If you can fill your heart with compassion for friend, foe and stranger alike; if you can out of your soul hatred strike and instead resolve kindness to fashion… If you can embrace with every fibre of your being empathy for each suffering living thing; if your soul can of love and tolerance sing and vow to only the good in all be seeing… If you can sincerely forgive and forget every slight and slur hurled like words of stone darts; if you succeed in mending broken hearts and offer solace to those running in fright… Then have you conquered your nature cynical, Raised your mere humanity to heaven's pinnacle.

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Dr. Jamie Gottlieb, a renowned orthopedic spine doctor based in Texas, specializes in diagnosing and treating musculoskeletal disorders, including back pain, neck pain, numbness, and other spinal symptoms. As one of the top-rated orthopedic spine surgeons in the area, Dr. Gottlieb focuses on trauma, sports injuries, and chronic orthopedic conditions like arthritis and bursitis. His comprehensive approach makes him a go-to choice for spinal reconstruction, disc replacement surgery, and neck surgery. He also treats broken bones, stress fractures, dislocations, muscle injuries, and tendon tears, aiming to enhance range of motion and overall quality of life. One of the most distinguished orthopedic spine doctors in Texas looks forward to helping you with your needs. Working Hours : Mon-Thu: 9am-4:30pm Fri: 9am-12pm Payment: cash, check, credit cards. Orthopedic Spine Center: Dr. Jamie Gottlieb 6121 State Hwy 161, Ste 225 Irving, TX 75038 Tel: (469) 528-1169 Fax: (877) 319-1790 Web Address: https://gottliebspine.com/ Our location on the map: https://maps.app.goo.gl/NF62CAhnnTpCWTLs9 https://plus.codes/8645V2R9+F8 Nearby Locations: Hackberry Creek, Las Colinas, Mandalay Place, Broadmoor Hills, Cottonwood Valley, Valley Ranch 75038, 75039, 75063

Daniel's life had always been hectic, with meetings, deadlines, and the never-ending bustle of city living. He was proud of his work as a financial analyst, but recently he felt that something was lacking. He had lots of material possessions, therefore it was not a desire for them. There was a deeper urge, a need to go beyond the numbers and accomplish something worthwhile. After a particularly demanding day, Daniel was going through his phone one evening when he noticed an article. It was about a local soup kitchen that was having trouble filling volunteer positions for the winter. "Help Needed: Make a Difference This Holiday Season" was the headline. He had considered volunteering in the past, but he had always written it off as being too busy. But something stopped him this time. Daniel signed up for a shift the next morning. It was a hive of activity that Saturday when he arrived. Meals were being prepared by volunteers, who also set up tables and grinned warmly to greet each visitor. Jack, the team leader, promptly introduced himself to Daniel and gave him a rundown of the basics. “First time volunteering?” While giving Daniel an apron, Jack enquired. Daniel tied the apron around his waist and said, "Yeah." "I always wanted to, but I could not seem to find the time to do it." Jack grinned. "There is always time to get started. There is always room for one more set of hands." The first thing Daniel had to do was serve soup. He observed the variety of people who entered the building as he ladled the hot broth into bowls. There were young families, old men and women, and those who appeared to have seen better days. But despite coming from diverse origins, they all had thankfulness in common. Every "thank you" Daniel got was genuine and frequently accompanied by a smile that gave him the impression that he was making a difference in the world. Daniel found himself lost in conversation with the guests as the hours went by. He got to know Mr. Carter, an old jazz musician who was full of nostalgia for his career. Maria was there, a single mom caring for her two kids. John was a reserved man who tended to keep to himself, but when Daniel inquired about the book he was reading, John's eyes brightened up. John answered, "The Grapes of Wrath," grinning a little. "It is about people attempting to find hope during really challenging situations." Daniel nodded, seeing an unspoken bond between him and John. He came to see that everyone had a backstory, a life full of both successes and setbacks. The goal of the soup kitchen was to give them human connection, dignity, and respect in addition to nourishment. Daniel had not felt this fulfilled in years, yet by the end of the day, he was tired. He was approached by Jack as he was clearing up. "You did well today," Jack remarked. "You are free to return at any time." Daniel grinned. "I believe I will. This was... more rewarding than I expected.” Daniel then started helping out every Saturday. He eventually established himself as a welcoming presence at the soup kitchen, one that the patrons eagerly anticipated. He contributed his professional talents to the organization's budget management as well. More than that, though, he discovered that the relationships he formed offered him a feeling of direction that his profession had never provided. One day John caught him in the act of leaving. Daniel accepted a little, wrapped present from the calm man. "What is this?" Startled, Daniel enquired. John answered, "Just a small something to say thank you." Daniel opened the parcel later that night. A battered copy of The Grapes of Wrath was inside. John had put a brief note on the inside cover, "For helping me discover hope again." With a knot in his throat, Daniel took a seat and held the book. He understood then that receiving something considerably bigger in return was the genuine gift of volunteering, rather than merely giving. It was about knowing what it meant to be a part of a community and how even modest deeds of kindness might have a profound impact. That was the gift Daniel had been looking for the entire time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is simple to lose sight of the influence we have on other people's lives in a world where we are frequently engrossed in our daily activities. In actuality, though, each of us can change things, regardless of how insignificant a gesture may appear. Your actions can have a profound impact on others, well beyond what you may have imagined. These actions can be as simple as being there for someone when they need you, lending a helpful hand, or saying something nice. Let's make a difference, let's change the world!

