Tag: motivation

• Illustrated Poem: Oh Lightning Bug, You Firefly

  

  August 25, 2025

  dare to shine, firefly, illustrated poem, inspiration, motivation, poem, poetic, poetry, positive, shine, shine on

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• Auriga

  (Reproduced here in the format of the original column from People Papers June 2024)

  June is a time for the celebration of some of our greatest accomplishments. It is a time when we feel the most alive and the world is filled with sunshine and warmth. The living is easier in June and our sights are set on vacations, barbecues, rest and relaxation. I personally, never could rest much, it always seems like there is a little voice in the back of my mind telling me to get up and get back to work, or as Chaucer would say, “…that time and tide wait for no man.” That little voice was the inspiration for this month’s crumb, “Auriga.” Enjoy!

  Auriga

  In ancient Rome, leaders and war heroes were honored in large ceremonies, celebrations called triumphs, decreed by the senate. There, the crowds would cheer as Duces and Caesars paraded through the streets, greeting the throng. The leaders were driven in stately chariots, enrobed in bronze, faces and arms painted to meet the masses. Within the chariot, it was customary for the senate to appoint a slave to stand behind the hero; there to lift a crown of laurels above the victor’s head like a divine halo.
  These men, these slaves, were curiously called auriga, a common name for a chariot driver in the races, and sometimes an everyday driver, a chauffeur to the elite. While in the throes of celebrity and fame, the auriga would whisper constantly in the ear of the celebrant, “memento mori [Remember you are mortal] – “Memento homo [Remember you are only a man],” over and over again. Some say it was the senate’s way of keeping the victors from losing themselves in the moment, the drink, and exaltation, while others chalk it up to maintaining modesty in the eyes of the gods, either way, it’s solid advice all around.
  Perhaps their title was given on this occasion since they were driving the better angels of the Dux, reigning in their pride and worst impulses, moderating their ego and spurring on their humility. Even our own modern instincts are to get carried away with ourselves, so often letting our momentary victories go straight to our heads, resting on our laurels, awash in creature comforts of the lives we’ve won. In my mind, whenever I finish some great accomplishment or strike another mundane item from my to-do list, I hear whispers reminding me of the brevity of this life; the ongoing race of the chariots, the fleeing nature of time [tempus fugit]. Celebration is as essential as the grace in which we take part, the notion of a good sport, magnanimous in victory, and humble in acclaim. These seem somehow more important now, that the road has run longer, and the starting line, the origin, so very distant behind is lost in memory.
  Wisdom often comes from the strangest places. Ancient gossip of pomp and circumstance is as good as any, I suppose. Incidentally the traditional title of the auriga, those chariot drivers I mentioned earlier, were tied to their reigns by the waist and often ripped from the wreckage, dragging behind two horses. They carried a curved dagger slipped into their waistbands to cut themselves loose from the doomed chariot. I’ll leave the reader here to wade through the rich symbolism and implications with a gentle whisper, “Yes, [carpe diem], seize the day, but [memento mori], remember you are mortal, remember that one day you will die.”

  by D. Ryan Lafferty

  Note. Originally published in the People Papers column, Literary Crumbs, June, 2024.

  DartanionPress.com

  July 13, 2024

  column, inspiration, inspirational, inspire, motivation, perspective, positive, Rome, seize the day, shortstories, shortstory

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• Taken With a Grain of Salt

