FADE IN:

Right now, I’m in the midst of reading Dan Millman’s “Way of The Peaceful Warrior” which is an extremely inspiring story about personal transformation.  Last night, a specific passage I read really stood out for me and I thought had some great synchronicity with a lot of the messages I’ve been trying to send with this blog.

At a point when the protagonist it as his weakest, someone shares this story with him about a father and son in Japan…

*             *             *

An old man and his son worked a small farm, with only one horse to pull the plow.  One day that horse ran away.

“How terrible,” sympathized the farmer’s neighbors.  “What bad luck,”  They said.

“Who knows whether it’s good or bad luck,” the farmer replied.

One week later that horse returned to the farm from the mountains, leading five wild horses right into their barn.

“What wonderful luck!”  The farmer’s neighbors said.

“Good luck?  Bad luck?  Who knows,” replied the farmer.

The next day, his son, trying to tame one of the wild horses, fell and shattered his leg.

“How terrible, what bad luck!”  His neighbors said.

“Bad luck, good luck?”  The farmer again replied.

The next week the army came to all the farms — taking the young men for war.  The farmer’s son was of no use to them — so he was spared.

“Good?  Bad?”

After I read this story I had to place the book down for a couple minutes and really reflect on this message.  For me, I think it’s saying that life is really what we choose to make of it.  It’s not what happens to us that’s necessarily good or bad, but our reaction to those events that is under our control.

Again, it’s a little reminder that everything happens for a reason — but we get to be the one that decides what that reason is.  Our lessons are our own.

Posted in Inspiring Stories

It was a Friday in the middle of this past June.  Just another day like any other.   It was 9:30 in the morning and it was already hot.  I was rushing out of my apartment and to my car — headed to work.  As I was striding to the parking lot I had a million things on my mind, a list of tasks that needed to be completed that day and what lay ahead for the upcoming weekend (local bars Friday, friend’s house for a party Saturday, and would definitely get some writing in that Sunday).  It was jam packed, and the next week would be more of the same — I like to be busy.

As I made my way into the parking lot there was a collection of landscapers taking a break from work.  They were talking and laughing loudly — I said hello and commented on their conversation, we shared a quick laugh and they told me to have a good day, I said the same thing back, never breaking stride towards my car.

At the time I’m positive we were the only people in that parking lot.

I got to my car, tossed my gym bag, sneakers, and dry cleaning bag into the backseat, backpack into the front.  Hopped into the driver’s seat, plugged in the ipod, set to shuffle, some, random loud hip-hop song came on, turned my volume up.  I glanced into the rearview — nothing. Put the car in reverse and brought it backward — fast (hey, I’m not proud of it).

I turned the wheel hard.   Standing right there, literally inches from my driver’s side door was an elderly woman.   I had come that close to backing my car right into her.  I gasped as I looked out the window.  She was frozen, as was I — the reality struck both of us — I had come so very close to seriously hurting her, maybe killing her.  I felt horrible, I rolled down my window, peeled off my sunglasses and looked into her eyes.  They were a rich blue, and very gentle.  “I almost backed right into you,” I stammered, “I swear I didn’t see you, I’m so sorry.   Are you okay?”

“I am,” she said, then she asked, “Are you okay?”  I remember thinking to myself, ‘I almost killed this woman, and she wants to know if I’m okay?!’  Seriously?  We live in Bergen County lady, people aren’t that nice up here!  I was puzzled, and I looked up at her, “I think so, I think I am.”  I glanced past her at the landscapers — they weren’t more than twenty-five feet away and they were still laughing and carrying on their conversation as if nothing had changed.  Shouldn’t their attention be on us?  Didn’t they just see what almost happened?

I looked back at the woman, again full of sincere shock — she could see it.  “I was going too fast, I’m really so sorry.”  She looked down at me, fixing those blue eyes on mine, and then, I remember this vividly…my arm was on the windowsill.  She gently placed her hand on my arm, and I felt her fingers sink in softly — they were very warm.

“It’s okay.   You need to slow down though.”  That’s what she said to me.  I looked up at her, “I know, you’re right, I do.”  She smiled softly — it was eerie because it was so knowing.  She nodded and released my arm — slowly backing away from the car, and I watched her walk away.  She was fine, care free.  She’d already made peace with the incident that could’ve ended her life.  I sat there and kept the car in that place for several more moments, thinking about how awful I’d feel if I had hurt that woman, or worse.

