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A Hymn To Being Old In America

Good Lord. We’re living longing and surviving better in the 21st Century than ever before. But Lordy it is not always so easy for folks with disabilities and questionable financial resources.

A Hymn to Being Old

Now, in no way is this any sort of complaint. Rather, it is a kind of hymn to those of us with physical challenges negotiating with svelte and vibrant young things (often loud) standing in the grocery line. They know nothing of such conditions or experiences as I did not when I was their age.

Most bodies move fast until, of course, they don’t. I’m having flashbacks of Tim Conway doing his really old man routine, shuffling r-e-a-l-l-y slowly, hands dangling, slack jawed, making growly noises as he proceeds at a snail’s pace to wherever he is going. It was so very funny then; not so much now!

Really, I’m nowhere near that bad! Nowhere, no how. The image still brings a smile and a tickle to my face. And, yet, and yet!!! Actually, I walk pretty fast, especially when I’m out with my hiking poles. But here’s the thing: the world is still flying by me! Part of me doesn’t give one whit. Part of me does, ambivalence writ large.

The Art of the False Start

You have to start somewhere, and so I have. Impulsive and a bit brash at times, I shot myself out of the running-away-from-home cannon and only later have I realized the problem of flying without a net. When I was a little girl (age five) we had a trapeze in our basement. I loved to swing on it, fantasizing about being a trapeze artist performing all kinds of tricks as a circus performer. 

One day, I decided to stand up and swing. After pumping my little legs, and after reaching a lively speed, I released my hands from the bar handles, imagining a skill I did not possess. As night follows day of course I fell. On the concrete basement floor, flat and splat prone! Mercifully, my mother had been in the basement across the room, doing laundry. 

OMG!

To this day, the rest of the memory is equally vivid and hazy, both. Mom picked me up, carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed in my parents’ bedroom and called my dad asking him what to do. I remember crying and gasping, gasping for breath. At some point, she picked me up again, carried me to the car, laying me on the backseat.

I continued crying.

Living on an acreage about five miles from town, we finally arrived at the hospital, I’m rushed inside (by medical professionals,) X-rayed, diagnosed and installed in a ward, flat, prone, with a phenomenally boring view of the ceiling! I had five (or was it seven?) fractured vertebrae. I remember being told I had to lie only flat, could not roll over or move in much of any way, or they would put me in a body cast!

There were other patients on the ward, mostly adults, though not a lot as far as I could determine, with only their voices and slight dips to look out the sides of my head. I think I remember my mother and even father at the bedside at some point but they were eventually shushed out by nurses so I could rest.

The Metaphor Is Not Lost On Me

So here I am now, flying without a net, at age 71, after escaping from what, for me, was an immobilizing and painful “bed.” However many years I have left, I cannot lie flat and constrained, as long as I have five neurons left in my brain to accompany my unlimited spirit. Years ago when I was in college, I heard a description very apt for me: “she is an active verb.” Breathing makes me active, thinking and articulating thought makes me active, and I can do no other thing with my nature. In essence, I’m at a stage now of renegotiation. 

I’ve had two remarkable examples —Bennet and Magie—who serve as north stars for me. I did not, could not, have appreciated their importance in such a way now, even though they’ve served very different examples. Without a doubt, I was privileged to have them in my life earlier. But each, while springing to my mind and heart at such a time as this, are metaphorically whispering something delicate yet solid, sturdy in the face of challenge, encouraging an indescribable certitude in the very face of uncertainty. 

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My Last Surgery Will Be a Lobotomy

I’m slated to have surgery soon on a particularly nasty fistula/hernia in a particularly unpleasant place (pelvis,butt). There’s a chance it won’t happen as I have an unusually nervous-about-lawsuits-PCP. She’s already expressed concern (liability risk) about my possible death on the table if she clears me. Sigh. While it’s frustrating (anger-producing) to have that possible decision in her hands not mine, a small part of me doesn’t actually care.

The irony here of course is the six-plus centimeters of bowel I sit on could blow open and kill me anyway even if I don’t have the surgery, but hey, I guess she’d feel vindicated! While I have spent several weeks fretting-and-stewing a good head of steam about it all, I’m beginning to be at peace either way. At least part of me is.

