More Katie

While working on more vocabulary, the word "size" came up. Checking her understanding of it, I asked, "Katie, do you know what size you are?"

"Yea, I'm a small, sometimes a medium."

Then after surveying my gut for awhile, she said, "But you have to be a large."

Meanderings

Old age brings interesting changes. Inability to sleep is one. My body hurts (fibromialgia) and I'm tired from 6 high stress weeks at school. But unable to sleep even with a sleeping pill, I got up and participated in the sacred routine of dunking cookies. It is a ritual. In this case lemon iced cookies in chocolate milk. Raised in the Great Depression, my dad used bread and milk. Principle is the same: mediation.

Question arose in my mind regarding the purpose of life. It has been said we are here to be tested. With decades of testing under my belt, both administrating and receiving, my conclusion is that testing is one the shallowist means of measureing an individual possible. Surely our God can do better than that. If our eternal happiness and progression is based on passing a test, then our God is not a very effective leader and teacher. Reasons of this conclusion are many, if any care to ask.

What is the nature of life's so-called test: pass/fail? Many frightening people cling tenaciously o that one. That is popular right now. How about multiple choice? A segment of society find that apalling, as they should. An essay, written by our lifes? Better, but some of us are not good writers. Multiple choiec? Many curdle at that thought as being too ambiguous. So the question becomes even more what kind of test, if we have any hopes of passing it. The older I get, the more I doubt passing a test is the primary purpose of life.

Though I may present few answers, I hope to present some thought proking questions to those who are mature enought not to be frightened by searching queries. I do have a testimony, but that will be shared after the questions to follow.

Good night for now.

A Frightening Thought . . .

Although spring around here can be cold and dark, the bright spirit and thoughts of young students can be refreshing:
We were reviewing a vocabulary list and the word was 'drive'.
"Katie, do you know how to drive a car?" I asked.
(Katie is a ten year old deaf girl I tutor.)
"Not really", she wistfully replied. "Just a toy car on the sidewalk and grass and stuff."
I replied, "Well, when you are sixteen you will learn to drive an adult car." I paused. Then said, "That is a frightening thought, isn't it?"
Katie thought it over a minute, then said, "You don't have to be afraid, Mr. Nelson, 'cuz you'll be dead."

One Little Girl's Thankful List

One of the little girls I teach is a nine year old profoundly deaf child, for whom language and speech are difficult. I gave her the sentence, "I am thankful for . . . . . ", hoping for 2 or 3 responses to complete it. Instead, this is the list she gave me:

• everybody
• life
• home
• school
• family
• all my friends (followed by a smiley face)
• foods
• bed
• teachers
• my backyard
• my peach tree
• computers
• tickles
• seasons
• books
• my birthday
• the day
• clothes
• TV
• video games
• a rainbow
• colors
• chairs
• tables
• singing (remember, she is deaf but has a cochlear implant)
• balloons
• my bike
• camping (she has never been camping, yet)

Now that the rush of preparation for Thanksgiving is over, I thought it might be good, to ponder and consider for what I am thankful. I am thankful for this student. Her simplicity; her dreams and experiences listed above seem so refreshingly profound to me.

The Metaphor of the Moose

While riding with Dreampacker last Saturday morning, we chanced upon three moose. The first of which was this young bull. He was having a hard time. He'd recently been kicked out of his mother's care and the big guys were beginning to push him around with "the season" beginning. Then we showed up, and he was unsure. With all the bear attack stories this year in Utah, I'd still rather face a bear on the trail than a moose. Even a young one like this can be much more dangerous.

This life is hard wired for adversity. It happens. A lot. We could have looked at this guy (as big as my horse already) and considered him to be an adversary, a moment of adversity. A problem. Trouble. Had we done so, he would have obliged and become something more to be reckoned with. By choosing to look at him as an adventure to be desired, our horses calmed, he calmed, and we had the joy of a minute of his association before he moved off the trail.

Adversity is like that, too. If we stay calm and seek the adventure in it, it becomes a learning experience to be cherished, at least in hind sight some day.

Then adversity, like this moose, when it has taught us what we desired at the time we wrote it into our life's script, will take one last look over its shoulder and disappear into the trees. Perhaps even passing us by altogether . . .

. . . so we can turn our attention again to the beauty of life around us and . . .

. . . to the peaceful joy of the sunrise, of both the one at hand and of the One to come.

Such are the ponderings of this grandpa when he chances upon a moose.
(Well, if I'm dressed. But that, as you know, is another story.)

Almost Missed

Dreampacker and I almost missed this little beaver pond and spring on our ride the other evening, yet it is big enough to go skinny dipping. As the story below asks, what else might we be missing when we "ride" too fast?

Washington DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approx 2 thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After 3 minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.4 minutes later:the violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the till and, without stopping, continued to walk.6 minutes:A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.10 minutes:A 3 year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly, as the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced them to move on.45 minutes:The musician played. Only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace.He collected $32.1 hour:He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities. The questions raised: in a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be:If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ....
How many other things are we missing?

Morning Unfolding

The sun has risen above Mt. Ben Lomond as seen from the valley, but here at Mountain Road Ranch all is still in the shadows of a clinging night.

There is a mist of early morning rain on the roses . . .

. . . and the early bees are "busy gathering like never before...yep! . . . it's going to be a long hard winter", . . . oh, but, that's another story.

And like families, there are some dragging out late and asking," Is it morning yet?"

Some blossoms are so determined, they seem to glow . . .

. . . without any direct sunlight.

But when the sun slips across the Pass, bathing the garden in a moment of slanted light . . .

contrasting lights and shadows bring new depths . . .

. . . and even an old Zinnia, pregnant with seed, promises one more day of color.

So too, the corn makes one more try to ensure every silken thread is pollinated . . .

. . . and it goes not unnoticed by the gathering bees.

When the sun moves behind Lewis Peak,
throughout the garden faint light still shows contrasts . . .

. . . of color and shape . . .

. . . and contour.

And still some glow . . .

. . . and seem to burn with an internal fire not yet from the sun.

Others, bowed patiently through the night, begin to open, lift and face the sun.
So may we all.

Of course there is a post script:
Can anyone identify this unique blossom?
Hint: it is in the garden.