“Please check the mousetraps regularly…the mice may suffer dehydration…” reads the notice in the spotlessly clean kitchen at the Vipassana meditation centre in Alliston, Ontario. Below the message there was a prescribed schedule at which the mouse traps had to be checked, and, the trapped mice released into the fields. Notwithstanding the cleanliness of the kitchen, mice will be mice, and, come, drawn by the food, and, we need to deal with that.
I was preparing masala chai for the meditators on Christmas Day this year when this message that symbolized to me the essence of the teaching of the Christ struck my eye. Not just the Christ, but, that of every teacher of significance that has walked the earth…”Father, forgive them for they know not what they do…” could also be said as, “Please check the mousetraps…”
Reading that message brought back to me days back in Madras when we would set a mouse trap, and, very often in the morning there would be a terrified bandicoot rattling away inside the trap. None of us would have anything to do with either the bandicoot or the trap till Subbamma, our maidservant came. Subbamma had her own way of dealing with vermin, and, needless to add seldom were the vermin released into the field to live and see the light of the day. I shall not venture to guess or describe the exact method of decaptitation, except to say that I am happy to say that we did not actually witness the act.
Not having played a visibly active role in the decapitation of the bandicoot we satisfied ourselves that we had displayed sufficient qualities of ahimsa, non-violence. It was only years later that I listened to Goenkaji who said, “You cannot sell sheep to a butcher and say that you had nothing to do with killing them…” We are all involved in the killing whether we strike the actual blow or not...
In later years when I would go to meditate at Dhamma Giri, in Igatpuri, India, I would be terrified about the prospect of cockroaches crawling out of the sewer in the toilet. I would offer Metta (a prayer of loving kindness) as I walked into the toilet beseeching the roaches not to make their presence visible as I would have to kill them if I saw them, and, thereby break one of the commitments not to kill any living being while at a meditation retreat in the Vipassana tradition. Till today that prayer of Metta has worked, and, no roach has come at a time that would compromise my commitment to the Panch-shila, the five commitments one makes during a Vipassana course. My niece, herself a Vipassana meditator has faced a similar dilemma. Being a younger person she has come up with a solution, “Uncle, we can use insect repellent…that is not killing the insect…” Not sure, will have to check with the Buddha on this, sweetie…-:))
Moving away from the light heartedness, I think that in the message placed on the kitchen walls at the Vipassana centre in Alliston, Ontario, is the essence of the Dhamma, the Path. The mice will come, attracted by the food. That is their nature, that is their Dhamma. In our Dhamma, we have several choices. We can let Subbamma decapitate them as we did in our home in Madras, and, bask in the self righteousness of apparent ahimsa. Or, we can be concerned about the possible dehydration of the mice and check the mouse trap every three hours and let out the trapped mice.
Beyond the choices which will necessarily be a product of our conditioning, is a more important realization.
The mice exist for a purpose. They are part of nature’s checks and balances. The fact that they have been attracted to the food in your kitchen does not detract from their purpose. So, is every irritation that finds its way to us, whether it comes from a co-worker, boss, spouse or child. The irritation is telling us something, not so much about the person who we see as causing it. More so about ourselves … our deep self absorption that fails to let us see a co-worker’s complaints as issues about how we deliver service, and, not ‘…that bloody complaining bitch…’ The irritations that come our way are like the mice…and the way we respond to them will change as we become aware of our responses…Subbamma can deal with them and decapitate them while we maintain our façade of ahimsa…or we can recognize them as part of nature’s checks and balances and release them into the fields…what you do will flow from your conditioning…
Yes, they will perhaps find their way back to the food store…that is their Dhamma, their path, and, they will be caught in that repetitive cycle till they can stop and see the real mousetrap of the circle of life…which will only come from the practice of deep and Noble silence... till then, the problem will always be outside of us...
Till then, Please check the mousetraps…
Postcript:
And as I finish this, I just saw the breaking news about Benazir’s assassination…all this seems so totally, utterly meaningless in the face of such deep violence…and, on reflection, the realization…Please, please, check the mousetraps…
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
And another tale of a father and daughter
Geethu left on a holiday yesterday evening, and, I had agreed to fetch her and drop her at the airport.
Her flight was at 8.30pm, and, though I would have wanted to be at the airport by 5.30pm, I agreed to fetch her at 5.30pm from her apartment. Given the downtown Toronto traffic and Christmas shopping rush there was no way on earth we would reach the airport before 7.00pm. "Let me deal with this, Dad...I have travelled..." was the response I got from beti pyaari (hereafter referred to as bp, jr).
Five minutes before leaving office, Geethu called and said, "Dad, we need to stop to pick up a parcel from the post office on the way to the airport..." I was on another line, did not say anything, just said, "OK"
Earlier in the morning, Lakshmi told me that she would like to join me for the ride. Not wanting to upset the other bp, bharyaa priyaa, (bp, sr, for future reference) in my life, I did not say No to her, either. It meant that I had to make a detour in downtown Toronto traffic, fetch bp,sr. and then go to fetch bp, jr.
I left office around 4.20pm, twenty minutes after I wanted to, not wanting to cut off a telephone caller who had called for some work.
So, now, you have the scenario. Downtown traffic, 40-45 minutes to make it to Lakshmi's office which is in core traffic and then to Geethu's apartment. As I neared Geethu's apartment I tried to reach her on her cell phone to connect with her to ask her to come down. In anticipation of my coming, bp,jr had started the eighteen storey journey down to her lobby and couldn't answer my phone calls as she was in the elevator. Asked bp,sr to try as I wasn't comfortable juggling the phone and the traffic. bp,sr. tried, same response. Geethu wasn?t picking up the phone. "We can never get through to her...she is always on the phone...whom does she talk to ?..." bp,sr. said, coming out with all her frustration over Geethu and her independence. At that precise moment, bp,jr was making her way down the elevator so as not to make her parents wait.
The last half a kilometer up Church Street was an absolute pain. Unlike in Mumbai or Bangkok, there was total traffic order. No one jumped a traffic light, no one changed lanes without giving a signal, everyone stopped for the pedestrian cutting across...perfect traffic order, and, in that order was misery...traffic crawled because everyone was so considerate...you will never understand that misery unless you have driven in such orderly, dense traffic?it took me twenty minutes to do that half kilometer stretch.
"Dad, you sit back and let me drive..." bp,jr told me, when we reached. I was glad to take up the offer and parked myself in the back seat as bp,jr started the car.
"I have to stop and drop off a key at my friend's apartment," bp,jr told me. "OK" I said, observing the breath that was waiting to blow up in fury. She expertly manoevured her way through the traffic and reached her friend's apartment, parked the car on the busy road with the hazard lights on and said, "Will be back in a second..."
As she got out, a cop car pulled up and saw the parked car, "Move on, sir...no stopping here..." he told me...me...getting ready for a snooze in the back seat...
I got out, moved the car, and, as bp,jr came running back in a few seconds, let loose...for the next ten minutes, father and daughter exchanged swear words that would have
a Qualified us as senior faculty in the Fishmongers College of Advanced swearing technology
b Left Mr S. Gautama, aka the Buddha, wondering about the impact of meditating for two hours a day on menopausing men...
Geethu told me to stop, she would take a cab. I just kept driving...and swearing...she cited all the miseries growing up as the child of such uncaring parents, and, I continued driving and swearing?
Anyway, it all settled down within fifteen minutes, much apologies exchanged, we had dinner together at the airport and Geethu sent me an email from her Blackberry saying that she had bought me a neck pillow for the long trip to India in February, and, that she would ask her friend to arrange for me to rest in the Business Class lounge...
in short, pyaar restored...
+++++
This morning I did not do my usual meditation sit. The memory of the exchange with Geethu, one of the few people I claim to love unconditionally kept coming back. I do not remember every having shouted at her or she at me. As I reflected a couple of experiences came through:
When I snapped soon after the cop had asked me to move there was no sensing of anything else. Just the awareness of the anger that filled me. I could not see or hear anything else. "How can this girl leave the car where it is blocking traffic ?"
And as the anger let itself fly free in the swear words, the dim awareness, "Was this how Pervez felt when he found his daughter not wearing the hijab ?" Blinded to everything else but his sense of being wronged...
And the words of Goenkaji to Kiran Bedi as he started the Vipassana courses at Tihar jail, "All of us are prisoners...some are behind bars...some are not..."
From the time I have known, I have been on time for everything. It is a family value. I remember how we would joke about a distant family member who was a senior Government official, missing a flight, "Is this how a senior Government officer should behave ?" No one in our family was ever late for a flight or missed a train. In fact, the joke in the family was that we would always be early enough at the station to fetch the train from the yard....
