How often in life someone finds to themselves teachers and mentors. Whoever listens to them, absorbs thoughts, strives to follow them invisibly. Time passes, years pass.
Meeting other people on their way, someone enthusiastically talks about his or her teachers, about their wisdom of instruction. He says everything that he heard for many years - the words of his teachers, extolling them in conversation with other people.
This one only talks about the wisdom of his mentors, but he is silentHe looks for glory from other people's labors.
About such people well said the Monk John of the Ladder:
"How did a good tree produce a barren branch?"
Different people, different relationships. Many people, and who are the people? Sometimes needing help, you suddenly see the hand of the giver and accept it gratefully. But time passes, and it does not become easier for you. And not because there is a need. It seems that everything has been sorted out, everything seems to be all right, but something is weighing on and life is slowly falling apart. And you begin to understand that when you see the help hand, you did not have time to look into the eyes of the giver ...
Sometimes the hand of the giver is so dirty, and the thoughts are so insidious that such help will turn into a disaster.
Give with a pure heart and with pure thoughts, then take it with a pure heart and pure thoughts - they will not let you make a mistake.
And a little joke:
as my friend said in words, "let the hand of the giver do not become scanty" - "let the tongue of the supplicant wither away" ...
Something was remembered ...
There was a time when we did not know what a nation is, nationality. We all lived together, went to the same pot as a child. And it did not matter whose ass on it sat before you.
The time has come when I suddenly found out that Armenians, Azeris, Jews, Germans, and Ukrainians studied with me in one class ... but who did not study. But I learned only now. We used to be only children and only people.
And somehow it hurts at heart from this knowledge.
Once a very old Azerbaijani came to me, he was already 65-years old, and he lived in Russia for 35 years and created a family in Russia. For what he loved me and respected, I do not know, but shared his pain. He told me:
- It hurts and it hurts!
I asked him:
- What happened?
And then he asked me:
"Tell me, why did they suddenly call me chock?"
What could I say to this gray-haired adult and good man? How could I help and change the situation? No way.
And then I told him one eastern wisdom, which of course he thought up himself. I answered him:
- When you are so called, you answer with words of wisdom, a good chock smolder for a long time! The clever person will understand, but the stupid and to nothing.
I told him:
- Old man, I, too, are chock and smoldering so far!
And he embraced me with relief ...