Storytelling at Work
May 18, 2018
It's Never Too Late to Tell Your True Stories -- Even at 93

Fantastic! Love this! Tom Sitter, 93, recalling a moment in Catholic school on Valentine's Day. Funny. Authentic. Memorable. Tom is a natural!

Big shout out to Val Vadeonboncoeur for the heads up


MitchDitkoff.com

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May 04, 2018
Why Are Stories Imporant for Children?

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Here's why
And also for adults
MitchDitkoff.com

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:40 PM | Comments (0)

May 03, 2018
The Origins of Harry Potter

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I have a question for you: Do you know who once said the following statement? "By every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew." Any guesses?

Those were the words of J.K. Rowling -- the woman who authored the Harry Potter series of books which have now been translated into 73 languages and have earned more than $20 billion dollars in book sales, movies rights, and sponsorships.

She's rich and famous now, but success did not come easy. It took her her many years to become successful.

Soon after she conceived the idea for Harry Potter, she began writing, but was immediately pulled away from her work by the death of her mother -- an event that triggered a deep depression in her -- a phenomenon which made it impossible for her to write. Hoping to dig herself out of her depression, she took a job teaching English in Portugal for a year -- where she hoped to finish her book.

Good idea. But the outcomes weren't exactly like she planned. Not only did she fail making any progress on her book, she ended up in a failed marriage and now had to raise her baby daughter by herself. When she returned to England a year later, she had nothing. No job. No place to live. No book. All she had, beside her young daughter, was two things: some meager unemployment benefits and a huge desire to write. Which is exactly what she did whenever her daughter was asleep. In her kitchen. In cafes. Anyplace where she could sit down and put pen to paper.

When Rowling finished the first three chapters of her book, she sent them off to a publisher. They rejected it. Then she sent her manuscript to another publisher. They also rejected it.

After sending her manuscript to 12 different publishers and getting rejected every time, Rowling began losing confidence. Finally, the editor at Bloomsbury Publishing sat down to read what she'd sent, along with his 8 year-old daughter. The little girl loved the opening chapters so much she begged her father to read the whole thing. Indeed, it was the child's enthusiasm that convinced the editor to publish Harry Potter. But even though he did, he was not exactly encouraging: "Get a day job," he told Rowling, "because you will never make any money writing children's books."

Interesting advice, given the fact that J.K. Rowling is now the first female to become a billionaire author.

Here's the bottom line: J.K. Rowling went from being a jobless single mother living off unemployment benefits to one of the best selling authors of all time. But her success did not happen overnight. She worked hard at her craft, over a long period of time, and was rejected again and again before anyone noticed her.

You may not be trying to become a billionaire, but on some level, you are trying to succeed. Just like J.K Rowling, life isn't always easy for you. Making a living isn't always easy. Finding your way in the world isn't easy. Nor is it easy raising a family or moving or starting a business or writing your book.

Each one of us face challenges. Sometimes, it feels like no matter how much effort we make it will never come out the way we want it to. But it can. And, if we stay with it, it will.

Whatever hopes or dreams you have, I invite you to keep them alive. Whatever effort is needed, I invite you to make it. Whatever rejections come your way, I invite you to keep pressing on.

Other famous book rejections
Storytelling for the Revolution
Storytelling at Work

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 02:58 PM | Comments (0)

April 29, 2018
On Being Visited by an Angel

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Full disclosure: I have never been a person who believed in angels. Angels, to me, were merely poetic metaphors, the etheric embodiments of hard-to-describe feelings that some religiously-inclined people experienced when betwixt and between -- some kind of fairy tale mix of loneliness, love, and longing for something beyond what their own two eyes could see. Hovering somewhere between God and the Easter Bunny, angels struck me as nothing more than projections, the astral version of what imaginative children have been inventing for centuries -- "invisible friends."


This all changed for me one unforgettable night in 1974.

I was 27, two years into my first marriage, and all was not right with the world, at least not with my world. To most outside observers, my marriage looked just fine. We were a good-looking couple, had wonderful friends, great jobs in a children's hospital, and the same inspiring spiritual master. We grew lettuce, tomatoes, and watermelons in our garden, but at the same time, we were growing further apart. The honeymoon was over, replaced by a strange brew of second thoughts, boredom, and judgment.

My response to the situation, honed from many past lives as a monk? "Go within," a phrase I now understand was nothing more than my own DaVinci code for denial. My wife's response? Bake more bread. This gave us the appearance of us having a home life -- poor compensation for my not-so-subtle disappearing act.

Having a child, we thought, would fill the hole. And so we tried. But she had cysts on her ovaries and were told it was not in the cards. So we settled into a childless marriage, skirting the edges of our life, and throwing ourselves into our work.

When she called me from LA at the end of a two-week business trip, I could tell by the sound of her voice that everything was just about to change. And so it did. She was having an affair with another man -- someone who truly loved her, she explained, and was extending her trip for another three months.

"What? An affair? But what about us?" I managed to say -- the kind of lines a Hollywood script doctor might read, poolside, and rewrite, ordering a second martini. But she had made up her mind. And that was that. When I put down the phone, I was in shock. Stunned. Numb. Paralyzed. I couldn't move.

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From that moment on, life started getting very strange for me. I'd stare at a wedding picture of the two of us on a wall and it would fall off. I'd have clairvoyant dreams of her lover. But even stranger, I'd find myself crying, in the middle of the day, in my car, for no apparent reason. Simply put, I was falling apart -- a sad, lonely, guilty, depressed, embarrassed, disoriented young man too ashamed and self-loathing to share his private agony with even his best friend.

And so it continued for another three months.

And then, quite suddenly, on the night of the full moon in November, at the end of my ever-shortening rope, I decided to put an end to the madness. I picked up my meditation cushion, my meditation blanket, and a flashlight, exited my apartment, and walked into the forest that bordered my house. There, in a small clearing, I sat down, wrapped my blanket around my shoulders, closed my eyes, and started to meditate. My intention? To sit there, for however long it took, until I was free of the pain.

I'm sure if someone, walking their dog, had passed by, it must have looked like a scene from Siddhartha, but on the inside it was a very different story. On the inside, a war was raging. And the battlefield was littered with the wounded, the dead, and at least a few deserters pretending to be dead so they wouldn't have to die. I just sat there. On that cushion. In the cold, experiencing, for the entire time, not even a second of peace. Nothing but a mind on fire. But I kept sitting. I had to. I had no other choice. There was nowhere else to go. There was nothing else to do. This was it. It had all come down this. Either let go or lose my life. Those were my choices.

And then, with absolutely no warning, no drum roll from beyond, my mind completely stopped. It. Stopped. Just. Like. That. The battle was over. The war ended. I wasn't just sitting in the clearing. I was the clearing. The pain that had ruled me those past few months had completely fallen away. The fever broke. If I had been a snake, my old skin would have fallen off. I, for the first time in what seemed like forever, was free. And so, I simply stood, walked back to my apartment, and went to bed. It was the first good night's sleep I'd had in months.

