January 12th, 2006

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Morning -

Last night, Jan’s parents informed her that they would not support her decision, would not meet Jeff or his family, and would not attend the wedding.  They want her to start attending a group where she will meet Chinese males.  She is 31 years old, soon to be 32.  It might seem a bit late for that.  

I find it ironic that Steve’s father flew the hump in WWII in a C-46.  He does work in China now, and they reverence Steve for the work his father did in helping to rescue them from the Japanese.  On that front, it seems it could be worst.  We could be Japanese.

What I do not understand is why Jan’s parents are not curious about us.  Don't they want to meet the choice of their daughter?   And, perhaps, it is too soon.

 I find myself this morning remembering a poem of Norman Fischer’s called “Hate.”   The last three lines have guided me for years.

            Hate is like throwing a handful of shit

            Onto a red hot ingot

            You have to pick it up first

 
When, this morning, I opened the book, Precisely the Point Being Made,  from which the poem comes, the book fell open to this poem.  It is the right poem to guide  me now.  It stretches this problem over time, and that is what is needed.  Her parents are in shock.  But, over time, they will come to see the wisdom and beauty of their daughter’s choice.

 

            TO MY SONS    by Norman Fischer

 

            Perhaps after a time

            When others review our presence

            Our  journals bound, strange

            That we read and renew the scene

            We can’t understand without words to

            Make it real, adult life.

            I could be talking right now

            Over again about the script

            A red and white camellia in a vase

            In the alcove where the script reads

            “Pine tree green a thousand years”

            I throw a bottle over my shoulder.

            What a relief!



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Jane's poetic comment on the situation!


Threads mark our paths from before to here.

Each is woven of water and of blood and fire and ghosts.

We cannot stop them from spooling out of our bellies,

We can bind our hands our feet.

We can hold the thread lightly.

There is a reason the human heart cannot remember pain.



Jane Ann Flint





I find this poem beautifully relevant and frame it in my mind in an alcove with camellias and a "Pine tree green a thousand years."
I think Jane and Norman Fischer offer solutions that lead gently to peace, not war.   
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Inspiration Peak!!

This comes from Inspiration Peak today!



I asked for strength and
God gave me difficulties to make me strong.

I asked for wisdom and
God gave me problems to solve.

I asked for prosperity and
God gave me brawn and brains to work.

I asked for courage and
God gave me dangers to overcome.

I asked for patience and
God placed me in situations where I was forced to wait.

I asked for love and
God gave me troubled people to help.

I asked for favors and
God gave me opportunities.

I received nothing I wanted
I received everything I needed.

My prayers have all been answered.

Author Unknown
But Very Much Appreciated!

 
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Poem!!

                 Heart

 

          The dip to meet,

 The upward float of shoulders,

           so light, so light,

         the curving together,

           to slide to depths,

        that meet at the point,

             the pivotal point,

                  balancing,

                       the

                     whole,

                         as
                                  one.