Point to Ponder
Swami Vivekananda had written in one of his letters-
“Our motherland is a glowing example of the results and consequence of the eternal subjection of the individual to society and forced self-sacrifice by dint of institution and discipline. In this country people are born according to scriptural injunctions, they eat and drink by prescribed rules throughout life, they go through marriage and kindred functions in the same way; in short, they even die according to
scriptural injunctions.
The hard discipline, with the exception of one great good point, is fraught with evil. The good point is that people can do one or two things well with very little effort, having practiced them every day through generations. The delicious rice and curry that a cook of this country prepares with the aid of three lumps of earth and a few sticks can be had nowhere else. With the simple mechanism of an antediluvian loom, worth one rupee, and the feet put in a pit, it is possible to make kincobs worth twenty rupees a yard, in this country alone. A torn mat, an earthen lamp, and that fed by castor oil--with the aid of
materials such as these, wonderful savants are produced in this country alone. An all-forbearing attachment to an ugly and deformed wife, and a lifelong devotion to a worthless and villainous husband are possible in this country alone. Thus far the bright side.
But all these things are done by people guided like lifeless machines. There is no mental activity, no opening of the heart, no vibration of life, no flux of hope; there is no strong stimulation of the will, no experience of keen pleasure, nor the contact with intense sorrow; there is no stir of inventive genius, no desire for novelty, no appreciation
of new things. Clouds never pass away from this mind, the radiant picture of the morning sun never charms this heart. It never even occurs to this mind if there is any better state than this; where it does, it cannot convince; in the event of conviction, effort is lacking; and even where there is effort, lack of enthusiasm kills it out.”
If living by rule alone ensures excellence, if it be virtue to follow strictly the rules and customs handed down through generations, say then, who is more virtuous than a tree, who is a greater devotee, a holier saint, than a railway train? Who has ever seen a piece of stone transgress a natural law? Who has ever known cattle to commit sin?
The huge steamer, the mighty railway engine-they are non-intelligent; they move, turn, and run, but they are without intelligence. And yonder tiny worm which moved away from the railway line to save its life, why is it intelligent? There is no manifestation of will in the machine, the machine never wishes to transgress law; the worm wants to oppose law--rises against law whether it succeeds or not; therefore it is intelligent. Greater is the happiness, higher is the individual, in proportion as this will is more successfully manifest. The will of God is perfectly fruitful; therefore He is the highest.
What is education? Is it book-learning? No. Is it diverse knowledge? Not even that. The training by which the current and expression of will are brought under control and become fruitful is called education. Now consider, is that education as a result of which the will, being continuously choked by force through generations, is well-nigh killed out; is that education under whose sway even the old ideas, let alone the new ones, are disappearing one by one; is that education which is slowly making every one of us a machine? It is more blessed, in my opinion, even to go wrong, impelled by one's free will and intelligence than to be good as an automaton.”
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Life is fair and square
I took a trip this weekend to Indore, I love traveling partly because it gives me the opportunity to meet different people who give valuable insights. This time round on my way I met this person who taught me a valuable lesson , life is fair and square.
• Nobody should ever try and stop Nature because sooner or later what has to happen will happen.
Sometimes letting go is difficult .Even when you know that something is not working or that things have changed we don’t accept things.
For example – a bad friendship, it is difficult to accept that the person who was supposed to be your friend really isn’t that he changed over time.Its like an investment, you put in money expecting some return . But in the end you lose more than what you get. It is difficult to accept loss, but generally speaking an investment gone wrong is a bad investment; the sooner you can come to terms with reality the better. Sometimes struggle may not get you anywhere.
• Nature will give back to you what you put into it. If you put in work for 50 Rs and expect back 500 Rs then that is not done but life will always give you back what you put into it. Life’s stock market has its different rules, there isn’t any bad investment. You may not get what you expect but somehow you always get a return. If you were a good friend, you will find help unexpectedly .You find a new friend in your lowest low when nobody else is around. That is how things come back to you.
Still I Rise
-Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise
-Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise
Prayer for the daughter of Waris
This is not an article but a prayer for Amrita Pritam, a writer who enriched many souls in her long and triumphant literary journey, says Nirupama Dutt.
THERE is a street shaded by trees that meanders like a snake off the Safdarjang Development Area into the K block of Delhi’s Hauz Khas. On this street is a stone house with tall windows trailing with bougainvillaea and a small patch of a garden with its harsinghar tree. Come August, and the lawn will be strewn with tiny parijat flowers. Come August and the girl who built this house number 25 will turn 83.
