Give a bowl of rice to a man and you will feed him for a day. Teach him how to grow his own rice and you will save his life. - Confucius.

Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel. - Socrates.

By seeking and blundering we learn. - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.

There will never be any dearth or scarcity, regarding food and clothes in My devotee's home. It is My special characteristic that I always look to and provide for the welfare of those devotees, who worship me wholeheartedly with their minds ever fixed on me. - Lord Sadhguru Shirdi Sai Baba Maharaj.

Mitakuye Oyasin [We are all related.] - Lakota Belief.

Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.- Chief Seattle.

Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world. - Nelson Mandela.

You can never be overdressed or overeducated. - Oscar Wilde.

Nerd Day

By Ron Chapman

You know it's going to be a bad day when your teenager knocks on your bedroom door first thing in the morning and says, "Today is Nerd Day at school, Pop. Can I borrow some of your clothes?"

Words from the Heart 

By Bobbie Lippman 

Most people need to hear those "three little words." Once in a while, they hear them just in time. 

I met Connie the day she was admitted to the hospice ward, where I worked as a volunteer. Her husband, Bill, stood nervously nearby as she was transferred from the gurney to the hospital bed. Although Connie was in the final stages of her fight against cancer, she was alert and cheerful. We got her settled in. I finished marking her name on all the hospital supplies she would be using, then asked if she needed anything.

"Oh yes," she said, "would you please show me how to use the TV? I enjoy the soaps so much and I don't want to get behind on what's happening." Connie was a romantic. She loved soap operas, romance novels and movies with a good love story. As we became acquainted, she confided how frustrating it was to be married 32 years to a man who often called her "a silly woman."

"Oh, I know Bill loves me," she said, "but he has never been one to say he loves me, or send cards to me." She sighed and looked out the window at the trees in the courtyard. "I'd give anything if he'd say 'I love you,' but it's just not in his nature."

Bill visited Connie every day. In the beginning, he sat next to the bed while she watched the soaps. Later, when she began sleeping more, he paced up and down the hallway outside her room. Soon, when she no longer watched television and had fewer waking moments, I began spending more of my volunteer time with Bill.

He talked about having worked as a carpenter and how he liked to go fishing. He and Connie had no children, but they'd been enjoying retirement by traveling until Connie got sick. Bill could not express his feelings about the fact that his wife was dying.

One day, over coffee in the cafeteria, I got him on the subject of women and how we need romance in our lives; how we love to get sentimental cards and love letters.

"Do you tell Connie you love her?" I asked (knowing his answer), and he looked at me as if I was crazy.

"I don't have to," he said. "She knows I do!" 

"I'm sure she knows," I said, reaching over and touching his hands — rough, carpenter's hands that were gripping the cup as if it were the only thing he had to hang onto — "but she needs to hear it, Bill. She needs to hear what she has meant to you all these years. Please think about it."

We walked back to Connie's room. Bill disappeared inside, and I left to visit another patient. Later, I saw Bill sitting by the bed. He was holding Connie's hand as she slept. The date was February 12.

Two days later I walked down the hospice ward at noon. There stood Bill, leaning up against the wall in the hallway, staring at the floor. I already knew from the head nurse that Connie had died at 11 A.M.

When Bill saw me, he allowed himself to come into my arms for a long hug. His face was wet with tears and he was trembling. Finally, he leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.

"I have to say something," he said. "I have to say how good I feel about telling her." He stopped to blow his nose. "I thought a lot about what you said, and this morning I told her how much I loved her...and loved being married to her. You shoulda seen her smile!"

I went into the room to say my own good-bye to Connie. There, on the bedside table, was a large Valentine card from Bill. You know, the sentimental kind that says, "To my wonderful wife...I love you."

Why Coaches Really Coach

By William T. Brooks

It was in July. After a hard recruiting season and coming off a particularly tough playing season, it had been an unusually draining year. As head football coach at Canisius College in Buffalo, New York, I had taken on an almost impossible task two seasons previously: heading a football program where there had been no such program for over 25 years. After beating the bushes and visiting what seemed to be an endless array of high schools and student-athletes' homes, I had assembled what was to be the finest group of incoming talent I had ever recruited.

Suddenly I was shaken from my self-imposed reflection. My secretary informed me that there was a young man who insisted on seeing me — not requesting, but insisting in a loud and pushy way. I asked her if he looked like a "football player" (big, mean and confident). "No, he looks like a guy who is coming to play, party and maybe study once in a while," she said.

