tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81106432650196678502024-03-12T21:21:41.069-05:00Parable of the WeekAesop is so yesterday.Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-86667776558506834782014-12-07T19:40:00.000-06:002014-12-07T19:40:30.304-06:00The Small Soul, The Great SoulGreat Sky River flowed above two raven-haired women of a forest tribe, long ago. <br />One young woman lived her life back turned, instead of face on. <br />She
combed her long, black hair to entice the young men, but cared nothing
for what lay beyond the cypress forest, or the far shore of Great Sky
River. <br />Over years spent neither exploring nor questioning, her
spirit shrank into a hard little ball and died, long before the death of
her body. <br />But the other young woman lived her life face on, instead of back turned. <br />She
ignored her hair and the young men, at least long enough to ask, "What
is beyond the edge of the cypress forest, and beyond the edge of the
horizon?" <br />"Who lives on the far shore of Great Sky River, or at its headwaters, or its end?" <br />Over
years spent exploring, questioning, and gaining in wisdom, her spirit
swelled so, that it could no longer remain inside her body. <br />And she overflowed into her people -- living on as teachings long remembered, even after her body had long since died. <br /><b>Thus, live on while your spirit is dead, or die while your spirit lives on. </b>
<br /><br /><i>December 6, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to Luke Somers' and Pierre Korkie's "great-souled"
teaching, photojournalism and relief efforts to aid Yemeni citizens.</i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-67684194506284298742014-11-29T12:38:00.002-06:002014-11-29T12:38:33.027-06:00The Sunflower, The BarrenwortThe Sunflower dwelt in a small, tree-lined garden. <br />It grew tall, sinuous and broad of leaf in the fulsome light of warm days, and seeded many children. <br />But
some fell into shade, and the Sunflower's face turned away as those
children withered and died -- from lack of a soupçon of the sun's
brilliant tang on their yearning leaves. <br />The Barrenwort dwelt in the same garden, beneath the dark crook of a tree. <br />It
too grew broad, ruddy red and majestic, its crimson bloom bathed in the
cool light of the moon, and it too seeded many children. <br />But some
fell into light, and the Barrenwort held dark vigil as those children
were stillborn -- from searing sunrays on their tender leaves. <br /><b>Thus, seek the soil in which you can grow. </b>
<br /><br /><i>November 29, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-32640275453238883062014-11-29T12:37:00.002-06:002014-11-29T12:37:23.574-06:00The Negated, The Affirmed<i>Untouchable.</i> <br />It was her <i>caste</i>, in this ancient land. <br />But
she believed -- believed more than anything in her young life -- that
she was the true equal of any who trod the soil of their land carrying
the red spot of the highborn. <br />Slavishly working into the night, she saved money to enroll in private school, because she was forbidden to attend a <i>public</i> one. <br />On the first day she boarded a trolley for school, the trolley soon filled with highborn. <br />Frowning faces with red dots glared down at her where she sat, and voices called a gendarme. <br />She
sat still and calm, looking into all their faces, and then saw, peeking
out from behind a saffron sari, the small, red-dotted face of a little
girl. She smiled at the little one. <br />Then a gendarme pushed up to
her, and yelled, "Untouchable, leave the trolley to make way for the
highborn, who cannot sit next to you!" <br />The untouchable woman then
looked the little girl straight in the face, and, instead of silently
bowing and backing off the trolley, as she'd done countless times
before, she straightened her back and said, "No. It is my right to sit
here, as it is theirs to sit beside me." <br />Shock and anger erupted. <br />As
two gendarmes hauled her off the trolley by her legs and arms like a
sack of grain, she caught the troubled glance of the little girl, saw
her pluck at her mother's shawl, and heard, "Mama, it's wrong to hurt
the nice lady!" <br />And, as she sat in the dirt and looked up to see the
little girl stare sadly back at her through a window of the receding
trolley, she knew, <i>knew</i>, that she'd won a victory that day. <br /><b>Thus, don't contradict who you are.</b><i> -- via Parker Palmer</i>
<br /><br /><i>November 22, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-48885356881402091202014-11-29T12:35:00.003-06:002014-11-29T12:35:53.003-06:00The Climber, The PrecipicePride etched the stony face of a rock climber, who could scale the
sheerest cliff or overhang using just her iron fingers and toes, and her
iron stomach. <br />Cliffs from which most men turned away in fright she leapt upon -- her fingers digging into cracks too small to see from below. <br />Yet
one day the climber chanced upon a precipice scoured by the breath of
the underworld -- a sheer, volcanic glass wall so vertical and pristine,
that she could see her own dismayed face reflected in its smooth black
mien. <br />For days she camped beneath the black precipice, staring
through binoculars for the slightest cracks and handholds, but saw none.
