“I can afford to be generous, and so I will.” If she ever spoke her philosophy aloud, it might have been that. She never has, as far as I know. She’s never spoken, as far as I know.
She’s not human. Let’s start there, because that’s crucial information to have from the beginning. She’s a goddess, maybe, or an archetype. Maybe an alien, for all I know, but she isn’t a human being. And because she isn’t human, her generosity gets misunderstood so often.
On the one hand, look at her! If she can pour out all that she has for everyone, then surely I ought to do the same, right? And never mind that pouring out everything I have leaves me parched and unfed myself. I’ll behave just like her, and surely that won’t backfire at all.
On the other hand, look at her! Those vessels hold so very much. Why should I be expected to contribute when she’s already doing more than I ever could? I’ll just grab another pitcher and fill it up to keep in storage. Maybe lock it away so no one else can get to it. It’s easy for her to say that we all ought to pitch in, she who lacks for nothing.
She’s not human. Humans have to carefully steward their connection to the source, or be left without it. She is the source, or maybe she’s a conduit through which it flows. Call her a perfect ideal if you wish, or a picture of naïveté if you must. But if you are graced with a glimpse of her one night, remember this: While we cannot be her and cannot be expected to be her, we can aspire to reflect her. Not to imitate her perfectly or to dismiss her out of hand, but to manifest what we can. To do what we are capable of. Alien or goddess or archetype, she speaks her wordless philosophy with every step.
“I can afford to be generous, and so I will.”
Do we dare listen?