Every morning, before dawn, a man walked down to the beach and picked up a stone. He chose it carefully, turned it between his fingers, weighed it. Then he slipped it into the pocket of his coat and continued his walk.
At first it was just one stone. Then two. Then a handful. The people of the village watched him pass, bent under the weight of a jacket that now seemed like an armor of rocks, and they wondered why. But he never answered. He rarely looked at them and only occasionally smiled with his eyes.
One day, a man gathered his courage or perhaps just his curiosity, and approached him. “Can I help you? Can I carry some of your stones?”
The man looked at him for a long time. Then he shook his head. “They’re not mine.”
“Then why do you take them? And where do you take them?”
“Look around you.”
“Around where?”
The man didn’t answer. He picked up another stone and put it in his pocket.
Weeks passed. The man did not slow down. Each additional stone seemed to make him walk more slowly, but he never stopped. Some began to notice that in the morning, that jacket was empty. Where did the stones go?
Someone decided to follow him, to understand, and observed him. He saw the man arrive at the cliff, open his coat, and, one by one, pull out the stones. But he didn’t throw them away. He placed them gently on a flat rock, arranged them carefully, caressed them. Then he sat beside them and remained silent, watching the sea.
The next day, another man stopped him and asked: “Why won’t you let anyone help you?”
This time the man stopped. He took off his coat, opened it, and held it out to him. “Take one,” he said. “Just one.”
The man reached his hand into the pocket. He gripped it. It was smooth, warm. When he pulled it out, he looked at it: it was a very ordinary stone, with no special marks or unique shapes, just a stone.
“What’s so special about this stone that you pick it up and carry it with you?” The man reached out, took the rock, put it back in his pocket, buttoned his coat, and as he walked away, he whispered:
“You see,” he said, “you can’t carry my stones if you don’t feel them as your own.”
The man said nothing. He didn’t know what to say and watched him walk away.
Standing with your hands in your pockets watching someone sacrifice themselves is not right, especially if that someone does not sacrifice themselves for you too. Sometimes you don’t know how to help, but not doing anything is wrong. Sometimes you would just like to watch, even seeing the effort of others, and that is wrong. Sometimes you see someone reach an obstacle and turn back, or even worse, go around it, and that is wrong.
The man with the jacket moved the stones to make the path safe, without being understood, without even understanding it himself, and he was wrong, until one day, while placing one of the stones on the cliff, he felt it cold, distant, far away, not his. In that moment he understood that by helping those who did not see him, did not understand him, did not appreciate him, in the end he was helping no one, not even himself. He let it fall, closed his jacket, and walked away. No one ever saw him on those beaches again, no one ever saw him picking up stones again. No one ever wondered what had become of him. And that was his true defeat.
Just to say. CJJ
P4Y – Step 60 – Il peso delle pietre
Ogni mattina, prima dell’alba, un uomo scendeva in spiaggia e raccoglieva una pietra. La sceglieva con cura, la rigirava tra le dita, la soppesava. Poi la infilava nella tasca del cappotto e proseguiva la sua camminata.
All’inizio era solo una pietra. Poi due. Poi una manciata. La gente del villaggio lo vedeva passare, curvo sotto il peso di una giacca che ormai sembrava un’armatura di sassi, e si chiedeva perché. Ma lui non rispondeva mai. Difficilmente li guardava e raramente si limitava a sorridere con gli occhi.
Un uomo, un giorno, si fece coraggio o forse solo per curiosità, e si avvicinò. “Posso aiutarti? Posso portare qualcuna delle tue pietre?”
L’uomo lo guardò a lungo. Poi scosse la testa. “Non sono mie.”
“Perché le prendi allora? E dove le porti?”
“Guardati intorno”
“Intorno dove?”
L’uomo non rispose, prese un’altra pietra e la mise in tasca.
Passarono le settimane. L’uomo non rallentava. Ogni pietra in più sembrava farlo camminare più piano, ma mai una volta si fermò. Qualcuno cominciò a notare che la mattina, quella giacca era vuota. Dove finivano le pietre?
Qualcuno decise di seguirlo, per capire e lo osservò. Vide l’uomo arrivare sulla scogliera, aprirsi il cappotto e, una a una, estrarre le pietre. Ma non le gettava via. Le posava con delicatezza su una roccia piatta, le disponeva con cura, le accarezzava. Poi si sedeva accanto a loro e restava in silenzio a guardare il mare.
Il giorno dopo, un altro uomo lo fermò e gli chiese: “Perché non ti lasci aiutare?”
L’uomo questa volta si fermò. Si tolse il cappotto, lo aprì, e glielo porse. “Prendine una”, disse. “Una sola.”
L’uomo infilò la mano nella tasca. La strinse. Era liscia, calda. Quando la tirò fuori, la guardò: era una pietra normalissima, non aveva segni particolari o forme uniche, era solo una pietra.
“Cosa ha di speciale questa pietra da prenderla e portarla con te?” L’uomo allungò la mano e prese la roccia e se la mise nuovamente in tasca, si riallacciò il cappotto e mentre si allontanava gli sussurrò:
“Vedi”, disse, “non puoi portare le mie pietre se non le senti anche tue.”
L’uomo non disse nulla, non sapeva cosa dire e lo guardò andare via.
Stare con le mani in tasca a guardare qualcuno che si sacrifica non è giusto, ancor di più se quel qualcuno non si sacrifica anche per te.
Alcune volte non si sa come aiutare, ma non farlo è sbagliato.
Alcune volte si vorrebbe solo guardare, pur vedendo la fatica altrui, ed è sbagliato.
Alcune volte si vede qualcuno arrivare all’ostacolo e tornare indietro o peggio ancora girarci intorno, ed è sbagliato.
L’uomo con la giacca un giorno, posando una delle pietre sulla scogliera la sentì fredda, distante, lontana, non sua. In quel momento capì che aiutando non aiutava. La lasciò lì, si chiuse la giacca e se ne andò. Nessuno lo vide più su quelle spiagge, nessuno lo vide più raccogliere i sassi. Nessuno più si domandò che fine avesse fatto. E quella fu la sua vera sconfitta.
Cosi. Per dire. CJJ
