Chicken Soup for The Soul part 4

Everybody Has A Dream
Some years ago I took on an assignment in a southern county to work with
people on public welfare. What I wanted to do was show that everybody has the
capacity to be self-sufficient and all we have to do is to activate them. I asked the
county to pick a group of people who were on public welfare, people from
different racial groups and different family constellations. I would then see them
as a group for three hours every Friday. I also asked for a little petty cash to work
with as I needed it.
The first thing I said after I shook hands with everybody was, "I would like to
know what your dreams are." Everyone looked at me as if I were kind of wacky.
"Dreams? We don't have dreams."
I said, "Well, when you were a kid what happened? Wasn't there something you
wanted to do?"
One woman said to me, "I don't know what you can do with dreams. The rats are
eating up my kids."
"Oh," I said. "That's terrible. No, of course, you are very much involved with the
rats and your kids. How can that be helped?"
"Well, I could use a new screen door because there are holes in my screen door."
I asked, "Is there anybody around here who knows how to fix a screen door?"
There was a man in the group, and he said, "A long time ago I used to do things
like that but now I have a terribly bad back, but I'll try."
I told him I had some money if he would go to the store and buy some screening
and go and fix the lady's screen door. "Do you think you can do that?"
"Yes, I'll try."
The next week, when the group was seated, I said to the woman, "Well, is your
screen door fixed?"
"Oh, yes," she said.
"Then we can start dreaming, can't we?" She sort of smiled at me.
I said to the man who did the work, "How do you feel?"
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He said, "Well, you know, it's a very funny thing. I'm beginning to feel a lot
better."
That helped the group to begin to dream. These seemingly small successes
allowed the group to see that dreams were not insane. These small steps began
to get people to see and feel that something really could happen.
I began to ask other people about their dreams. One woman shared that she
always wanted to be a secretary. I said, "Well, what stands in your way?" (That's
always my next question.)
She said, "I have six kids, and I don't have anyone to take care of them while I'm
away."
"Let's find out," I said. "Is there anybody in this group who would take care of six
kids for a day or two a week while this woman gets some training here at the
community college?"
One woman said "I got kids, too, but I could do that."
"Let's do it," I said. So a plan was created and the woman went to school.
Everyone found something. The man who put in the screen door became a
handyman. The woman who took in the children became a licensed foster care
person. In 12 weeks I had all these people off public welfare.
I've not only done that once, I've done it many times.
Virginia Satir
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Follow Your Dream
I have a friend named Monty Roberts who owns a horse ranch in San Ysidro. He
has let me use his house to put on fund-raising events to raise money for youth
at risk programs.
The last time I was there he introduced me by saying, "I want to tell you why I let
Jack use my house. It all goes back to a story about a young man who was the
son of an itinerant horse trainer who would go from stable to stable, race track to
race track, farm to farm and ranch to ranch, training horses. As a result, the boy's
high school career was continually interrupted. When he was a senior, he was
asked to write a paper about what he wanted to be and do when he grew up.
"That night he wrote a seven-page paper describing his goal of someday owning a
horse ranch. He wrote about his dream in great detail and he even drew a
diagram of a 200-acre ranch, showing the location of all the buildings, the stables
and the track. Then he drew a detailed floor plan for a 4,000square-foot house
that would sit on the 200-acre dream ranch.
"He put a great deal of his heart into the project and the next day he handed it in
to his teacher. Two days later he received his paper back. On the front page was a
large red F with a note that read, 'See me after class.'
"The boy with the dream went to see the teacher after class and asked, 'Why did
I receive an F?'
'The teacher said, 'This is an unrealistic dream for a young boy like you. You have
no money. You come from an itinerant family. You have no resources. Owning a
horse ranch requires a lot of money. You have to buy the land. You have to pay
for the original breeding stock and later you'll have to pay large stud fees. There's
no way you could ever do it.' Then the teacher added, If you will rewrite this
paper with a more realistic goal, I will reconsider your grade.'
The boy went home and thought about it long and hard. He asked his father what
he should do. His father said, 'Look, son, you have to make up your own mind on
this. However, I think it is a very important decision for you.'
Finally, after sitting with it for a week, the boy turned in the same paper, making
no changes at all. He stated, 'You can keep the F and I'll keep my dream.'
Monty then turned to the assembled group and said, "I tell you this story because
you are sitting in my 4,000-square-foot house in the middle of my 200-acre horse
ranch. I still have that school paper framed over the fireplace." He added, 'The
best part of the story is that two summers ago that same schoolteacher brought
30 kids to camp out on my ranch for a week. When the teacher was leaving, he
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said, 'Look, Monty, I can tell you this now. When I was your teacher, I was
something of a dream stealer. During those years I stole a lot of kids' dreams.
Fortunately you had enough gumption not to give up on yours.'"
Don't let anyone steal your dreams. Follow your heart, no matter what.
Jack Canfield
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The Box
When I was a senior in college, I came home for Christmas vacation and
anticipated a fun-filled fortnight with my two brothers. We were so excited to be
together, we volunteered to watch the store so that my mother and father could
take their first day off in years. The day before my parents went to Boston, my
father took me quietly aside to the little den behind the store. The room was so
small that it held only a piano and a hide-a-bed couch. In fact, when you pulled
the bed out, it filled the room and you could sit on the foot of it and play the
piano. Father reached behind the old upright and pulled out a cigar box. He
opened it and showed me a little pile of newspaper articles. I had read so many
Nancy Drew detective stories that I was excited and wide-eyed over the hidden
box of clippings.
"What are they?" I asked.
Father replied seriously, "These are articles I've written and some letters to the
editor that have been published."
As I began to read, I saw at the bottom of each neatly clipped article the name
Walter Chapman, Esq. "Why didn't you tell me you'd done this?" I asked.
"Because I didn't want your mother to know. She has always told me that since I
didn't have much education, I shouldn't try to write. I wanted to run for some
political office also, but she told me I shouldn't try. I guess she was afraid she'd
be embarrassed if I lost. I just wanted to try for the fun of it. I figured I could
write without her knowing it, and so I did. When each item would be printed, I'd
cut it out and hide it in this box. I knew someday I'd show the box to someone,
and it's you."
