What if...?

As we approach the next Presidential election, I am pleased that I've cancelled my landline. I know I won't miss the political commercials and surveys. I wish I could say the same for what the media will present to us. What can we do to make the pre-election period palatable? What if each candidate speaks only of the qualities of the other. Now, to date, they have done so with derision and the populace at large either shuts down in disgust, or rallies in shallow or thoughtless adoration like prebuscents awash in adoration of the latest pop group. What if the candidates actually waxed eloquently of the other in sincerity without derision? We would see their generous nature, how well they could address adversaries around the world, how selfless their service to this country could be, and dare we hope, how they could rise above partisan politics and create a unified approach in a country whose name begins with the word united. The better they would speak of the other, the more we would admire their oratorial skills and character in a twist of reverse psychology that would be as fresh and welcoming as a daffodil in the snow. What if one started? It would be lopsided at first, of course. The candidate receiving all the accolades would be delighted, scratching his head perhaps, but carryingn on as usual. Any derisive slam toward the other would not be returned with anything other than complimentary reflections of the good the other has done in some part of his past. The media would begin searching for complimentary stories of "the other" in order to present a balanced approach to their reporting. Eventually, the second candidate and his staff would be asked what they could say about "the other" since he was saying such gracious things about him. If they say nothing, they seem ungracious by comparison. If they say small things, they will appear stingy and self-centered (shock of shocks!). If they begin to play the game, if they begin to return gracious words for gracious words, we would have a titanic shift that could finally sink the atrocious politics we the people suffer every four years. What if half the money raised by either candidate for his or her election would go to pay down the country's debt? Wouldn't the people be most grateful for the candidate who raised the most money then? Wouldn't both candidates end up being winners in one way or another? What if angry words spoken by either candidate or their staff were viewed as evil? What if we forced our enemies to say one nice thing about the other side the way we tell our children to say something nice about the sibling they can't stand at the moment, knowing they will probably grow up to like each other? What if we truly understood our interconnectedness? Our global consciousness? The effect each of us has on the other? Our oneness through, in, and with the one God, by whatever name you call Him or Her? What if...?

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First Four Words

I play with words all day, every day.  Have fun with this one.

The first four words you see describe you.  I got sentimental, love, drama, and courageous.

The Cracked Clay Pot

I am the vine, you are the branches.
I am the potter, you are the clay.

God has many ways of teaching us how dependent we are, or should be, on Him. Some are verbal and written in Scripture. Others are lessons from creation and life.

I learned one such lesson from a wonderful story called The Cracked Pot. It helped me become less critical of myself. It taught me that God has beautiful ways of using me, even if I don't have the eyes or wisdom to see them.

The Cracked Pot

A water bearer in China had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which he carried across his neck.  One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.  For a full two years, this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his house.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made.  But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After 2 years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.  "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?

That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day, when we walk back, you have watered them.   For two years, I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.  Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house"

MORAL:  Each of us has our own unique flaws.  We're all cracked pots.  But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.  You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.  There is a lot of good out there.  There is a lot of good in you! 

Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.

It's the cracked pots that keep life interesting ....

Why I Write

I don't want to die yet, so I keep breathing however unconsciously.  I want to learn, process, integrate, then teach what I know.  I write, therefore, to understand first, as part of passing it on.  Writing is like chewing my food before swallowing.

"Don't die with the music unplayed inside you."  I wonder always about the book my mother never wrote. I have copies of her correspondence.  It has to suffice.  Her mind was as finely honed as my German steel carving knives that cut through anything as if it were butter.  I would love to immerse myself into it now, years after her death and experience the feel of it again, like the warm flannel of her famous bed sheets worn smooth from thousands of washings.  She asked such probing questions She asked such probing questions... She always said she would write a book.  She never did. I don't want to be like that.

I write so I can read and think about things that would otherwise go by without scrutiny or considered judgment.

I write because my first thoughts are not always my best thoughts, but like well planted seeds watered and gently tended, they produce beauty or nourishment for body and soul with judicious pruning, well worth the wait.  Sometimes.  As with wines, some years are better than others.  Each year is worth harvesting and tasting, or at least storing for future selection.

I write because I can't stop myself.
I write because I'm searching.
I write because I want to pass along something of myself, however vain that may be, like hieroglyphics in rocks.

My teacher's heart is wired to transfer and shape knowledge.  My analytical brain drools at the possibilities of word combinations, scene set ups and apt metaphor.  It loves the written word on a page and delights in lingering at deliciously sensitive places to titillate and coax a reader to the edge of suspense, dallying slowly for the steady build to explosive collaboration.

The power of a thought well placed within a moment of time, with enough space to let it breathe, is intoxicating.