Get rejected, fail at something, fall down, scrape your knee? The only sympathy I heard was “Hey, No Pain, No Gain.” He actually had that painted in big block letters on our garage where he would relentlessly slam around his Olympic size weight set starting at 5 every morning, without fail. Miss free throws at the basketball game? Do
1,000 free throw practice shots before you come home. Trouble dribbling with your left hand? Tie the right one around your back and dribble for eight hours. Get a ‘C’ in math, it’s workbooks and math school all summer. No relenting. You didn’t get love or attention in my house unless you achieved.
It is because of this “dysfunctional” childhood that I have become the highly functioning achiever I am today.
• Having to get over issues of abandonment caused me to become vigorously self-reliant.
• Growing up with a tough university football coach father developed my drive and self-motivation.
• Not being doted on taught me to be independent and self-reliant.
• Having to achieve for attention taught me to be goal-oriented and results-minded.
People often see their childhood or difficulties of their past as wounds they need to heal from. Instead I discovered that adversities are your advantage. It’s like how you grow a muscle. You put it under intense stress and challenge it repeatedly. What you are actually doing is tearing the muscle fibers and breaking it down. Then it grows back bigger and stronger than before. You now have the muscles (mental, emotional and psychological) to achieve extraordinary things ordinary people cannot.
Somehow, in his own way, my dad was the best parent a future achiever could ever have. He was strong, disciplined and consistent. He parented/coached me to be the same. I’m incredibly grateful for my childhood training camp. In the end, it seems, my childhood was awesome!
~Darren Hardy
See the Miracle
There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
~Albert Einstein
It happened in an instant.
One small instant held everything — my life, her life, my family — in its clenched fists.
Beads broke in a rush of terror across my forehead as I bolted around the deck and down the stairs. My legs were moving but I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t register anything, or feel anything except for the fear closing in. All I wanted to know in that moment was that my daughter Jolie was alive.
It was one of those events that happened in a split-second and yet it held the potential to shift everything in my life. How I would wake up in the morning. How I would fall asleep at night. How I would kiss my two daughters as I tucked them in and watched them turn their heads to sleep.
My family and I were vacationing on a small private island in Fiji this past summer. When I say small, I mean so small that there is no way to get on or off the island unless it is pre-arranged. We were staying with friends in a beautiful house with a wrap-around balcony. The house was so high up that the drop below the balcony was nearly twenty feet.
The island has this amazing energy that I find hard to put into
words. It’s occupied by the indigenous people of Fiji, most of them whom have never left the island. Fiji is their home and they’re very connected to the earth, the community, and each other.
There were seven or eight local Fijians who worked at the house we stayed in as caretakers and helpers. It was easy to connect with them. They were warm and engaging and had an instinct for getting to know the hearts of people. At one point, the women stopped and told us, “Your youngest daughter Jolie, she’s special. There’s something about her. She’s an old soul and she’s really here for a special purpose.”
One night after dinner, our older daughter, Jemma, rushed in from the balcony after dinner screaming, “JOLIE FELL OFF THE DECK! JOLIE FELL OFF THE DECK!” I could see the terror in her eyes.
We rushed toward the screams to find our Jolie on the ground twenty feet below. She wasn’t moving. My thoughts ran wild: She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. Please God, don’t let her be dead.
In the seconds that followed I could not run fast enough, could not get there soon enough to scoop my daughter into my arms and hold her tight. The fears stacked on one another: How will we get her off the island? How will we get her to a hospital? What will happen to my Jolie?
I was trying to hold it together but inside I felt like I was going to pass out. There was blood coming from her head but we couldn’t tell exactly how bad the injuries might be. All I knew was that she started moving and crying. Thankfully, she was alive and with us.
People gathered around her. Others started inspecting her body for injuries. Since there was no doctors or hospital on the island, one nurse that lived there got to us within twenty minutes. Everyone came together for little Jolie and my family in a remarkable way.
Racked and sucked dry from a fear I’d never known before, I still felt a strange sense of peace drop upon me. I suddenly knew things would be okay.
As we carried Jolie inside to the bedroom, the Fijian women asked if they could pray. They gathered around us holding hands.
The nurse started praying in English and then, in a rhythm like a song, the Fijian women started chanting at the top of their lungs in their native tongue. Each chanted her own prayer but the voices all flowed together in a surreal harmony. Tears stained their cheeks. Tears stained my cheeks. The room felt like it was trembling, like a power was sweeping over it and all I could do was cry and be thankful that my daughter was alive.
Hand in hand with relief came this overwhelming angst and worry that was all-consuming. I became obsessed with fear in the days ahead. The feelings were paralyzing. I could not stop analyzing the situation and asking myself: What went wrong? How could we have prevented the accident?