He watched me as I read over a few of the articles and when I looked up, his big
blue eyes were moist. "I guess I tried for something too big this last time," he
added. "Did you write something else?" "Yes, I sent some suggestions in to our
denominational magazine on how the national nominating committee could be
selected more fairly. It's been three months since I sent it in. I guess I tried for
something too big."
This was such a new side to my fun-loving father that I didn't quite know what to
say, so I tried, "Maybe it'll still come."
"Maybe, but don't hold your breath." Father gave me a little smile and a wink and
then closed the cigar box and tucked it into the space behind the piano.
The next morning our parents left on the bus to the Haverhill Depot where they
took a train to Boston. Jim, Ron and I ran the store and I thought about the box.
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I'd never known my father liked to write. I didn't tell my brothers; it was a secret
between Father and me. The Mystery of the Hidden Box.
Early that evening I looked out the store window and saw my mother get off the
bus—alone. She crossed the Square and walked briskly through the store.
"Where's Dad?" we asked together. "Your father's dead," she said without a tear.
In disbelief we followed her to the kitchen where she told us they had been
walking through the Park Street Subway Station in the midst of crowds of people
when Father had fallen to the floor. A nurse bent over him, looked up at Mother
and said simply, "He's dead."
Mother had stood by him stunned, not knowing what to do as people tripped over
him in their rush through the subway. A priest said, 'I'll call the police," and
disappeared. Mother straddled Dad's body for about an hour. Finally an
ambulance came and took them both to the only morgue where Mother had to go
through his pockets and remove his watch. She'd come back on the train alone
and then home on the local bus. Mother told us the shocking tale without
shedding a tear. Not showing emotion had always been a matter of discipline and
pride for her. We didn't cry either and we took turns waiting on the customers.
One steady patron asked, "Where's the old man tonight?"
"He's dead," I replied.
"Oh, too bad," and he left.
I'd not thought of him as the old man, and I was mad at the question, but he was
70 and Mother was only 60. He'd always been healthy and happy and he'd cared
for frail mother without complaining and now he was gone. No more whistling, no
more singing hymns while stocking shelves. The "old man" was gone.
On the morning of the funeral, I sat at the table in the store opening sympathy
cards and pasting them in a scrapbook when I noticed the church magazine in the
pile. Normally I would never have opened what I viewed as a dull religious
publication, but just maybe that sacred article might be there—and it was.
I took the magazine to the little den, shut the door, and burst into tears. I'd been
brave, but seeing Dad's bold recommendations to the national convention in print
was more than I could bear. I read and cried and then I read again. I pulled out
the box from behind the piano and under the clippings I found a two-page letter
to my father from Henry Cabot Lodge, Sr., thanking him for his campaign
suggestions. I didn't tell anyone about my box. It remained a secret.
Florence Littauer
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Encouragement
Some of the greatest success stories of history have followed a word of
encouragement or an act of confidence by a loved one or a trusted friend. Had it
not been for a confident wife, Sophia, we might not have listed among the great
names of literature the name of Nathaniel Hawthorne. When Nathaniel, a
heartbroken man, went home to tell his wife that he was a failure and had been
fired from his job in a customhouse, she surprised him with an exclamation of joy.
"Now," she said triumphantly, "you can write your book!"
"Yes," replied the man, with sagging confidence, "and what shall we live on while
I am writing it?"
To his amazement, she opened a drawer and pulled out a substantial amount of
money.
"Where on earth did you get that?" he exclaimed.
"I have always known you were a man of genius," she told him. "I knew that
someday you would write a masterpiece. So every week, out of the money you
gave me for housekeeping, I saved a little bit. So here is enough to last us for
one whole year."
From her trust and confidence came one of the greatest novels of American
literature, The Scarlet Letter.
Nido Oubein
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Walt Jones
The big question is whether you are going to be able to say a hearty yes to your
adventure.
Joseph Campbell
No one epitomizes the fact that success is a journey and not a destination than
the many green and growing "human becomings" who do not allow age to be a
deterrent to accomplishment. Florence Brooks joined the Peace Corps when she
was 64 years of age. Gladys Clappison was living in the dormitory at the
University of Iowa working on her Ph.D. in history at age 82. Then there was Ed
Stitt, who at age 87, was working on his community college degree program in
New Jersey. Ed said it kept him from getting "old-timers' disease" and kept his
brain alive.
Probably no one person has stirred my imagination over the years more than Walt
Jones of Tacoma, Washington. Walt outlived his third wife to whom he was
married for 52 years. When she died, someone said to Walt that it must be
married for 52 years. When she died, someone said to Walt that it must be sad
losing such a long-time friend. His response was, "Well, of course it was, but then
again it may be for the best." "Why was that?"
"I don't want to be negative or say anything to defame her wonderful character,
but she kind of petered out on me in the last decade."
When asked to explain, he went on to add, "She just never wanted to do nothin',
just kind of became a stick-in-the-mud. Ten years ago when I was 94, I told my
wife we ain't never seen nothin' except the beautiful Pacific Northwest. She asked
me what was on my mind, and I told her I was thinkin' about buying a motor
home and maybe we could visit all 48 of the contiguous states. 'What do you
think of that?'
"She said, 1 think you're out of your mind, Walt.' "
'Whydya say that?' I asked.
"We'd get mugged out there. We'd die and there wouldn't be a funeral parlor.'
Then she asked me, Who's going to drive, Walter?' and I said, 'I am, Lambie.'
You'll kill us!' she said.
"I'd like to make footprints in the sands of time before I check out, but you can't
make footprints in the sands of time if you're sitting on your butt.... unless your
intent is to make buttprints in the sands of time."
"So now that she's gone, Walt, what do you intend to do?"
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"What do I intend to do? I buried the old gal and bought me a motor home. This
is 1976, and I intend to visit all 48 of the states to celebrate our bicentennial."
