Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You
name them-work, family, health, friends, and spirit, and you're keeping all of t
hese in the air.custom Inflatable Snowmen You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop
it, it will bounce back.
But the other four balls: family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass.
If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damag
ed or even shattered. They will never be the same.
You must understand that and strive for balance in your life. How? Don't undermi
ne your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different t
hat each of us is special.
Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is
best for you. Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to t
hem as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless.
Don't let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the f
uture. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.
Don't give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over unti
l the moment you stop trying.
Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thre
ad that binds us to each together. Don't be afraid to encounter risks. It is by t
aking chances that we learn how to be brave.
Don't shut love out of your life by saying it's impossible to find. The quickest
way to receive love is to give it. The fastest way to lose love is to hold it to
o tightly. The best way to keep love is to give it wings. Don't forget that a per
son's greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.
Don't run through life so fast that you forget not only where you've been, but a
lso where you are going. Don't be afraid to learn. Knowledge is weightless, a tre
asure you can always carry easily. Don't use time or words carelessly. Neither ca
n be retrieved.
2009年11月30日星期一
Trick or Treat
I still live at home. I don't mind it, except for the dinner table. I said to my parents, "I've been sitting in the same seat my whole life. manufacturer Christmas Inflatables Let me sit at the head of the table." And my mom said, "The table's round. There's no head of the table." I got mad, because dad's seat is the head of the table, even if the table's round. But I didn't say a thing.
None of my friends go trick-or-treating anymore. They stopped going about fifteen years ago. I didn't. I said, "Do you still celebrate Thanksgiving? Christmas? Birthdays? So, why not Halloween?" Actually, I don't have many friends; I said this to them when I was growing up.
Halloween's a big deal for me. Around the first of the year, I start thinking about my costume. I write down ten or twenty ideas and then, over the summer, I narrow down the list. By September, I've got a pretty good notion of what I'm gonna wear. I do all this planning because when I was seven, I almost didn't have a costume. I couldn't think of what to wear, and all of sudden it was October 31st, and I didn't have a clue. My dad gave me some of his old clothes, and said, "If anyone asks, tell them you're dressed as a parent." So I did. I went as a parent, and it sucked.
I don't have a job. When I was young, I killed my third grade teacher. I didn't mean it. I got in an argument and I hit her in the chest twice, and she went into shock and died. She had had a heart condition, which I didn't know about. They sent me to a different school, where you learn things a lot slower.
Tonight, I'm dressed as Dracula. I got the cape, the fangs, the white makeup, and the fake blood dripping down my mouth. I think I look pretty good. I guess it's a little weird walking around the neighborhood. My parents ask me to stay home and help them hand out the candy, but I say no.
I leave right when it gets dark. My first stop is across the street.
"Hi, Mrs. Ryder," I say. "Trick or treat."
"Oh, hi, Davey. David, I mean." She drops some Milky Ways into my pillow case.
"How's Johnny?" I say.
"Oh, he's fine. Married, still. He just…he just bought a house." She's turned sideways, sort of behind the door, like she's holding back a dog, but I don't think she's got a dog.
"Tell Johnny I say hi," I say.
"I sure will," she says.
"Do you like my costume?" I say. I raise my arms, so the cape stretches out behind me. Then I bare my fangs and hiss. She gets all scared and closes the door. It's a real good costume.
I walk to a bunch of houses and then I get in my dad's car and drive. I've been doing this the last few Halloweens; I drive for an hour and stop in some random town and go trick-or-treating. I always wash the car on the morning before, because I like when it's all clean and vacuumed inside. Sometimes the car gets egged, and I get mad, but the kids run away too fast.
I picked a good neighborhood; every house has lights. I walk up to one and knock. A woman answers, and she's real small.
"Trick or treat," I say.
"Hello," she says. She looks behind me, at the car, and then she says, "Where's your kid?"
"What kid, ma'am?" I say. And I know she's gonna say something like, 'You're a little old to be trick-or-treating, aren't you?' So I just say, "trick or treat," and I stretch out my cape and hiss.
She closes the door, and I figure it's just a big misunderstanding, so I ring the bell, but nothing happens. No footsteps, nothing. So I ring it again, and then the outside lights go off, and I'm kind of angry because I've walked all the way up the driveway. I bang on the door. Finally, a man answers. He's a few years older than me, but I'm bigger. He's got glasses, and I don't like him.
"What the fuck do you want?" he says, all angry.
"Trick or treat," I say.
"Get the fuck off my property," he says, pointing, and now I'm thinking about that teacher I hit. He shuts the door, and that's probably a good thing, because my fists are all clenched.
I used to go to a shrink. She said that whenever I get mad, I should stop for a second and say all the words that come from 'anger.' She said this would temper my aggression. So I say them. 'Range, rang, age, rag, nag, ran, earn, gear, near, ear, era, are, an.' 'Rage' is in there, too, but she told me not say that one. "Let's take the rage out of anger," she'd say.
I say the words real fast. I know them by heart, because this happens a lot. I'm still thinking about how I'd like to stick this guy's head under a paper cutter, so I say them again. Then I say, "Fuck you, you motherfucker," and I kick the pumpkin off the stoop. I get in the car and drive away.
I circle the block a few times. My shrink tells me to avoid violence. She also tells me not to run away from my problems. This confuses me, because most of my problems deal with violence. I figure she's giving me a riddle, but I can't figure it out.
I park a few houses away. I want to talk to the guy. But when he opens the door, I just get angry and punch him right in the face. He stumbles back and I hit him again, and he falls on the floor. His lip is split, and he's got blood running down his mouth, just like me. I see the Snickers on the counter and I throw a few into my pillow case. The woman starts screaming. My hand hurts. I tell her if she calls the cops, I'll kill her. Then I run to the car and drive fast. The street's near the highway, so I'm okay.
When I get home, I count up my candy. It's the worst Halloween I've ever had, worse than when I was seven. My mom comes in and looks at me, and I can see that she's upset about the candy on the floor, so I tell her that I'll pick it up. "Where did you go?" she says, and I say I went west a bit. She says, "Don't forget to change out of your costume," and I tell her I won't. "You shouldn't wear that stuff to bed," she says, and I say, "I know."
None of my friends go trick-or-treating anymore. They stopped going about fifteen years ago. I didn't. I said, "Do you still celebrate Thanksgiving? Christmas? Birthdays? So, why not Halloween?" Actually, I don't have many friends; I said this to them when I was growing up.
Halloween's a big deal for me. Around the first of the year, I start thinking about my costume. I write down ten or twenty ideas and then, over the summer, I narrow down the list. By September, I've got a pretty good notion of what I'm gonna wear. I do all this planning because when I was seven, I almost didn't have a costume. I couldn't think of what to wear, and all of sudden it was October 31st, and I didn't have a clue. My dad gave me some of his old clothes, and said, "If anyone asks, tell them you're dressed as a parent." So I did. I went as a parent, and it sucked.
I don't have a job. When I was young, I killed my third grade teacher. I didn't mean it. I got in an argument and I hit her in the chest twice, and she went into shock and died. She had had a heart condition, which I didn't know about. They sent me to a different school, where you learn things a lot slower.
Tonight, I'm dressed as Dracula. I got the cape, the fangs, the white makeup, and the fake blood dripping down my mouth. I think I look pretty good. I guess it's a little weird walking around the neighborhood. My parents ask me to stay home and help them hand out the candy, but I say no.
I leave right when it gets dark. My first stop is across the street.
"Hi, Mrs. Ryder," I say. "Trick or treat."
"Oh, hi, Davey. David, I mean." She drops some Milky Ways into my pillow case.
"How's Johnny?" I say.
"Oh, he's fine. Married, still. He just…he just bought a house." She's turned sideways, sort of behind the door, like she's holding back a dog, but I don't think she's got a dog.
"Tell Johnny I say hi," I say.
"I sure will," she says.
"Do you like my costume?" I say. I raise my arms, so the cape stretches out behind me. Then I bare my fangs and hiss. She gets all scared and closes the door. It's a real good costume.
I walk to a bunch of houses and then I get in my dad's car and drive. I've been doing this the last few Halloweens; I drive for an hour and stop in some random town and go trick-or-treating. I always wash the car on the morning before, because I like when it's all clean and vacuumed inside. Sometimes the car gets egged, and I get mad, but the kids run away too fast.
I picked a good neighborhood; every house has lights. I walk up to one and knock. A woman answers, and she's real small.
"Trick or treat," I say.
"Hello," she says. She looks behind me, at the car, and then she says, "Where's your kid?"
"What kid, ma'am?" I say. And I know she's gonna say something like, 'You're a little old to be trick-or-treating, aren't you?' So I just say, "trick or treat," and I stretch out my cape and hiss.
She closes the door, and I figure it's just a big misunderstanding, so I ring the bell, but nothing happens. No footsteps, nothing. So I ring it again, and then the outside lights go off, and I'm kind of angry because I've walked all the way up the driveway. I bang on the door. Finally, a man answers. He's a few years older than me, but I'm bigger. He's got glasses, and I don't like him.
"What the fuck do you want?" he says, all angry.
"Trick or treat," I say.
"Get the fuck off my property," he says, pointing, and now I'm thinking about that teacher I hit. He shuts the door, and that's probably a good thing, because my fists are all clenched.
I used to go to a shrink. She said that whenever I get mad, I should stop for a second and say all the words that come from 'anger.' She said this would temper my aggression. So I say them. 'Range, rang, age, rag, nag, ran, earn, gear, near, ear, era, are, an.' 'Rage' is in there, too, but she told me not say that one. "Let's take the rage out of anger," she'd say.
I say the words real fast. I know them by heart, because this happens a lot. I'm still thinking about how I'd like to stick this guy's head under a paper cutter, so I say them again. Then I say, "Fuck you, you motherfucker," and I kick the pumpkin off the stoop. I get in the car and drive away.
I circle the block a few times. My shrink tells me to avoid violence. She also tells me not to run away from my problems. This confuses me, because most of my problems deal with violence. I figure she's giving me a riddle, but I can't figure it out.
I park a few houses away. I want to talk to the guy. But when he opens the door, I just get angry and punch him right in the face. He stumbles back and I hit him again, and he falls on the floor. His lip is split, and he's got blood running down his mouth, just like me. I see the Snickers on the counter and I throw a few into my pillow case. The woman starts screaming. My hand hurts. I tell her if she calls the cops, I'll kill her. Then I run to the car and drive fast. The street's near the highway, so I'm okay.
When I get home, I count up my candy. It's the worst Halloween I've ever had, worse than when I was seven. My mom comes in and looks at me, and I can see that she's upset about the candy on the floor, so I tell her that I'll pick it up. "Where did you go?" she says, and I say I went west a bit. She says, "Don't forget to change out of your costume," and I tell her I won't. "You shouldn't wear that stuff to bed," she says, and I say, "I know."
Remarks at the Peace Banquet
I am only a philosopher, outdoor Inflatable Obstacle and there is only one thing that a philosopher can be relied on to do. You know that the function of statistics has been ingeniously described as being the refutation of other statistics. Well, a philosopher can always contradict other philosophers. In ancient times philosophers defined man as the rational animal; and philosophers since then have always found much more to say about the rational than about the animal part of the definition. But looked at candidly, reason bears about the same proportion to the rest of human nature that we in this hall bear to the rest of America, Europe, Asia, Africa, and Polynesia. Reason is one of the very feeblest of Nature's forces, if you take it at any one spot and moment. It is only in the very long run that its effects become perceptible. Reason assumes to settle things by weighing them against one another without prejudice, partiality, or excitement; but what affairs in the concrete are settled by is and always will be just prejudices, partialities, cupidities, and excitements. Appealing to reason as we do, we are in a sort of a forlorn hope situation, like a small sand-bank in the midst of a hungry sea ready to wash it out of existence. But sand-banks grow when the conditions favor; and weak as reason is, it has the unique advantage over its antagonists that its activity never lets up and that it presses always in one direction, while men's prejudices vary, their passions ebb and flow, and their excitements are intermittent. Our sand-bank, I absolutely believe, is bound to grow, -- bit by bit it will get dyked and breakwatered. But sitting as we do in this warm room, with music and lights and the flowing bowl and smiling faces, it is easy to get too sanguine about our task, and since I am called to speak, I feel as if it might not be out of place to say a word about the strength of our enemy.
Our permanent enemy is the noted bellicosity of human nature. Man, biologically considered, and whatever else he may be in the bargain, is simply the most formidable of all beasts of prey, and, indeed, the only one that preys systematically on its own species. We are once for all adapted to the military status. A millennium of peace would not breed the fighting disposition out of our bone and marrow, and a function so ingrained and vital will never consent to die without resistance, and will always find impassioned apologists and idealizers.
Not only are men born to be soldiers, but non-combatants by trade and nature, historians in their studies, and clergymen in their pulpits, have been war's idealizers. They have talked of war as of God's court of justice. And, indeed, if we think how many things beside the frontiers of states the wars of history have decided, we must feel some respectful awe, in spite of all the horrors. Our actual civilization, good and bad alike, has had past war for its determining condition. Great-mindedness among the tribes of men has always meant the will to prevail, and all the more so if prevailing included slaughtering and being slaughtered. Rome, Paris, England, Brandenburg, Piedmont, -- soon, let us hope, Japan, -- along with their arms have made their traits of character and habits of thought prevail among their conquered neighbors. The blessings we actually enjoy, such as they are, have grown up in the shadow of the wars of antiquity. The various ideals were backed by fighting wills, and where neither would give way, the God of battles had to be the arbiter. A shallow view, this, truly; for who can say what might have prevailed if man had ever been a reasoning and not a fighting animal? Like dead men, dead causes tell no tales, and the ideals that went under in the past, along with all the tribes that represented them, find to-day no recorder, no explainer, no defender.
But apart from theoretic defenders, and apart from every soldierly individual straining at the leash, and clamoring for opportunity, war has an omnipotent support in the form of our imagination. Man lives by habits, indeed, but what he lives for is thrills and excitements. The only relief from Habit's tediousness is periodical excitement. From time immemorial wars have been, especially for non-combatants, the supremely thrilling excitement. Heavy and dragging at its end, at its outset every war means an explosion of imaginative energy. The dams of routine burst, and boundless prospects open. The remotest spectators share the fascination. With that awful struggle now in progress on the confines of the world, there is not a man in this room, I suppose, who doesn't buy both an evening and a morning paper, and first of all pounce on the war column.
A deadly listlessness would come over most men's imagination of the future if they could seriously be brought to believe that never again in saecula saeculorum would a war trouble human history. In such a stagnant summer afternoon of a world, where would be the zest or interest ?
This is the constitution of human nature which we have to work against. The plain truth is that people want war. They want it anyhow; for itself; and apart from each and every possible consequence. It is the final bouquet of life's fireworks. The born soldiers want it hot and actual. The non-combatants want it in the background, and always as an open possibility, to feed imagination on and keep excitement going. Its clerical and historical defenders fool themselves when they talk as they do about it. What moves them is not the blessings it has won for us, but a vague religious exaltation. War, they feel, is human nature at its uttermost. We are here to do our uttermost. It is a sacrament. Society would rot, they think, without the mystical blood-payment.
