Former world chess champion Bobby Fischer, wanted by the United States for defying sanctions on Yugoslavia, has applied for political asylum in Japan while he appeals against a decision to deport him.
Fischer, 61, arrived in Japan in April and was detained at Narita airport near Tokyo last month when he tried to leave for the Philippines on a passport that U.S. officials say was invalid.
The chess master has been wanted in the United States since 1992, when he defied U.S. economic sanctions against Yugoslavia to play a chess match there against his old rival Boris Spassky.
Japanese immigration officials last week rejected Fischer's initial appeal and his lawyer handed final documents for a second plea to Justice Minister Daizo Nozawa on Monday.
A Justice Ministry official said a decision on such an appeal was unlikely to be reached in a day or two, although the time required differs depending on the situation.
As a fallback , in case the appeal is rejected, Fischer has sought asylum in Japan as another line of defense, his Japanese lawyer Masako Suzuki said.
"In almost all cases the Japanese government will not force such a person back to their home country while the case is pending," she told Reuters after she met Fischer, who is being held at an immigration detention center inside the airport.
Japan accepts only political refugees. Fischer's supporters in Japan say he is being persecuted by the United States.
One of the great eccentrics of the chess world, Fischer maintains that his passport was never properly revoked and that the action was taken retroactively , his supporters say.
"He walked into the country, got stamped in legally with a visa," said Tokyo-based Canadian communications consultant John Bosnitch, who has been advising Fischer. U.S. authorities had suddenly notified Japanese officials in June that Fischer's passport had become invalid, Bosnitch added.
Fischer disappeared after the 1992 match, apparently traveling in Europe and Asia, only to resurface after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the United States in an interview on Philippines radio in which he praised the attacks.
Suzuki said Fischer, who has been in custody since July 13, looked nervous and tired.
"I think he looks very tired, very fatigued. I think his condition is not good mentally, physically."
The lawyer has filed a second request for Fischer's provisional release after an earlier request was rejected.
The non-smoking chess master is also unhappy at being kept in a cell where others around him smoke freely, Bosnitch said.
"He has had no fresh air, no exercise, no sunlight and (is) smoked out all day," he said.
A former Japanese lawmaker and chess aficionado , Ichiji Ishii, has offered to act as Fischer's guarantor if he is released while his appeal continues, since temporary immigration detention in Japan can last up to 60 days.
A Justice Ministry official said that in cases where the minister rejected an appeal, the individual would usually be quickly deported, but that this would not be possible if the person sought an injunction against deportation from a Japanese court. Ishii had said Fischer was considering such action.
Fischer became the world chess champion in 1972 when he beat Spassky of the Soviet Union in a victory seen as a Cold War propaganda coup for the United States.
The title was taken from him three years later after his conditions for a match against Anatoly Karpov, also of the Soviet Union, were rejected by chess officials.
Karpov became champion by default.
Fischer disappeared until the 1992 match against Spassky, whom he again defeated, then vanished again until his remarks on the Sept. 11 attacks. Fischer, whose mother was Jewish, has also stirred controversy with anti-Semitic remarks.
2008年7月21日星期一
Living Life Over
If I had my life to live over...I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was strained and the sofa faded. I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding patter if I were not there for the day.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, would not show soil or was guaranteed to last a life time.
There would have been more "I love yous" ... more "I'm sorrys"... but mostly, given another shots at life, I would seize every minute... look at it and really see it...live it...and never give it back.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was strained and the sofa faded. I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding patter if I were not there for the day.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, would not show soil or was guaranteed to last a life time.
There would have been more "I love yous" ... more "I'm sorrys"... but mostly, given another shots at life, I would seize every minute... look at it and really see it...live it...and never give it back.
The Road To Happiness
It is a commonplace among moralists that you cannot get happiness by pursuing it. This is only true if you pursue it unwisely. Gamblers at Monte Carlo are pursuing money, and most of them lose it instead, but there are other ways of pursuing money, which often succeed. So it is with happiness. If you pursue it by means of drink, you are forgetting the hang-over. Epicurus pursued it by living only in congenial society and eating only dry bread, supplemented by a little cheese on feast days. His method proved successful in his case, but he was a valetudinarian, and most people would need something more vigorous. For most people, the pursuit of happiness, unless supplemented in various ways, is too abstract and theoretical to be adequate as a personal rule of life. But I think that whatever personal rule of life you may choose it should not, except in rare and heroic cases, be incompatible with happiness.
There are a great many people who have all the material conditions of happiness, i.e. health and a sufficient income, and who, nevertheless, are profoundly unhappy. In such cases it would seem as if the fault must lie with a wrong theory as to how to live. In one sense, we may say that any theory as to how to live is wrong. We imagine ourselves more different from the animals than we are. Animals live on impulse, and are happy as long as external conditions are favorable. If you have a cat it will enjoy life if it has food and warmth and opportunities for an occasional night on the tiles. Your needs are more complex than those of your cat, but they still have their basis in instinct. In civilized societies, especially in English-speaking societies, this is too apt to be forgotten. People propose to themselves some one paramount objective, and restrain all impulses that do not minister to it. A businessman may be so anxious to grow rich that to this end he sacrifices health and private affections. When at last he has become rich, no pleasure remains to him except harrying other people by exhortations to imitate his noble example. Many rich ladies, although nature has not endowed them with any spontaneous pleasure in literature or art, decide to be thought cultured, and spend boring hours learning the right thing to say about fashionable new books that are written to give delight, not to afford opportunities for dusty snobbism.
If you look around at the men and women whom you can call happy, you will see that they all have certain things in common. The most important of these things is an activity which at most gradually builds up something that you are glad to see coming into existence. Women who take an instinctive pleasure in their children can get this kind of satisfaction out of bringing up a family. Artists and authors and men of science get happiness in this way if their own work seems good to them. But there are many humbler forms of the same kind of pleasure. Many men who spend their working life in the city devote their weekends to voluntary and unremunerated toil in their gardens, and when the spring comes, they experience all the joys of having created beauty.
The whole subject of happiness has, in my opinion, been treated too solemnly. It had been thought that man cannot be happy without a theory of life or a religion. Perhaps those who have been rendered unhappy by a bad theory may need a better theory to help them to recovery, just as you may need a tonic when you have been ill. But when things are normal a man should be healthy without a tonic and happy without a theory. It is the simple things that really matter. If a man delights in his wife and children, has success in work, and finds pleasure in the alternation of day and night, spring and autumn, he will be happy whatever his philosophy may be. If, on the other hand, he finds his wife fateful, his children's noise unendurable, and the office a nightmare; if in the daytime he longs for night, and at night sighs for the light of day, then what he needs is not a new philosophy but a new regimen----a different diet, or more exercise, or what not.
Man is an animal, and his happiness depends on his physiology more than he likes to think. This is a humble conclusion, but I cannot make myself disbelieve it. Unhappy businessmen, I am convinced, would increase their happiness more by walking six miles every day than by any conceivable change of philosophy.
There are a great many people who have all the material conditions of happiness, i.e. health and a sufficient income, and who, nevertheless, are profoundly unhappy. In such cases it would seem as if the fault must lie with a wrong theory as to how to live. In one sense, we may say that any theory as to how to live is wrong. We imagine ourselves more different from the animals than we are. Animals live on impulse, and are happy as long as external conditions are favorable. If you have a cat it will enjoy life if it has food and warmth and opportunities for an occasional night on the tiles. Your needs are more complex than those of your cat, but they still have their basis in instinct. In civilized societies, especially in English-speaking societies, this is too apt to be forgotten. People propose to themselves some one paramount objective, and restrain all impulses that do not minister to it. A businessman may be so anxious to grow rich that to this end he sacrifices health and private affections. When at last he has become rich, no pleasure remains to him except harrying other people by exhortations to imitate his noble example. Many rich ladies, although nature has not endowed them with any spontaneous pleasure in literature or art, decide to be thought cultured, and spend boring hours learning the right thing to say about fashionable new books that are written to give delight, not to afford opportunities for dusty snobbism.
If you look around at the men and women whom you can call happy, you will see that they all have certain things in common. The most important of these things is an activity which at most gradually builds up something that you are glad to see coming into existence. Women who take an instinctive pleasure in their children can get this kind of satisfaction out of bringing up a family. Artists and authors and men of science get happiness in this way if their own work seems good to them. But there are many humbler forms of the same kind of pleasure. Many men who spend their working life in the city devote their weekends to voluntary and unremunerated toil in their gardens, and when the spring comes, they experience all the joys of having created beauty.