Walt got to 43 of the states that year selling curios and souvenirs. When asked if
he ever picked up hitchhikers, he said, "No way. Too many of them will club you
over the head for four bits or sue you for whiplash if you get into an accident."
Walt hadn't had his motor home but a few months and his wife had only been
buried for six months when he was seen driving down the street with a rather
attractive 62-year-old woman at his side.
"Walt?" he was asked.
"Yeah," he replied.
"Who was the woman sitting by your side? Who's your new lady friend, Walt?"
To which he replied, "Yes, she is."
"Yes she is what?" "My lady friend."
"Lady friend? Walt, you've been married three times, you're 104 years of age.
This woman must be four decades younger than you."
"Well," he responded, "I quickly discovered that man cannot live in a motor home
alone."
"I can understand that, Walt. You probably miss having someone to talk to after
having had a companion all these years."
Without hesitation Walt replied, "You know, I miss that, too." "Too? Are you
inferring that you have a romantic interest?"
"I just might."
"Walt.. ."
"What?" he said.
"There comes a time in a person's life when you knock that stuff off."
"Sex?" he replied.
"Yes."
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"Why?" he asked.
"Well, because that kind of physical exertion could be hazardous to a person's
health."
Walt considered the question and said, "Well, if she dies, she dies."
In 1978 with double digit inflation heating up in our country, Walt was a major
investor in a condominium development. When asked why he was taking his
money out of a secure bank account and putting it into a condo development, he
said, "Ain't you heard? These are inflationary times. You've got to put your money
into real property so it will appreciate and be around for your later years when
you really need it." How's that for positive thinking?
In 1980 he sold off a lot of his property in and around Pierce County, Washington.
Many people thought Walt was cashing in his chips. He assembled his friends and
quickly made it clear that he was not cashing in his chips, but he had sold off the
property for cash flow. "I took a small down and a 30-year contract. I got four
grand a month comin' in until I'm 138."
He celebrated his 110th birthday on the Johnny Carson Show. He walked out
resplendent in his white beard and black hat looking a little like the late Colonel
Sanders, and Johnny says, "It's good to have you here, Walt."
"It's good to be anywhere at 110, Johnny."
"110?"
"110."
"1-1-0?"
"What's the matter, Carson, you losin' your hearin'? That's what I said. That's
what I am. What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is you're within three days of being twice as old as I am." That
would get your attention, wouldn't it? One hundred and ten years of age—a
green, growing human becoming. Walt picked up the opening and quickly alluded
to Johnny.
"How old would you be if you didn't know the date you were born and there
weren't no durned calendar to semi-depress you once a year? Ever heard of
people getting depressed because of a calendar date? Oh, Lordy, I hit my 30th
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birthday. I'm so depressed, I'm over the hill. Oh, no, I hit my 40th birthday.
Everybody in my work team dressed in black and sent a hearse to pick me up.
Oh, no I'm 50 years old. Half a century old. They sent me dead roses with
cobwebs. Johnny, who says you're supposed to roll over and die when you're 65?
I have friends more prosperous since they were 75 than they were before. And as
a result of a little condominium investment I made a few years ago, I've made
more bucks since I was 105 than I did before.
Can I give you my definition of depression, Johnny?"
"Go ahead."
"Missing a birthday."
May the story of Walt Jones inspire all of us to remain green and growing every
day of our lives.
Bob Monwad
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Are You Strong Enough To Handle Critics?
It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man
stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit
belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust
and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and
again because there is no effort without error and shortcomings, who knows the
great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows in the
end the high achievement of triumph and who at worst, if he fails while daring
greatly, knows his place shall never be with those timid and cold souls who know
neither victory nor defeat.
Theodore Roosevelt
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Risking
Two seeds lay side by side in the fertile spring soil.
The first seed said, "I want to grow! I want to send my roots deep into the soil
beneath me, and thrust my sprouts through the earth's crust above me.... I want
to unfurl my tender buds like banners to announce the arrival of spring. ... I want
to feel the warmth of the sun on my face and the blessing of the morning dew on
my petals!"
And so she grew.
The second seed said, "I am afraid. If I send my roots into the ground below, I
don't know what I will encounter in the dark. If I push my way through the hard
soil above me I may damage my delicate sprouts ... what if I let my buds open
and a snail tries to eat them? And if I were to open my blossoms, a small child
may pull me from the ground. No, it is much better for me to wait until it is safe."
And so she waited.
A yard hen scratching around in the early spring ground for food found the
waiting seed and promptly ate it.
MORAL OF THE STORY
Those of us who refuse to risk and grow get swallowed up by life.
Patty Hansen
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Try Something Different
When we first read the following story, we had just begun teaching a course
called "The Million Dollar Forum," a course designed to teach people to accelerate
their income up to levels of a million dollars a year or more. Early on we
discovered people get locked into a rut of tryirg harder without trying smarter.
Trying harder doesn't always work. Sometimes we need to do something radically
different to achieve greater levels of success. We need to break out of our
paradigm prisons, our habit patterns and our comfort zones.
I'm sitting in a quiet room at the Milcroft Inn, a peaceful little place hidden back
among the pine trees about an hour out of Toronto. It's just past noon, late July,
and I'm listenirg to the desperate sounds of a lifeor-death struggle going on a few
feet away.
There's a small fly burning out the last of its short life's energies in a futile
attempt to fly through the glass of the windowpane. The whining wings tell the
poignant story of the fly's strategy: Try harder. But it's not working.
The frenzied effort offers no hope for survival. Ironically, the struggle is part of
the trap. It is impossible for the fly to try hard enough to succeed at breaking
through the glass. Nevertheless, this little insect has staked its life on reaching its
goal through raw effort and determination. This fly is doomed. It will die there on
the windowsill.
Across the room, ten steps away, the door is open. Ten seconds of flying time and
this small creature could reach the outside world it seeks. With only a fraction of
the effort now being wasted, it could be free of this self-imposed trap. The
breakthrough possibility is there. It would be so easy.
