A short while ago, an Internet parable made a deep impression on me. Here is my version:
Once upon a time, in an era not too far removed from ours, there thrived a farm in a green valley on the other side of Utopia’s border. Given that it was the other side of Utopia, things were not always perfect. Despite the sylvan settings of the incredibly productive, picture-perfect farm, there swept across the land, monsoonal storms of great ferocity every quarter laying waste to the efforts of the 12 weeks that had passed it.
One morning, a serene, comfortably dressed stranger presented himself at the door of the farm owner’s cottage. He was seeking employment on the farm and had remarkably little to say beyond a few words of introduction. Since resumes were not yet invented, he handed a scroll of recommendation to his potential employer. The curious farm owner opened it to find it sealed with the crest of the largest landowner. The golden parchment had a single line etched in a fine turquoise ink. It read: ‘He sleeps in a Storm.”
Now, the owner recovering the ferocity of the last week’s storm was desperate for help. His farm hands had abandoned swearing, never to return to this particular realty show. So, the serene stranger was hired. Twelve sun-blessed weeks passed on the farm that bordered Utopia. Then in predictable fury, the powerful storm returned to rip and destroy everything in the valley. Awakened by the torrential rain and howling winds, the weary owner leapt out of his bed, calling desperately for his new hand who did not hear the frenzied knocking on his door. The man slept soundly, above the howl of the wind, lashing of the training, and the occasional crash of debris.
So the Owner dashed to the nearby barn and to his amazement, saw that it had been reinforced with logs and stood firm against the raging storm. The animals inside were secure and grazed placidly with plenty of feed. He raced against the pelting rain to his field, where he saw the bales of wheat had been bound securely, wrapped in tarpaulin, preventing even a sheaf from being inundated in the rain that cascaded in torrential streams down the ash-grey valley. In a final dash of adrenalin, he sprinted to the his favourite silo and discovered its doors securely locked and the grain, dry.
He then understood why the scroll read: 'He sleeps in a Storm'.
And so, Friend, if we tend to the things that are most important to our lives, we become like the serene stranger who slept through his storm. Indeed, I have heard that on the right side of Utopia, ‘Sleeping in a Storm’ is the best way to find out if you are living your Happily-Ever-After.
