some to the distant, mysterious hills and glistening lakes, some to putrid ditches close by.

The clay figurine sage who was too late but did remold himself time and again was gone. The wolfish ex-figurines had no trouble turning their crosshairs to other clay figurines in other villages.

Many thanks to a very nice meme creator and a co-pilot bot for inspiring and shaping the more uplifting aspects of this story.