Just Some Inspiring Readings

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

The Saga of Baba Fats
(Humor)
Author Unknown

There once was a boy called Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat down in his cellar, sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked bananas, which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin and Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but her price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC but they didn't quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he never remembered long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong.
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,

Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.
Now Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
Hight on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
But I'll find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time.
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides,
Then sits - and cries - and climbs again, pursuing that perfect high.
He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood,
he's aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore he reaches the mountain peak.

And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes - sits the godlike Baba Fats.
"What's happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I come to state my biz.
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I'm about to die.
So, for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve that perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats," says Baba Fats, "here's one more burnt-out soul,
Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won't find it in no dealer's stash or on the druggiest's shelf
Son, if you seek the perfect high - find it in yourself."

"Why you (blankety blank)" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "Ive climbed through rain and sleet.
I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet.
I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss.
Now you tell me the high is in myself, what kind of shit is this?
Look! My butt's froze off," says Roy, "and I've heard all kinds of crap
But I didn't dream in fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn't crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch.
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass."

"OK, OK," says Baba Fats, "you're forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and lizards scree
Where the devil's guardian guards the mystic Tzu Tzu tree.
Once every year it blooms, the flower as white as the Key West sky.
And he who eats of this Tzu Tzu flower will know the perfect high,
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and hits like the blazing sun,
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don't ever come.

But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in its hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
And you must slay the red-eyed giant and then swim the River of Slime
Where the beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and beasts and swim the slimy sea,
There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzu Tzu tree."

"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord," says Fats, "it's all the same, old men or bright-eyed youth.
It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

My Ship Is So Small
(Commitment)
Ann Davison

I would have been here days ago, if only I'd had the courage of my convictions.

"You see," said my other self, a carping creature always ready to say I told you so. "If you would only learn to depend on yourself, and get it out of your head that a kind fate is standing by to pick you up when you fall, you would be all right. It is no good blaming the stars or luck or the lines in your hands, your problems are invariably of your own making."

I know that.

And only you can solve them. So you had better remember that in the future, and make an effort, instead of worrying around in concentric circles.

But I can't help worrying. I thought defensively. After all, I might be wrong.

Might be, sneered other self. Might be. You might be wrong about your landfall and sail onto a reef. You think how awful it would be to lose your ship and get into a tizzy about it, instead of thinking constructively how to avoid such a calamity...

Worrying is a form of running away. An escapism. A mental wringing of hands because of a refusal to face, not necessarily facts, but possibilities. When you see a possible consequence you don't like, you shy away. That's no good. You have to square up to 'em.

Courage of your convictions, I thought, which is where I came in. Courage - why, that's it, of course. That's the answer. That's what I've been looking for. How surprising, but how obvious when you see it.

Only you didn't see it, other self pointed out. You've been hanging by your teeth all these years because you confused courage with the conquering of physical fear. What you need is not the sort of courage that makes a man face danger. Criminals face hideous dangers sometimes, but they are the least courageous of all, for it takes courage to evaluate standards and live by them.

Then what is courage ?

An understanding and acceptance; but an acceptance without resignation, mark you, for courage is a fighting quality. It is the ability to make mistakes and profit by them, to fail and start again, to take heartaches, setbacks, and disappointments in your stride, to face every day of your life and every humdrum, trivial little detail of it and realize you don't amount to much, and accept the fact with equanimity, and not let it deter your efforts.

It is over now, I thought, stretching out on the bunk, at least the quest is.

Don't kid yourself, other self said sharply. You will go on muddling and flapping and floundering your way through life as you have always done.

But at least I'll know what is needed, even if I haven't it in me to use -

You've got it in you all right, everyone's got it in them. It isn't a special dispensation from a selective Providence. It is just a question of whether you have the guts to apply it.

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Tears are like rain. They loosen up our soil
so we can grow in different directions.

(Virginia Casey)

Full self-expression softens our being, while self-reservation makes us brittle. Our wholeness is enhanced each time we openly acknowledge our feelings and share our many secrets. The tears that often accompany self-disclosure, self-assessment, or the frustration of being "stuck" seem to shift whatever blocks we have put in our paths.

