Don't stop thinking!

KISS SOMEONE BEFORE YOU GO

The subway train sways back and forth, its wheels screeching more fiendishly than ever against the tracks. Outside the window the freezing cold of winter rules and the dreary bay looks like a yawning abyss as the train rumbles across it. The carriage is filled with frozen self-centered, bored passengers. Good morning!

Suddenly a little boy pushes his way in between discourteous grown-up legs - the kind that only grudgingly make room for you. While his father stays by the door, the boy sits next to the window, surrounded by unfriendly, morning-weary adults. What a brave child, I think. As the train enters a tunnel, something totally unexpected and peculiar happens. The little boy slides down from his seat and puts his hand on my knee. For a moment, I think that he wants to go past me and return to his father, so I shift a bit. But instead of moving on, the boy leans forward and stretches his head up towards me. He wants to tell me something, I think. Kids! I bend down to listen to what he has to say. Wrong again! He kisses me softly on the cheek.

Then he returns to his seat, leans back and cheerfully starts looking out of the window. But I''m shocked. What happened? A kid kissing unknown grown-ups on the train? To my amazement, the kid proceeds to kiss all my neighbors.

Nervous and bewildered, we look questioningly at his father, "He''s so happy to be alive," the father says. "He''s been very sick."

The train stops and father and son get down and disappear into the crowd. The doors close. On my cheek I can still feel the child''s kiss - a kiss that has triggered some soul-searching. How many grown-ups go around kissing each other from the sheer joy of being alive? How many even give much thought to the privilege of living? What would happen if we all just started being ourselves?

The little boy had given us a sweet but serious slap in the face: Don''t let yourself die before your heart stops!

Dag Retsả

PS: Shtp 'Ê tỏằông nghâ mơnh là mỏằTt ngặỏằi chÂu Á không có thói quen chào nhau bỏng nhỏằng nỏằƠ hôn vào mĂ và cỏÊm thỏƠy e dă và ngặỏằÊng ngạng khi có ai 'ó hôn vào mĂ mơnh chào tỏĂm biỏằ?t, nhặng sau cÂu chuyỏằ?n này có lỏẵ mơnh 'ang nghâ lỏĂi...

One Step Closer

WHAT DO YOU SEE?

Do you believe that reality just is and therê?Ts nothing you can do to change it? Do you think that what you?Tre experiencing day to day is pretty much set in stone? That you?Tre too old, stubborn or poor for life to be any different?
I used to think that way. There was a time when I looked at my life and thought, well, these are the cards I?Tve been dealt and, as bad as it is, I?Tll just have to accept it. Not that my life has been really bad--it hasn?Tt been, but it wasn?Tt absolutely wonderful. At least that?Ts how I saw it.
That?Ts the key. I was using the wrong eyes to view my life. My visions were of struggle, boredom, and judgment. These things I saw through my physical eyes, which passed this information along to my brain, which said, OK, since that?Ts what you see, then that?Ts what I?Tll keep making you think you have.
Thanks, but no thanks. I know better now.
Somewhere along the way, my inner eyes caught my attention. I suppose their eyelids had been fluttering for quite some time, but who knew?
My inner eyes, I call them the eyes of my soul, see nothing but love and joy. That?Ts it! There are no other options available to them.
My physical eyes can?Tt understand this. They want to argue and say, No, no, no! The REAL world does not look that way! They have since learned that love and joy don?Tt argue back. They just shine until the protestor shuts up.
My inner eyes look at traffic jams and say, Oh, what a perfect chance to me***ate! They look at a judgmental person and say, That person deserves blessings to soothe his or her unhappiness. They see a small bank balance as an opportunity to attract replenishment. Lots of it.
The eyes of my soul see only the soul?Ts eyes of everyone they meet, whether or not the person is aware of their own inner eyes. These eyes are made of love and can only see in others what they, themselves, are made of. My physical eyes have decided that love is a glorious color and are now more quick to join in this vision than they were in the past.
Inner eyes insist on loving experiences. They always seek and find love, even in situations where the physical eyes would definitely not choose love. As a result, joy always surrounds each experience viewed by the inner eyes. My soul?Ts eyes have taught me that love and joy go hand in hand, like lifetime friends that will never part.
When you?Tre living from your heart, you?Tre allowing your inner eyes to shine. You?Tre letting love go before you into all aspects of your daily life, to pave your path with joy. As the Universe would have it, the act of putting this love forth leaves you open to receiving it back tenfold.
It?Ts really that simple. See your life as full of love and joy. Show love in your thoughts, words, and deeds. Before you know it, your physical eyes will have no other choice but to agree that this is the life they were meant to see all along.
Janet Wilson
=========
Janet Wilson is the President of Life, Education And Prosperity, Inc., a company dedicated to enriching the lives of others worldwide through personal and professional development. LEAP specializes in training individuals, as well as entire companies, to become successful in any walk of life.
One Step Closer

