Maturity is not a matter of how old, how smart or how successful you are;
It has everything to do with how well you manage walking through fire.

Maturity is not just the ability to have ***, or not to have ***;
It has to do with one’s ability to empathize, feel and connect with another human being, and balance one’s passion with compassion.

Maturity does not necessarily mean that you can support yourself in every each way.
But it does mean that you don’t base your peace and happiness on the emotional support, praise, affirmation or approval of others.

Maturity has nothing to do with how charming you are or how socially graceful you have made yourself to be; it has much to do with how you handle your own anger, fear, lust, greed, jealousy and other inner demons when you are away from the limelight.

Maturity does not mean to live one’s life seriously or cautiously all the time;
It is also to know when is the time to relax, to forget oneself and dance wildly as if no one is watching.

Maturity is not to value what the world values, or to despise what the world despises.
It is to see treasure in what the world discards, and magic in what is ordinary.

Maturity is knowing that one does not have to be “perfect” all the time;
It has to do with how well we take failure, rejection, betrayal and defeat and learn from them.

Maturity is realizing that one does not always have to agree with what everybody else believes in; it is the ability to formulate one’s own opinion, makes one’s own decision and having the courage to be different.

Maturity is not the ability to win many friends or attract many lovers.
It is the ability to generate joy and fulfillment from within, without relying on the company of others.

Maturity is the ability to enjoy one’s solitude and silence in the darkness of the night.

The sun has set.
I watch as
darkness kisses the earth,
and my neighbors’ houses
light up one by one,
like doll houses.
Listen, and you will hear
my longing for you
turning into songs,
reverberating
in the silence
of dusk.

Mid-December, 8 pm.
A sudden snow stole into the slums
of Bronx, softening its harsh streets
of broken glass and shattered dreams.
Under the mellow glow of the night lamps,
these streets are Christmas-like,
enchanted by a blanket of fluffy white.
At a corner, three men huddled
around a fire fueled by newspaper,
rubbing their hands, stamping their feet,
shaking away the night's chill.

Under the bridge
the homeless man lifts
the roof of his cardboard house.
Has he ever noticed, I wonder,
the magic of the winter moon?

Yes, I know this neighborhood.
I peruse it every day like urban scripture
as my train shuttles between Grand Central
and my lush suburban town.
The run-down buildings, the graffiti walls,
the unadorned church with just a simple cross
--I know them!  They are
monuments of hopelessness and decay
where jobless men stare out of their window
with blank faces, meditating on
the lives that have passed them by.
Staring into their curtainless apartments,
I look for clues into their souls,
trying to FEEL the way they live.
My eyes search through their playground,
looking for laughter, looking for children
who have not forgotten how to play
and smile....

Lying in my bed,
I watched in silence
the sensual dance of light
making love to shadow,
as the wind caressed my
curtain with its invisible hand.
Oh, the ecstacy of the ordinary!

Grey November afternoon.
Very late for raking leaves.
Used to be a family affair,
with children running in the yard,
making mischief.
Now, it is a one-man job.
The autumn leaves
still smell fragrant.
The crisp cold air
still pleasing to breathe.
Toiling away, I seem to hear
the voice of late wife,
yelling at us,
barking orders.
Oh, how I used to hate this job.
Yard work is so exhausting.
Why is it that
even bad old days
seem so lovely now?