It is time to be a listener.
It is time to look
And see.
It is time to know the difference
Between opinion
Fact or
Dream.
Yet it’s also time to tell some stories.
Time to let the mind roam free.
Time to open hearts
To conversation
To let imagination
Be.
And it is past all time
To hold compassion.
It is time for patience, too.
Time for kindness
For remembering
The essentiality
Of holding
You
As well as
Me.
For The Daily Post
The cacophony coming from the children’s room was deafening.
She walked in to two small teary faces. One red with indignation, one blotchy with enraged demand. A pile of blocks depicted fresh ruins. A toy car spun a morose wheel toward an apathetic ceiling.
The wails rose to crescendo, a duet for justice.
She knelt to wrap an arm around each sobbing set of shoulders. “Shhh….” she cooed, “What happened?”
“He …” the girl accused, an index finger poking emphasis at her brother. “He broke my castle.” Tears flowed.
“I didn’t!” he protested, matching tear to bawl. “She push me! It broked!”
“He put the car on my castle! Castles are for princesses!”
“But …” he cried, insisted, “but … I said please, Mommy! I pleased her first!”
For The Daily Post
Sooner or later
Truth emerges
Undeterred
To patiently unravel
Falsehood
And
Disentangle
Reality
From the sticky hands
Of lie.
For The Daily Post
The room looked as if a tornado had gone through it: Toys of every size and color dotted the floor, a scatter of crayons peaked from under the bookcase, bits of paper snow-flaked the rug, a shirt’s sleeve and a lonely sock used an open drawer for recliner.
“Rachel!” the mother’s arms climbed to her waist in indignation. She’d cleaned this room that very morning.
The little girl lifted her face from the doll in her hands. Her visage was the epitome of innocence.
“Look at this room!” her mom exasperated.
The girl rotated her head obediently but without conviction.
“The mess!” the mom repeated when the child said nothing.
“Oh,” the child shrugged. One ponytail holder bobbed deeper than the other–it was hanging by a hair. “My eyes forgot to see it.”
For The Daily Post
Much can be written
Much can be said
And the essence remains:
We
All
Heal with Love.
For The Daily Post
“It wasn’t me!”
The potbellied cookie-jar was stranded sideways on the kitchen floor amidst small mountains of spilled cookies in various states of broken. The jar’s lid wobbled under a chair a few feet away.
I looked at the small face, cherubic auburn curls surrounding dimpled cheeks. The forcefulness of the denial belied the crumbs around the lips, the sticky hands, the guilty blue-gray eyes.
“It wasn’t, eh?” I worked to keep my eyebrows in line.
The preschooler squirmed but didn’t fold. She shook her head emphatically, looked around, and tapped her lower lip with a (suspiciously chocolatey) finger.
An idea dawned into her face and she pointed said finger at the aquarium where three goldfish lazed. “They did it!”
My eyebrows escaped. “The fish?!”
A wholehearted nod. She was warming to the thought. “Yeah! They don’t like fish food every day every day anymore … and … and … it the fish birthday …” she swung her finger from one idle swimmer to the next. “Um, this one! See? He didn’t even want fish food for his birthday!”
(Thank you, A.J.!)
For The Daily Post
Champion compassion, not judgment.
Hold close kindness rather than disdain.
Treasure connection over hierarchy.
Prize intention above gain.
Cherish empathy, for it will nourish.
Uphold truth …
Remember
Learn.
Protect hearts, and peace will follow.
Defend the weak, and they’ll be strong.
Nurture hope, and it will grow sturdy.
Safeguard the Earth
Where
All
belong.
For The Daily Post
In one heart, mix equal parts:
Pearls of connection, words of caring, acts of kindness, steps of courage, hugs of comfort, breaths of peace, paths of truth, smiles of joy, touches of compassion.
Brew with gentleness till ample Hope forms.
For The Daily Post
😉
Photo: A. Asif
Photo: O. Asif
Photo: O. Asif
Photo: A. Asif
For The Daily Post
Photo: Etsy
“She has a symbiotic relationship with that phone,” the mother complained, eyebrows raised and head tipped in the direction of her daughter.
The pre-teen (on cue) rolled her eyes without lifting them from her opposing thumbs and the aforementioned item’s screen.
“See?!” the mom announced, vindicated.
“Whatever,” the girl sighed in the tone dedicated to oldsters who cannot possibly understand the nuances and necessities of modern life. She placed her phone face-down on the desk and turned her head to her mother. “Happy now?”
The mom nodded, half-mollified, half-mortified.
The lass-with-sass turned to me. “She keeps on me for that phone but she’s the one who’s always on the phone.”
“It’s work stuff,” the mother defended, reddening. Her own ‘lifeline’ already half-way out of her purse.
“Mine’s school stuff,” the girl countered. Her eyebrows rose in victory, a mirror image of her mother’s.
I smiled at their banter. It was a well-rehearsed dance, a sparring of connection more than true conflict.
“Funny thing …” I pulled out the work I had planned for our session that day: a passage and discussion about symbiosis, the close and often long-term interaction between two different species …
For The Daily Post
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