Power of hope For I will achieve these I need enough knowledge, force, energy and hope. In this way I am going to pass the exam at university of diplomacy. So the main subject of the enterence exam is English. Hence my mother took me tutor to learn English. My teacher was very kind person. I appreciated that person very much. At first I am not deal with these subject . Because it was my first attempt .in our study center have had a lot of facilities for wise student. For intense: they used to win dessert, books, money and other gifts. When I participated lesson at first time, one student who the smartest of group was legend and I green envious to her. Because she was also won present . And spirit fell for I had not ability as her. Days , week and month alike passed. Soon my teacher understand my condition. And she asked me not leave after the lesson. Then she said " xolida ! If I am not mistaken I know that you have lack of confidence and hope . Because of Lily who the smartest of the group. But when she came as a newcomer, she couldn't win or understand anything for 4 month . But she tried to do it very hard, and asked me amount of question. You can also do it." Then she told me that "I believe you" and it was inspired me most. After that I headed to home. Then I told to myself "even if I met with billion obstacle on my way , I would defeat all of them. And it was my true decision. After I arrived home, I started read my my book and I corrected my fault from the last test. Then I was also take extra lesson an online. Finally I improved my knowledge day by day. But slowly a few problem came to my life. The first was , one day my relatives visited our house for my birthday. But i was doing my homework quietly on the corner. Then they called me and said "why are you choose this difficult way ? What you expect from yourself ? You small, young and weak .you cannot do anything" and I felt disappointment for their rude word. After they left our house, I stared at one point upsetly for a while. And my my mother Saw my state. She told me " you should don't care about their rudeness. Don't forget from age 15 to 23 , the age where you meet with a lot of toxic and temporary people . They just say nonsense. Inspite of you should show off your ability to them". And these phrases helped me for put me such good mood. Then these night I didn't sleep and I did my object. After one week , we wrote essay to the teacher with our tutor student. Soon our teacher marked our essay . Then she informed that my essay was the best writing. And she gave bar of chocolate as a present. It was very simple but my first steep forward vivid Future. And I went to my home happily. So quickly I also became the more knowledgeable of the group. And I decided to register in multi level test exam . The more I felt strong , many people hated me. It seems also simple things to me . One day I slept while I was doing my homework. Because I exhausted at that time. However when I woke early , I couldn't my hands as lack of strength. Besides that my back was hurting . Then my mother took me a doctor. He said to me "you need to rest, if not it may lead you to bad consequences". However I cried after heard these, and I told him about my all plan , that is I said that I had to prepare for exam and that I had to go to tutor too . But he didn't listen to me and recommended me to get treatment in hospital. I used to study at night in hospital kitchen every day. So that no one would know. But then hospital chef found out me and brought a cup of coffee. Then she said " your hard working behavior take me aback. Drink it it may give you refreshing." I became glad and said thanks to her. So it happened every day until I left here. After that final day of treatment, my mother took me home. Next day I else went to tutor for check my all test. And it showed good result. But there were also a few mistake too. I felt nervous. But I didn't give up. Suddenly in exam day, I woke up with unbearable headache. Out of fear my mother almost cancelled my exam. However I didn't want it. Thus I took a medicine and went forward exam hall. All the test seemed very easy to me. As I prepared beforehand. After I did all the test . I left exam hall . My mom waited for me around 4 hours impatiently out of exam hall branch. And asked me to about exam. I told her about everything on the car, while we were going to home after one month exam result have been announced and I passed the exam. We were very happy, glad and merry. My life wasn't ended here whatever I have achieved, I did with my own personality, strength and hope . I have had billion reason to complain. however I didn't pay attention to them. They called me child, young and weak . But I proved that I can do it . And my strenge , hope is not lost yet. Despite of trouble , fell over that I met . I stood up and tired to do it. If people are still alive, they can do whatever they want inspite of any obstacle.

