HER WORDS

 

“Excuse me.” The young boy said to the poet, “If you don’t mind me asking…where do you find your words?”

The old poet smiled at the young boy…”Sometimes…” she said, “they’re in the voices of the birds.”

“Sometimes they’re with my friends and family…sometimes on strangers in a crowd…sometimes they rise up with the morning sun…sometimes they’re drifting on a cloud.”

“Sometimes they’re on a ladybug, a butterfly…or a bee…sometimes they’re floating on the breeze…sometimes they’re high up in a tree.”

“Sometimes they fall with the leaves in Autumn…sometimes with the Spring flowers they seem to grow…Sometimes they’re stretched out on a sandy beach…sometimes they’re playing in the snow.”

“Sometimes they’re on the wings of love…Sometimes on the shoulders of pleasure or pain…sometimes they’re left behind by some animal…sometimes they fall from the sky with the rain.” 

“Sometimes they crawl out of the forest…sometimes out of the darkness…they emerge…sometimes they run so fast I have trouble keeping up…as out of the ocean waves…they surge.”

“You ask where I find my words.” She said smiling at the young boy, “I hope by now you see…I do not find the words I write…they find their way to me.”

A BIRD CAUGHT IN THE RAIN

 

From the safety of his room…watching raindrops sliding down his window pane…he noticed a bird…perched on a branch…with no protection from the rain.

The more he watched…the more he thought…that bird needs caring for…so he put on his raincoat…grabbed an umbrella…and headed for the door.

“Where are you going with that umbrella?” His mom asked.  He said, “Don’t worry Mom…it’s not for me…It’s for a little bird…caught in the rain…whose sitting in our tree.”

And she could not help but smile…as raindrops inched slowly down her window pane…as she watched her son…holding an umbrella over a bird caught in the rain.

And she thought…how wonderful is a child’s innocence…it has it’s own beauty…it’s own rhyme…and how endearing is that innocence…whose only enemy…is time.

And she found herself praying that in him this innocence would never wane…as he waved to her while holding an umbrella…over a bird caught in the rain.

HER BEST TEACHE WAS THE WIND

 

“Did you have a favorite teacher, Grandma?” Her granddaughter asked…and immediately Grandma grinned.

“Why yes…my favorite teacher…” she said, “has always been the wind.”

Seeing the confusion on her granddaughter’s face she said, “Perhaps I should explain…there’s so much we can learn from the sun…the wind…the rain…

You see, the Earth and the sky have many teachers spread out from coast to coast…but the wind has always been my favorite…it’s from her I’ve learned the most.

I find adventure in the wind…in the different ways she kisses my face…in all her unseen beauty…in her strength…and silent grace.

How quickly life can change is something she helped me understand…as I watch her switch directions…or walk along the shifting sands.

She’s taught me change isn’t always bad…to treat it with affection…because sometimes in the winds of change…we can find a new direction.

She taught me if I listen closely…I can her her singing songs…she taught me how to bend so I won’t break…when her winds are blowing strong.

She taught me on those calm days…days when her gusts are done…If I want to create my own wind…all I have to do is run.

She taught me how to ride the wind…every time I fly a kite…and how to enjoy the hidden mysteries she bring with her at night

In the Autumn as I watched the leaves falling from the trees…she’s shown me how sometimes you have to let go…in order to be free.

Yes, I have found my comfort in the teachings of the wind and I know, wherever I may roam, when my time on Earth is over…the wind will call me home.”

Later that day the mother asked the Grandma as her daughter she was viewing..

“Look at her running back and forth…what do you think she’s doing?”

The Grandma watched her granddaughter for a while…then turned to her daughter and grinned…I believe that’s just your daughter…creating her own wind.

THE ART OF PARENTING

 

I think of parenting as an art…parents are artists without constraints…whose children are blank canvases on which to apply their paint.

We remember how we also started as a blank canvas…years ago…and thus…we paint ideals and morals and values on our children…as our parents painted them on to us.

Around the time we’re happy with the painting we have styled…other artists with their own paints and brushes begin to paint upon our child.

Aunts and uncles…friends and neighbors…some who might not even be aware…add a splash of color to the canvas…a line…a shadow…here and there.

As more and more people on our painting lend a hand…we notice it begins to change from the painting we had planned.

But as the painting slowly begins its subtle transformation…we appreciate the artistry of this new creation.

Then there comes a day…it happens fast…so often it seems to rush…when the child…no longer a child…now controls the brush.

