Our Nature: A Book of Unfinished Parables

By Peter Noel Dunn

Everyone loves a good a story. Just as we need music or dancing, we need stories. It’s universal. After all, humankind has been weaving tales for ages. Stories tell us about our origins, how life works, who we are, and what we share. Who doesn’t love sitting by a fire, listening to a good story? There, as our faces flicker in the firelight and silence quiets our souls, we are carried to that timeless realm of imagination and possibility which is such a fundamental part of our humanity. Storytelling is part of human nature.

Author Peter Noel Dunn’s Our Nature: A Book of Unfinished Parables is a collection of stories with intent and hidden meanings. “The wonderful thing about parables is that they want you to participate. They require interpretation. That’s where the magic is. Since the parable involves you- the reader - more often than not, you become the storyteller.”

Our Nature: A Book of Unfinished Parables is packed with engaging characters and a variety of stories that are masterfully handled. Dunn brings each scene to life, with your imagination a welcome participant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Dec 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781982208820

Peter Noel Dunn

Peter Noel Dunn is an experiential educator and a conservationist. He is the founder and president of La Lucena Foundation which spearheads groundbreaking projects in sustainable living and global citizenry in Latin America. He defines himself as an “obstinate optimist” inspired by thirty years of exploring nature with children. He believes we can do better. To learn more about Peter and his work visit: www.lalucena.org www.peterdunn.net

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 Peter Noel Dunn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-0884-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-0883-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-0882-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018908503

Balboa Press rev. date: 12/14/2018

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1 Everyone Has a Path …

2 It All Begins with Beauty …

3 The Family Tree

4 Communion

5 Being Six

6 In Search of Balance

7 Finding One Grasshopper

8 It’s All Too Easy …

9 Old Questions, New Answers

10 Seven Falls to Manhood

11 The Explorer Within

12 Ordinary Moments in the Forest

13 Coming Home

14 One Beat

Epilogue

About the Author

To family.

Acknowledgements

T he fire that destroyed my home and school in the hills of central Argentina in 2013 triggered a series of major events in my life. This book is one of them.

We arrived in the United States with nothing but two pieces of luggage each and the idea that Boca Raton, Florida, could work, mainly because of its great school district for my twin sons and its proximity to Miami International Airport. My work was still in Argentina, and I was doomed to spend many hours on a plane. We weren’t living a dream. Rather, we were weathering what felt like a nightmare.

Five years later, here we are. My sons, Alec and Corey are in College beginning a new, exciting stage in their lives, always blowing me away with their down-to-earth brilliance. In some small fashion, Our Nature is a testament to their courage and support. So here’s to Corey and Alec, my fantastic companions on this journey, and to Nicole Washburn, who is marvelling everyone with her visionary art.

We were still staying at a hotel on Federal Highway when I met Bethe. I was sent to get some breakfast foods at the nearby Publix supermarket to economize on what was becoming a pretty fat hotel bill. A very simple task, you might say. But I had underestimated the overwhelming abundance of options and was failing miserably at finding the right milk, mainly because I had left my reading glasses back at the hotel; without them, I am nothing. Then a kind, gentle voice came to me from across the aisle. It looks like you need some help. By the time we reached the cereal aisle (so many options!), I felt like I was talking with an old friend. I learnt that her husband, Oscar, was also from Argentina, and we both realised how similar our lives looked. When she asked me what I was doing in Boca Raton, I told her I had come to write a book. Her jaw dropped. Bethe Lee Moulton is the author of Until Brazil and the co-author of Molly Waldo! She is also a writing coach. That day she became my writing coach. My many hours of work with Bethe helped me give shape to the concept of the unfinished parable. So here’s to my friend Bethe, my fantastic guide on this journey.

When I finished writing Our Nature, I felt like I needed to test-drive it and for some reason, I kept thinking about a schoolmate of mine. I wondered what she might make of my book. In school, Roxanna bested me at everything. She was in a league of her own. The last time I saw her, we were in our early twenties; that was twenty-five years ago. After some clumsy detective work, a Facebook friend got Roxanna’s number from her sister. The familiar soprano laughter immediately brought countless childhood memories to the surface, and I knew right there and then that more help was coming my way. Sharp help. Roxanna Keen is one of the smartest people I know. She is caring and generous too. Our Nature was shaped by those qualities and stands for them. So here’s to Roxanna for raising the bar!

Finally, here’s to my family: Mum n’ Dad, Jon and Malc, I love you. You’ve always been there for me. Mark, your magical insight into human nature and your wacky outlook on life has been a treasured source of lightheartedness and inspiration for Our Nature.

Prologue

C hickens, the old lady mumbles.

What’s that?

Now a little louder and clearer, she says it again. Chickens.