<br />In desperation, she hammered spear-like pitons, but the wall merely
sheared off clean facets at each hammer-blow. She made suction cups for
her hands and feet, but even those could grip for no more than a few
vertical meters the face of what seemed now to her a looming black
obelisk -- her gravestone. <br />After many days sunk into depression, she awoke at dawn and saw the obelisk reflect the pink rays of the morning sun. <br />Suddenly she knew in her bones that this wall would remain, for all time, impregnable to her. <br />And
in that moment the black wall suddenly transformed, behind her eyes,
from a black gravestone into the shadow of her long-ago departed father,
who loomed tall over her to shelter her from harm. <br />And so the climber walked away from certain destruction, standing safe on the ground. <br /><b>Thus, a fall reveals a thing of value -- where solid ground lies.</b> -- via Parker Palmer<i>
<br /><br /><i>November 15, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 3, "Emotion's Mastery"), by Frank H. Burton</i>, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-50632425220471550032014-11-29T12:34:00.000-06:002014-11-29T12:34:26.883-06:00The Astrologer, The AstronomerStardust speaks, if one but listens. <br />
The Royal Astrologer, known throughout the realm, sat at the king's
right hand. He stared at the sky, plucking from its patterns portents of
import to the royal court - or at least of import <i>about</i> the
royal court. For his premonitions about the court's goings on, its
subtle politics and its romantic intrigues, the Royal Astrologer had the
king's ear and was made a rich man. <br />
However, the king's eldest advisors also kept in their employ, in small
palace eyrie, an Astronomer. Sometimes confused for the Royal Astrologer
by carriers of missives and by new court pages, the Astronomer
predicted things of interest less to the royal court than to the realm's
farmers, hunters and tradesmen. Oft his pronouncements were droll,
like, "The sun will rise earlier in the day starting in two weeks." Or,
"The harvest should be planted 107 days from now, not 104 -- our
calendar is drifting." The Astronomer was, in fact, boring. The king
kept him on only because he so much trusted his eldest advisors -- who
weren't very popular at the royal court either. <br />
But then, one terrible year, into the eastern edge of the kingdom rode a
great barbarian horde, and there they pillaged and waged war on the
border villages. So large was the horde that all in the kingdom -- now
filling to the brim with starving refugees from the border -- feared a
full invasion. <br />
Hence did the king call every advisor and courtier, and, before all the
royal court, asked his favorite, "What, O great Royal Astrologer, will
be our fate should we send excursions to harass the horde before they
fully assemble to invade us?" <br />
The Royal Astrologer, sweat popping from his brow, breathed heavily as
he peered into the sky and pushed around the scrolls and charts
scattered on his escritoire. Then he cleared his throat and, in a
tremulous voice, said, "Uhmm, you may, O Great King, be victorious by
decisive attack! But! But! Beware <i>too</i> precipitous an action, for it, <i>too</i>, is risky!" <br />
"What is this?" the king spat. "Your advice, 'tis none at all!" <br />
Then, from the back of the throne room, a measured voice penetrated the silence. <br />
"You need not attack <i>at all</i>, Sire." <br />
All in the royal court turned to see the Astronomer, who was looking up
from charts filled with intricate swirls, curlicues and numbers, and
also staring into the sky, but with an ironic smile. <br />
"Why say you so, sir?" demanded the king. <br />
"Sire, I never have much of interest to say to you, it seems -- but <i>this</i> time, I do." <br />
The Astronomer pointed toward the east. <br />
"In five days, falling stars shall streak the eastern sky, as they have
done on the same night every year since time out of memory. But these
barbarians don't study the timing of the skies as I do. Send a messenger
to their Chief, two days from now, telling them that the gods will send
a sign to them in three nights -- a sign of their army's downfall in
battle." <br />
The astronomer paused and calmly gazed across the entire assembled court. <br />
"You will probably turn the barbarians away without a single blow of a sword." <br />
That summer, a horde turned home, and a Royal Astrologer was demoted in place of a Royal Astronomer. <br />
<b>Thus, predict from fact, not fantasy. </b>
<br /><br />
<i>November 8, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-15117013557787098092014-10-29T03:36:00.004-05:002014-10-29T03:36:34.509-05:00The Leaves, The CompostFar above the earth, a great tree arched over a mountaintop. <br />In a raging maelstrom of rain and light, the tree was riven. In a blast of green leaves and fire, it fell in twain. <br />Its broken wood was chewed by rats and grew wormy. <br />Great mushrooms sprouted from its broken heart, and ants chewed its leaves. <br />Woodpeckers tolled a staccato dirge on its greying bark, and bears stomped its roots into the mud. <br />As the flaking shroud of the great, fallen tree was pulverized and smashed into the earth, it began to compost. <br />Fermenting and darkening, it became the richest of soils upon the mountain. <br />And upon those loamy remnants of the great tree, the seed of a new tree alighted -- and grew great and tall. <br /><b>Thus, from compost arises soil -- from decay of the old, will arise the new. </b>
<br /><br /><i>November 1, 2010, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<i><i>Dedicated to Orbital Sciences Corporation's "SS Deke Slayton" Antares
rocket and Cygnus cargo ship, and Planetary Resources Corporation's
Arkyd-3 asteroid mining explorer, destroyed 6 seconds after launch from
Wallops Island, Virginia. Space entrepreneurism is a heavenly road, but
no less a hard one.</i><br /> </i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-80024858162413791072014-10-29T03:35:00.002-05:002014-10-29T03:35:31.547-05:00The Laggard, The LapperBroadcast on every television in every land, the race would crown the fastest miler in the world. <br />The contestants lined up on the track. <br />The stadium roared. <br />The starting pistol fired, and instantly the racers leapt into motion. <br />But
then, in all the homes, pubs, and sports bars across the globe, the
images and sounds of the race winked out -- and roars of frustration
bellowed from those places that day, mingled with a faint announcer's
