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I was with my wife, Kristin, and my twin eight year old girls today at the county dump. Well, you can get free mulch there–can you blame me? Four kids on my salary? Anyway, we loaded several huge unwieldy plastic barrels of free, but high quality mulch, and I had to somehow get my arms around each and lift them three feet up and into our mini-van. So I squatted using my legs, not my back, to lift each barrel. As my arms reached around the first barrel there was nothing to cling to. In my head I was searching for an answer on how to do this or maybe even a miracle– well, maybe not a miracle but maybe an adrenalin rush like I never experienced before.
Just then, I heard a voice next to me. “Need some help?” These barrels were heavy, I mean h-e-a-v-y. Simple words, I thought, for a not so simple task.
I turned and saw a man about my age– but I’m bad with ages– and said, “Sure, if you don’t mind.” I had done this thing before but thought this was not the time to be so proud.
We all need some help sometime.
This stranger helped me lift, with ease, all the barrels. It was that simple. When done, we simultaneously stuck out our hands and we introduced ourselves. Oh, I then said, “thanks so much; have a great day.” Well….
Anthony drove away as did we.
I’ll never see him again, but he left an indelible imprint on my mind. Yes, people have reached out to me in the past, and I have to them. But for some reason, this event seemed to truly resonate. It felt like I was being rewarded for something and maybe, in some way I was. But maybe not. Maybe this was an action that was to remind me about the kindness of others and maybe I was long overdue. For whatever reason, I was awed. He did not know my religion, my politics nor my mental wellbeing, but he offered a hand. A hand to help. Don’t we all need that–sometime?
Anthony inspired me and it is as simple as that. Now I want to inspire others in the same way.
Thanks, Anthony.
Tags: help, inspire others, random acts of kindness, values
Posted on April 10th, 2009 | 1 Comment »
We learn so much from our fathers. Many times we learn in overt ways and other times we unwittingly learn over the years and in different circumstances. My dad specifically taught me how to shoot a jump shot and how to throw a baseball. But he also taught me, not so specifically, the value of hard work and perseverance as well as sacrifice.My father will turn 88 in May and he’s fit as a fiddle. He lives with my mother who is 87 and suffers from dementia. It is very sad as she doesn’t “know” her husband of nearly 65 years who lovingly takes care of her, and has been, since the onslaught of this hideous disease five years ago.
He may be fit, but he’s tired–and weary.
As I get older, I realize that I have subconsciously observed him over the years and have pulled out real gems he’s somehow provided that has helped me get through some tough times and how to handle the good ones too.
When I got married, I automatically became closer to my dad. When we were blessed with children, again, I felt another step closer to him. Thinking about it, some things about him or what he said when I was younger, I blew off–what an idiot! I now realize their significance. We don’t need to look to far to find who our heroes are– he is a true slugger without the use of anything artificial about him.
Today I visited with he and my mom in their one bedroom apartment. I was excited and happy to hand him a copy of my newly published book. I dedicated it to him and, of course wrote an inscription. I wanted to give him something so uniquely me to show him my love.
In his usual way he thanked me–no fanfare. But that’s him and that’s fine by me.
Upon arriving home the telephone rang and on the other end I heard my dad’s voice. His tone and his choice of words told me everything as he wanted to let me know how he felt. And even when I wanted to give him something, he still gave me so much more.
Posted on March 28th, 2009 | 1 Comment »
On the eve of the release of my new book, Zen Master Next Door, I found myself a tad nostalgic. I read, once again, chapter one of my first book, YOURS, AIDEN, and felt compelled to share an excerpt…
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Why I came back to Saint Augustine for that particular reunion was a mystery to me. Perhaps I returned to complete unfinished business or to rekindle old relationships. Perhaps it was neither. Maybe I came in part, to honor my journey. Twenty-five years ago I came here my senior year and while moving toward my goal I found more-much more. At the time I did not want any more than what lay in clear vision, but I am now grateful I learned as my senses became replete. What I thought was absolute was not. What I thought was corrupt was good. I overlooked what astonishes me now. I was not ready for what was a metamorphosis in my life. But what I was not ready for conceived new ways. Where I had been, in a way, and where I wanted to go, did not matter. Growth happened, as always, in my present. The journey was always in the now. I could not be told this, although some tried. Sometimes I asked questions of others and I heard them but did not listen. Placing a terrible burden on them, I so desperately wanted direction.