I asked her to tell the boy I'd see him, find out what position he would like to play.

She returned within 30 seconds. "He's five-foot-eleven, 165 pounds and plays defensive end. He'll never make it." Both of our returning defensive ends were over 225 pounds. Each was over six feet three inches tall and had been a two-year starter.

As any college football coach will tell you, a good percentage of your time is taken up with "wanna-be" athletes who insist on playing until it is actually time to show up for practice. I braced myself for the usual drill. But there was no way to prepare me for what was about to happen. Not only for the next 30 seconds...but for the rest of my life. I got halfway out of my office when I was greeted by a veritable avalanche of enthusiasm.

"Hello, Coach Brooks. My name is Michael Gee. Spelled G-E-E. I'll bet you never heard of me. But you will. I guarantee it!"

I said, "You're right I have no idea who you are or, frankly, why you're even here. We've finished our recruiting and we start practice in less than six weeks. Our roster is closed. I'm sorry, but..."

"Coach, I've researched it already. Football is a student activity. I've applied and been accepted as a freshman. I want to go out for the team. And you have to let me. I know the rules, Coach, but let me tell you why I can help you.

"I was a pre-season pick last year as an all-conference player. I started the season. I was always tired, always run down and I couldn't put much pressure on my leg. I went to the doctor. The news wasn't good. I had a malignant tumor in my thigh. But it's okay now, Coach. I promise. Chemotherapy and rehabilitation have cleaned it up. I've even been working out. Coach, I know I can help you. I guarantee it! I can even run-up to a mile without stopping."

I was really taken aback by all of this. My first response was to insist on a doctor's release. He gave it to me. I then asked if it was okay with his parents. He gave me a letter from them. He had me.

As it turned out, Michael Gee had me for the next four years. More correctly, I was lucky to have him. Three games into his freshman year, he was a starter. He led the team in sacks. He led the squad in tackles. Our inspirational leader, Michael became team captain. He even became an All-American! Besides, he was a dean's list student and active in every phase of campus life.

And Michael Gee savored life. When I was fortunate enough to win my 50th career victory, Mike Gee was the first player to congratulate me. When we beat our biggest rival, Mike Gee hoisted me to his shoulders. When we lost a tough game, Mike Gee was the first one to say, "Hey, Coach, it's just a game." Mike Gee was our son's first babysitter and the type of young man I hoped our son would become.

I often wonder what brought him into my life. I certainly don't have the answer. But I can tell you this. I learned a lot more from Mike Gee than I ever taught him, and that is a gift — the one that really does keep coaches coaching.

Come up, O lions, and shake off the delusion that you are sheep; you are souls immortal, spirits free, blest and eternal; ye are not matter, ye are not bodies; matter is your servant, not you the servant of matter. - Swami Vivekananda.

You are lions, you are souls, pure, infinite, and perfect. The might of the universe is within you. Why weepest thou, my friend? - Swami Vivekananda.

My Mother's Riches 

By Mary Kenyon 

There must be something pretty special about a mother who can raise a daughter oblivious to the poverty she lived in. I didn't even know I was poor until I was in the second grade. I had everything I needed; nine brothers and sisters to play with, books to read, a friend in a handmade Raggedy Ann, and clean clothing my mother skillfully mended or often made herself. My hair was washed and braided by my mother each evening for school the next day, my brown shoes polished and shined. I was blissfully happy at school, loving the smell of the new crayons and the thick art paper the teacher handed out for projects. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge, earning the coveted privilege of taking messages to the principal's office one week. 

I still remember the feeling of pride as I went by myself up the stairs of the school to deliver that day's lunch count. As I returned to my classroom, I met two older girls going back up the stairway. "Look, it's the poor girl," one whispered to the other, and they giggled. Face flaming red and choking back tears, the rest of the day was a blur.

Walking home that day, I tried to sort out the conflicting feelings that the girl's comments had wrought. I wondered why the girls thought I was poor. I looked down critically at my dress and for the first time noticed how faded it was, a crease at the hem visibly announcing that the dress was a hand-me-down. Even though the heavy boy's shoes were the only kind with enough support to keep me from walking on the sides of my feet, I was suddenly embarrassed that I wore ugly brown shoes.

