The Little Blue Boy
A Tale of Awakening
Once upon a time, there was a little blue boy. He lived in Denmark on the edge of the big, blue ocean, and everything was simple.
The sky was simply blue, and the grass was simply green.
Every day was beautiful and calm, and disagreements between people and families were soon mended.
The blue boy never questioned the serenity of his life. It was as the oxygen: plentiful, natural and good.
Then one day a storm arose, seemingly out of nowhere, and houses were suddenly uprooted by mighty winds. Grass was raised…and razed.
The sky turned shades of mighty grey, and the streets grew thick with frightened, angry people.
The little blue boy tried to help. But he was frightened too.
He took his bicycle, put on his coat and his cap, and rode out into the storm, looking for the angry one, the angry energy which had twisted itself into storms, and twisters and earthquakes.
It took the little blue boy a very long time to find the center. The wind struck him down. It held him back.
It kissed him on the brow with a suddenly gentled caress…
…and then slapped him to his bruised knees, stealing his cap from his little blue head.
The little blue boy was feeling very angry now. He left his bike and he began to walk, looking to the darkest part of the storm.
When he arrived, it was as a twister is, mired in wind, and belongings, animals and people, all swept into the Great Storm.
The little blue boy began to cry. What could he do against such enormous power? He was just one little blue boy. But he knew he couldn’t go home – he couldn’t go back.
So he knocked on the cascade of energy before him, and it said, in a stentorious voice, “WHO GOES THERE? WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
The little blue boy said, “I am from the village, and we are frightened. Please stop what you are doing. We want the sun to come back.”
“HA! HA! HA!” boomed the column of angry rain. “HA! HA! HA!”
And it reached out with its wet arms and pulled the boy gently and irrefutably into its wet grasp.
The little blue boy gasped. “I will drown! I will die!” he thought.
But the column had a different idea. Again, it kissed his drenched brow, and ushered him deeper and deeper into the column.
The little blue boy saw layers and levels and colors he could not define. “Papa,” he thought, “would never understand. Too bad he isn’t here to see this for himself.”
And the arms of the column pulled him in, pulled him closer, pulled him nearer. Until finally there he was at the core.
The sky was blue again, but no birds chirped as they used to. And the columns’ arms caressed his little blue back like a father would, and said, “Fear not.”
But the little blue boy said, “But I am afraid. Why do the birds not sing?”
And the wet column answered, “Because a new song is being born. From outside, all you see is my ferocity. You lose the light. But in here is the birthing chamber. It is an honor to be here. Breathe deeply. This is heaven, the start of all new things. Nothing looks as it did before, but beauty is still beauty, and you are a thing of beauty too.”
The little blue boy looked around him in wonder. “What a strange place,” he thought, “at once strange and familiar.”
He was not displeased. The wind was calmer here, new-born, just beginning to find its rhythm.
“How long may I stay?” said the little blue boy.
“Not very long,” said the column. “Those who seek do find this, do find us, but time is short, for the need is great for those who know that Vision and Story are needed.
“Tell this story. This story of destruction and rebirth. This story of pain and survival. This story of how disaster so loves you, it breathes you, holds you, kisses you, scrapes your knees, and kisses your brow.
“There is a core you walk within, always. You are here, always.
“Now go. You are loved.”
Emerging after some time from the rainy column, the little blue boy made his way home. His hat had blown away – he would have to tell his mother to buy him another one. But he found his bike lying in a large puddle of water, gleaming from the sun.
The SUN?! The SUN was coming out?! No, just a ray. A promise. A step forward. It touched the boy’s face – a gentle caress of light and love and promise.
The little blue boy remembered his promise to the column, and he patiently started his long journey home to tell his story.
The sky was simply blue, and the grass was simply green.
Every day was beautiful and calm, and disagreements between people and families were soon mended.
The blue boy never questioned the serenity of his life. It was as the oxygen: plentiful, natural and good.
Then one day a storm arose, seemingly out of nowhere, and houses were suddenly uprooted by mighty winds. Grass was raised…and razed.
The sky turned shades of mighty grey, and the streets grew thick with frightened, angry people.
The little blue boy tried to help. But he was frightened too.
He took his bicycle, put on his coat and his cap, and rode out into the storm, looking for the angry one, the angry energy which had twisted itself into storms, and twisters and earthquakes.
It took the little blue boy a very long time to find the center. The wind struck him down. It held him back.
It kissed him on the brow with a suddenly gentled caress…
…and then slapped him to his bruised knees, stealing his cap from his little blue head.
The little blue boy was feeling very angry now. He left his bike and he began to walk, looking to the darkest part of the storm.
When he arrived, it was as a twister is, mired in wind, and belongings, animals and people, all swept into the Great Storm.
The little blue boy began to cry. What could he do against such enormous power? He was just one little blue boy. But he knew he couldn’t go home – he couldn’t go back.
So he knocked on the cascade of energy before him, and it said, in a stentorious voice, “WHO GOES THERE? WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
The little blue boy said, “I am from the village, and we are frightened. Please stop what you are doing. We want the sun to come back.”
“HA! HA! HA!” boomed the column of angry rain. “HA! HA! HA!”
And it reached out with its wet arms and pulled the boy gently and irrefutably into its wet grasp.
The little blue boy gasped. “I will drown! I will die!” he thought.
But the column had a different idea. Again, it kissed his drenched brow, and ushered him deeper and deeper into the column.
The little blue boy saw layers and levels and colors he could not define. “Papa,” he thought, “would never understand. Too bad he isn’t here to see this for himself.”
And the arms of the column pulled him in, pulled him closer, pulled him nearer. Until finally there he was at the core.
The sky was blue again, but no birds chirped as they used to. And the columns’ arms caressed his little blue back like a father would, and said, “Fear not.”
But the little blue boy said, “But I am afraid. Why do the birds not sing?”
And the wet column answered, “Because a new song is being born. From outside, all you see is my ferocity. You lose the light. But in here is the birthing chamber. It is an honor to be here. Breathe deeply. This is heaven, the start of all new things. Nothing looks as it did before, but beauty is still beauty, and you are a thing of beauty too.”
The little blue boy looked around him in wonder. “What a strange place,” he thought, “at once strange and familiar.”
He was not displeased. The wind was calmer here, new-born, just beginning to find its rhythm.
“How long may I stay?” said the little blue boy.
“Not very long,” said the column. “Those who seek do find this, do find us, but time is short, for the need is great for those who know that Vision and Story are needed.
“Tell this story. This story of destruction and rebirth. This story of pain and survival. This story of how disaster so loves you, it breathes you, holds you, kisses you, scrapes your knees, and kisses your brow.
“There is a core you walk within, always. You are here, always.
“Now go. You are loved.”
Emerging after some time from the rainy column, the little blue boy made his way home. His hat had blown away – he would have to tell his mother to buy him another one. But he found his bike lying in a large puddle of water, gleaming from the sun.
The SUN?! The SUN was coming out?! No, just a ray. A promise. A step forward. It touched the boy’s face – a gentle caress of light and love and promise.
The little blue boy remembered his promise to the column, and he patiently started his long journey home to tell his story.
