Sunday, July 31, 2016
7/31/16 RMB One for All
Dear Rita Mae Brown,
What guides us, what draws us forward, holds common ground. Each wants something more, something better, a better tomorrow, a better place to be.
Where we differ lay in the details. The definition of “better” varies person to person and day to day. Often forgotten is that better for one, at the expense of another, is at a cost greater than any gain. Better for all at the willing sacrifice of some, will reap unlimited rewards. What is sacrificed will be replenished tenfold. Finding the place of better for all, is an art we have yet to master, or refuse to see.
What we devote our time to now will return in a measure beyond imagination. When the heart stops beating, the spirit carries on. No physical possessions, nor piece of land, will journey on with us. Yet every smile, given and received, every ounce of gratitude, the effects of all our endeavors, will linger, here and wherever we may go.
During this presidential election, in the handling of global strife, and discrimination, our actions define us. It is not the loudest or most obnoxious voice that influences the majority. A silent vote from the heart can sway a nation. Kind deeds will be paid forward instinctively.
All for one and one for all. Every person for all people, each time for all time, generation to generation. It’s within reach.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
7/7/16 RMB Lucky 7 and Steinbeck
Dear Rita Mae Brown,
Days are racing by, tumbling over each other, kids at play without a care. Yet there is much to care about. Several times I’ve started “Dear Rita Mae Brown,” and ended there.
Sometimes a mixture of words spill out. They lack rhyme or reason. They are corralled and set aside and may yet see the light of day, when they are tamed and in proper order.
There is nothing to say and there is everything to say, too much. And beyond what there is to say, what matter is there in what I have to say about it?
Ah, see, this is why the letters have slowed. Oddly I wonder if it is because I am in one of my “you think too much” phases that my friends point out. Or if my thoughts are lacking, and thus, so too are the words.
One thing demands to be said. And I don’t have a clue what it is.
A cool breeze met me after I left my day of work upon stepping out of the office, into the newness of evening air. A man was walking his dog. An impatient driver honked his horn when I was slow to take my turn at the stop sign. He did it again at the next stop sign. Neither honk increased my speed.
Today is the seventh day of the seventh month, my birthday month and my mother’s lucky number. She is with us today as she always is, our own heavenly angel.
I am reading, or rather listening to on CD, John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. His careful handling of words inspires me. It also makes me cautious of how I lay down my own. An older gentlemen came to my desk today to buy books and among them was another Steinbeck title. I told him how I enjoyed Travels with Charley and he lit up.
“That’s my favorite book!” And with those words I knew more about the man than if we had sat and spoke every day for a week.
With much care,