There is an old cottage on the edge of the lake. The cottage is inhabited by the old man. Perpetual stillness, the only constant. There is a dock with a small canoe. One day, a young lad arrives from town. He knocks on the door. Nothing. He knocks on the door again. The door is patiently opened from the inside. The old man looks the young lad up and down. 

“Can I help you?” asks the old man.

“Yes, I would like to use your canoe,” says the young lad. 

“Why do you need my canoe?”

“To get to the other side of the lake.”

“What do you need on the other side of the lake?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The old man stares at the young boy expressionless. 

“Fine. You can use my canoe,” says the old man.

“Thank you so much! You are so-”

“But first! You need to help me with three things,” the old man adds. 

The young boy pauses. Eagerly waiting for more instruction. Not saying a word, the old man beckons the young man inside. “First,” the old man says, “you must polish my shoes perfectly.” He reaches down and grabs a large pair of dress boots that have not been touched in years. The young lad takes them with a look of confusion. 

“Fair enough,” the young lad remarks with an air of energy. He gets to work immediately. Pulling a rag out of his pocket, he starts polishing. Removing every speck of dirt. Hours pass. The young lad looks up from his place of work and the old man is nowhere to be seen.

“Hello?” inquires the young lad. Hoping to get started on his next task. Silence is his only reply. He starts wandering through the cottage. As he enters the next room, he sees the old man sitting at a piano. His hands are at his sides, and his shoulders rise and fall with his breath.

The old man speaks without turning, “I used to play every night. I would let the music decorate the quiet that always sustains. Alas, for years I have not played a single note.” The young lad looks on, confused with what this has to do with him. He says nothing. The old man continues: “Your second task is to tune this piano. So I can once more bask in the beauty of its tales.”

The young man replies, “But sir, I have no idea how to tune a piano.” 

“You are a bright young lad. I am sure you will figure it out.” With that, the old man stands up from his bench and walks out of the room. The young lad walks up to the piano, lost but still determined. He has never played the piano before. He lets his hands fall on the keys. He plays up and down. Even he can tell the piano is in terrible shape. He looks around to the back of the piano and eyes a panel which he can remove. Once removed, he stands in shock. Before him lays an infinitely complex system of levers, gears, and contraptions with which the young lad is completely unfamiliar. His shock dissipates and he starts feeling the machine. His first dose of understanding.

The young lad goes back and forth. From tuning the piano to playing the piano. Constantly doubting but always confirming his alterations. Days pass. Weeks pass. Time moves differently here. The still cottage on the edge of the lake with the canoe by a dock. Eventually, the young lad feels himself getting closer. His ears instinctually know what the tune should be, what the key should produce as his fingers apply their pressure. Remarkably, he also learns to play. And he begins to play not just for verification of the noise, but for the love of the sound he produces. More time passes. He only plays his own compositions. A pure connection from his soul to his hands.

One day, the old man returns while the young lad is playing. He speaks softly interrupting the pristine music: “It would appear that my piano has been restored. My thanks.” 

The young lad stops playing and stands up. Snapped out of his reverie, he looks down at his hands in contemplation. The old man takes his unoccupied seat at the piano bench and steadily lays his hands out. He starts to play for the first time in years. Almost at once, the young lad steps back in awe. The old man is playing the exact same melody that the young man just produced. Yet he adds complexity and charm to every crescendo and measure. 

The song ends and the old man stands up and looks at the young lad. The young lad says, “And you have my thanks. I recall I still have one more task to accomplish.” The old man nods gently.

“Follow me,” the old man says. The young lad tails the old man to the back of the cottage where they exit to the backyard. The young lad steps out and sees the lake. Shooting out into the lake is a dock with a canoe at it’s side. In between the dock and the cottage is wild and unkept brush. Some of the grass towers over the young lad. 

“Build me a path,” says the old man.

Surveying the landscape before him, the young lad is stunned. “But how,” he asks, “and with what tools?”

“You already have all you need,” the old man responds. He then walks back inside. 

The young lad stands still for a moment, planning the fastest route to create a path to the canoe. Looking around, he realizes he has no alternative options. He steps forward and gets down onto one knee. He begins tearing up the brush in front of him. If he can’t rip it out from the root, he breaks apart the branches til there is nothing but flat ground left in the plants stead. In minutes he is sweating. Hours pass and his arms collect cuts and bruises. His back aches and his skin is blistered from the sun and wrestling with the brush. The stinging pain in his arms is nothing compared to the uncomfort in his leg. He performs a never ending rest as his feet try to find a comfortable resting place. But there is no comfort to be found. He does this over and over again. For hours. Then days. He must build the path to get to the dock to gain access to the canoe. 

How long does this take? The young lad loses track. But one moment he looks up and sees clearly. No matter brush blocking his path. He looks behind him and sees a meticulously crafted path back to the cottage. It looks as if a herd of wild animals had been using this same path for decades. The old man steps out of the cottage and walks down the path with a paddle in hand. He walks to the young lad, hands him the paddle and says, “Thank you. The canoe is yours.”

Not knowing what to say, the young lad says nothing. He walks to the canoe and hops in without hesitation. Looking up, he sees nothing but a densely fog covered body of water. No waves or apparent life present anywhere he can see. Before stepping off he looks back and makes eye contact with the old man. He raises his hand to wave at the old man who returns the gesture before turning and walking back up his clear path to his cottage. 

Dipping the paddle into the water, the young lad pulls back and drives the canoe forward. Propelling himself across the water smoothly, he starts his journey to the other side of the lake.