The whole subject of happiness has, in my opinion, been treated too solemnly. It had been thought that man cannot be happy without a theory of life or a religion. Perhaps those who have been rendered unhappy by a bad theory may need a better theory to help them to recovery, just as you may need a tonic when you have been ill. But when things are normal a man should be healthy without a tonic and happy without a theory. It is the simple things that really matter. If a man delights in his wife and children, has success in work, and finds pleasure in the alternation of day and night, spring and autumn, he will be happy whatever his philosophy may be. If, on the other hand, he finds his wife fateful, his children's noise unendurable, and the office a nightmare; if in the daytime he longs for night, and at night sighs for the light of day, then what he needs is not a new philosophy but a new regimen----a different diet, or more exercise, or what not.
Man is an animal, and his happiness depends on his physiology more than he likes to think. This is a humble conclusion, but I cannot make myself disbelieve it. Unhappy businessmen, I am convinced, would increase their happiness more by walking six miles every day than by any conceivable change of philosophy.
A Walk In The Woods
I was puzzled! Why was this old woman making such a fuss about an old copse which was of no use to anybody? She had written letters to the local paper, even to a national, protesting about a projected by-pass to her village, and, looking at a map, the route was nowhere near where she lived and it wasn't as if the area was attractive. I was more than puzzled, I was intrigued.
The enquiry into the route of the new by-pass to the village was due to take place shortly, and I wanted to know what it was that motivated her. So it was that I found myself knocking on a cottage door, being received by Mary Smith and then being taken for a walk to the woods.
"I've always loved this place", she said, "it has a lot of memories for me, and for others. We all used it. They called it 'Lovers lane'. It's not much of a lane, and it doesn't go anywhere important, but that's why we all came here. To be away from people, to be by ourselves " she added.
It was indeed pleasant that day and the songs of many birds could be heard. Squirrels gazed from the branches, quite bold in their movements, obviously few people passed this way and they had nothing to fear. I could imagine the noise of vehicles passing through these peaceful woods when the by-pass was built, so I felt that she probably had something there but as I hold strong opinions about the needs of the community over-riding the opinions of private individuals, I said nothing. The village was quite a dangerous place because of the traffic especially for old people and children, their safety was more important to me than an old woman's whims.
"Take this tree", she said pausing after a short while. "To you it is just that, a tree. Not unlike many others here". She gently touched the bark. "Look here, under this branch, what can you see?"
"It looks as if someone has done a bit of carving with a knife" I said after a cursory inspection.
"Yes, that's what it is!" she said softly. "There are letters and a lover's heart".
I looked again, this time more carefully. The heart was still there and there was a suggestion of an arrow through it. The letters on one side were indistinct, but on the other an 'R' was clearly visible with what looked like an 'I' after it. "Some budding romance?" I asked, "did you know who they were?"
"Oh yes, I knew them", said Mary Smith, "it says RH loves MS".
I realised that I could be getting out of my depth, and longed to be in my office, away from here and this old lady, snug, and with a mug of tea in my hand.
She went on …"He had a penknife with a spike for getting stones from a horse's hoof, and I helped him to carve my initials. We were very much in love, but he was going away, and could not tell me what he was involved in the army. I had guessed of course. It was the last evening we ever spent together，because he went away the next day, back to his Unit. "
Mary Smith was quiet for a while, then she sobbed. "His mother showed me the telegram. 'Sergeant R Holmes ….. Killed in action in the 9)invasion of France'".
"'I had hoped that you and Robin would one day get married" she said, "He was my only child, and I would have loved to be a Granny, they would have been such lovely babies'- she was like that! "
"Two years later she too was dead. 'Pneumonia, following a chill on the chest' was what the doctor said, but I think it was an old fashioned broken heart. A child would have helped both of us."
There was a further pause. Mary Smith gently caressed the wounded tree, just as she would have caressed him. "And now they want to take our tree away from me." Another quiet sob, then she turned to me. "I was young and pretty then, I could have had anybody, I wasn't always the old woman you see here now. I had everything I wanted in life, a lovely man, health and a future to look forwards to".
She paused again and looked around. The breeze gently moved through the leaves with a sighing sound. "There were others, of course, but not a patch on my Robin!" she said strongly. "And now I have nothing - except the memories this tree holds. If only I could get my hands on that awful man who writes in the paper about the value of the road they are going to build where we are standing now, I would tell him. Has he never loved, has he never lived, does he not know anything about memories? We were not the only ones, you know, I still meet some who came here as Robin and I did. Yes, I would tell him!"
I turned away, sick at heart.
The enquiry into the route of the new by-pass to the village was due to take place shortly, and I wanted to know what it was that motivated her. So it was that I found myself knocking on a cottage door, being received by Mary Smith and then being taken for a walk to the woods.
"I've always loved this place", she said, "it has a lot of memories for me, and for others. We all used it. They called it 'Lovers lane'. It's not much of a lane, and it doesn't go anywhere important, but that's why we all came here. To be away from people, to be by ourselves " she added.
It was indeed pleasant that day and the songs of many birds could be heard. Squirrels gazed from the branches, quite bold in their movements, obviously few people passed this way and they had nothing to fear. I could imagine the noise of vehicles passing through these peaceful woods when the by-pass was built, so I felt that she probably had something there but as I hold strong opinions about the needs of the community over-riding the opinions of private individuals, I said nothing. The village was quite a dangerous place because of the traffic especially for old people and children, their safety was more important to me than an old woman's whims.
"Take this tree", she said pausing after a short while. "To you it is just that, a tree. Not unlike many others here". She gently touched the bark. "Look here, under this branch, what can you see?"
"It looks as if someone has done a bit of carving with a knife" I said after a cursory inspection.
"Yes, that's what it is!" she said softly. "There are letters and a lover's heart".
I looked again, this time more carefully. The heart was still there and there was a suggestion of an arrow through it. The letters on one side were indistinct, but on the other an 'R' was clearly visible with what looked like an 'I' after it. "Some budding romance?" I asked, "did you know who they were?"
"Oh yes, I knew them", said Mary Smith, "it says RH loves MS".
I realised that I could be getting out of my depth, and longed to be in my office, away from here and this old lady, snug, and with a mug of tea in my hand.
She went on …"He had a penknife with a spike for getting stones from a horse's hoof, and I helped him to carve my initials. We were very much in love, but he was going away, and could not tell me what he was involved in the army. I had guessed of course. It was the last evening we ever spent together，because he went away the next day, back to his Unit. "
Mary Smith was quiet for a while, then she sobbed. "His mother showed me the telegram. 'Sergeant R Holmes ….. Killed in action in the 9)invasion of France'".
"'I had hoped that you and Robin would one day get married" she said, "He was my only child, and I would have loved to be a Granny, they would have been such lovely babies'- she was like that! "
"Two years later she too was dead. 'Pneumonia, following a chill on the chest' was what the doctor said, but I think it was an old fashioned broken heart. A child would have helped both of us."
There was a further pause. Mary Smith gently caressed the wounded tree, just as she would have caressed him. "And now they want to take our tree away from me." Another quiet sob, then she turned to me. "I was young and pretty then, I could have had anybody, I wasn't always the old woman you see here now. I had everything I wanted in life, a lovely man, health and a future to look forwards to".
She paused again and looked around. The breeze gently moved through the leaves with a sighing sound. "There were others, of course, but not a patch on my Robin!" she said strongly. "And now I have nothing - except the memories this tree holds. If only I could get my hands on that awful man who writes in the paper about the value of the road they are going to build where we are standing now, I would tell him. Has he never loved, has he never lived, does he not know anything about memories? We were not the only ones, you know, I still meet some who came here as Robin and I did. Yes, I would tell him!"
I turned away, sick at heart.
Ronaldo, King of the World----Biography
Ronaldo Luiz Nazario de Lima1 was born on 22 September 1976 in a poor suburb of Rio de Janeiro2. Like most of his childhood friends, Ronaldo began his soccer career playing barefoot in the streets of his neighborhood. At the age of 14, he joined So Cristovo3 soccer club and only two years later became the star of Cruzeiro Belo Horizonte4 scoring a total of 58 goals in 60 matches and earning himself a reputation for his explosive5 pace and outstanding finishing skills. His goal-scoring record and unusual agility6 led him to be included in the Brazilian World Cup winning team the following year. After the World Cup, many top European football clubs were trying to sign him. Many people, including Brazilian football legend Pelé7, referred to him as the most promising8 footballer of his generation.
