Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul

by Jack Canfield

  Thinking about the whole experience later that night, I was reminded of the value of being open to the moment. A week that began with me being the trainer ended with me being the student. Now when times get roughand they inevitably doI look out the window and try to see what images the clouds are painting in the sky. And I remember Bradley, the beautiful child who taught me that lesson.

  Joyce A. Harvey

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  A Story to Live By

  You've got to dance like nobody's watching, and love like it's never going to hurt.

  Source Unknown

  My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package.

  "This," he said, "is not a slip. This is lingerie."

  He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It was exquisite: silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached.

  "Jan bought this the first time we went to New York, at least eight or nine years ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is the occasion."

  He took the slip from me, and put it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me.

  "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a special occasion."

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  I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed, when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that result from an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California from the midwestern town where my sister's family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without realizing that they were special.

  I'm still thinking about his words, and they've changed my life. I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experiences to savor, not endure. I'm trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them.

  I'm not ''saving" anything: We use our good china and crystal for every special eventsuch as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first camellia blossom.

  I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties: Clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends.

  "Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now. I'm not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I think she would have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think she would have gone out for a Chinese dinner. I'm guessing; I'll never know.

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  It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good friends whom I was going to get in touch withsomeday. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to writeone of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love them. I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives.

  And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is . . . a gift from God.

  Anne Wells

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  Sensory Deprivation

  [EDITORS' NOTE: The following piece was sent to us by a female prisoner. We don't know what the crime was.]

  I want to go dancing and wear a dress that swirls and floats around me, and laugh.

  I want to feel the shimmer of silk as it glides over my arms and down my body, the joy of fingering its whispery softness.

  I want to sleep in my own bed and luxuriate in the cool crispness of clean sheets, and rest my head on my own soft pillow. And go to sleep when I want to, with all the lights out, and wake up when I'm ready.

  I want to stretch out on my couch under my blue-plaid afghan and listen as my favorite music seeps from the speakers and into my being, watering the parched landscape of my soul.

  I want to sit on my porch and sip hot coffee from my stoneware mug, and read the newspaper, and hear the dog bark at blowing leaves and trespassing squirrels.

  I want to answer the phone and call my friends and family and talk until we catch up on all the words we've

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  saved for each other, and laugh.

  I want to hear the train hoot through Loveland, the gravel crunch in the driveway, and car doors slam as friends come to visit. And the tinkle and clink of silverware on china, the hiss and gurgle of the coffee maker.

  I want to feel my bare feet on the cool whiteness of my kitchen floor, and the soft blueness of my bedroom carpet.

  I want to see the colors, all of them, every color ever spun into existence. And white, true white, pristine and unblemished. And acres of green trees, and miles of yellow-ribbon highways, and yards of Christmas lights. And the moon.

  I want to smell bacon sizzling, a steak broiling, Thanksgiving dinner and my father's tomato vines. And fresh laundry, hot tar on a parking lot. And the ocean.

  But more than all of this, I want to stand in the doorway of my son's room and watch him sleep. And hear him get up in the morning and see him come home at night. And touch his face and comb my fingers through his hair, and ride in his truck and eat his grilled-cheese sandwiches.

  And watch him grow and laugh and play and eat and drive and live. Mostly, mostly, live. And put my arms around him and hold him until he laughs and says, "Mom, that's enough!"

  And then be free to do it again.

  Deborah E. Hill

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  The Birthday Present

  I have a dream my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. . . .

  Martin Luther King Jr.

  [EDITORS' NOTE: This story was penned in 1969.]

  A week after my son started first grade, he came home with the news that Roger, the only African-American in the class, was his playground partner. I swallowed and said, "That's nice. How long before someone else gets him for a partner?"

  "Oh, I've got him for good," replied Bill.

  In another week, I had the news that Bill had asked if Roger could be his desk partner.

  Unless you were born and reared in the deep South, as I was, you cannot know what this means. I went for an appointment with the teacher.

  She met me with tired, cynical eyes. "Well, I suppose you want a new desk partner for your child, too," she said.

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  "Can you wait a few minutes? I have another mother coming in right now."

  I looked up to see a woman my age. My heart raced as I realized she must be Roger's mother. She had a quiet dignity and much poise, but neither trait could cover the anxiety I heard in her questions: "How's Roger doing? I hope he is keeping up with the other children? If he isn't, just let me know."

  She hesitated as she made herself ask, "Is he giving you any trouble of any kind? I mean, what with his having to change desks so much?"

  I felt the terrible tension in her, for she knew the answer. But I was proud of that first-grade teacher for her gentle reply: "No, Roger is not giving me any trouble. I try to move all the children around the first few weeks until each has just the right partner."

  I introduced myself and said that my son was to be
Roger's new partner and I hoped they would like each other. Even then I knew it was only a surface wish, not a deep-felt one. But it helped her, I could see.

  Twice Roger invited Bill to come home with him, but I found excuses. Then came the heartache that I will always suffer.

  On my birthday, Bill came home from school with a grimy piece of paper folded into a very small square. Unfolding it, I found three flowers and "Happy Birthday" crayoned on the paperand a nickel.

  "That's from Roger," said Bill. "It's his milk money. When I said today was your birthday, he made me bring it to you. He said you are his friend, 'cause you' re the only mother who didn't make him get another desk partner."

  Mavis Burton Ferguson

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  Mrs. George

  Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.

  Henry David Thoreau

  I first met Mrs. George, the teacher for Dr. J. P. Lord's new high school, in a small room designed for one teacher and one student.

