Inspirational/Prose and Poetry
I wrote this little poem on the anniversary of my mothers passing on December 16, 1998. It still holds true today.
‘Tis the season – so they say,
To be jolly – in every way.
I buy – I wrap – put up my tree,
Put on a smile – so none can see.
This aging child – this broken heart,
These teares I shed – ’cause we’re apart.
I know you’re with me,
Each day of the year,
Whether I’m smiling or shedding a tear.
I miss you Momma
I came with trepidation
A spirit filled with apprehension
Silent dread ran havoc within.
Then you were there.
You kidnapped my fears and vanished them into the dark abyss
Replacing them with your compassion, empathy
And professionalism.
With smiling faces and gentile hands
You healed me both physically and spiritually.
I know who you are
He and She
A team of healers for the body and soul.
I will be forever grateful that our spirits have met on this path we call life.
We, your patients
wish you both a bounty of beautiful sunrises to share with those you love
And may each sunset be filled with anticipation for the future.
Dr. Al D’Souza and Sally D’Souza
Healers
Jingle, Jangle…Bells to ring,
Stories to read and songs to sing.
Letters to Santa, his North Pole address,
A list from each child and their special requests.
A sled or a bike, a doll or a game,
Each child had wishes, signed each with his name.
And as they arrived, Santa read each with care,
Pairing gift with a name and a tag as to where.
And just as he thought, the last letter was read,
One more appeared and this…. is what it said;
Dear Santa,
My name is Michael, and I’m writing to you,
If I send you my wishes, you’ll make them come true.
I don’t want a truck, a Matchbox or toys,
I want daddy home… like other boys.
He’s fighting a war… way across the sea,
We miss him so much my mommy and me.
I know that your busy, making all of the toys,
But Santa, I love my daddy, like all other boys.
Santa felt a small tear… drop down from his eye,
This special request, something money can’t buy.
Though gifts can be wrapped with ribbon and bow,
The spirit of Christmas, a young heart …it does know.
He called on his Elves and read them the letter,
They gathered their energy and Christmas spirit together.
Twas the night before Christmas, Michael said his last prayer,
That when he awoke his dad would be there.
Santa arrived not by chimney but by the front door,
Dressed in Army fatigues with presents galore.
He knelt by his bed, his eyes filled with tears,
Kissed him gently on cheek and whispered into his ear,
Merry Christmas my son, it’s daddy…. I’m here!
May all of your wishes come true this Christmas. And the Spirit of Christmas stay with you always….
Afraid to close her eyes for fear of falling asleep, she aligned her posture and looked out the window. Recognizing where she was, Catherine adjusted her scarf tighter around her neck, put on her gloves, stood up and walked to the front of the bus, her stop was coming up.
Exiting the bus she turned left and walked north on Huntington Ave. Crossing the street she entered the Quick Stop Coffee Shop for her nightly Cappuccino.
“Hey Sister Catherine how’s it going? Want the usual?” The young woman behind the counter asked.
“How many times Claire, do I have to tell you, I’m not a Nun anymore?
“Sorry, forget every time… how long has it been?
“Two years next month, please call me Catherine, just plain Catherine.”
“You got it! Here’s your cappuccino and I will see you “Catherine” tomorrow.” Then gave her a little wink.
Catherine left the shop and continued her walk home, passing under the bridge that separated Jamaica Plain from Brookline. Taking a left at the high-rise known as The Brook House, she walked the two blocks to Juniper Street and opened the wrought iron gate to #6. She proceeded up the path to the stairs that led up to the porch, turning briefly and looking up at the night sky. “Full moon,” she thought to herself, “there are always happenings during the full moon. Please God let it all end tonight.” Unlocking the front door, she walked up the 3 flights to her apartment. Once inside she put her purse, keys and satchel on the table and immediately walked to the door of the back porch, opening it she ventured out and stood by the wooden railing. The night sky was beautiful, millions of stars were visible and the moon was at its fullest. She loved the view of the Muddy River on clear nights like this. The water seemed to shimmer and moved like the notes of a Chopin Symphony. It was just beautiful.
Looking over the river to the far side, she could see the lights of the recovery team from the State Police.
She prayed aloud, “Please God, end this thing!”
Chapter 2
Catherine Sullivan was born on November 12, 1960. By all accounts her parents abandoned her at birth and she was adopted by loving couple who lived in the Chestnut Hill section of Brookline. They were devoted Catholics and brought Catherine up with the same zeal and devotion.