What? Chickens? What chickens, Grandma?

The old lady puts a hand on her granddaughter’s knee. Her voice is frail but assertive. The chickens I’ve eaten in my life, Claire. I’m trying to figure out how many chickens I’ve had in my life …

Claire is concerned. She hates to see her grandmother lose her mind. Yes, yes, Grandma. Don’t you worry about the chickens, now.

I’m not crazy. Grandma smiles. I’m wondering whether I was worth it.

Worth what?

All those chickens! she insists. I’m wondering whether my life was worth all those chickens. Help me do the math, dear. I’m ninety-three. Let’s say a chicken every other week? Yes, that sounds right. That’s two chickens a month …

CHAPTER 1

Everyone Has a Path …

40494.png

I t begins with sounds of distant drumming. A summoning. I walk across a meadow towards the large rocky outcrop. I remember running my palms over the tall grass, wondering if I was in the Scottish highlands. The outcrop has a small opening hidden by ferns and bromeliads, but I see it at once. I step through, disappearing into a small cave, dripping with humidity. I squat inside this underground chamber and take my time to soak it all in. There’s a trickling sound, like a leaky faucet, but I see no water. The walls are covered in green moss. I run my fingers over the spongy surface, feeling the protrusions of crystallised prisms hiding beneath.

To my left, there is a small wooden door, no more than three feet tall. It’s very old looking, with wrought-iron hinges and bolts holding it together. For some reason, I think it’s an Arthurian door. I sense that the drumming is coming from the other side, and so I reach out for the handle and pull at it. The portal is heavy, like a vault door, and I have to use both hands to pry it open. It squeaks and yawns on its rusty hinges. I cover my eyes, squinting at the beams of sunlight dashing in. The feeling beyond this door is warm and inviting. I have to squeeze through. My large frame is tight against the sides, and I panic for a second, afraid that I’ll get stuck.

Outside there’s another meadow, but I know it’s not the same place. There’s a tweak to it. The drumming hasn’t gotten any louder, but it’s still there, like a heartbeat, drawing me in. To my left, I see an abandoned path overrun by grass and weeds. As soon as I take my first step towards it, a tiny field mouse jumps out of the thicket and stops at my feet, its small beady eyes shining up at me over a fuzzy snout. Welcome back! It’s been a while! Need a dragoman? The little voice is squeaky but assertive.

I do a double take and blink incredulously at the critter. I somehow know dragoman means guide. What? Did you just speak?

You will need a dragoman … The field mouse turns towards the path. It’s not always safe out here. The last time you got into some trouble, remember? Of course not. Well, I can help you find the truth.

The truth? What truth? The whole thing is so weird, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t follow the talking critter. It feels right. When I step on the path, the overgrown grasses and weeds recede invitingly to reveal a beautiful, winding trail paved with bluestone. There are wildflowers on the sides, and on my left is a white picket fence. I know the path is heading south, where the drumming is, but now I’m not sure if it isn’t thunder I’m hearing. The horizon looks dark.

I’ve been here before. I can feel it, although I don’t remember the talking mouse! What’s that about? Maybe I never needed a guide before in this place …

My dragoman leads me, but I must wait while he sniffs his way down the path, inspecting every single plant and rock. He disappears round a bend, and when I reach him, he’s jumping frantically and yelling at me to stop. To the right, I see a funny-looking man wearing a sandwich board with a big red arrow pointing right, away from the path. He smiles at me invitingly, but he’s missing a front tooth.

Not that way, says the mouse urgently. Stay on your true path! As I walk past the guy, I get a better look at him. His face is painted like a burlesque character from a vaudeville review. His bare, skinny white arms hang out of the sandwich boards like strips of feta cheese.

I hurry to keep up with the mouse.

A little farther down, the bluestone path comes to an end. My guide is waiting for me there. This is where I leave you. The rest is on your own, I’m afraid.

And the path? I ask. Where’s the path?

When you walk, you’ll see the possibilities. Pay attention! No distractions. It somehow manages to pull off a serious tone with that minute voice. And then, just like that, my bossy dragoman disappears into the scrub.

I don’t remember feeling afraid. I was never afraid, except at the end. The steady sound of drumming in the distance is comforting, not ominous at all. Even when it shifts to thunder, I don’t feel threatened. Deep, growling cracks and rolls of thunder. I’m adrenalised by the thrill and anticipation of being in a powerful storm, and I’m eased because I know that it can’t get me. Or can it?

My first step off the path is weird. I immediately know I’m on a mountain trail; it feels stony and gravelly under my feet. It turns out I am on a hillside, with the valley not far down, on my right. There are no trees, just tufts of tall grass. Dark rain clouds are looming ahead, but there’s no wind. They’re hanging there, waiting