11/22/2024
There was once a mouse who lived in a corner of the world so small and sweet that it seemed no greater than the length of her tail. Her house was round and warm, made of books and wool and cups of tea, and the fireplace inside it never stopped crackling softly, as if whispering secrets from the heart of the earth.
One quiet afternoon, as the tea steamed gently on the table and the fire crackled softly in the hearth, two visitors came to Mouse’s door: Wisdom, who smelt faintly of candle wax and old leather, and Philosophy, who wore robes made of pages torn from forgotten books. Wisdom’s patched coat trailed in the dust, and her boots squeaked faintly, though she did not seem to mind. Philosophy's voice carried the weight of questions that no one had yet answered, and when she spoke, it was like the echo of footsteps on a stone path, disappearing into mist.
Mouse was sitting at her little table, surrounded by strawberries and biscuits and a tart heaped high with cream, and she was quite content. “Come in, come in,” she said, for Mouse was nothing if not gracious. “The fire is warm, the tea is hot, and the biscuits are crisp.”
They sat together, the three of them, in the glow of the firelight, and for a while, they said nothing. Then Wisdom, who always began such things, spoke. “Mouse,” she said, “what do you believe about happiness? You, with your biscuits and your strawberries. Is it enough to sit and sip tea?”
Mouse tilted her head and thought for a moment, for she was never one to answer in haste. “Happiness,” she said at last, “is the soft crumble of a biscuit. It is the sound of cream folding into chocolate and the brightness of a strawberry as it bursts on your tongue. It is not large, and it is not far away.”
Wisdom smiled a little, but it was Philosophy who leaned forward, her millions of pages rustling like leaves on the trees. “But Mouse,” she said, her voice full of the weight of things unsaid, “what of the big questions? Why are we here? What is the purpose of life? Do you not wonder?”
Mouse twitched her whiskers and poured herself another cup of tea. “I wonder every day,” she said. “I wonder at the way a strawberry catches the light. I wonder at the way the fire pops just when I need it to. The world is full of wonders, Philosophy, but they are all small enough to hold.”
Philosophy frowned, not unkindly, but with the sort of frown that meant she was thinking deeply. “But what of the stars, Mouse?” she asked. “The stars are not small. They are vast and unknowable.”
Mouse smiled then, a small smile that curled her whiskers. “Ah, but do you not see, Philosophy? The stars are only large because we are far away. If I held one in my paw, it would be no bigger than a berry. And perhaps just as sweet.”
Wisdom chuckled softly, her patched scarf slipping from her shoulders. “You are clever, Mouse,” she said, “but what would you say to Socrates, who wrote that ‘The unexamined life is not worth living’? Do you examine, or do you simply taste?”
Mouse reached for a biscuit and broke it in half, as if to show its secret. “I taste because I examine,” she said. “Every crumb tells me a story. Every strawberry speaks of sunlight and soil and rain. To taste is to know, and to know is to live.”
For a moment, there was silence, as if the room itself was listening. Then Philosophy spoke again, her voice soft and curious. “But what of love, Mouse? Plato said that ‘Love is the pursuit of the whole.’ What do you pursue, sitting here with your tea?”
Mouse looked at Philosophy, her eyes twinkling behind her tiny glasses. “Ah, but love is not a pursuit, Philosophy,” she said. “It is the thread that binds. It is the cream that softens the tart, the tea that warms the biscuit, the fire that makes the room glow. Love is not something to chase—it is something to notice.”
Wisdom nodded slowly, and Philosophy leaned back, her robes rustling like a thousand unread books. The fire crackled softly, and the strawberries gleamed like little worlds. For a long while, no one spoke, and yet, in the quiet, something profound was said.
At last, Wisdom stood, her boots squeaking faintly as she rose. “Mouse,” she said, “you have taught me something today. The world may be big, but it is also very small.”
“And the smallness,” said Philosophy, her voice as soft as mist, “may be the greatest truth of all.”
Mouse smiled and poured herself another cup of tea. “Perhaps,” she said, “the truth is not something to find but something to taste. And the tasting, I think, is enough.”
And so, Wisdom and Philosophy left Mouse’s little house, their footsteps fading into the night. And Mouse, Best Beloved, stayed by her fire, her world no larger than a strawberry, no smaller than the stars, and entirely enough.
And just so Best Beloveds—whether you’re a newcomer to this cosy little corner or one of the familiar faces who knows where the biscuits are kept—hello and welcome! The fire is crackling, the tea is warm, and there’s always room at the table for one more. Do come in, take off your scarf, and settle in.
What is your philosophy, I wonder? What truths, what wonders, has she placed in your hands like little treasures? Is she a voice that calls you to ponder the stars, or does she sit beside you as you sip your tea, pointing out the beauty in the steam that rises from your cup?
Every one of us has a philosophy tucked somewhere in our hearts, I think. A small, glimmering thing that shapes the way we see the world. If you feel like sharing yours, oh, how I’d love to hear it. And if you’re still searching for it—well, isn’t that the best part of the journey?
Or perhaps you’d rather just sip your tea and nibble a biscuit, and let the questions hang softly in the air. Both are perfectly lovely ways to spend an afternoon, don’t you think?
Before you go (for now, not forever), let me say thank you—truly, thank you—for making this little gathering so magical. Your presence, your thoughts, and even your quiet smiles mean more than words could ever say. I do hope you’ll visit again soon; the tea will be waiting, the fire will be ready, and the biscuits will be crisp (unless someone gets to them first!).
So, until next time, dear hearts, carry a bit of warmth from the fire and a crumb of sweetness from the biscuits with you. And remember, there’s always a seat here for you—right by me, just where you belong.
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