I am a long-time Futurist, and technologist. In my career, I have spanned the birth of personal computers, to the rise of Cloud Computing.
The master loved feeding the pigeons
The old master often sat on a park bench. He would bring the stale bread from the kitchen and feed the pigeons. Every day he would sit on the bench and the pigeons would come and sit by him. Waiting for the brand per day master would spread the bread around the ground, and the pigeons would eat you watch them. Watch the order in which they paid to watch how they worked together to make sure the youngest got said first. And he wondered.
Each day the old master returns to the monastery and prepares for his day. Most days with the same now. Teach converse and then eat. In the morning, as we discussed, he would go to feed the pigeons. In the afternoons, he would go on a walk, always seeking new flowers. There are magic and new flowers, he often said. When was he asked why do you always see flowers? Every flower is unique. He noted every flower special every flower has beauty. The old master would look at the carefully planted gardens attended by the gardener who was proud of his flowers. But the master also sought the weeds the flower. We need the name given to the plants by others, not the master. He saw them as flowers. Each flower is unique, he would say. Sometimes he would have to walk far from the monastery to find new flowers. It wasn't that the flowers were plucked and placed on the tables and served with breakfast. Or put there for lunch and dinner to break in the hall. No, they were flowers he had seen. Flowers he had greeted. Flowers he had talked to already. So he would wander a little outside of the monastery into the village looking for flowers. Many of the villagers would plant flowers just so the master would stop by their house, feeling that his presence alone brought them good luck.
At the end of the road, there was a house that had not been lived in for many years in the master would often walk fair. His rationale was that the yard was full of weeds and flowers he had never seen. He did not fancy himself a biologist naming the family and the history of each flower. Whether he fancied himself someone that likes flowers, each flower is unique, he would often say. Often as he walked the abandoned house's yard, the neighborhood children would follow with him and look at each of the flowers the old master would fine. They would wonder at the flowers, and they would say to the old master what its name is. Bill master would smile as he often did, and he would say, of course, each flower is unique. But it would help if you asked the height for its name. The master would finish.
The master loved flowers
The children did not puzzle great deep questions like that would scamper away and go back to playing with the ball or cart or sometimes just a simple stick. The old master would smile and continue looking at the wildflowers that lived in the yard of the old abandoned house. It was one bright winter's day when the flowers had put their faces away. The old master was sitting in the dining room; his class was spread around the room, asking questions and thinking. It had been the way the old master liked to teach. He would like to open the doors to questions to help students seek answers on their own. One of the students came to the old master and said, master you the flowers, do you love winter when the flowers are all gone?
Bill master smiled, for this was a question that was easy and yet impossible to answer. He thought about it for a moment scratching his chin and finally putting his hands on the table, looked at the student, and said. Spring is the time of birth, he said. Summer is the time of flowers chasing the sun. Fall brings the preparation for sleep. And in the winter, the flowers sleep. I do not dislike the time when the flowers are sleeping. The old master continues. Instead, I relish the thought that each flower is preparing to burst forth with a new phase in the new year. The student smiled and nodded his head, and walked away.
Hearing the question from the first of the second student walked over and engaged with the old master. He said that the old master would then master upon your death if you come back as a flower? Again the old master pondered thought, spreading his hands across the back of his head and twining his fingers together, he pondered.
It was another question that was easy and impossible to answer in the master pondered for a while. The student knowing the master's propensity for pondering, sat and waited. Finally, the old master looked up from his deep thought and said, no, I would doubt I wish to come back as a flower. The student looked puzzled for a moment and said, but the master, you love flowers.
The old master looked at the student said, yes, I love flowers; they are the perfection of the capture of the sun's beauty. They are the brightness that lives beyond the day into the night. They are perfection. And I feel master smiled and not perfect. Why would I dream of being a flower? Yes, in my next existence, that I would be a flower. But I know my imperfections would prevent me from coming forth and being the beauty of a flower in this world. The student on his head smiled, got up, and walked away, and the old master thought it would be wonderful to come back as a flower. But perfection is a journey, and his journey, while long, was nowhere near that point of perfection. He wondered as he pondered the student's question if I set my heart to becoming a flower, how many lives would it take me to achieve that?
© 2021 DocAndersen