Could the beans reach the giant’s castle in the sky?
They jingled thrice, crisp, subtle, and filled with assurance. Under a façade of fainting blue, the three beans aged over the years – from childish green to wise brown. A product which resulted from pre-examination stress, the charm was assembled with objects my young hand discovered: a pale pink thread, a transparent USB case tainted with a hint of sea, and the three beans. Under my craftsmanship it was made. I blew a small breath. Magic – not seen on any prehistoric stone nor recorded in any ancient book – happened.
Since their creation, the magical beans and I have established a secret language – a connection none could taste or feel. Do beans speak? Obviously not – they dance. A leap thrice spells “yes”; a twirl twice – “no”; a hectic, disturbed clash against the case a “you’re going to fail this test.” We talked a wordless talk.
They disguised perfectly. I smuggled them into tests and exams, slipping them into a pocket, a pencil case, a bag, a folder, or wherever desired. Unsuspicious the charm appeared to be: three green beans trapped in a case hooked with baby pink thread. No one could hear the conversations we had. Amidst an exam, I would be unsure of an answer, and, coming to rescue, the beans will tinkle with melodic rhythm. Clasping the charm in my left hand, I felt – through sweats and folds – the vibrations of words spoken by the beans. As though gaining approval from a parent, my right hand then frisked about on the paper with its pen, leaving behind trails of ink in confidence.
They may be wrong, sometimes. After all, the beans are not intellectuals. They are just beans. Could the beans speak in French and drink coffee? It does not matter. They gave me assertion, safety, relief, and all those that cured a trembled, nervous heart. They were there for me – and they still are, hanging above my desk in my dorm as a looming guardian.
It has been a long time. I matured and ceased to carry them with me into challenges. The beans are now a recorder documenting my growth; a counselor witnessing my success after its guidance; a parent watching me in tears as I grow apart. They are everything and nothing. They are just beans.
I composed the charm… I composed my own belief, possibly out of a cultural instinct as the Chinese culture is so enveloped in superstitions. Don’t open an umbrella inside the house, they say. Don’t look back at night, they say. Don’t cry on New Year’s Day, they say. Listen to the three magical beans, I say. Is it any different?
This may be unreal. The magical beans may simply be the green beans, but is everything else true? Will I really get shorter if I opened an umbrella inside the house? Will I really see a ghost if I looked back at night? Will I really cry everyday if I did on New Year’s Day? Will I really get the right answers if I listened to the beans?
My introduction into superstitions – of, specifically, the Chinese culture – occurred at an age of around 5 years old. Browsing the stores with my mother, I spotted a bright pink umbrella amidst the madness. It had a yellow handle attached with a lime whistle and a canopy featuring blonde Barbie dolls. Successfully convincing my mom to purchase the umbrella, I brought it home in delight, eager to conduct a test during a sunny afternoon. Opening the umbrella, I strolled around the room as though participating for a fashion show – until it was halted upon the command of Mother. In a casual yet serious tone, she informed me that I would grow shorter – one of my greatest fears as a child – if I continue. Terrified, I kept the umbrella away, vowing to never open one indoors.
Over 5,000 years of time, the Chinese has garnered a tradition of numerous “dos
and “don’ts.” As bizarre and specific some of them may be – such as having to knock on unfamiliar doors before entering to stay for the night, they are in essence similar to superstitions of most other cultures, whether it be no cutting and washing of hairs on Thursdays and Saturdays from India or no chewing of gums at night from Turkey. In their core, these superstitions operate on individual beliefs to construct “alternate” realities. Without belief, entering without knocking would not disturb any spiritual presence, gums at night will remain to be gums – instead of the dead’s flesh, and beans would just be beans.
Human mind has evolved into one that grants us overpowering intelligence, distinct emotions, and the freedom to believe and not believe. Therefore, by choice, we believe in those we want to believe, whether due to tradition, nurture, or reason. The superstitions in the Chinese culture may all be a hoax in the eyes of logic and science. However, for those that have practiced these traditions generations after generations, the so-called “superstitions” are a reality – a fact.
If their truths are our myths, could our facts be their tales? Undeniably, human knowledge of the universe is still so limited that, perhaps, our present knowledge in the future may be no more credible than the fabrications today.
Realizing the distance away from absolute truth, I recently receded into the indifference of the world and revived the three magical beans, unearthing the case from a pile of toys, papers, and forgotten childhood memories. Does it matter if I don’t get shorter by opening an umbrella inside the house? Does it matter if I don’t see a ghost when I look back at night? Does it matter if I don’t cry everyday even though I did on New Year’s Day? Does it matter if God doesn’t exist?
The beans jingled twice.
A pursuit for truth is not necessary – on a personal level. Differences in beliefs compose the quintessence of our unique beings. I may fear opening umbrellas indoors. So be it. I may refuse to look back at night. So be it. I may hold in my tears on New Year’s Day. So be it. I may believe in the non-existence of God. So be it. The subjects of one’s beliefs are not as significant as their applications. So long as our beliefs do not harm and would guide us towards a meaningful existence, then so be it.
Could the beans contain the secret to life?
I believe so.