There was pride in that conditioning... I grew up in England. The British were never later for an appointment. Never missed a train, never late...
As I reflected on that pride, that deep conditioning about being on time, the words of an uncle of mine who was a senior IFS officer, an Ambassador, came through...He had just retired, and, he told me, "For thirty five years, every morning, I would be at the door of my Residence to take the flag car to the Chancery. The day after I retired it came to me that, twenty four hours after I retired, it mattered to no one that I was not there in the flag car at eight in the morning"
My dear uncle who had been on time all his life, died a year after that conversation...
Look at that conditioning, the depth of it. As long as I could control the children, I would ensure that they were at the airport at a time that met my needs. Now, Geethu is grown up and while I can quote Kahlil Gibran ad nauseam, I cannot accept that she can deal with her life on her own terms in such a simple matter as getting to a flight...Any difference with Pervez except that unfortunately for him the outcome of his conditioning was far too tragic for words ?
And what did Jesus say to those waiting to stone the adultress to death ?...
"Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her..."
And so much goes on in my mind, how do I let go ? How do I let go of trying to thrust my ideas of life on a 29-year old child because I say that is what is good for her ?
The assumptions we make about others' behaviour...why does she not pick up the phone ? All our own self absorption in what we want to accomplish?
And another pearl of wisdom that came through from bp,jr, as we competed for senior faculty positions in the swearing technology college, "Why don't you say 'No' if it is going to cause so much difficulty for you ?" That is definitely Generation X gyan...
And, as the awareness of the conflict within me comes through, along with it comes the realization that fully observing the depth of the conflict without judging it is what meditation is...not achieving some heightened orgasmic state, sitting cross legged and with eyes closed...
Makes sense ?
Her flight was at 8.30pm, and, though I would have wanted to be at the airport by 5.30pm, I agreed to fetch her at 5.30pm from her apartment. Given the downtown Toronto traffic and Christmas shopping rush there was no way on earth we would reach the airport before 7.00pm. "Let me deal with this, Dad...I have travelled..." was the response I got from beti pyaari (hereafter referred to as bp, jr).
Five minutes before leaving office, Geethu called and said, "Dad, we need to stop to pick up a parcel from the post office on the way to the airport..." I was on another line, did not say anything, just said, "OK"
Earlier in the morning, Lakshmi told me that she would like to join me for the ride. Not wanting to upset the other bp, bharyaa priyaa, (bp, sr, for future reference) in my life, I did not say No to her, either. It meant that I had to make a detour in downtown Toronto traffic, fetch bp,sr. and then go to fetch bp, jr.
I left office around 4.20pm, twenty minutes after I wanted to, not wanting to cut off a telephone caller who had called for some work.
So, now, you have the scenario. Downtown traffic, 40-45 minutes to make it to Lakshmi's office which is in core traffic and then to Geethu's apartment. As I neared Geethu's apartment I tried to reach her on her cell phone to connect with her to ask her to come down. In anticipation of my coming, bp,jr had started the eighteen storey journey down to her lobby and couldn't answer my phone calls as she was in the elevator. Asked bp,sr to try as I wasn't comfortable juggling the phone and the traffic. bp,sr. tried, same response. Geethu wasn?t picking up the phone. "We can never get through to her...she is always on the phone...whom does she talk to ?..." bp,sr. said, coming out with all her frustration over Geethu and her independence. At that precise moment, bp,jr was making her way down the elevator so as not to make her parents wait.
The last half a kilometer up Church Street was an absolute pain. Unlike in Mumbai or Bangkok, there was total traffic order. No one jumped a traffic light, no one changed lanes without giving a signal, everyone stopped for the pedestrian cutting across...perfect traffic order, and, in that order was misery...traffic crawled because everyone was so considerate...you will never understand that misery unless you have driven in such orderly, dense traffic?it took me twenty minutes to do that half kilometer stretch.
"Dad, you sit back and let me drive..." bp,jr told me, when we reached. I was glad to take up the offer and parked myself in the back seat as bp,jr started the car.
"I have to stop and drop off a key at my friend's apartment," bp,jr told me. "OK" I said, observing the breath that was waiting to blow up in fury. She expertly manoevured her way through the traffic and reached her friend's apartment, parked the car on the busy road with the hazard lights on and said, "Will be back in a second..."
As she got out, a cop car pulled up and saw the parked car, "Move on, sir...no stopping here..." he told me...me...getting ready for a snooze in the back seat...
