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Posts Tagged ‘Emotions’


Gravity has taken hold of our educational system in Panama.  Students graduate without knowing how to think, read or write.  Once a lovely Miss Panama, participating in a Miss Universe pageant, was asked before a live and world television audience, “Who was Confucius?”.  With a gorgeous smile, she elegantly answered, “Confucius was the inventor of confusion.”  True story.  She returned to Panama as a celebrity for this infamous response.

As a reaction to this increasing education malaise, I penned a blog post on February 11, 2009, which narrates an emotional story between a teacher and one of her students.  It encapsulates what education is all about.  One word of caution though, before you start reading, have a handkerchief handy—just in case.

You can find anything on the Internet, the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.  The Internet represents the human being in flesh and bone,  with its merits and defects.  When I use the Internet, I try to search for the Good and there is plenty.  The Bad and the Ugly I leave for others to find.

One of the many Goods I’ve found while surfing the Net is an extraordinary story about a teacher and one of her students.  The story is so emotional it brought me to tears the first time I read it.  From time to time, I repeat the post for those who have not read it.  It’s a motivational jewel to be shared with others.  Here we go.

A Teacher’s Lesson

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson.  And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same.

But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big “F” at the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around.”

His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”

His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”

Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag.

Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume.  But she stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.

Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.” After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic.  Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded.  By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy.  He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer—the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.

The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.” Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”

It’s O.K. to shed a tear or two. I know I did.  Good Day.

Source: A Teacher’s Lesson

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Cristian Mihai, an amazing young Romanian writer.

“Writing is like playing an instrument by ear.  You don’t know why it sounds good, you don’t know how you’re capable of making it sound good, you just do.”Cristian Mihai

I found Cristian Mihai by accident on the Web.  No that’s not right, let me correct it.  Cristian Mihai found me by placing an avatar indicating he liked several of my snapshots.  Out of curiosity, I clicked his avatar and opened an amazing treasure of words, ideas, styles, messages and books.  I found the vibrating work of a young Romanian writer who writes in English from a place called Constanta.

Without a shadow of doubt, Mihai is a seasoned word warrior ready to do battle in the arena we call publishing.  His books are growing in popularity even as we speak.

This is how Mihai defines himself:  “Cristian Mihai (born 25 December 1990) grew up in Constanta, Romania. And he’s still growing up, or at least trying to. Sometimes he writes. Sometimes he gets lucky and writes something good.  He can’t, however, draw a straight line. No matter how much he tries. Not even with a ruler. And, please, don’t ever ask him to sing.”

Mihai prefers to write fiction novels and short stories.  At his young age he has written the following books:

BOOKS

I.  Short Stories

  1. Remember ($2.99)
  2. A Sad, Sad Symphony ($2.99)
  3. One (Free)
  4. Mememto Mori (Free)
  5. Crossroads (Free)
  6. Mr. Nobody (Free)

II.  Novels

  1. The Writer ($4.99)
  2. Jazz ($2.99)

Oh, before I go on, let me add that Mihai is also a blogger and a photographer.  The name of his blog is, you guessed it, Cristian Mihai.

If you want to contact him, he has included a Contact Form where you can communicate with the writer.  This is how he addresses the Contact Form:  “If there’s anything you might want to share with me, including love/hate mail, interesting information, some long and/or complicated words, feel free to use the contact form below.”  I think it’s a neat way to keep in contact with his readers; this creates a tight bond which benefits both parties, the reader and the writer.

Please allow me to share with you an extract of a blog post written by Mr. Mihai.  It will give you a taste of his writing style.  The name of the blog post is The Portrait of a Writer.

I began writing in my most vulnerable years. I was dumb and arrogant, as most teenagers seem to be, and I did my best to pour greatness into every sentence I wrote. But I was also lying to myself, writing about what I didn’t know, pretending to know, and I got caught and people could see that I wasn’t willing to let them in – I  was building this wall to protect my true self from anyone who would be searching for it behind my words. There was nothing that belonged to me in the stories I wrote.