  In a small town, just like this one, and in a time very much like today, Manny found himself struggling with a freshly dawning thought. A notion so subtle, it was almost impossible to put his finger on it. Perhaps, “found himself” isn’t the right word, well maybe, not just yet. He could feel it on the tip of his tongue. That ever-elusive, somewhat intrusive, invading thought which peeked through his blinds at night, followed him down the dark sidewalk at every turn, and even crept into his bathroom stall at work. It was there within the lines of his newspaper, frustrating his attention span and diverting his focus from the urgent headlines of the day. Soon, his places of refuge from this constant specter shrank away one by one until he was left with a terrible realization. The thought that he would have to face it, this, whatever it was, made him squirm. 
  How could it have come to this? Manny, at forty years old, realized for the first time that this  was his life. The holding pattern, the routine, a lightning bolt of panic split through it all. The anxiety, the shame and hopelessness melted into a cold sweat of despair. It wasn’t an attack per se, but an awakening of sorts. Was this the midlife crisis that sitcoms riffed on all throughout his youth? There was nothing funny about this. His life was empty. He was not lonely, for his days were filled with social obligations, appointments, the necessary sort, but lacked the type of events that he truly needed, the nourishing kind. When he woke up each day, it was always the same. An hour at the gym, the mindless commute to work, the swiping on socials where tapping emojis now replaced the camaraderie of his friends (ha, what friends?). Then, the eight hours of staring into a glowing screen, escaping two or three times a day by ducking into the break room for room-temperature creamer suspended like clouds in his machine brewed single serve cups of coffee. After work, he ran errands, the obligatory dinner time, and then winding down before bed, often decompressing in the easy chair until dozing off to the mindless chatter and strobing light of the TV. 
    Where had he gone wrong? Certainly this was not the great vision that his ancestors had in mind when they set out into this brave new world. Their sacrifice, generations of scrimping and saving; their hungry, dead eyes watching him loaf and languish within the apathy of mundane indifference. They stare at him, mouths watering with bated breath, on the verge of tears, imploring him to take a bite of that apple which they could only imagine beholding in this land of endless opportunity. Life had become one safe choice for him carved out of the avoidance of any mild discomfort, enthralled to the insatiable trappings of instant gratification. Their fire, his spark of life, smoldered and choked under the peaty moss laden logs of mediocrity. 
  Manny recalled a nature documentary he’d seen once as a child, where a bushman, thirsty for clean cold drinking water, tricks a baboon into revealing a hidden spring. The clever tribesman carved out a small hole in a mound of earth with his walking stick and laid a trap by placing a handful of salt crystals within. The hole was just large enough for the monkey to slip his agile hand through, but once the baboon had filled his fist, he found himself stuck. Unwilling to drop the crystals and flustered by the approaching captor, the poor creature thrashes and cries until a leash slides over his neck. Once subdued, the man feeds the baboon all the salt crystals that its little heart desires, then sets it loose only to follow the thirsty creature to the source of that free flowing water. 
  In half delirium, Manny could think of similar stories from different parts of the world where such traps led to a deadlier outcome for the primate in question. The Brazilian cambuca trap uses a banana in a hollowed out gourd while the South Indian version employs handfuls of rice as bait. Could he overcome such snares in his modern life? Maybe learn to let go of the shiny objects holding him in place and stop all of this flailing; no longer leading others to drink dry his wellspring of life?
  He fought for hours to calm his brain and find rest that night. It was well past three o’clock in the morning and sleep seemed just out of reach. All of this ran ceaselessly through his mind as he closed his eyes, yet again, and prepared for the next day dawning. Here in this moment, he had the choice: to muster up his courage, jump back into the driver’s seat and seize the day or to continue on this listless road to nowhere. Just as he was about to decide with great impetus, momentum, and conviction at his back, Manny yawned wide and deep, as he uncontrollably drifted off to sleep, dreaming wildly away until morning.

  by D. Ryan Lafferty

  Note. Originally published in the People Papers column, Literary Crumbs, January, 2024.

  DartanionPress.com

  February 2, 2024

  identity, learn, live well, mid-life, mindfulness, motivation, self-discovery, shortstories, shortstory, stories for wisdom, story, wisdom

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• Wabi-Sabi

  It was only a couple of years ago, when my first gray hairs started to appear. A novelty at first and then an uneasy sense of dread. The latest sign of aging, of coming undone, cresting that hill, just after receiving those tacky greeting cards, reminiscent of a cartoon funeral, sitting next to my birthday cake. The type of cards that arrive in black envelopes, their faces emblazoned with the mantra, “Lordy, lordy, look who’s forty!” (My brother thought it was pretty funny then, he probably still does). For me, the process of aging was something that I quietly enjoyed witnessing. It is, indeed, better than the alternative, as I am so frequently reminded in casual conversation. The gray was only another stop on the path, the newest chip added to a mosaic of habits, scars, and blemishes, collected along the way. I have always taken delight in the unique characteristics of the world. The subtle imperfections in the sublime as it were. It offers a certain character, a handhold to grab onto, a means of connection. 