Yes, you already know her name. Her name is Amrita Pritam. The eminent Punjabi poet and novelist. This name means a lot to many and the girl with this name means much more. Her story is one of great courage. This pretty girl began her literary journey way back in Lahore in 1935 when she penned her first book of verse in Punjabi called Thandian Kirnan. Here was a girl writing in her own language, her own dreams. Punjabi was to go places with her and her dreams were common with the pioneering women writers writing all over the world. As the little girl’s talents blossomed, her poetry was to represent not just the composite culture of Punjab, but universal values of truth, justice and freedom.
Today, as I write these lines to her she is in pain and agony following a fall and surgery. Her physical condition has compelled her to shut down Nagmani, the literary magazine she and her artist partner brought out so lovingly over 36 years. A couple of years ago she had announced that she would close it down as her health was indifferent but readers made pleas and Amrita brought it out somehow in spite of failing health. The final closure of Nagmani has brought gloom in literary circles.
Imroz, however says, "The gloom is misplaced. Everything has a time cycle. Nagmani came out so many years in full glory. Let someone else bring out another Nagmani maybe by another name somewhere."
So well said and reminiscent of a song Sahir Ludhianvi, the Urdu poet with whom Amrita shared a bond of love, Main pal do pal ka shaair hoon (I am a poet of a moment or two). Sahir is no more, but his poetry lives on. A moment or two can sometimes reach out to the infinite. Personally, I , a minor poet of Punjabi among the two generations of writers whom Amrita inspired and nurtured, feel the gloom is not required. What is required is to look up to her and reconfirm faith in struggle, love and freedom. To think of Amrita is also to think of her immortal poem addressed to Waris Shah— Ajj Akhan Waris Shah Nu:
Waris Shah!
I call out to you
Rise from the depths
Of your grave
And add another page to
Your saga of love
A daughter of Punjab
Had wept once and
You sang a thousand dirges
Today millions of girls
Are weeping and asking you
O’ Waris
To look afresh at your Punjab…
On hearing of Amrita’s illness and the closure of Nagmani, I go to that sacred destination in Hauz Khas with a bouquet of white roses. As I put them in a vase and place them on a bureau in front of her, I notice on the wall a picture of Amrita sittting all huddled up in green silk shawls edged with gold. What is this I ask the grand lady of letters, "These are the chaddars from the tombs of Waris Shah, Bulle Shah and Sultan Bahu that writers from Pakistan have sent me as a gift. They came with a letter from Iliyaz Ghumman saying that You are the waris (heir) of our Waris." It certainly is a befitting title. In the past few years more awards and honours were added to Amrita’s already long list of laurels put she says most precious to her are those green silk chaddars. " I have only returned in my writings what I learnt from these saints and sages," she says in all humility as her hand goes to her broken hip joint.
I have personally enjoyed a fond relationship with Nagamani as I am one of the many Punjabi writers, who was discovered and nurtured by this literary journal that was bought up like a baby by Amrita and Imroz. Amrita would take care of the editorial content and the design and sketches would be by Imroz. Looking back at the early days of Nagmani, Imroz recalls, "We chose brown newsprint because it was cheap but it looked so good that it became quite a craze. We also picked out the cheapest press. We would go there to supervise the printing. There would be no chair there for Amrita to sit on and read the proofs. So we would borrow a barber’s chair from nearby." Together they would write addresses on the magazine and Imroz would put them in his Fiat car and take them to the post office. This labour of love made it an exceptional journal. There never was and it will be a long time before someone will bring out one such. Since the talk is of Nagmani, Amrita cannot help but join it in spite of the pain, "Readers are writing me letters to not close it. But My health just does not allow me to go on with it."
The magazine was just one aspect of this girl who dared to be a poet. Yes, talent and courage combined in the life of Amrita Pritam who led a life at her own terms and all through contributed brilliant poetry and prose to her language. She is one writer who is loved by Punjabis on both sides of the Indo-Pak border. What pains Amrita is that clouds of war should gather over these two countries. The writer says, "The people on both sides want peace. The writers strive for peace and the politicians should also see sense in it."
