The Stonecutter

by Andrew Nightingale

The stonecutter’s pickaxe struck the rock. He felt the shock in his hands and feet; his mind was in his hands and feet. Every day he worked hard, splitting stone from the foot of the mountain. Workers came to carry away the slabs he cut, to be shaped into so many things. Each evening he brought home the money and merit his labor earned, to share with his wife and children.

As he grew older, the blows of his pickaxe echoed through his arms and shoulders. When the reverberation reached his head, he was an old man. His life was hard, but his work was good, and many people benefited from the stone he took from the mountain. When he died, the feeling of striking stone—the rhythm of his labor and the merit of his days—rose toward heaven.

A wild spirit saw the stonecutter’s mind ascending and said,
“You are bound for heaven. What sort of heaven would you like?”

The stonecutter was a simple man. He had watched merchants pass by his house with carriages and soft cushions, servants and guards, good food and fine clothes. It looked like heaven to him.
“I would like to be a wealthy merchant,” he said.

The wild spirit smiled and wove a spell of dream.

The stonecutter found himself reclining in a silk-draped carriage, eating good food while servants worked. Yet when he looked out at the rough people toiling in the fields and along the road, he felt uneasy. A princess’s carriage passed—finer still, with many guards whose armor gleamed in the sun—and regret pricked his heart.

The spirit appeared again.
“I think I made a mistake,” said the stonecutter. “Could I be a king instead?”
“I would not have you unhappy in heaven,” said the spirit. “Let it be so.”

Now the stonecutter sat upon a golden throne in a strong stone castle. Servants anticipated his desires, and an army of guards kept him safe. He ate splendid food and felt no fear—until drought came. People knelt before him, pleading for rain. Their hunger became his own. He was king, yet powerless.

The spirit appeared once more.
“Well?” it asked.
“My people suffer,” said the king. “I wish I could truly help them.”
“Then choose again.”
“I will be the Sun,” said the king. “I can warm the earth, restrain myself, and let the crops grow. It must feel good to be the Sun and give light.”

The wild spirit’s crooked smile flashed, and with a wave of its hand the stonecutter became the Sun.

He shone with joy. His warmth ripened the fields, and his light filled the world. This, he thought, was heaven. But soon he saw vast rainclouds gather, flooding rivers and drowning the crops. Anger flared in him—an angry Sun scorches all—and drought followed. Alarmed, he tried to calm himself, but his temper was too great.

When the spirit came again, the Sun said, “Then let me be a great raincloud—something even the Sun cannot burn away.”

The spirit nodded, hiding a chuckle, and waved its thin hand.

Now he was a mighty cloud. His emotions became storms. Wind lashed the trees, rain poured down as if from his own heart. Remembering the steadiness of his old work, he tried to master himself. The winds eased, the rain slowed—but the Sun’s fury burned hotter. The cloud swelled to shield the world, yet could not control the vastness of his feeling. Seeking steadiness, he looked down and saw the Great Mountain—immovable, enduring all heat and rain.

“I want to be the Great Mountain!” he cried.

And so he was.

The stonecutter became the Great Mountain—solid, vast, supporting forests and towns. Time stretched long before him. He felt his strength reach into the future, unshaken by storm or drought. Then a faint sting touched his foot. Tap, tap, tap. A little stonecutter was working there, cutting slabs from his body. The mountain felt each strike, a mild annoyance that never ceased. He watched the man’s discipline and remembered his own life, his wife and children, his quiet virtues. The mountain’s long calm was pierced again and again by that tiny rhythm, until he understood the lesson in each blow.

A storm raged on his southern face, a stonecutter tapped at his eastern. The Great Mountain sighed, and the wild spirit appeared—this time without mockery.

“My idea of heaven has changed again,” said the mountain. “I wish to be a stonecutter.”

The spirit nodded silently and waved its ghostly hand.

Once more he was a man, shouldering his pickaxe, kissing his wife and children goodbye. He trudged to his worksite and struck the stone. The vibration coursed through him, yet his mind was unmoved. He knew now that heaven had always been here—that wisdom and virtue together reveal paradise in the very place one stands.

And so the stonecutter’s mind grew light. The dreams of the wild spirit dissolved, and he rose to the highest heaven—where the bliss is no greater than the bliss he had already found in the work of his own two hands.