It was a spectacle every evening, unlike any other. While my siblings and I lunged towards our plates as if they were about to disappear, my father, oh no, he was in no hurry, especially not during meal times. Seated comfortably, he would survey the dishes placed in front of him, each covered with a lid. With a mischievous grin, he'd occasionally comment, 'Vasikana, where are the tomatoes and onions in these greens?' You see, for him, as a skilled vegetable farmer, the absence of relish in his greens was a cardinal sin, considering our garden always bloomed with fresh produce. He'd tease my sisters, threatening to send them to fetch tomatoes just before dinner next time.
These exchanges were a daily affair, each more intriguing than the last. One day, it was about the relish; the next, it was why there was no meat on the table when the chicken run was bustling with life. My sisters knew better than to respond; the unspoken conversation was meant for my mother, a silent dialogue played out through us children. Looking back, I now understand the intricate dance of communication they shared, a symphony of questions and answers conducted through us.
After these playful banter sessions, my father would take another leisurely pause, observing us gobble down our meals. I often pondered what thoughts swirled in his mind during those moments. To this day, I can only guess. Perhaps he, like me now, marveled at the miracle of providing for a family, despite the chaos that ensued to get my own kids to eat without a fuss. Following our meal, my father would gaze into the distance, a silent contemplation that seemed to stretch into eternity. Maybe he was praying, thanking the heavens for the abundance that graced our table, not just for us but for the extended family and visitors who were always a constant in our home. His silent gratitude and prayers, I believe, mirrored a father's unwavering commitment to his loved ones, a wish for strength to continue providing for all under his care.
My father's deliberate pace extended beyond mealtimes; it was a philosophy he applied to everything. His measured responses and thoughtful contemplation were a stark contrast to today's world of instant gratification. In a time where quick reactions are praised, my father's ability to pause, reflect, and respond at his own pace is a lesson I cherish. I've learned the art of deliberation, the power of taking time to mull over decisions, a skill that has rescued me from countless impulsive actions.
Abraham Lincoln, a master of reflection and patience, embodied this principle. His practice of penning letters, then revisiting them days later, echoes the same wisdom my father imparted. The ability to let ideas simmer, gain perspective, and make informed decisions is a gift that transcends generations. My father's silent pauses at the dinner table, though mysterious in their purpose, instilled in me a valuable lesson: the importance of thoughtful consideration before action. So, while the reasons behind my father's mealtime pauses remain a mystery, the legacy he left me is crystal clear. In a world of haste, his deliberate approach serves as a beacon of wisdom, guiding me to embrace the power of reflection and the beauty of taking a pause before forging ahead."
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