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, "Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish 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 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 Billy, dressed him in his fire uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck.

Billy got to sit 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 Billy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the paramedic's van and even the fire chief's car. He was also video taped for the local news program.

Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy 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 Billy 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 Billy as he made his transition. 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 it's 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 Billy's third floor open window and 16 firefighters climbed up the ladder into Billy'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, Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief, am I really a fireman now?"
"Billy, you are," the chief said.

With those words, Billy smiled and closed his eyes one last time.

His question reminded me of something I'd read somewhere before: "Every morning when you get up, you have a choice about how you want to approach life that day," I said. "I choose to be cheerful."

"Let me give you an example," I continued, addressing all sixty students in the class. "In addition to teaching here at UNLV, I also teach out at the community college in Henderson, 17 miles down the freeway from where I live. One day a few weeks ago I drove those 17 miles to Henderson. I exited the freeway and turned onto College Drive. I only had to drive another quarter mile down the road to the college. But just then my car died. I tried to start it again, but the engine wouldn't turn over. So I put my flashers on, grabbed my books, and marched down the road to the college."

"As soon as I got there I called AAA and arranged for a tow truck to meet me at my car after class. The secretary in the Provost's office asked me what has happened. 'This is my lucky day,' I replied, smiling."

" 'Your car breaks down and today is your lucky day?' She was puzzled. 'What do you mean?'"

" 'I live 17 miles from here.' I replied. 'My car could have broken down anywhere along the freeway. It didn't. Instead, it broke down in the perfect place: off the freeway, within walking distance of here. I'm still able to teach my class, and I've been able to arrange for the tow truck to meet me after class. If my car was meant to break down today, it couldn't have been arranged in a more convenient fashion.'"

"The secretary's eyes opened wide, and then she smiled. I smiled back and headed for class." So ended my story.

I scanned the sixty faces in my economics class at UNLV. Despite the early hour, no one seemed to be asleep. Somehow, my story had touched them. Or maybe it wasn't the story at all. In fact, it had all started with a student's observation that I was cheerful.

Many intelligent people still equate happiness with fun. The truth is that fun and happiness have little or nothing in common. Fun is what we experience during an act. Happiness is what we experience after an act. It is a deeper, more abiding emotion.

Going to an amusement park or ball game, watching a movie or television, are fun activities that help us relax, temporarily forget our problems and maybe even laugh. But they do not bring happiness, because their positive effects end when the fun ends.

I have often thought that if Hollywood stars have a role to play, it is to teach us that happiness has nothing to do with fun. These rich, beautiful individuals have constant access to glamorous parties, fancy cars, expensive homes, everything that spells "happiness".

But in memoir after memoir, celebrities reveal the unhappiness hidden beneath all their fun: depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, broken marriages, troubled children, profound loneliness.

The way people cling to the belief that a fun-filled, pain-free life equates happiness actually diminishes their chances of ever attaining real happiness. If fun and pleasure are equated with happiness, then pain must be equated with unhappiness. But, in fact, the opposite is true: More times than not, things that lead to happiness involve some pain.

As a result, many people avoid the very endeavors that are the source of true happiness. They fear the pain inevitably brought by such things as marriage, raising children, professional achievement, religious commitment, civic or charitable work, and self-improvement.

Maybe she has so much work to do and so many headaches, so she cannot be so darling like usual. That time is the time when we need to show our most noble quality, the way we want ourselves to be.

It's not that if you are sweet to that person then he will love you more. Maybe he will, maybe he won't. But that is not the point to be good and to be noble. To be good, to be noble is for ourselves because we choose to be that way, we want to keep being that way, and we feel good about it. It's not because, "Okay, now he needs me more. If I show more sympathy, then our love will be stronger"; It's not even to be considered.

But most of the time we fail the test. When people are in most difficulty, we just leave them, or we are cold and indifferent. "Oh, you're not nice to me. All right, all right.";"You'll come and need me soon."; Of course they will. When they're in a better mood, when everything goes better, of course they'll come around. But then it's too late. Then it is not love anymore. It's just a need for each other. That's different, because you are used to each other and you need each other sometimes out of habit, out of convenience, out of financial security reasons -- anything. But it's not true love.

True Love Always Prevails

True love is we stick together in "thick and thin";. Especially when it's thin, when it's troublesome. Then we should really bridge over the "troubled water". That's what they say in English. But most of us fail the test, to ourselves, not to our partners. He might leave you, he might stay with you, because you're nice or not nice. But you fail yourself. You leave yourself. You leave the most noble being that you really are. So we should check up on this to our family members or whomever that is beloved and dear to us. Most of the time in critical situations, we just turn our backs and that is no good.

Of course we have our anger, our frustrations, because our partners are not as loving as usual, or whomever that is; but he or she is in a different situation. At that time, she or he is in mental suffering. It's just as bad or even worse than physical suffering. Physical suffering you can take a pill or you can have an injection and it stops or at least temporarily stops, and you feel the effect right away; or at least if people are in physical suffering, everyone sympathizes with them.

But when they are in mental anguish, and we pound them more on that, and we turn our backs and become cold and indifferent, that is even more cruel, even worse. That person will be swimming alone in suffering. And especially they trust us as the next of kin, the next person, the one that they think they can rely on in times of need; and then at that time, we just turn around and are snobbish, because they didn't treat us nice so we just want to revenge. That's not the time. You can revenge later, when he's in better shape. Just slap him.

Actually, at that time, the person is not his usual self anymore. He was probably under very great pressure that he lost his own control. It's not really lost his own control, but for example, when you are in a hurry, your talk is different. Right? "Hand me that coat! Quick! Quick! Quick!" Things like that. But normally, you would say "Honey, please, can you give me that coat." Is that not so? (Audience: Yes.) Or when you're in pain -- for example stomach pain, heartache or whatever -- you scream loudly; and anyone who comes to talk to you, you don't talk in the usual way anymore, because you're in pain.

Similarly, when you are in a mental or psychological pain, you talk also in a very grouchy way, very cross. But that is understandable. So if we -- any so-called loving partner or family member -- do not understand even this very least, very basic concept, then we're finished. Then we are really in a bad situation. It's not that the partner will do anything to us. Whether he does anything to us later or not, that is no problem. The problem is us. The problem is we degrade ourselves, that we make less of a being of ourselves than we should be, than we are supposed to be, or that we really are. So do not make less of a being of yourselves.

