The strangest thing happened to me one day. I was playing beside the canal near the bridge when this new kid showed up and started talking to me. When I say that he was new, I meant I had never seen him before - he wasn’t new new. He said that he lived on one of the houseboats. There was a new houseboat further down the canal, so I assumed he meant that one. It really didn’t matter. I had never seen him before, therefore he was new to me.
While we were talking, I just happened to notice an old man with a walking stick coming along the footpath beside the canal. Anyway, the conversation between this new kid and myself got around to the weeds that were floating all over the surface of the canal. I just happened to mention to this kid that the weeds looked like grass. They didn’t actually look like grass, but they were the same colour as grass - nearly. The new kid said that they didn’t look at all like grass. I said they did. He said that they didn’t. I said that they did, and to prove that they looked like grass, I would walk across them - after all, I walked on grass all the time.
The next thing I remember was being underwater and seeing something like a hook in front of me. I remember grabbing at the hook, which turned out to be the old man’s walking stick. The old man pulled me out of the canal. I never saw the new kid or the old man again.
I knew that the weeds weren’t grass and that they weren’t thick enough to walk on, but since I had said they looked like grass, I had to prove that I was right.
. . .
“It never ceases to amaze me how determined man is to prove his stupidity,” commented the rabbit.
“Well what would you have done?” I asked. As soon as I asked the question, I realised how stupid it was. However, the rabbit took great joy in giving me his answer - with one eyebrow raised questioningly. He just looked at me and said nothing, letting the impact of his silence and my experience in the canal speak louder than any words could ever do.
After a long moment, I said something I had heard someone else say, “It was mind over matter,” I blurted, trying to somehow justify my actions. The rabbit continued to just look at me.
I went on to say that I had heard that if you put your mind to something, you can do anything.
“You can’t do anything however hard you put your mind to something,” the rabbit responded.
“Well, I heard that you can do anything if you put your mind to something,” I said in an attempt to correct myself.
“You can’t do that either. What you seem to be implying is that you believe that you can do anything if you put your mind to it.”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“On neither occasion did you say that, and no, you can’t!”
“I can so!”
“What’s the use?” said the rabbit with a resigned sigh. “If you think a manifestation of your imagination can miraculously transform itself into a physical reality, go right ahead, do whatever you imagine you can do.”
It sounded good, so I said, “Okay.”
“If you really put your mind to work, you could make the sun rise in the west and sink in the east, make pigs fly, and command fish to walk out of the canal and follow you home.”
“Don’t be daft. But what’s wrong with me thinking that I can do something or anything or whatever!”
“Nothing! That’s how most great ideas came about. Someone said, let’s fly, and they invented the aeroplane. Someone else said, let’s talk over long distances, and they invented the telephone. Another person said, let’s light up the night, and they invented the light bulb. Those are examples of creativity at work. You said that you could cross the canal, and you tried to walk across the weeds. This is why people built bridges. They didn’t try to walk across weeds, especially after the bridge had already been invented, and especially since there was a perfectly good bridge right next to where you were standing.”
“I didn’t try walking across the canal, just on the weeds that look like grass. They do look like grass. Come, I’ll show you. You’ll see.”
“I don’t need to see.”
“You don’t believe me, do you? You get down to that canal right now, and I’ll show you how much those weeds look like grass.”
“And how are you going to prove it? Walk on them?” asked the rabbit getting excited.
“If I have to.”
“Yep! Mankind will go to every end just to prove that there is no limit to his stupidity,” commented the rabbit.
I started to imagine how my dad could build something under the weeds to hold them up so that when I walked on the canal, it would look like I was walking on the weeds that did look like grass then everybody would see that I was right all along.
“The old man may not be there next time to save you,” said the rabbit.
“I don’t need saving. I have something to prove.”
“Can I have your tricycle?” asked the rabbit.
“What?”
“Can I have your tricycle?”
I looked at the rabbit for a moment before it dawned on me what the rabbit was implying. “That’s not nice. And besides, you can’t even ride a tricycle.”
“I just thought that while you were trying to walk on water...”
“Weeds,” I corrected.
“... weeds held up by water, I could learn to ride a tricycle. After all, there’s a better than even chance that after your next attempt at crossing the river, you won’t need it anymore, and if I put my mind to it, I might be able to ride it. After all, it's just 'mind over matter!' Just because it is absolutely impossible for me to sit on the saddle and reach the handlebars, not to mention the pedals, I’ll ignore those facts and just turn my mind to it, and it will happen. If I then fail to ride your tricycle, the so-called positive thinkers of the world can relish in the knowledge that I obviously had not really put my mind to it, or I hadn't tried hard enough.”
“What are you babbling on about?”
“I was just applying some 'mind over matter' equations to the upcoming situation.”
“What situation?”
“Me trying to ride your tricycle that you will no longer need.”
“You can’t have my tricycle, ‘cause my sister is getting it...”
“She’s getting it after you drown in the canal?”
“No. She’s getting it when she’s old enough to ride it, but mum and dad said that I’m getting too old for a tricycle, so they’re getting me a bike.”
