"From the smallest necessity to the highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and everything we have comes from one attribute of man - the function of his reasoning mind."
Ayn Rand
Words of encouragement
Moderator: scott
re: Words of encouragement
[sic]Wasn’t this is an old Buddhist saying.
Does it matter?
Which is a gift from God.
"From the smallest necessity to the highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and everything we have comes from one attribute of man - the function of his reasoning mind."
Ayn Rand
Love it quick. You ain't gonna have it long.
re: Words of encouragement
Jumping to conclusions is the functioning of his reasoning mind. All for a reason.
re: Words of encouragement
Timothy:
Not to Buddha, but it seems to matter to Christianity which religion was on the other side.Quote:Does it matter?Wasn’t this is an old Buddhist saying.
What goes around, comes around.
re: Words of encouragement
"It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are 20 gods, or no god."
Thomas Jefferson
Love it quick. You ain't gonna have it long.
re: Words of encouragement
The Playing Fields of Eden
Reluctant spring finally arrived, and the balls, bats and gloves were on the sofa when I got home.
"Thayer, Dad?"
"Definitely."
Thayer Field stretches off a back road behind the elementary school. It's a good place to be on a beautiful day, with a boy who loves baseball. "You want to hit?" I ask.
"Nah. You hit some first," he says.
The boy pulls on his hay-colored fielder's glove and trots toward the mound. I stand under a great gray backstop that hovers like a giant catcher's mitt above home plate. I swing the wooden bat and hit a soft grounder. He scoops it up and tosses it back on a bounce. Thwack. Thwack. I hit grounders, soft, then harder, at him.
He comes in, and I go to the mound to pitch. Soft, straight throws at first, harder now and harder still. THWACK.
"Hey, hey," I yell as I chase down the ball. Here I am, pitching to a son who dreams the truest American dream.
The fine minutes pass quickly. The sun drops behind the western horizon, painting the sky around the church tower in pinks and blues and purples. Dusk comes a-creeping. The sparrows sitting in the maple saplings along the chainlink fence sing louder, railing at the end of such a day. "That's it," I say. "I can't even see the ball."
"One more," he says. Always the boy says, "One more."
I wind and deliver. I listen for the thwack, fearing the ball my eyes can no longer pick up, delighted that the boy can hit it that hard.
Some year soon, he will not want to play ball with me. But his younger sister already talks about playing soccer. I think about pounding down a September field with her, and say to myself, "Oh, lucky man."
Paul Della Vallle
Reluctant spring finally arrived, and the balls, bats and gloves were on the sofa when I got home.
"Thayer, Dad?"
"Definitely."
Thayer Field stretches off a back road behind the elementary school. It's a good place to be on a beautiful day, with a boy who loves baseball. "You want to hit?" I ask.
"Nah. You hit some first," he says.
The boy pulls on his hay-colored fielder's glove and trots toward the mound. I stand under a great gray backstop that hovers like a giant catcher's mitt above home plate. I swing the wooden bat and hit a soft grounder. He scoops it up and tosses it back on a bounce. Thwack. Thwack. I hit grounders, soft, then harder, at him.
He comes in, and I go to the mound to pitch. Soft, straight throws at first, harder now and harder still. THWACK.
"Hey, hey," I yell as I chase down the ball. Here I am, pitching to a son who dreams the truest American dream.
The fine minutes pass quickly. The sun drops behind the western horizon, painting the sky around the church tower in pinks and blues and purples. Dusk comes a-creeping. The sparrows sitting in the maple saplings along the chainlink fence sing louder, railing at the end of such a day. "That's it," I say. "I can't even see the ball."
"One more," he says. Always the boy says, "One more."
I wind and deliver. I listen for the thwack, fearing the ball my eyes can no longer pick up, delighted that the boy can hit it that hard.
Some year soon, he will not want to play ball with me. But his younger sister already talks about playing soccer. I think about pounding down a September field with her, and say to myself, "Oh, lucky man."
Paul Della Vallle
Love it quick. You ain't gonna have it long.