This I Believe: Life Lessons

by Dan Gediman

  In an instant, I was overwhelmed. I knew just enough about arm flapping to know that it was characteristic of autism. I was confused, panicked, and strangely preoccupied with the fear that I would never play tennis with my son as I had with my father. That one movement took on an immediate, powerful, and symbolic meaning: something was terribly wrong with my boy.

  Koby is sixteen years old now. He lost his language skills, developed epilepsy, and has struggled profoundly. We’ve all struggled, including Koby’s little sister, Emma. But we’ve also adapted. Koby still flaps his arms, and he’s got the thick, muscular upper body one would expect after fourteen years of isometric exercise. He’s a sweet and beautiful boy, and together we’ve been on a journey into frightening and unknown territory. Like any fellow travelers, we’ve learned from each other and grown.

  Koby’s arm flapping means something different to me now. It means that he’s interested, tuned in, and present in the moment.

  That Koby has autism is old news at this point. We’ve grieved, survived, and adapted. We’ve learned to be more patient, to celebrate more modest victories, and to connect with Koby whenever and however we can. Now, when Koby flaps, I’m happy for him and what it means about his engagement, not sickened by what it might mean for his and our futures.

  Same stimulus, different response.

  I believe that this lesson in adaptation has been one of Koby’s greatest gifts to me, to our whole family. I’ve seen it as Emma’s embarrassment over her brother’s condition has faded and been replaced with compassion for those who struggle. And I’ve seen the influence of Koby’s lesson in my own work, helping patients cope with illness and tragedy in their lives—like my patient who can finally celebrate her father’s memory after years of debilitating grief that came with every anniversary of his death.

  Last summer, Koby had a delirious romp in the ocean alongside Emma. Koby flapped his arms wildly in anticipation of each coming wave. Not quite the family beach day we had once envisioned, but a spectacular moment nonetheless.

  Old heartbreak, new appreciation.

  I believe that “reframing a problem” can help to overcome it. But adaptation is not the same as becoming tolerant of or inured to something. Adaptation allows for creative possibilities. Koby has adapted to us and we to him, and through this process our family has discovered deep and meaningful connections with each other—connections we never thought possible.

  As director of the Comprehensive Cancer Support Program, DR. Donald Rosenstein specializes in psychiatric care of patients with cancer. He is also on the board of KEEN—Kids Enjoy Exercise Now—a national recreation program for disabled youth. Dr. Rosenstein and his family live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

  Why Are We Here?

  Dale Long

  Why are we here? This is a timeless question that expresses humanity’s fundamental desire to understand our collective existence and value.

  On a more personal level, why am I here? Many other people seem to have a pretty clear opinion of why I’m here. My wife believes I’m here to take out the garbage, help the children with their homework, and rub her feet. My boss believes I’m here to do my job and do it well. The person in the car behind me this morning looked as if she believed I was there to make her late.

  However, while living up to everyone else’s expectations may give our existence purpose of a sort, it’s not the same as figuring out our own answer about why we, personally, are here. It took a while, but I believe I found at least part of my answer a few years ago.

  I remember clearly the first time I had a real sense of my place in the universe. I was forty-two years old and had just bought our family a telescope. The astronomy software that came with the telescope said we’d be able to see Saturn that same night. I’d never seen a planet with my own eyes before, just pictures. We located a bright dot in the sky where Saturn was supposed to be and lined up the telescope. Saturn came into focus, looking like a tiny, round ball suspended inside a small, flat washer.

  As I stepped back from the telescope to let the children have a look, I realized my whole view of the universe had just changed dramatically. On an intellectual level, I had always known that the twinkling lights in the sky were stars and planets. But at some primal level I had never really believed they were anything but pinholes in the roof of the world. Now, I could not deny it any longer. Planets, stars, and galaxies were real. The universe stretches to as close to infinity as mankind will ever comprehend. I got to savor the moment for all of five seconds until the children bumped the telescope and I had to line it up for them again.

  I believe I understand why scientists like Copernicus and Galileo risked imprisonment and death for reporting the results of their astronomical discoveries, and it was for the same reasons that prophets like Buddha, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad risked imprisonment and death for preaching their faith: they had discovered something wonderful and wanted to expand human understanding of our place in creation.

  Many people are comfortable with their belief of where they are in the universe, of course, and will resist any attempt to dislodge their current view of reality, either spiritually or scientifically. But I believe mankind will only continue to make progress by seeking out and embracing new knowledge, wisdom, and insights into both science and spirit in tandem. Science without spirituality is cold and sterile; spirituality without science is merely wishful thinking.

  Why are we here? Maybe it’s simply to find a balance between what we believe and what we perceive as we journey through life. I believe I can live with that answer.

  Dale Long lives in South Burlington, Vermont, with his awesome wife and two wonderful children. He is a former professional musician, retired military officer, government technocrat, amateur astronomer, Aikido black belt, teacher, writer, and storyteller who believes that specialization is for insects, not people.

