Scheherazade — by Elazar Aslan

By Elazar Aslan

I have very fond memories of my childhood in Iran. I don’t know if indeed it was good or those memories are some euphoric recall. I have older siblings and many, many cousins—we all remember it fondly, especially the parties, but then again, euphoric recall is a common affliction. The parties weren’t anything formal, but it seemed that every week or two, someone had a reason for gathering—their kid’s birthday, a holiday, an upcoming trip abroad, someone passing a kidney stone—anything to get together. Since the closely-knit extended family of aunts, uncles and cousins was around 50 people, there was almost always a reason to have a party.

These parties were especially fun for the kids. The adults were busy drinking, talking business, telling jokes and gossiping while we ran all over the place creating games and exploring our small yet expansive universe. Kids of every other age range were doing their thing, the spaces were big and the food was bountiful. Life was good!

As I was running past my father at one of these gatherings, he grabbed me and asked me to go over to the table of goodies and bring him some pistachios. I told him I was already on a mission, but he reminded me that he was the father-in-charge. Having never won that debate before, I quickly ran over and grabbed a handful for him. When I opened my fist for him, four pistachios fell out into his hand, the maximum that could be held in my seven-year-old hand. I was ready to bolt and resume my original mission when he asked me to go get him twice as many pistachios. I was already busy and this was truly annoying. But I didn’t need to be reminded that he was the father-in-charge.

He asked me, “Do you know what twice as many means?”

“Of course I do. I’m not a baby. It’s eight pistachios.”

Before I bolted to get them, he held my arm back and told me I could only carry them with one hand. A bizarre request I thought, but not the first time that happened. I took the task on as my new mission.

I went over to the pistachio bowl and tried much more willfully to pick-up eight pistachios this time. It was hard. I could do five very easily, six with some effort, but not seven, much less eight. I tried quite a few times. I finally grabbed the six pistachios and went over to him with the intention of letting him know that since this is all I could do with one hand, it should be enough for him. He didn’t buy the story. He told me to go back and keep trying and bring him eight pistachios, but with just one hand. I went back to the bowl reluctantly, wondering why he couldn’t just get up himself and grab eight pistachios with his big hand.

I tried again and again to grab those eight pistachios, but to no avail. Finally I had a brilliant idea. I would find the smallest pistachios, stack them on top of each other and grab them and run. I looked up at him and noticed his intent stare and was excited to show him how I was about to become successful in my mission. The idea was a good one, but after several attempts, I could only grab seven. I became rather despondent and got tired of my failed attempts. I looked up at him with a face that asked, “Can I please stop this nonsense?” He simply shook his head no!

I stood there trying half-heartedly and getting even worse results, feeling part angry and part shamed, until finally I gave up. In my surrender, I just threw my little hand into the bowl, both in frustration and defiance. To my surprise, as I was lifting my buried but open hand out of the bowl, I noticed that in my palm were not seven, not eight, but nine pistachios. I looked up in my excitement and saw his face smiling at me. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but I knew I accomplished my mission.

When I took the pistachios over and gave them to him, he looked me in the eye and said “Don’t ever forget this: you can carry twice as much with an open hand than with a closed fist.”

* * *

Frankly, I didn’t really know what it all meant at the time, but like many other seeds that were planted, this one took full root in my adult years.

There have been many times in my life, unfortunately many more than were necessary, where I tightened up my heart in a given situation. I would think of it as protection or resentment or maybe even entitlement. After all, everything in there was so fragile, so easily damaged; if I didn’t shut it down myself, who else would protect it? At the time, the irony was lost on me—I would make a closed fist of my heart—and complain that my load was hard to carry. I never asked for help and then wondered why I always felt alone. I was vigilant about hiding my vulnerabilities and then wondered why relationships were so draining. I judged every one and every thing and then wondered why my heart was always agitated. It took many years and much work, but one day I woke up and rather than trying to change the past or obsess over the future, I just accepted what is and my heart opened. Today, rather than resentment, I try forgiveness; rather than judgment, I try empathy; rather than fear I try love. For some reason, my burdens no longer feel that difficult to carry.