iPhone 8
The Little Christmas Tree
A tree, bored with his existence, dreams of another life Once upon a peaceful time, there was a little Christmas tree. He wasn’t that much different from the other fir trees on the little mountainside. Day by day he stood there soaking in the golden beams of light cast from the setting sun, soaking up the pure, clean water from the dew-wet soil. How boring every day is, thought the little fir tree. There is nothing to do here but feed myself and feel the earth. But one day, the ground shook and pine needles rained down. The sun glinted off the quivering metal blade of an ax. The little tree shook with terror, and as the blade hacked at his trunk, he cried tears of sap. As he was bound in mesh, the ignorant little tree wished to be strung with tinsel and have presents laid at his feet. How grand I would look, strung with glittering tinsel and having presents laid at my feet like a king; how the other trees would be jealous! A family brought him home in a truck, and as he was jerked up and about, he was jolted out of his daydream and went back to being disgruntled. His boughs shook and quaked, raining down needles everywhere. He thought, How bedraggled I look. How everyone will look down on me. I shall fix myself up once this wretched vehicle stops. He felt so kingly and royal as he was painstakingly lowered into a pot of water and delighted while these powerful and mighty two-legged people hung elaborate, heavy glimmering orbs. How the others will look up to me! he thought. Ripples For many days he sat in a pot of water. Presents were laid at his feet and shiny, glittery tinsel wrapped grandly around his boughs. He felt rather grand, looking down upon these two-legged emperors of the world. Though presently, he felt quite stuffy and dusty; his branches drooped as his essence was slowly leaking out of him. The air had his sweet-smelling soul entwining through it, and his pride gradually diminished. The tree soon wished for rays of sunshine and the moist, dewy soil—to no avail. Then, one day after Christmas, his wish was granted when he was tossed outside. As he soared through the air, rays of sunshine were thrust upon him every morning, and icy rain and snow plummeted down on him. He cried some more; the foolish tree would always be wishing away at nothing. And so, his last wish was that he could be grand again, and his many babies were rolled by the wandering wind into the forests, to carry out the tale of the little Christmas tree.
Ripples
iPhone 11 Pro
Abstract
Nothing to do Just me and you Everyone is through Just me and you Down is light Day is dark Night is right One + one Is half a ton
Dream
“Let me sleep” I say “I’m in the clouds Today” “Let me rest” I state “I’m in the grass It’s great” “If I wake Who knows When I will see More snow?”
Imprint
OPPO Find X2 Lite
Building a Cathedral: An Interview with My Grandfather
Inspired by a conversation with her grandfather, the writer reflects on what makes a meaningful life Almost eight hundred years ago, when stonemasons and architects were building the beautiful cathedrals of Italy, a traveler walked up to a stonemason, the first in a line of three. He asked the man what he was doing, and the stonemason replied dismally that he was cutting stones. Then the traveler walked up to the second stonemason and repeated the same question. The man replied confidently that he was working to become the greatest stonemason of his time. The traveler then turned to the third stonemason and asked what he was doing. The stonemason turned to him and, after a pause, stated that he was a mason, and that he was building a cathedral. You see, the first stonemason had a mundane relationship with his job. He simply did it to make money. The second stonemason had an ambitious relationship with his job. He wanted to achieve excellence, to be remembered for his work. But it is the third stonemason who represents what is most important. He wanted to make something that would last, that would impact the future and provide a place of peace and refuge for people around the world. These three perspectives represent three different ways people relate to their work. Some people do a job simply because they have to; others do it because they want to be remembered for it. It is the rare few who do it because it will help and better others in the future. They don’t do it for themselves—they do it for the world. When I first asked my grandfather, Tom Moran, to tell me about his career, he shared this parable. Then he paused for a brief moment to think. “I had a lot of different jobs,” he began. “I started as a social worker. You know, working with people as a counselor, stuff like that. Then the local college asked me to work for one year in the administrative department. After that I just sort of kept working at the college, shifting from job to job. Eventually, I had the role of vice president, then provost.” He explained that he liked to think of his job in three phases, working approximately fifteen years in each. The first phase was in student services and included counseling, student support, and financial aid. The second phase was in academic administration and included things like curriculum development and the running of the college. The third and final phase was teaching. He taught courses in history, English, psychology, and ethics. “I must’ve taught at least eighteen different courses and developed, I’d say, twelve of my own,” he said. He described his job as “very comprehensive.” And he thinks of his work as central to his life rather than as just a career. When considering his relationship with his job, he likes to think that he made an impact on the college, that he improved the educational system and helped make a quality school where young people could discover their place in the world. As a little kid, I never quite understood what his role within the college was. I always knew that he did something other than teaching. I’ve come to understand that having gone through so many varying roles within his forty-four years of working at Plattsburgh State University, he shaped the college in many ways. He created a positive learning environment for so many students, and went on to make the college experience better for everyone with his extensive knowledge and kind demeanor. Over the years he has shown me multiple gifts and tokens of remembrance gifted to him from students