At the Copa, Copacabana..

It stills seems a little surreal to think that I am training for a triathlon.

In one of the Beyond Freedom exercises, we are asked to write down 101 things we would like to do before we die. The first time I did it, I struggled to come up with 19!

As I thought of what would make me really feel like I had accomplished something, a marathon popped in my head. I have always really admired anyone who could run marathon. Boy, if I could do that, that would really be something.

Trouble is, I don't like to run.

At the time, I had a friend who was training for a triathlon. I thought, "Well, I like to swim and I like to bike--hey, why not?!" And I wrote it down.

There is a strange power in writing goals down on paper. Now that I had it written, I had to do it!

So that's how I ended up in a spin class at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning.

Since beginning my training, I have taken a few of these classes, and they are grueling! The teacher does the best that she can, though, to change it up and make us feel like we really are going somewhere and not just "spinning our wheels." And she puts on music to give us something to help pass the time and provide some rhythm in our movement.

This particular day, the music she picked was just perfect--for me, anyway. I knew and could sing along with almost every song. It put a big grin on my face and helped me forget for a moment how hard I was working and how tired I was.

And then it happened.

"Her name was Lola..."

Something stirred in me.

"She was a showgirl..."

It made my blood tingle.

"With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there..."

I could not fight the urge to dance!

"At the Copa, Copacabana...Music and passion were always in fashion at the Copa!"

I sat up in my seat and moved my arms to the music. I sang--I shouted! I was having a grand time. I couldn't help it.

The teacher looked at me and smiled, and then an amazing thing happened--she started waving her arms and dancing, too. And here and there, I even caught a couple of my classmates joining in.

By my stepping out and not being afraid to express my joy, I gave permission to everyone else to express theirs as well!

It reminded me of the famous Marianne Williamson quote (often mis-attributed to Nelson Mandela), from her book, A Return to Love:

Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

I am so grateful for my Beyond Freedom and the community of people who give me permission every day to be the best I can be and spread that light to others!

Preschool, Pizza, and Perspective

Two heart-warming stories. One important message.

The Case of the Disgruntled Preschooler

When I arrived at the gym this morning, it was wet and cold.

As is often the case, there were parents unloading preschoolers and shuttling them into the adjoining school.

Today, however, there was one little girl who got my attention.

As she got out of the car and experienced the harsh winter weather, she started crying. Her mom, simultaneously juggling a baby in a stroller and trying to comfort her young daughter, said, "Well, honey, just keep walking and we'll be in the warm building soon."

The little girl--while walking with her mom in the direction of the warm building--cried even louder and said, "NO! We'll never get in the building!"

As I brushed by this young family, I couldn't help but chuckle. Here was the little girl walking toward her goal--her target within view--and yet, she couldn't see it. All she could see was the wind and the cold and the wet snow around her making her miserable.

The Case of the Misdirected Pizza

It had been a long, cold day, and I didn't feel like getting up from under the warm blanket. Cooking dinner was unthinkable. The solution? One quick call to Domino's, and a warm meal would be on its way.

I lumbered to the kitchen and made the call.

Ah. Mission accomplished. Back to the warm blanket.

Twenty-five to forty minutes later, the food arrived, and I herded the children into the dining room. We gave thanks, cracked open the box, and...horrors! The pizza was not what we ordered!

Perhaps we would not be so upset except for this simple fact: we are vegetarians, and what was sitting on our table was a dead pig. They had put ham on our pizza! Blech.

I called Domino's. Surely they would make everything all right.

Unfortunately, the woman on the phone seemed confused. I had to explain the situation several times. She was irked that my voice rose every time I had to explain again.

They would send the correct pizza.

Twenty-five to forty minutes later, the second set of pizzas had still not arrived, and I was due at my neighbor's house any minute. I had no choice but to call Domino's and tell them to deliver it to a different address.

I called, and again, I was faced with having to explain the situation multiple times. Again the lady was irked that my voice continued to rise.

I arrived at my neighbor's house furious and frazzled. I knew my neighbor would not be home, but I was meeting a mutual friend there for an evening of crafts and conversation. I ran in and quickly explained what a rotten day I'd had and apologized for being late. My friend was very gracious, of course, and waited while I went back to the car to get my things--including the meat-tainted pizza. I couldn't keep it in my house, so I planned to give it away.

