Who is packing your parachute?

Who is packing your parachute? Vietnam was walking inglorious war. Inglorious-it - disgraceful, but it does not diminish the abusive deeds of our men and women in uniform, nor detract from the heroism of Soviet children in Afghanistan, a mistake the party leadership with the introduction of troops into that breakaway country. Aggression perpetrated by the Government, and the blood pours soldier. On both sides. And the heroism of the soldiers committed the two warring parties. And the losses borne by both sides. And mothers are crying on both sides of the front. War, whether it was wrong.

 Who is packing your parachute?
 This parable-profit rounds of all the websites USA. She nobody left untouched. Including me. And I wanted to share his thoughts with readers. She wanted to with them to reflect on the answer to the question: "Who is packing your parachute?".

Naval Aviation Pilot Richard Plum made already 75 combat missions when his combat vehicle "Kitty Hawk" was hit by a shell surface-to-air missile over the rice fields of Vietnam. Officer bailed and landed straight into the hands of the Vietnamese - at 6 years of captivity in communist prisons.

The war is over, and Richard Plum, alive and unharmed, and returned to their homeland. He began to teach at the military academy. I can only imagine what dreams I dreamed of this man, surviving the war and six years of the nightmare of military camps. As it corrodes are these memories. How strange and frightening it was for him from the pastoral images of close-cropped lawns without barbed wire. As he bolted from peacefully walking dogs on leashes on these bobbed lawn. How painful it fit into civilian life.
One day, Richard and his wife went to a restaurant to eat. The waiter came up to them to accept the order, and suddenly stared at Richard, and, smiling, said:
"But you - downed in Vietnam pilot flame with the USS Kitty Hawk."
"Dost thou know me?" - Asked a surprised Richard Plum.
"I'm the one who packed your parachute," - smiling replied the waiter.

What happened to the soul of the pilot at the moment, only he knows!
Rising from his chair, a former pilot and former prisoner stretched out his hand to the waiter:
"Sailor, you saved my life, and I have not said thank you. If it were not for you, I would not be long for this world. Take my words of gratitude, the sailor. "

That meeting turned into the minds of many, Richard. Duma of the people, put our parachutes, would not release him. He has not yet recover from the war, yet the horrors of captivity izbyvshemu had to have had another disease - disease of remorse and shame. He is a white stone, marine pilot, the elite U.S. Naval Aviation and simple sailor, who somewhere in the belly of the aircraft carrier close neatly and carefully packing the parachute silk and slings investment material on the table. The sailor, with whom the officer naval aviation was not even visually familiar - too separate caste, too big social difference. The sailor, whose flame is not found on the first turn after his return home, to shake his hand. The sailor, whose name he never tried to find out ...

I'm not a psychologist, but my soul I feel that these thoughts, this feeling of shame and bitter regret for his pride, nebrezhitelnosti, ingratitude, callousness and helped heal flame from the war and captivity. He opened some of the truth. And man alive soul. And he began to carry these ideas to their students at first, then began to lecture about who puts our parachutes, across the country. And resonated in the hearts of people. And the parable, the reality of the parachutes became today one of his favorite parables about the goodness and love in our country. And my favorite, including. I hope that will be and your.

Rights have been a great Ham: a man - not an island. And the bell always rings and you. All we vzaimospleteny sling these parachutes. Me and my mechanic, my car mechanic and parts supplier, his supplier of parts and the assembly line worker, the worker and his optometrist, ophthalmologist and optometrist, the wife of an optometrist, spoiled his mood before work, and her domorabotnitsa, shed coffee on the tablecloth at breakfast. We tied on the planet in such a knot that everyone is both a cause and effect, and the beginning and end, and the problem and its solution. Each of us puts someone's parachutes and vice versa. Reciprocating world. Resiprokalnaya granted. Mobius loop.

As far as I remember my teachers name? How many classmates? How many names medsestrichek, names of doctors, plumbers ... Often flying, I completely forgot the names of pilots and navigators who are responsible for the safety of my flight. Race along with other similar. And if I remembered the name of man who has returned in Leningrad my lost bag with the documents? (And what would have been pleasant to him that after almost 30 years I would have called him and again told her thank you!) Do you remember, dear readers, the names of those laid your parachute?

In America is made to send each other jokes, pictures, other network nonsense. The epidemic's start, already developed into a pandemic, but Plum asks me, and how the water looks: a lot Do you write after this pinned on my own? Wrote there anything at all? How many times a day you say one more personal thanks to his parachute packer?

Once upon a time in my time in Russia joke: "Do not argue with someone who is packing your chute." Richard Plum offers us another truth-moral: find someone who puts your parachute, find him, catch him and tell him the simple thank you. Tell him personally from him. It was a thank you? Malo. Tell me another one. Please. Then someone would find, catch and you. Someone will send you funny with a personal postscript. Someone will remember about your birthday. Someone asks about the health of children. And you answered - ask him. And then all the parachutes will be disclosed without misfires. World without misfires. Planet without misfires.

I pay for my little stow your parachute. Not by bread alone. I'm waiting on you more and personal thanks. I need it. And you do a little of your salary for the cleansing of my plumbing. Do you want me to be caught up with you on the stairs and once again thank you. Personally. That's you. We all really miss this personal thank you. But we differ from animals, and then say: "Good word, and the cat pleased. Let them not be sorry. Let's make a mess of how much in vain to right and left, as tipsy little merchant. It is never too much, and always appropriate for the laying of our parachutes. A live, oh, how terrible! How terrible to live!

We talk about disunity of the modern world, of man's loneliness in the urban jungles, on the desolation of the urban world, an extreme solipsism of the present generation of social stratification, the loss of Kipling "we are of one blood - you and me." And Richard Plum shows us a different picture: we - parashyutoukladchiki each other. If the bell rings for the murdered child in the Gaza Strip, it will ring and you. If the rocket landed in the wall of a hospital in Ashdod, it landed on you. ("The first bullet, but the first bullet, but the first bullet, brothers and wounded me." And second, whether Spock, you will catch). We - parts of one self-contained chain reaction. It depends on us to make this reaction proceed for the benefit of each other. You - my thanks to me, I - my thanks to him, he - my thanks to the other ...