  A Drive to Achieve the Extraordinary

  Juliet Frerking

  I believe in the challenge to accomplish something out of the ordinary. I have to confess I acquired this belief from the book Guinness World Records. That book showed me the value of equal opportunity and competition. It proved to me, early on, that I could rise above anonymity and achieve remarkable things.

  When I was nine, I used to huddle in the back of the library with my friend Leanne, and we’d turn the 1991 edition of the Guinness World Records book pages with purple hands sticky from raspberry Laffy Taffy. Reassured by Mrs. Balanoff, our third grade teacher, that we could be anything when we grew up, we felt challenged by 320 pages of incredible feats. And so with the obsessive focus of nine-year-olds, we assumed the daily task of finding our place in the universe.

  The Guinness World Records taught me to believe in the accessibility of the improbable. I was captured by the little bit of fame conferred by inclusion in that book: the fastest, the longest, the widest, the most—whatever you can imagine. It opened up the possibilities of what I might be able to do.

  I was attracted to the lure of the unusual. How long would it take to grow my fingernails to beat a record for a total of fourteen feet, six inches? I bet our teachers never thought the equation d = rt would be used to figure that one out, or that we would be tempted to research everything about Namibia because it was home to the world’s fastest caterpillar. Leanne settled on holding her breath for the longest time, and I decided to make the world’s largest cookie. Thus, Leanne joined the swim team, and I gained ten pounds.

  The Guinness World Records taught me tenacity and perseverance and, more important, the desire to do something unexpected. So many people in the book were mocked by family and friends for what they were doing, yet they did it. I see them as success stories—normal people who did something extraordinary.

  In college, before September 11, I decided to study Arabic. I am not Muslim or of Arab decent; I am a Southern Baptist girl from Texas. Enticed by the sounds of elongated alifs and lams, I fell in love with the complexity of the language and the beauty of it
s slanting script. After graduation, to put my skills to use, I moved to Cairo and then to Tunisia, where I just finished working with divorced women.

  I am not saving the world, I am not the best at what I do, but I am only twenty-four—there’s still time. The Guinness World Records helped give me a new perspective on the impossible and instilled in me the desire to try something unconventional. I believe in making the implausible a reality, and I hope to someday break a few records myself.

  Juliet Frerking graduated from Stanford University in 2005 with honors in international relations and a minor in Arabic language. In 2008 she conducted research in Tunisia under a Fulbright Fellowship. Ms. Frerking currently lives in New York City.

  Inviting the World to Dinner

  Jim Haynes

  Every week for the past thirty years I have hosted a Sunday dinner in my home in Paris. People, including total strangers, call or e-mail to book a spot. I hold the salon in my atelier, which used to be a sculpture studio. The first fifty or sixty people who call may come—twice that many when the weather is nice and we can overflow into the garden.

  Every Sunday a different friend prepares a feast. Last week it was a philosophy student from Lisbon, and next week a dear friend from London will cook.

  People from all corners of the world come to break bread together, to meet, to talk, to connect, and often to become friends. All ages, nationalities, races, and professions gather here, and since there is no organized seating, the opportunity for mingling couldn’t be better. I love the randomness.

  I believe in introducing people to people.

  I have a good memory, so each week I make a point to remember everyone’s name on the guest list and where they’re from and what they do so I can introduce them to one another, effortlessly. If I had my way, I would introduce everyone in the whole world to one another.

  People are the most important thing in my life. Many travelers go to see things like the Tower of London, the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, and so on. I travel to see friends, even—or especially—those I’ve never met.

  In the late 1980s, I edited a series of guidebooks to nine Eastern European countries and Russia. There were no sights to see, no shops or museum to visit; instead, each book contained about a thousand short biographies of people who would be willing to welcome travelers in their cities. Hundreds of friendships evolved from these encounters, including marriages and babies, too.

  The same can be said for my Sunday salon. At a recent dinner a six-year-old girl from Bosnia spent the entire evening glued to an eight-year-old boy from Estonia. Their parents were surprised, and pleased, by this immediate friendship.

  There is always a collection of people from all over the globe. Most of them speak English, at least as a second language. Recently a dinner featured a typical mix: a Dutch political cartoonist, a beautiful painter from Norway, a truck driver from Arizona, a bookseller from Atlanta, a newspaper editor from Sydney, students from all over, and traveling retirees.

  I have long believed that it is unnecessary to understand others, individuals, or nationalities; one must, at the very least, simply tolerate others. Tolerance can lead to respect and, finally, to love. No one can ever really understand anyone else, but you can love them or at least accept them.

  Like Tom Paine, I am a world citizen. All human history is mine. My roots cover the earth.

  I believe we should know each other. After all, our lives are all connected.

  Okay, now come and dine.

  Jim Haynes was born in Louisiana, spent his teens in Venezuela, attended boarding school in Atlanta and university in Louisiana, then served in the military in Scotland. He created a bookshop and the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh and the Arts Laboratory Mixed Media Centre in London. He also cofounded a newspaper in London and another in Amsterdam. After teaching sexual politics and media studies at the University of Paris 8 for thirty years, Mr. Haynes retired in 1999. Since colaunching the Sunday dinners in the mid-1970s, some 140,000 people from all corners of the world have dined with Mr. Haynes.