Catherine appeared to be a perfectly happy and well-adjusted child to those around her, but in her dreams . . . well, let’s just say, she was someone else and suffered from night terrors; horrible, scary dreams in which she did unspeakable things, things, that as a child she knew nothing about nor understood. These happenings, as she always called them, would haunt her through childhood into adolescence, occurring only during the night of the full moon. They abruptly stopped on her 16th birthday.
Upon graduating from Boston College, with a Masters in Psychology, she decided to join the Convent and entered “The Order of the Sacred Heart”. Her life as Sister Catherine Louise was joyous one and in her position as Psychologist for Sacred Heart High School, she found fulfillment. That is, until the night the happenings returned. They were somehow different this time, almost sad, in a strange sort of way and more troubling than frightening. She became more and more obsessed with their meaning, even to the point that Mother Superior questioned whether or not she had chosen the correct vocation and suggested that she take a leave of absence. Knowing that she had to get to the bottom of these occurrences she made the difficult decision to leave the Order
Chapter 3
Her first order of business was to find a place to live. She knew she would like to live in Brookline and preferably an apartment close to the river, Muddy River. Why? She didn’t really know, she just knew that it was important.
After months of disappointed viewings, she found what seemed to be the perfect location, #6 Juniper Street, third floor. The minute she walked inside the small efficiency apartment, she knew this was the one and moved in that weekend.
From the very first night in her new apartment, she found herself continuously tossing and turning and unable to sleep. When she did finally fall asleep, she was tormented by strange and obscure dreams. Much different from the happenings, these dreams were filled faceless men, calling out to her for help, begging her to set them free. Free from what, she had no idea but she felt that somehow this was connected to her birth parents.
For the next year and a half Catherine searched every record and archive available to the public, tracking down and following up every lead that might give an end to the happenings and the new dreams. And every night, those dreams would point her in another direction, another clue, another piece of the puzzle.
It was becoming a very frightening journey of discovery. One that she wished she didn’t have to make.
Chapter 4
Starring at the lights across the river, Catherine was startled by the phone ringing.
“Sister Catherine?”
“Yes, this is Catherine Sullivan.”
“This is Detective Somerset from the Mass. State Police. I’m still not sure exactly how you knew it, but you were correct. I have sent a car to pick you up. WE need to talk!”
“Of course, I’ll be right down. . . Detective Somerset, is it over?”
“I hope so Sister.”
“Please, just call me….” the line went dead.
Chapter 5
Sitting in the interview room of the State Police barracks, Catherine opened up her briefcase and laid out the manila folders in their correct order. Sitting across from her were Detective Somerset and his superior, Captain Ross.
Captain Ross looked straight into the eyes of Catherine.”Shall we get started?” He then turned to the two-way mirror behind him and spoke to whoever was behind it, “You can turn on the video tape now.”
Captain Ross spoke first. “Sister Catherine, Detective Somerset tells me that you contacted him several months ago about some suspicions you had about your birth mother. Is that correct?”
Catherine nodded. “But please call me. . .”
The Captain continued. “And these suspicions were a direct result of dreams?” He dropped his head and looked over his glasses. “Now Sister Catherine, I don’t know if these dreams came to you from the man upstairs, your aunt Suzy or the bogey man, but if you were not a nun and if you were 25 years older, I am afraid I would be charging you with multiple murders.”
“Captain, I understand how absurd this all must sound but I can assure you, it is the truth. I don’t claim to understand the reasons for the dreams, other than to assume they came from desperate spirits yearning to pass over. Souls that called out to God for justice and peace. Not only that but they are there due to the actions of my own birth mother.”
“Now gentlemen, please let me explain the circumstances that resulted in the death of these 5 Men.”
The Detective tried to interrupt but Catherine held up her right hand. “Please, may I continue?”
The Detective conceded and gave a nod.
Catherine took a deep breath and made a silent prayer for guidance and then started her story.
“My birth mothers name was Helen Winston, born in 1938 in Jamaica Plain. She married Frank Watterson in 1954. He was a drunkard and by all accounts, a violent man. He was convicted of killing a man in a bar room brawl in 1957 and sent to Walpole Prison for life. It was at this time, because of desperate circumstances, I believe my mother became a prostitute. She was living on Huntington Ave. at a boarding house for women. Across the street was a place called “Maggie’s Bar” which I believe is where she met her. . . how can I put it . . . men or johns. She would bring them to her room, rob and then murder them, throwing their bodies into the Muddy River, which was directly behind the boarding house.”
