The title says it all. I have grown older, and I have realized the degree of my foolishness in much of life. Now, this old fool muses about the past and present, and how to have an impact in the world around him. *NOTE: Review the creative commons license on the site before sharing/linking.
Hello, all. :) I had a great meeting with my professor this morning. We reviewed all of the final experimental data, those things that were left to do after the major experimental work was completed a couple of weeks ago. We spent nearly two hours going over everything, and he approved the work. I am finished with all my coursework, experimental work, qualifying examinations, and everything except for defending the dissertation. This is what the ABD status means – Ph.D. (ABD) (all but dissertation).
I will be working on getting my dissertation ready for defense over the next 2-3 weeks, and will be submitting for review to my committee. The review will likely take a couple of weeks at least, before we can bring the committee together for the defense. I hope to be defended sometime in the second half of August.
Again, thank you all for your love, support, friendship, and encouragement. This is a very exciting day…I have been smiling for a couple of hours now. :)
The cleric looks up, the unexpected company interrupting…well, not exactly interrupting anything specific. Nothing more specific than silent, aimless thoughts.
An observer of this pilgrim through the wasteland of lost thoughts would have readily presumed ennui – and been sorely mistaken. The baseless blank of such a state would be a welcome oasis from these thoughts. These thoughts that encompass nothing and everything. These thoughts that are aimless and yet share in Atlas’ burden.
Focusing on the source of this..could one call it unwelcome?...interruption, the parson’s eyes land upon the familiar visage. The kind eyes of his assistant retain their basic tenor, but are hued with sadness not normally present.
Oh Potter, please not today…not right now…not more. The unspoken prayer rises. Please, just one more moment without someone else’s problems…
But, the unsaid prayer fades away even in the ephemeral corners of the mind, as the standard courteous, if a bit tired, smile assures the intruder of their welcome. After all, this is the job, is it not?
Without a word, the aide eyes hands the clergyman a letter. Glancing down at the envelope, the prelate’s own eyes widen, and then join his friends – becoming shadowed over with a sadness…and then pain.
That damn handwriting…I’d recognize it anywhere. In just a few heartbeats, the loss is relived…the pain revived deep in the furthest recesses of his heart. Outwardly, the saddened eyes are the only evidence of this letter’s impact. A perfunctory exchange of grateful platitudes social custom demands was stiffly exchanged, freeing the intruder to scurry away from this moment.
A plain envelope, delivered by courier- or at least not the regular mail - “From the desk of…” the late Old Fool. The envelope was addressed simply, Dear Friend,
Slightly trembling fingers open the envelope, careful to preserve it. Inside, a handwritten letter from his beloved friend. The handwriting unmistakable, though marred slightly by the viscous drag of old age. Taking a moment to will the rest of the painful recollections away, he unfolds the letter carefully and begins to read,
A small smile cracks through the somber reader’s expression…You’re right you old coot…I’d be in your house drinking some of that blessed coffee right now if that were at all possible. He stopped abruptly. This admission was doing nothing but rekindling the pain he had just managed to wrestle back under control.
I say this, my friend, because you belong to that very special, very small, and very isolated class of people that I myself know only too well. We go by many names, my friend. We are both secular and mystics. We are lay and clergy. We are sponges, dumpsters, accumulators, relief stations, safe havens, asylum, shelter, stronghold. By virtue of our personalities, professions, or both, we have been given this assignment, this duty, this devoir.
In your own life, my beloved friend, the cause is double – both your profession and your personality have given you this errand in life. You provide the ear to listen, the comforting hand, the safe room for people to unburden. A place where people on the edge of bursting can come release the safety valve. You are the shoring strength of many, the solid foundation of a few.
And yet, through all of this human interaction, through all this sharing and all these emotions, there is but one feeling we do our best to not admit to ourselves. One betrayal of weakness that we’d like to ignore, but must confront. One word that we fear could be the breach that leads to the end. Isolation.
Yes, my friend…isolation amongst so much experience of all of humanity’s most intense emotional states. As the ancient mariner once said, ‘water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink’. For, if you are to remain the sponge, pillar, strength, and repository of so many people’s suffering, fears, insecurity, anger, disappointment, trepidation, and confusion, it becomes primarily a one-way street of human interaction, does it not?
Oh, my dear friend…you don’t know how much I miss your voice right now…
It is your gift, my friend…your ability that few could muster with as much grace and strength. And yet, no one person can be up to that task, can they?
If only you knew old man…today, more than any day, I know I am not equal to the challenge.
