THE SNAIL AND THE ROSE BUSH

The garden was enclosed by a hedge of hazel trees, with fields and meadows stretching beyond. In the center of the garden, a rosebush bloomed, and beneath the rosebush lived a snail. And what was inside the snail? Well, just the snail himself.

"Wait until my time comes," he would say, "I will do grander things than blooming, bearing hazelnuts, or providing milk like cows and sheep."

"To be honest, I expect great things from you," approved the rosebush. "But may I ask when you will do them?"

"I take my time," the snail replied. "You are always in such a hurry. Waiting is more exciting."

A year later, the snail was almost in the same spot beneath the rosebush, basking in the sun. The rosebush had many buds that year, which turned into flowers that were always fresh and new. The snail moved closer.

"Everything is exactly like last year. No progress anywhere. The rosebush still has its roses, but that's as far as it goes."

Summer passed, autumn too, and the rosebush still had buds and flowers, even until the first snowfall. As the weather turned cold and rainy, the rosebush drooped, and the snail buried itself in the earth.

Then, a new year began, and both the little roses and the snail reappeared.

"You're getting old, Mr. Rosebush," the snail said. "You will have to think about withering soon. You have already given everything you could to the world. Whether it served a purpose is another question. I haven't had time to think about it. But it's clear you haven't done anything for your personal growth; otherwise, you would have produced something much better. You'll die soon, and you'll be nothing but bare branches."

"You're scaring me," said the rosebush. "I've never thought about it."

"Of course, you never engage in reflection. Have you ever tried to understand why you bloom and how that happens? Why it happens this way and not some other way?"

"No," replied the rosebush. "I bloomed joyfully because I couldn't do otherwise. A force rose from the earth into me, and another force came from above. I felt a happiness that was always new, always grand, and that's why I had to keep blooming. It was my life; I couldn't do otherwise."

"You've led a very easy life," said the snail.

"Indeed, everything was given to me," agreed the rosebush. "But you have received even more! You are one of those natures that reflect and contemplate, and you have a great talent that will one day astonish the world."

"That's absolutely not my intention," replied the snail. "The world doesn't interest me. How does it concern me? I am content with myself."

"But shouldn't all of us give the best of ourselves to others? To offer what we can? I know I only give my roses, but what about you? What do you give to the world?"

"What have I given? What do I give?" the snail asked. "I spit on the world! It's useless! I'm angry with it! You keep blooming with your roses, and you don't know any better. Let the hazelnut tree produce its nuts, the cows and sheep give their milk; they all have their audience. I only need myself."

And the snail retreated into its shell and closed it.

"It's very sad," lamented the rosebush. "I do my best, and I can't help but keep forming buds and making them bloom. The petals fall, and the wind carries them away. Yet, I've seen a woman place a small rose in her missal; another of my roses found its place on the chest of a beautiful young girl, and another received kisses from a happy child. That brought me great joy, genuine happiness. These are my memories, my life."

And the rosebush continued to bloom in innocence, and the snail continued to doze in its little house because the world did not concern it.

Years and decades passed. The snail and the rosebush turned to dust in the dust. Even the little rose in the missal decayed. But in the garden, new rosebushes bloomed, and at their feet, new snails grew. They always curled up in their shells and spat... the world didn't concern them.

Shall we read this story once more?... It won't be any different.