By the time I got home, I felt sorry for myself. I felt as if I were entering a stranger's house, looking critically at everything. I saw the torn linoleum in the kitchen, smudged fingerprints on the old paint in the doorways. Dejected, I didn't respond to my mother's cheery greeting in the kitchen, where she prepared oatmeal cookies and powdered milk for a snack. I was sure the other girls in school didn't have to have powdered milk. I brooded in my room until suppertime, wondering how to approach the topic of poverty with my mother. Why hadn't she told me, I wondered. Why did I have to find out from someone else?

When I had worked up enough courage, I went out to the kitchen. "Are we poor?" I blurted out, somewhat defiantly. I expected her to deny it, defend it, or at least explain it away, so I wouldn't feel so bad about it. My mother looked at me contemplatively, not saying anything for a minute. "Poor?" she repeated, as she set down the paring knife she'd been peeling potatoes with. "No, we're not poor. Just look at all we have," she said, as she gestured toward my brothers and sisters playing in the next room.

Through her eyes, I saw the wood stove that filled the house with warmth, the colorful curtains and homemade rag rugs that decorated the house, the plate full of oatmeal cookies on the counter. Outside the kitchen window, I could see the wide-open space of the country that offered so much fun and adventure for 10 children. She continued, "Maybe some people would think we are poor in terms of money, but we have so much." And with a smile of contentment, my mother turned back to preparing a meal for her family, not realizing she had fed far more than an empty stomach that evening. She had fed my heart and soul.

Danny's Gift 

By Karen Wasmer 

I taught in the same small town where I grew up, in the same fourth-grade classroom where I was once a student. The first day of school usually brought no surprises. We knew every student, their parents, and grandparents. 

But this year was different. Danny had moved from Kentucky. He was the oldest of five children. Danny's dad was a truck driver and not home much, and his mom worked odd jobs when she could to help make ends meet. In October, I put Danny's name on the mitten and hat list (a program that provides mittens and hats to underprivileged children). He was so proud when he received his hat and mittens. He wore them to recess and carefully put them in his desk when he came in. After school, I was straightening the desks and a mitten fell out of Danny's desk. I opened his desk and found the other mitten and his new hat. When I questioned him, he explained that stuff got easily misplaced at home and he didn't want to lose his new things.

Danny didn't have a lot to be proud of. He wasn't a very good student, but he tried hard. His best subject was art. I knew he didn't have access to any supplies so every time he asked for paper or markers I didn't hesitate to let him have them. He was really a remarkable artist, and I incorporated several art projects into the reading curriculum that year to boost his self-esteem.

When it came time for the Christmas gift exchange, I knew I would need to help with Danny's gift as I had done for other students. I showed him several items that I had bought for the exchange. He picked something out and was excited when I gave him wrapping paper.

The room mothers that year, bless their hearts, collected twenty-five cents from each child who could afford it and bought a present for me. I wasn't supposed to know, but not much gets by a teacher in her own classroom, especially at lunch-money time. The child would get back a quarter then giggle and put it in their pocket. Danny was on free lunch, so I was pretty sure he wouldn't be bringing a quarter. But that is the beauty of this kind of present. I would never know who contributed and who did not. The card would say it was from the whole class.

The day of the party was always exciting. We watched a Christmas movie in the afternoon. Danny asked if he could borrow some paper and markers. I didn't hesitate but I was a little surprised. He later came up and asked if he could borrow a piece of tape. I gave it to him gladly. We exchanged gifts, and then the students presented me with the object of all of their quarters. I am sorry to say I don't remember what they gave me because after they left for the day, I went back to straighten my desk. I found a folded piece of red construction paper. I opened it up and read it. Before I could finish, I was crying so hard I couldn't see. The note said, "To my favorite teacher. You have always been there for me, and I really appreciate it. I couldn't afford to get you anything so I am giving you everything I have. Merry Christmas. Love, Danny."

Inside was taped a dime — everything he had.

A Soldier Remembers 

By David R. Kierman 

In 1987, while serving as the public affairs officer at Fort Bragg, I would frequently visit the local high schools to speak to the students about the army. As a Lieutenant Colonel, I found it particularly rewarding to talk with the teenagers about the benefits of military service, if only for a few years of their lives. 

During one of these visits, I reported to the secretary in the principal's office to let her know that I was here for the third-period civics class. I was a little surprised when she told me, "The principal would like to see you before you go to the class." Normally, in these small county schools, the principal was busy with a myriad of duties such as driver's education, administration, counseling and the like.

