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)

The Rules of Ownership.

I am snowed in today. Overnight we had another massive fall of snow. As I look out the window it is obvious that putting on running shoes would be an utter waste of time. Walking would be possible but it would be silly to try anything of any distance. So I am trying another watercolour, difficult because I am not alone in the house, I am not the only one snowed in.

Yesterday I walked for almost three hours, completing a walk that would normally have taken just over two hours. The snow was deep and the path I was walking had many obstacles caused by branches broken with the weight of the snow.

In the village the order of the day was snow clearing. Now I remember when I was younger it was the pavements that people cleared, throwing the snow to the edge of the road, leaving the central area for any cars that might be moving. Now the main aim of everybody is to get the car moving and the road clear. Snow was being piled high on pavements forcing anybody at all trying to walk to venture onto the road and take the risk of being hit by a skidding car. I even noticed some people throwing snow onto the pavements of older people who have no car, and may well want to get out for bread or milk. Then maybe I am being cynical but I suspect nobody has noticed that they might need out. Or maybe once they get the car moving they will go get the bread and milk. Now why do I not believe this?

I just could not help feeling that somewhere we have lost the whole meaning and purpose of life. I keep getting told that I am wrong and that it is just my age. Maybe they are correct, but I have a real deep nagging thought that it is more than that. I suspect that the rules of childhood ownership now carry on well into later years, if ever to be let go of at all. What do I mean?

If I like it, it's mine.

If it's in my hand, Its mine.

If I can take it from you, it's mine.

If I had it a little while ago, It's mine.

If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.

If I am doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.

If it looks like mine, it is mine.

If I saw it first, it's mine.

If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes mine.

If it's broken, it's yours.



Ah well I better get back to this watercolour I am trying to do. I hope nobody has seen my paints and think they belong to them.

Pictures above are of my walk yesterday and the view from my study window this morning.


Have a great day.

I have another blog at Cold Mornings.

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