My Dear Rishi,
Wishing you the very best on Diwali. Hope, you have a wonderful day. Today I recieved, a wonderful comment on this blog. It was sorts of miracle as I was wondering if my writing this blog for you has any value at all. I am not sure if you will ever read and all kinds of negative thoughts were running in my head, to be honest I was feeling very down. I was checking my email and I saw following, comment from a complete stranger about one specific story I wrote for you in my blog.
Martha Williams, Kids Trek has left a new comment on your post "Story of Evans Wadongo":
On Wed., Nov. 14, I shall teach children and their families the process of invention during the Mensa Kids Trek Inventors Workshop here in Alabama, United States of America.
Miracles happen every moment of our lives. A miracle, by my definition, is anything that has not yet been explained by science.
The miracle of this moment is that I have found your letter just after learning about the accomplishment of Evans Wandongo that was posted by an organization who has worked to help our excellent President Barack Obama receive re-election.
How the threads intertwine is always amazing.
I plan to use your letter to inspire my children and their families to expand their minds through the invention process, and, also, to realize that people of all ages, of all backgrounds have the potential to be successful in their lives, to contribute to the world, and, possibly, to discover the geniuses that lie within all of us.
Thank you for taking the time to read my comment. May your life be blessed as you bless the lives of those around you.
Rishi, this is miracle in action for you. I never imagined what I am writing for you could help others. I hope, wish one day you also get an opportunity to read this blog. Since the theme of today's letter has been about "miracles", I feel today's poem should also be about miracles. Here is a beautiful poem by Walt Whitman on miracles.
Wishing you the very best on Diwali. Hope, you have a wonderful day. Today I recieved, a wonderful comment on this blog. It was sorts of miracle as I was wondering if my writing this blog for you has any value at all. I am not sure if you will ever read and all kinds of negative thoughts were running in my head, to be honest I was feeling very down. I was checking my email and I saw following, comment from a complete stranger about one specific story I wrote for you in my blog.
Martha Williams, Kids Trek has left a new comment on your post "Story of Evans Wadongo":
On Wed., Nov. 14, I shall teach children and their families the process of invention during the Mensa Kids Trek Inventors Workshop here in Alabama, United States of America.
Miracles happen every moment of our lives. A miracle, by my definition, is anything that has not yet been explained by science.
The miracle of this moment is that I have found your letter just after learning about the accomplishment of Evans Wandongo that was posted by an organization who has worked to help our excellent President Barack Obama receive re-election.
How the threads intertwine is always amazing.
I plan to use your letter to inspire my children and their families to expand their minds through the invention process, and, also, to realize that people of all ages, of all backgrounds have the potential to be successful in their lives, to contribute to the world, and, possibly, to discover the geniuses that lie within all of us.
Thank you for taking the time to read my comment. May your life be blessed as you bless the lives of those around you.
Rishi, this is miracle in action for you. I never imagined what I am writing for you could help others. I hope, wish one day you also get an opportunity to read this blog. Since the theme of today's letter has been about "miracles", I feel today's poem should also be about miracles. Here is a beautiful poem by Walt Whitman on miracles.
Miralces
By Walt Whitman
WHY! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best—mechanics, boatmen,
farmers,
Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that
concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with men
in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best—mechanics, boatmen,
farmers,
Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that
concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with men
in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Let this Diwali bring miracles in our lives and hope we spend more time together.
With lots of love, hugs, kisses and best wishes,
Daddy.
