Chicken Soup For The Soul Jack Canfield part 2

Another Way
The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring
afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty—a few housewives with their kids in
tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and
dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered
by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our
car. He wore laborer's clothing and was big, drunk and dirty. Screaming, he
swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an
elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car.
The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as
she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole
in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that
one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers
frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I'd been putting
in a solid eight hours of Aikido training nearly every day for the past three years.
I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. The trouble was, my martial
skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to
fight.
"Aikido," my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of reconciliation.
Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you
try to dominate people, you're already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict,
not how to start it."
I listened to his words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to
avoid the "chimpira," the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My
forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I
wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent
by destroying the guilty.
"This is it!" I said to myself as I got to my feet. "People are in danger. If I don't do
something fast, somebody will probably get hurt." Seeing me stand up, the drunk
recognized a chance to focus his rage. "Aha!" he roared. "A foreigner! You need a
lesson in Japanese manners!"
I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of
disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the
first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.
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"All right!" he hollered. "You're gonna get a lesson!" He gathered himself for a
rush at me.
A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted "Hey!" It was
earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it—as though you
and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he had suddenly
stumbled upon it. "Hey!"
I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little
old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny
gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but
beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most
welcome secret to share.
"C'mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk.
"C'mere and talk with me." He waved his hands lightly.
The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of
the old gentleman and roared above the clacking wheels, "Why the hell should I
talk to you?" The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a
millimeter, I'd drop him in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer. "What'cha been drinkin'?" he
asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. "I been drinkin' sake," the laborer
bellowed back, "and it's none of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old
man.
"Oh, that's wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You see, I love
sake, too. Every night, me and my wife (she's 76, you know), we warm up a little
bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench.
We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing.
My greatgrandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover
from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better than I
expected, though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is
gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening—even
when it rains!" He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man, his face began to soften. His fists slowly
unclenched. "Yeah," he said. "I love persimmons, too...." His voice trailed off.
"Yes," said the old man, smiling, "and I'm sure you have a wonderful wife."
"No," replied the laborer. "My wife died." Very gently, swaying with the motion of
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Law of Attraction Haventhe train, the big man began to sob. "I don't got no wife, I don't got no home, I
don't got no job. I'm so ashamed of myself." Tears rolled down his cheeks, a
spasm of despair rippled through his body.
As I stood there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my makethis-world
safe-
for-democracy righteousness, I felt dirtier than he was.
Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck
sympathetically. "My, my," he said, "that is a difficult predicament indeed. Sit
down here and tell me about it."
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat with his
head in the old man's lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench in the station. What I had wanted
to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen Aikido
in action, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an
entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the
resolution of conflict.
Terry Dobson
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Law of Attraction HavenThe Gentlest Need
At least once a day our old black cat comes to one of us in a way that we've all
come to see as a special request. It does not mean he wants to be fed or to be let
out or anything of that sort. His need is for something very different.
If you have a lap handy, he'll jump into it; if you don't, he's likely to stand there
looking wistful until you make him one. Once in it, he begins to vibrate almost
before you stroke his back, scratch his chin and tell him over and over what a
good kitty he is. Then his motor really revs up; he squirms to get comfortable; he
"makes big hands." Every once in a while one of his purrs gets out of control and
turns into a snort. He looks at you with wide open eyes of adoration, and he gives
you the cat's long slow blink of ultimate trust.
After a while, little by little, he quiets down. If he senses that it's all right, he may
stay in your lap for a cozy nap. But he is just as likely to hop down and stroll
away about his business. Either way, he's all right. Our daughter puts it simply:
"Blackie needs to be purred."
In our household he isn't the only one who has that need: I share it and so does
my wife. We know the need isn't exclusive to any one age group. Still, because I
am a schoolman as well as a parent, I associate it especially with youngsters,
with their quick, impulsive need for a hug, a warm lap, a hand held out, a
coverlet tucked in, not because anything's wrong, not because anything needs
doing, just because that's the way they are.
There are a lot of things I'd like to do for all children. If I could do just one, it
would be this: to guarantee every child, everywhere, at least one good purring
every day.
Kids, like cats, need time to purr.
Fred T. Wilhelms
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Law of Attraction HavenBopsy
The 26-year-old mother stared down at her son who was dying of terminal
leukemia. Although her heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong
feeling of determination. Like any parent she wanted her son to grow up and fulfill
all his dreams. Now that was no longer possible. The leukemia would see to that.
But she still wanted her son's dreams to come true.
She took her son's hand and asked, "Bopsy, did you ever think about what you
wanted to be when you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish about what you
would do with your life?"
"Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up."
Mom smiled back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come true." Later
that day she went to her local fire department in Phoenix, Arizona, where she met
Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son's final
wish and asked if it might be possible to give her six-year-old son a ride around
the block on a fire engine.
Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son
ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman
for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all
the fire calls, the whole nine yards! And, if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real
fire uniform made for him, with a real fire hat—not a toy one—with the emblem of
the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots.
They're all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast."
Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Bopsy, dressed him in his fire uniform
and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck.
Bopsy got to sit up on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire
station. He was in heaven. There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and
Bopsy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the
paramedics' van and even the fire chief's car. He was also videotaped for the local
news program.
Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished
upon him, so deeply touched Bopsy that he lived three months longer than any
doctor thought possible.
One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse,
who believed in the Hospice concept that no one should die alone, began to call
the family members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Bopsy had
spent as a fireman, so she called the fire chief and asked if it would be possible to
send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Bopsy as he made his
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Law of Attraction Haventransition. The chief replied, "We can do better than that. We'll be there in five
minutes. Will you please do me a favor? When you hear the sirens screaming and
see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a
fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one of its finest members one
more time. And will you open the window to his room? Thanks."
About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital, extended
its ladder up to Bopsy's third floor open window and 14 firemen and two fire
women
climbed up the ladder into Bopsy's room. With his mother's permission,
they hugged him and held him and told him how much they loved him.
With his dying breath, Bopsy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief, am I
really a fireman now?"
"Bopsy, you are," the chief said.
With those words, Bopsy smiled and closed his eyes for the last time.
Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen
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Law of Attraction HavenPuppies For Sale
A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that read “Puppies For Sale."
Signs like that have a way of attracting small children, and sure enough, a little
boy appeared under the store owner's sign. "How much are you going to sell the
puppies for?" he asked.
The store owner replied, "Anywhere from $30 to $50."
The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37,"
he said. "Can I please look at them?"
The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the kennel came Lady, who ran
down the aisle of his store followed by five teeny, tiny balls of fur. One puppy was
lagging considerably behind. Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging,
limping puppy and said, "What's wrong with that little dog?"
The store owner explained that the veterinarian had examined the little puppy
and had discovered it didn't have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would
always be lame. The little boy became excited. 'That is the little puppy that I want
to buy."
The store owner said, "No, you don't want to buy that little dog. If you really want
him, I'll just give him to you."
The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the store owner's eyes,
pointing his finger, and said, "I don't want you to give him to me. That little dog is
worth every bit as much as all the other dogs and I'll pay full price. In fact, I'll
give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for."
The store owner countered, "You really don't want to buy this little dog. He is
never going to be able to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies."
To this, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly
twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the
store owner and softly replied, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little
puppy will need someone who understands!"
Dan Clark, Weathering the Storm
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Law of Attraction Haven     LEARNING TO LOVE YOURSELF
Oliver Wendell Holmes once attended a meeting in which he was the shortest man
present.
"Dr. Holmes," quipped a friend, "I should think you'd feel rather small among us
big fellows."
"I do," retorted Holmes, "I feel like a dime among a lot of pennies."
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Law of Attraction HavenThe Golden Buddha
And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one
can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery
In the fall of 1988 my wife Georgia and I were invited to give a presentation on
self-esteem and peak performance at a conference in Hong Kong. Since we had
never been to the Far East before, we decided to extend our trip and visit
Thailand.
When we arrived in Bangkok, we decided to take a tour of the city's most famous
Buddhist temples. Along with our interpreter and driver, Georgia and I visited
numerous Buddhist temples that day, but after a while they all began to blur in
our memories.
while they all began to blur in our memories. However, there was one temple that
left an indelible impression in our hearts and minds. It is called the Temple of the
Golden Buddha. The temple itself is very small, probably no larger than thirty feet
by thirty feet. But as we entered, we were stunned by the presence of a ten-and
ahalf-
foot tall, solid-gold Buddha. It weighs over two-and-a-half tons and is
valued at approximately one hundred and ninety-six million dollars! It was quite
an awesome sight—the kindly gentle, yet imposing solid-gold Buddha smiling
down at us.