There’s this poem by a Romanian poet, Mihai Eminescu. It’s called To My Critics, and the last verses go like this:

It is easy to write verses
Out of nothing but the word.

All we are doing are self-portraits. As simple as that. We accumulate knowledge and wisdom and power, and we get our hearts broken, and we write. We write for others to absorb what took us so long to understand.

Maybe this is the big difference, the so-called rift between commercial and literary fiction. There are writers and there are storytellers.

Storytellers weave beautiful, intricate stories. They carefully build settings, masterfully sculpt characters. Their stories make use of the reader’s imagination – they make him dream. And then there’s the other class, the ones who make us feel.

Ever read a paragraph of wonderful prose? Just words that seem to melt together to form a hint of perfection? An almost divine symphony that leaves you wanting for more? One word after another slowly unveiling the pale grandeur of the human mind. That can’t be made into a movie. It’s not a visual experience, it’s not a tangible universe that’s being described.

There are those who are willing to shut out the world and rummage through their minds for memories they wish they had forgotten. The good and the bad, the tragedies, the pain, the bitter melancholy that engulfs all moments of happiness. By being alone, even in the most crowded of places, an artist is capable of understanding the world around him. All that he has gained, all that he has observed, lies behind a wall. He can jump over it and find the much-needed inspiration to create art, or he can choose to write words.

There’s this wall. And there’s the artist on the other side. He just has to jump.”

This young Romanian writer has developed the writing skills to make you feel and that is why I got hooked to his words.  After I finish writing this blog post, I intend to download his book “The Writer”.  I know deep inside it will be a great read.  My Kindle is waiting patiently by my side.

I agree with Mihai when he made the distinction between writers that make you release your imagination into the wild, and others that make you feel.  I prefer the latter.  The first ones aim at your head—ideas—, the second group aims at your heart—emotions.

Good Day and enjoy your reading whatever it might be.

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Nope, it’s not Valentine’s Day nor our Wedding Anniversary Day.  It’s Love’s Day!  Me thinks, Love Day should be every day of the year, because without this essential emotion, our world would be in a constant state of chaos till the end of time.

We love our family.  We love our pets.  We love our country.  We love our work.  We love our neighbors and friends.  We love our planet.  Yep, it’s the power of love that glues the Universe together.

Throughout the history of art, literature and theater, the themes of friendship and love have been the most prevalent in numerous compositions, including Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Plato’s The Symposium, these themes are recurrent as the main topics of discussion.

Plato considers love a necessity of life that enables “human being to acquire courage and happiness, in both life and death.”  Aristotle and Plato believed that love leads a person to eudaimonia, or happiness.  The latter thought love is the source of art, leading men to satisfy by the creation of beautiful forms their innate longing for the absolute beauty they can never possess.  Wherever there is true love, you will find true beauty.  The artistic world is full of examples.

I tried to capture the spirit of love with this minimalistic photographic composition.  I hope you like it.  It was fun doing it.

Snapshot of a heart made up by folding two pages of a book, flanked by an enticing red rose. I wanted to give love a face and this is what popped into my head. Picture was taken with a P&S Canon PowerShot A720 IS. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

This shot was taken with a DSLR Canon EOS Rebel T2i. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

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Yesterday morning, Abdiel’s father came to our house for a short visit.  I was busy in my home office taking care of some blogging chores.  Abdiel dropped by, gave me a hug, and then briskly went to the kitchen to chat with my wife and his father.  A few minutes later, I went to the kitchen to drink some water.  I was thirsty.

What I saw on the kitchen’s floor caught my attention immediately.  There was not ifs, ands, or buts.  I dashed to my office, fetched my camera, and took this shot.  This scene represents the distilled love of a child for his father.  I think it’s a very emotional picture.  Here we go.