We smile…remembering our own life…and stand to the side…with no complaint…reminding our child…when they need us…we will always be ready to paint.

Knowing most of our painting is over…and how we painted with our heart…we sit back and we smile…enjoying beauty of our art.

At the same time we’re appreciating the artwork…the beauty we helped create…with paint and brush at the ready…patiently…we wait…

For the next blank canvases to arrive…when we, with no constraints

will again pick up our brush…knowing we have grandchildren to paint!

THE INTRICACIES OF THE GAME

 

Another baseball season begins and as teams vie for fortune and for fame…I’m reminded of the time I tried to teach my children….

THE INTRICACIES OF THE GAME

It was years ago when we took our children to the ballpark on a bright and sunny day.

We wore baseball caps, sat in the stands and watched grown men at play.

We’d been sitting for a few innings when I heard my daughter exclaim,

“Daddy, this is boring...what do you like about this game?”

It seemed at their young age my children didn’t share my baseball adoration…and I was sure they weren’t quite ready for a lengthy explanation.

As we basked in the sunshine eating hot dogs with ketchup and mustard on our buns…I could have explained the rules of the game, about strikes and balls and runs.

I could have taken that opportunity surrounded by my children and my wife to explain how baseball, if we let it, can teach us about life.

I could have pointed out, although it is individual player’s name we scream, baseball teaches people to work together as a team.

That baseball teaches humility…for no matter how hard you work, or what path you in life you choose…sometimes you’re going to win...and sometimes you’re going to lose.

That baseball teaches perseverance, determination, tenacity and grit…that you shouldn’t worry when you strike out because you’ll get another chance to hit.

That you must endure the slumps in life and the havoc they may wreak…If you’re also to enjoy the jubilance and the joy of a winning streak.

I wanted to say no matter how many bases you run...no matter where you roam…that life will circle back and you’ll always feel safe at home.

All these thoughts went through my mind as we sat in the park that day…wondering what to tell my children as we watched grown men at play.

“What do I like about baseball,” I said smiling for suddenly I knew “What I like best about baseball...is sharing it with you".

Our children are all grown now and, as far as baseball...that’s a shame…because I never got to explain to them the intricacies of the game.

WHEN WHITMAN WAS ALIVE

 

I have the fondest memory…plucked from my memory archive…of our morning walks together…when our golden, Whitman, was alive.

I loved how, though we walked together every day, each walk would seem brand new…and how we each approached our walk from a different point of view.

My eyes were drawn to the sky and the wonders that up there abound…Whitman’s eyes and concentration were riveted to the ground.

I loved to discover the different aromas that wafted on the breeze…Whitman was content with sniffing grass…and bushes…and trees.

I was happy listening to the wind and whatever birdsongs would catch my ear…but when Whitman lifted his head and smiled…I knew he was listening to sounds I could not hear.

We were never in a hurry…there was no need for speed…sometimes we’d walk where I wanted to walk…other times Whitman took the lead.

It’s obvious the view I had on two legs was different that what Whitman saw on four…still…I never could determine…which one of us enjoyed it more.

I still take those morning walks…and though it’s been years since Whitman died…there is still many a morning I can feel him by my side.

Sometimes I feel him as I begin to walk…other times along the way he will arrive…and then the two of us will walk together…

just like when Whitman was alive.

PETS

 

Pets…they come in many different colors…many sizes, shapes and forms.

They entrust us with their lives…to keep them safe, and fed…and warm.

Our pets can teach us many things…if we have the willingness to learn…

They teach us about giving…while asking for little in return.

They teach us the importance of sleep…the virtues of a mid-day nap

They teach us about compassion as they lay their heads upon our laps

They teach us to make time for play…to run through life wide-eyed…they teach us on this journey…it’s best to enjoy the ride.

They have a subtle way of turning our lives upside-down…of changing who we are…and thus

We think we’re taking care of them…when they’re actually taking care of us.

They teach us the power of touch…how to communicate with our eyes.

They teach us how to forgive…they teach us how to die.

From them we learn of unconditional love, we learn how to give thanks and gratitude…

and as they near the end of their short lives…they teach us fortitude.

But perhaps the most important lesson they teach us…which I’m sure all pet owners will agree…

Is that you do not have to be a human…to teach humanity.

Yes, pets are a gift…blessing…as on Earth we all sojourn…

Blessings with so much to teach us…if we have the willingness to learn.