My  tuesdays with Morrie Adventure

I am often asked what prompted me to write
 "A Letter to Oprah".  

Two years ago, a portal to the other side must have yawned wide open. 

Within a year, we lost five close kindred spirits: Ted, a favorite uncle, who was also a best friend; Andy, my father; Tom, my husband's professional mentor; and Laki and Hau`oli, our kids disguised as dogs. 


Laki (Lucky) & Hau`oli (Happy)

All crossed over after succumbing to the infirmities of aging bodies, except for Happy. Her heart was broken, and she joined her sister within six months.

Anyone who has lost a close kindred spirit will tell you of the severe jolt to the heart, the swirling sense of the surreal as you grapple with the loss. We were grappling with five losses. As the shock subsided and changed to a sense of resigned wonderment, I could accept it was their time to go, missions accomplished. 

One unanswered question was left hanging.  

"But all at once?"

 

I think you'll like this...


"tuesdays with Morrie" by Mitch Albom


The Christmas after my father crossed over, a kind friend, Clif, handed me a godsend, saying, "I think you'll like this..."  A little hardback book, tuesdays with Morrie: an old man, a young man, and life's great lesson.


Clif

I read the first chapter.  I was struck by the parallels with my life.  Waves of sadness engulfed me.  I set the book aside.

Outwardly composed, I was a maelstrom of raw emotions. I couldn't write about them then, much less read about them.  The pain was unspeakable. 

In the spring, I picked the book up again. As is our "couple custom," I read books aloud to my husband, as he drives the two hundred miles to and from our weekend cabin. Over the last ten years, we have enjoyed this unique pastime together, reading "the classics" and bestsellers. 

As we headed for the hills, I began reading tuesdays with Morrie aloud. Its words spoke directly to our aching hearts. The tears came.  Sometimes in torrents. To keep driving, my husband would be furiously dabbing at his eyes.  There were moments when I could barely choke out the words. 

But lest I misrepresent this book, let me make this clear: this is not a sad book. It has its poignant moments, but there are as many which trigger belly laughs and chuckles. Morrie had an engaging sense of humor, wry and impish at the same time. His lighthearted perspective on life permeates the book.

tuesdays with Morrie celebrates life, living, and giving.  It uplifts. For us, personally, it helped us to grapple with our losses, put words to our morass of emotions. This helped us to regain our bearings and allow us to move forward in life. 

From the first chapter, my husband also recognized the parallels, so close that they bordered on being eerie.  

Eerie, but in a nice way.

 

Time was of the Essence

Morrie and Mitch Albom

Like Mitch Albom, the author of tuesdays with Morrie, I knew that my time with my chief mentor in life was short. That if I didn't act immediately, there would not be a second chance.

Putting my career on hold, I carved swaths of time in my calendar to spend with my father. The back burners were turned on, and I cut back office hours and community activities.

I stepped down from the directorship of a national board of a company that serves upward of 33 million people, a plum, coveted position in my profession.  Had I remained on the board, by chronological succession, it is possible that I would now be up for the chair of the board.  And then, maybe not.

As its first woman, first minority board director, I was ambivalent about giving it up, recognizing its glass-ceiling-breaking significance, not only for women but for minorities in the professions.

 

 

As late as the 1970s, my profession held out as one of the last of the male bastions. I'd been harshly discriminated against and blatantly discouraged from pursuing my chosen profession.  

My father's belief that nothing was impossible for me ran deep, and I dug in my heels.  Independent of parental support and on the stringiest of shoestring budgets, my husband and I put ourselves through graduate school.  

In high school, I had been talked out of my chosen profession by a testosterone-loaded counselor.  "Take a look in the phone directory, there are no lady doctors in optometry,"  I was told.  And sure enough, there were none. 

"Silly me," I thought.

 

 

In graduate school, I resolved to pursue my earlier dream. I committed, and commitment powered me to my destiny. After switching fields, I studied with intense focus, earning a 4.0 pre-med GPA  which in turn resulted in a full merit scholarship.  After graduating with no money, no assets, the plan was to work as an employee for five years and save up for a down payment on a practice. Within three months of licensure, a retiring doctor surprised us by loaning us the money to buy his practice.