One afternoon, I called my dear friend and teacher, Guru Singh, and began bawling my eyes out as I retold him the story. He stopped me and said, “Eric, you’re focusing on what didn’t happen. What didn’t happen is an illusion. Stop focusing on that.”
“Start focusing on what did happen,” he continued. “What did happen is a miracle. Just meditate on that and constantly put yourself in that space. You witnessed a miracle. You experienced a miracle. Your daughter lived through a miracle. Your daughter is a miracle.”
His words shifted me into a new space of thinking. He was absolutely right. My daughter lived by the grace of a miracle and my only response from that point forward needed to be gratitude and appreciation for the sacred seconds that make up every moment we share together.
My daughter had only gone to get a glass of water and sixty seconds later she was on the ground, holding with her all of my heart and every dream I had for her. She was inches away from death but by such sacred grace she dropped twenty feet and walked away with barely a scratch.
Today my daughter Jolie is like any other three-year-old. She plays, goes to school, giggles with her sister and snuggles into our arms as if nothing ever happened. But it did and I will never forget it.
Not a day goes by that I don’t look at her and am reminded by the miracle of life she represents. I know now, more than ever before, how precious every second of life is. I know with every breath I take how blessed each soul, young and old, is to have these moments.
Just as the Fijians said, I am convinced that my Jolie is here for such a special reason. We all are. And in embracing the miracle moments of our lives, we find more meaning, more purpose and appreciation, more conscious cosmic calling, gratitude and joy in all we do.
Life is so very fragile and yet we are here and I’m not taking one second for granted. My Jolie taught me that with her angelic spirit. She is my pure joy.
~Eric Handler
Children Learn What They Live
It’s not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see
what we
do with ours. I can’t tell my children to reach for the sun.
All I can do is reach for it, myself.
~Joyce Maynard
If children live with criticism,
they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility,
they learn to fight.
If children live with fear,
they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity,
they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule,
they learn to be shy.
If children live with jealousy,
they learn what envy is.
If children live with shame,
they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with tolerance,
they learn to be patient.
If children live with encouragement,
they learn to be confident.
If children live with praise,
they learn to appreciate.
If children live with approval,
they learn to like themselves.
If children live with acceptance,
they learn to find love in the world.
If children live with recognition,
they learn to have a goal.
If children live with sharing,
they learn to be generous.
If children live with honesty and fairness,
they learn what truth and justice are.
If children live with security,
they learn to have faith in themselves and in those around them.
If children live with friendliness,
they learn that the world is a nice place in which to live.
If children live with serenity,
they learn to have peace of mind.
With what are your children living?
~Dorothy L. Nolte
Why I Chose My Father to Be My Dad
You can kiss your family and friends goodbye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you.
~Frederick Buechner
I grew up on a beautiful sprawling farm in Iowa, raised by parents who are often described as the “salt of the earth and the backbone of the community.” They were all the things we know good parents to be: loving, committed to the task of raising their children with high expectations and a positive sense of self-regard. They expected us to do morning and evening chores, get to school on time, get decent grades and be good people.
There are six children. Six children! It was never my idea that there should be so many of us, but then no one consulted me. To make matters worse, fate dropped me off in the middle of the American heartland in a most harsh and cold climate. Like all children, I thought that there had been a great universal mistake and I had been placed in the wrong family — most definitely in the wrong state. I disliked coping with the elements. The winters in Iowa are so freezing cold that you have to make rounds in the middle of the night to see that livestock aren’t stranded in a place where they would freeze to death. Newborn animals had to be taken in the barn and sometimes warmed up in order to be kept alive. Winters are that cold in Iowa!
My dad, an incredibly handsome, strong, charismatic and energetic man was always in motion. My brothers and sisters and I were in awe of him. We honored him and held him in the highest esteem. Now I understand why. There were no inconsistencies in his life. He was an honorable man, highly principled. Farming, his chosen work, was his passion; he was the best. He was at home raising and caring for animals. He felt at one with the earth and took great pride in planting and harvesting the crops. He refused to hunt out of season, even though deer, pheasants, quail and other game roamed our farmlands in abundance. He refused to use soil additives or feed the animals anything other than natural grains. He taught us why he did this and why we must embrace the same ideals. Today I can see how conscientious he was because this was in the mid-1950s before there was an attempt at universal commitment to earth-wide environmental preservation.
Dad was also a very impatient man, but not in the middle of the night when he was checking his animals during these late night rounds. The relationship we developed from these times together was simply unforgettable. It made a compelling difference in my life. I learned so much about him. I often hear men and women say they spent so little time with their fathers. Indeed the heart of today’s men’s groups is about groping for a father they never really knew. I knew mine.