But then again…you did know, didn’t you…
My beloved, I am sorry that I was unable to know you for longer. The few months we did have were enough to impress upon me both your value, and your struggle. My Potter had other designs for me, however, and I am left with aught but this final letter to you – tendered in lieu of the conversation I wish you and I could be having on this day of your reading.
Words of wisdom on how best to do your job, how best to counsel, advise, and withstand, I have no more to offer to you than those you know well by now. Instead, I am writing to urge you to remember to care for that one final member of your flock that will need it the most – its shepherd.
If you are not careful, this lifestyle will swallow you whole and never, ever release you. The isolation will envelop you, sink you, and suffocate you. The burdens of others will become your own. And the burdens of a single life are enough for anyone…even you, my dear friend.
I can almost see that wicked old smile as he penned that…
Few and far between as those in our particular guild may be, we do exist in greater numbers than your wretched liar of an isolation would have you believe. I know I am gone, my friend, and for that no apology or begging forgiveness will change your situation. But, I urge you, with all the strength left in this old heart, to not stop seeking until you come across some more of our brethren.
Even if you must stand fast and alone before the daily onslaught, we all must have a place to let our guard down…to lower from our backs the burdens few could carry…to breathe and share. To be each other’s strength and support.
We, my friend, we don’t get to have a bad day. We don’t get to let the others in on our weakness, for if we fall…then they fall with us. But we do…we have bad days, we fall, we falter, we stumble, we cry out, we weep, we doubt. And without your guildmates, we are left with isolation in which to do this.
I beg, beseech, implore you to not go down this dark path, my friend. The road is steep, slippery, and exponentially more difficult to take each step back. I know in these days of isolation, the thought of the Pottter can seem like cold comfort…compared to a flesh-and-blood guildmate. But remember that your Potter never promised perfect days, never guaranteed a rosy existence, and is no magic genie to remove all pain, doubt, and frustration. Rather, the Potter is the grand master of our very special group. The one ultimate repository, sponge, safe place, haven, refuge, and strength. The one guildmate that will never flag, wane, or be overwhelmed with his own day’s troubles. Take heart in this, even as all else fails you.
Find that partnership…that give-and-take friendship. There won’t be many in your entire life…so cherish those few moments, those days that are so sparsely distributed.I enjoyed our short time together, and hope that in that time I helped ease some of that isolation as well.
But, as I leave you, I leave with a heavy heart…I wonder how you will handle the next step. I have faith in you…but I also understand the burdens and the dearth of relief points in our kind of life.
With this letter, this final opportunity for exhortation, I offer my ear to you one more time my friend…today is a bad day, but tomorrow you will be back out there. So, my friend…tell me about it…what has made today a bad day?
Your brother, your friend, your guildmate,
The Old Fool
The letter remains in the quietly weeping man’s hands a few more moments before dropping to the desk below…
My friend…I’ve missed you so much. You’re right…it is a bad day. There are days where I don’t know if I am going to have the strength to go out there and put on the strong face to that endless wave of need, pain, sorrow, anger, despair, and confusion. It’s a tsunami…slowly building, but infinite and strength and just as relentless. Today, Mrs………
Somewhere, the Old Fool smiles upon his friend across the chasm spanned by words, shared experiences, and personal bond. I am here, and we are listening…
Things have been progressing well in the lab. I may very well be looking at being in my last month of "student" mode, and into writing, planning a defense, and getting out of here. Man. honestly, I am going to miss this part of my life. I have thoroughly enjoyed this time. Had I not been...myself and my health junk...I would have easily seen why some people spend 7-10 years of their lives doing this and don't regret it. I have loved the time here, the people, and the experience. Saying goodbye to that is going to be like saying goodbye to a loved one, a companion, a partner. And many loved ones there are to say goodbye to, in fact.
And, as I pen this, I am thinking of the new beginnings out there. The two baby kiddos here and coming in my family - the new life, the next generation. And I am hoping I have something useful to say to them sometime soon. Got to think some more about that writing...
The old Fool's letters continued to be delivered, the latest one arriving at the doorstep of one of his most faithful companions throughout the last months of the struggle that was not to be successful.
The usual greeting we have become accustomed to by now, but which still manages to strike emotion in the hearts of those recipients reading the one final love note and missive from their departed friend, opens this new communique:
Dear Friend,
No tears accompany this greeting, though the eyes of our current reader do mist over. They have spent too long wet these past few weeks, and now have a constant shadow of sadness left.