  There is an ancient Japanese philosophy tied to the aesthetics of the world known as Wabi-Sabi. It may sound funny to the Western ear, but this combination of contrasting principles aptly captures my feelings toward the people and objects that weather the ravages of time. There is a subtle beauty in watching the world wear and mold individuals under her harsh climes. This philosophy emphasizes three fundamental truths about the world: that nothing is ever finished, nothing is ever perfect, and nothing is truly permanent. Architects often play upon this juxtaposition, accentuating the old within the new. In Pittsburgh, I marveled at the artistry of marrying the aging brick foundations and steel appointments from the last century with the clean look of contemporary building designs, almost framing them in modern glass. It told a silent story of what had come before, a personal history of the locale. Instead of plastering over the chipped and worn components, they were prominently on display, distinguishing a unique past, and indeed, identity.

  The two contrasting ideas in Wabi-Sabi are very different from each other, but combine in a nearly poetic way. Wabi, a concept which originally expressed a kind of mourning for a wish or goal, unfulfilled; a sadness resulting from a shattered dream. It would take on a more comforting sense of gratitude or spiritual abundance for having less and making the most of what one currently possesses rather than always looking for more. Even being thankful for some dreams that never came true. Then there is Sabi, an expression of beauty which is revealed over time. A continuation of the inner life of a person or object which remains after all the excess is stripped away. Like seeing the individual emerge in childhood, and last through old age with those unmistakable personal traits. These dueling ideas combine to capture what antique hunters have known all along, the value lies in the patina. Collectors cherish the original paint, the grime, and the oxidation, these are the signs of life, repeated use, and care.  Even the pieces which are broken hold sentimental value when lovingly restored. 

  I recall my grandmother’s footstool, a squat little thing, maybe six inches tall and tenderly upholstered in crushed velvet, its nubby legs repeatedly broken then glued back into place. It came with her everywhere that she went. I remembered Grandma’s countless visits, sitting by her tiny red shoes and listening to old stories from a time so long before me that it seemed a fable, a fairytale in my imagination. Her footstool was such an ordinary object, repaired with so much love, it is impossible to consider throwing such a family heirloom away. Come to think of it, this reminds me of the Japanese pottery pieces so often associated with the philosophy of Wabi-Sabi, the repaired cups, pots, and bowls, known as Kintsugi.  

  Maybe you’ve seen them? Those small Japanese bowls, beautifully glazed, and perfectly shaped to handle the proper portion of an ancient strain of rice or flowery fragrant tea. Pottery,  seemingly timeless in our modern world. In the darkness of the cupboard it could be easy to miss the lightning strike of gold running down the side, starting from the lip and spidering down to its base.  These pieces of pottery were so well loved, that once they were dropped and broken, they were painstakingly mended using red lacquer and then dusted with gold powder to accentuate the places where the formerly perfect roundness and shine were disturbed. The process stems from practicality and a certain romantic perspective on the beauty of repair. The notion of a gilded seam, binding together the fragments damaged from a devastating fall. The pieces collected and carefully reassembled to make the dish whole again, forever changed in an instant, one unguarded moment; shattered, then remade with lustrous appointments of gold. 

  The concept has become somewhat trendy these days with people smashing their brand new bowls just for the look of it, a sort of self-scarification for ceramics. I’ve even been held captive in an audience at the mercy of a well-intentioned young lady who spoke with the fervor of a religious zealot on the matter. She swore that handing her fellow missionaries shards of coffee cups was the most clever gift ever to have been conceived. The thought of having them glue together the cheap mugs she’d bought as welcome gifts received more than a few eyerolls in the congregation. This was her icebreaker. I have a slight feeling that she may have missed the point. 

  It’s funny, I’ve known several people who’ve done the same thing in their own lives. Scars for scars’ sake, perhaps as a means of camouflage, covering those which truly hurt the most. So often we hide our imperfections from others, but we cannot lose sight that in this metaphor we are the valuable item (that which is cherished and loved). We are scarred and sometimes broken. We must care enough to repair the pieces and emphasize those life-shattering moments which have brought us this far, that have revealed our inner strength and our beauty. Embrace your flaws and accentuate your repairs. Make them golden and handle them with care for they tell your story, even your gray hair.

  by D. Ryan Lafferty

  Note. Originally published in the People Papers column, Literary Crumbs, July 2023.