Why doesn't the fly try another approach, something dramatically different? How
did it get so locked in on the idea that this particular route and determined effort
offer the most promise for success? What logic is there in continuing until death
to seek a breakthrough with more of the same?
No doubt this approach makes sense to the fly. Regrettably, it's an idea that will
kill.
Trying harder isn't necessarily the solution to achieving more. It may not offer
any real promise for getting what you want out of life. Sometimes, in fact, it's a
big part of the problem.
If you stake your hopes for a breakthrough on trying harder than ever, you may
kill your chances for success.
Price Pritchett
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Service With A Smile
A man wrote a letter to a small hotel in a midwest town he planned to visit on his
vacation. He wrote:
I would very much like to bring my dog with me. He is well-groomed and very
well-behaved. Would you be willing to permit me to keep him in my room with me
at night?
An immediate reply came from the hotel owner, who said, I've been operating this
hotel for many years. In all that time, I've never had a dog steal towels, bed
clothes or silverware or pictures off the walls.
I've never had to evict a dog in the middle of the night for being drunk and
disorderly. And I've never had a dog run out on a hotel bill.
Yes, indeed, your dog is welcome at my hotel. And, if your dog will vouch for you,
you're welcome to stay here, too.
Karl Albrecht and Ron Zenke, Service America
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OVERCOMING OBSTACLES
Obstacles are those frightful things you see when you take your eyes off your
goal.
Henry Ford
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Obstacles
We who lived in the concentration camps can remember the men who walked
through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They
may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can
be taken from a man but one thing: The last of his freedoms—to choose one's
attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.
Viktor E. Frankl Man's Search for Meaning
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Consider This
Consider this:
—After Fred Astaire's first screen test, the memo from the testing director of
MGM, dated 1933, said, "Can't act! Slightly bald! Can dance a little!" Astaire kept
that memo over the fireplace in his Beverly Hills home.
—An expert said of Vince Lombardi: "He possesses minimal football knowledge.
Lacks motivation." —Socrates was called, "An immoral corrupter of youth."
—When Peter J. Daniel was in the fourth grade, his teacher, Mrs. Phillips,
constantly said, "Peter J. Daniel, you're no good, you're a bad apple and you're
never going to amount to anything." Peter was totally illiterate until he was 26. A
friend stayed up with him all night and read him a copy of Think and Grow Rich.
Now he owns the street corners he used to fight on and just published his latest
book: Mrs. Phillips, You Were Wrong!
—Louisa May Alcott, the author of Little Women, was encouraged to find work as
a servant or seamstress by her family.
—Beethoven handled the violin awkwardly and preferred playing his own
compositions instead of improving his technique. His teacher called him hopeless
as a composer.
—The parents of the famous opera singer Enrico Caruso wanted him to be an
engineer. His teacher said he had no voice at all and could not sing.
—Charles Darwin, father of the Theory of Evolution, gave up a medical career and
was told by his father, "You care for nothing but shooting, dogs and rat catching.'
In his autobiography, Darwin wrote, "I was considered by all my masters and by
my father, a very ordinary boy, rather below the common standard in intellect."
—Walt Disney was fired by a newspaper editor for lack of ideas. Walt Disney also
went bankrupt several times before he built Disneyland.
—Thomas Edison's teachers said he was too stupid to learn anything.
—Albert Einstein did not speak until he was four years old and didn't read until he
was seven. His teacher described him as "mentally slow, unsociable and adrift
forever in his foolish dreams." He was expelled and was refused admittance to the
Zurich Polytechnic School.
—Louis Pasteur was only a mediocre pupil in undergraduate studies and ranked
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15th out of 22 in chemistry.
—Isaac Newton did very poorly in grade school.
—The sculptor Rodin's father said, "I have an idiot for a son." Described as the
worst pupil in the school, Rodin failed three times to secure admittance to the
school of art. His uncle called him uneducable.
—Leo Tolstoy, author of War and Peace, flunked out of college. He was described
as "both unable and unwilling to learn."
—Playwright Tennessee Williams was enraged when his play Me, Vasha was not
chosen in a class competition at Washington University where he was enrolled in
English XVI. The teacher recalled that Williams denounced the judges' choices and
their intelligence.
—F. W. Woolworth's employers at the dry goods store said he had not enough
sense to wait upon customers.
—Henry Ford failed and went broke five times before he finally succeeded.
—Babe Ruth, considered by sports historians to be the greatest athlete of all time
and famous for setting the home run record, also holds the record for strikeouts.
—Winston Churchill failed sixth grade. He did not become Prime Minister of
England until he was 62, and then only after a lifetime of defeats and setbacks.
His greatest contributions came when he was a "senior citizen."
—Eighteen publishers turned down Richard Bach's 10,000-word story about a
"soaring" seagull, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, before Macmillan finally published
it in 1970. By 1975 it had sold more than 7 million copies in the U.S. alone.
—Richard Hooker worked for seven years on his humorous war novel, M*A*S*H,
only to have it rejected by 21 publishers before Morrow decided to publish it. It
became a runaway bestseller, spawning a blockbusting movie and a highly
successful television series.
Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen
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John Corcoran—The Man Who Couldn't Read
For as long as John Corcoran could remember, words had mocked him. The letters
in sentences traded places, vowel sounds lost themselves in the tunnels of his
ears. In school he'd sit at his desk, stupid and silent as a stone, knowing he
would be different from everyone else forever. If only someone had sat next to
that little boy, put an arm around his shoulder and said, "I'll help you. Don't be
scared."
But no one had heard of dyslexia then. And John couldn't tell them that the left
side of his brain, the lobe humans use to arrange symbols logically in a sequence,
had always misfired.
Instead, in second grade they put him in the "dumb" row. In third grade a nun
handed a yardstick to the other children when John refused to read or write and
let each student have a crack at his legs. In fourth grade his teacher called on
him to read and let one minute of quiet pile upon another until the child thought
he would suffocate. Then he was passed on to the next grade and the next. John
Corcoran never failed a year in his life.