I got out, moved the car, and, as bp,jr came running back in a few seconds, let loose...for the next ten minutes, father and daughter exchanged swear words that would have
a Qualified us as senior faculty in the Fishmongers College of Advanced swearing technology
b Left Mr S. Gautama, aka the Buddha, wondering about the impact of meditating for two hours a day on menopausing men...
Geethu told me to stop, she would take a cab. I just kept driving...and swearing...she cited all the miseries growing up as the child of such uncaring parents, and, I continued driving and swearing?
Anyway, it all settled down within fifteen minutes, much apologies exchanged, we had dinner together at the airport and Geethu sent me an email from her Blackberry saying that she had bought me a neck pillow for the long trip to India in February, and, that she would ask her friend to arrange for me to rest in the Business Class lounge...
in short, pyaar restored...
+++++
This morning I did not do my usual meditation sit. The memory of the exchange with Geethu, one of the few people I claim to love unconditionally kept coming back. I do not remember every having shouted at her or she at me. As I reflected a couple of experiences came through:
When I snapped soon after the cop had asked me to move there was no sensing of anything else. Just the awareness of the anger that filled me. I could not see or hear anything else. "How can this girl leave the car where it is blocking traffic ?"
And as the anger let itself fly free in the swear words, the dim awareness, "Was this how Pervez felt when he found his daughter not wearing the hijab ?" Blinded to everything else but his sense of being wronged...
And the words of Goenkaji to Kiran Bedi as he started the Vipassana courses at Tihar jail, "All of us are prisoners...some are behind bars...some are not..."
From the time I have known, I have been on time for everything. It is a family value. I remember how we would joke about a distant family member who was a senior Government official, missing a flight, "Is this how a senior Government officer should behave ?" No one in our family was ever late for a flight or missed a train. In fact, the joke in the family was that we would always be early enough at the station to fetch the train from the yard....
There was pride in that conditioning... I grew up in England. The British were never later for an appointment. Never missed a train, never late...
As I reflected on that pride, that deep conditioning about being on time, the words of an uncle of mine who was a senior IFS officer, an Ambassador, came through...He had just retired, and, he told me, "For thirty five years, every morning, I would be at the door of my Residence to take the flag car to the Chancery. The day after I retired it came to me that, twenty four hours after I retired, it mattered to no one that I was not there in the flag car at eight in the morning"
My dear uncle who had been on time all his life, died a year after that conversation...
Look at that conditioning, the depth of it. As long as I could control the children, I would ensure that they were at the airport at a time that met my needs. Now, Geethu is grown up and while I can quote Kahlil Gibran ad nauseam, I cannot accept that she can deal with her life on her own terms in such a simple matter as getting to a flight...Any difference with Pervez except that unfortunately for him the outcome of his conditioning was far too tragic for words ?
And what did Jesus say to those waiting to stone the adultress to death ?...
"Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her..."
And so much goes on in my mind, how do I let go ? How do I let go of trying to thrust my ideas of life on a 29-year old child because I say that is what is good for her ?
The assumptions we make about others' behaviour...why does she not pick up the phone ? All our own self absorption in what we want to accomplish?
And another pearl of wisdom that came through from bp,jr, as we competed for senior faculty positions in the swearing technology college, "Why don't you say 'No' if it is going to cause so much difficulty for you ?" That is definitely Generation X gyan...
And, as the awareness of the conflict within me comes through, along with it comes the realization that fully observing the depth of the conflict without judging it is what meditation is...not achieving some heightened orgasmic state, sitting cross legged and with eyes closed...
Makes sense ?
A tale of two daughters
In the last few weeks, we, here in Canada, have heard two somewhat chilling stories.
The first that I am going to tell is about a father, a father named Pervez. I think (I am not sure) some weeks ago I travelled in Pervez's taxi when he took me to the airport from downtown Toronto. It was Ramadan, and, seeing a fellow sub continenter he asked me if he could play his tape of prayers. It is ages since I heard the beautiful sonorous chant of the Koran (somewhat similar to the way the Sama Veda is chanted, not the equally beautiful staccato chants of the Suktas), and, I spent about half an hour listening to the suras of the Koran as I made my way through the downtown afternoon traffic in his taxi.
Pervez looked somewhat sullen. However that is not uncommon among taxi drivers from the sub continent in Toronto. Most of them are Ph.ds or MDs from their home country, and, in the presence of another sub continenter who appears to be successful in white society, they let their feelings hang out. Sometimes they talk to you about their frustration. This cab driver, who, could have been Pervez, did not speak, and, just chose to drive me in silence. I was thankful that he had played the chants of the Koran for me...
