Words, words, words...
From the mid-nineteenth to the early twentieth century, there lived a great Jewish sage in the town of Raduń.
This Rabbi had dedicated himself to teaching people about the power of speech, the importance of guarding ones tongue, and the terrible cost of gossip, cruel words and falsehood.
One day, a man came to him asking for his help. He had a terrible predilection for harmful speech, he explained. All his life long, he had peddled gossip and slander, and given in to his temptation to say cruel and heedless things.
Now he wanted to change. He asked the Rabbi, what penance should he do? How should he go about undoing what he'd done?
The Rabbi asked him, "Do you have a feather bed?"
Taken aback, the man replied, "Yes."
The Rabbi said, "Take your feather bed into the town square on a windy day. Stand at the very centre of town, and shake the feather bed until it is empty of feathers. Then come back to me."
The man, puzzled but delighted that his penance was such a simple one, ran home to follow the Rabbi's instructions. Then very next windy day saw him in the centre of town with his feather bed. He shook it until his arms were sore, and the winds blew his feathers hither and yon, until they had spread so far that he couldn't even see them all. When he had emptied the bed, the man returned to the Rabbi.
"Did you do as I instructed you?" asked the Rabbi.
"Yes," said the man.
"You shook out all the feathers?"
"Yes!" he replied.
"And they have been taken up by the wind?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Good," said the Rabbi. "Now go collect them, and bring them back to me."
The man's face fell. Collect all the feathers after they had been scattered to the four winds? Was such a thing possible?
But the Rabbi had given him instructions, and he was determined to comply. All that day, he combed the village for his feathers. He searched the streets and the yards and the alleyways earnestly, but to no avail. By sunset, he had collected only a handful of feathers.
He returned to the Rabbi with his meagre harvest.
"Oh, Rabbi," he cried. "I've searched the town from morning to night, but it's no use! The feathers are gone!"
The Rabbi said to him, "Indeed, the feathers are gone. Your words, too, they are gone. The pain they may have caused, the broken friendships, the blighted happiness, the lost livelihood, these cannot be undone."
Yeah. I wish I hadn't said it.
This Rabbi had dedicated himself to teaching people about the power of speech, the importance of guarding ones tongue, and the terrible cost of gossip, cruel words and falsehood.
One day, a man came to him asking for his help. He had a terrible predilection for harmful speech, he explained. All his life long, he had peddled gossip and slander, and given in to his temptation to say cruel and heedless things.
Now he wanted to change. He asked the Rabbi, what penance should he do? How should he go about undoing what he'd done?
The Rabbi asked him, "Do you have a feather bed?"
Taken aback, the man replied, "Yes."
The Rabbi said, "Take your feather bed into the town square on a windy day. Stand at the very centre of town, and shake the feather bed until it is empty of feathers. Then come back to me."
The man, puzzled but delighted that his penance was such a simple one, ran home to follow the Rabbi's instructions. Then very next windy day saw him in the centre of town with his feather bed. He shook it until his arms were sore, and the winds blew his feathers hither and yon, until they had spread so far that he couldn't even see them all. When he had emptied the bed, the man returned to the Rabbi.
"Did you do as I instructed you?" asked the Rabbi.
"Yes," said the man.
"You shook out all the feathers?"
"Yes!" he replied.
"And they have been taken up by the wind?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Good," said the Rabbi. "Now go collect them, and bring them back to me."
The man's face fell. Collect all the feathers after they had been scattered to the four winds? Was such a thing possible?
But the Rabbi had given him instructions, and he was determined to comply. All that day, he combed the village for his feathers. He searched the streets and the yards and the alleyways earnestly, but to no avail. By sunset, he had collected only a handful of feathers.
He returned to the Rabbi with his meagre harvest.
"Oh, Rabbi," he cried. "I've searched the town from morning to night, but it's no use! The feathers are gone!"
The Rabbi said to him, "Indeed, the feathers are gone. Your words, too, they are gone. The pain they may have caused, the broken friendships, the blighted happiness, the lost livelihood, these cannot be undone."
Yeah. I wish I hadn't said it.