Instead of blowing away with the wind, they arose against it to achieve great heights. They shook and pulled, but the restraining string and the cumbersome tail kept them in tow, facing upward and against the wind. As the kites struggled and kept them in tow, facing upward and against the wind. As the kites struggled and trembled against the string, they seemed to say,” Let me go! Let me go! I want to be free!” they soared beautifully even as they fought the restriction of the string. Finally, one of the kites succeeded in breaking loose. “Free at last,” it seemed to say. “Free to fly with the wind.”

Yet freedom from restraint simply put it at the mercy of an unsympathetic breeze. It fluttered ungracefully to the ground and landed in a tangled mass of weeds and string against a dead bush. ”Free at last”, free to lie powerless in the dirt, to be blown helplessly along the ground, and to lodge lifeless against the first obstruction.

How much like kites we sometimes are. The heaven gives us adversity and restrictions, rules to follow from which we can grow and gain strength. Restraint is a necessary counterpart to the winds of opposition. Some of us tug at the rules so hard that we never soar to reach the heights we might have obtained. We keep part of the commandment and never rise high enough to get our tails off the ground.

Let us each rise to the great heights, recognizing that some of the restraints that we may chafe under are actually the steadying force that helps us ascend and achieve.

When I was four years old, my life as I know it now began. I have Selective Mutism. This is a rare childhood disorder in which children stop speaking in certain social situations, many times at around the age of four. I spoke normally to my parents, my brother and certain other people, but was silent at school and in social situations. I went days, weeks, months without a sound at school. At most, I might quietly whisper to a friend.

Often, children with Selective Mutism will not speak in the presence of others; even to a person they normally talk to. There is a lot of whispering in ears, so that others cannot hear. We have normal or above average IQs and usually no speech pathology. The most important factor in this disorder is, we cannot speak. We do not do this purposely or willfully, it feels impossible to speak. As you can imagine, many children are blamed, punished and traumatized, especially at school. The disorder is believed to be anxiety related and treatment is difficult, but not impossible. We have so much more to learn.

My parents searched for a cure. At that time, we did not even have a name for what I had. I suffered silently through school until I was ten years old when one in a long string of psychologists had an idea. Having discussed his plan with my parents beforehand, one day in my therapy session I was asked by the psychologist what I wanted more than anything in the world. He explained that I was going to be given an opportunity to work for what I wanted. I couldn't believe my good luck, but I could not answer. I just stood there struggling to verbalize what I wanted more than anything else in the world. Finally, I was permitted to whisper the answer in my mother's ear. "A horse," was all I could say.

I was to get a pony, but before we could even start looking, I had to live up to my end of the bargain. I had to try to talk. I had a chart of weekly tasks I had to accomplish. I had to answer the phone five times per week, something I had never done before. I had to make five phone calls to my friends. I had to say one word to my teacher at school and the list went on. For a child with Selective Mutism, saying one word to someone can be like climbing Mount Everest.

I did everything that was asked of me and the day came when my parents found a local riding stable that had the perfect pony. His name was Sequoia, a strong little chestnut with some roaning and a tiny white spot on his rump. He was perfect, of course, and I fell in love immediately. We boarded him at the riding stable and I began taking lessons. I wanted to be the best I could be and I swelled with pride every time I got on Sequoia. It truly was a dream come true. I learned to brush him, saddle him, pick his hooves out. Each week I could not wait for Saturday and my lesson, then my free time with my Sequoia. When I was in Sequoia's presence, I forgot all about my problems and felt strong and secure.

As I see it, horses are silent too, but they are fast, powerful and free at the same time. Horses give me the strength I lack. They give me a reason to push myself, when I can find no other. Horses have been part of my life for well over twenty years now, all the while helping me deal with an isolating, frightening disorder. When things get difficult, as they still sometimes do, I go to my horses. With them, I can be silent, but I can hold my head up and have dignity and freedom. By connecting with them, I have learned to embrace what I was once shunned for and I found my voice.

I am a fully participating member of society these days. My horses and I made it through a master's degree and then law school. I am a practicing attorney, I even make court appearances. I may have made it otherwise, but I'm not sure. I feel I owe my life to the horse and I try to give it back to them every day. I am fortunate that I can look out my back door and see my beautiful horses looking back at me. I am so grateful that I get to watch them run in their mountain pasture every day. I hope I never stop learning from them. They have given me the best gift I could ever imagine, my life.

A mere moment of our lives, tucked neatly into a small rectangle and preserved forever - years before anything bad came calling.

In the photo, the beach spreads out on either side, a fishing dock to the left, one of Calcite’s great limestone boats far out on the horizon, and on the right, miles and miles of undisturbed beach. The photo is alive with children and women: mothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren. The lone man in the photo is my father. His shadow stretches long and lean across the restless blue waters of Lake Huron. With immense patience, he casts his line, again and again. My toddler son, his blond curls bleached white, peers across the endless stretch of sand. Mesmerized by his grandfather, he jets down the wet beach as fast as his chubby legs can carry him. His sisters give chase.

A million dancing whitecaps become myriad diamonds, straining to outshine one another. The glimmering trail sparkles on the vast and seemingly endless body of water that starts at my feet and disappears into the sky, where seagulls dip and swirl, calling to one another as an anxious mother calls to a wayward child.

A chaise lounge dominates the photo. In it a woman - my mother - reclines. Mom is spread out in the chair like thick, sweet frosting on a cake. Languid, her arms raised above her head, her legs splayed, pant legs rolled up to expose a goodly length of pale skin. Her arms are bare, the undersides pasty in comparison to the tops. Her smile in repose is tender, sweet, unassuming, and peaceful.

To my knowledge, Mom never owned a bathing suit. I don’t recall ever seeing her step into the lake, and never before had she sunbathed. That day, however, was different. It was as if all her cares had floated out to deep waters like the unattended beach ball had done just minutes before.

We are a large family. When my siblings and I were young, Dad was the one who took us to the beach. He sat in the car and watched as we frolicked in the shallows. Mom stayed home to ensure we had a hot meal when we returned. Perhaps Mom was happy for the few moments of alone time at home in the kitchen, as was Dad, alone in the car.

On this day, their grown children, with children of our own, treat them to dinner on the beach. Dad fishes off the dock, never swaying from his pleasantries. And, for once, Mom forgets about making dinner.

It is a day of memories, a day never to be forgotten.

My three children are in the photo, and Dad is in the background, as are two of my sisters and their children, but everyone who gazes at the poorly developed photo is drawn inexplicably to Mom’s smile. In the photo, her face is raised up to the sky. To the sun or to our Creator, she alone knows. Her eyes are closed.

I remember how warm it was that day and how she had squinted up at me, shielding her eyes with both hands.

