Stone

This fairy tale is sorrowful at first glance. But listening to the heroes, we can notice many beautiful feelings that they want to share. These feelings help us to see the Beauty of Life through Beauty of the heart. This Beauty is stronger than anything, stronger than screamed fear with heavy bags on a cart. . . . What am I talking about? 🙂 I think these fairy tale heroes will tell you about it better. . . . Welcome to the Fairy Tale World!

Olga and the Fairy Tale Team 😊

STONE

Stone lay warming his back. . . .
As long as he could remember, he had laid there. Many times people had wanted to take him away: someone from them for a foundation, some for other needs, but nothing had worked. So he continued to lay. . . .
Stone was distinctive: large, white, with smooth, moss-covered edges.
Near Stone was a road. The road was almost completely overgrown—only tracks barely visible here and there.
Stone looked out at the road every day, and from time to time it reminded him of what was saved in his deep wrinkles forever. . . .

Stone’s back finally warmed up. He happily absorbed the still warm autumn sunrays after a cold night. His own weight did not bother him, it seemed that in recent years he had even risen a little closer to the Sun. Stone loved Autumn. Autumn always brought with her bright colors from which all could feel good. Autumn also brought memories. . . .

At that time the road wasn’t overgrown with grass: along it people on horseback or on foot hurried endlessly, carrying with them the things they needed.
“Where are they all running to, and why are they dragging what they are not always really able to convey?” thought Stone, smiling when someone again tried to pull him out of the place where he lay, and as far as he could remember, had always laid.

In general, people stopped near him quite often, because it was very convenient. It was difficult to find a better companion than Stone: he could not talk, but he could listen. And not only to people but also to those with them. Also, Stone lay on a high hill, from which the whole neighborhood was clearly visible.

On a cloudy morning, when the Wind had not yet stretched the gray strands of thick fog, two figures appeared on the road: an old Mare and, the same, an old Man who, sweetly snoring, watched his dream from the deck of a cart.
Mare pulled hard. . . . Breathing unevenly, she dragged by herself countless sacks, large and small bags, and something else wrapped in a rough piece of cloth.

Near Stone, Mare stopped in weariness, and then, not hearing the usual cry: “But–o, hey, go!” she carefully turned aside and began to slowly eat the grass, which, despite it being late Autumn, here on the hill, was always juicy.
Deliciously crunching the stalks, she tried to move the reins as quietly as possible, but they rattled sarcastically, reminding her who she was, and who she was tugging. . . .

Tugging. . . . How many years she had tugged. Even not knowing where she was tugging. Where she was shown. Without asking if she was tired or if she had eaten well. “Mare? Tug—and that’s it!”
She tugged. . . . At first, when she was still young, she tried to kick, but then she calmed down: “Others are also tugging . . . why am I better than them?”

Mare was not against the burden. She was not opposed to taking on herself what they were not able to carry themselves, but even to know where. . . .
“If only a little bit less . . . why so much?” In her big beautiful eyes, like in a mirror, thoughts were reflected. Mare rubbed her muzzle upon Stone and started to converse. . . .

The best help might be . . . silence. Stone knew this and so, even if he was able to speak, he would still be silent. Silence keeps silence . . . only in silence, can you hear yourself. . . . Maybe then you will find the best yourself?
Mare tells about her life. Without seeking pity, she talked with herself about herself. . . . Stone listened and wondered: how many times he had seen tears, heard grievances, and insults. There was no such thing now!

Mare did not moan, did not curse her fate, she talked to herself that she was tired of going, not her Way.
She watched as Autumn spread her motley handkerchief on Earth and, only occasionally sighing, talked about how she would like to wake up there, where her big, gentle, and kind heart called.
She is not afraid of work. It is understandable: she is a mare. But why the shouts and whip? Mare did not ask for help. . . . She fell silent, and carefully began to crunch the grass again, occasionally looking at the one who was still sweetly snoring, among the sacks.

Stone was silent. . . . Could he help her? He, Stone, who had always been pleased with his position, was proud of his permanency, now painfully felt his helplessness. Big, smart, but . . . powerless! It is not true that stones do not cry.
The wheel of the cart caught Stone’s side once . . . twice. . . .
It is unknown how much strength, at first glance, inanimate beings retain in themselves, and how much joy or sadness they are sometimes able to convey! Stone tried . . . and how!

The wheel caught on Stone’s side again and . . . like a toy, shattered into small pieces! Along with the burden, the feeling of fate’s hopelessness disappeared. The cart that had oppressed for so many years, collapsed! Numerous straps fell off, and Mare became free!
Mare stepped out of the shafts, the collar slipped from her, the bit dropped, and, miserably banging off Stone, fell to the grass. She did not hear the screams that flew after her.

She was going on Earth and felt her. . . .
Mare was going where her big, gentle, and kind heart called. Sadness disappeared from her eyes and appeared Beauty. Into these eyes, you can gaze endlessly.
What about Stone?
Stone saw the happiness of another and rejoiced. He was also happy . . . Is there anything that can stop it?

How many times after that Autumn had come, Stone did not count. He would always recognize this Mare . . . by her eyes.
She was no longer on this road. . . . She was going somewhere on her Own Way. . . .
Stone lay and basked in the Sun, happily absorbing the last warm autumn rays on his back, saving in deep wrinkles, memories: Mare, Beauty, and Way. . . .

P.S.
“Will there be grades?” I heard, smiled, and responded, “We are going on a journey. Do we need grades during a journey?” The children laughed. The master class began. It was quiet.

Everyone drew their own fairy tale, their own world to which they went on a fairy tale journey. There was no black paint on the tables, simply because it does not exist in Nature, but if we mix several colors together, we get a very dark grey color.

One of the participants, a boy of about 7 years old, suddenly began to wash away the dark stones that were sticking out of the blue lake with water. The sheet of paper became wet. “Do you want me to give you a new sheet?” I asked. The boy nodded his head and whispered, “I don’t need it!” He took a new sheet . . . and he knew what and why he would create on his new sheet.

We can always take a clean sheet. The master is the one who sees Beauty, and creates Beauty without fear of taking a new sheet of paper, where every moment of life is a new sheet. White. . .

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