I share this not to brag, but share with you the power of commitment and to heap credit on two gender-blind men, who were essential facilitators committed as much to my success as I was: my husband who is "the wind beneath my wings," lovingly supportive, and my father for his powerful mentorship. Early on, Dad had infused me with a love of books, a hunger and appreciation for education, a mental toughness and a streak of independence.


Dad hamming it up for the 
camera in my graduation 
cap and gown.

It brought me great joy to make him a proud father.

The next generation now benefits from the foundations he laid down for his four children, all college graduates. His grandson went to college at Stanford University with the daughter of the President of the United States. His other four grandchildren will be afforded opportunities to earn college degrees. Two of his foster children have earned their college degrees; his third foster child, now in college. 

Not bad for a patriarch who, out of economic necessity, dropped out of high school. 

 

 


Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

In short, there wasn't a shred of martyrdom.  It's crystal clear to me: I am who I am, I do what I do because of my father's positive influences in my life.  

My father lived big.  He thought big. He gave life a big bear hug.  He was bold and seemingly fearless.  He was passionate.  He opened the world to me, showing me that there are no boundaries.  

Most of all, he loved all four of his biological kids and three foster kids

 

 

Shared Passions

Soon, I would be losing him. And time was of the essence. 

He should have died in the accident a few years ago, after being thrown a 100 feet. He survived for a reason, and nothing was going to stop us. We committed to making the most of our time left. We indulged our shared passions in the most adventuresome of ways. We traveled, even up to his last months, wheelchair and all. 

During the last years of his life, he traveled three continents and two islands. He visited us on the mainland twice to enjoy the serenity of the lake and mountains with us. 

We drove up and down along the back roads along the dramatic shoreline of our island, the island of Hawai`i.

Especially when traveling, he would divulge details of our family tree, including an unbroken line of spiritual healers and another, of warriors. I can attribute my deep spirituality and fighting spirit to genes!

He was passing on the family torch, tying up loose ends, providing a fascinating historical, genealogical, and spiritual legacy to the present and future generations of our family.

 

 

When we weren't traveling, we enjoyed the simple things in life:

Dad loved company.  Every time we went back to be with Dad, we found an excuse to celebrate.  Sometimes, just with family. Often with his staunchest friend, Lily.  And his childhood friend, Yoso. Other times, with friends and neighbors. 

Thanksgiving, 1997 brought all of four of us, his "kids",  home to Hilo:


My brother Dino, sister Joan, Dad, me and sister Sandy
Thanksgiving, 1997

My husband is a fabulous cook, and he turned our last visit together in the spring of 1998 into a cooking fest, preparing all of my father's favorite dishes. Dad was ecstatic.  He could not stop beaming from ear to ear.

We had our huge, dramatic farewell scenes, several times.  And the last was indeed the best. We had saved the best adventure for last: traveling to the uncharted realms of Aloha and Mahalo.  

Just like Mitch and Morrie.

Oprah's Making a Movie

Not surprising then, the moment after I learned that Oprah bought the rights to produce a television movie of the book, I was at my computer, tapping out a thank you e-note to her.

Ostensibly, it was a thank you for the movie, coming also from a growing sense of mahalo, still finding its words. 

You see, Oprah was the catalyst who connected us with our mutual friend and earth school chum, Gary Zukav, who impacts our life in a gentle, considerate way.


Gary's site

Some have described his work as New Age.  I beg to differ.  A lot of his work is in tune with the knowledge and wisdom of  our ancients.  Like Hawaiians and Eastern thinkers, he honors the sacred in every person, every thing -- animate or inanimate, and everyday activities. 

Like my mentors Albert Schweitzer, St. Therese, and The Peace Pilgrim, Gary has a deep reverence for life, in all of its forms.  He is in touch with The Aloha Spirit 

A few months earlier, a group of us had converged at Mt. Shasta, spending a powerfully grounding, sharing,  breakthrough week together.  Encircled by the love and nurturance of  like-minded  school chums with open hearts, alongside a healing mountain stream, I had taken my first baby steps toward healing from the pain of my losses. 