“Are my legs getting red?” she’d asked.

My eyes brim with unshed tears as I remember the feel of her skin on the palm of my hand. Hot. The scalding tears run down my face. How I wish I could touch her one more time.

“No, Mom,” I replied. “But better put some sunscreen on before you get a burn.” Reluctantly, she’d sat up, the peaceful smile disappearing, and rolled her pant legs down, again.

“Save it for the kids,” she said, her eyes scanning the group of children splashing in and out of the water. The whisper of a smile touched her lips as she watched for a long, wistful moment. With a sigh, she rose from the chair and moved toward the car where the coolers awaited.

“Maybe we should get lunch going,” she said as she opened the first cooler.

Now it is my turn to smile. Mom was not ready to relinquish dinner duties, after all. On a whim, I turn my face heavenward and close my eyes. I draw a deep breath and search for the special place Mom found that afternoon. It comes to me easily. Without pomp or ceremony, there she is, smiling again. Tears squeeze from beneath my closed lids, and I fervently pray that anyone who might come upon me at this moment will say my smile reminds them of Mom’s smile, that day on the beach so long ago. Tender, sweet, unassuming - and despite our loss it was peaceful.
 

The campsite was five miles from the pristine shoreline and boardwalk. We couldn’t wait to dig our toes into the warm sand. Our daughter was seven at the time and our friends’ daughters were eight and three. We packed enough toys, beach towels, and tanning lotion to last three weekends.

After pitching our tents and setting up camp, the seven of us piled into our cars and began the hunt for parking spaces closest to the water so that the men would not have to resort to camel-like behavior when hauling our supplies to the beach.

We staked our claim on the remaining ten feet of sand and sent the children to the ocean’s edge. Our striped towels and white flesh blended with the thousands of other sun worshipers. Music blared from cranked-up radios while Frisbees whizzed overhead. Fair-haired recruits in muscle shirts hawked their ice cream sandwiches and cold soda while I poured lukewarm Kool-Aid.

From where I reclined, I had a clear view of the three girls splashing near the water. They chased the waves and tunneled into the wet sand, building castle after castle. It took extreme persuasion to convince them to relinquish the sea long enough to split soggy sandwiches with us. Periodically, the men would drop their books and leap into an incoming wave while capturing an unsuspecting child. I could only imagine the giggles above the beach clatter.

After hours of play - and sunburned feet - we motioned for the girls to join us. I packed the towels and lotion while my best friend packed the toys and food. We each had our responsibilities but neglected the most important one. My daughter and her eldest daughter arrived by our side. Their youngest girl didn’t.

We locked eyes. Our previously orderly world shrunk to the beach and the thousands of people strewn around us. Instinct jolted us into action. We screamed her name and pushed past bathers and tanners, frantic to find a missing child in a green bathing suit. Each second ticked by as though specifically designed to torment us.

“Angela!” My head snapped as the perfect picture of a mother and daughter reuniting exploded in my vision. I wanted to fall to the ground and weep amid the mass of strangers who had been unsuspecting participants in a drama unfolding before them.

Since that day, I’ve relived those five minutes of fear at Rehoboth Beach too many times. I relived them each time my daughter hid from me behind a store fixture or ventured out alone in the car after passing her driver’s test. I relived them when she was late returning home from dates and when she married and moved to a city far from my reach.

Years later, we relocated to Florida, where once a month we frequent the swarming beaches of Daytona. My husband and I rent beach chairs and an umbrella and stake our claim along with the other beach lovers hoping for a relaxing time in the sun. Invariably, I spy a child dropping his bucket to search for his own cluster of recognizable faces. My heart freezes until I witness the mother wrapping her arms around him again. Only then do I breathe and rejoin the masses.

Finally，a short，thin man，well past middle age，approached the farmer. “Are you a good farmhand？”the farmer asked him.　　　

“Well，I can sleep when the wind blows，” answered the little man.　　　

Although puzzled by this answer，the farmer，desperate for help，hired him. The little man worked well around the farm，busy from dawn to dusk，and the farmer felt satisfied with the man's work.　　　

Then one night the wind howled loudly in from offshore. Jumping out of bed，the farmer grabbed a lantern and rushed next door to the hired hand's sleeping quarters. He shook the little man and yelled，“Get up！ A storm is coming！ Tie things down before they blow away！”　　

The little man rolled over in bed and said firmly，“No sir. I told you，I can sleep when the wind blows.”　　　

Enraged by the response，the farmer was tempted to fire him on the spot. Instead，he hurried outside to prepare for the storm. To his amazement，he discovered that all of the haystacks had been covered with tarpaulins. The cows were in the barn，the chickens were in the coops，and the doors were barred. The shutters were tightly secured. Everything was tied down. Nothing could blow away.　　　　

The farmer then understood what his hired hand meant，so he returned to his bed to also sleep while the wind blew.　　　

MORAL： When you're prepared，spiritually，mentally，and physically，you have nothing to fear.

Miss White was a smiling, young, beautiful redhead, and Steve was in love! For the first time in his young life, he couldn’t take his eyes off his teacher; yet, still he failed. He never did his homework, and he was always in trouble with Miss White. His heart would break under her sharp words, and when he was punished for failing to turn in his homework, he felt just miserable! Still, he did not study.

In the middle of the first semester of school, the entire seventh grade was tested for basic skills. Steve hurried through his tests, and continued to dream of other things, as the day wore on. His heart was not in school, but in the woods, where he often escaped alone, trying to shut out the sights, sounds and smells of his alcoholic home. No one checked on him to see if he was safe. No one knew he was gone, because no one was sober enough to care. Oddly, Steve never missed a day of school.

One day, Miss White’s impatient voice broke into his daydreams.

“Steve!!” Startled, he turned to look at her.

“Pay attention!”

Steve locked his gaze on Miss White with adolescent adoration, as she began to go over the test results for the seventh grade.

“You all did pretty well,” she told the class, “except for one boy, and it breaks my heart to tell you this, but...” She hesitated, pinning Steve to his seat with a sharp stare, her eyes searching his face.

“...The smartest boy in the seventh grade is failing my class!”

She just stared at Steve, as the class spun around for a good look. Steve dropped his eyes and carefully examined his fingertips.

After that, it was war!! Steve still wouldn’t do his homework. Even as the punishments became more severe, he remained stubborn.

“Just try it! ONE WEEK!” He was unmoved.

“You’re smart enough! You’ll see a change!” Nothing fazed him.

“Give yourself a chance! Don’t give up on your life!” Nothing.

“Steve! Please! I care about you!”

