Hello dear ones and welcome to today's story,
The Well in the Desert.
A young man named Yusuf had heard stories of the master since he was a child,
The one they called the greatest,
Whose words on the nature of the soul had caused equal parts wonder and controversy.
From Andalusia to Anatolia,
Yusuf had read everything the master had written or so he believed.
He had studied with three teachers before this one.
He had earned the admiration of his peers.
He was 26 years old and already being called,
In certain quarters,
A prodigy.
He crossed the desert on foot to reach the master's house.
It took 40 days.
He ran out of water twice.
He lost his sandals to the heat of the stones.
He arrived at dusk,
Hollow-eyed and sunburned,
And was received with kindness.
Water,
Dates,
A mat to sleep on,
The simple dignity of being looked after without being asked to explain himself.
In the morning,
He presented himself in the courtyard,
Freshly washed and eager.
The master was an old man by then,
Good-shouldered still,
With eyes that seemed to have seen a great deal and forgiven most of it.
I have come to learn the secrets of the heart,
Yusuf said.
He then recited,
Concisely,
Impressively,
The content of his studies.
Logic and theology,
The science of the stars,
The principles of sacred geometry,
The symbolism of the divine names.
He had a good voice for recitation.
He knew this.
The master listened without expression.
When Yusuf finished,
The old man said,
Good,
Now come with me.
He led the young man to a well at the centre of the courtyard.
It was a plain well,
Deep and cool,
The stone around its lip worn smooth by generations of hands.
The master lowered a clay jar on a long rope,
Let it sink into the darkness below,
And drew it back up.
The jar was full of cold,
Clear water.
He set it in the shade.
Now you,
He said,
And handed Yusuf a second jar.
Yusuf looked at it.
It was packed solid.
Sand,
Pebbles,
Small stones,
Dry earth pressed in tight.
He lowered it anyway.
He felt it hit the bottom of the water.
He let it sit.
Then he drew it up again.
It held exactly what it had carried down.
He tried again.
Same result.
He turned the jar over on the stones and knocked it against the lip of the well,
Until the last of the sand and grit fell out.
Then he lowered it a third time.
When he drew it up now,
It was heavy with cold water,
Clean and cold,
Catching the morning light.
The master had sat down in the shade and was watching with what Yusuf could only describe as a complete absence of hurry.
Your learning is not wrong,
The old man said at last.
Do not misunderstand me.
A jar that has never held anything is fragile.
The clay has not yet been tested.
But yours is not empty.
It is full.
And fullness in this work is another kind of poverty.
And what am I to do with everything I know?
You are not to throw it away.
You are to stop being attached to the fact of knowing it.
He paused.
Go home.
Sit in silence for a year.
Let the certainties loosen.
Let the questions become more interesting than the answers.
Come back when you no longer arrive at the door,
Convinced you already know what you are here to learn.
Yusuf stood for a long time by the empty jar.
The water in the master's jar caught the light.
Somewhere in the garden,
A single dove was calling.
He bowed to the master.
And he began the long walk home.
He was,
The stories say,
Gone for two years,
Not one.
When he returned,
He arrived quietly.
He sat at the back of the courtyard and asked nothing.
The master looked at him for a long moment,
Then nodded.
Just once,
As if something had been confirmed.
They did not speak of it again.
There was,
By them,
No need.