The Captain tried to interrupt. “But Sister Catherine. . .”
“Please be patient Captain and let me continue.”
”Her last victim was my father. She had met him several times at the bar, where he would stop on his way home from work. I imagine she took a fancy to him because as a result of this encounter, she became pregnant with me. I was born in 1960 at “The Home for Unwed Mothers” right on Huntington Ave, down the street from where you found the 5 bodies tonight. My mother died in childbirth.”
The Captain interrupted, “Sister Catherine, do you have evidence to these facts?”
Catherine smiled. “Captain, there are no coincidences in life.”The Home for Unwed Mothers” was run by the “Order of the Sacred Heart”, the same order I entered when I became a Nun. They never throw out anything and when my mother came there to live, until I was born, she kept a diary. When she died all her belongings were boxed and stored. All I needed was to talk to my Sisters and offer up my date of birth. It was all in the records.”
Catherine continued, “Now, for the truly bizarre part of the story, my father, who was her 5th and last victim, lived at 6 Juniper St, where I have lived for the last year and a half. There is the hand of God working here.”
The Captain stood up, placed his hands flat on the table and leaned in close to Catherine’s face.
“Sister, you have mentioned 5 men several times. Well I have some bad news for you, as of two hours ago; we have recovered 14 skeletal remains in the Muddy River. It seems that your mother now has the distinction of being the most prolific female serial killer in the State of Massachusetts. And that Sister had nothing to do with God.”
Florence (Flo to family and friends) felt her husband climb out of bed, it was still dark. She had gotten so use to the sound of the whistle that it rarely woke her but she always felt her husband’s warm body leave and her two youngest instinctively taking his place and cuddling up to her. Putting her arm around her youngest, Adam, her mind started going over what she would buy at the Company Store, it was the first Wednesday of the month, payday.
The second whistle sounded fifteen minutes after the first. Flo gently moved out from under the quilt and slipped on her house dress and slippers. Walking the 3 feet to the curtain that separated the sleeping area, she pushed it aside and entered her kitchen. Raising her arm she pulled the chain of the single bulb to light the room. Putting two more logs into her black belly stove she saw that there was just enough water left in the pail to make coffee and grits for breakfast. Pleased that she would not have to stand in line with the other women at the pump, she placed the pan filled with water on the stove. Walking over to the shelves that her husband had put up for her, she opened the bread box and removed the five biscuits left over from dinner. On the very top shelf, hidden behind the flour tin, she reached up and took down a small jar of honey.
Within minutes the door opened and her three oldest came in. Her heart broke as she looked at her precious boys, so dirty and tired. Ages 14, 13 and 12, they were too young to work the 12 hour shifts in coal mines.
It was the strength of the women during the 1940′s that held families together, especially in the mining communities and Flo was a very strong woman. She never complained or questioned why things were the way they were, she just accepted the fact that these were the cards she was dealt and made the best of what she had.
The tired young boys, faces and hands blackened by the coal dust, sat at the table saying little as their mother readied their breakfast. It wasn’t until the two youngest woke and joined them that the room seem to come alive with conversation. Adam (six years old) was always excited to see his older brothers and wanted to know every detail of the nights work. Was anyone hurt, how much coal did they dig and the most important question, did they bring him any new rocks? Adam collected rocks and had quite a collection in his play corner of the dugout. He was never disappointed. Each reached into their overalls and removed a small rock which immediately put a big smile on the little boys face.
Eleanor, aged 10, helped her mother scoop the grits onto the plates and brought them to the table. Flo poured the coffee and put out the milk jar. They ate silently, with the only sound coming from the corner where Adam was talking to his rocks introducing the new residents to the already large rock community.
Smiling, Flo then brought her surprise to the table, biscuits and honey. Everyone’s face lit up as they knew what that meant. It was the first Wednesday of the month, payday.
Flo always kept a small jar of honey hidden, in which she only brought out on payday. It was her way of letting her family know that no matter how bad things seem, tomorrow will be better.
The young boys tired but hopeful, climbed into the bed, that just an hour ago was occupied by the rest of the family. Flo and the children took the wooden crate and started walking to the Company Store.
“Mama,” Adam asked, “Are we having meat pie tonight?”
“We’ll see baby,” Flo answered, “I know one thing for sure, whatever we do have, It’s going to be delicious.”
Adam smiled, he never doubted his mother….He knew she would always make due with what they had and the family would survive. Mama was a strong woman.
