Thought for today:
"Words are woefully inadequate to describe the loving bond that exists between most mothers and their child. Despite the cord of separation being cut at birth, nothing is capable of severing the unqualified love bond between the two.
In my life, I have personally known the worth of a loving bond between mother and child. I have felt that special relationship that is capable of making bruised knees stop hurting by the magic rub of my mother's hand and the mystical soothing of her voice of reassurance.
As a growing child, my mother always told me that I was 'special' and because of her daily reminders about my 'specialness', I naturally grew up feeling 'special', and still do. The only difference today, is that I know that every creature and human in our world is 'special,' but no more or less than any other of their kind. When, as an 11 year old, I got run over by a large lorry and was a hospital patient for almost nine months with extensive injuries of a fractured spine, lung puncture, 22 out of 24 of my ribs broken, two broken legs and two broken arms, mum and dad were told that I'd die, and when I didn't, they were then told I'd never walk again.
My serious accident kept me unable to walk for three years, and living and walking again merely confirmed my 'specialness' in my mother's eyes. At that time, I simply believed that I could never advance in mum's estimation from the status of 'specialness', but I was wrong. Following my bad accident, a national newspaper described me as being a 'miracle boy' for having confounded the expectations of the medics by surviving and regaining my mobility against all odds. After that, there was no holding my mother back when it came to speaking about 'her special boy.' During the rest of her life, my mother never viewed me as being anything less than 'miraculous.'
When mum died, I knew that I'd lost the best friend I'd ever had and I grieved and cried for a number of weeks after her funeral. I only started to feel better after I started to tell myself that, in spirit, she'd never left me and never would. Though she'd died and could no longer give me that magic rub when I stumbled, fell and bruised myself, or smile reassuringly at me with that mischievous face she could put on whenever I made a boob, she was still with me; much, much more than any memory might conjure up. I still feel that though she passed over from this side of life to the other side of the grave thirty years ago, she has remained by my side ever since, urging me on whenever I was in danger of stopping and watching over me during times when I was in need of my own guardian angel.
From the many things my mother taught me, to always look for the best in other people by taking from yourself, is something I never forgot. She wanted me to live life to the full and to do those things that she never had the opportunity to do, except dream of. Essentially, she taught me not to live my life in either regret or retrospect as there is never any reason to be sorry for living and there is always something new each day for everyone to look forward to. She reminded me that whatever goodness we encountered in our everyday life, however small or seemingly insignificant it might at first appear, that I should never to fail to see its preciousness, because it was worthy of embrace.
At the age of seventy, I stopped writing, having published fifty books. My new wife, Sheila, gave me new hope and she persuaded me to take up my pen again. Having told all the stories I thought I had in me to tell, I decided to tell some of my mother's stories. So, I took the germ of the many stories she used to tell me as a child about her life in Portlaw, County Waterford (the place where I was born and where I'll finally rest). I always wanted to believe the truth of her tales and so I used my vivid imagination and author's licence, and transplanted them from her own garden of thought to mine; growing and stretching them even beyond my mother's 'truthful' recall. I have since 1970, added to my publication list by including a dozen romantic stories that come under the umbrella title of 'Tales from Portlaw.' I wonder what mum would think about the twist I've given to her stories?
My mother was an Irish dreamer and I end this post with her favourite song, that I heard her sing out of tune the whole of my childhood. It is sung by her favourite singer who will become one hundred years old in March, 2017. She would have been very pleased to know that in my later years, the singer of the song, Vera Lynn, became a good friend of her 'special son' and helped me with a number of my charitable causes." William Forde: August 13th, 2016.
https://youtu.be/Y5RhWVlXF0Q
"Words are woefully inadequate to describe the loving bond that exists between most mothers and their child. Despite the cord of separation being cut at birth, nothing is capable of severing the unqualified love bond between the two.
In my life, I have personally known the worth of a loving bond between mother and child. I have felt that special relationship that is capable of making bruised knees stop hurting by the magic rub of my mother's hand and the mystical soothing of her voice of reassurance.
As a growing child, my mother always told me that I was 'special' and because of her daily reminders about my 'specialness', I naturally grew up feeling 'special', and still do. The only difference today, is that I know that every creature and human in our world is 'special,' but no more or less than any other of their kind. When, as an 11 year old, I got run over by a large lorry and was a hospital patient for almost nine months with extensive injuries of a fractured spine, lung puncture, 22 out of 24 of my ribs broken, two broken legs and two broken arms, mum and dad were told that I'd die, and when I didn't, they were then told I'd never walk again.
My serious accident kept me unable to walk for three years, and living and walking again merely confirmed my 'specialness' in my mother's eyes. At that time, I simply believed that I could never advance in mum's estimation from the status of 'specialness', but I was wrong. Following my bad accident, a national newspaper described me as being a 'miracle boy' for having confounded the expectations of the medics by surviving and regaining my mobility against all odds. After that, there was no holding my mother back when it came to speaking about 'her special boy.' During the rest of her life, my mother never viewed me as being anything less than 'miraculous.'
When mum died, I knew that I'd lost the best friend I'd ever had and I grieved and cried for a number of weeks after her funeral. I only started to feel better after I started to tell myself that, in spirit, she'd never left me and never would. Though she'd died and could no longer give me that magic rub when I stumbled, fell and bruised myself, or smile reassuringly at me with that mischievous face she could put on whenever I made a boob, she was still with me; much, much more than any memory might conjure up. I still feel that though she passed over from this side of life to the other side of the grave thirty years ago, she has remained by my side ever since, urging me on whenever I was in danger of stopping and watching over me during times when I was in need of my own guardian angel.
From the many things my mother taught me, to always look for the best in other people by taking from yourself, is something I never forgot. She wanted me to live life to the full and to do those things that she never had the opportunity to do, except dream of. Essentially, she taught me not to live my life in either regret or retrospect as there is never any reason to be sorry for living and there is always something new each day for everyone to look forward to. She reminded me that whatever goodness we encountered in our everyday life, however small or seemingly insignificant it might at first appear, that I should never to fail to see its preciousness, because it was worthy of embrace.
At the age of seventy, I stopped writing, having published fifty books. My new wife, Sheila, gave me new hope and she persuaded me to take up my pen again. Having told all the stories I thought I had in me to tell, I decided to tell some of my mother's stories. So, I took the germ of the many stories she used to tell me as a child about her life in Portlaw, County Waterford (the place where I was born and where I'll finally rest). I always wanted to believe the truth of her tales and so I used my vivid imagination and author's licence, and transplanted them from her own garden of thought to mine; growing and stretching them even beyond my mother's 'truthful' recall. I have since 1970, added to my publication list by including a dozen romantic stories that come under the umbrella title of 'Tales from Portlaw.' I wonder what mum would think about the twist I've given to her stories?
My mother was an Irish dreamer and I end this post with her favourite song, that I heard her sing out of tune the whole of my childhood. It is sung by her favourite singer who will become one hundred years old in March, 2017. She would have been very pleased to know that in my later years, the singer of the song, Vera Lynn, became a good friend of her 'special son' and helped me with a number of my charitable causes." William Forde: August 13th, 2016.
https://youtu.be/Y5RhWVlXF0Q