Wow! Suddenly, Steve got it!! Someone cared about him? Someone, totally unattainable and perfect, CARED ABOUT HIM??!!

Steve went home from school, thoughtful, that afternoon. Walking into the house, he took one look around. Both parents were passed out, in various stages of undress, and the stench was overpowering! He, quickly, gathered up his camping gear, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, a bottle of water, and this time...his schoolbooks. Grim faced and determined, he headed for the woods.

The following Monday he arrived at school on time, and he waited for Miss White to enter the classroom. She walked in, all sparkle and smiles! God, she was beautiful! He yearned for her smile to turn on him. It did not.

Miss White, immediately, gave a quiz on the weekend homework. Steve hurried through the test, and was the first to hand in his paper. With a look of surprise, Miss White took his paper. Obviously puzzled, she began to look it over. Steve walked back to his desk, his heart pounding within his chest. As he sat down, he couldn’t resist another look at the lovely woman.

Miss White’s face was in total shock! She glanced up at Steve, then down, then up.

Suddenly, her face broke into a radiant smile. The smartest boy in the seventh grade had just passed his first test!

From that moment nothing was the same for Steve. Life at home remained the same, but life still changed. He discovered that not only could he learn, but he was good at it!

He discovered that he could understand and retain knowledge, and that he could translate the things he learned into his own life. Steve began to excel! And he continued this course throughout his school life.

After high-school Steve enlisted in the Navy, and he had a successful military career. During that time, he met the love of his life, he raised a family, and he graduated from college Magna Cum Laude. During his Naval career, he inspired many young people, who without him, might not have believed in themselves. Steve began a second career after the Navy, and he continues to inspire others, as an adjunct professor in a nearby college Miss White left a great legacy. She saved one boy who has changed many lives.

You see, it’s simple, really. A change took place within the heart of one boy, all because of one teacher, who cared.

In front of the person you love, winter seems like spring, but in front of the person you like, winter is just beautiful winter.

If you look into the eyes of the one you love, you blush, but if you look into the eyes of the person you like, you smile.

If front of the person you love, you can’t say everything on your mind, but in front of the person you like, you can.

In front of the person you love, you tend to get shy, but in front of the person you like, you can show your own self.

You can’t look straight into the eyes of the one you love, but you can always smile into the eyes of the one you like.

When the one you love is crying, you cry with him, but when the one you like is crying, you end up comforting.

The feeling of love starts from the eye, and the feeling of like starts from the ears.

So if you stop liking a person you used to like, all you need to do is cover your ears. But if you try to close your eyes, love turns into a teardrop and remains in your heart forever after.

Nevertheless, when I opened the window one morning, to my amazement, the tree was almost bare beyond recognition as a result of the storm ravages the night before. Struck by the plight, I was seized with a sadness at the thought “all the blossom is doomed to fall”. I could not help sighing with emotion: the course of life never runs smooth, for there are so many ups and downs, twists and turns. The vicissitudes of my life saw my beloved friends parting one after another. Isn’t it similar to the tree shedding its flowers in the wind?

This event faded from my memory as time went by. One day after I came home from the countryside, I found the room stuffy and casually opened the window. Something outside caught my eye and dazzled me. It was a plum tree all scarlet with blossom set off beautifully by the sunset. The surprise discovery overwhelmed me with pleasure. I wondered why I had no idea of some unyielding life sprouting over the fallen petals when I was grieving for the hibiscus.

When the last withered petal dropped, all the joyful admiration for the hibiscus sank into oblivion as if nothing was left, until the landscape was again ablaze with the red plum blossom to remind people of life’s alternation and continuance. Can’t it be said that life is actually a symphony, a harmonious composition of loss and gain.

Standing by the window lost in thought for a long time, I realized that no scenery in the world remains unchanged. As long as you keep your heart basking in the sun, every dawn will present a fine prospect for you to unfold and the world will always be about new hopes.

"Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."

"Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat off the back of his neck, "these puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."

The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer. "I've got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"

"Sure," said the farmer.

And with that he let out a whistle, "Here, Dolly!" he called.

Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed by four little balls of fur. The little boy pressed his face against the chain link fence. His eyes danced with delight.

As the dogs made their way to the fence, the little boy noticed something else stirring inside the doghouse. Slowly another little ball appeared; this One noticeably smaller. Down the ramp it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner the little pup began hobbling toward the others, doing its best to catch up.

"I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.

The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you don't want that puppy. He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would."

With that the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe. Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see sir, I don't run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."

The world is full of people who need someone who understands.

We want this or that. If we don't get what we want, we keep thinking about all that we don't have and we remain dissatisfied. If we do get what we want, we simply recreate the same thinking in our new circumstances. So, despite getting what we want, we still remain unhappy. Happiness can't be found when we are yearning for new desires.

Luckily, there is a way to be happy. It involves changing the emphasis of our thinking from what we want to what we have. Rather than wishing you were able to take a vacation to Hawaii, think of how much fun you have had close to home. The list of possibilities is endless! Each time you notice yourself falling into the "I wish life were different" trap, back off and start over. Take a breath and remember all that you have to be grateful. When you focus not on what you want, but on what you have, you end up getting more of what you want anyway. If you focus on the good qualities of your spouse, she'll be more loving. If you are grateful for your job rather than complaining about it, you'll do a better job, be more productive, and probably end up getting a raise any-way. If you focus on ways to enjoy yourself around home rather than waiting to enjoy yourself in Hawaii, you'll end up having more fun. If you ever do get to Hawaii, you'll be in the habit of enjoying yourself. And, if by some chance you don't, you have a great life anyway.

Make a note of yourself to start thinking more about what you have than what you want. If you do, your life will start appearing much better than before. For perhaps the first time in your life, you'll know what it means to feel satisfied.
 

It was a transitional time in Daniel‘s life, a passage, a step from college into the adult world. I wanted to leave him some words that would have some meaning, some significance beyond the moment.

But nothing came from my lips. No sound broke the stillness of my beachside home. Outside, I could hear the shrill cries of sea gulls as they circled the ever changing surf on Long Island. Inside, I stood frozen and quiet, looking into the searching eyes of my son.

What made it more difficult was that I knew this was not the first time I had let such a moment pass. When Daniel was five, I took him to the school-bus stop on his first day of kindergarten. I felt the tension in his hand holding mine as the bus turned the corner. I saw colour flush his cheeks as the bus pulled up. He looked at me-as he did now.

What is it going to be like, Dad? Can I do it? Will I be okay? And then he walked up the steps of the bus and disappeared inside. And the bus drove away. And I had said nothing.