As I entered his office, I was greeted by a gentleman who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, and he welcomed me with a smile and a handshake. "You don't remember me, do you?" he queried.

I looked closely at the face again and could not recall where we may have met before. "No," I said. "I'm sorry, I don't."

"You were my company commander in basic training at Fort Jackson in 1970," the principal said.

I again looked at the middle-aged face and had no recollection. We usually had 220 soldiers in each unit, and they all looked alike in uniform with short haircuts — and it had been seventeen years ago.

"Let me help you out," he suggested. "You gave me a three-day pass to go home and see my newborn baby." I immediately remembered the incident, if not the soldier!

"Yes," I said. "I remember now." It was the only three-day pass I had issued because the soldiers were on their way to Vietnam immediately after they finished training. But I knew if I did not let him go home to see his son and something happened to him, I would regret denying the opportunity he had to be with his family.

He stood up from his chair, walked around the desk and put his hand on my shoulder as we went down the hall to the classroom. "Come on, Colonel. I'd like to introduce you to 'the baby.' He's in your third-period class. By letting me go see him, you gave me a reason to stay focused and to come home safe from that war. Thank you, Sir."

It was the most rewarding class I had ever given, and I had no problem telling the students about the bonds of friendship and the values that army life can provide and that can last a lifetime.

The Boy Who Saved Thousands of Lives 

By Reg Green 

It was a day like any other in a busy hospital. Among dozens of incidents of joy and fear, a small boy was brought in, dying from a road accident. When the end came, one of the nurses took a deep breath and did what her job required her to do: She asked the boy's parents if they would donate his organs. Their reply was sharp and clear, an emphatic refusal, pain mixed with anger at having been asked such a crass question at the worst moment of their lives. 

"I understood how they felt," the nurse told me later. "The bottom had fallen out of their world." But all she could think of was that on the third floor of that same hospital another little boy, of much the same age and with a mother and father very much like these, was also dying that night - because the heart that could have saved him didn't arrive.

I often think of that little boy and how close he came to making it. I also know how his parents felt: my own seven-year-old son, Nicholas, was shot by highway robbers six years ago while we were on vacation in southern Italy and, when the doctors told us there was no hope, I still remember vividly wondering how I would ever get through all the years ahead without him. Maggie, my wife, and I, however, did donate his organs to seven very sick Italians, some of whom would certainly be dead by now, and we have never for a moment regretted the decision. After living in the shadow of death, some of them for years, all seven are back in the mainstream.

What we thought was a purely private act took Italy by storm: the president and prime minister both asked to meet us privately, letters poured in by the hundreds. We've been given honors in Nicholas' name that previously went to some of the world's greatest humanitarians and scholars.

Today's front-page story, however, is often almost forgotten tomorrow as some new tragedy comes along to take its place. Unless we do something to etch this story in the people's minds, I thought at the time, it will have no permanent effect on their actions, and thousands will continue to die every year because organ donation rates fall short of need in virtually every country in the world.

And so, having been a daily newspaper writer much of my life, I did what comes naturally: I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. At first for the obvious places: medical journals, parents' magazines, newspaper features, then for the less obvious: the scouting magazine, Italian newspapers, newsletters, then further afield still: a Dutch magazine, a travel magazine, the weekly paper of the town where I was born in England. I faxed and e-mailed and telephoned editors, feature writers, and syndicated columnists. I got up at 2:00 A.M. to talk to European editors or stayed up until midnight to call Australia. Maggie and I crisscrossed this country talking to audiences of every imaginable kind, and everywhere I went I called on the local newspaper and television stations.

There were many rebuffs, but there were many achievements, too. Better yet, writers all over the world picked up the story from our words and wrote memorable pieces of their own. To think of just one: virtually every overseas edition of Reader's Digest led off with Nicholas' story, and we have a collection of clippings in Chinese, Portuguese, Swedish and twenty other languages. A television movie, Nicholas' Gift, starring Jamie Lee Curtis, picked up many of the sentences I had written. And recently I wrote a book The Nicholas Effect, which, though much of it was written through a veil of tears, shows how his example has saved literally thousands of lives.