As we immersed ourselves in the normal sightseeing tasks (taking pictures while
oohing and ahhing over the statue), I walked over to a glass case that contained
a large piece of clay about eight inches thick and twelve inches wide. Next to the
glass case was a typewritten page describing the history of this magnificent piece
of art.
Back in 1957 a group of monks from a monastery had to relocate a clay Buddha
from their temple to a new location. The monastery was to be relocated to make
room for the development of a highway through Bangkok. When the crane began
to lift the giant idol, the weight of it was so tremendous that it began to crack.
What's more, rain began to fall. The head monk, who was concerned about
damage to the sacred Buddha, decided to lower the statue back to the ground
and cover it with a large canvas tarp-to protect it from the rain.
Later that evening the head monk went to check on the Buddha. He shined his
flashlight under the tarp to see if the Buddha was staying dry. As the light
reached the crack, he noticed a little gleam shining back and thought it strange.
As he took a closer look at this gleam of light, he wondered if there might be
something underneath the clay. He went to fetch a chisel and hammer from the
monastery and began to chip away at the clay. As he knocked off shards of clay,
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the little gleam grew brighter and bigger. Many hours of labor went by before the
monk stood face to face with the extraordinary solid-gold Buddha.
Historians believe that several hundred years before the head monk's discovery,
the Burmese army was about to invade Thailand (then called Siam). The Siamese
monks, realizing that their country would soon be attacked, covered their
precious golden Buddha with an outer covering of clay in order to keep their
treasure from being looted by the Burmese. Unfortunately, it appears that the
Burmese slaughtered all the Siamese monks, and the well-kept secret of the
golden Buddha remained intact until that fateful day in 1957.
As we flew home on Cathay Pacific Airlines I began to think to myself, "We are all
like the clay Buddha covered with a shell of hardness created out of fear, and yet
underneath each of us is a 'golden Buddha' a 'golden Christ' or a 'golden essence,'
which is our real self. Somewhere along the way, between the ages of two and
nine, we begin to cover up our 'golden essence,' our natural self. Much like the
monk with the hammer and the chisel, our task now is to discover our true
essence once again."
Jack Canfield
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Start With Yourself
The following words were written on the tomb of an Anglican Bishop in the Crypts
of Westminister Abbey:
When I was young and free and my imagination had no limits, I dreamed of
changing the world. As I grew older and wiser, I discovered the world would not
change, so I shortened my sights somewhat and decided to change only my
country.
But it, too, seemed immovable.
As I grew into my twilight years, in one last desperate attempt, I settled for
changing only my family, those closest to me, but alas, they would have none of
it.
As I grew into my twilight years, in one last desperate attempt, I settled for
changing only my family, those closest to me, but alas, they would have none of
it.
And now as I lie on my deathbed, I suddenly realize: If I had only changed my
self first, then by example I would have changed my family.
From their inspiration and encouragement, I would then have been able to better
my country and, who knows, I may have even changed the world.
Anonymous
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Nothing But the Truth!
David Casstevens of the Dallas Morning News tells a story about Frank
Szymanski, a Notre Dame center in the 1940s, who had been called as a witness
in a civil suit at South Bend.
"Are you on the Notre Dame football team this year?" the judge asked.
"Yes, Your Honor."
"What position?"
"Center, Your Honor."
"How good a center?"
Szymanski squirmed in his seat, but said firmly: "Sir, I'm the best center Notre
Dame has ever had."
Coach Frank Leahy, who was in the courtroom, was surprised. Szymanski always
had been modest and unassuming. So when the proceedings were over, he took
Szymanski aside and asked why he had made such a statement. Szymanski
blushed.
"I hated to do it, Coach," he said. "But, after all, I was under oath."
Dallas Morning News
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Covering All the Bases
A little boy was overheard talking to himself as he strode through his backyard,
baseball cap in place and toting ball and bat. "I'm the greatest baseball player in
the world," he said proudly. Then he tossed the ball in the air, swung and missed.
Undaunted, he picked up the ball, threw it into the air and said to himself, "I'm
the greatest player ever!" He swung at the ball again, and again he missed. He
paused a moment to examine bat and ball carefully. Then once again he threw
the ball into the air and said, "I'm the greatest baseball player who ever lived."
He swung the bat hard and again missed the ball.
"Wow!" he exclaimed. "What a pitcher!"
Source Unknown
After church one Sunday morning, my five-year-old granddaughter was intently
drawing on a piece of paper. When asked what she was drawing, she replied that
she was drawing God. "But no one knows what God looks like," I said. "They will
when I finish this picture!" she answered.
Jacque Hall
What I am is good enough if I would only be it openly.
Carl Rogers
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My Declaration of Self-Esteem
The following was written in answer to a 15-year-old girl's question, "How can I
prepare myself for a fulfilling life?"
I am me.
In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me. There are people who have
some parts like me but no one adds up exactly like me. Therefore, everything
that comes out of me is authentically mine because I alone choose it.
I own everything about me—my body, including everything it does; my mind,
including all my thoughts and ideas; my eyes, including the images of all they
behold; my feelings, whatever they might be—anger, joy, frustration, love,
disappointment, excitement; my mouth and all the words that come out of it—
polite, sweet and rough, correct or incorrect; my voice, loud and soft; all my
actions, whether they be to others or myself.
I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears. I own all my triumphs and
successes, all my failures and mistakes. Because I own all of me, I can become
intimately acquainted with me. By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with
me in all my parts. I can then make it possible for all of me to work in my best
interests.
I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I
do not know. But as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can
courageously and hopefully look for the solutions to the puzzles and for ways to
find out more about me.
However I look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever I think and feel
at a given moment in time is me. This is authentic and represents where I am at
that moment in time.
When I review later how I looked and sounded, what I said and did, and how I
thought and felt, some parts may turn out to be unfitting. I can discard that
which is unfitting and keep that which proved fitting, and invent something new
for that which I discarded.
I can see, hear, feel, think, say and do. I have the tools to survive, to be close to
others, to be productive, to make sense and order out of the world of people and
things outside of me.
I own me and therefore I can engineer me.
I am me and I am okay. Virginia Satir
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The Bag Lady
She used to sleep in the Fifth Street Post Office. I could smell her before I
rounded the entrance to where she slept, standing up, by the public phones. I
smelled the urine that seeped through the layers of her dirty clothing and the
decay from her nearly toothless mouth. If she was not asleep, she mumbled
incoherently.
Now they close the post office at six to keep the homeless out, so she curls up on
the sidewalk, talking to herself, her mouth flapping open as though unhinged, her
smells diminished by the soft breeze. One Thanksgiving we had so much food left
over, I packed it up, excused myself from the others and drove over to Fifth
Street.
It was a frigid night. Leaves were swirling around the streets and hardly anyone
was out, all but a few of the luckless in some warm home or shelter. But I knew I
would find her.
She was dressed as she always was, even in summer: The warm woolly layers
concealing her old, bent body. Her bony hands clutched the precious shopping
cart. She was squatting against a wire fence in front of the playground next to the
post office. "Why didn't she choose some place more protected from the wind?" I
thought, and assumed she was so crazy she did not have the sense to huddle in a
doorway.
"Mother . . . would you ..." and was shocked at the word "Mother." But she was ...
is ... in some way I cannot grasp.
I said, again, "Mother, I've brought you some food. Would you like some turkey
and stuffing and apple pie?"
At this the old woman looked at me and said quite clearly and distinctly, her two
loose lower teeth wobbling as she spoke, "Oh, thank you very much, but I'm
quite full now. Why don't you take it to someone who really needs it?" Her words
were clear, her manners gracious. Then I was dismissed: Her head sank into her
rags again.
Bobbie Probstein
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Response/Ability
the game we play is let's pretend and pretend we're not pretending we choose to
forget who we are and then forget that we've forgotten who are we really?
the center that watches and runs the show that can choose which way it will go
the I AM consciousness that powerful loving perfect reflection of the cosmos
but in our attempt to cope with early situations
we chose or were hypnotized into a passive position
to avoid punishment
or the loss of love
we chose to deny
our response/ability
pretending that
things just happened
or that we were being controlled
taken over
we put ourselves down
and have become used to this masochistic posture
this weakness
this indecisiveness
but we are in reality free
a center of cosmic energy
your will is your power
don't pretend you don't have it
or you won't
Bernard Gunther
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The Rules for Being Human
1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the
entire period of this time around.
2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called Life.
Each day in this school you will have the opportunity to learn lessons. You may
like the lessons or think them irrelevant and stupid.
3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of trial and error:
Experimentation. The "failed" experiments are as much a part of the process as
the experiment that ultimately "works."
4. A lesson is repeated until learned. A lesson will be presented to you in various
forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can then go on to
the next lesson.
5. Learning lessons does not end. There is no part of life that does not contain its
lessons. If you are alive, there are lessons to be learned.