A few hours later, the phone ringing woke me up. My wife. "Mitchell," she began. "I feel horrible. I am so sorry for what I've done. I want to come home. Will you take me back? Will you forgive me?"

This is not at all what I wanted to hear. Less than six hours into my new life as a free man and now I was being asked to forgive her? Really? Just like that? On the phone? In my pajamas? After I had finally surrendered everything to begin my new life? A long silence followed. And a longer silence after that.

"Yes," I heard myself saying. "Yes, I forgive you. Just get your flight times together and I'll pick you up at the airport."

Three days passed. I drove to the airport. I waited at the end of a long, tiled hallway. I scanned the faces of the many strangers getting off the plane. And then I saw her. She wore something new, a blue dress, and seemed to be happy. I wore something old and wasn't. We hugged, but nobody was home -- two actors in a low-budget movie, the director shaking his head. The ride home? Icy cold, our nervous small talk a desperate attempt to fill the growing silence.

I don't remember what we had for dinner that night. I don't remember her unpacking. All I remember is getting into bed, my only desire to sleep. I laid my head on the pillow and closed my eyes. And then, I don't know why, I opened my eyes and standing in the middle of the room, I saw a radiant being of light -- a glowing, translucent being of light, wings the color of moonlight folded into her sides. She just stood there looking at me. That was it. Just looking at me. And, I had never, in all my life, ever felt so cared for, so calm, and so sheltered from the storm.

"Oh, my God, I see an angel!" And, without a second thought, I fell immediately asleep.

In the morning, when I awoke, thoughts of the angel filled my head. Did this really happen to me? Did I really see an angel? Or was it only a dream? I turned to the woman, still my wife, and asked: "Did I... say something... last night... before I fell asleep?"

"Yes," you said, 'Oh my God I see an angel.'"

The next day, looking for some much-needed inspiration, we made our way to a nearby bookstore -- the spiritual kind. She went left and I went right, feeling totally guided, with no specific goal in mind. I walked to the back of the store, stopped, and looked up. I was standing in front of a section of books devoted entirely to angels. Taking a long, slow breath, I extended my hand and let it rest on the first book it touched. I pulled it out. It was a book by Rudolf Steiner with a very memorable name: On Angels. I opened it randomly and began to read -- a simple explanation of how everyone on planet Earth has a guardian angel, sometimes more than one, and that guardian angels make their appearance to human beings during times of great emotional turmoil for one purpose and one purpose only -- to bring comfort, love, and protection. The time of day these angels make their appearance? The last few seconds before sleep or the first few seconds upon waking -- the times when our analytical, rational mind is most at rest and a kind of portal opens to another realm.

I just stood there, book in hand, shaking, tears of joy streaming down my face.

FOR YOUR REFLECTION: I have told this story to very few people in my life. Ruled by the assumption that I couldn't find the words and, even if I could, my words would only pervert the sacredness of my experience. So I chose to remain silent. But that time has passed. I realize now, as I move closer to the other side myself, that it is not only my duty to report what I have seen, but my great pleasure.

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To any reader of mine who thinks that what I saw was self-invented, let me say this -- what I saw that night, in my room, was as real as you are, if not more real. Indeed, if I saw you today and told someone later that I saw you, it is doubtful they would question my seeing you. How had I known it was you I was seeing and not my mind playing tricks? Good question, one we rarely ask. But with the sighting of an angel, questions rule the day. Doubts creep in. But to the person who has seen the angel, nothing is subject to doubt and nothing needs explaining.

Simply put, there's a time in all of our lives when something pierces the veil and we see the unseen. We become witnesses to the beyond. And so, I will leave you with this: Angels exist. I have seen one. One of them visited me in my bedroom at my time of greatest need. It said nothing. It did nothing. It just radiated the presence of love in a way that changed the way I experience life. I received the kind of love that made everything, now and forever, absolutely beautiful, meaningful, sacred, and whole.

What beyond human forces of love have made an appearance in your life? What hard-to-describe moment of divine intervention has touched you in some way? And is there anyone in your life who might benefit from hearing your story?

Excerpted from Storytelling for the Revolution
Art: Asandra Lamb

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:32 PM | Comments (1)

April 09, 2018
STORYTELLING FOR THE REVOLUTION: The Introduction

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"Those who tell the story, rule the world." -- Hopi Indian saying

If you are wondering why I chose to call my book: Storytelling for the Revolution -- a title some people might think is incendiary, inflated, or overly dramatic, here's the reason: We need a revolution. We do. But the revolution I'm inviting you to join is not a political one. It has nothing to do with a change of government, laws, sanctions, or social structures. It has to do with a change of mind and a change of heart and a change in the way we communicate to each other.

It doesn't take a genius to recognize that the collective narrative occupying the airways these days is a dark one -- not all that surprising when you consider the sorry state of the world and the "if it bleeds, it leads" mindset of the media: Mitch Ditkoff5.jpgBad news sells. It's true. But bad news is not the only thing worth reporting on. Indeed, there is another kind of story that also needs to be heard -- one that rarely makes it to the evening news. And that story is revolutionary -- or could be -- the story of how each and every one of us is a broadcast station of insight, wisdom, and love, three phenomena that have the power to transform what is happening on planet Earth.

I am not suggesting you airbrush out the bad news to contemplate your navel. I'm not asking you to become apolitical. All I'm asking you to do is pay more attention to another kind of news -- one that can never be dominated by troll farms or spin doctors. And do you know what the reliable source of that story is? You. Yes, you!

Inside of you, there is another kind of story going on, another narrative, one that exists far beyond late breaking and this just in, one that too rarely gets told. I'm talking about the story of your life -- or, more specifically, the absolute Ground Zero of what you have learned and what you are learning, what you have felt and what you feeling, what you have seen and what you are seeing, even while the world burns down: Essence. Lessons learned. Insights. Moments of truth. Breakthroughs. Obstacles overcome. Personal tales of inspiration, kindness, resilience, love, meaning, vulnerability navigated, and the undeniable wisdom you have gleaned from your own life experiences. In other words, what makes you truly human, a homo sapien -- "the one who knows."

Sages, Masters, and Elders may be the most historically recognized "keepers of wisdom." but they are not the only ones. The rest of us are, too. The thing is -- we don't always know it. Our wisdom is often invisible to us. It is hiding. Unseen. Unacknowledged. And unexpressed. And where our wisdom is hiding, more often than not, is in our stories -- much like water is hiding in underground springs.

