Chapter 1 - Snowflakes

      On the plane crossing the Atlantic I convinced myself that I was glad for the chance to make a real difference in the world again no matter how small that difference might be. I felt the same feeling that I had felt in Venice where we had made a difference in a big way, all of us together. I felt that the Moscow conference might have the potential to be another one of those rare opportunities at which the destiny of the world could be 'uplifted' if the right ideas prevailed. I saw my invitation as a privilege, a rare opportunity to be able to be in the middle of it all where history was being made. I even fancied myself as an ambassador from our beach project with a chance for putting the imprint of our leading edge discoveries into the ever-changing sands that are marked by the course of mankind. History seemed to be that way, a pattern of choices, a mirror of intentions that shaped the world. Momentous events happened in history, but like the footprints in the sands of the seashores, the pattern became eroded with the changing tides. The great events tend to be preserved only in pictures albums and story books that gather dust on so many shelves and are rarely opened to be relived.

      I felt that history should be brought into the future. History isn't a flow of water that passed down a stream and will always flow in the same manner. Human history is something that was made by human beings and was directed for a purpose, right or wrong, which means that it can flow differently when the purpose is upgraded. We learn from the past, not to repeat history, though we often do, but to create a different world that reflects our changing intentions that unfold with new discoveries about ourselves and our potential in creating a New World. And so we make new history in the continuing story of our growing up as children of a universal humanity leaving our footprints in the sand of time.

      In that light the Moscow conference came with a promise attached, though it all turned out differently than I had hoped, less encouraging, more sobering, more humbling. Our history, unfortunately, is littered with far too many grand opportunities left unrealized that were squandered by people with little minds and nearsighted vision. I was aware of this, but never dreamed that I would follow that pathetic course as I did, with one exception that seemed to absolve my fumbling. When the plane touched down in Moscow and taxied across the field of blowing snow amidst a maze of other planes, I felt small suddenly and impotent in this vast icy world of theirs. What could I accomplish that hadn't already been attempted a thousand times in the past when nothing had been attained? What could I contribute that would be new and exciting, that would shake the world, that would make the 'desserts bloom?'



      Once we got off the plane my outlook changed yet again. A totally different feeling came over me. We were welcomed like VIPs. Everyone on our aircraft that had come for the conference was given the VIP treatment. Perhaps it was all just protocol. Perhaps it was all fake. Technically speaking, we were on enemy territory. Still, some of the welcome seemed real. In the arrivals lobby a reception center had been set up for us. I noticed a dedicated 'English Desk' among others. A young woman with long dark hair, dressed in a black jump suit, staffed the English welcoming desk. She was quite a picture to behold. She introduced herself as our interpreter, tour guide, supply officer for anything and everything, and organizer-in-chief of whatever special events we had in mind.

      "Anything, really?" I asked.

      "Anything at all!" she replied promptly, "just ask."



      My first reaction was that something didn't add up. What was at the root of it? Her clothing was by no means the run-of-the-mill Soviet State Uniform that one might expect, nor was it English. Was this an honest gesture by the Soviets? If it was, they had gone miles out of their way, so it seemed, to make us feel comfortable. But that wasn't their style. So, was it just another element of a game?

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Stories about  Healing from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche