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Did you know that you can sing the words to the itsy bitsy spider to the tune of the “Ode to Joy” portion of Beethoven’s Ninth symphony? With some minor adjustments it works. You might call the combination the fight song of the human race. I once got a thousand people to do it, motions and all. Both pieces of music are about the same thing: the capacity of life to triumph over adversity—about perseverance in adventure, for spiders and people.
Puddles are there as a test about staying young as long as you can. All the adults there that day failed the test.
Sometimes acting foolish and being wise are the same.
“Anything not worth doing is worth not doing well. Think about it. Elias Schwartz.”
Some Angels I know can fix your soles. And mend your soul at the same time.
“Imagination is more important than information.” Einstein said that, and he should know. It’s also a story about how people of imagination stand on one another’s shoulders. From the ground to the balloon to the man in the balloon to the man on the moon. Yes. Some of us are ground crew—holding lines, building fires, dreaming dreams, letting go, and watching the upward flight. Others of us are bound for the sky and the far edges of things. That’s in the story, too.
“Ignorance and power and pride are a deadly mixture, you know.” English
(We were trying to get something cosmic and serious out of our own invocation of power, you
solid-state switch control box tells you if you’ve done it right or not, before any juice flows. Gives you time to think if you really want to go ahead. We could all use a device like that between us and power, I guess. It’s nice to know that progress in such things is possible—in the face of ignorance and pride. Progress is possible. Next time he’ll ask his wife first. Good Samaritans may be handy and enthusiastic, but if they are dumb, they aren’t much help.
“We can do no great things; only small things with great love.”
ever there is truly peace on earth, goodwill to men, it will be because of women like Mother Teresa. In watching the millions of women marching in the streets of the world this winter, I was reminded that peace is not something you wish for; it’s something you make, something you do, something you are, and something you give away! You begin with what you have, where you are, and pass it on. Mother Teresa is dead now, of course. Would you have wanted me to omit this essay because she’s gone? Or leave it out because I can’t settle my own mind about Me and Them and Us? That’s the point, isn’t it?
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Fulghum’s Exchange Principle extends Locard’s thinking: Every person passing through this life will unknowingly leave something and take something away. Most of this “something” cannot be seen or heard or numbered or scientifically detected or counted. It’s what we leave in the minds of other people and what they leave in ours. Memory. The census doesn’t count it. Nothing counts without it.
But at least these three things are certain: Our belief in the necessity of the generosity at the heart of the story; our shared capacity to be part of the chain of generosity; and our belief in the enduring power of the simple compassionate gesture. We want these things to be true. And they are.
“It doesn’t matter what you say you believe—it only matters what you do.”
“Some Assembly Is Required.” To assemble the best that is within you and give it away. And to assemble with those you love to rekindle joy. Cuckoo to you, old bird, and Merry Christmas, wherever you are.
It’s about loving something—not just one’s self or one’s family or one’s neighbor. It’s about loving life—about loving this world—and seeing this world as our living room.
What can I say? I guess wonder and awe and joy are always there in the attic of one’s mind somewhere, and it doesn’t take a lot to set it off. And
The next six stories belong in a section by themselves. They are about a neighbor. The guy next door. When I think of all the places I have lived, what I remember most about why I liked living there was not the house itself. It was the neighbors—the great ones. Most of us have had a good neighbor in our lives. Or else we are that person to someone else. We watch each other. And, for good or ill, learn from one another. The people next door play a substantial role in our lives. Yet we seldom choose them. I once went house-hunting with a friend who is a Native American. She was interested in the
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The secret ingredient was his laughter while he cooked.
Without realizing it, we fill important places in each other’s lives.
It’s that way with the guy at the corner grocery, the mechanic at the local garage, the family doctor, teachers, neighbors, co-workers. Good people who are always “there,” who can be relied upon in small, important ways. People who teach us, bless us, encourage us, support us, uplift us in the dailiness of life. We never tell them. I don’t know why, but we don’t. And, of course, we fill that role ourselves.
Sufi story of a good man who was granted one wish by God. The man said he would like to go about doing good without knowing about it. God granted his wish. And then God decided that it was such a good idea, he would grant that wish to all human beings.
A well-lived life is always under construction. I am no longer prone to argue with people about syntax and metaphors. What we have to say doesn’t matter as much as what we have to do. Never mind the Credo—show the life. Don’t tell me what you think or hope—show me your work. Get it? Do it. Still, I am all too aware that I remain a living contradiction—a work in progress.
“If you had your life to live over, what would you do?” On careful reflection, all things considered, I would live my life over.