Everyone has wisdom inside them. Everyone. Everyone has learned something profound, soulful, and timeless in this life. Everyone has something meaningful to share and when they share it in the form of story, they have the potential to spark wisdom in others. Like, for example, the following story -- a brief retelling of an old Zen tale.

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Once upon a time, in feudal Japan, there was an old monk living in a monastery deep in the mountains. Ever since he was a small boy he had lived in this monastery and was considered by his fellow monks to be a most extraordinary soul. Every morning he would awake at 4:00 am and meditate for two hours. Then he practiced calligraphy and prepared breakfast for the other monks. Every afternoon, he read the sutras and, when he wasn't chanting mantras or writing haiku, he worked in the garden. Silently, of course.

Years passed. Seasons came and went. And so did his youth. But no matter how much effort he made, the enlightenment experience he was so diligently seeking never came. And so one day, in his 70th year, he decided to leave the monastery and return to the world. "Why should I continue with all these spiritual practices," he asked himself, "if they are not helping me reach my ultimate goal?

Needing to earn a living, he soon got a job as a sweeper in a local cemetery. Every day he went to work. And every day he swept.

And then, one sunny day, three years into his new, non-monastic life, a stone he had just swept off the path smashed into a tree and split in two. And when it did, something in him split in two, cracked wide open -- the kind of open that never closes again. Everything, suddenly, became totally clear to him. The enlightenment he had been seeking for 50 years had finally happened. Just like that.

The 40 stories in Storytelling for the Revolution are 40 stones splitting in two -- 40 examples of spontaneously occurring moments of truth -- awakenings, both large and small, none of which have ever made it to the evening news. Some of them are from my own life. Some are from the lives of others. They are, metaphorically speaking, a kind of DaVinci code that offers clues to the encrypted wisdom lurking just beneath the surface of our life -- the hard-to-communicate essence that ultimately defines what it means to be fully alive.

My book is not an autobiography. Nor is it a memoir. I share my stories not to call attention to me, but to call attention to you. All I'm doing is getting the party started -- your party -- a chance to take a look into the mirror of story and see, reflected back to you, parts of yourself that may have been hidden from view.

This is why I have written this book. Rather than give in to the despair, despondency, and disillusionment that has become the world's default position these days, I've decided to do everything within my power to reclaim the collective narrative for the greater good -- to revolve around a different sun -- the one that lights up our lives from the inside. And it all begins with story

You don't need to be an anthropologist to figure this out. Deconstruct any scripture, sermon, or TED talk and you will find story. That's how most meaningful messages are conveyed. Even the neuroscientists agree. When storytellers share their experiences, the same parts of the brain that light up in the storyteller upon telling their story, light up in the listener upon hearing it. "Mood contagion" it is called. "Somatic states". "Neural coupling"-- the phenomenon of one person transmitting not only information about X, Y, or Z, but also the experience.

The question isn't whether or not storytelling works. It does. The question is: "Are we going to step up and tell our stories?"

Every day, when a friend passes you on the street and asks "Whassup?" you have a choice to make. You can talk about your aching back, the weather, or the latest political catastrophe, or you can elevate the conversation by telling a story that matters. All you need to do is be yourself, choose wisely and seize the moment.

To help you make your way towards the front lines of storytelling, I've included, in PART ONE, 40 stories for your inspiration and delight -- 30 memorable "rock splitting moments" from my own life and ten classic teaching tales, many of which have been told for centuries. Each story is followed by a question to consider so you can apply its message to your own life. PART TWO is a Field Guide, complete with tips, tools, and techniques for how you can become a better, more confident storyteller. Or, if you really want to go for it, how you can become a storytelling revolutionary on the front lines of your own life -- a sacred activist of insight, wisdom and love.

Ready? I hope so. It's time to gather around the fire and begin...

PS: The book will be published in early June and will be available on Amazon then, both as a softcover and a downloadable, digital version.

The book website
MitchDitkoff.com

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:40 AM | Comments (0)

April 08, 2018
The Fence to Nowhere

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"Good fences make good neighbors," wrote the poet, Robert Frost, 63 years ago -- a now iconic poetic meme that looks at both sides of the human condition from two very different perspectives. Yes, it's true -- fences do make good neighbors. But not always. Sometimes, fences do other things -- like make good catalysts to help people understand the distinctions between selfless service, non-attachment, and idiocy.

The year? 1977. The place? Kissimmee, Florida. The occasion? A week-long, outdoor festival of spiritual seekers wanting to experience love. And I was one of them, having traveled 32 hours from Colorado for the chance to listen, learn, and be of service -- my chance to "give back" in response to the extraordinary gift I had been given six years earlier by the man whom all of us had traveled such long distances to see.

And so, when I arrived, after setting up my tent, I plopped myself down in the "service pool" and waited to be assigned to whatever project that needed to be done that day.

I sat there for an hour, doing my best to meditate, and staying open to the feeling that whatever was coming my way was going to be perfect. Though I was still relatively new to the so-called spiritual path, I understood that selfless service was a big piece of the puzzle. And though I had lots of skills to offer, I knew that, somehow, someway, whatever project I would be assigned to that day was going to be the perfect gig for me.

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A few minutes later, someone with an air of authority, points in my direction, beckons me forward, and explains that I am now part of the fence building crew

"Hmmm... fence building," I think to myself, "not one of my strengths" -- my most successful construction project, up to that time, being a letter holder I made for my mother in 7th grade.

The walk across the festival grounds to meet the fence building coordinator was delightful. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. And I waved at lots of smiling people. When I arrived, the man in charge was all business -- focused, earnest, and glad to see one more able-bodied member of his crew.

To my left, I noticed a pile of fence posts -- a pile, that even I could tell, was not nearly enough to extend across the massive field we were supposed to build a fence across.

While my "coordinator" scurried about, giving each newly arriving volunteer their instructions, I keep staring at the pile of fence posts. True, I was not a carpenter. And true, I had never built a fence across a field in Florida, but only an idiot could possibly believe there were enough fence posts on that pile for us to accomplish the goal.

Ah... my first existential question of the day -- what to do with my profound insight? What do I say? One option I had, of course, was to say nothing -- to simply go with the flow and be a good soldier. Another option was to exit stage right and return to the service pool -- hoping to be assigned to a different project with a better chance of success.

That's when I remembered a single bit of advice I heard my teacher say just a few years before -- that if I ever saw anyone about to step into a hole and said nothing, it was MY fault, not theirs. Bingo! My task was suddenly clear. All I had to do was approach the earnest, young fence-building coordinator and inform him, that based on my calculations, we were all about to step into a very big hole -- that, simply put, there weren't enough fence posts to build a fence across the field. Case closed.

My input, shall we say, was not well-received. With a blank expression on his face, the earnest, young, fence-building coordinator handed me a post-hole digger and gave me my marching orders for the day.