A decade or so later, a similar scene played itself out. With his mother, I drove him to William and Mary College in Virginia. His first night, he went out with his new schoolmates, and when he met us the next morning, he was sick. He was coming down with mononucleosis, but we could not know that then. We thought he had a hangover.

In his room, Dan lay stretched out on his bed as I started to leave for the trip home. I tried to think of something to say to give him courage and confidence as he started this new phase of life.

Again, words failed me. I mumbled something like, "Hope you feel better Dan." And I left.

Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those lost opportunities. How many times have we all let such moments pass? A boy graduates from school, a daughter gets married. We go through the motions of the ceremony, but we don‘t seek out our children and find a quiet moment to tell them what they have meant to us. Or what they might expect to face in the years ahead.

How fast the years had passed. Daniel was born in New Orleans, LA., in 1962, slow to walk and talk, and small of stature. He was the tiniest in his class, but he developed a warm, outgoing nature and was popular with his peers. He was coordinated and 6)agile, and he became adept in sports.

Baseball gave him his earliest challenge. He was an outstanding pitcher in Little League, and eventually, as a senior in high school, made the varsity, winning half the team‘s games with a record of five wins and two losses. At graduation, the coach named Daniel the team‘s most valuable player.

His finest hour, though, came at a school science fair. He entered an exhibit showing how the circulatory system works. It was primitive and crude, especially compared to the fancy, computerized, blinking-light models entered by other students. My wife, Sara, felt embarrassed for him.

It turned out that the other kids had not done their own work-their parents had made their exhibits. As the judges went on their rounds, they found that these other kids couldn‘t answer their questions. Daniel answered every one. When the judges awarded the Albert Einstein Plaque for the best exhibit, they gave it to him.

By the time Daniel left for college he stood six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. He was muscular and in superb condition, but he never pitched another inning, having given up baseball for English literature. I was sorry that he would not develop his athletic talent, but proud that he had made such a mature decision.

One day I told Daniel that the great failing in my life had been that I didn‘t take a year or two off to travel when I finished college. This is the best way, to my way of thinking, to broaden oneself and develop a larger perspective on life. Once I had married and begun working, I found that the dream of living in another culture had vanished.

Daniel thought about this. His friends said that he would be insane to put his career on hold. But he decided it wasn‘t so crazy. After graduation, he worked as a waiter at college, a bike messenger and a house painter. With the money he earned, he had enough to go to Paris.

The night before he was to leave, I tossed in bed. I was trying to figure out something to say. Nothing came to mind. Maybe, I thought, it wasn‘t necessary to say anything.

What does it matter in the course of a life-time if a father never tells a son what he really thinks of him? But as I stood before Daniel, I knew that it does matter. My father and I loved each other. Yet, I always regretted never hearing him put his feelings into words and never having the memory of that moment. Now, I could feel my palms sweat and my throat tighten. Why is it so hard to tell a son something from the heart? My mouth turned dry, and I knew I would be able to get out only a few words clearly.

“Daniel," I said, "if I could have picked, I would have picked you."

That‘s all I could say. I wasn‘t sure he understood what I meant. Then he came toward me and threw his arms around me. For a moment, the world and all its people vanished, and there was just Daniel and me in our home by the sea.

He was saying something, but my eyes misted over, and I couldn‘t understand what he was saying. All I was aware of was the stubble on his chin as his face pressed against mine. And then, the moment ended. I went to work, and Daniel left a few hours later with his girlfriend.

That was seven weeks ago, and I think about him when I walk along the beach on weekends. Thousands of miles away, somewhere out past the ocean waves breaking on the deserted shore, he might be scurrying across Boulevard Saint Germain, strolling through a musty hallway of the Louvre, bending an elbow in a Left Bank café.

What I had said to Daniel was clumsy and trite. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything.

However, it was not long after our honeymoon when my husband climbed into the tomb called "the office" and wrapped his mind in a shroud of paperwork and buried himself in clients, and I said nothing for fear of turning into a nagging wife. It seemed as if overnight an invisible wall had been erected between us.

When our daughter, Desiree was born she quickly became the center of my world. I watched her grow from infant to toddler, and I no longer seemed to care that my husband was getting busier and spending less time at home. Somewhere between his work schedule and our home and young daughter, we were losing touch with each other. That invisible wall was now being cemented by the mortar of indifference.

Desiree went off to preschool and I returned to college to finish my degree, and I tried to find myself in the courses I took; I complained with all the other young women on campus about men who are insensitive. Sometimes late at night I cried and begged the whispering darkness to tell me who I really was, and my husband lay beside snoring like a hibernating bear unaware of my winter.

Then tragedy struck our lives, when my husband's younger brother was killed on September 11, 2001, along with thousand of other innocent people. He made it out okay and spoke to his wife to say he was going back in to help those that were still trapped. He was identified only by the engraving on the inside of his wedding band.

Attending my brother's memorial service was an eye-opening experience for the both of us. For the first time, we saw our own marriage was almost like my in-laws. At the tragic death of the youngest son they could not reach out console one another. It seemed as if somewhere between the oldest son's first tooth and the youngest son's graduation they had lost each other. Their wedding day photograph of the young, happy, smiling couple on the mantle of their fireplace was almost mocking those two minds that no longer touched. They were living in such an invisible wall between them that the heaviest battering with the strongest artillery would not penetrate, when love dies it is not in a moment of angry battle or when fiery bodies lose their heat; it lies broken and panting and exhausted at the bottom of a wall it cannot penetrate.

Recently one night, my husband told of his fear of dying. Until then he had been afraid to expose his naked souls. I spoke of trying to find myself in the writings in my journal. It seemed as if each of us had been hiding our soul-searching from the other.

We are slowly working toward building a bridge—not a wall, so that when we reach out to each other, we do not find a barrier we cannot penetrate and recoil from the coldness of the stone or retreat from the stranger on the other side.

I never considered myself unique, but people are constantly telling me, "you are a miracle." To me, I was just an ordinary "guy" with realistic goals and big dreams. I was a 19-ye ar-old student at the University of Texas and well on my way toward fulfilling my "big dream" of one day becoming an orthopedic surgeon.

On the night of February 17, 1981 I was studying for an Organic Chemistry test at the library with Sharon, my girlfriend of three years. Sharon had asked me to drive her back to her dormitory as it was getting quite late. We got into my car, not realizing that just getting into a car would never quite be the same for me again. I quickly noticed that my gas gauge was registered on empty so I pulled into a nearby convenience store to buy $2.00 worth of gas. "I'll be back in two minutes," I yelled at Sharon as I closed the door. But instead, those two minutes changed my life forever.

