Okay, we all know the story of the man and the starfish, if not here it goes:
http://www.cedu.niu.edu/~fulmer/starfish.htm
Apart from that, I always appreciated the story. I totally have those starfish moments with kids at school daily.
But dang my friends...I have picked up a starfish that just keeps washing back on shore.
I see it, it needs help, helpless and confused. I pick up the starfish because I really want to help it, I want it to succeed in all its starfishyness. To swirl and climb through the ocean floor, happy and healthy and where it should be. I take the precious starfish and gently toss it back into the ocean. I have helped, no I have saved that precious starfish.
As I continue my journey down that glorious beach, (and step back and wish that in real life all I really had to do to succeed in life is to walk down a beach and toss starfish back into the ocean) I circle back to go home. On my walk back I stumble upon the same starfish.
"You silly starfish, the shore is no place for you to survive."
I toss once again the precious little starfish, then head for home.
On my daily walk on the beach the next day to see how many starfish need saving, I for some strange reason recognize a peculiar starfish lying on the beach.
"Seriously Starfish! I'm just trying to help you!"
I pick up the starfish and fling it a little harder,not as concerned about the delicacy of the issue. Frustrated I walk away and grumble about how ungrateful and ridiculous this particular starfish is. Doesn't it know that it can't survive out of the ocean? Geez!
As I circle back around to go home to this glorious situation, that I wished I actually lived in, I find the ungrateful, stupid, no good, spoiled starfish laying there. I am pretty sure the starfish is sitting there whining too.
"The ocean is hard! You don't understand! But I like the beach and the sun."
"Okay, little starfish! I tried to be nice, but this is ridiculous!"and then toss the starfish farther than I have ever thrown anything. I am pretty sure I see a few arms fly off the starfish as it plunges into ocean past the breakers.
At this point I am pretty sure that the starfish is hurt and quite possibly dead. I tried to help the best I could. I wanted it to be where it was suppose to be but it didn't listen. I might of hurt it but it was for its own good.
Okay, before I completely kill this story and make it so unbearably poignant, I need to stop.
Don't give up on people. Never stop caring! Love as much as you have been loved. Sometimes it is harder than the average walk at the beach, but know that your time can make the difference.
Good news on the starfish...they regenerate. Their arms will grow back and as long as it doesn't get caught on the shore again, the starfish will survive. The poor little starfish is probably really mad at me for flinging it so hard, but I only wanted to help.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Breakfast with Grandaddy and Mam-ma - Joyce Claassen's MySpace Blog |
Breakfast with Grandaddy and Mam-ma - Joyce Claassen's MySpace Blog |
Something I wrote awhile back that I love to go back to and read.
I woke up this morning bright and early. Girls were watching cartoons and the boys were still snuggled up in bed. A beautiful chilly fall morning with fog on the field. It was about 6:45 am, good enough time to start the coffee.
Do you ever have those moments where one thought triggers another until it is all you think about.
Coffee started it.
My Granddaddy used to put cheese in his coffee. I can still see the ivory cup that he would sit in a tiny bowl. Little brown cracks in the cup made me think that he drank out of it for a 100 years.
That is all it took, I was there in the little old kitchen on Stevenson Dr. An old painting of a man bowing his head in front of a bowl of fruit and bread. A set of old Tupperware salt n' pepper shakers, a jar of chow chow, a jar of homemade preserves all sitting there on the table. Mam-ma had cut up butter and sharp cheddar in another old bowl.
I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the sizzle of the sausage, and the pot that was being scraped to stir the grits. Mam-ma had poured me Tang in those old goblet styled brown glasses.
I was looking at my grandfather. He peered up over his thick black rimmed glasses. Beautiful old eyes he had. I could smell the South Carolina clay that was apart of him. He could shower for hours and move to Maine and he would still smell like South Carolina. The old white plates were on the table. Sausage was done. Grits were ready. Breakfast with my Grandparents was over.
Mac woke up and the girls came in. I fixed them all a bowl of grits with cheese and a side of sausage. They don't like it mixed into their grits like their mama, rather they dip it in syrup. I sat down at my kitchen table and drank my coffee, no cheese, I like the sweet creamer that taste like vanilla caramel.
I wonder do they know how much I miss them? Are they proud? Do they think my kids are wonderful?
I sat and smiled. As much as things have changed, so much is still the same.
Memories are beautiful...
Something I wrote awhile back that I love to go back to and read.
I woke up this morning bright and early. Girls were watching cartoons and the boys were still snuggled up in bed. A beautiful chilly fall morning with fog on the field. It was about 6:45 am, good enough time to start the coffee.
Do you ever have those moments where one thought triggers another until it is all you think about.
Coffee started it.
My Granddaddy used to put cheese in his coffee. I can still see the ivory cup that he would sit in a tiny bowl. Little brown cracks in the cup made me think that he drank out of it for a 100 years.
That is all it took, I was there in the little old kitchen on Stevenson Dr. An old painting of a man bowing his head in front of a bowl of fruit and bread. A set of old Tupperware salt n' pepper shakers, a jar of chow chow, a jar of homemade preserves all sitting there on the table. Mam-ma had cut up butter and sharp cheddar in another old bowl.
I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the sizzle of the sausage, and the pot that was being scraped to stir the grits. Mam-ma had poured me Tang in those old goblet styled brown glasses.
I was looking at my grandfather. He peered up over his thick black rimmed glasses. Beautiful old eyes he had. I could smell the South Carolina clay that was apart of him. He could shower for hours and move to Maine and he would still smell like South Carolina. The old white plates were on the table. Sausage was done. Grits were ready. Breakfast with my Grandparents was over.
Mac woke up and the girls came in. I fixed them all a bowl of grits with cheese and a side of sausage. They don't like it mixed into their grits like their mama, rather they dip it in syrup. I sat down at my kitchen table and drank my coffee, no cheese, I like the sweet creamer that taste like vanilla caramel.
I wonder do they know how much I miss them? Are they proud? Do they think my kids are wonderful?
I sat and smiled. As much as things have changed, so much is still the same.
Memories are beautiful...
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