Some thoughts on this New Year.
Beginnings always have an expectation. Where do we go from here? What happens next?
In 2019 there is hope that tough times for those that have them will end.
The teen decade of the new century is at its end, and we are still searching for global sanity. There are still too many regional wars infecting the planet, and it's people as we struggle with the belief that security is having more.
There is always hope that the litany of Pandora troubles in our politics will transcend into the common good, but let us not forget that hope without action is arrogance. We each have to work at finding harmony in chaos.
Harmony is there; we can feel it when we give from empathy and not reward; when we resolve not to be discouraged, not to speak in anger, not to blame, and not to judge without the truth of looking within first.
Maybe this is the year that unconditional love and appreciation will guide the hearts and wills of humankind.
Maybe!
Friday, December 28, 2018
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
A Memory
On December 21st, 1988, Pan Am Flight 103 was blown out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland. A terrorist bomb murdered two hundred seventy people.
The plane originated in Frankfort, Germany and had one stop in London before heading out across the North Atlantic taking many home for the holidays.
In the many years since this tragedy most people have forgotten it for new disasters, new pain, new terrors, have replaced the Lockerbie incident.
I remember it vividly, not only because I reported on the crash during the nightly news for weeks, but because of one act of sympathy that will always stand out in my heart.
Shortly after the crash, there was a large bouquet of red roses sent to Lockerbie officials. There was a note pinned to the flowers. It said, “To the little girl in the red dress who made my life so enjoyable from Frankfort to London. You didn’t deserve this”.
The plane originated in Frankfort, Germany and had one stop in London before heading out across the North Atlantic taking many home for the holidays.
In the many years since this tragedy most people have forgotten it for new disasters, new pain, new terrors, have replaced the Lockerbie incident.
I remember it vividly, not only because I reported on the crash during the nightly news for weeks, but because of one act of sympathy that will always stand out in my heart.
Shortly after the crash, there was a large bouquet of red roses sent to Lockerbie officials. There was a note pinned to the flowers. It said, “To the little girl in the red dress who made my life so enjoyable from Frankfort to London. You didn’t deserve this”.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
My Road
I live in a small rural community. My road is what you would call a “dead end.” I’ve always disliked that term and would prefer “no outlet,” but preferences and rules always have a conflict with rules winning out. Anyway, my “dead end” is a microcosm of age and culture.
At the start of my road is a home for transient women who come and go as needed.
As you move up my road, the ten or so houses become more individualized, single family and distinct. There are one-story homes with a couple of bedrooms. The maximum abode would be two stories, and that would also include a utilized or finished basement.
I'm the oldest now on this road. When I first moved in nearly twenty years ago, I was probably in the middle with all generations in between including babies, toddlers, grade-school children and teenage children.
What is seemingly unique to this neighborhood, based upon my experience of living in many other places is that we each know the other's name and we each look out for the other.
Through the years we had illness and infirmity in homes along the road. We had births and the elderly passing. We have all spectrums of income and all political ideals. We rarely socialize, but we talk to each other, and our commonality is a concern for the other. I’m not sure you can find that in a lot of places, but it flourishes here.
At the start of my road is a home for transient women who come and go as needed.
As you move up my road, the ten or so houses become more individualized, single family and distinct. There are one-story homes with a couple of bedrooms. The maximum abode would be two stories, and that would also include a utilized or finished basement.
I'm the oldest now on this road. When I first moved in nearly twenty years ago, I was probably in the middle with all generations in between including babies, toddlers, grade-school children and teenage children.
What is seemingly unique to this neighborhood, based upon my experience of living in many other places is that we each know the other's name and we each look out for the other.
Through the years we had illness and infirmity in homes along the road. We had births and the elderly passing. We have all spectrums of income and all political ideals. We rarely socialize, but we talk to each other, and our commonality is a concern for the other. I’m not sure you can find that in a lot of places, but it flourishes here.
Friday, December 7, 2018
December 7th, 1941
There was a time, over dinner many years ago, that an older friend of mine, a retired naval officer, a graduate of Annapolis and now a successful businessman wanted to talk to one of my sons about attending Annapolis. My friend had both political and military connections, and my son had grades sufficient for an application and appointment.
My friend was a good man, a survivor of Pearl Harbor, but he had a powerful hatred for the Japanese. He hated them so much that he took every opportunity in business, in public, and in private to say so. He was a successful big-time contractor who built office and factory buildings, but he used no products from Japan.
During our dinner conversation I told him, I hoped he would understand, but he could not talk to my son unless he could let go of his hatred of the Japanese. I didn’t want my son influenced by such a long-festering hate.
Senator Simpson was correct when he said at President George H.W. Bush's funeral, "Hatred corrodes the container that carries it." When you hate you create a bond as powerful as love, and it won’t release you from your pain until you consciously let it go. The great teachings of the world suggest that hatred will eventually destroy the hater.
My friend thought about our discussion for several weeks. One day he called to tell me he was going to visit Pearl Harbor…on his way to Japan.
He asked when he got back could he talk to my son. I said “yes.”
As an afterword, my son was not interested in a naval career and went on to be successful in another venue, and my friend was able to release a constricting hatred that held him in a cocoon of anger for decades.
As it is with so many acquaintances with which we are blessed in life, I have lost track of my friend and hope that if he is still alive, he passes today's anniversary of the attack with a feeling of peace that only forgiveness can engender.
My friend was a good man, a survivor of Pearl Harbor, but he had a powerful hatred for the Japanese. He hated them so much that he took every opportunity in business, in public, and in private to say so. He was a successful big-time contractor who built office and factory buildings, but he used no products from Japan.
During our dinner conversation I told him, I hoped he would understand, but he could not talk to my son unless he could let go of his hatred of the Japanese. I didn’t want my son influenced by such a long-festering hate.
Senator Simpson was correct when he said at President George H.W. Bush's funeral, "Hatred corrodes the container that carries it." When you hate you create a bond as powerful as love, and it won’t release you from your pain until you consciously let it go. The great teachings of the world suggest that hatred will eventually destroy the hater.
My friend thought about our discussion for several weeks. One day he called to tell me he was going to visit Pearl Harbor…on his way to Japan.
He asked when he got back could he talk to my son. I said “yes.”
As an afterword, my son was not interested in a naval career and went on to be successful in another venue, and my friend was able to release a constricting hatred that held him in a cocoon of anger for decades.
As it is with so many acquaintances with which we are blessed in life, I have lost track of my friend and hope that if he is still alive, he passes today's anniversary of the attack with a feeling of peace that only forgiveness can engender.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
