by Amy Newmark
When I arrived in his office, I was eager to hear what he had to say. He started asking me questions about my performance. He queried me about each landing, forcing me to judge each one and explain what I’d done wrong. I thought I was done sweating bullets back in the airplane, but I was wrong.
When he’d wrung me out like a sponge, he finally offered his opinion, evaluating my performance as “superb.” I nearly fainted.
There would be many more hoops to jump through before an FAA examiner would sign me off as a pilot. When that day finally came, and I wound up flying home in a star-filled sky, I marveled at the depths of my despair years earlier when I was told to write a list of goals.
I wasn’t done, though. Once I’d racked up enough hours, I applied to become an Angel Flight pilot. That entailed more testing, which, as a Top Gun pilot, I also passed. The missions I would subsequently fly dealt with transporting a variety of deaf children to and from special camps in the mountains.
Were it not for the despair and pain that drove me back into the office of that counselor, I am sure I never would have sat down and made a list of one hundred life goals. My depression would have kept me from taking the simplest of steps in any direction. However, from the deepest emotional hole I had ever found myself in, I have soared to 17,000 feet in a glider, turned corkscrews through the air in a home-built RV-4 at 200 knots, and helped deaf kids have the time of their lives.
— Brian Narelle —
The Dancing Rabbi
Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.
~Henri Nouwen
I was curious when my employer smiled after I mentioned we were attending Beit Tikva’s Friday evening service. “The one with Leonard Helman, The Dancing Rabbi?” she asked. Perplexed, I asked what she meant.
“You’ll find out,” she chuckled.
We were new to Santa Fe and looking for a synagogue to join, so off we went. After the service, we chatted with a lovely couple named Jerry and Alison. Jerry mentioned that he had just joined the choir.
“A choir? How lovely. I sing as well,” I replied.
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Jerry brought me over to meet the cantor.
“Cantor… she sings!” he announced.
“Really?” the cantor said. Leading me across the room, he introduced me to the rabbi.
“Rabbi… she sings!”
With twinkling eyes, the rabbi looked me over and said, “So? What do you sing?”
“Lots of things,” I countered, smiling. “What do you dance?”
Breaking into a broad grin, the rabbi shouted, “Vanessie’s!” And before we knew what was happening, Charles and I felt hands beneath our elbows as a small group gathered around us and swept us into the parking lot with instructions to “Follow us!” Trailing our newfound friends, we joined a small caravan of the initiated and drove off to Vanessie’s, the world-famous piano bar we had read about in several tour guides of “Santa Fe, The City Different.”
We were soon made welcome at “the rabbi’s table” close to the piano, but were completely unprepared for what was to happen next. The rabbi took his seat and pulled out a gym bag. In a flash, he switched into tap shoes, a clip-on bowtie and a straw bowler.
“Ready, Rabbi?” Vanessie’s talented piano man inquired as he played a spirited medley of show tunes.
With a nod, Santa Fe’s own Dancing Rabbi rose to his feet and haltingly began shuffling toward the center of the room. It was only then that I noticed the cane hooked around his arm.
“It takes him a little bit to get his motor revved up,” Jerry whispered in my ear. “He has advanced Parkinson’s, you know.”
I hadn’t known and was transfixed as the familiar dance tunes propelled the stilted figure forward. Soon, he was tap dancing his way from table to table, joyously swinging his cane and tipping his bowler to the ladies. Then, pulling one laughing woman after another to her feet, he flitted across the room, changing partners constantly. After a few seconds, he’d pull each woman’s companion to his feet and hand his partner over to take it from there as he moved on.
In short order, everyone was on their feet, just in time for the grand finale as the rabbi distributed small American flags, and the piano man launched into spirited renditions of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The rabbi gleefully led the sing-along, as the crowd around him joined in with gusto, waving their flags in time to the music.
It was only later that I learned how this once brilliant lawyer and world-renowned Gold Life Master bridge player had switched careers to serve both God and his community. When stricken with Parkinson’s, he simply took it in stride, waking at the crack of dawn to work with his physical therapists at the hospital, confer with his doctors, and then “do rounds” of his own in the wards. Everyone who needed a shoulder to cry on, a hug, or a good laugh received a visit before he’d leave for his office to attend to his rabbinical duties. Yet, the best was always reserved for Friday nights, when he’d deliver the Sabbath sermon and then head off to lead the songfest at Vanessie’s. His spirit was both indomitable and infectious. There was no feeling down in Leonard Helman’s presence.
Nowhere else, before or since, did we ever welcome the Sabbath with such unabashed joy. That first Friday evening with our beloved Dancing Rabbi was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. We joined the synagogue, and I joined the choir and the board. The Beit Tikva congregation became our family, and Leonard — our wise uncle. It was unquestionably a synagogue reflecting its rabbi’s singular standing as “the rabbi different” in “the city different.”
As a choir member, I was seated behind him on the bema during the Jewish High Holy Days while he read at breakneck speed from the Torah. I was thrilled as he rattled off the names of the Patriarchs — Moses’s sister Miriam included. Later, I told him how thrilling it had been to hear him call out her name.