We do ill, I fancy, to talk much of universal peace or of a general disarmament. We must go in for preventive medicine not for radical cure. We must cheat our foe, politically circumvent his action, not try to change his nature. In one respect war is like love, though in no other. Both leave us intervals of rest; and in the intervals life goes on perfectly well without them, though the imagination still dallies with their possibility. Equally insane when once aroused and under headway, whether they shall be aroused or not depends on accidental circumstances. How are old maids and old bachelors made? Not by deliberate vows of celibacy, but by sliding on from year to year with no sufficient matrimonial provocation. So of the nations with their wars. Let the general possibility of war be left open, in Heaven's name, for the imagination to dally with. Let the soldiers dream of killing, as the old maids dream of marrying. But organize in every conceivable way the practical machinery for making each successive chance of war abortive. Put peace-men in power; educate the editors and statesmen to responsibility; -- how beautifully did their trained responsibility in England make the Venezuela incident abortive! Seize every pretext, however small, for arbitration methods, and multiply the precedents; foster rival excitements and invent new outlets for heroic energy; and from one generation to another, the chances are that irritations will grow less acute and states of strain less dangerous among the nations. Armies and navies will continue, of course, and will fire the minds of populations with their potentialities of greatness. But their officers will find that somehow or other, with no deliberate intention on any one's part, each successive "incident" has managed to evaporate and to lead nowhere, and that the thought of what might have been remains their only consolation.
Our permanent enemy is the noted bellicosity of human nature. Man, biologically considered, and whatever else he may be in the bargain, is simply the most formidable of all beasts of prey, and, indeed, the only one that preys systematically on its own species. We are once for all adapted to the military status. A millennium of peace would not breed the fighting disposition out of our bone and marrow, and a function so ingrained and vital will never consent to die without resistance, and will always find impassioned apologists and idealizers.
Not only are men born to be soldiers, but non-combatants by trade and nature, historians in their studies, and clergymen in their pulpits, have been war's idealizers. They have talked of war as of God's court of justice. And, indeed, if we think how many things beside the frontiers of states the wars of history have decided, we must feel some respectful awe, in spite of all the horrors. Our actual civilization, good and bad alike, has had past war for its determining condition. Great-mindedness among the tribes of men has always meant the will to prevail, and all the more so if prevailing included slaughtering and being slaughtered. Rome, Paris, England, Brandenburg, Piedmont, -- soon, let us hope, Japan, -- along with their arms have made their traits of character and habits of thought prevail among their conquered neighbors. The blessings we actually enjoy, such as they are, have grown up in the shadow of the wars of antiquity. The various ideals were backed by fighting wills, and where neither would give way, the God of battles had to be the arbiter. A shallow view, this, truly; for who can say what might have prevailed if man had ever been a reasoning and not a fighting animal? Like dead men, dead causes tell no tales, and the ideals that went under in the past, along with all the tribes that represented them, find to-day no recorder, no explainer, no defender.
But apart from theoretic defenders, and apart from every soldierly individual straining at the leash, and clamoring for opportunity, war has an omnipotent support in the form of our imagination. Man lives by habits, indeed, but what he lives for is thrills and excitements. The only relief from Habit's tediousness is periodical excitement. From time immemorial wars have been, especially for non-combatants, the supremely thrilling excitement. Heavy and dragging at its end, at its outset every war means an explosion of imaginative energy. The dams of routine burst, and boundless prospects open. The remotest spectators share the fascination. With that awful struggle now in progress on the confines of the world, there is not a man in this room, I suppose, who doesn't buy both an evening and a morning paper, and first of all pounce on the war column.
A deadly listlessness would come over most men's imagination of the future if they could seriously be brought to believe that never again in saecula saeculorum would a war trouble human history. In such a stagnant summer afternoon of a world, where would be the zest or interest ?
This is the constitution of human nature which we have to work against. The plain truth is that people want war. They want it anyhow; for itself; and apart from each and every possible consequence. It is the final bouquet of life's fireworks. The born soldiers want it hot and actual. The non-combatants want it in the background, and always as an open possibility, to feed imagination on and keep excitement going. Its clerical and historical defenders fool themselves when they talk as they do about it. What moves them is not the blessings it has won for us, but a vague religious exaltation. War, they feel, is human nature at its uttermost. We are here to do our uttermost. It is a sacrament. Society would rot, they think, without the mystical blood-payment.
We do ill, I fancy, to talk much of universal peace or of a general disarmament. We must go in for preventive medicine not for radical cure. We must cheat our foe, politically circumvent his action, not try to change his nature. In one respect war is like love, though in no other. Both leave us intervals of rest; and in the intervals life goes on perfectly well without them, though the imagination still dallies with their possibility. Equally insane when once aroused and under headway, whether they shall be aroused or not depends on accidental circumstances. How are old maids and old bachelors made? Not by deliberate vows of celibacy, but by sliding on from year to year with no sufficient matrimonial provocation. So of the nations with their wars. Let the general possibility of war be left open, in Heaven's name, for the imagination to dally with. Let the soldiers dream of killing, as the old maids dream of marrying. But organize in every conceivable way the practical machinery for making each successive chance of war abortive. Put peace-men in power; educate the editors and statesmen to responsibility; -- how beautifully did their trained responsibility in England make the Venezuela incident abortive! Seize every pretext, however small, for arbitration methods, and multiply the precedents; foster rival excitements and invent new outlets for heroic energy; and from one generation to another, the chances are that irritations will grow less acute and states of strain less dangerous among the nations. Armies and navies will continue, of course, and will fire the minds of populations with their potentialities of greatness. But their officers will find that somehow or other, with no deliberate intention on any one's part, each successive "incident" has managed to evaporate and to lead nowhere, and that the thought of what might have been remains their only consolation.
2009年11月29日星期日
The Story of an Hour
Knowing that Mrs. outdoor airblown christmas Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of “ killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before
her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath:“ free,free,free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes.They stayed keen and bright.Her pulses beat fast,and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him -- sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
“ Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.Spring days,and summer days,and all sorts of days that would be her own.She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel stained, composedly carrying his grip sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of “ killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before
her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath:“ free,free,free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes.They stayed keen and bright.Her pulses beat fast,and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him -- sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
“ Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.Spring days,and summer days,and all sorts of days that would be her own.She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel stained, composedly carrying his grip sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
Responsibility and Learning
ONE of the wonderful things about being a foreign educator in China, is that Chinese students are so eager to learn from you.custom Inflatable Tent They have been trained from an early age to be knowledge sponges, looking to soak up as much new information from their teachers as they can. Secondly, Confucian education demands a high degree of respect for teachers. The title "Lao Shi" is one of reverence in Chinese society, though teachers tend to be poorly paid. Even greater is the respect in China for foreign teachers or "foreign experts" as they are called. Despite the fact that most foreign experts in China have no previous expertise as teachers of English as a foreign language but are employed as such, the Chinese government welcomes their contribution by bestowing a respectful title upon them. Thus, Chinese students hold their foreign teachers especially in high regard, which is perhaps why so many people who come to China to teach end up staying here longer.
It would be hard to find this level of appreciation for teachers among American students. Young people in the U.S. have a somewhat different attitude toward educators; they are taught to question, not simply absorb, so they decide for themselves if a teacher is credible. American students may reject their teachers, confronting them and even publicly disagreeing with them as part of the learning process. American young people are less accepting of information at face value, preferring to evaluate for themselves as to whether or not what the teacher says is true or useful.
The status of the teacher in eastern and western education has a major impact on the way students take responsibility for their learning. Chinese students become heavily reliant on their teachers to give them the "right" information and can easily blame the teacher if they do not do well in the class by saying, "the teacher didn't teach me enough." American students tend to be more independent as learners, and teachers encourage them to do research on their own, form study groups and seek answers from outside sources. This gives American students more flexibility in gathering information, and also encourages them to be responsible for their learning. Responsibility in this context does not simply mean memorizing the "correct" answers to pass an exam, it refers to the sense of ownership that makes learning meaningful.
In Chinese, people express modesty by saying that they gave all their knowledge back to the teacher. This implies that the person never really owned the knowledge in the first place, but simply borrowed it from the teacher to pass the exam. But it also implies that the person never cherished this knowledge, because he or she never owned it, and so they neglected it and eventually forgot it. It's just like the difference between living in a dormitory and living in your own house. No one who lives in a dorm takes very good care of it, especially the public areas. But once you own a home, you make it beautiful and keep it clean because it has greater value to you. This is pride of ownership, and what is owned is cherished. What is cherished endures.
It would be hard to find this level of appreciation for teachers among American students. Young people in the U.S. have a somewhat different attitude toward educators; they are taught to question, not simply absorb, so they decide for themselves if a teacher is credible. American students may reject their teachers, confronting them and even publicly disagreeing with them as part of the learning process. American young people are less accepting of information at face value, preferring to evaluate for themselves as to whether or not what the teacher says is true or useful.
The status of the teacher in eastern and western education has a major impact on the way students take responsibility for their learning. Chinese students become heavily reliant on their teachers to give them the "right" information and can easily blame the teacher if they do not do well in the class by saying, "the teacher didn't teach me enough." American students tend to be more independent as learners, and teachers encourage them to do research on their own, form study groups and seek answers from outside sources. This gives American students more flexibility in gathering information, and also encourages them to be responsible for their learning. Responsibility in this context does not simply mean memorizing the "correct" answers to pass an exam, it refers to the sense of ownership that makes learning meaningful.
In Chinese, people express modesty by saying that they gave all their knowledge back to the teacher. This implies that the person never really owned the knowledge in the first place, but simply borrowed it from the teacher to pass the exam. But it also implies that the person never cherished this knowledge, because he or she never owned it, and so they neglected it and eventually forgot it. It's just like the difference between living in a dormitory and living in your own house. No one who lives in a dorm takes very good care of it, especially the public areas. But once you own a home, you make it beautiful and keep it clean because it has greater value to you. This is pride of ownership, and what is owned is cherished. What is cherished endures.
Enormous Debt
There was no one quite like my father —— in our town of Victor. When any other man in town had an extra dollar, he bought a drink; when Father had an extra dollar, he bought a book. Other people had pictures on their walls, or at least a calendar; we had books, 3000 of them, lining every vertical surface of our little four - room house, on every subject from astronomy to zoology.
Father was the most persistent scholar I ever knew. Every summer he took a month or so off to attend classes in Denver or Omaha or Chicago. Twice a week, a neighbor recently arrived from Germany came over to converse with him in German because he hoped some day to study with the great professors of medicine in Vienna. Eventually, he earned seven degrees, attended 11 different colleges and universities, and in 1951, when he was 82 sent us a cheerful little note from England to say that he had just enrolled for a graduate course in Elizabethan literature at Oxford.
My sister, Pherbia,adult Inflatable Slide and I were the immediate beneficiaries of Father's insatiable hunger to lean. Every spring, carrying his geologist's hammer, he would take us hiking through the mountains to study mineral formations and search for rocks and wildflowers for his specimen collections. We were expected to identify all specimens without hesitation. On winter nights, when the skies were especially clear from our, 10,000-foot vantage point in the Rockies, he would set up a telescope and wake us to come view the stars, which he then named with the affectionate familiarity of a local tour guide. For the rest of my life, wherever I traveled around this earth, the stars remained my friends.
Plain, distinct speech was a particular concern of my father and he was constantly drilling me in the art of elocution. Before I was three, he was reading aloud to me from the Bible, Shakespeare and Mark Twain. Thereafter, I read aloud to him so he could work on my diction. By the time I was in the fifth grade, I could recite from a whole range of classical literature and poetry —— and had to be prepared to do so at a moment's notice. Once, when we happened to meet near the church, he swept me inside, stood me up in the pulpit and said, "Go ahead. " It was a familiar signal. I promptly launched into a recitation while, from a rear pew, Father kept coaching, "Aspirate your H's! Louder! And put more fire into it!"
Of course, here have been times as a young man, when I got tired of study and devoted my time to playing. Then Father would admonish me succinctly by quoting a saying from Shakespeare, "If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work ."
Father was the most persistent scholar I ever knew. Every summer he took a month or so off to attend classes in Denver or Omaha or Chicago. Twice a week, a neighbor recently arrived from Germany came over to converse with him in German because he hoped some day to study with the great professors of medicine in Vienna. Eventually, he earned seven degrees, attended 11 different colleges and universities, and in 1951, when he was 82 sent us a cheerful little note from England to say that he had just enrolled for a graduate course in Elizabethan literature at Oxford.
My sister, Pherbia,adult Inflatable Slide and I were the immediate beneficiaries of Father's insatiable hunger to lean. Every spring, carrying his geologist's hammer, he would take us hiking through the mountains to study mineral formations and search for rocks and wildflowers for his specimen collections. We were expected to identify all specimens without hesitation. On winter nights, when the skies were especially clear from our, 10,000-foot vantage point in the Rockies, he would set up a telescope and wake us to come view the stars, which he then named with the affectionate familiarity of a local tour guide. For the rest of my life, wherever I traveled around this earth, the stars remained my friends.
Plain, distinct speech was a particular concern of my father and he was constantly drilling me in the art of elocution. Before I was three, he was reading aloud to me from the Bible, Shakespeare and Mark Twain. Thereafter, I read aloud to him so he could work on my diction. By the time I was in the fifth grade, I could recite from a whole range of classical literature and poetry —— and had to be prepared to do so at a moment's notice. Once, when we happened to meet near the church, he swept me inside, stood me up in the pulpit and said, "Go ahead. " It was a familiar signal. I promptly launched into a recitation while, from a rear pew, Father kept coaching, "Aspirate your H's! Louder! And put more fire into it!"
Of course, here have been times as a young man, when I got tired of study and devoted my time to playing. Then Father would admonish me succinctly by quoting a saying from Shakespeare, "If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work ."
2009年11月27日星期五
MY FAIR LADY---Mini-Biography for Audrey Hepburn
Audrey Hepburn was born on May 4, 1929 in Brussels, Belgium, with the given name of Edda Kathleen van Heemstra Hepburn-Ruston.china Inflatable Human Spheres She really was blue-blood from the beginning with her father, a wealthy English banker, and her mother, a Dutch baroness. After her parents divorced, Audrey went to London with her mother where she went to a private girls school. Later, when her mother moved back to the Netherlands, she attended private schools as well. While vacationing with her mother in Arnhem, Holland, Hitler's army suddenly took over the town. It was here that she fell on hard times during the Nazi occupation. Audrey suffered from depression and malnutrition. After the liberation, Audrey went to a ballet school in London on a scholarship and later began a modeling career. As a model, she was graceful and, it seemed, she had found her niche in life--until the film producers came calling. After being spotted modeling by a producer, she was signed to a bit part in the European film Nederlands in 7 lessen (1948) in 1948. Later, she had a speaking role in the 1951 film, Young Wives' Tale (1951) as Eve Lester. The part still wasn't much, so she headed to America to try her luck there.
