A Box of Good Fortune

There once was a brown paper box with four sides, a top and a bottom. If you shook it you would know it was empty but if you held it you might see the wondrous inside.

There it sat quietly day by day in the park. Once delivered by a stranger who just dropped it off and carefully placed it on the lawn. The wrapping paper blew away long ago. Never said a word it didn't but absorbed much it did, made of cardboard and all. Took it all in, all types of weather and even the words unspoken.

People discovered it and there were many curious. Why, in fact it's rather suspicious just sitting there not doing a thing. One man decided to speak to it. So an observer did the same, just for fun. This caught on. Just about anyone could speak to the box even a Nobody. All they had to do was shout right into it or whisper sweetly. The box shivered.

By a strange stroke of luck the box began giving back in these intentions or was it nonsense. It was a “thing” so the box went along with it. Word spread for miles and soon there were line ups of people who wished to talk to it or get close enough to touch it. People who spoke nicely to the box glowed, healed, thought wondrous things and were blessed with great imagination or good fortune.

There was never any mystery to it but over time things changed. An “aha” quickly changed to oh, how to use it. With loving flows the box itself would glow. Now there was mystery. Now there was temptation. Many tried to take it but it couldn't budge because it was so laden with intent. Every day people would sit beside the box and leave an impression. Some would talk for hours and for others a moment would do. A thing like energy never transpired unless the holder of the box was so inspired.

The people gave the box a name. They called it “Muse.”

One day a child fashioned a thinking cap out of newspaper and put it on the box. He tottered away quite pleased with himself, “now it can think!” The box rolled it's eyes, “I always could.”

One day the box heard music and this very much pleased it. Heavy sigh. Another day a homeless person set his head inside it as if to sleep in it. Heavy cry. An artist too painted it. A woman once meditated on it. A dog even watered it. A person jogging by blew it a kiss. Quite the box is this!

Many faces peered into it over time. The guilty saw their own shadow. The innocent saw a canvas of it. Each and every person saw something different in this mysterious box sitting all by itself. But never once did anyone ask it how it shone, how it worked. An inspiration in the course of a season. They each left their own gift in heartfelt greeting.

Then one day a gentleman sat down to hold it. “I have nothing to give Muse,” he thought. The box smiled, “that's ok, I have nothing either so I give to you my smile,” and the man walked away smiling.

The box never knew such a thing as power so it couldn't be tempted otherwise. If the box is infinitesimal mind then we are one with it when we are kind. When we are light.

If the Muse could speak what would it say? If a smile is the weather of a soul then piece by piece make your box whole and regard it so.

The End

Poems I, by Lisa A Lachapelle

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By Lisa Lachapelle, Writer, Author. More of her work here and here.