Naughty Nuns

hile shopping in a food store, two nuns happened to pass by the beer, wine, and liquor section. One asked the other if she would like a beer.

The second nun answered that, indeed, it would be very nice to have one, but that she would feel uncomfortable about purchasing it.

The first nun replied that she would handle that without a problem. She just picked up the beer and took it to the cashier.

The cashier had a surprised look, so the nun said, "This is for washing our hair."

Without blinking an eye, the cashier reached under the counter and

put a package of pretzel sticks in the bag with the beer.

"The curlers are on me."

Author Unknown

Just Another Day

Fiction is not normally my genre, but I felt like trying to characterize the near perfect day to share with another. It's fantasy and a day that has yet to happen, but hope springs eternal.

It was still early when we awoke, so we chose to snuggle in each other’s warmth for another hour. Maybe longer – we never cared much about time as long as we were together. Outside you could hear the soft murmur of mourning doves, but it was mostly quiet except for our sharing of occasional thoughts. After a while, I got up and went downstairs, leaving her to ease her way out of bed at a more leisured pace. After all, someone had to brew the coffee.

When I returned, the shower was running, and the steam filling the bathroom erased any lingering edges from the new morning. My heart raced when I saw her profile through the fog on the shower door, and I knew I had to join her. We took turns washing each other, laughed as we tried to dry each other, and finally fell back into bed where we shared a few more moments in each other‘s warm embrace, although we were soon overcome by other desires. “Ah,” I thought, “there was much delight and promise in this morning’s first few moments.”

As we lay there, the fresh coffee aroma began to beckon, and with that encouragement, we finally dressed and went downstairs to greet the day. Our leisurely breakfast included two newspapers and a shared crossword puzzle before we headed into the bustle of the city. With a few tedious errands behind us, we found ourselves exploring every nook and cranny of a favorite antique shop, repeatedly trumpeting the excitement we felt with each unique discovery or forgotten curiosity. Lucky for us it was only a short walk to the bistro where we first met. We returned there often when wanting to enjoy a romantic moment or celebrate the good fortune that brought us together. We also enjoyed the other customers, all of whom would stare at us as we stared at each other. We were obviously in love.

The odyssey continued after lunch as we spent more time than we should have in a bookstore and dallied for even more contented moments in a coffee shop before a stroll along the waterfront. The afternoon would be complete only after a tasting and inevitable purchase at a nearby cheese shop. The owner was an old friend, and he invited us into his wine cellar to try his latest treasure. As Dionysus wished, we left there with two bottles of something really special. Then for good measure, we stopped on the way home at a newly opened chocolate shop where a beautiful display had caught our eye. Of course, we selected a few for later that evening. Three each somehow seemed just right.

Once home, we spent a while on the porch. The weather was perfect, the slow steady motion of the swing lulled us, and the mourning doves returned to murmur again, softly and serenely. Twilight crept in and surrounded us.

Later that evening we enjoyed our cheeses, savored our wine, and eventually marveled at how utterly exquisite a simple chocolate could be. Other than those of a distant train, the only sounds were the stories and thoughts and dreams we eagerly shared. We opened the second bottle knowing we wouldn’t finish it but wanting something to sip as we settled on the couch to view a film we had been wishing to see for a long time. As we watched, we occasionally commented, but mostly we just relaxed in each other’s arms – breathing as one.

The film was superb, of course, but what was truly remarkable was the way we simply enjoyed being in each other’s company. As the hour grew late, we returned to bed and listened to the rain’s now steady rhythm. Once again snuggled securely in each other’s warmth, we whispered occasional thoughts and dreamed of tomorrow’s adventures and the shared journey we had come to treasure.

TGB  

{this memory} 10

Every photo has a story behind it, but the problem is I don't know much about this photo. I know the gentleman on the left is my father-in-law, but I never knew him. He died before I met my wife.

The setting is the bar/grille area of Tex's Bowling Alley on the 600 block of Bleecker Street in Utica, New York. Everyone is wearing funny hats - so I'm guessing it's New Year's Eve. It's also clear that it's prior to 1960 since there are 48 stars on the flag. My research, however, suggests this was prior to 1951 when Tex (Frank Fragetta) sold the building to an adjacent furniture store. It later became home to the Utica Chapter of the Sons of Italy.

Bowling was a big deal in the post-war period. Tex's had just six lanes but was one of six facilities in Utica. There were four more in local clubs like the Knights of Columbus and two in neighboring suburbs. Only one of these remains today, although much expanded and modernized, of course.

My wife's father was manager of the grill. After the building's sale, he opened his own bar and grille - also on Bleecker Street. His building no longer stands.

As I wrote above, I didn't know him, but I do know he was a fine man. His three children - two daughters and a son - are all wonderful people. And his wife - my mother-in-law - loved me like a son. He immigrated from Italy as a young teenager but returned to Italy after a few years, only to come back to the US permanently a few years later.

How he settled in Utica I do not know, but since the turn of the century Utica has been a popular destination for immigrants. It continues as such today, and dozens of languages are spoken in the schools. If you like ethnic food, come visit.

TGB   

Throwdown

About a year I ago I was challenged to plan a very special meal - let's call it a menu throwdown. Mind you, this was a few weeks after I had just had an exquisite - albeit expensive - meal at B & B Ristorante, Mario Batali's wonderful establishment in The Venetian in Las Vegas. What follows is what I came up with at that time. It was one of my earliest posts to this blog and a yummy favorite. It's also in keeping with the challenge theme I was given this week to repeat a favorite post.

Enjoy.

TGB   

Aperitivo
  Bellinis: Prosecco with white peach purée
    Made with Nino Franco “Primo Franco” Prosecco

Amuse bouche
  Roasted Asparagus Tip in a Parmesano Reggiano curl
    garnished with a sliver of roasted red pepper
    and a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil

Acqua
  S. Pelligrino or Acqua Panna

Pane

  Pane di Altamura with extra-virgin
    olive oil and balsamic vinegar

Vino
  Amarone della Valpolicella - Stefano Accordini "Il Fornetto"

Antipasto
  Apricots wrapped in Prosciutto di Parma with black cracked pepper

Intermezzo
  Sorbetto di Pompelmo e Menta (Grapefruit and Mint)

Primo piatto
  Roasted Butternut Squash and Goat's Cheese Cannelloni
   sprinkled with chopped rosemary and Parmesano Reggiano

Intermezzo
  Sorbetto di Pompelmo e Menta

Secondo piatto
  Rosemary Polenta Stuffed Heirloom Tomato & Portobello Mushroom
    with Shaved Parmesano Reggiano and with a sprig of Rosemary

Contorno
  Arugula Salad
    with Shaved Parmesano Reggiano and Balsamic Vinaigrette

Intermezzo
  Caravella Limoncello 64

Piatto di Cinque Formaggi
  Mozzarella di Bufala
  Roccolo
  Toma Piedmontese,
  Grana Padano
  Gorgonzola Naturale
  Served with a selection of olives and baguette slices

Intermezzo

  Sorbetto Lampone-Cabernet
  (Raspberry-Cabernet)

Dolce
  Zabaglione con Lamponi

Caffè
  LavAzza Tierra! Fair Trade Espresso

Assortiti Frutta Fresca e Noci

Digestivo
  Jacopo Poli Grappa Amorasa di Torcolata

Th  

Window On The World

Their Vision
Last fall I noticed a New York Times reference to “Windows on the World – A series in which writers from around the world describe the view from their windows.” I liked this idea and resolved to try it. What do I see out my window? How do I interpret it? What do I think about as I gaze into the outer world?

My View
My desk has an extraordinary view. Through what is essentially an eight-foot-wide picture window, one looks northward. In the distance and across the Mohawk River rise the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains. On this day in late September, the leaves on the trees are just beginning to tease with hints of the riot of color that will soon explode across my horizon. It is difficult, however, to look at those hills
and not think about the enormous expanse of time required first to build them into brash young mountains and then wear them back down until little remains but the wisdom of age. With further reflection, of course, it’s hard not to ponder the similar but far briefer cycle that is my own life.