WEAKNESS OR STRENGTH
Sometimes your biggest weakness can become your biggest strength. Take, for example, the story of one 10-year-old boy who decided to study judo despite the fact that he had lost his left arm in a devastating car accident.
The boy began lessons with an old Japanese judo master. The boy was doing well, so he couldn''t understand why, after three months of training, the master had taught him only one move.
"Sensei," the boy finally said, "shouldn''t I be learning more moves?"
"This is the only move you know, but this is the only move you''ll ever need to know," the sensei replied.
Not quite understanding, but believing in his teacher, the boy kept training.
Several months later, the sensei took the boy to his first tournament. Surprising himself, the boy easily won his first two matches. The third match proved to be more difficult, but after some time, his opponent became impatient and charged; the boy deftly used his one move to win the match. Still amazed by his success, the boy was now in the finals.
This time, his opponent was bigger, stronger, and more experienced. For a while, the boy appeared to be overmatched. Concerned that the boy might get hurt, the referee called a time-out. He was about to stop the match when the sensei intervened.
"No," the sensei insisted, "Let him continue."
Soon after the match resumed, his opponent made a critical mistake: he dropped his guard. Instantly, the boy used his move to pin him. The boy had won the match and the tournament. He was the champion.
On the way home, the boy and sensei reviewed every move in each and every match. Then the boy summoned the courage to ask what was really on his mind.
"Sensei, how did I win the tournament with only one move?"
"You won for two reasons," the sensei answered. "First, you''ve almost mastered one of the most difficult throws in all of judo. Second, the only known defense for that move is for your opponent to grap your left arm."
The boy''s biggest weakness had become his biggest strength.
One Step Closer

THE WALLET
As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.
The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the dateline--1924. The letter had been written almost sixty years ago.
It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder blue stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a "Dear John" letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see him anymore because her mother forbade it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for the name Michael, that the owner could be identified. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.
"Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I''m trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there anyway you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"
She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment then said, "Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can''t give you the number." She said, as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story and would ask them if they wanted her to connect me.
I waited a few minutes and then she was back on the line. "I have a party who will speak with you."
I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She gasped, "Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!"
"Would you know where that family could be located now?" I asked.
"I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if you got in touch with them they might be able to track down the daughter."
She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the number. They told me the old lady had passed away some years ago but they did have a phone number for where they thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars and a letter that was almost 60 years old?
Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us."
Even though it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I could come by to see her. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television."
I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired oldtimer with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye. I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw the powder blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with Michael."
She looked away for a moment deep in thought and then said softly, "I loved him very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor."
"Yes," she continued. "Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you should find him, tell him I think of him often. And," she hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she said smiling as tears began to well up in her eyes, "I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."
I thanked Hannah and said goodbye. I took the elevator to the first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"
I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last name. But I think I''ll let it go for a while. I spent almost the whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet."
I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, "Hey, wait a minute! That''s Mr. Goldstein''s wallet. I''d know it anywhere with that bright red lacing. He''s always losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three times."
"Who''s Mr. Goldstein?" I asked as my hand began to shake.
"He''s one of the oldtimers on the 8th floor. That''s Mike Goldstein''s wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks." I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse''s office. I told her what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think he''s still in the day room. He likes to read at night. He''s a darling old man."
We went to the only room that had any lights on and there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said, "Oh, it is missing!"
"This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours?"
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that''s it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."
"No, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."
The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read that letter?"
"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."
He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me," he begged.
"She''s fine...just as pretty as when you knew her." I said softly.
The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something, Mister? I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I''ve always loved her."
"Mr. Goldstein," I said, "Come with me."
We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were darkened and only one or two little night-lights lit our way to the day room where Hannah was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse walked over to her.
"Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. "Do you know this man?"
She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn''t say a word. Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, "Hannah, it''s Michael. Do you remember me?"
She gasped, "Michael! I don''t believe it! Michael! It''s you! My Michael!" He walked slowly towards her and they embraced. The nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.
"See," I said. "See how the Good Lord works! If it''s meant to be, it will be."
About three weeks later I got a call at my office from the nursing home. "Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!"
It was a beautiful wedding with all the people at the nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their best man.
The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.
A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.
One Step Closer