Audrey gained immediate prominence in the US with her role in Roman Holiday (1953) in 1953. This film turned out to be a smashing success as she won an Oscar as Best Actress. This gained her enormous popularity and more plum roles. One of the reasons for her popularity was the fact that she was so elf like and had class, unlike the sex-goddesses of the time. Roman Holiday was followed by another similarly wonderful performance in the 1957 classic Funny Face (1957). Sabrina (1954), in 1954, for which she received another Academy nomination, and Love in the Afternoon (1957), in 1957, also garnered rave reviews. In 1959, she received yet another nomination for her role in _Nun's Story (1959). Audrey reached the pinnacle of her career when she played Holly Golightly in the delightful film, Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) in 1961. For this she received another nomination. One of Audrey's most radiant roles was in the fine production of My Fair Lady (1964), in 1964. Her co-star Rex Harrison once was asked to identify his favorite leading lady. Without hesitation, he replied, "Audrey Hepburn in MY FAIR LADY". After a couple of other movies, she hit pay dirt and another nomination in 1967's Wait Until Dark (1967).
Audrey gained immediate prominence in the US with her role in Roman Holiday (1953) in 1953. This film turned out to be a smashing success as she won an Oscar as Best Actress. This gained her enormous popularity and more plum roles. One of the reasons for her popularity was the fact that she was so elf like and had class, unlike the sex-goddesses of the time. Roman Holiday was followed by another similarly wonderful performance in the 1957 classic Funny Face (1957). Sabrina (1954), in 1954, for which she received another Academy nomination, and Love in the Afternoon (1957), in 1957, also garnered rave reviews. In 1959, she received yet another nomination for her role in _Nun's Story (1959). Audrey reached the pinnacle of her career when she played Holly Golightly in the delightful film, Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) in 1961. For this she received another nomination. One of Audrey's most radiant roles was in the fine production of My Fair Lady (1964), in 1964. Her co-star Rex Harrison once was asked to identify his favorite leading lady. Without hesitation, he replied, "Audrey Hepburn in MY FAIR LADY". After a couple of other movies, she hit pay dirt and another nomination in 1967's Wait Until Dark (1967).
The Last Stop
Afternoon was Mrs. Conroy's favorite time of day. After a hard day at work, her eyes were tired and her feet hurt. buy Inflatable Snowman She enjoyed the nice long nap she took on the bus. Mrs. Conroy had made friends with the bus driver, Mr. Angstrom. He always woke her up before her stop. She usually felt fresh as a daisy when she got off the bus.
But today was different. Mr. Angstrom wasn't driving. A small man in a wrinkled uniform sat in the driver's seat.
"Where's Mr. Angstrom?" asked Mrs. Conroy, dropping her money into the box.
"I don't know. Sick, I guess. I just work here, lady. Step to the rear."
Mrs. Conroy hoped that Mr. Angstrom was all right. She didn't like this new driver. She decided not to sleep on the way home today. She didn't want to ask this driver to wake her. He didn't look like the type who'd want to do anyone a favor.
Mrs. Conroy looked out the window. It was a warm afternoon. Though she tried to keep her eyes open, the gentle rocking of the bus had a lulling effect. Within a few minutes her eyes closed. Her head dropped to her shoulders. In spite of herself, Mrs. Conroy fell fast asleep.
The next thing Mrs. Conroy knew, a hand was on her shoulder. Someone was shaking her awake.
"Wake up, lady. We've come to the end of the line. Wake up."
Mrs. Conroy blinked and opened her eyes. The bus driver looked down at her. "I said, this is the end of the line, lady. Time to get off the bus."
Mrs. Conroy peered out the window. "Where am I?" she asked. "I was supposed to get off at Essex Avenue."
"You're at the last stop, lady. Come on, get off the bus. I have a schedule to keep to."
Mrs. Conroy was having trouble waking up. She staggered to her feet. The bus driver took her arm and helped her down the aisle. As she stepped off the bus, she felt a sense of panic. "Wait a minute," she said in a shrill voice. "This isn't Essex Avenue. Where am I? How can I get home?"
"Cool off, lady. I told you, you're at the end of the line. We all make it here sooner or later."
"But why can't I ride back with you?" she pleaded. "I have the fare!"
"Sorry, lady," he said as he closed the door. "It's against the rules."
Mrs. Conroy watched the bus disappear down the road. She looked around and tried to figure out what part of the city she was in. Suddenly the sun seemed awfully bright.
Mrs. Conroy squinted. She didn't recognize this place. There were no trees around, no street signs, and no people. The city seemed to have ended miles back. She couldn't get her bearings. There was nothing to see in any direction. Nothing at all. Mrs. Conroy wondered if she were still dreaming.
"Are you ready, Madam?"
The voice came from behind her. Mrs. Conroy whirled around, her heart beating rapidly.
"Who? What? Are you speaking to me?"
A tall, handsome man in a blue pin-striped suit stepped forward. His suit reminded her of the one that her boss, Mr. Burton, always wore. What was a businessman doing so far out here in the country?
The man smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Conroy. I've come to meet you. It's time to go now."
"Go where? What are you talking about? And how do you know my name?" The man in the blue suit smiled.
"I know it must be very confusing, Mrs. Conroy. Most people seem to feel that way at first. But as we go along, everything will become quite clear." He took her by the arm. "It's all right," he said kindly. "Just come with me."
"No! I'm not going anywhere with you. Why should I? I don't even know who you are," Mrs. Conroy said. She pulled away from the man and stepped back.
The man smiled gently. "I'm only an assistant, Mrs. Conroy," he said.
"Well, Mr. Assistant, there must be some mistake. I just fell asleep and stayed on the bus too long. Then the driver made me get off. He wouldn't take me back with him! He talked some nonsense about rules. I'm going to call the company and report him!"
"He was just doing his job, Mrs. Conroy," the man said patiently.
"But he left me out here alone," Mrs. Conroy said. "Now it's getting late. I have to get home and fix dinner. What kind of bus driver refuses to take passengers?"
But today was different. Mr. Angstrom wasn't driving. A small man in a wrinkled uniform sat in the driver's seat.
"Where's Mr. Angstrom?" asked Mrs. Conroy, dropping her money into the box.
"I don't know. Sick, I guess. I just work here, lady. Step to the rear."
Mrs. Conroy hoped that Mr. Angstrom was all right. She didn't like this new driver. She decided not to sleep on the way home today. She didn't want to ask this driver to wake her. He didn't look like the type who'd want to do anyone a favor.
Mrs. Conroy looked out the window. It was a warm afternoon. Though she tried to keep her eyes open, the gentle rocking of the bus had a lulling effect. Within a few minutes her eyes closed. Her head dropped to her shoulders. In spite of herself, Mrs. Conroy fell fast asleep.
The next thing Mrs. Conroy knew, a hand was on her shoulder. Someone was shaking her awake.
"Wake up, lady. We've come to the end of the line. Wake up."
Mrs. Conroy blinked and opened her eyes. The bus driver looked down at her. "I said, this is the end of the line, lady. Time to get off the bus."
Mrs. Conroy peered out the window. "Where am I?" she asked. "I was supposed to get off at Essex Avenue."
"You're at the last stop, lady. Come on, get off the bus. I have a schedule to keep to."
Mrs. Conroy was having trouble waking up. She staggered to her feet. The bus driver took her arm and helped her down the aisle. As she stepped off the bus, she felt a sense of panic. "Wait a minute," she said in a shrill voice. "This isn't Essex Avenue. Where am I? How can I get home?"
"Cool off, lady. I told you, you're at the end of the line. We all make it here sooner or later."
"But why can't I ride back with you?" she pleaded. "I have the fare!"
"Sorry, lady," he said as he closed the door. "It's against the rules."
Mrs. Conroy watched the bus disappear down the road. She looked around and tried to figure out what part of the city she was in. Suddenly the sun seemed awfully bright.
Mrs. Conroy squinted. She didn't recognize this place. There were no trees around, no street signs, and no people. The city seemed to have ended miles back. She couldn't get her bearings. There was nothing to see in any direction. Nothing at all. Mrs. Conroy wondered if she were still dreaming.
"Are you ready, Madam?"
The voice came from behind her. Mrs. Conroy whirled around, her heart beating rapidly.
"Who? What? Are you speaking to me?"
A tall, handsome man in a blue pin-striped suit stepped forward. His suit reminded her of the one that her boss, Mr. Burton, always wore. What was a businessman doing so far out here in the country?
The man smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Conroy. I've come to meet you. It's time to go now."
"Go where? What are you talking about? And how do you know my name?" The man in the blue suit smiled.
"I know it must be very confusing, Mrs. Conroy. Most people seem to feel that way at first. But as we go along, everything will become quite clear." He took her by the arm. "It's all right," he said kindly. "Just come with me."
"No! I'm not going anywhere with you. Why should I? I don't even know who you are," Mrs. Conroy said. She pulled away from the man and stepped back.
The man smiled gently. "I'm only an assistant, Mrs. Conroy," he said.
"Well, Mr. Assistant, there must be some mistake. I just fell asleep and stayed on the bus too long. Then the driver made me get off. He wouldn't take me back with him! He talked some nonsense about rules. I'm going to call the company and report him!"
"He was just doing his job, Mrs. Conroy," the man said patiently.
"But he left me out here alone," Mrs. Conroy said. "Now it's getting late. I have to get home and fix dinner. What kind of bus driver refuses to take passengers?"
2009年11月26日星期四
Does Love Exist
Most of us long for relationships in which we are loved and accepted just the way we are. Our hearts' desire is to give and receive love in relationships that make us feel that even if others disagree with what we do or say, they still love us.giant Christmas Decorations They accept us. They appreciate our contributions to the world. While it would be wonder
ful to have these types of relationships with all people, we know that that's hard to do. We can, however, have them with some others, but only when we first have them with ourselves-and, ironically, this is often the hardest relationship of all.
One of the reasons many of us find it hard to love ourselves is because we do not realize that we are already loved in the most divine way. God loves us, totally and unconditionally.
It's hard for many of us to believe this fact because we know how imperfect we are, and we believe we have to be perfect before God will love us. The truth is that God's love makes us perfect, even with our imperfections. By knowing this truth intellectually and believing it spiritually, we not only love ourselves more; we love others more as well.
Do you love yourself? You may think you do, but do you really? There's only one way to find out-by taking a closer look at what you think, say, and do. You may not like some of what you find, but if you're serious about really loving yourself, you can use this insight to do some positive inner work.
Here are three ways I've found for gaining greater personal insight for deeper love.
Listen to your words and listen even more closely to your thoughts. Why? Because your words and your thoughts will determine your actions. One of the things that has helped me to listen to my thoughts has been to keep a journal. It is not necessary for you to write in it everyday, but it helps to record various insights you gain as you go about living your life. Instead of using a big notebook, you might use a small note pad that you can keep in your purse or pocket for easy access to record your thoughts as they occur to you. (I've found that if I don't immediately write down ideas and insights as they come, it's hard to remember them later, at least with the same degree of clarity.) Whichever method you choose, what's most important is that you write your thoughts down. It will help you know what's in your heart.
Be honest with yourself by paying attention to your actions. Actions speak louder than words, and they always tell the truth. What do your actions say about you? If you say you love your job, but your actions say otherwise, which do you think is more true - your words or your actions? On the other hand, if you say you're not good at a certain job, but your actions say otherwise, that's also important. What do you do with this insight? You can use it to make more beneficial choices in your life. By being honest with yourself based on your previous actions, your actions moving forward will be based on truth instead of just what you tell yourself.
Take time out during the day for quiet time to listen to your inner voice. I call this inner voice the voice of God. This is similar to point number one, but it takes it a step further - beyond the natural mind to the supernatural heart. You may want to use your quiet time to meditate or pray. However you use this time, the key is to shut out all of the noise around you by focusing deep within yourself. Breathing deeply during quiet time will also help you focus. I know it's hard to find quiet time during a particularly busy day, but it's so important - even if it's just 10 minutes a day and you have to sneak away to get it. Quiet time can really make a difference in your life. It enables you to hear God speaking to your heart reminding you of His perfect love for you.
ful to have these types of relationships with all people, we know that that's hard to do. We can, however, have them with some others, but only when we first have them with ourselves-and, ironically, this is often the hardest relationship of all.
One of the reasons many of us find it hard to love ourselves is because we do not realize that we are already loved in the most divine way. God loves us, totally and unconditionally.
It's hard for many of us to believe this fact because we know how imperfect we are, and we believe we have to be perfect before God will love us. The truth is that God's love makes us perfect, even with our imperfections. By knowing this truth intellectually and believing it spiritually, we not only love ourselves more; we love others more as well.
Do you love yourself? You may think you do, but do you really? There's only one way to find out-by taking a closer look at what you think, say, and do. You may not like some of what you find, but if you're serious about really loving yourself, you can use this insight to do some positive inner work.
Here are three ways I've found for gaining greater personal insight for deeper love.
Listen to your words and listen even more closely to your thoughts. Why? Because your words and your thoughts will determine your actions. One of the things that has helped me to listen to my thoughts has been to keep a journal. It is not necessary for you to write in it everyday, but it helps to record various insights you gain as you go about living your life. Instead of using a big notebook, you might use a small note pad that you can keep in your purse or pocket for easy access to record your thoughts as they occur to you. (I've found that if I don't immediately write down ideas and insights as they come, it's hard to remember them later, at least with the same degree of clarity.) Whichever method you choose, what's most important is that you write your thoughts down. It will help you know what's in your heart.
Be honest with yourself by paying attention to your actions. Actions speak louder than words, and they always tell the truth. What do your actions say about you? If you say you love your job, but your actions say otherwise, which do you think is more true - your words or your actions? On the other hand, if you say you're not good at a certain job, but your actions say otherwise, that's also important. What do you do with this insight? You can use it to make more beneficial choices in your life. By being honest with yourself based on your previous actions, your actions moving forward will be based on truth instead of just what you tell yourself.
Take time out during the day for quiet time to listen to your inner voice. I call this inner voice the voice of God. This is similar to point number one, but it takes it a step further - beyond the natural mind to the supernatural heart. You may want to use your quiet time to meditate or pray. However you use this time, the key is to shut out all of the noise around you by focusing deep within yourself. Breathing deeply during quiet time will also help you focus. I know it's hard to find quiet time during a particularly busy day, but it's so important - even if it's just 10 minutes a day and you have to sneak away to get it. Quiet time can really make a difference in your life. It enables you to hear God speaking to your heart reminding you of His perfect love for you.
A Teacher’s Story
There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. But that was impossible, because there in the front row, giant Sumo Wrestling Suits slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy.
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around.”
His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”
His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”
Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. She stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.” After the children left she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.
Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, second in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoller, M.D.
The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson, did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around.”
His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”
His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”
Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. She stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.” After the children left she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.
Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, second in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoller, M.D.
The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson, did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”
A Promise of Spring
Early in the spring, about a month before my grandpa's stroke, I began walking for an hour every afternoon. Some days I would walk four blocks south to see Grandma and Grandpa. At eighty-six, Grandpa was still quite a gardener,cheap Inflatable Slide so I always watched for his earliest blooms and each new wave of spring flowers.