The emotional embrance of Abdiel and his father while lying on the kitchen's floor yesterday morning. The picture speaks louder than words. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

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An adequate description of a dugout is, “In baseball, the dugout is a team’s bench area and is located in foul territory between home plate and either first or third base. There are two dugouts, one for the home team and one for the visiting team. In general, the dugout is occupied by all players not prescribed to be on the field at that particular time, as well as coaches and other personnel authorized by the league. The players’ equipment (gloves, batts, batting helmets,  catcher’s equipment, etc.) is usually stored in the dugout.”(Wikipedia Encyclopedia)

A dugout is also a place of emotions.  This is where players talk to each other about their anxieties, their personal problems, their achievements, their tips for success and so on.  From the dugout the players root for their peers shouting and jumping to their heart’s content.  Yep, in baseball, a dugout is a very special place.  In a nutshell, it’s the water hole of the team.

Below are several pictures of scenes inside the dugout of Abdiel’s team—San Cristobal.  After seeing them, you will understand what a dugout means.  Here we go.

In this picture, Abdiel has a sour face. His team is trailing by five runs and time is running out. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

Everybody wants to know what's happening on the field. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

The hand holding the helmet in an indication that something exciting is happening outside the dugout. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

Looking out from the dugout. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

Faces that capture the emotions of the game. Two faces, two different emotions. That's the beauty of this wonderful sport of baseball. Photo by ©Omar Upegui R.

These my friends are my final images of the Bing Bing league in Panama where the superstars are born.  It’s a marvelous experience to see these kids enjoy the sport.  Now it’s time to turn the page and move to another subject, as we navigate through the waves of life.    Good Day.

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Memory is the name of a popular song recorded by Barbra Streisand in 1981. It has also been recorded by  famous artists  such as Barry Manilow, Petula Clark, José Carreras, Sarah Brightman and others.

Originally, Memory is a show tune from the 1981 Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Cats sung by the character Grizabella, a one-time glamour cat who is now a shell of her former self. The song is a nostalgic remembrance of her glorious past and a declaration of her wishes to start a new life. Sung briefly in the first act and in full near the end of the show, “Memory” is the climax of the musical, and by far its most popular and well-known song.

Songs are able to bring back memories of our past bringing back a suitcase of emotions felt during those previous years.  The same is true with images embedded in photographs.  Both visual and audio stimulus are powerful agents of remembrance.  This is why the music and photography industries are so strong.

Photographs of weddings, baptisms, first communions, engagements, graduations, children’s births and other important social events in our lives, are very dear to us.  We take great pride in displaying them in our living rooms or offices.  We cherish photographs because they bring back memories.  They help us return to the past and feel emotions which have long been forgotten with the passing of time.

I feel goose bumps all over my body every time I see a photograph of my father.  He meant so much to me.  The  emotions I feel while viewing his photographs are extremely difficult to describe.  I suppose it happens to many of you with your loved ones.

My wife has a little table in our living room with several photographs of people she feels strongly for.  The table also hold objects related to people which constitutes her personal inner circle.  This depository of images and objects is what makes her tick.  This small table evokes warm memories with its corresponding positive emotions.

I decided to take a picture of this sentimental table that is cherished so much by my wife to share with you today.  I’m sure you have something very similar in your living rooms as well.  Here we go.

Picture of a small table in our living room showing several photographs and objects related to persons we love.  (Credit:  Omar Upegui R.)

Picture of a small table in our living room showing several photographs and objects related to persons we love. (Credit: Omar Upegui R.)

A closer view of the living room table loaded with memories.  (Credit:  Omar Upegui R.)

A closer view of the living room table loaded with memories of people we care for. (Credit: Omar Upegui R.)

A close up of the table depicting photographs of persons we reach out to.  (Credit:  Omar Upegui R.)

A close up of the table depicting photographs of persons we reach out to. (Credit: Omar Upegui R.)

Another view of the table which shows several photographs, Christmas cards, babys shoes, and small religious objects of people who mean a lot to us.  (Credit:  Omar Upegui R.)

Another view of the table which shows Christmas cards, baby's shoes, and small religious objects of people who mean a lot to us. (Credit: Omar Upegui R.)

