Drops In the Bucket . . .

for my sons If I were given the chance to live again To feel the pure love of a mother and father To revel with the friends I never had To run where my heart wished to And meet a true love If I were given an elixir To make the past disappear To remove the pains of my youth To erase the sorrows that destroyed my faith And look at life with a smooth brow If I were granted the power To change one moment of my story To alter the course of my existence To explore new universes And all that it would entail I would refuse the gift I would refuse it every time I would slam the door on the salesman I would stub the toe of the scientist I would curse the witch And free the genie Because in choosing a new past I would lose my future I would lose you I would lose the happiest days of my life And the reason I felt it was worth living Your love shines through me like the piercing rays of the morning Your smile envelops me like a coat on a cold day Every second of your existence fills my cons

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love, but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday. --Kahlil Gibran I love my sons at every moment, but there are moments when I am looking at them and I overflow with emotion. Love is such a wonderful thing.

I was walking through the grocery store the other day, and I was struck by the red apples that were on display. They were larger than the apples I have seen earlier this season. I picked up one of those luscious looking red apples, and inhaled deeply. I was instantly transported to a different time. When I was four and five years old, I lived in a rural part of Washington State near the border of Canada on an apple orchard. While my parents were working in the orchard, us children stayed in the car or played amongst the trees that bordered their working area. I wasn't afraid of those cheery trees. There is something magical about that time as we ran through the neat rows. And every act was accompanied by the smell of apples permeating the air. I have had other smells bring me back to Washington, and to a small ranch house in Tepusquet on the outskirts of Santa Maria, to the backyard of my home on Alvin Avenue, and into the arms of my love when I was first a doe-eyed

We are not rainmen in the persuit of hope. We cannot dance around and wait for some of it to fall on us -- however parched we are for it. We must ride up into the clouds and seize it, force it down our gullets, and let it infuse our hungry cells. Hope is not for the helpless. Hope is for those brave enough to fight for it.