  The room had been converted into a classroom for four teenage boys. Three of us were in wheelchairs and one walked with a cane. Those of us in the class had a variety of medical problems. The student with the cane was legally blind. As for the three in wheelchairs, one was the victim of a gunshot wound in the head, one had muscular dystrophy, and one had cerebral palsy.

  I was the one with cerebral palsy. When I tried to vocalize, Mrs. George kidded me by saying that it sounded like the mating call of a bull moose.

  Each of us had different academic and emotional needs, ranging from preparing for college to preparing for death. Mrs. George did everything she could to help the first class of Dr. J. P. Lord High.

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  Mrs. George, in her fifties, was about five feet tall, had graying black hair (which turned a lot more gray by the end of the school year), olive skin and a high-pitched voice. She had a habit of talking too fast, and she ended her explanations with, "Do you see that?"

  She greeted us the first day of school with a cheery, "Good morning, you guys. This room was thrown together at the last minute, but I think we'll do okay. This high school is the first of this kind in Nebraska, so we are pioneers. Pioneers have to put up with a few troubles. I understand all of you know one another except Bill and David. David, this is Bill. He has cerebral palsy. He left school about the time you came, because this school didn't offer high school then. Bill, David is a Hawaiian transplant, and he has muscular dystrophy. He'll be nineteen on May 6. We'll have a birthday party with dancing girls."

  I wondered if she knew what muscular dystrophy was. I knew that David wouldn't last until his birthday. He already had more birthdays than most suffering from this disability. Already his lungs were affected, which meant his breathing would require effort all year.

  "Now I'll get you started on what I want you to do. I have expectations for all of you, do you see that?" the new, idealistic teacher stated.

  When she came to me, I was classifying rocks to fulfill a requirement in earth science. Sitting down beside me, she said, "I hear you have been taking correspondence courses from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln and haven't gotten very far for the past three years. I know these courses are bear-cats and take a lot of time. But I will help you with them, and we will shoot for graduation next spring. Also, I'll feed you lunch if that's okay with you. I know you would rather have one of those young chicks that are just out of college, but you' re stuck with the old hen. Do you have any questions?"

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  "I don't think David will make it to his birthday. His lungs are too weak, and these winters are hard on anybody," I spelled out slowly on my letter board with a stylus attached to my head, commonly referred to as a headstick.

  "You and I know that, but he doesn't know that. Just as you want that diploma, David wants his nineteenth birthday cake."

  Mrs. George was true to her word. I completed courses and started new ones at amazing speed. However, David worsened during the holiday season. He was afraid to go to sleep at night for fear that he wouldn't wake up. So Mrs. George let him sleep in class saying, "We have hospitals across the street, and if we have to visit them, we can be there in five minutes. So, David, you are safer here than anywhere else."

  Once when David was having trouble breathing, she had to massage his chest all afternoon. While she was doing it, she said to the physical-therapist aide standing by with oxygen, "David is helping me build up my tennis arm, so if you see a five-foot woman with bulging biceps on the tennis court, it will be me. This is fantastic exercise! Do you see that?"

  One day we were discussing some dull subject for my world-history course when she said, "When I'm working with the other two guys, I can't keep an eye on David's breathing so I'll leave it up to you, Bill, okay? If he slumps over, make one of your bull-moose noises to get my attention. He doesn't look good, does he? But we'll keep him in school as long as possible. At least his mother doesn't have to watch over him when he is here. Now we should be able to finish this damn history course in March, if we are lucky. This is a dry course, and I'm sure you're fed up with it, because I am!"

  Frequently, when he was gasping for air, David would

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  look at me and say, "I'm all right, Bill. I'm all right. Thanks for watching over me."

  Fortunately, my bull-moose yell was never needed. The vigil however, matured me greatly. I watched David, and in doing so, I became aware of his desire to live. Seeing him fight for every breath he took, I suddenly knew the value of living. So when I had to do some boring research, I didn't mind, because at least I could do it without worrying about breathing. I think this was the lesson that Mrs. George was teaching me by having me keep an eye on David.

  April 10 was David's last day of school. That night he took a turn for the worse. He was rushed to the hospital where life-support machines could maintain his breathing.

  On April 15, 1975, I had planned to visit him after school. But that morning I found a handwritten note beside my typewriter saying, "Don't go to the hospital tonight; David died in his sleep. I didn't want to tell the other guys, because today the school is going to the circus, and there's no reason to spoil that. We will mourn him together. J. George."

  Although Mrs. George couldn't make David's dream of a nineteenth birthday come true (God knows she tried!), she made my dream of a high-school graduation come true.

  As I sat on the stage on a warm May evening in 1976, listening to the commencement song, "The Impossible Dream," the words seemed to fit the lady dressed in yellow, proudly watching me receive my diploma, because she "dreamed the impossible dream" and made it come true.

  William L. Rush

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  A Bowl of Humility

  Honk, honk, slice, splash, stop, start. Thick traffic. Teeming rain. My seven-year-old Volkswagen jerked along the freeway like a bug on sticky tape. Problems droned angrily around in my head. For weeks I'd been pouring all my hopes and energy into preparing an interior design presentation for a fat-cat client, and I'd just learned that I'd lost the job to a competitor. But your biggest mistake, Linda, I scolded myself, was counting on the money. When will you learn not to assume?

  Traffic ground to a stop, and I fished my checkbook out of my purse and opened it. Balance, less than forty dollars. I was nearly brokeagain. I couldn't begin to stretch that to cover what my fifteen-year-old son Tim, and I were going to need until my next check.