Years ago I fought my inward travel with each step. I kept looking outward and beyond. Like a recurring dream I saw myself running a race, but the race would not end although I kept my eye on the finish line. I sensed I was running the race only by myself and against no one but myself. The race was but a blur but getting to the finish line, my subconscious mind determined, was meaningless. Clearly, crossing the finish line was for naught. The blur of the race was everything.
In time I found what lied beyond the day, any day, only became smaller as my past became enormous. The present remained the only real time. The past was only a trace of who I was to become. Now my past was the taste of bitter and sweet. Without one, however, I could not savor the other.
Why three tiny bird eggs made an indelible imprint on my mind earlier that day I may never know. An illusion, perhaps, of simplicity but the reality of life’s complexities rattled my senses. But the change, the transformation and the need I had for so much more than what was simply before me pulsated in my mind. Was my life as fragile as those eggs? Lives change without warning. What really mattered? Those capsules of life swarmed with energy and delicately clung to a tree. This interlude was merely momentary. My life’s experiences and thoughts swirled aimlessly in me but, simultaneously, cleaved to my soul. The occasion of my life, as well, was but momentary.
Preoccupied that night and the entire weekend, I mulled over my life. I thought of that year and resolved that there was something remarkable to everything, even the transitory life affixed to the wispiest vein of nature.
Posted on March 24th, 2009 | Be the first to comment »
I say fiction. Recently, I heard that fewer and fewer people are cuddling up with a good novel than anytime in our recent past. Not good.We are reading more “how to” books. We are reading biographies of celebrities. We’re reading accounts of history and wars. Dieting books remain ever so popular. Take a look at the top books sold. Now, there’s nothing wrong with reading these kinds of books–don’t get me wrong. I just think that we need to include a fair dose of fiction in the mix. It could be short stories, poetry, novels or essays. It’s your choice.
Fiction stimulates our thinking and it soothes it all at once. It has a way to reignite our imagination; something that adults tend to tuck a way for more “serious” things. Oscar Wilde put it this way, “Life is too important to take so seriously.” He happened to write short stories, plays and a novel so maybe he was a tad biased.
Oral stories have been passed down for thousands of years as they hold our very truths. Those same truths that have stuck with humans long after most of the thousands of wars fought have been forgotten or last year’s diet has been proved faulty. Didn’t Jesus tell parables? How about grandpa and his stories. You know what I mean…what about the beautiful poem you heard in third grade or the one you made up in your head when you were alone; don’t worry, no one will ever know.
We learn from stories. We learn from them because we remember them. How did it make us feel? Why do we feel empathy for a particular character? Sometimes we think, “that could’ve been me.” Truths are relevant and are the most prized manifestation of our humanity. Truths are universal and they are of tremendous value– that’s why we call them “values” and they withstand physical, chemical or “mystical” change, so to speak. Truths are, what they are. We value love over hate, health over illness, knowing over ignorance, kindness over mean-spiritedness, and peace over war, just to mention a few.
What better way to ponder our values than through a good story. In the “lies” of fiction, I think we find the truth.
Tags: fiction, Truth, values
Posted on March 21st, 2009 | Be the first to comment »
It’s all about greed. That’s what got us into this fix in the first place. No, this isn’t a political blog. This is a place I write about us–people and their relationships to each other and the things that occupy us.
A few days ago, Chris Matthews who hosts Hardball on MSNBC put it eloquently. Paraphrasing him, he intimated that since the 1980’s people have changed their sights and began to think less about going to college for a degree in Psych, or, say English, but rather, they looked to business and finance for their answers for personal fulfillment. On top of that came the notion that everyone had to get their MBA if they were going to succeed.
Being successful meant being rich–many wanted to get rich and still do.
Back then I got calls from so many financial advisors who wanted to make me rich too. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with any of that. What’s wrong was that ego began to drive some people and morals took a back seat with many of them. Greed seemed to become okay. Maybe they didn’t say so, but it did–greed began to become okay with a lot of people.
It only got worse in the 90’s and a billion times worse in this decade. Heck, Bernard Madoff just pleaded guilty and could get up to 150 years for cheating billions of dollars out of his investors. That’s the biggest con job in history. He’s just one of so many we hear about daily.
It’s all about greed. Hard working and responsible people with a moral conscience may have started down the superhighway with pure intentions, but somehow many got carjacked by an alter ego of sorts sitting right there with them, or maybe right in their lap. They were transformed to hard working but irresponsible folks without a moral conscience. They are the ones that botched things up for the rest of us.
