Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event.
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I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
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A woman lost her only son and this caused her great pain and she carried the body of her son around the village looking for someone who had a potion to bring him back to life. Someone told her that Buddha has such a potion. She found Buddha at his retreat and asked him if he had such a potion. He said that yes he does. She asked if there was any herbs she could collect to aid in it's making. Buddha said that he needed some mustard seeds. She said she would collect some mustard seeds. As she was leaving Buddha said the seeds need to come from a household that has never known death. The woman said she would find these seeds. Every home she visited had the seeds to give her, but every home had experienced death at one time. In one a mother, in another a daughter, in another a servant, and in another a husband. Finally the woman realized that no one goes through life without experiencing the pain of death. At this time she let them take the body of her son and bury him. She returned to Buddha to thank him for reminding her of this simple fact. Buddha said the realization that everyone experiences the pain of death did not ease the pain of her loss, it eased the suffering of her holding on.
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Pregnant women! They had that weird frisson, an aura of magic that combined awkwardly with an earthy sense of duty. Mundane, because they were nothing unique on the suburban streets; ethereal because their attention was ever somewhere else. Whatever you said was trivial. And they had that preciousness which they imposed wherever they went, compelling attention, constantly reminding you that they carried the future inside, its contours already drawn, but veiled, private, an inner secret.
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Give a man religion without reminding him of his filth, and the result will be arrogance in a three- piece suit. Max Lucado
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Learning is finding out what you already know, Doing is demonstrating that you know it, Teaching is reminding others that they know it as well as you do. We are all learners, doers, and teachers.
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I use many props. The props act as cue cards reminding me of what to say next.
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As she lay there dozing next to me, one voice inside my head kept saying, 'Relax... you are not the first doctor to sleep with one of his patients, ' but another kept reminding me, 'Howard, you are a veterinarian.'
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To accomplish more, redirect your mental energy by continuously reminding yourself of all the things you do right
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Learning is finding out what you already know. Doing is demonstrating that you know it. Teaching is reminding others that they know just as well as you. You are all learners, doers, teachers.
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