The Poetry of Anand Bora: “The Road That Was”

Every second in life is important as it lays the foundation for cherishing the next one—Anand Bora

For my Friday Feature, I am once again delighted and honored to feature today the compelling and thought provoking work of a fellow artist, this time, a poet: Anand Bora (see his bio after his poem). I had the pleasure of meeting Anand, a fellow blogger, through MyBlogLog. We got to talking about art and writing and he showed me some of his sketches—HAHA! Not what you think! Mostly 2-d and 3-d art. I thought it stunning, colorful and alive. Says Anand: “I feel colors…I don’t see them. I see feelings…I don’t color them.” He is currently making paintings based on mathematics. “Honestly, it is fun,” says Anand, who finds ambigrams very interesting. He can handle the mouse like a pen or pencil.

Then Anand showed me his poetry. I was moved.

Anand’s philosophy and art is revealed in the tag line of his emails, where he quotes Pablo Picasso: “Computers are useless. They can only give you answers.” This is all the more interesting when you realize that he is a computer engineer with a software company.
Please leave a comment for Anand. And if you like his poetry, feel free to Stumble this page. If you dig it, well, Digg it! Here’s one of Anand’s poems:


The Road That Was

The Road that was—
Beside my home
Leading to a boulevard..an avenue..a highway
Unchanged through the test of time,
Witnessing me grow up day by day.

The Road that was—
Stubborn, hard, and tough,
Giving me 'unforgettable wounds' of algedonic nature;
My limbs and senses were on the receiving end,
Gradually learning, I grew up in stature.

The Road that was—
The home of helpless vendors,'essential' shops and discordant traffic
Calling me for my daily needs
Inducing innumerous visits..Uff..
'A Pandora's Box' were my deeds.

The Road that was—
Cheering, jubilating and celebrating
The times of festival well spent,
Midst aroma of delicacy, cuisine and fun;
Oh! Where the times of joy and ecstasy went.

The Road that was—
Loving and Caring
Parents, guardians, neighbours and the pedagogue,
Nostalgia of affections haunts my memories;
Melancholy? Those days have turned into a prologue.

The Road that was—
My playground in cool summer evenings
Elation became the order of the day;
Friends, fun, furor, fantasy
Independent I was like the sun's ray.

The Road that was—
Crying, sobbing and sad;
My departure was on the cards,
It was pleading, pacifying, requesting to stay.
Though heartbroken, I left the cobbled yards.



Biography:
Anand Bora is a software engineer with a degree in Computer Science and works for a telecom software company in India. He has admittedly had an undulating academic career but it is decent enough (due to unfavorable circumstances of life). Anand considers himself an avid learner . “By the grace of God, I don't have problems learning anything,” says Bora. “I guess the greatest gift which God has given me is Creativity. I have used my creativity [in] various fields of study but I have never used it to make money. Maybe, the real sense of creativity lies in making yourself and [other] people happy.” To read more of Anand’s poetry and see his artwork, go to: http://www.anandbora.com/; and, http://anandbora.blogspot.com/

"How Fare Thee, Mother?" By Adria Laycraft

In keeping with my old Friday Feature tradition, I'm delighted and honored to feature today a wonderful and tantalizing story by guest author, Adria Laycraft (see her bio after the story).

I had the fortune of colliding into Adria at ConVersion in Calgary last year, and her bright personality and beaming aura told me she was a rising star. I’m sure you’ll find this compelling fable, told in the tradition of oral storytelling, a delightful and thought-provoking read…
Please leave a comment for Adria. Now the story:

How Fare Thee, Mother?

One day an old hedge witch set off from her home in the woods to gather herbs for her magiks.

It so happened that she came upon her youngest son. He sat alongside the way, an uncorked wineskin in his lax hands and a blurred look to his eyes. He blinked at her when she stopped before him. “Mother, dear,” he said when he finally recognized her. “Could you spare me a coin or two?”

“And what of the coin I lent you last?” the witch replied. “I’m sure it’s long spent and the swill in your hands is yet another loan.”

The youth hung his head, longish black curls falling into his eyes. The witch shook her head. With such pretty eyes and dark hair, he could be such a charmer. Instead, he chose to be the local drunkard.

“Shameful,” she said aloud, moving on, but she tossed him a coin from her belt purse first.
Not long after, she passed a farmyard. Her middle son sat by the sty, so round he seemed one with the pigs.