From my desk and gazing toward those hills, I look across a huge expanse of green lawn containing practice fields for soccer, field hockey, and lacrosse as well as the baseball diamond and a football stadium. These usually lie vacant during the hours I work, but occasionally if I remain at my desk until late in the afternoon, they begin to come alive with energetic young college students practicing all of those skills that their coaches repeatedly insist are essential for a successful life. Aside from having a healthy body and learning to persist or be a team player, I must admit I have never quite understood what those essential skills are. I do, however, like such busyness, and it’s a reminder of enjoyable afternoons I spent playing baseball many years ago and very much earlier in my own life's cycle.

Nevertheless, I also like it when those fields are empty, especially in early morning when they are covered with dew and long shadows cast by scattered trees partially blocking the best efforts of a rising sun. That’s the Hour of the Birds – American Crows (Corvus brachyrhynchos) and Ring-billed Gulls (Larus delawarensis) mostly, but soon hundreds and hundreds of Canada Geese (Branta canadensis) will stop over on their long journey southward. We’ll say our good-byes, but they will return in a few months just as they have for millennia – reminding me once again of the amazing cycles of life on Earth.

Closer to me are a couple of large boulders – each supporting large bronze plates containing the names of those who stopped by the college for a few decades before retiring from sharing themselves, their experiences, and their accumulated wisdom with generations of students. I have to wonder if I will be remembered by the students to whom I so willingly gave all that I could. Will I be remembered by a college for whom I did the same for all or parts of five decades? William James has offered that “The best use of life is to spend it for something that outlasts life.” So I wonder, “Did I?” Would it not be a way, after all, to stretch my personal cycle many years beyond what is normally expected?

And closest to me is The Tree. For nearly a two years I have photographed The Tree almost every day – always from the same window, the same visual angle, the same resolution. What has emerged is a compelling illustration of the cycle of life as The Tree begins our year by offering us the deep rich greens of summer’s bounty. Before long, however, we are astounded by a thousand branches clad in the bright oranges of autumn but followed all too soon by those same branches, now bare, standing in stark contrast against winter’s snow. Soon enough though, hints of newborn green begin to emerge from the many mists of spring.

What a truly incredible view I have from my window! One has to wonder how on earth I ever get lectures prepared or examinations graded. That, I fear, is a mystery almost as great as the mystery behind the many cycles that provoke and entertain me from day to day, week to week, and year to year.

TGB

{this moment} 10

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor every treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.

{this moment}

Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.

TGB   

The Old Lady, The Atheist, And The Groceries

here was a little old lady who stepped onto her front porch every morning, raised her arms to the sky, and shouted, "PRAISE THE LORD".

One day an atheist moved into the house next door, and soon he became irritated at the little old lady. Every morning he'd step onto his front porch after her and yell back, "There is no Lord!"

Time passed with the two of them carrying on this way every day.

One morning, in the middle of winter, the little old lady stepped onto her front porch and shouted "PRAISE THE LORD! Please Lord, I have no food, and I am starving. Provide for me, O Lord!

The next morning she stepped out onto her porch, and there were two huge bags of groceries sitting there. "PRAISE THE LORD!" she cried out. "He has provided groceries for me!"

The atheist neighbor jumped out of the hedges and shouted "There is no Lord. I bought those groceries!"

The little old lady threw her arms into the air and shouted "PRAISE THE LORD! He has provided me with groceries and made the Devil pay for them!"

Author Unknown

{this memory} 9

Every photo has a story behind it, and I have seen this photo many times over the years. In fact, I can recall looking at it in the family album as a child. All I remember knowing about it was that my parents were quarreling in New York City. It's almost 60 years old, and the older the photo the less likely I am to know the story. That’s not to say I was never told it, but I just don’t currently remember the story. That means I needed to do what any good son would do. I called mom and asked. Again. Here is the rest of the story.

My folks were married in Falls Church, Virginia, on April 23, 1942 – fewer than five months after the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. We were now at war, and my father was a career naval officer stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. Having enlisted when he was just out of high school, he had already served his country for almost fifteen years, had seen some of the world, and was about to see action off the coast of north Africa.