I finally got myself on the way to work, thinking about her and what I had almost done the whole way up.  It stuck with me for a few days and I drove a lot slower during that time, more conscious of pedestrians than ever before.  I took her message to heart, at least I thought I did.

In the coming months my life would become more complicated than I ever remember it before.  I would be pulled in so many different directions, chasing down and worrying about so many things simultaneously it felt impossible to keep up — everything was moving SO FAST.  My heart, my mind, the whole world was racing. All of the inner transformational work I’d done up until that point in the year was forgotten, abandoned even.

In the midst of it, I’ve thought often about this woman.  I was hoping we would cross paths again.  Makes sense that we would, it’s a garden apartment community so she must live here, she was coming from the same direction, the same courtyard as my own home.  I remember her face vividly, and I’m sure she’d remember me, yet I’ve never seen her again.

Looking back on it, was there a deeper message she was trying to convey?   The way she looked at me was from a place of absolute recognition, like she innately knew me, who I was and the challenges that would lie ahead.   I feel like she was trying to offer me some very valuable advice, and not just about how I should handle my civic.

In retrospect, I should’ve listened to her.  But it’s okay.  Because the great thing about good advice is that it’s always good, no matter when you choose to accept it in your life…and it will always be there.

Posted in Inspiring Stories

No matter whether it is a difficult time or a blissful one, I often find myself thinking of my grandparents — Amelia and Anthony.

At the age of 6, an ocean-liner called ‘The Patria’ brought Anthony into America through Ellis Island.  His friends would call him “Breeze.”

Amelia lost her mother when she was  young and seemingly became one overnight, caring for her father, brothers and sisters.

The universe would make them neighbors.  The first time they set eyes on each other, Amelia was carrying boxes into her new home.  Anthony spotted her, smiled (he had a great one) and remarked, “gee, those boxes look heavy.”

She shot him a dirty look, but giggled (she had a great one).  He courted her, and in 1941 they were married.  4 months later, she’d lose him to World War II.  There he’d serve bravely for 4 years while she waited — their love for each other passing in letters that crossed the Atlantic.   He’d lead men on the beaches of Normandy, would take shrapnel to the skull and be brought to death’s edge.   But he would fight his way back and return to her.

It would simplify things to say that they lived an “ordinary” suburban life — I know it to be the contrary.  They raised my Father and Aunt in the same town I would someday be raised in.  They were both looked at as leaders of their friends, neighbors, and family.  When anyone needed anything, they were there — especially Anthony.  Sometimes these very same people that he aided would later hurt him.  Anthony remained resolute with his love for others — especially Amelia.  She enjoyed him.

When I came into this world I was met with the radiance of their love, enthusiasm and encouragement.  I am an only child, and spent entire summers at their apartment while my parents worked.  Most kids might dread this scenario but I knew to cherish it, even then.  As an only child you spend a lot of time alone with your imagination, creating a wealth of adventure within yourself to discover and explore.  They weren’t old-fashioned or set-in-their ways with me — they didn’t ask me to “be like other kids.”  Amelia asked me to draw pictures of dinosaurs for her, Anthony took me to buy comic books and encouraged me to read stories.  I still remember the summer we read Frankenstein together.  They fed my imagination with curiosity and wonder — whether it was dinosaurs, monsters,  and of course…movies.

Amelia’s hearing was fading, yet she seemed to hang on every word I had to say.  I’d sit across from her at their little dining room table and we’d share words and time with each other.  She’d smile and laugh (did I mention how warm her laugh was?) She loved to tell her own stories, with such passion and fervor.   Everything she was seemed to go into each story she shared, you could feel it, as if she were reliving it and you were there beside her.

Anthony loved to take walks, didn’t matter where.  And I loved to go with him.  I loved the smell of his pipe and the way he’d hum songs he made up in his mind.   He was a tough, strong, but sensitive man.  He was a leader throughout his life — no matter the stage.   I know to this day that when I was with him, he felt peace, because I did too.  I still do when I think of him to this very day.  It flows through me as I write this like a strong river.