“Why will you need a bicycle? You’re going to drown yourself in the canal.”
“No, I ain’t! Stop saying I’m going to be drownded.” I was getting angry.
“If you try to walk on weeds...”
“You’re right - I can’t walk on weeds,” I sighed as I slumped back.
“Whew! That took some convincing. You had me worried for a while. It’s so easy to go in defense of your position, but it is only worth defending if you have a position to defend.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, before this other boy came along, did you even consider trying to walk on the weeds?”
“I could have,” I said, perking up.
“There’s no stopping you is there?” said the rabbit getting annoyed again. “When you get going down a path of self-destruction, no one can distract you. Now that is what I call determination. You’re just a single-minded blaze of glory.”
I sighed again. I kept remembering that image underwater of the old man’s walking stick in front of me, and being pulled out of the canal. “Why do I do that?”
“Do what?”
“Keep trying to prove that I’m right.”
“It’s the way it is, but that is the easy part.”
“It ain’t easy trying to walk on weeds. I should know - I tried it.”
“You’re right! But it is still the easy part. The hard part is admitting when you’re wrong. Even after it has been proved to you that you are wrong, and even when you know that you are wrong, you will still try to convince someone that you could have been right.”
“I will?”
“Oh, yes! It never fails! You’ll do it time and time again.”
“Mum said that I had no common sense. What’s common sense?”
“You might well ask!”
“Well, I’m askin’.”
“It’s your seventh sense,” said the rabbit.
“Yeah, but what is it? Do rabbits have it?"
“Oh yes, rabbits have it. We know the difference between weeds and grass, especially when the weeds are on the canal. We’ve never lost a rabbit trying to walk on weeds floating in a canal, at least not to my knowledge!”
“So why is it called common sense and not the seventh sense?“
Because it’s so common… but in your case...”
“But what is it?”
“It’s your basic sense of survival, and while everyone has more than their fair share of it, it does seem to elude some people, especially when they need it most.”
“I know that...”
“You wouldn’t think so,” interjected the rabbit.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant, why do people keep tellin’ me to use my common sense all the time.”
“They tell you repeatedly, or they suggest you exercise your common sense on a regular basis?”
“Yes,” I answered, not wanting to get off track. “They say things like, ‘Anyone with an ounce of common sense could understand what I sayin’.'”
“Ah, I think I see your confusion,” said the rabbit.
“I thought you were talking about your underlying survivability.”
“I’m not?”
“No. The concept of common sense is frequently used by the ignorant to inflict their opinions upon the stupid through intimidation.”
“It is?”
“Yes. If I didn’t know how to present a proper argument, I would probably try to intimate you by accusing you of not having the common sense to understand my obvious and simple reasoning. And if you were intimidated enough to fall for such a ploy, then you would be nothing short of being stupid.”
“I don’t understand,” I confessed.
“Why not? It’s straightforward. Don’t you have enough common sense to see it for yourself?”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” I said, smiling.
The rabbit smiled. “There’s also another form of common sense.”
“Another one?”
“Yes, and this one will sometimes hold you back.”
“I haven’t used that one,” I explained. “Nothing held me back from walking on the canal. I just walked straight out there...”
The rabbit smiled again. “No, it's not like that. This will stop you from thinking.”
“That don’t sound good,” I said. “How’s it do that?”
“When presented with a situation or a problem that requires some thought, and when the answer looks obvious, you should always suspect that your common sense is at play…”
“I like to play,” I explained.
Ignoring me, the rabbit continued. “It’s at this point when your real thought process is never called upon to investigate.”
“It don’t? Why not?”
“Why waste your time looking for a result when a result has already presented itself, albeit, courtesy of your common sense.”
“What’s an albeit?”
“All - be – it,” explained the rabbit. “Hence, this common sense will often prevent you from investigating deeper. Think of it as a lazy person’s method of reasoning.”
“My mum said that I didn’t have any common sense when I walked on the weeds on the canal.”
“In that particular case, she was probably right,” said the rabbit. “Don’t let these forces such as your death-defying urge to prove your loyalty and dedication to uphold and maintain your species’ eternal gift for stupidity overwhelm your common sense, your faithful and trusted ally to your self-survival.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I’m saying, don’t be a compulsive idiot, but at the same time, don’t let common sense stop you from thinking.”
“I’m not an idiot!”
“Only an idiot would try to walk across the canal.”
“Then just say what you mean.”
“You’re an idiot,” said the rabbit without hesitation.
“I’m going home.”
“Be careful near the canal,” cautioned the rabbit.
“My mum said I wasn’t to go near the canal.”
“Sound advice,” said the rabbit approvingly.
“But I can’t not go near the canal, can I not?”
“Was that a real sentence?”
“Can I?” I demanded.
“It depends how close you want to get to it.”
“I don’t want to fall in again.”
“Then don’t get close enough so that your inherent desire to be an idiot overwhelms your seventh sense.”
. . .
On the way home, I went by way of the canal. Those weeds look like grass to me, and I don’t care who says they don’t, I told myself.
. . .