The Pristine Snow

This morning I was determined not to allow the heavy snow to keep me from running. I was determined that today no matter how slow I was I was going to run. When I arrived at the woods I stood at the edge of them feeling that maybe I should go another route. The snow lay before me with not a sign of a foot print. My footfall would spoil the pristine beauty of it all. I ventured forth. How glad I was that I did. Silent beauty and the deer usually well hidden I could see clearly. I saw some birds I rarely see seeking berries on the trees and bushes.

I left the forest behind and headed for the coastal path. There I saw snow on the beach and rocks. I managed to run 7 miles taking longer than normal but I saw such beauty. I arrived home feeling as if I had just had Christmas early and I had been given everything I could have asked for.

I hope my footprints encourage others to make the journey rather than spoil it.

As I ran I remembered the beautiful story of the two pots.

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot's side?

That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them.

For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We're all cracked pots. But that does not mean that we cannot make the best of what we are.

In the great scheme of Chi nothing ever is wasted.

This blog is linked to my other. I Remember ( No More)

A Thought Filled Run

My last post was some time ago now and I left it for a bit. I have read that post more than once and felt that maybe I need to take time to think again about what it is I am trying to do with this blog, if anything at all. It started out with a few random thoughts; it developed into a thought for the day. Then I started another parallel blog to give more thought to the art.


Life was then knocked off course with my accident and not painting nearly so often. It seemed important for me to get fit again so I began to concentrate on that. Somewhere something happened that made me draw within myself a bit more and become reflective. For no obvious reason I began adding verse to my art. I became aware very quickly that less and less people were reading and I was becoming even more inward looking.

The more inward looking I became the less I had to say. Then my unexpected operation, another set back, just when I had got the fitness thing sorted. Two weeks later when I was ready to get out again I find myself in a world of snow. How easy it would be to just stay in the warmth of indoors.

Yesterday determined to not be controlled by external factors I donned my running shoes and ran. Well you could almost call it running, it was certainly faster than it took me to walk the same 6 miles in the afternoon. As I ran I thought of the story of the young boy with the withered flower. It had seemed that life was determined to drag me down. So here is the story I thought of as I ran.



The park bench was deserted as the old man sat down to read beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, for the world was intent on dragging him down.

And if that weren't enough to ruin his day, A young boy out of breath approached him, all tired from play.

He stood right before him with his head tilted down and said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with its petals all worn, not enough rain, or to little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, the old man faked a small smile and then shifted away. But instead of retreating the lad sat by his side and placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it; here it's for you."

The weed before him was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colours, orange, yellow or red. But he knew he must take it, or he might never leave. So he reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need." But instead of the boy placing the flower in his hand, he held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that he noticed for the very first time that the weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

The old man heard his voice quiver, tears shone like the sun as he thanked him for picking the very best one. You're welcome, he smiled, and then ran off to play, and unaware of the impact he'd had on the life of the old man. He sat there and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying old man beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of his self-indulged plight?

Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind child, at last he could see the problem was not with the world; the problem was with him. And for all of those times he himself had been blind, he vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second he had. And then he held that wilted flower up to his nose and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose. And smiled as he watched that young boy, another weed in his hand about to change the life of an unsuspecting old woman.

Have a good day if there is anybody still taking the time to read this.

This blog is linked to my other  A Feather on the Beach

Let All Creation Shout.

 Yesterday I walked along my coastal path, how I had missed being there, seeing and hearing the waves. It was a cold day even though the sun was shining. I stopped to listen to the sound of the waves as they kissed the shore. It was good to be alive. There is indeed something worthy of being aware of our fragility.

I came home feeling that it was so silly of me to be complaining that I cannot at present run, I can at least still walk, and my trainers are cleaned and dry and ready for the day when I will once again slip them on. You would really think that after all I have lived through over the many years I would have by now learned patience.

The wonder of my day was only tarnished slightly by two things I learned later in the day.

I learned that we have now become so obsessed with celebrity that more and more young people are committing suicide, or attempting to, because they are not famous or a celebrity. The biggest selling magazines and books are those dealing with the lives of celebrities, even if their own claim to fame was that they appeared on a reality television show. I found that so sad that I wanted to scream, "You are of worth because you are You, not because you want to be somebody else."