One winter when I was 12 I was blindsided playing basketball, and when I hit the ground I fell on my ankle — breaking it.  There’s nothing more discouraging to a 12 year old boy then learning that you can’t run around  for a few months.  I saw this time on crutches as a curse.

For those cold months, every day after school, Anthony would come get me and bring me back to my house.  It would be about 3 pm and my mother wouldn’t be home until 5.  Two hours was almost always enough time for us to watch a movie.  He let me pick my favorites to show to him — Robin Hood, Terminator 2, Dick Tracy, Batman, Backdraft.  It was much more than silence that we shared during each movie.   I’d watch his reactions during my favorite scenes.  He’d always sit in the same spot on the couch underneath orange lamp-light, stoic and attentive.  Afterward we’d talk about it, and what he liked in each film.

By April, I was back on my two feet.  One morning, Anthony was on the golf course, like many other mornings.  His heart would seize up on him and I would never see him alive again.  The feeling of loss was incredible, like a piece of me had been ripped away.  On the silent drive to their apartment we stopped at a traffic light.   My mother broke the silence,  somehow able to see what tremendous gift the universe had given to her son.  Through her own tears, she boldly enlightened me that the reason I broke my ankle was so I could spend that time with him before he died.  She was right, I knew it then and I know it now, I can feel it in my very bones.

To this day I think that my favorite movies are the ones I feel he would’ve enjoyed.  He loved epics, “good stories,” as he called them.  He’s still there with me whenever I see a great film, and he’s there when I’ve made my own — and he always will be.  I think sometimes while I’m writing whether or not he’d be proud of the story I’m sharing.  It’s what guides me and my artistic conscience.  He helps me follow my bliss.

And Amelia…she would live on without him.  Instead of growing bitter or angry about the way things turned out, she instead chose to look back on the 50 years they had together for what it was — bliss.  She lived in the moment, she enjoyed looking out the window and hearing about the people she loved, especially when they were doing well.  Each time I left her apartment I would be able to look up into the window and see her smiling and waving down at me.   She took her time, she enjoyed people, sharing stories with perfect strangers.

In her last few years I told her I was going to write a novel.  I was 16 and she could’ve diminished my goal.  She did the opposite.  I asked her for the love letters from the War, and she shared them with me.  Each one Anthony wrote to her he started with “Dear Kiddo,” just like Bogart in Casablanca.  The love between them radiated off of each page.  In each letter he reminded her not to worry, he hid the horrors he was seeing from her, and instead focused his energy and her attention on the things happening with her back at home.   In a time of cell phones and email I was struck by the length between letters — sometimes months without hearing from each other, every day she wouldn’t know if he was alive or dead until another letter came in.

She would pass away in February of 2003.  Immediately upon her death the lesson of her life was very clear to me.  She could’ve been very angry about how a lot of her life turned out, but she never was.   She embraced how difficult life could be and cherished it none the less.  When she died I know in my heart there were no regrets that went with her.  She was happy with her life, the people in it, the decisions she made.  Real happiness takes courage, above all else.

If you ever sit down and think about all of the things that have to happen for your life to turn out the way it is, for you to even be here the way you are, I promise you’ll see that it’s all too much for random chance and coincidence.   And those that love us the most are a part of our journey not only while they are in our lives, but after they’ve passed on as well.

Amelia and Anthony have been gone from this world for a long time now, but I continue to learn lessons from them everyday and I imagine that I will continue to as I proceed on my own journey and in the pursuit of my own bliss.

I thank you for taking this time to read about my grandparents and I hope you enjoyed what I could share from their shared journey.  I encourage you to think about the people that are or have contributed to your bliss throughout your life.  How are you honoring them?  It’s a question I ask myself all the time.

They are not here by chance, it’s not a mistake your life has been touched by them.  Everything happens for a reason…

Posted in Inspiring Stories

I first read this story in a book called Spontaneous Evolution:  Our Positive Future and How to Get There, which focused on the idea that we were, as species, capable of altering the trajectory of our future through the consciousness we all share.

This true story fell towards the end of the book and had a huge impact on me.  It really shows that it is NEVER too late to change and that we are all capable of good if we choose to be.