A New Medical Model

A few weeks ago I saw Dr Ezekiel Emanuel interviewed on a news show about a decision he’s personally made: to decline a good number of medical treatments and/or tests after hitting age 75. It sounded initially quite shocking to hear a world renowned oncologist and medical ethicist go public with his decision. But the more I think about it, the more understandable it might be, highly rational even!

Keeping people alive and doing whatever it takes, from carving up body parts to pharmaceuticals laced with life prolonging drugs is starting to feel crazier and crazier to me. I’ve had eight surgeries for a tumor that began in the rectum and traveled south to the anus, the body parts no one likes to mention. The whole problem began twenty-plus years ago though with far less invasive procedures. At some point however, and after two trans-anal surgeries, a zillion colonoscopies to scrape out double digit polyp growth, it had finally graduated to ever-greater proportions and invasions which, as night follows day, resulted in a permanent colostomy. The bag!!

After five years (which isn’t really all that long I suppose) of dealing with hernias and several complications such as a kinked colon, a skin separation that ended up with exposed flesh that then became necrotic (dead) and infected, etc. and now the worst complication of all in terms of discomfort and fright, there is a decision to make if not by my primary care doc, potentially by me. 

Expiration Dates

The lengths we go to in modern medicine to keep people alive is extraordinary and often wondrous. But it’s impressive and valiant efforts looking back seem more worthy of younger bodies sometimes. I’ll be 71 years old very soon and a part of me (if the decision is mine alone to make even) is inclined to let this ole’ animal let nature take its course. Dr Emmanuel’s cutoff is 75, I’ll be 71, both still arbitrary numbers.

I like to think in practical terms sometimes which can be disconcerting to many in the medical community. Most professionals are hard-wired to keep people alive. At whatever cost. While I too want to make prudent decisions to preserve life, including my own, at what point do we consider surrendering to the inevitable? And the inevitable for me does not include hastening death but does not include avoiding it either. I heard one doctor say that Medicare “requires keeping the patient alive.” I don’t know how it’s worded in the manual (do they have a manual?) but suffice it to say, we’re all caught between a perpetual rock-and-a-hard place loop of sorts.

(I told one of my doctors that I’ve had a “do not resuscitate” document signed for the past 10 years. He literally told me that in the OR, they’ll ignore it and try to resuscitate me anyway!)

Different Strokes for Different Folks 

My elderly friend Magie used to occasionally say to me “won’t this ever end?” She lived to be 96! My other elderly friend, Bennet, lived to be 94, which is nothing short of a miracle since he survived the holocaust which included several years of malnutrition (to put it mildly) while in the camps. But I think his drive to survive those years turned into an insistence on living well and long afterwards, a fierceness to go on with purpose and passion as an example of a different sort.

My role on the planet may be more nuanced. It may not require such heroic measures at all. Maybe, just maybe, letting the body run a natural decaying falling-apart course (which mine is clearly doing!) can also be an ethical example of not just choice or protocol but rather surrendering to the inevitable. I mean, come on!

Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t want to die at all, ever!! And actually because I believe in the eternal—of life before life as well as after death—my preference is to stay in this, oh-how-shall-I-put-this, “incarnation”. It’s all I know of me. But that does not mean there isn’t a “knowable me” in a different context, a different state of being. Just because I have no memory of existence other than the one I currently inhabit, doesn’t mean there isn’t one. How arrogant to think otherwise.

So I’m in a state at the moment that seems uncertain, to have this next abdominal surgery or not; to have doctors decide based on their best interests or mine. However it plays out, if the surgery does occur, I know one thing for sure it’ll likely be my last, or at least second to last. Unless of course there’s a lobotomy in the offing! I’d consider that!

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Sonoma Coast and the Villas

To sleep perchance to dream…

I love the wondrousness of the Sonoma Coast. It is earthy, dramatic, lush and raw. It shows off significant rolling hills, incredible trees, stunning bays and an incomparable freshness.

Having made a number of day trips, I’ve also stayed in a variety of lodging experiences when overnighting in the area. I’ve stayed in Airbnb‘s up on the hill overlooking the bay with stunning views and an upscale lodge closer to the beach, showcasing a dramatic sweep of the water. But nowhere have I stayed as personally comfortable, nuanced and relaxing as the Sonoma Coast Villas.

Far From the Madding Crowd 

The Villas are tucked away just outside of town, removed from the throng of tourists. They subtly sport a rustic charm with just enough amenities and delightful special touches to keep folks comfortable and coming back. It is a relaxed and homey affair—the opposite of pretentious. (If you want “precious” or “fussy” stay somewhere else.) 