It is time to leave and Amrita is feeling drowsy, courtesy the sedatives. I ask her, "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She smiles her charming smile and says, "Pray to God that I should depart from this world in peace." I sit a while with Imroz who looks after her keeping awake at nights . And as I wish goodbye and step down, I feel that I am returning from a pilgrimage. I mutter the prayer and then recall some lines of this great poet of our times:
I have effaced the name from
the nameplate outside my house
I have even rubbed off the number
Wherever you see a free soul
You will know that it is my home…
So spoke the daughter of Waris and I feel blessed that one lived in her times and got the chance to know a little a soul as kindred as hers.
This is not an article but a prayer for Amrita Pritam, a writer who enriched many souls in her long and triumphant literary journey, says Nirupama Dutt.
THERE is a street shaded by trees that meanders like a snake off the Safdarjang Development Area into the K block of Delhi’s Hauz Khas. On this street is a stone house with tall windows trailing with bougainvillaea and a small patch of a garden with its harsinghar tree. Come August, and the lawn will be strewn with tiny parijat flowers. Come August and the girl who built this house number 25 will turn 83.
Yes, you already know her name. Her name is Amrita Pritam. The eminent Punjabi poet and novelist. This name means a lot to many and the girl with this name means much more. Her story is one of great courage. This pretty girl began her literary journey way back in Lahore in 1935 when she penned her first book of verse in Punjabi called Thandian Kirnan. Here was a girl writing in her own language, her own dreams. Punjabi was to go places with her and her dreams were common with the pioneering women writers writing all over the world. As the little girl’s talents blossomed, her poetry was to represent not just the composite culture of Punjab, but universal values of truth, justice and freedom.
Today, as I write these lines to her she is in pain and agony following a fall and surgery. Her physical condition has compelled her to shut down Nagmani, the literary magazine she and her artist partner brought out so lovingly over 36 years. A couple of years ago she had announced that she would close it down as her health was indifferent but readers made pleas and Amrita brought it out somehow in spite of failing health. The final closure of Nagmani has brought gloom in literary circles.
Imroz, however says, "The gloom is misplaced. Everything has a time cycle. Nagmani came out so many years in full glory. Let someone else bring out another Nagmani maybe by another name somewhere."
So well said and reminiscent of a song Sahir Ludhianvi, the Urdu poet with whom Amrita shared a bond of love, Main pal do pal ka shaair hoon (I am a poet of a moment or two). Sahir is no more, but his poetry lives on. A moment or two can sometimes reach out to the infinite. Personally, I , a minor poet of Punjabi among the two generations of writers whom Amrita inspired and nurtured, feel the gloom is not required. What is required is to look up to her and reconfirm faith in struggle, love and freedom. To think of Amrita is also to think of her immortal poem addressed to Waris Shah— Ajj Akhan Waris Shah Nu:
Waris Shah!
I call out to you
Rise from the depths
Of your grave
And add another page to
Your saga of love
A daughter of Punjab
Had wept once and
You sang a thousand dirges
Today millions of girls
Are weeping and asking you
O’ Waris
To look afresh at your Punjab…
On hearing of Amrita’s illness and the closure of Nagmani, I go to that sacred destination in Hauz Khas with a bouquet of white roses. As I put them in a vase and place them on a bureau in front of her, I notice on the wall a picture of Amrita sittting all huddled up in green silk shawls edged with gold. What is this I ask the grand lady of letters, "These are the chaddars from the tombs of Waris Shah, Bulle Shah and Sultan Bahu that writers from Pakistan have sent me as a gift. They came with a letter from Iliyaz Ghumman saying that You are the waris (heir) of our Waris." It certainly is a befitting title. In the past few years more awards and honours were added to Amrita’s already long list of laurels put she says most precious to her are those green silk chaddars. " I have only returned in my writings what I learnt from these saints and sages," she says in all humility as her hand goes to her broken hip joint.
I have personally enjoyed a fond relationship with Nagamani as I am one of the many Punjabi writers, who was discovered and nurtured by this literary journal that was bought up like a baby by Amrita and Imroz. Amrita would take care of the editorial content and the design and sketches would be by Imroz. Looking back at the early days of Nagmani, Imroz recalls, "We chose brown newsprint because it was cheap but it looked so good that it became quite a craze. We also picked out the cheapest press. We would go there to supervise the printing. There would be no chair there for Amrita to sit on and read the proofs. So we would borrow a barber’s chair from nearby." Together they would write addresses on the magazine and Imroz would put them in his Fiat car and take them to the post office. This labour of love made it an exceptional journal. There never was and it will be a long time before someone will bring out one such. Since the talk is of Nagmani, Amrita cannot help but join it in spite of the pain, "Readers are writing me letters to not close it. But My health just does not allow me to go on with it."