  Finding the Flexibility to Survive

  Brighton Earley

  Every Friday night the cashier at the Chevron gas station food mart on Eagle Rock Boulevard and Avenue 40 offers us a discount on all of the leftover apples and bananas. To ensure the best selection possible, my mother and I pile into our twenty-year-old car and pull up to the food mart at five p.m. on the dot, ready to get our share of slightly overripe fruits.

  Before the times of the Chevron food mart, there were the times of the calculator. My mother would carefully prop it up in the cart’s child seat and frown as she entered each price. Since the first days of the calculator’s appearance, the worry lines on my mother’s face have only grown deeper. Today, they are a permanent fixture.

  Chevron shopping started like this: One day my mother suddenly realized that she had maxed out almost every credit card, and we needed groceries for the week. The only credit card she hadn’t maxed out was the Chevron card, and the station on Eagle Rock Boulevard has a pretty big mart attached to it.

  Since our first visit there, I’ve learned to believe in flexibility. In my life, it has become necessary to bend the idea of grocery shopping. My mother and I can no longer shop at real grocery stores, but we still get the necessities.

  Grocery shopping at Chevron has its drawbacks. The worst is when we have so many items that it takes the checker what seems like hours to ring up everything. A line of anxious customers forms behind us. It’s that line that hurts the most—the way they look at us. My mother never notices—or maybe she pretends not to.

  I never need to be asked to help the checker bag all of the items. No one wants to get out of there faster than I do. I’m embarrassed to shop there, and I’m deathly afraid of running into someone I know. I once expressed my fear of being seen shopping at Chevron to my mother, and her eyes shone with disappointment. I know that I hurt her feelings when I try to evade our weekly shopping trips.

  And that is why I hold on to the idea of flexibility so tightly. I believe that being flexible keeps me going—keeps me from being ashamed of the way my family is different from other families. Whenever I feel the heat rise to my face, I remind myself that grocery shopping at a gas station is just a twist on the normal kind of grocery shopping. I remind myself that we won’t always have to shop at Chevron—that just because at this point in my life I am struggling does not mean that I will always struggle. My belief in flexibility helps me get through the difficult times, because I know that no matter what happens, my mother and I will always figure out a way to survive.

  Brighton Earley will graduate from the University of California, Berkeley, with a B.A. in English in May 2012. She plans to pursue a graduate degree in English or creative writing so she can teach at the college level. Ms. Earley continues to enjoy writing essays of all kinds, and for her fiction writing, she recently received a Pushcart Prize nomination.

  The Act of Giving Thanks

  Michelle Lee

  I believe in meaningful expressions of gratitude. More specifically, I believe in the power of the well-written thank-you letter.

  My sister and I were taught at a very early age to write thank-you letters for birthday and Christmas gifts. We carefully copied addresses from our mom’s address book into our own pretty little books, and a new box of stationery was always among my gifts wrapped under the tree. We wrote our letters on December 26. At the latest. Every year. It was an important ritual in our home, and it has turned me into an avid thank-you-letter writer as an adult.

  I still send a great deal of personal mail, and I am entirely smitten with all of the trappings of letter writing: unique stamps, beautiful stationery, fountain pens. I feel an incredible rush of satisfaction sticking a stamp on a carefully penned thank-you letter and sending it off in the mail.

  Nearly every Monday morning I sit down with my favorite pen and write a few thank-yous. I write them for parties I attend, dinners I’m fed, or just to th
ank a friend for listening. It is one of the highlights of my week.

  Several years ago I even sent my mom a thank-you letter to thank her for teaching me to count my blessings on paper. Sending letters of thanks out into the world has made me more appreciative of the tremendous love, support, and kindness I receive daily.

  My father died when I was twenty-seven. Even then, I found comfort in writing letters of thanks for the many gifts of words I received. At a time when all I wanted to do was retreat into my own grief, the act of giving thanks forced me to stay connected to the world and to the lives of the living.

  And while it may seem trivial, my belief in well-written thank-you letters has secured my popularity. Since real thank-you letters are woefully few and far between, my social graces are considered a charming eccentricity, and my friends and family always seem genuinely moved by my efforts.

  I was a middle school English teacher, and as I told my students, good manners are the cornerstone of a quality community. I believe that expressions of gratitude like thank-you letters keep me going. I am more motivated to do kind things for others when I feel appreciated, and I feel that I perpetuate kindness and generosity by genuinely expressing my thanks.

  What many people consider to be a dreadful chore has become one of my favorite pastimes. So simple, the thank-you letter, but so powerful.

  Michelle Lee is a writer, editor, and former middle school English teacher from Longmont, Colorado. When not playing around with words, she loves to cook, spend time with her two children, play cribbage with her husband, and tackle the New York Times crossword puzzle.