This is my official and published apology to Benjamin Hoff, author of The Tao of Pooh. I will explain why this apology is necessary shortly, but suffice it to say that this book brilliantly conveys to those of us in the Western world the core principles of Tao, or “The Way of the Universe.” When I first encountered this book, I reacted much like the Vinegar Tasters. I allowed the bitterness surrounding me to obscure the natural lesson I needed to hear at the time—something that, had I listened to and understood, could have saved me years of unnecessary anguish.
First off, let me confess: I am a Christian, raised in that tradition and still maintaining it. However, over the last several decades, I’ve learned that syncretism isn’t bad at all but part of humanity. It’s perfectly okay—and, in fact, typical—for me as a member of this species to borrow and cherry-pick valuable teachings and practices from many traditions and make them my own. Yes, I can be a meditating Christian. I could, if I so desired, spend my Saturday morning carefully raking a rock garden and then spend my Sunday morning in church. There’s nothing wrong or foolish about this.
So now, let me explain. My senior year of high school, circa 1989, I had just discovered the power of being an agent provocateur—a contrarian, a disruptor. I did everything in my power to disrupt the goings-on in my high school. I had no clear reason why; I was just figuring out my place in the world. I could feign that I had some righteous cause, like protesting the closing of the campus due to concerns for safety in the surrounding neighborhoods, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. I could say that my many pranks were about some higher purpose to bring attention to injustice, but that too would be a fabrication. The best way to describe this is the archetype of James Dean—the Rebel Without a Cause.
With that background, enter The Tao of Pooh. The school district had decided to require all seniors to take a class called “Healthful Living.” I believe the idea was to help young people understand how to be more grounded as they headed off into the dangerous fields that would be their early twenties. Three things happened as a result of this decision:
- The high school principal had to find a teacher for this course.
- Find a book or curriculum to follow.
- Find a classroom and a way to integrate it into the seniors’ schedules.
In our case, these resulted in a recently divorced middle-aged woman who was most likely in a desperate situation and extremely relieved to have picked up this semi-permanent substitute job. I don’t actually know her personal circumstances, but this is what I perceived—take note, this is the recollection from my 17-year-old brain. Her classroom was located in the furthest room from the campus center, in a field, in a temporary building hastily constructed for this purpose. They had to place the classroom at the opposite end of the football field because, although “Healthful Living” was considered a good idea, it was also considered a bad idea to position the classroom in such a way as to potentially disrupt football practice. Finally, the curriculum was settled, and they decided that Benjamin Hoff’s book would be the best choice to help young people, full of angst and worries about the future, to read.
I had carefully crafted my senior schedule to involve as little work as possible. A sad reflection on the state of education in our county was that I could miss most days of school and still graduate. I think the idea of me repeating a grade sent shivers down the spine of our principal, so this was an exercise in getting me through the system, not necessarily teaching me anything. I had an “open” first period, which meant I could come to school late. I had a “teaching assistant” position for second period with our physics teacher, which also meant I didn’t need to show up. Third period was a repeat of Junior English, and fourth period was Senior English. Then I had open fifth and sixth periods. I considered this the perfect schedule for a life of leisure and that of being an amateur miscreant—until the “Healthful Living” requirement was announced. Suddenly, my first period was to be spent in the outer boondocks of the campus, listening to this woman, barely able to pay the rent on her apartment, teach me about how to live. I decided, before I even stepped into the classroom, that this was not going to happen.
I discovered my happy path when we all walked into the room for the first class session—the inaugural group of students exposed to this curriculum. This even prompted the principal to walk clear across campus to attend this ceremonial event. There were around thirty of us, all crammed into a portable classroom, air conditioning already on full blast. The sounds of creaking floorboards and murmuring students could be heard as our new teacher began passing out the textbook. The book had a picture of Winnie the Pooh, holding a balloon, looking wistfully into the sky. The Tao of Pooh. That was it—I knew I had found my just cause. Who gave the school district the right to force me to listen to some Chinese religious teachings? My feigned outrage started immediately, with all the vitriol I could muster. I remember the day when my friend Brian and I were parked in my car out in some fields behind the school, where I concocted my plan. We were reading the first few chapters of this book. Essentially, Mr. Hoff sets out to use the characters in the Hundred Acre Wood to describe some basic tenets of the Way.