In his senior year, John was voted homecoming king, went steady with the
valedictorian and starred on the basketball team. His mom kissed him when he
graduated—and kept talking about college. College? It would be insane to
consider. But he finally decided on the University of Texas at El Paso where he
could try out for the basketball team. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes ...
and recrossed enemy lines.
On campus John asked each new friend: Which teachers gave essay tests? Which
gave multiple choice? The minute he stepped out of a class, he tore the pages of
scribble from his notebook, in case anyone asked to see his notes. He stared at
thick textbooks in the evening so his roommate wouldn't doubt. And he lay in
bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, unable to make his whirring mind let go.
John promised he'd go to Mass 30 days straight at the crack of dawn, if only God
would let him get his degree.
He got the diploma. He gave God his 30 days of Mass. Now what? Maybe he was
addicted to the edge. Maybe the thing he felt most insecure about—his mind—was
what he needed most to have admired.
Maybe that's why, in 1961, John became a teacher.
John taught in California. Each day he had a student read the textbook to the
class. He gave standardized tests that he could grade by placing a form with holes
over each correct answer and he lay in bed for hours on weekend mornings,
depressed.
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Then he met Kathy, an A student and a nurse. Not a leaf, like John. A rock.
"There's something I have to tell you, Kathy," he said one night in 1965 before
their marriage, "I... I can't read."
"He's a teacher," she thought. He must mean he can't read well. Kathy didn't
understand until years later when she saw John unable to read a children's book
to their 18-month-old daughter. Kathy filled out his forms, read and wrote his
letters. Why didn't he simply ask her to teach him to read and write? He couldn't
believe that anyone could teach him.
At age 28 John borrowed $2,500, bought a second house, fixed it up and rented
it. He bought and rented another. And another. His business got bigger and bigger
until he needed a secretary, a lawyer and a partner. Then one day his accountant
told him he was a millionaire. Perfect. Who'd notice that a millionaire always
pulled on the doors that said PUSH or paused before entering public bathrooms,
waiting to see which one the men walked out of?
In 1982 the bottom began to fall out. His properties started to sit empty and
investors pulled out. Threats of foreclosures and lawsuits tumbled out of
envelopes. Every waking moment, it seemed, he was pleading with bankers to
extend his loans, coaxing builders to stay on the job, trying to make sense of the
pyramid of paper. Soon he knew they'd have him on the witness stand and the
man in black robes would say: "The truth, John Corcoran. Can't you even read?"
Finally in the fall of 1986, at age 48, John did two things he swore he never
would. He put up his house as collateral to obtain one last construction loan. And
he walked into the Carlsbad City Library and told the woman in charge of the
tutoring program, "I can't read." Then he cried.
He was placed with a 65-year-old grandmother named Eleanor Condit.
Painstakingly—letter by letter, phonetically—she began teaching him. Within 14
months, his land-development company began to revive. And John Corcoran was
learning to read.
The next step was confession: a speech before 200 stunned businessmen in San
Diego. To heal, he had to come clean. He was placed on the board of directors of
the San Diego Council on Literacy and began traveling across the country to give
speeches.
"Illiteracy is a form of slavery!" he would cry. "We can't waste time blaming
anyone. We need to become obsessed with teaching people to read!"
He read every book or magazine he could get his hands on, every road sign he
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passed, out loud, as long as Kathy could bear it. It was glorious, like singing. And
now he could sleep.
Then one day it occurred to him—one more thing he could finally do. Yes, that
dusty box in his office, that sheaf of papers bound by ribbon ... a quarter-century
later, John Corcoran could read his wife's love letters.
Gary Smith
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Don't Be Afraid To Fail
You've failed many times, although you may not remember. You fell down the first
time you tried to walk. You almost drowned the first time you tried to swim, didn't
you? Did you hit the ball the first time you swung a bat? Heavy hitters, the ones
who hit the most home runs, also strike out a lot. R. H. Macy failed seven times
before his store in New York caught on. English novelist John Creasey got 753
rejection slips before he published 564 books. Babe Ruth struck out 1,330 times,
but he also hit 714 home runs. Don't worry about failure. Worry about the
chances you miss when you don't even try.
A message as published in the Wall Street Journal by United Technologies
Corporation, Hartford, Connecticut 06101 United Technologies Corporation 1981
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Abraham Lincoln Didn't Quit
The sense of obligation to continue is present in all of us. A duty to strive is the
duty of us all. I felt a call to that duty.
Abraham Lincoln
Probably the greatest example of persistence is Abraham Lincoln. If you want to
learn about somebody who didn't quit, look no further.
Born into poverty, Lincoln was faced with defeat throughout his life. He lost eight
elections, twice failed in business and suffered a nervous breakdown.
He could have quit many times—but he didn't and because he didn't quit, he
became one of the greatest presidents in the history of our country.
Lincoln was a champion and he never gave up. Here is a sketch of Lincoln's road
to the White House:
1816 His family was forced out of their home. He had to work to support them.
1818 His mother died.
1831 Failed in business.
1832 Ran for state legislature—lost.
1832 Also lost his job—wanted to go to law school but couldn't get in.
1833 Borrowed some money from a friend to begin a business and by the end of
the year he was bankrupt. He spent the next 17 years of his life paying off this
debt.
1834 Ran for state legislature again—won.
1835 Was engaged to be married, sweetheart died and his heart was broken.
1836 Had a total nervous breakdown and was in bed for six months.
1838 Sought to become speaker of the state legislature—defeated.
1840 Sought to become elector—defeated.
1843 Ran for Congress—lost.
1846 Ran for Congress again—this time he won—went to Washington and did a
good job.
1848 Ran for re-election to Congress—lost.
1849 Sought the job of land officer in his home state—rejected.
1854 Ran for Senate of the United States—lost.
1856 Sought the Vice-Presidential nomination at his party's national convention—
got less than 100 votes.
