By Charles Leyman Kachitsa
Sometimes you have to admire nature, admire the skies, admire the massive lands, seas and other water masses, marvel at the creation that is a human being. more so amazing is life itself, just listening to the rhythmic breathing in and out, the sound of breath, the sound of the heart beating.
What is more precious than life? There is nothing to put more value on than life. Which makes the things sometimes people worry about look so insignificant, look so small in the grandeur scheme of life. For if you think about it, is there anything that is more precious than life? Is there any machine that can surpass the innovation that went into crafting a living being’s heart and their brain? You will see and discover none can be as vibrant and sophisticated like the human heart.
Then you have the soul, another so sophisticated invention that none living has managed to recreate such anywhere in the world to go for what the Originator made first. No one has reproduced any breath of life on this earth except as it was created at the very beginning. Think about it and see visualise therefore on why you are so much important than you sometimes rate yourself.
This week we continue with quotes from a book that is now a sensation and inspirational. The book author is a lady who perhaps makes the saying, ‘Behind every successful man there is a woman’ a true one. Through her never count yourself down, nothing is impossible attitude, she has had a contribution to changing the world view of women, minorities and one would say, humanity itself. I am sure you will learn one or two things from the quotations which I encourage you to read and enjoy:
BECOMING by Michelle Obama
“Valerie was the right person to address any concerns. She’d re-arranged her entire life in order to work for Washington and then lost him almost immediately. The void that followed Washington’s death offered a kind of cautionary tale for the future, one I’d eventually find myself trying to explain across America: In Chicago, we’d made the mistake of putting all our hopes for reform on the shoulders of one person without building the political apparatus to support his vision. Voters, especially liberal and black voters, viewed Washington as a kind of golden saviour, a symbol, the man who could change everything. He’d carried the load admirably, inspiring people like Barack and Valerie to move out of the private sector and into community work and public service. But when Harold Washington died, most of the energy he’d generated did, too.”
“I was skeptical of all of it. In my experience, you put a suit on any half-intelligent black man and white people tended to go bonkers. I was doubtful he’d earned the hype. I’d checked out his photo in the summer edition of our staff directory – a-less-than-flattering, poorly lit head shot of a guy with a big smile and a whiff of geekiness – and remained unmoved. His bio said he was originally from Hawaii, which at least made him a comparatively exotic geek. Otherwise, nothing stood out. The only surprise had come weeks earlier when I made a quick obligatory phone call to introduce myself. I’d been pleasantly startled by the voice on the other end of the line – a rich, even sexy, baritone that didn’t seem to match his photo one bit.”
He was there to convince them that our stories connected us to one another, and through these connections, it was possible to harness discontent and convert it to something useful. Even they, he said – a tiny group inside a small church, in what felt like a forgotten neighbourhood – could build real political power. It took effort, he cautioned. It required mapping a strategy and listening to your neighbours and building trust in communities where trust was often lacking. It meant asking people you’d never met to give you a bit of their time or a tiny piece of their paycheck. It involved being told no in a dozen or a hundred different ways before hearing the ‘yes’ that would make all the difference.”
“The idea he was presenting wasn’t an easy sell, nor should it have been. Roseland had taken one hit after another, from the exodus of white families and the bottoming out of the steel industry to the deterioration of its schools and the flourishing of the drug trade. As an organiser working in urban communities, Barack had told me, he’d contended most often with a deep weariness in people – especially black people – a cynicism bred from a thousand small disappointments over time. I understood it. I’d seen it in my own neighbourhood, in my own family. A bitterness, a lapse in faith. It lived in both of my grandfathers, spawned by every goal they’d abandoned and every compromise they’d to make. It was inside the harried second-grade teacher who’d basically given up trying to teach us at Bryn Mawr. It was inside the neighbour who’d stopped mowing her lawn or keeping track of where her kids went after school. It lived in every piece of trash tossed carelessly in the grass at our local park and every ounce of malt liquor drained before dark. It lived in every last thing we deemed unfixable, including ourselves. —— Barack didn’t talk down to people of Roseland, and he wasn’t trying to win them over, either, by hiding his privilege and acting more ‘black.’ Amid the parishioner’s fears and frustrations, their disenfranchisement and sinking helplessness, he was somewhat brashly pointing an arrow in the opposite direction.”