I paused. The moment of truth was now upon me. Do I begin working on a project I knew, from the outset, was doomed? Or do I just let go, trust the process, and see what happens. Besides, I thought to myself, there was always a chance that I didn't have ALL the information I needed to make a wise choice. Maybe a new supply of fence posts was going to be delivered later that day. Or maybe another crew of fence builders, from the opposite side of the field, were going to meet us half way. Or maybe, just maybe, my fence post calculations were seriously flawed.

And so I began.

It felt good to be digging holes in the ground. Good to sweat. Good to let go of the self-talk in my head. But even as I grunted and groaned, in the back of my mind, I knew that our chances of success were highly questionable.

The project went on for three days. From morning to night. In good weather and bad. Six of us dug. Six of us carried. Six of us stuck fence posts in the ground. No new fence posts arrived. No extra crew of fence builders magically appeared to meet us half way. The field did not get any smaller.

On the third day, when we ran out of materials, the six of us -- dirty, sweaty, and exhausted, simply stepped back and stared at the fence. As I predicted, it extended only halfway across the field, a kind of Andy Goldsworthy installation -- a bit of performance art that would have made a Zen master chuckle.

Two hours later, when the festival officially began, I witnessed hundreds of people, approaching from a distance. The fence had absolutely no effect on them. They noticed, of course, that they were approaching what appeared to be a fence, but since it only extended halfway into the field, they simply walked around it. It kept no one out. It kept no one in. It served absolutely no function at all. Except for me, that is -- a function that had something to do with what it really means to serve... what it really means to enjoy the experience of service... and what it really means to let go of all attachment to results.

TimelessToday
MitchDitkoff.com
If you like this one, here's another

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:47 PM | Comments (0)

January 30, 2018
THE SPRICE OF FREEDOM: A Journey from Darkness to Light

_E2A1195.JPG "When you are going through hell, keep going." -- Winston Churchill

Sprice Drury is a woman who had it all -- a loving husband, a fabulous home, two horses, three acres, four dogs, a $350,000 year income, and the kind of fascinating work that allowed her to travel the world producing TV shows and documentaries. She was, in many ways, the poster child for success.

There was no indication, in 2012, that all of this was about to change -- a perfect storm of unexpected events that would not only turn her life upside down, but challenge every assumption she had about who she was and what life was all about.

It began with the decline of her husband's health, an illness eventually diagnosed as colon cancer. No one saw it coming. Not long after that, Ray lost his job. Then Sprice lost her job. Then, one-by-one, each of her dogs died. Four of them. With no health insurance, her husband returned to Australia, his native country, for treatment -- a turn of events that left Sprice alone in their 5,000 square foot house to manage the process of selling their high end possessions to pay the ever-mounting bills.

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First went Sprice's convertible. Then the tractor. Then the piano. Then her diamond wedding ring. But no matter how many possessions Sprice sold, it was never enough. The bills were just too much to keep up with. And the horses had to be fed.

At one point, the only thing to eat in the house were a few saltines and butter. A home that had once been alive with parties, people, and the finest of foods, was now empty and barren of life.

Bankruptcy court followed, as did several failed attempts to restructure her home loan -- a process that revealed the loan was fraudulent. More legal bills poured in. More time in court. More mind-numbing paperwork and the omnipresent threat of foreclosure. In the end, nothing in Sprice's power was enough to turn things around and the house was sold, in the middle of the night, on an online auction. Soon after that, Ray passed away from unexpected complications in surgery.

Not surprisingly, Sprice's own health soon began to decline. The cause? A hard-to-treat parasite she had picked up on one of her many global business trips.

Get the picture? Non-stop disappointment. Non-stop anxiety. And non-stop loss of everything that mattered to her -- a veritable dark night of the soul that most of us only read about, but never experience. Where once Sprice's husband and dogs were her daily companions, now it was only worry, fear, and hopelessness.

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Some people, when they encounter this level of stress turn to alcohol or drugs. Some give in to despair, depression, and despondency. Others, consumed with grief, end up taking their own lives.

Sprice Drury chose another path. Somehow, throughout it all, she found a way -- her way. It's not like she saw the proverbial light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. She didn't. For Sprice, the tunnel had long since been sold to pay the bills. In her darkest hours, there was no tunnel. And the light? Flickering far off in the distance and barely visible within.

And yet, this woman who lost it all, much like the phoenix, rose from the ashes. Stumbling her way forward, she found a way to not only get back on her feet, but fly.

As her long time teacher, Prem Rawat, once told her, "There is nothing wrong with falling down. Everybody falls down. The key is to pick something up when you're down there."

What follows is a short list of what Sprice picked up when she was down there -- ten life-changing lessons she learned along the way that may be of value to you the next time you find yourself over your head, under water, or otherwise stressed to the max.

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1. ACKNOWLEDGE WHAT'S HAPPENING: The first response most people have when caught off guard by unexpected troubles is denial. "This can't be happening to me," they think to themselves. "Not me. Not now." But while denial may temporarily protect us from feelings of inadequacy and the fear of being judged by others, it also prevents us from taking the steps we need to take in order to resolve our situation. Sprice, like the rest of humanity, went through her denial stage, especially early on, but then she went beyond it, acknowledging her situation and the need to act.

2. ASK FOR HELP: Shocked by the massive down turn of events in her life, Sprice's first instinct was to grin and bear it -- keeping most of her troubles to herself. Indeed, in the beginning of her saga, only a few friends and family knew what she was going through. And because most of them didn't, help was not as forthcoming as it could have been. In time, however, she asked for the help she needed and soon it started showing up -- emotional, psychological, physical, financial, and spiritual help.

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If you find yourself going through tough times, know that you don't need to go through them alone. While your concept of strength may be "toughing it out," often the most powerful expression of strength is to ask for help. Whose help do you need to ask for today? About what? A friend? A neighbor? A member of your family?

3. MANAGE YOUR MINDSET: Antoine St. Exupery, the author of The Little Prince, once said, "A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a person contemplates it with the image of a cathedral in mind." In other words, our experience of the challenges before us are often a function of our mindset. Sprice's initial mindset in response to the challenges before her was, understandably, an unholy cocktail of sadness, anxiety, fear, doubt, and confusion -- not exactly the kind of mindset that leads to successful outcomes. In time, exhausted by her struggles, Sprice made the decision to "see the rock pile with the image of a cathedral in mind." All around her house, she posted positive messages for herself -- one word reminders on the refrigerator, walls, mirrors. and anywhere else she might look. The message? BELIEVE! One word. That was it -- one word to contemplate several times a day to quicken the process of shifting her mindset for the better. Music also enabled her to manage her mindset and moods -- especially this song.
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4. ENVISION THE FUTURE YOU WANT: While Sprice's BELIEVE notes began to shift the way she thought about her future, her effort didn't end there. She also created vision boards throughout her house -- maps of better days ahead, complete with bold images of what it was she was trying to create. While Sprice's default condition may have been one of sadness, confusion, and grief, her vision boards spoke to her higher angels and the power of creating a new kind of future instead of obsessing about the past.

