Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Read online

  Responded the wise woman: “So you will find them in the city ahead.”

  The Best of Bits & Pieces

  Where Do the Mermaids Stand?

  What is right for one soul may not be right for another. It may mean having to stand on your own and do something strange in the eyes of others.

  Eileen Caddy

  Giants, Wizards and Dwarfs was the game to play.

  Being left in charge of about 80 children 7 to 10 years old, while their parents were off doing parenty things, I mustered my troops in the church social hall and explained the game. It’s a large-scale version of Rock, Paper and Scissors, and involves some intellectual decision making. But the real purpose of the game is to make a lot of noise and run around chasing people until nobody knows which side you are on or who won.

  Organizing a roomful of wired-up grade-schoolers into two teams, explaining the rudiments of the game, achieving consensus on group identity—all of this is no mean accomplishment, but we did it with a right good will and were ready to go.

  The excitement of the chase had reached a critical mass. I yelled out: “You have to decide now which you are—a GIANT, a WIZARD or a DWARF!”

  While the groups huddled in frenzied, whispered consultation, a tug came at my pant leg. A small child stands there looking up, and asks in a small concerned voice, “Where do the Mermaids stand?”

  Where do the Mermaids stand?

  A long pause. A very long pause. “Where do the Mermaids stand?” says I.

  “Yes. You see, I am a Mermaid.”

  “There are no such things as Mermaids.”

  “Oh yes there is, I am one!”

  She did not relate to being a Giant, a Wizard or a Dwarf. She knew her category, Mermaid, and was not about to leave the game and go over and stand against the wall where a loser would stand. She intended to participate, wherever Mermaids fit into the scheme of things, without giving up dignity or identity. She took it for granted that there was a place for Mermaids and that I would know just where.

  Well, where do the Mermaids stand? All the Mermaids—all those who are different, who do not fit the norm, and who do not accept the available boxes and pigeonholes?

  Answer that question and you can build a school, a nation or a world on it.

  What was my answer at the moment? Every once in a while I say the right thing. “The Mermaid stands right here by the King of the Sea!” (Yes, right here by the King’s Fool, I thought to myself.)

  So we stood there hand in hand, reviewing the troops of Wizards and Giants and Dwarfs as they rolled by in wild disarray.

  It is not true, by the way, that Mermaids do not exist. I know at least one personally. I have held her hand.

  Robert Fulghum

  Submitted by Rashaun C. Geter

  The Pirate

  We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

  Anaïs Nin

  One day Mrs. Smith was sitting in her doctor’s waiting room when a young boy and his mother entered the office. The young boy caught Mrs. Smith’s attention because he wore a patch over one eye. She marveled at how unaffected he seemed to be by the loss of an eye and watched as he followed his mother to a chair nearby.

  The doctor’s office was very busy that day, so Mrs. Smith had an opportunity to chat with the boy’s mother while he played with his soldiers. At first he sat quietly, playing with the soldiers on the arm of the chair. Then he silently moved to the floor, glancing up at his mother.

  Eventually, Mrs. Smith had an opportunity to ask the little boy what had happened to his eye. He considered her question for a long moment, then replied, lifting the patch, “There’s nothing wrong with my eye. I’m a pirate!” Then he returned to his game.

  Mrs. Smith was there because she had lost her leg from the knee down in an auto accident. Her trip today was to determine whether it had healed enough to be fitted with a prosthetic. The loss had been devastating to her. Try as she would to be courageous, she felt like an invalid. Intellectually, she knew that this loss should not interfere with her life, but emotionally, she just couldn’t overcome this hurdle. Her doctor had suggested visualization, and she had tried it, but had been unable to envision an emotionally acceptable, lasting image. In her mind she saw herself as an invalid.

  The word “pirate” changed her life. Instantly, she was transported. She saw herself dressed as Long John Silver, standing aboard a pirate ship. She stood with her legs planted wide apart—one pegged. Her hands were clenched at her hips, her head up and her shoulders back, as she smiled into a storm. Gale force winds whipped her coat and hair behind her. Cold spray blew across the deck balustrade as great waves broke against the ship. The vessel rocked and groaned under the storm’s force. Still she stood firmly—proud, undaunted.

  In that moment, the invalid image was replaced and her courage returned. She regarded the young boy, busy with his soldiers.

  A few minutes later, the nurse called her. As she balanced on her crutches, the young boy noticed her amputation. “Hey lady,” he called, “what’s wrong with your leg?” The young boy’s mother was mortified.

  Mrs. Smith looked down at her shortened leg for a moment. Then she replied with a smile, “Nothing. I’m a pirate, too.”

  Marjorie Wallé

  So ...What DoYou Grow?

  We are not rich by what we possess but rather by what we can do without.

  Immanuel Kant

  Sandy lives in an apartment so small that when she comes home from shopping at Goodwill, she has to decide what to move out to make room for her purchases. She struggles day-to-day to feed and clothe herself and her four-year-old daughter on money from freelance writing and odd jobs.

