If you had stopped by my office last week you would have seen the conference table spread with a white tablecloth covered with costume jewelry. The photo that accompanies this blog documents what was left after many members of my staff had already taken about half of what was available.

So how did all of that jewelry get there? And why? And perhaps there are a few lessons in this – lessons far more valuable than a few hundred costume bracelets, necklaces, and rings.

The jewelry got there because a close friend of mine brought it to generously give to anyone in my office who wanted it.  She has been on a rampage recently, clearing out all of her closets, storage space, and garage.

I was amazed when I saw such a vast hoard. “That’s a lot of jewelry,” I said.  You must have acquired one or two new items a day for twenty years.”

“Only a few pieces are mine,” she said. “Most belonged to my mother and my aunts. I just hope someone takes it all.”

So what did I learn from this experience that I’d like to share with you?

1. The jewelry was accumulated by several women over their lifetimes. I’m sure each piece had a story, and meant something to them. Now it has no value to them and, apparently, little value to anyone else. Looking at all of that “leftover” jewelry I felt sad. The lesson I take is that the sum total of our habits and preferences is ours alone. When we are gone, our things won’t matter to us anymore – quite possibly they won’t matter to anyone else either.
2. It’s easy to acquire a lot of stuff, but always remember – it is only stuff. Years ago, while traveling in Scotland, I purchased a tea set just before boarding my return flight. When I arrived home I stored it in my closet for five years.  Then I took it to a vacation house I don’t even own anymore.  I seldom drink tea, and I can’t remember what the tea set even looked like or where it is today.  There must be a short circuit in my brain when I buy a material item, because I never consider in advance what will become of this new “treasure.”  Maybe someday they’ll all wind up on someone else’s “give-away” table.
3. Be generous. Give it away as soon as you don’t need it.  As a recent best-selling author suggests, keep only those things which bring you joy.
4. Life’s journey is personal, unique, and temporary. Enjoy each day while you can. Pay attention to all the non-material treasures in your life: your family, your friends, and the time you spend with those you love.

I’m sure you have already learned most of these lessons. The problem is– we tend to forget.  At least, I do.

At the end of each day I review in my mind all of the joyful experiences from that day. This gives me pleasure, and helps me look forward to tomorrow.

And most of my joy does not involve things.

Alan

Last week I wrote about the lesson I learned from my high school Latin teacher, Mrs. Agulia.

This week I’m sharing a lesson I learned from my friend David Beaird who was a writer, actor, and director of plays and movies.  In 1973, before he moved to Los Angeles, David won the Jefferson Award for best supporting actor in the Chicago production of Hot L Baltimore.

I owned a small retail building near my office that David transformed into The Whitefire Theater. It also served as a sound stage for shooting movies.

One morning I was sitting next to David in the third row of the theater as he auditioned actors for a new play he was directing.

The first two actors auditioned well. About a minute into the third audition David turned to me and said, “The first two were pretty good.”

I was horrified. In turning his attention away from the stage, he had literally turned his back on the actor. I had been taught to listen to others respectfully but could do little more than nod my head as David continued talking to me during the rest of the audition.

As soon as the actor left I asked David, “Why did you ignore him?” I did not say that I thought it was really rude.

“Alan,” he said, “it’s up to the actor on stage to hold my attention. If he doesn’t hold my attention at an audition, I don’t want him in my play. So I’m only going to pay attention when he does his job.  It’s entirely up to him.”

David had far more experience in theater than I did, and while I didn’t expect his response I did remember that I had walked out of several plays because I was bored when the actors didn’t hold my attention.

“But you could have been polite and listened,” I said.

“Then how would he have learned anything?” he said.

Wisdom is where you find it. That morning I learned that I have to earn the attention of others, not just assume it, and I’m not going to receive your continuing attention unless you find what I’m saying, or doing, worth your time.

This larger life lesson I learned from Mrs. Agulia, David Beaird, and others, is this: none of us are entitled. We each have to earn our way in this world by being the very best person we can be – in a job, in friendships and with our families.

Thanks for giving me your attention – and reading what I have to say.

Alan

What do Sylvia Agulia and David Beaird have in common?  Nothing, other than each of them taught me an important lesson early in my life. I have learned that wisdom is where you find it, often without expecting to.

Mrs. Agulia was my Latin teacher in high school.  She had been awarded a Fulbright Scholarship to study in Rome, and I found her photos and discussion of the Roman Forum and Coliseum far more interesting than conjugating Latin verbs.

During the first semester of my senior year I was going steady with my girlfriend, who later became my wife, and discovered that making out with her was a lot more fun than studying anything, especially Latin.

Pete Lippman sat in front of me in Latin class.  Pete was very smart (he ended up at Cal Tech), but in his senior year of high school he had his own distraction – a new motorcycle.  So it is understandable that each of our final grades hovered between an “A- “and a “B+.”

When Mrs. Agulia handed back our final exam I received an “A- “but Pete had gotten a “B+”.  I was thrilled, because I always suspected that she liked Pete better than me.  Maybe I was not at the top of her “favorite student” list because I often spoke up in class without being called on.  On this particular occasion I blurted out in front of the entire class, “Mrs. Agulia – this is great.  I got an “A-” and Pete got a “B+.”  So if you give Pete an “A” as his final grade you’ll have to give me an “A” too.  I may have smirked.

She calmly fixed me with her “teacher” stare and said, “Alan, I don’t have to do anything”.

I was sixteen then and still had a lot to learn.

More than sixty years later those words, “I don’t have to do anything,” still ring in my ears.

On my report card my final grade was a “B+.”  Pete’s final grade was an “A-.”

While it’s important to speak up for yourself (see Part Two of this blog next week), I never tell a police officer who has pulled me over, “You can’t give me a ticket.”  Never.  And I never argue with clerks.  I just thank them for their help.

Mrs. Agulia – thanks for the tip, even though, at the time, it felt as if you had fed me to the lions.

Alan