On Monday two weeks ago the news broke, of this vivacious 16-year old girl, Aqsa, who had been allegedly strangled to death by her father, a taxi driver named Pervez, supposedly because she was unwilling to wear the hijab and dress modestly as her religion required her to. Key in Aqsa Pervez in Facebook and you can, posthumously, see the beautiful child and the world she lives in.
A lot of what happened in the Pervez home will never be known. Much of it has already been lost in the clamour of 'honour killing' and all that Western society paints the unfamiliar zone where culture and religion become indistinguishable in the world East of Suez.
How much of a role religion played in all this, I cannot venture to assess. It is perhaps only a part of that deep conditioning that goes into each of us as we cherish an ambition for what our children will turn out to be. Is that ambition or is it the need to control ?
Today (this was last week) Aqsa will be buried. Her mother, I understand, has chosen to donate her organs...as those organs take life again, and, the Namaz-e-Janaza is recited for this beautiful child I pray that they take life in peace and beauty...I also pray for Pervez, and, hope that one day he will find peace as he struggles with the pain of what happened on Monday...
And the other story we have been hearing in Canada, is of Robert Pickton, a pig farmer, who lived near Vancouver, and, killed prostitutes. We are told that he would string up their entrails alongside that of the pigs of that he had killed. No, the story is not of Robert Pickton, but, of a mother whose daughter practised the same profession as one of Robert Pickton's victims.
This mother, who identified herself as Elaine (maybe another name), appeared on a CBC (Canada Broadcasting Corporation) radio show one morning as I was driving to office somewhat late. She appeared live and it was about 7am in Western Canada when she was being interviewed.
The mother talked of the struggles she had with her daughter. Like all of us she had dreams (another word for ambitions) for her daughter...for the daughter to become a dancer, a doctor, a lawyer and all those wonderful things that make us parents look good in the eyes of society...the child had gone into drugs and all those things that make parents look bad in the eyes of society...she had tried to help pull her out of it...didn't work...the child had started walking the streets of Vancouver and in the process become a single mother...
At about 7am in the morning as the mother spoke to the interviewer, she was interrupted by a phone call..."Thanks, honey...come home, breakfast is ready..." Elaine told her daughter...that was the early morning call every day her daughter would put through as her business day closed, to tell her mother that she had survived another night in the world of the Robert Picktons of the world...
Elaine talked of how rough her daughter's world was...how she had to protect her grandchild from her mother (the daughter) in the mornings...by afternoon, the daughter was sweet as any mother is...the mornings were rough, a hangover of the viciousness of the world the daughter lived in...
A deeply religious person Elaine had no prayers for anyone...all she wanted to do was to make sure that her daughter was safe and she ended by saying, "I do not know what I will do if that 7am call does not come through, one day..."
++++++
I have no insights to offer on either Pervez' story or that of Elaine. My eyes glaze over with tears at both stories. As I wipe the tears away, the words of a very wise man, Kahlil Gibran come through
On Children Kahlil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your childrenas living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Dedicated to Aqsa and Elaine's daughter...
The first that I am going to tell is about a father, a father named Pervez. I think (I am not sure) some weeks ago I travelled in Pervez's taxi when he took me to the airport from downtown Toronto. It was Ramadan, and, seeing a fellow sub continenter he asked me if he could play his tape of prayers. It is ages since I heard the beautiful sonorous chant of the Koran (somewhat similar to the way the Sama Veda is chanted, not the equally beautiful staccato chants of the Suktas), and, I spent about half an hour listening to the suras of the Koran as I made my way through the downtown afternoon traffic in his taxi.
Pervez looked somewhat sullen. However that is not uncommon among taxi drivers from the sub continent in Toronto. Most of them are Ph.ds or MDs from their home country, and, in the presence of another sub continenter who appears to be successful in white society, they let their feelings hang out. Sometimes they talk to you about their frustration. This cab driver, who, could have been Pervez, did not speak, and, just chose to drive me in silence. I was thankful that he had played the chants of the Koran for me...
On Monday two weeks ago the news broke, of this vivacious 16-year old girl, Aqsa, who had been allegedly strangled to death by her father, a taxi driver named Pervez, supposedly because she was unwilling to wear the hijab and dress modestly as her religion required her to. Key in Aqsa Pervez in Facebook and you can, posthumously, see the beautiful child and the world she lives in.