6. "There" is no better than "here." When your "there" has become a "here," you
will simply obtain another "there" that will again look better than "here."
7. Others are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about
another person unless it reflects something you love or hate about yourself.
8. What you make of your life is up to you. You have all the tools and resources
you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.
9. Your answers lie inside you. The answers to Life's questions lie inside you. All
you need to do is look, listen and trust.
10. You will forget all this.
Cherie Carter-Scott
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ON PARENTING
Perhaps the greatest social service that can be rendered by anybody to the
country and to mankind is to bring up a family.
George Bernard Shaw
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Children Learn What They Live
If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to be shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn what envy is.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with tolerance, they learn to be patient.
If children live with encouragement, they learn to be confident.
If children live with praise, they learn to appreciate.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to find love in the world.
If children live with recognition, they learn to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn to be generous.
If children live with honesty and fairness, they learn what truth and justice are.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those
around them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn that the world is a nice place in which
to live.
If children live with serenity, they learn to have peace of mind.
With what are your children living?
Dorothy L Nolte
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Children Learn What They Live
If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to be shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn what envy is.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with tolerance, they learn to be patient.
If children live with encouragement, they learn to be confident.
If children live with praise, they learn to appreciate.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to find love in the world.
If children live with recognition, they learn to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn to be generous.
If children live with honesty and fairness, they learn what truth and justice are.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those
around them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn that the world is a nice place in which
to live.
If children live with serenity, they learn to have peace of mind.
With what are your children living?
Dorothy L Nolte
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Why I Chose My Father To Be My Dad
I grew up on a beautiful sprawling farm in Iowa, raised by parents who are often
described as the "salt of the earth and the backbone of the community." They
were all the things we know good parents to be: loving, committed to the task of
raising their children with high expectations and a positive sense of self-regard.
They expected us to do morning and evening chores, get to school on time, get
decent grades and be good people.
There are six children. Six children! It was never my idea that there should be so
many of us, but then no one consulted me. To make matters worse, fate dropped
me off in the middle of the American heartland in a most harsh and cold climate.
Like all children, I thought that there had been a great universal mistake and I
had been placed in the wrong family—most definitely in the wrong state. I
disliked coping with the elements. The winters in Iowa are so freezing cold that
you have to make rounds in the middle of the night to see that livestock aren't
stranded in a place where they would freeze to death. Newborn animals had to be
taken in the barn and sometimes warmed up in order to be kept alive. Winters
are that cold in Iowa!
My dad, an incredibly handsome, strong, charismatic and energetic man was
always in motion. My brothers and sisters and I were in awe of him. We honored
him and held him in the highest esteem. Now I understand why. There were no
inconsistencies in his life. He was an honorable man, highly principled. Farming,
his chosen work, was his passion; he was the best. He was at home raising and
caring for animals. He felt at one with the earth and took great pride in planting
and harvesting the crops. He refused to hunt out of season, even though deer,
pheasants, quail and other game roamed our farmlands in abundance. He refused
to use soil additives or feed the animals anything other than natural grains. He
taught us why he did this and why we must embrace the same ideals. Today I can
see how conscientious he was because this was in the mid- 1950s before there
was an attempt at universal commitment to earthwide environmental
preservation.
Dad was also a very impatient man, but not in the middle of the night when he
was checking his animals during these late night rounds. The relationship we
developed from these times together was simply unforgettable. It made a
compelling difference in my life. I learned so much about him. I often hear men
and women say they spent so little time with their fathers. Indeed the heart of
today's men's groups is about groping for a father they never really knew. I knew
mine.
Back then I felt as if I was secretly his favorite child, although it's quite possible
that each of us six children felt that way. Now that was both good news and bad.
The bad news was that I was the one selected by Dad to go with him for these
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Why I Chose My Father To Be My Dad
I grew up on a beautiful sprawling farm in Iowa, raised by parents who are often
described as the "salt of the earth and the backbone of the community." They
were all the things we know good parents to be: loving, committed to the task of
raising their children with high expectations and a positive sense of self-regard.
They expected us to do morning and evening chores, get to school on time, get
decent grades and be good people.
There are six children. Six children! It was never my idea that there should be so
many of us, but then no one consulted me. To make matters worse, fate dropped
me off in the middle of the American heartland in a most harsh and cold climate.
Like all children, I thought that there had been a great universal mistake and I
had been placed in the wrong family—most definitely in the wrong state. I
disliked coping with the elements. The winters in Iowa are so freezing cold that
you have to make rounds in the middle of the night to see that livestock aren't
stranded in a place where they would freeze to death. Newborn animals had to be
taken in the barn and sometimes warmed up in order to be kept alive. Winters
are that cold in Iowa!
My dad, an incredibly handsome, strong, charismatic and energetic man was
always in motion. My brothers and sisters and I were in awe of him. We honored
him and held him in the highest esteem. Now I understand why. There were no
inconsistencies in his life. He was an honorable man, highly principled. Farming,
his chosen work, was his passion; he was the best. He was at home raising and
caring for animals. He felt at one with the earth and took great pride in planting
and harvesting the crops. He refused to hunt out of season, even though deer,
pheasants, quail and other game roamed our farmlands in abundance. He refused
to use soil additives or feed the animals anything other than natural grains. He
taught us why he did this and why we must embrace the same ideals. Today I can
see how conscientious he was because this was in the mid- 1950s before there
was an attempt at universal commitment to earthwide environmental
preservation.
Dad was also a very impatient man, but not in the middle of the night when he
was checking his animals during these late night rounds. The relationship we
developed from these times together was simply unforgettable. It made a
compelling difference in my life. I learned so much about him. I often hear men
and women say they spent so little time with their fathers. Indeed the heart of
today's men's groups is about groping for a father they never really knew. I knew
mine.
Back then I felt as if I was secretly his favorite child, although it's quite possible
that each of us six children felt that way. Now that was both good news and bad.
The bad news was that I was the one selected by Dad to go with him for these
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midnight and early morning barnyard checks, and I absolutely detested getting
up and leaving a warm bed to go out into the frosty air. But my dad was at his
best and most lovable during those times. He was most understanding, patient,
gentle and was a good listener. His voice was gentle and his smile made me
understand my mother's passion for him.
It was during these times when he was a model teacher—always focusing on the
whys, the reasons for doing. He talked endlessly for the hour or hour-and-a-half
that it took to make the rounds. He talked about his war experiences, the whys of
the war he served in and about the region, its people, the effects of war and its
aftermath. Again and again he told his story. In school I found history all the
more exciting and familiar.
He talked about what he gained from his travels and why seeing the world was so
important. He instilled a need and love of traveling. I had worked in or visited
some 30 countries by the time I was 30 years old. He talked about the need and
love of learning and why a formal education is important, and he talked about the
difference between intelligence and wisdom. He wanted so much for me to go
beyond my high school degree. "You can do it," he'd say over and over. "You're a
Burres. You are bright, you have a good mind and, remember, you're a Burres."
There was no way I was going to let him down. I had more than enough
confidence to tackle any course of study. Eventually I completed a Ph.D. and later
earned a second doctorate. Though the first doctorate was for Dad and the
second for me, there was definitely a sense of curiosity and quest that made both
easy to attain. He talked about standards and values, developing character and
what it meant in the course of one's life. I write and teach on a similar theme. He
talked about how to make and evaluate decisions, when to cut your losses and
walk away and when to stick it out, even in the face of adversity. He talked about
the concept of being and becoming and not just having and getting. I still use
that phrase. "Never sell out on your heart," he said. He talked about gut instincts
and how to decipher between those and emotional sells, and how to avoid being
fooled by others. He said, "Always listen to your instincts and know that all the
answers you'll ever need are within you. Take quiet time alone. Be still enough to
find the answers within and then listen to them. Find something you love to do,
then live a life that shows it. Your goals should stem from your values, and then
your work will radiate your heart's desire. This will divert you from all silly
distractions that will only serve to waste your time—your very life is about time—
how much you can grow in whatever years you are given. Care about people," he
said, "and always respect mother earth. Wherever you shall live, be sure you
have full view of the trees, sky and land."
My father. When I reflect on how he loved and valued his children, I'm genuinely
sorry for the youth who will never know their fathers in this way or will never feel
the power of character, ethics, drive and sensitivity all in one person—as I do in
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mine. My dad modeled what he talked. And I always knew he was serious about
me. I knew he felt me worthy, and he wanted me to see that worth.
Dad's message made sense to me because I never saw any conflict in the way he
lived his life. He had thought about his life and he lived it daily. He bought and
paid for several farms over time (he's as active today as he was then). He
married and has loved the same woman for a lifetime. My mother and he, now
married for nearly 50 years, are still inseparable sweethearts. They are the
greatest lovers I've known. And he loved his family so much. I thought he was
overly possessive and protective of his children, but now that I'm a parent I can
understand those needs and see them for what they are. Though he thought he
could save us from the measles and almost did, he vehemently refused to lose us
to destructive vices. I also see how determined he was that we be caring and
responsible adults.
