How to Make Nail Broth

When I was six years old, I read a folktale that I was determined to follow in my own life. Most children have literal minds and I was no exception. It was a tale about a starving peddlar who could not persuade any one on the road to give him even a crust to eat. He was traveling and the people he encountered were deeply suspicious of strangers as well as ungenerous by nature.

The peddlar then decided to use his 'magic' to win his dinner. To the next woman he encountered, he asked not for food but simply for the use of a cooking pot and some water. She was reluctant to oblige, but when he assured her he wanted NOTHING more, she lent him a cauldron and allowed him to take some water from her well.

He then made a fire, set the cauldron over it filled with water, took a single object from his pocket, dropped it into the pot and began to stir.

He did not stir the pot casually but looked at it appraisingly every few moments, tasted the broth repeatedly, shook his head occasionally, returning afterwards to his stirring.

The woman who had lent him her cauldron became curious as to the meal he was preparing. She watched him from a distance, unwilling to let him know that she was interested at first, but finally could not contain her curiosity.

'What are you making?' she asked.

'Oh, this is 'Nail Broth', he replied. 'I have an object that contains great magic here, passed down for generations in my family. To the ignorant, it may appear to be nothing more than a common nail, but it contains the power to create a healthy, delicious broth from nothing more than water.'

A peasant woman, her native common sense and a fundamental belief in the existence of magic warred within her.

'May I taste it?' she asked, determined to get to the truth.

'Oh, of course,' he replied, bowing slightly to her with deep courtesy. 'After all, you lent me the pot that made it possible for me to eat tonight, and I am deeply indebted to you. How could I not ask you to share the most delicious soup you ever will eat in your life?'

'Well, then...' she said.

'Oh, but not yet, madam,' he urged her. 'It has not cooked long enough. The magic takes some time to work. We must wait, I fear...'

She waited with him, watching him stir the pot periodically, and go through an elaborate ritual of tasting and head-shaking. She became a little impatient.

'Surely it is done NOW,' she said.

'Well, it might be,' he replied, 'But you know, I hate to think of you tasting my magical broth and it being anything less than a taste of paradise. It will be wonderful, but it could be improved ever so slightly with one addition.'

By now, she had invested her time in the experiment, and wanted it to be the best soup she ever had tasted.

'What do you need?' she asked.

'Well, you must be an excellent cook yourself and you know soups,' he responded. 'There isn't a soup in the world, even a magical one, that wouldn't benefit from an onion. But I couldn't ask you for one... You have been so generous with the pot.'

The woman begged him to add one of her onions to the soup. After all, it would be a meal to remember and she would be able to tell the entire village about the night she partook in a magical meal.

The peddlar cut the onion and threw it into the broth, then began his ritual once again, stirring and tasting and shaking his head.

The scent of the onion now wafted through the air, making the peasant woman aware that she hadn't had HER dinner yet.

'Surely now?' she asked.

'Well, I expect one could eat it now,' the peddlar replied slowly, 'But I have been thinking. When my father had this magical nail, he told me about the best 'Nail Soup' he ever made. Yes, an Onion was used to flavour it but there was one other ingredient. It is of little consequence, of course. The Nail Broth will be incredible now, but as I have a guest tonight and I would like to reward you for your generosity, I keep thinking about that one little ingredient, all that keeps us from enjoying the perfect Nail Broth.'

'What could that be?' the woman cried. 'Surely I must have it in my garden! Please tell me, sir!'

The peddlar was reluctant at first, forcing her to beg, but finally divulged the nature of the item that would perfect his Nail Broth. All he needed was one or two sprigs of parsley.

'For, of course, parsley is an ingredient that you, madam, use in all your cooking!'

She brought the parsley to him with trembling hands. In her life, she had not experienced anything as exciting as an evening watching a stranger prepare a magical meal for HER.

The odour of the parsley and onion made her dizzy with hunger, but the peddlar still professed himself unsatisfied. As the evening wore on, the woman brought him first a potato, then a cabbage and finally killed a chicken she was saving for the next festival, assuring both herself and the peddlar that a once-in-a-lifetime experience such as this merited every possible ingredient she could give to him.

Each time he suggested another ingredient, she would respond with alacrity that SHE had it and would be delighted to give it to him for his magical stew. He would refuse initially, forcing her to beg.

At last, however, when the meat had cooked fully, the peddlar pronounced the meal ready.

And lo and behold! It proved to be the best dish she ever had eaten!

At the age of six, I didn't understand the psychology of the tale. I thought it WAS the nail that made the stew superior to all others. I begged for a nail and begged for the chance to recreate the recipe.

I therefore made 'Nail Broth' or rather 'Nail Stew' at the age of six and I have to admit that it was the WORST meal I ever had tasted because the broth was permeated by the flavour of METAL!

Throughout my life, this tale has remained a favourite, but I realised suddenly that it is more than a story about a clever psychological trick by a vagabond. It represents a method by which one can infuse life with magic.