Nicholas was a remarkable little boy - gentle, imaginative and, yes, wise - and we all expected him to do great things. When he died, all those expectations seemed to have died with him. But in the end, as the words are written and spoken about him found their way to the four corners of the world, he did more than we could possibly have foreseen. More even than saving lives, his brief innocent life sent an electric charge through the human spirit, reminding us all of the preciousness of life and hence the importance of living up, rather than down, to it.

In his last few days, we played a game with Nicholas in which he was a Roman soldier about to return home. "When you get there," we told him, "they'll write poems to you, your name will be cheered by people you've never met." It was only a game, but it all came true with this difference, however: that Nicholas conquered not by the force of arms but by the power of love. And that, of course, is much stronger.

Letters from Vietnam 

By Joe Fulda 

One of the least pleasurable aspects of a military career is the extended family separations. The agony of saying good-bye to my wife, Mycki, and my son was compounded by the fact that I nearly always had a favorite dog that required (or at least I thought so) my sitting on the floor and explaining that Dad had to go away for a while, but would surely return. Such was the case in 1970 when military orders directed me to Vietnam and I had to break the news to Roulette, our one-year-old miniature poodle. 

Non-dog people raise their eyebrows when I tell them that dogs understand more of our speech than animal behaviorists give them credit for. Roulette understood. I watched her eyes and expression as I told her I was going away and she showed a sadness that I didn't see again until the final days of her life. When I promised to write often and return in a year, she acknowledged this with just one slow and deliberate wag of her tail. Then she sighed deeply and laid her head in my lap. That moment remains indelibly imprinted in my mind.

After my arrival in Vietnam, I wrote home two or three times a week. But Mycki soon began to complain that I wasn't writing very often. She told me that at first, my letters arrived at intervals of a week to ten days, but now there were often no letters for two weeks at a time.

I was puzzled and began to imagine all sorts of things, including the idea that the Viet Cong were shooting down all mail planes carrying my letters.

My wife knew from previous experience that I was a pretty faithful correspondent. Even when sent to remote areas, I always managed to find a postal drop somewhere. So she was as puzzled as I was about what was happening to my letters.

Over time, Mycki began to notice something odd. It became clear that if she was actually at the front door of our house when the mail came through the slot, the probability of a letter from me was greater. Puzzled, she decided to experiment by monitoring the front door more closely around mail delivery times. Things began to fall into place when she noticed that a little four-legged critter seemed very irritated when "momma" got to the mail first.

Our postman usually arrived between eleven o'clock and noon, and the next time he came up the walk to the front door, Mycki hid behind a partition where she had a good view of the front door and the floor of the entryway.

As Mycki peeked around the edge of the wall, she saw Miss Roulette saunter up to the several pieces of mail that had fallen on the floor beneath the slot. Roulette sniffed at a couple of items and then gently, with one front paw, pulled an envelope out from the stack. She gave a quick glance around and then scooped up the letter in her mouth. With a mixture of mild outrage and stifled hilarity, Mycki followed Roulette into the living room. She was close behind the pom-pommed tail as the poodle rounded the end of the couch and slipped in behind it with the letter.

"The game is over, Missy — get out from behind the couch," Mycki ordered. But Roulette was not a dog that responded immediately to orders. Moving the couch away from the wall, Mycki sternly requested, "Come on Rou, out of there." Reluctantly, like a momma dog protecting her pups, Miss Roulette rose and cautiously left her clandestine lair, revealing several letters where she had been lying.

The mystery was solved, but for Roulette, the game wasn't over, not by a long shot. With each subsequent mail delivery, it became a race to the door between Mycki and Roulette to pick up the mail. If Roulette won, a chase ensued unless of course, Mycki was busy or not at home when the postman arrived. Then it became a matter of search and seizure.

Roulette tossed in another twist that made the game even more interesting. Whenever Mycki received a letter, she would retire to her recliner in the living room to read it. But if she left the letter on the end table afterward, the artful dodger would strike again. Even when Mycki left the letters on the kitchen table where she did much of her writing, Roulette managed to appropriate them as soon as Mycki's attention was elsewhere. No place Roulette could reach was safe for my letters. Mycki finally resorted to storing them in a shoebox and putting the box inside her armoire.

Roulette retaliated by attempting little hunger strikes. Mycki really became concerned until she found out that Roulette was actually conning her — our son was sneak-feeding the little letter-napper at night in his room.

When Mycki explained all this to me in one of her letters, I had to laugh. It was rather nice to have two ladies fighting over me.