“Mother,” he said, barely lifting a pudgy hand.

“Ah, my second son. Weren’t you to fetch my eggs and milk this morning?”

“Surely, but the way is far, and the farmer gave me three days worth of his eggs and milk, too much to carry home, so I ate it all.”

“How does that help me?” the witch asked, amazed as ever by his complete selfishness.

He shrugged, and the witch wondered why she was even surprised. The boy did naught to help her, yet would not move off into the world on his own, too lazy to leave his mother’s roof.
“Shameful,” she muttered again, moving on, but she tossed him a bun from her basket first.

Not much farther on she came upon her eldest son working his fields with another man.

“Mother!” he cried, setting aside his hoe to greet her. “I hope this pretty day finds you well.”

“It does, at that, but for meeting your brothers,” she replied. “But never mind them, how goes your work?”

“Well as ever.”

“And who is this young man helping you?” she asked, eyeing the fine cut of the boy’s arms, and the broad width of his shoulders.

The eldest son waved the fellow over and clapped him on the back. “This is my new farmhand, Mother,” he said, a broad smile of pride on his face. The poor boy blushed bright pink. “Won’t you sit and share our lunch, or at least a sip from my water jug?”

The witch smiled up at her eldest. How could it be possible to have one such fine son and two such like the others? She patted his arm and shook her head to his offer.

“No, I must be about. It seems I’ll be needing to fetch my own eggs and milk, and I shouldn’t be gone too long, or my meager collection of coins will be plundered as well.”

“I will come by later, then, and bring you some vegetables to hearten your stew,” he said, taking up his hoe. The two young men turned back to their work.

The witch carried on to the river and marshes where she sought her herbs and collected them into a hand-woven basket. It was a warm day, and she sat to rest atop the river’s steep bank.
“My boys be needing their due,” she murmured. “And it is in me to be giving it.”

Reaching about her she gathered some long grasses and, with nimble fingers, she quickly shaped and tied and wove.

Soon she had three simple grass figures. She took up the first and smudged the top with a piece of burnt wood to represent dark hair. Then she raised it up and chanted.

“Curls and swirls, your life is adrift, far from those you would stiff.”

And she tossed the doll into the swift flowing river.

The next morning a certain dark haired youth would wake after an especially good go at the drink to find he was at sea. For years he would ride the ships, scanning the ports, but he would never find his way home again.

To the next doll the witch added a mound of grass to round out the belly, and spoke again.
“Alone you will be since your help we’ll not see, until a crone comes along, a shrewish wife she’ll be.”

This doll arced through the air to land in the thick underbrush of the riverside willows.

The next day a certain large, slow-moving young man would find himself inexplicably lost in the woods. Wandering for hours, he would finally realize he always returned to one particular stand of willows, so there he would stay, unwilling to try anymore. An old crone would find him there, and care for him, but her ways would be bitter and full of complaining. Many times he would try to leave her, but always his footsteps led back to the cottage in the willows.

Finally the witch took up the last doll and placed a twig on its hand to be his hoe. Smiling, she deftly wove another to be his mate, then two more half size. She hummed while she worked, her talent bringing it all to be.

“No curses for you, but blessings be, for witches do both, though not many see.”

Before she could finish her weaving a sudden shadow covered her. With a gasp she twisted around to find her eldest son standing over her, a frown darkening his face.

“What have you done, Mother?” he said. “Why didn’t you just turn wine to vinegar, and food to dust? You’ve taken it too far, and you were the one to lead them down the very path they walked!”

The flow of angry words faltered and stopped as he took in the four dolls in her hands.

The witch shook off her shock before he could say anything more. “Well, at least I’ve done right for you,” she said, raising the dolls for him to see.

Her son blanched. “Oh, no, Mother, what have you done? I have no interest in this. I am happy with my new man--”

His words failed at the sight of her expression. The witch scrambled to her feet, her stomach twisting with new understanding. Searing disappointment scorched away the last of her hopes.
“Well,” she huffed. “Well, I can change that,” the witch declared. She began to re-weave her spells over the doll with the stick hoe.