Gary had also recently lost his father, with whom he  had also forged a close, accepting relationship. 

  • We shared our Dad soul stories with each other. 

  • We acknowledged their spiritual presence, as we pored over the pictures of them that we had both brought with us.  

  • We cried together for the pain that their bodies had suffered at the end of their lives.
      

  • We smiled through our tears, as we rejoiced over our fathers' abiding love, unmitigated by death.

Although time, space, and work conspire to keep us apart,  Oprah, Gary, Linda, and our school chums are kindred spirits. We are companions along the way.  Holding hands as we walk down our meandering, yet parallel paths in life, we enjoy the occasional merges in our paths with e-mail, book signings, and of course, Oprah's show.

 

Sitting Down to Write Oprah a Note of Mahalo


Oprah's Site

When I got wind of the movie rights, I wasted no time in acknowledging it.  I knew  the goodness and kindness that would come from the movie's airing. 

With Hawaiian music playing in the background, it was a still evening, perfect for quiet reflection. A kaleidoscope of images filled my mind, which in turn unleashed a floodtide of memories and emotions.  As I put them to words, my letter to Oprah took on a life of its own.  

Such is the power of words. My short e-note had evolved into a major E-MAIL.  An E-pistle.

Oprah is busy, and I seriously considered hacking it back to the first three sentences, pasting the rest into my private journal. 

Dr. Hanson, the lady doc character on the TV show, "Providence,"  has a dead mother who drops in to visit her in her dreams.  I have a father who pierces holes through the veil *,  too,  because these words came to mind: 

"Go for broke! "

An expression meaning, 
"Shoot the works!"

Dad would say this when, at the brink of taking off on a new adventure, I'd hesitate. 

I hit the send button.

* Dad's first veil piercing: I was writing at my desk, when I was distracted by the memory of my father singing a song on the last day of our visit to Japan earlier in the year.  In my reverie, I commented to myself that it was a faulty recollection.  I noticed that he had pronounced a word in the song perfectly, contrary to the mispronunciation when he had sung it. Back then, I hadn't said a word to him about it. Within five minutes, the call came.  Dad had crossed over, ten minutes before. The song was "Aloha `Oe", our farewell song.  It was Dad's way of saying goodbye and assuring me that he'd made it to the other side, where perfection is possible, even the pronunciation of a tricky Hawaiian word, onaona! (oh-now-nah, not oh-nah-oh-nah).

Another veil piercing story for the doubters:  One night, my father came to me in a dream, and via thought (his lips weren't moving), conveyed, "Buy fuel cell stocks."  This was curious, as he was never involved in stocks.  I forced myself awake, knowing I'd never remember this in the morning.  There was no handy pen and paper on my bed stand, and so I gently awoke my husband to tell him about Dad's visit.  He too had never heard of fuel cells.  Before we fell back to sleep, we said fuel cells three times.  The next day, we remembered, and my husband called a stockbroker friend, who also had no clue what fuel cells were, but promised to research it.  He was successful in his search, and we bought a bunch of fuel cell stocks.  A year later, I checked back with my husband, "Whatever happened to the fuel cells stocks?"   He replied, "You won't believe it, it's gone from $27 a stock and now it's at $114 a stock."  Other than it is a more environmentally-sound source of energy, I still can't tell you what a fuel cell is. 

 

 

Yet Another Parallel

Yet another parallel loomed obvious:  Mitch Albom had written his book as a memorial for his mentor.


Morrie's book by Morrie

Besides the movie, Oprah was soon bringing Mitch's memorial to the attention of her 13 million viewers on The Oprah Show.

The parallel? Oprah was about to do the same for me!

Within days, I got a reply in my Inbox, followed by calls, back and forth. 

Within two weeks, my memorial to my father landed me on The Oprah Winfrey Show!   My memorial to my father? Here it is: 

>>  A Letter to Oprah.

 


If you wandered in from a side door, 
here's the front door: 

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