  Her ex-husband has long since disappeared down some unknown highway, probably never to be heard from again. As often as not, her car decides it needs a day off and refuses to budge. That means bicycling (weather permitting), walking or bumming a ride from friends.

  The things most Americans consider essential for survival— a television, microwave, boom box and high-priced sneakers—are far down Sandy’s list of “maybe someday” items.

  Nutritious food, warm clothing, an efficiency apartment, student loan payments, books for her daughter, absolutely necessary medical care and an occasional movie matinee eat up what little cash there is to go around.

  Sandy has knocked on more doors than she can recall, trying to land a decent job, but there is always something that doesn’t quite fit—too little experience or not the right kind, or hours that make child care impossible.

  Sandy’s story is not unusual. Many single parents and older people grapple with our economic structure, falling into the crevice between being truly self-sufficient and being sufficiently impoverished to gain government assistance.

  What makes Sandy unusual is her outlook.

  “I don’t have much in the way of stuff or the American dream,” she told me with a genuine smile.

  “Does that bother you?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. When I see another little girl around my daughter’s age who has nice clothes and toys, or who is riding around in a fancy car or living in a fine house, then I feel bad. Everyone wants to do well by their children,” she replied.

  “But you’re not bitter?”

  “What’s to be bitter about? We aren’t starving or freezing to death, and I have what is really important in life,” she replied.

  “And what is that?” I asked.

  “As I see it, no matter how much stuff you buy, no matter how much money you make, you really only get to keep three things in life,” she said.

  “What do you mean by ‘keep’?”

  “I mean that nobody can take these things away from you.”

  “And what are these three things?” I asked.

  “One, your experiences; two, your true friends; and three, what you grow inside yourself,” she told me without hesitation.

  For Sandy, “experiences” don’t come on a grand scale. They are so-called o
rdinary moments with her daughter, walks in the woods, napping under a shade tree, listening to music, taking a warm bath or baking bread.

  Her definition of friends is more expansive. “True friends are the ones who never leave your heart, even if they leave your life for a while. Even after years apart, you pick up with them right where you left off, and even if they die, they’re never dead in your heart,” she explained.

  As for what we grow inside, Sandy said, “That’s up to each of us, isn’t it? I don’t grow bitterness or sorrow. I could if I wanted to, but I’d rather not.”

  “So what do you grow?” I asked.

  Sandy looked warmly at her daughter and then back to me. She pointed toward her own eyes, which were aglow with tenderness, gratitude and a sparkling joy.

  “I grow this.”

  Philip Chard

  Submitted by Laurie Waldron

  Grandma Ruby

  Being a mother of two very active boys, ages seven and one, I am sometimes worried about their making a shambles of my carefully decorated home. In their innocence and play, they occasionally knock over my favorite lamp or upset my well-designed arrangements. In these moments when nothing feels sacred, I remember the lesson I learned from my wise mother-in-law, Ruby.

  Ruby is the mother of 6 and grandmother of 13. She is the embodiment of gentleness, patience and love.

  One Christmas, all the children and grandchildren were gathered as usual at Ruby’s home. Just the month before, Ruby had bought beautiful new white carpeting after living with the “same old carpet” for over 25 years. She was overjoyed with the new look it gave her home.

  My brother-in-law, Arnie, had just distributed his gifts for all the nieces and nephews—prized homemade honey from his beehives. They were excited. But as fate would have it, eight-year-old Sheena spilled her tub of honey on Grandma’s new carpeting and trailed it throughout the entire downstairs of the house.

  Crying, Sheena ran into the kitchen and into Grandma Ruby’s arms. “Grandma, I’ve spilled my honey all over your brand new carpet.”

  Grandma Ruby knelt down, looked tenderly into Sheena’s tearful eyes and said, “Don’t worry sweetheart, we can get you more honey.”

  Lynn Robertson

  Problem or Solution?

  It was 1933. I had been laid off my part-time job and could no longer make my contribution to the family larder. Our only income was what Mother could make by doing dressmaking for others.

  Then Mother was sick for a few weeks and unable to work. The electric company came out and cut off the power when we couldn’t pay the bill. Then the gas company cut off the gas. Then the water company. But the Health Department made them turn the water back on for reasons of sanitation. The cupboard got very bare. Fortunately, we had a vegetable garden and were able to cook some of its produce in a campfire in the back yard.

  Then one day my younger sister came tripping home from school with, “We’re supposed to bring something to school tomorrow to give to the poor.”

  Mother started to blurt out, “I don’t know of anyone who is any poorer than we are,” when her mother, who was living with us at the time, shushed her with a hand on her arm and a frown.

  “Eva,” she said, “if you give that child the idea that she is ‘poor folks’ at her age, she will be ‘poor folks’ for the rest of her life. There is one jar of that homemade jelly left. She can take that.”