Though he was tall, quite fair in complexion, His cerulean gaze was lowered in humility, For he was filled with the shame of poverty; Viewed he himself as nowhere near perfection. Life was a stagnant river of constant rejection. Dismay gnawed at his sad soul in brutal enmity. Wealth he lacked, but rich he was in sagacity. In the company of peers, he feared humiliation. Yet, in the radiance of dawn he arose with hope, Laughed about the sole of his shoe gaping so wide. ‘Much to be grateful for' was his personal creed. His heart filled with faith that again he would cope, Face travails, shoulder challenges and never hide From anything, as God provided for his every need. Image: Fernando Photography (www.unsplash.com)

Warrick propped up the soft pillows behind his granny's head as she lay like a gaunt specter of her previous spirited self in her deathbed. And deathbed it was indeed. At nineteen, Warrick knew death when it looked him in the face. He had become all too familiar with it when his mother had wasted away from cancer of the stomach two years ago. “My boy,” Kathy wheezed, fondly squeezing Warrick's hand with the last of her strength. “I'm so sorry you're burdened with me,” she added, tears flooding her faded eyes. Guilt overwhelmed her frail body, making her curl even further into herself. She was grateful that the agony that wracked every part of her broken body seemed suspended for now. “You're not a burden, Granny!” Warrick said , looking into the old woman's watery eyes. He was afraid to sit on the bed for fear of causing her any discomfort or hurt. “You were there for me when Mom passed away, and you've always looked after me even before that, so this is nothing. I can never repay you, so don't think or say you're burdensome to me. You're my blessing.” His words nearly undid the old woman's hold on her emotions. “I'm going to prepare supper now, all right? I managed to borrow a can of peas from Brian's mom. We've still got carrots and potatoes, so I'll make us a stew. I think there's enough rice left for one pot,” Warrick said, hating the fact that they were truly living on the edge of poverty. “Since this terminal illness struck down my granny,” Warrick said to Brian later that night, “I've had to become caregiver, cook, house cleaner and nurse. You know my dad abandoned us when I was only eight, and my mom slaved all her life as a domestic worker to provide for us,” Warrick added. Brian was his school mate; they were more like brothers than friends. “With your granny becoming ill, looking after her fell on you. You can't even look for a job 'cause your granny needs constant care,” Brian commiserated. “Is there any hope for her recovery?” “None. At our last hospital visit, her doctor told me to ‘make her as comfortable as possible' here at home. How can anyone who's dying so slowly ever be comfortable?” Warrick asked, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders hunched forward. “It's bad, bro. I don't know if I could've handled this, to be honest,” Brian said. He reached out to give Warrick's shoulder a long squeeze before going home. Kathy had heard the conversation between the two boys. By some quirk of the night or fay life, their hushed words had reached her clearly as she lay statue-still, imprisoned by her bed. She felt some remnant of fury trying to bubble up from her breast, anger that she had become this weak when before she had been energetic, industrious and a whirlwind of movement. Being this incapacitated often made her feel wrathful, but she swiftly smothered the emotion. It would only bring on the vicious barbs of pain. Her medication sat on her bedside table, within easy reach. Warrick is truly thoughtful, she thought, then she started to cry softly. He doesn't deserve to have his life placed on hold because of me, the bitter thought flitted through her mind, superseding the twisting, torturous pangs running amok throughout her body. As the last rays of the setting sun peeped through a chink in her bedroom curtains, Kathy slowly, painfully, sat up in bed. She reached for the morphine pills. With immense determination, she poured all the pills into her cupped hand. Closing her eyes, she prayed one final time. Forgive me, God. I know I'm damning my soul forever, but I would rather do that than have Warrick sacrifice another day of his young life. With a trembling hand, Kathy gripped the glass of water. She looked lovingly at her bedroom, at the knickknacks on her dresser, the antique wooden wardrobe her husband had made himself ages ago, her rocking chair next to the small, round reading table on which a novel waited for her to finish reading it for probably the twentieth time. She smiled wanly as she recalled the joy she had experienced upon first reading the book; that happiness had only increased with all the other subsequent readings. 'Gone with the Wind', by Margaret Mitchell. I have no regrets, except one. I'll be leaving Warrick sole alone in this cruel world. May he forgive me. Closing her eyes again, tears seeping from under her closed eyelids, Kathy brought the pills to her mouth. A warm, soft touch arrested her cupped hand. Kathy's eyes flew open in surprise, only to see Warrick standing in front of her. His cheeks were moist with his trailing tears. The forlorn look on his face broke her heart anew. “Granny, this isn't the way. God will ease our suffering. We only need to hold on to our faith and believe in His mercy,” Warrick whispered before carefully enfolding the tiny, fragile frame of the old woman in his strong, youthful arms. “My sweet, sweet angel,” Kathy breathed softly.