I read ahead—not for the purpose of understanding how some of the principles of Taoism could help me—but so that I could be armed with ridicule and contrarian viewpoints. Our instructor had set up a rather Socratic scenario where she would ask questions, and we would respond and engage in discussion about the chapter we were on. I was explaining to my friend Brian exactly why the Owl, pontificating on the correct spelling of the word Tuesday, was an example of how we often miss the important aspects of life because we are too caught up in pretense. I wish I had stopped right there and let that sink in.
You see, I understood the concepts. I was a well-read young man, having devoured every book I could get my hands on. I comprehended what was being taught—but my goal was not enlightenment. My goal was to disrupt the school district’s intention.
That third week was pandemonium. It started that Monday—I was armed to the teeth. When she opened with the first question, that was my moment. I launched into a tirade about being forced into indoctrination. How dare the school push a pacifist religion onto a classroom full of students about to be thrown into a capitalist society? We needed tools to fight, to compete. Not some silly discussion about Cottleston Pies. I fought her every step of the way, and soon enough, the entire classroom was behind me. These students—experts in work avoidance—saw an opening and they took it. They joined in open rebellion. Eventually, our teacher just sat down at her desk, watching her class spiral into chaos.
I was too caught up in my “victory” to notice that she was in tears. I failed to see how devastating this was to her—how hopeful she had been. That she might not only claw her way out of a desperate financial situation but also contribute in some small way to the well-being of society. All of that crumbled beneath the weight of this young sophist who had won over the hearts and minds of an unruly mob.
Toward the end of that week, the situation escalated. There had clearly been a discussion among faculty about what to do with the first period Healthful Living class. I arrived—my usual fifteen minutes late—to find the principal standing outside the modular classroom. He greeted me like someone would greet a stray, unpredictable animal. We had a quick conversation, which he brought to an abrupt halt. He demanded that I stop speaking in class, not participate, not engage at all. I was no longer to interact, not to be called upon, not to volunteer, not to say a word. He left in silence, his abrupt departure meant to emphasize the gravity of the situation.
But he didn’t know me very well.
I walked into class and sat down quietly, glaring at the teacher. My frustration grew. Soon, I had convinced myself that my freedom of speech was under assault. I imagined this was my moment to defend the First Amendment. It wasn’t about skipping a class anymore. It had become a crusade. A fight to ensure that all young people could speak freely about what they were being taught—and why. I would not sit quietly while the machine tried to cram its philosophies down my throat. I would not buy what they were selling.
By the end of that class, I was preparing for a civil war.
The next morning, I arrived uncharacteristically early. I dressed well. I brought a lighter. I dragged a trash can from one of the courtyards and placed it at the entrance to the classroom. As my classmates arrived, I told them of the injustice—the authoritarian regime that had muzzled me. I compared myself to Samuel Adams. And then I announced: I was holding a book burning. I lit my copy of The Tao of Pooh, dropped it in the trash can, and stood proud of my moment of drama.
Now, if you’ve heard me tell this story before—at a cocktail party or a workplace gathering—perhaps you’ve heard a little embellishment. Maybe I said I got the whole class to burn their books. Maybe the whole school. The truth? I got a couple of students to join in. The rest rolled their eyes and walked into class.
Later that day, my parents got a phone call. A meeting was scheduled with the principal to discuss serious concerns: public safety, threats of arson, disturbing the peace. They even mentioned calling the police and fire department. I responded with righteous indignation: “They burned books at Berkeley!” My rhetoric fell flat.
I sat in the office waiting for my parents. When they arrived, I expected them to be furious—which, to be fair, they were. But when the principal explained that I was refusing to accept the curriculum, my mother said, “That’s how I raised him—to stand up for what he believes in. Why is that wrong?” My father made a few jokes about the absurdity of it all, but then things turned serious. He implied that the school was treading on dangerous ground with these accusations. The room went quiet.
To his credit, the principal wanted de-escalation. He had a distraught teacher, parents hinting at legal trouble, and a volatile student on his hands. In a flash of brilliance, he turned to me and said, “Guy, what if I made you a deal?”
He proposed a solution: I could go to the library during first period. Read whatever I wanted. Just don’t show up to class. Don’t engage. Don’t disrupt. In return, he’d give me a passing grade so I could graduate. It was the perfect compromise.
He saw through me.
All I really wanted was to get out of that class. He gave me an out, and I took it. My crusade was over. For the rest of the school year, I didn’t have to show up until third period.