This story is for the millions of people who have and to those who continue to live life on life’s terms, we admire and congratuate you for your stregnth.
Gardens of the Universe
Friday Night
“It’s called what?” Sean asked.
“I said, it been on all the news, they’re calling it…” Erin stopped midsentence, closed his eyes and just shook his head, realizing how useless it was to get his point across to his friend Sean, especially tonight.
McBride’s Bar and Grill in South Boston was, for all intent and purposes, the place to watch all major sporting events. Baseball, football, hockey, it didn’t matter. The faces may be different but the enthusiasm of the crowds is always the same. Tonight the Sox were playing.
“Hey, I think we finally got a base hit!” Sean yelled out, stretching his neck to see the TV over the bar. “About fracken time!”
“I’ll get us another beer.” Erin announced as he got up from the table.
“Yah, you do that. I think you’re getting weird on us buddy.” Sean called out as Erin walked across the crowded bar room floor. Erin lifted his right arm behind his back and flipped him the bird.
Last call came and went and the boys were still sitting at the table.
“All right you bunch of bums, you’re out of here.” The barkeep announced.
The two friends headed for the door, bumping into a table or two on their way out. A typical Friday night in Southie.
Once outside, Erin looked up at the night sky half expecting to see the spectacular meteor shower that the TV stations had talked about all day. It wasn’t until they were almost home at the projects that he caught a glimpse of what he thought was a falling star.
“Hey, look at that!” He called out while pointing upward. “See that, it’s a falling star or maybe even a meteor.”
“Yah, yah… whatever.” Sean grunted out. “Like I said, you’re getting weird on us buddy.” With that, he left his friend and walked up the sidewalk to his building. Opening the door he paused and shouted over his shoulder, “See ya when I see ya.”
That would be the last time he would see his friend Sean.
Saturday
“Friends for life” that was their mantra. The four boys grew up together in the projects and were best friends. They were all about the same age except for Skipper; he was a year older and sort of the leader. Every Saturday morning they would hang together and venture into the many abandoned buildings that dotted the Mission Hill section of Boston. Hours were spent searching for treasures and making up stories about their finds; an old watch could be a time traveling device or a foreign coin, could lead them to a pirates’ treasure!
Pete was the first to see it. A small neon green canister wedged between a rock and some twisted metal. “Hey you guys, check this out!” he called back to his friends, then picked up a stick and flipped the find out of its position and onto the dirt.
“What is it?” one of the kids asked.
“Beats me!” Pete responded.
“Hey, give me that stick.” Skipper demanded; always finding pleasure in bullying the group of younger boys. He grabbed the stick and gave the canister a hit. Nothing happened. He hit it again and again, nothing. Then he finally gave it one more smack and the canister cracked open and a puff of white smoke escaped. The boys stepped back and looked to Skipper for direction.
“It’s crap, just junk. Leave it and let’s go play some hoops.” He turned and started walking away. Relieved, the boys followed.
Sunday morning
The first Mass at Mission Hill church started at 6am, a full 22 minutes before sunrise. At 6:50 the parishioners walked out into the daylight and among the faithful were Marty and Claire Emerson. As they had for the past 13 years, after Mass they would stroll hand in hand the two blocks to the Mystic Diner for Belgium Waffles and strawberries. After all these years of marriage, little was said between them as they made their way down Tremont Street, passing several vacant lots and abandoned buildings.
It was Marty that first noticed something was different.
“Claire, look at that across the street. All those flowers weren’t there yesterday were they?
“Can’t tell from here,” she quietly answered, “let’s cross and have a look.”
With each step closer, Claire was able to truly see the beauty that was before her. What was an empty lot yesterday was now home to thousands upon thousands of plants, each with a 6 foot tall center spike topped by a single huge bell shaped red flower. The scent in the air was intoxicating and much like a bee to honey; it seemed to draw them into the garden. Hand in hand the old couple weaved through the many plantings careful not to step on any of them. Occasionally they would brush up against a flower or two, unaware that each time that happened, a miniature explosion of spores lifted into the air carrying them away by the wind.
Monday morning
On Monday mornings the traffic was always tough and Erin was running a little late. Jumping into his truck, he backed out of his parking space and headed toward the Expressway. Traffic was surprisingly light. ”Must be an accident somewhere.” He thought while reaching over to turn on the radio.