5. MAKE BEST USE OF YOUR AVAILABLE RESOURCES: Until the time when everything went South for Sprice, her most valuable possession had been her home -- a 5,000 square foot mansion that had been used for just one main purpose: to provide shelter for her, her husband, and their dogs. But now, with her husband and dogs gone, she needed to reconsider what "home" really meant and how it might provide for her needs in other ways.

That's when she got the idea to begin Fun in the Country, a dog boarding business that ended up providing shelter for 250 pooches -- much-needed companionship for her and a steady income.

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Yes, turning her home into a sanctuary for dogs, was a good start. But what about the owners of those dogs and others seeking shelter? That's when Sprice extended her boarding business to include people and thus began a thriving AirBnB business. Her third venture, a newly launched gourmet coffee business, fit right in. Both her Airbnb guests and the "doggie moms" ending up buying her coffee and tea -- a total win/win.

6. LET GO OF OLD ASSUMPTIONS: After years of a lifestyle that provided almost anything she wanted, Sprice's assumption was a simple one: All of her creature comforts would be provided for. And while this may have been true for a while, it wasn't a carved-in-stone reality. And because it wasn't, Sprice needed to take a fresh look at what her assumptions actually were -- the stakes in the ground she had planted before the ground beneath her feet collapsed. What are your biggest assumptions about your life? Which ones are likely to be toughest ones to let go of?

7. START A NEW PROJECT: Though not a physicist by profession, Sprice's ability to press through her challenges was very much related to Newton's First Law of Physics: "An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion." Translation? Get in gear! Get moving. Start something new -- especially if you find yourself becoming inert. Which is exactly what Sprice did. She started what turned out to become a very successful dog boarding business. She created an AirBnB business. And she began an International Distributorship of a Gourmet Coffee and Tea business. What inspiring, new project might you begin to help you create some positive momentum?

8. PUSH THROUGH THE PAIN: Though Sprice has never given birth to a child, she understood, like most mothers, what it took to "push through pain." Sprice's dark night of the soul, metaphorically speaking, was a way of giving birth to herself -- an act of courage that required a whole lot of pushing through pain. She didn't ask for a Caesarian. She didn't ask for drugs. She didn't give up. She just continued opening up and pushing through the obstacles before her until she gave birth to a whole new life for herself.

9. PAY IT FORWARD: Humbled by her trials and tribulations and newly attuned to a kind suffering she had never experienced before, Sprice began paying it forward even when her own finances were shaky. To begin with, she gave $2,000 to two young women who were supportive during her unexpected hardships. She also gave $1,000 to a local family who needed help after the Atlanta hurricane. Then she loaned money to a friend who had just lost her job. Inspired by a woman who had rescued an abandoned dog, Sprice donated her dog beds, dog toys, and dog crate. And, today, she continues looking for opportunities to lend a hand to anyone who may be experiencing the kind of stresses she endured. What can you do to pay it forward? Who, in need of help, might you support?

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10. LOOK INSIDE AND FIND YOURSELF: Yes, there were resources, on the outside, that Sprice tapped into during her tough times: the good will of friends, the love of her family, inspirational quotes, heart-opening music, and the ever-present BELIEVE signs she posted around her house. But in the end, it was her commitment to look within and connect to the source of peace inside herself that made all difference. This became her home, one that could never be foreclosed or dispossessed. When everything on the outside is going to hell in a hand basket, where do you go for solace and support? Where is your true home?

FOR YOUR REFLECTION: If you find yourself going through tough times, these days, what can you learn from Sprice's journey? Which of her ten insights can you apply to your life? And what can you do, today, to press through the pain and take a step into a bold new future for yourself?

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NOTE: Sprice's story is one of 22 "tough times" stories told by courageous, tenacious women in the newly published book: You Have No Idea: The Hell I've Been Through. Available for purchase online. A Spring and Summer Book Launch tour is in the process of being finalized and will include Dallas, New York City, Miami, and Indianapolis.

SPECIAL THANKS to the following friends and family of Sprice who provided loving support during her tough times: Ed and Andrea Trotta, Jim and Joan Levin, David and Debbie Sinensky, Evan Gusar, Ashley Alterman, Donald Beohner and Laurie Gordon. And a big shout out to two ladies who provided skillful and timely coaching: Sherry D. Fields and Irene Bettler.

TO CONTACT SPRICE:
-- spricedrury@mac.com
-- Instagram
-- Facebook
-- LinkedIn
-- Twitter
-- AllAboutYouGlobal (coaching)
-- The Gourmet Coffee business
-- Fun in the Country (dog boarding)

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:19 PM | Comments (0)

January 26, 2018
Gandhi and the Professor

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I just received this wonderful fake, urban legend story from Craig Klawuhn. Even if never happened, it's a great little story to read, especially if you ever find yourself being dismissed or diminished by "people in power."

When Gandhi was studying law at University College, London, a Caucasian professor, whose last name was Peter, disliked him intensely and always displayed prejudice and animosity towards him.

Also, because Gandhi never lowered his head when addressing his professor, as assumed, there were always arguments and confrontations.

One day, Mr. Peters was having lunch at the dining room of the University, and Gandhi came along with his tray and sat next to the professor.

The professor said, "Mr. Gandhi, you do not understand. A pig and a bird do not sit together to eat."

Gandhi looked at him as a parent would a rude child and calmly replied, "You do not worry professor. I'll fly away," and he went and sat at another table.

Mr. Peters, reddened with rage, decided to take revenge on the next test paper, but Gandhi responded brilliantly to all questions.

Mr. Peters, unhappy and frustrated, asked him the following question. "Mr. Gandhi, if you were walking down the street and found a package and within was a bag of wisdom and another bag with a lot of money, which one would you take?"

Without hesitating, Gandhi responded, "The one with the money, of course."

Mr. Peters, smiling sarcastically, said, "I, in your place, would have taken wisdom."

Gandhi shrugged indifferently and responded, "Each one takes what he doesn't have."

Mr. Peters, by this time, was beside himself and so great was his anger that he wrote on Gandhi's exam sheet the word "IDIOT" and gave it to Gandhi.

Gandhi took the exam sheet and sat down at his desk trying very hard to remain calm while he contemplated his next move.

A few minutes later, Gandhi got up, went to the professor and said to him in a dignified but sarcastically polite tone, "Mr. Peters, you signed the sheet, but you did not give me the grade."