Did I use that time to read in the library? Fat chance.
“The li-brary,” I joked, “is where they bury the lies.”
So here, in this long overdue moment, I offer my sincere apology to Mr. Benjamin Hoff—for burning copies of your book in a desperate bid to prove a point I didn’t even understand. Years later, I came to appreciate what you were trying to teach. I now see the lesson I ignored, one that could have saved me years of anxiety and turmoil.
There is great treasure in a religious philosophy practiced for thousands of years, refined over centuries. The Tao has endured upheaval, war, famine, and reform. It could have been a source of wisdom—if only I had been willing to listen.
And to the teacher in that classroom: I don’t know your name or your story, but I would apologize to you as well. I don’t know what you were facing in your life at that time. But I do know that I can honor the hurt I may have caused by listening now. By being present now. By recognizing the lessons life still offers me, every single day.
Christopher Robin used to leave a sign on his door: Busy, Back Soon. But in a child’s handwriting, it read: Bisy Backson. Hoff used that name to describe the type of person who is always just… busy. Constant motion. Always rushing toward the next goal. Trying to grow up too fast, to conquer the level they’re on so they can move on to the next one.
That was me. Mr. Backson. Missing the point of life entirely—scrambling up an escalator to nowhere.
Hoff tried to teach me. But I burned the book before I got to that chapter.
I’ve read it since. And I now understand—stillness, rest, and simply being are not signs of weakness. They are how you grasp the preciousness of the moment.
How I wish I could go back and relive some of those moments. I would walk to the mailbox with my child—not as a task, but as an adventure. I would be there, truly there, instead of thinking about tomorrow.
If Mr. Hoff were sitting next to me, helping write this post, he would remind me: that’s not how Pooh thinks. Pooh is about what is. He’s not trying to be anything else. He isn’t bothered by the “Couda Bens.”
Pooh instinctively knows the Way.
Master inner peace and self-acceptance—not to become passive or weak, but quite the opposite. To become a still, quiet reservoir of strength that could disarm an entire ideology with a single word. No jumping up and down. No theatrics. Just the calm power of doing nothing.
Sometimes, doing nothing is everything.
If I had the ears to hear and the eyes to see, I might have noticed the opportunity in that classroom. I might have seen what was actually happening. Instead, I played the clown. Tried to be something I wasn’t. And I ended up alone—with an extra hour to sleep in.
So, I’ll leave you with the original song that Pooh would often sing: Cottleston Pie. Special thanks to the writings of A.A. Milne. In this song, we are reminded to embrace our nature, stop comparing ourselves to others, and find wisdom in simplicity:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
Why does a chicken? I don’t know why.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fish can’t whistle and neither can I.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.
After writing this, I discovered that Benjamin Hoff still maintains a personal website. According to what I’ve read there, his original publisher refused to provide him with fan letters or correspondence they received. Knowing that, perhaps I feel just a little better about burning that book.
Regardless, I’m sending him this blog post as a token of my appreciation.
Thank you, Mr. Hoff. I now understand that I won’t lose my capitalist credentials by enjoying peace in my garden. I won’t be burned at the stake for following the Way. I hope your life continues in the spirit of Winnie-the-Pooh—one continuous path of joy and wonder.
As for me? I still can’t be quiet. This fly just can’t bird. I am still that same kid—the outspoken, wannabe intellectual who loves a good debate just as much as a quiet run through the woods.
So I’ll continue down my way—a capitalist path, maybe—but one now interwoven with the peace I’ve found in the early morning stillness. A stillness where I’ve learned, thanks in large part to you, how to think about… nothing.
This is my official and published apology to Benjamin Hoff, the author of a book called “The Tao of Pooh.” I will explain why this apology is necessary here shortly, but suffice to state that this book was a brilliant way to explain to those of us from the Western World the core principles of Tao, or what is called “The Way of the Universe.” When I first encountered this book, I reacted much the same as the Vinegar Tasters. I allowed the bitterness of what was surrounding me to ignore the natural lesson that I needed to hear at the time. Something, that if I were to have listened to and understood could have saved me years of unnecessary anguish.