To this day five of his children live within a few miles of him, and they have
chosen a version of his lifestyle. They are devoted spouses and parents, and
agriculture is their chosen work. They are without a doubt, the backbone of their
community. There is a twist to all this, and I suspect it's because of his taking me
on those midnight rounds. I took a different direction than did the other five
children. I began a career as an educator, counselor and university professor,
eventually writing several books for parents and children to share what I had
learned about the importance of developing self-esteem in the childhood years.
My messages to my daughter, while altered a bit, are the values that I learned
from my father, tempered with my life experiences, of course. They continue to
be passed on.
I should tell you a bit about my daughter. She's a tomboy, a beautiful 5 foot 9
athlete who letters in three sports each year, frets over the difference between an
A-and a B, and was just named a finalist in the Miss Teen California contest. But
it's not her outward gifts and accomplishments that remind me of my parents.
People always tell me that my daughter possesses a great kindness, a spirituality,
a special fire deep inside that radiates outward. The essence of my parents is
personified in their granddaughter.
The rewards of esteeming their children and being dedicated parents have had a
most nourishing effect on the lives of my parents as well. As of this writing, my
father is at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, for a battery of tests,
scheduled to take from six to eight days. It is December. Because of the harsh
winter, he took a hotel room near the clinic (as an outpatient). Because of
obligations at home, my mother was only able to stay with him for the first few
days. So on Christmas Eve, they were apart.
That night I first called my dad in Rochester to say Merry Christmas. He sounded
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down and despondent. Then, I called my mother in Iowa. She was sad and
morose. "This is the first time your father and I have ever spent the holidays
apart," she lamented. "It's just not Christmas without him."
I had 14 dinner guests arriving, all ready for a festive evening. I returned to
cooking, but not being able to get my parents' dilemma fully off my mind, I called
my older sister. She called my brothers. We conferenced by phone. It was settled.
Determined that our parents should not be without each other on Christmas Eve,
my younger brother would drive the two hours to Rochester to pick up my father
and bring him home without telling my mother. I called my father to tell him of
the plans. "Oh, no," he said, "it's far too dangerous to come out on a night like
this." My brother arrived in Rochester and knocked at my father's hotel door. He
called me from Dad's room to tell me he wouldn't go. "You have to tell him,
Bobbie. You're the only one he'll listen to." "Go, Dad," I said gently.
He did. Tim and my dad started for Iowa. We kids kept track of their progress,
the journey and the weather by talking with them on my brother's car phone. By
now, all my guests had arrived and all were a part of this ordeal. Whenever the
phone rang, we put it on the speaker phone so we could hear the latest! It was
just past 9:00 when the phone rang and it was Dad on the car phone, "Bobbie,
how can I possibly go home without a gift for your mom? It would be the first
time in nearly 50 years I didn't get her perfume for Christmas!" By now my entire
dinner party was engineering this plan. We called my sister to get the names of
nearby open shopping centers so they could stop for the only gift my dad would
consider giving Mom—the same brand of perfume he has given her every year at
Christmas.
At 9:52 that evening, my brother and my dad left a little shopping mall in
Minnesota for the trip home. At 11:50 they drove into the farmstead. My father,
acting like a giggling school boy, stepped around the corner of the house and
stood out of sight.
"Mom, I visited Dad today and he said to bring you his laundry," my brother said
as he handed my mom the suitcases.
"Oh," she said softly and sadly, "I miss him so much, I might as well do these
now."
Said my father coming out from his hiding, "You won't have time to do them
tonight."
After my brother called me to relay this touching scene between our parents—
these two friends and lovers—I phoned my mother. "Merry Christmas, Mother!"
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"Oh, you kids...," she said in a crackling voice, choking back tears. She was
unable to continue. My guests cheered.
Though I was 2,000 miles away from them, it was one of the most special
Christmases I've shared with my parents. And, of course, to date my parents
have not been apart on Christmas Eve. That's the strength of children who love
and honor their parents and, of course, the committed and marvelous marriage
my parents share.
"Good parents," Jonas Salk once told me, "give their children roots and wings.
Roots to know where home is, wings to fly away and exercise what's been taught
them." If gaining the skills to lead one's life purposefully and having a safe nest
and being welcomed back to it is the legacy of parents, then I believe I chose my
parents well. It was this past Christmas that I most fully understood why it was
necessary that these two people be my parents. Though wings have taken me
around the globe, eventually to nest in lovely California, the roots my parents
gave me will be an indelible foundation forever.
Bettie B. Youngs
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The Animal School
Once upon a time, the animals decided they must do something heroic to meet
the problems of "a new world." So they organized a school. They adopted an
activity curriculum consisting of running, climbing, swimming and flying. To make
it easier to administer the curriculum, all the animals took all the subjects.
The duck was excellent in swimming, in fact better than his instructor, but he
made only passing grades in flying and was very poor in running. Since he was
slow in running, he had to stay after school and also drop swimming in order to
practice running. This was kept up until his webbed feet were badly worn and he
was only average in swimming. But average was acceptable in school, so nobody
worried about that except the duck.
The rabbit started at the top of the class in running, but had a nervous
breakdown because of so much make-up work in swimming.
The squirrel was excellent in climbing until he developed frustration in the flying
class where his teacher made him start from the ground up instead of from the
treetop down. He also developed a "charlie horse" from overexertion and then got
a C in climbing and a D in running. The eagle was a problem child and was
disciplined severely. In the climbing class he beat all the others to the top of the
tree, but insisted on using his own way to get there.
At the end of the year, an abnormal eel that could swim exceedingly well, and
also run, climb and fly a little, had the highest average and was valedictorian.
The prairie dogs stayed out of school and fought the tax levy because the
administration would not add digging and burrowing to the curriculum. They
apprenticed their children to a badger and later joined the groundhogs and
gophers to start a successful private school.
Does this fable have a moral?
George H. Reavis
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Touched
She is my daughter and is immersed in the turbulence of her 16th year. Following
a recent bout with illness, she learned her best friend would soon be moving
away. School was not going as well as she had hoped, nor as well as her mother
and I had hoped. She exuded sadness through a muffle of blankets as she
huddled in bed, searching for comfort. I wanted to reach out to her and wrench
away all the miseries that had taken root in her young spirit. Yet, even aware of
how much I cared for her and wanted to remove her unhappiness, I knew the
importance of proceeding with caution.
As a family therapist I've been well-educated about inappropriate expressions of
intimacy between fathers and daughters, primarily by clients whose lives have
been torn apart by sexual abuse. I'm also aware of how easily care and closeness
can be sexualized, especially by men who find the emotional field foreign territory
and who mistake any expression of affection for sexual invitation. How much
easier it was to hold and comfort her when she was two or three or even seven.
But now her body, our society and my manhood all seemed to conspire against
my comforting my daughter. How could I console her while still respecting the
necessary boundaries between a father and a teenage daughter? I settled for
offering her a back rub. She consented. I gently massaged her bony back and
knotted shoulders as I apologized for my recent absence. I explained that I had
just returned from the international back-rubbing finals, where I had placed
fourth. I assured her that it's hard to beat the back rub of a concerned father,
especially if he's a world class back rubbing concerned father. I told her all about
the contest and the other contestants as my hands and fingers sought to loosen
tightened muscles and unlock the tensions in her young life. I told her about the
shrunken antique Asian man who had placed third in the contest. After studying
acupuncture and acupressure his entire life, he could focus all his energy into his
fingers, elevating back rubbing to an art. "He poked and prodded with
prestidigitatious precision," I explained, showing my daughter a sample of what
I'd learned from the old man. She groaned, though I wasn't sure whether in
response to my alliteration or my touch. Then I told her about the woman who
had placed second. She was from Turkey and since her childhood had practiced
the art of belly dancing, so she could make muscles move and ripple in fluid
motion. With her back rub, her fingers awakened in tired muscles and weary
bodies an urge to vibrate and quiver and dance. "She let her fingers do the
walking and the muscles tagged along," I said, demonstrating.
'That's weird," emanated faintly from a face muffled by a pillow. Was it my one
liner
or my touch?
Then I just rubbed my daughter's back and we settled into silence. After a time
she asked, "So who got first place?"
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"You'd never believe it!" I said. "It was baby!" And I explained how the soft,
trusting touches of an infant exploring a world of skin and smells and tastes was
like no other touch in the world. Softer than soft.
Unpredictable, gentle, searching. Tiny hands saying more than words could ever
express. About belonging. About trust. About innocent love. And then I gently and
softly touched her as I had learned from the infant. I recalled vividly her own
infancy—holding her, rocking her, watching her grope and grow into her world. I
realized that she, in fact, was the infant who had taught me about the touch of
the infant.
