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"Short and Sweet" by David Gilmour
You ask
What is the quality
Of life?
Seeking to justify the part you play
And hide
Fearing it incomplete
To try
To make it any more or less than short and sweet
But short
Short is from you to me
As close
As we are wont to try to make it be
We're caught
Watching the darkening sky
Who knows?
Helpless as time itself to hold the time of day
And you
You are a fantasy
A view
From where you'd like to think the world should see
Be true
And you will likely find
A few
Building a vision new and justice to our time
And we
We the immoral men
We dare
Naked and fearless in the elements
And free
Carefree of tempting fate
Aware
And holding off the moral nightmare at the gates
And sweet
Sweet as a mountain stream
We'll look
Toward a new day breaking in the east
We'll meet
As every future dream
Unfolds
And surely quality that is the very least
You ask
What is the quality
Of life?
Seeking to justify the part you play
And hide
Fearing it incomplete
To try
To make it any more or less than short and sweet
But short
Short is from you to me
As close
As we are wont to try to make it be
We're caught
Watching the darkening sky
Who knows?
Helpless as time itself to hold the time of day
And you
You are a fantasy
A view
From where you'd like to think the world should see
Be true
And you will likely find
A few
Building a vision new and justice to our time
And we
We the immoral men
We dare
Naked and fearless in the elements
And free
Carefree of tempting fate
Aware
And holding off the moral nightmare at the gates
And sweet
Sweet as a mountain stream
We'll look
Toward a new day breaking in the east
We'll meet
As every future dream
Unfolds
And surely quality that is the very least
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The Old Phone
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone's number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information."
"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.
I said I could.
"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helpe d me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Gene, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone and called, "Information Please."
"Information," said in the now familiar voice.
"How do I spell fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in Oklahoma. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.
Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there n ow. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. "Information."
I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"
I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me . I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle A different voice answered, "Information." I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" she said.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Gene?"
"Yes." I answered.
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.
Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
===
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
Whose life have you touched today?
Why not pass this on? I just did....
Lifting you on eagle's wings. May you find the joy and peace you long for.
Life is a journey. NOT a guided tour.
I loved this story and just had to pass it on. I hope you enjoy it and get a blessing from it just as I did.
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone's number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information."
"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.
I said I could.
"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helpe d me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Gene, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone and called, "Information Please."
"Information," said in the now familiar voice.
"How do I spell fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in Oklahoma. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.
Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there n ow. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. "Information."
I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"
I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me . I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle A different voice answered, "Information." I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" she said.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Gene?"
"Yes." I answered.
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.
Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
===
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
Whose life have you touched today?
Why not pass this on? I just did....
Lifting you on eagle's wings. May you find the joy and peace you long for.
Life is a journey. NOT a guided tour.
I loved this story and just had to pass it on. I hope you enjoy it and get a blessing from it just as I did.
Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth. by Mark Twain
If You Come Across An Angel.
Every day in the world around us,
Real-life angels are doing the things they do
And bringing more smiles to the world around them
Real-life angels build bridges instead of walls.
They dont play hide-and-seek with the truth,
And they dont have hidden agendas.
They tend to be the only ones who understand
What you're going through.
If they sense that youre hurting,
They do whatever they can to help you.
Real-life angels understand difficulties and always
Give the benefit of the doubt.
They dont hold others up to standards
They cant live by themselves.
Real-life angels are what inner beauty is all about.
Real-life angels dont hold things against you;
The only thing they hold is you.
They take your hand in theirs when you
Could use a little reassurance.
They walk beside you when you could do with
A little guidance and direction in your life.
And they support you in your attempts to do what is right.
Real-life angels multiply your smiles and
Add to your integrity.
They make you feel like,
Hey, I really am somebody who matters.
Then they quietly prove to you how
Beautiful and true that feeling really is.
If you come across an angel like this,
You are one of the luckiest people of all.
I wanted to share this poem because its one that I read every single day and try to apply it to my life.. I believe that you can make a difference in everything you do, long as you stay focused on the things that truly matter...Never Settle For Anything Less Than What You Truly Want.. Ty for your friendship and for making a difference...
