Life in Small Bites

  It happened every Friday evening, almost without fail, when the sun resembled a giant orange and was starting to dip into the blue ocean. Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp.

Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now. Everybody’s gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts…and his bucket of shrimp.

Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier. Before long, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, “Thank you. Thank you.”

In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn’t leave. He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place. Invariably, one of the gulls lands on his sea-bleached, weather-beaten hat – an old military hat he’s been wearing for years.

When he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away. And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home.

If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like “a funny old duck,” as my dad used to say. Or, “a guy that’s a sandwich shy of a picnic,” as my kids might say. To onlookers, he’s just another old codger, lost in his own weird world, feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp.

To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty. They can seem altogether unimportant …maybe even a lot of nonsense. Old folks often do strange things, at least in the eyes of Boomers and Busters. Most of them would probably write Old Ed off, down there in F lorida . That’s too bad. They’d do well to know him better.

His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero back in World War II. On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down. Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft. Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger.

By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were. They needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle. They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged. A ll he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft.

Suddenly, Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap. It was a seagull! Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal – a very slight meal for eight men – of it. Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait……and the cycle continued.

With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued. (after 24 days at sea…)

Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first lifesaving seagull. And he never stopped saying, “Thank you.” That’s why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude.

PS: Eddie was also an Ace in WW I and started Eastern Airlines

It will take just 60 seconds to read this and change your thinking..

By Kent Nerburn

There was a time in my life twenty years ago when I was driving a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life, a gambler’s life, a life for someone who wanted no boss, constant movement and the thrill of a dice roll every time a new passenger got into the cab.

What I didn’t count on when I took the job was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a rolling confessional. Passengers would climb in, sit behind me in total anonymity and tell me of their lives.

We were like strangers on a train, the passengers and I, hurtling through the night, revealing intimacies we would never have dreamed of sharing during the brighter light of day. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and made me weep. And none of those lives touched me more than that of a woman I picked up late on a warm August night.

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked. ‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90′s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940′s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her.. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.’

‘Oh, you’re such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, ‘Could you drive through downtown?

‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly..

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued in a soft voice..’The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired. Let’s go now’.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

‘How much do I owe you?’ She asked, reaching into her purse.

‘Nothing,’ I said

‘You have to make a living,’ she answered.

‘There are other passengers,’ I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life..

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

Pre-dawn Jakarta, Indonesia:  Sitting in the back of my Mercedes I was wallowing in self-pity.  My driver had stopped at a traffic light while I was caught-up in feeling over-worked, unacknowledged, and under-appreciated.

For the last three full days and nights I had been working non-stop to finalize reports and a presentation for a regional senior management conference to be held in Singapore.   I felt that neither staff nor regional management knew or cared how hard I had been working.

As I casually looked to my left I saw a man with an out-stretched arm squatting on the roadside three feet from my car.  A small cup dangled from his disfigured hand.  He had no nose, no fingers, and no toes.  He was a leper who had arrived in the early darkness and would likely remain in place all day hoping to stay alive through the alms he could elicit from passing motorists.  He was a leper of advanced age.

In an instant my self-pity vanished.  A feeling of compassion washed over me.  Stronger than the sense of compassion was the emotion of thankfulness – profound thankfulness for the health, safety, and economic conditions of self and family.  I had studied and worked hard to earn the management position and benefits I currently enjoyed.  Yet I had no answer why I was born in America into a nurturing family providing me security and opportunities while the leper outside my window was living a life with a severely damaged body and little hope for a better future.

The traffic light turned green and as we sped toward the airport my spirits soared in appreciation for all my blessings and the expectation of ever-better tomorrows.  I was truly privileged.  It became clear that ‘privileges have responsibilities’.

In the years since, I have worked to practice my responsibilities – my contributions to my family, friends, and community.  The accepting of responsibility did not emanate from the notion that I was trying to ward off bad luck or manipulate conditional universal support – it flowed from experiencing the joy that comes from being grateful and being useful to others.  The brilliant Irish playwright in his poem, True Joy, penned,

“I am of the opinion that my life belongs to

the Whole Community – and it is my Privilege –

My Privilege to do for it whatever I can. 

For the harder I work the more I live.”

 Some people think that everything happens for a reason.  I don’t.  My experience is that for most of us we are stumbling or running so fast that we are often not even ‘in tune’ with our own experiences.  Occasionally, something happens that creates a personal ‘wake-up call’ or benchmark.  There is a welling-up of emotion, consciousness, or sense of discovery.  Whether you attribute these to a realized personal truth, the intervention of your Muse, or Divine guidance I have found these moments to be unique opportunities for personal growth and insight – sometimes bearing messages for ‘life corrections’ or new directions.

For me, these moments of clarity are precious.  Examining these insights has often guided me to new perspectives and has been the catalyst for me to take actions that yield unexpected opportunities.

What are some of the ‘wake-up calls’ that you have experienced?  How have you acknowledged, memorialized and acted on them?  How have these guided you?

Life is like a journey on a train with its stations…
with changes of routes…
and with accidents !

We board this train when we are born and our parents are the ones who get our ticket.

We believe they will always travel on this train with us.

However, at some station our parents will get off the train, leaving us alone on this journey.

As time goes by, other passengers will board the train,  many of whom will be significant – our siblings, friends, children, and even the love of our life.

Many will get off during the journey and leave a permanent vacuum in our lives.

Many will go so unnoticed that we won’t even know when they vacated their seats and got off the train !

This train ride will be full of joy, sorrow, fantasy, expectations, hellos, good-byes, and farewells.

A good journey is helping, loving, having a good relationship with all co passengers and making sure that we give our best to make their journey comfortable.

The mystery of this fabulous journey is we do not know at which station we ourselves are going to get off.

So, we must live in the best way – adjust, forget, forgive, and offer the best of what we have.

It is important to do this because when the time comes for us to leave our seat… we should leave behind beautiful memories for those who will continue to travel on the train of life.

Thank you for being one of the passengers on my train !

Have a very pleasant journey of life………!

I just viewed the movie Noah.  The mythical story about God destroying Man who had evolved to be evil and corrupted the earth.  It’s a story about new beginnings wherein a chosen man and family were selected to start over.  Noah created an ark to save mated pairs of every animal and to ride above a global flood sent by God.

The metaphor and the message were boldly portrayed through imaginative visual effects and human drama.  For me it was a powerful reminder that ‘new beginnings’ are always available and are the elixir of life.

How does God speak to me?  Continually I see and hear life-engaging messages.  Most are dismissed as visions and sounds of everyday life.  The meanings I attach to them vary, rise, and fall.  I feel that they become significant when these messages portray values of moving forward – regardless of current circumstances.  The impactful messages only point to continue taking actions to model behaviors affirming the importance of family, fairness, compassion, helpfulness, courage, and thankfulness.  What if like Noah I was ‘chosen’ and ignored the ‘calling’?  What if everyone of us is?

“The purpose of life is a Life of Purpose.”  Much angst is experienced in trying to ‘figure it out’.  In times when I experience clarity it comes from determining that there is no purpose other than moving forward with resourceful integrity and compassion without regard for what is currently happening.  Being useful in service to others feels purposeful.  The significance of Noah’s story is to listen, abide, and act on the messages that rise up from the inner voice that I connect to Truth.

Your thoughts?