At each stage of our lives, we are preparing for yet another stage. Our growth patterns will vary, first in one direction, and then another. It's not easy to switch directions, but it's necessary. We can become vulnerable, accept the spiritual guidance offered by others and found within, and the transition from stage to stage will be smoother.

Tears shed on the rocky places of our lives can make tiny pebbles out of the boulders that block our paths. But we also need to let those tears wash away the blinders covering our eyes. Tears can help us see anew if we're willing to look straight ahead - clearly, openly, and with expectation of a better view.

Tears nurture the inner me. They soften my rootedness to old behavior. They lessen my resistance to new growth.

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Letting Go

"letting go" does not mean to stop caring,
......it means I can't do for someone else what they ought to be doing for themselves.

"letting go" is not to cut myself off,
......it's the realization that I cannot control another.

"letting go" is not to enable,
......but to allow others to learn from the consequences of their actions.

"letting go" is to admit powerlessness,
......which means the outcome is not in my hands.

"letting go" is not to change or blame another,
......but to make the most of myself.

"letting go" is not to care for,
......but to care about.

"letting go" is not to fix,
......but to be supportive so others can do for themselves.

"letting go" is not to judge,
......but to allow another the freedom to be their own person.

"letting go" is not to be in the middle arranging outcomes,
......but to allow others to affect their own destinies.

"letting go" is not to be protective,
......but to permit another to face reality.

"letting go" is not to deny,
......but to accept.

"letting go" is not to nag, scold or argue,
......but instead to search out my own shortcomings and correct them.

"letting go" is not to adjust everything to suit my own desires,
......but to take each day as it comes, and cherish myself in it.

"letting go" is not to regret the past,
......but to grow and live for the future.

"letting go" is to fear less and love more.

"letting go" is the action part of Faith.

Author Unknown

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

The Cracked Pot - A Tale from India.

Retold by Mary Dessein
Author Unknown

A water-bearer carries two large pots on a yoke across his shoulders up the hill from the river to his master's house each day. One has a crack and leaks half its water out each day before arriving at the house. The other pot is perfect and always delivered a full portion of water after the long walk from the river.

Finally, after years of arriving half-empty and feeling guilty, the cracked pot apologized to the water-bearer. It was miserable. "I'm sorry that I couldn't accomplish what the perfect pot did."

The water-bearer says, "What do you have to apologize for?"

"After all this time, I still only deliver half my load of water. I make more work for you because of my flaw."

The man smiled and told the pot. "Take note of all the lovely flowers growing on the side of the path where I carried you. The flowers grew so lovely because of the water you leaked. There are no flowers on the perfect pot's side."

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Beyond Words
(Community)
Ouida

There may be moments in friendship, as in love, when silence is beyond words. The faults of our friend may be clear to us, but it is well to seem to shut our eyes to them. Friendship is usually treated by the majority of mankind as a tough and everlasting thing which will survive all manner of bad treatment. But this is an exceedingly great and foolish error; it may die in an hour of a single unwise word; its conditions of existence are that it would be dealt with delicately and tenderly, being as it is a sensitive plant and not a roadside thistle. We must not expect our friend to be above humanity.

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Even Small Steps are Important

BY ANNDEE HOCHMAN


This was the dream: ten weeks of teaching, and I'd transform their lives. Twenty-eight elementary students, mostly African-American, living in a working-class West Philadelphia neighborhood, would travel with me into the world of poetry and emerge with hearts made tender by the trip.

This was the reality: a trailer parked outside an overcrowded public school, a pebbled chalkboard, 28 kids complaining because they were having poetry instead of snacks.

Even after a decade as a visiting writer, I still brought passion to the job; on the first day, I nearly brought myself to tears reciting a poem about survival in the face of life's obstacles. I hoped the kids would identify with the message; instead, Jeffrey hunched over his paper, obsessively drawing superheroes with jagged wings. Olivia tossed her microbraids and rolled her eyes.

I offered a writing topic close to home: "Shut your eyes and imagine the block where you live...how it sounds...how it smells...how it feels."

"There ain't nothin' in my neighborhood," Abram insisted. I sat down next to him, asked questions, then wrote while he dictated: "My block is loud: I hear gunshots and cursing...My block is the feeling of madness when people cry and they're sad."

