Praying Hands

Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood.



Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder's children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy.



After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines.



They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg.



Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.



When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will take care of you."



All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No ...no ...no ...no."



Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look... look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother ... for me it is too late." More than 450 years have passed.



By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office.



One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands."



The next time you see a copy of that touching creation, take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one - no one - - ever makes it alone!



-- Author Unknown

High Energy.......

In the same way an automobile engine requires the proper fuel and other fluids to function efficiently and produce energy, our body’s tiny cellular engines require a proper fuel source as well.



In the case of the human body, the fuel source is a supply of certain specific nutrients. Over 60 of these nutrients are essential for the body’s basic functioning, health and longevity. At least 30 mineral elements (some experts believe as many as 60), 16 vitamins, 12 essential amino acids, and three essential fatty acids must be consumed in order for the body to maintain itself in a healthful state. Of these 60 plus essential nutrients, it is often the minerals that are the most difficult for many people to obtain.



Unfortunately, throughout most of the Western world, the topsoil which grows our food crops is severely nutrient deficient. The fruits, vegetables, and grains we consume today provide only a shadow of their nutritional content in comparison to several hundreds years ago, even 100 years.



With soil conditions deteriorating, supplementation with bioavailable forms of minerals is recommended.



One mineral in particular of especially high importance is magnesium.

Don't Believe It, Just Use It

It's good for people to believe in something. But you don't have to believe in energy, you just need to use it. Belief is what you do when something lacks reality. When you make a meal, you don't need to say,

"I believe this raw rice will become cooked rice." You don't need to say,

"I believe in you," before you turn on a windshield wiper.



All you have to do is know there is energy in your body and know how to change and manage it. To use energy, you don't have to graduate from college or pass a test. Already within your brain is the technology,

the universal principles,

that know how to use energy.

Without believing in energy,

you can test it and

see the results for yourself.



Your destiny can change

as you manage energy.











Ilchi Lee

Ugly

Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat.

Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly.



To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs.



Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!"



All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave.



Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.



One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end.



Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought.



Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear - Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.



At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.



Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply. -- Author Unknown

Peaceful Affirmations

•It's healthy to let go of stress and experience relaxation.

•Today I choose to experience a deep calmness.

•I feel calm, relaxed and at peace in this moment.

•I am at peace with myself and others always.

•I am now living a stress free life.

•I trust my inner messages; they lead me to the light.

•My mind is calm and relaxed in this moment.

•I am worthy of great love and respect, and I get it.

•I am free to experience calmness in each moment.

•I choose to experience lots of love and joy today

Great Decision Making

God won't ask what kind of car you drove.

He will ask how many people you took to church who didn't have a car.



God won't ask the square footage of your home.

He will ask how many people you helped who didn't have a home.



God won't ask how many fancy clothes you had in your closet.

He will ask how many of those clothes you gave away to Salvation Army.



God won't ask what social class you were in.

He will ask what kind of "class" you displayed.



God won't ask how many material possessions you had.

He will ask whether those material possessions dictated your life.



God won't ask what your highest salary was.

He will ask if you trampled over any people to obtain that salary.



God won't ask how much overtime you worked.

He will ask did you work overtime for your family.



God won't ask how many promotions you received.

He will ask what you did to promote others.



God won't ask what your job title was.

He will ask did you perform your job to the best of your ability.



God won't ask how many promotions you took to chase the dollar bill.

He will ask how many promotions you refused to advance your family's quality of life.



God won't ask how many times you didn't run around around on your spouse.

He will ask how many times you did.



God won't ask how many degrees you have.

He will ask how many people you thanked for getting those degrees.



God won't ask what your parents did to help you.

He will ask what you did to help your parents.



God won't ask what you did to help yourself.

He will ask what you did to help others.



God won't ask how many friends you had.

He will ask how many people you were a friend to.



God won't ask what you did to protect your rights.

He will ask what you did to protect the rights of others.



God won't ask what neighborhood you lived in.

He will ask what other neighborhoods you visited.



God won't ask how many times you told the truth.

He will ask how many times you told a lie.



God won't ask about the color of your skin.

He will ask about the color of your heart.