Entering the convenience store was like entering the twilight zone. On the outside I was a healthy, athletic, pre-med student, but on the inside I was just another statistic of a violent crime. I thought I was entering an empty store, but suddenly I realized it was not empty at all. Three robbers were in the process of committing a robbery and my entrance into the store caught them by surprise. One of the criminals immediately shoved a .38 caliber handgun to my head, ordered me to the cooler, pushed me down on the floor, and pumped a bullet into the back of my head - execution style. He obviously thought I was dead because he did not shoot me again. The trio of thieves finished robbing the store and left calmly. 。

Meanwhile, Sharon wondered why I had not returned. After seeing the three men leave the store she really began to worry as I was the last person she saw entering the store. She quickly went inside to look for me, but saw no one-only an almost empty cash register containing one check and several pennies. Quickly she ran down each aisle shouting, "Mike, Mike!"

Just then the attendant appeared from the back of the store shouting, "Lady, get down on the floor. I've just been robbed and shot at!"

Sharon quickly dropped to the floor screaming, "Have you seen my boyfriend? He has auburn hair." The man did not reply but went back to the cooler where he found me choking on my vomit. The attendant quickly cleaned my mouth and then called for the police and an ambulance.

Sharon was in shock. She was beginning to understand that I was hurt, but she could not begin to comprehend or imagine the severity of my injury.

When the police arrived they immediately called the homicide division as they did not think I would survive and the paramedic reported that she had never seen a person so severely wounded survive. At 1:30 a.m. my parents who lived in Houston, were awakened by a telephone call from Brackenridge Hospital advising them to come to Austin as soon as possible for they feared I would not make it through the night.

But I did make it through the night and early in the morning the neurosurgeon decided to operate. However, he quickly informed my family and Sharon that my chances of surviving the surgery were only 40/60. If this were not bad enough, the neurosurgeon further shocked my family by telling them what life would be like for me if I beat the odds and survived. He said I probably would never walk, talk, or be able to understand even simple commands.

My family was hoping and praying to hear even the slightest bit of encouragement from that doctor. Instead, his pessimistic words gave my family no reason to believe that I would ever again be a productive member of society. But once again I beat the odds and survived the three and a half hours of surgery.

Granted, I still could not talk, my entire right side was paralyzed and many people thought I could not understand, but at least I was stable. After one week in a private room the doctors felt I had improved enough to be transferred by jet ambulance to Del Oro Rehabilitation Hospital in Houston.

My hallucinations, coupled with my physical problems, made my prognosis still very bleak. However, as time passed my mind began to clear and approximately six weeks later my right leg began to move ever so slightly. Within seven weeks my right arm slowly began to move and at eight weeks I uttered my first few words.

My speech was extremely difficult and slow in the beginning, but at least it was a beginning. I was starting to look forward to each new day to see how far I would progress. But just as I thought my life was finally looking brighter I was tested by the hospital europsychologist. She explained to me that judging from my test results she believed that I should not focus on returning to college but that it would be better to set more "realistic goals."

The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.

In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.

He continued to run four to five miles a day, every day - even the day he had a 103-degree fever. I was worried, so I went to look for him after school. I found him running all alone. I asked him how he felt. "Okay," he said. He had two more miles to go. The sweat ran down his face and his eyes were glassy from his fever. Yet he looked straight ahead and kept running. We never told him he couldn't run four miles with a 103-degree fever. So he didn't know.

Two weeks later, the names of the team runners were called. Joey was number six on the list. Joey had made the team. He was in seventh grade - the other six team members were all eighth-graders. We never told him he shouldn't expect to make the team. We never told him he couldn't do it. We never told him he couldn't do it...so he didn't know. He just did it.

Isn't it amazing how one person, sharing one idea, at the right time and place can change the course of your life s history? This is certainly what happened in my life. When I was 14, I was hitchhiking from Houston, Texas, through El Paso on my way to California. I was following my dream, journeying with the sun. I was a high school dropout with learning disabilities and was set on surfing the biggest waves in the world, first in California and then in Hawaii, where I would later live.

Upon reaching downtown El Paso, I met an old man, a bum, on the street corner. He saw me walking, stopped me and questioned me as I passed by. He asked me if I was running away from home, I suppose because I looked so young. I told him, "Not exactly, sir," since my father had given me a ride to the freeway in Houston and given me his blessings while saying, "It is important to follow your dream and what is in your heart. Son. "

The bum then asked me if he could buy me a cup of coffee. I told him, "No, sir, but a soda would be great." We walked to a corner malt4 shop and sat down on a couple of swiveling stools while we enjoyed our drinks.

After conversing for a few minutes, the friendly bum told me to follow him. He told me that he had something grand to show me and share with me. We walked a couple of blocks until we came upon the downtown El Paso Public Library.

We walked up its front steps and stopped at a small information stand. Here the bum spoke to a smiling old lady, and asked her if she would be kind enough to watch my things for a moment while he and I entered the library. I left my belongings with this grandmotherly figure and entered into this magnificent hall of learning.

The bum first led me to a table and asked me to sit down and wait for a moment while he looked for something special amongst the shelves. A few moments later, he returned with a couple of old books under his arms and set them on the table. He then sat down beside me and spoke. He started with a few statements that were very special and that changed my life. He said, "There are two things that I want to teach you, young man, and they are these:

"Number one is to never judge a book by its cover, for a cover can fool you. "He followed with, "I ll bet you think I m a bum, don t you, young man?"

I said, "Well, uh, yes, I guess so, sir. "

"Well, young man, I ve got a little surprise for you. I am one of the wealthiest men in the world. I have probably everything any man could ever want. I originally come from the Northeast and have all the things that money can buy. But a year ago, my wife passed away, bless her soul, and since then I have been deeply reflecting upon life. I realized there were certain things I had not yet experienced in life,one of which was what it would be like to live like a bum on the streets. I made a commitment11 to myself to do exactly that for one year. For the past year.1 have been going from city to city doing just that. So, you see, don t ever judge a book by its cover, for a cover can fool you.

"Number two is to learn how to read, my boy. For there is only one thing that people can t take away from you, and that is your wisdom. " At that moment, he reached forward, grabbed my right hand in his and put them upon the books he d pulled from the shelves. They were the writings of Plato13 and Aristotle-immortal classics from ancient times.

The bum then led me back past the smiling old woman near the entrance, down the steps and back on the streets near where we first met. His parting request was for me to never forget what he taught me.

I haven’t.

