As they advanced, one after another of Bastian's Fantastican gifts fell away from him. The strong, handsome, fearless hero became again the small, fat, timid boy. Even his clothing, which had been reduced almost to rags in the Minroud Mine, vanished and dissolved into nothingness. In the end he stood naked before the great golden bowl, at the center of which the Water of Life leapt high into the air like a crystal tree.
In this last moment, when he no longer possessed any of the Fantastican gifts but had not yet recovered his memory of his own world and himself, he was in a state of utter uncertainty, not knowing which world he belonged to or whether he really existed.
But then, he jumped into the crystal clear water. He splashed and spluttered and let the sparkling rain fall into his mouth. He drank till his thirst was quenched. And joy filled him from head to foot, the joy of living and the joy of being himself. He was newborn. And the best part of it was that he was now the very person he wanted to be. If he had been free to choose, he would have chosen to be no one else. Because now he knew there were thousands and thousands of forms of joy in the world, but that all were essentially one and the same, namely, the joy of being able to love.
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Meaning, loving, being able to love, is what springs forth joy in us. It is not so easy to love, is it? But I think it is the task worth learning how to do well. And that it can take so many many forms in each of our unique lives. It is a demanding, truth telling, soul searing work, not to be taken lightly and not possible unless we are willing to meet the darkness, the underworld, within us and within the world. Love cannot only be in the light and the happy dancing bubbles of happiness. Love is rooted in a far deeper and darker and truer place than that. And we have to go down to the root and discover our life.
Here is the basket, the first attempt. Nic says it is beautiful. I've decided to believe her.
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