Since his transfer to Dutch team PSV Eindhoven9, Ronaldo s biography10 is one of success after success. Two Copa América s11, a UEFA12 Cup, a Dutch Cup, a Spanish League Cup, and two awards as best player in the world, all in the space of two years, are some of Ronaldo s impressive13 achievements. On arrival to Inter-Milan in 1997, Ronaldo became the idol14 of the local fans who refer to him as "il Fenomeno15."
Since the 98 World Cup he has suffered two serious knee injuries that have severely limited his appearances. Just when people began to wonder whether Ronaldo would be able to continue with his football career, he proved to the world that he still could play. In the World Cup held in Korea and Japan, the magical striker16 won the Golden Shoe award and tied Pele s Brazilian record for career World Cup goals with 12. He helped Brazil capture17 its fifth World Cup championship on June 30 with a 2-0 win over Germany. It was the third time that Ronaldo has ever played in the World Cup.
Since his transfer to Dutch team PSV Eindhoven9, Ronaldo s biography10 is one of success after success. Two Copa América s11, a UEFA12 Cup, a Dutch Cup, a Spanish League Cup, and two awards as best player in the world, all in the space of two years, are some of Ronaldo s impressive13 achievements. On arrival to Inter-Milan in 1997, Ronaldo became the idol14 of the local fans who refer to him as "il Fenomeno15."
Since the 98 World Cup he has suffered two serious knee injuries that have severely limited his appearances. Just when people began to wonder whether Ronaldo would be able to continue with his football career, he proved to the world that he still could play. In the World Cup held in Korea and Japan, the magical striker16 won the Golden Shoe award and tied Pele s Brazilian record for career World Cup goals with 12. He helped Brazil capture17 its fifth World Cup championship on June 30 with a 2-0 win over Germany. It was the third time that Ronaldo has ever played in the World Cup.
WHATEVER LOVE MEANS
Although neither or them remembered the occasion, Diana first met her future husband when she was just a baby. It happened during the winter of 1961, when twelve-year-old Charles, Prince of Wales, was visiting his mother's Sandringham retreat.
At the time, your Prince Charles barely glanced at the tiny baby sleeping in her cot. After all, bow could a twelve-year-old boy be interested in babies?
But the Prince would eventually take a very keen interest in this particular baby —it would just take some time.
In fact, it would be sixteen years before Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer took place in the middle of a farmer's field during a shooting party in November 1977.
It was a cold, rainy, bleak afternoon when sixteen-year-old Diana, dressed in a borrowed parka that was too large for her, boots, and blue jeans, crossed the field to meet the heir to the British throne.
It was almost twilight when the two came face to face near Nobottle Woods.
"What a sad man," Diana thought when she first saw him. The future Princess was intrigued to finally meet the most eligible bachelor in England, thought she was not impressed with his five-foot-ten-inch height, thinking to herself that she would tower over him in high heels. But Diana would later say that she admired his beautiful blue eyes.
The Prince later remarked that he thought Diana was "a very jolly and attractive" girl, "full of fun," though Diana herself believed that "he barely noticed me at all."
Diana, it was discovered later, first came to the attention of the royal family when she acted as a bridesmaid for her sister Jane's wedding that April. It was the first major social occasion that Diana attended as a young woman. And many of the royals were surprised at how beautiful and mature the once-gawky girl had become.
Even the Queen Mother. Prince Charles's grandmother, noticed Diana's beauty, grace, and charm. She complimented the Earl on the fine job he had done in bringing Diana up.
A short time later, Prince Charles sent his valet to hand-deliver a formal invitation for Diana to accompany him that very evening to the opera and a latenight dinner at the palace.
Though she was flustered, and the invitation came at such short notice, Diana accepted. She and her roommate, Carolyn Bartholomew, hurried to dress and prepare Diana for her big date. The evening was a success, and an invitation to party on the royal yacht came soon after……
Although she was intimidated by the crowd at Balmoral, Diana was wise enough not to stay in the castle itself. She asked for, and was granted, an invitation to stay with her sister Jane and her young husband at their cottage on the Balmoral estate.
The Prince visited Diana there every day, offering to escort her to a barbecue, or extending an invitation for a long walk in the woods.
When Charles went to Switzerland for a ski vacation, Diana missed him terribly. He called her after a day or two, and told Diana he had something important to ask her.
He arrived home on February, 3, 1981.Three days later, he arranged to see Diana at Windsor Castle. Late that evening, while Prince Charles was showing Diana the nursery, he asked her to marry him.
To his surprise, Diana treated his proposal as a joke, She actually giggled. But soon she could see that Prince Charles was serious. Despite an insistent voice inside her head that told her she would never be Queen, she accepted his proposal.
Diana told Prince Charles over and over that she loved him.
"Whatever love means." Was his reply.
At the time, your Prince Charles barely glanced at the tiny baby sleeping in her cot. After all, bow could a twelve-year-old boy be interested in babies?
But the Prince would eventually take a very keen interest in this particular baby —it would just take some time.
In fact, it would be sixteen years before Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer took place in the middle of a farmer's field during a shooting party in November 1977.
It was a cold, rainy, bleak afternoon when sixteen-year-old Diana, dressed in a borrowed parka that was too large for her, boots, and blue jeans, crossed the field to meet the heir to the British throne.
It was almost twilight when the two came face to face near Nobottle Woods.
"What a sad man," Diana thought when she first saw him. The future Princess was intrigued to finally meet the most eligible bachelor in England, thought she was not impressed with his five-foot-ten-inch height, thinking to herself that she would tower over him in high heels. But Diana would later say that she admired his beautiful blue eyes.
The Prince later remarked that he thought Diana was "a very jolly and attractive" girl, "full of fun," though Diana herself believed that "he barely noticed me at all."
Diana, it was discovered later, first came to the attention of the royal family when she acted as a bridesmaid for her sister Jane's wedding that April. It was the first major social occasion that Diana attended as a young woman. And many of the royals were surprised at how beautiful and mature the once-gawky girl had become.
Even the Queen Mother. Prince Charles's grandmother, noticed Diana's beauty, grace, and charm. She complimented the Earl on the fine job he had done in bringing Diana up.
A short time later, Prince Charles sent his valet to hand-deliver a formal invitation for Diana to accompany him that very evening to the opera and a latenight dinner at the palace.
Though she was flustered, and the invitation came at such short notice, Diana accepted. She and her roommate, Carolyn Bartholomew, hurried to dress and prepare Diana for her big date. The evening was a success, and an invitation to party on the royal yacht came soon after……
Although she was intimidated by the crowd at Balmoral, Diana was wise enough not to stay in the castle itself. She asked for, and was granted, an invitation to stay with her sister Jane and her young husband at their cottage on the Balmoral estate.
The Prince visited Diana there every day, offering to escort her to a barbecue, or extending an invitation for a long walk in the woods.
When Charles went to Switzerland for a ski vacation, Diana missed him terribly. He called her after a day or two, and told Diana he had something important to ask her.
He arrived home on February, 3, 1981.Three days later, he arranged to see Diana at Windsor Castle. Late that evening, while Prince Charles was showing Diana the nursery, he asked her to marry him.
To his surprise, Diana treated his proposal as a joke, She actually giggled. But soon she could see that Prince Charles was serious. Despite an insistent voice inside her head that told her she would never be Queen, she accepted his proposal.
Diana told Prince Charles over and over that she loved him.
"Whatever love means." Was his reply.
Three Passions I have
Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a waywa rd course over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.
I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy-ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of my life for a few hours for this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness-that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what-at last-I have found.
With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine...A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.
Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.
This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.
I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy-ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of my life for a few hours for this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness-that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what-at last-I have found.
With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine...A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.
Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.
This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.
Beauty
There were a sensitivity and a beauty to her that have nothing to do with looks. She was one to be listened to, whose words were so easy to take to heart. It is said that the true nature of being is veiled. The labor of words, the expression of art, the seemingly ceaseless buzz that is human thought all have in common the need to get at what really is so. The hope to draw close to and possess the truth of being can be a feverish one. In some cases it can even be fatal, if pleasure is one's truth and its attainment more important than life itself. In other lives, though, the search for what is truthful gives life.
