HAT RACK DEMOCRACY
The price of Freedom is Willingness.
The price of Fairness is Freedom.
FREEDOM IS ENOUGH
(when accepted from Its Source)
IS… ( as I see it)
the process of restoration.
LOVE… (when accepted from Its Source)
IS… (as I feel it)
the process of healing.
LOVE IS outbound.
LOVE IS BE-ING
DO-ING is the work of BACK SCRATCHERS
DOING BE-TTER is the BACK SCRATCHERS improvement process
DOING BE-TTER is not healing, though it promises to be.
This promise of Approval is eventually destructive.
I prefer FREEDOM
The feeling of BEING FREE
IS… (for me)
He appears from the darkness in silence; He may have been there for hours.
Like the minute hand on my Omega, I failed to notice him at first.
I speak; he glares.
The tattered apparition holds his gaze.
“May I pass please?” I attempt to move around him. “I beg of you please, may I pass?”
He remains silent. His eyes hold mine. What are they telling me? He’s wearing a badly soiled, well-tailored, senatorially pinstriped suit, crafted apparently for a taller man in a different time, most certainly a better defined neighborhood. His attire assumes a sadness; a life of poverty? Perhaps a recently downgraded lifestyle forced upon him by difficult times?
I step to my right – he steps to his left.
“Please” I implored, “My lunch hour is over. I need to get back to my desk.” Neither a minute flick of lash nor hint of furrowed brow.
I breathe deeply and attempt to relax the imagined lines in my forehead. He remains implacable; an immovable stoic with an unknown plan. What does he have on his mind. His left hand is hidden in the left trouser pocket where gentlemen account for their coins. Is he holding a weapon? A switch-blade?
I move to the left – he to the right.
“Are you hungry? There is a warm dinner roll in my doggie bag. I had one of these for lunch; delicious. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
I raised the offering; no response.
I deke to the right and quickly left. Had I been wearing a weathered, fifty year-old, hand tailored, poorly fitting suit I might have thought for a moment that I was dancing at a street corner, practicing moves before a mirror.
Mulling momentarily: “How much to cross the street?”
“Fifty Cents”: I offer a dollar; his left hand withdraws from the left trouser pocket and places two quarters into my open palm.
The disheveled entrepreneur steps to his left.
The light turns green.
As I cross the street, I scold myself. “I was the beggar; that man in the dirty ragged suit was a successful businessman.”
LIVING LOVE AND LOVING LIFE
What comes to mind when you think of success?
Do you wrangle with rhythm your views of the best?
Do you shine your shoes and smile as you dress?
Do you look in the mirror and beat your chest and say
I love my life and I Love Living it…
Look at that smile –
I love sharing it.”
Great; now go write that book on SUCCESS.