After another period of gentle back rubbing and silence, I said I was glad to have
learned so much from the world's expert back rubbers. I explained how I had
become an even better back rubber for a 16-year old daughter painfully
stretching herself into adult shape. I offered a silent prayer of thanks that such
life had been placed in my hands and that I was blessed with the miracle of
touching even a part of it.
Victor Nelson
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I Love You, Son
Thoughts while driving my son to school: Morning, Kid. You look pretty sharp in
your Cub Scout gear, not as fat as your old man when he was a Cub. I don't think
my hair was ever as long until I went away to college, but I think I'd recognize
you any way by what you are: a little shaggy around the ears, scuffed around the
toes, wrinkled in the knees.... We get used to one another....
Now that you're eight I notice I don't see a whole lot of you anymore. On
Columbus Day you left at nine in the morning. I saw you for 42 seconds at lunch
and you reappeared for supper at five. I miss you, but I know you've got serious
business to take care of. Certainly as serious as, if not more important than, the
things the other commuters on the road are doing.
You've got to grow up and out and that's more important than clipping coupons,
arranging stock options or selling people short. You've got to learn what you are
able to do and what you aren't—and you've got to learn how to deal with that.
You've got to learn about people and how they behave when they don't feel good
about themselves—like the bullies who hang out at the bike rack and hassle the
smaller kids. Yeah, you'll even have to learn how to pretend that name-calling
doesn't hurt. It'll always hurt, but you'll have to put up a front or they'll call you
worse names next time. I only hope you remember how it feels—in case you ever
decide to rank a kid who's smaller than you.
When was the last time I told you I was proud of you? I guess if I can't
remember, I've got work to do. I remember the last time I yelled at you—told you
we'd be late if you didn't hurry—but, on balance, as Nixon used to say, I haven't
given you as many pats as yells. For the record, in case you read this, I am proud
of you. I especially like your independence, the way you take care of yourself
even when it frightens me just a little bit. You've never been much of a whiner
and that makes you a superior kid in my book.
Why is it that fathers are so slow to realize that eight-year-olds need as many
hugs as four-year-olds? If I don't watch out, pretty soon I'll be punching you on
the arm and saying, "Whaddaya say, kid?!" instead of hugging you and telling you
I love you. Life is too short to hide affection. Why is it that eight-year-olds are so
slow to realize that 36- year-olds need as many hugs as four-year-olds?
Did I forget to tell you that I'm proud you went back to a box lunch after one
week's worth of that indigestible hot lunch? I'm glad you value your body.
I wish the drive weren't so short. …I want to talk about last night. …when your
younger brother was asleep and we let you stay up and watch the Yankees game.
Those times are so special. There's no way you can plan them. Every time we try
to plan something together, it's not as good or rich or warm. For a few all-too-
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short minutes it was as if you'd already grown up and we sat and talked without
any words about "How are you doing in school, son?" I'd already checked your
math homework the only way I could—with a calculator.
You're better with numbers than I'll ever be. So, we talked about the game and
you knew more about the players than I did and I learned from you. And we were
both happy when the Yankees won. Well, there's the crossing guard. He'll
probably outlive all of us. I wish you didn't have to go to school today. There are
so many things I want to say.
Your exit from my car is so quick. I want to savor the moment and you've already
spotted a couple of your friends. I just wanted to say "I love you, son.
Victor B. Miller
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What You Are Is As Important As What You Do
Who you are speaks so loudly I can't hear what you're saying.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in Oklahoma City. My friend and proud father
Bobby Lewis was taking his two little boys to play miniature golf. He walked up to
the fellow at the ticket counter and said, "How much is it to get in?"
The young man replied, "$3.00 for you and $3.00 for any kid who is older than
six. We let them in free if they are six or younger. How old are they?"
Bobby replied, "The lawyer's three and the doctor is seven, so I guess I owe you
$6.00."
The man at the ticket counter said, "Hey, Mister, did you just win the lottery or
something? You could have saved yourself three bucks. You could have told me
that the older one was six; I wouldn't have known the difference." Bobby replied,
"Yes, that may be true, but the kids would have known the difference."
As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Who you are speaks so loudly I can't hear what
you're saying." In challenging times when ethics are more important than ever
before, make sure you set a good example for everyone you work and live with.
Patricia Fripp
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A Mom's Life
Take your plate into the kitchen, please.
Take it downstairs when you go.
Don't leave it there, take it upstairs.
Is that yours?
Don't hit your brother.
I'm talking to you.
Just a minute, please, can't you see I'm talking?
I said, Don't interrupt.
Did you brush your teeth?
What are you doing out of bed?
Go back to bed.
You can't watch TV in the afternoon.
What do you mean, there's nothing to do?
Go outside.
Read a book.
Turn it down.
Get off the phone.
Tell your friend you'll call her back. Right now!
Hello. No, she's not home.
She'll call you when she gets home.
Take a jacket. Take a sweater.
Take one anyway.
Someone left his shoes in front of the TV.
Get the toys out of the hall.
Get the boys out of the bathtub.
Get the toys off the stairs.
Do you realize that could kill someone?
Hurry up.
Hurry up. Everyone's waiting.
I'll count to ten and then we're going without you.
Did you go to the bathroom?
If you don't go, you're not going.
I mean it.
Why didn't you go before you left?
Can you hold it?
What's going on back there?
Stop it.
I said, Stop it!
I don't want to hear about it.
Stop it or I'm taking you home right now.
That's it. We're going home.
Give me a kiss.
I need a hug.
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Make your bed.
Clean up your room.
Set the table.
I need you to set the table!
Don't tell me it's not your turn.
Please move your chair in to the table.
Sit up.
Just try a little. You don't have to eat the whole thing.
Stop playing and eat.
Would you watch what you're doing?
Move your glass. It's too close to the edge.
Watch it!
More, what?
More, please. That's better.
Just eat one bite of salad.
You don't always get what you want. That's life.
Don't argue with me. I'm not discussing this anymore.
Go to your room.
No, ten minutes are not up.
One more minute.
How many times have I told you, don't do that.
Where did the cookies go?
Eat the old fruit before you eat the new fruit.
I'm not giving you mushrooms. I've taken all the mushrooms out. See?
Is your homework done?
Stop yelling.
If you want to ask me something, come here
STOP YELLING. IF YOU WANT TO ASK ME SOMETHING, COME HERE.
I'll think about it.
Not now.
Ask your father.
We'll see.
Don't sit so close to the television, it's bad for your eyes.
Calm down.
Calm down and start over.
Is that the truth?
Fasten your seat belt.
Did everyone fasten their seat belts?
I'm sorry, that's the rule. I'm sorry, that's the rule. I'm sorry, that's the rule.
Delia Ephron
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The Perfect American Family
It is 10:30 on a perfect Saturday morning and we are, for the moment, the
perfect American family. My wife has taken our six-year-old to his first piano
lesson. Our 14-year-old has not yet roused from his slumber. The four-year-old
watches tiny, anthropomorphic beings hurl one another from cliffs in the other
room. I sit at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.
Aaron Malachi, the four-year-old, apparently bored by the cartoon carnage and
the considerable personal power obtained by holding the television's remote
control, enters my space.
"I'm hungry," he says.
"Want some more cereal?"
"No."
"Want some yogurt?"
"No."
"Want some eggs?"
"No. Can I have some ice cream?"
"No."
For all I know, ice cream may be far more nourishing than processed cereal or
antibiotic-laden eggs but, according to my cultural values, it is wrong to have ice
cream at 10:45 on a Saturday morning.
Silence. About four seconds. "Daddy, we have very much of life left, don't we?"
"Yes, we have lots of life left, Aaron."
"Me and you and Mommy?"
"That's right."
"And Isaac?"
"Yes."
"And Ben?"
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"Yes. You and me and Mommy and Isaac and Ben."
"We have very much of life left. Until all the people die."
"What do you mean?"
"Until all the people die and the dinosaurs come back."
Aaron sits down on the table, cross-legged like a Buddha, in the center of my
newspaper.
"What do you mean, Aaron, 'until all the people die'?"
"You said everybody dies. When everybody dies, then the dinosaurs will come
back. The cavemen lived in caves, dinosaur caves. Then the dinosaurs came back
and squished 'em."
I realize that already for Aaron life is a limited economy, a resource with a
beginning and an end. He envisions himself and us somewhere along that
trajectory, a trajectory that ends in uncertainty and loss. I am faced with an
ethical decision. What should I do now? Should I attempt to give him God,
salvation, eternity? Should I toss him some spiel like, "Your body is just a shell
and after you die, we will all be together in spirit forever"?
