Good evening! I've spent the day enjoying the company of my Grandchildren. It has been a gift from G-d to be able to watch our children's bubbly youngsters jump and frolic in the ocean. I always feel a sense of joy and worry, watching the Grandkids and our Granddogs playing in the murky green ocean. They play heartily with careless abandon for their safety, with the other children, who apparently share the same oblivious mindset regarding potential lurking dangers. I guess, that is the natural spiritual order of life. To them, dangers seem a far off possibility separated by the depth of far away, miles of distant water.
The powerful eternal charm and envy of youth is naivete, as much as it ought to be innocent trust. It separates the chronologically seasoned life in one of two categories. People, either choose to remain hopeful and young-at-heart or they allow themselves to become disillusioned with life, from living with an embittered and hardened heart. We choose our attitude. Thankfully, as I have aged, I've learned to find my happiness in the smallest of ways.
Kamala Harris is meeting with Hillary Clinton and all of her big Democratic donors in the DNC, up in the Hamptons this weekend, to discuss her potential run as a Democratic Presidential candidate in 2020. There are some die-hard Democrats, that believe supporting her will be a waste of the Democratic nomination and it's political and financial clout.
Respectfully, I am not convinced that she would lose, but a lot will depend on who will be the next Republican Presidential candidate. The other important factor, will be the Democratic platform on which she builds her candidacy.
It is imperative, that the Democratic party screams, that they are the "Party of the People!" It cannot rest its dusty laurels on a tired, impotent sector of dentured voters, spouting the message of "Yes, They Could", from decades ago. The message must invigorate and energize a young upstart population of Americans, who have lost hope in the political system of yesteryear.
It must address the needs and concerns of a young population who will be taking the place of the political dinosaurs in power. Young people blame those deaf, long-in-the-tooth, prehistoric, cretaceous carnivores for the forgotten promises, lost hopes and dead dreams in America. The Democratic party must re-ignite the flame to burn brighter than any fire before us, or we will suffer the same fate of those fabled dinosaurs. If that happens, then the only thing left for the Democratic party leaders to do, is plan a memorial funeral for the corpse of democracy in America.
These are only the beginning ideas that can win the next Presidential election in America. There is more work to be done. The work is going to be hard, require an inner spiritual fortitude, as well as a physical, mental and emotional strength to endure the proverbial slings and arrows of her opponents. It will need wise counsel from experienced and trusted hands to help guide her. After all, the lasting success of great endeavors are seldom achieved by one person, but more commonly achieved in concert and combination of many people who share the dream and work to bring it to fruition.
I believe in Kamala Harris. I believe she is like the Phoenix, in that she comes with the spirit and soul that can conquer and overcome...and still sing her own happy song against the odds.
What is her destiny? I don't know, but I believe she can rise!
"Good Night and Sweet Dreams!" "Boner Appertite!"
The Phoenix Bird
by
Hans Christian Andersen
(1850)
N the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant’s cradle, he stands on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant’s head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England’s coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakspeare’s shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin’s raven, and whispered in the poet’s ear “Immortality!” and at the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”
In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.
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