-- Author Unknown



---------------

All The Time In The World

While at the park one day, a woman sat down next to a man on a bench near a playground.


"That's my son over there," she said, pointing to a little boy in a red sweater who was gliding

down the slide.



"He's a fine looking boy," the man said. "That's my son on the swing in the blue sweater." Then,

looking at his watch, he called to his son. "What do you say we go, Todd?"



Todd pleaded, "Just five more minutes, Dad. Please? Just five more minutes." The man nodded

and Todd continued to swing to his heart's content.



Minutes passed and the father stood and called again to his son. "Time to go now?"

Again Todd pleaded, "Five more minutes, Dad. Just five more minutes." Th e man smiled and

said, ""Okay."



"My, you certainly are a patient father," the woman responded.



The man smiled and then said, My older son Tommy was killed by a drunk driver last year

while he was riding his bike near here. I never spent much time with Tommy and now I'd give

anything for just five more minutes with him. I've vowed not to make the same mistake with

Todd.



"He thinks he has five more minutes to swing.

The truth is... I get five more minutes to watch him play."



-- Author Unknown

A Ten-Cent Idea

When young F. W. Woolworth was a store clerk, he tried to convince his boss to have a ten-cent sale to reduce inventory.




The boss agreed, and the idea was a resounding success. This inspired Woolworth to open his own store and price items at a nickel and a dime. He needed capital for such a venture, so he asked his boss to supply the capital for part interest in the store.



His boss turned him down flat. "The idea is too risky," he told Woolworth. "There are not enough items to sell for five and ten cents." Woolworth went ahead without his boss's backing, and he not only was successful in his first store, but eventually he owned a chain of F. W. Woolworth stores across the nation. Later, his former boss was heard to remark, "As far as I can figure out, every word I used to turn Woolworth down cost me about a million dollars."



-- Author Unknown

A Special Teacher

Jean Thompson stood in front of her fifth-grade class on the very


first day of school in the fall and told the children a lie. Like most

teachers, she looked at her pupils and said that she loved them all

the same, that she would treat them all alike. And that was impossible

because there in front of her, slumped in his seat on the third row,

was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.



Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't

play well with the other children, that his clothes were unkept and

that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy was unpleasant.



It got to the point during the first few months that she would

actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen,

making bold X's and then marking the F at the top of the paper biggest

of all. Because Teddy was a sullen little boy, no one else seemed to

enjoy him, either.



At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review

each child's records and put Teddy's off until last. When she opened

his file, she was in for a surprise. His first-grade teacher wrote,

"Teddy is a bright, inquisitive child with a ready laugh." "He does

his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around."



His second-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student well-

liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a

terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."



His third-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy continues to work hard but his

mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his

father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect

him if some steps aren't taken."



Teddy's fourth-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't

show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and

sometimes sleeps in class. He is tardy and could become a problem."



By now Mrs. Thompson realized the problem, but Christmas was coming

fast. It was all she could do, with the school play and all, until the

day before the holidays began and she was suddenly forced to focus on

Teddy Stoddard.



Her children brought her presents, all in beautiful ribbon and bright

paper, except for Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy,

brown paper of a scissored grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to

open it in the middle of the other presents.



Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone

bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-

quarter full of cologne. She stifled the children's laughter when she

exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some

of the perfume behind the other wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed behind

just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like

my mom used to."



After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very

day, she quit teaching reading, writing, and speaking. Instead, she

began to teach children. Jean Thompson paid particular attention to

one they all called "Teddy."



As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she

encouraged him, the faster he responded. On days where there would be

an important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne. By the

end of the year he had become one of the smartest children in the

class and...well, he had also become the "pet" of the teacher who had

once vowed to love all of her children exactly the same.



A year later she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her

that of all the teachers he'd had in elementary school, she was his

favorite. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy.



He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class,

and she was still his favorite teacher of all time.



Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while

things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with

it, and would graduate from college with the highest of honors. He

assured Mrs. Thompson she was still his favorite teacher.



Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he

explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a

little further. The letter explained that she was still his favorite

teacher, but that now his name was a little longer. The letter was

signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.