*               *               *

One sunny Sunday morning in June 1991, Cantor Michael Weisser and his wife, Julie, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes in the kitchen of their new home in Lincoln, Nebraska, were talking and laughing with a friend when the phone rang.

Michael, who answered with his usual warmth, heard a harsh and hateful voice say slowly and loudly: “You will be sorry you ever moved into that house, Jew boy!” Then the line went dead.

Two days later, the Weissers received a thick brown packet in the mail with a card on top that read, “The KKK is watching you, Scum.” The stack of flyers and brochures included ugly caricatures of Jews, Blacks and “Race Traitors” being shot and hung, and spelled out other threatening messages, including “Your time is up!” and “The Holohoax was nothing compared to what’s going to happen to you.”

The Weissers called the police, who said the hate mail looked like the work of Larry Trapp, who was the state leader, known as the “Grand Dragon” of the Ku Klux Klan. Also an avowed Nazi, Trapp was suspected of leading skinheads and Klansmen who had been terrorizing black, Vietnamese and Jewish families in Nebraska and Iowa.

“He’s dangerous,” the police warned. “We know he makes explosives.” They advised the Weissers to keep their doors locked and call if they received any unlabeled packages–just in case Trapp sent a letter bomb.

Although Trapp, forty-four, was diabetic and in a wheelchair, he was a major Midwestern link in the national white supremacist movement. He was, in fact, responsible for the fire-bombings of several African-Americans” homes around Lincoln and for what he called “Operation Gooks,” the burning of the Indochinese Refugee Assistance Center in Omaha. At the time, he was making plans to bomb B’nai Jeshuran, the synagogue where Weisser was the spiritual leader.

Trapp lived alone on the southwest side of Lincoln in a cramped one-room apartment. On one wall he kept a giant Nazi flag and a double-life-size picture of Hitler. Next to these hung his white cotton Klan robe with its red belt and hood. He kept an arsenal of assault rifles, pistols and shotguns within reach in case his perceived “enemies” came crashing through his door.

After the hate mail, Julie Weisser began to wonder about Trapp, who had gone public to recruit new members of the Klan. She was struck by how lonely he must be, how isolated in all his hatred. She found out where he lived and sometimes would drive past his apartment complex. While she felt infuriated and revolted by him, she was also intrigued by how he could become so evil. She told Michael she had an idea: She was going to send Trapp a letter every day, along with a passage from Proverbs–her favorite book of the Bible–one that talks about how to treat your fellow man and conduct your life.

Michael liked the idea, but didn’t want Julie to sign her name. And friends were horrified, warning that Trapp was crazy and violent and might try to kill her.

“He’s the one who does things anonymously,” Julie responded. “I won’t do that.” She held off on her plan, but later on, when Trapp launched a white supremacist series on a local-access cable channel, Michael Weisser was incensed. He called the number for the hotline of the KKK–“the Vigilante Voices of Nebraska”–and listened to Trapp’s harsh voice spewing out a racist diatribe on the answering machine.

Michael called several times just to keep the line busy, but then began to leave his own messages. “Larry,” he said. “Why do you hate me? You don’t even know me, so how can you hate me?”

Another time he said, “Larry, do you know that the first laws Hitler’s Nazis passed were against people like yourself who had physical deformities, physical handicaps? Do you realize you would have been among the first to die under Hitler? Why do you love the Nazis so much?”

Whenever he thought of it, Michael called and left another message. One night, however, he asked Julie, “What will I do if the guy ever picks up the phone?”

“Tell him you want to do something nice for him,” she said: “Tell him you’ll take him to the grocery store or something. Anything to help him. It will catch him totally off guard.”

For weeks, Michael listened to Trapp’s taped invectives denouncing “niggers”, “queers,” “kikes” and “gooks”. Each time, Weisser would reply with a message of his own.

One day, just after Michael said, “Larry, when you give up hating, a world of love is waiting for you,” Trapp, who was feeling increasingly annoyed by the calls, picked up the phone and shouted, “What the—-do you want?”

I just want to talk to you,” said Michael.

“Why the—-are you harassing me? Stop harassing me!”

“I don’t want to harass you, Larry,” Michael said. “I just want to talk to you.”

“I know your voice. You black by any chance?”