The property consists of a main building with the dining room and a conference room in one wing off to the right of the lobby, and rooms that line the first building facing the pool and jacuzzi in the other splayed wing off to the left. 

Upon entering, there’s a small table with treats and a spiral staircase that leads up to the library or “tower” just beyond, triggering an “oh my, what’s up there?” curiosity. Later, you discover it has a ton of windows providing glorious light and seating roomy enough for lounging like a sun-drenched cat. There are games and books you can use or check out for reading as well. My personal favorite is just to nap up there. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

The Devil’s In the Details

Once you get your keys you can settle in. Each room has a fireplace.  King rooms have Jacuzzi tubs while standard and queen rooms are equally fabulous just not quite as large. All are nicely appointed and include small refrigerators, a little dining table and seating. Interestingly, no two rooms are alike.

Sonoma Coast Villas has a retreat-like quality which I love.  Having immersed myself in the general atmosphere after checking in, I often roam around the property drinking in the fresh pine fragrance. Then I’ll settle in my own room all snug beside the fire. 

Warm and Friendly Place 

I’ve discovered I’m not alone in my shy affection for the place. They get a ton of repeat business. My last visit I chatted with a couple from Vancouver who were staying there for two weeks! This was their second stay. I myself have been there three times, each in different rooms. My last visit was in a king room that is bigger than the tiny house I live in!

There’s just enough uniqueness about the Villas to make it exotic yet relaxed. They have a great staff that are responsive whether you’re making your stay a personal retreat without leaving the property or a “home” base to venture into Bodega Bay which is five miles away.

The place offers a scrumptious hot breakfast each morning in the dining room (also with a fireplace,) treats of Chex Mix, cookies and dog treats as a down home lobby welcome, and you can buy a bottle of wine on the property to wash it all down. (Yes, you read that right. They welcome dogs, complete with their own treats upon arrival.)

The Ambiance

After breakfast you can amble from the main building, past the pool and walk into a lovely yard-like area with lounge chairs, a fire pit, and makeshift theater for hosting movie night, s’mores, and other themed events. There’s also a putting green behind it, with a second building of rooms to the left, and two others further behind at the rear of the compound. And the entire area is surrounded by the most magnificent trees, tall and impressive, almost statuesque.

There are a couple other buildings opposite the dining area and conference room. The first has a large space for special events such as weddings, group dinners and the like. (My personal favorite are the massage rooms!)

Private Is as Private Does

On a private road with a separate entrance stands a nicely appointed home, the Grand Residence, with four bedrooms that sleeps ten. Lovely and private, a sense of seclusion abounds, whether it’s for a wedding party, a small family reunion, or a themed retreat.

There’s more to enjoy at Sonoma Coast Villas but suffice it to say, you can make your stay what you’d like it to be. It can be a brief respite away in nature, a launch pad for area outings, or a gathering place for special occasions. Whatever you choose to do while staying, Sonoma Coast Villas is an “offering” in every sense of the word, a place to relax and unwind.

For more information, visit www.scvilla.com or call 707-876-9818.

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The Madman of Moscow


I’m living in the brutality of the now. Not the brutality of the then. Not the brutality of decades or centuries past but now, today, each day the same as if it was a then. But it’s not; it’s now. 

It’s Putin’s brutality at this point. He pushes death like a street corner drug dealer, with Russian customer troops looking for their next big fix, a high they can’t get enough of.

BLOODLUST

“More, more” the killing machines clamor, as if a homing device needed a target before it can be satisfied. In my mind I imagine Vladimir with pointed teeth, growling, blood dripping from snarled lips. Never enough is the cartoon bubble above his head; never enough.

Behind his image in my mind’s eye stands Adolph, the first Hitler, egging Vladimir on. It is an energy force field seeking victims for an end goal. And the goal is destruction, anguished torturous and vile.

BOTTOMLESS PIT

For what? To dominate, to conquer, to satisfy a thirst which can never be satisfied? We watch in horror as the bodies pile up, twisted and torn, unrecognizable to kin and countrymen alike. 

“Never again” echoes in the smoke faintly, mocking the death of now. It is perpetually ongoing, redundant but not made obsolete. Forever and Ever, Amen screech the priests of death. It looks to be an in perpetuity, infinite sort of hunger for death, dismemberment, savagery sort of thing. A bottomless pit!