The great value of photographs is capturing precious moments of time for later enjoyment.  Photographs freeze time, and in the process, makes us remember and feel.  Photographs are memories.  Good Day.

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Credit:  Pizdaus, The House of Pics We Like

Credit: Pizdaus, The House of Pics We Like

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This woman sheds tears of joy after watching on television Barack H. Obama become the first African-American U.S. president.

This woman sheds tears of joy after watching on television Barack H. Obama become the first African-American U.S. president. (Credit: AP photo, Houston Chronicle/Mayra Beltran)

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Friend is a dense word. It embeds so many good things, yet it’s currently used very lightly.  Frequently, we call our co-workers, neighbors, pen pals, classmates and others, as friends.  This is not correct.  Friends are a very special breed of people who are there when you need them most.

Of the 6 billion people that populate the globe, I have only five friends in the true sense of the word.  One of them is Fidedigno López. He’s a barber who works at a barbershop at Vía Argentina in Panama City.

I met López in 1982 when he was introduced to me by Carlos Gorrichategui, a coworker at Refinería Panama, S.A. where I used to work as a Financial  Accounting Supervisor.

Every month I went to Mr. Lopez’s barber shop to cut my hair.  I did it for more then thirteen years.  Then I lost my job. I couldn’t pay $8.00 for a hair cut.  So I went to other barber shops which charged $2.00 instead.  We didn’t see each other for a long time.  I was having a hard time putting food on the table, and was practically living on my wife’s salary of $400 a month.  It was a time to eat crow and that I did for approximately ten years. When you’re 50 years old, nobody wants to hire you.

Then one day my wife met López at a bus, by accident.  Both were happy to see each other again.  He asked, “Where is Omar?  Tell him to call me,” and gave my wife his business card.  I called him the next morning and explained why I had interrupted my monthly trips to his place.  He said me with the most pleasing voice, “Omar, I’m your friend.  You can come and cut your hair whenever you want and you don’t have to pay for it.”  I’m your friend, and as long as I can can cut hair, you will get your hair done without charge.  Please come over.   I’ll be waiting for you.”

I did.   And for two years paid nothing to get my hair cut.  After I got a job at a Call Center earning $500 a month, I started paying López $5.00 for my hair cut again.  He gave me a special discount after I insisted that my financial situation  had improved.  To this day, he keeps on saying, “Omar, you don’t have to pay;” but I insist and pull out five bucks from my pocket and give it to him.  This happens all the time.   I guess we both get a kick out of it.

Yesterday I invited López to have lunch with my wife and me.  After a delicious treat, I told López how much he meant  to us and how he demonstrated his friendship when I was clean as a whistle.  At one point we both had misty eyes; it was a beautiful and emotional moment.

This is my friend, Fidedigno López who stood with me when I was just a rag waving  in the wind.

Mr. Fidedigno López, one of my four best friends.

Mr. Fidedigno López, one of my five best friends.

The following poem describes him best:

Portrait of a Friend

“I can’t give solutions to all of life’s problems, doubts,
or fears. But I can listen to you, and together we will
search for answers.

I can’t change your past with all it’s heartache and pain,
nor the future with its untold stories.
But I can be there now when you need me to care.

I can’t keep your feet from stumbling.
I can only offer my hand that you may grasp it and not fall.

Your joys, triumphs, successes, and happiness are not mine;
Yet I can share in your laughter.

Your decisions in life are not mine to make, nor to judge;
I can only support you, encourage you,
and help you when you ask.

I can’t prevent you from falling away from friendship,
from your values, from me.
I can only pray for you, talk to you and wait for you.

I can’t give you boundaries which I have determined for you,
But I can give you the room to change, room to grow,
room to be yourself.

I can’t keep your heart from breaking and hurting,
But I can cry with you and help you pick up the pieces
and put them back in place.

I can’t tell you who you are.
I can only love you and be your friend.”

–Unknown

Yep, López is a hell of a guy.  Good Day.

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