But things reverted to normal pretty quickly when I returned home. Roulette suddenly lost interest in the mail. However, while packing and preparing to move to our next duty station, we did discover a few more postal hideaways containing unopened letters from Vietnam — a reminder that as far as a dog's nose is concerned, a small object sent by a beloved human that travels nine thousand miles, though handled by dozens of other people, still bears a treasured message. I had never realized during all those months when I thought I was writing just to Mycki that I was also sending a uniquely personal greeting to one smart and a sharp-nosed little poodle.

The Flower 

By Pastor John R. Ramsey 

For some time I have had a person provide me with a rose boutonniere to pin on the lapel of my suit every Sunday. Because I always got a flower on Sunday morning, I really did not think much of it. It was a nice gesture that I appreciated, but it became routine. One Sunday, however, what I considered ordinary became very special. 

As I was leaving the Sunday service a young man approached me. He walked right up to me and said, "Sir, what are you going to do with your flower?" At first, I did not know what he was talking about, but then I understood.

I said, "Do you mean this?" as I pointed to the rose pinned to my coat. 

He said, "Yes sir. I would like it if you are just going to throw it away." At this point I smiled and gladly told him that he could have my flower, casually asking him what he was going to do with it. The little boy, who was probably less than 10 years old, looked up at me and said, "Sir, I'm going to give it to my granny. My mother and father got divorced last year. I was living with my mother, but when she married again, she wanted me to live with my father. I lived with him for a while, but he said I could not stay, so he sent me to live with my grandmother. She is so good to me. She cooks for me and takes care of me. She has been so good to me that I want to give that pretty flower to her for loving me."

When the little boy finished I could hardly speak. My eyes filled with tears and I knew I had been touched in the depths of my soul. I reached up and unpinned my flower. With the flower in my hand, I looked at the boy and said, "Son, that is the nicest thing I have ever heard, but you can't have this flower because it's not enough. If you'll look in front of the pulpit, you'll see a big bouquet of flowers. Different families buy them for the church each week. Please take those flowers to your granny because she deserves the very best."

If I hadn't been touched enough already, he made one last statement and I will always cherish it. He said, "What a wonderful day! I asked for one flower but got a beautiful bouquet." 

Dreams Lost and Found

By Kate Brausen 

When I was a very young girl, my mother took me to see Swan Lake. It was our maiden voyage into what would become a shared, lifelong tradition. I'd never seen ballet before, and afterward, all I could dream of was becoming a ballerina. A prima ballerina, of course, with an internationally-renowned company, the kind of company where the mere mention of the name brings looks of wonder to people's faces. I hadn't the slightest idea of what kind of lifestyle this would require, nor did I care. I only knew, with a child's unwavering certainty, that I had to be part of the vibrancy and passion we saw there on the stage, part of this beauty that had the power to move even grown-ups to tears. 

Though I loved school throughout my early years and was particularly fond of reading and writing, I was equally inclined toward athletics. I eagerly looked forward to playground recesses when, flying past my playmates in foot races or swinging energetically across the monkey bars, I would imagine myself in tights and leotard, time and space in my grasp as I soared effortlessly through the air in some achingly beautiful pas de deux.

My father, a self-made businessman who had enormous faith in what he saw as the unlimited potential of each of his children, had drilled into my brothers and me from early on the belief that we each could achieve any and all of our dreams, as long as we kept them firmly in our sights. I believed with all my heart that he was right and spent part of every day seeing the reality of my becoming a ballerina in my mind.

When, in about the fifth grade, I began tripping over my own feet more and more frequently, the sublime childhood assumption that everything will always remain the same prevented me, at first, from realizing that something might be wrong. But when my older brother, who had been experiencing similar problems, was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy, it was a short path to follow that I had it, as well. Even so, the fact that muscular dystrophy can be a slow-moving disease, caused my initial symptoms to be minor enough that, with the enviable ignorance of youth, the possibility that it would completely change my dream never occurred to me.

It wasn't until my middle school years, when my legs looked undeveloped, different somehow, from other girls in their first stockings, and my first grown-up pumps had to be replaced with orthopedic shoes, followed by leg braces, that I finally became conscious of some hard facts.

At that time, my parents' property had a huge old oak tree in a secluded corner that I'd always loved climbing. I'd sit up there and daydream, as young teen girls are want to do, fantasizing about this or that or camping out for a good long cry when things were particularly melodramatic. It was the automatic choice for me to run to at a time like this, but at the same time, it was becoming more difficult to do so. I went there anyway, though, clumsily hoisting myself up to hide among the branches, trying desperately to will away all fears.