and colleagues, each of them coming with some hidden meaning—a story involving a quiet student turned lifelong friend or a wise colleague sharing advice with a younger version of my grandfather. She said to lay our heads on our desks and just listen to the calm, rolling sound of the thunder. One of my favorite stories of his time at the college was told to me on a stormy summer night. We were sitting on the couch in his and my grandmother’s beautiful Victorian house, which was right across the street from a long line of train tracks—ones with cargo trains that whistle through every morning and evening and that overlook the beautiful, mountainous landscape of Lake Champlain. He looked out of the window at the balmy evening sky, which was starting to rumble with a few thunderclouds. “This reminds me of when I was in early second or third grade,” he said softly. “It was a warm summer afternoon, and our teacher was writing on the chalkboard, when all of a sudden she turned around and peered through the window. She told all of us to drop our pencils and look out the window. “‘What do you see?’ she asked. When nobody answered, she told us that a summer storm was coming. She said to lay our heads on our desks and just listen to the calm, rolling sound of the thunder. She said that ‘there is no such thing as beautiful as a thunderstorm on a summer evening or afternoon.’” He repeated the phrase slowly, savoring it. “I’ve remembered that phrase ever since that day,” he continued. “One day, when I was teaching a college class on a similar summer afternoon, the same thing happened to the sky. Rolling thunder clouds began to slide into the sky, and the sound of thunder rippled through the room. “‘Stop what you’re doing, everyone,’ I said, walking over to the window. ‘Look at the sky. A storm is coming. Everybody lay your heads down on your desks. Listen to the thunder. There is no such thing as beautiful as a thunderstorm on a summer evening or afternoon.’” There was a small pause. “Wow,” I remember saying. “That was beautiful.” He nodded in agreement. “Ever since that day in second or third grade, I’ve always
Leaving our Mark
iPhone 6
Memory Stew
My brain is a stew When I need something It is at the bottom When I don’t It is at the top Sometimes it is in the middle Through a struggle Able to be scooped up
Timepiece
Timepiece. Tick tock Tick tock Back and forth On and on On and on On and on Every day, same thing, Why? What folly came over man to make me? I do not know. Standing alone now. Quiet. Telling but not speaking. Why?
Tumultuous Sea
Acrylic
The Story of the Puddle and the Frog
A puddle who yearns to see the ocean beseeches a frog to tell him all about it There was once a river. For years, this river had flowed gently all the way from the top of a great mountain down into a forest, where it joined up with tributaries and eventually ran into the sea. Until, that is, it stopped. The river had been blocked up with sticks and stones at the place where it ran out of the forest and into the sea. No matter how much the poor river tried, it could not trickle in or around this blockage. The river began to dry up. The sun became high in the sky, until at last the river was nothing but a puddle in the shade of a large willow tree. The puddle was within sight of the ocean, and every day he yearned to reach it, and yet he couldn’t. One warm summer’s evening, a young frog hopped up to the puddle and began to splash around. The puddle spoke to him. “Have you ever been to the sea?” he asked the frog. The frog looked around in surprise, and then realized it was the puddle speaking. “Yes,” replied the frog. “Many times. Have you?” “Once I was there every day,” said the puddle mournfully. “Until my river was blocked, and I dried up to the size of a puddle. Tell me of it,” he begged. “I long every day to be able to flow into its wonderful coolness, and yet I can’t.” Mountain and Water “Alright,” said the frog. “It is a vast, deep-blue blanket that covers the world. In the summertime, the waves are calm and gentle, and dolphins frolic in the shallows. In the spring, willow trees drape their leaves over the rock pools, and fish dance in the waves. In the autumn, colored leaves are blown from afar and come to rest on the choppy waves.” “And what of the winter?” asked the puddle eagerly. “Ah yes, the winter. In the winter, waves rise as high as mountains and crash down upon harbors and boats. There are many shipwrecks during the winter, as boats get tossed and turned and eventually sink in the fierce, angry waves. “And then the waves begin to calm, and then the sun comes out from behind the dark clouds and it is springtime again,” finished the frog. “Has that satisfied you?” “Greatly,” replied the puddle. “But promise me that you shall return.” “I shall,” said the frog, as he began to hop away. “Until next time.” A few days later, the frog returned. He told the puddle of his encounter with a whale when he was a child, and how he had nearly died. The puddle valued this time listening to the frog immensely, and every time he heard the frog returning, he would rise up with impatience. “Ah yes, the winter. In the winter, waves rise as high as mountains and crash down upon harbors and boats. This arrangement went on all through the year, even through the winter, when the frog was forced to break a hole in the ice that covered the top of the puddle and speak from the edge instead of splashing around while he talked. Over time, the frog’s visits became less and less frequent, until one evening the puddle asked him if he was alright. “I am old,” said the frog sadly. “I have lived my life. I fear I shall die soon and that this will be our last meeting.” The puddle began to weep, distraught at the fact of losing a great friend, and his source of knowledge of the sea. Suddenly, he had an idea. “Why, frog, I have the most splendid plan!” said the puddle excitedly. “Is it possible, perhaps, for you to take me in your mouth and bring me down to the sea’s edge? I know that your mouth and throat can expand.” The frog, even though he was tired, agreed, and, taking the puddle gently into his mouth, and trying not to swallow, hopped slowly down to the water’s edge and dropped the puddle into the sea. “I am forever grateful,” said the puddle. “I shall never forget your kindness to me.” “Goodbye, my friend,” said the frog, and hopped quietly away. The puddle never saw him again