I as especially interested in flowers that year because I was planning to landscape my own yard and I was eager to get Grandpa's advice. I thought I knew pretty much what I wanted—a yard full of bushes and plants that would bloom from May till November.
It was right after the first rush of purple violets in the lawns and the sudden blaze of forsythia that spring that Grandpa had a stroke. It left him without speech and with no movement on his left side. The whole family rallied to Grandpa. We all spent many hours by his side. Some days his eyes were eloquent—laughing at our reported mishaps, listening alertly, revealing painful awareness of his inability to care for himself. There were days, too, when he slept most of the time, overcome with the weight of his approaching death.
As the months passed, I watched the growing earth with Grandpa's eyes. Each time I was with him, I gave him a garden report. He listened, gripping my hand with the sure strength and calm he had always had. But he could not answer my questions. The new flowers would blaze, peak, fade, and die before I knew their names.
Grandpa's illness held him through the spring and on, week by week, through summer. I began spending hours at the local nursery, studying and choosing seeds and plants. It gave me special joy to buy plants I had seen in Grandpa's garden and give them humble starts in my own garden. I discovered Sweet William, which I had admired for years in Grandpa's garden without knowing its name. And I planted it in his honor.
As I waited and watched in the garden and by Grandpa's side, some quiet truths emerged. I realized that Grandpa loved flowers that were always bloom; he kept a full bed of roses in his garden. But I noticed that Grandpa left plenty of room for the brief highlights. Not every nook of his garden was constantly in bloom. There was always a treasured surprise tucked somewhere.
I came to see, too, that Grandpa's garden mirrored his life. He was a hard worker who understood the law of the harvest. But along with his hard work, Grandpa knew how to enjoy each season, each change. We often teased him about his life history. He had written two paragraphs summarizing fifty years of work, and a full nine pages about every trip and vacation he'd ever taken.
In July, Grandpa worsened. One hot afternoon arrived when no one else was at his bedside. He was glad to have me there, and reached out his hand to pull me close.
I told Grandpa what I had learned—that few flowers last from April to November. Some of the most beautiful bloom for only a month at most. To really enjoy a garden, you have to plant corners and drifts and rows of flowers that will bloom and grace the garden, each in its own season.
His eyes listened to every word. Then, another discovery: "If I want a garden like yours, Grandpa, I'm going to have to work." His grin laughed at me, and his eyes teased me.
"Grandpa, in your life right now the chrysanthemums are in bloom. Chrysanthemums and roses." Tears clouded both our eyes. Neither of us feared this last flower of fall, but the wait for spring seems longest in November. We knew how much we would miss each other.
Sitting there, I suddenly felt that the best gift I could give Grandpa would be to give voice to the testimony inside both of us. He had never spoken of his testimony to me, but it was such a part of his life that I had never questioned if Grandpa knew. I knew he knew.
"Grandpa," I began—and his grip tightened as if he knew what I was going to say—"I want you to know that I have a testimony. I know the Savior lives. I bear witness to you that Joseph Smith is a prophet. I love the Restoration and joy in it." The steadiness in Grandpa's eyes told how much he felt it too. "I bear witness that President Kimball is a prophet. I know the Book of Mormon is true, Grandpa. Every part of me bears this witness."
"Grandpa," I added quietly, "I know our Father in Heaven loves you." Unbidden, unexpected, the Spirit bore comforting, poignant testimony to me of our Father's love for my humble, quiet Grandpa.
A tangible sense of Heavenly Father's compassionate awareness of Grandpa's suffering surrounded us and held us. It was so personal and powerful that no words were left to me—only tears of gratitude and humility, tears of comfort.
Grandpa and I wept together.
It was the end of August when Grandpa died, the end of summer. As we were choosing flowers from the florist for Grandpa's funeral, I slipped away to Grandpa's garden and walked with my memories of columbine and Sweet William. Only the tall lavender and white phlox were in bloom now, and some baby's breath in another corner.
On impulse, I cut the prettiest strands of phlox and baby's breath and made one more arrangement for the funeral. When they saw it, friends and family all smiled to see Grandpa's flowers there. We all felt how much Grandpa would have liked that.
I as especially interested in flowers that year because I was planning to landscape my own yard and I was eager to get Grandpa's advice. I thought I knew pretty much what I wanted—a yard full of bushes and plants that would bloom from May till November.
It was right after the first rush of purple violets in the lawns and the sudden blaze of forsythia that spring that Grandpa had a stroke. It left him without speech and with no movement on his left side. The whole family rallied to Grandpa. We all spent many hours by his side. Some days his eyes were eloquent—laughing at our reported mishaps, listening alertly, revealing painful awareness of his inability to care for himself. There were days, too, when he slept most of the time, overcome with the weight of his approaching death.
As the months passed, I watched the growing earth with Grandpa's eyes. Each time I was with him, I gave him a garden report. He listened, gripping my hand with the sure strength and calm he had always had. But he could not answer my questions. The new flowers would blaze, peak, fade, and die before I knew their names.
Grandpa's illness held him through the spring and on, week by week, through summer. I began spending hours at the local nursery, studying and choosing seeds and plants. It gave me special joy to buy plants I had seen in Grandpa's garden and give them humble starts in my own garden. I discovered Sweet William, which I had admired for years in Grandpa's garden without knowing its name. And I planted it in his honor.
As I waited and watched in the garden and by Grandpa's side, some quiet truths emerged. I realized that Grandpa loved flowers that were always bloom; he kept a full bed of roses in his garden. But I noticed that Grandpa left plenty of room for the brief highlights. Not every nook of his garden was constantly in bloom. There was always a treasured surprise tucked somewhere.
I came to see, too, that Grandpa's garden mirrored his life. He was a hard worker who understood the law of the harvest. But along with his hard work, Grandpa knew how to enjoy each season, each change. We often teased him about his life history. He had written two paragraphs summarizing fifty years of work, and a full nine pages about every trip and vacation he'd ever taken.
In July, Grandpa worsened. One hot afternoon arrived when no one else was at his bedside. He was glad to have me there, and reached out his hand to pull me close.
I told Grandpa what I had learned—that few flowers last from April to November. Some of the most beautiful bloom for only a month at most. To really enjoy a garden, you have to plant corners and drifts and rows of flowers that will bloom and grace the garden, each in its own season.
His eyes listened to every word. Then, another discovery: "If I want a garden like yours, Grandpa, I'm going to have to work." His grin laughed at me, and his eyes teased me.
"Grandpa, in your life right now the chrysanthemums are in bloom. Chrysanthemums and roses." Tears clouded both our eyes. Neither of us feared this last flower of fall, but the wait for spring seems longest in November. We knew how much we would miss each other.
Sitting there, I suddenly felt that the best gift I could give Grandpa would be to give voice to the testimony inside both of us. He had never spoken of his testimony to me, but it was such a part of his life that I had never questioned if Grandpa knew. I knew he knew.
"Grandpa," I began—and his grip tightened as if he knew what I was going to say—"I want you to know that I have a testimony. I know the Savior lives. I bear witness to you that Joseph Smith is a prophet. I love the Restoration and joy in it." The steadiness in Grandpa's eyes told how much he felt it too. "I bear witness that President Kimball is a prophet. I know the Book of Mormon is true, Grandpa. Every part of me bears this witness."
"Grandpa," I added quietly, "I know our Father in Heaven loves you." Unbidden, unexpected, the Spirit bore comforting, poignant testimony to me of our Father's love for my humble, quiet Grandpa.
A tangible sense of Heavenly Father's compassionate awareness of Grandpa's suffering surrounded us and held us. It was so personal and powerful that no words were left to me—only tears of gratitude and humility, tears of comfort.
Grandpa and I wept together.
It was the end of August when Grandpa died, the end of summer. As we were choosing flowers from the florist for Grandpa's funeral, I slipped away to Grandpa's garden and walked with my memories of columbine and Sweet William. Only the tall lavender and white phlox were in bloom now, and some baby's breath in another corner.
On impulse, I cut the prettiest strands of phlox and baby's breath and made one more arrangement for the funeral. When they saw it, friends and family all smiled to see Grandpa's flowers there. We all felt how much Grandpa would have liked that.
2009年11月25日星期三
The Fisherman and His Wife
There was once on a time a Fisherman who lived with his wife in a miserable hovel close by the sea, and every day he went out fishing. cheap Christmas Inflatables And once as he was sitting with his rod, looking at the clear water, his line suddenly went down, far down below, and when he drew it up again he brought out a large Flounder. Then the Flounder said to him, "Hark, you Fisherman, I pray you, let me live, I am no Flounder really, but an enchanted prince. What good will it do you to kill me? I should not be good to eat, put me in the water again, and let me go." "Come," said the Fisherman, "there is no need for so many words about it -- a fish that can talk I should certainly let go, anyhow," with that he put him back again into the clear water, and the Flounder went to the bottom, leaving a long streak of blood behind him. Then the Fisherman got up and went home to his wife in the hovel.
"Husband," said the woman, "have you caught nothing to-day?" "No," said the man, "I did catch a Flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince, so I let him go again." "Did you not wish for anything first?" said the woman. "No," said the man; "what should I wish for?" "Ah," said the woman, "it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty hovel; you might have wished for a small cottage for us. Go back and call him. Tell him we want to have a small cottage, he will certainly give us that." "Ah," said the man, "why should I go there again?" "Why," said the woman, "you did catch him, and you let him go again; he is sure to do it. Go at once." The man still did not quite like to go, but did not like to oppose his wife, and went to the sea.
When he got there the sea was all green and yellow, and no longer so smooth; so he stood still and said,
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
Then the Flounder came swimming to him and said, "Well what does she want, then?" "Ah," said the man, "I did catch you, and my wife says I really ought to have wished for something. She does not like to live in a wretched hovel any longer. She would like to have a cottage." "Go, then," said the Flounder, "she has it already."
When the man went home, his wife was no longer in the hovel, but instead of it there stood a small cottage, and she was sitting on a bench before the door. Then she took him by the hand and said to him, "Just come inside, look, now isn't this a great deal better?" So they went in, and there was a small porch, and a pretty little parlor and bedroom, and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture, and fitted up with the most beautiful things made of tin and brass, whatsoever was wanted. And behind the cottage there was a small yard, with hens and ducks, and a little garden with flowers and fruit. "Look," said the wife, "is not that nice!" "Yes," said the husband, "and so we must always think it, -- now we will live quite contented." "We will think about that," said the wife. With that they ate something and went to bed.
Everything went well for a week or a fortnight, and then the woman said, "Hark you, husband, this cottage is far too small for us, and the garden and yard are little; the Flounder might just as well have given us a larger house. I should like to live in a great stone castle; go to the Flounder, and tell him to give us a castle." "Ah, wife," said the man, "the cottage is quite good enough; why should we live in a castle?" "What!" said the woman; "just go there, the Flounder can always do that." "No, wife," said the man, "the Flounder has just given us the cottage, I do not like to go back so soon, it might make him angry." "Go," said the woman, "he can do it quite easily, and will be glad to do it; just you go to him."
The man's heart grew heavy, and he would not go. He said to himself, "It is not right," and yet he went. And when he came to the sea the water was quite purple and dark-blue, and grey and thick, and no longer so green and yellow, but it was still quiet. And he stood there and said --
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas," said the man, half scared, "she wants to live in a great stone castle." "Go to it, then, she is standing before the door," said the Flounder.
Then the man went away, intending to go home, but when he got there, he found a great stone palace, and his wife was just standing on the steps going in, and she took him by the hand and said, "Come in." So he went in with her, and in the castle was a great hall paved with marble, and many servants, who flung wide the doors; And the walls were all bright with beautiful hangings, and in the rooms were chairs and tables of pure gold, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and all the rooms and bed-rooms had carpets, and food and wine of the very best were standing on all the tables, so that they nearly broke down beneath it. Behind the house, too, there was a great court-yard, with stables for horses and cows, and the very best of carriages; there was a magnificent large garden, too, with the most beautiful flowers and fruit-trees, and a park quite half a mile long, in which were stags, deer, and hares, and everything that could be desired. "Come," said the woman, "isn't that beautiful?" "Yes, indeed," said the man, "now let it be; and we will live in this beautiful castle and be content." "We will consider about that," said the woman, "and sleep upon it;" thereupon they went to bed.
Next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak, and from her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her. Her husband was still stretching himself, so she poked him in the side with her elbow, and said, "Get up, husband, and just peep out of the window. Look you, couldn't we be the King over all that land? Go to the Flounder, we will be the King." "Ah, wife," said the man, "why should we be King? I do not want to be King." "Well," said the wife, "if you won't be King, I will; go to the Flounder, for I will be King." "Ah, wife," said the man, "why do you want to be King? I do not like to say that to him." "Why not?" said the woman; "go to him this instant; I must be King!" So the man went, and was quite unhappy because his wife wished to be King. "It is not right; it is not right," thought he. He did not wish to go, but yet he went.
And when he came to the sea, it was quite dark-grey, and the water heaved up from below, and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by it, and said,
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will"
"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas," said the man, "she wants to be King." "Go to her; she is King already."
So the man went, and when he came to the palace, the castle had become much larger, and had a great tower and magnificent ornaments, and the sentinel was standing before the door, and there were numbers of soldiers with kettle-drums and trumpets. And when he went inside the house, everything was of real marble and gold, with velvet covers and great golden tassels. Then the doors of the hall were opened, and there was the court in all its splendour, giant airblown christmas and his wife was sitting on a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a great crown of gold on her head, and a sceptre of pure gold and jewels in her hand, and on both sides of her stood her maids-in-waiting in a row, each of them always one head shorter than the last.
Then he went and stood before her, and said, "Ah, wife, and now you are King." "Yes," said the woman, "now I am King." So he stood and looked at her, and when he had looked at her thus for some time, he said, "And now that you are King, let all else be, now we will wish for nothing more." "Nay, husband," said the woman, quite anxiously, "I find time pass very heavily, I can bear it no longer; go to the Flounder -- I am King, but I must be Emperor, too." "Alas, wife, why do you wish to be Emperor?" "Husband," said she, "go to the Flounder. I will be Emperor." "Alas, wife," said the man, "he cannot make you Emperor; I may not say that to the fish. There is only one Emperor in the land. An Emperor the Flounder cannot make you! I assure you he cannot."
"What!" said the woman, "I am the King, and you are nothing but my husband; will you go this moment? go at once! If he can make a King he can make an emperor. I will be Emperor; go instantly." So he was forced to go. As the man went, however, he was troubled in mind, and thought to himself, "It will not end well; it will not end well! Emperor is too shameless! The Flounder will at last be tired out."
With that he reached the sea, and the sea was quite black and thick, and began to boil up from below, so that it threw up bubbles, and such a sharp wind blew over it that it curdled, and the man was afraid. Then he went and stood by it, and said,
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas, Flounder," said he, "my wife wants to be Emperor." "Go to her," said the Flounder; "she is Emperor already."