voice, "Due to a technical difficulty..."<br />For agonizing minutes, none except those in attendance at the very event knew what was happening in the race. <br />Then the satellite image was restored, still without audio. <br />Back to the world's eyes appeared the silent vista of a tight pack of runners -- with one lone runner loping far, far behind. <br />As the camera zoomed in on the laggard, laughter filled the homes, pubs and sports bars -- with yells of, "How did <i>that</i> pathetic runner get in <i>this</i> race?!" <br />The
crowds jeered even more as the laggard fell further and further behind
the pack of world-class runners straining for dominance -- and jeered
most of all when the laggard simply threw up his hands, stopped and
walked off the track, instead of following the others into their final
lap. <br />Only at that moment did the audio come back on. <br />And only
when they heard the laggard runner sob and wave to an insanely cheering
crowd, did the now hushed peoples of the world understand. <br />The "laggard" had nearly lapped all the others. <br /><b>Thus, running behind others means you are much slower -- or much faster. </b>
<br /><br /><i>October 25, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-46273132855525630762014-10-29T03:34:00.001-05:002014-10-29T03:34:25.093-05:00The Pickpocket, The TailorHandy little man, he thought himself, believing the world owed him whatever it hadn't locked away or tied down. <br />His nimble fingers flew over women's purses and men's pockets alike, and flew with the speed of thought. <br />The
Pickpocket took such pride in his craft -- but couldn't tell a single
soul. At night, in lonely, dark taverns, he mumbled about greatness into
his beer mug. <br />Also in the same city lived another handy little man,
who believed that the world owed him only what he could barter for his
handiwork. <br />His agile fingers flew over women's and men's garments alike, repairing rips and tears in them for pay. <br />The
Tailor took great pride in his craft, and word spread throughout the
city that he mended clothes so quickly and well, that no trace remained
of their original tear. <br />Then, by the nimble hand of Fate, the Pickpocket and the Tailor were cross-stitched. <br />The
Pickpocket's hands had flown into the Tailor's pocket -- and were
impaled on the set of needles the Tailor kept there for his work. The
Pickpocket yelled loud and long -- long enough for a constable to grab
his collar and carry him off to jail. <br />But the Tailor had felt how
light the Pickpocket's fingers were. He paid to have the Pickpocket
released into his custody on probation -- and hired him to help his
growing tailoring trade. <br />In the years that followed, the Pickpocket
too became a tailor and full partner -- and by joining the society of
people who traded good for good to live, became a well-respected and
honored member of the community. <br />And, forever after, he plucked coins only from out the ears or noses of delightedly shrieking children. <br /><b>Thus, the greatest civilizing force in the world is the handshake.</b><i>
<br /><br /><i>October 18, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton</i>, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-56367272857706581212014-10-29T03:33:00.000-05:002014-10-29T03:33:10.407-05:00The Shortcut, The Straight RoadAnonymous and uncertain were the sisters' destinies. <br />The younger was
a sharp beauty, who loved fine things. As men flocked to her, with
casual dismissal she took shortcuts through their purses and hearts. <br />She married a corporate man -- then divorced him to marry his boss. <br />In middle age, her beauty faded and her husband leased a younger wife. <br />Now wealthy, but alone, she walked the terrazzo and parquet floors of her hollow mansion, seeing only inward. <br />She
found in her life only what she'd brought to it -- baseness, and
unremitting, upwelling regret for her expedient acts, and the injuries
they caused to herself and others. <br />The elder sister was of softer
mien, who loved fine people. As thoughtful friends, colleagues and loved
ones orbited about her, with considerate deliberation she walked toward
her desires straightly. <br />She married a thoughtful man -- and supported him with all her heart and mind. <br />In middle age, her career and family flowered to full bouquet. <br />Now
wealthy in body and soul, she walked the garden paths surrounding her
family home, a small grandchild's hand in hers -- and paused to look
within, through the reflection of her granddaughter's lucid eyes. <br />She
found in her life what she'd brought to it -- exaltation, and
unceasing, upwelling gratitude and pride for the longer road taken, and
the extra acts of kindness that healed herself and others. <br /><b>Thus, your path in life will mirror your spine. </b>
<br /><br /><i>October 11, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-59245679428448767602014-10-05T17:35:00.002-05:002014-10-05T17:35:32.730-05:00The Fretter, The SolverLaid off, two men trudged to the pub to nurse their ales. <br />The
younger worker, looking down at his coal-blackened hands sadly, said to
the other, "I've nae use for these anymore, except to lift a pint! What
am I to do?" <br />The other, wiping the foam off his grey mustache,
twirled its tips with his fingers, belched, and said, "Do anything you
damn well want to! We've our <i>freedom</i>, laddie. It's not like we lost our hands, or our heads -- we only lost our jobs!" <br />Then the older worker stood up, threw a shilling onto the bar, hitched his overalls and cocked his cap. <br />"So, mate, better than worryin' it 'til we're six under, what say we start the rest o' our lives, eh?" <br /><b>Thus, fretting is not solving. </b>
<br /><br />
<i>October 4, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>We have conquered that which is without -- now we must conquer that which is within.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated in admonishment of U.S. hysteria concerning its
non-existent epidemic of Ebola virus, while ignoring measures to halt
its real epidemic of children's enterovirus.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-32656952138580646502014-10-05T17:33:00.003-05:002014-10-05T17:33:49.586-05:00The Terns, The TurnFlocks of arctic terns took southerly wing with snowflake's fall. <br />Onward the terns flew into warmer days without cease, over the great Midwestern shield of the continent. <br />But
then, with the dawn of a high sun, a flock scattered in twain as, right
through their midst, dashed a young tern -- flying north! <br />The leader of the tern flock swerved about, and soon they caught up to the young tern. <br />"Hola, young one!" the lead tern yelled above the flutter of their beating wings. "Why fly you <i>north</i>?" <br />"Does a tern <i>not</i> migrate north?" the younger tern barked. <br />"Indeed,
we do," the lead tern replied, glancing back at his flock to see them
all still riding his tail. "But, young one, we think your season is