I used to find notes left in the collection basket, beautiful notes about my homilies and about the writer's thoughts on the daily scriptural readings. The person who penned the notes would add reflections to my thoughts and would always include some quotes from poets and mystics he or she had read and remembered and loved. The notes fascinated me. Here was someone immersed in a search for truth and beauty. Words had been treasured, words that were beautiful. And I felt as if the words somehow delighted in being discovered, for they were obviously very generous to the as yet anonymous writer of the notes. And now this person was in turn learning the secret of sharing them. Beauty so shines when given away. The only truth that exists is, in that sense, free.
It was a long time before I met the author of the notes.
One Sunday morning, I was told that someone was waiting for me in the office. The young person who answered the rectory door said that it was "the woman who said she left all the notes." When I saw her I was shocked, since I immediately recognized her from church but had no idea that it was she who wrote the notes. She was sitting in a chair in the office with her hands folded in her lap. Her head was bowed and when she raised it to look at me, she could barely smile without pain. Her face was disfigured, and the skin so tight from surgical procedures that smiling or laughing was very difficult for her. She had suffered terribly from treatment to remove the growths that had so marred her face.
We chatted for a while that Sunday morning and agreed to meet for lunch later that week.
As it turned out we went to lunch several times, and she always wore a hat during the meal. I think that treatments of some sort had caused a lot of her hair to fall out. We shared things about our lives. I told her about my schooling and growing up. She told me that she had worked for years for an insurance company. She never mentioned family, and I did not ask.
We spoke of authors we both had read, and it was easy to tell that books are a great love of hers.
I have thought about her often over the years and how she struggled in a society that places an incredible premium on looks, class, wealth and all the other fineries of life. She suffered from a disfigurement that cannot be made to look attractive. I know that her condition hurt her deeply.
Would her life have been different had she been pretty? Chances are it would have. And yet there were a sensitivity and a beauty to her that had nothing to do with looks. She was one to be listened to, whose words were so easy to take to heart. Her words came from a wounded but loving heart, very much like all hearts, but she had more of a need to be aware of it, to live with it and learn from it. She possessed a fine-tuned sense of beauty. Her only fear in life was the loss of a friend.
How long does it take most of us to reach that level of human growth, if we ever get there? We get so consumed and diminished, worrying about all the things that need improving, we can easily forget to cherish those things that last. Friendship, so rare and so good, just needs our care--maybe even the simple gesture of writing a little note now and then, or the dropping of some beautiful words in a basket, in the hope that such beauty will be shared and taken to heart.
The truth of her life was a desire to see beyond the surface for a glimpse of what it is that matters. She found beauty and grace and they befriended her, and showed her what is real.
I used to find notes left in the collection basket, beautiful notes about my homilies and about the writer's thoughts on the daily scriptural readings. The person who penned the notes would add reflections to my thoughts and would always include some quotes from poets and mystics he or she had read and remembered and loved. The notes fascinated me. Here was someone immersed in a search for truth and beauty. Words had been treasured, words that were beautiful. And I felt as if the words somehow delighted in being discovered, for they were obviously very generous to the as yet anonymous writer of the notes. And now this person was in turn learning the secret of sharing them. Beauty so shines when given away. The only truth that exists is, in that sense, free.
It was a long time before I met the author of the notes.
One Sunday morning, I was told that someone was waiting for me in the office. The young person who answered the rectory door said that it was "the woman who said she left all the notes." When I saw her I was shocked, since I immediately recognized her from church but had no idea that it was she who wrote the notes. She was sitting in a chair in the office with her hands folded in her lap. Her head was bowed and when she raised it to look at me, she could barely smile without pain. Her face was disfigured, and the skin so tight from surgical procedures that smiling or laughing was very difficult for her. She had suffered terribly from treatment to remove the growths that had so marred her face.
We chatted for a while that Sunday morning and agreed to meet for lunch later that week.
As it turned out we went to lunch several times, and she always wore a hat during the meal. I think that treatments of some sort had caused a lot of her hair to fall out. We shared things about our lives. I told her about my schooling and growing up. She told me that she had worked for years for an insurance company. She never mentioned family, and I did not ask.
We spoke of authors we both had read, and it was easy to tell that books are a great love of hers.
I have thought about her often over the years and how she struggled in a society that places an incredible premium on looks, class, wealth and all the other fineries of life. She suffered from a disfigurement that cannot be made to look attractive. I know that her condition hurt her deeply.
Would her life have been different had she been pretty? Chances are it would have. And yet there were a sensitivity and a beauty to her that had nothing to do with looks. She was one to be listened to, whose words were so easy to take to heart. Her words came from a wounded but loving heart, very much like all hearts, but she had more of a need to be aware of it, to live with it and learn from it. She possessed a fine-tuned sense of beauty. Her only fear in life was the loss of a friend.
How long does it take most of us to reach that level of human growth, if we ever get there? We get so consumed and diminished, worrying about all the things that need improving, we can easily forget to cherish those things that last. Friendship, so rare and so good, just needs our care--maybe even the simple gesture of writing a little note now and then, or the dropping of some beautiful words in a basket, in the hope that such beauty will be shared and taken to heart.
The truth of her life was a desire to see beyond the surface for a glimpse of what it is that matters. She found beauty and grace and they befriended her, and showed her what is real.
Detour to Romance
Located in the checkroom in Union Station as I am, I see everybody that comes up the stairs.
Harry came in a little over three years ago and waited at the head of the stairs for the passengers from the 9∶05 train.
I remember seeing Harry that first evening. He wasn't much more than a thin, anxious kid then. He was all dressed up and I knew he was meeting his girl and that they would be married twenty minutes after she arrived.
Well, the passengers came up and I had to get busy. I didn't look toward the stairs again until nearly time for the 9∶18 and I was very surprised to see that the young fellow was still there.
She didn't come on the 9∶18 either, nor on the 9∶40, and when the passengers from the 10∶02 had all arrived and left, Harry was looking pretty desperate. Pretty soon he came close to my window so I called out and asked him what she looked like.
"She's small and dark," he said, "and nineteen years old and very neat in the way she walks. She has a face," he said, thinking a minute, "that has lots of spirit. I mean she can get mad but she never stays mad for long, and her eyebrows come to a little point in the middle. She's got a brown fur, but maybe she isn't wearing it."
I couldn't remember seeing anybody like that.
He showed me the telegram he'd received: ARRIVE THURSDAY. MEET ME STATION. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE. MAY. It was from Omaha, Nebraska.
"Well," I finally said, "why don't you phone to your home? She's probably called there if she got in ahead of you."
He gave me a sick look. "I've only been in town two days. We were going to meet and then drive down South where I've got a job. She hasn't any address for me." He touched the telegram.
When I came on duty the next day he was still there and came over as soon as he saw me.
"Did she work anywhere?" I asked.
He nodded. "She was a typist. I telegraphed her former boss. All they know is that she left her job to get married."
Harry met every train for the next three or four days. Of course, the railroad lines made a routine checkup and the police looked into the case. But nobody was any real help. I could see that they all figured that May had simply played a trick on2 him. But I never believed that, somehow.
One day, after about two weeks, Harry and I were talking and I told him about my theory. "If you'll just wait long enough," I said, "you'll see her coming up those stairs some day." He turned and looked at the stairs as though he had never seen them before.
The next day when I came to work Harry was behind the counter of Tony's magazine stand. He looked at me rather sheepishly and said, "Well, I had to get a job somewhere, didn't I?"
So he began to work as a clerk for Tony. We never spoke of May anymore and neither of us ever mentioned my theory. But I noticed that Harry always saw every person who came up the stairs.
Toward the end of the year Tony was killed in some argument over gambling, and Tony's widow left Harry in complete charge of the magazine stand. And when she got married again some time later, Harry bought the stand from her. He borrowed money and installed a soda fountain and pretty soon he had a very nice little business.
Then came yesterday. I heard a cry and a lot of things falling. The cry was from Harry and the things falling were a lot of dolls and other things which he had upset while he was jumping over the counter. He ran across and grabbed a girl not ten feet from my window. She was small and dark and her eyebrows came to a little point in the middle.