  Grandmother found some tissue paper and a little bit of pink ribbon with which she wrapped our last jar of jelly, and Sis tripped off to school the next day proudly carrying her “gift to the poor.”

  And ever after, if there was a problem in the community, Sis just naturally assumed that she was supposed to be part of the solution.

  Edgar Bledsoe

  Just the Way You Are

  My friend Mark Tucker produces and delivers multimedia slide presentations to audiences across the country.

  One night, following one of his shows on the East Coast, a woman came up to him and said, “You know, you really should be using my son’s music in your show.”

  So Mark started to give her the usual rap. First, her son should make a demo tape. It didn’t have to be professional, he explained. In fact, her son could just go into his bedroom and play some simple chords on his guitar—just enough to give Mark an idea of the type of music he played.

  After he had explained the whole process, the woman gave him a funny look and said, “Well, my son is Billy Joel.”

  As soon as he had recovered from the shock, Mark quickly assured her that her son would not need to send a demo tape! He then listened as this woman urged him to consider using one particular song her son had written. She felt it contained a positive message about self-worth that would fit Mark’s work beautifully. And she went on to describe how the seeds of that song had been planted in early childhood.

  As a young boy, she explained, Billy Joel often wanted to be someone else, someone different from who he was. It seems he was teased a lot because he was shorter than the rest of the kids. It was common for him to come home from school or play and complain that he wasn’t good enough. And he truly believed that if he could be just a little taller, then he’d be okay.

  His mother, of course, never believed for a minute that her son was anything less than perfect. So every time he expressed something negative about himself, she said to him, “Don’t worry—it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be like anyone else because you’re already perfect. We’re all unique, we’re all different. And you, too, have something wonderful to share with the world. I love you just the way you are.”

  Remember that old expression about words coming back to haunt you? In this case, the words of a mother who unconditionally loved her son came back many years later in the form of a song. You see, as Billy Joel grew up, he learned who he was and he found his dream of creating music for the world. And millions of people got to hear with their hearts, as his mother did, the words of his Grammy Award-winning song:

  Don’t go changin’

  to try and please me ...

  I love you just the way you are.

  Jennifer Read Hawthorne

  “Just the Way You Are,”lyrics by Billy Joel,copyright1977Impulsive Music.

  All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  True Beauty

  When asked how she still appears young despite her difficult lifestyle, Mother Teresa replied, “Sometimes a good feeling from inside is worth much more than a beautician.”

  For Mother’s Day, Jeannie had put considerable effort and planning into buying something very special for her mother, Bess. She had carefully put together the cost of an image consultation gift certificate out of her first few paychecks. On the appointed day, this young daughter brought her shy, plain mother to my studio.

  During the color draping and makeover, Bess confessed that she had concentrated on her family for years and ignored herself. Consequently she had never even considered what clothes looked good on her or how to apply her makeup.

  As I placed pretty colors close to her face, she began to blossom, though she didn’t seem to realize it. After applying the finishing touches of blush and lipstick to enhance her coloring, I invited her to view herself in the big cheval mirror. She took a long look, as if she were surveying a stranger, then edged closer and closer to her image. Finally, staring open-mouthed, she touched the mirror lightly. “Jeannie,” she motioned, “come here.” Drawing her daughter beside her, she pointed toward the image. “Jeannie, look at me. I’m beautiful!”

  The young woman smiled at the older woman in the mirror with tears in her eyes. “Yes, Mother, you have always been—beautiful.”

  Charlotte Ward

  Angela’s Word

  When Angela was very young,

  Age two or three or so,

  Her mother and her father

  Taught her never to say NO.

  They taught her that she must agree

  With everything they said,

  And if s
he didn’t, she was spanked

  And sent upstairs to bed.

  So Angela grew up to be

  A most agreeable child;

  She was never angry

  And she was never wild;

  She always shared, she always cared,

  She never picked a fight,

  And no matter what her parents said,

  She thought that they were right.

  Angela the Angel did very well in school

  And, as you might imagine, she followed every rule;

  Her teachers said she was so well-bred,

  So quiet and so good,

  But how Angela felt inside

  They never understood.

  Angela had lots of friends

  Who liked her for her smile;

  They knew she was the kind of gal

  Who’d go the extra mile;

  And even when she had a cold

  And really needed rest,

  When someone asked her if she’d help

  She always answered Yes.

  When Angela was thirty-three, she was a lawyer’s wife.

  She had a home and family, and a nice suburban life.

  She had a little girl of four

  And a little boy of nine,

  And if someone asked her how she felt

  She always answered, “Fine.”

  But one cold night near Christmastime

  When her family was in bed,

  She lay awake as awful thoughts went spinning through her head;

  She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know how,

  But she wanted her life to end;

  So she begged Whoever put her here

  To take her back again.

  And then she heard, from deep inside,

  A voice that was soft and low;