“No! Mother, no! I don’t wish to be changed...” He grabbed for the dolls and she yanked them away, causing him to overextend and stumble forward. With a startled yell he tumbled over the cliff and fell head first down the riverbank, landing with a sickening crunch at the bottom. The witch let out a screech at the sight of his utterly still form lying below.

Hot tears burned her cheeks. She scooped up the grass figures and threw them down upon him.
She stood a long while after that, murmuring in quiet rhythm. Small changes came over her features. Lines smoothed along her face, and graying hairs grew blonde in the sunlight.

“Shameful,” she finally said, her head bowed. She turned and made her way back to an empty cottage. She took out her prettiest dress and put up her hair, and emptied her coin box into her belt purse.

She made her way to town, knowing that many strange ships would be in port this time of year. When wives saw her coming down the street they pulled their husbands inside.

That night a handsome sailor had a wonderful time, and the next morning the witch returned back home alone. She rocked and knitted, pausing to pat her tummy every now and then.

“Let’s have a girl this time, shall we?”

The End

Author Bio:

Adria Laycraft is from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, where she lives with her husband and five-year-old son. She is a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writer's Workshop and a member of the Imaginative Fiction Writer’s Association (IFWA). She likes to write science fiction and fantasy, and she can’t decide which one is her favorite. Pie and cake will go down in history as the funniest food to talk about, thanks to Odyssey, but cookies will forever be closest to her heart.

Photo credits: Fables #67 by James Jean; Fables #63 By Bill Willingham and Mark Buckingham

Paris: City of Light--Friday Feature

Today’s Friday Feature is Paris, the City of Light. I’m heading there with my friend, Toulouse (napping on my shoulder in the photo below). He isn’t too excited because he’s, well, French. But it’s my first visit to this splendid city and I have to admit to you that I am randy round the bend ecstatic. Paris is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, with over 30 million foreign visitors per year. And for good reason.

Paris has been a beacon of culture and art for centuries, long considered a world capital of art, fashion, food, literature and ideas. Paris is a symbol of all the fine things human civilization can offer. Says Rick Steves, “Come prepared to celebrate, rather than judge, the cultural differences, and you’ll capture the romance and joie de vivre that Paris exudes.” He adds, “Paris offers sweeping boulevards, chatty crepe stands, chic boutiques, and world-class art galleries. Sip decaf with deconstructionists at a sidewalk café, then step into an Impressionist painting in a tree-lined park. Climb Notre-Dame and rub shoulders with gargoyles. Cruise the Seine, zip up the Eiffel Tower, and saunter down the Avenue des Champs-Elysees.”

Paris is known as the "The City of Light" (La Ville-lumière), from its fame as a centre of education and ideas and its early adoption of street lighting. "Modern" Paris is the result of a vast mid-19th century urban remodelling. For centuries the city had been a labyrinth of narrow streets and half-timber houses, but beginning in 1852, the Baron Haussmann's vast urbanisation levelled entire quarters to make way for wide avenues lined with neo-classical stone buildings of bourgeoise standing; most of this 'new' Paris is the Paris we see today.

I’m actually going to Paris to research my latest book, a historical fantasy, about a young girl from medieval Prussia who learns that she can alter history (which is partly why she ends up in slightly future alternate Paris). The day is June 14th, 1411. It’s Vivianne’s 14th birthday and she’s been promised to this nasty foreign dude 30 years older than her and who she’s never met; the day is also the eve of one of medieval time’s greatest battles, “The Battle of Grunwald”. (This battle between the arrogant Teutonic warrior monks and the peasant Lithuanian and Polish armies should have been an easy victory for the Teutonic knights, who were far superior in weaponry, tactics and ambition than the peasant rag-tag armies. It wasn’t; they were all but wiped out. But, what if they hadn’t been?…)

It’s still the eve of the battle and, after being hunted as a witch for being “different”, young Vivianne flees through a time-space tear into an alternate future Paris…one in which—you guessed it—the Nazis currently rule (because they had the chance to evolve sooner, thanks to the survival of the Teutonic Order in a world where intervention—involving Vivianne—allowed them to prevail and see-in an early Germanic Nazi regime).

So, here I am… heading to Paris to see what Vivianne sees. Oh, and to drink and eat too! Ah, the wine… the cheese… the bread… You know what the French say: “Du pain, du vin, du Boursin…”
I’m not sure if we’ll have time to post. So I will leave you with a short story. But either Toulouse or I may come on with an update of our rigorous research. Otherwise, see you in two weeks! Come back tomorrow to read my short story.