One of my most powerful fears, of course, was that the day would soon come when I would no longer be physically able to perform the simple act of climbing a favorite tree - clearly, the ballet was out of the question. While I didn't want to face it, I rarely thought about anything else. On one particularly tough day, I went to my hideout straight off the school bus, book pack on my back and all. I was especially miserable that day. I'd tripped, again, and had a spectacular fall at school, this time right in front of the boy I'd had a secret crush on during the last year. Though those classmates that witnessed my disgrace had not laughed, had been kind, even, all I could think about was that this was my fate for the rest of my life.

I'd been crying hard, and I wanted a little moment to myself before going into the kitchen and letting Mom see my tear-streaked face. Desperate to calm down, I grabbed my notebook out of my backpack and started writing a poem about the feelings I was experiencing. We'd been studying haiku that semester in class, and I was taken by the simple purity of words that could bring forth strong images with a great economy.

The writing calmed me, setting free the harmful thoughts that had had me in their grip such a short time ago. Having achieved this relatively tranquil state, I decided to try another poem describing my agonizing fears of physical deterioration. Once again, it worked; it was as though the simple act of writing set free the demons that seemed to have taken up permanent residency, allowing me to step outside those thoughts and see them in a different, more detached perspective.

The next afternoon, I went straight to my tree, wanting to see if what had worked once would work again. As soon as I'd climbed to my perch, however, it seemed that all I could focus on was the fact that this hideaway was physically slipping out of my grasp. As if to hang onto the mental imagery of these moments, I began listing every detail I could think of, describing the rough bark against my back, the creaking sound of heavy limbs swaying in the breeze, the dappled afternoon sun splaying across my hands as it worked its way through rustling leaves. I wanted to capture the feel of it, somehow, to commit these things I would miss to some fail-safe, retrievable memory bank. By writing it all down, I felt I'd be able to keep these feelings close to my heart always, regardless of whether my memory or my body failed me.

What began that long-ago afternoon was to become a lifelong love affair with words, both spoken and written. I realized, as early as that first time I sat in my wooded perch and began to record, that the power of those words would help me remember the things I'd been lucky enough to experience and to keep them safe within me for as long as I needed it. It was much later when I realized that those same words would help me let go, help me put one well-lived experience behind me so that I might move on to something new and equally important.

Now, that I'm well beyond those youthful years and a full-time freelance writer, it seems that those long-ago afternoons will always stand out in my memory. The act of writing always takes me back to that initial, willful act of faith, a way to look, touch, and savor all life's moments while they are happening, to make each of them count and not to take any of them for granted. It is a prayer, of sorts, that continues to help me attain and conquer my life without, in the end, being conquered by it. When I put thought on paper today, whether it be for a particularly compelling piece of fiction or a more mundane news piece, there is always the memory of that first thrill of capturing each moment as it happens, of knowing that, no matter how far distant it becomes in memory, the simple act of writing will keep it forever safe, forever authentic.

Man's main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is. - Erich Fromm.

Let men have light, let them be pure and spiritually strong and educated, then alone will misery cease in the world, not before. - Swami Vivekananda.

Arise, awake, sleep no more; within each of you, there is the power to remove all wants and all miseries. Believe this, and that power will be multiplied. - Swami Vivekananda.

If you really want to judge the character of a man, look not at his great performances. Every fool may become a hero at one time or another. Watch a man do his most common actions; those are indeed the things which will tell you the real character of a great man. - Swami Vivekananda.

The Day the Lillies Bloomed 

By Jane Eppinga 

A statue of a young fighter pilot stands in front of the old capitol building in Phoenix, Arizona. His name was Frank Luke, Jr., and his tour of duty in World War I was brief but spectacular. Downing eighteen enemy aircraft in less than a month, he became one of only four fighter pilots awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor in that war. 

But there's more to the Frank Luke story than brave deeds in the skies above France. A most unusual event is recorded in the family Bible. It took place six thousand miles from the war, back home at Frank's parents' house in Phoenix, Arizona.

In September 1917, at age twenty, Frank was a handsome, happy-go-lucky lad. Fascinated by the new flying machines as a teenager, he joined the army and was accepted into flight training. At the end of his training, he was commissioned as a second lieutenant and given a fourteen-day leave. He went to Phoenix to be with his family one last time before going off to war.