"Husband," said the woman, "have you caught nothing to-day?" "No," said the man, "I did catch a Flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince, so I let him go again." "Did you not wish for anything first?" said the woman. "No," said the man; "what should I wish for?" "Ah," said the woman, "it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty hovel; you might have wished for a small cottage for us. Go back and call him. Tell him we want to have a small cottage, he will certainly give us that." "Ah," said the man, "why should I go there again?" "Why," said the woman, "you did catch him, and you let him go again; he is sure to do it. Go at once." The man still did not quite like to go, but did not like to oppose his wife, and went to the sea.
When he got there the sea was all green and yellow, and no longer so smooth; so he stood still and said,
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
Then the Flounder came swimming to him and said, "Well what does she want, then?" "Ah," said the man, "I did catch you, and my wife says I really ought to have wished for something. She does not like to live in a wretched hovel any longer. She would like to have a cottage." "Go, then," said the Flounder, "she has it already."
When the man went home, his wife was no longer in the hovel, but instead of it there stood a small cottage, and she was sitting on a bench before the door. Then she took him by the hand and said to him, "Just come inside, look, now isn't this a great deal better?" So they went in, and there was a small porch, and a pretty little parlor and bedroom, and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture, and fitted up with the most beautiful things made of tin and brass, whatsoever was wanted. And behind the cottage there was a small yard, with hens and ducks, and a little garden with flowers and fruit. "Look," said the wife, "is not that nice!" "Yes," said the husband, "and so we must always think it, -- now we will live quite contented." "We will think about that," said the wife. With that they ate something and went to bed.
Everything went well for a week or a fortnight, and then the woman said, "Hark you, husband, this cottage is far too small for us, and the garden and yard are little; the Flounder might just as well have given us a larger house. I should like to live in a great stone castle; go to the Flounder, and tell him to give us a castle." "Ah, wife," said the man, "the cottage is quite good enough; why should we live in a castle?" "What!" said the woman; "just go there, the Flounder can always do that." "No, wife," said the man, "the Flounder has just given us the cottage, I do not like to go back so soon, it might make him angry." "Go," said the woman, "he can do it quite easily, and will be glad to do it; just you go to him."
The man's heart grew heavy, and he would not go. He said to himself, "It is not right," and yet he went. And when he came to the sea the water was quite purple and dark-blue, and grey and thick, and no longer so green and yellow, but it was still quiet. And he stood there and said --
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas," said the man, half scared, "she wants to live in a great stone castle." "Go to it, then, she is standing before the door," said the Flounder.
Then the man went away, intending to go home, but when he got there, he found a great stone palace, and his wife was just standing on the steps going in, and she took him by the hand and said, "Come in." So he went in with her, and in the castle was a great hall paved with marble, and many servants, who flung wide the doors; And the walls were all bright with beautiful hangings, and in the rooms were chairs and tables of pure gold, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and all the rooms and bed-rooms had carpets, and food and wine of the very best were standing on all the tables, so that they nearly broke down beneath it. Behind the house, too, there was a great court-yard, with stables for horses and cows, and the very best of carriages; there was a magnificent large garden, too, with the most beautiful flowers and fruit-trees, and a park quite half a mile long, in which were stags, deer, and hares, and everything that could be desired. "Come," said the woman, "isn't that beautiful?" "Yes, indeed," said the man, "now let it be; and we will live in this beautiful castle and be content." "We will consider about that," said the woman, "and sleep upon it;" thereupon they went to bed.
Next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak, and from her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her. Her husband was still stretching himself, so she poked him in the side with her elbow, and said, "Get up, husband, and just peep out of the window. Look you, couldn't we be the King over all that land? Go to the Flounder, we will be the King." "Ah, wife," said the man, "why should we be King? I do not want to be King." "Well," said the wife, "if you won't be King, I will; go to the Flounder, for I will be King." "Ah, wife," said the man, "why do you want to be King? I do not like to say that to him." "Why not?" said the woman; "go to him this instant; I must be King!" So the man went, and was quite unhappy because his wife wished to be King. "It is not right; it is not right," thought he. He did not wish to go, but yet he went.
And when he came to the sea, it was quite dark-grey, and the water heaved up from below, and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by it, and said,
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will"
"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas," said the man, "she wants to be King." "Go to her; she is King already."
So the man went, and when he came to the palace, the castle had become much larger, and had a great tower and magnificent ornaments, and the sentinel was standing before the door, and there were numbers of soldiers with kettle-drums and trumpets. And when he went inside the house, everything was of real marble and gold, with velvet covers and great golden tassels. Then the doors of the hall were opened, and there was the court in all its splendour, giant airblown christmas and his wife was sitting on a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a great crown of gold on her head, and a sceptre of pure gold and jewels in her hand, and on both sides of her stood her maids-in-waiting in a row, each of them always one head shorter than the last.
Then he went and stood before her, and said, "Ah, wife, and now you are King." "Yes," said the woman, "now I am King." So he stood and looked at her, and when he had looked at her thus for some time, he said, "And now that you are King, let all else be, now we will wish for nothing more." "Nay, husband," said the woman, quite anxiously, "I find time pass very heavily, I can bear it no longer; go to the Flounder -- I am King, but I must be Emperor, too." "Alas, wife, why do you wish to be Emperor?" "Husband," said she, "go to the Flounder. I will be Emperor." "Alas, wife," said the man, "he cannot make you Emperor; I may not say that to the fish. There is only one Emperor in the land. An Emperor the Flounder cannot make you! I assure you he cannot."
"What!" said the woman, "I am the King, and you are nothing but my husband; will you go this moment? go at once! If he can make a King he can make an emperor. I will be Emperor; go instantly." So he was forced to go. As the man went, however, he was troubled in mind, and thought to himself, "It will not end well; it will not end well! Emperor is too shameless! The Flounder will at last be tired out."
With that he reached the sea, and the sea was quite black and thick, and began to boil up from below, so that it threw up bubbles, and such a sharp wind blew over it that it curdled, and the man was afraid. Then he went and stood by it, and said,
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, here to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
"Well, what does she want, then?" said the Flounder. "Alas, Flounder," said he, "my wife wants to be Emperor." "Go to her," said the Flounder; "she is Emperor already."
The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids
There was once upon a time an old goat who had seven little kids, and loved them with all the love of a mother for her children.Inflatable Camping Tent person One day she wanted to go into the forest and fetch some food. So she called all seven to her and said: 'Dear children, I have to go into the forest, be on your guard against the wolf; if he comes in, he will devour you all--skin, hair, and everything. The wretch often disguises himself, but you will know him at once by his rough voice and his black feet.' The kids said: 'Dear mother, we will take good care of ourselves; you may go away without any anxiety.' Then the old one bleated, and went on her way with an easy mind.
It was not long before someone knocked at the house-door and called: 'Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something back with her for each of you.' But the little kids knew that it was the wolf, by the rough voice. 'We will not open the door,' cried they, 'you are not our mother. She has a soft, pleasant voice, but your voice is rough; you are the wolf!' Then the wolf went away to a shopkeeper and bought himself a great lump of chalk, ate this and made his voice soft with it. Then he came back, knocked at the door of the house, and called: 'Open the door, dear children, your mother is here and has brought something back with her for each of you.' But the wolf had laid his black paws against the window, and the children saw them and cried: 'We will not open the door, our mother has not black feet like you: you are the wolf!' Then the wolf ran to a baker and said: 'I have hurt my feet, rub some dough over them for me.' And when the baker had rubbed his feet over, he ran to the miller and said: 'Strew some white meal over my feet for me.' The miller thought to himself: 'The wolf wants to deceive someone,' and refused; but the wolf said: 'If you will not do it, I will devour you.' Then the miller was afraid, and made his paws white for him. Truly, this is the way of mankind.
So now the wretch went for the third time to the house-door, knocked at it and said: 'Open the door for me, children, your dear little mother has come home, and has brought every one of you something back from the forest with her.' The little kids cried: 'First show us your paws that we may know if you are our dear little mother.' Then he put his paws in through the window and when the kids saw that they were white, they believed that all he said was true, and opened the door. But who should come in but the wolf! They were terrified and wanted to hide themselves. One sprang under the table, the second into the bed, the third into the stove, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the cupboard, the sixth under the washing-bowl, and the seventh into the clock-case. But the wolf found them all, and used no great ceremony; one after the other he swallowed them down his throat. The youngest, who was in the clock-case, was the only one he did not find. When the wolf had satisfied his appetite he took himself off, laid himself down under a tree in the green meadow outside, and began to sleep. Soon afterwards the old goat came home again from the forest. Ah! what a sight she saw there! The house-door stood wide open. The table, chairs, and benches were thrown down, the washing-bowl lay broken to pieces, and the quilts and pillows were pulled off the bed. She sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found. She called them one after another by name, but no one answered. At last, when she came to the youngest, a soft voice cried: 'Dear mother, I am in the clock-case.' She took the kid out, and it told her that the wolf had come and had eaten all the others. Then you may imagine how she wept over her poor children.
At length in her grief she went out, and the youngest kid ran with her. When they came to the meadow, there lay the wolf by the tree and snored so loud that the branches shook. She looked at him on every side and saw that something was moving and struggling in his gorged belly. 'Ah, heavens,' she said, 'is it possible that my poor children whom he has swallowed down for his supper, can be still alive?' Then the kid had to run home and fetch scissors, and a needle and thread, and the goat cut open the monster's stomach, and hardly had she made one cut, than one little kid thrust its head out, and when she had cut farther, all six sprang out one after another, and were all still alive, and had suffered no injury whatever, for in his greediness the monster had swallowed them down whole. What rejoicing there was! They embraced their dear mother, and jumped like a tailor at his wedding. The mother, however, said: 'Now go and look for some big stones, and we will fill the wicked beast's stomach with them while he is still asleep.' Then the seven kids dragged the stones thither with all speed, and put as many of them into this stomach as they could get in; and the mother sewed him up again in the greatest haste, so that he was not aware of anything and never once stirred.
When the wolf at length had had his fill of sleep, he got on his legs, and as the stones in his stomach made him very thirsty, he wanted to go to a well to drink. But when he began to walk and to move about, the stones in his stomach knocked against each other and rattled. Then cried he:
'What rumbles and tumbles
Against my poor bones?
I thought 'twas six kids,
But it feels like big stones.'
And when he got to the well and stooped over the water to drink, the heavy stones made him fall in, and he drowned miserably.
It was not long before someone knocked at the house-door and called: 'Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something back with her for each of you.' But the little kids knew that it was the wolf, by the rough voice. 'We will not open the door,' cried they, 'you are not our mother. She has a soft, pleasant voice, but your voice is rough; you are the wolf!' Then the wolf went away to a shopkeeper and bought himself a great lump of chalk, ate this and made his voice soft with it. Then he came back, knocked at the door of the house, and called: 'Open the door, dear children, your mother is here and has brought something back with her for each of you.' But the wolf had laid his black paws against the window, and the children saw them and cried: 'We will not open the door, our mother has not black feet like you: you are the wolf!' Then the wolf ran to a baker and said: 'I have hurt my feet, rub some dough over them for me.' And when the baker had rubbed his feet over, he ran to the miller and said: 'Strew some white meal over my feet for me.' The miller thought to himself: 'The wolf wants to deceive someone,' and refused; but the wolf said: 'If you will not do it, I will devour you.' Then the miller was afraid, and made his paws white for him. Truly, this is the way of mankind.
So now the wretch went for the third time to the house-door, knocked at it and said: 'Open the door for me, children, your dear little mother has come home, and has brought every one of you something back from the forest with her.' The little kids cried: 'First show us your paws that we may know if you are our dear little mother.' Then he put his paws in through the window and when the kids saw that they were white, they believed that all he said was true, and opened the door. But who should come in but the wolf! They were terrified and wanted to hide themselves. One sprang under the table, the second into the bed, the third into the stove, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the cupboard, the sixth under the washing-bowl, and the seventh into the clock-case. But the wolf found them all, and used no great ceremony; one after the other he swallowed them down his throat. The youngest, who was in the clock-case, was the only one he did not find. When the wolf had satisfied his appetite he took himself off, laid himself down under a tree in the green meadow outside, and began to sleep. Soon afterwards the old goat came home again from the forest. Ah! what a sight she saw there! The house-door stood wide open. The table, chairs, and benches were thrown down, the washing-bowl lay broken to pieces, and the quilts and pillows were pulled off the bed. She sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found. She called them one after another by name, but no one answered. At last, when she came to the youngest, a soft voice cried: 'Dear mother, I am in the clock-case.' She took the kid out, and it told her that the wolf had come and had eaten all the others. Then you may imagine how she wept over her poor children.
At length in her grief she went out, and the youngest kid ran with her. When they came to the meadow, there lay the wolf by the tree and snored so loud that the branches shook. She looked at him on every side and saw that something was moving and struggling in his gorged belly. 'Ah, heavens,' she said, 'is it possible that my poor children whom he has swallowed down for his supper, can be still alive?' Then the kid had to run home and fetch scissors, and a needle and thread, and the goat cut open the monster's stomach, and hardly had she made one cut, than one little kid thrust its head out, and when she had cut farther, all six sprang out one after another, and were all still alive, and had suffered no injury whatever, for in his greediness the monster had swallowed them down whole. What rejoicing there was! They embraced their dear mother, and jumped like a tailor at his wedding. The mother, however, said: 'Now go and look for some big stones, and we will fill the wicked beast's stomach with them while he is still asleep.' Then the seven kids dragged the stones thither with all speed, and put as many of them into this stomach as they could get in; and the mother sewed him up again in the greatest haste, so that he was not aware of anything and never once stirred.
When the wolf at length had had his fill of sleep, he got on his legs, and as the stones in his stomach made him very thirsty, he wanted to go to a well to drink. But when he began to walk and to move about, the stones in his stomach knocked against each other and rattled. Then cried he:
'What rumbles and tumbles
Against my poor bones?
I thought 'twas six kids,
But it feels like big stones.'
And when he got to the well and stooped over the water to drink, the heavy stones made him fall in, and he drowned miserably.
A Brother’s Miracle
Tess was a precocious eight-year-old when she heard her Mom and Dad talking about her little brother, Andrew. All she Spiderman Bouncer giant knew was that he was very sick and they were completely out of money. They were moving to an apartment complex next month because Daddy didn’t have the money for the doctor’s bills and our house. Only a very costly surgery could save him now and it was looking like there was no-one to loan them the money. She heard Daddy say to her tearful Mother with whispered desperation, “Only a miracle can save him now.”
Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be absolutely exact. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way six blocks to the pharmacy with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good.
Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it! “And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick… and I want to buy a miracle.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.
“His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”
“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” the pharmacist said, softening a little.
“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”
The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”
“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. “I just know he’s really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”
“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago. “One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents – the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the kind of miracle you need.”
That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. “That surgery,” her Mom whispered. “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”
Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be absolutely exact. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way six blocks to the pharmacy with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good.
Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it! “And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick… and I want to buy a miracle.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.
“His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”
“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” the pharmacist said, softening a little.
“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”
The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”
“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. “I just know he’s really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”
“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago. “One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”
“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents – the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the kind of miracle you need.”