For a while they just hung there to each other laughing and crying and saying things without meaning. She'd say a few words like, "It was the bus station I meant" and he'd kiss her speechless and tell her the many things he had done to find her. What apparently had happeded three years before was that May had come by bus, not by train, and in her telegram she meant "bus station," not "railroad station." She had waited at the bus station for days and had spent all her money trying to find Harry. Finally she got a job typing.
"What?" said Harry. "Have you been working in town? All the time?"
She nodded.
"Well, Heavens. Didn't you ever come down here to the station?" He pointed across to his magazine stand. "I've been there all the time. I own it. I've watched everybody that came up the stairs."
She began to look a little pale. Pretty soon she looked over at the stairs and said in a weak voice, "I never came up the stairs before. You see, I went out of town yesterday on a short business trip. Oh, Harry!" Then she threw her arms around his neck and really began to cry.
After a minute she backed away and pointed very stiffly toward the north end of the station. "Harry, for three years, for three solid years, I've been right over there working right in this very station, typing, in the office of the stationmaster."
Harry came in a little over three years ago and waited at the head of the stairs for the passengers from the 9∶05 train.
I remember seeing Harry that first evening. He wasn't much more than a thin, anxious kid then. He was all dressed up and I knew he was meeting his girl and that they would be married twenty minutes after she arrived.
Well, the passengers came up and I had to get busy. I didn't look toward the stairs again until nearly time for the 9∶18 and I was very surprised to see that the young fellow was still there.
She didn't come on the 9∶18 either, nor on the 9∶40, and when the passengers from the 10∶02 had all arrived and left, Harry was looking pretty desperate. Pretty soon he came close to my window so I called out and asked him what she looked like.
"She's small and dark," he said, "and nineteen years old and very neat in the way she walks. She has a face," he said, thinking a minute, "that has lots of spirit. I mean she can get mad but she never stays mad for long, and her eyebrows come to a little point in the middle. She's got a brown fur, but maybe she isn't wearing it."
I couldn't remember seeing anybody like that.
He showed me the telegram he'd received: ARRIVE THURSDAY. MEET ME STATION. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE. MAY. It was from Omaha, Nebraska.
"Well," I finally said, "why don't you phone to your home? She's probably called there if she got in ahead of you."
He gave me a sick look. "I've only been in town two days. We were going to meet and then drive down South where I've got a job. She hasn't any address for me." He touched the telegram.
When I came on duty the next day he was still there and came over as soon as he saw me.
"Did she work anywhere?" I asked.
He nodded. "She was a typist. I telegraphed her former boss. All they know is that she left her job to get married."
Harry met every train for the next three or four days. Of course, the railroad lines made a routine checkup and the police looked into the case. But nobody was any real help. I could see that they all figured that May had simply played a trick on2 him. But I never believed that, somehow.
One day, after about two weeks, Harry and I were talking and I told him about my theory. "If you'll just wait long enough," I said, "you'll see her coming up those stairs some day." He turned and looked at the stairs as though he had never seen them before.
The next day when I came to work Harry was behind the counter of Tony's magazine stand. He looked at me rather sheepishly and said, "Well, I had to get a job somewhere, didn't I?"
So he began to work as a clerk for Tony. We never spoke of May anymore and neither of us ever mentioned my theory. But I noticed that Harry always saw every person who came up the stairs.
Toward the end of the year Tony was killed in some argument over gambling, and Tony's widow left Harry in complete charge of the magazine stand. And when she got married again some time later, Harry bought the stand from her. He borrowed money and installed a soda fountain and pretty soon he had a very nice little business.
Then came yesterday. I heard a cry and a lot of things falling. The cry was from Harry and the things falling were a lot of dolls and other things which he had upset while he was jumping over the counter. He ran across and grabbed a girl not ten feet from my window. She was small and dark and her eyebrows came to a little point in the middle.
For a while they just hung there to each other laughing and crying and saying things without meaning. She'd say a few words like, "It was the bus station I meant" and he'd kiss her speechless and tell her the many things he had done to find her. What apparently had happeded three years before was that May had come by bus, not by train, and in her telegram she meant "bus station," not "railroad station." She had waited at the bus station for days and had spent all her money trying to find Harry. Finally she got a job typing.
"What?" said Harry. "Have you been working in town? All the time?"
She nodded.
"Well, Heavens. Didn't you ever come down here to the station?" He pointed across to his magazine stand. "I've been there all the time. I own it. I've watched everybody that came up the stairs."
She began to look a little pale. Pretty soon she looked over at the stairs and said in a weak voice, "I never came up the stairs before. You see, I went out of town yesterday on a short business trip. Oh, Harry!" Then she threw her arms around his neck and really began to cry.
After a minute she backed away and pointed very stiffly toward the north end of the station. "Harry, for three years, for three solid years, I've been right over there working right in this very station, typing, in the office of the stationmaster."
The New Generation in Japan
IN THIS ARTICLE: Japanese students seem to be losing patience with work ... (and) prefer easy jobs without heavy responsibility.
[1]Japan's post-World War II value system of diligence, cooperation, and hard work is changing. Recent surveys show that Japanese youth have become a "Me Generation" that rejects traditional values.
[2] "Around 1980 many Japanese, especially young people, abandoned the values of economic success and began searching for new sets of values to bring them happiness," writes sociologist Yasuhiro Yoshizaki in Comparative Civilizations Review. Japanese youth are placing more importance on the individual's pursuit of happiness and less on the values of work, family, and society.
[3] Japanese students seem to be losing patience with work, unlike their counterparts in the United States and Korea. In a 1993 survey of college students in the three countries, only 10% of the Japanese regarded work as a primary value, compared with 47% of their Korean counterparts and 27% of American students. A greater proportion of Japanese aged 18 to 24 also preferred easy jobs without heavy responsibility.
[4] Concern for family values is waning among younger Japanese as they pursue an inner world of private satisfaction. Data collected by the Japanese government in 1993 shows that only 2304 of Japanese youth are thinking about supporting their aged parents, in contrast to 63% of young Americans. It appears that many younger-generation Japanese are losing both respect for their parents and a sense of responsibility to the family. Author Yoshizaki attributes the change to Japanese parents' over-indulgence of their children, material affluence, and growing concern for private matters.
[5] The shift toward individualism among Japanese is most pronounced among the very young. According to 1991 data from the Seimei Hoken Bunka Center of Japan, 50% of Japanese youth aged 16 to 19 can be labeled "self-centered", compared with 33% among those aged 25 to 29 To earn the self-centered label, the young people responded positively to such ideas as "I would like to make decisions without considering traditional values" and "I don't want to do anything I can't enjoy doing".
[6] Diminishing social responsibility, according to Yoshizaki, is tied to the growing interest in pleasure and personal satisfaction. A study comparing society-conscious youth from 1977 to 1990 found that the Japanese had slipped far behind American and Australian students. Only 11 % of Japanese aged 18 to 24 said they get personal satisfaction in doing something on behalf of society, according to 1993 data from the Japanese government, while four limes as many Americans said 50.
[7] Yoshizaki concludes that the entire value system of Japanese youth is undergoing major transformation, but the younger generation has not yet found a new organized value system to replace the old.
[1]Japan's post-World War II value system of diligence, cooperation, and hard work is changing. Recent surveys show that Japanese youth have become a "Me Generation" that rejects traditional values.
[2] "Around 1980 many Japanese, especially young people, abandoned the values of economic success and began searching for new sets of values to bring them happiness," writes sociologist Yasuhiro Yoshizaki in Comparative Civilizations Review. Japanese youth are placing more importance on the individual's pursuit of happiness and less on the values of work, family, and society.
[3] Japanese students seem to be losing patience with work, unlike their counterparts in the United States and Korea. In a 1993 survey of college students in the three countries, only 10% of the Japanese regarded work as a primary value, compared with 47% of their Korean counterparts and 27% of American students. A greater proportion of Japanese aged 18 to 24 also preferred easy jobs without heavy responsibility.
[4] Concern for family values is waning among younger Japanese as they pursue an inner world of private satisfaction. Data collected by the Japanese government in 1993 shows that only 2304 of Japanese youth are thinking about supporting their aged parents, in contrast to 63% of young Americans. It appears that many younger-generation Japanese are losing both respect for their parents and a sense of responsibility to the family. Author Yoshizaki attributes the change to Japanese parents' over-indulgence of their children, material affluence, and growing concern for private matters.
