How do we decide value?
What is considered a prize?
My measure is memories; the currency is love.
One of my dearest possessions did not cost me a cent.
It is small, but became hugely important.
I won it as a prize for doing something I loved;
now – prized – it sits gathering dust.
I know it is there. Sometimes that is enough.
I hold it in my heart, and my memories are fresh.
It is a connection that links my nature, my nurture,
my art and soul, to my youth, my era, my spiritual stirrings,
and to my father, his wisdom, his empathy, and his humour.
It was 1969.
My mother died.
I was fifteen.
I was forlorn.
Art and reading are good friends to the downhearted.
I had ability in art and won a prize at school – a book voucher.
Dad was good at knowing what I might like,
but better than liking, he understood what I might need.
We went together to choose a book.
Dad had the knack of steering and suggesting,
being the rudder.
I went home with The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran.
I credit that little book, now dog-eared
and marked with underlined phrases,
as a key influence –
part of my moral code and philosophy of life.
My teenage idealism
– so raw –
and my hopes for harmony,
were touched, translated, transformed.
The inspirational fables, poetry in emotion,
were polished to kernels of truth and beauty.
The book sang to my heart and spoke to my yearnings.
Dad said,
“This is how you can remember that author’s name –
just think of Kellog All-Bran.”
Funny, yet so appropriate:
Kahlil Gibran’s book provided nourishment
and helped me digest ideas.
What a priceless prize.
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