First off let me confess. I am a Christian and was raised that way and still maintain that religious tradition. However, I have learned over the last several decades that syncretism is not bad at all, but part of humanity. It is perfectly ok and in fact typical for me as a member of this species to borrow and cherry pick valuable teachings and practices from many traditions and make them my own. Yes, I can be a meditating Christian. I could, if I so desired, spend my Saturday morning carefully racking a rock garden and then spending my Sunday morning in church. Nothing wrong with this, and nothing foolish about it either.
So now let me explain. My senior year of high school, circa 1989. I had just recently discovered the power of being an agent provocateur, a contrarian, a disruptor. I did everything in my power to disrupt the going on in my high school. I have no reason why, I was just figuring out my place in the world. I can try to feign that I had some righteous cause, like protesting the closing of the campus due to concerns for safety in the surrounding neighborhoods but that would not be entirely true. I could say that my many pranks were about some higher purpose to bring attention to injustice, but that too would also be a fabrication. The best way to describe this was the archtype of James Dean, the Rebel Without a Cause.
So with that background, enter The Tao of Pooh. The school district had decided at some point to require all seniors to take a class called, healthful living. I believe the idea was to help young people with an understanding of how to be more grounded as they headed off into the dangerous fields that would be their early 20s. Three things happened as a result of this decision. The high school principal had to 1. Find a teacher for this course. 2. Find a book or curricula to follow for this course and 3. Find a classroom and a way to put this into the schedules of the senior class. In our case those three resulted in a recently divorced middle age women who was most likely in a desperate situation and extremely relieved to have picked up this semi-permanent substitute job. I actually do not know her personal circumstances, but this is what I had perceived, so take note of that, this is the recollection from my 17 year old brain. Her classroom was located in the furthest room from the campus center as possible, in a field and in a temporary building hastily constructed for this purpose. They had to put the classroom at the opposite end of the football field, because although the healthful living was considered a good idea, it was also considered a bad idea to position the classroom in such as way as to potentially disrupt football practice. Finally, the curriculum was settled and they all decided that Benjamin Hoff’s book would be a the best choice to help young people, full of angst and worries of the future to read.
Now I had carefully crafted my senior schedule to be as little work as possible. A sad reflection on the state of education in our county was that I could miss most days of school and still graduate. I think the idea of me repeating a grade sent shivers down the spine of our principal, so this was an exercise of getting me through the system and not necessarily teaching me anything. I had an “open” 1st period which meant I could come to school late. I had a “teaching assistant” position for 2nd period for our physics teacher, which also meant that I did not need to show up. 3rd period was a repeat of Junior English and 4th period was Senior English. Then I had an open 5th and 6th period. I considered this the perfect schedule for a life of leisure and that of being an amatuer miscreant. That is until the healthful living requirement was announced. Suddenly, my first period was to be spent in the outer boondocks of the campus listening to this woman, barely able to pay the rent on her apartment, teach me about how to live. I decided, before I even stepped in the classroom, that this was not going to happen.
I discovered my happy path, when we all walked into the room for the first class session, in the first group of students that would be exposed to this curriculum. This even got the principal to walk clear across campus to attend this ceremonial event. There were around thirty of us all crammed into a portable classroom, air conditioning already on full blast. The sounds of creaking floorboards and mumuring students could be heard as our new teacher began passing out the textbook. The book had a picture of Winnie the Pooh, holding a baloon looking wistfully into the sky. The Taoism of Pooh. That was it, I knew that I had found my just cause. Who gave the school district the right to force me to listen to some Chinese religious teachings! My feigned outrage started immediately and with all the vitriol that I could muster. I remember the day when my friend Brian and I were parked in my car out in some fields behind the school where I concocted my plan. We were reading the first few chapters of this book. Essentially, Mr. Hoff sets out to use the characters in the Hundred Acre Wood to describe some basic tenants of the Way.
I read ahead, not for the purpose of understanding how some of the principles of Taoism could help me, but so that I could be armed with ridicule and contrarian viewpoints. Our instructor had set up a rather socratic scenario where she woudl ask questions and we would respond and engage in discussion about the chapter that we were on. I was explaining to my friend Brian just exactly why the Owl pontificating on the correct spelling of the word Tuesday was an example of how we often miss the important aspects of life because we are too caught up in pretense. I wish I would have stopped right there and let that sink in. You see, I understood the concepts. I was a well read young man, having devoured every book I coudl get my hands on. I comprehended what was being taught, but my goal was not enlightenment, but rather the disruption of the school district’s intention.