[5] The shift toward individualism among Japanese is most pronounced among the very young. According to 1991 data from the Seimei Hoken Bunka Center of Japan, 50% of Japanese youth aged 16 to 19 can be labeled "self-centered", compared with 33% among those aged 25 to 29 To earn the self-centered label, the young people responded positively to such ideas as "I would like to make decisions without considering traditional values" and "I don't want to do anything I can't enjoy doing".
[6] Diminishing social responsibility, according to Yoshizaki, is tied to the growing interest in pleasure and personal satisfaction. A study comparing society-conscious youth from 1977 to 1990 found that the Japanese had slipped far behind American and Australian students. Only 11 % of Japanese aged 18 to 24 said they get personal satisfaction in doing something on behalf of society, according to 1993 data from the Japanese government, while four limes as many Americans said 50.
[7] Yoshizaki concludes that the entire value system of Japanese youth is undergoing major transformation, but the younger generation has not yet found a new organized value system to replace the old.
Paradox of Our Times
[1]We have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time; we have more degrees, but less common sense; more knowledge, but less judgement; more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.
[2] We spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get to angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too often, and pray too seldom.
[3] We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too little and lie too often. We've learned how to make a living, but not a life; we've added years to life, not life to years.
[4] We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.
[5] We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor. We've conquered outer space, but not inner space. We've split the atom, but not our prejudice; we write more, but learn less; plan more, but accomplish less.
[6] We've learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes, but lower morals. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies, but have less communication. We are long on quantity, but short on quality.
[7] These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men and short character; steep profits and shallow relationships. More leisure and less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition; two incomes, but more divorce; fancier houses, but broken homes.
[2] We spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get to angry too quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too often, and pray too seldom.
[3] We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too little and lie too often. We've learned how to make a living, but not a life; we've added years to life, not life to years.
[4] We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less; we buy more, but enjoy it less.
[5] We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor. We've conquered outer space, but not inner space. We've split the atom, but not our prejudice; we write more, but learn less; plan more, but accomplish less.
[6] We've learned to rush, but not to wait; we have higher incomes, but lower morals. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies, but have less communication. We are long on quantity, but short on quality.
[7] These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion; tall men and short character; steep profits and shallow relationships. More leisure and less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition; two incomes, but more divorce; fancier houses, but broken homes.
Beautiful Smile and Love
The poor are very wonderful people. One evening we went out and we picked up four people from the street. And one of them was in a most terrible condition，and I told the sisters: You take care of the other three. I take care of this one who looked worse. So I did for her all that my love can do. I put her in bed, and there was such a beautiful smile on her face. She took hold of my hand as she said just the words "thank you" and she died. I could not help but examine my conscience[良心]before her and I asked what would I say if I was in her place. And my answer was very simple. I would have tried to draw a little attention to myself. I would have said I am hungry, that I am dying, I am cold, I am in pain, or something, but she gave me much more-she gave me her grateful love. And she died with a smile on her face. As did that man whom we picked up from the drain[阴沟、下水道], half eaten with worms, and we brought him to the home. "I have lived like an animal in the street, but I am going to die like an angel, loved and cared for." And it was so wonderful to see the greatness of that man who could speak like that, who could die like that without blaming anybody, without cursing anybody, without comparing anything. Like an angel-this is the greatness of our people. And that is why we believe what Jesus had said: I was hungry, I was naked, I was homeless, I was unwanted, unloved, uncared for, and you did it to me.
I believe that we are not real social workers. We may be doing social work in the eyes of the people, but we are really contemplatives[修行者、沉思冥想的人] in the heart of the world. For we are touching the body of Christ twenty-four hours...And I think that in our family we don't need bombs and guns, to destroy, to bring peace, just get together, love one another, bring that peace, that joy, that strength of presence of each other in the home. And we will be able to overcome all the evil that is in the world.
And with this prize that I have received as a Prize of Peace, I am going to try to make the home for many people who have no home. Because I believe that love begins at home, and if we can create a home for the poor I think that more and more love will spread. And we will be able through this understanding love to bring peace be the good news to the poor. The poor in our own family first, in our country and in the world. To be able to do this, our Sisters, our lives have to be wove with prayer. They have to be woven with Christ to be able to understand, to be able to share. Because to be woven with Christ is to be able to understand, to be able to share. Because today there is so much suffering...When I pick up a person from the street, hungry, I give him a plate of rice, a piece of bread, I have satisfied. I have removed that hunger. But a person who is shut out, who feels unwanted, unloved, terrified, the person who has been thrown out from society-that poverty is so full of hurt and so unbearable…And so let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love, and once we begin to love each other naturally we want to do something.
I believe that we are not real social workers. We may be doing social work in the eyes of the people, but we are really contemplatives[修行者、沉思冥想的人] in the heart of the world. For we are touching the body of Christ twenty-four hours...And I think that in our family we don't need bombs and guns, to destroy, to bring peace, just get together, love one another, bring that peace, that joy, that strength of presence of each other in the home. And we will be able to overcome all the evil that is in the world.
And with this prize that I have received as a Prize of Peace, I am going to try to make the home for many people who have no home. Because I believe that love begins at home, and if we can create a home for the poor I think that more and more love will spread. And we will be able through this understanding love to bring peace be the good news to the poor. The poor in our own family first, in our country and in the world. To be able to do this, our Sisters, our lives have to be wove with prayer. They have to be woven with Christ to be able to understand, to be able to share. Because to be woven with Christ is to be able to understand, to be able to share. Because today there is so much suffering...When I pick up a person from the street, hungry, I give him a plate of rice, a piece of bread, I have satisfied. I have removed that hunger. But a person who is shut out, who feels unwanted, unloved, terrified, the person who has been thrown out from society-that poverty is so full of hurt and so unbearable…And so let us always meet each other with a smile, for the smile is the beginning of love, and once we begin to love each other naturally we want to do something.
All you remember
All you remember about your child being an infant is the incredible awe you felt about the precious miracle you created. You remember having plenty of time to bestow all your wisdom and knowledge. You thought your child would take all of your advice and make fewer mistakes, and be much smarter than you were. You wished for your child to hurry and grow up.
All you remember about your child being two is never using the restroom alone or getting to watch a movie without talking animals. You recall afternoons talking on the phone while crouching in the bedroom closet, and being convinced your child would be the first Ivy League1 college student to graduate wearing pullovers2 at the ceremony. You remember worrying about the bag of M＆M's melting in your pocket and ruining your good dress. You wished for your child to be more independent.
All you remember about your child being five is the first day of school and finally having the house to yourself. You remember joining the PTA3 and being elected president when you left a meeting to use the restroom. You remember being asked "Is Santa real?" and saying "yes" because he had to be for a little bit longer. You remember shaking the sofa cushions for loose change4, so the toothfairy5 could come and take away your child's first lost tooth. You wished for your child to have all permanent teeth.
All you remember about your child being seven is the carpool6 schedule. You learned to apply makeup in two minutes and brush your teeth in the rearview mirror1 because the only time you had to yourself was when you were stopped at red lights. You considered painting your car yellow and posting a "taxi" sign on the lawn next to the garage door. You remember people staring at you, the few times you were out of the car, because you kept flexing2 your foot and making acceleration3 noises. You wished for the day your child would learn how to drive.
All you remember about your child being ten is managing the school fundraisers. You sold wrapping paper for paint, T shirts for new furniture, and magazine subscriptions4 for shade trees in the school playground. You remember storing a hundred cases of candy bars in the garage to sell so the school band could get new uniforms, and how they melted together on an unseasonably5 warm spring afternoon. You wished your child would grow out of playing an instrument.
All you remember about your child being twelve is sitting in the stands6 during baseball practice and hoping your child's team would strike out7 fast because you had more important things to do at home. The coach didn't understand how busy you were. You wished the baseball season would be over soon.
All you remember about your child being fourteen is being asked not to stop the car in front of the school in the morning. You had to drive two blocks further and unlock the doors without coming to a complete stop. You remember not getting to kiss your child goodbye or talking to him in front of his friends. You wished your child would be more mature.
All you remember about your child being sixteen is loud music and undecipherable8 lyrics9 screamed to a rhythmic beat. You wished for your child to grow up and leave home with the stereo.
All you remember about your child being eighteen is the day they were born and having all the time in the world.