And again we watch. Helpless? Hardly! The West could do more to stop the madness but for the time being, Putin is having his way with us even as he allegedly loses. He has thrown us down and had his way with us! We are cowed by evil. It is far more frightening than the evil itself in its own way.

TO SAVE A NATION

Zelensky, our only hope for reclaiming our conscience, begs, pleads but Biden and his National Security Council is still too timid. Instead, their presumed rationale for not further provoking the Madman of Moscow is to prevent WWIII. Instead they sacrifice America’s and the Wests’ real power, that of truth and democracy itself in the shadow of Chamberlain.

Consequently, the senselessness continues along with the relentless tears of men and women in the now; The in perpetuity of madmen and presidents who misunderstand the real stakes for humanity ad infinitum.

Wouldn’t it be ironic if the US helps save Ukraine through providing massive weapons systems designed to defend its burgeoning democracy. Yet, we lose our own while Biden and the Dems are distracted, as Republican White Supremacy Extremists march on in our own backyard.

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Fire and Brimstone

No, wait. Not exactly that but sometimes it sure feels like it. The fires in northern California have been devastating, surreal and overwhelming to say the least. It is hard to count my blessings right now given that I surely have many. After all, my life was minimally impacted in relative terms. I lost no loved ones, my housing remained intact, although I did evacuate when the advisory was issued by the Sonoma County Sheriff’s office. The smoke-saturated air hyper-laced with toxins, felt like it carried minimal oxygen. Imagine suffocation with foulness. It was hard to breathe and especially hard once it became so dense it hurt to take it in. Read more

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There Is a Spirit In Man

How long it takes to get to spirit. Whether you believe in God, have a knowingness about Him or are an atheist, there is a spirit in mankind that is undeniable. I recently finished When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi about his life and death on the planet. In the living parts he clearly describes the tension between the two states: of the linear, scientific world and that of a kind of awareness, consciousness or spirit. Oh, he doesn’t use that term exactly. Rather, he talks of meaning, morality, ethics, connections between people in such a way as to define the untamed heart. Channel it as he might, he seems to bypass the heart to the brain, the mind, as the knower of things, the mechanism for meaning, or so it seems. He thinks of it as his identity, the mind, and yet he learns a more complete lesson in the end from metastasized lung cancer.

Being Loved Into Death

Being Loved Into Death

For it is not until nearly the end as he approaches the culmination of a career “cut short” as a promising neurosurgeon and scientist that he is required to leave the brain behind. Ostensibly, he is drawn to the wordless yet highly communicative heart as he defies his scientific linear training as a physician and connects only with spirit–his wife’s, his infant daughter, his parents, siblings and close friends through love, the unmeasurable ‘mechanism’ that is all of us. Always present but taking a backseat in the physical world, the Spirit lies in wait, our true nature revealing itself, silently, breathlessly, subtly, until we are ready to live on the buoyancy of only that. Kalanithi seems to convey that Love or Spirit carries us from one world to the next. And so it was, as brilliantly, as giving, as kindhearted and hard-working as Kalanithi had been as a neurosurgoen, always striving towards accomplishment, no matter how noble, that ‘his’ Spirit finally, patiently requires his attention through a different kind of giving of himself. With a foot in one world, he straddles the next describing his ‘death’ experience.

I loved this book, the Breath–Air book by Kalanithi. But oddly, like all of us ensnared in the body, I was waiting for his final insights sooner, restless for spirit to reveal itself through the written word. Finally it came although from my perspective, it oddly was the deathbed scene with his words to his daughter, and wife’s conveyance post-passing afterwards, that the true nature of the spiritual man known as Kalanithi is revealed. By that I mean that even though using words to communicate, it is only in the incalculable energy and action of a lifetime of intention that it becomes evident, that and the gift of his shared death. Implied in this is knowingness. We know it when we see it as did he. Ironically, so often Spirit reveals itself as an aggregate looking backward even if through the distillation of a high voltage moment.

What Kalanithi took a short lifetime to discover is that his life’s meaning through work, giving and connecting is part of his identity as neurosurgeon/scientist, it is not the whole of it. While his words throughout the book, the description of his struggle as a physician, son, husband, and ultimately father is carried through linear, descriptive fashion, it is his effort to give of himself through sharing the ‘death’ process that reveals his spirit. His initial intention to help relieve the suffering of mankind through his profession sets the stage. The final eight or nine months he writes the manuscript however renders the true language of Love, his ‘spiritual identity,’ if you will.  Ultimately, the body with it’s ever-fascinating brain is merely the delivery system of the less visible but more potent heart, the seat of Love that operates both here and in the hereafter.

