Cusack Me Too

Extraordinary Everyday Stories That Connect Us
1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9882506-1-1
Verlag: TC Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 196 Seiten

Have you ever....been so happy you cried...felt awkward and embarrassed...regretted not saying something...found unexpected joy helping others...learned a profound lesson from a child...had a near death experience...lost someone you love... ME TOO.... This book of true stories captures touching, spiritual and funny moments that can be found all around us They are observations from the life of a man, who, through his work as a speaker, actor, and volunteer has had captivating experiences unveil the ordinary grace found in everyday moments. They will leave you thinking, 'Me too.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cusack, Tim

Leseproben

INTRODUCTION Dirt Boy His grandmother yelled yet again, “The school bus is waiting! If you don’t hurry, it will leave without you!” Roy came running through the back door, through the family room, and into the kitchen. He grabbed his books off the counter, kissed his grandmother on the cheek, and said, “Love you, Gama.” That’s what he’d called her from the time he could talk. The bus driver gave him a disgusted look and said “Hey Roy, if I have to sit here for more than thirty seconds one more time, you’re walking to school. I know your old grandma doesn’t drive, so enjoy your walk, you little dirt boy.” Dirt boy. Roy heard that name at least 12 times a day now that he was in first grade. He spent six hours a day at school, and at least two kids per hour would tease him. Kids would say “Don’t sit next to me dirt boy,” or “Don’t touch my paper, dirt boy.” It was true, Roy’s hands were always dirty and so were his pants. He would wipe his hands on his pants as he worked in his secret garden behind the wooden fence in the back yard of his grandmother’s house. Roy was just two years old when his parents died in a car accident. His grandmother was the only family member who wanted him. Roy’s aunts and uncles thought he was a weird kid because he didn’t talk. He didn’t even seem to try. He wasn’t interested in playing with toys or stuffed animals like most kids his age. What he did seem to love was anything to do with a living plant—the grass in the lawn, a tree, a flower. He would sit next to a house plant and touch its leaves, trying to hold it, and at times causing it to spill over, getting dirt everywhere. Once when this happened, his uncle threw the plant out the back door next to a pile of firewood. Roy crawled out back and sat with the destroyed house plant. Even months later when his grandmother found him in that pile of wood, she noticed that the house plant was more alive, more colorful, than she’d ever remembered, and yet, its roots were exposed. She thought to herself, “How could this be?” Roy’s first grade teacher, Mrs. B, would have Roy wash his hands with soap and water before lunch, but his hands remained stained. “Roy,” said Mrs. B, “Did you forget your lunchbox again?” Roy looked down at the floor, ashamed. There were many days he forgot his lunch. He would hide by the old oak tree, out of sight from the other kids, talking to the tree as if it were his best friend. He forgot his lunchbox because he was always running late, working in his secret garden. Mrs. B said, “Sit here at my desk. Here’s an apple and some peanuts. I’ll be back in a few minutes. You’re staying in today, and I’m having a talk with your grandmother after school.” As Roy picked at his lunch, he was distracted by what he’d seen every day since coming into this classroom—a brownish, dying, potted tree in the back corner of the room. He didn’t know what type of tree it was. It stood about three feet tall with medium sized leaves, maybe some kind of dwarf cherry or apple, he thought. Everyday he had wanted to tend to it, but didn’t want to get caught playing in the dirt. Today he didn’t care. He was alone. Roy stood up and walked toward the dying tree. As he got closer the tree’s brown, shriveled leaves began to shake. He could see it moving as if a small breeze was blowing it. With his small dirty hands, Roy touched the trunk of the tree at the point where it entered the soil. The color of the main trunk started turning from ash gray to a healthy dark brown. The leaves turned from their deathly shade into a deep emerald green. Small pink blooms began appearing out of buds that were never there before. The tree grew five feet taller than it was just seconds ago. He heard the door open without warning. “Roy what are you doing?” asked Mrs. B. Roy couldn’t lie. “It was dying. It just needed to be touched, to be held. It wanted to be loved.” Mrs. B was in shock. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. This old dying potted tree was more beautiful than any plant she had ever seen in her life. Mrs. B said, “Roy, tell me the truth. Did you just touch that tree?” “Yes,” said Roy. She walked over to him, sat down and said, “At home, at your grandmother’s house, do you have plants?” “Yes,” Roy said. “Is that why your hands are always so dirty?” Roy just looked at her. “After school today I’m going to drive you home. I want you to show me your plants.” Roy began to cry. He said, “I can’t! It’s a secret garden, and only me and my Mom and Dad know about it.” With a soft, loving voice Mrs. B said, “What if you ask your Mom and Dad first to see if it would be alright if your grandmother and I could see your garden?” Roy nodded his head in approval. That night after school, the gate on the fence that hid the garden opened. Roy saw Mrs. B and his grandmother standing in the back yard. He said, “It’s okay for you to come in. My Mom and Dad said it’s time to share what I’ve been growing.” Who Is Dirt Boy? This story comes from an improv theater game called “build a story.” You ask the audience for items to be incorporated into the story. In this case my audience consisted of my wife, Anne, who said “plant,” and my daughter, Isabel, who gave me “lunchbox.” With these two items in mind, I sat down for the next forty minutes and wrote this story. After I finished writing “Dirt Boy,” I thought about where it came from. Why did this spontaneous improvisational story unfold the way it did? Why did I make some of the choices that I did? One of the theories they teach in improv acting is that you have to be in the moment in order to use your intuition as a guide, and produce those instances where everything just comes together in a way that you couldn’t predict. If you get inside your head to try to figure out something clever, get a laugh, and make it about you, you’ll miss the opportunity. When I wrote this story I was very much in the moment. It seemed to just flow out of me, almost outside of my control. It was like I was an observer of my mind’s eye, watching it unfold before me. At times it was hard to move my pen fast enough to keep up with the words that were falling out on the page. At one point I cried as I wrote, surprised by where the story was going. With “Dirt Boy” I didn’t intervene with it or attempt to edit it as I went along, I just tried to stay in the moment and let the story unfold. It didn’t take long for me to analyze this piece of art therapy. Under the surface I am Dirt Boy. I did get picked on in elementary school, but it was more about being short and vulnerable than about being dirty. I didn’t have a secret garden, but I do remember taking long walks through my family’s farm, with special areas that I thought of as mine, places I would go to think and be alone. This seems to be pretty uniform among children. You can probably recall a room or outdoor fort or a special climbing tree that you felt was just yours. As a child, sitting in my secret places, I remember longing to be a healing presence, and to possess certain powers to help people who were hurting. In “Dirt Boy,” Roy has a special ability to revive dying plants. Upon analysis I think that this was another form of me trying to work through the pain I experienced at school, and reflect on the special things about me that others didn’t always see. Even as a child I identified with the archetype of the underdog, and sensed that I wanted to have a gift for helping others, especially those who needed it most. As adults we still have secret gardens, private insights. We’ve all been a Dirt Boy at some time in our lives. It can be good to keep some things to ourselves and reflect on them. But at some point, it can also be healthy and beneficial to share the special moments in our lives with others, these pieces of our soul, just like Roy who eventually got up the courage to share his secret garden. I’ve been collecting stories, and the moments in them, for as long as I can remember. The garden of Dirt Boy is really about this collection of stories that I’m daring to scribe into a book. It’s one thing to tell a few stories during my programs in front of a live audience, but to put them on paper for anyone to read and consume, without my verbal direction, is a much scarier and daunting concept for me. For years I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to transfer the significance of these stories from the spoken form to the written. I believe they all have potentially healing powers and emotional insights, and I feel that sharing them is like sharing a very personal part of myself. During a number of my speaking engagements, I’ve referenced my past as a hospice volunteer and the lessons I’ve taken away from being present with people at the end of life. I share the fact that in the end, most people just talk about a few moments, a few stories from their life. That’s it…just a handful of experiences that are significantly meaningful. That’s what all these stories are to me: meaningful, inspiring, and true. My wish is that you will find these stories to be as refreshing, enriching, and life enhancing as they are for me. I hope that some of them...