Later I watched a programme about the selling of bottled water, and the effort that companies put into making their water a market leader. How they have convinced us that we need something that in reality we could well live without, especially here in Scotland where we have water in abundance. As I walk I frequently drink from springs and rivers and I have never tasted water from a plastic bottle that could taste so beautiful. Yet we are importing water in plastic bottles from USA and the continent.

Meanwhile, children are dying for the lack of water in two thirds of the world.

I will now get off my pulpit and remember again the joy of my walk, and the sound of the sea.

On my other blog I will share some thoughts on an artwork painted after such a walk and the words I wrote yesterday at the end of my walk.  At One With Creation

The Examination

I was reading Kathleen's blog the other day, where she was telling of her last days at school before the summer vacation. She has ended up taking an awkward schedule next year. This happened because she is a kind and caring person. The behaviour of her fellow teachers, was to say the least, shocking, and at its worst petty minded.


It reminded me of my teaching days. My first and last thoughts were always for my students. There were times when that became very difficult when teachers, whom one expected more of behaved worse than the students.

As I have said before, or more than one occasion, the bad times were more than compensated by the joys of seeing students grasp a lesson and move on. Occasionally an exceptional event would happen that put everything into its place and you became aware that you had indeed changed a life.

There is the story of the philosophy examination. The students were gathered and ready. It was explained to the class that the maximum time was an hour. There was no maximum or minimum number of words to be written. If students were finished they were to leave their work on the desk and leave quietly.

The Master placed a chair on the desk at the front of the room. He then wrote on the chalkboard , “Using all that you have learned this term prove that this chair does not exist.”

Pens moved over the paper. Scoring out and writing was going on all over the room. Some students wrote pages and pages, others worked hard and studiously. One student however, was finished in less than two minutes. He folded his answer and left.

When the marks were posted the following week, the class were amazed to see he had an A1, he had after all written very little.

His answer was simple and to the point. He had written, “What chair?”

When the student has surprised the master then the master has been a good teacher. Who will you help to the next stage without knowing it?  Do not be deterred from the path by the complaints of others.

This blog is linked to my other.  The Wall

The Garden and The Gardner.

I have my vegetable plot dug ready for next weeks planting of seeds. My potatoes are already planted and the neat mounds of earth stand in anticipation of the coming growth. Once the seeds are planted begins the waiting and the tending. The fertile soil is the ideal place for weeds and they compete with the seeds and plants for the nutrients of growth. It is a steady task hoe and keeping the weeds in check.


There is the story of the old man who lived on the edge of the village. He spent so most of his time in his garden now that his working life was behind him. His front garden was full of the most beautiful flowers each tended and supported. He diligently hoed between the plants and picked off the dead heads of blooms to encourage further growth. His rear garden was full of the most wonderful looking vegetables. It was said if you could find a weed in his garden then there must be something up with him and the doctor should be called.

One of his pleasures was to take a break and watch what was happening on the road past his gate. He could often been seen proudly resting on the top bar of the gate watching the world go by. “A man out standing in his own field.” (Think about that one) One day as he stood there a preacher walked past and on seeing the beauty of the garden stopped and said to the old man, “My, what a beautiful garden you and God have made here.” “Aye,” said the old man, “but you should have seen it when it was left to God on his own.” The preacher sighed and continued on his way.

Who decides what a weed is and what is a floral beauty? I remember out walking with my father as a young boy. We stopped to rest and have a sandwich; after all we had walked for miles. (Actually not much further than he walked daily, to his place of work. For me it was a long way.) We were surrounded by beautiful flowers and grasses. I insisted on picking some and making them into a posy to take home. Neither my father, nor my mother mentioned that they were dandelions and weeds, and they were duly put in a vase. It was only later in life I realised that they were weeds and in Scotland had a terrible nickname. (They were called pee the beds) to me they look so intricate and beautiful. Even now one of my favourite soft drinks is dandelion and burdock. Dandelion leaves in a salad add a wonderful crisp sharp flavour.