I often wonder, what would I do, how would I behave, could I give anything to anyone, let alone a wider ‘audience’ as Kalanithi has done, if I knew the impending demise of my earthly body was ticking against a more specific clock. Sure I know the idea of that. But of course the idea is not the knowing. ‘Knowing about’ is never the same is knowing. The soul lives on. The spirit that reveals itself to me in flashes continues once the body ‘gives up the ghost’, of that I have no doubt. And yet, trapped in time even when it seems there’s little of it left, what would I choose to do, how could I extend myself to others, how would I spend my precious final days, weeks, maybe months offering meaning to anyone?

Jocelyn P. Newark, R.N. talks with Paul Kalanithi, M.D. Resident in Neurological Surgery, at the Stanford Hospital and Clinics on Wednesday, February 5, 2014. Stanford University ( Norbert von der Groeben/Stanford Hospital and Clinics )

None of us can know until we ‘get there’ if in fact we have any forewarning at all, that our time is truly running out. And yet, Kalanithi’s thought-provoking book prods everyone to examine themselves, for me to examine myself. How can I commit to extending whatever gifts I may offer to others even if I have no information about life’s deadline. And even if I don’t have an exact answer now, there is an answer. It is my charge to find it, stumbling through to the end until it– Spirit–presents itself as to purpose and expression. After all, at the end of the day, Kalanithi’s book is not just about his death, it is about his life. What’s more, it is also about our own, about what it means, about the aggregate of a lifetime of intentions and our expression through one final gasp.

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Memorial Day 2017

This may not even be anything for public consumption. Instead, it just might be for my own edification and relief. The hard times I am going through in my personal life and the dangerous times our country is going through currently seem parallel. While I don’t feel like a move to Northern California is dangerous, it certainly has generated a ‘hitting bottom’ kind of experience that is frightening, disorienting. It seems I have brought myself to some kind of brink, knowing not where or how I am to land.

When I made the decision to move, I did not realize there was a severe housing shortage in Sonoma County, the place I have chosen to relocate. Not only have I never been very good at money generating, (though living thrifty), it seems it has finally caught up with me in a serious ‘in-your-face’ kind of way. Having insufficient resources to make the move (was counting on cheaper rental prices,) it has caused quite a high degree of apoplexy manifesting in periodic crying jags, occasional chest pains and food binges.

Because of this poor “investigative journalism” and serious research on my part, I find myself backed into a corner, knowing I’ll have to work, and fast, as soon as I get up there. I lurch uncontrollably between terror and fright, fear of mental collapse (which quite frankly could be a relief) and prayer. Sometimes the prayers include begging, pretending I’m more spiritually gifted than I likely am, yet on the flip side, aware of a deep and abiding faith that springs to the surface in fits and starts.

Parallel Process

Enter Donald Trump. For many years now I have tried to learn from not just my own mistakes but those of others. This is not an easy task given the denial part of the human ego. One has to be capable of and WANT to be honest with oneself, taking responsibility for one’s choices and actions. While I shudder at the thought of any comparison between The Donald and me, I see how it’s often easier to attack another, blame a situation, etc, as a psychological tool to avoid the scrutiny of one’s conscience.

I can see how easy it is for me to ‘blame’ my karma, parents who didn’t encourage me, failed to teach me certain things, the turbulence of the 1960’s and 1970’s, and, and, and….the list can be endless if I allow my indulgence of such things, which sometimes I do. But at the end of the day, while there may be reasons for one’s flaws, character defects, etc, one cannot escape accountability. There is a consequence for me in my life choices regardless of any origin or source. It’s a universal law. There is a consequence for Donald Trump in his (regardless of how cruel his father was). And there is a consequence for all of America who has either chosen DT, continually chooses to either be blind to or ignore the perilous times we have ALL played a role in getting ourselves into, individually and as a nation. And for those who have failed in other ways, enlightened though they may be in erudite interpretations, have neglected to do much about the dangers we face themselves.

