Once upon a time there was a boy named Wilpot
who knew not only the species of every bird,
but every bird's name.
He knew the names by which they were known in the flock,
and the fond names by which they were known at home,
in the nest.
When the school bell rang at the end of the day Wilpot would run to the trees,
and sit up on a branch,
and listen eagerly
as the birds told him about their day.
In fact, Wilpot loved the birds so much,
and loved the other village children so much,
that sometimes he wasn't sure
who was what!
But all of that was long, long ago -
because now Wilpot was a very, very old man.
II
Wilpot still lived in the same village.
He had lived a simple, quiet life there -
because over the years,
Wilpot had spoken less and less.
Nowadays he greeted everyone with these identical words:
"I do not know you" he would say,
bowing his head slightly.
Some of the villagers didn't understand Wilpot's greeting.
"Good morning, Wilpot" the baker would say cheerfully,
morning after morning,
when Wilpot came to buy his bread.
"I do not know you" Wilpot would reply, humbly,
morning after morning.
"But it's ME - Bobbinot the Baker” Bobbinot would shout down at Wilpot -
for Wilpot was now quite small, and quite deaf.
Everyone in the village had heard this same exchange a thousand times.
Some of the villagers in the morning bread queue would be amused
by this bizarre daily ritual of miscommunication.
Some of the villagers in the queue would try to help the baker.
"It's Bobbinot, Bobbinot the Baker" they would shout -
hoping their closer proximity to Wilpot's ear
would penetrate the part of his brain that knew
the names of people and of things.
But the old villagers did understand.
They had known Wilpot since he was a boy
and could still remember how he would sit high up in the trees all day,
talking to the birds.
For them Wilpot's greeting was a blessing, a prayer -
a call to a reality deeper than any narrative or description.
And it pained them,
and sometimes angered them,
to hear the villagers mumble and laugh about what they called
Wilpot's dementia.
III
Then, one day, a very, very old little lady named Wilhelma knocked upon Wilpot's front door.
"Who is it?" Wilpot called out from inside.
"It is I, your old friend Wilhelma" Wilhelma called back.
Wilpot opened his front door.
"I do not know you" he said.
"I do not know you either" Wilhelma replied.
And they embraced as only those who have seen the passing of the generations can embrace.
Wilpot and Wilhelma sat down for tea,
and sandwiches made from Bobbinot's excellent bread.
"I can´t stand it any longer" Wilhelma lamented,
"I can't bear it that the villagers consider you demented!"
"Thank you, thank you for your love!" Wilpot replied.
And they sat together in silence and contemplated
the sweet impossibility of everything.
However - the very next morning
something new occurred...
The villagers were gathered outside the bakery, as usual,
breathing in the smell from the ovens and the early morning air.
"Good morning, Wilpot" said Bobbinot, as usual,
as he opened the bakery for business.
But uncharacteristically,
shockingly,
unprecedentedly,
Wilpot replied loudly
"Bobbinot, good morning! I know who´s who!
I just do not know YOU!"
Bobbinot felt faint, and almost fell over.
The villagers who usually laughed entered a foggy, dreamlike state.
And the villagers who usually shouted were silent.
But Wilhelma and the old villagers,
who had all known Wilpot since he was a boy,
and all heard him speak with the birds,
and heard the birds tell him "we don't know you either",
and seen Wilpot and the birds exchange small gifts
of straw and seeds,
all smiled with relief and delight. *
Mark Josephs, "Mark the Mystic Activist", Aragon, Spain,
Winter 2024/25 Mark facilitates The Conscious Tribes Project. His stories and poems attempt to capture
something of the mood of "intimacy with existence"
at the heart of every Conscious Tribe. www.tribusconscientes.com CONSCIOUS TRIBES Seeds of New Local Communities
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