The magazine was just one aspect of this girl who dared to be a poet. Yes, talent and courage combined in the life of Amrita Pritam who led a life at her own terms and all through contributed brilliant poetry and prose to her language. She is one writer who is loved by Punjabis on both sides of the Indo-Pak border. What pains Amrita is that clouds of war should gather over these two countries. The writer says, "The people on both sides want peace. The writers strive for peace and the politicians should also see sense in it."
It is time to leave and Amrita is feeling drowsy, courtesy the sedatives. I ask her, "Is there anything that I can do for you?" She smiles her charming smile and says, "Pray to God that I should depart from this world in peace." I sit a while with Imroz who looks after her keeping awake at nights . And as I wish goodbye and step down, I feel that I am returning from a pilgrimage. I mutter the prayer and then recall some lines of this great poet of our times:
I have effaced the name from
the nameplate outside my house
I have even rubbed off the number
Wherever you see a free soul
You will know that it is my home…
So spoke the daughter of Waris and I feel blessed that one lived in her times and got the chance to know a little a soul as kindred as hers.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Before we say our goodbyes…………
-Anonymous
If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep
I would tuck you in more tightly, and pray the Lord your soul to keep
If I knew it was the last time that I’d see you walk out of the door
I would give you a hug and a kiss, and call you back for one more
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise
I would videotape each action and word,so I could play them back day after day
If I knew it would be the last time I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say I love you,instead of assuming you know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day.
Well I am sure ,you’ll have so many more, So I can just let this one slip away
For surely there’s always tomorrow, to make up for an oversight
And we always get a second chance to make everything right
There will always be another day to say our “I love yous”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can dos”
But just in case I might be wrong and today is all I get
I’d like to say how much I love you, and I hope we never forget
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone young or old alike
And today may be the last chance you get, to hold your loved one tight
So if you are waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day
That you didn’t take that extra time, for a smile , a hug or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their last wish
So hold your loved one close today,whisper in their ear
Tell them how much you love them,that you will always hold them dear
Take time to say “I am sorry, please forgive me” “Thank You” or “Its okay”
And if tomorrow never comes you ‘ll have no regrets about today.
-Anonymous
If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep
I would tuck you in more tightly, and pray the Lord your soul to keep
If I knew it was the last time that I’d see you walk out of the door
I would give you a hug and a kiss, and call you back for one more
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise
I would videotape each action and word,so I could play them back day after day
If I knew it would be the last time I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say I love you,instead of assuming you know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day.
Well I am sure ,you’ll have so many more, So I can just let this one slip away
For surely there’s always tomorrow, to make up for an oversight
And we always get a second chance to make everything right
There will always be another day to say our “I love yous”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can dos”
But just in case I might be wrong and today is all I get
I’d like to say how much I love you, and I hope we never forget
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone young or old alike
And today may be the last chance you get, to hold your loved one tight
So if you are waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day
That you didn’t take that extra time, for a smile , a hug or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their last wish
So hold your loved one close today,whisper in their ear
Tell them how much you love them,that you will always hold them dear
Take time to say “I am sorry, please forgive me” “Thank You” or “Its okay”
And if tomorrow never comes you ‘ll have no regrets about today.
Monday, February 13, 2006
ROSES FOR ROSE
-- by James "PoppyK" Kisner
Red roses were her favorites,
Her name was also Rose,
And every year her husband sent them,
Tied with pretty bows.
The year he died,
The roses were delivered to her door;
The card said, "Be my Valentine,"
Like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses,
And the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year,
Than last year on this day."
"My love for you will always grow,
With every passing year;"
She knew this was the last time
That the roses would appear.
She thought he ordered roses
In advance before this day;
Her loving husband did not know,
That he would soon pass away.
He always liked to do things early,
Way before the time;
Then, if he got too busy,
Everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems and
Placed them in a very special vase;
Then sat the vase beside the portrait
Of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours,
In her husband's favorite chair;
While staring at his picture,
And the roses sitting there.
A year went by and it was hard
To live without her mate;
With loneliness and solitude,
That had become her fate.
