CHAPTER 1

Listen ...

The jungle speaks to me because I know how to listen.

Mowgli, in The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling

Life Can Be This Good When We Listen

The world intrudes with noise and obsessions. The drums of life beat a cadence,and we scramble to keep time.

As adults, we sometimes lose our ability to hear what the universe is saying,its message drowned out by the roar of technology, the blare of commercialballyhoo. The gifts working their way into our lives often whisper in vain. Wecannot hear them, we say. Or if making out the sound, we cannot decipher themessage.

It has not always been thus. As children, we warmed to tales and adventures thatwere read to us. We traveled the highways of imagination. We greeted realitywith wonder. We listened for it-in the rainfall on a summer's night, in theheartbeat of our mother as we lay against her chest, in the morning song comingfrom the bluebirds outside our window.

We were meant to hear the world with the ears of life's celebrants. We can findour way back to that ability to truly listen. What we once heard, we will hearagain. And more.

Listening is a step to consciousness, toward recognizing who we are and who wewere meant to be-beings around whom the fire of life crackles withpossibilities.

Tune the instrument of your heart to hear, and the song of life will vibrateever more richly through you. The wonder you deserve will begin to flow to you.

And in the quiet of your soul you will make out plainly the message the universeis sending: you are a miracle.

Life can be this good.

Finding our own song

Childhood, for me, was like sailing on an ocean of wonder.

Maybe it was my dad's passion for theater. He fulfilled his dream of becoming anaccomplished actor, making his debut in professional theater in his forties.Perhaps it was the lyrical nature of my home. My mom was, and is, a poet. WhileI was still a kid she had six books of her verse published and was honorednationally. During my childhood, imagination ran rampant in my home, and I wasits lucky companion.

I can still see the doll I would rock and dress and put to sleep nightly. That'sright, a doll! Who knew then that years down the road, I would rock and sing andtickle the backs of my children, putting them to sleep in almost exactly thesame way as I did the little doll of my youth. (I outgrew this phase after theage of seven, but until then you couldn't touch me for nursery skills.)

Then, at the age of nine, I was recuperating at home following the removal of mytonsils. I'm not sure how it came to be, but I clearly remember a green costumelaid out on my bed. Tights. Tunic. Cap with feather. That's right, I was PeterPan. For two weeks, I wore nothing else, flying from bedroom window to thepirate's lagoon in the never-never land of my mind. I thank my lucky stars I hadcreative parents who would never shame a prepubescent boy into thinking thatdolls and tights were somehow unseemly for a young male.

This was the fairy dust of childhood, and I sprinkled it with abandon.

During these early years, as the twin spells of theater and poetry worked theirmagic in me, my grandmother brought me to the Alpinelike village of Stowe. Thiswas a thirty-minute ride from Burlington, Vermont, and, for a child, a trip towonder. There we visited the Trapp Family Lodge, the adopted home of a familythat had fled the Nazis in Austria, gaining renown as the subjects of theacclaimed musical The Sound of Music by Rodgers and Hammerstein.

The family would gather on the lawn in front of the lodge and, if you werelucky, perform a few songs. It was quite miraculous and entertaining for a childwho loved music and theater in equal measure. The eldest of this family was awhite-haired woman with ruddy checks. Looking nothing like Julie Andrews, this,indeed, was Maria, once governess and now mother figure to the rambling brood.

I remember meeting her and having her take my hand. I remember her voice, hermusic. We had the opportunity to walk amid the beautiful birches opposite herhome. On several occasions as I was growing up I visited Maria, especially whenI was old enough to drive myself. Even today I always go straight to that samegrove of birch trees, the trees where Maria had strolled, sharing the majesty ofmusical notes with a young boy. I would sing along with her then and wascaptivated by her dazzlingly blue eyes, which seemed to dance with her passion.

During one such visit, I remember singing to her a song she had once sung to me,looking eagerly at her for her approval. She smiled but shook her head slowly.Had I made a mistake? Had I sung the wrong notes?

"No," she said. "The notes are the right notes, but the song ... the song is mine.Do you know what it is you must now do as you grow into a young man?" I hadn't aclue. She nodded, grinned, and opened her arms as if to embrace all of tomorrow."You must find your own song. You must find Jan's song. And when you find it,you must sing it with your whole life."

At the time I wasn't aware of the simple and profound gift Maria gave me. Butnow, having climbed a fair portion of my life's mountains, I have found thetruth of it resonates in me like a beloved instrument tenderly played. One oflife's great quests, one that we are on even when we don't know it, is to findour own song and share it with the world.

