Beginning in the fall of 1940 and extending through the summer of 1959 Monday mornings were to be dreaded, for I had to respond to the signal to begin another week of school, or I had to punch the time clock and put myself at the behest of the employer. (This did not apply, or course, during the wonderful summer months during the school years, three glorious months of parole.)
Beginning in mid-August of 1959 I started teaching youngsters in the public schools of Indiana. For the next 31 years, Monday mornings signalled the beginning of another week of adventure and excitement in the world of education. (Except, of course, during the long summer months when supplemental employment had to fill in to provide food and shelter until school resumed.)
Now, for the past 24 years, Monday morning is just another morning.
Hi, I'm vanilla. Howya doin'? What color is your mood ring on Monday morning?
Showing posts with label reflections. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reflections. Show all posts
Monday, October 27, 2014
Sunday, December 15, 2013
What Have You Done for Me Lately?
Is the relationship based on love, or is it based on symbiosis? Referring here to all sorts of relationships, husband/wife, parent/child, friend/friend.
What did you ever do for me?
Well, I raised you, fed you, clothed you. I supported your college education.
That's ancient history. What have you done for me lately?
I bailed you out of an awkward financial situation last week, and took care of your children while you dealt with the matter.
That's ancient history. What have you done for me lately?
It is not enough that you have done infinitely much for me in the past; that is history. What have you done for me lately?
This relationship is based on symbiosis. The "child" is in it for what she can get out of it; the parent is in it for the eternal hope of appreciation.
This is not working.
I suspect that too often we attempt to maintain the same kind of relationship with Jesus.
What have you ever done for me, Lord?
I gave my life to atone for your sins, that you might have eternal life.
That's ancient history. What have you done for me lately?
That relationship is not working, either.
And that is not the fault of the Savior.
I wrote this little piece two or three months ago, then parked it over on my private blog. I feel now is the time to place it here.
What did you ever do for me?
Well, I raised you, fed you, clothed you. I supported your college education.
That's ancient history. What have you done for me lately?
I bailed you out of an awkward financial situation last week, and took care of your children while you dealt with the matter.
That's ancient history. What have you done for me lately?
It is not enough that you have done infinitely much for me in the past; that is history. What have you done for me lately?
This relationship is based on symbiosis. The "child" is in it for what she can get out of it; the parent is in it for the eternal hope of appreciation.
This is not working.
I suspect that too often we attempt to maintain the same kind of relationship with Jesus.
What have you ever done for me, Lord?
I gave my life to atone for your sins, that you might have eternal life.
That's ancient history. What have you done for me lately?
That relationship is not working, either.
And that is not the fault of the Savior.
I wrote this little piece two or three months ago, then parked it over on my private blog. I feel now is the time to place it here.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Memory and Recollection
I have availed myself of the files in my personal memory bank, aka cells in the grey matter, for blog fodder. It has served me well and betrayed me seldom. Yet as I age I have reflected on this thing called “memory” and have a few questions that have gone unanswered to date.
What started me thinking about this today in particular was this. I took a digital camera to our friends’ flood ravaged home to take a few pictures in case they need them for future reference. I have a two-gig memory chip in the camera, and although I store all my photos in the computer, I leave select ones on the chip so that they are portable and I can inflict them on my friends and family wherever I happen to meet them. As I was attempting to snap the third picture, nothing happened. Almost nothing. “Out of Memory” message was displayed on the screen.
Good enough. I now know that a two-gig will hold six hundred pictures. Not a problem, though, and not because I had an extra card with me, but rather because I had not edited the last couple of weeks of shooting, though I had stored everything on the hard drive at home. So I simply deleted twenty or so shots and continued shooting.
Now to my personal memory. This set me to thinking how marvelous it would be if we could select those memories to save in the memory bank, and pick and choose the ones to delete. It does not work that way. There are many things I would like to access which I can no longer order up from the files. My father, though, averred that everything that had ever impinged itself on memory was still there; we simply fail to have the proper trigger to elicit some items. Be that as it may, I struggle a bit with aphasia and language difficulty. Having been a bit of a language geek, I find it extremely frustrating when in conversation I cannot dredge up the exact word to express my thought, though I know the word and know I know it, but it will not out until an hour later, unbidden and entirely too late to be of use.
An added benefit to using the delete button for our personal memories might be that we could create additional room for building new memories. This is particularly appealing to me in light of the fact that at my age I often find that I truly can remember stuff, even useless stuff, that happened seven decades ago, but cannot remember where I put my shoes ten minutes ago. (The keys are not a problem, for I keep them in my right-hand front pocket at all times. And that would lead into another issue, because BBBH chides me about carrying stuff in my pockets, which, apparently, the well-dressed man does not do; and she wants a well-dressed man if he’s nothing else.)
So we live with what we have, not what we dream up. I am thankful for my memory bank and for the fact that it is not empty. Yet, anyway. I am grateful for the gift of continuity. I am who I am because of the sum total of the experiences I have had, and without memory I wouldn’t be much. There is more to this than I have presented, but this entry is quite long enough.
Happy memories!
What started me thinking about this today in particular was this. I took a digital camera to our friends’ flood ravaged home to take a few pictures in case they need them for future reference. I have a two-gig memory chip in the camera, and although I store all my photos in the computer, I leave select ones on the chip so that they are portable and I can inflict them on my friends and family wherever I happen to meet them. As I was attempting to snap the third picture, nothing happened. Almost nothing. “Out of Memory” message was displayed on the screen.