A lot of what happened in the Pervez home will never be known. Much of it has already been lost in the clamour of 'honour killing' and all that Western society paints the unfamiliar zone where culture and religion become indistinguishable in the world East of Suez.
How much of a role religion played in all this, I cannot venture to assess. It is perhaps only a part of that deep conditioning that goes into each of us as we cherish an ambition for what our children will turn out to be. Is that ambition or is it the need to control ?
Today (this was last week) Aqsa will be buried. Her mother, I understand, has chosen to donate her organs...as those organs take life again, and, the Namaz-e-Janaza is recited for this beautiful child I pray that they take life in peace and beauty...I also pray for Pervez, and, hope that one day he will find peace as he struggles with the pain of what happened on Monday...
And the other story we have been hearing in Canada, is of Robert Pickton, a pig farmer, who lived near Vancouver, and, killed prostitutes. We are told that he would string up their entrails alongside that of the pigs of that he had killed. No, the story is not of Robert Pickton, but, of a mother whose daughter practised the same profession as one of Robert Pickton's victims.
This mother, who identified herself as Elaine (maybe another name), appeared on a CBC (Canada Broadcasting Corporation) radio show one morning as I was driving to office somewhat late. She appeared live and it was about 7am in Western Canada when she was being interviewed.
The mother talked of the struggles she had with her daughter. Like all of us she had dreams (another word for ambitions) for her daughter...for the daughter to become a dancer, a doctor, a lawyer and all those wonderful things that make us parents look good in the eyes of society...the child had gone into drugs and all those things that make parents look bad in the eyes of society...she had tried to help pull her out of it...didn't work...the child had started walking the streets of Vancouver and in the process become a single mother...
At about 7am in the morning as the mother spoke to the interviewer, she was interrupted by a phone call..."Thanks, honey...come home, breakfast is ready..." Elaine told her daughter...that was the early morning call every day her daughter would put through as her business day closed, to tell her mother that she had survived another night in the world of the Robert Picktons of the world...
Elaine talked of how rough her daughter's world was...how she had to protect her grandchild from her mother (the daughter) in the mornings...by afternoon, the daughter was sweet as any mother is...the mornings were rough, a hangover of the viciousness of the world the daughter lived in...
A deeply religious person Elaine had no prayers for anyone...all she wanted to do was to make sure that her daughter was safe and she ended by saying, "I do not know what I will do if that 7am call does not come through, one day..."
++++++
I have no insights to offer on either Pervez' story or that of Elaine. My eyes glaze over with tears at both stories. As I wipe the tears away, the words of a very wise man, Kahlil Gibran come through
On Children Kahlil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your childrenas living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Dedicated to Aqsa and Elaine's daughter...
Hello there
Dear traveller on the web galaxy,
Thank you very much for stopping by.
Now, I know that perhaps you really did not plan to. Have lived long enough let me assure you that very often, the best things that come to you in life are not things that you plan for. This statement, of course excludes the cold that comes to you unplanned or slipping on the ice and throwing your back out. I am hoping that visiting this blog will not make you feel like you were catching the cold...more like, suddenly looking up into the sky and seeing an unusual cloud catching the light of the setting sun...a moment of wonder, and then you move on doing what you were doing.
There is no message I have to offer. I write just to entertain myself and flash what I write to seek the reader's attention. If it catches your attention and you decide to stay, let's watch together the different hues of the setting sun as it catches the clouds. If it does not catch your attention I wish you well as you move on,
Khuda Hafiz, as they say in Persian,
May you be in the protection of the Creator
Thank you very much for stopping by.
Now, I know that perhaps you really did not plan to. Have lived long enough let me assure you that very often, the best things that come to you in life are not things that you plan for. This statement, of course excludes the cold that comes to you unplanned or slipping on the ice and throwing your back out. I am hoping that visiting this blog will not make you feel like you were catching the cold...more like, suddenly looking up into the sky and seeing an unusual cloud catching the light of the setting sun...a moment of wonder, and then you move on doing what you were doing.
There is no message I have to offer. I write just to entertain myself and flash what I write to seek the reader's attention. If it catches your attention and you decide to stay, let's watch together the different hues of the setting sun as it catches the clouds. If it does not catch your attention I wish you well as you move on,
Khuda Hafiz, as they say in Persian,
May you be in the protection of the Creator
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