The announcer was talking; “City officials are baffled by the appearance of thousands of gardens in and around Boston that seemed to have been magically appearing overnight. The Mayor’s office is investigating and will have a news conference when more information is available. In other news, local emergency rooms have been inundated with thousands of people from the Mission Hill area complaining of flu like symptoms…Doctors are baffled and have notified the CDC in Atlanta.”
Tuesday
Headlines; Boston Globe
On Beacon Hill last night the Governor declared a State of Emergency, advising that residents of the Commonwealth should, at all cost, avoid open space areas and remain in their homes.
All State, City and local governments will be closed until further notice.
Wednesday
Erin slowly opened the back door of the Mini Mart. Scanning the alley he assured himself that it was safe for him to finish loading the truck. Once loaded he covered the bed with a blue tarp, securing it on all four sides with bungee cords. With the exception of the 5 gallon water bottles sticking up a little, no one would suspect what precious cargo he was carrying, cargo that would hopefully sustain him until the first hard frost in November. Climbing into the driver’s side he withdrew the newspaper from his pocket and threw it on the passenger seat. He couldn’t help noticing the headlines;
ALIEN PLANT INVADES EARTH KILLING MILLIONS WORLDWIDE!
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. With a shaking hand he put the key into the ignition and looked down at the gas gauge. He had just enough gas to get back home to the projects. Who would have ever thought that the most unsafe area of Boston has become the safest of all?
After all, nothing ever grows in the projects, or as we called it “Slab City.”
Jake sat on his father’s lap with his head buried deep into his chest, crying uncontrollably. His best friend was gone forever.
“Why did he have to die?” Jake asked
“Honey, all things die. Perhaps his time had come and his purpose had been accomplished.
“Huh?” Jake asked in a whimpering little voice. “What’s that mean?”
“Purpose?”
“Ya”
“Purpose means something is useful, hmm; let me see if I can explain it in your terms. I got it, where do you keep your pencils?”
“In my pencil box. I really, really like the red one!”
“Well, the pencil box has a useful purpose…it keeps your pencils safe. Understand?”
“I guess so.”
“But what was Roscoe’s pourpuss?”
“Well, remember when Grampa Henry died? You were very sad.”
“Ya, he took me fishing and we did lots of cool stuff together. He was my best friend!”
“And do you remember that we brought Roscoe home right after Grampa left us?”
A smile came on the little boy’s face.
Well, Roscoe’s purpose was to be your new best friend and help to heal your little broken heart. Understand?”
“Ya, I get it now…So Daddy every thing has a pourpuss.”
“That’s right!”
“Like the tree you planted outside the kitchen door?”
His father tilted his head a little to the side, as though he was trying to remember exactly why he had planted it..
“You said that when it grew tall, it would shade the house, Mama said it had pretty flowers that she could see from the kitchen and Grampa, he told me it was a secret place where angels would sit and keep an eye on me.”
“Ahhh, exactly!” his father responded.
“So daddy what is my pourpuss?”
Jake honey, for now your purpose is just to be. Someday though, the mysteries of the unknown will be revealed to you, the world will open up its doors and will expose your true purpose.
Always remember though, sometimes our purpose on this earth is bigger than life itself.
Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro’ the perilous fight’
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.
And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
We celebrate our freedom on July 4th. We honor the words of both National Anthem and The Declaration of Independence and keep them close to our hearts. They are the guidelines by which we live, by which we enjoy the freedoms of the best country in the world…..
How proud I am to be an American. How grateful I am to the men and women who now serve in the armed forces and hold high those who have given their lives so that I can live the life I have. A life of Freedom.
A freedom, to come and go as I please. A freedom to choose who I feel would best guide our great country. AND most of all the freedom to worship as I see fit.
We are a fortunate people. There are billions of people today living under the thumb of those that believe diversity isn’t something to be tolerated. As Americans we know that diversity is and will always be who we are. That diversity is what makes us great.
We have proven that ‘the experiment’ our forefathers tried, has worked. We are strong and will always defend the liberties they have afforded us.
I am proud to be an American. I thank those who are here for me and those who have come before me to allow me to live in this great country.
Happy Independence Day!
Who is there for me…?
To pick me up when I have fallen,
To mend my heart when it is broken,
To feed me when I am hungry, and guide me when I am lost?
May the great Eagle catch me in his loving and strong wings when I have fallen.
May the soft wind that carries the bird song, heal my broken heart.
May the black earth that binds us all feed me, and may the Great Owl, with his wisdom, speak to the Spirits of those before me, to help me find my way.