Back then I felt as if I was secretly his favorite child, although it’s quite possible that each of us six children felt that way. Now that was both good news and bad. The bad news was that I was the one selected by Dad to go with him for these midnight and early morning barnyard checks, and I absolutely detested getting up and leaving a warm bed to go out into the frosty air. But my dad was at his best and most lovable during those times. He was most understanding, patient, gentle and was a good listener. His voice was gentle and his smile made me understand my mother’s passion for him.
It was during these times when he was a model teacher — always focusing on the whys, the reasons for doing. He talked endlessly for the hour or hour-and-a-half that it took to make the rounds. He talked about his war experiences, the whys of the war he served in and about the region, its people, the effects of war and its aftermath. Again and again he told his story. In school I found history all the more exciting and familiar.
He talked about what he gained from his travels and why seeing the world was so important. He instilled a need and love of traveling. I had worked in or visited some 30 countries by the time I was 30 years old.
He talked about the need and love of learning and why a formal education is important, and he talked about the difference between intelligence and wisdom. He wanted so much for me to go beyond my high school degree. “You can do it,” he’d say over and over. “You’re a Burres. You are bright, you have a good mind and, remember, you’re a Burres.” There was no way I was going to let him down. I had more than enough confidence to tackle any course of study. Eventually I completed a Ph.D. and later earned a second doctorate. Though the first doctorate was for Dad and the second for me, there was definitely a sense of curiosity and quest that made both easy to attain.
He talked about standards and values, developing character and what it meant in the course of one’s life. I write and teach on a similar theme. He talked about how to make and evaluate decisions, when to cut your losses and walk away and when to stick it out, even in the face of adversity. He talked about the concept of being and becoming and not just having and getting. I still use that phrase. “Never sell out on your heart,” he said. He talked about gut instincts and how to distinguish between those and emotional sells, and how to avoid being fooled by others. He said, “Always listen to your instincts and know that all the answers you’ll ever need are within you. Take quiet time alone. Be still enough to find the answers within and then listen to them. Find something you love to do, then live a life that shows it. Your goals should stem from your values, and then your work will radiate your heart’s desire. This will divert you from all silly distractions that will only serve to waste your time — your very life is about time — how much you can grow in whatever years you are given. Care about people,” he said, “and always respect mother earth. Wherever you shall live, be sure you have full view of the trees, sky and land.”
My father. When I reflect on how he loved and valued his children, I’m genuinely sorry for the youth who will never know their fathers in this way or will never feel the power of character, ethics, drive and sensitivity all in one person — as I do in mine. My dad modeled what he talked. And I always knew he was serious about me. I knew he felt me worthy, and he wanted me to see that worth.
Dad’s message made sense to me because I never saw any conflict in the way he lived his life. He had thought about his life and he lived it daily.
He bought and paid for several farms over time (he’s as active today as he was then). He married and has loved the same woman for a lifetime. My mother and he, now married for nearly 50 years, are still inseparable sweethearts. They are the greatest lovers I’ve known. And he loved his family so much. I thought he was overly possessive and protective of his children, but now that I’m a parent I can understand those needs and see them for what they are. Though he thought he could save us from the measles and almost did, he vehemently refused to lose us to destructive vices. I also see how determined he was that we be caring and responsible adults.
To this day five of his children live within a few miles of him, and they have chosen a version of his lifestyle. They are devoted spouses and parents, and agriculture is their chosen work. They are without a doubt the backbone of their community. There is a twist to all this, and I suspect it’s because of his taking me on those midnight rounds. I took a different direction than did the other five children. I began a career as an educator, counselor and university professor, eventually writing several books for parents and children to share what I had learned about the importance of developing self-esteem in the childhood years. My messages to my daughter, while altered a bit, are the values that I learned from my father, tempered with my life experiences, of course. They continue to be passed on.
I should tell you a bit about my daughter. She’s a tomboy, a beautiful 5 foot 9 athlete who letters in three sports each year, frets over the difference between an A- and a B, and was just named a finalist in the Miss Teen California contest. But it’s not her outward gifts and accomplishments that remind me of my parents. People always tell me that my daughter possesses a great kindness, a spirituality, a special fire deep inside that radiates outward. The essence of my parents is personified in their granddaughter.
The rewards of their children and being dedicated parents have had a most nourishing effect on the lives of my parents as well. As of this writing, my father is at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, for a battery of tests, scheduled to take from six to eight days. It is December. Because of the harsh winter, he took a hotel room near the clinic (as an outpatient). Because of obligations at home, my mother was only able to stay with him for the first few days. So on Christmas Eve, they were apart.