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   This world you seem to live in is not home

   to you. And somewhere in your mind you know

   that this is true. A memory of home

   keeps haunting you, as if there were a place

   which calls you to return although you do

   not recognize the Voice, nor what it is

   the Voice reminds you of. Yet still you feel

   an alien here, from somewhere all unknown.

   Nowhere so definite that you could say

   with certainty you are an exile here:

   just a persistent feeling, sometimes not

   more than a tiny throb, at other times

   hardly remembered, actively dismissed,

   but surely to return to mind again.

   No-one but knows whereof we speak. But some

   try to put by their suffering in games

   they play to occupy their time and keep

   their sadness from them. Others will deny

   that they are sad, and do not recognize

   their tears at all. Still others will maintain

   that what we speak of is illusion, not

   to be considered more than but a dream.

   Yet who in simple honesty, without

   defensiveness and self deception, would

   deny he understands the words we speak?

   We speak today for everyone who walks

   this world, for he is not at home. He goes

   uncertainly about in endless search,

   seeking in darkness what he cannot find;

   not recognizing what it is he seeks.

   A thousand homes he makes, yet none contents

   his restless mind. He does not understand

   he builds in vain. The home he seeks can not

   be made by him. There is no substitute

   for Heaven. All he ever made was hell.

 CLICK above and choose "GOING HOME"
 for a musical adaptation of LESSON 182

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More MUSIC from MAZ    

and
ART from ANKIE  

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Bobby laughed as he reeled in his second fish of the morning. This one wasn't giving up without a fight. He was lost in the thrill of it all, yelling to his prey that he would not be bested by scale-covered muscles. The fish on his hook was so strong, the rod bent almost double as he worked it. All the muscles in his arms tensed as he pulled. Then he reeled in the slack in his line ending with a step toward the water. Straining to pull his catch closer and then reel in as much as he could before his opponent could swim back out over the sandbar. Muscles pitted against muscles. Arms against fins. A battle to the finish, if Bobby had anything to do with it. A battle to get his aquatic opponent onto the beach and then into his cooler and eventually home to his freezer. Priscilla would just love this one: easy to fillet. Big and juicy on the table. Tasty.

Gaff laughed, too, enjoying his friend's excitement. A number of people from up and down the beach were gathering for the spectacle of landing the BIG ONE. This one might even be prize-winning: a great way to start the fishing season. And everyone was cheering for him to finish it off, to best the monster fish!

The splash of fins on the sandbar brought cheers from the crowd. Gaff and a number of the other fishermen ran into the water to see what Bobby had on his hook. Suddenly, several of them turned toward the shore, waving their arms and shouting. Bobby couldn't make out the words from that distance. He only heard men's voices mingled with the crashing waves.

Gaff was faster getting in than the rest, "We have to cut the line. Cut the line to let her go!"

The crowd moaned in unison. Chaos erupted as everyone spoke at once, wondering what was happening.

Bobby was stunned motionless. "What?"

Gaff ran to his cooler and grabbed a knife. As he passed, he shouted, "She's loaded with eggs. Hasn't spawned yet. Hold the line steady so I can cut it."

Bobby answered with his own shout, "Cut the line? Are you crazy, old man? This is the biggest I've ever hooked. I want to bring her in, finish it. Man over beast."

Several of the other fishermen were yelling, "Cut the line. Cut the line."

Others answered, "No, let him bring her in. There's others. There's plenty. Let him bring her in."

Gaff was out on the sandbar now and with a sure swipe of the knife, cut the line. The line went suddenly slack and Bobby had to do some sand dancing to keep from falling. A flash on the sandbar, movement of fins and the fish was out to deeper water.

Bobby yelled at the men on the sandbar, "What right have you to cut my line? That was my fish and I wanted to bring it in."

Gaff led the other men onto the beach, "She was big and filled with eggs. Fish that big wouldn't have been this close to shore if she wasn't on her way to or from the estuary. Only way we have any fish at all is if we let the females spawn." There were sounds of agreement from the experienced fishermen.

Gaff waved toward Mother Water. "She isn't just there to serve us. It's a partnership. We have responsibilities, too."

Bobby spit out his words, still angry, "Yeah, I know. You harp on keeping the beach clean."

Gaff interrupted, "We also follow the rules set out by the smart guys who tell us how big our catch has to be and how many we can keep. We do that because we want to leave enough little ones in there to grow into something worth eating. We are stewards of this planet, not just another group of predators."

There were nods and sounds of agreement from onlookers. Some were grumbling and groups were breaking off to return to their own spots. Some heated versions of this discussion moved away with them.

Bobby was boiling mad. "The birds take more fish out than we do. What about the commercial fishermen? They pull in tons of fish with those nets of theirs. Bet they don't let the females go."

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The Art of Listening

     It has never been a talent of mine to be a good listener. My normal tendency has been to listen to somebody until a thought is triggered, and then impatiently wait until I get the opportunity to express my "important" idea. I've always been told that it is a virtue to be a good listener, but I've never really thought about what it feels like when somebody is listening to me attentively.