  DartanionPress.com

  August 18, 2023

  aging, beauty, column, contemplation, embrace, imperfection, inspiration, inspire, kintsugi, literarycrumbs, meditation, mindfulness, motivation, quickread, reading, scars, short, shortstories, shortstory, stories, story

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• Walking in Circles

  I remember, as a boy, seeing an elephant at the circus. This was not one of those large specimens draped in tapestry, standing on the shoulders of other Goliaths, but somewhat smaller; a medium-sized pachyderm if there is such a thing. This one, my little giant friend, was a kiddie ride of sorts. For ten dollars a child was able to sit atop his broad back and pretend to steer the creature while a man guided them both by a leash. My brother and I had the rare choice between him or one spiteful looking camel. My brother chose the camel, but I took the elephant.

  While the camel trotted away, being ornery toward some other kids, I waited with the gathered families in the line and watched the poor elephant slowly walking in circles, tied to a stake in the ground. The earth at his wide feet was trammeled from constant use; a well-worn path to nowhere, familiar and unending in this too-small enclosure fashioned out of scraps of picket fence and rope chains for crowd control.

  I was frightened by the size of this gentle beast, lumbering about, for I was still very small and the world seemed a large and scary place. When it was my turn, my father lifted me on high and I noticed that the elephant’s humongous ears were pitted with thousands of tiny scars. The strange man guiding him held a short wand with a sharp hook on the end. It reminded me of a tarnished metal hawk’s beak and I put it all together in an instant. I never saw him actually strike the animal, but even at seven years old, I knew. The soulful eyes of the creature looked deep into mine and I saw his pain. It was more than the scars. It was more than the shame of carrying the whining, ungrateful, sticky, youth of his captors. It was the look of one imprisoned for life with no hope of ever escaping his endless routine.

  I asked my father, why this massive beast didn’t just pull the skinny stick out of the ground or break the chain and tear off through that shoddy fence and into the world (more out of my fear of being trampled than concern for his liberty).  He told me, “Son, an elephant never forgets.” He explained that when a baby elephant is born in captivity, the owner ties one end of a rope to his front leg and one end to a stake in the ground. The tiny elephant tries again and again to pull the seemingly immovable stake from the earth and break free, but he finds it impossible. “He tries and tries for years and then one day, he just stops trying.” I realized that as the elephant grew, the memory of past struggles, past failures kept him from trying again even though now fully grown, it would take little effort to yank that twig from the ground. His chains are no longer made of metal, wood, or rope, but of doubt and resignation.

  As an adult, I often see others tied to their own personal stakes in the ground, still walking in endless circles; never realizing that they too have been more than strong enough to break free of those chains from long ago. It starts with seeing the rope and the stake for what they are, what they have always been, mere memories of obstacles standing in the way, just waiting for us to pull them out of the ground so we can run off into the world, unfettered and free from those self-made cages of our own design. 

  by D. Ryan Lafferty

  Note. Originally published in the People Papers column Literary Crumbs, May 2023.

  DartanionPress.com

  July 15, 2023

  inspirational, motivation, shortstories, shortstory, story

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• All That We Will Leave

  Be mindful of the things you do, be careful what you say.
  Life is meant to be enjoyed and age the price we pay.

  Imagine it all ended; in fact one day it will.
  Would the things that keep you up at night even matter still?

  The fire of time is greedy, consuming all it sees…
  It gobbles up your hopes and plans then burns away your dreams.

  A warning now for all to hear, a sign for all to see…
  The things we do and say today are all that we will leave.

  by D. Ryan Lafferty

  DartanionPress.com

  April 22, 2023

  carpe diem, inspiration, motivation, poem, poems, poetry, rhyme, rhymed poetry, seize the day, YOLO

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• Oh Lightning Bug, You Firefly

  (For those of you who dare to shine)

  Oh lightning bug, you firefly;
  beacon in a darkened sky.

  Your lantern sparks, then fades and dims,
  a luminescence from within. 

  A constant burning deep inside,
  your glow attracting every eye.

  You dare to shine while others hide.
  Oh lightning bug, you firefly.

  By D. Ryan Lafferty

  DartanionPress.com

  April 22, 2023

  dare to shine, firefly poem, inspiration, inspire, lightning bug, lightning bug poem, motivation, oh lightning bug, poem, poems, poetry, rhyme

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