turned around! T'would be safer -- and more fun, I assure you! -- to
head back south this season." <br />"But it was way too hot down South! I almost died of thirst!" the young tern cried. <br />"Ah,
so you've been on this path a long while, then. But trust us now, young
one. The South will become cooler and wetter with the coming season. To
the north you will find only death." <br />The young tern looked over at
the lead tern, with mild panic in its eyes. "But I've been on my path so
long! How can I just turn around and abandon it?" <br />The lead tern skeewed a friendly laugh, and replied, "Just follow me, young one -- follow us all!" <br />And
the lead tern wheeled about in the sky, heading once more toward the
noon sun -- and, among his flock, followed at his right wing a once
misguided but brave young tern. <br /><b>Thus, the life you lead now can yet lead elsewhere. </b>
<br /><br /><i>September 27, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Reason, like gravity, is the weakest of natural forces, but in the end creates suns.</b><i> -- via Alfred North Whitehead</i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to U.S. state-by-state efforts to counter federal
prohibition of the medicinal and recreational sales of marijuana, both
prohibitions causing death and misery -- one by allowing illness to go
untreated, the other by creating black markets, gangs and crime.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-36866736698640312072014-09-21T19:23:00.000-05:002014-09-21T19:23:11.818-05:00The Charm Bracelet, The CallusDuring coffee break at the clothes factory, one's well-manicured fingers
stroked the charms dangling from her bracelet -- the other's fingers
rubbed a callus. <br />"My lucky bracelet will get me a promotion, and someday I'll run my own factory!" the first woman boasted. <br />The
second woman had no money for even a manicure, let alone a charm
bracelet. She'd saved her cash and invested it. She considered her lucky
charm the callus acquired on her sewing hand from years of working
overtime and over lunch breaks to make more money. <br />The woman with the charm bracelet often gossiped about the second woman. <br />"She's crude, with no charm! And look at her hand!" <br />But,
since the second woman never spent much time on her coffee break or at
the water cooler listening to idle gossip, she heard little of these
insults, nor cared to. <br />Instead, she taught other industrious workers how to maximize their pay by sewing clothes in less time. <br />One day the foreman halted shop production and assembled the workers. <br />He
turned to the woman with the callused hand, and said, "I am retiring,
but I've watched your hard work, and the way you train the others. You
will be our new shop foreman." <br />Then the retiring foreman turned to the first woman and said, "I've also seen <i>your</i> work, and heard your gossip and insults about those who've worked harder and saved their money." <br />He glanced down at the charm bracelet tinkling above her now sweaty, wringing hands. <br />"I hope your lucky charm is worth some cash. You're fired." <br /><b>Thus, effort is rewarded more than luck. </b>
<br /><br /><i>September 20, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>To harm from faith is evil.</b><i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the <a href="http://money.cnn.com/2014/09/21/news/economy/wall-street-climate-protest/index.html?iid=Lead&hpt=hp_t2" target="_blank">Flood Wall Street</a>
protesters, and in admonishment of capitalists' refusal to accept the
reality that fossil fuel use is fueling runaway global warming, and
their consequent refusal to see that such willful blindness endangers
the survival of our civilization and our species.</i>
</i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-37612184326712590542014-09-14T18:27:00.000-05:002014-09-14T18:27:13.274-05:00The Spinning Cog, The Toothless CogRevolving makes one sad. <br />The Cog knew it. <br />The Machine spun the Cog around and around, and the Cog grew dizzy and disoriented. <br />It knew only that it hated its job, but saw nothing better for it -- because it was part of The Machine. <br />And The Machine was all that counted -- or so the Cog thought. <br />Then, one stuttering cycle, one of its teeth got knocked out. <br />The Cog had lost a tooth! <br />Once part of The Machine, it was cast into the dirt. <br />The broken Cog sat, rusting and still, facing the empty sky. <br />It knew the hopeless peace of utter uselessness. <br />But
one day the Cog was picked up by a young gypsy, spit-scoured and oily
hair-polished to a burnished silver sheen, and a leather string knotted
over the gap in its teeth. <br />For the remainder of its days it dangled
under her billowing shirt, to come out every night before the hearth and
make the orange firelight dance in smoky tents. <br /><b>Thus, new uses may replace, and even better, those lost. </b>
<br /><br /><i>September 13, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Imperfection is the essence of striving.</b><i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the strivers among us -- who did not fear failure.</i>
</i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-37111016671457342112014-09-14T18:20:00.003-05:002014-09-14T18:20:46.767-05:00The Privileged, The UnderprivilegedOpposite poles of the world were the birthplaces of two girls. <br /> The first girl, bright of mind and heart, was born on a continent of wealth. <br />She
attended a private school with individual tutors in the languages and
sciences. Her parents smoothed the way, with money, for her
matriculation at the best university in the world -- where she excelled.
She relied on family connections to be placed in a major law firm upon
graduation, with a starting salary one thousand-fold larger than those
in lands on the opposite side of the world. <br />In time, she passed on the fruit of her many achievements to her children. <br />The second girl, equally bright of mind and heart, was born, in that distant pole of the world, on a continent of poverty. <br />She
was barred from schooling because she was a girl -- so the languages
and sciences remained to her only a fog of wonderment and confusion.
Instead, her parents sold her into forced prostitution to ensure her
brothers would prosper. From a small brothel waiting room, she quietly
watched the television images of well-dressed students walking the halls
of universities around the world. Once her body was used up by men and
shriveled from AIDS, she was fortunate to be placed in a hospice so that
she wouldn't die in a gutter. Lying in her sickbed, she overheard that
women at the far end of the world made one thousand-fold more money --
for one person -- than the money her entire hospice made in a year.