“I'm looking for the thing that will fill the hole in my soul. I have everything— riches you will never comprehend. Men and women love me, the people want to be me, and I have endless companions. I can afford to adorn them with rare jewels and house them in my massive castle. I have a whole wing filled with wine older than my grandfather. I have a closet larger than town square. I have everything I want. “You have nothing compared to me. Your horse has one leg in the grave and my steed makes it look dead already. Your own home is crumbling and one day, it will crush you. The fireplace is more ash than flame and your carpet has withered. Your clothes are tattered, tarnished with the filth of a poor man's life. You survive, but I live. You will never understand my wondrous life. You clean up shattered pieces and try to save your life's wreckage but you will never be as close to this feeling as I am. But, how could you? You've been dealt a hand full of holes. You've lost. I truly pity you and these creaky floorboards and the crying ceiling and that moth banging on the windowsill.” The man goes to the window. Loving hands scoop the small creature and carry it to the door. He releases it and it flies to the sky. “It won't survive.” “Probably not.” “It wouldn't have lived much longer in here either.” “…“ “Why did you release it?” “Because that's where it wanted to finish life. In the sky, where it is free.” “I want to die embraced with warmth. The moth is a stupid creature, choosing cold over comfort.” “Why do you so strongly hate that which you cannot understand?” “I, well—,” “Do you want to feel complete? Think. Do you really have everything you want?” “What more could there be to gain?!” The man counts on his fingers. “Money, pleasure, friends, jewels— I have it all!” “Do you have love?” “Of course! I love tea.” The kettle is removed from the fireplace by the other man. He pours the boiling water into two cups, swirling crushed tea leaves. “I love my mother and father. I love my kingdom.” “Do you love yourself?” he asks while handing him a glass. “Of course…” The wealthy man pauses. “Well… What constitutes self-love?” “Self-love is not just treating yourself to your desires. It is to be confident, to seek validation from only yourself, to be virtuous, to know what you truly want.” “How will I know?” “First, realize the moth knows its wants better than you.” “Are you comparing your king to a moth?” “Second, realize you are just an animal serving its animalistic desires.” “Hey—“ “You need people to love you in order to love yourself. You lack the esteem to consider yourself lovable. You bring down others so you can rise up. You surround yourself in material value and gorge because you have no sense of reason. Your friends are slimy and they will leave you the second you cannot provide.” The man pauses his speech. He takes in the other man, glass in hand, eyes bent wide, brows furrowed. “You have to want to be good. Do good, spread good, follow your morals, be ethical. If you look deeper and inspect the waves of your mind, you will find completion.” The man drinks his last sip of tea. “I must leave.” He sets the cup down and the discarded tea leaves settle. “What will you do next?” He leans in to look and see the way the leaves have fallen. The man crosses floorboards worn from pacing feet. He takes a final look at shards lovingly collected and a carpet that has nourished. He grabs a copper handle that has worn away to gold, then opens the door. “I'll learn how to love.” He closes the door. In the stable, his horse has its head turned and resting on the back of the other. He gently wakes them. They exchange goodbyes and the man adds his fur coat to the blankets piling the aged horse, covering frost-tipped ears. They make it back to the main road. By now, the crowd has dispersed, and only the sound of wind and thumping gallops follow. The snow glistens from the rising sun, painting the man and his horse in orange and red. Something glows from the light on the horse's mane. He gingerly picks it up, delicate like glass. Its wings look shattered and broken, twitching as he cups it in his palm. “The moth died for what it wanted.” He leaves its body to rest in a bright place under the sun.

Beautiful tapestries woven with gold shimmer in the sunlight. Jewels sparkle with a million intricacies and purple flows along banners, finest of silk. Like rolling fields of golden hay, hills of treasure tumble to the floor. “A fine collection, your majesty.” “That diamond is lovely, your majesty!” “What will you do with it all, your majesty?” Asks the choir of envy. “It will complete me, of course,” the wealthy man replies. Countless women, as beautiful as Venus. They slide over each other, reaching out for the wealthy man. Countless men, as beautiful as Mars. They are adorned with diamonds and put on display. They are here for him, to serve him, “—To complete me, of course,” the wealthy man replies. A banquet table glitters with steaming pots of emerald kettles. Fancy leather chairs comfort his companions. They wear shoes he bought them, jewelry he purchased, even the clothes off their backs are from his wealth. “You all complete me too, of course.” The wealthy man smiles, but like a gap in his teeth, or childless mother, something is missing. Later that night the wealthy man lies alone in bed. “What am I missing?” he asks. “I have everything I want, everything I need— what else could possibly complete me?” He gets out of bed and stands next to the window. The glass is cold and he can see his breath from fog. He wipes the obscure away to overlook his kingdom. Hundreds of people, wandering his streets. Thousands more, tucked inside. They all have far, far less than him. Compared to his riches and wealth, their existence is nothing. They will never as close to completion as he is. Still, he grabs his red and white fur coat and stumbles into his boots. He rushes for the doorknob and glides down the stairs. Maids and butlers give him quizzical looks, but they don't understand. Tonight is the night he answers this question. His royal steed is woken by the weight of a saddle. He rides down snowy trails as knights shout his name and say he's gone mad. The horse trots into town. Turned up dirt is splattered over slush. Townspeople, his people, stare in awe as his coat flutters in the crisp wind. They eye his crown, the piece barely hanging onto his tousled hair. No guards, no armour, no sense of reason, and utterly defenceless. Filled with greed, the crowd inches closer. From the crowd, a man in rags pushes himself forwards. “Would you like to come inside for tea?” The poor man asks. “Will it complete me?” the wealthy man replies. “It will fill you for a moment.” “I've had enough of momentary bliss.” “Your horse is freezing.” “…” “I have a stable. Please, follow me.” The crowd lets them through and the wealthy man follows slow footsteps. He is lead into a dirtier part of the kingdom, where the buildings are squished and held together with chipped bricks and knotted wood. The “stable” is a tiny shack that is hardly big enough for the old, weathered horse already inside. The wealthy man dismounts and together the men shimmy the steed inside. The horses draw close together, sharing a tender embrace. The poor man tosses another blanket over them and the shivering slowly stops. “Let's get you some tea.” Inside he is greeted by a leaky ceiling. Dirt paints a carpet that has been eaten away by moths, leaving it hole-ridden and bleak. Shards of glass from a broken plate have been picked up and stacked on a rag, stained red from soft fingers. “Take a seat, I'll put the kettle on.” The wealthy man sits on a wooden chair and it creaks under his weight. It feels like a threat and another reason he's not supposed to be here. “What is this feeling you've been searching for?” The run-down house warms up as more wood is tossed into the fireplace. A dim orange glow lets him see the features of the poor man. He's smiling. Why is he smiling?

