He took his student to a field filled with daisies after school and said, "Pick up a daisy. Any Daisy. Write about it, about how it's better, worse, different than the others you see on this field. Write about why chose it and what you could do with that daisy". His student looked at him thinking he was as high as he was. And then he thought...*I didn't even know they were called daisies..
I went to this gravel field near my house today and closed my eyes at the sun. I picked up a rock. A plain, grey, rock. I sat in the middle of this field and thought about that rock. There must've been a million other rocks on that field but none as corroded or cut as that one. Not one that's as dusty or wet or similar smooth and rough spots. I could, throw this rock at a window. And break it. I could throw it at a window, and break the sleep of a sleeping beauty. I could, stick it under a wobbly chair. This rock could've been part of something. A mountain! A house? That sheltered people, a family. With a dog. This rock could've been the pet. People have pet rocks right?
I guess, like people, we're all different. That's a given. I guess, like rocks we can either be the rock that makes the house, or the rocks that lay underneath it. - God is Love
This post is dedicated to the late, Mr.Tingy. My writing mentor in highschool. Thanks for your unconventional teaching that taught me unconventional thinking. Rest in Peace.
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