can only be measured at the end

The man then said to his sons that they were all

right,because they each had seen but only one season in

the tree's life.he told them that they cannot judge a

tree or a person,by only one season,and that the essence

of who they are--the pleasure, the joy and love that come

from that life --can only be measured at the end , when

all the seasons are up .

if you give up when it is winter ,you will miss the

promise of your spring,the beauty of your summer ,the

fulfilment of your fall .don' let the pain of one season

destory the joy of all the rest.

our deathbed to lament

　　Actually, we all have 4 wives in our lives
　　The 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it’ll leave us when we die.
　　Our 3rd wife is our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.
　　The 2nd wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we’re alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the grave.
　　The 1st wife is in fact our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure.
　　Guess what? It is actually the only thing that follows us wherever we go. Perhaps it’s a good idea to cultivate and strengthen it now rather than to wait until we’re on our deathbed to lament.

arms towards the shelves

"Love it." "Me too. Settled then?" he asked and smiled his soft smile. It didn't surprise me that I nodded. After the reading and the curry dinner, I went into Malcolm's sitting room where there were more books than I'd ever seen on anyone's shelves. I began to read the titles. "Help yourself," said Malcolm. "Thanks. But if I read a book, I have add it to my collection." "Strange, same here." He waved his arms towards the shelves. "But look where it's got me." "I'd hate to be without books. They're ... friends." "That sounds like lonely," said Malcolm. I turned and pulled out a book. "Are you?" "Am I what?" "Lonely?" I shrugged. "Not really." "Not really but what?" My voice came from a distance as I tried to answer him. "I'm choosy about my friends. Don't have a great many." "I'm listening," said Malcolm and sat down, indicating the armchair opposite him. "My childhood was ... I mean, my mother loved moving around. She had no trouble putting down roots all over the place. I hated it! Books were the constant things, so I buried myself in them." "Hell, sounds familiar." I sat down in the armchair. "I had very academic parents," said Malcolm. "Was an afterthought, perhaps a mistake even. They loved me in their vague intellectual way but left me alone to get on with growing up. Hence the books." "That's lonely, too," I said. When I left, I took along a couple of Malcolm's books. My friendship with Malcolm grew but my curiousity remained. Who did I remind him of? My mother? If so, could he be my father? Although Mom had never bothered with books, our physical similarities, apart from my tallness, were undeniable. She had never told me much about the man who had fathered me. Clever, was all she had usually said. Once though, when I had been ill with chicken pox, and hot and scratchy, she had relented. "What was he like?" "Skinniest man you ever saw." "Where'd you meet him?" "In a park. I was catching a suntan and these papers started blowin' in my face. I was a bit cheesed off at them blowin' all over me and then this man comes runnin'. He grabbed and grabbed but couldn't catch them all. So he jus' stood still, a helpless look on his face. It was so funny, I started laughin'."

Just three dollars

It was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled upon a wallet in the street. There was no identification inside. Just three dollars, and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years.

The only thing legible on the torn envelope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1944 — almost 60 years ago. I read it carefully, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet's owner.

It was a "Dear John" letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was Michael, that her mother forbade her to see him again. Nevertheless, she would always love him. It was signed Hannah.

It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. Perhaps if I called information the operator could find the phone number for the address shown on the envelope.

a sharp knife

　　Thus, he asked the 4th wife, “I loved you most, and owed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?” “No way!” replied the 4th wife and she walked away without another word.
　　The answer cut like a sharp knife right into the merchant’s heart. The sad merchant then asked the 3rd wife, “I have loved you so much for all my life. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?” “No!” replied the 3rd wife. “Life is so good over here! I’m going to remarry when you die!” The merchant’s heart sank and turned cold.
　　He then asked the 2nd wife, “I always turned to you for help and you’ve always helped me out. Now I need your help again. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?” “I’m sorry, I can’t help you out this time!” replied the 2nd wife. “At the very most, I can only send you to your grave.” The answer came like a bolt of thunder and the merchant was devastated.
　　Then a voice called out: “I’ll leave with you. I’ll follow you no matter where you go.” The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny, almost like she suffered from malnutrition. Greatly grieved, the merchant said, “I should have taken much better care of you while I could have!”

hold people together

I like the subtle friendship that does not hold people together. In stead, an occasional greeting spreads our longings far beyond...

I like the subtle longing for a friend, when I sink deeply in a couch, mind wandering in memories of the past...

Love should also be subtle, without enslaving the ones fallen into her arms. Not a bit less nor a bit more...

Subtle friendship is true; subtle greetings are enough; subtle love is tender; subtle longing is deep; subtle wishes come from the bottom of your heart...

the edge of the palm trees

The man stood watching from the edge of the palm trees. He couldn't take his eyes of the dark-haired woman he saw standing at the water's edge, gazing out to sea as though she was waiting for something - or someone. She was beautiful, with her slim figure dressed in a loose flowing cotton dress, her crazy hair and bright blue eyes not far off the colour of the sea itself. It wasn't her looks that attracted him though; he came across many beautiful women in his work as a freelance photographer. It was her loneliness and intensity that lured him. Even at some distance he was aware that she was different from any other woman he could meet.

Lisa sensed the man approaching even before she turned around. She had been aware of him standing there staring at her and had felt strangely calm about being observed. She looked at him and felt the instant spark of connection she had only experienced once before. He walked slowly towards her and they held each other's gaze. It felt like meeting a long lost friend - not a stranger on a strange beach.