The Dormant Seed

The story of the bamboo and the fern tells of a man who, after losing all hope, goes to God and asks for one final reason why he should not quit on life; God tells him to look around at the bamboo and the fern. When He planted the seeds – God explains – the fern sprouted almost immediately, and continued to prosper more each year; the bamboo seed, on the contrary, did not sprout or do anything for five years. Yet, when it finally broke out of the ground, it grew to heights previously unimagined. The time it remained dormant, the seed was never idle; it simply used that time to incubate within the warm womb of the earth and grow strong roots.
The things that truly mean something in our lives are not the ones that sprout immediately. Our love and dedication, our passion and determination incubate and lay powerful roots which will allow our creations to have a long prosperous life.
Kids are a wonderful example of this concept. Often, we don’t see the results of our teachings until our children make their own way into the world. Although we may question our own parenting skills while we are raising them and walk with them through the many challenging phases of growing up, the values, morals and concepts we instill in them lay dormant within, and use the time to develop a root system which will support them once they are out on their own.
The same applies to any project we feel passionate about. We may feel as if we are wasting our time by working hard toward something which is nor yielding instant gratification, but our efforts will be rewarded in due time.
Each moment we dedicate to our projects, each new thing we learn, are steps which get us a little close to the day when our dreams will finally break the hard soil and will grow proudly to heights we never imagined possible.

The Things We Don't see

There was once a little old man who went to stay at a nursing home for the blind. He had no family left, and had spent the last few years in different institutions.
He waited patiently in the waiting room until a nurse gently nudged him to get up from his chair. “Good morning Mr. Wallace” she said, “If you are ready we can go up to your room now.”
Mr. Wallace smiled sweetly and sighed. “I just can’t wait.” He said, “it’s going to be wonderful to stay in such a beautiful room.”
The nurse smiled back and led him to the elevator. On the way up she attempted to describe the room and all that was in it; Mr. Wallace would never see those things, but it would probably comfort him to know what was waiting for him.
“I love it. I just love it.” Said Mr. Wallace.
The nurse couldn’t help smiling. “But Mr. Wallace, how can you so passionately love something you haven’t seen and that you will never see?”
“Because, dear child” said Mr. Wallace, “I have already decided that I like it. I know it’s there, whether I can see it or not. We give value only to that which we see, and discredit that which we do not see. I don’t see air, yet I’m still breathing and happy to be alive. I can’t hold air but I know it’s there. Some of the things we don’t see are the greatest gifts we are ever given.”
What we see, feel, and hear is only a fraction of what’s truly there.

For Better or Worse

I recently finished reading a book, written by ST Underdhal, entitled “Remember This”.
"Remember This" is the story of Lucy Kellogg, an elderly lady - once independent and dynamic - whose grip on reality slowly slips away as she surrenders to the unforgiving talons of Alzheimer disease. Lucy Kellogg loses things, confuses reality and fantasy, gets lost herself, but ultimately remembers those who hold a special place in her heart. The pain Lucy's son feels as he watches his mother slowly losing her connection to reality - and reversing back to being a child - is almost tangible. I thought about this book yesterday, as I ran into an older couple, while visiting my husband at work. At first sight, the couple looked suave and very ordinary, until I noticed the lady was slightly on edge, and followed her husband’s every move with apprehension. I sat with them and struck a conversation, and quickly learned that her husband has Alzheimer disease.
She told me a bit of the struggle they go through on a daily basis, and of the paralyzing fear which takes hold of her anytime she loses him out of her sight for even brief periods. She told me about the patience that’s required in taking care of someone afflicted with the disease, especially in the final stages, and sadly stated that her two sons – both grown and living out of state –refuse to help in any way. Furthermore, she said, they have no visible patience whenever they visit, and quickly lose their temper with him.
As the lady spoke I could feel my heart breaking for her husband, and for her. They raised two sons, sacrificed years of their lives to make sure their boys were well taken care of, and once they needed a small return of love and comprehension, it was simply not there. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.
I thought about all the situations when I lose my own patience. It is easy to become irritated when people are on a different page, but how could it ever get this far? How could I fault someone for not being mentally sound? I thought about my parents, and all they have sacrificed to raise me into the woman I am now, and knew that although patience is not my greatest virtue, I could never do that to them.
Before leaving, I looked at the gentleman sitting beside her; He was like a small child living in his own world, comfortable in the knowledge that his wife was there to take care of him. I stood up and hugged the lady, wishing her good luck. The gentleman looked up at me, a confused look curtained his soft, gentle eyes; it was as if he noticed me then for the first time. I leaned over and hugged him too. He smiled and hugged me back.
When I left, I turned around twice to look at the couple through the glass windows. They looked so sweet sitting there together. I silently said a small prayer for the lady to continue being strong, and for the gentleman to go through these last stages of his ordeal with the smallest amount of discomfort. I also said a small prayer of gratitude, for being allowed to witness, on an ordinary day, such an extraordinary display of genuine love.