Or should I leave him with his uncertainty and his anxiety because I think it's
real? Should I try to make him an anxious existentialist or should I try to make
him feel better?
I don't know. I stare at the newspaper. The Celtics are consistently losing on
Friday nights. Larry Bird is angry at somebody, but I can's see who, because
Aaron's foot is in the way. I don't know but my neurotic, addictive, middle-class
sensibility is telling me that this is a very important moment, a moment when
Aaron's ways of constructing his world are being formed. Or maybe my neurotic,
addictive, middle-class sensibility is just making me think that. If life and death
are an illusion, then why should I trifle with how someone else understands
them?
On the table Aaron plays with an "army guy," raising his arms and balancing him
on his shaky legs. It was Kevin McHale that Larry Bird was angry at. No, not
Kevin McHale, it was Jerry Sichting. But Jerry Sichting is no longer with the
Celtics. Whatever happened to Jerry Sichting? Everything dies, everything comes
to an end. Jerry Sichting is playing for Sacramento or Orlando or he has
disappeared.
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I should not trifle with how Aaron understands life and death because I want him
to have a solid sense of structure, a sense of the permanence of things. It's
obvious what a good job the nuns and priests did with me. It was agony or bliss.
Heaven and hell were not connected by long distance service. You were on God's
team or you were in the soup, and the soup was hot. I don't want Aaron to get
burned, but I want him to have a strong frame. The neurotic but unavoidable
anxiety can come later.
Is that possible? It is possible to have a sense that God, spirit, karma, Y*H*W*H,
something—is transcendent, without traumatizing the presentness of a person,
without beating it into them? Can we have our cake and eat it too, ontologically
speaking? Or is their fragile sensibility, their "there-ness," sundered by such an
act?
Sensing a slight increase in agitation on the table, I know that Aaron is becoming
bored with his guy. With an attitude of drama benefiting the moment, I clear my
throat and begin with a professional tone.
"Aaron, death is something that some people believe ..."
"Dad," Aaron interrupts, "could we play a video game? It's not a very violent
game," he explains, hands gesticulating. "It's not like a killing game. The guys
just kind of flop over."
"Yes," I say with some relief, "let's play video games. But first there's something
else we have to do."
"What?" Aaron stops and turns from where he has run, already halfway to the
arcade.
"First, let's have some ice cream."
Another perfect Saturday for a perfect family. For now.
Michael Murphy
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Just Say It!
If you were going to die soon and had only one phone call you could make, who
would you call and what would you say? And why are you waiting?
Stephen Levine
One night, after reading one of the hundreds of parenting books I've read, I was
feeling a little guilty because the book had described some parenting strategies I
hadn't used in a while. The main strategy was to talk with your child and use
those three magic words: "I love you." It had stressed over and over that children
need to know that unconditionally and unequivocally that you really love them.
I went upstairs to my son's bedroom and knocked on the door. As I knocked, all I
could hear were his drums. I knew he was there but he wasn't answering. So I
opened the door and, sure enough, there he was sitting with his earphones on,
listening to a tape and playing his drums. After I leaned over to get his attention,
I said to him, "Tim, have you got a second?"
He said, "Oh sure, Dad. I'm always good for one." We proceeded to sit down and
after about 15 minutes and a lot of small talk and stuttering, I just looked at him
and said, "Tim, I really love the way you play drums."
He said, "Oh, thanks, Dad, I appreciate it."
I walked out of the door and said, "See you later!" As I was walking downstairs, it
dawned on me that I went up there with a certain message and had not delivered
it. I felt it was really important to get back up there and have another chance to
say those three magic words. Again I climbed the stairs, knocked on the door and
opened it. "You got a second, Tim?"
"Sure, Dad. I'm always good for a second or two. What do you need?"
"Son, the first time I came up here to share a message with you, something else
came out. It really wasn't what I wanted to share with you. Tim, do you
remember when you were learning how to drive, it caused me a lot of problems?
I wrote three words and slipped them under your pillow in hopes that would take
care of it. I'd done my part as a parent and expressed my love to my son." Finally
after a little small talk, I looked at Tim and said, "What I want you to know is that
we love you."
He looked at me and said, "Oh, thanks, Dad. That's you and Mom?"
I said, "Yeah, that's both of us, we just don't express it enough."
He said, "Thanks, that means a lot. I know you do."
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I turned around and walked out the door. As I was walking downstairs, I started
thinking, "I can't believe this. I've already been up there twice—I know what the
message is and yet something else comes out of my mouth."
I decided I'm going back there now and let Tim know exactly how I feel. He's
going to hear it directly from me.
I don't care if he is six feet tall! So back I go, knock on the door and he yells
"Wait a minute. Don't tell me who it is. Could that be you, Dad?" I said, "How'd
you know that?" and he responded, "I've known you ever since you were a
parent, Dad."
Then I said "Son, have you got just one more second?
"You know I'm good for one, so come on in. I suppose you didn't tell me what you
wanted to tell me?"
I said, "How'd you know that?"
"I've known you ever since I was in diapers."
I said, "Well, here it is, Tim, what I've been holding back on. I just want to
express to you how special you are to our family. It's not what you do, and it's
not what you've done, like all the things you're doing with the junior high kids in
town. It's who you are as a person. I love you and I just wanted you to know I
love you, and I don't know why I hold back on something so important."
He looked at me and he said, "Hey, Dad, I know you do and it's really special
hearing you say it to me. Thanks so much for your thoughts, as well as the
intent." As I was walking out the door, he said, "Oh, hey, Dad. Have you got
another second?"
I started thinking, "Oh no. What's he going to say to me?" I said, "Oh sure. I'm
always good for one."
I don't know where kids get this—I'm sure it couldn't be from their parents, but
he said, "Dad, I just want to ask you one question." I said, "What's that?"
He looked at me and said, "Dad, have you been to a workshop or something like
that?"
I'm thinking, "Oh no, like any other 18-year-old, he's got my number," and I said,
"No, I was reading a book, and it said how important it is to tell your kids how
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you really feel about them."
"Hey, thanks for taking the time. Talk to you later, Dad."
I think what Tim taught me, more than anything else that night is that the only
way you can understand the real meaning and purpose of love is to be willing to
pay the price. You have to go out there and risk sharing it.
Gene Bedley
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A Legacy Of Love
As a young man, Al was a skilled artist, a potter. He had a wife and two fine sons.
One night, his oldest son developed a severe stomachache. Thinking it was only
some common intestinal disorder, neither Al nor his wife took the condition very
seriously. But the malady was actually acute appendicitis, and the boy died
suddenly that night. Knowing the death could have been prevented if he had only
realized the seriousness of the situation, Al's emotional health deteriorated under
the enormous burden of his guilt. To make matters worse his wife left him a short
time later, leaving him alone with his six-year-old younger son. The hurt and pain
of the two situations were more than Al could handle, and he turned to alcohol to
help him cope. In time Al became an alcoholic.
As the alcoholism progressed, Al began to lose everything he possessed—his
home, his land, his art objects, everything. Eventually Al died alone in a San
Francisco motel room.
When I heard of Al's death, I reacted with the same disdain the world shows for
one who ends his life with nothing material to show for it. "What a complete
failure!" I thought. "What a totally wasted life!"
As time went by, I began to re-evaluate my earlier harsh judgment. You see, I
knew Al's now adult son, Ernie. He is one of the kindest, most caring, most loving
men I have ever known. I watched Ernie with his children and saw the free flow
of love between them. I knew that kindness and caring had to come from
somewhere.
I hadn't heard Ernie talk much about his father. It is so hard to defend an
alcoholic. One day I worked up my courage to ask him. "I'm really puzzled by
something," I said. "I know your father was basically the only one to raise you.
What on earth did he do that you became such a special person?"
Ernie sat quietly and reflected for a few moments. Then he said, "From my
earliest memories as a child until I left home at 18, Al came into my room every
night, gave me a kiss and said, 'I love you, son.'" Tears came to my eyes as I
realized what a fool I had been to judge Al as a failure. He had not left any
material possessions behind. But he had been a kind loving father, and he left
behind one of the finest, most giving men I have ever known.
Bobbie Gee Winning The Image Game
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On Parenting
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The
archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His
might that His arrows might go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's
hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also
the bow that is stable.
Kahlil Gibran
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ON LEARNING
Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you
know it. Teaching is reminding others that they know it just as well as you. You
are all learners, doers, teachers.
Richard Bach
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I Like Myself Now
Once you see a child's self-image begin to improve, you will see significant gains
in achievement areas, but even more important, you will see a child who is
beginning to enjoy life more.
Wayne Dyer
I had a great feeling of relief when I began to understand that a youngster needs
more than just subject matter. I know mathematics well, and I teach it well. I
used to think that was all I needed to do. Now I teach children, not math. I
accept the fact that I can only succeed partially with some of them. When I don't
have to know all the answers, I seem to have more answers than when I tried to
be the expert. The youngster who really made me understand this was Eddie. I
asked him one day why he thought he was doing so much better than last year.
