Holding Court

I sit, and hold court for the citizens of my mind. The thoughts that come tonight are not the nobility of this land, dressed in the fine fabrics of idealism and philosophy. The thoughts that come to my court tonight are the peasantry. They are the farmers and craftsmen, the husbands and daughters, desperate to plead their case before me. Desperate to be heard.

So I let these thoughts track their muddy workboots through my hall, and voice their cases before me. I lend each of them my full attention, and hold them compassionately while they speak. I make them feel that they have been truly heard, assure them that their case will be addressed fully in the morning, and then graciously dismiss them from my hall.

I take a breath, and turn my attention to the next case before me. And so on until I have heard each one in turn, and dismissed each one with equal compassion and detachment. I watch quietly as the last thought turns on his worn heel and pushes his way out through the door.

My hall echoes with stillness. It is empty now, and I sit listening to nothing but my own breath. I briefly fiddle with a well-worn knob on the edge of my seat, pondering what I have heard here tonight. I let it pass and return to stillness. Looking out at the muddy footprints, I smile, sigh, and smell their earthiness.

I climb down from my seat, and begin to sweep my empty hall. These peasant thoughts with their unglamorous complaints are as much a part of this court as the nobility, and I am glad I have taken the time to hear them. I will address some of their pleas in the morning, but for now, the hall is blissfully empty, and I continue to sweep, quietly and happily humming a song as I work.