I’m lucky enough to have a court practically in my back yard. In preparation of a first round tournament match today, I headed out to the courts with a basket of balls anticipating some solo serving practice. Then along came a young boy of about seven years decked out in World Cup soccer gear. He amiably started throwing balls back from the other side. While calculating some hip movement along with the toss, along comes another ball. They keep coming over like missiles. The kid had quite an arm. Obviously, the mental side of my serving practice is shot so I collect balls and then start sorting out some old worn out ones since simple housekeeping now appears the order of the day. I look at this kid and wonder how he’s going to take these old balls home. He is black and speaks little English. I head over to the car looking for a bag. I mosey back and go through quite the effort in helping him understand that these balls are now his to keep.
Next, the both of us head over to visit with an Indian daughter with her father rallying over at court one. Through watching these folks through the corner of my eye before my new little friend came along, I’d learned that the daughter had some good ground strokes. I ask if I can join in. I take the two on but we had to send the boy packing with a racquet to play by himself ‘cause the old fellow is deaf and blind so potentially there would have been an accident in the making. Indeed, the dad somehow cracked a good ball in spite of his conditions. Some time later, dad had enough and we all went our separate ways. I gave the little boy a high five and he scurried delightfully home with some balls to hopefully start his life-long tennis adventure.
It’s a Friday night in July in Beverly Hills and while many are packing up for the cottage, Donald Trump stands alongside devastated families mournful from the loss of loved ones at the hand of illegal immigrants. One by one the stories are shared at the microphone and Donald stands to the side listening attentively. Apparently, justice officials had not been listening as effectively as Trump had tonight when those heart crushed souls poured their stories out to a U.S justice system which has seemingly been ill equipped to effectively sanction perpetrators of crime whom are void of an I.D number.
You can say what you want about Donald Trump’s political incorrectness, but his stinging clarity around substantive matters deserves credit. It’s high time that the political elite assuaged by liberal media come to learn distinctively about what irks the populous when the punditry is turned off. Mr. Trump is skilfully garnering tremendous free campaign fodder as his adversaries cower in their public opinion of his message. He arguably reasoned out the semantics of his words chosen during his campaign launch speech and with 7,000 apparent folks stationed at the ready to head downtown Phoenix on the weekend to hear something of his plan to stem the flow of illegal immigrants across the border, the presidential contender obviously has many Latino and African American folks believing that he’s not deserving of the racist label eagerly sought by journalists.
I was nearly drawn to tears listening to these stories tonight. The occasion of this multi-billionaire standing arm in arm with middle Americans baring their souls to a press corps was simply surreal. Things are getting very interesting in the U.S. political arena.
Sure you should “pick battles wisely”, but if you do not stand and fight for what you validate as worthy, then a slippery cascading slope of mediocrity, aloofness, and presumption may leak into every and all association or relationship which has meaning in your life. Then if others also stand down at every turn, a dichotomy is formed between the organized powerful and the disenfranchised powerless. You, by virtue of your breath and thought have power yet you cede it far too often. You opine inwardly that it’s not your fight and that other more charismatic leaders are better positioned to engage. You are wrong. Your passion when harnessed has a way of creating eloquence. You’ve been conditioned to feel like you’re ill equipped to be an arbiter of your affairs by those who posture as if they have your best interests at heart when in fact they selfishly seek their own agenda.
Freedom isn’t free. The more you cede the more you risk. The more you hesitate in ambivalence, the more you cower to the elite. Still caring about what other people think? If so, your subconscious mind is blocking your passion for seeking engagement in the worthy. Vibrate with purity when your cause is stirred and your fellow man will walk alongside in gratitude.
Support your dream in spite of challenges. Proof in point. Let’s call him Oscar. Fellow comes to Canada from Nigeria hoping to find a better life. Canada refutes his foreign credentials. He has no money nor family support from back home. Works night shifts doing security / warehouse work while attending courses full time during the day (yes, I asked the same question – when does he sleep?). Still finds time to study outside of class and work. Earns a scholarship. Lives in something like a dorm room.
He’s a quiet type void of distractions with a persona well suited toward maintaining goal oriented commitment. He calls upon his higher power inwardly only and acknowledges interim wins without fan fare. Oscar would recommed – to support your dream, let it percolate in confidence because few would be privy to your elements. It’s a simple unfolding fate fueled by your passion.
Today I join Oscar in celebration of his convocation from the faculty of Instrumentation Engineering Technology.
New community mailbox keys came with a letter signed by Canada Post’s “Senior Vice President of Business Transformation”. Does this mean that transforming the way mail is delivered is going to be a perpetual activity in which layers of executive involvement will be required? I remember the days when executive management entailed a CEO, a President and perhaps three Vice Presidents which headed up Finance, Sales and Marketing, and Human Resources. Your post office apparently has a “Junior” VP of Business Transformation and your price of a stamp has grown from twelve cents in 1979 to eight-five cents today. Expect an announcement for the celebrated position of Junior Vice President of Mailbox Graffiti Removal in the near future. However; I’ll happily fetch my own mail and eagerly anticipate if I can strike up a conversation with a neighbour momentarily suspended from the cell phone fixated glare.