1858 Ran for U.S. Senate again—again he lost.
1860 Elected president of the United States.
The path was worn and slippery. My foot slipped from under me, knocking the
other out of the way, but I recovered and said to myself, "It's a slip and not a
fall."
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Abraham Lincoln After losing a senate race. Source Unknown
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Lesson From A Son
My son Daniel's passion for surfing began at the age of 13. Before and after
school each day, he donned his wet suit, paddled out beyond the surf line and
waited to be challenged by his three- to six-foot companions. Daniel's love of the
ride was tested one fateful afternoon.
"Your son's been in an accident," the lifeguard reported over the phone to my
husband Mike.
"How bad?"
"Bad. When he surfaced to the top of the water, the point of the board was
headed toward his eye."
Mike rushed him to the emergency room and they were then sent to a plastic
surgeon's office. He received 26 stitches from the corner of his eye to the bridge
of his nose.
I was on an airplane flying home from a speaking engagement while Dan's eye
was being stitched. Mike drove directly to the airport after they left the doctor's
office. He greeted me at the gate and told me Dan was waiting in the car.
"Daniel?" I questioned. I remember thinking the waves must have been lousy that
day.
"He's been in an accident, but he's going to be fine."
A traveling working mother's worst nightmare had come true. I ran to the car so
fast the heel of my shoe broke off. I swung open the door, and my youngest son
with the patched eye was leaning forward with both arms stretched out toward
me crying, "Oh, Ma, I'm so glad you're home."
I sobbed in his arms telling him how awful I felt about not being there when the
lifeguard called.
"It's okay, Mom," he comforted me. "You don't know how to surf anyway."
"What?" I asked, confused by his logic.
"I'll be fine. The doctor says I can go back in the water in eight days."
Was he out of his mind? I wanted to tell him he wasn't allowed to go near water
again until he was 35, but instead I bit my tongue and prayed he would forget
about surfing forevermore.
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For the next seven days he kept pressing me to let him go back on the board.
One day after I emphatically repeated "No" to him for the 100th time, he beat me
at my own game.
"Mom, you taught us never to give up what we love."
Then he handed me a bribe—a framed poem by Langston Hughes that he bought
"because it reminded me of you."
Mother To Son
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it.
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor-bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back,
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin'
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
I gave in.
Back then Daniel was a just a boy with a passion for surfing. Now he's a man with
a responsibility. He ranks among the top 25 pro surfers in the world.
I was tested in my own backyard on an important principle that I teach audiences
in distant cities: "Passionate people embrace what they love and never give up."
Danielle Kennedy
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For the next seven days he kept pressing me to let him go back on the board.
One day after I emphatically repeated "No" to him for the 100th time, he beat me
at my own game.
"Mom, you taught us never to give up what we love."
Then he handed me a bribe—a framed poem by Langston Hughes that he bought
"because it reminded me of you."
Mother To Son
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it.
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor-bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back,
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin'
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
I gave in.
Back then Daniel was a just a boy with a passion for surfing. Now he's a man with
a responsibility. He ranks among the top 25 pro surfers in the world.
I was tested in my own backyard on an important principle that I teach audiences
in distant cities: "Passionate people embrace what they love and never give up."
Danielle Kennedy
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Failure? No! Just Temporary Setbacks
To see things in the seed, that is genius.
Lao-tzu
If you could come to my office in California to visit with me today, you would
notice across one side of the room a beautiful old-fashioned Spanish tile and
mahogany soda fountain with nine leather-covered stools (the kind they used to
have in the old drug stores). Unusual? Yes. But if those stools could speak, they
would tell you a story about the day I almost lost hope and gave up.
It was a recession period after World War II and jobs were scarce. Cowboy Bob,
my husband, had purchased a small dry cleaning business with borrowed money.
We had two darling babies, a tract home, a car and all the usual time payments.
Then the bottom fell out. There was no money for the house payments or
anything else.
I felt that I had no special talent, no training, no college education. I didn't think
much of myself. But I remembered someone in my past who thought I had a little
ability—my Alhambra High School English teacher. She inspired me to take
journalism and named me advertising manager and feature editor of the school
paper. I thought, "Now if I could write a 'Shoppers Column' for the small weekly
newspaper in our rural town, maybe I could earn that house payment."
I had no car and no baby-sitter. So I pushed my two children before me in a
rickety baby stroller with a big pillow tied in the back. The wheel kept coming off,
but I hit it back on with the heel of my shoe and kept going. I was determined
that my children would not lose their home as I often had done as a child.
But at the newspaper office, there were no jobs available. Recession. So I caught
an idea. I asked if I might buy advertising space at wholesale and sell it at retail
as a "Shoppers Column." They agreed, telling me later that they mentally gave
me about a week of pushing that beat-up heavily laden stroller down those
country roads before I gave up. But they were wrong.
The newspaper column idea worked. I made enough money for the house
payment and to buy an old used car that Cowboy Bob found for me. Then I hired
a high school girl to baby-sit from three to five each afternoon. When the clock
struck three, I grabbed my newspaper samples and flew out of the door to drive
to my appointments.
But on one dark rainy afternoon every advertising prospect I had worked on
rospect I had worked on
"Why?" I asked. They said they had noticed that Ruben Ahlman, the President of
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the Chamber of Commerce and the owner of the Rexall Drug store did not
advertise with me. His store was the most popular in town. They respected his
judgment. "There must be something wrong with your advertising," they
explained.
My heart sank. Those four ads would have made the house payment. Then I
thought, I will try to speak with Mr. Ahlman one more time. Everyone loves and
respects him. Surely he will listen. Every time I had tried to approach him in the
past, he had refused to see me. He was always "out" or unavailable. I knew that
if he advertised with me, the other merchants in town would follow his lead.
This time, as I walked into the Rexall drug store, he was there at the prescription
counter in the back. I smiled my best smile and held up my precious "Shoppers
Column" carefully marked in my children's green crayola. I said, "Everyone
respects your opinion, Mr. Ahlman. Would you just look at my work for a moment
so that I can tell the other merchants what you think?"