He returned to Norfolk after the November 1942 invasion of Africa knowing that he would soon be on his way to fight in the Pacific. He told my mother that they had never really had a honeymoon, and he wanted to take her to New York City. Off they went in April of 1943. He was 32 and traveled. She was 23, from Arkansas, and had never been to the “big city.” She wanted to see everything – the Statue, nice restaurants, clubs, etc.

My father was not a party animal. He preferred to eat in the hotel because the dining room was never crowded, but it was their “honeymoon” so he did take my mother to a few restaurants. They did, of course, go to the Statue of Liberty.

The clubs? Well ... my mother had read that Lena Horne was performing at the Stork Club (closed in 1965), and she wanted to go. My father did not want to go and argued that they probably couldn’t get in anyway. He took her, of course. They approached the man holding the red rope that blocked walk-in admittance, and he ushered them right in. My mother may have clucked a little “I told you so” to which my father said it was only because he was in uniform. He was probably right. We were a nation at war, and a man in uniform might never have this chance again. They were often given preference and appropriately so.

The only problem was Lena’s last show was the night before. She was no longer performing there. I’m not sure how long they stayed or if they ate dinner, but what we see in their faces in the photograph may be less argument than just being cross because in this case no one got what they wanted.

She did get to see much of what she wanted though and loved my father. She enjoyed her “honeymoon.” Evidently my father did too; my older brother was conceived during this excursion.

The photograph was taken by one of those street photo vendors who would take random shots and then try to sell them to you. One has to wonder why they chose to buy this one – perhaps a memento of their first argument, which it was. I'm told my maternal grandmother would look at this photo and laugh at my mother’s expression – probably remembering all the times she had seen it as my mother grew up. Or maybe she recalled an occasion when my mother laughed at her after an argument with my grandfather. She had probably told her ”Just you wait, Mary Alice. You’ll see.” If so, she saw.

TGB   

Return Of The Journal

It was such a perfect gift, this journal. It’s beautiful - with just the right feel when one holds it in their hand. Shortly after receiving it I told the individual who gave it to me that I was reluctant to write in this leather-bound treasure, and almost two years later I have yet to do so. It remains, however, an inspiration and perhaps that is as it should be. Certainly when the time is finally right and my pen is, in fact, sufficiently inspired, the ink will flow, and the pages will fill.

This journal and the encouragement of my friend have resulted in the three hundred or so essays I've written in the past year and a half. I still recall when I had yet to write anything but was in possession of the journal. When I wondered when to start writing, I was advised, "Now. Now. Now." It was good advice, and I took it.

Embossed on the cover of this journal are the words "Carpe Diem." Oh my, but that is perfect - especially the "diem" as you'll see below. It has powerful symbolism for me at many levels, and as evidence of its importance to me, you can see it behind the spiral at the left of this blog's main header.

Journal is an interesting word, dating from 13th century Middle English and meaning “a church service book containing the day hours.” In turn, that descends from the Old French jurnal meaning daily. That, of course, is from the Latin diurnus meaning of the day; Day in Latin is dies. By 1560 Journal was being used as a term for a record of transactions, but it wasn’t until the 1600s that it was used to mean a personal diary.

Journey is a newer word, at least in the way we use it today. It also begins as the Latin diurnus. In Old French we find journée meaning a day's work or travel and leading to the 13th century Middle English journey signifying a defined course of traveling. As recently as 1755, however, the primary sense was still the travel of a day.

I dwell on the etymology because I love words but also because it reveals the inter-connectedness of the two words. In another place I have defined journey as the unfolding course of one's life, and in my current context that expression has taken on powerful symbolism. After all, that was why I was given this treasure – as a place to chronicle my journey in prose and poetry, to sketch wordless images of what I see or feel along the way, and to play with thoughts that emerge as I come to understand the river of cycles that is my life.

I like that Journal and Journey have the same origin. Although I know they look similar, lots of unrelated words do, and for me the words do not convey an obvious connection, at least not in the literal sense. It is appropriate though. I can use my journal to record my day’s journey, page by page and discovery by discovery, and if not recorded in the journal itself, at least inspired by the journal.

I suspect my friend understood this, intuitively if not directly, and I need to find once again a fitting way to offer my thanks. I suppose the best thanks would be to share some pages newly inked in the journal, and I look forward to the day when that moment has finally come.