Van Gogh
Vincent Van Gogh was not always an artist. In fact, he wanted to be a church pastor and was even sent to the Belgian mining community of Borinage in 1879.
He discovered that the miners there endured deplorable working con***ions and poverty-level wages. Their families were mal-nourished and struggled simply *****rvive. He felt concerned that the small stipend he received from the church allowed him a moderate life-style, which, in contrast, seemed to him unfair.
One cold February evening, while he watched the miners trudging home, he spotted an old man staggering toward him across the fields, wrapped in a burlap sack for warmth. Van Gogh laid his own clothing out on the bed, set aside enough for one change, and decided to give the rest away. He gave the old man a suit of clothes and he gave his overcoat to a pregnant woman whose husband had been killed in a ****-in. He lived on starvation rations and spent his stipend on food for the miners.
When children in one family contracted typhoid fever, though feverish himself, he packed up his bed and took it to them.
A prosperous family in the community offered him free room and board. Van Gogh declined the offer, stating that it was the final temptation he must reject if he was to faithfully serve his community of poor miners. He believed that if he wanted them to trust him, he must become one of them. And if they were to learn of the love of God through him, he must love them enough to share with them.
He was acutely aware of the wide chasm between words and actions. He knew that our lives always speak louder and clearer than our words. Maybe that is why Francis of Assisi often said to his monks, "Wherever you go, preach. Use words if necessary." Others are "listening" carefully to your actions. What are you saying to them?
One Step Closer

Under His Wings
An article in National Geographic several years ago provided a penetrating picture of God''s wings.
After a forest fire in Yellowstone National Park, forest rangers began their trek up a mountain to assess the inferno''s damage. One ranger found a bird literally petrified in ashes, perched statuesquely on the ground at the base of a tree. Somewhat sickened by the eerie sight, he knocked over the bird with a stick. When he struck it, three tiny chicks scurried from under their dead mother''s wings. The loving mother, keenly aware of impending disaster, had carried her offspring to the base of the tree and had gathered them under her wings, instinctively knowing that the toxic smoke would rise.
She could have flown to safety but had refused to abandon her babies. When the blaze had arrived and the heat had scorched her small body, the mother had remained steadfast. Because she had been willing to die, those under the cover of her wings would live.
"He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge..." (Psalm 91:4)
One Step Closer

The Story of Two Teardrops
Two little teardrops were floating down the river of life. One drop said to the other, "I am the teardrop of a girl who loved a man and lost him." Who are you? "Well, I am the teardrop of the girl who won him."
Love is very strange. Love is uncon***ional commitment to an imperfect individual. You need it but when you love, it''s like destining yourself for pain. You become addicted and dependent on the person. You become strong and at the same time, you open yourself up to being hurt. Love can make you bear any kind of pain and any kind of sacrifice. It can also make you feel stupid and act stupidly. Sometimes when you love and end up giving so much of yourself, subconciously you only discover how much you''ve given when the person you love hurts you or has to say goodbye.
Then you realize, an important part of yourself is already with that person. It goes away when he leaves and you are left with a sickening, empty feeling inside.
Tears are bound to shed from your eyes no matter how you force yourself to keep them in. Most teardrops ever shed on this earth have been for love or lack of it. When tears dry, a silent loss sticks to your heart for a long, long time.
Well, that''s what you get for caring so much about someone. But how can you regret it? To give yourself freely and lovingly is the most beautiful thing you can do. Loving makes you real. Loving also makes you cry. And that is why a teardrop is also BEAUTIFUL.
One Step Closer

The Waitress'' Tip
When an ice cream sundae cost much less, a boy entered a coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?"
"Fifty cents," replied the waitress.
The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied a number of coins in it. "How much is a dish of plain ice cream?" he inquired.
Some people were now waiting for a table, and the waitress was impatient. "Thirty-five cents," she said angrily.
The little boy again counted the coins. "I''ll have the plain ice cream."
The waitress brought the ice cream and walked away. The boy finished, paid the cashier, and departed.
When the waitress came back, she swallowed hard at what she saw. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies-her tip
One Step Closer

THE STARFISH
Once upon a time there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach before he began his work. One day he was walking along the shore. As he looked down the beach, he saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself to think of someone who would dance to the day. So he began to walk faster to catch up. As he got closer, he saw that it was a young man and the young man wasn''t dancing, but instead he was reaching down to the shore, picking up something and very gently throwing it into the ocean.
As he got closer he called out, "Good morning! What are you doing?"
The young man paused, looked up and replied, "Throwing starfish in the ocean."
"I guess I should have asked, why are you throwing starfish in the ocean?"
"The sun is up, and the tide is going out, and if I don''t throw them in they''ll die."
"But, young man, don''t you realize that there are miles and miles of beach, and starfish all along it. You can''t possibly make a difference!"
The young man listened politely. Then bent down, picked up another starfish and threw it into the sea, past the breaking waves and said, "It made a difference for that one."
There is something very special in each and every one of us. We have all been gifted with the ability to make a difference, and if we can become aware of that gift, we gain through the strength of our visions the power to shape the future.
We must each find our starfish. And if we throw our stars wisely and well, the world will be blessed.
One Step Closer

A SPECIAL OCCASION
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."
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 follow 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 experience 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 event -- such 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, her favorite food. I''m guessing I''ll never know.
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 with -- someday. Angry because I hadn''t written certain letters that I intended to write -- one 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.
One Step Closer