Irony briefly transformed her wan countenance. <br /> In time, she passed on, the fruit of her many possible achievements plucked by not a single soul. <br /><b>Thus, people can pull themselves up by their own bootstraps -- if they've been given boots. </b>
<br /><br /><i>September 06, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span><i>
<br /><br />
</i><b>We all have dreams.</b> <i><i>-- via Joey Cheek</i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the failures among us -- who did not fear striving.</i>
</i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-3488675956147673882014-08-30T19:16:00.004-05:002014-08-30T19:16:53.247-05:00The Aristocrat, The InventorNeath the rubber trees swayed pots of gold. <br />The plantation's hereditary owner was an aristocrat of fabulous wealth. <br />Living
in an opulent palace with a mighty family crest emblazoned on its
pediment, every day he hunted, golfed, or shopped for exotic tapestries
and robes; and every night he hosted salons and balls. <br />Politicians
and celebrities flocked to his plantation and ate of his roast duck,
caviar and ancient wine -- and ate of his very presence. <br />So did
Society men and women revere him -- even though his rubber went into the
bullets shot from the guns of the junta that, with him, ruled those who
slaved on his plantation. <br />The inventor lived in a two-room rental on the outskirts of the city, abutting the plantation shantytown. <br />Every
day he taught the poor children who slaved among the rubber trees; and
every night he created new uses for the gum that dripped from the rubber
trees. <br />After years of effort, he created a sterile powder to stanch
the bleeding wounds of the injured. This brought him a measure of
wealth, but not enough to interest politicians and celebrities. <br />Yet
the poor -- who saw him heal the lashes on their backs inflicted by the
aristocrat's cronies, and sate their starving minds with his teachings -
revered him. <br /><b>Thus, neither thief nor inheritor of wealth revere, only its creator. </b>
<br /><br /><i>August 30, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a>.</i><br />
<br /><span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Indirectly known truths are convergences of multiple independent
streams of information: If the streams aren't converging, aren't
multiple, aren't independent, or aren't information, truth isn't
established.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the 14 year-old inventor of Email, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/08/28/email-shiva-ayyadurai_n_5731606.html" target="_blank">V.A. Shiva Ayyadurai</a>.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-84678832724433677172014-08-24T17:12:00.000-05:002014-08-24T17:12:06.118-05:00The Warrior King, The Car SalesmanPower once strode an ancient empire in the body of a warrior. <br />In merciless campaigns, he rode his steed over the steppes, wielding a bloody spear. <br />He conquered and pillaged the lands surrounding his ancestral birthplace -- and in time became king of all he surveyed. <br />The stories of his terrible exploits passed into history, then into legend -- and then into dust. <br />Millennia later, in a modern city, power again incarnated. <br />In the body of a man who, though dreaming of ancient adventure, was a car salesman. <br />When
not kowtowing to prickly, disdainful customers -- who looked up and
snickered at his tight necktie, and the bulging sports coat constraining
huge muscles -- he imagined galloping down upon them bareback, his
pony-tailed hair free in the wind and a curving sword in hand, lopping
off their heads. <br />Customers complained about him -- although all they
could say was that they felt a chill, whenever his brilliant-green eyes
alighted upon them. <br />So, in time, was he fired from his job as a car salesman. <br />Yet he found a way to stride through his modern world. <br />Accepting that pillage and plunder were criminal and dishonorable, he became a soldier and peacekeeper. <br />Although he never became a warrior king, nor passed into legend ere into dust, he found his place in his time. <br /><b>Thus, do not yearn for the best of times -- do your best in the time you are given.</b> <i>-- via The Lord of the Rings</i>
<br /><br /><i>August 23, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Not all who wander are lost.</b><i><i> -- via J.R.R. Tolkien</i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the <a href="http://www.startribune.com/local/east/271942621.html?page=all&prepage=1&c=y#continue" target="_blank">Community Ambassadors</a>
of Saint Paul, MN, who take to the streets to positively interact with
and mentor at-risk youth, heading off social confrontations or potential
run-ins with the police, and offering connections to jobs, skills
training, college programs.</i>
</i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-85433273479694542992014-08-24T17:09:00.001-05:002014-08-24T17:09:46.217-05:00The Literal, The IntuitiveDetectives were dispatched to the home of a missing person. <br />The junior detective was young and eager. <br />Briefly
perusing the missing man's home, he noticed no signs of an altercation.
"My husband's suitcase and clothes are gone!" his wife cried. Leaning
deep into the junior detective's chest, the young woman sobbed. <br />"My husband's been so unhappy after losing his job, and with his responsibilities as a provider!" <br />The junior detective consoled her, breaking away only long enough to jot in his notebook that the man had deserted his wife. <br />The senior detective was an older and slower man. <br /> He looked closely at the woman's face, and asked, "Where do you think your husband is now?" <br />For
an instant, as he watched her eyes dart toward the backyard, the
detective felt a deep chill. Then the woman looked down at her feet,
sobbed, and cried, "He's just vanished...oh, we loved each other so
much!" <br />The senior detective walked into the kitchen for a glass of
water, and, as he drank it, stared out the back window into the dark
backyard. <br />"'Loved,' not 'love,'" he murmured. <br />In the bedroom, he
confirmed the man's clothes and suitcase were missing.But in the
bathroom, two toothbrushes still lay on the sink. <br />When next he
returned, with a search warrant, the senior detective found the missing
husband and his suitcase of clothes, spread beneath a bed of newly
planted roses in the backyard. <br /><b>Thus, emotions must be clues -- and you a detective. </b>
<br /><br /><i>August 16, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 3, "Emotion's Mastery"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>To win a rational argument by evoking emotional irrationality is a sadly pyrhhic victory.</b><i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to "T'Pring," Star Trek actress <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/08/14/showbiz/obit-star-trek-arlene-martel/index.html?hpt=hp_t4" target="_blank">Arlene Martel</a>.</i>
</i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-3518522256648108692014-08-09T16:17:00.000-05:002014-08-09T16:17:06.942-05:00The Wasp, The AntDroning wafted through the forest as the Wasp hovered, searching. <br />It found a caterpillar feeding on a large leaf. <br />Flying down and landing on the caterpillar's back, the Wasp stung it. The caterpillar fell to the ground, unmoving. <br />Then the Wasp laid its eggs inside the caterpillar to incubate its young, who slowly consumed the caterpillar from the inside. <br />The newborn wasps broke out from the caterpillar's body and flew toward the sky, in search of more caterpillars as hosts. <br />As the wasps grew in number, the caterpillars grew scarce, until few wasps or caterpillars lived. <br />After one of the last of the wasps fruitlessly searched for prey in which to lay its eggs, it fell to the ground, dead. <br />While