That third week was pandamonium. It started that monday, I was armed to the teeth. When she opened with teh first question, that was my chance. I launched into a tirade about being forced into indoctrination. How dare the school force a passivist religion on a classroom of people about ready to be sent out as combatants in a capatilist society. We need to fight to win, to compete. We needed real tools for our success, not this silly discussion about colttleston pies. I fought her every step of the way and soon enough the entire classroom was behind me. These students, experts in work avoidance, saw the opening and they took it. They joined with me in open rebellion and pretty soon, our teacher just had to sit down in her corner desk and watch as her class sprialed into chaos. I was too caught up in my victory, to notice that this woman was in tears. I had not noticed how devastating this was to her, how hopeful she was that not only could she claw her way out of a desperate financial situation but play some small part in contributing to teh well being of society. She saw all of this crumbling at the behest of this young sophist, who now had won over the hearts and minds of the unruly mob.
Toward the end that week, the circumstances began to escalate. There had obviously been a discussion about what to do with the 1st period, Healthful Living class. When I came to school, the standard 15 minutes late, the principal was standing outside the modular classroom waiting for me. When I approached him, he greeted me with trepidation, like I was some sort of loose feral cat. We had a quick discussion about what had been going on in the classroom, which he brought to an abrupt hault. He demanded that I cease to interact in the classroom and to keep my mouth shut. I was no longer permitted to speak in class, and I was just to sit there and not participate. I would not be called on, and I would not volunteer anything or make any commentary whatsoever. He left, believing that an abrupt departure would emphasize the gravity of the situation.
He did not know me very well, clearly. I walked in the classroom and sat down quietly all the while glaring at the teacher. I was not happy. My vitriol started to grow and before long, I was convinced that my freedom of speech was being taken from me. I began to imaging that this was my opportunity to stand up for the 1st amendment. This was no longer about getting out of this stupid 1st period class, but about a new crusade to encourage all young people everywhere to speak freely about what they were being taught and why. I was no longer going to sit quietly by while the machine tried to cram their philosopies down my throught. I was not going to buy what they were selling. By the end of the class, I was preparing for a civil war.
The next morning I arrived uncharacteristically early. I was dressed well and made sure I brought a lighter with me in my pocket. I dragged a trash can from one of the courtyards to the front of the modular classroom. As my classmates arrived, I began to tell them of my plight about the injustice of being muzzled by the authoritarian regime that wished to silence all disent. I viewed myself a kin to Samuel Adams standing up for our rights. That is when I announced that I was holding a book burning. I lit my Tao of Pooh book and fire and dropped it into the trashcan, proud of my moment of drama. Now if you have heard me say this story before at a cocktail party, or workplace gathering you might heard a bit of embleishment. I might have said I got the entire class to burn their books, or perhaps the entire school. The reality is that I only got a couple of students to join in. The rest rolled their eyes, and went into to class.
Later that day my parents got a phone call. They were to meet with the principal and myself to discuss a very serious matter concerning public safety and various other charges of disturbing the peace. There were threats made about calling in the police and the fire department to deal with my potential arson. I cried out that they had done this at Berkeley, so why is it ok there and not here? They were not in the mood to hear anymore of my rhetoric. I sat in the office and waited for my parents. When they arrived I was expecting them to be upset, which they were. However, when the principal explain that I was refusing to accept the curricula that was being offered during the 1st period class, my mother express that was how she had raised me. Stand up for what you believe in, why was this wrong? My father kept joking around about the silliness of this situation but the the room got real quiet when my father started to imply that they were on dangerous ground throwing accusations around without basis. The conversation was beginning to escalate.
Much to his credit, the principal was a man that did not like conflict. He wanted to see this situation quickly deescalated. He had a distraught faculty member, parents implying potential litigation and a young firebrand who was unpredictable. In a spark of absolute brillance he looked at me and asked, Guy what if I made you a deal? He then laid out a plan. How about I just go to the library during 1st period and read whatever books I wanted to. Just do not come to class, do not participate and do not bother the other students or the instructor. If I did that, he would grant me an automatic passing grade in the class so that I could graduate as planned. This man saw through my facade with this question. The entire time, I was really just trying to get out of this suddenly imposed course. He gave me an out and he also provided himself with an escape. So I agreed, my crusade was finished and for the rest of the school year I did not have to come to school until 3rd period. You think I took him up on that offer to read in the library? Fat chance. The li – brary is where they Bury the Lies!