Then on the very same hour,
As the Valentines before,
The doorbell rang and there were roses,
Sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in,
And just looked at them in shock;
Then went to get the telephone,
To call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and
She asked him if he would explain;
Why would someone do this to her,
And causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed away
More than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call,
And you would want to know."
"The flowers you received today,
Were paid for in advance."
"Your husband always planned ahead,
He left nothing to chance."
"There is a standing order,
That I have on file down here;
And he has paid ... well in advance,
You'll get them every year.
There also is another thing,
That I think you should know;
He wrote a special little card,
He did this years ago."
"Then, should ever I find out
That he's no longer here;
That's the card that should be sent to you
On the following year."
She thanked him and hung up the phone,
Her tears now flowing hard;
Her fingers were shaking,
As she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that
He had written her a note;
Then, as she stared in total silence,
This is what he wrote ...
"Hello my love, I know it's been
A year since I've been gone;
I hope it hasn't been too hard
For you to overcome."
"I know it must be lonely,
And the pain is still very real;
For if it was the other way,
I know how I would feel."
"The love we shared made
Everything so beautiful in life;
I loved you more than words can say,
You were the perfect wife."
"You were my friend and lover,
You fulfilled my every need;
I know it's only been one year,
But please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy,
Even when you shed your tears;
That is why the roses will be sent
To you for many more years."
"When you get these roses,
Think of all the happiness,
That we had together,
And how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you
And I know I always will;
But, my love, you must go on,
You have to do some living still."
"Please try to find happiness,
While living out your days;
I know it is not easy,
But I hope you find some ways."
"The roses will come every year,
And they will only stop ...
When your door's not answered,
When the florist stops to knock."
"He will come five times that day,
In case you have gone out;
But after his last visit,
He will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place,
Where I've instructed him,
And place the roses where we are,
Together once again."
Sometimes in life, you find a special friend;
Someone who changes your life just by being part of it.
Someone who makes you laugh until you can't stop;
Someone who makes you believe that there really is good in the world.
Someone who convinces you that there really is an unlocked door just waiting for you to open it.
This is Forever Friendship..
-- by James "PoppyK" Kisner
Red roses were her favorites,
Her name was also Rose,
And every year her husband sent them,
Tied with pretty bows.
The year he died,
The roses were delivered to her door;
The card said, "Be my Valentine,"
Like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses,
And the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year,
Than last year on this day."
"My love for you will always grow,
With every passing year;"
She knew this was the last time
That the roses would appear.
She thought he ordered roses
In advance before this day;
Her loving husband did not know,
That he would soon pass away.
He always liked to do things early,
Way before the time;
Then, if he got too busy,
Everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems and
Placed them in a very special vase;
Then sat the vase beside the portrait
Of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours,
In her husband's favorite chair;
While staring at his picture,
And the roses sitting there.
A year went by and it was hard
To live without her mate;
With loneliness and solitude,
That had become her fate.
Then on the very same hour,
As the Valentines before,
The doorbell rang and there were roses,
Sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in,
And just looked at them in shock;
Then went to get the telephone,
To call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and
She asked him if he would explain;
Why would someone do this to her,
And causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed away
More than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call,
And you would want to know."
"The flowers you received today,
Were paid for in advance."
"Your husband always planned ahead,
He left nothing to chance."
"There is a standing order,
That I have on file down here;
And he has paid ... well in advance,
You'll get them every year.
There also is another thing,
That I think you should know;
He wrote a special little card,
He did this years ago."
"Then, should ever I find out
That he's no longer here;
That's the card that should be sent to you
On the following year."
She thanked him and hung up the phone,
Her tears now flowing hard;
Her fingers were shaking,
As she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that
He had written her a note;
Then, as she stared in total silence,
This is what he wrote ...
"Hello my love, I know it's been
A year since I've been gone;
I hope it hasn't been too hard
For you to overcome."
"I know it must be lonely,
And the pain is still very real;
For if it was the other way,
I know how I would feel."
"The love we shared made
Everything so beautiful in life;
I loved you more than words can say,
You were the perfect wife."
"You were my friend and lover,
You fulfilled my every need;
I know it's only been one year,
But please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy,
Even when you shed your tears;
That is why the roses will be sent
To you for many more years."
"When you get these roses,
Think of all the happiness,
That we had together,
And how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you
And I know I always will;
But, my love, you must go on,
You have to do some living still."