My book on storytelling
MitchDitkoff.com
Another story about resolving differences

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:42 AM | Comments (0)

January 19, 2018
A Father and Daughter Story

From StoryCorp
A story about my daughter, Mimi

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:31 PM | Comments (0)

November 08, 2017
The Robbers

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When I was 13, my sister was 18. She was the proverbial big sister. I was the proverbial little brother. And though she called me "twerp" and I called her "fatso", it was always comforting to know she was in the next room, especially on the nights when our parents went out. I wouldn't be alone. My sister was there.

But when she went off to college, everything changed. Now I was the only child in the house. Now it was just me.

I will never forget my first night alone. My parents, after dinner, casually informed me they were going out for the evening but would be back at a "reasonable hour." They petted the dog, gave me a hug, and were gone in a flash. I stood by the front door, listening, until the sound of their Oldsmobile disappeared into the distance. Then I made myself a huge bowl of ice cream, retreated to my room, turned on the TV, flopped down on my bed, and started doing my homework.

So far so good. The ice cream was yummy. The capital of Montana was Helena, and the Mets were leading 4-2. That's when I started hearing the SOUNDS -- very strange sounds coming from the kitchen... troubling sounds... scary sounds... the kind robbers make when looking for things to steal.

Like my mother's set of sterling silver, for example -- the extremely expensive set of sterling silver given to her years ago by my rich Uncle Herman.

The sounds from the kitchen continued -- sounds I had never heard before. And then... absolutely nothing... nothing at all... just silence... a deadly silence... the kind that could only mean one thing -- the robbers had just poisoned my dog. Or strangled her.

The moment of truth was upon me. Laying on my bed, eating the last of my ice cream, I had a decision to make. A big one. Do I turn up the sound of my TV so the robbers will know someone is home and leave on their own, or do I confront them, saving my mother's sterling silver before they get away?

It may have seemed like a choice, but it wasn't. I knew, in my heart of hearts, there was only one thing to do. So I got off my bed and began making my way, ninja-like, oh so slowly, out of my room, down the hallway, past the bathroom, closer and closer to the closed kitchen door. My heart was pounding, my breath coming faster, my mind was racing. Standing just a foot from the door, I stopped and listened. An eternity passed. The sounds from the kitchen continued. And then, raising my right foot, I kicked open the door and leaped into the kitchen, letting out the kind of scream karate guys make when they attack.

The first thing I saw was my dog, looking up at me, wagging her tail. She was alive! Alive! I bent down to pet her, no robbers in sight, having obviously heard me coming and vamoosed out the side door. I stood up and walked a few steps to the table where the sterling silver set was supposed to be in its velvety blue box. It was there -- just a few inches away from the spice rack and the stack of Life Magazines. I open it slowly. Not a fork or spoon was missing. Not a knife. I made my way to the pantry and gave my dog a treat. Then I returned to my room, finished my ice cream, memorized the capital of Vermont (Montpelier) and watched the end of the baseball game. Then I turned on my clock radio and went to bed.

This same drama must have played itself out at least 50 times in the next two years. My strategy, I must say, worked like a charm . From the time I was 13 until I was 15, not a single thing was ever stolen from our house.

COMMENTARY: This little story of mine played out 57 years ago. For the six decades that followed, only two people ever heard about about my heroics -- my best friend, Matt, and my wife, Evelyne. And yet for me, now 70, taking the time to reflect on this story and share it with you has been a revelation. While laughable in many ways, I've gotten some keen insights into my psyche and how I, at an early age, became wired to deal with the unknown, whether real or imagined. My self-invented rite-of-passage was how I learned to deal with fear and the choices before me. First, I learned I needed to be alert to the subtle clues around me. Then I learned I had a choice. Then I learned I had to choose. Once my choice was made, everything was cool. I was no longer a victim, no longer a boy hiding in his room, but a man of action. And the danger? Gone.

Excerpted from my forthcoming book, "Storytelling for the Revolution". If you want to buy an advanced copy or contribute to my GoFundMe campaign, click here.

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:49 AM | Comments (0)

October 27, 2017
In Praise of My Mother-In-Law

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Years ago, as a poetry graduate student at Brown University, there were lots of things I dreamed about writing. My future French mother-in-law, at 90, was not one of them. But, in time, everything changes. Here are eight vignettes about Henriette Pouget (and her dear, departed husband, Jean, who I never had the pleasure of meeting), published today in the Huffington Post.

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:29 PM | Comments (0)

October 17, 2017
Holding On to What You Believe

Years ago, before terrorism, shoe bombs, and 9/11, my father and mother were on their way back home from a vacation in the Carribbean. When my father checked in at the airport, tanned and rested, the ticket agent informed him that the flight was "overbooked" and he would have to be re-ticketed and put on a later plane, along with my mom.

This, shall we say, did not sit well with him. After all, he has a confirmed ticket in his pocket and NEEDED TO GET BACK TO WORK. The ticket agent, following airline protocols, repeated the party line, explaining ever-so-politely that Mr. and Mrs. Ditkoff would need to be re-ticketed, which she would be happy to do. Not the response my father was looking for. Not even close.

So he went to the gate, found an exit door and, along with my mom, made their way onto the runway. Once there, he made a beeline for the portable stairway that other passengers on his flight were boarding. Then, he moved to the front of the line, grabbed both handrails and blocked everyone's entrance. Whatever flight attendants tried to do to appease him did not work. He simply grabbed on harder and stood his ground, my mother, somewhat embarrassed, standing off to the side. He would not budge, not an inch, his verbal commentary as tenacious as his two grips on the hand rails.

"No one gets on this plane unless we do." he barked. "No one."

And no one did. He just stood there, holding on, taking a massive stand for his rights. PS: Somehow, the flight attendants found two seats for the tanned and rested Barney and Sylvia Ditkoff. Ah... the good old days.

MitchDitkoff.com
My book on storytelling

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:21 PM | Comments (1)

September 26, 2017
Is That So?

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Once upon a time, many years ago, before the invention of Starbucks, Velcro, or Fructose, there lived a humble monk in a remote monastery in China. His name was Wan Loo and he was much beloved by everyone he met, dedicated, as he was to realizing the highest truth with every fiber of his being.

Every morning, he meditated with the other monks in the Central Hall, then ate breakfast, washed his bowl, and worked in the garden for the rest of the day, taking brief moments now and again to read the sutras and teach calligraphy to the younger monks. Life was simple for Wan Loo. And very fulfilling. He couldn't have imagined a better life.

One day, in the 17th year of his monastic life, while cultivating radishes in the upper garden, he found himself being approached by the venerable Abbot and three of the local townspeople -- a husband, wife, and their very pregnant 16-year old daughter.

"That's him!" the girl cried out, pointing to the monk "He's the one who did this to me! Him!"

Wan Loo, still weeding the radishes, looked up slowly, smiled, and uttered just three words: "Is that so?"

And with that, the Abbot, a stern expression on his face, began to speak. "It is time for you to leave the monastery, young man. It is time. You have broken one of our most sacred vows. Now go!"

