from 1st Stories from the Front, April 25 1998
Once upon a time, in a mythical land that parallels and mirrors our own. This small community was formed by the will and hard work of this citizens. Land was cleared, crops planted, homes, a school and a gathering place were built. Each evening, when the work of the day was done, the little community would gather to share thoughts, experiences, and dreams; and to listen to one another.
Then a change came to that place. There was no sudden shift, it came gradually. The community grew, there were more people, and there was prosperity. More work, of a different sort was required to run the community. There were meetings, leaders emerged, then a system for doing things, steps to follow, bureaucracy.
The evening gatherings continued, but they had changed. There was no longer room for all of the community to gather. There were newcomers, strangers, and people on the fringe. Not all of the people could be heard; not all of the people could be understood. In their impatience to be heard, many forgot to listen. There was not enough time to share the thoughts, experiences and dreams.
Then something else crept in, slowly, like the changes. It was an illness, and its symptoms were evident to those who chose to see: a change of heart - not hardening, just indifference; a change of mind, reflected in distracted gazes; a change in body - silence and inaction.
Only the very old and the very young could see the cause of the illness, and then only by looking out of the corners of their eyes. What they saw were ghost-like wraiths wielding long, sharp needles. These spirits would approach an unsuspecting victim, the needles darting in and out like dragonflies, sewing shut the people's hearts; sewing shut the people's imaginations; sewing shut the people's minds and lips; sewing together their hands and feet.
They were the Spirits of Indifference.
One evening, an Old One was telling stories to a child while the child's mother worked at some chore nearby.
"Tell me what it was like in the old days," the child begged, and the Old One spoke of the gatherings, the stories, the neighbourliness. She told of a time when people knew and cared for each other, when everyone in the community had a little garden patch, when neighbors shared their produce and themselves.
"Mr. Janzen always planted too many zucchini," she chuckled. "He would have so many he'd go all around town after dark leaving zucchini on people's porches."
The child laughed but stopped suddenly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a spirit, needle flashing in the lamplight, heading straight for her mother. But before the spirit could begin its dreadful work, the mother spoke: "We could do that again, you know."
The spirit froze at the words, and the Old One, who had not seen it, said laughingly "Sneak around in the dark leaving zucchini?"
"No, we could have gardens. Maybe share garden space…have community gardens…share the produce with those who need it."
"What will the garden look like? I want to see it!" said the child.
"I will show you, I will sew," said the Old One. And spotting the needle on the floor she picked it up and used it to create a picture of cloth.
The next day the mother went to her neighbors with her idea. People came together in the evening and talked about their needs. The ideas flew. "We could have a collective kitchen as well," said the woman. "And what about a place for the children to be together while we work?" said another. The people shared their thoughts and dreams. They listened to each other. The child brought out the cloth picture and the people, noticing needles on the floor, picked them up and began to plan out their ideas in cloth.
Soon the community hummed with new life. The strange illness disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived. It was odd that long sharp needles were found all around that community, appearing most thickly on the ground in places where the people were involved with one another.
The adults never knew where the needles came from. Only the every young and the very old could see the spirits of indifference dissolving, and each time one disappeared, its needle fell to the ground.
Those needles that had wielded a deadly power before, were picked up and used in new ways - creative ways - that recorded in cloth and thread the visions that the community, working together, created in health and vigor.
That town, that mythical place, that mirror or ourselves, that parallel tapestry, is as close as we believe it to be. As close as we will it to be.
All we have to do is reach out and pick up those needles if imagination, creatively, cooperation, and hard work. With those needles, we, too, can vanquish the deadly disease of indifference.
Mary-Eileen McClear (April 25, 1998)