its body mouldered, a skittering noise approached it from below. Two
antennae reached up and sniffed the mildewed chitin; then the Ant
brusquely moved on, searching. <br />The Ant found a small cave in the rich soil, and then skittered up to a partly eaten green leaf, whereon it found an aphid. <br />The
Ant bent down and, caressing the aphid's back with its feelers, picked
it up gently in its jaws and carried it back to the cave, to live in
comfort. <br /> Each day the Ant brought the aphid a piece of leaf to eat,
caressed it, and drank its sugary droppings. The Ant grew strong and
laid a colony of its young, all of whom marched out to find and breed
more aphids. <br />As the ants and aphids grew in number, the forest teemed with their colonies. <br /><b>Thus, to use others destroys all -- to work with others renews all. </b>
<br /><br /><i>August 9, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br /><span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Might makes <i>no</i> right.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the fortitude of Iraq's Yazidi people; and in
admonishment of ISIS' genocidal invasion of the Yazidi religious
community and abduction of Yazidi women, in contravention of the
teachings of their own Prophet.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-23995528167649552262014-08-02T16:10:00.000-05:002014-08-02T16:10:19.055-05:00The Meaningless Life, The Meaning of LifeSkin as grey and marbled as the ancient colonnade she leaned against, a
wise grandmother watched her two young charges explore the Ruins of the
Ancestors, long ago fallen to decay. <br />One grandchild darted from
behind the white robes of his twin sister, and climbed upon a great,
fluted pillar of marble, fallen and half-buried in the grass. There he
grabbed a twig from the top of an olive tree and brandished it over his
head. <br />"I am the conquering King!" he cried, stabbing his wooden sword into the ghostly bodies of men to come. <br />His
grandmother watched her small grandson, and saw the man he would become
-- and her face grew as solemn as the cold marble under her withered
hand. <br />Yet the other grandchild, gathering her robes about her legs
and unshodding her sandals, quietly joined her grandmother, there on the
marble stairs of a small temple to a god long ignored. <br />She stared
at her brother's strutting swordplay, then at the broken temple columns,
and the azure of the empty sky -- then turned to her grandmother and
asked, "What is the meaning of life?" <br />The wise woman's sad gaze broke away from her grandson and, growing radiant, swung toward her. <br />With
dawning joy the old woman stared at her granddaughter's querulous blue
eyes, and then, reaching out a wrinkled hand to caress her smooth cheek,
replied, "Oh, my darling grandchild! In <i>asking</i> that question, you have <i>answered</i> it." <br /><b>Thus, the meaning of life is <i>that</i> it's the meaning of life -- you are <i>that</i> you are. </b>
<br /><br />
<i>August 2, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director,<a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank"> The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Life requires no other to justify itself.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to a teenager, on the 70th anniversary of her final diary
entry: "Believe me, I'd like to listen, but it doesn't work, because if
I'm quiet and serious, everyone thinks I'm putting on a new act and I
have to save myself with a joke, and then I'm not even talking about my
own family, who assume I must be ill, stuff me with aspirins and
sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask
about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I
just can't keep it up any more, because when everybody starts hovering
over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart
inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside,
and keep trying to find a way to become what I'd like to be and what I
could be if ... if only there were no other people in the world. --
Yours, Anne M. Frank."</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-10751490528517738272014-07-27T18:32:00.000-05:002014-07-27T18:32:50.993-05:00The Human, The SentientOne day a human looked up into the zenith of the heavens, arcing above her blue and green-swathed Earth. <br />She saw a small, cloudy galaxy far, far away -- Canis Major, pulled along like a puppy on a leash of a billion stars. <br />The
human felt a lonesome chill in her heart, and heard a distant voice
calling to her -- and wondered, "Is there anybody out there?" She
devoted her life to listening to the radioed songs of the spheres --
listening for but one word, one tune, one message. <br />And she pointed her antennae to Canis Major. <br />But there was only silence. <br />One
day, a million years hence, a sentient will look up into the zenith of
the heavens, arcing above its small, blue and red-swathed world. <br />It
will see a huge galaxy spiraling above it, so, so close -- the Milky
Way, pulling its own galaxy into her vast, slow embrace. <br />The
sentient will feel a lonesome chill in its center, and hear a distant
voice calling to it -- and wonder, "Is there anybody out there?" It will
devote its life to listening to the radioed songs of the spheres --
listening for but one word, one tune, one message. <br />And it will point its antennae into the arms of the Milky Way. <br />And shall hear. <br /><b>Thus, we are <i>not</i> alone, and we have a <i>purpose</i>. </b>
<br /><br />
<i>July 26, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>Radicals are gestated in sophistry.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to the Hebrew University <a href="http://www.latimes.com/science/sciencenow/la-sci-sn-paradoxical-thinking-20140715-story.html" target="_blank">psychology study</a>
showing that agreeing with ideologues to an extreme level -- to the
point of Argumentum ad Absurdum -- can trigger them to question their
ideology. And dedicated in admonishment of biblical creationist Ken
Ham's <a href="http://blogs.answersingenesis.org/blogs/ken-ham/2014/07/20/well-find-a-new-earth-within-20-years/" target="_blank">assertion</a>
that intelligent life elsewhere in the Universe is impossible because
all extraterrestrial civilizations would be damned by God to Hell with
no hope for salvation -- a stance which ironically may attain that
extremity of absurdity capable of driving children away from
fundamentalist religion.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-27824529781938514322014-07-20T13:52:00.000-05:002014-07-20T13:52:04.875-05:00The Historian, The History MakerStudents attended University in an ancient Republic. <br />One classmate sat in the library day and night, reading of great leaders from prior generations. <br />His knowledge of them grew until, one day, closing his final biography, he said, "I will teach the histories I've learned." <br />He joined the very same University at which he'd been taught. <br />And, in the march of decades, he became a historian of note. <br />The other classmate also sat in the library day and night, and too read of great leaders from prior generations. <br />Her knowledge of them also grew until, one day, closing her final biography, she said, "I will <i>emulate</i> the histories I've learned." <br />She became a leader. <br />And, in the march of decades, she was elected to her country's highest office. <br /><b>Thus, study history or make history. </b>