“No, I’m Jewish.”

“You are harassing me,” said Trapp. “What do you want? Make it quick.”

Michael remembered Julie’s advice. “Well, I was thinking you might need a hand with something, and I wondered if I could help,” he said. “I know you’re in a wheelchair and I thought maybe I could take you to the grocery store or something.”

Trapp couldn’t think of anything to say. Michael listened to the silence. Finally, Trapp cleared his throat and, when he spoke, his voice sounded different.

“That’s okay,” he said. “That’s nice of you, but I”ve got that covered. Thanks anyway. But don’t call this number anymore.”

“Before Trapp could hang up, Michael replied, “I’ll be in touch.”

Michael’s calls were making Trapp feel confused. And a letter he received from a former nurse in Lincoln also affected him. If you give your love to God, “like you gave yourself to the KKK,” she wrote, “he’ll heal you of all that bitterness, hatred and hurt…in ways you won’t believe.”

Then, at a visit to his eye doctor, Trapp felt his wheelchair moving. “I helping you on elevator,” said a young female voice behind him. He asked where she was from. “I from Vietnam,” she said. That evening, he found himself crying as he thought about the scent of the woman’s gardenia perfume, his memories of “Operation Gooks” and his assaults on the Vietnamese community.

“I’m rethinking a few things,” he told Michael in a subsequent phone call. But a few days later he was on TV, shrieking about “kikes” and “half-breeds” and “the Jews’ media.”

Furious, Michael called Trapp, who answered his phone. “It’s clear you’re not rethinking anything at all,” Michael said, demanding an explanation.

In a tremulous voice, Trapp said, “I’m sorry I did that. I’ve been talking like that all of my life….I can’t help it….I’ll apologize.”

That evening, Michael Weisser asked his congregation to include in their prayers someone “who is sick from the illness of bigotry and hatred. Pray that he can be healed, too.” Across town, Lenore Letcher, an African-American woman whom Trapp had terrorized, also prayed for Trapp: “Dear God, let him find you in his heart.”

That same night, the swastika rings Trapp wore on both hands began to sting and itch so much that he pulled them off–something he had never done before. All night, he tossed in his bed, restless, confused and unsettled.

Around dinnertime the next day, the Weissers’ phone rang. “I want to get out,” Trapp said, “but I don’t know how.”

Michael suggested that he and Julie go over to Trapp’s apartment to talk in person and “break bread together.” Trapp hesitated, then finally agreed.

As they were preparing to leave, Julie started running around, looking for a gift, and decided on a silver friendship ring of intertwined strands that Michael never wore.

“Good choice,” said Michael. “I’ve always thought all those strands could represent all the different kinds of people on this earth.” To Julie, it was a symbol of how “somebody’s life can be all twisted up and become very beautiful.”

When the door to Trapp’s apartment creaked open, Michael and Julie saw the bearded Larry Trapp in his wheelchair. An automatic weapon was slung over the doorknob and a Nazi flag hung on the wall. Michael took Trapp’s hand, and Trapp winced as if hit by a jolt of electricity. Then he broke into tears.

He looked down at his two silver swastika rings. “Here,” he said, yanking them off his fingers and putting them in Michael’s hand. “I can’t wear these anymore. Will you take them away?” Michael and Julie looked at each other in stunned silence.

“Larry, we brought you a ring, too,” Julie said, kneeling beside him and sliding the ring onto his finger. Larry began to sob. “I’m so sorry for all the things I’ve done,” he said. Michael and Julie put their arms around Larry and hugged him. Overwhelmed by emotion, they started crying, too.

On November 16, 1991, Trapp resigned from the Klan and soon quit all his other racist organizations. Later, he wrote apologies to the many people he had threatened or abused. “I wasted the first forty years of my life and caused harm to other people,” Larry said. “Now I”ve learned we’re one race and one race only.”

On New Year’s Eve, Trapp learned he had less than a year to live. That night, the Weissers invited him to move into their home, and he did so. They converted their living room into his bedroom. As his health deteriorated, Julie quit her job to care for him. She fed him, waited on him, sometimes all through the night, emptying pans of vomit.

