Trust in Relationship

Little girl and her father were crossing a bridge. The father was kind of scared so he asked his little daughter, 'Sweetheart, please hold my hand so that you don't fall into the river.' The little girl said, 'No, Dad. You hold my hand.' 'What's the difference?' Asked the puzzled father. 'There's a big difference,' replied the little girl. 'If I hold your hand and something happens to me, chances are that I may let your hand go. But if you hold my hand, I know for sure that no matter what happens, you will never let my hand go.' In any relationship, the essence of trust is not in its bind, but in its bond. So hold the hand of the person who loves you rather than expecting them to hold yours... This message is too short......but carries a lot of Feelings.

GOD DHARMA and PROPHETS

God is one, Dharma is one,Prophets are same, --servers of the One;conflict and animosity with any of themproclaims the presenceof opposite – the Satan;surrender to the Supreme is the saucethat brings heaven downto the soul and service;do love, do serve, do surrender,do ever for Providence,the Lord, the Ideal, the source of all sources,with every inter-interested serving zealthat serves the Ideal--Fulfiller the best of the past and presentWhose presence is to fulfill not to destroy !utter and act with every enthusiasm,surrender to the enlightened and only !surrender to the enlightened Seersthat are fulfillers of the past,surrender to the Fathers thatfollow the right way,surrender to Varnasram thatevolves out of Providence,surrender to the all-fulfillingFulfiller of the present, this is the Aryan path'this is Dharma that upholds existence,this the eternal truththat all are to surrender to !
-- Sri Sri Thakur Anukulchandra

The Corn Story

If you have an apple and I have an apple and we exchange apples, then you and I will still each have one apple. But if you have an idea and I have an idea and we exchange these ideas, then each of us will have two ideas - G.B Shaw.

There was a farmer who grew superior quality and award-winning CORN. Each year he entered his CORN in the state fair where it won honour and prizes. Once a newspaper reporter interviewed him and learnt something interesting about how he grew it. The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbours'. "How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbours when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?" the reporter asked. "Why sir, "said the farmer, "didn't you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbours grow inferior, sub-standard and poor quality corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbours grow good corn." The farmer gave a superb insight into the connectedness of life. His corn cannot improve unless his neighbour's corn also improves. So it is in the other dimensions! Those who choose to be at harmony must help their neighbours and colleagues to be at peace. Those who choose to live well must help others to live well. Success does not happen in isolation. It is very often a participative and collective process.

Wish you have a great day ahead! I leave you all with the above thought....

The Dollmaker

Once upon a time in a far-away place lived a kindly old dollmaker. He had spent his goodly long life creating dolls of all sorts, making all the little girls in the world happy. He had kept up in the trends of the world and made dolls that say "mama", that cry, that stand up by themselves, and that even wink at you. But our dollmaker was very wise. He knew that his time for special contribution was growing short. So, with special resolve in his heart, he made his most beautiful creation. He gave her brown curls, which he personally felt had the most beauty in their long tresses. He gave her the bluest of blue eyes, into which he put the promises of eternity and into which one could gaze forever. This special doll was given long legs with which she could dance, run and play, and occasionally even walk a second mile. He gave her beautiful hands to work and serve with and teach all the other dolls. Her fingers were long and slender. With these, the old man hoped she would comfort those around her. She had a beautiful face and he planned this so that she could see the beauty in others. He dressed her in a gown as shimmery as gossamer, and on the last day when she was completed, he lifted her up with great care and set her gently in front of a large mirror. "What do you think little doll?" he asked "Are you not the most beautiful doll in the world?" The doll looked through her long lashes full of excited anticipation. Suddenly her pretty face clouded up and then stormed over. "Oh dollmaker, I hate brown hair and I have always longed for green eyes. These are not the colors I'd have chosen for myself. And look how gangly and long my legs are! How large my feet are! How unfashionable they will seem to the world. My gown is really very ordinary. Oh dollmaker, I am not a beautiful doll at all!" We have been created with the most beautiful qualities. Don't look into life's mirrors and wish you were something you're not. May we thank the great Dollmaker for what we have been given.

The Park Bench

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, for the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day, A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head tilted down and said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with it's petals all worn, not enough rain, or to little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away. But instead of retreating he sat next to my side and placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it; here it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colours, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need." But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, he held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time that weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun as I thanked him for picking the very best one. You're welcome, he smiled, and then ran off to play, unaware of the impact he'd had on my day. I sat there and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see the problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that's mine. And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose. And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand about to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.