That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. “That surgery,” her Mom whispered. “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”
Where Are We Heading
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;Inflatable Santa adult we spend more, but have less; we buy more but enjoy less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time; we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.
We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life; we’ve added years to life, not life to years.
We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor. We’ve conquered outer space, but not inner space; we’ve done larger things, but not better things.
We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we’ve split the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less; we plan more, but accomplish less.
We’ve learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes, but, lower morals.
We build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication; we’ve become long on quantity, but short on quality.
These are the days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but more broken homes.
These are the days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throw away morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. Where are we heading...?
If we die tomorrow, the company that we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of days. But the family we left behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives.
And come to think of it, we pour ourselves more into work than to our family an unwise investment indeed.
We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time; we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.
We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life; we’ve added years to life, not life to years.
We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor. We’ve conquered outer space, but not inner space; we’ve done larger things, but not better things.
We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul; we’ve split the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less; we plan more, but accomplish less.
We’ve learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes, but, lower morals.
We build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies than ever, but have less communication; we’ve become long on quantity, but short on quality.
These are the days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses, but more broken homes.
These are the days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throw away morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. Where are we heading...?
If we die tomorrow, the company that we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of days. But the family we left behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives.
And come to think of it, we pour ourselves more into work than to our family an unwise investment indeed.
Man Is Here For The Sake of Other Men
Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why, yet sometimes seeming to divine a purpose.
From the standpoint of daily life,Christmas Decorations china however, there is one thing we do know that man is here for the sake of other men --- above all for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and also for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow men, both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received. My peace of mind is often troubled by the depressing sense that I have borrowed too heavily from the work of other men.
To ponder interminably over the reason for one’s own existence or the meaning of life in general seems to me, from an objective point of view, to be sheer folly. And yet everyone holds certain ideals by which he guides his aspiration and his judgment. The ideals which have always shone before me and filled me with the joy of living are goodness, beauty, and truth.
From the standpoint of daily life,Christmas Decorations china however, there is one thing we do know that man is here for the sake of other men --- above all for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and also for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow men, both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received. My peace of mind is often troubled by the depressing sense that I have borrowed too heavily from the work of other men.
To ponder interminably over the reason for one’s own existence or the meaning of life in general seems to me, from an objective point of view, to be sheer folly. And yet everyone holds certain ideals by which he guides his aspiration and his judgment. The ideals which have always shone before me and filled me with the joy of living are goodness, beauty, and truth.
2009年11月24日星期二
Mom’s Smile
It’s an old photograph with bad composition and lousy color. The edges are curled up and brown. But none of that matters. The photo is laced with poignant memories so vivid that when my gaze slides across it, tears prick at the backs of my eyes.Inflatable Jumpers cheap
I am immediately transported to a place where only good and beautiful images can be found, a place where life revolves around lazy afternoons spent on the beach. In this magical place mothers share secrets with daughters, and grandchildren glean immeasurable bits of wisdom from the cadence of the waves and the soft tones of the women they love.
A mere moment of our lives, tucked neatly into a small rectangle and preserved forever - years before anything bad came calling.
In the photo, the beach spreads out on either side, a fishing dock to the left, one of Calcite’s great limestone boats far out on the horizon, and on the right, miles and miles of undisturbed beach. The photo is alive with children and women: mothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren. The lone man in the photo is my father. His shadow stretches long and lean across the restless blue waters of Lake Huron. With immense patience, he casts his line, again and again. My toddler son, his blond curls bleached white, peers across the endless stretch of sand. Mesmerized by his grandfather, he jets down the wet beach as fast as his chubby legs can carry him. His sisters give chase.
A million dancing whitecaps become myriad diamonds, straining to outshine one another. The glimmering trail sparkles on the vast and seemingly endless body of water that starts at my feet and disappears into the sky, where seagulls dip and swirl, calling to one another as an anxious mother calls to a wayward child.
A chaise lounge dominates the photo. In it a woman - my mother - reclines. Mom is spread out in the chair like thick, sweet frosting on a cake. Languid, her arms raised above her head, her legs splayed, pant legs rolled up to expose a goodly length of pale skin. Her arms are bare, the undersides pasty in comparison to the tops. Her smile in repose is tender, sweet, unassuming, and peaceful.
To my knowledge, Mom never owned a bathing suit. I don’t recall ever seeing her step into the lake, and never before had she sunbathed. That day, however, was different. It was as if all her cares had floated out to deep waters like the unattended beach ball had done just minutes before.
We are a large family. When my siblings and I were young, Dad was the one who took us to the beach. He sat in the car and watched as we frolicked in the shallows. Mom stayed home to ensure we had a hot meal when we returned. Perhaps Mom was happy for the few moments of alone time at home in the kitchen, as was Dad, alone in the car.
On this day, their grown children, with children of our own, treat them to dinner on the beach. Dad fishes off the dock, never swaying from his pleasantries. And, for once, Mom forgets about making dinner.
It is a day of memories, a day never to be forgotten.
My three children are in the photo, and Dad is in the background, as are two of my sisters and their children, but everyone who gazes at the poorly developed photo is drawn inexplicably to Mom’s smile. In the photo, her face is raised up to the sky. To the sun or to our Creator, she alone knows. Her eyes are closed.
I remember how warm it was that day and how she had squinted up at me, shielding her eyes with both hands.
“Are my legs getting red?” she’d asked.
My eyes brim with unshed tears as I remember the feel of her skin on the palm of my hand. Hot. The scalding tears run down my face. How I wish I could touch her one more time.
“No, Mom,” I replied. “But better put some sunscreen on before you get a burn.” Reluctantly, she’d sat up, the peaceful smile disappearing, and rolled her pant legs down, again.
“Save it for the kids,” she said, her eyes scanning the group of children splashing in and out of the water. The whisper of a smile touched her lips as she watched for a long, wistful moment. With a sigh, she rose from the chair and moved toward the car where the coolers awaited.
“Maybe we should get lunch going,” she said as she opened the first cooler.
I am immediately transported to a place where only good and beautiful images can be found, a place where life revolves around lazy afternoons spent on the beach. In this magical place mothers share secrets with daughters, and grandchildren glean immeasurable bits of wisdom from the cadence of the waves and the soft tones of the women they love.
A mere moment of our lives, tucked neatly into a small rectangle and preserved forever - years before anything bad came calling.
In the photo, the beach spreads out on either side, a fishing dock to the left, one of Calcite’s great limestone boats far out on the horizon, and on the right, miles and miles of undisturbed beach. The photo is alive with children and women: mothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren. The lone man in the photo is my father. His shadow stretches long and lean across the restless blue waters of Lake Huron. With immense patience, he casts his line, again and again. My toddler son, his blond curls bleached white, peers across the endless stretch of sand. Mesmerized by his grandfather, he jets down the wet beach as fast as his chubby legs can carry him. His sisters give chase.
A million dancing whitecaps become myriad diamonds, straining to outshine one another. The glimmering trail sparkles on the vast and seemingly endless body of water that starts at my feet and disappears into the sky, where seagulls dip and swirl, calling to one another as an anxious mother calls to a wayward child.
A chaise lounge dominates the photo. In it a woman - my mother - reclines. Mom is spread out in the chair like thick, sweet frosting on a cake. Languid, her arms raised above her head, her legs splayed, pant legs rolled up to expose a goodly length of pale skin. Her arms are bare, the undersides pasty in comparison to the tops. Her smile in repose is tender, sweet, unassuming, and peaceful.
To my knowledge, Mom never owned a bathing suit. I don’t recall ever seeing her step into the lake, and never before had she sunbathed. That day, however, was different. It was as if all her cares had floated out to deep waters like the unattended beach ball had done just minutes before.
We are a large family. When my siblings and I were young, Dad was the one who took us to the beach. He sat in the car and watched as we frolicked in the shallows. Mom stayed home to ensure we had a hot meal when we returned. Perhaps Mom was happy for the few moments of alone time at home in the kitchen, as was Dad, alone in the car.
On this day, their grown children, with children of our own, treat them to dinner on the beach. Dad fishes off the dock, never swaying from his pleasantries. And, for once, Mom forgets about making dinner.
It is a day of memories, a day never to be forgotten.
My three children are in the photo, and Dad is in the background, as are two of my sisters and their children, but everyone who gazes at the poorly developed photo is drawn inexplicably to Mom’s smile. In the photo, her face is raised up to the sky. To the sun or to our Creator, she alone knows. Her eyes are closed.
I remember how warm it was that day and how she had squinted up at me, shielding her eyes with both hands.
“Are my legs getting red?” she’d asked.
My eyes brim with unshed tears as I remember the feel of her skin on the palm of my hand. Hot. The scalding tears run down my face. How I wish I could touch her one more time.
“No, Mom,” I replied. “But better put some sunscreen on before you get a burn.” Reluctantly, she’d sat up, the peaceful smile disappearing, and rolled her pant legs down, again.
“Save it for the kids,” she said, her eyes scanning the group of children splashing in and out of the water. The whisper of a smile touched her lips as she watched for a long, wistful moment. With a sigh, she rose from the chair and moved toward the car where the coolers awaited.
“Maybe we should get lunch going,” she said as she opened the first cooler.
Happiness Equates with Fun?
I live in Hollywood. You may think people in such a glamorous, fun-filled place are happier than others. If so, you have some mistaken ideas about the nature of happiness.
Many intelligent people still equate happiness with fun. Christmas Decorations cheap
The truth is that fun and happiness have little or nothing in common. Fun is what we experience during an act. Happiness is what we experience after an act. It is a deeper, more abiding emotion.
Going to an amusement park or ball game, watching a movie or television, are fun activities that help us relax, temporarily forget our problems and maybe even laugh. But they do not bring happiness, because their positive effects end when the fun ends.
I have often thought that if Hollywood stars have a role to play, it is to teach us that happiness has nothing to do with fun. These rich, beautiful individuals have constant access to glamorous parties, fancy cars, expensive homes, everything that spells "happiness".
But in memoir after memoir, celebrities reveal the unhappiness hidden beneath all their fun: depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, broken marriages, troubled children, profound loneliness.
The way people cling to the belief that a fun-filled, pain-free life equates happiness actually diminishes their chances of ever attaining real happiness. If fun and pleasure are equated with happiness, then pain must be equated with unhappiness. But, in fact, the opposite is true: More times than not, things that lead to happiness involve some pain.
Many intelligent people still equate happiness with fun. Christmas Decorations cheap
The truth is that fun and happiness have little or nothing in common. Fun is what we experience during an act. Happiness is what we experience after an act. It is a deeper, more abiding emotion.
Going to an amusement park or ball game, watching a movie or television, are fun activities that help us relax, temporarily forget our problems and maybe even laugh. But they do not bring happiness, because their positive effects end when the fun ends.
I have often thought that if Hollywood stars have a role to play, it is to teach us that happiness has nothing to do with fun. These rich, beautiful individuals have constant access to glamorous parties, fancy cars, expensive homes, everything that spells "happiness".
But in memoir after memoir, celebrities reveal the unhappiness hidden beneath all their fun: depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, broken marriages, troubled children, profound loneliness.
The way people cling to the belief that a fun-filled, pain-free life equates happiness actually diminishes their chances of ever attaining real happiness. If fun and pleasure are equated with happiness, then pain must be equated with unhappiness. But, in fact, the opposite is true: More times than not, things that lead to happiness involve some pain.
2009年11月23日星期一
An Angel Among Us
I come from a large family of nine brothers and sisters, and all of us have kids of our own. On each Christmas night, our entire family gathers at my oldest sister’s home, exchanging gifts, watching the nativity skit put on by the smaller children, eating, singing and enjoying a visit from Santa himself.
The Christmas of 1988, my husband Bob and I had four children. Peter was eleven, Leigh-Ann was nine, Laura was six and Matthew was two.Inflatable Santa Claus giant
When Santa arrived, Matthew parked himself on Santa’s lap and pretty much remained dazzled by him for the rest of the evening. Anyone who had their picture taken with Santa that Christmas also had their picture taken with little Matthew.
Little did any of us know how precious those photos with Santa and Matthew would become. Five days after Christmas, our sweet little Matthew died in an accident at home. We were devastated. We were lucky to have strong support from our families and friends to help us through. I learned that the first year after a death is the hardest, as there are so many firsts to get through without your loved one. Birthdays and special occasions become sad, instead of joyous.
When our first Christmas without Matthew approached, it was hard for me to get into the holiday spirit. Bob and I could hardly face putting up the decorations or shopping for special gifts for everyone. But we went through the motions for Peter, Leigh-Ann and Laura. Then, on December 13, something extraordinary happened to raise our spirits when we didn’t think it was possible.
We were just finishing dinner when we heard a knock on the front door. When we went to answer it, no one was there. However, on the front porch was a card and gift. We opened the card and read that the gift-giver wanted to remain anonymous; he or she just wanted to help us get through a rough time by cheering us up.
In the gift bag was a cassette of favorite Christmas music, which was in a little cardboard Christmas tree. The card described it as being “a cartridge in a pine tree,” a twist on the “partridge in a pear tree” verse in the song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We thought that it was a very clever gift, and the thoughtfulness of our “elf” touched our hearts. We put the cassette in our player and, song by song, the spirit of Christmas began to warm our hearts.
That was the beginning of a series of gifts from the clever giver, one for each day until Christmas. Each gift followed the theme of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in a creative way. The kids especially liked “seven swans a-swimming,” which was a basket of swan-shaped soaps plus passes to the local swimming pool, giving the kids something to look forward to when the warm days of spring arrived. “Eight maids a-milking” included eight bottles of chocolate milk, eggnog and regular milk in glass bottles with paper faces, handmade aprons and caps. Every day was something very special. The “five golden rings” came one morning just in time for breakfast - five glazed doughnuts just waiting to be eaten.
We would get calls from our family, neighbors and friends who would want to know what we had received that day. Together, we would chuckle at the ingenuity and marvel at the thoughtfulness as we enjoyed each surprise. We were so caught up in the excitement and curiosity of what would possibly come next, that our grief didn’t have much of a chance to rob us of the spirit of Christmas. What our elf did was absolutely miraculous.
The Christmas of 1988, my husband Bob and I had four children. Peter was eleven, Leigh-Ann was nine, Laura was six and Matthew was two.Inflatable Santa Claus giant
When Santa arrived, Matthew parked himself on Santa’s lap and pretty much remained dazzled by him for the rest of the evening. Anyone who had their picture taken with Santa that Christmas also had their picture taken with little Matthew.
Little did any of us know how precious those photos with Santa and Matthew would become. Five days after Christmas, our sweet little Matthew died in an accident at home. We were devastated. We were lucky to have strong support from our families and friends to help us through. I learned that the first year after a death is the hardest, as there are so many firsts to get through without your loved one. Birthdays and special occasions become sad, instead of joyous.
When our first Christmas without Matthew approached, it was hard for me to get into the holiday spirit. Bob and I could hardly face putting up the decorations or shopping for special gifts for everyone. But we went through the motions for Peter, Leigh-Ann and Laura. Then, on December 13, something extraordinary happened to raise our spirits when we didn’t think it was possible.