No Shame in Falling

They say confession is good for the soul and I do believe in it. But confession is no easy undertaking. You have to be willing to expose yourself (mostly to yourself) and one has to rank at least 200 on the honest/integrous scale of consciousness. Not everyone is able nor can. But for anyone able, it seems looking in the mirror is required at this time, and certainly for me.  

Years ago I had a cousin, Cliff Cushman. He was the darling of our clan, having won a silver medal in the 400 meter hurdles in the 1960 Olympics in Rome. Fast forward to the Olympic qualifying heat in 1964, where he fell and was disqualified from that year’s games. There have been several people in my life who have inspired me. Cliff is one who was inspirational in my early years. Bennet Mermel is another in my later years. There have been others, some I’ve not actually met in person but who have inspired me the just same – inspired me to get up, try again when failure seems imminent, but to at least try to the degree I am able. Not only is this true for me personally, but also for our nation.  for we must all ‘get up’. Some people don’t believe we are at a crossroads in our democracy, believing instead in a pied piper who promises them a return to past glory. That is not where we are at!

I leave you on this Memorial Day with Cliff’s letter he wrote to the youth of Grand Forks, North Dakota after he fell. It is a challenge for me personally and for all of those capable in our nation to pick ourselves up, take a cold, hard look in the mirror and ask ourselves if we can go on blaming others for own shortcomings without ever looking at our own. Cliff Cushman was shot down over North Vietnam in 1966, just two short years after clipping the hurdle. He may have lost his body that day in the jungle, but I am sure he did not lose his soul. It is high time we check our own, for those of us who are able. It is time I check mine, both personally and as part of the collective American Experience.

Captain Cliff Cushman’s 1964 Letter

To the youth of Grand Forks: 

Don’t feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for some of you! You may have seen the U.S. Olympic Trials on television September 13. If so, you watched me hit the fifth hurdle, fall and lie on the track in an inglorious heap of skinned elbows, bruised hips, torn knees, and injured pride, unsuccessful in my attempt to make the Olympic team for the second time. In a split second all the many years of training, pain, sweat, blisters, and agony of running were simply and irrevocably wiped out. But I tried. I would much rather fail knowing I had put forth an honest effort than never have tried at all.

This is not to say that everyone is capable of making the Olympic Team. However, each of you is capable of trying to make your own personal “Olympic Team,” whether it be the high school football team, the glee club, the honor roll, or whatever your goal may be. Unless your reach exceeds your grasp, how can you be sure what you can attain? And don’t you think there are things better than cigarettes, hot-rod cars, school dropouts, excessive makeup, and ducktail grease-cuts?

Over fifteen years ago I saw a star — first place in the Olympic Games. I literally started to run after it. In 1960 I came within three yards of grabbing it; this year I stumbled, fell and watched it recede four more years away. Certainly, I was very disappointed in falling flat on my face. However, there is nothing I can do about it now but get up, pick the cinders from my wounds, and take one more step, followed by one more and one more, until the steps turn into miles and the miles into success.

I know I may never make it. The odds are against me but I have something in my favor — desire and faith. Romans 5:3-5 has always had an inspirational meaning to me in this regard: “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us.” At least I am going to try.

How about you? Would a little extra effort on your part bring up your grade average? Would you have a better chance to make the football team if you stayed an extra fifteen minutes after practice and worked on your blocking?

Let me tell you something about yourselves. You are taller and heavier than any past generation in this country. You are spending more money, enjoying more freedom, and driving more cars than ever before, yet many of you are very unhappy. Some of you have never known the satisfaction of doing your best in sports, the joy of excelling in class, the wonderful feeling of completing a job, any job, and looking back on it knowing that you have done your best.

I dare you to have your hair cut and not wilt under the comments of your so-called friends. I dare you to clean up your language. I dare you to honor your mother and father. I dare you to go to church without having to be compelled to go by your parents. I dare you to unselfishly help someone less fortunate than yourself and enjoy the wonderful feeling that goes with it. I dare you to become physically fit. I dare you to read a book that is not required in school. I dare you to look up at the stars, not down at the mud, and set your sights on one of them that, up to now, you thought was unattainable. There is plenty of room at the top, but no room for anyone to sit down.

Who knows? You may be surprised at what you can achieve with sincere effort. So get up, pick the cinders out of your wounds, and take one more step.

I dare you!

Sincerely, Clifton E. Cushman

Sept. 17, 1964

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clifton_Cushman

 

 

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