Fishing for more

A father and his son went fishing on a small boat, hungry.

The father helped his son reel in his first fish, and it was a beauty.

“Great catch, son,” the father said.

“Yes, but I’m worried I’m missing out on better fish,” the son said. “What if I could catch a bigger, tastier fish?”

“Maybe you should try,” the father said.

And the son did, catching an even bigger fish an hour later. “A real beaut,” the father said.

“But what if there are better fish out there?” the son asked.

“Maybe you should try,” the father said.

And the son did, catching a bigger fish, then wondering if there were better fish, catching another, and so on.

At the end of the day, the son was exhausted. The father asked, “How did the fish taste?”

The son hesitated. “I’m not sure. I was so busy looking for better fish that I didn’t taste any of them.”

The father smiled contentedly, patted his belly. “Don’t worry. They were delicious.”

We are all of us like the son. We all worry, at some time or other, that we’re missing out on things.

It’s why we’re so busy — we take on so much because we don’t want to miss out. We take on dozens of goals and aspirations, because we don’t want to miss out.

But here’s the bare truth: we will miss out, no matter what. It’s inevitable. We cannot do or try everything in the world, even with lives twice as long. We cannot see every town and city, read every interesting book, watch every important film. We will always, always miss out.

What you’re doing right now is all that matters. Let the rest go, and enjoy the fish you’ve already caught.

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Beggar lady, and the clown

The first time I saw the old lady at the tollbooth, I thought to myself she must be miserable. I paid her the $1.00 toll. Whereas most of the toll takers in New Hampshire are friendly, saying “Good Morning,” “Thank-you,” or “Have a nice day,” this lady gave nothing, not even a smile. She simply took my dollar.

I drove off, polluted by her negative energy, and spent the rest of the day trying to shake off her bad karma. The next day, having forgotten about The Mean One, I drove through that tollbooth again.  To my disappointment, there she was, again. This time, I gave her a 20 dollar bill and she actually sneered at me. I could see her talking to herself under her breath, “why do people give me 20 dollar bills, can’t these stupid people just give a dollar so I don’t have to make change?”

Commuting to and from work every day, I learned over time that she normally works on the north bound side during my evening drive, but doesn’t work every night.

A week or two went by without a single sighting, and then one evening, there she was. I made a quick mental note not to go through lane 2 in the future. In fact, I avoided lane 2 for quite some time, noticing that lane 1 always seemed to be busier than her lane.  I wondered, “Am I not the only one who despises and avoids her?”

Then one day it dawned on me. I was once a real bonafide clown.  I graduated from Clown College in 1982 and worked with several famous names in the circus. If anyone could make the old lady at the tollbooth smile, I could. So, I made it my mission.

I decided to go through her lane every night.  There she was, my captive audience. Instead of my being her victim, she was going to be a victim of my clowning skills. So, as I gave her my dollar bill, I slowed down enough, and I mustered up the biggest clown smile I could give her. She looked at me strangely.  Clearly, I had caught her off guard. The look on her face said, “who is this guy smiling at me and why?”

The following night, another big smile….and so it went on, without uttering a word. Finally she caught on. I was no longer a faceless commuter going through her booth, but a friendly face.  In time, she smiled back, said “hello,” and even asked me how I was. One time when she asked after me, I admitted to feeling grumpy and miserable. She smiled and with a gentle laugh she said “me too.”

Since I took matters into my own hands, I no longer despise my toll booth lady. Instead, we smile at each other and exchange pleasantries.  Maybe she just needed a friendly face….and I needed a reminder that I am a Clown.

Story shared by Craig Ruben.

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The road less traveled

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost

Life is a mystery unsolved, and unexplored -- while it is important to not re-invent the wheel, to follow the footsteps, it is equally important every once in a while to take the road less traveled.

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Stop complaining

Stop complaining.

Here's why

After watching this, if your mind ever complains, tell it to "Just. Shut. Up."

Thanks.

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Don't Hope Friend... Decide

While waiting to pick up a friend at the airport in Portland, Oregon, I had one of those life changing experiences that you hear other people talk about, the kind that sneaks up on you unexpectedly.

This one occurred a mere two feet away from me. Straining to locate my friend among the passengers deplaning through the jet way, I noticed a man coming toward me carrying two light bags. He stopped right next to me to greet his family.

First he motioned to his youngest son (maybe six years old) as he laid down his bags. They gave each other a long, loving hug. As they separated enough to look in each other's face, I heard the father say, "It's so good to see you, son. I missed you so much!" His son smiled somewhat shyly, averted his eyes and replied softly, "Me, too, Dad!"

Then the man stood up, gazed in the eyes of his oldest son (maybe nine or ten) and while cupping his son's face in his hands said, "You're already quite the young man. I love you very much, Zach!" They too hugged a most loving, tender hug.

While this was happening, a baby girl (perhaps one or one-and-a-half) was squirming excitedly in her mother's arms, never once taking her little eyes off the wonderful sight of her returning father. The man said, "Hi, baby girl!" as he gently took the child from her mother. He quickly kissed her face all over and then held her close to his chest while rocking her from side to side. The little girl instantly relaxed and simply laid her head on his shoulder, motionless in pure contentment.

After several moments, he handed his daughter to his oldest son and declared, "I've saved the best for last," and proceeded to give his wife the longest, most passionate kiss I ever remember seeing. He gazed into her eyes for several seconds and then silently mouthed, "I love you so much!" They stared at each other's eyes, beaming big smiles at one another, while holding both hands. For an instant they reminded me of newlyweds, but I knew by the age of their kids that they couldn't possibly be.

I puzzled about it for a moment then realized how totally engrossed I was in the wonderful display of unconditional love not more than an arm's length away from me. I suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if I was invading something sacred, but was amazed to hear my own voice nervously ask, "Wow! How long have you two been married?"

"Been together fourteen years total, married twelve of those," he replied, without breaking his gaze from his lovely wife's face.

"Well, then, how long have you been away?" I asked.

The man finally turned and looked at me, still beaming his joyous smile.

"Two whole days!"

Two days? I was stunned. By the intensity of the greeting, I had assumed he'd been gone for at least several weeks, if not months. I know my expression betrayed me, I said almost offhandedly, hoping to end my intrusion with some semblance of grace (and to get back to searching for my friend), "I hope my marriage is still that passionate after twelve years!"

The man suddenly stopped smiling. He looked me straight in the eye, and with forcefulness that burned right into my soul, he told me something that left me a different person. He told me, "Don't hope, friend...decide!"

Then he flashed me his wonderful smile again, shook my hand and said, "God bless!" With that, he and his family turned and strode away together. I was still watching that exceptional man and his special family walk just out of sight when my friend came up to me and asked, "What'cha looking at?"

Without hesitating, and with a curious sense of certainty, I replied, "My future!"

By Michael D. Hargrove

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