My beloved, my cherished, my loved...my friend. I am writing this with a heavy heart, for we were not able to have this conversation in person. I had been preparing these words to speak with you, when you were called away to duty elsewhere. I am sorry that it took me so long to come to the words which I needed to share with you, and now that I can share them, must be done from so far away.
Contrary to what he had believed, the friend's countenance becomes lachrymose recalling that sad day. He had longed to stay, but duty had intervened, and he had been recalled to active service for another six month stint away from home. He had considered fighting the order, but the Fool had urged him to follow through with his commitments. With a heavy heart, he had left, but had not been able to return until the cold stone marker was all he could grasp of his long time mentor and confidant...the memory still a bitter pill.
My friend, my brother, I do rejoice in the friends I have. I derive strength from your support. Though I'm broken, bloodied, and too tired to get out of bed for more than these few minutes to share my thoughts with you, I know that tomorrow is another day, and that I'll be able to face it and what it brings. It won't be easy, but it will be doable.
Not every day is a walk in the park. I sincerely thought I was having a heart attack when I went to bed a few hours ago. My chest ached, I could move my fingers, but I could feel nothing in them. A stab of pain went from my shoulder down to my elbow. As I lay there, I almost felt relieved. It meant that my sweet Potter agreed with me: I wasn't up to the task, and He was going to make sure the choice to face down my many personal demons was no longer mine.
I fell asleep, comforted in the fact that I'd written to most of the people I cared about in recent moments, and that I'd spoken to all who I loved and left them with good words the last time I did.
But then I woke up several hours later, and dragged myself to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror for a long, long time, and realized that this was not yet the time. I'm still here, I'm still driven, and I'm still hungry for this life and work. With the Potter's grace, and the love and trust and support of those of you who I turn to in my most difficult hours, I will face down this challenge and overcome. I need to rest now, but tomorrow the nose goes back to the grindstone. The steel must be constantly be worked, sharpened, toughened. I'll make it through, and I'll be a better person because of it all.
These words were the cruelest so far...the optimism that had not played out...the positive thinking that had been worth..nothing. The hot tears kept coming, as the friend paused, sinking just a little deeper into the bitterness that had become a constant companion these past few weeks. Of all the people to lose...could not the Potter have decided to take someone a little less...valuable?
I love all of you, I cherish all of you, and I thank all of you for all your trust and support. In these days when I can feel so alone and so detached from the world, it is good to know that these thoughts I pour into my machine make it through the blackness and out into your hearts and minds where I can feel your prayers and your steadfastness.
The friend's jaw set even tighter...the determination to allow the bitterness to wash over him was almost completely set in stone.
And yet, my friend, I can sense that you are not as joyful as you can be...and if you are reading this missive, I am certain that you will be even less joyful than you may have once been. For this, I am sorry...but I hope that you will give me just a few more minutes of your life, pay attention to this old man even in an echo of my presence, and hear my words..hear them very well.
The friend tried...he certainly tried , but at the moment every fiber of his soul screamed anger and rebellion, and listening to the words of his departed friend with the open heart and sincerity they demanded was not the easiest of tasks.
The reality of it all, my beloved, my friend, is that I have not been well for a long, long time. The reality is that it is a miracle that I live to see a single additional day. The reality is that I should have been gone a long time ago, but I have been given many, many, many more opportunities than I could have ever expected out of this old, malfunctioning husk. But the real kicker of a reality is that no matter how dire the situation...we're all in the same boat. Not any single one of us is guaranteed a single additional second of life...not me, not you, not anyone, my friend.
This was a little bit of a disturbing turn of topics...the friend had recoiled even more from considering his own mortality after life had given him too many opportunities to face the mortality of others. Being asked to face this was not something that was very much to his liking...especially not now...
I merely seek to make sure that all my friends are as comfortable with the reality as I am. My beloved friend, I’ve grown quite accustomed to this reality, and have embraced it, accepted it, and am HAPPY for the time I’m given each and every day rather than be bitter about time that was never mine to demand I be granted in the first place. I believe it is the state in which we all SHOULD live, but I know many of us don’t. Sadly, many of us prefer to remain perfectly blind and oblivious to the miraculous gift that each and every single day of life is.
My close friends and I have all loved each other dearly…dearly. I would lay down my life in a heartbeat for any of you, and most of you would do the same for me. Our pain is each other’s pain, our triumph’s, each other’s joy, and our failures, each other’s sorrow and lessons. And yet, we all are subject to this same reality.
