As they trim the tree, Lao Tzu, in slow motion, gathers a small pile of sticks, each stick being about 2 feet long. He ends up with a pile of about 40 branches, each the thickness of my thumb. The tree trimmers pay attention to Lao Tzu, but Lao Tzu ignores them. Because he moves slowly, and carefully, the trimmers keep an eye out so they don't drop any of the larger cut limbs onto his head.
I have no idea what he is doing this for, or what he will do with the sticks when he is done. But at the same time, I don't dare interrupt him, because the way Lao Tzu moves and gathers the sticks -- it is poignant, sad, and a bit poetic.
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Later that evening, Chung Tzu comes by and sees the stick pile in the backyard.
"Ah!" he says, pointing at the pile, "A family has been dispersed into the world. Some of the babies will never see their Mother or Father again."
"Is that so?" I reply.
"Oh, yes." assures Chung Tzu. "Now I will sing a proper funeral song. Loo loo, cookoo, moo moo, badaboum. Foom foom, room room, badaubeoi boy."
After a pause, Chung Tzu looks at me. "Did you understand what I was saying?"
"No, I didn't quite get it."
"Okay, I'll sing another one. Hoo hoo, boo boo, foo foo, alagaha hoo! Shoo shoo, moo moo, arouh arouh, bama DA BOOM!!"
Chung Tzu looks at me. "Did you understand what I was saying?"
"I'm sorry, but no."
"Since you fail to comprehend, I will attempt one last song for you. Roo roo, goo goo, boo boo Da da DA DA FOOM! MA ma ma goo pop pop slop hrap! Flop schlock mop!!"
Chung Tzu looks at me. "Did you understand what I was saying?"
"No."
"GOOD!" shouts Chung Tzu.
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