The Closed House

There was once a master of a magnificent house who feared embarrassment above all things. He barred musicians because their songs might be imperfect. He banned dancing because dancers could stumble. He discouraged children because they were noisy. He forbade jokes because laughter might become uncontrolled.

His floors shone. His silver remained unscratched. Every chair stood exactly where it had been placed. Guests came less often. Eventually they stopped coming.

Iambe knocked. The master opened the door only a crack and asked what wisdom she had brought.

“None worth hearing through a locked door,” she replied.

Outside she spread a cloth beneath an olive tree. A traveler sat down. Then another. One brought bread. One brought fruit. One knew only half of a song and sang the wrong half. A cup fell and broke. Someone laughed. The person who dropped it laughed too.

By sunset the gathering outside was larger than the perfect house within. The master watched through the window and understood that he had preserved every object except the purpose for which the house existed.

Lesson of the Closed House

A spotless room may still contain no life,

A guarded cup may never join the strife.

Protect what serves, but know what things are for:

A house becomes a home through an open door.