crumbs of wisdom: The Donkey at the Gates of the Kingdom of Heaven

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

The Donkey at the Gates of the Kingdom of Heaven

a short story by David Rutschman

Once, a donkey ascended to the shining gates of the kingdom of heaven. The gates were open. The donkey heard music more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined. Each note was a star going supernova, a pack of wolves running down an elk over snow. The song poured itself into the world. The donkey stood transfixed. Without thinking, he opened his mouth and brayed.

Instantly the music stopped. There was total silence.

His bray had been off-key, awful. A donkey's sound.

Slowly the gates of the kingdom of heaven began to swing shut. The donkey didn't know what to do, whether he should advance or retreat. The light was blinding. He took one trembling step forward, then another. He couldn't see a thing.

The donkey brayed again, knowing it would not be beautiful. He was right; it wasn't beautiful. It was his same old donkey bray. He did it again and again. He couldn't tell if the gates were open now or closed, or even where they were exactly. He shut his eyes and thought about the entirety of his life. He remembered eating hay, carrying firewood.

He brayed again. He did. He let it rip. He kept his eyes closed and staggered forward, belting it out. Carrier of firewood, eater of hay. He took his whole life's only song and he employed it -- step after step into brightness, into terrible dazzling light.

---

David Rutschman is a Soto Zen priest and hospice grief counselor in California. This short story, from his forthcoming first collection, appears in the April 2017 issue of The Sun Magazine.

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from "Crumbs of Wisdom" by Penelope Lively:

Elaine, a writing teacher, has taken her class on a field trip to the home of Ruth Harrap, an aging romance writer.

"What we’re all wondering," Elaine went on brightly, "is, what advice would you give to the aspiring writer?"

"The who?"

"Aspiring writer. The, you know, person who wants to write."

"You needn’t spell it out," said Ruth Harrap tartly, displaying her first sign of animation. "I couldn’t hear you, that’s all." She paused. "Don’t. That’s what I’d say."

Elaine laughed merrily. "Oh, I do understand. I mean, in my humble way I’ve toiled in the vineyard as well. I know. It’s grueling. Punishing. But the rewards, Miss Harrap! And I don’t of course mean financial rewards. The artistic satisfaction. All that."

There was a silence. The author stared at Elaine, her face knotted in disapproval. "That may be your experience, for what it’s worth. It’s not mine. I never wrote but for cash. I wanted to be a buyer in a department store. Never got promotion. Ten years in china and gifts, I was, and then all those books, and I don’t know which was worst." She heaved herself to her feet again. "You’d better have some tea before you go. How many with sugar?"