He gave meaning to my whole new orientation. "It's because I like myself now
when I'm with you," he said.
A teacher, quoted by Everett Shostrom in "Man, The Manipulator"
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All The Good Things
He was in the third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris,
Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a
million. Very neat in appearance, he had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that
made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark also talked incessantly. I tried to remind him again and again that talking
without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though,
was the sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving. 'Thank
you for correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know what to make of it at first but before
long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often. I
made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If you say one more
word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I
hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated
the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. I remember the scene as if
it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened the
drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded
to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his
mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it! I
started laughing. The entire class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk,
removed the tape and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you
for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior high math. The years flew by,
and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome
than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in
the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade.
One Friday things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all
week, and I sensed that the students were growing frustrated with themselves—
and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand.
So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two
sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of
the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, but as the
students left the room, each one handed me their paper. Chuck smiled. Mark said,
"Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend."
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That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of
paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday
I gave each student his or her list. Some of them ran two pages. Before long, the
entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant
anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much!"
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they
discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise
had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one
another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I had returned from a
vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother
asked the usual questions about the trip: How the weather was, my experiences
in general. There was a slight lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a
sideways glance and simply said, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat. "The
Eklunds called last night," he began.
"Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them for several years. I wonder how Mark
is"
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is
tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend." To this day I can still
point to the exact spot on 1-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so
handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would give
all the masking tape in the world if only you could talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn
of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult
enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers and the bugler played
taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and
sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who
had acted as a pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he
asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a
lot," he said.
After the funeral most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse
for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We
want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket.
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"They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that
had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without
looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things
each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much for doing
that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Chuck smiled rather sheepishly
and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." John's
wife said, "John asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine, too,"
Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her
pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the
group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I
think we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends
who would never see him again.
Helen P. Mrosla
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You Are A Marvel
Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that
will never be again.... And what do we teach our children? We teach them that
two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France.
When will we also teach them what they are?
We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel.
You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another
child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move.
You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the
capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you
then have another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work—we must all work—
to make the world worthy of its children.
Pablo Casals
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All I Ever Really Needed To Know I Learned In Kindergarten
Most of what I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to
be, I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate
mountain, but there in the sandbox at nursery school. These are the things I
learned: Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you
found them. Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say
you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life. Learn some
and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every
day some.
Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch for traffic,
hold hands and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in
the plastic cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really
knows how or why, but we are all like that. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice
and even the little seed in the plastic cup—they all die. So do we.
And then remember the book about Dick and Jane and the first word you learned,
the biggest word of all: LOOK. Everything you need to know is in there
somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics
and sane living.
Think of what a better world it would be if we all—the whole world— had cookies
and milk about 3 o'clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankets for
a nap. Or if we had a basic policy in our nations to always put things back where
we found them and clean up our own messes. And it is still true, no matter how
old you are, when you go out into the world, it is better to hold hands and stick
together.
Robert Fulghum
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We Learn By Doing
Not many years ago I began to play the cello. Most people would say that what I
am doing is "learning to play" the cello. But these words carry into our minds the
strange idea that there exists two very different processes: (1) learning to play
the cello; and (2) playing the cello. They imply that I will do the first until I have
completed it, at which point I will stop the first process and begin the second. In
short, I will go on "learning to play" until I have 'learned to play" and then I will
begin to play. Of course, this is nonsense. There are not two processes, but one.
We learn to do something by doing it. There is no other way.
John Holt
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The Hand
A Thanksgiving Day editorial in the newspaper told of a school teacher who asked
her class of first graders to draw a picture of something they were thankful for.
She thought of how little these children from poor neighborhoods actually had to
be thankful for. But she knew that most of them would draw pictures of turkeys or
tables with food. The teacher was taken aback with the picture Douglas handed
in.... a simple childishly drawn hand.
But whose hand? The class was captivated by the abstract image. "I think it must
be the hand of God that brings us food," said one child. "A farmer," said another,
"because he grows the turkeys." Finally when the others were at work, the
teacher bent over Douglas's desk and asked whose hand it was. "It's your hand,
Teacher," he mumbled. She recalled that frequently at recess she had taken
Douglas, a scrubby forlorn child by the hand. She often did that with the children.
But it meant so much to Douglas. Perhaps this was everyone's Thanksgiving, not
for the material things given to us but for the chance, in whatever small way, to
give to others.
Source Unknown
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The Royal Knights Of Harlem
Within walking distance of my Manhattan apartment, but also lightyears away,
there is a part of New York called Spanish Harlem. In many ways it is a Third
World country. Infant and maternal mortality rates are about the same as in say,
Bangladesh, and average male life expectancy is even shorter. These facts it
shares with the rest of Harlem, yet here many people are also separated from the
more affluent parts of the city by language. When all this is combined with
invisibility in the media, the condescension of many teachers and police who work
in this Third World country but wouldn't dream of living there, and textbooks that
have little to do with their lives, the lesson for kids is clear: They are "less than"
people who live only a few blocks away.
At a junior high that rises from a barren patch of concrete playgrounds and metal
fences on East 101st Street, Bill Hall teaches the usual English courses, plus
English as a second language to students who arrive directly from Puerto Rico,
Central and South America, even Pakistan and Hong Kong. Those kids are faced
with a new culture, strange rules, a tough neighborhood and parents who may be
feeling just as lost as they are. Bill Hall is faced with them.
While looking for an interest to bind one such group together and help them to
learn English at the same time, Bill noticed someone in the neighborhood carrying
a chessboard. As a chess player himself, he knew this game crossed many
cultural boundaries, so he got permission from a very skeptical principal to start a
chess club after school.
Few of the girls came. Never having seen women playing chess, they assumed
this game wasn't for them, and without even a female teacher as a role model,
those few who did come gradually dropped out. Some of the boys stayed away,
too—chess wasn't the kind of game that made you popular in this neighborhood—
but about a dozen remained to learn the basics. Their friends made fun of them
for staying after school, and some parents felt that chess was a waste of time
since it wouldn't help them get a job, but still, they kept coming. Bill was giving
these boys something rare in their lives: the wholehearted attention of someone
who believed in them.
Gradually, their skills at both chess and English improved. As they got more
expert at the game, Bill took them to chess matches in schools outside Spanish
Harlem. Because he paid for their subway fares and pizza dinners, no small thing
on his teacher's salary, the boys knew he cared. They began to trust this middle
aged
white man a little more.
To help them become more independent, Bill asked each boy to captain one
event, and to handle all travel and preparation for it. Gradually, even when Bill
wasn't around, the boys began to assume responsibility for each other: to coach
those who were lagging behind, to share personal problems and to explain to
each other's parents why chess wasn't such a waste of time after all. Gradually,
too, this new sense of competence carried over into their classrooms and their
grades began to improve.
As they became better students and chess players, Bill Hall's dreams for them
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grew. With a little money supplied by the Manhattan Chess Club, he took them to
the State Finals in Syracuse.
What had been twelve disparate, isolated, often passive, shutdown kids had now
become a team with their own chosen name: The Royal Knights. After finishing
third in their own state, they were eligible for the Junior High School Finals in
California.
By now, however, even Bill's own colleagues were giving him reasons why he
shouldn't be spending so much time and effort. In real life, these ghetto kids
would never "get past New Jersey," as one teacher put it. Why raise funds to fly
them across the country and make them more dissatisfied with their lives?
Nonetheless, Bill raised money for tickets to California. In that national
competition, they finished seventeenth out of 109 teams.
By now chess had become a subject of school interest—if only because it led to
trips. On one of their days at a New York chess club, the team members met a
young girl from the Soviet Union who was the Women's World Champion. Even
Bill was floored by the idea that two of his kids came up with: If this girl could
come all the way from Russia, why couldn't The Royal Knights go there? After all,
it was the chess capital of the world, and the Scholastic Chess Friendship Games
were coming up.
Though no U.S. players their age had ever entered these games, officials in Bill's
school district rallied round the idea. So did a couple of the corporations he
approached for travel money. Of course, no one thought his team could win, but
that wasn't the goal. The trip itself would widen the boys' horizons, Bill argued.
When Pepsi-Cola came up with a $20,000 check, Bill began to realize that this
crazy dream was going to come true.
They boarded the plane for the first leg of their trip to Russia as official
representatives of the country from which they had felt so estranged only a few
months before. But as veterans of Spanish Harlem, they also made very clear
that they were representing their own neighborhood. On the back of their satin
athletic jackets was emblazoned not "U.S.A.," but "The Royal Knights."