Having a remorseful, dying Klansman in their home was disruptive to the whole family, which included three teenagers, a dog and a cat, but everyone pitched in. Once Trapp said to Julie, “You and Michael are doing for me what my parents should have done. You’re taking care of me.”

On days when Larry was well enough, he listened to speeches by Dr. Rev. Martin Luther King and books on Gandhi and Malcolm X. He also began to listen to books on Judaism and to study the faith in earnest.

On June 5, 1992, Larry Trapp converted to Judaism in ceremonies at B’nai Jeshurun, the very synagogue that he previously had planned to blow up. Three months later, on September 6, 1992, he died in the Weisser home, with Michael and Julie beside him, holding his hands.

At Larry’s funeral, Michael Weisser said, “Those of us who remain behind ask the question, ‘O Lord, what is man? We are like a breath, like a shadow that passes away….’ And yet, somehow, we know there is more to our lives than what first meets the eye.”

Posted in Inspiring Stories

Recently, I caught up with an old friend and we were going back and forth trading stories about the recent holiday.  He shared with me a story that I thought was so uplifting I feel like I should share it with as many people as I can.  It’s about his son who is maybe 7 or 8 years old.  Both my friend and his son asked to remain anonymous, because getting credit for what they did isn’t what the act was about, which to me, makes it all the more inspiring…

For the sake of the story, we’ll call the little boy Chris and his friend Ryan…

*          *          *

Two weeks before Christmas, Chris came home from school with something on his mind.  He went to his father for some clarity.  Apparently he was talking with Ryan, one of his best friends, about how excited he was getting about Christmas.  His friend became sad, so Chris asked him, “what’s wrong?”  Apparently, Ryan doesn’t get many presents at Christmas time, mostly clothes and things he needs for the year, but very few, if any toys.  So Chris went to his Dad and asked him, “Dad, when Santa goes to Ryan’s house, why doesn’t he leave him any toys?”

Now what Chris was too young to understand was that Ryan’s home life was very different from his own.  Ryan’s parents are divorced, he lives with his Mom, who is working two jobs — barely making ends meet.  Chris’ Dad had to come up with something quick to explain the situation and keep Chris’ faith in Santa Claus alive.

He explained to his son that, “See Santa goes to everybody’s house on Christmas, but your Mom and me also give you additional presents on top of what Santa brings.  But Ryan’s Mom can’t afford to give him as many things as your Mom and I are fortunate enough to get you.”

Immediately, Chris became very serious, his mind working extra-hard to come up with a solution.  He looked at his father and proposed, “Well I still have a bunch of gift cards left over from my birthday.  What if I use those to buy extra presents for Ryan?”

His Dad, so moved by his son’s plan responded with, “If you really want to do that then I will match whatever amount of money you have in those gift cards and we’ll buy him presents together.”

Chris had saved around $150 in gift cards so his father held to his word, bringing the total to almost $300.  Just before Christmas they went to some of Ryan’s favorite stores and bought a bunch of video games and toys that Chris knew Ryan would love.  Chris and his father went home and wrapped each of them, labeled them…

To:                        Ryan

From:                  Santa

Early Christmas morning they packed all the presents into two big bags and Chris and his father got in the car.   They drove to Ryan’s house and Chris’ Dad parked the car.  He turned to his son and said, “Alright buddy, this is all you — go ahead.”

So now picture this little boy dragging two bags as big as him, overflowing with presents in shiny wrapping paper, up the front steps.  He got to the top and rang the doorbell.  Ryan opened the door, surprised to see his friend standing there.  He asked Chris, “What are you doing here, it’s Christmas morning?”

Chris looked at him, then looked at the gifts and said, “I think Santa made a mistake.  He left all these presents of yours at my house last night.”

Ryan’s eyes lit up.  He thanked his friend for bringing the gifts over and went inside.  Chris turned around, went down back down the stairs and looked at his father with a big smile.  Before he could get to the car, Ryan’s Mom rushed outside in tears and gave Chris a huge hug, thanking him for what he had done for her son.

“You made his Christmas,” she told him.

*          *        *

Ryan wasn’t the only one that benefited from Chris’ gift.  I think this story and his selflessness are absolutely inspiring.  In my opinion, we all could stand to learn a little something from that little boy.

Posted in Inspiring Stories