There it was again...that unpleasant feeling, that mortality being rubbed in his face...he was starting to wish he had left this letter sealed and stored...
But here is the true miracle, my friend. This reality, it is a scorpion with no stinger. It is a shadow with no caster. It is a barking dog with no bite. It’s not something to fear, dread, or loathe. At least not in my life, dear one. I will have had a full life, no matter what, and I have an undying faith that I will be pleased with what I see when it is over.
I see peace, not dread. I feel an urgency only to benefit as many young lives as I can, not to worry about how to extend my own. I do, however, feel a responsibility to take care of myself when and how I can so that I can do whatever is reasonable to achieve this goal. But we must, we MUST be able to live richly and fully within the confines of that reality, my friend. Because if the sad day should ever come when I no longer get to enjoy the blessed joy of being with the friends I love, I would want them to be happy for the times we did have rather than angry at the time we were never promised to be given.
And there it was...happy for the times we had, not the times we were never promised. A simple phrase...but a life-changing implication. Can one really choose to live with such a focus?
My friend...I miss you dearly, and I am certain that you miss me. But, we have so many memories...so many blessings...so many joys. So many points in our lives that were not there for either of us to claim as our rightful possessions, but which we were granted anyway.
So, I ask you, my friend, my beloved...what choice are you willing to make today? Will you be a prisoner, a victim, an unwilling conscript in the death march that is life? Or will you apply yourself to the days that you have been given? Will you strive to fill each with the warmth, love, dedication, passion, and LIFE that you can? Will you put off the things that you must do, will you put off happiness and joy? Or will you make each day a worthy final one? Which is better, I ask...a lifetime of hope in some future happiness, or a lifetime of wonderful last days? Be it one final day or thousands...I know where my choice lies, my friend.
Now, as I bid you one final goodbye, I beg that you consider my words carefully my friend. Do not let the root of bitterness take hold...do not allow yourself to waste a single one of your precious days on pointless pursuits. Be strong, be able, and be willing to live the life you have been granted...and make it count. Make each and every single one of those gifts we call days count, and enjoy a life of few regrets.
Goodbye, my friend, and I wish for you a lifetime of joy unparalleled,
The Old Fool
I wonder...do I have what it takes to change my perspective this much? I don't know, my friend...but I will try...Goodbye sweet friend...goodbye, and I hope that the next time we meet I will have given you more reasons to be proud than ashamed....
-- The Old Fool
“If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” -George Orwell.
Sensing his time was drawing nigh, the Old Fool had labored to generate a few final epistles to his cadre of young mentees and friends. Each note was left with instructions regarding its delivery time and method. Some were to be delivered at certain ages or stages of life such as graduations and weddings, while others were to be delivered immediately upon the Old Fool’s death.
These first two words bring a wet-eyed smile to the young man’s face, as the tender voice elicited by these words rolls past the grasp of death itself and through his mind with the strength and clarity of the original flesh-and-blood version.
The Old Fool and the young man had been discussing the young man’s frustrating and apparently never ending failures at love’s various gambits when that great life was cut short by the indifferent cold of the grave. The young man’s distress had only increased with the passing of his friend. Yet, as he gazed across the opening lines, the love and affection for his erstwhile mentor and friend proved yet again well-founded.
Dear Friend,
As you read this note, I will have joined my forefathers in rejoicing with my Potter. To this boundless joy, however, comes the dampening memory of leaving you behind with little of our conversations having come to much end. I am sorry I will not be there to share in the declaration and riposte that this discussion should warrant, but please lend me your eyes, but more importantly your heart, as I try to share some final words with you, my dear friend. I had spent a great deal of my time listening to you in order to better understand your grief…and was remiss in having contributed so little to you in person.
Before I can go much further, a very important definition must be established, my friend. Without definitions, our words are empty, and our thoughts misdirected. So, I ask you, my friend, take a moment and reflect on this question quite carefully:
How would you define “love”?
The young man stopped reading for a moment, struck by the question. After all, was this not one of those great indefinable words and concepts that philosophers had spent millennia arguing? Did this not rank up there with “why am I here”, and “what does this all mean”? How could he be expected to define something so vast, so deep, so fundamental?
Ah, my friend, I can just about see you now puzzling over the unfair question. Even now I can see a bit of that petulant pout at having been placed on the spot quite like so.
