Little progress, little progress, hold on, hold on, persist, persist, throw out, throw out. ….
Well my mom told me her father was an autodidact. He flee from school to dwell in the fields of the North of France when again he was blamed by the teacher in the old days… never mind he hang out somewhere until school finished. Well, learning to read is not that difficult, is it? My grandfather told her about that boy he knew, an orphan, 5 years old, and for the time being taken care of by an old lady. She was not very good in children from a certain widespread point of view as she mainly read for the kid ‘selfishly’ what she liked herself, the extended French classic literature. And that kid did not want to leave that home anymore, did not want to be replaced. Did the kid grasp the thing or not, he was certainly nourished as concerned spirit and soul. Even though the material might have been far too complex, the act of being read to and the vast complexity of the books, gave him empowerment. I do believe in complexity. Never run from it. We have to learn the skill to survie on our own in our own skin, spirits wraped in bodies. And the reality is vast and unique in its successive moments. Emerson text is an eyeopener.
Its effect is a push in my back towards aspects of some definite major purposes in life, seemingly small things like making a home, making the world a home, making the world of my home, making my home, home.