True charm is an aura, an invisible musk in the air; if you see it working, the spell is broken. Charm is dynamic, and cannot be turned on and off at will. As to its ingredients, there is no fixed formula. A whole range of mysteries goes into the caldron, but the magic it offers must be absolute-one cannot be "almost" or "partly" charmed.

In a woman, charm is probably more exacting than in a man, requiring a wider array of subtleties. It is a light in the face, an air of exclusive welcome, an almost impossibly sustained note of satisfaction in one's company, and regret without fuss at parting. A woman with charm finds no man dull; indeed, in her presence he becomes not just a different person but the person he most wants to be. Such a woman gives life to his deep-held fantasies by adding the necessary conviction to his long suspicion that he is king.

Of those women who have most successfully charmed me I remember chiefly their voices and eyes. Their voices were intimate and enveloping. The listening eyes, supreme charm in a woman, betrayed no concern with any other world than this, warmly wrapping one round with total attention and turning one's lightest words to gold. Theirs was a charm that must have continued to exist, like the flower in the desert, even when there was nobody there to see it.

A woman's charm spreads round her that particular glow of well-being for which any man will want to seek her out and, by making full use of her nature, celebrates the fact of his maleness and so gives him an extra shot of life. Her charm lies also in that air of timeless maternalism, that calm and pacifying presence, which can dispel a man's moments of frustration and anger and restore his failures of will.

Charm in a man, I suppose, is his ability to capture the complicity of a woman by a single-minded acknowledgment of her uniqueness. Here again it is a question of being totally absorbed, of really forgetting that anyone else exists, for nothing more fatally betrays than the suggestion of a wandering eye. Silent devotion is fine, but seldom sufficient; it is what a man says that counts, the bold declarations, the flights of fancy, the uncovering of secret virtues. A man is charmed through his eyes, a woman by what she hears, so no man need to be too anxious about his age: As wizened Voltaire once said: "Give me a few minutes to talk away my face and I can seduce the Queen of France."

But charm isn't exclusively sexual; it comes in a variety of cooler flavors. Most children have it--till they are told they have it--and so do old people with nothing to lose; animals, too, of course. With children and smaller animals, it is often in the shape of the head and in the chaste unaccusing stare; with young girls and ponies, a certain stumbling awkwardness, a leggy inability to control their bodies. But all these are passive and appeal by capturing one's protective instincts.

You know who has charm. But can you acquire it? Properly, you can't, because it's an originality of touch you have to be born with. Or it's something that grows naturally out of another quality, like the simple desire to make people happy. Certainly, charm is not a question of learning palpable tricks, like wrinkling your nose, or having a laugh in your voice. On the other hand, there is an antenna, a built-in awareness of others, which most people have, and which care can nourish.

But in a study of charm, what else does one look for? Apart from the ability to listen--rarest of all human virtues--apart from warmth, sensitivity, and the power to please, there is a generosity which makes no demands. Charm spends itself willingly on young and old alike, on the poor, the ugly, the dim, the boring, on the last fat man in the corner. It reveals itself also in a sense of ease, in casual but perfect manners, and often in a physical grace which springs less from an accident of youth than from a confident serenity of mind. Any person with this is more than just a popular fellow; he is also a social healer.

Charm, in the end, is a most potent act of behavior, the laying down of a carpet by one person for another to give his existence a moment of honor. It is close to love in that it moves without force, bearing gifts like the growth of daylight. It snares completely, but is never punitive. It disarms by being itself disarmed, strikes without wounds, wins wars without casualties--though not, of course, without victims.

In the armory of man, charm is the enchanted dart, light and subtle as a hummingbird. But it is deceptive in one thing--like a sense of humor, if you think you've got it, you probably haven't.

How right they were. Enthusiastic people can turn a boring drive into an adventure, extra work into opportunity and strangers into friends.

"Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm," wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson. It is the paste that helps you hang in there when the going gets tough. It is the inner voice that whispers, "I can do it!" when others shout, "No, you can't."

It took years and years for the early work of Barbara McClintock, a geneticist who won the 1983 Nobel Prize in medicine, to be generally accepted. Yet she didn't let up on her experiments. Work was such a deep pleasure for her that she never thought of stopping.

We are all born with wide-eyed, enthusiastic wonder as anyone knows who has ever seen an infant's delight at the jingle of keys or the scurrying of a beetle.

It is this childlike wonder that gives enthusiastic people such a youthful air, whatever their age.

At 90, cellist Pablo Casals would start his day by playing Bach. As the music flowed through his fingers, his stooped shoulders would straighten and joy would reappear in his eyes. Music, for Casals, was an elixir that made life a never ending adventure. As author and poet Samuel Ullman once wrote, "Years wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul."

How do you rediscover the enthusiasm of your childhood? The answer, I believe, lies in the word itself. "Enthusiasm" comes from the Greek and means "God within." And what is God within is but an abiding sense of love -- proper love of self (self-acceptance) and, from that, love of others.

Enthusiastic people also love what they do, regardless of money or title or power. If we cannot do what we love as a full-time career, we can as a part-time avocation, like the head of state who paints, the nun who runs marathons, the executive who handcrafts furniture.

Elizabeth Layton of Wellsville, Kan, was 68 before she began to draw. This activity ended bouts of depression that had plagued her for at least 30 years, and the quality of her work led one critic to say, "I am tempted to call Layton a genius." Elizabeth has rediscovered her enthusiasm.

We can't afford to waste tears on "might-have-beens." We need to turn the tears into sweat as we go after "what-can-be."

We need to live each moment wholeheartedly, with all our senses -- finding pleasure in the fragrance of a back-yard garden, the crayoned picture of a six-year-old, the enchanting beauty of a rainbow. It is such enthusiastic love of life that puts a sparkle in our eyes, a lilt in our steps and smooths the wrinkles from our souls.

We always tell ourselves that our life will be complete when our spouse gets his or her act together. when we get a nice car, and are able to go on a nice vocation when we retire. The truth is, there's no better time than right now. If not now, when? our life will always be filled with challenges. It's best to admit this to ourselves and decide to be happy anyway.

One of my favorite quotes comes from Alfred Souza. He said."for a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin-real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, someting to be gotten through firest, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid.

Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life." This perspective has helped me to see that there is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way. So treasure every moment that you have.

And remember that time waits for no one. So stop waiting until you finish school, until you go back to school; until you get married, until you get divorced; until you have kids; until you retire; until you get a new car or home; until spring; until you are born again to decide that there is no better time than right now to be happy….

Happiness is a journey, not a destination.So, work like you don't need money, love like you've never been hurt, And dance like no one's watching.

