Now that I’m not watching news on TV, there are only a few programs I record so I can view them at my leisure — and fast forward through the commercials.  One of those is America’s Got Talent.  And, indeed, America does have a great deal of talent. In the preliminary rounds, however, the talent ranges from OMG entrancing to, shall we say, erratic.  And there is always Simon Cowell, creator of the show and one of the four judges, who often adds a cynical edge to the proceedings.

Midway through one preliminary show a twelve-year-old girl was singing her heart out when Simon interrupted.

“Stop!” he practically shouted.  She was startled.  “The sound track you’re singing over is horrible.  Absolutely rotten,” he said.

The girl didn’t know what he wanted, or how to proceed, so she ran to the side of the stage.  I couldn’t tell if she was going to regroup, or abandon her singing career, perhaps forever.

Then, almost offstage, she said to herself, “Well, that just happened.”  Then she turned around and marched right back to the center of the stage.

“Start your song again, please.  This time acapella.  No soundtrack,” Simon said.

After a brief pause, she began the song again, and she sang well.  She sang so well that each of the four judges, including Simon, voted her into the next round.

We each have moments, such as this, which are turning points.  In one of my favorite plays, The Rainmaker, the deputy sheriff is divorced and lonely.  In perhaps the most poignant line of the play he says that when his wife was walking out he knew that if he just told her he needed her and asked her to stay, she would.  But he was ashamed to ask.

In the movie We Bought a Zoo the father is counseling his teenage son about asking a girl to go on a date.  “You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage,” he says, as he tells his son about the first time he saw the boy’s mother sitting in a coffee shop.

Whether it’s living in the moment as with the young singer, an opportunity to be vulnerable and speak your truth as with the deputy sheriff, or twenty seconds of insane courage that the father shared with his teenage son, at pivotal times we all face a wonderful chance disguised as a scary choice.

In these moments it’s easy to flinch and miss the best opportunity of a career, or for a loving relationship.

Or, we can follow the example of the twelve-year-old singer. We can forget what seems to be rejection as well as our own fear, live in the moment, and recognize, as she did, “Well, that just happened.”  And then move on.

We might remember the words of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in his first inaugural address delivered in the midst of the Great Depression.  FDR said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

Alan

During the six weeks of recovery from my first surgery I stayed home and watched television, mostly cable news.  During the six weeks since my second surgery I‘ve also stayed home, but with a twist.  For the first time in many years I’ve sworn off TV news and, frankly, it’s been a relief.

That does, of course, leave Netflix.  My problem with Netflix is that I find most of their offerings slow, superficial, or both.  I’ve polled my friends, asking what they like when they binge on recorded TV shows, and most have shared several favorites.  One friend mentioned, “I sometimes spend twelve hours on a weekend and watch an entire series.”  I’ve tried most of their recommendations . . . for about fifteen minutes each.  Nothing felt compelling.

But last night I discovered “The Kindness Diaries” (Second Season), in which a personable Englishman named Leon travels from Northern Alaska to Argentina in his 50-year-old yellow VW Bug he named “Kindness 2.”  The theory is that he has no money and relies entirely upon the kindness of strangers for food, shelter, and help with the inevitable problems that arise from driving his ancient VW bug.  Of course, he has a camera crew with him, and he finished the series, so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t freeze or starve.

One neat feature of the series is that when Leon meets a stranger who is particularly caring, he offers them a gift.  For example, a religious Texan transplanted to Alaska was given a trip to Jerusalem.  To a Canadian who provides a weekly meal for immigrants, Leon is paying the cost of all food and drink for a year.  And to a young woman in America who was homeless in New York when she was ten years old, Leon gifted a service trip to Costa Rica as well as assistance setting up her own private charitable foundation.  And at this point in the season we’re only as far as Salt Lake City!

This show reminded me that we each have our areas of confidence and fear.

I’m fearless about a few things.  For example, I’m entirely confident in my ability to think of a subject and write a blog post in about an hour to share with the world. But counting on help from a stranger when my car is stuck in a snow-filled ditch on the side of the lightly traveled Trans-Canadian highway?  I’d be terrified.

It’s likely that I will never be confident relying entirely on the help of strangers for two months of food and shelter, and that’s okay. Leon’s method of kindness in the world is unique to him, just as mine is to me and yours is to you. The challenge for each of us is to harness our confidence, in whatever forms it may take, in order to help ourselves and benefit others.

For exciting and heart-warming inspiration I highly recommend The Kindness Diaries on Netflix.

Love,

Alan

That is the title of a lovely folk song written in the 1950’s by Pete Seeger (Grammy Hall of Fame).  It must be outstanding because it later became a hit for both The Kingston Trio in 1958 and Peter, Paul, and Mary in 1962. The lyrics and tune entered my head as I awoke this morning, evoking those days, many years ago, when I was a teenager and folk songs meant a lot to me.  Apparently this one still does.

The lyrics go full circle.  The flowers are picked by young girls who, in turn have taken husbands “every one.”  Husbands became soldiers who, in turn, have gone to graveyards “every one.”  And in the end the graveyards are covered with flowers, “every one.”

The refrain to each verse –

“When will they ever learn?

“When will they ever learn?”

Some of us, understandably, may find this to be a somewhat grim view of life.  I find it sad, but uplifting.

Perhaps I’ve been thinking of flowers because in the past week, as part of my rehabilitation and what, I’m told, should become a part of my permanent routine, I’ve been taking walks in the neighborhood.  Since I can’t yet look up, or even straight ahead, I find myself looking down.  And what do I see along the road?

Flowers.

I’ve lived in the same neighborhood for almost fifty years.  Fifty years, folks, and I have never before noticed the flowers.

In my teens I certainly noticed the young girls.  During the Viet Nam war I saw more than enough soldiers on TV.  After the deaths of my mother, father, and younger brother I visited the graveyard, which held more grass than flowers.

And here I am.

Where have all the flowers gone?  Nowhere.

The flowers have been there all along.

Alan