And just like that, Wan Loo was exiled from the only home he had ever known.

For the next five years, he lived in a small hut far away from the monastery. Each day he woke at 4:00 am, meditated, and then from dawn to dusk, dug graves in a nearby cemetery to make the money he needed to buy milk for the little boy the people of the region had now come to call "the young monk's son."

Wan Loo continued with his life. He never complained. He never took a day off. And he never stopped meditating.

Then, one summer day, in the fifth year of his exile, while cultivating a few tomato plants just outside his hut, he looked up and saw the young girl, her parents, the Abbot, and the now five-year old boy all standing over him.

"Mother and father," began the young girl, in between tears. "The time has come for me to speak the truth. It was not the monk. It was a boy I met in the fish market. He was the one. He is the father of my son."

Big silence. Big, big silence. No one spoke, The young monk just sat there, looking up, a ripe tomato in his left hand.

"Is that so?" he said.

Adapted from an ancient Zen story

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:30 PM | Comments (0)

September 06, 2017
An Unforgettable Evening with Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach

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I am Jewish. My parents were Jewish. My grandparents were Jewish and all their parents and grandparents were Jewish. My father's father's name was "Abraham". His brother's name was "Moses". I was circumcised, went to Hebrew School, was bar mitzvahed, and ate more than my share of bagels, lox, gefilte fish, and matzoh balls. Like any good Jew, I celebrated the High Holidays.

Wait... hold on a minute... I don't think "celebrate" is actually the right word. Make that "endure" -- me, as a young boy, being far more devoted to baseball and playing with my dog than fiddling around with that silky, red prayer book marker separating one section of indecipherable Old Testament text from another. My Rabbi, the very forthright, wise, benevolent, Rabbi Alvin D. Rubin, always seemed, at least from my adolescent point of view, to be wondering if he had, somehow, lifetimes ago, taken a wrong turn out of the Sinai desert, finding himself, as he was, these days, shepherding a flock of polyester-wearing suburbanites way more interested in their golf game than the unpronounceable name of God.

These were my roots -- not the grey roots my canasta-playing mother religiously turned blond the day before each family visit to the temple -- but roots, nonetheless. The hand I was dealt. My karma. The surreal, slightly salty smorgasbord of my not-yet-enlightened life.

Please don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. My introduction to Judaism was not a bad experience. On the contrary, it was good -- full of warmth, comfort, and the safety that comes from hanging out with "one's own kind". But the older I got, the more it dawned on me that it wasn't religion I was looking for, but whatever it was it was that inspired religion to come into being in the first place -- not the Ten Commandments, but the feeling of amazement that preceded them being inscribed on stone tablets.

And so, on the day I went off to college, I decided to take a break from Judaism. Though I still found the word Deuteronomy quite intriguing and knew, in my heart of hearts, I would miss the rugala after each irregularly attended Sabbath service, it was time for new adventures.

Fast forward seven semesters to my senior year of college.

As I crossed the threshold into my parent's house for Christmas vacation (notice I didn't mention "Hannukah"), my mother greeted me with three words I will never forget: "THE RABBI CALLED" -- a phrase that could only mean one thing: I had done something terribly wrong.

30101549_132804189340.jpg "He wants to see you," she continued. "Tomorrow morning."

While not quite a burning bush moment, I was definitely feeling the heat, as the echoes of my mother's words fanned out into the vast suburban horizon: "The Rabbi wants to see you... The Rabbi wants to see you... The Rabbi wants to see you".

Though I hadn't been to Temple in five years, I still remembered where it was and made my way there, dutifully, the next morning. Nervous? Yes. But more than that, curious.

The Rabbi was sitting behind his desk, smiling. Behind him were shelves of many books.

"Mitchell", he began. "Welcome. I'm going to cut right to the chase. We've been following your progress for years and... well... you see... there is shortage of Reform Rabbis and I want you to seriously consider entering the Rabbinate."

"Deer in the headlights" could not begin to describe the feeling I was having. More like "wildebeest at sunrise".

The rest of our conversation was a blur -- me half Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate and half Lenny Bruce on speed. The Rabbi mentioned something about me not having to pay taxes on my future house and I mentioned something about a motorcycle.

Later that night, my father, whose belief in God seemed be escalating exponentially the closer I got to losing my Vietnam-phobic college deferment, wanted to talk.

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"How'd it go?" he asked. "What did the Rabbi have to say?"

"Umm..." I replied, stalling for time. "It was... interesting. The Rabbi wants me to become a Rabbi."

"That's great," my father blurted. "You'll make a great Rabbi."

"But Dad," I protested. "I don't believe in God."

My father looked up.

"That's really not important," he said. "You like PEOPLE, right? You like to READ, right? You'll make a great Rabbi."

"Dad... I don't think that's how this stuff works."

Five years passed. I went to Graduate School (in poetry, not medicine). I married a Shiksa (not a Jew). I took LSD (not the law boards). And I, blissfully, became the student of a 13-year old Guru from India. My parent's response? A kind of dark night of the upper middle class Jewish soul punctuated with words like "tsuris", "mishuggahah", and a ton of other Yiddish words they used whenever they didn't want my sister and I to know what they were talking about -- which was often.

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But then a funny thing happened. The plot twisted. My good friend, Steven Ornstein -- also Jewish and also a student of the same young, Indian Guru -- invited me to an "Evening with Shlomo Carlebach", a Jewish Rabbi, who was one of the leading lights of the "Baal Teshuva movement" -- a movement I knew nothing about -- one that was apparently designed to attract secular Jewish youth back into the fold. Shlomo, Steven assured me, was the real deal -- not your run of the mill Rabbi, but a true "keeper of the Jewish flame..."

So I went. What else was I going to do? Eat a salami sandwich?

The first few minutes of Shlomo's presentation are unremarkable. What I see is a disheveled man with a beard and a guitar mumbling a few words of introduction to a very conservative audience wearing their well-pressed Sabbath clothes. First he starts strumming. Then he starts singing. Then he starts smiling as if the Red Sea is about to part.

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"OK, fine," I say to myself. "We're in for a Yiddish Hootenanny with a non-traditional Rabbi just back from Israel. Cool".

But the next thing I know, Shlomo is jumping up and down. Not just a little. A lot. This is not shtick. This is not some Borscht Belt Vegas act. This is a man plugged in, on fire, and all of us can feel the heat.

With each deeply moving song he sings, Shlomo gets more animated, more out there, but the "out there" he gets isn't out there at all. It's IN THERE. Something is going on inside this man and we can all feel it. His own private Idaho? His own promised land? It's hard to tell, but what isn't hard to tell is how much he's enjoying himself and, even more than that, how much he wants the rest of us to join in.