<br /><br />
<i>July 19, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<br /><span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>BE the change you seek in this world.</b><i> -- via Gandhi</i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated in admonishment of the rejection of mass nonviolent
coordinated resistance ("Nonviolent Jihad") by Hamas and the
Palestinians of Gaza; of the failure of the international press to
spotlight and endorse -- and of the U.S. and Israeli governments to
confer diplomatic status upon -- imprisoned or exiled non-violent
Palestinian leaders such as the "Arab Gandhi," <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mubarak_Awad" target="_blank">Mubarak Awad</a>;
and of the failure of the Israeli Parliament to return encroaching West
Bank Israeli settlements, as a fundamental moral imperative, to the
peaceful Palestinians of the West Bank.</i>
<br />
<i><br /></i>Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-4255553448780386432014-07-13T20:13:00.001-05:002014-07-13T20:13:22.245-05:00 The Blind, The SightedEternal midnight enshrouded a clan who dwelled in a deep cavern. <br />Grasping
sleeping bats or albino fish or frogs by the green light of
phosphorescent algae, cooking them on steaming rocks, and sleeping in
warm volcanic pools, their eyes became an appendage ignored -- merely a
way to find the dimly lit, sleepy faces of their mates after they'd
gorged on a meal, and otherwise as useless and superfluous as their two
little toes. <br />But then a young woman of the clan rediscovered an
ancient, narrow crawlway leading up and out of the grotto in which they
lived. <br />Slowly, allowing the pain in her closed eyes to adjust as she
crept toward the day, she exited the vast labyrinth of caverns that had
been her home since birth. <br />She felt a cool, soft cushion beneath her hands and knees, and opened her eyes. <br />Beneath her delicate, bone-white hands lay a mat of what looked like thick, bright green hair. <br />She then stood erect, and raised her head. <br />In
wonderment she stared at feathered, sharp-nosed bats painted in hues
she could not name, at a whimsically-colored cavern roof so high that
she could not see any of its walls, but only huge wisps and balls of
steam floating beneath. <br />Gasping for breath, she ran back into the
depths -- following a trail of bat guano balls she'd dropped behind her
while she'd climbed -- to tell her people of her wondrous visions. <br />She
gathered them around a phosphorescent boulder, and, as their
green-underlit faces chewed on bat wings and frog legs, she exclaimed to
them -- her eyes, for the first time in her life, wide open in her face
-- "I have seen visions!" <br />"Visions of a cave with a roof too high
to see! Of bats that were not bats! Of colors that were not dim green or
black! Of a land where a great phosphorescent boulder, too bright to
even glance at, floats in the air!" <br />So did her clan roar with laughter, and ever after scoff at her wild stories and urgings. <br />Until,
one day, she simply disappeared forever up her precious, unused
crawlway -- while crouching, like the madwoman they all thought she was,
to collect old balls of dried bat guano with each step. <br /><b>Thus, vision provokes laughter from those who cannot see.</b> <i>-- via Plato</i>
<br /><br />
<i>July 12, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason</a></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>One must never stoop to conquer.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated in admonishment of the kidnapping, involuntary commitment,
and psychological and physical abuse of gay, mentally ill and
doctrine-resistant teens in <a href="http://www.kidnappedforchrist.com/" target="_blank">Evangelical Christian re-education camps</a>.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-87260004844272343642014-07-06T17:43:00.002-05:002014-07-06T17:43:54.302-05:00Parables of the Week Archival May 24-May 31, 2014<br />
<span class="Header"><b></b></span><br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>A solitary fantasy can transform a million realities.</b><i> -- via Maya Angelou</i>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated to U.S. President Obama's Executive Office directive to
begin his promise to reduce the severity of human-caused global warming
by imposing limits on CO2 emissions from America's coal plants --
through policies including Carbon Capture, Cap and Trade, and Renewable
(Wind and Solar) Energy Percentages.</i>
<br /><br />
<span class="Header"><b>Parable of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>The Ostrich, The Prairie Dog</b><br />Faraway lands sometimes have far and away the strangest of friends -- like the Ostrich and the Prairie Dog. <br />One day, a dust storm that raged from horizon to horizon raced from the Western Lands toward their small nesting area. <br />The Prairie Dog stood, yellow paws at attention by his side, and barked. <br />"Head's up! A storm is coming! A <i>big</i> one!" <br />As
the air swirled brown with flying grit, the Prairie Dog scuttled to a
shallow hole and stuck his little body in it, with his head peeking out
to keep a wary eye on the storm passing overhead. <br />"Hunker down and head's up, Ostrich!" he cried over the howling of earth become air. <br />But
the Ostrich did not hunker down with his head up. Instead, he stood up
on his huge, grey-pink legs, spread his wings for balance, and then bent
over and jammed his head straight down into the hole where the Prairie
Dog crouched. <br />"What are you <i>doing</i>?" the Prairie Dog cried, pushing back at the bird's big head. <br />"I'm keeping my head down, aren't I?" cried the Ostrich. "Why do I have to look at such a frightening thing as that storm?" <br />"No, No!" the Prairie Dog cried to his friend. "Body down, head up! Head's up!!" <br />But
it was too late. The Ostrich squawked as the blasting wind caught his
wings and swept him away, never to be seen by the Prairie Dog again. <br /><b>Thus, it is better to keep your head up than your head down, when storms brew -- and when do they not? </b>
<br /><br />
<i>May 31, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.</i><br /><br />-----<br /><br />
<br />
<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>"Out" those who reason, and "ought" the others.</b>
<br /><br />
<i>Dedicated in admonishment of the Sudanese government's criminal
prosecution, and imposition of the death penalty, against a Christian
citizen for her refusal to renounce Christianity. "Apostasy" is no
crime, but a personal freedom.</i>
<br /><br />
<span class="Header"><b>Parable of the Week</b></span>
<br /><br />
<b>The Seeker, The Maker</b><br />Sisters were birthed upon royal velvet. <br />In
their land women donned the mantle of leadership, and the two sisters,
who loved each other deeply, were destined to rule side by side after
their mother, the queen, passed on the mantle of power. <br />The elder
sister relished her role as a princess and heir, and learned all the
tricks of politicking from her mother -- to gild her future throne,
while setting it in laws and etiquette as rigid as stone. <br />But the
younger sister, destined to advise the future queen, observed the people
they ruled -- and saw poverty, misery, and unfairness. Yet when she