You may think I walk this earth alone…but the Spirits of many are only waiting…Silently standing beside me..
I need only to ask and quietly listen….
“Bye, Bye Miss American Pie”
Boston Globe, June 9, 2010, page A9: “Copyright enforcement jeopardizing live music in small venues”
The Scenario; Sunday morning there’s a knock at my door. “Yes, how may I help you?”
A burly man in a cheap polyester suit, that looked as though it was purchased at Sears decades ago, stands before me. “Good morning, I understand you had a get together here yesterday, is that true?”
“Ah, yes, it was a birthday party for my great grandson, he turned one.”
“Am I to believe you had 18 people here, excluding the infant?
“Why yes, how did you…what is this all about and who are you?”
“Here is my business card. I represent the PRO, performance rights organizations, which collect royalties for songwriters and other copyrighting infringements.”
“So, what does that have to do with us?”
“Well, I have information, oh by the way this is documented, that you sang “Happy Birthday, Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star, Itzy, Bitzy Spider and that your brother the Minister, blessed the child quoting from a Gideon Bible.”
“Wait, what are you talking about…infringements? And how in hell do you know what happens in my home?”
“We have our sources, is this information correct? Please answer the questions; I would prefer not to call the local authorities.”
“Yes, yes we did have a party and we sang a few children’s songs. And yes, my brother blessed our great grandson. So, what’s the big deal?”
“Well then you are in violation of section 12, lines 22 through 31 of the newly established laws protecting copyrights. Here is your violation ticket stating the fines that you owe. If the amount is not paid within 30 days, you will be notified of a court date. If you chose to fight this in the courts I guarantee you will lose. The law is the law. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Looking down at the piece of paper the aged woman was flabbergasted.
Songs sung Citizens Fines Total
“Happy Birthday” 18 $1.00 $18.00
“Itzy Bitzy Spider” 3 $1.00 $3.00
“Twinkle, Twinkle” 5 $1.00 $5.00
Readings from Bible 16 $1.00 $16.00
Total fine for the above infractions: $42.00
The truth; the songs above do have copyrights to them and singing them would actually violate the law. Books written about religion have a copyrights, so actually any quote from them is in violation, as are quotes from any of the great American poets, etc.
This organization, The PRO even attacked and threatened a law suit against the Girl Scouts for the campfire songs they sing. There has to be a cut off somewhere…
“Bye, bye miss American pie…took the Chevy to the levy and the levy was dry.
And good ole boys are eating cookies and pie, singing this is the day that I die”
Alright, I had to change the words, copyright and all.
But, you get the message. The street performer, the church choirs, the individual at an open mic, these are all in danger of no longer performing for our pleasure, or theirs.
Oh oh, there is a knock on the door! Quick hide the Boy Scouts!
The Awakening
The leaves return from winter engagements
singing songs from their tips with the
accompaniment of soft breezes…
Garden fairies, visible only to the mystics,
flicker about kissing each bud into summer’s fragrant bloom
filling the air with nature’s sweetness….
Rabbits leaping on patches of newly formed grass
kick up the dew and introduce it to the soft floating mist
suspended magically by unseen tethered lines….
Red winged blackbirds, cardinals and the tufted titmouse
offer the symphonic sounds of Nature’s concerto….
I awaken to bright new day, with unfolding mysteries secretly calling my name..offerings that are yet to be discovered…..
I kiss the Sun, stretch my arms and embrace another new begining….
Good Morning!
Connected
Just as the petals of the Sunflower surround and connect to the center, we too are all connected.
Every day, Mother Nature reveals the lessons of life to each and every one of us. Just like the sunflower with its petals extending outward, beaconing visitors to land and indulge in the sweet nectar it offers, we too have to extend our petals to those who are in search for the sweetness of life.
Perhaps, it was in 1970′s that I read a written piece by the Reverend Martin Niemoller, who, during the reign of the Nazis, was the Pastor of the German Confessing church in Germany. I was so overwhelmed by this piece, as it spoke to my heart, that I have tried to live by its meaning for most of my adult life.
I hope that you find it as inspiring as I have.
Bystanders
First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out because I was not a communist.
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the labor leaders, and I did not speak out because I was not a labor leader.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for ME, and there was no one left to speak out for me!
The Reverend Martin Niemoller managed to survive in a concentration Camp for 7 years before the liberation.
In Closing, if we do not reach out to those who need our help, will there be someone left to help you?
Thanks for Visiting
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