When I walked in with the boxes, my friend looked at them and nearly cried. "You brought food?" she said. "Yes," I explained, "this pizza is why I am so upset. I thought you might want some. Did you eat?"

She looked at me and paused. Tears welled up in her eyes and she said, "I can't believe you brought pizza."

I was a little stunned at her reaction. After all, I hadn't quite recovered from my irritation at the situation. The correct pizzas still had not arrived, so I was distracted by my determination to remain mad at Domino's. Why was she reacting this way?

Suddenly I had a realization, and I said, "Are you why this happened to me?"

She looked at me almost ashamed and embarrassed--she had prayed for pizza.

It turns out that she had ordered pizza for her husband and house guests, but she didn't get to eat any. It had arrived just as she was leaving, and she didn't want to be late to meet me. She had planned on going hungry.

Now it was my turn to be ashamed and embarrassed. How dare I be upset when I know that everything happens for a reason. Oh, how I was kicking myself at my base ingratitude for the situation. I didn't know the pizza would bless Sandi, but I could have imagined that it would bless someone.

It seems in retrospect that much if not all of our frustration in life comes from a lack of perspective.

The little girl only saw what was right in front of her--not where she was headed. I got a wrong pizza and only saw how bad it was for me--not how much good would come out of it.

It reminds me of the fly who is so focused on pushing through the glass that he doesn't notice there is an open window right next to him.

Oh how much of our frustration can be eliminated just by looking at the big picture--seeing from a distance! Seeing that the effort a butterfly must exert when pushing out of his chrysalis makes his wings sturdy and strong. Seeing that the trials we go through make us stronger, too.

Seeing that despite the wind and cold, we really are headed toward a warm building.

Regis' Special Gift

On November 15, 1968, my friend Regis received a very special gift. Others may not think so--they may call it a trial, an adversity, an obstacle, a challenge, or even a curse.

I'll let you decide.

I met Regis in the fall of 1986 at the beginning of our freshman year of college. My roommate Sylvia and I were standing in line to rent a refrigerator for our dorm room, and the boys behind us starting talking about something that sparked our interest. We turned around and joined in the conversation. It turned out that they lived just two floors above us!

Regis and Sylvia (and I, by extension) became fast friends.

Not long after, there was a football game in the quad, and I saw Regis sitting on the sidelines watching. I went over and talked to him and asked him why he wasn't playing.

As we got to know Regis more and we watched him meet new people, we often joked that when people met Regis for the first time, they always immediately learned two things about him: that he's French and that he has a heart condition.

Sitting on the sidelines that day, it was my turn to learn these two things for the first time.

Regis said, "Yeah, I'm not really into sports. A lot of people think I'm gay--I'm not. I just have a heart condition."

Regis' parents met when his mom, an American, was spending a year in France. After a whirlwind romance, followed by a multi-year long distance relationship, his father came to the United States and they got married. A few years later, Regis was born.

What began as a joyful occasion soon turned into a nightmare, as Regis' special gift was discovered.

Regis was born with a hypoplastic aortic arch. A not uncommon congenital heart condition, this simply meant that his aorta was too small--not big enough to handle the blood that his heart was trying to pump throughout his body. What made Regis' condition unique was the fact that it wasn't just a small, easily fixable portion of the aorta. In fact, it was all of the major blood vessels.

When he was nine years old, Regis underwent a major bypass graft. Basically, the doctors gave him a second set of artificial blood vessels so that his heart could send double the amount of blood to the rest of his body. Though these types of artificial bypasses are fairly common in small sections, Regis was the first (and to his knowledge the only) person ever to have received an entire system bypass. And though the doctor put in "accordion" grafts so that the vessels would expand as he grew, Regis was never expected to live to adulthood.

Now, at 39 years old, Regis is a living example of someone who has lived life to the fullest.

He decided at a very young age to become a physician, and he did it (the only one of our crowd, by the way, who actually ended up doing what he said he would). He has travelled the world. He understands what is important. He hasn't spent his life accumulating "stuff"--though with a doctor's salary he very well could--and instead has built his life around helping people (including providing medical aid to the poorest of people in the inner city) and fostering and developing relationships with the people he loves.

Yes, Regis was given a very special gift--the gift of knowing that life here on earth does not last forever, of realizing that people are our most precious resource and that we must always treat them with love, kindness and respect, and of understanding that to truly get the most out of life, we must live as if each day was our last.