Through a bitter winter of Tuesdays, we hunkered in the trailer and wrote: Yellow tastes like banana pudding. Love is the feeling of almost crying. Rashan painstakingly typed: Sadness is when someone dying/sadness is when someone crying/sadness is when someone get buried.

But the hooting and jumpiness never stopped; I spent more time demanding quiet than I did praising their poems. On the next-to-last day, I pleaded for order. Khadijah ducked under the table; Najmah leapt from her seat, shouting: Rashan dropped his pants.

"STOP IT!" I screamed, shocking the group into silence. I thought of those aerosal cans labeled CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE. I had no idea what I would do next. All of us were saved by the lunch bell. The kids burst out of the trailer. I burst into tears. Poetry was too thin a medium, I thought, to bridge my life and theirs. I had no words to ease Rashan's sadness, no rhyme to soften the reality of a neighborhood that echoes with gunshots and curses.

I attended their final performance—before an audience of parents, teachers, and classmates—because I had to. One by one, my students read, while I waited anxiously for the whole event to dissolve into a nightmare of shouting and spitballs. Instead, I saw K-lam's face open into a huge smile as the audience applauded his poem. I heard Deja declare that the ocean is "a joy of salty tears." And I thought of another child, a girl who—after a week of intensive instruction on metaphors—wrote on her evaluation, "I learn to say thank you after every poem."

The lesson I aim to teach is not necessarily the one my students need to hear. But perhaps the lesson they absorb is the one I most need to remember.


Say thank you after every poem. Be grateful for any tenuous step.


After they read, I whispered "thank you" to each small face, and in exchange received a poem, the paper creased from nervous hands, a scrawled but legible gift.

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Sometimes the Cynics are Just Plain Wrong

BY NELSON PENA

This wasn't how it was supposed to end. My laughing kids rushing around the Thanksgiving table to jump onto my lap and hug me. Warmth. Love. Joy. A momentary glimpse of perfection in a world spinning too fast.

No, it was supposed to be different. This day was supposed to be a disaster. At least according to almost anybody I mentioned it to. In fact, when I said I was planning to drive to New York City for the Thanksgiving Day parade, the standard response was sometimes stated, sometimes implied, but almost always the same:

"What? Are you nuts?"

The plan was simple (at least to me). Drive into Manhattan with my wife and kids the night before, stay in a hotel, get up early to grab a good spot on the parade route, eat our Thanksgiving meal at a wonderful restaurant, drive home.

They tried to warn me. Traffic would be hell. The hotel would be overpriced and dingy. Parking would be impossible. The crowds would be overbearing. And, oh yeah, it's late November in New York. You're going to freeze.

As Thanksgiving approached, I almost started to believe them. I thought about canceling the whole thing, but the hotel seemed solidly non-refundable. I was stuck.

So we went. Driving into the city that Wednesday afternoon, we did see a ton of traffic (heading the other direction). Our reasonably priced, low-hassle hotel was a comfy, friendly oasis—with valet parking and a doorman who helped unpack the family van.

On Thanksgiving morning, I got up early and walked the couple of blocks to the parade route, carrying blankets and hoping for a front-row spot right on the curb. My wife and kids stayed at the hotel getting ready, waiting for my cell phone call to find out where to meet me. It was three hours before the parade, but I couldn't find a front-row spot until I noticed an opening behind a newsstand—a place everybody seemed to be ignoring—and spread my blankets.

Before long, a rumor spread. The woman next to me said the reason these spots were open was because we were too close to the end of the parade route. She said the parade goes completely silent on this block to keep sound from interfering with the national TV broadcast at a reviewing stand just a few blocks away. A moment later, she was gone, having gathered up her blankets and walked uptown, where she didn't expect to find a front-row spot; but at least she'd be sure to hear the bands and feel the drums. I almost followed her, but decided to take a chance and stay.

Waiting for the parade to start over the next couple of hours, it did get crowded. But nobody seemed to mind. I hung out with families from Mississippi, New Jersey, and Brooklyn. Every time members of the N.Y.P.D. would stroll down the parade route, we cheered. The bigger hams on the force responded with mock parade-style waves or a tip of the hat.