Once they were in Moscow, however, their confidence began to falter badly. The
experience and deliberate style of their Soviet opponents were something they
had never previously encountered. Finally one of the Knights broke the spell by
playing a Soviet Grand master in his 30s to a draw in a simulation match. The
Russians weren't invincible after all; just people like them. After that, the Knights
won about half their matches, and even discovered a homegrown advantage in
the special event of speed chess. Unlike the Soviet players, who had been taught
that slowness and deliberation were virtues, the Knights had a streetsmart style
that made them both fast and accurate.
By the time Bill and his team got to Leningrad to take on the toughest part of
their competition, the boys were feeling good again. Though they had been
selected at random for their need to learn English, not for any talent at chess,
and though they had been playing for only a few months, they won one match
and achieved a draw in another.
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When the Knights got back to New York, they were convinced they could do
anything.
It was a conviction they would need. A few months later when I went to their
junior high school club room, Bill Hall, a big gentle man who rarely gets angry,
was furious about a recent confrontation between one of the Puerto Rican team
members and a white teacher. As Bill urged the boy to explain to me, he had
done so well on a test that the teacher, thinking he had cheated, made him take it
over. When the boy did well a second time, the teacher seemed less pleased than
annoyed to have been proven wrong. "If this had been a school in a different
neighborhood," said Bill, "none of this would have happened."
It was the kind of classroom bias that these boys had been internalizing—but now
had the self-esteem to resist. "Maybe the teacher was just jealous," the boy said
cheerfully. "I mean, we put this school on the map."
And so they had. Their dingy junior high auditorium had just been chosen by a
Soviet dance troupe as the site of a New York performance. Every principal in the
school district was asking for a chess program, and local television and
newspapers had interviewed The Royal Knights. Now that their junior high
graduation was just weeks away, bids from various high schools with programs
for "gifted" kids were flooding in, even one from a high school in California.
Though all the boys were worried about their upcoming separation, it was the
other team members who persuaded the boy who got that invitation to accept it.
"We told him to go for it," as one said. "We promised to write him every week,"
said another. "Actually," said a third, "we all plan to stay in touch for life."
With career plans that included law, accounting, teaching, computer sciences—
futures they wouldn't have thought possible before—there was no telling what
continuing surprises they might share at reunions of this team that had become
its own support group and family.
What were they doing, I asked, before Bill Hall and chess playing came into their
lives? There was a very long silence.
"Hanging out in the street and feeling like shit," said one boy, who now wants to
become a lawyer.
"Taking lunch money from younger kids and a few drugs now and then," admitted
another.
"Just lying on my bed, reading comics, and getting yelled at by my father for
being lazy," said a third.
Was there anything in their schoolbooks that made a difference?
"Not until Mr. Hall thought we were smart," explained one to the nods of the
others, "and then we were."
Gloria Steinem
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The Little Boy
Once a little boy went to school.
He was quite a little boy.
And it was quite a big school.
But when the little boy
Found that he could go to his room
By walking right in from the door outside,
He was happy. And the school did not seem
Quite so big any more.
One morning,
When the little boy had been in school a while,
The teacher said:
"Today we are going to make a picture."
"Good!" thought the little boy.
He liked to make pictures.
He could make all kinds:
Lions and tigers,
Chickens and cows,
Trains and boats -
And he took out his box of crayons
And began to draw.
But the teacher said:
"Wait! It is not time to begin!"
And she waited until everyone looked ready.
"Now," said the teacher,
"We are going to make flowers."
"Good!" thought the little boy,
He liked to make flowers,
And he began to make beautiful ones
With his pink and orange and blue crayons.
But the teacher said,
"Wait! And I will show you how."
And she drew a flower on the blackboard.
It was red, with a green stem.
"There," said the teacher.
"Now you may begin."
The little boy looked at the teacher's flower.
Then he looked at his own flower,
He liked his flower better than the teacher's.
But he did not say this,
He just turned his paper over
And made a flower like the teacher's.
It was red, with a green stem.
On another day,
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When the little boy had opened
The door from the outside all by himself,
The teacher said,
"Today we are going to make something with clay.'
"Good!" thought the little boy.
He liked clay.
He could make all kinds of things with clay:
Snakes and snowmen,
Elephants and mice,
Cars and trucks -
And he began to pull and pinch
His ball of clay.
But the teacher said,
"Wait! It is not time to begin!"
And she waited until everyone looked ready.
"Now," said the teacher,
"We are going to make a dish."
"Good!" thought the little boy,
He liked to make dishes,
And he began to make some
That were all shapes and sizes.
But the teacher said,
"Wait! And I will show you how."
And she showed everyone how to make
One deep dish.
"There," said the teacher,
"Now you may begin."
The little boy looked at the teacher's dish
Then he looked at his own.
He liked his dishes better than the teacher's
But he did not say this,
He just rolled his clay into a big ball again,
And made a dish like the teacher's.
It was a deep dish.
And pretty soon
The little boy learned to wait
And to watch,
And to make things just like the teacher.
And pretty soon
He didn't make things of his own anymore.
Then it happened
That the little boy and his family
Moved to another house,
In another city,
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And the little boy
Had to go to another school.
This school was even bigger
Than the other one,
And there was no door from the outside
Into his room.
He had to go up some big steps,
And walk down a long hall
To get to his room.
And the very first day
He was there, the teacher said,
"Today we are going to make a picture."
"Good!" thought the little boy,
And he waited for the teacher
To tell him what to do
But the teacher didn't say anything.
She just walked around the room.
When she came to the little boy,
She said, "Don't you want to make a picture?"
"Yes," said the little boy.
"What are we going to make?"
"I don't know until you make it," said the teacher.
"How shall I make it?" asked the little boy.
"Why, any way you like," said the teacher.
"And any color?" asked the little boy.
"Any color," said the teacher,
"If everyone made the same picture,
And used the same colors,
How would I know who made what,
And which was which?"
"I don't know," said the little boy.
And he began to make pink and orange and blue flowers.
He liked his new school,
Even if it didn't have a door
Right in from the outside!
Helen E. Buckley
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I Am A Teacher
I am a Teacher.
I was born the first moment that a question leaped from the mouth of a child. I
have been many people in many places. I am Socrates exciting the youth of
Athens to discover new ideas through the use of questions.
I am Anne Sullivan tapping out the secrets of the universe into the outstretched
hand of Helen Keller. I am Aesop and Hans Christian Andersen revealing truth
through countless stories. I am Marva Collins fighting for every child's right to an
education. I am Mary McCleod Bethune building a great college for my people,
using orange crates for desks. And I am Bel Kaufman struggling to go Up The
Down Staircase. The names of those who have practiced my profession ring like a
hall of fame for humanity. . . . Booker T. Washington, Buddha, Confucius, Ralph
Waldo Emerson, Leo Buscaglia, Moses and Jesus. I am also those whose names
and faces have long been forgotten but whose lessons and character will always
be remembered in the accomplishments of their students.
I have wept for joy at the weddings of former students, laughed with glee at the
birth of their children and stood with head bowed in grief and confusion by graves
dug too soon for bodies far too young. Throughout the course of a day I have
been called upon to be an actor, friend, nurse and doctor, coach, finder of lost
articles, money lender, taxi driver, psychologist, substitute parent, salesman,
politician and a keeper of the faith.
Despite the maps, charts, formulas, verbs, stories and books, I have really had
nothing to teach, for my students really have only themselves to learn, and I
know it takes the whole world to tell you who you are. I am a paradox. I speak
loudest when I listen the most. My greatest gifts are in what I am willing to
appreciatively receive from my students. Material wealth is not one of my goals,
but I am a full-time treasure seeker in my quest for new opportunities for my
students to use their talents and in my constant search for those talents that
sometimes lie buried in self-defeat.
I am the most fortunate of all who labor.
A doctor is allowed to usher life into the world in one magic moment. I am
allowed to see that life is reborn each day with new questions, ideas and
friendships.
An architect knows that if he builds with care, his structure may stand for
centuries. A teacher knows that if he builds with love and truth, what he builds
will last forever.
I am a warrior, daily doing battle against peer pressure, negativity, fear,
conformity, prejudice, ignorance and apathy. But I have great allies: Intelligence,
Curiosity, Parental Support, Individuality, Creativity, Faith, Love and Laughter all
rush to my banner with indomitable support.
And who do I have to thank for this wonderful life I am so fortunate to
experience, but you the public, the parents. For you have done me the great
honor to entrust to me your greatest contribution to eternity, your children.
And so I have a past that is rich in memories.
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I have a present that is challenging, adventurous and fun because I am allowed
to spend my days with the future. I am a teacher ... and I thank God for it every
day.
John W. Schlatter
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LIVE YOUR DREAM
People who say it cannot be done should not interrupt those who are doing it.
Source unknown
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