TGB   

{this moment} 9

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor every treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.

{this moment}

Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.

TGB   

The Irish Golfer

golfer playing in Ireland hooked his drive into the woods. Looking for his ball, he found a little Leprechaun flat on his back, a big bump on his head and the golfer's ball beside him. Horrified, the golfer got his water bottle from the cart and poured it over the little guy, reviving him.

"Arrgh! What happened?" the Leprechaun asked. "I'm afraid I hit you with my golf ball," the golfer replied. "Oh, I see. Well, ye got me fair and square. Ye get three wishes - so whaddya want?"

"Thank God, you're all right!" the golfer answered in relief. "I don't want anything. I'm just glad you're OK, and I apologize." And the golfer walked off.

"What a nice guy," the Leprechaun said to himself. "I have to do something for him. I'll give him the three things I would want ... a great golf game, all the money he ever needs, and a fantastic sex life."

A year goes by and the golfer is back. On the same hole, he again hits a bad drive into the woods, and the Leprechaun is there waiting for him.

"Twas me that made ye hit the ball here," the little guy said. "I just want to ask ye how's yer golf game?" "My game is fantastic!" the golfer answered. "I'm an internationally famous golfer now." He added, "By the way, it's good to see you're all right."

"Oh, I'm fine now, thank ye. I did that fer yer golf game, you know. And tell me, how's yer money situation?" "Why, it's just wonderful!" the golfer stated. "When I need cash, I just reach in my pocket and pull out $100 bills I didn't even know were there!"

"I did that fer ye also. And tell me, how's yer sex life?" The golfer blushed, turned his head away in embarrassment, and said shyly, "It's Okay." "C'mon, c'mon now," urged the Leprechaun, "I'm wanting to know if I did a good job. How many times a week?"

Blushing even more, the golfer looked around then whispered, "Once, sometimes twice a week." "What?!" responded the Leprechaun in shock. "That's all? Only once or twice a week?" "Well," said the golfer, "I figure that's not bad for a Catholic priest in a small parish."

Author Unknown

{this memory} 8

This image from Tuesday's post shows the author in the spring of 1978, just shy of my thirtieth birthday. I don't look like that anymore, by the way, since a third of a century of life does things to a person.

At that time, I owned a 100-year-old farmhouse on about three acres just south of Oneida, New York. I suppose the first thing to note is that I'm not physically challenged in the photo. Not yet anyway, but even then there were some very faint symptomatic hints. I still had few years though before the weakness would begin to take hold and grow. I was able to build fences, fix up my small barn, paint, wallpaper, build a bar, install shelving, lay carpet and sheet vinyl, yada, yada, yada. Yes indeed, I was quite the handyman.

That also included blowing out a very large window to put in a patio door that would offer access to the deck you see me constructing in this image. In particular, I'm explaining to the photographer, a beautiful young Italian woman I met a few months earlier and married the following January, where I was going to install some lighting.

As you can see, there was quite a vista to the east. I could pick out a distinctive tree on a distant hill fully 15 miles away. It was gorgeous.

What else do I think about when I look at this? Well, I don't really think about healthier days. That's a waste of energy. I recall that we had our wedding reception in this home, that both of my daughters were born when I lived here, and that this deck witnessed countless student or family gatherings, in spite of being 25 miles from campus or aforesaid family. So many wonderful memories.

Speaking of students. Look at this dude! Long-haired, bearded, over-educated, bell-bottomed, buff and tanned, 280Z-ed. Would you let your daughter take a class from this hippie freak?

Never fear. Although I wasn't like John Travolta in Michael who could put a "block" on you, I carefully kept a respectful distance. When I was single, I might have read the menu on occasion, but I was never tempted to order anything.

TGB  

{this moment} 8

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor every treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.

{this moment}

Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.

TGB   

Getting Married In Heaven

n their way to get married, a young couple is involved in a fatal car accident. The lovebirds find themselves sitting outside the Pearly Gates waiting for St. Peter to process them into Heaven.

