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December 07, 2008

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Roland Hodson

Ted,
Your very powerful post today about how you have devoted your life to trying to be come a better person, I have found very moving. I am almost a mirror image of you in that I have felt I have devoted myself to making the world a better place but in the process haven't managed to form life long relationships and am not very insightful about myself. I remember one of the few times I was priveleged to have you all to myself for a dinner and I spent most of the time telling you all my big plans for Africa (all of which have come to little.) When I was finish you asked me, "And what about yourself, your sister, your family, those you love?" Sadly there has been little space in my life for those things. Maybe the ideal life would have been somewhere between yours and mine but you are in the long linage of Eastern mystics and other fine people who despaired of changing the world and only focused on perfecting their souls. Ironically in this you have followed your father, who believed in changing the world, one person at a time.

Roland

Nelson

Some sing, some dance;
But even the best only do
. . . What they can do.

Some sing, some dance.

I get down on myself at times, thinking that I haven't made a big enough splash in life,
That I haven't done great things for others,
That I'm no Mother Theresa, no Dalai Lama.
I'm no a Ted Otteson - wise, gentle, or generous.

So, I look around the pond.
OK, no big splashes.
But some nice little ones. Momentary almost.
Some fun ones.
The bad ones I'd like to forget.

Then I notice the ripples. They go on and on.

Ripples from the good and bad splashes cancel each other out.

Waves ripple by children, lovers, friends, colleagues, clients, strangers
Changing each as they pass like ocean waves on a great shore.

Reflected waves ripple by my children's children,
By friends' friends,
By the lovers of lovers,
And by strangers everywhere.

All are touched
And I ask myself
What message
Did I choose to send?

Some sing, some dance;
But even the best only do
. . . What they can do.
__________________________________________

A Milkweed
by Richard Wilber

Anonymous as cherubs
Over the crib of God,
White seeds are floating
Out of my burst pod.

What power had I
Before I learned to Yield ?
Scatter me great wind:
I shall posses the field.
__________________________________________

Nelson

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