One day during the leave, Frank was heading off to pal around with some old classmates. On his way out the door, his mother, Tillie, stopped him. She laid a hand on his arm and said, "Frank, dear, I've been meaning to ask you to plant some lily bulbs for me. The weather's so perfect for it today. Would you mind terribly?"

Tillie was known for her sweet and amiable nature, and Frank was happy to oblige her. He took the bag of bulbs and spent some time alone in the front yard before leaving to find his friends. Just a few days later, he shipped out to join the war in France.

Frank's tour of duty was uneventful until September 1918. During that month he came to specialize in the destruction of German observation balloons, as well as other enemy aircraft. In a seventeen-day period, Frank broke every record for downing enemy aircraft. Dubbed the "Balloon Buster," he destroyed one after another, sometimes with his partner and sometimes on his own. On one astounding mission, he shot down three planes and two balloons in just ten minutes. Altogether, in those few days, Frank accounted for fourteen balloons and four German planes. He was christened the American "Ace of Aces" of his day.

Back in Phoenix, the family read about Frank's brave exploits in the newspapers. Then, on September 29, his mother stepped into the front yard to find an amazing sight. The lilies that Frank had planted on leave had suddenly burst into bloom – strangely out of season in September. But that wasn't all. Once-blooming, it was clear that they formed the cross-like shape of a World War I airplane! Frank was crazy about airplanes and also a devout Catholic, so his intention could have been either.

The family members gathered and exclaimed at the sight, saying those lilies should have bloomed in June, not September! And, how like Frank it was to have planted them in some special way. Word of the marvel spread. A newspaper photographer came to the house and that week the Sunday paper ran a photo of Tillie standing beside the cross of lilies.

But, from the first moment she saw them, Tillie's response to the flowers was one of sorrow. She brushed away tears, certain that something must be wrong with Frank.

On November 25, two weeks after the Armistice ended World War I, Tillie's fears were realized. The family received notification from the Red Cross that Frank was missing in action. They would learn much later that Frank had single-handedly shot down three German observation balloons on his last mission. He was wounded in flight and managed to land without crashing in Murvaux. But his wounds were severe, and he died later that day.

Frank Luke, Jr., had made his final heroic flight on September 29 – the day the lilies bloomed.

God is love; His plan for creation can be rooted only in love. Does not that simple thought, rather than erudite reasonings, offer solace to the human heart? Every saint who has penetrated to the core of reality has testified that a divine universal plan exists and that is beautiful and full of joy. - Paramahansa Yogananda.

Our Deepest Fear
By Marianne Williamson

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness
That most frightens us.

We ask ourselves 
Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.

Your playing small
Does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine. 
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

The hall of learning is but a long and often winding corridor with many doors. Before we open any door we must have the courage to face the inevitable failures of good intentions, to accept such failures without emotional intemperance, without any self-condemnation, without remorse and despair; always sustaining our consciousness in tranquility throughout success and failure.

The moment we admit in true humility our ignorance, we allow ourselves to be transported into the hall of learning, where our souls will find the blossoms of life. But beware that we do not limit our growth through intellectual conceit.

May the holy ones, whose pupils and whose servers we aspire to be, show us the light we seek and give us the strong aid of their wisdom and compassion. There is a peace which passeth understanding, it lives and moves in those who know the self as one; may that peace brood over us, the power uplift us until we stand where the one initiator is invoked. Until we see his star shine forth, may the peace and blessings of the holy ones pour forth over us all.

If we can understand the invisible, we can do the impossible.

Love has to become an impersonal flame by becoming universal.

Without love, there is no unfoldment. Because love belongs to the life of the Spirit, to the real self. Without love all search is vain.

The Soul is immortal and its future is the future of a thing whose growth and splendor have no limit.

Speak each word, perform each action, face each situation before and inner altar where you kneel in uttermost adoration and self-surrender, under the seal and sign of your highest self.

Lord Maitreya is the present world teacher reaching out to all of humanity for us to realize our higher self, through love, wisdom, and service.

He has taken the vow of the Bodhisattva, whose ultimate task lies in overseeing the spiritual awakening of humanity and stimulating the awareness of our oneness with the creative source of all life.

True freedom only awakens in the unconditioned mind.