asked her mother, the queen, why this was so, her mother always replied,
"It's just the world we live in." <br />One day a prisoner was brought
before the throne for judgment -- a man who'd stolen one loaf of bread
to feed his sick child. When the queen sentenced the man's hand to be
chopped off as their law dictated, her elder daughter stood by her side
as the sentence was proclaimed, to learn how to administer justice. Yet
the younger daughter could not bear to watch, thinking only of how, if
the man had been given skills or a job, his thievery need never have
occurred. <br />At sunset, as the axe fell upon the condemned man's wrist,
she stole away from the palace and fled west into the darkness, in
search of a better land. <br />But, over the years, no such land did she find. <br />Everywhere she traveled she saw injustice, misery and manipulation by rulers of those less fortunate. <br />Older
now, and tired of her fruitless search, she returned to her homeland
and rejoined her sister, who was now a powerful queen, and who welcomed
her into the palace. <br />But instead of abandoning her dream, the
younger sister encouraged the queen -- and later her eldest niece, the
new heir -- to build schools and clinics instead of palaces, to hear
representatives of the people, to abolish slavery and unjust punishment,
and to make prisons places of redemption. <br />Over many years, her land indeed became that which she'd sought in her wanderings, and in her dreams, so long before. <br /><b>Thus, <i>be</i> the change you seek in this world.</b><i> -- via Mohandas Gandhi</i>
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<i>May 24, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton.</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-8502167045445655562014-07-06T17:37:00.002-05:002014-07-06T17:37:47.226-05:00The Apples, The OrangesHe was a great religious orator, a Preacher of a particular religion
that claimed absolute salvation for all who shared its beliefs -- and
absolute damnation for all who did not. <br />Yet as the right hand
mirrors the left, so too was there a great philosophical orator, a
Mentor of a particular philosophy that claimed regard for all -- without
regard to their religious or non-religious beliefs. <br />One day the Preacher and the Mentor espied each other across a fruit bin at a food market. <br />With a baleful stare, the Preacher pointed his finger straight down and cried, "Repent! Believe in God, or be damned!" <br />The Mentor pondered, then picked up two fruits and replied, "And which God is that? The God of apples or the God of oranges?" <br />"My God!" cried the Preacher, aghast. <br />"Exactly
the problem!" replied the Mentor, as he put first one, then the other,
fruit in his basket. "How tart we'd become, on a diet of only oranges.
How cloying, were our bellies filled just with applesauce, apple pie,
apple juice." <br />The Mentor then gently placed a third fruit in the
Preacher's basket. "And on your exclusive diet, oh how sour have your
followers become!" <br /> The Preacher glanced down at the fruit. <br />It was a lemon. <br /><b>Thus, religion is a garden of the spirit, to be tended in all its diversity. </b>
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<i>July 5, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 2, "Assumption's Denial"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason.</a></i><br />
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<i> </i><span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
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<b>The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.</b><i> -- via Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.</i>
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<i>Dedicated in admonishment of the Huntsville, Alabama, and Rowlett, Texas, City Councils' respectively "disinviting" a <a href="http://whnt.com/2014/06/26/breaking-local-wiccan-uninvited-to-give-city-council-invocation-due-to-community-fears/" target="_blank">Wiccan</a> congregation's clergy, and a local <a href="http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2014/07/02/atheists-demand-right-to-deliver-invocations-at-government-meetings/" target="_blank">atheist</a>
organization's founder, to present an opening invocation, in
contradiction of the U.S. Supreme Court finding in "Greece, NY vs.
Galloway" that the town of Greece did not discriminate in inviting those
to give invocations, but rather "made reasonable efforts to identify
all of the congregations located within its borders and represented that
it would welcome a prayer by any minister or layman who wished to give
one...So long as the town maintains a policy of nondiscrimination, the
Constitution does not require it to search beyond its borders for
non-Christian prayer givers in an effort to achieve religious
balancing."</i>
Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8110643265019667850.post-23942909346500309322014-07-06T17:35:00.000-05:002014-07-06T17:35:10.902-05:00The Mite, The FleaPedagogue and Pupil strode an ancient acropolis above a teeming city. <br />One
evening the Pupil, dismayed at his childish writings after a long day's
lessons, pounded his fist on his robed thigh and asked, "Master, do our
lives even matter? Are we not insignificant?" <br />The Pedagogue smiled,
his cheeks and forehead crinkling, as he walked. He stopped and bent
down to stroke the head of a passing puppy, and brushed his hand under
the dog's belly. Then he held his hand up to his Pupil's face,
illuminated in a wall's torchlight. <br />"Look in my hand," the Pedagogue said. "What do you see?" <br />The Pupil looked down at his master's open hand. "Master, I see nothing in your hand." <br />"Look closer," the Pedagogue replied. <br />The Pupil's nose almost touched his master's open palm. "Master, there's nothing there!" <br />The Pedagogue replied, "Did you not regard a Mite, chewing on a fleck from the dog's skin -- and a Flea, poised to leap?" <br />"No, Master," the Pupil replied. <br />Then
the Pedagogue extended his hand, touched his Pupil's arm briefly, and
pointed up to the darkening sky. "Regard the Cosmos, my Pupil." <br />The
Pupil looked up and stared at the stars -- but sullenly, just as
doubtful of the world's significance to the cosmos as of his
significance to the world. <br />"Agh!" <br />The Pupil jerked his head back
down as something bit his arm. He peered at his skin in the torchlight,
until he saw a tiny black speck -- the Flea, placed there by his
Peripatetic mentor's touch -- digging into his skin. <br />The Pedagogue beamed, and said, "<i>Now</i> what do you see?" <br /><b>Thus, like insects we seem insignificant -- until we puncture the skin of the World.</b>
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<i>June 28, 2014, excerpt from <u>The Parables of Reason</u> © 2007-2014 (Chapter 1, "Reality's Acceptance"), by Frank H. Burton, Executive Director, <a href="http://www.circleofreason.org/" target="_blank">The Circle of Reason.</a></i><br />
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<span class="Header"><b>Aphorism of the Week</b></span>
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<b>Be careful not to believe everything you think.</b><i><i> -- via Jeff Herring</i>
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<i>Dedicated to the <a href="http://www.rationalistpakistan.com/" target="_blank">Rationalist Society of Pakistan</a>.</i>
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Frank H. Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00422204325172766683noreply@blogger.com0