There, on the windowsill. It had been a very satisfying day for him, for he’d been out adventuring and had clumsily tripped and almost fallen to his death off a cliff edge. Close brushes with mortality always brought a welcome clarity to his thinking, for he was never more aware of the preciousness of life than he was when his bond to it momentarily disappeared into a dark unknowing uncertainty. He had just found his way into his favorite room, settled into his favorite chair, and began re-reading his favorite book, when he heard the annoyingly familiar sound of a fly buzzing against his window. This was the third straight day he’d had to put up with its noisy presence, and just as before, it was buzzing around too high up on the window for him to capture it. An hour or so later, a ferocious thunderstorm blew in, its white-hot lightning imposing itself upon the night and intermittently exposing all its mystery. He felt certain the storm would curb the fly’s desire to seek what lurked on the other side of the window’s glass, but no, it only seemed to make it more determined to leave. Resigned to its irritating companionship, he focused his mind around the rhythmic turning of his book’s well-worn pages and soon found himself lost in its contents. Another hour or so passed before he realized the bothersome buzzing sounds had now stopped. He looked over, and there, on the windowsill, was the fly’s lifeless body. At first, he felt pleased … and then quite sad … and then, finally, exceedingly grateful. What slowly came into his mind was the perfect, pristine example of how to live a life of intention and purpose the fly had offered him. Despite the easily-had offerings of delicious tablescraps and cozy shelter his stately home offered it, the fly spent every last ounce of the mortal energy it had struggling to find its way to greater struggle. It had no interest in unearned comforts and easy gleanings. It wanted to know life itself. There was an untamed wildness in its blood – just like there was in his. He had talents as a watercolorist, and he used them to paint a portrait of the fly – but more – he put its tiny body in a locket and carried it with him on all his subsequent adventures.
I suppose you could call the locket his good luck charm.