The fatigue hit Bessie on a bright day, one made for happiness, not for fraught thoughts of suicide. The reticent seventeen-year-old felt abject misery, knew the emotion was unreasonable, yet she was incapable of resisting the depression. “Why was I ever born? Was it so that I could suffer day after day, with no hope of some kind of reprieve in sight?” she typed on her Facebook post. She stared at the screen for some seconds, contemplating whether posting her comment would be wise, or ill-advised. “The trolls out there in cyberspace are far worse than those of myth,” she cautioned herself, finger hovering shakily over the ‘Post' button. Abruptly, as if ripping off an unwanted Band-Aid, she stabbed down on the keyboard. Seconds later, the post appeared on her timeline. It didn't take long for her Facebook friends to respond. Bessie was overwhelmed by the incoming comments that followed each other in rapid succession. The first one read: You were born to be loved, not to suffer. Reprieve might be out of sight, but believe me, it IS there! It was from her Science study buddy, Ghiyona. The next comment caused a catch in Bessie's throat: If you were never born, I would not have known such kindness. You were made to be loved, Bessie. This one was from her gay friend, Willie. Bessie started to cry softly, the pain in her heart feeling like a knife being shoved mercilessly deep into her soul. “I love you, Willie,” Bessie responded to his comment; she felt at a loss as to how to reply to Ghiyona's, so she simply attached a heart emoji to the girl's comment. More comments followed, each one listing reasons why Bessie should hold on to hope, fight against submitting to life's harshness, believe fervently in herself. As Bessie was about to log off Facebook, one more comment slid in under the post. It caused the distraught adolescent to pause. Your life was given to you as a gift. True, it is your right to accept or reject the gift, but why would anyone refuse to embrace what is more precious than treasure, more profound than the knowledge of the ancients? Why would you, Bessie, forget how inimitable you are, that there is literally no other quite like you? The comment continued for a few more lines, but Bessie's vision blurred because of the tears streaming down her face. She was confused, for the comment was from the one person Bessie was convinced hated her the most. The very person who had brought this despondent mood upon her, who had been relentlessly criticising her each day for the past two weeks. Bessie blew her nose and read the last part of the comment: You are stronger than you know, but that core of steel will carry you across all obstacles. Have faith, Bessie. Some hitherto hidden door of insight swung open widely in Bessie's mind. Her worst critic, her Maths lecturer, was also her greatest supporter…

As the world struggled with the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, there were many stories of despair and hardship. People lost their jobs, their loved ones, and their sense of security. But amid all the chaos and uncertainty, there were also stories of hope, resilience, and kindness. One such story was that of Emma, a nurse who had been working on the frontlines of the pandemic since it began. She had seen firsthand the toll the virus was taking on people's lives, and she was determined to do what she could to make a difference. Emma worked long hours at the hospital, often going days without rest. She saw patients of all ages, from newborns to the elderly, and she did her best to provide them with the care and compassion they needed. Despite the challenges she faced, Emma never lost her sense of purpose or her dedication to her patients. One day, as Emma was finishing her shift, she received a call from her sister. Her sister, who lived in another city, had just given birth to a baby girl. Emma was thrilled to hear the news and couldn't wait to meet her new niece. However, with travel restrictions in place due to the pandemic, Emma wasn't sure if she would be able to visit her sister and her new niece. She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of missing out on such an important moment in her family's life. But then something amazing happened. When Emma's colleagues at the hospital heard about her situation, they rallied around her. They came up with a plan to cover her shifts for the next few days so that she could take some time off to visit her sister and her new niece. Emma was overwhelmed by their kindness and generosity. She had always known that her colleagues were dedicated and caring, but this was something else entirely. It was a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, there were still people who were willing to go above and beyond to help others. With tears in her eyes, Emma packed her bags and headed off to see her sister and her new niece. When she arrived, she was greeted with hugs and smiles and the sweet scent of her new niece. She spent the next few days with her family, holding the baby, laughing with her sister, and taking long walks in the fresh air. As she made her way back to the hospital a few days later, Emma felt renewed and re-energized. She knew that there were still many challenges ahead, but she also knew that she wasn't alone. She had her colleagues, her family, and a newfound sense of hope to carry her forward. From that day on, Emma made a point of looking for the bright spots in each day. She smiled more often, laughed more freely, and took the time to appreciate the little things in life. And as she continued to work on the frontlines of the pandemic, she knew that she was making a difference – not just in the lives of her patients, but in her own life as well.

