Once upon a time, there were two boys who lived on a quiet island. They would spend the bulk of their days repairing fishing weirs and lobster traps. They lived just two houses down from the island’s lighthouse, where the land stretched high above the sea to form great cliffs of black rock. After their work on the weirs and traps, they loved nothing more than to play ball in a spacious patch of grass that reached from their garden to the edge of the cliff. They would spend all their evening hours playing there until the last light was swallowed by the sea.
But they had to play cautiously, ever weary of the stark cliff. They were accustomed to this piece of land and they had formed a sort of mental boundary beginning at about ten paces from the cliff’s edge, before which rough and speedy play was not allowed.
One day, a carpenter who had been working on the lighthouse traveled the cliffside path back down to the village after his day’s work. He passed through the boys’ patch of land. The boys were playing ball, as they did reliably at this hour. He stopped and observed their play for some time. When a natural break in the game allowed them to notice him, they rushed over to greet this rare visitor.
“You boys could really stretch your legs and make use of this land if there were a fence along this edge. I could build you one,” said the carpenter.
“No doubt you could and even less doubt that it would be a solid fence,” replied the eldest boy. “But the trouble with fences is that they tend to keep out visitors like yourself.”
“We wouldn’t want to miss out on a traveler’s stories or worse yet, an official bringing fireworks on New Year’s Day!” exclaimed the younger boy.
The carpenter did not persist. He simply bid the boys farewell.
A few weeks later, the boys were returning home after a short trip to the mainland, when upon summiting the hill that led up to their patch of grass, they discovered there had been a fence erected.
It was a great, solid fence that ran along the cliff’s edge and created a secure perimeter around the field.
“That carpenter went and did it!” protested the eldest boy with fists clenched. In his turn, the younger boy kicked the ground and spat.
After some moping and cursing, not entirely dissuaded, the boys fetched their ball and began to play. At first, the play was the usual—cautious, and within the confines of the mental boundary that kept them from nearing the edge. But, gradually, the boys began to run more freely, throwing and chasing the ball with more fervor and gusto than ever. New plays emerged. Creativity and spontaneity sprang up naturally in their play and they lost track of time and space, fully immersed in the experience. They quickly adjusted to the fence and to the absence of danger and were able to finally play to their full capacity.
Suddenly the flow of their game was interrupted by the clatter of metal. They looked up and saw a traveler dressed in foreign garb walking in their field.
“Hello traveler! Welcome!” shouted the eldest. “But how, sir, did you get over this great fence?”
“Through the gate installed at the path,” replied the traveler, “Now if you boys know how to make a pot of tea, I’d be happy to share a few stories in exchange!”
The end.
A short story about setting boundaries
Many of us find it hard to set boundaries. We struggle to say no. We accept invitations we don’t really care about because we have fear of missing out. Or when we do set boundaries, we set them in ways that limit us rather than provide us with the space we need for what’s essential to us.
Time is our most precious commodity, so we need to be proactive in protecting it. It’s hard to say no on the spot, so it’s important to create boundaries for ourselves to prevent the need to say no. Tell people in advance that you’ll be busy during a certain period. Turn off your phone or avoid email until after noon. One point of this short story about setting boundaries is that we control the boundaries we build. Once effective boundaries are established, they protect us from interruptions and non-essential demands on our time. But, we can temporarily remove the boundary, if or when we so choose, and let in the people who matter most to us.
“We’re tight-fisted with property and money, yet think too little of wasting time, the one thing about which we should all be the toughest misers.”
— Seneca