Nina Munteanu is an ecologist and internationally published author of novels, short stories and essays. She coaches writers and teaches writing at George Brown College and the University of Toronto. For more about Nina’s coaching & workshops visit www.ninamunteanu.me. Visit www.ninamunteanu.ca for more about her writing.

Somerset Bob—Friday Feature

His Tag line reads: where the true and the real are often confused.

He calls himself Somerset Bob. "Because throughout my professional life, I’ve often found myself explaining to people that I’m ‘the other’ Bob Kingsley," he says rather apologetically. "It’s about time that changed. I don’t want to be the other any more. I want to be my own man. I need a new ‘handle’.” … Well, I think he’s found it. And, along with it, a worthwhile cause…
On January of this year, Bob Kingsley wrote this mission statement on his blog, ‘Somerset’ Bob’s Place:

”I’m not a scientist, but since June 2007 I’ve been gathering evidence for climate change from various diverse sources and speculating as to the possible future outcomes indicated by that research. As the months have passed I’ve become increasingly concerned that we’re heading for a sudden, catastrophic climatic event. By “sudden”, I mean just that: not a gradual change over centuries or decades — something to which we might, if we’re lucky, be able to adapt — but an event that will overwhelm us over a matter of a few years or even a single year or season. I’m searching for any evidence that underpins that view and narrows the time-frame so we might know when to expect the change. I’m not preaching about what we as individuals should be doing, I’m warning about what I’m increasingly convinced will be the consequences for us all, no matter how much or how little we each do to minimise our individual energy/carbon footprints. This is not to say we needn’t bother doing anything — far from it. By “thinking globally and acting locally”, as the saying goes, we may be able to delay the catastrophe, which will be a good thing — for people of my generation at least, if not for the next — but as I gather and analyse the information that’s out there, I’m becoming persuaded that despite our best individual efforts, it will ultimately overtake us.” Words reflected grimly by the British maverick scientist, James Lovelock (but that’s a later post of mine).
Bob has posted many stellar articles on climate change. Here are some of them:

Defeat Global Warming? Just Think About It (results of a US university’s study)
The UK Floods (summer flood hits the UK)
Climate Change: Sunspots? Or Us? (BBC News item)
UK Floods: The Crisis Deepens (floods invade southern counties in Britain)
Climate Change: Competing Theories (Gulf Stream and the Jet Stream and Superstorm theory)
Gore Gored by British Judge (facts vs. facts…)
North Polar Meltdown (Al Gore and the NOAA report)
More Climate Change Indicators (latest BBC reports)
Superstorm Authors Vindicated (about the Gulf Stream and superstorm theory)
The Maya and the Arctic Meltdown (Mayan calendar and the end of the world in 2012)
Antarctic Ice Loss Confirmed (latest research)
Sudden Climate Shifts Predicted (journal findings)
Polar Meltdowns: More Evidence Emerges (about the Antarctic’s Larsen B ice shelf breakage)
Being Economical with the Truth (is there really human-induced climate change?)
Antarctic’s PIG Threatening Sea Levels (glacial shrinkage and global sea level rise)
There Goes the Sun (China’s coldest winter in 100 years)
When More Means Less (more about the Arctic winter sea ice debate)


You might know Bob as “Bob Kingsley” through his work as a radio presenter and voice-over artist. You might even think he’s the other Bob Kingsley, but here in cyberspace they call him ‘Somerset’ Bob, and these days he likes to be thought of as a voice-over man and writer. You can hear his sexy voice right here and read some of his writing here.
Here’s Bob’s potted history: Bob has been associated with the UK radio business in one way or another all his adult life, including working as a radio show presenter at various commercial stations in his younger days, but best known as a voice-over artist for nearly 30 years. You’ll find some demo MP3s posted under the Work category of his blog.
But, says Bob, “I really set up [his blog] to give myself an outlet for my lifelong wish to be a writer. Now I’m no longer constantly dashing hither and yon pursuing work in a mad, youthful frenzy, I want to spend more time honing my skills in this noble art, flexing my creative muscles. I’m hoping to write a novel–look for posts about that in the Writing category. I’m also creating what will eventually be an online archive of all my earlier attempts at creative writing. Even if they’re only ever read by a handful of others, I’ll be pleased. They’ve been filed away on my computer or hidden away in desk drawers for years–putting them up on the web is just another way of storing them, except now anyone will be able to read them if they wish. I always wanted people to read my stuff. Isn’t that what any writer wants?”
Yup. So true, Bob!