I don’t blame you. The question has rarely been asked and met with aught but some bumbling, hastily constructed reply. Depending on the circumstances, people will emphasize feelings, emotive descriptions, romanticism, eroticism, bonds, connections, spirituality, or some grandiose mixture of all of these things. I myself was put on the spot once by my very own father while he was preparing to speak to a group of young married couples. I was merely 14 at the time, and it was quite a few more years before I had digested and appropriately applied his answer. It made sense, but I had not allowed the truth and power of it to sink in and make sense to me. So many other definitions, even that found in the Potter’s own Book, describe love by what it is and is not, show examples of love, and try to paint a picture of love. But very rarely does a simple, succinct definition appear anywhere as it did for me that day.
My father squared my shoulders to him, looked me in the eye, and said:
“Love is the conscious and willing commitment to (be, want, desire, do, seek, ab pluribus disce omnes) the BEST for the person or persons loved.”
My friend, I love this definition. I live and breathe this definition. It has been the fundamental principle behind my own relationships, whatever they may be.
Love is a commitment, few people would argue that, I suppose. However, it is a commitment made in the full knowledge (conscious and willing) of what that commitment may someday and does at the moment entail. It is not a blind feeling, a fleeting emotion, or some overwhelming sensation. It is not a convenient desire, it is not a passing fad. It is a wholehearted commitment. A father does not cease loving his child when he misbehaves or is being difficult. In fact, it is that commitment that keeps love alive even through the difficulties. It cannot be something as fleeting as a mere emotional state, or it is nothing but a whim and of no ultimate significance.
The multifaceted application of verbs in the definition reflects the myriad aspects of what that commitment may someday entail. It can be actions, thoughts, prayer, emotions, and any combination of these things. But it is all of these things for one unifying purpose…to the end of bringing about the BEST for the one(s) loved.
Unfortunately, my friend, this is where so many of us fall short of our Potter’s perfection. For, being merely men, what we can believe to be the best for one loved can later be found to have been sorely misguided. This weakness is in us, not the definition, however. Just because we can be too hubris-filled or inexperienced to know what truly constitutes ‘best’ for someone does not mean that we cannot fill our hearts with the true commitment to seek this best, whatever it may be.
I wholeheartedly believe, my young friend, and have often experienced, that this commitment, made honestly and totally, will lend to self-correction by an honest man unafraid to evaluate himself or take evaluation by others. Being wrong is ok…persisting in the mistake is where the true failing often occurs. If we are open to correction, and committed to the best FOR the person loved…not to the hubris of being right or knowing what’s best, then I believe we can minimize the egregious errors of overconfidence in what “right” constitutes.
Now, my friend, this letter grows long, and I grow weary for the night, but I will leave you with these two thoughts, and I would ask you to set aside the other letters delivered today until their appropriate times. Before you get to the next letter, ask yourself these three questions:
Does this definition make sense to me? If not, what IS love, as succinctly and logically as I can define it?
Have I ever truly loved?
Can I say I have been loved?
Good night, my friend…I look forward to discoursing some more with you tomorrow,
Your friend,
The Old Fool
The young man slowly folds this first letter, as he begins to contemplate these three questions…a task which will surely stay with him over the course of the next few days.
And you, dear reader…what do these three questions spark in you?
--
The Old Fool
“If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” -George Orwell.
The young man walks slowly down the familiar street, past the habitual haunts, towards the erstwhile frequent destination. The steps are all familiar, the ambient cacophony resonating with the echoes of a thousand similar days, the mingled scents a facsimile of olfactory delights oft encountered. But today, the familiar trip is different. Today, the trip has the somber shadow of difference...of shattered sameness.
As he approaches the steps leading up to the usual front door, the new adornment sharpens into a glaring relief the difference of this day. A simple length of cloth, unassuming and unimportant in any other configuration; even in this arrangement, festive in the colors of autumn and winter. This unassuming cloth, this assemblage of thread, weaving, and dye, stark in the color of mourning wrapped around the wreath on the door, welcomes the young man to a changed world.
The foyer, a site of a million warm welcomes and heartfelt greetings, the memory of each a precious treasure now, welcomes the latest visitor to this day's gathering with a silent dignity, a silence no doubt given in tribute to the warmth that still resonates through this point of admittance. Pausing for a moment in the stillness, the young man's recollection a collage his own prior stops in this very space, before moving on to the main gathering.
A cornucopia of friends, loved ones, and ones who loved and treasured in reciprocity has gathered for this last labor of love, but the young man moves past them all, and into the Sanctus Sanctorum through the door that has both imprisoned and provided refuge.
