Someone just asked me what my most important learning experience was.  Without a hesitation, I quickly answer, “My cerebral hemorrhage!  Every day it hits me square between the eyes.  By all that is right, I shouldn’t be here with you.  I feel I’m living on borrowed time.  It’s been over three years, I still haven’t really come to terms with the fact that I am a walking 5% miracle when the other 95% are either dead or vegetables.  I am truly thankful to be not only alive, but feel deeply obligated to use my time to make this place a better one.  You see, though I was physically unscathed, I did not survive unaffected.”   I went on to tell her that suffering a cerebral hemorrhage, however, contained gifts and life lessons for me.  Nearly dying taught me that death can come at any minute, in any way. We do not know what is in store tomorrow, or, whether there is a tomorrow, or even a tonight!  But still, we have been presented with the the golden present of now, and it is greatest of sins not to open that gift and use it to its fullest extent.  This moment, now, we are alive and kicking.  Each day I live is precious.  I take nothing for granted.  I don’t let much get me down from my high or holding me down from getting on a high.  I don’t lie down; I keep moving; I keep fighting; I keep learning; I keep growing; I keep change.  I’ve learned how to live.

“You know the holidays have come and gone.  Most people say there is anything on the calendar for a while other than a bunch of ordinary days.  How wrong they are.  There is today:  today, with all its uniqueness, beauty, richness, blessing, goodness, tenderness, and potential.  There isn’t a darn thing ordinary about today.  Just that one outlook has the power to change my life and those of others.” I explained.  “As I’ve slowly dealt with it, it’s been interesting to see how increasingly unimportant my academic titles and scholarly resume are to me, and how much more important each of you are to me.  I’ve concluded more than ever, more than when I had my epiphany twenty years ago, more than when I had cancer almost seven years ago, that the yard stick by which I or anyone else should and will evaluate my life isn’t tenure or title or dollars and cents or books and grants or conference presentations.  I will be measured by the individual people whose lives I’ve touched and in whose lives I’ve made a difference.”

So, nearly dying told me once again–no, it shouted to me–not to think about any level of individual prominence I may have or will achieve; not to focus going after any recognitions.  No, I should concentrate on helping individuals help themselves to become better people.  I make and, more importantly, live my resolution to live every day so that in the end my life will be judged a success. More than having had survived cancer, surviving that cerebral hemorrhage, has taught–commanded–me to live with a thankful and loving heart; to live deeply, intently, intensely, purposefully, and generously; to live a significant rather than an important life; to let a constant stream of goodness flow into my life, through me, and on to others.  I don’t let things get me down, or distract me, or consume me.  Even on stormy days, I see the sun shining above the clouds and appreciate the rains watering my flowers.   I constantly do such things as selecting and living my “word for the day”: to see it, feel it, accept it, and use it.  Today that word I arbitrarily chose is “nuture.”  That refreshing and energizing flow insures that for me each day is a beautiful day filled with possibilities, values, opportunities.  I’ve been hit with the truth that true richness doesn’t come from a grant check or a publication; it doesn’t come from a title or position; it doesn’t come from a salary.  Richness grows from the inside out.

I told them that as I laid in intensive neuro-ICU, Susan and my sons, and my dear friends, taught me that simply being a loving presence is a powerful gift.   When you sincerely admire beauty, you become more beautiful; when you appreciate, you become appreciated; when you’re kind and generous, you will be seen as kindly.  I found that in squarely facing my own fears and daring to ask of myself and others some of life’s most daunting questions, I experienced a profound clarity around my own life’s purpose.  That means, the way I live has an impact on the way I way I am effects how they see me; how they see me ripples out to how they act; and how they act affects others.  It’s that rippling thing. The choices I make shape my day.  I let the goodnesses of life accumulate within me.  And, so, life’s riches grow for me.  My role as a teacher, then, is not to be merely someone who’s there just to fill them with information, but to humbly accompany and help them walk their own unique path and unfold for themselves their own beauty and goodness, even in the face of fear, pain and uncertainty.

I finished telling her,” The cerebral hemorrhage taught me this:  empathize with each and all, love each and all, have faith in each and all, have hope for each and all, believe in each and all, and serve each and all–each and every moment.”

Louis