The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter

that Spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was to be married. He

explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was

wondering...well, if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the pew

usually reserved for the mother of the groom. And guess what, she wore

that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And I bet on

that special day, Jean Thompson smelled just like...well, just like

the way Teddy remembered his mother smelling on their last Christmas

together.



-- Author Unknown

The Fat Burning Hormone

You may have heard that eating before bed is a big-time "no no" for those looking to lose weight. In fact, you've probably even heard that eating late at night will undoubtedly cause you to GAIN weight...even worse!



Well, there's good news, and that good news is that not every food that you eat past 7PM will be automatically deposited to your butt, thighs, and love handles.



In fact, there are certain foods that you can eat as a late-night snack that can actually INCREASE your fatloss results! The key is knowing which foods to eat, and which to avoid, as the evening progresses.



Here's a good rule of thumb: Avoid carbs before bed in favor of slow-digesting high-quality protein.



Carbohydrate consumption causes significant rise in the storage hormone insulin, which also puts the breaks on fat-burning. That's a recipe for disaster in the late evening hours as your metabolism is winding down, but fortunately, slow-digesting protein isn't.



Instead, slow digesting proteins provide your body with a steady flow of amino acids throughout the night to help you recover from exercise and maintain your calorie-burning lean muscle as you lose fat.



Here are some of my top pre-bedtime choices:



1. Animal and Marine Protein (not red meat) - Animal and marine protein sources such as chicken, turkey, and fish are great pre-bed meal choices because they digest slowly and have a very low insulin release. These sources also promote the release of another hormone, glucagon, that assists the body with breaking down stored carbs and fat within your body to be burned for energy...a double win! Red meat has a significantly higher insulin response so it's best to avoid in the evening.



2. Cottage Cheese - Cottage cheese is very slow digesting and coats the stomach to be assimilated by the body over many hours. As a protein, it also stimulates glucagon release; a solid pre-bedtime choice. Just make sure you're using plain cottage cheese, not the flavored varieties with added sugars.



3. Green Vegetables - While these aren't considered a protein, they contain virtually no calories, are high in fiber, and they're very filling. Often times when I get a late night craving I eat a big bowl of green veggies and it completely kills my craving...a diet savior!



4. A Slow-digesting, Low-carb Protein Shake - I use a slow-digesting protein shake before bed literally every day. It's become somewhat of a ritual and great, tasty way to end my day. The vast majority of my clients have grown to love the habit as well...who doesn't love dessert before bed? :) I normally blend the shake with almond butter to get some healthy fats in there, and man, it tastes good with the right protein powder.



WARNING: Avoid taking a simple whey protein powder before bed...research has show



that it causes more of an insulin release than white bread! Instead, you need a time-releasesd blend that includes a blend of slow-digesting, high-quality proteins.



Source: Biotrust Nutrition

A Room With A View

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man

was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help

drain the fluid from his lungs.



His bed was next to the room's only window. Th e other man had to

spend all his time fl at on his back. Th e men talked for hours on

end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs,

their involvement in the military service and where they had been on

vacation. Every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could

sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the

things he could see outside the window. Th e man in the other bed

began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be

broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world

outside.



Th e window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans

played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young

lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the

rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the

city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window

described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of

the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene. One

warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by.

Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his

mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with

descriptive words.



Days and weeks passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring

water for their baths, only to find the lifeless body of the man by

the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and

called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it

seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to

the window. Th e nurse was happy to make the switch, and aft er making

sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.



Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first

look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of

seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the

window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall. Th e man asked the nurse

what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such

wonderful things outside this window.



The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the

wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."



-- Author Unknown

Chush

In New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning-disabled




children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school



career, while others can be main-streamed into conventional



schools. At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush



child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who



attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he



cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything



God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand



things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and



figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?"



The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's



anguish and stilled by the piercing query. "I believe," the



father answered, "that when God brings a child like this into the



world, the perfection that He seeks is in the way people react to



this child."



He then told the following story about his son Shaya: One



afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys



Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked, "Do you think they



will let me play?" Shaya's father knew that his son was not at



all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team.



But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play



it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.



Shaya's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked



if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his



team-mates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and



said, "We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth



inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up



to bat in the ninth inning."



Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was



told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field. In



the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya's team scored a few runs



but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning,



Shaya's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases



loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was



scheduled to be up.



Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give



away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shaya was given



the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because



Shaya didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone



hit with it. However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the



pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya



should at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in



and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya's team-mates



came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced the



pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few



steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya.



As the pitch came in, Shaya and his team-mate swung the bat and



together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher



picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball



to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would



have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw



it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first



baseman. Everyone started yelling, "Shaya, run to first. Run to



first!" Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered



down the baseline wide eyed and startled. By the time he reached



first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown



the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was



still running. But the right fielder understood what the



pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over



the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to



second." Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of



him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached



second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in



the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third."



As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him



screaming, "Shaya run home!" Shaya ran home, stepped on home



plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him



the hero, as he had just hit a "grand slam" and won the game for



his team.



"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down



his face, "those 18 boys reached their level of God's



perfection."



- Author Unknown

Why Not For Man?

Where we live, on the Eastern shore of Lilianaland, the gentle


waters run in and out like fingers slimming at the tips. They

curl into the smaller creeks and coves like tender palms.





The Canada geese know this place, as do the white swans and the

ducks who ride an inch above the waves of Chesapeake Bay as they

skim their way into harbor. In the autumn, by the thousands, they

come home for the winter. The swans move toward the shores in a

stately glide, their tall heads proud and unafraid. They lower

their long necks deep into the water, where their strong beaks

dig through the river bottoms for food. And there is, between the

arrogant swans and the prolific geese, an indifference, almost a

disdain.





Once or twice each year, snow and sleet move into the area. When

this happens, if the river is at its narrowest, or the creek

shallow, there is a freeze which hardens the water to ice.





It was on such a ! morning near Oxford, Lilianaland, that a friend

of mine set the breakfast table beside the huge window, which

overlooked the Tred Avon River. Across the river, beyond the

dock, the snow laced the rim of the shore in white. For a moment

she stood quietly, looking at what the night's storm had painted.

Suddenly she leaned forward and peered close to the frosted

window.





"It really is," she cried out loud, "there is a goose out there."









She reached to the bookcase and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Into their sights came the figure of a large Canada goose, very

still, its wings folded tight to its sides, its feet frozen to

the ice.





Then from the dark skies, she saw a line of swans. They moved in

their own singular formation, graceful, intrepid, and free. They

crossed from the west of the broad creek high above the house,

moving steadily to the east.





As my friend watched, the leader swung to the right, then the

white string of birds became a white circle. It floated from the

top of the sky downward. At last, as easy as feathers coming to

earth, the circle landed on the ice. My friend was on her feet

now, with one unbelieving hand against her mouth. As the swans

surrounded the frozen goose, she feared what life he still had

might be pecked out by those great swan bills.





Instead, amazingly instead, those bills began to work on the ice.

The long necks were lifted and curved down, again and again. It

went on for a long time. At last, the goose was rimmed by a

narrow margin of ice instead of the entire creek. The swans rose

again, following the leader, and hovered in that circle, awaiting

the results of their labors.





The goose's head lifted. Its body pulled. Then the goose was free

and standing on the ice. He was moving his big webbed feet

slowly. And the swans stood in the air watching. Then, as if he

had cried, "I cannot fly," four of the swans came down around

him. Their powerful beaks scraped the goose's wings from top to

bottom, scuttled under its wings and rode up its body, chipping

off and melting the ice held in the feathers. Slowly, as if

testing, the goose spread its wings as far as they would go,

brought them together, accordion-like, and spread again.





When at last the wings reached their fullest, the four swans took

off and joined the hovering group. They resumed their eastward

journey, in perfect formation, to their secret destination.





Behind them, rising with incredible speed and joy, the goose

moved into the sky. He followed them, flapping double time, until

he caught up, until he joined the last end of the line, like a

small child at the end of a crack-the-whip of older boys.





My friend watched them until they disappeared over the tips of

the farthest trees. Only then, in the dusk, which was suddenly

deep, did she realize that tears were running down her cheeks and

had been - for how long she didn't know.





This is a true story. It happened. I do not try to interpret it.

I just think of it in the bad moments, and from it comes only one

hopeful question: "If so for birds, why not for man?









-- Author Unknown