“Rabbi, you read so quickly, without notes. How extraordinary to learn that Miriam — a woman — is actually recognized as a Patriarch in the Torah! I had never heard that before.”
With the same twinkle in his eyes as the evening we met, he confessed, “Well, I sometimes improvise. Just because the scribes forgot to mention Miriam doesn’t mean that I have to!”
So, Leonard bent the rules a little. Nobody seemed to mind, and his universal view of worship was recognized by everyone who encountered him, earning him the distinction of becoming New Mexico’s honorary legislative chaplain.
It was always an honor to be in his company. One such occasion was when he invited us to join him for Christmas Eve Mass at Santa Fe’s towering Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi downtown. Upon seeing the rabbi enter the magnificent sanctuary, Santa Fe’s bishop rushed to shake his hand and usher him and his entire entourage to front-row seats. I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I was in the company of a singular human being… a man admired by all.
We left Santa Fe after only eighteen months due to business obligations. Between tears, I told Leonard that he would forever be my rabbi, as nobody else could ever fill his shoes — stretched wide by compassion, humor, courage, spirit and… tapping!
— Sue Ross —
Big Red Divorce Boots
Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.
~Marilyn Monroe
My divorce day had finally arrived. After a painful two-year separation that included several reconciliation attempts, our divorce was a reality.
I thought my ex-husband and I had done everything the “right way.” We met when we were in high school, but didn’t date until he was a third-year medical student. We waited to get married until he was well established in his residency and had our first child only after he was in a successful practice and we were financially stable. I loved my husband, our children, and our life.
In my mind, we had the perfect life, and nothing would ever change our storybook existence. I was insufferably self-ri
ghteous, smugly believing my place in Utopia was secured because of my own decisions and actions.
Pride goeth before a fall, and the plummet from my self-created pedestal was far and hard. My husband’s unexpected request for a divorce left me shaken to the core. An unwanted and painful epiphany emerged through the darkness — life wasn’t as simple as I thought. The good guy doesn’t always win, and sometimes the “happily ever after” we assume is our rightful destiny takes a very unexpected turn. People are fallible, and even when we think we’ve done everything according to the book, things may go terribly awry.
Shame and embarrassment at being the first amongst my friends to get a divorce led me to create a wall of silence and loneliness. I shared my situation with very few people. Even when I did, I presented a façade, a lie that said I was handling things well. My inability to admit weakness and what I perceived as failure left me alone on my divorce day. If this had been the movies, I would have had a posse of friends cheering me up at a margarita-laden lunch. But since this wasn’t Sex and the City, I headed to the mall alone.
I wasn’t normally a shopper, but the need to be among people who didn’t know me and wouldn’t ask questions drew me to the windowless, impersonal structure. I wandered around the mall obsessing about marriage regrets and consumed with worry about the future. The stores and the people I passed were merely a backdrop for my personal movie of sadness. I was heartbroken and couldn’t imagine how I was going to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. But, for the sake of my young daughters, I knew I had to find a way out of the dark.
Through my self-pity, a vision of bright red and black cowboy boots appeared. As if they were on a pedestal, surrounded by an unearthly glow, the boots beckoned me. Never in my life had I even thought about wearing cowboy boots, yet I heard a voice seeming to come from my mouth directing the salesclerk: “Size ten, please.” As I coaxed my long, city-girl feet into the unfamiliar feel of the boots, I sensed the possibility of novel adventures. These buttery soft, brightly-colored leather boots were the symbol of a new beginning, a different life. I walked around the shoe-store floor envisioning a future that included swing dancing in the arms of a tall, dark cowboy, dressing in clothes that didn’t involve elastic waists, and experiencing the world in a way I’d been shielded from in my previously insulated life.
These buttery soft, brightly-colored leather boots were the symbol of a new beginning.
Absurd as it sounds, those boots were the catalyst for a transition from the life of a suburban, married mother of two to a single mother ready to take on whatever challenges were surely awaiting. I felt empowered. My mopey shuffling turned to confident strutting in those big, red boots. My 5’10” height became elevated to an Amazonian, six-foot level of strength. Floating out of the store with a big box of boots in my arms, I was poorer financially, but rich with feelings of renewal and possibility.
I wore the red cowboy boots almost constantly for the next year, designing outfits around them and even dancing the Country Two Step with a tall, dark cowboy. Fondly referring to it as my “Western Mommy” stage, my daughters remember hearing me walk down the hall of their preschool, knowing it was their mommy approaching by the “stomping” noise of the boots.
I like to think that my little girls felt safer when they heard my sure-footed, cowboy-boot stride. Their emotional security was dependent on me, and they needed to know their mom was strong enough to take care of them. We were still a family, and despite the changes, I was determined we wouldn’t be broken.
Before long, I was able to put my magical boots farther back in the closet. Soon, I stopped wearing them all together. I was healing, as if the big, red cowboy boots’ power had created courage in me, and I was moving forward bravely.
