There is a cup, resting on a stone in a wilderness.  To be true, there are many cups resting on stones through out the wilderness.  But I cannot speak for all of them.  This cup I know about.

The cup is chipped, scratched, and the handle is broken.  It rests in a tiny clearing where the sun and moon have clear access to what is inside.  The wind is prevented from moving it from its perch by the mighty trees around the clearing.  The seasons come and go.  But when it is hot, the cup remains cool.   When it is cold the cup is warm.  The contents cause stability to remain.

Men pass by from time to time.  But rare is the one who stops to peer inside.  And no one can pick the cup from its place to sip what is inside.  Who will ask why?  Who will ponder the situation of the cup they encounter?  And who will stop chasing pleasure long enough to sit near and consider this cup of worthless appearance?