The sorts and kinds of love are infinite in number, infinite as the days of the years of time. Each one of us is capable of many and various loves. We cannot love two creatures, not two dogs, with the same love. To each of those whom we love we offer a gem of different colour and value;—to the unknown Master of the heavens, ah! who shall tell of what sort is the love we offer to Him? Yet in this love, too (which is natural worship), we discover the same vibrational atmosphere that invades the soul of all lovers.

I doubt we shall not get much nearer to the nature of love by mere talking. Intellectual statements are of little use. God does not make intellectual statements, He creates. We have to find our way about in the vast medley of created things that life spreads out around us, and pick up what bits of knowledge we can as we make our way along.

Let me choose five images that will give an idea of what the awaking of this new life means.

I. Shall we not say that the creature without love is like the lamp unlit? There it is, and no one needs it. But touch it with flame, and it trembles and glows and becomes the centre of the room where it stands. Everything that falls under its rays is new-gilt. So does the lover see all natural things quite new.

II. Or take the image of the withering plant that is dying of drought. The sun’s rays have parched it; the roots have searched and searched for moisture in a soil that grows every day harder and drier. The plant wilts and hangs its head; it is fainting and ready to die, when down comes the rain in a murmuring multitude of round scented drops. the purest thing alive, a distilled essence, necessary to life. Under that baptism the plant lifts itself up; it drinks and rejoices. In the night it renews its strength; in the morning the heat it has had from the sun, reinforced by the rain, bursts out into coloured flowers. So I have known a man battered by hard life and the excess of his own passions: I have seen love come to such a man and take him up and cleanse him and set him on his feet; and from him has burst forth a flood of colour and splendour—creative work that now lends its fiery stimulus to thousands.

III. Another image might be of the harp that stands by itself in golden aloofness. Then come the beautiful arms, the curving fingers that pluck at the strings, and the air is filled with melody; the harp begins to live, thrilling and rejoicing. down to its golden foot.

IV. Or picture the unlighted house, empty at fall of night. The windows are dark; the door shut; the clean wind goes about and about it, and cannot find an entrance. The dull heavy air is faint within; it longs to be reunited to the wind of the world outside. Then comes the woman with the key, and in she steps; the windows are opened, the imprisoned air rushes out, the wind enters; the lamps and the fire are lit; so that light fills windows and doors. The tables are set, there is the sound of footsteps; and more footsteps. The house glows and lives.

One could please oneself by many more images; such as the white garment of feathers that the young swans put on in the spring: the young flowers opening out their cups to the Sun that fills them with his golden wine. All life is full of such images, because nature has ruled that love, energy, beauty, and joy are one.

V. A last image only I would like to add because of the pleasure it has given me. On the north door of the Cathedral of Chartres there is a sculptured design, some six hundred years old, of God creating the birds. God is charming, quite young, not more than thirty-eight or so; He has a most sweet expression. Behind Him a little stands the Son, about seventeen, tall as He and very like Him, but beardless. He has the same sweetness of look, as though upon each countenance an ineffable smile were just dawning. The Father is holding something that time has broken in His hand; most likely it is a bird. What a fortunate moment! What a fortunate thought! No wonder they both look pleased. Never have the birds disappointed Him as have we, His ruder children. Every spring since then these small creatures praise Him, head turned skywards, for the joy of the beloved, for the secret nest.

Imagining and pondering, one is apt to grow a little wise; now perhaps we may say that love is a radiant atmosphere of the soul, a celestial energy, a fluid force.

This force, this energy is set running in the wide kingdom that is within us by some Spirit touch. A soft tumult takes place in the life within; waves on waves of joy, desire, grief, ecstasy begin to run, making a trembling music that often causes the whole body to shake and tremble too.

I am in love with love; I do adore it;—from the smile on that rough fellow’s face as he talks to his dog, to the ardours of a St. Francis or a Joan of Arc. That bright creative flame, winged, conferring the gift of tongues, master of all music, of all joy, is the best thing we have of life.

She ran a small shop at a flea market and collected old clothes and some other things to sell for the money we needed. Once during elementary school, it was field day, and my mom came.I was so embarrassed and wondered how could she do this to me？I threw her a hateful look and ran out. The next day at school, my schoolmates asked me,“your mom only has one eye?!” and taunted me.

I was so angry with my mom and wished that she would just disappear from this world. So I said to my mom,“Why don’t you have the other eye?!If you’re only gonna make me a laughingstock!” My mon did not respond, I guess I felt a little bad, but at the same time, I felt so good to have had said what I wanted to say. Maybe it was because my mom hadn’t punished me, I didn’t think that I had hurt her feelings very badly.

For the words I had said to her earlier,there was something pinching at me in the corner of my heart. Even so, I hated my one-eyed mom and our desperate poverty. I told myself that I would become successful in the near future, so I studied very hard. Later I got accepted by the Seoul University, I left my mother and came to Seoul to study. Then I got married there.

I bought a house of my own. Then I had kids, too. Now I am living happily as a successful man. I enjoy the life in Seoul because it’s a place that doesn’t remind me of my mom and my past. This kind of happiness was getting bigger and bigger, until one day someone knocked at my door. It was my mom!And still with her one eye!It felt as if the whole sky was falling apart on me. My little girl ran away, scared of my mom’s eye.

I screamed at her,“Who are you？ I don’t know you!How dare you come to my house and scare my daughter!” To this, my mom quietly answered,“Oh, I’m so sorry. I may have gotten the wrong address,” and she disappeared out of sight.

One day, a letter regarding a school reunion came to my house. Lying to my wife that I was going on a business trip, I went back to participate in the reunion. After the reunion, I went down to the old shack, which I used to call a house, just out of curiosity. There I found my mom fallen on the cold ground. I did not shed a single tear.

Then a piece of paper in her hand came into my eyes. It was a letter to me.

My son,

I think my life has been long enough now,and I won’t visit Seoul anymore. But would it be too much to ask if I wanted you to come to visit me once in a while？ I miss you so much.And I was so glad when I heard you were coming for the reunion. But I decided not to go to the school…for you. I’m so sorry that I only have one eye, and I was an embarrassment for you.

You see, when you were very little, you got into an accident and lost your eye. As a mom, I couldn’t stand watching you having to grow up with only one eye. So I gave you mine. I was so proud of my son to see a whole new world for me with that eye. I was never upset at you for anything you did. During the couple of times that you were angry with me, I thought to myself, it’s because he loves me.

My son…oh, my son…

Don’t cry for me because of my death. I love you so much.