Over twenty years and many closet purges later, the magical boots still reside in my closet. They represent strength and independence, and the decision not to be a victim of sadness and bitterness but to take charge and move forward. The red boots were my touchstone, my talisman, as I became stronger than I imagined possible. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I had the power all along; I just needed my own version of her shiny red shoes to discover it.
— Diane Morrow-Kondos —
Never Give Up on Your Dreams
Let me tell you the secret that has led to my goal.
My strength lies solely on my tenacity.
~Louis Pasteur
My dream in high school was to live in a big city and be an international marketing executive. After that, I would settle down with a wonderful husband and raise a family. I was a high achiever in high school and was well liked. The world was my oyster. Why couldn’t I have it all? If I worked hard and stayed focused, it should work. Unfortunately, this dream was demolished in April of my senior year in high school.
April 16, 1978 was the first day I can remember after emerging from my fourteen-day coma. I had been hit by a car speeding at fifty miles per hour while I was crossing the street. I had two shattered legs, a broken pelvis and fractured skull. My eyes were skewed to the right — an indication of bleeding within the brain cavity and a severe coma.
My parents were worried that I might be paralyzed and spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair. But the reality of the situation was far worse. My rating on the coma scale was a 4 on a 3–15 scale, with 3 being the worst. This meant that even if I survived, I could have permanent brain damage.
After being released from intensive care, I was moved to a regular hospital room. Even though I was now awake, my neurosurgeon did not give my parents much hope that I’d be able to do much more than take care of myself. Plus, I would probably have a permanent limp. But at least I was awake, which meant it was a good day.
I stayed in the hospital for two months with my left leg in traction. Once my left femur had a long rod in it to hold it together, I only had breaks below my knee, so they let me out of the hospital with crutches. Whereas I hadn’t felt any pain when I was in traction due to the aftereffects of my coma, the real pain started when I tried to walk again.
Soon after I got out of the hospital in June, I was valedictorian at my high-school graduation. I hobbled onto the stage with my crutches and note cards and started my speech. “Always remember the simple things in life. Enjoy life,” I told the audience. “Everyone here is alive. Always remember how good life is.” I received a standing ovation after my speech, and it was the start of my long journey back.
I was scheduled to start at State University of New York in September of that year. When my tutor had come to the hospital so I could finish my English class and graduate from high school, she rated my overall cognition at the level of a twelve-year-old. I looked normal, but my mind was in turmoil. There had been no therapy for my injured brain. I could pick up a book and verbalize the words, but I didn’t understand what they meant unless I was reading a book for an elementary-school student.
The old Carol (pre-coma) was kind, had a 3.97 GPA in high school, was never stressed, had a lot of friends, and was very focused. The new Carol (post-coma) was still nice, but was always stressed, got headaches, slept a lot, fought off depression, and found it hard to remain focused. My personality was different than it had been. Life had been turned upside down, and my old dreams were a thing of the past.
College was enormously difficult. I fought short-term memory deficits and cognitive issues all the way, but I eventually taught myself how to learn again. Graduate school was even harder, but I made it through with a lot of effort. Although my neurosurgeon had told my parents that I probably wouldn’t be able to go to college, I earned one bachelor’s degree and two master’s degrees. I beat the odds.
When I started working in San Francisco, I had earned my degrees, but I fell a bit short in knowing how to put it all together and work in a business where one had to respond rapidly. Everything wasn’t as organized as it had been in college, and this was the real world — a world in which I needed to figure out how to excel.
Although my previously shatte
red legs left me with arthritis in my knees, I did not have a permanent limp. The greatest trouble, however, was with my memory. I was forgetting about many of the tasks I had been asked to complete. And even when I did remember to get some information from a given source, I’d forget what I had just learned ten minutes after I retrieved it. I felt the same as I had during my first year in college because I couldn’t seem to remember a thing.
Depression came back with the memory failure, but this time it was different. I was more in control now; I knew where I had to go and was closer to getting there, but I just didn’t know the route.
Over time, I came up with an effective method to recall and retain new information. At work, I carried a pen and pad with me whenever I went to speak with anyone on a business issue. If I wrote things down, I could remember what was discussed. I still do that today, and it works.
I have found that what I have been through sets me apart from others. I’ve experienced an awakening by way of a deep sleep. I don’t take things for granted, and I have learned that I can do just about anything I choose to do. My goals are realistic, yet high enough to motivate me to reach them. They are truly an essential part of me, of my life, for they are the means to furthering myself, to growing and learning and strengthening myself.
I’ve been successful in my career as a senior financial analyst, operations manager, and finance manager. After I met my husband, I no longer wanted to travel the world as an international marketing executive. But I didn’t give up on my dreams; I just altered them a little. Today, I work at a university and live in the East Bay area of San Francisco with my husband and three teenage daughters.
I would be a different person today if my accident had never happened, and I’m thankful for what I have accomplished and who I am. I have a wonderful family and a professional life I’m proud of. I discovered that even if your initial dreams are disrupted by something unexpected, success is still possible. Never give up on your dreams.