Vol. I  Pg. 3   January  22, 2008


            Nobody Sees A Flower


Time is such an illusive thing.    We have all these things     
we need to do or think we need to do, and there never        
seems to be enough of "it" to get it all done.   On the other  
hand, it seems like forever, stuck, waiting . . . waiting for "it"
to change our present situations.  In either case we are  
always looking out, beyond, somewhere else.

For the most part, we as a modern day people, are             
conditioned to keep moving, to make immediate decisions,  
to put off personal gratifications for a tomorrow, that we       
never really have a clear vision of where it is we are going  
and the beautiful things that we are passing by.  

We let far too many moments, far too many opportunities,   
far to much healing, far to much love . . . slip by . . . not       
even noticing . . .

One day, while visiting a critical care facility, I was in one     
of those rare trances of mind when the world becomes        
distant and my immediate surroundings, the people, the      
activities, the decorations, everything about me, became     
the whole universe, the only thing that mattered . . .

I was taking everything in when I found this Poem.



            " Nobody sees  a flower,
       really - it is so small - we
       haven't time, and to see
       takes time, like to
       have a friend
       takes
       time . . . "     anonymous


Maybe it was the way the poem was posted that drew me    
to it; innocuous among the clutter of everything else that     
reached out and clamored for attention .  Or maybe it was   
the sense that overcame me following the first reading;       
the feeling of a child wanting to smile up at me, of that         
child wanting to be like the Sun and draw me out of the       
shade, into its light, into its energy, into its warmth,  but       
fearing rejection, the child kept its head bowed,   

Anyway, I remember saying to myself: "Yes, this is how so   
many people are". . . and then I remembered a time from    
my youth, when I had given a gift to my Dad.  The gift was   
a plaque that had the inscription: "Take Time To Smell        
The Roses" engraved on it and I needed no further than     
to look at myself for condemnation.

A touch of sadness overcame me.  The Poem had found     
and touched me.  I felt in my heart  that the Poem had         
been placed there for me.    I was reminded of my time, of   
how I had lived so much of my life up until that moment; of   
how I had failed to heed my own advice in all the times I       
had walked by the roses thinking to myself that I would        
stop and smell them . . .  the next time I passed by them.

Anyway, I borrowed a pen and copied the Poem onto the    
back of a green medical form questionnaire.  For a long      
time, the form with the Poem, became mingled in with a       
stack of other important papers that float on my desk ,        
receiving attention in those rare moments that I shuffle        
them, thinking that in so doing I'm getting organized.

There was no signature attached to the Poem.  I had the     
impression that the Poem was written by a child . . . or at     
least by someone who was able to see as though through   
the eyes of a child.  What a blessing!

As far as I know, the Poem is anonymous.   If you know       
who the Artist is, please let me know.  I'd love to                   
acknowledge them. . . and remember to see the small         
things that take time to see, that take time to have, "like     
to have a friend, takes time . . ."
Rick's Rambling's . . .
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Sometimes there are no thoughts
that describe a mood . . . you just
absorb the setting.
Sunset over the Zambesi, Zambia
Of all the gardens in the world, you
bloomed  into mine  . . . and filled it
with your smile.
  Laguna de Apoyo, Nicaragua
Among the clutter of everything else,
I found you and struggled with the
decision to untangle you and make
you mine . . . if for a moment, or to
leave you enveloped in what is you
and the pure fragile state of your  
beauty. . . and, in what I believe. . .
                         Nairobi, Kenya
Not all bad things are contagious . . .
see the way you make me smile?
                 Maputo, Mozambique  
We have always been. . .  will always
 be.  We have spent so much time
living as . . . loving . . . being . . .
friends.
                  La Bocita, Nicaragua
Its born into us.  Everything makes
sense.  Our universe is within our
arms reach and for a few years we
see,hear and understand
everything . . .   
               La Bocita, Nicaragua
Original artwork  on the wall of a Sunday School Room
                          South of Maputo, Mozambique
Archives of past Ramblings . . .