Who would argue that a well tended garden is a thing of great joy and beauty, but left to its own nature makes a wonderful job of creating an equally beautiful array and can provide sustenance, if we but look. A weed is only a weed if it is growing in what we consider the wrong place. Nature does well without the use of a colour wheel.

I had a blog prepared today about the different kind of ways that we can find water  but on reading the beautiful comment made by Katherine on yesterdays blog I decided to leave that as well said. I thank all those who are reading my blogs and making comments on them either on the blog or in email to me. It means much to me.  I am not going to mention names but I thank those who are so encouraging, you know who I mean.  Someone said that they found the world of blogging such a supportive and caring place. She was correct and I thank you all.

The artwork is dicussed on my other blog and can be seen at:- Summer Evening Field

The Joy of Flowers

I had a trip to the garden centre, time to begin thinking about what I will be planting and growing this season. As I drove there I saw that the snowdrops are in bloom even though the distant hills are still covered in snow. I always leave the garden centre feeling uplifted by the beauty of the flowers available, especially my first love orchids. The colours, shapes and the aroma make me heady with delight. Flowers speak volumes in their silent beauty. They are part of all the great occasions and festivals. When we marry, the bride carries them the groom wears one in his jacket, When somebody dies we offer them as tokens of consolation and an expression of our loss. When somebody is successful we offer them flowers and of course they are symbols of love and romance.


Those little snowdrops as they poke their little heads above the ground and the snow, call to us to prepare for the coming of spring. The lotus tells us to reach above the muddy tarnished part of life to see greater things. Then we have the rose, with its bud, opening with a wondrous glory of layer upon layer of petals. Walking into a room and smelling the strong aromatic scent of the hyacinth.

They speak to us of how we can brighten the lives of others by bringing a pleasant sense of peace into every corner. They tell that there is nothing that cannot be made better. Think of the poppy, it manages to bloom in the barest of positions. It also reminds us of the frailty of life and how each moment should be grasped and lived to its full.

The gardener tends with care his plants encouraging them to give of their best. He feeds them, waters them and in windy conditions he helps by giving them support. In return they reward him with all that they have.

The artist can capture the beauty that is so fleeting and ephemeral, and allow that beauty to last for years to come. The poet will strive to find the words to express that inner joy that the sight of a flower can bring. Consider the words of William Wordsworth.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Such is the way of the Tao.

Mountains Trees and Lotus.

I remember when I was just a young man in those wild times of the 60s. I like all young men wanted to be more grown up than I was in fact. It was the days when you thought your parents were ancient and knew nothing, it was only when you were a bit older you began to realise they had forgotten more than you had learned. I had a friend who like me was involved in music. We used to do all kinds of things together one of which was going for a few beers. He had this rather wicked saying. When we walked into a bar he would look round at all the people there. He would select a female and say to me when that girl starts to look beautiful it is time to leave we will have had enough. I remember one occasion he came out with this usual “witty”. I looked at the selected girl and said to him, “I think it is time to leave now then because I think that girl is very beautiful.” I later went to the dancing with her and not him.


Many years later I remember taking my son and his friend to an adventure park. They had this tree walk where you walk along a narrow walkway high above the treetops. We got to the top and the view was absolutely stunning. You could see for miles. The snow topped mountains of the Cairngorms and the entire vista between. It was breathtaking. I commented on this to my son and his friend. His friend replied, “It is just a few trees and mountains.”

My favourite flowers are the orchid and the lotus. They grow in the most unexpected of places often on rotting bark. I remember seeing lotus growing in a pond and being captivated by the beauty of them. I commented to somebody and the opinion of this person was, “If that was my pond I would be giving it a good cleaning.” The lotus lies deep in the mud at the bottom of the pond from where it reaches up towards the light and then bursts into bloom with such breathtaking beauty. In the still of the night it gives colour and often a beautiful aroma.

The purpose of the Tao is to help people to rise above the grim and the nasty things of life and to see the beauty around us. The task of the artist is to challenge the beholder to see in all things beauty and meaning. beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.