In middle school, my friends and I would walk down to the local coffeeshop for Thursday Open Mic Night.
Source: comedyindc.com
There was an old man there– old by anyone’s standards, not just the perspective of pre-teen girls. He had olive skin, gray eyes, and a French accent– and would sit on stage, reading from the books of Khalil Gibran. He would read a verse, set the book down, and then tell a story about his life in France, and Lebanon, India, and everywhere else. His stories never directly correlated to the passages he read from, but instead juxtaposed two ideas until they snuggled with each other. Faith, and how he found it while watching dancing-girls. Truth and the joys of profanity. Loyalty, and the flaws of corporal punishment. Deliverance, and the odd friendship tucked inside a happy marriage.
The topics probably weren’t suitable for kids our age, but my parents didn’t believe in censorship. I’d sit at the dinner table after and recount his tales– stubbling them with my own questions and observations.
At one point, I told my father that I didn’t know why I wanted to go back every week when the stories were so often sad. My father said I was drunk on heartache, Shirley Temples, and the idea of a connected world– and perhaps he was right.
After several weeks, the old man noticed us– 5 young girls in the corner booth, sipping red drinks and slurping sugary cherries. He asked us if, after all this time, we knew who Khalil Gibran was yet.
We said yes. Khalil was a writer, a poet, and a philosopher.
He asked us what Khalil would call us, if he met us walking down the street.
“Foreigners?” I reasoned. My friends offered their opinions, too– our voices squeaking over each other.
“Strangers?”
“Children?”
“Women?”
“Farmers?”
He chuckled and said, “You don’t know Khalil yet, but if you stick around, we will learn.” He reached over to his book, a sure sign that he was about to read another passage, but I interrupted. I couldn’t stand not knowing the answer.
“So what would Khalil call us?” I asked.
“Beautiful.” he shrugged, quickly listing other possibilities as well. “Valued. Loved. Friends. Citizens. You’ll understand when you start to know Khalil.”
For many weeks after, until he moved away, we would return on Thursdays to listen– but I don’t think any passage from Gibran’s books lodged into my memory quite as well as the old man’s interpretations.
Today’s Daily Prompt, reminded me of that specific conversation. It asks, “Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?”
I no longer would be so quick to claim I know Khalil. I have no idea what seven words he had in mind.
I do, however, know an old man who was inspired by him. And I can think of several seven-word mantras that have been with me since I first heard phantoms of them in a small, empty coffeehouse on Open Mic Thursdays.
They may not be the only words humanity needs to function, but they are words humanity needs.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I used to enjoy slurping up the homemade maraschino cherries from the bottom of my Shirley Temple.
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Have you ever been to a great open mic? Were you ever a drinker of Shirley Temples? Do you have any favorite affirmations or mantras that you can summarize in 7 words?