His mouth turned perpendicular in an upside down U. Without saying a word he
emphatically shook his head in the chilling negative gesture, "NO!" My knotted
heart fell to the floor with such a thud, I thought everyone must have heard it.
Suddenly all of my enthusiasm left me. I made it as far as the beautiful old soda
fountain at the front of the drug store, feeling that I didn't have the strength to
drive home. I didn't want to sit at the soda fountain without buying something, so
I pulled out my last dime and ordered a cherry Coke. I wondered desperately
what to do. Would my babies lose their home as I had so many times when I was
growing up? Was my journalism teacher wrong? Maybe that talent she talked
about was just a dud. My eyes filled with tears.
A soft voice beside me on the next soda fountain stool said, "What is the matter,
dear?" I looked up into the sympathetic face of a lovely grey haired lady. I poured
out my story to her, ending it with, "But Mr. Ahlman, who everyone respects so
much, will not look at my work."
"Let me see that Shoppers Column," she said. She took my marked issue of the
newspaper in her hands and carefully read it all the way through. Then she spun
around on the stool, stood up, looked back at the prescription counter and in a
commanding voice that could be heard down the block, said, "Ruben Ahlman,
come here!" The lady was Mrs. Ahlman!
She told Ruben to buy the advertising from me. His mouth turned up the other
way in a big grin. Then she asked me for the names of the four merchants who
had turned me down. She went to the phone and called each one. She gave me a
hug and told me they were waiting for me and to go back and pick up their ads.
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Ruben and Vivian Ahlman became our dear friends, as well as steady advertising
customers. I learned that Ruben was a darling man who bought from everyone.
He had promised Vivian not to buy any more advertising. He was just trying to
keep his word to her. If I had only asked others in town, I might have learned
that I should have been talking to Mrs. Ahlman from the beginning. That
conversation on the stools of the soda fountain was the turning point. My
advertising business prospered and grew into four offices, with 285 employees
serving 4,000 continuous contract advertising accounts.
Later when Mr. Ahlman modernized the old drug store and removed the soda
fountain, my sweet husband Bob bought it and installed it in my office. If you
were here in California, we would sit on the soda fountain stools together. I'd pour
you a cherry Coke and remind you to never give up, to remember that help is
always closer than we know.
Then I would tell you that if you can't communicate with a key person, search for
more information. Try another path around. Look for someone who can
communicate for you in a third person endorsement.
And, finally, I would serve you these sparkling, refreshing words of Bill Marriott of
the Marriott Hotels:
Failure? I never encountered it.
All I ever met were temporary setbacks.
Dottie Walters
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For Me To Be More Creative, I Am Waiting For...
1. Inspiration
2. Permission
3. Reassurance
4. The coffee to be ready
5. My turn
6. Someone to smooth the way
7. The rest of the rules
8. Someone to change
9. Wider fairways
10. Revenge
11. The stakes to be lower
12. More time
13. A significant relationship to: (a) improve (b) terminate (c) happen
14. The right person
15. A disaster
16. Time to almost run out
17. An obvious scapegoat
18. The kids to leave home
19. A Dow-Jones of 1500
20. The Lion to lie down with the Lamb
21. Mutual consent
22. A better time
23. A more favorable horoscope
24. My youth to return
25. The two-minute warning
26. The legal profession to reform
27. Richard Nixon to be re-elected
28. Age to grant me the right of eccentricity
29. Tomorrow
30. Jacks or better
31. My annual checkup
32. A better circle of friends
33. The stakes to be higher
34. The semester to start
35. My way to be clear
36. The cat to stop clawing the sofa
37. An absence of risk
38. The barking dog next door to leave town
39. My uncle to come home from the service
40. Someone to discover me
41. More adequate safeguards
42. A lower capital gains rate
43. The statute of limitations to run out
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44. My parents to die (Joke!)
45. A cure for herpes/AIDS
46. The things that I do not understand or approve of to go away
47. Wars to end
48. My love to rekindle
49. Someone to be watching
50. A clearly written set of instructions
51. Better birth control
52. The ERA to pass
53. An end to poverty, injustice, cruelty, deceit, incompetence, pestilence, crime
and offensive suggestions
54. A competing patent to expire
expire
56. My subordinates to mature
57. My ego to improve
58. The pot to boil
59. My new credit card
60. The piano tuner
61. This meeting to be over
62. My receivables to clear
63. The unemployment checks to run out
64. Spring
65. My suit to come back from the cleaners
66. My self-esteem to be restored
67. A signal from Heaven
68. The alimony payments to stop
69. The gems of brilliance buried within my first bumbling efforts to be
recognized, applauded and substantially rewarded so that I can work on the
second draft in comfort
70. A reinterpretation of Robert's Rules of Order
71. Various aches and pains to subside
72. Shorter lines at the bank
73. The wind to freshen
74. My children to be thoughtful, neat, obedient and self-supporting
75. Next season
76. Someone else to screw up
77. My current life to be declared a dress rehearsal with some script changes
permitted before opening night
78. Logic to prevail
79. The next time around
80. You to stand out of my light
81. My ship to come in
82. A better deodorant
83. My dissertation to be finished
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84. A sharp pencil
85. The check to clear
86. My wife, film or boomerang to come back
87. My doctor's approval, my father's permission, my minister's blessing or my
lawyer's okay
88. Morning
89. California to fall into the ocean
90. A less turbulent time
91. The Iceman to Cometh
92. An opportunity to call collect
93. A better write-off
94. My smoking urges to subside
subside
96. The rates to go up
97. The rates to stabilize
98. My grandfather's estate to be settled
99. Weekend rates
100. A cue card
101. You to go first
David B. Campbell
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Everybody Can Do Something
The basic difference between an ordinary man and a warrior is that a warrior
takes everything as a challenge, while an ordinary man takes everything either as
a blessing or a curse.
Don Juan
Roger Crawford had everything he needed to play tennis—except two hands and a
leg.
