P
laces and Things, That Make Me Think ,That make me smile. That make me sad 
They do not
sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep
for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their
duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented
with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago.
Walt Whitman (1819–92), U.S. poet. Song of Myself, . 32, in Leaves
of Grass (1855).
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath the long straggly
branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good
reason to frown,
for the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day, a young boy out of
breath approached
me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head
tilted down and
said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with its
petals all worn-not
enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead
flower and go off
to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side, and placed the
flower to his
nose and declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells
pretty and it's
beautiful, too. That's why I picked it, here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors,
orange, yellow or
red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I
reached for the
flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, he held it
mid-air without
reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time
that
weed-toting boy could not see; he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun as I thanked
him for picking
the very best one. "You're welcome," he smiled, and then
ran off to play,
unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying
woman beneath an
old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps
from his
heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see, the
problem was not with
the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself
had been
blind, I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every
second that's
mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose and breathed in
the fragrance
of a beautiful rose. And smiled as I watched that young boy, another
weed in his
hand about to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
When God Made Moms
When the good
Lord was creating mothers, he was into his sixth day of overtime, when the angel appeared
and said, "You're doing a lot of fiddling around on this one."
And the Lord said, "Have you read
the spec on this one? She has to be completely washable, but not plastic; have 180
moveable parts, all replaceable; run on nervous energy and leftovers; have a lap
that
disappears when she stands up; a kiss that can cure anything
from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair; and six pair of hands."
The angel shook her head slowly and said,
"Six pairs of hands...no way."
"It's not the hands that are causing me problems,"
said the Lord. "It's the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have."
"That's on the standard model?" asked the
angel!
The Lord nodded. "One pair that sees
through closed doors when she asks, "What are you kids doing in there?"
when she already knows. Another here, in the back of her head that sees what she
shouldn't, but what She has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at
a Child when he goofs up and say, "I understand and I love you," without so much
as uttering a word." "Lord," said the angel, touching his sleeve gently, "Rest
for now. Tomorrow..."
"I can't," said the Lord. "I'm so close
to creating something close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she
is sick, can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger and can get a nine year old to
stand under a shower."
The angel circled the model of the mother very
slowly. "She's too soft,” she sighed. "But tough!"
said the Lord excitedly. "You cannot imagine what the mother can do or
endure." "Can she think?"
"Not only think, but she can reason and
compromise," said the Creator.
Finally the angel bent over and ran her finger across the
cheek. "There's a leak," she pronounced. "I told you, you were
trying to put too much into this model."
"It's not a leak," said the Lord. "It's
a tear."
"What's it for?" "It's for joy,
sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness and pride."
"You're a genius," said the angel.
The Lord looked somber, "I didn't put it
there."
A event several months ago continues to haunt me. While driving to work I strayed from my normal path why I didn't know. I usually take a quiet route on a residential road past the freeway and a side road following the freeway and up a back way to the office. It's a 10 mile trip but this way takes maybe 20 minutes, the freeway take 8 minutes. I travel this way because I like to just relax, I was in no special hurry that day but turned on to the freeway. Here we have 6 lanes on either side, 65 mile per hour traffic most of the time 80. coming up on the on ramp in a distance saw a incredible sight. Two squirrels had managed to cross the 6 lanes from the other side, cleared the cement divider wall and was making haste across my 6 lanes. The freeway was clogged, one squirrel came out turned back and ran back in the the traffic there was a smoke from screeching tires but no crash. When I arrived and past the scene I saw something that deeply hit a nerve. Here was this squirrel standing next to it's companion that had been hit by a car, franticly trying to "wake him up" patting his head with her paw, refusing to leave the dangerous situation she was in. I have no idea what the ending was. It was sad, I rarely cry. It was long long ago on a dear hunt in Utah I discovered that animals are special creatures not to be killed without reason. Then recently my oldest son was in the back yard shooting cans with a air rifle, I walked out on the patio just in time to see him take aim at a squirrel. Stopping him I said "squirrels have feelings and they are not to be killed for the sport of it". Getting a strange look I recalled me at his age, things I had done, a terrible terrible experience years latter on a hunting trip. I knew nothing I could say would make any difference to him, he would think I was just a foolish old man with no fun left in him. So I reflected the events on the freeway. He just looked at me and several hours latter said, "Dad I promise I will never shoot a squirrel again".
Cats in the Cradle