In all of us, if we don’t control it, we have insatiable drives. We do, we really so. Just think about your own reaction to external temptations. If we don’t watch it, our ego takes over and we spin out of control. It’s not to late to turn around…sometimes we need to turn around to get to where we want to go.
Posted on March 14th, 2009 | Be the first to comment »
A report last week from some British research group announced that the best age in a person’s life is 46. Not 45 and not 47. Forget about 25, 33 or 55. The reason, they concluded that 46 is the best age in a person’s life is because, presumably, by this age “most of us” are at a financial situation that has allowed us, or about to allow us, the capability to accumulate all the “things” we want. Wow…
They would lead us to believe that this “best” age and everything about it will make us happy people. See, they’re telling us that we are the peak of consuming and able to get what we want so this makes it our “best” age.
Oh, really? I’m 49. Did I miss something? For my friends who are 45, should they prepare somehow for this “best” year before them? I’m not following.
Forgive me as I switch gears.
By using the phrase, best year of ones life sounds too much like declaring that the things we accumulate may even make us, well…happy. Nah, that can’t be. We’re smarter than that.
But if this is true, where does that put me? I, actually, want fewer of those “things” that are supposed to make me happy. I’m talking about all the stuff that anchors me down, that keeps me “connected”, that break, and after just a moment of thought, are meaningless in my life.
The things that we pretend we need or want as the true inhibitors of being the best we can be– they are inhibitors of our happiness. At age 46 or 99, the things we own are just that–the things we own. It may be true that our stuff we accumulate may certainly gratify us for the moment, but that stuff doesn’t do anything to help us enjoy our “best” year of our lives. What’s your best year? Make that, years?
Posted on March 7th, 2009 | Be the first to comment »
Our experiences shape us. There’s no doubt about that. Well, come to think about it, I do doubt it. Maybe, I should rephrase my thought and say that our experiences and our thoughts about our experiences shape who we are.
Wasn’t Einstein the one who defined insanity as, “…doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” The experience is sometimes, inevitable, but the thought that follows is intentional. That’s what directs us. With no thought, we lapse into doing the same old thing, but on a different day so to speak.
This sounds simple and it is, but most of us don’t do this–think. A more precise notion is that we do not have time or permit time for introspection. There…it’s out there, and I said it. Perhaps I am stating the obvious, but that’s me.
I don’t intend to go through life on autopilot. With a little introspection I get to know myself just a wee bit more. My purpose becomes more purposeful. I learn something from each and every experience. My life is shaped in gratifying ways when I attempt to search for meaning in the most mundane event. This, I am sure, is when I see a glimpse of something special.
Posted on February 28th, 2009 | Be the first to comment »
This story is based on a legend. I hope you enjoy my version.
A millennium or so ago, a good man who happened to be the king of Bohemia uncharacteristically rose late the day after Christmas. But his Christmas evening was like most others as he often devoted his time to concerns outside of his worldly kingdom.
The day was unusually quiet as most of his servants were given the day to themselves. The king spent his time in deep introspection and prayer. With great promise, the day began with golden rays of the sun sparkling on the newly fallen snow from Christmas night. But with each hour, the day grew bleaker and the sky became gray. More snow fell. His chamber, though, was warm as his page made frequent visits to stoke the fire giving life to the failing embers.
The good king told his page, all of thirteen years of age, to rest by the fire he cared for and to keep him company.
“Why do you tend to me when I have declared this day a time for rest and renewal?”
“Why Sire, my faithfulness to you gives me comfort,” said the page.
“You are not like the others,” said the good king.
“You are a righteous man–forgive me, a righteous king, and I am where I should be as I am calmed by your spirit. I see what you do.”
“And I see what you do,” said the king.
The winds picked up in a menacing way and its howl was chilling. Coming out of his meditation, the king would peer toward the window. The page slept curled in a ball on a bed of hay in front of the meager fire. The room was becoming dark as the beams of a full moon filled the room.
The erratic winds were laced with the sound of crunching snow just outside the walls. The king walked to the window. He first looked to the clearing sky and saw a well defined illuminated heavenly body that gave light. He then looked down and saw a fellow man. He summoned his page.
“Page, do you know this man? Who might he be?”
“Sire he is a mere peasant gathering the twigs and branches to keep his family warm. He is a good man whom I met. He is from my village.”
