the Theoretical: appropriate dependent on context; inappropriate for manipulation.
EXAMPLE OF THE INAPPROPRIATE: "What if I were just to say, 'Bye ____!', and never return from this vacation with our son." 

a mere notion

Smiles present such a simple action---yet thought and interrogation of one's own thoughts precede such a gesture. While it may be the gunshot to the trigger for one's response, it often displays an alias. The attempt, or success, of dressing up one's frailty-----confusion---rage------maybe sorrow. A selfless action it may seem. For the receiver of the smile may return it as well, an immediate reaction. perhaps, or maybe dismantled by the sweet gesture. It remains unknown. Such suspicion a small movement from a scintilla portion of the human body can erect. Mentality, curse you.

ethnocentrism

Two stallions, both frozen within their differing settings. Both unexpected of a nearby, eager rider.

The first, a lad of fourteen. This shall be his first ambush attempt. The Mongolian chill bit only encouraging his adrenaline, as he waits among a group of giant grass, peering at the wild Mongolian horse.

Across the Pacific, a somewhat similar depiction resides.

Yet the only existing chill comes from the product of a practical air conditioning system. This rookie-rider—of four years—overflowing in energy, as he beams at the petrified imported horse (of China), decorated in ornate bridal and saddle.

Only one of these stallions can comprehend the nearby action to follow, although the other has experienced the occasion far too many a times to recall—for it is the loveliest of its herd in the eyes of youth.

The Mongol breed continues to graze, as its gaze grows guarded and blind to the one about to leap. The teenage boy, in exclamation, charges the mare; the meadows inhabitants biting his calves, a thistle-at-a-time. Coming upon the tail of the creature, he commits two long strides, and gracefully clings onto the top rear of the animal, pulling himself to its arch. Startled, the stallion starts off to another opining of land, as the young man gently grasps the mane’s tips for control, while his knees sandwich the ribs of the horse. He would not be manipulated.

The wait no longer rusting, deteriorated, it has. The toddler, escorted by his mother, hurries over to the patient stallion. There is no reaction from the horse, as the mother lifts and hurriedly places her son on the stern saddle. The animal, unlike its natural self, remains. Grabbing the hard-shelled horn, the youngling throws his body forward and fro, as his mother lassos his body, and buckles him tightly. The creature stalls, and waits for the others—in parallel—they begin. As they move in unison, music and in the same movement they go.

As the venture through Mongolia’s plains canters through, the young man grins to the sound of the warm wind, as he approaches the unfamiliar. Such an expedition executed exceptionally well, as the challenged was not only accepted, but embraced freely.

The wind continued to greet.

As the music grows shallow, and the herd mellows to a trot, the boy cries for more, although he’s reviewed the same scenery over, and over, and over again. It was an effortless notion, his mother returns to the gate to pay for another ride.

The music begins again. 

"Don’t you sometimes feel that this is the kind of life we were meant to live on this earth? Everything we need, everything, right here, right at our fingertips. You know, if only people could have all this and be satisfied, I don’t think there’d be any real problems in the world." 

------Swiss Family Robinson

It was in a church in Munich that I saw him, a thin, light-haired man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It was 1947, and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives.
It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my favourite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander's mind, I liked to think that that's where forgiven sins were thrown. "When we confess our sins," I said, "God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever."
The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in silence left the room.
And that's when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones. It came back with a rush: The huge room with its harsh overhead lights, the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor, the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister's frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were!
Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at Ravensbrck concentration camp where we were sent.
Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: "A fine message, Frulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!"
And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course--how could he remember one prisoner among those thousands of women?
But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. It was the first time since my release that I had been face to face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.
"You mentioned Ravensbrck in your talk," he was saying. "I was a guard in there." No, he did not remember me.
"But since that time," he went on, "I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Frulein,"--again the hand came out--"will you forgive me?"
And I stood there--I whose sins had every day to be forgiven--and could not. Betsie had died in that place--could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the asking?
It could not have been many seconds that he stood there, hand held out, but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.
For I had to do it--I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: That we forgive those who have injured us. "If you do not forgive men their trespasses," Jesus says, "neither will your Father in Heaven forgive your trespasses."
I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality. Those who were able to forgive their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as simple and as horrible as that.
And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion--I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart. "Jesus, help me!" I prayed silently. "I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling."
And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.
"I forgive you, brother!" I cried. "With all my heart!"
For a long moment we grasped each other's hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God's Love so intensely as I did then.
And having thus learned to forgive in this hardest of situations, I wish I could say I never again had difficulty in forgiving! I wish I could say that merciful and charitable thoughts just naturally flowed from me from then on. But they didn't. If there's one thing I've learned at 80 years of age, it's that I can't store up good feelings and behavior--but only draw them fresh from God each day.

without notice

As I reorganized my duffel, bold thoughts entered in. 

I had my passport, license, debit card, unnecessary gift cards that I’ve been saving, clothing, my Bible, journal, and Dr. Zhivago for entertainment. 

The possibility to go elsewhere, than home. 

I was so near to international waters. It would be so easy——perhaps, but my mind believed that I could handle it with God’s guidance. 

Glancing at my unnecessary- of-mobile-communication-technology… My parents would be supportive.. perhaps…. They would need to adjust to the idea for some time… But then I had three days until my returning flight. 

Three days before I return to my second semester at a community college, wonderful friends, most of my loving family, and far too much comfort for habit. 

But where on earth would I go. Seriously. 

I was willing for my plans to be skewed… Yet here I am, typing away as I wait to go to the grocery store with my lovely sister and adorable nephew. 

Opportunity’s afloat, yet stationary it lays… lazily among the tarnish and debris.