Maria died some years later. I was, by then, a young adult, and I drove down tovisit her grave at the foot of the mountains. Without thinking, I found myselfwandering over to that circle of birches that I had visited so many times. Iwept quietly and openly. But then a cool October wind braced me with itsvitality, and something grew within me. Something that had taken root now shotout like a flowering branch rising up through me to touch the heavens.

I began to sing.

It was a simple song. A song of thanksgiving. A song for Maria, for themountains, for the birch trees.

A song that seemed to celebrate my life, my hopes, my sense of being me.

I sang, I think, for the wonder of knowing people like my mom and dad and Maria,all of whom had taught me to breathe deeply the wonder in life. All of whom sangtheir own song. Walt Whitman called it a Song of Myself. I sang for that gift Inow recognized in my own heart.

And the song has been mine ever since.

* * *

When we sing our own ideas, our own passions, when we share our own fears, giveutterance to our own dreams, we are listening to the voice of our authenticselves. When we share it with the world, we produce the meaning that is onlyours to share. Think to yourself how the world would be the poorer without ourindividual voices.

So take a moment to listen for your song today. And when you hear it, sing it. Idon't care what kind of voice you have, it's the spirit of the sound you make.When you celebrate you, the truth of you, in word and deed and, yes, song, youkindle a bit more light.

Childhood was like that.

Adulthood can be, too.

Looking for Answers

Have you noticed that at the most challenging moments of your life, you findyourself seeking a higher power? It might be when you or someone you love issick and, rusty though you may be, you're spinning prayers by the dozen. Or youfall in love, and you want the object of your affection to feel just the sameway. You fire off a 9-1-1 to the divine: "If you really want me to believe inyou, you'll make this happen." Or you're on a particularly bumpy plane ride,flying right through a monstrous storm, lurching from side to side, and suddenlyyou are cutting deals with the universe like there was no tomorrow.

Which brings me to a little piece of advice about good news and bad news.

It came to me from one of my dad's buddies when I was a high-school student backin Vermont. I had been rushing through the snow to my father's diner when I raninto Barney along Church Street, the main thoroughfare where half the town wason foot at any given moment. Barney's son had just won an academic award thatmorning at a school assembly, and, to my chagrin, I spilled the beans about it.As the words left my mouth, I was already kicking myself for not letting Barneyhear the news from his own kid. I must have said as much out loud, but Barneysmiled, a twinkle in his eye, comforting me. "Good news you tell right away," heassured me. "Bad news will always arrive soon enough."

I thought about that one afternoon, some thirty-one years later, when, just asBarney said it would, the bad news arrived soon enough.

We were losing Bonnie's pregnancy. Chromosomal damage. Chromosome number twelve.

Life has a way of mixing and matching, and every once in a while it gets itwrong. A prenatal procedure can point to an aberration of chromosomal makeupthat allows doctors to guarantee with what amounts to a statistical certaintythat your baby-to-be is damaged goods.

Nature will take its course, but it does not take into account the emotions ofthe parents. My wife, Bonnie, and I were left with an empty pang of what mighthave been.

There were tears and thoughts of "Why me?" and "Why us?" I found myself asking,Who put this sperm and this egg into orbit together? Didn't the ordered cosmosknow that an extra piece of chromosome had attached itself in the process? Iwanted to ask the universe to speak to me, explain it to me.

And while I was at it, I'd want to know about emphysema, the kind that killed mydad. I'd dig for some semblance of reason as to why a twenty-nine-year-old womanI worked with had to die of some aberration called ovarian cancer or why babieshad to be afflicted with Down's syndrome or what good could come from HIV or ... orany number of things.

I'd want answers. And I'd be prepared to listen as long as it took.

I've discovered, however, a simple truth. Sometimes the universe does notrespond according to our timetable. And silence may also be a kind of answer—sometimesthe only one we get. Furthermore, while the universe may wish to takeits own time in getting back to us in a manner we can understand, life continuesits forward motion. We forget sometimes that when we allow ourselves to be miredin obstinate demands for satisfaction, life can pass us by.

If we will but listen to life's rhythmic beat, we will recognize that getting onwith life is, at times, the only answer that makes sense. And while we cannotcontrol life's challenges, we hold the power to respond, and begin anew.

Maybe that was what I was listening for all along.

* * *

Even in difficult times, perhaps especially in difficult times, it could proveworthwhile to remember:

If we only listen for the answers we want we may miss the answers we need.

Mixed Messages

A little sign often appears at the bottom of restaurant menus and storeentrances, and it has always struck me as a bit disconcerting:

We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.