"Please try to find happiness,
While living out your days;
I know it is not easy,
But I hope you find some ways."
"The roses will come every year,
And they will only stop ...
When your door's not answered,
When the florist stops to knock."
"He will come five times that day,
In case you have gone out;
But after his last visit,
He will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place,
Where I've instructed him,
And place the roses where we are,
Together once again."
Sometimes in life, you find a special friend;
Someone who changes your life just by being part of it.
Someone who makes you laugh until you can't stop;
Someone who makes you believe that there really is good in the world.
Someone who convinces you that there really is an unlocked door just waiting for you to open it.
This is Forever Friendship..
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Ugly Duckling
Once upon a time down on an old farm, lived a duck family, and Mother Duck had been sitting on a clutch of new eggs. One nice morning, the eggs hatched and out popped six chirpy ducklings. But one egg was bigger than the rest, and it didn't hatch. Mother Duck couldn't recall laying that seventh egg. How did it get there? TOCK! TOCK! The little prisoner was pecking inside his shell.
"Did I count the eggs wrongly?" Mother Duck wondered. But before she had time to think about it, the last egg finally hatched. A strange looking duckling with gray feathers that should have been yellow gazed at a worried mother. The ducklings grew quickly, but Mother Duck had a secret worry.
"I can't understand how this ugly duckling can be one of mine!" she said to herself, shaking her head as she looked at her last born. Well, the gray duckling certainly wasn't pretty, and since he ate far more than his brothers, he was outgrowing them. As the days went by, the poor ugly duckling became more and more unhappy. His brothers didn't want to play with him, he was so clumsy, and all the farmyard folks simply laughed at him. He felt sad and lonely, while Mother Duck did her best to console him.
"Poor little ugly duckling!" she would say. "Why are you so different from the others?" And the ugly duckling felt worse than ever. He secretly wept at night. He felt nobody wanted him.
"Nobody loves me, they all tease me! Why am I different from my brothers?"
Then one day, at sunrise, he ran away from the farmyard. He stopped at a pond and began to question all the other birds. "Do you know of any ducklings with gray feathers like mine?" But everyone shook their heads in scorn.
"We don't know anyone as ugly as you." The ugly duckling did not lose heart, however, and kept on making inquiries. He went to another pond, where a pair of large geese gave him the same answer to his question. What's more, they warned him: "Don't stay here! Go away! It's dangerous. There are men with guns around here!" The duckling was sorry he had ever left the farmyard.
Then one day, his travels took him near an old countrywoman's cottage. Thinking he was a stray goose, she caught him.
"I'll put this in a hutch. I hope it's a female and lays plenty of eggs!" said the old woman, whose eyesight was poor. But the ugly duckling laid not a single egg. The hen kept frightening him.
"Just wait! If you don't lay eggs, the old woman will wring your neck and pop you into the pot!" And the cat chipped in: "Hee! Hee! I hope the woman cooks you, then I can gnaw at your bones!" The poor ugly duckling was so scared that he lost his appetite, though the old woman kept stuffing him with food and grumbling: "If you won't lay eggs, at least hurry up and get plump!"
"Oh, dear me!" moaned the now terrified duckling. "I'll die of fright first! And I did so hope someone would love me!"
Then one night, finding the hutch door ajar, he escaped. Once again he was all alone. He fled as far away as he could, and at dawn, he found himself in a thick bed of reeds. "If nobody wants me, I'll hid here forever." There was plenty a food, and the duckling began to feel a little happier, though he was lonely. One day at sunrise, he saw a flight of beautiful birds wing overhead. White, with long slender necks, yellow beaks and large wings, they were migrating south.
"If only I could look like them, just for a day!" said the duckling, admiringly. Winter came and the water in the reed bed froze. The poor duckling left home to seek food in the snow. He dropped exhausted to the ground, but a farmer found him and put him in his big jacket pocket.
"I'll take him home to my children. They'll look after him. Poor thing, he's frozen!" The duckling was showered with kindly care at the farmer's house. In this way, the ugly duckling was able to survive the bitterly cold winter.
However, by springtime, he had grown so big that the farmer decided: "I'll set him free by the pond!" That was when the duckling saw himself mirrored in the water.
"Goodness! How I've changed! I hardly recognize myself!" The flight of swans winged north again and glided on to the pond. When the duckling saw them, he realized he was one of their kind, and soon made friends.