Good enough. I now know that a two-gig will hold six hundred pictures. Not a problem, though, and not because I had an extra card with me, but rather because I had not edited the last couple of weeks of shooting, though I had stored everything on the hard drive at home. So I simply deleted twenty or so shots and continued shooting.
Now to my personal memory. This set me to thinking how marvelous it would be if we could select those memories to save in the memory bank, and pick and choose the ones to delete. It does not work that way. There are many things I would like to access which I can no longer order up from the files. My father, though, averred that everything that had ever impinged itself on memory was still there; we simply fail to have the proper trigger to elicit some items. Be that as it may, I struggle a bit with aphasia and language difficulty. Having been a bit of a language geek, I find it extremely frustrating when in conversation I cannot dredge up the exact word to express my thought, though I know the word and know I know it, but it will not out until an hour later, unbidden and entirely too late to be of use.
An added benefit to using the delete button for our personal memories might be that we could create additional room for building new memories. This is particularly appealing to me in light of the fact that at my age I often find that I truly can remember stuff, even useless stuff, that happened seven decades ago, but cannot remember where I put my shoes ten minutes ago. (The keys are not a problem, for I keep them in my right-hand front pocket at all times. And that would lead into another issue, because BBBH chides me about carrying stuff in my pockets, which, apparently, the well-dressed man does not do; and she wants a well-dressed man if he’s nothing else.)
So we live with what we have, not what we dream up. I am thankful for my memory bank and for the fact that it is not empty. Yet, anyway. I am grateful for the gift of continuity. I am who I am because of the sum total of the experiences I have had, and without memory I wouldn’t be much. There is more to this than I have presented, but this entry is quite long enough.
Happy memories!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Really, I'm Fine #T
Reflective.
"Why are you so moody lately?"
"I'm not moody, I am reflective," replied the old man.
Reflective is what the moon is; it has no light of its own. Perfect. That is much how he feels about himself, not unhappy, dour, or unfit company. No, just reflecting on the process of putting years behind himself.
We've all heard the "--- is the first to go." There is no universal that fills the blank, for with all the senses, synapses, and skeletal bits and pieces, one man's weakness might be another's strength. For example, the old man reflected, the knees, or at least one knee, started to go in the thirties as the result of a motorcycle ride on a trail in Oregon. Of such adventures deterioration may set in. Vision? Going, and repaired numerous times by various surgeries, duly grateful for that.
The pharmaceuticals proclaim the benefits of their products, proposing the application of one pill or another for almost any weakness to which the flesh is heir. As one insurance company says in its commercials, "Poppycock." There is a natural progression from infancy to adolescence, from adolescence to adulthood, an adulthood in which the strengths of the body and mind are developed and put to the uses to which they are intended, or else not depending upon the inclination and discipline of the individual.
The process of dying, it is said, begins with conception. This is no argument either for or against the proposition. At some point one becomes aware of the process within his own being. Various systems have closed down, or are closing down. Creativity and the ability to process information and organize it into a pattern leading to a logical, or at least believable, conclusion, have waned. Some mornings one is blessed to remember his name. The string seems to get shorter and shorter and may soon be no more than bits of lint.
This is less funny, or sad for that matter, than simply a state of the human condition. One must admire those old relics who are in their late nineties and still seem alert and interested in life. But no embellishment, hairdo, fine clothing, perky makeup, or even surgical procedure, can conceal the fact that they, too, are subject to the vagaries of disconnect from this earthly life. We will all be gone soon enough.
Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;
While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musick shall be brought low;
Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:
Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Ecclesiastes 13
"Why are you so moody lately?"
"I'm not moody, I am reflective," replied the old man.
Reflective is what the moon is; it has no light of its own. Perfect. That is much how he feels about himself, not unhappy, dour, or unfit company. No, just reflecting on the process of putting years behind himself.
We've all heard the "--- is the first to go." There is no universal that fills the blank, for with all the senses, synapses, and skeletal bits and pieces, one man's weakness might be another's strength. For example, the old man reflected, the knees, or at least one knee, started to go in the thirties as the result of a motorcycle ride on a trail in Oregon. Of such adventures deterioration may set in. Vision? Going, and repaired numerous times by various surgeries, duly grateful for that.
The pharmaceuticals proclaim the benefits of their products, proposing the application of one pill or another for almost any weakness to which the flesh is heir. As one insurance company says in its commercials, "Poppycock." There is a natural progression from infancy to adolescence, from adolescence to adulthood, an adulthood in which the strengths of the body and mind are developed and put to the uses to which they are intended, or else not depending upon the inclination and discipline of the individual.
The process of dying, it is said, begins with conception. This is no argument either for or against the proposition. At some point one becomes aware of the process within his own being. Various systems have closed down, or are closing down. Creativity and the ability to process information and organize it into a pattern leading to a logical, or at least believable, conclusion, have waned. Some mornings one is blessed to remember his name. The string seems to get shorter and shorter and may soon be no more than bits of lint.
This is less funny, or sad for that matter, than simply a state of the human condition. One must admire those old relics who are in their late nineties and still seem alert and interested in life. But no embellishment, hairdo, fine clothing, perky makeup, or even surgical procedure, can conceal the fact that they, too, are subject to the vagaries of disconnect from this earthly life. We will all be gone soon enough.
Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;
While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musick shall be brought low;
Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:
Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Ecclesiastes 13
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