We were just finishing dinner when we heard a knock on the front door. When we went to answer it, no one was there. However, on the front porch was a card and gift. We opened the card and read that the gift-giver wanted to remain anonymous; he or she just wanted to help us get through a rough time by cheering us up.
In the gift bag was a cassette of favorite Christmas music, which was in a little cardboard Christmas tree. The card described it as being “a cartridge in a pine tree,” a twist on the “partridge in a pear tree” verse in the song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We thought that it was a very clever gift, and the thoughtfulness of our “elf” touched our hearts. We put the cassette in our player and, song by song, the spirit of Christmas began to warm our hearts.
That was the beginning of a series of gifts from the clever giver, one for each day until Christmas. Each gift followed the theme of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” in a creative way. The kids especially liked “seven swans a-swimming,” which was a basket of swan-shaped soaps plus passes to the local swimming pool, giving the kids something to look forward to when the warm days of spring arrived. “Eight maids a-milking” included eight bottles of chocolate milk, eggnog and regular milk in glass bottles with paper faces, handmade aprons and caps. Every day was something very special. The “five golden rings” came one morning just in time for breakfast - five glazed doughnuts just waiting to be eaten.
We would get calls from our family, neighbors and friends who would want to know what we had received that day. Together, we would chuckle at the ingenuity and marvel at the thoughtfulness as we enjoyed each surprise. We were so caught up in the excitement and curiosity of what would possibly come next, that our grief didn’t have much of a chance to rob us of the spirit of Christmas. What our elf did was absolutely miraculous.
One Finger
"Mom, you should put some of your things away. Baby proof this house," stated our oldest son Mark as he lumbered up the stairs followed by his wife, Kim, and fifteen－month－old Hannah.
Visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday, he finished unloading the luggage and took it to the guestroom downstairs. After driving all day from Salt Lake to Ft.Small Inflatable Toy custom
Collins, his temper showed. "That one finger rule may work with the twins, but it'll never work with Hannah, " he insisted.
When my three granddaughters were born four months apart and the twins moved into our house at eight months, my close friend offered me her secret to entertaining grandchildren with few mishaps. "Teach them the 'one finger rule'." All of her five grandchildren learned it at a young age. The success of the method surprised me.
I picked up my granddaughter and said, "Well, Mark, you just watch." I hugged her and walked all around the great room.
"Hannah, you may touch anything in this room you want. But, you can only use one finger." I demonstrated the technique by touching my forefinger to the African sculpture on the mantle. Hannah followed my example. "Good girl. Now what else would you like to touch？"
She stretched her finger toward another object on the mantle. I allowed her to touch everything in sight, plants, glass objects, TV, VCR, lamps, speakers, candles and artificial flowers. If she started to grab, I gently reminded her to use one finger. She always obeyed. But, Hannah, an only child, possessed a more adventur ous personality. Her father predicted it would prevent her from accepting the"one finger"rule.
During their four-day stay, we aided Hannah in remembering"one finger"rule. She learned quickly. I only put away the things that might prove to be a danger to a child. Otherwise, we watched her closely and nothing appeared to suffer any damage. Besides, "things"can be replaced.
A few fingerprints on glass doors, windows and tables remained after Hannah and her family returned home. I couldn't bring myself to clean them for days. Each one reminded me of some wonderful experience with Hannah.
Months later, my husband and I drove to Salt Lake; I watched Mark and Kim continue to practice the one finger rule. But I refrained from saying, "I told you so." Yet, I smiled inwardly each time they prodded Hannah to touch with "one finger. " Mark, a salesman, always gave a packet of gifts to his potential clients. The night before we returned home, Mark sat on the floor stuffing gifts into their packets. Hannah helped.
Visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday, he finished unloading the luggage and took it to the guestroom downstairs. After driving all day from Salt Lake to Ft.Small Inflatable Toy custom
Collins, his temper showed. "That one finger rule may work with the twins, but it'll never work with Hannah, " he insisted.
When my three granddaughters were born four months apart and the twins moved into our house at eight months, my close friend offered me her secret to entertaining grandchildren with few mishaps. "Teach them the 'one finger rule'." All of her five grandchildren learned it at a young age. The success of the method surprised me.
I picked up my granddaughter and said, "Well, Mark, you just watch." I hugged her and walked all around the great room.
"Hannah, you may touch anything in this room you want. But, you can only use one finger." I demonstrated the technique by touching my forefinger to the African sculpture on the mantle. Hannah followed my example. "Good girl. Now what else would you like to touch？"
She stretched her finger toward another object on the mantle. I allowed her to touch everything in sight, plants, glass objects, TV, VCR, lamps, speakers, candles and artificial flowers. If she started to grab, I gently reminded her to use one finger. She always obeyed. But, Hannah, an only child, possessed a more adventur ous personality. Her father predicted it would prevent her from accepting the"one finger"rule.
During their four-day stay, we aided Hannah in remembering"one finger"rule. She learned quickly. I only put away the things that might prove to be a danger to a child. Otherwise, we watched her closely and nothing appeared to suffer any damage. Besides, "things"can be replaced.
A few fingerprints on glass doors, windows and tables remained after Hannah and her family returned home. I couldn't bring myself to clean them for days. Each one reminded me of some wonderful experience with Hannah.
Months later, my husband and I drove to Salt Lake; I watched Mark and Kim continue to practice the one finger rule. But I refrained from saying, "I told you so." Yet, I smiled inwardly each time they prodded Hannah to touch with "one finger. " Mark, a salesman, always gave a packet of gifts to his potential clients. The night before we returned home, Mark sat on the floor stuffing gifts into their packets. Hannah helped.
Love of Life
It hurts to love someone and not be loved in return. But what is more painful is to love someone and never find the courage to let that person know how you feel.
A sad thing in life is when you meet someone who means a lot to you,Disney Princess Combo china
only to find out in the end that it was never meant to be and you just have to let go.
The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch swing with, never say a word, and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.
It's true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it, but it's also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives.
It takes only a minute to get a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone- but it takes a lifetime to forget someone. Don't go for looks; they can deceive. Don't go for wealth, even that fades away. Go for someone who makes you smile because it takes only a smile to make a dark day seem bright.
Dream what you want to dream; go where you want to go; be what you want to be, because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to do.
Always put yourself in the other's shoes. If you feel that it hurts you, it probably hurts the person too.
A careless word may kindle strife; a cruel word may wreck a life; a timely word may level stress; a loving word may heal and bless.
The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.
Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, ends with a tear. When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so that when you die, you're the one smiling and everyone around you is crying.
A sad thing in life is when you meet someone who means a lot to you,Disney Princess Combo china
only to find out in the end that it was never meant to be and you just have to let go.
The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch swing with, never say a word, and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.
It's true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it, but it's also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives.
It takes only a minute to get a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone- but it takes a lifetime to forget someone. Don't go for looks; they can deceive. Don't go for wealth, even that fades away. Go for someone who makes you smile because it takes only a smile to make a dark day seem bright.
Dream what you want to dream; go where you want to go; be what you want to be, because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to do.
Always put yourself in the other's shoes. If you feel that it hurts you, it probably hurts the person too.
A careless word may kindle strife; a cruel word may wreck a life; a timely word may level stress; a loving word may heal and bless.
The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.
Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, ends with a tear. When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so that when you die, you're the one smiling and everyone around you is crying.
A Letter to My Son
Life Isn't a Competition
You will meet many people who will try to outdo you, in school, in college, at work. They'll try to have nicer cars, bigger houses, nicer clothes, cooler gadgets. To them, life is a competition — they have to do better than their peers to be happy.
Here's a secret: Kids Bouncers sale
Life isn't a competition. It's a journey. If you spend that journey always trying to impress others, to outdo others, you’re wasting your journey. Instead, learn to enjoy the journey. Make it a journey of Happiness, of constant learning, of continual improvement, of love.
Don't worry about having a nicer car or house or anything material, or even a better-paying job. None of that matters a whit, and none of it will make you happier. You'll acquire these things and then only want more. Instead, learn to be satisfied with having enough — and then use the time you would have wasted trying to earn money to buy those things … use that time doing things you love.
Find your passion, and pursue it doggedly. Don't settle for a job that pays the bills. Life is too short to waste on a job you hate.
Love Should Be Your Rule
If there's a single word you should live your life by, it should be this: Love. It might sound corny, I know … but trust me, there's no better rule in life.
Some would live by the rule of success. Their lives will be stressful, unhappy and shallow.
Others would live by the rule of selfishness — putting their needs above those of others. They will live lonely lives, and will also be unhappy.
Still others will live by the rule of righteousness — trying to show the right path, and admonishing anyone who doesn't live by that path. They are concerned with others, but in a negative way, and in the end will only have their own righteousness to live with, and that's a horrible companion.
Live your life by the rule of love. Love your spouse, your children, your parents, your friends, with all of your heart. Give to them what they need, and show them not cruelty nor disapproval nor coldness nor disappointment, but only love. Open your soul to them.
Love not only your loved ones, but your neighbors … your coworkers … strangers … your brothers and sisters in humanity. Offer anyone you meet a smile, a kind word, a kind gesture, a helping hand.
Love not only neighbors and strangers … but your enemy. The person who is cruelest to you, who has been unkind to you … love him. He is a tortured soul, and most in need of your love.
And most of all, love yourself. While others may criticize you, learn not to be so hard on yourself, to think that you’re ugly or dumb or unworthy of love … but to think instead that you are a wonderful human being, worthy of Happiness and love … and learn to love yourself for who you are.
Finally, know that I love you and always will. You are starting out on a weird, scary, daunting, but ultimately incredibly wonderful journey, and I will be there for you when I can. Godspeed.
Love, Your Dad
You will meet many people who will try to outdo you, in school, in college, at work. They'll try to have nicer cars, bigger houses, nicer clothes, cooler gadgets. To them, life is a competition — they have to do better than their peers to be happy.
Here's a secret: Kids Bouncers sale
Life isn't a competition. It's a journey. If you spend that journey always trying to impress others, to outdo others, you’re wasting your journey. Instead, learn to enjoy the journey. Make it a journey of Happiness, of constant learning, of continual improvement, of love.
Don't worry about having a nicer car or house or anything material, or even a better-paying job. None of that matters a whit, and none of it will make you happier. You'll acquire these things and then only want more. Instead, learn to be satisfied with having enough — and then use the time you would have wasted trying to earn money to buy those things … use that time doing things you love.
Find your passion, and pursue it doggedly. Don't settle for a job that pays the bills. Life is too short to waste on a job you hate.
Love Should Be Your Rule
If there's a single word you should live your life by, it should be this: Love. It might sound corny, I know … but trust me, there's no better rule in life.
Some would live by the rule of success. Their lives will be stressful, unhappy and shallow.
Others would live by the rule of selfishness — putting their needs above those of others. They will live lonely lives, and will also be unhappy.
Still others will live by the rule of righteousness — trying to show the right path, and admonishing anyone who doesn't live by that path. They are concerned with others, but in a negative way, and in the end will only have their own righteousness to live with, and that's a horrible companion.
Live your life by the rule of love. Love your spouse, your children, your parents, your friends, with all of your heart. Give to them what they need, and show them not cruelty nor disapproval nor coldness nor disappointment, but only love. Open your soul to them.
Love not only your loved ones, but your neighbors … your coworkers … strangers … your brothers and sisters in humanity. Offer anyone you meet a smile, a kind word, a kind gesture, a helping hand.
Love not only neighbors and strangers … but your enemy. The person who is cruelest to you, who has been unkind to you … love him. He is a tortured soul, and most in need of your love.
And most of all, love yourself. While others may criticize you, learn not to be so hard on yourself, to think that you’re ugly or dumb or unworthy of love … but to think instead that you are a wonderful human being, worthy of Happiness and love … and learn to love yourself for who you are.
Finally, know that I love you and always will. You are starting out on a weird, scary, daunting, but ultimately incredibly wonderful journey, and I will be there for you when I can. Godspeed.
Love, Your Dad
A Letter to My Son 1
Dear Seth,
You’re only three years old, and at this point in your life you can't read, much less understand what I’m going to try to tell you in this letter. But I've been thinking a lot about the life that you have ahead of you, about my life so far as I reflect on what I've learned,Sumo Wrestling Suits giant and about my role as a dad in trying to prepare you for the trials that you will face in the coming years.
You won't be able to understand this letter today, but someday, when you're ready, I hope you will find some wisdom and value in what I share with you.
You are young, and life has yet to take its toll on you, to throw disappointments and heartaches and loneliness and struggles and pain into your path. You have not been worn down yet by long hours of thankless work, by the slings and arrows of everyday life.
For this, be thankful. You are at a wonderful stage of life. You have many wonderful stages of life still to come, but they are not without their costs and perils.
I hope to help you along your path by sharing some of the best of what I've learned. As with any advice, take it with a grain of salt. What works for me might not work for you.
Life Can Be Cruel
There will be people in your life who won't be very nice. They'll tease you because you're different, or for no good reason. They might try to bully you or hurt you.
There's not much you can do about these people except to learn to deal with them, and learn to choose friends who are kind to you, who actually care about you, who make you feel good about yourself. When you find friends like this, hold on to them, treasure them, spend time with them, be kind to them, love them.
There will be times when you are met with disappointment instead of success. Life won't always turn out the way you want. This is just another thing you'll have to learn to deal with. But instead of letting these things get you down, push on. Accept disappointment and learn to persevere, to pursue your dreams despite pitfalls. Learn to turn negatives into positives, and you'll do much better in life.
You will also face heartbreak and abandonment by those you love. I hope you don't have to face this too much, but it happens. Again, not much you can do but to heal, and to move on with your life. Let these pains become stepping stones to better things in life, and learn to use them to make you stronger.
But Be Open to life Anyway
Yes, you'll find cruelty and suffering in your journey through life … but don't let that close you to new things. Don't retreat from life, don't hide or wall yourself off. Be open to new things, new experiences, new people.
You might get your heart broken 10 times, but find the most wonderful woman the 11th time. If you shut yourself off from love, you'll miss out on that woman, and the happiest times of your life.
You might get teased and bullied and hurt by people you meet … and then after meeting dozens of jerks, find a true friend. If you close yourself off to new people, and don't open your heart to them, you'll avoid pain … but also lose out on meeting some incredible people, who will be there during the toughest times of your life and create some of the best times of your life.
You will fail many times but if you allow that to stop you from trying, you will miss out on the amazing feeling of success once you reach new heights with your accomplishments. Failure is a stepping stone to success.
You’re only three years old, and at this point in your life you can't read, much less understand what I’m going to try to tell you in this letter. But I've been thinking a lot about the life that you have ahead of you, about my life so far as I reflect on what I've learned,Sumo Wrestling Suits giant and about my role as a dad in trying to prepare you for the trials that you will face in the coming years.
You won't be able to understand this letter today, but someday, when you're ready, I hope you will find some wisdom and value in what I share with you.
You are young, and life has yet to take its toll on you, to throw disappointments and heartaches and loneliness and struggles and pain into your path. You have not been worn down yet by long hours of thankless work, by the slings and arrows of everyday life.