When Roger's parents saw their son for the first time, they saw a baby with a
thumb-like projection extended directly out of his right forearm and a thumb and
one finger stuck out of his left forearm. He had no palms. The baby's arms and
legs were shortened, and he had only three toes on his shrunken right foot and a
withered left leg, which would later be amputated.
The doctor said Roger suffered from ectrodactylism, a rare birth defect affecting
only one out of 90,000 children born in the United States. The doctor said Roger
only one out of 90,000 children born in the United States. The doctor said Roger
would probably never walk or care for himself.
Fortunately Roger's parents didn't believe the doctor.
"My parents always taught me that I was only as handicapped as I wanted to be,"
said Roger. 'They never allowed me to feel sorry for myself or take advantage of
people because of my handicap. Once I got into trouble because my school
papers were continually late," explained Roger, who had to hold his pencil with
both "hands" to write slowly. "I asked Dad to write a note to my teachers, asking
for a two-day extension on my assignments. Instead Dad made me start writing
my paper two days early!"
Roger's father always encouraged him to get involved in sports, teaching Roger to
catch and throw a volleyball, and play backyard football after school. At age 12,
Roger managed to win a spot on the school football team.
Before every game, Roger would visualize his dream of scoring a touchdown.
Then one day he got his chance. The ball landed in his arms and off he ran as fast
as he could on his artificial leg toward the goal line, his coach and teammates
cheering wildly. But at the ten-yard line, a guy from the other team caught up
with Roger, grabbing his left ankle. Roger tried to pull his artificial leg free, but
instead it ended up being pulled off.
"I was still standing up," recalls Roger. "I didn't know what else to do so I started
hopping towards the goal line. The referee ran over and threw his hands into the
air. Touchdown! You know, even better than the six points was the look on the
face of the other kid who was holding my artificial leg."
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Roger's love of sports grew and so did his self confidence. But not every obstacle
gave way to Roger's determination. Eating in the lunchroom with the other kids
watching him fumble with his food proved very painful to Roger, as did his
repeated failure in typing class. "I learned a very good lesson from typing class,"
said Roger. "You can't do everything—it's better to concentrate on what you can
do."
One thing Roger could do was swing a tennis racket. Unfortunately, when he
swung it hard, his weak grip usually launched it into space. By luck, Roger
stumbled upon an odd-looking tennis racket in a sports shop and accidentally
wedged his finger between its double-barred handle when he picked it up. The
snug fit made it possible for Roger to swing, serve and volley like an ablebodied
player. He practiced every day and was soon playing—and losing—matches.
But Roger persisted. He practiced and practiced and played and played. Surgery
on the two fingers of his left hand enabled Roger to grip his special racket better,
greatly improving his game. Although he had no role models to guide him, Roger
became obsessed with tennis and in time he started to win.
Roger went on to play college tennis, finishing his tennis career with 22 wins and
11 losses. He later became the first physically handicapped tennis player to be
certified as a teaching professional by the United States Professional Tennis
Association. Roger now tours the country, speaking to groups about what it takes
to be a winner, no matter who you are.
"The only difference between you and me is that you can see my handicap, but I
can't see yours. We all have them. When people ask me how I've been able to
overcome my physical handicaps, I tell them that I haven't overcome anything.
I've simply learned what I can't do—such as play the piano or eat with chopsticks
—but more importantly, I've learned what I can do. Then I do what I can with all
my heart and soul."
Jack Canfield
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Yes, You Can
Experience is not what happens to a man. It is, what a man does with what
happens to him.
Aldous Huxley
What if at age 46 you were burned beyond recognition in a terrible motorcycle
accident, and then four years later were paralyzed from the waist down in an
airplane crash? Then, can you imagine yourself becoming a millionaire, a
respected public speaker, a happy newlywed and a successful business person?
Can you see yourself going white water rafting? Sky diving? Running for political
office?
W. Mitchell has done all these things and more after two horrible accidents left his
face a quilt of multicolored skin grafts, his hands fingerless and his legs thin and
motionless in a wheelchair.
The 16 surgeries Mitchell endured after the motorcycle accident burned more
than 65 percent of his body, left him unable to pick up a fork, dial a telephone or
go to the bathroom without help. But Mitchell, a former Marine, never believed he
was defeated. "I am in charge of my own spaceship," he said. "It's my up, my
down. I could choose to see this situation as a setback or a starting point." Six
months later he was piloting a plane again.
Mitchell bought himself a Victorian home in Colorado, some real estate, a plane
and a bar. Later he teamed up with two friends and co-founded a wood-burning
stove company that grew to be Vermont's second largest private employer.
Then four years after the motorcycle accident, the plane Mitchell was piloting
crashed back onto the runway during takeoff, crushing Mitchell's 12 thoracic
vertebra and permanently paralyzing him from the waist down. "I wondered what
the hell was happening to me. What did I do to deserve this?"
Undaunted, Mitchell worked day and night to regain as much independence as
possible. He was elected Mayor of Crested Butte, Colorado, to save the town from
mineral mining that would ruin its beauty and environment. Mitchell later ran for
Congress, turning his odd appearance into an asset with slogans such as, "Not
just another pretty face."
Despite his initially shocking looks and physical challenges, Mitchell began white
water rafting, he fell in love and married, earned a master's degree in public
administration and continued flying, environmental activism and public speaking.
Mitchell's unshakable Positive Mental Attitude has earned him appearances on the
"Today Show" and "Good Morning America" as well as feature articles in Parade,
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Time, The New York Times and other publications.
"Before I was paralyzed, there were 10,000 things I could do," Mitchell says.
"Now there are 9,000. I can either dwell on the 1,000 I lost or focus on the 9,000
I have left. I tell people that I have had two big bumps in my life. If I have
chosen not to use them as an excuse to quit, then maybe some of the
experiences you are having which are pulling you back can be put into a new
perspective. You can step back, take a wider view and have a chance to say,
"Maybe that isn't such a big deal after all."
Remember: "It's not what happens to you, it's what you do about it."
Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen
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