During the worst times of my life, I have been able to find one small detail that is magical and make that the centre of my day. Even if it is nothing more than the unexpected appearance of a dove building a nest on a tree outside the house or a wonderful passage in a book, it allows me to rise above the host of problems that face me. It does not SOLVE the problems, and one still must face them, but it does give one a little extra strength and later, when it is in the past and nothing more than memory, those magical moments are what remain most vivid in the mind.

Some experiences are pure magic, and experiences on trips to new places usually rank very high in my memories. Those experiences may stand alone initially, but as time passes, they are linked to other lesser moments to become a powerful magical memory. The full moon in the sky in the rather dangerous and unpleasant town in which I live now will take me back to the memory of the full moon over a castle outside my bedroom in Dolceacqua in Liguria... and then back farther to a night when I walked along the beach on Christmas Eve with my best friend and was half in love with him. Emotions, breathtaking beauty and intangibles such as the scent of the jasmine outside our house are combined in my own personal 'Nail Broth', giving me hope when hope appears lost. Rather like the peddlar on a hostile road, one must find ways to persuade life to continue to give sustenance... and one always can.

Note: I wrote this to give myself hope after the death of my lovely Oranda Cybele.

'The Word of God' and an 'Invisible fairy'

Fleming Lee has written a brilliant post on 'Flights of Pegasus' dissecting the many defects in the Bible. I always have wondered why this 'Book', actually consisting of many different works created at different times for diverse reasons should be categorised as a single work purporting to be the 'Word of God'. Some of these 'books' deal exclusively with the genealogy of an obscure tribe and others deal with wars of conquest and genocide. There are chapters and chapters of ranting and raving spewed forth by priests and leaders against their own people, their enemies and even against God. These books may be of interest to scholars, historians and sociologists but have very little to do with spirituality. Religion should be a spiritual matter, divorced of politics and history. The 'Word of God' could not be reduced to human language in any case.

It does not follow, however, that human beings cannot hear the 'Word of God' but it is something that is carried on the winds, on the wings of music and poetry, refelcted by the light of the moon on the water or the sun's warmth as it awakens plants and other living creatures.

The 'Word of God' is included in that book known as the 'Bible' as much as it is included in the Vedic Hymns, the Popul Vuh, the Edda and the Books of the Dead.
Some of the Psalms do provide glimpses of the Divine and the Song of Solomon and Book of Ecclesiastes contain gems as well. The Creation myth as retold in the book of Genesis, if stripped of its judgmental content contains some elements that hint at the nature of the Divine.

It is a mistake to take any myth literally. Myths, like parables, contain lessons for humanity but never were intended to be literal accounts of events. History often is included in myths but ancient people were able to distinguish between poetry and fact. Why has modern religion been unable to do the same?

In the context of Fleming's legal case for impeachment of Jehovah, one individual responded that this was an argument in favour of atheism, declaring that: 'There's a part of me that would absolutely love it if an invisible fairy were my special friend. I got over that.'

When I read that statement, I was saddened. There is a strange element in 'modern' and 'contemporary' society that insists on separating 'reality' from 'magic' or 'the supernatural'. A child is allowed to believe in magic, but adults are expected to 'get over it'.

I disagree vehemently with that philosophy. In fact, I could cite many philosophers, religious or otherwise who have stated the importance of keeping the child alive in every adult's heart.

Saint-Beuve declared that: 'Each man carries within him the soul of a poet who died young.'

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: 'To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.'

It appears to me that children are closest to the Divine, before their egos begin to obscure their vision. As adults we have a need to control and define our universe. A young child simply accepts his/her limitations and embraces the unknown, knowing there is an infinite expanse beyond the reach of his/her control.

It is ironic that one of my favourite quotes from the 'Bible' is preceded by one that has caused a great amount of damage to our civilisation.

From Corinthians I: 'When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.'

That is St. Paul, of course, a man pursued by his own personal demons to the point that he barely was able to retain his own humanity. He hated women and he had very little compassion in his own life. At moments, he did have some idea of the Nature of the Divine, although for the most part he surrounded those philosophical gems with hosts of petty rules and regulations, prohibitions and warnings.

I would agree with the writer who declared that: 'The reluctance to put away childish things may be a requirement of genius.'

Pablo Picasso believed that the state of being of childhood held the key to artistic greatness, stating: Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.'

Many philosophers and artists believe in exploring 'other states of consciousness and being'. Aldous Huxley and Robert Graves, among others, were driven to explore the 'other realms'. Children naturally are able to enter and exit other realms effortlessly. The world of the imagination is so real to a child and the veil that separates this world from the other is easily penetrated. It is only when adults and society tell a child that events, individuals or objects aren't 'real' that the child begins to distinguish between one sort of reality and another. I don't think that is a positive step, frankly. It may be important to distinguish between different types of reality but there is no virtue in ridding our psyche of the potential to explore other realms or states of being.

There are people who have made 'invisible fairies' a part of their adult psyches and their lives are greatly enriched by that. Life is a lonely affair, even when we are surrounded by people. Furthermore, the 'invisible fairies' created by writers and artists are some of the most beloved characters in every civilisation.