Nina Munteanu is an ecologist and internationally published author of novels, short stories and essays. She coaches writers and teaches writing at George Brown College and the University of Toronto. For more about Nina’s coaching & workshops visit www.ninamunteanu.me. Visit www.ninamunteanu.ca for more about her writing.

Climate Change--Part 1: Human Health—Friday Feature

This is the first in a new series I’ll be posting that deals directly with climate change, a topic of great controversy among scientists still and one meriting discussion among us here. Okay, I lie: I posted several articles already that touch on this subject. I touched upon the chaotic nature and interrelatedness of climate and weather in my post on chaos theory. In two blog posts, “Climate Change & the Nobel Peace Prize” and “Blog Action Day—Truth”, I devote lengthy discussion to the dedicated work of Al Gore, his film, “the Inconvenient Truth” and generate lively discussion on the topic (check out the comments pages!). In “Tornadoes Connected to Global Waming?” I described my own personal experience with the historic unseasonal tornadoes in the US earlier this year and how some believe this is related to climate change and is a sign of more to come. In “Polar Cities” I describe Dan Bloom’s concept for surviving the aftermath of global warming and explore the need for paradigm changes. Then in “The Complexity of Nature” I discuss how perspective plays a role in our perception of both our future and that of our planet.

Victor Frankl and the Holocaust

What is to give light must endure burning—Victor Frankl

Victor Frankl survived Auschwitz to write those words (whose meaning resonates more profoundly, given his experience).

So, on this day, when Christians all over the world (myself included) are observing the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross for us, I dedicate this Good Friday Feature to the men, women and children who gave their lives in Nazi World War II concentration camps. Let us not forget their sacrifice and the lessons we can learn from the Holocaust.

Six million European Jews were brutally executed during World War II, as part of a program to deliberately exterminate them by the National Socialist (Nazi) regime in Germany led by Adolf Hitler. The persecution and genocide of the Holocaust ("completely burnt”) was accomplished in stages. Legislation to remove the Jews from civil society was enacted years before the outbreak of World War II. Concentration camps were established in which inmates were used as slave labour until they died of exhaustion or disease. Where the Third Reich conquered new territory in eastern Europe, specialized units called Einsatzgruppen murdered Jews and political opponents in mass shootings. Jews and Roma were crammed into ghettos before being transported hundreds of miles by freight train to extermination camps where, if they survived the journey, the majority of them were killed in gas chambers. Every arm of Germany's bureaucracy was involved in the logistics of the mass murder, turning the country into what one Holocaust scholar has called "a genocidal state."

In a stirring speech, upon her resignation from office, Alexandra Levi said, “…when we journey into Holocaust remembrance and stay there for an extended time, we cannot come out the same persons we went in…When we make ourselves serious students of the Holocaust we must regularly recuperate from our study, go out into the sunlight, partake in the peace and cheer of today. Look: the sun is shining, the season is changing, lives are being lived. But when we return to the books and the testimony, we enter once again the truth of a time when Jews cringed in death camps like beaten animals, eating with a feral rush what little they were given, and knowing in the words of Primo Levi, "that in a few weeks nothing will remain of them but a handful of ashes in some near-by field and a crossed-out number on a register." …when infant children were torn from their parents' arms to be smashed upon paving stones; that grandmothers and grandfathers were stripped naked and lined up at the edge of muddy pits to be machine-gunned into mass graves; that nearly half of our total nation was herded and sheared like worthless livestock to be gassed and burned…Those scenes were painted on the canvas of history. They must now be made imperishable in our consciousness, and taken as a lesson - and a turning point.”

Viktor Emil Frankl, M.D., Ph.D., (March 26, 1905 - September 2, 1997) was an Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist, whose book Man's Search for Meaning (first published in 1946) chronicles his experiences as a concentration camp inmate and describes his psychotherapeutic method of finding meaning in all forms of existence, even the most sordid ones. Frankl was one of the key figures in existential therapy. He founded logotherapy and Existential Analysis, the "Third Viennese School" of psychotherapy.