While waiting, they begin to wonder if they could they possibly get married in Heaven, and when Saint Peter showed up, they asked him. Saint Peter said, "Well, I don't know. This is the first time anyone has asked. Let me go find out," and he left.

The couple sat and waited for an answer for a couple of months. While they waited, they discussed that IF they were allowed to get married in Heaven, SHOULD they get married - what with the eternal aspect of it all. "What if it doesn't work?" they wondered, "Are we stuck together forever?"

After yet another month, St. Peter finally returned looking some what bedraggled. "Yes," he informed the couple, "You CAN get married in Heaven." "Great!" said the couple, "but we were just wondering. What if things don't work out? Could we also get a divorce in Heaven?"

St. Peter, red-faced with anger, slammed his clipboard onto the ground. "What's wrong?" asked the frightened couple. "OH, COME ON!!" Saint Peter shouted, "It took me three months to find a priest up here! Do you have ANY idea how long it'll take me to find a lawyer?!"

Author Unknown

{this memory} 7

This image from Tuesday's post shows three generations of Browns in 1937. The young man on the left is my father, Harold Clifford Brown (1909-1975). On the right is my grandfather, Delbert Clifton Brown (1890-1935). My great grandfather, Jeremiah Brown (1863-1930), is the gentleman in the middle. My father is the only one of the three that I knew.

My father is the easy one to write about, and I already have. See Father's Day. This photo was taken near Evansville, Indiana, where my grandfather lived not long after my father's high school graduation in Naylor, Missouri. It was also when my father enlisted in the navy although he would have to wait about six months before reporting because he was not yet eighteen.

I don't know much about my great grandfather. I have an old photograph of him out in the northwest where he seems to have been logging, but "Jerry" sure doesn't look like a logger. I do know that as an elder and charter member he helped found the Primitive Baptist Church in Crossville, Illinois, in 1901. I also know they were sometimes referred to as "foot washers," but that seems to have a pejorative sound to it even though it is a common practice in Christianity. He had three children by his first wife (including Delbert). Ten years after she died he remarried and had another four children.

My grandfather abandoned my father, then an infant, and moved to southern Arizona where he married a Mexican woman with whom he had four more children. In 1929 he married a third time after returning to Illinois. I have no records of divorces, but perhaps there were. He did serve in the army in the six years between leaving my father and remarrying. It is also rumored that during Prohibition in the 1920s he served time in Arizona for bootlegging - as Cath guessed upon seeing the photo. Perhaps that was what encouraged him to return to Illinois.

Forgetting to divorce the previous wife may have been something of a family tradition. The first Jeremiah Brown (1771-1838) was probably a bigamist. After moving from Tennessee to Missouri, he remarried sometime prior to 1830. With a wife still living, he shouldn't have - unless as a former North Carolina hillbilly he did one of those "I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you" imprecations that somehow made it official.

My father never spoke of his father. He grew up poor and with a step-father who liked his own three children better. A few years ago I visited the Brown cemetery in southern Illinois, and I saw the markers for my ancestors across several generations including my great great great grandfather who was born in 1797. I felt a sense of place. Connection. Roots. It also included, however, the tombstone of my grandfather. I did not and still do not know how to feel about him.

TGB

{this moment} 7

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor every treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.

{this moment}

Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.

TGB   

Walking On Water

n Tibet, three monks decided to practice meditation together. They sat by the side of a lake and closed their eyes in concentration. Then suddenly, the first one stood up and said, "I forgot my mat." He stepped miraculously onto the water in front of him and walked across the lake to their hut on the other side.

When he returned, the second monk stood up and said, "I forgot to hang out my freshly washed underwear to dry." He too walked calmly across the water and returned the same way.

The third monk watched the first two carefully in what he decided must be the test of his own abilities. "Is your learning so superior to mine? I can match any feat you two can perform," he declared loudly as he rushed to the water's edge to walk across it. He promptly fell into the deep water.

Undeterred, the yogi climbed out of the water and tried again, only to sink into the water. Yet again he climbed out and yet again he tried, each time sinking into the water. This went on for some time as the other two monks watched.

After a while, the second monk turned to the first and said, "Do you think we should tell him where the stones are?"

Author Unknown