And, as you walk through your quiet house, you wonder where they went and you wish your child hadn't grown up so fast.
All you remember about your child being two is never using the restroom alone or getting to watch a movie without talking animals. You recall afternoons talking on the phone while crouching in the bedroom closet, and being convinced your child would be the first Ivy League1 college student to graduate wearing pullovers2 at the ceremony. You remember worrying about the bag of M＆M's melting in your pocket and ruining your good dress. You wished for your child to be more independent.
All you remember about your child being five is the first day of school and finally having the house to yourself. You remember joining the PTA3 and being elected president when you left a meeting to use the restroom. You remember being asked "Is Santa real?" and saying "yes" because he had to be for a little bit longer. You remember shaking the sofa cushions for loose change4, so the toothfairy5 could come and take away your child's first lost tooth. You wished for your child to have all permanent teeth.
All you remember about your child being seven is the carpool6 schedule. You learned to apply makeup in two minutes and brush your teeth in the rearview mirror1 because the only time you had to yourself was when you were stopped at red lights. You considered painting your car yellow and posting a "taxi" sign on the lawn next to the garage door. You remember people staring at you, the few times you were out of the car, because you kept flexing2 your foot and making acceleration3 noises. You wished for the day your child would learn how to drive.
All you remember about your child being ten is managing the school fundraisers. You sold wrapping paper for paint, T shirts for new furniture, and magazine subscriptions4 for shade trees in the school playground. You remember storing a hundred cases of candy bars in the garage to sell so the school band could get new uniforms, and how they melted together on an unseasonably5 warm spring afternoon. You wished your child would grow out of playing an instrument.
All you remember about your child being twelve is sitting in the stands6 during baseball practice and hoping your child's team would strike out7 fast because you had more important things to do at home. The coach didn't understand how busy you were. You wished the baseball season would be over soon.
All you remember about your child being fourteen is being asked not to stop the car in front of the school in the morning. You had to drive two blocks further and unlock the doors without coming to a complete stop. You remember not getting to kiss your child goodbye or talking to him in front of his friends. You wished your child would be more mature.
All you remember about your child being sixteen is loud music and undecipherable8 lyrics9 screamed to a rhythmic beat. You wished for your child to grow up and leave home with the stereo.
All you remember about your child being eighteen is the day they were born and having all the time in the world.
And, as you walk through your quiet house, you wonder where they went and you wish your child hadn't grown up so fast.
A Unique Job A father's job is unique
If parents had job descriptions mine would read: organize bills, playmates, laundry, meals, laundry, carpool, laundry, snacks, outings and shopping, and laundry.
The only thing on my husband's description would be the word "fun" written in big red letters along the top. Although he is a selfless caregiver and provider, our children think of him more as a combination of a jungle gym and bozo and clown.
Our parenting styles compliment each other. His style is a nonstop adventure where no one has to worry about washing their hands, eating vegetables, or getting cavities. My style is similar to Mussolini. I'm too busy worrying to be fun. Besides, every time I try, I am constantly outdone by my husband.
I bought my children bubble gum flavored toothpaste and I taught them how to brush their teeth in tiny circles so they wouldn't get cavities. They thought it was neat until my husband taught them how to rinse by spitting out water between their two front teeth like a fountain.
I took the children on a walk in the woods and, after two hours, I managed to corral a slow ladybug into my son's insect cage. I was "cool" until their father came home, spent two minutes in the backyard, and captured a beetle the size of a Chihuahua.
I try to tell myself I am a good parent even if my husband does things I can't do. I can make sure my children are safe, warm, and dry. I'll stand in line for five hours so the children can see Santa at the mall or be first in line to see the latest Disney movie. But I can't wire the VCR so my children can watch their favorite video.
I can carry my children in my arms when they are tired, tuck them into bed, and kiss them goodnight. But I can't flip them upside down so they can walk on the ceiling or prop them on my shoulders so they can see the moths flying inside of the light fixture.
I can take them to doctor appointments, scout meetings, or field trips to the aquarium, but I'll never go into the wilderness, skewer a worm on a hook, reel in a fish, and cook it over an open flame on a piece of tin foil.
I'll even sit in the first row of every Little League game and cheer until my throat is sore and my tonsils are raw, but I'll never teach my son how to hit a home run or slide into first base.
As a mother I can do a lot of things for my children, but no matter how hard I try--I can never be their father.
The only thing on my husband's description would be the word "fun" written in big red letters along the top. Although he is a selfless caregiver and provider, our children think of him more as a combination of a jungle gym and bozo and clown.
Our parenting styles compliment each other. His style is a nonstop adventure where no one has to worry about washing their hands, eating vegetables, or getting cavities. My style is similar to Mussolini. I'm too busy worrying to be fun. Besides, every time I try, I am constantly outdone by my husband.
I bought my children bubble gum flavored toothpaste and I taught them how to brush their teeth in tiny circles so they wouldn't get cavities. They thought it was neat until my husband taught them how to rinse by spitting out water between their two front teeth like a fountain.
I took the children on a walk in the woods and, after two hours, I managed to corral a slow ladybug into my son's insect cage. I was "cool" until their father came home, spent two minutes in the backyard, and captured a beetle the size of a Chihuahua.
I try to tell myself I am a good parent even if my husband does things I can't do. I can make sure my children are safe, warm, and dry. I'll stand in line for five hours so the children can see Santa at the mall or be first in line to see the latest Disney movie. But I can't wire the VCR so my children can watch their favorite video.
I can carry my children in my arms when they are tired, tuck them into bed, and kiss them goodnight. But I can't flip them upside down so they can walk on the ceiling or prop them on my shoulders so they can see the moths flying inside of the light fixture.
I can take them to doctor appointments, scout meetings, or field trips to the aquarium, but I'll never go into the wilderness, skewer a worm on a hook, reel in a fish, and cook it over an open flame on a piece of tin foil.
I'll even sit in the first row of every Little League game and cheer until my throat is sore and my tonsils are raw, but I'll never teach my son how to hit a home run or slide into first base.
As a mother I can do a lot of things for my children, but no matter how hard I try--I can never be their father.
Words from the Heart
Most people need to hear those "three little words" I love you. Once in a while, they hear them just in time.
I met Connie the day she was admitted to the hospice1 ward, where I worked as a volunteer. Her husband, Bill, stood nervously nearby as she was transferred from the gurney2 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 sentimental1 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 time. 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 shoulda2 seen her smile!"
I went into the room to say my own goodbye 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."
I met Connie the day she was admitted to the hospice1 ward, where I worked as a volunteer. Her husband, Bill, stood nervously nearby as she was transferred from the gurney2 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 sentimental1 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 time. 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 shoulda2 seen her smile!"
I went into the room to say my own goodbye 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."
Those Childhood Days
When you came into the world, she held you in her arms.
You thanked her by weeping your eyes out.
When you were 1 year old, she fed you and bathed you.
You thanked her by crying all night long.
When you were 2 years old, she taught you to walk.
You thanked her by running away when she called.
When you were 3 years old, she made all your meals with love.
You thanked her by tossing your plate on the floor.
When you were 4 years old, she gave you some crayons.
You thanked her by coloring the dining room table.
When you were 5 years old, she dressed you for the holidays.
You thanked her by plopping into the nearest pile of mud.
When you were 6 years old, she walked you to school.
You thanked her by screaming, "I'm not going!"
When you were 7 years old, she bought you a baseball.
You thanked her by throwing it through the next-door-neighbor's window.
When you were 8 years old, she handed you an ice cream.
You thanked her by dripping it all over your lap.
When you were 9 years old, she paid for piano lessons.
You thanked her by never even bothering to practice.
When you were 10 years old, she drove you all day, from soccer to gymnastics to one birthday party after another.
You thanked her by jumping out of the car and never looking back.
When you were 11 years old, she took you and your friends to the movies.
You thanked her by asking to sit in a different row.
When you were 12 years old, she warned you not to watch certain TV shows.
You thanked her by waiting until she left the house.
Those Teenage Years
When you were 13, she suggested a haircut that was becoming.
You thanked her by telling her she had no taste.
When you were 14, she paid for a month away at summer camp.
You thanked her by forgetting to write a single letter.
When you were 15, she came home from work, looking for a hug.
You thanked her by having your bedroom door locked.
When you were 16, she taught you how to drive her car.
You thanked her by taking it every chance you could.
