Flopsy was a high-achieving squirrel. He left the family nest when it was time, survived a few run-ins with retrievers, and dodged more than one Hawk in his day. He also learned to gather his food supply first thing in the day . . . before any play . . . and build a good stash in case the oncoming winter were to turn severe.
He found a mate - her name was Nuggets - and they raised three agile squirrels. One by one the youngsters left the nest, heading out across the wires to another part of town. When they were gone, Flopsy couldn't help wondering, "Did I teach them all that they needed to know . . . did I give them the confidence they'll need to survive? Did I spend enough time chasing them in spirals around the tree or just sitting side by side peacefully on the bank of the stream?" "Oh well," he thought, "I did the best I could . . . and they seem like good squirrels."
"So, on with life," he thought. He got up early every morning and scampered across a few backyards to gather nuts . . . as he had done for so many years before. But soon he noticed that he wasn't getting up with the same enthusiasm as he once had. Also, while he was foraging, his mind would wander. Sometimes he wondered if his nut gathering really mattered. After all, he and Nuggets had a reasonable stash of food . . . more, he thought, than two hungry squirrels could go through in a lifetime. "Maybe I should just . . . whoa . . . wait a minute . . . whoops . . . yikkkkkkkkkes." With all his daydreaming, Flopsy lost his footing and went crashing down through the branches of a 100-year-old Copper Beech. At 5 feet above the ground, he almost caught his grip, but alas, it wasn't to be. Flopsy crashed into the ground at a breakneck speed . . . except he didn't break his neck! But he did black out for a moment. When he came to, he was on his back looking up at the canopy of penny-colored leaves dancing in the wind.
As he watched the swaying leaves he remembered how he used to swing from branch to branch almost effortlessly. He loved to hang from one paw, flip over to the other side, and even hang by his tail. That's how he got his name. He'd jump from one branch to another, flip his body over as if on a parallel bar . . . a regular Flying Wallenda of the squirrel world.
Just thinking about it made his pulse race. His little toes began to tap. It had been years since he'd done what he loved to do. After all, he'd been busy doing what he was supposed to do . . . gathering nuts, providing shelter . . . becoming part of the Treetop community. But now, he thought, "Why not? What am I waiting for?"
He lingered under the tree a little longer, and thought about what he and Nuggets really needed to survive. He figured out that if he gathered nuts early each day, he'd have time to "fly" in the afternoon . . . and still be home in time for dinner. He really didn't need to spend 24/7 in the "hunt."
Soon Flopsy was back practicing his high-branch act. He wasn't as limber as he once had been, but he found his years of experience had taught him how to focus and soon he was flying even better than before.
But after several high-flying months Flopsy sensed that something was still missing from his life. He definitely enjoyed what he was doing, but he still wasn't sure if he was making a difference . . . for anyone but himself . . . and Nuggets, of course, whom he loved dearly.
So he went back to the tree where he'd had his "Aha" moment. Yup . . . just propped himself up against the trunk of the tree, folded his little forelegs behind his head, and stared up under the penny-colored canopy of leaves. "How can I do what I love and also make a difference in some way?" (He was a pretty philosophical squirrel.) He asked the question and watched the shimmering leaves, but no answer was forthcoming. Disappointed . . . and more than a little frustrated, he scrambled to his feet and headed home to Nuggets.
The next morning while Flopsy was out gathering nuts, he noticed an adolescent squirrel on a low branch of a tree staring up. Just staring . . . not moving. So he scurried up next to the youngster and asked, "What's up?" The younger squirrel replied, "I'm trying to figure out how to get to that cluster of mulberries at the end of that branch at the top of the tree. They look so delicious, but . . . I'm rather clumsy and I'm just not sure I can manage the climb."
"Well, would you like a suggestion?" Flopsy offered. "Sure," said the teenage squirrel . . . curious if this graying elder could REALLY teach him what he needed to know. So Flopsy proceeded to suggest a path that might be right for the young squirrel to take . . . given his capabilities and his destination. He even taught him a special way of using his claws so he wouldn't slip. Soon the young squirrel was nibbling on mulberries from the end of a branch and Flopsy went off to gather nuts.
And then it hit him . . . right out of the blue. "That's IT!" he blurted out. "That's how I can do what I love and make a difference." Soon Flopsy was running a school for high-flying squirrels. The days were long and the students were not always attentive, but the time just seemed to fly. One day, he turned to his mate and said, "You know, life doesn't get any better than this . . . I couldn't be more satisfied." "Nor could I," she said, "nor could I."
3 Things We Can Learn From Flopsy About Moving Beyond Success
1. A whack on the head often helps our vision . . . we see what's really important. Don't wait for a " wake-up call;" put your time where your priorities lie.
2. To feel fully alive, we need to feed our passions, desires, and dreams. Every day - in ways large and small - observe, enjoy, and create. Life is in the details.
3. When it seems like something's missing, try giving. Share your talent to make a difference . . . build a legacy. The connection makes us whole.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
A reason
Sometimes people come into your life and you know right away they were meant to be there...to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson, or to figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who these people may be but you lock eyes with them and you know that very moment that they will affect your life in some profound way.
And sometimes things happen to you at the time that may seem horrible, painful, and unfair, but in reflection of you realize that without overcoming those obstacles you would never would realize your potential, strength, will power, or heart.
Everything happens for a reason. Nothing happens by chance or by means of luck. Illness, love, and lost moments of true greatness and sheer stupidity all acure to test limits of your soul. Without these small tests, life would be like a smoothly paved, straight, flat road to know where safe and comfortable but dull and otterly pointless.
The people you meet affect your life. The successes and the downfalls that you experience can create whom you are and the bad experiences can be learned from. In fact they are probably the most poignant and important ones. If someone hurts you, betrays you, or breaks your heart, forgive them because they have helped you learn about trust and the importance of being cautious to whom you open your heart to.
If someone loves you, love them back unconditionally, not only because they love you, but also because they are teaching you to love and open your heart and eyes to little things. Make everything count. Appreciate everything you possibly can, for you may never experience it again.
Talk to people whom you have never talked to before and actually listen. Let yourself fall in love, break free, and set your sights high. Hold your head up because you have ever right to. Tell yourself you're a great individual and believe in yourself, no on else will believe in you. Create your own life and then go out and live it.
And sometimes things happen to you at the time that may seem horrible, painful, and unfair, but in reflection of you realize that without overcoming those obstacles you would never would realize your potential, strength, will power, or heart.
Everything happens for a reason. Nothing happens by chance or by means of luck. Illness, love, and lost moments of true greatness and sheer stupidity all acure to test limits of your soul. Without these small tests, life would be like a smoothly paved, straight, flat road to know where safe and comfortable but dull and otterly pointless.
The people you meet affect your life. The successes and the downfalls that you experience can create whom you are and the bad experiences can be learned from. In fact they are probably the most poignant and important ones. If someone hurts you, betrays you, or breaks your heart, forgive them because they have helped you learn about trust and the importance of being cautious to whom you open your heart to.
If someone loves you, love them back unconditionally, not only because they love you, but also because they are teaching you to love and open your heart and eyes to little things. Make everything count. Appreciate everything you possibly can, for you may never experience it again.
Talk to people whom you have never talked to before and actually listen. Let yourself fall in love, break free, and set your sights high. Hold your head up because you have ever right to. Tell yourself you're a great individual and believe in yourself, no on else will believe in you. Create your own life and then go out and live it.
A Beautiful Story
Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
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