4th
When I was young I went to the Magic Monastery, hoping to join. I expected to be questioned and asked to get letters of recommendation. Instead, the monk handed me a book. “Here, take this. It’s a blank book. Each day you can write down on one page what you have done that day that’s beautiful, worthwhile, noble. When you’ve filled the book that way, you can come back. We’ll look through it and see if we want to take you. And here—here’s a pencil for you—with an eraser.”
Well, I went home and set to work. Each day I tried to think of something beautiful, worthwhile, noble, to do. And at the end of the day I’d write it down, with some satisfaction. But regularly, a few days later, or a few weeks later, when I’d reread it, it would seem so paltry. Then I’d use my eraser.
Well, that was more than thirty years ago. I’ve long since used up the pencil and worn down the eraser. And I gave the book away. How can I go to the Magic Monastery? They need me here. And I need them.