Busy, busy place our little fibro home. Teenage children crowding: two minute noodles, friends, music: loud! And me, the middle-aged dad, knowing less about life than ever. This learning curve about me is steep and getting steeper. ‘How are the children?' my on-the-phone wife asks the voice at the other end. Wonder who she's talking to? ‘Where will they stay?' she asks. Ah! This is about old mate who's on the way out with cancer. His wife and kids need help. Something clicks! inside me. ‘They'll stay with us,' I almost yell. ‘All with us, the mother, all of them—forever!' Where did that come from? I nearly lost it right there. The day wears on. They're coming to stay. Great. Back at my screen in a dusty, cobwebbed office, something's not right. The heart's pounding, booming out of the chest like in a rugby game. This is no ordinary palpitation. Had those for years. This is like running hard: thumping, thumping, thumping but not out of breath. Walking in the yard should fix it. Nope! Still going hammer and tongs. Lying down, pressing on the eyeballs—the Vagus nerve trick—which works on palpitations. But no dice. Finally, it goes away of its own accord. Days pass and it's all good. The children come to stay. Meanwhile, we're sorting the logic of the click! and the pounding. It has to be something to do with when Mum got sick. She and Dad went away and me and the brothers went to a hostel. I was six. It's an emotional trigger event. That's all this is. Back at work. Talking to young adults about life and faith. Taking a lost boy for a long walk at night. He needs to let some anger out. Meanwhile, under my own skin: ships sinking, spaces filling with a hurrying, flooding ocean. What the hell? It's a new day. I'm caught out. Can't stop it. Here it comes: a gigantic black crate seeming to drop out of the sky. A caged monster crashing around, flames shooting out the cracks. And me the little boy, terrified. I'm supposed to flip the latch, to let it out. It goes away like a truck passing on a highway. Maybe it's medication and lock-up time. ‘It's imagination,' I say. 'You've been helping one too many traumatised kids.' But I know imagination. This is not imagination. It's real. And there's my wife and lover praying with and for me—and both of us hoping for a way ahead, that this won't be some dead end street. Not now, we have enough on our plate. Days drag on. ‘This is embarrassing bullshit,' I murmur. ‘I'll fix it myself.' ‘Whatever you do,' a friend says, ‘don't try to fix it yourself.' ‘So,' my prayer to God voice says, ‘What do I do now?' Maybe there's someone out there who could help, the idea returns to me. I laugh, thinking of all the disappointed people I know: stories of quacks and healers. Maybe you're not ready yet. Don't lose your nerve. ‘God did not give us a spirit of fear,' I say, quoting an old verse, ‘but a Spirit of power, of love and a sound mind.'* So, here we are, walking the dog down to a rippling brown river and wondering. Is there such a thing as a prayer or a question that's before its time? Or things that need to be allowed to have their day? We stop. Under a cold grey sky. The dog looks at me. What the? Did I just hear a murmur of dissent from my false-self? That middle aged—well educated—voice: offended at the suggestion that there's something on offer that I'm missing out on: terrified of the chaos this might unleash, or, if truth be told, the freedom. We reach the river, water rippling over stones and the fresh, sweet smell of a sandbar. On the haunches now, head bowed. The dog licks my hand. Before we try to sail this ship on the next Big Life Journey, perhaps we need to allow things in the harbour to float out to sea: half-formed dreams, faces running with tears, premonitions and prayers. Grievings of the Holy Spirit, longing to have a voice in the space, time and matter that is me? We make it back to the house. The un-pulling is heavier. Remember, don't lose your nerve. Trust. Pray. So tired. Have to sleep. Everyone's out, thank goodness. Here comes the lying on the floor part, paralysed. And a flashback dialogue with a fourteen year old girl, of which I'm speaking both sides—seeming to gather information about the six year old me in a trauma hell-hostel. Like a video replay. ‘Father in Heaven,' I pray. ‘What do I do now?' Relax. Lie here, wait and let it play. You're not crazy. This is real. ‘Trust in me,' the words seem to be spoken directly to me. Days and weeks pass with more monster in the cage moments, flashbacks: waiting, thinking and praying. I talk with a friend about the monster in the cage. ‘I remember that,' she says. ‘I was sitting on a huge box: all these tentacles coming out.' Oh. She's one of the sanest people I know. Maybe there is hope. ‘I had to choose to open the lid,' she says. I knew she would say that. ‘So,' she continues, ‘You're ready to open it are you?' ‘Yes.' * 2 Timothy 1:7