My wife and kids arrived, and the parade started. The crowd surged, but we were shielded by the newsstand behind us. Blind luck. We leaned back and the newsstand became our own personal reviewing stand.

I'm not a guy who especially likes parades, but this one blew me away. My kids got to pet the passing horses and high-five the clowns. During a lull, my daughters even held one of the guide wires of the legendary big balloons. The bands boomed. (That rumor had been wrong. The silent mode started on the next block.) The temperature was in the mid-60s. Nobody froze.

At the restaurant, we still had confetti in our hair. It was the most stress-free Thanksgiving meal ever (no turkey to worry about, no plates to scrub). And when it was over, spontaneously, the kids hugged their daddy.

Miss out on this just because somethings might go wrong?

What?

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Attitude is Half the Battle

ELIZABETH SHIMER


Truth be told, I've never been a great athlete. The sport I enjoyed the most in high school and was the best at—in relation to the other sports I attempted—was cross-country. But even then, I never came close to breaking any records or winning any races. All I could chalk up on my list of accomplishments was completing all the runs—even the long weekend one we were supposed to do on our own through the "honor system."

In my first actual race, I came in somewhere in the middle, consistent with my usual performance. And considering the hours of training I had put in, I was frustrated.

My coach—who wasn't known for praise, so all his words were worth their weight in gold—pulled me aside at the finish line and said, "You're not real fast and your form could use some work, but I know I'll always be able to count on you to keep on running and do it with a smile on your face. And that's half the battle."

I listened to his "half the battle" feedback with half an ear and then sat under a tree in a semi-sulk. But deep down, somehow his words stuck with me over the years—in my personal relationships, in my profession as a writer, in my still mediocre but diligent running career.

I know and accept that not everyone I meet is going to like me. I know I'm not going to nail every single story I write. And I know I will probably never place in a 5K, much less win one. But sometimes the outcomes of your efforts or the number of people you beat aren't most critical—it's your integrity, the quality of the work you do, and the lessons you learn along the way that really matter.

Just the other day—almost 13 years after that first cross-country race—I was sitting in a job performance review. After getting praised for some things and criticized for others, my boss said, "but when you come in, you check your problems at the door. You genuinely want to do a fine job, you always have a good attitude and, really, that's half the battle."

This time, instead of sulking, I got right back to work. With half the fight won, I couldn't wait to start the other half of the battle.

 

[Zamboni]

Thanks

Thanks for the post. I enjoyed them.

Zam

 

[goingonhope]

Zam, You're Welcome.

:smile: Here's another one, and just one of hopefully more to be posted:


Hope

 

[goingonhope]

......Just some Inspiring Readings

Perfection is Overrated

ANNDEE HOCHMAN


As a child, I studied piano with a gray-haired woman who smelled of talcum powder and gave me sugar cookies when I played my scales without mistakes. I was a little frightened of her house—dim and fussy with fringed lampshades, dust-encrusted picture frames, and the gleaming black expanse of her baby grand piano. She corrected me in a stern voice, scowled when I hit a faulty chord, and firmly guided my fingers back to middle C. I took lessons from her for 4 years, then quit because piano didn't come as easily as algebra, poetry, or art—and I didn't want to fail.


Years later, in my 20s, I decided to try again. This time, my piano teacher was an effusive woman who gave me ragtime and jazz tunes along with classical sonatinas and minuets. She had three children, and her house was a jumble of skateboards, jump ropes, and stray mittens; she often had to nudge toys aside to make a path to the piano.


I liked her, but my old habits were hard to flee. I played stiffly, barely tickling the keys, my foot jittery and hesitant on the pedals.


One day my teacher asked, "Why do you play so tentatively?" I remembered my first teacher and her scowls. "I'm afraid of missing a note," I said.


My teacher smiled. "Anndee, the room is full of missed notes." I glanced around at the room's colorful disarray then back at the piano keys. She was right. I was being too cautious. If I didn't risk missing a note, I'd never play with verve and passion. The reward, this time, would not be a sugar cookie for a perfect performance, but simply the joy of filling the room with music, pure notes and dissonant ones, the expression of a heart let loose from fear.