with clients. There are several such books out there — many of them quite good. Instead, I envisioned a book that reflected experiences of everyday living, both ordinary and extraordinary: passing moments, distressing episodes, all kinds of occurrences that most people can relate to.
But how to organize these anecdotes? At first, I toyed with the idea of grouping them by themes: facing fears, letting go, envy, aging, life is grand, life sucks, and so on. However, as I amassed more and more of these stories, a different structure emerged. I saw that, when placed in roughly chronological order, they traced the arc of my growth, my development, my life — story by story.
As you pass through the gallery of these essays, I hope they will prompt you to reflect on your own stories and life lessons. Maybe you can even share them with others, as I’ve done with you…
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P. S. The names used throughout this book are real. (Except those that aren’t.)
“PLAY THE COMPUTER AT TIC-TAC-TOE.” The innocent invitation was posted at a local corner shopping center one sunny Saturday afternoon. “Not much of a challenge,” I smugly mused. “How hard could this be?” After all, I had long since mastered this game for tots.
Mind you, I wasn’t exactly sure what a computer actually was. But no matter. This was the early 1960s, I was nearly eight years old, and everything was possible. It was going to be a battle of the ages: Boy versus Computer. And I was gonna kick the computer’s electronic butt.
I confidently strode into the exhibit tent, which was sponsored by IBM or Bell Labs, or some other creator of futuristic technological wonders. As I took my place in line, my eyes were drawn to a massive sign hanging ominously above the computer screen: “YOU CAN’T BEAT IT. SEE IF YOU CAN TIE IT.” I scoffed at the very notion, utterly convinced that I could figure out a way to slay this pompous behemoth.
I approached the massive, soulless black screen. The primitive white cursor blinked at me arrogantly, daring me to make my move. I was not to be intimidated. I took a deep breath, and The Challenge was on…
Game 1: Tie. (“Okay, you’ve got this covered.”)
Game 2: Tie. (“Come on, you can do it!”)
Game 3: Loss. (“What the…?”)
Game 4: Loss. (“This can’t be happening!”)
Game 5: Tie. (“Okay, now don’t panic.”)
And so it went…seemingly random sequences of losses and ties. But not one win. As my veneer of denial began to slowly erode, the realization crept up my back like an army of cold spiders: I could not win. But, surprisingly, after the initial frustration, a tie started to feel not-so-bad; as a matter of fact, it felt pretty good. (Or at least, it felt acceptable.) There was no such thing as a “win.” A tie was a win. I walked home alone that day, humbled but wiser. Tic-tac-toe was never the same again…
But this was more than just a game of tic-tac-toe. It turned out to be about all kinds of challenges. Especially challenges in important relationships, like with friends, family, or partners. It’s not about “winning.” In fact, when you “win,” you usually don’t really win. (You actually lose.) And when they “win,” they don’t really win. (They actually lose.) The best outcome is a tie. If you can both walk away equally satisfied — or even equally dissatisfied — that’s the real challenge. And the real win.
Life Lesson:
Sometimes a tie is really a win.
Clearly, someone didn’t think this one through. It’s as inevitable as heartbreak in Hollywood. Puppies grow up to be dogs. Kittens grow up to be cats. And our family’s pet ducklings — Huey, Dewey, and Louie — grew up to be ducks.
What did we know about nature? We were a middle-class Jewish family living in a middle-class neighborhood in Inglewood, California, in the early 1960s. And we had just acquired three adorable hatchlings which we kept in a box in our garage. What could possibly go wrong?
It all started so perfectly idyllic. My dad tenderly teaching us how to provide them with food, water, and shelter. My younger siblings and I chasing the pocket-sized birdlings around the lawn of our little backyard. Their awkward waddling on those little flat feet and those high-pitched quackettes. And when we held them in our tiny hands, carefully cradling the soft puffs of yellow down against our bare skin…well, it was almost too much bliss for a child to bear. I thought it would last forever.
But of course, it didn’t. One day my dad took me aside. “David, our pets are growing up. We have given them a wonderful home, but they need to be with their friends and start families of their own. They will always love us, and we will always love them, but soon it will be time for them to return to their place in nature.”
Well, the only thing even close to “nature” in our neighborhood was Alondra Park — which happened to have a large pond populated with a multitude of assorted ducks. One fateful day, with mixed emotions my dad and I packed up Huey, Dewey, and Louie in the back of our white Pontiac station wagon and shepherded them to their new home.
When we arrived, my dad and I gently guided them to the pond, then turned to head back to the car. But something was very wrong…We noticed our faithful pets waddling in tight formation right behind me. “Daaad!” I wailed. “They’re following me!” And so it went. Back to the pond. Back to the car. Back to the pond. Back to the car. But each time, with increased urgency. I was beside myself. Finally, we made a break for it. My dad scurried me to the car, we flung ourselves into the seats, and sped off, tears pouring down my face, and my poor dad looking absolutely miserable.
Despite what “they say,” these ducks did not take to water…nor anything else in this foreign land. And despite the best of my dad’s intentions, his mission was doomed to fail long before it even began.
It wasn’t until many years later when I was studying for a psychology class in college that I first read about “imprinting” in birds — how young hatchlings become instinctively attached to the first animal or object that they see near them, which they then identify as their parent. This is how they learn to navigate through life, by observing how the trusted parent behaves. Evidently, little Huey, Dewey, and Louie were simply doing what their DNA instructed them to do: They had imprinted on me — I had unknowingly become their parent. And that day in Alondra Park, when faced with the uncertainty of their new environment, they diligently shadowed me, imitating my every move, searching for direction from their trusted parent.
But imprinting can occur in other species too. In puppies. In kittens. And, in a way, in kids. Looking back on it, I had imprinted on my dad. By observing how he behaved, I absorbed the values of caring for the helpless and vulnerable. Of respecting nature. Of saying good-bye to things you love because it’s best for them…even if it hurts. And most important, trying to do the right thing when life goes awry…in fact, especially when life goes awry.
Life Lesson:
Doing the right thing can be painful.