It's terrible that so many people are dying from Covid. I hear records being broken so often for the highest daily Covid death toll. Literally, tens of thousands of people are dying every single day. I hardly ever go outdoors, but at least today I happened to briefly glance out a window and see a flower blooming. https://photos.app.goo.gl/GRASsmS8wf1Q9hEYA Not this flower, I'm just taking this opportunity to show the ugliest flower I've ever seen so that you appreciate other plants more. My own backyard managed to be disconcerting because I was just so used to the same old furniture and computer screen that represent my stagnant and colorless life indoors. This blossoming flower was as if a random child had called my name out of nowhere. Once I focused, my first thought was: this flower is kind of ugly—though not as ugly as the one in the above shot. It was just your average flower-that-is-also-definitely-a-weed, you know what I mean. I just searched up “what do you call a weed flower?” A mistake. Hopefully, this was obvious, but I didn't mean a flower that is weed, I meant a flower that is a weed: an infestation that clogs up your yard and magically sprouts from concrete. . . . don't do weed. Moving on, the pandemic has made me bitter, and the minimal social contact has caused my emotions to become bottled up. How dare some plant grow and live when literally tens of thousands of people are dying every day? Then, I realize: at least this albeit weird, random, and little flower gets to grow and live when people are dying every day. At least, life will continue, even if humans die out. Plenty of weird, random, and little things, like my younger brother and other pests, are just too stubborn to ever give up. They'll live on no matter where we've gone. Where there are flowers, there is hope, even if, correction, even when they're ugly (because there will always be ugly ones). Yes, where there is nature, even when it's ugly and actually turns out to be weeds, there is hope. I don't know if I missed nature the most in terms of feelings. In fact, I haven't given it a single thought until today, but it's like I'm meeting it all over again, and it's, well, amazing. https://photos.app.goo.gl/Sq592iVk2SKWk48J7 And any nature you see is bound to be prettier than the spiky dandelion copycat growing out of my family's green onions. I thought maybe I'd write something nice about flowers and hope but was extremely let down to find no other flowers in the backyard for inspiration. As a last resort, I turned to the stuff growing on top of the green onions, which I think look too weird to even be classified as weeds. They actually seem kind of exotic or maybe my brain is getting fuzzy because I need sleep. I spent a whole second looking for my glasses before I realized that I was wearing them. In the end, the green onion stalks are edible, and that's what really matters. In the afternoon, I went outside to ponder the plant some more. I took a step out of the door, and the first things I noticed were the sun and its warmth, the sky and how blue it is, the plants and how they seem to glow with green life, and then the little bugs and how they crawl around. It was a perfect sunny day (despite the bugs). The distant noise made it seem like I was a part of the world again. Without a mask covering my nose and mouth, even the air I breathed seemed fresher and sweeter. I felt free. I felt alive. The previous paragraph was all in my head. When I went out, it was completely dark already, which is probably why I couldn't find proper flowers. I did notice that the moon, stars, and night sky were beautiful. This was probably because of the contrast between the dark, black sky and the bright, white moon and stars. There were also the vague shapes that seemed to be both in the stars as constellations and in the moon as shadowy figures. There was the silence. However, I only registered the colors and shapes in my unconscious mind. Consciously, I just noticed that the night was beautiful and spent a few seconds marveling at it. Then, I noticed the silence. Next, I was too busy running around with a phone as a makeshift flashlight trying to find flowers, so I didn't notice anything abstract. Finally, I got too cold and didn't want to get bitten by mosquitoes, so I made do with the green onions and went back into my cozy home. It hadn't seemed that cozy and welcoming for a long time because it had slowly faded into the background, as is easy for literal background to do. I guess it can be better to think of home as a safe place and destination so that you're happy to be there instead of indifferent because it's just the background. A lot of stories probably end with this sentence, so here it is: I was glad to be home. Side note: Part of this story is sarcastic. I only wish to make hope more meaningful by showing that anyone, even if they're feeling angry or cynical, can find that hope.