In the preface to Frankl’s book, Man's Search for Meaning, Gordon W. Allport writes:

"...in one life there is love for one's children to tie to; in another life, a talent to be used; in a third, perhaps only lingering memories worth preserving... As a long-time prisoner in bestial concentration camps he [Viktor Frankl] found himself stripped to naked existence. His father, mother, brother, and his wife died in camps or were sent to gas ovens, so that, excepting for his sister, his entire family perished in these camps. How could he - every possession lost, every value destroyed, suffering from hunger, cold and brutality, hourly expecting extermination - how could he find life worth preserving?"

Frankl references Nietzsche, "he who has a why to live for can bear with almost any how," and argues that what made the difference between those who survived and those who did not was not the intensity of their suffering, but whether or not they retained meaning and purpose in their lives.

Frankl writes of his experience as the guards herded them in forced labor in the Nazi concentration camp:

“We stumbled on in the darkness, over big stones and through large puddles, along the one road running through the camp. The accompanying guards kept shouting at us and driving us with the butts of their rifles. Anyone with very sore feet supported himself on his neighbor's arm. Hardly a word was spoken; the icy wind did not encourage talk.” Even there, in the degradation and abject misery of a concentration camp, Frankl was able to exercise the most important freedom of all - the freedom to determine one's own attitude and spiritual well-being. No Nazi SS guard was able to take that away from him or control the inner-life of Frankl's soul. One of the ways he found the strength to fight to stay alive and not lose hope was to think of his wife. Frankl clearly saw that it was those who had nothing to live for who died quickest in the concentration camp.

It was as he contemplated his beloved wife that a transcending thought came to Frankl: “For the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth--that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world may still know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when a man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way--an honorable way--in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment. For the first time in my life, I was able to understand the words, The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory.”

Frankl continues, “My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought crossed my mind: I didn't even know if she were still alive, and I had no means of finding out (during all my prison life there was no outgoing or incoming mail); but at that moment it ceased to matter. There was no need to know; nothing could touch the strength of my love, and the thoughts of my beloved. Had I known then that my wife was dead, I think that I still would have given myself, undisturbed by that knowledge, to the contemplation of that image, and that my mental conversation with her would have been just as vivid and just as satisfying. Set me like a seal upon thy heart, love is as strong as death."

In a compelling post, Gavin Ortlund wrote this in his blog recently: “What gripped me most about [Frankl’s] book, and has stayed with me to this day, is not the horror and barbarity of his experiences in concentration camps - when you pick up a book about the holocaust, you expect that. What really struck me was Frankl's repeated insistence that even there, in the most inhumane and horrific conditions imaginable, the greatest struggle is not mere survival. The greatest struggle is finding meaning. As I was reading, I was struck with this thought: going to a concentration camp is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. The worst that can happen to a person is not having a transcendent reason to live. Life is about more than finding comfort and avoiding suffering: its about finding what is ultimate, whatever the cost.”

Said Frankl, “We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”


Easter is a time of contemplation, of reflection. A time of death and resurrection (yes, creative destruction too)… It is a time of tolerance and acceptance, of forgiveness, of healing and reconciliation. A time to set aside our differences and embrace our humanity, foibles and all. A time of humbleness, of humility. A time of consciousness, of integrity, and honor. And uplifted spirits. A time to walk deep into one’s soul and find one’s inner calling, one’s gift to the world. It is a time surely for giving. A time of service and love.

Then again, why confine this thinking to Easter? Do we confine our love and proclamation of love to Valentine's Day?

So, I leave this post with you for NOW and always...And with another piece of wisdom from Frankl on SUCCESS:

"Again and again I therefore admonish my students in Europe and America: Don't aim at success - the more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it. For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side effect of one's personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one's surrender to a person other than oneself. Happiness must happen, and the same holds for success: you have to let it happen by not caring about it. I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge. Then you will live to see that in the long-run - in the long-run, I say! - success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think about it."

Happy Easter!

Nina Munteanu is an ecologist and internationally published author of novels, short stories and essays. She coaches writers and teaches writing at George Brown College and the University of Toronto. For more about Nina’s coaching & workshops visit www.ninamunteanu.me. Visit www.ninamunteanu.ca for more about her writing.