We can all learn a lesson from this!
There was a blind girl who hated herself because she was blind. She hated everyone, except her loving boyfriend. He was always there for her. She told her boyfriend, "If I could only see the world, I will marry you." One day, someone donated a pair of eyes to her. When the bandages came off, she was able to see everything, including her boyfriend. He asked her,'Now that you can see the world, will you marry me?' The girl looked at her boyfriend and saw that he was blind. The sight of his closed eyelids shocked her. She hadn't expected that. The thought of looking at them the rest of her life led her to refuse to marry him. Her boyfriend left in tears and days later wrote a note to her saying: 'Take good care of your eyes, my dear, for before they were yours, they were mine.' This is how the human brain often works when our status changes. Only a very few remember what life was like before, and who was always by their side in the most painful situations. Life Is a Gift Today before you say an unkind word - Think of someone who can't speak. Before you complain about the taste of your food - Think of someone who has nothing to eat.
What Will Matter
Ready or not, some day it will all come to an end.
There will be no more sunrises, no minutes, hours or days. All the things you collected, whether treasured or forgotten will pass to someone else.
Your wealth, fame and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevance. It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.
Your grudges, resentments, frustrations and jealousies will finally disappear. So too, your hopes, ambitions, plans and to do lists will expire.
The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away.
It won't matter where you came from or what side of the tracks you lived on at the end.
It won't matter whether you were beautiful or brilliant. Even your gender and skin color will be irrelevant.
So what will matter? How will the value of your days be measured?
What will matter is not what you bought but what you built, not what you got but what you gave.
What will matter is not your success but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned but what you taught.
What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage, or sacrifice that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.
What will matter is not your competence but your character.
What will matter is not how many people you knew, but how many will feel a lasting loss when you're gone.
What will matter is not your memories but the memories that live in those who loved you.
What will matter is how long you will be remembered, by whom and for what.
Living a life that matters doesn't happen by accident. It's not a matter of circumstance but of choice.
~Michael Josephson~
Love and Light,
Angel Love
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us,
we often find that it is those who,
instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures,
have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand.
The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion,
who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement,
who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing
and face with us the reality of our powerlessness,
that is a friend who cares.
~Henri Nouwen
Taken from a friends blog who was kind enough to let me share it. Thank you "J" http://www.myspace.com/hendersonphotography
"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, as
children do. We were born to make manifest the glory
of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us;
it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people permission to do
the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our
presence automatically liberates others."
-Marianne Williamson
This poem is by: Beverly F. Walker. I edited a few words to fit the poem for my Dad. Today would have been his birthday.....
~Ocean Lament~
Everything, EVERYTHING, speaks your name
Bringing back memories of joy, and pain.
Watching the water, the waves that roll
Feeling you pour through my very soul.
I search and I search and hope to find
One single footprint you left behind.
Can you see me, and do you know
The longing and sorrow of missing you so?
I look down at my shadow and think about you
Still going with me in all that I do.
At times I am walking on such a thin line,
Alone on this journey that's unwillingly mine.
Oh, warmth of the sun in blue sky above,
Just send me one ray from my Father that I love!
The gulls circle madly, their cries are my voice--
"Why did this happen? Why was there no choice?"
Oh waves, cleanse my sorrow at least for today.
Oh Father, Mysterious, show me the way.
Everything, EVERYTHING, speaks your name
Bringing back memories of joy, and pain.
Watching the water, the waves that roll
Feeling you pour through my very soul.
I search and I search and hope to find
One single footprint you left behind.
Can you see me, and do you know
The longing and sorrow of missing you so?
I look down at my shadow and think about you
Still going with me in all that I do.
At times I am walking on such a thin line,
Alone on this journey that's unwillingly mine.
Oh, warmth of the sun in blue sky above,
Just send me one ray from my Father that I love!
The gulls circle madly, their cries are my voice--
"Why did this happen? Why was there no choice?"
Oh waves, cleanse my sorrow at least for today.
Oh Father, Mysterious, show me the way.
B. Walker
April 5, 2001