“Where is his dwelling?” the king asked.
“He lives near the foot of the hills near St. Agnes’ fountain. It is a good league from here,” said the page.
The king stroking his beard thought out loud, “that is an hour by foot on a good day.”
Spinning on his heel, he turned and looked in the eyes of the page. “Bring me meats and bring me wine. Gather pine logs too. Tonight, you and I will see him dine.” His eyes gleamed and with a smile on his face, the page heard the king’s charge and began to assemble the gifts.
They both loaded sacks of meats, breads, pine logs and a small gift and strapped them to their backs. They entered into the night’s foul cry. The wind was stiff and the snow was clad by an icy crust befriending the moon giving a glow but giving struggle to any traveler. The wind tore at the bare-faced page as he pulled his collar up for warmth.
An hour into their journey, the boy called out, “Sire, the moon now hides and the wind is wicked. I am afraid. My body is paralyzed with cold and can go no further. Continue on your journey and leave me.”
”This is your journey too my son.”
With love in his heart, his words lifted the boy.
“Mark my footsteps, my good boy, and tread them ever boldly. Step in my footprints and you’ll find that winter’s rage diminishes. As you take a step you will find your soul will warm; there is nothing you cannot do. Remember, son, just where we’re headed.”
Without a hint of question, the page trod where the king’s newly formed steps were made. Heat came from the very prints where the man had been.
Not long after, they reached the peasants home, and shared their bounty and shared their spirit. But on the journey home the next morning, the king asked the young man, “did you defeat the cold because of my nobility and wealth?”
Without thought, the boy spoke up, “I don’t think so.”
“Why then?’
“Because I followed you.”
“No, my young page. We followed each other. Remember, those like you who bless the poor, shall too find blessings.”
Based on the legend of Good King Wenceslas
Edward G. Kardos
December 21, 2008
Posted on December 21st, 2008 | Be the first to comment »
Governor of Virginia, Tim Kaine, had us by the mansion a few weeks ago to celebrate the Holiday Season. Well, he opened the Governor’s Mansion to the community but, nevertheless, my wife, two of our daughters and I enjoyed being greeted by his staff as we walked through the huge doorway.
As my daughters, all of eight years old, approached the room where the Governor and his wife were welcoming guests, I asked my twin girls if they would like to meet the Governor. Instantly, our more outgoing child of the two was shocked by the very thought. She was emphatic that she had no interest in meeting him.
I then realized she didn’t know anything about a Governor or why one would want to meet one.
With the host in sight and an earshot away, I gave her a twenty second lesson. I explained the best I could, the importance of the role of Governor in our state. Rather unfazed with the magnitude of the position description, she told me she was ready to meet him.
I listened to her that night.
We met Tim.
Posted on December 19th, 2008 | Be the first to comment »
Much to my delight, I am receiving inspiring questions about the essence of my new book. Since Zen Master Next Door: Parables for Enlightened Everyday Living will be available in February, I’m thrilled to see this genuine interest.
My Zen parables reflect a spirit of Zen centered in experiences and introspection or meditation. The word “introspection” is something that everyone should understand but, conversely, the word “meditation” may be misunderstood.
But Zen can be, and is, interpreted as so much more. The stories, or parables, in my book emphasize our experiences and how they are integrated in our very being. The themes are not about the teaching of theory or religious doctrine. My interpretation of Zen stems from its most basic origin.
But we are more than our experiences. To live life means to experience the world and each other in many ways, but we generally do not spend time engaged in introspection, and only a few spend time in meditation. My hope is that a reader may, first, enjoy a vast array of themes that we as a caring global community find important. Secondly, I must believe that the reader will identify with numerous well developed characters who, from their experiences, recognize a personal awakening and become more enlightened individuals. Perhaps not with a capital E, but kind of enlightenment that crystallizes a moment and renders further understanding.
These parables are fiction but are based in truth. The truth? What truths? One truth I believe is important is that we should treat others as we would want to be treated. Like many, I believe we all want peace and that we must be, and have to be, a compassionate people. And shouldn’t we take the time to be present in our own lives? After all, it is our life. This is something that we struggle with in our multi-tasking existence. Moreover, the innocence of children, to use the broadest definition possible, should be our ultimate concern. When we see life like a child, we may actually see life.
I claim to be anything but an expert, and claim, only, to be a writer of fiction
Posted on December 11th, 2008 | Be the first to comment »
