Conversations with a Soul Read Online Free Page A

to pay attention because you were about to become the recipient of some great learning. Instead you intuitively knew that the insights that were shared had a power and vitality that were immediately pertinent to your own attempt to make sense out of life.
    And they did!
    Sometimes our Keepers of Wisdom are, teachers or professors, pastors or friends, each of whom seems to incarnate a way of being that leaves us different, richer, thinking about things we’ve not thought about before. It is not as though these keepers of wisdom give us the right advice, rather, it is, being in their presence and listening to their words and reflecting on their lives, we find something coming alive within ourselves . We know ourselves to be in the presence of wisdom and that mediates new insights and greater courage.
    Suddenly we see the diamond buried in the muck, just lying there and it could so easily have been passed over but for the fact that someone, a Wisdomkeeper, pointed it out. Mitch Albom reflecting on his own experience wrote:
Have you ever really had a teacher? One who saw you as a raw but precious thing, a jewel that, with wisdom, could be polished to a proud shine? If you are lucky enough to find your way to such teachers, you will always find your way back. Sometimes it is only in your head. Sometimes it is right alongside their beds. The last class of my old professor’s life took place once a week, in his home, by a window in his study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant shed its pink flowers. The class met on Tuesdays. No books were required. The subject was the meaning of life. It was taught from experience. The teaching goes on. 10

    After the freedom of the eternal central African plains, a tiny studio apartment in the heart of the City imprisoned all three of us, but that was all she could afford. No more a playground that stretched from horizon to horizon, or the night sounds of a thousand insects, the baying of ridge-back dogs that had picked up the scent of a prowling leopard, or the maniacal laughter of hyenas; all replaced and swallowed up by accelerating engines, horns, sirens and the muffled voices of those who lived around us.
    The nearby park only added to the feeling of confinement.
    It was surrounded by tall, sharply pointed fence posts, whose purpose seemed to be to keep people out. Everywhere offensive signs sternly prohibited running or walking on the grass or climbing trees. Definitely no clambering on the stone lions that adorned a monument to those who had died in the war. No games of any kind even on the sidewalk that led up to the monuments and solemn brass plaques. Apparently those who had died in a war were offended by skipping and hopscotch and the sounds children make when playing.
    An eagle eyed attendant (we called him the “Parkee”) ensured the signs were obeyed, regularly threatening to call the police on us if he caught us breaking one of the rules.
    Joubert Park was not a friendly place!
    The streets and sidewalks seemed friendlier than the parks that were clothed with prohibitions, so we made friends with the shops, movie houses, apartment cleaners and night watchmen, especially Joseph, a towering black man, who guarded the building that housed the apartment in which we lived.
    He radiated authority in his fine khaki uniform and would sometimes pretend to chase us as if we were robbers. Best of all he would occasionally allow us to play with his handcuffs that were fixed to his broad brown belt.
    Then, on one of our sorties through the City, tucked behind the Fattis Supermarket and the bus terminus, my brother and I discovered a pet shop!
    Here was a magical place that had puppies, kittens, guinea pigs, white mice and rabbits. Living creatures that wanted to play with us. Along two walls there were tanks of brightly colored fish. A few tanks, without water, housed sleepy tortoises, and everywhere the sound of birds: canaries, finches, pigeons and the loud squawks of brightly