Painted pebbles

21 Oct

I saw the man as I was about to step into the Japanese shinto temple. He sat quietly in the shade of a tree and with a brush painted what I later realised were little rocks and pebbles.

 The rocks and pebbles were whitewashed first, and then with simple blue and red lines,  he breathed into life a collection of cute little rabbits and cats. I was already very tempted to buy them, to give them as gifts, if not to friends. I looked more closely, and noticed then that all that was left of his left hand was a stump. 

The man continued painting quietly, and when I picked up a little pebble, he said: "One for thirty [New Taiwan Dollars], three for a hundred". 

Only thirty dollars (around one US dollar) I thought to myself. All the amount of time and effort the man spends on shifting through the river bank to find a decently sized and smooth pebbles to draw on, all the time and effort he spends on meticulously drawing the pebbles, and he sells them for the same amount of money as a can of coke...

I picked out a few cats, and then picked out a few rabbits. On the small table he displayed his painted pebbles, was a stack of photocopies with writing on them. Perhaps he saw me glance at the writing, he told me to take one. "I wrote this myself, and I want to share it with people."

It was a little essay, short and poetic, simple but meaningful. It was titled     , and the basic message was that when you give, give wholeheartedly, give without wanting or expecting anything in return. Giving is in itself a reward, a joy and a free gift. Those who give will also receive, somehow, somewhere down the line. "It's the way of the universe, the way of the Dhamma," he said, with a kind smile and soft complexion. 

I looked into his eyes and saw the reflection of a kind, gentle soul, a nobody not wanting to be anybody, yet through his quiet giving and acts of charity he was a noble and humble giver, an example to many. 

As I was choosing painted cats and rabbits, he took out a little photo album from under his table. "I make living from these pebbles, but part of my money I donate." There were pictures of the man holding up bags of rice with families, with children. "I use some of the money I make here to help three families in need." 

I browsed through the picture. One of the men was in a wheelchair, another looked very thin and sickly. Other than bags of rice, there were also pictures of the painter with noodles, bags of salt and vegetables. 

And there was a picture of the man next to a river holding a bucket. In the next picture were fish. "I sometimes go to the market and buy animals to release." It's common to do that in Taiwan, and some temples encourage that as a means of generating merit and compassion. 

I was touched by his message, and by his ability to work hard to make a living despite missing a hand. And not only that, he has this infectious and encouraging spirit of giving and charity above all else.

I bid him farewell, put my hands together and bowed gently out of respect. In the end, I walked away with a heavy bag containing ten painted pebbles and a light heart knowing I've helped a man, and many more people.