Year eleven is biding your time, playing Kelly Pool and stuck on the problem of the square root of minus one, which sounds more like poetry than maths. I get poetry but not maths pretending to be poetry. And not the teacher looking at me like it's funny that the boy who thinks he can do anything is defeated by something. Enough of this. It's time to catch the freezing midnight train to Coolabah. We make it to the station via a cigarette-smoked taxi. Here comes the rolling, banging contraption, nicknamed the Midnight Mole. I make my way to a dog box with a foot-warmer! So love these huge steel encased cylinders—full of acid and sand. I wrap my whole body around it to keep warm. A banging, shunting night of sleep passes. A station sign says Coolabah. It's just me with no brothers this time. Dad takes ages. It's hot. There he is: in his new Toyota smiling under that big hat. ‘Had some good rain,' he says, throwing my gear in the back with petrol drums. ‘Uh huh,' I say, looking around at red dust. We get into a cabin that's layered in red dust and smelling of gun oil. The ABC news is up loud and we're hammering our way along the red gravel road home. I doze off and wake just as Dad stops and gets out. ‘Look at this,' he says, examining some fresh green shoots. ‘Reckon we might have more rain on the way. ‘Reckon so,' I say. Another forty minutes and we're home: passing hundreds of acres of green paradise, kangaroos and sheep. A piece of livestock bliss that astonishes my sleepy sixteen year old eyes. As usual, while we've been at school, Dad—the magician—has conjured beautiful farm land out of thick masses of box and mulga scrub. Audacity is what this is. Mostly what I'm remembering is drought, dead sheep and misery. And then this grand plan: Dad bulldozing trees, windrows of dead timber and a green paradise. And field days with crowds of admiring block-battlers from all over. Dad parks the ute in the big shed. Days of stock work and fencing pass. Bruises and cuts accumulate. Clothes are torn. The lovely smell of red dust is in everything. A quiet day comes. I'm on a step in the shaded side of the house, facing the dam and the big pepper trees. This is a good think-time spot. The old black tom cat brushes past me. A thousand thoughts rush by. Just can't seem to get my head around it. Mum's gone. And look at this place! The filthy kitchen, the greasy dining room. The grime. Those old wheelchair marks against the door frames. This monster of a world seems to have a thing against us. Dad walks past and—in his friendly way—wants to know what's on my mind. I ignore him. He keeps walking. I'm sulking: rivetted on that red and green expanse and beyond that, the shadowy secrets of the box flats and the mulga: my painkillers. More days pass. We talk of plans for our other block, up north. ‘We've got some mustering to do at Bre,' Dad says, smiling. ‘Okay,' I say. The block at Bre is the one that's saving us. The ute is loaded with bikes and, of course, rifles. There's always plenty of pigs there. We make the hundred and sixty kay trip and set up camp. The stars come out. The fire is lit, the steak cooked. Such juicy steak! And we talk. Do we ever talk. The sulk fades. This big, fat beast called the world isn't so bad after all. If you have a go. Just jump in. Nothing lives long. Go hard as you can before it dies too. Even if you get killed in the process. Might as well. What else is there? Dad falls asleep. I'm by the fire, taking it all in. Especially the shadows and the way they play with the moon as she touches the skin of the trees, and those dead-pan, dead-still leaves. This my real home—here in the dark with the silver. Kookaburras announce a new day and away we go. Me on my bright green motorbike with a rifle and a pig that's going hard through deep grass. This is more like it. Bang! We've hit something. Up in the air, high over handle bars. The bike falling away. Crunch! Headfirst at a low angle. Face ploughing through dirt like a cow-catcher. Everything blanks out. I wake up. I'm alive! Tasting dirt and blood. Lying here for a bit under a hot blue sky, waiting. It's okay. Just need to find water, to wash the mouth out. Time for school. Back on the train. Feeling silly with this great scabbed face that's scrubbed the surface of the planet. What will they all think? And now, we jump decades into the present to a room and a chair by a fire: me, the old man growing old, together with his wife. Astonished at how Dad won my heart. And how he, the moon and Bre turned the shadows into a wonder. And even now, over there on the wall of this room: a photo full of shadows. A woman in a long dress (my son's wife) walking through a glade of trees like some great queen. And three children running and laughing: one of them—caught in mid-flight—her feet off the ground, like a faery floating on air.

I was on my way to my new apartment one day when I saw her. I wouldn't have noticed her in the swarming crowd if she didn't extend her hands out to me when I passed her. I didn't stop at first and she got busy on other people. But I went back and gave her a quarter. Her face lighted up. She looked at me with her wrinkled lips parted into a big smile revealing her yellow crooked teeth. It was only a quarter, I thought. When I saw her again, she was sitting on a newspaper spread out on the pavement eating rice from a paper bag. All her belongings which included a bottle of water, a paper plate, a bowl with some coins in it and dirty rags were gathered around her. She didn't look up when I passed. She was too busy gobbling up her meal. I stopped in front of her and handed her a bag of apples. She beamed. She gazed at me with an open mouth and then took the apples. The hopelessness in her eyes made a little space for joy. She said a prayer and then asked God to bless me. Her crinkled hands were thanking me. She watched me walk back all the way with a huge smile on her creased face. In the evening, she was munching on the apples. I guess she liked them. Weeks went by and I gave her a quarter every day. She was always so happy to see me, even at times I didn't have anything to give her. Others like her never stayed in the same place but she could always be found under the old sturdy tree by the parking lot. In rains, drenched from head to toe, she found shelter under a plastic sheet. I wondered what was her story? Where did she come from? Had her life always been like this? Or was it because some misfortune had befallen her and left her homeless? Did she have any family? Where were they? Or was she all alone in the world? A month before when I was leaving for work, she was still at her old spot but something was different. She was not in her usual stained loose old clothes anymore, rather she was wearing a neat dress that was not shredded from anywhere. Instead of the newspaper, there was a basket full of ripe and fresh apples spread out on a mat in front of her. She waved when she saw me. The concrete cracks on her face looked a bit loosened. She offered me some apples. When I tried to pay her, she refused. Apparently, she had saved up all my quarters and started her own business. She did not want my money anymore but told me that I can take as much apples as I wanted from her and whenever I wanted them.