A quiet meal at home. The presentation was like a Monet, small dots of color carefully arranged by the Artist that when looked at from far enough away created a plate that was no longer a collection of different colors and textures but a work of art. Her fork penetrates the picture and raises a sampling of painted perfection to her mouth. Eyes and mind already stimulated, she excitedly awaits her mouth’s arrival into this celebratory exhibition. Her anticipating open mouth closes around the forkful of colors and shapes and texture and she becomes enveloped by a multi-sensory lightshow of flavors, textures and smells. Her tongue engorges as its buds blossom, reaching ever-outward to absorb the light. And as her teeth churn the love-infused gift into a sweet purified butter, the corners of her mouth raise, not only to accommodate the influx of salivary bliss but in appreciation for the condensation of love in a form that could be easily swallowed, prepared from the love of an Artist for his true masterpiece—not the paint and canvas of food and plate but the beautiful love before him which added to his labor of love a golden hue that came not from a brush, but from her own inner wellspring.
He was gladly ready to retire from painting, for here before him was perfection personified; his life’s work could never match nor improve upon this masterpiece. And whether the world saw her and looked upon him as a Master or whether she stayed hidden behind a closed curtain, his knowing that such beauty existed was all he needed to make his life complete.
And then the Scared Little Boy entered the room, an old pattern of painting that he had used as his signature in all his previous works, fetching them a decent price but keeping them from expressing their full value. And with one careless stroke, her hand swept out and slapped the boy across the face, for how jarring it was to have a Scared Little Boy disturb this perfect portrait.
And while the Artist had hoped the Scared Little Boy would have stayed in his room, the love of his artistry seeping under the crack of the door and erasing his fear forever—it didn’t. And he didn’t. And suddenly her countenance had completely changed and his brush could no longer tease her frown back into a smile. And when she withdrew her golden glow, while the form was still impressive, the invisible magic had completely disappeared from the heart of his presentation, leaving it just another meal devoid of flavor.
He scolded the Scared Little Boy and told him to go to his room, that he shouldn’t have opened his mouth and ruined the beauty that the Artist had sought to take out of his heart and put onto canvas all his life. And the boy retreated into his room and muffled his tears in his pillow. And despite the Artist locking the boy in his room, he could still hear his tears, feel his anguish. And so could she. There were no Scared Little Boys in her picture perfect dinner and so she left, leaving an unfinished meal on the table, no longer having a taste for the savory sauce of the Artist’s cooking.
The artist paced the room, fuming at the Scared Little Boy’s insolence. He threw the plate against the wall, ceramic shattering into little pieces of color, food rearranging itself on the wall and floor in a chaotic pattern, no longer placed with care by a loving hand, no longer having the wholeness that her presence provided. And then he sat, head in his hands, tears in his eyes, and realized that at that moment he, too, was a Scared Little Boy.
And so he opened the door and sat beside the Scared Little Boy for now he saw that being scared was not something that could be wished away by ignoring it. And rather than admonishing the Scared Little Boy like a soldier who had fallen out of step, he put his arm around him and loved him like a parent who wanted all of his children happy—even the most difficult.
He explored with the Scared Little Boy why he was afraid and whether his fear was based on old worries of monsters under the bed or what may be lurking in the closet. The Artist’s love for the Scared Little Boy became a nightlight that protected him from his fear of the dark, at least until he became brave enough to know that neither dark nor light could change what he knew to be true.
And soon the Scared Little Boy’s heaving sobs turned to small ripples. And then with more patience, the teary lakes in his eyes became clear and reflected back at the Artist the love he felt for the Scared Little Boy, which came from the same source in which he had seasoned the meal he prepared for her. Suddenly the Scared Little Boy in his arm had dissolved and in his place sat a Brave Little Man who was ready to paint again.
But now she was gone. And his calls went unanswered. And his letters went unread. And his love remained bottled, looking for a glass to pour himself into before the pressure of undrunk champagne exploded, destroying the bottle and wasting the valuable elixir it contained. He removed the cap, knowing that his essence would go flat without her imbibing it in a timely fashion. But he really didn’t care. His sparkling wine, his bouquet, his love, was meant for her glass alone.
And with more unanswered invitations, soon his empty glass filled with his own salty sorrow. And now no one’s love, not even his own, could enter his glass without becoming tainted with tears.
He didn’t intend to hide the Scared Little Boy from her. He was so caught up in his loving preparation of his artistry that he had forgotten The Scared Little Boy was in the other room, behind a closed door. He wondered if he had locked the door, if the Scared Little Boy had been contained, if their meal would have been followed by the sweetest dessert of their lovemaking. But the Scared Little Boy could not stay quiet in his room forever, for this is not the nature of Scared Little Boys, and when he finally came out he would probably destroy any masterpiece they had created.
That is, unless she put an arm around him, assured him that he had nothing to be scared of, that she would love him as a vital part of her new family regardless of his behavior.
And then the Artist’s sadness for his muse turned memory shifted to shame, as he realized that he had denied his Son, the Scared Little Boy, expression for so long…when a loving embrace was all he needed.
But perhaps it is never too late to accept your family for who they are, throw your arm around them, and let love inspire you to paint your pictures once again.
“Sometimes it will be frightening, scary, because you will be going into spaces you are not acquainted with. You will be moving beyond yourself. You will be entering into the unknown. And the unknown is always frightening. The new creates great fear. With the old, one feels perfectly comfortable…always cozy, snug. With the new, you have to learn again…you have to become a child again…and again and again—because the old knowledge, the old experience, the old life, will have no meaning in the new. It will be irrelevant. You will suddenly feel ignorant facing the unknown. Hence the fear! Hence the clinging to the past.”
—Osho, Walk without feet, Fly without wings, and Think without mind