I get this mental picture of the owners standing behind some kind of one-wayglass window, sizing us up as we enter. "Yeah, we can take her, he's all right,that family looks fairly normal. Wait a minute, I don't like the way that one'ssquinting—out!"

Don't misunderstand; I see the need to keep undesirables in check when you'rerunning an enterprise. My dad owned a restaurant, and there was the occasionalunsavory element that was a tad too rowdy or gave those waiting on them a hardtime. You've got to protect yourself. It's just that I would like it to be donewithout anyone pointing it out to me. I'm aware that the little sign is therefor legal reasons. Apparently you have to say it up front so no one misconstruesthat they have the right to act in a way best suited for the World WrestlingFederation. It's just the juxtaposition of being welcomed into a business andbeing immediately put on notice that you could be asked to leave at any momentthat strikes a discordant note. And, while I'm at it, if "the customer's alwaysright," how can you actually refuse to serve her anything?

I think about the mixed messages we sometimes encounter in the business arena.This gets me thinking about the mixed messages we sometimes experience in thehuman arena.

Take the dating world, for instance. Going to meet someone on a date, whereveryou fall on life's timeline, is all about wanting to make a connection. I mean,you don't go to all that bother because you want to dislike the person you'remeeting. But if that's so, why do some people behave so obnoxiously that theyare practically screaming to the unsuspecting date, "Go on—like me, I dare you"?I know a guy who purposely allows for lulls in the conversation just to see whatthe other person's really made of. I know a woman whose modus operandi withdates is to insist, somewhere at the top of the evening, that she has to leaveearly, just to find out if her date wants to be with her so badly the personwill do anything to talk her out of it. These people misconstrue relationshipsas gamesmanship. You know the type?

Then there are the mixed messages we get when a friend or family member insistson doing anything to help us out and then is consistently busy every time weask. Or the colleague who dismisses our ideas then appropriates them as his orher own. Or the person of authority who upholds the need for authority whileabusing it.

Come to think of it, the messages aren't all so mixed after all. Not if welisten to the complete communication. For the act of listening is performed, notonly with our ears, but with our hearts. We "hear" with our feelings and discernthe larger message—the attitude of one playing games with us, the desperation ofanother's aloofness. We become aware that these people are operating at a levelnot worthy of our time or attention. Our lives don't need that kind ofdisingenuousness, do they?

Of course not. But then why do we sometimes send mixed messages to ourselves?I'm talking about the times we tell ourselves we are absolutely, positivelygoing to lose the weight beginning now while continuing to enjoy the customarysweets and late-night snacks that put it on to begin with. Or when we claim toourselves that we want someone better in our lives, that we know we're worth it,while continuing to endure relationships that are destructive to our souls. Orthe dreams we feed our hearts about following our passion, doing something ofmeaning in our lives, while never acting to extricate ourselves from work wefind empty or, worse, demeaning.

If we really want to, we can walk away from those who give us mixed messages. Wecan decline a second date, figure out who we can truly count on, protect ourideas from an unethical colleague, and look to an authority who earns our trust.What we can't do is walk away from ourselves. When we're the generators of ourown mixed messages, the only option, if we truly want to live a life that iseverything we want it to be, is to listen to everything our life is saying.

Our souls must be allowed a voice. Our hearts must be allowed to speak. Ourdreams must be allowed to name their desire. Listening to our souls, our hearts,our dreams, and the message in our actions all together is essential. If thereis a cacophony of sound, one voice at odds with another, then we can dosomething about the discord. But only if we listen to the whole message, notsimply the parts.

Listening to what our lives are saying brings an awareness of not only the mixedmessages but also the meaningful ones. Listening to that kind of communicationawakens within us a determination to let our lives speak with one voice, genuineand with purpose.

* * *

Of course, we can reserve the right to refuse service to ourselves. But it won'tget us very far.

Authentic voices

When I was a kid, Mike Corey was a hero. He owned the gas station next to mydad's diner, and he was a one-stop shop for all things automotive. No matterwhat went wrong with my father's Oldsmobile or my mom's old Pontiac, Mikemiraculously knew just what was needed. I didn't think one man could know somuch about any subject.

Hanging around the garage while waiting for my father to finish up at therestaurant, I'd watch Mike, all grease-covered arms and oil-stained clothes,squinting up at a car's underbelly as it sat atop the rack. He was an automotivedetective pulling the universe apart then putting it back together better thanbefore. He was an engine-healing, spark plug-fixing marvel, and somehow my lifeseemed a bit safer with Mike Corey around.