For this, be thankful. You are at a wonderful stage of life. You have many wonderful stages of life still to come, but they are not without their costs and perils.
I hope to help you along your path by sharing some of the best of what I've learned. As with any advice, take it with a grain of salt. What works for me might not work for you.
Life Can Be Cruel
There will be people in your life who won't be very nice. They'll tease you because you're different, or for no good reason. They might try to bully you or hurt you.
There's not much you can do about these people except to learn to deal with them, and learn to choose friends who are kind to you, who actually care about you, who make you feel good about yourself. When you find friends like this, hold on to them, treasure them, spend time with them, be kind to them, love them.
There will be times when you are met with disappointment instead of success. Life won't always turn out the way you want. This is just another thing you'll have to learn to deal with. But instead of letting these things get you down, push on. Accept disappointment and learn to persevere, to pursue your dreams despite pitfalls. Learn to turn negatives into positives, and you'll do much better in life.
You will also face heartbreak and abandonment by those you love. I hope you don't have to face this too much, but it happens. Again, not much you can do but to heal, and to move on with your life. Let these pains become stepping stones to better things in life, and learn to use them to make you stronger.
But Be Open to life Anyway
Yes, you'll find cruelty and suffering in your journey through life … but don't let that close you to new things. Don't retreat from life, don't hide or wall yourself off. Be open to new things, new experiences, new people.
You might get your heart broken 10 times, but find the most wonderful woman the 11th time. If you shut yourself off from love, you'll miss out on that woman, and the happiest times of your life.
You might get teased and bullied and hurt by people you meet … and then after meeting dozens of jerks, find a true friend. If you close yourself off to new people, and don't open your heart to them, you'll avoid pain … but also lose out on meeting some incredible people, who will be there during the toughest times of your life and create some of the best times of your life.
You will fail many times but if you allow that to stop you from trying, you will miss out on the amazing feeling of success once you reach new heights with your accomplishments. Failure is a stepping stone to success.
2009年11月22日星期日
Saying I Love You
When I was a new mommy, I invented a quiet little signal, two quick hand squeezes, that grew into our family’s secret “I love you.”
Long before she could debate the merits of pierced ears or the need to shave her legs, my daughter, Carolyn, would toddle next to me clasping my finger for that much-needed support to keep her from falling down.
Whether we were casually walking in the park or scurrying on our way to playgroup, if Carolyn’s tiny hand was in mine,Inflatable Tent custom I would tenderly squeeze it twice and whisper, “I love you.” Children love secrets, and little Carolyn was no exception. So, this double hand squeeze became our special secret. I didn’t do it all the time - - just every so often when I wanted to send a quiet message of “I love you” to her from me.
The years flew by, and Carolyn started school. She was a big girl now, so there was no need for little secret signals anymore... or so I thought.
It was the morning of her kindergarten class show. Her class was to perform their skit before the entire Lower School, which would be a daunting experience. The big kids - - all the way to sixth grade - - would be sitting in the audience. Carolyn was nervous, as were all her little classmates.
As proud family and friends filed into the auditorium to take their seats behind the students, I saw Carolyn sitting nervously with her classmates. I wanted to reassure her, but I knew that anything I said would run the risk of making her feel uncomfortable.
Then I remembered our secret signal. I left my seat and walked over to her. Carolyn’s big brown eyes watched each of my steps as I inched closer. I said not a word, but leaned over and took her hand and squeezed it twice. Her eyes met mine, and I immediately knew that she recognized the message. She instantly returned the gesture giving my hand two quick squeezes in reply. We smiled at each other, and I took my seat and watched my confident little girl, and her class, perform beautifully.
Carolyn grew up and our family welcomed two younger brothers, Bryan and Christian. Through the years, I got more experienced at the mothering game, but I never abandoned the secret “I love you” hand squeeze.
Whether the boys were running on the soccer field for a big game or jumping out of the car on the day of a final exam, I always had the secret hand squeeze to send them my message of love and support. I learned that when over-sentimental words from parents are guaranteed to make kids feel ill at ease, this quiet signal was always appreciated and welcomed.
Three years ago, my daughter married a wonderful guy. Before the ceremony, while we were standing at the back of the church waiting to march down the aisle, I could hardly look at my little girl, now all grown up and wearing her grandmother’s wedding veil, for fear of crying.
There was so much I wanted to say to her. I wanted to tell her how proud of her I was. I wanted to tell her that I treasured being her mom, and I looked forward to all the future had in store for her. However, most important, I wanted to tell her that I loved her. But I was positive that if I said even one word, Carolyn and I would both dissolve into tears.
Then I remembered it - - our secret signal. I left my place and walked back to Carolyn. As the organist began to play Ode to Joy, I took Carolyn’s hand and quickly squeezed it twice. Our eyes met, and she returned the signal.
There were no tears, there were no words exchanged, just a secret “I love you” that I created one sunny afternoon, when I was a new mother.
Long before she could debate the merits of pierced ears or the need to shave her legs, my daughter, Carolyn, would toddle next to me clasping my finger for that much-needed support to keep her from falling down.
Whether we were casually walking in the park or scurrying on our way to playgroup, if Carolyn’s tiny hand was in mine,Inflatable Tent custom I would tenderly squeeze it twice and whisper, “I love you.” Children love secrets, and little Carolyn was no exception. So, this double hand squeeze became our special secret. I didn’t do it all the time - - just every so often when I wanted to send a quiet message of “I love you” to her from me.
The years flew by, and Carolyn started school. She was a big girl now, so there was no need for little secret signals anymore... or so I thought.
It was the morning of her kindergarten class show. Her class was to perform their skit before the entire Lower School, which would be a daunting experience. The big kids - - all the way to sixth grade - - would be sitting in the audience. Carolyn was nervous, as were all her little classmates.
As proud family and friends filed into the auditorium to take their seats behind the students, I saw Carolyn sitting nervously with her classmates. I wanted to reassure her, but I knew that anything I said would run the risk of making her feel uncomfortable.
Then I remembered our secret signal. I left my seat and walked over to her. Carolyn’s big brown eyes watched each of my steps as I inched closer. I said not a word, but leaned over and took her hand and squeezed it twice. Her eyes met mine, and I immediately knew that she recognized the message. She instantly returned the gesture giving my hand two quick squeezes in reply. We smiled at each other, and I took my seat and watched my confident little girl, and her class, perform beautifully.
Carolyn grew up and our family welcomed two younger brothers, Bryan and Christian. Through the years, I got more experienced at the mothering game, but I never abandoned the secret “I love you” hand squeeze.
Whether the boys were running on the soccer field for a big game or jumping out of the car on the day of a final exam, I always had the secret hand squeeze to send them my message of love and support. I learned that when over-sentimental words from parents are guaranteed to make kids feel ill at ease, this quiet signal was always appreciated and welcomed.
Three years ago, my daughter married a wonderful guy. Before the ceremony, while we were standing at the back of the church waiting to march down the aisle, I could hardly look at my little girl, now all grown up and wearing her grandmother’s wedding veil, for fear of crying.
There was so much I wanted to say to her. I wanted to tell her how proud of her I was. I wanted to tell her that I treasured being her mom, and I looked forward to all the future had in store for her. However, most important, I wanted to tell her that I loved her. But I was positive that if I said even one word, Carolyn and I would both dissolve into tears.
Then I remembered it - - our secret signal. I left my place and walked back to Carolyn. As the organist began to play Ode to Joy, I took Carolyn’s hand and quickly squeezed it twice. Our eyes met, and she returned the signal.
There were no tears, there were no words exchanged, just a secret “I love you” that I created one sunny afternoon, when I was a new mother.
the best love
I have a friend who is falling in love. She honestly claims the sky is bluer. Mozart moves her to tears. She has lost 15 pounds and looks like a cover girl.
"I’m young again!” she shouts exuberantly.
As my friend raves on about her new love, I’ve taken a good look at my old one. My husband of almost 20 years, Scott, has gained 15 pounds. Once a marathon runner,Inflatable Games giant he now runs only down hospital halls. His hairline is receding and his body shows the signs of long working hours and too many candy bars. Yet he can still give me a certain look across a restaurant table and I want to ask for the check and head home.
When my friend asked me “What will make this love last?” I ran through all the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests, unselfishness, physical attraction, communication. Yet there’s more. We still have fun. Spontaneous good times. Yesterday, after slipping the rubber band off the rolled up newspaper, Scott flipped it playfully at me: this led to an all-out war. Last Saturday at the grocery, we split the list and raced each other to see who could make it to the checkout first. Even washing dishes can be a blast. We enjoy simply being together.
And there are surprises. One time I came home to find a note on the front door that led me to another note, then another, until I reached the walk-in closet. I opened the door to find Scott holding a “pot of gold” (my cooking kettle) and the “treasure” of a gift package. Sometimes I leave him notes on the mirror and little presents under his pillow.
There is understanding. I understand why he must play basketball with the guys. And he understands why, once a year, I must get away from the house, the kids -and even him -to meet my sisters for a few days of nonstop talking and laughing.
There is sharing. Not only do we share household worries and parental burdens － we also share ideas. Scott came home from a convention last month and presented me with a thick historical novel. Though he prefers thrillers and science fiction, he had read the novel on the plane. He touched my heart when he explained it was because he wanted to be able to exchange ideas about the book after I’d read it.
There is forgiveness. When I’m embarrasssingly loud and crazy at parties, Scott forgives me. When he confessed losing some of our savings in the stock market, I gave him a hug and said, “It’s okay. It’s only money.”
There is sensitivity. Last week he walked through the door with that look that tells me it’s been a tough day. After he spent some time with the kids, I asked him what happened. He told me about a 60-year-old woman who’d had a stroke. He wept as he recalled the woman’s husband standing beside her bed, caressing her hand. How was he going to tell this husband of 40 years that his wife would probably never recover? I shed a few tears myself. Because of the medical crisis. Because there were still people who have been married 40 years. Because my husband is still moved and concerned after years of hospital rooms and dying patients.
There is faith. Last Tuesday a friend came over and confessed her fear that her husband is losing his courageous battle with cancer. On Wednesday I went to lunch with a friend who is struggling to reshape her life after divorce. On Thursday a neighbor called to talk about the frightening effects of Alzheimer’s disease on her father-in-law’s personality. On Friday a childhood friend called long-distance to tell me her father had died. I hung up the phone and thought, this is too much heartache for one week. Through my tears, as I went out to run some errands, I noticed the boisterous orange blossoms of the gladiolus outside my window. I heard the delighted laughter of my son and his friend as they played. I caught sight of a wedding party emerging from a neighbor’s house. The bride, dressed in satin and lace, tossed her bouquet to her cheering friends. That night, I told my husband about these events. We helped each other acknowledge the cycles of life and that the joys counter the sorrows. It was enough to keep us going.
Finally, there is knowing. I know Scott will throw his laundry just shy of the hamper every night; he’ll be late to most appointments and eat the last chocolate in the box. He knows that I sleep with a pillow over my head; I’ll lock us out of the house at a regular basis, and I will also eat the last chocolate.
I guess our love lasts because it is comfortable. No, the sky is not bluer: it’s just a familiar hue. We don’t feel particularly young: we’ve experienced too much that has contributed to our growth and wisdom, taking its toll on our bodies, and created our memories.
I hope we’ve got what it takes to make our love last. As a bride, I had Scott’s wedding band engraved with Robert Browning’s line “Grow old along with me!” We’re following those instructions.
"I’m young again!” she shouts exuberantly.
As my friend raves on about her new love, I’ve taken a good look at my old one. My husband of almost 20 years, Scott, has gained 15 pounds. Once a marathon runner,Inflatable Games giant he now runs only down hospital halls. His hairline is receding and his body shows the signs of long working hours and too many candy bars. Yet he can still give me a certain look across a restaurant table and I want to ask for the check and head home.
When my friend asked me “What will make this love last?” I ran through all the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests, unselfishness, physical attraction, communication. Yet there’s more. We still have fun. Spontaneous good times. Yesterday, after slipping the rubber band off the rolled up newspaper, Scott flipped it playfully at me: this led to an all-out war. Last Saturday at the grocery, we split the list and raced each other to see who could make it to the checkout first. Even washing dishes can be a blast. We enjoy simply being together.
And there are surprises. One time I came home to find a note on the front door that led me to another note, then another, until I reached the walk-in closet. I opened the door to find Scott holding a “pot of gold” (my cooking kettle) and the “treasure” of a gift package. Sometimes I leave him notes on the mirror and little presents under his pillow.
There is understanding. I understand why he must play basketball with the guys. And he understands why, once a year, I must get away from the house, the kids -and even him -to meet my sisters for a few days of nonstop talking and laughing.
There is sharing. Not only do we share household worries and parental burdens － we also share ideas. Scott came home from a convention last month and presented me with a thick historical novel. Though he prefers thrillers and science fiction, he had read the novel on the plane. He touched my heart when he explained it was because he wanted to be able to exchange ideas about the book after I’d read it.
There is forgiveness. When I’m embarrasssingly loud and crazy at parties, Scott forgives me. When he confessed losing some of our savings in the stock market, I gave him a hug and said, “It’s okay. It’s only money.”
There is sensitivity. Last week he walked through the door with that look that tells me it’s been a tough day. After he spent some time with the kids, I asked him what happened. He told me about a 60-year-old woman who’d had a stroke. He wept as he recalled the woman’s husband standing beside her bed, caressing her hand. How was he going to tell this husband of 40 years that his wife would probably never recover? I shed a few tears myself. Because of the medical crisis. Because there were still people who have been married 40 years. Because my husband is still moved and concerned after years of hospital rooms and dying patients.
There is faith. Last Tuesday a friend came over and confessed her fear that her husband is losing his courageous battle with cancer. On Wednesday I went to lunch with a friend who is struggling to reshape her life after divorce. On Thursday a neighbor called to talk about the frightening effects of Alzheimer’s disease on her father-in-law’s personality. On Friday a childhood friend called long-distance to tell me her father had died. I hung up the phone and thought, this is too much heartache for one week. Through my tears, as I went out to run some errands, I noticed the boisterous orange blossoms of the gladiolus outside my window. I heard the delighted laughter of my son and his friend as they played. I caught sight of a wedding party emerging from a neighbor’s house. The bride, dressed in satin and lace, tossed her bouquet to her cheering friends. That night, I told my husband about these events. We helped each other acknowledge the cycles of life and that the joys counter the sorrows. It was enough to keep us going.
Finally, there is knowing. I know Scott will throw his laundry just shy of the hamper every night; he’ll be late to most appointments and eat the last chocolate in the box. He knows that I sleep with a pillow over my head; I’ll lock us out of the house at a regular basis, and I will also eat the last chocolate.
I guess our love lasts because it is comfortable. No, the sky is not bluer: it’s just a familiar hue. We don’t feel particularly young: we’ve experienced too much that has contributed to our growth and wisdom, taking its toll on our bodies, and created our memories.
I hope we’ve got what it takes to make our love last. As a bride, I had Scott’s wedding band engraved with Robert Browning’s line “Grow old along with me!” We’re following those instructions.
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