When you were 17, she was expecting an important call.
You thanked her by being on the phone all night.
When you were 18, she cried at your high school graduation.
You thanked her by staying out partying until dawn.
Growing Old and Gray
When you were 19, she paid your college tuition, drove you to campus, carried your bags.
You thanked her by saying good-bye outside the dorm so you wouldn't be embarrassed in front of your friends.
When you were 20, she asked whether you were seeing anyone.
You thanked her by saying, "It's none of your business."
When you were 21, she suggested certain careers for your future.
You thanked her by saying, "I don't want to be like you."
When you were 22, she hugged you at your college graduation.
You thanked her by asking whether she could pay for a trip to Europe.
When you were 23, she gave you furniture for your first apartment.
You thanked her by telling your friends it was ugly.
When you were 24, she met your fiance10 and asked about your plans for the future.
You thanked her by glaring and growling, "Muuhh-ther, please!"
When you were 25, she helped to pay for your wedding, and she cried and told you how deeply she loved you.
You thanked her by moving halfway across the country.
When you were 30, she called with some advice on the baby.
You thanked her by telling her, "Things are different now."
When you were 40, she called to remind you of a relative's birthday.
You thanked her by saying you were "really busy right now."
When you were 50, she fell ill and needed you to take care of her.
You thanked her by reading about the burden parents become to their children.
And then one day she quietly died.
And everything you never did came crashing down like thunder.
"Rock me baby, rock me all night long."
"The hand who rocks the cradle...may rock the world".
Let us take a moment of the time just to pay tribute and show appreciation to the person called mom though some may not say it openly to their mother. There's no substitute for her. Cherish every single moment. Though at times she may not be the best of friends, may not agree to our thoughts, she is still your mother!!!She will be there for you...to listen to your woes, your braggings, your frustations, etc. Ask yourself...have you put aside enough time for her, to listen to her "blues" of working in the kitchen, her tiredness? Be tactful, loving and still show her due respect though you may have a different view from hers. Once gone, only fond memories of the past and also regrets will be left.
Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Love her more than you love yourself. Life is meaningless without her ...
You thanked her by weeping your eyes out.
When you were 1 year old, she fed you and bathed you.
You thanked her by crying all night long.
When you were 2 years old, she taught you to walk.
You thanked her by running away when she called.
When you were 3 years old, she made all your meals with love.
You thanked her by tossing your plate on the floor.
When you were 4 years old, she gave you some crayons.
You thanked her by coloring the dining room table.
When you were 5 years old, she dressed you for the holidays.
You thanked her by plopping into the nearest pile of mud.
When you were 6 years old, she walked you to school.
You thanked her by screaming, "I'm not going!"
When you were 7 years old, she bought you a baseball.
You thanked her by throwing it through the next-door-neighbor's window.
When you were 8 years old, she handed you an ice cream.
You thanked her by dripping it all over your lap.
When you were 9 years old, she paid for piano lessons.
You thanked her by never even bothering to practice.
When you were 10 years old, she drove you all day, from soccer to gymnastics to one birthday party after another.
You thanked her by jumping out of the car and never looking back.
When you were 11 years old, she took you and your friends to the movies.
You thanked her by asking to sit in a different row.
When you were 12 years old, she warned you not to watch certain TV shows.
You thanked her by waiting until she left the house.
Those Teenage Years
When you were 13, she suggested a haircut that was becoming.
You thanked her by telling her she had no taste.
When you were 14, she paid for a month away at summer camp.
You thanked her by forgetting to write a single letter.
When you were 15, she came home from work, looking for a hug.
You thanked her by having your bedroom door locked.
When you were 16, she taught you how to drive her car.
You thanked her by taking it every chance you could.
When you were 17, she was expecting an important call.
You thanked her by being on the phone all night.
When you were 18, she cried at your high school graduation.
You thanked her by staying out partying until dawn.
Growing Old and Gray
When you were 19, she paid your college tuition, drove you to campus, carried your bags.
You thanked her by saying good-bye outside the dorm so you wouldn't be embarrassed in front of your friends.
When you were 20, she asked whether you were seeing anyone.
You thanked her by saying, "It's none of your business."
When you were 21, she suggested certain careers for your future.
You thanked her by saying, "I don't want to be like you."
When you were 22, she hugged you at your college graduation.
You thanked her by asking whether she could pay for a trip to Europe.
When you were 23, she gave you furniture for your first apartment.
You thanked her by telling your friends it was ugly.
When you were 24, she met your fiance10 and asked about your plans for the future.
You thanked her by glaring and growling, "Muuhh-ther, please!"
When you were 25, she helped to pay for your wedding, and she cried and told you how deeply she loved you.
You thanked her by moving halfway across the country.
When you were 30, she called with some advice on the baby.
You thanked her by telling her, "Things are different now."
When you were 40, she called to remind you of a relative's birthday.
You thanked her by saying you were "really busy right now."
When you were 50, she fell ill and needed you to take care of her.
You thanked her by reading about the burden parents become to their children.
And then one day she quietly died.
And everything you never did came crashing down like thunder.
"Rock me baby, rock me all night long."
"The hand who rocks the cradle...may rock the world".
Let us take a moment of the time just to pay tribute and show appreciation to the person called mom though some may not say it openly to their mother. There's no substitute for her. Cherish every single moment. Though at times she may not be the best of friends, may not agree to our thoughts, she is still your mother!!!She will be there for you...to listen to your woes, your braggings, your frustations, etc. Ask yourself...have you put aside enough time for her, to listen to her "blues" of working in the kitchen, her tiredness? Be tactful, loving and still show her due respect though you may have a different view from hers. Once gone, only fond memories of the past and also regrets will be left.
Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Love her more than you love yourself. Life is meaningless without her ...
We Never Told Him He Couldn't Do It
My son Joey was born with club feet. The doctors assured us that with treatment he would be able to walk normally - but would never run very well. The first three years of his life were spent in surgery, casts and braces. By the time he was eight, you wouldn't know he had a problem when you saw him walk .
The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.
In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.
He continued to run four to five miles a day, every day - even the day he had a 103-degree fever. I was worried, so I went to look for him after school. I found him running all alone. I asked him how he felt. "Okay," he said. He had two more miles to go. The sweat ran down his face and his eyes were glassy from his fever. Yet he looked straight ahead and kept running. We never told him he couldn't run four miles with a 103-degree fever. So he didn't know.
Two weeks later, the names of the team runners were called. Joey was number six on the list. Joey had made the team. He was in seventh grade - the other six team members were all eighth-graders. We never told him he shouldn't expect to make the team. We never told him he couldn't do it. We never told him he couldn't do it...so he didn't know. He just did it.
The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.
In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.
He continued to run four to five miles a day, every day - even the day he had a 103-degree fever. I was worried, so I went to look for him after school. I found him running all alone. I asked him how he felt. "Okay," he said. He had two more miles to go. The sweat ran down his face and his eyes were glassy from his fever. Yet he looked straight ahead and kept running. We never told him he couldn't run four miles with a 103-degree fever. So he didn't know.
Two weeks later, the names of the team runners were called. Joey was number six on the list. Joey had made the team. He was in seventh grade - the other six team members were all eighth-graders. We never told him he shouldn't expect to make the team. We never told him he couldn't do it. We never told him he couldn't do it...so he didn't know. He just did it.
Before Two Portraits of My Mother
I love the beautiful young girl of this
portrait, my mother, painted years ago
when her forehead was white, and there was no
shadow in the dazzling Venetian glass
of her gaze. But this other likeness shows
the deep trenches across her forehead's white
marble. The rose poem of her youth that
her marriage sang is far behind. Here is
my sadness: I compare these portraits, one
of a joy-radiant brow, the other care-
heavy: sunrise—and the thick coming on
of night. And yet how strange my ways appear,
for when I look at these faded lips my heart
smiles, but at the smiling girl my tears start.
portrait, my mother, painted years ago
when her forehead was white, and there was no
shadow in the dazzling Venetian glass
of her gaze. But this other likeness shows
the deep trenches across her forehead's white
marble. The rose poem of her youth that
her marriage sang is far behind. Here is
my sadness: I compare these portraits, one
of a joy-radiant brow, the other care-
heavy: sunrise—and the thick coming on
of night. And yet how strange my ways appear,
for when I look at these faded lips my heart
smiles, but at the smiling girl my tears start.
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