So I must need to pause this narrative right here and issue my sincere apology to Mr. Benjamin Hoff for burning a few of the copies of his book to try to win my point that morning. Years later I would come to appreciate what he attempted to outline in the several books he wrote on this subject. I understand now that I should have paid attention because there was a lesson there, that might have saved me decades of handwringing, worry and angst. There is treasure in a religious philosopy that was practices for thousands of years and refined over centuries. A way of life that had been through social upheaval, wars, crusades, famines and everything in between. The Tao, could have been a great source of wisdom for me to pull from later in life, if I woudl have just been willing to listen. I do not know the teacher that was in that classroom, and I do not know her story. However, I would also apologize to her if I could. I do not know what she was actually going through at that time in her life, but perhaps I do not need to dwell on this past but rather live in the present. My restitution for the anguish I may have caused her, I can deal with in the hear and now by listening to others and listen to what life is teaching me now so that I might not miss the bounty I am being given everyday.
Christopher Robbins would leave a sign on his door when he was off to visit the Hundred Acre Wood. That sign would read something like, Busy, Back Soon. However it was in children’s writing and spelled wrong, so it looked more like Bisy Backson. This became the name for the type of people who are always just busy. Busy. Busy. Busy. Runnign around looking at their clocks, in an almost panic that they have not reached their destination yet. Always trying to grow up to fast, speeding through life. Doing everything they can to conquer the level they are on so that they can progress to the next rung on the ladder of life. Well that has been my. Mr. Backson. Missing the entire point of life, while scrambling up a giant escalator to nowhere. Hoff tried to teach me, and I never understood becuase I burned the book before I got to this chapter. However, I have read it since and I know now that stillness, rest and just being are not weakness but rather the way you capture the precious moments. Oh, how I wish I could go back and relive moments and actually be there when they happened. Instead of looking ahead and worrying about tomororw, I would have enjoyed the mometn when my child asked to go to the mailbox with me. What an adventure we would have! Imagine what incredible things we could do and say as we walked down the street to the area where the mailboxes are.
However, Mr. Hoff if he were sitting here next to me helping to write this blog would most likely say that this is not how Pooh thinks. He is more about what is. He is the sort of bear that is not trying to be anything but himself and is nto bothered with those silly creatures called the “Couda Bens.” Pooh instinctively new the way that Taoism was trying to teach people. Master that inner peace and self acceptance not so that you will be passive and weak, no quite the the contrary. You will be a quiet, still resevoir of power that could slay an entire idealogy iwth just a single word. You would not need to jump and down and act histerical about taking another required class but woudl have been fine with doing nothing. Sometimes nothing is the best. Just let things be, let things flow naturally and look for where you might be able to become one with what is already happening. If I had the ears to hear and the eyes to see I might ahve seen the real opportunity in that classroom, I might have noticed what was really happening and how people actually felt. Instead I played the clown, tried to be somethjign that I was not and found myself alone and by myself with an extra hour to sleep in.
Having said this, I will leave you with the original song that Pooh would often sing, that of Cottleson Pie. Special thanks to the wonderful writings of Alan Alexander Milne. In this song we are reminded taht we need to learn to embrace our nature, cease comparing ourselves to others, and discover wisdom in simplicity:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
Why does a chicken, I don’t know why.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fish can’t whistle and neither can I.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.
After writing this, I discovered that Benjamin Hoff has a personal website which has continued to host. From what I understand by reading his postings, the original publisher of his works has refused to provide him with any correspondence or fan letters that they have received. Seeing now that there lies this tension, perhaps, I feel slightly better about burning that book after all! Irregardless, I am going to send this blog to him as a token of my appreciation. Thanks Mr. Hoff. I now know that I am not going to lose my capitalist card by enjoying some quiet peace in my garden. I am not going to be pronounced a heretic and burned at the stake by choosing to follow the Way. I hope you have continued to live as Winnie-the-Pooh and that life has and continues to be one continuous path of joy and wonder. For me, I cannot be quiet. This fly just cannot bird. For I am still that same kid, that outspoken wanna be intellectual that thrives on and enjoyes a spirited debate just as much as a quiet run through a forested trail. So I will continue on my way, my captialist greedy path intermingled with the peach that I have found in the early morning hours where I have learned, with much thanks to you, to enjoy stillness as I strive to think about nothing.
