Neuroscientists discovered that when people listened to music it was like watching fireworks go off with multiple parts of the brain involved. But when these researchers studied musicians engaged in writing or performing music those fireworks turned into a jubilee—with every part of the brain engaged. What amazed these neuroscientists is that no other activity (sports, art, etc.) came close to matching what happens when we write or perform music. To see and listen to this fascinating study go to: http://omeleto.com/201067/.
All of our family met together in northern Idaho to celebrate my parent’s 40th wedding anniversary. One day a bunch of us drove to a remote lake to fish for rainbow and brook trout. The fishing pole one of the grandkids used broke and we could not fix it. But Sandy’s daughter, Kimmy, asked if she could just take some fishing line and with her hook baited with worm toss it out to see what she could catch. She was bored watching an inactive bobber and her idea seemed much more fun.
Vicki and I asked her to walk further down the shoreline so as she thrashed through the water she would not scare away the fish near our lines. Vicki pointed to a good spot for her to throw her line out. We also hinted that it was unlikely she would catch anything because she was too noisy and too close to her bait. We didn’t want her to be discouraged when nothing happened. But Kimmy was quite content to fish her way. Of course, you know what happened. Kimmy caught a brook trout! Go figure.
Once upon a time, fireworks were created by a loving Creator. But alas, the first two fireworks made were deceived by their Designer’s enemy into believing they could perform as equals to their Maker. Their rebelliousness tainted every succeeding generation of firework with a “My pop’s bigger than your pop!” mentality.
Delnora sits before her canvas. Her eyes walk across the wild flowers that carpet the valley before her. They climb up the dark green firs higher and higher until only the magnificent face of a snow-capped mountain is left to kiss the clear blue sky. She gulps the fresh air and sighs—the exhalation of ecstasy an artist feels in the presence of grandeur. She mixes assorted paints to find the perfect color to match what she views. The painting begins . . .
Junior High School was the worst period of my life. My family moved from Tokyo, Japan, to Seoul, Korea in the middle of my 7thgrade. I didn’t find a niche in the new school, so I compensated by handling adversity and uncomfortable situations by being funny. Mr. Eng, the principal of the Crusaders, abetted my cause. Once I pulled a rubber band back as if to shoot him and his immediate response was, “That’s stretching things too far!” My life was being stretched, and my ideas for coping weren’t working.
From my room on the third floor we could see Mt. Fuji, a picturesque snow-capped volcano. Fuji, the glory of Japan, is the tallest and most celebrated mountain on a densely populated island. It is the celebrity of postcards. A treasured possession is a walking stick stamped with the mark of stations climbers achieve as they hike to the top. It’s just a huge hill of slippery rock and snow but one would think it a god.