"We're swans like you!" they said, warmly. "Where have you been hiding?"
"It's a long story," replied the young swan, still astounded. Now, he swam majestically with his fellow swans. One day, he heard children on the river bank exclaim: "Look at that young swan! He's the finest of them all!"
And he almost burst with happiness.
The End
Once upon a time down on an old farm, lived a duck family, and Mother Duck had been sitting on a clutch of new eggs. One nice morning, the eggs hatched and out popped six chirpy ducklings. But one egg was bigger than the rest, and it didn't hatch. Mother Duck couldn't recall laying that seventh egg. How did it get there? TOCK! TOCK! The little prisoner was pecking inside his shell.
"Did I count the eggs wrongly?" Mother Duck wondered. But before she had time to think about it, the last egg finally hatched. A strange looking duckling with gray feathers that should have been yellow gazed at a worried mother. The ducklings grew quickly, but Mother Duck had a secret worry.
"I can't understand how this ugly duckling can be one of mine!" she said to herself, shaking her head as she looked at her last born. Well, the gray duckling certainly wasn't pretty, and since he ate far more than his brothers, he was outgrowing them. As the days went by, the poor ugly duckling became more and more unhappy. His brothers didn't want to play with him, he was so clumsy, and all the farmyard folks simply laughed at him. He felt sad and lonely, while Mother Duck did her best to console him.
"Poor little ugly duckling!" she would say. "Why are you so different from the others?" And the ugly duckling felt worse than ever. He secretly wept at night. He felt nobody wanted him.
"Nobody loves me, they all tease me! Why am I different from my brothers?"
Then one day, at sunrise, he ran away from the farmyard. He stopped at a pond and began to question all the other birds. "Do you know of any ducklings with gray feathers like mine?" But everyone shook their heads in scorn.
"We don't know anyone as ugly as you." The ugly duckling did not lose heart, however, and kept on making inquiries. He went to another pond, where a pair of large geese gave him the same answer to his question. What's more, they warned him: "Don't stay here! Go away! It's dangerous. There are men with guns around here!" The duckling was sorry he had ever left the farmyard.
Then one day, his travels took him near an old countrywoman's cottage. Thinking he was a stray goose, she caught him.
"I'll put this in a hutch. I hope it's a female and lays plenty of eggs!" said the old woman, whose eyesight was poor. But the ugly duckling laid not a single egg. The hen kept frightening him.
"Just wait! If you don't lay eggs, the old woman will wring your neck and pop you into the pot!" And the cat chipped in: "Hee! Hee! I hope the woman cooks you, then I can gnaw at your bones!" The poor ugly duckling was so scared that he lost his appetite, though the old woman kept stuffing him with food and grumbling: "If you won't lay eggs, at least hurry up and get plump!"
"Oh, dear me!" moaned the now terrified duckling. "I'll die of fright first! And I did so hope someone would love me!"
Then one night, finding the hutch door ajar, he escaped. Once again he was all alone. He fled as far away as he could, and at dawn, he found himself in a thick bed of reeds. "If nobody wants me, I'll hid here forever." There was plenty a food, and the duckling began to feel a little happier, though he was lonely. One day at sunrise, he saw a flight of beautiful birds wing overhead. White, with long slender necks, yellow beaks and large wings, they were migrating south.
"If only I could look like them, just for a day!" said the duckling, admiringly. Winter came and the water in the reed bed froze. The poor duckling left home to seek food in the snow. He dropped exhausted to the ground, but a farmer found him and put him in his big jacket pocket.
"I'll take him home to my children. They'll look after him. Poor thing, he's frozen!" The duckling was showered with kindly care at the farmer's house. In this way, the ugly duckling was able to survive the bitterly cold winter.
However, by springtime, he had grown so big that the farmer decided: "I'll set him free by the pond!" That was when the duckling saw himself mirrored in the water.
"Goodness! How I've changed! I hardly recognize myself!" The flight of swans winged north again and glided on to the pond. When the duckling saw them, he realized he was one of their kind, and soon made friends.
"We're swans like you!" they said, warmly. "Where have you been hiding?"
"It's a long story," replied the young swan, still astounded. Now, he swam majestically with his fellow swans. One day, he heard children on the river bank exclaim: "Look at that young swan! He's the finest of them all!"
And he almost burst with happiness.
The End
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