The soft lamp is already spreading its warm glow through the messy room...the young man is not the first today to have sought a small reconnection with the room's departed tenant, prisoner, refugee, and master. A slow perusal of the room reveals the comfort of things just as they are remembered, though unlike the other visitors, this one is not merely reflecting, but looking.
Finally spotting the object of his search nestled between two favorite and commensurately well-worn books, the young man pulls a crisp, clean envelope from the shelf, and sits with no small degree of reverence in the lone and now lonely chair.
The light of the lamp casts its warmth with enough strength to allow the wavering pen strokes of his departed friend's infirm hand. Three words grace the front of the envelope, one crossed out. The letter had originally been addressed, Dear Potter, but now read Dear Friend.
The young friend carefully opens the letter, and withdraws the short manuscript, sure to have been one of the final produced by that vaunted hand and beloved and respected mind.
Dear Friend,
As with many of my last missives, this letter had originally been intended for my Potter. But, with the time I have left, I am left to realize that whatever I may have to say to my Potter, I will soon be able to do so without the current indirect route. Instead, I believe it is an opportunity to leave a word or two behind for you that I must take full advantage of at the moment.
You know my life somewhat, though you know me well, my friend. You know my triumphs, and you have been acquainted with some of my failings. A history lesson or a long self-eulogy is not for these pages...
Rather, my friend, I have the opportunity to share with you some of my life stories, some of my fondest memories, and through these some of my most difficult lessons...
The strong, if sometimes slow and measured voice of his friend ringing strongly in his ears...the words on the page before him merely the final vehicle for those words to reach him, the young man reads on through the stories, recollections, and thoughts of his beloved friend. Laughter, sorrow, and a strange mix of the two pepper his experience of the next few pages, on through to the final anecdote, the final piece of advice,
...and so, my friend, I am left with little to tell you but to share some of the wisdom that my beloved Potter has allowed me to find after so many failures on my own.
Many times, I asked my Potter for the wisdom, the words, the strength to help those I loved, to help those who suffered so much, whose misery was overwhelming and crushing. Foolish is man to believe in his ability to be so wise and so strong. Remember this, my young friend, remember it and allow it to fill you with its simple truth: sometimes the true strength our Potter gives us is the ability to share in that pain, to drink from their cup of sorrow, to spill tears together, and have the eloquence to have nothing to say or add.
Silent tears whose comfort can outstrip any beautifully wise constructs generated from alphabets and spoken phonemes. There are many times, my dear friend, where we can do nothing more than offer ourselves to share in the sorrow.
Beg and implore the Potter to show you the wisdom to spot the difference between the need for eloquent words, and the need for eloquent silence.
More hearts have been brought closer to mending in my own life through this latter necessity, but do not be fooled by the apparent costs. Sharing in this pain, partaking in the tears, and yet standing strong with and for those you love can be, and usually will be, the most difficult task you set about to perform.
And now, my friend, the time has come for our mutual indulgence to end. I have enjoyed talking with you, for even as I slowly pen this, I can see your eyes scanning the pages before me and I share in the joy of having a young friend such as yourself to leave some of my final thoughts to. But my time to teach is now done, my time for stories is past, and your time to practice this most difficult art begins. You know those for whom I worry, those whose sorrows will accompany them today, and whose grief will be difficult to bear. I know it will be difficult, but I know you will have what it takes to persevere.
Go, and go with all my best love, gratitude, and hopes, my friend. Go, and help those left behind...
Once and always proud of you, my young friend,
The Old Fool
Reluctantly, the young man folds this last sheet of precious communication. Standing slowly, drinking in the strength left in this room by his friend, the young man braces himself, and in a faint echo of a thousand actions before this one, he opens the door, and crosses the threshold of this refuge to seek those in desperate need to share from their overflowing cups.
My friend, may I never forget how I am merely His clay either...and Dear Potter, I do beg and implore...give me the eloquence I need, and be my strength and my foundation, my anchor and my support. For alone, he could never, and him I'll never be.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9d9BIvthwJM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KtF7ql3FJc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdQDYrOAht4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZlhmigaacJc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erPnyi90cIc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5srpggS-2-g
-- The Old Fool
“If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” -George Orwell.
A wandering old fool. See the blog's title and description.
George Orwell: “If liberty means anything at all it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”
"But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought."
"Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it."
"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past."
Albert Einstein: “The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.”
"Most people say that is it is the intellect which makes a great scientist. They are wrong: it is character."
Ayn Rand: "Government "help" to business is just as disastrous as government persecution... the only way a government can be of service to national prosperity is by keeping its hands off."
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