The Book - a short metaphorical tale on learning and learning to learn

I once heard a story about a man who found a book that had been hidden by a messenger. From where this messenger came, and from whom, I do not know, although I have my thoughts. But she left this book for the man to find, and find it he did.

Now, this was no normal book. For one thing, it only had two pages. And each page was woven tightly out of wicker, in complex and intricate patterns. Somehow the man knew that there was something special about the book, but he didn't know how he knew, and he didn't know what.

For many months the man puzzled over the book. He began to notice that, as he puzzled, he felt the patterns with his fingers and knew somehow that they had meaning. He came to notice subtle intricacies of shade and shadow within the book and as his fingers ran lightly over the knots and weave he would hear gentle sounds.

Long days and long nights he studied. At night, he noticed that the use of different senses in still new ways of making sense seemed to allow him to understand different meaning. By day, he noticed he could look at the book in a new light.

Gradually he noticed a change. He noticed that his sense of touch had become more delicate and more discriminating. He noticed new patterns each time he read the book with his fingers. He became aware of a rhythm and a pattern to the sound of his fingers lightly brushing the pages and he discovered a depth and variety of colour he had not before known. And he noticed a change in himself.

He noticed how his life touched the lives of others in different ways, and how others touched his own life. He became aware of smaller and smaller changes, ever further away, still felt deep within. And he didn't know how much of these changes came from the reading of the book, or simply from the action of learning to read the book. When asked, he would smile, and quietly say that it simply didn't matter any more.