It's clear now, that Reb Shlomo Carlebach, wide-eyed, soulful leader of the still forming Jewish renewal movement, is polarizing the room. Half of the congregation is with him. The other half is squirming in their seats, planning their escape. But Shlomo doesn't seem to mind. Like some kind of crazed bar mitzvah band leader in an alternative universe, he makes a few gestures and gets everyone standing, holding hands, and moving in unison up on stage and then down again -- a curious mix of hora and suburban conga line.

I have never seen anything like this before in a temple. Never. We aren't praying, we are PLAYING -- and the play is sparking the experience that prayer is supposed to take us to. Freedom. Joy. And gratitude. The last time I had been on a stage in a temple I was reciting my Haft Torah -- 14 lines I had painstakingly memorized for months so I could "become a man". Now it's all improv. Nothing is rehearsed. Nothing is memorized. Nothing is at stake. The only thing happening is joy.

Shlomo walks to the ark, takes out the Torah, and hands it to a smiling, young man who immediately starts dancing with it. Dancing with the Torah! Yes! Yet another phenomenon I have never witnessed before.

"My Holy Brother", he calls to the young man to my left. "My Holy Brother", it is so good BE with you. "My Holy Sister", he intones to the woman to my right. "Do you know what a blessing you are on this Earth"?

And the amazing thing? Just by saying these words it becomes instantly true. Whoever he hugs, whoever he directs his spontaneous declarations of love to suddenly FEELS holy, suddenly FEELS blessed, suddenly FEELS totally alive -- touched as they've been by the kind of "Lo, I say unto you" energy that has the power to instantly turn words into reality.

And then, with no absolutely warning, he turns to me. "Oh my Holy Brother", he exclaims, tapping his mic three times, "go find the Rabbi and tell him I need more power! Go!"

Man on a mission, I descend the stage and begin my search for the Rabbi. It doesn't take long. I find him in the kitchen, with his wife, rapidly putting on his overcoat. Very rapidly. If this was the Wild West, the Rabbi is, most definitely in his "get out of Dodge" mode.

"Rabbi", I ask, with as much respect as I can muster. "Shlomo needs more power".

The Rabbi says nothing. He just stands there, looking at me, shaking his head. The next thing I know, he is out the door, his wife trailing behind.

I return to the main room. "Shlomo!" I exclaim, "the Rabbi has left the building. He wasn't willing to give you any more power".

"Fine, my Holy Brother", he says. "I have my own power!"

And with that, he unplugs the mic and begins singing even louder than before, his jumping up and down some kind of unhinged call to prayer to anyone in the general vicinity.

Five minutes pass. Many people leave. Those of us who stay are all on stage now, spinning in circles, laughing, singing, arms outstretched, or simply gazing into a distance that is becoming increasingly closer.

"Shlomo!" calls a bearded young man in front of me, his shirt untucked. "Let's take this to my apartment! I live only two miles away".

And so, in a few minutes, the evening's caravan of love continues out the door, into cars, down a road, up some stairs, and into a book-lined, dimly lit abode of a local Hassid now kvelling, beyond belief, that Shlomo -- Reb Shlomo Carlebach -- charismatic, rule-breaking, wide-eyed leader of the still forming Jewish renewal movement, not having slept in God knows how long, is going to be holding forth (and fifth and sixth, no doubt) in just a few minutes, without a break and without a single complaint -- a motley crew of Hassids, hippies, and holy fools by his side.

Standing next to my Holy Brother, Steven, in the middle of what no one has a name for, I have no clue what the protocols are -- or if any exist... or if it matters... or why I am even thinking at all. Shlomo certainly isn't. He is just taking his seat, the one he is offered, surveying the room and sensing, once again, that this -- this HOLY MOMENT -- is the perfect time for a STORY. And so he begins.

I remember nothing of the story he told that night, not the plot, not the setting, not the characters. All I remember is the feeling -- the feeling of wonder, the feeling of awe, the feeling of being absolutely in the right place at the right time and being so utterly glad to be alive.

And when he is done (which, by the way, is something he never is), a great laughter fills the room, followed by a flood of Talmudic references I have no clue about, and the voice of someone, from the back, calling out, "That reminds me of a story".

And so another one begins... and then another.. and then another, waves of spoken love and wisdom bubbling up from a buoyant ocean we are all swimming in.

But even ecstatic Rabbis get tired, and Shlomo certainly is, his nodding no longer a sign of his unabashed appreciation of life, but a prelude to sleep, which is precisely when Steven and I, trusting our instincts, approach and ask if he would like a ride back to his hotel.

Wired as this man was to the experience that everything is coming to him directly from God, he nods, stands and, as he exits the room with us by his side, embraces as many people as he can get his hands on, saying something kind to everyone -- then continues with us, out the door, to the street below.

Thirty minutes later, we are in his hotel room, Shlomo making a beeline to a small bag of tangerines he had just brought back from Tel Aviv.

"These, my Holy Brothers, are sweet. You must have one. You must."

And with that, he begins peeling -- one for Steven and one for me.

The three of us, now sitting on his rumpled bed, are enacting a Jewish ritual that transcends space and time -- noshing. Sweet. The tangerines are sweet.

Then Steven speaks.

"Reb Shlomo," he begins. "A few years ago, my friend Mitchell and I, met a young Indian Master and received a very powerful inner experience called Knowledge. We are wondering if this experience is referred to in any of the Jewish holy books".

Shlomo's ears perk up, his eyebrows arch -- a signal to Steven to elaborate.

"Oh yes, YES!" Shlomo says, "absolutely", quoting from the Talmud, Kaballah, and God knows how many other sacred texts.

Steven and I keep looking at each other. We cannot believe our good fortune. I mean, here we are, completely out of the blue, having a private audience with Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, wise man, sage, holy fool, storyteller supreme -- when we notice that the room has become suddenly quiet. Curious, we both glance at Shlomo. He is asleep, fast asleep, sprawled out sideways on the bed like some kind of beached Biblical whale, snoring lightly, shoes still on.

Steven, on a roll, leans closer and whispers into Shlomo's ear the news that his good friend, Mitchell, was going to be getting married in three weeks.

Shlomo, from a deep sleep, sits bolt upright and looks right through me. "I'll perform the ceremony," he says. "Me! I'll marry you!"

If I had been Saul on a horse, I would have been knocked off by now, but I wasn't. It was just me, sitting on a bed with Shlomo and Steven in a mid-priced, mid-town Boston hotel room, 5,504 miles from Jerusalem.

"Um... Shlomo," I say. "We already have a Rabbi".

Shlomo's eyes open wider. "Is he straight?"

"Well... a lot straighter than you, Shlomo."

And with that, Shlomo smiles, closes his eyes, falls back, and goes to sleep. Steven and I stand, turn out the lights, and continue on our way.

Holy Brother: a book of Shlomo's stories
Some of my stories
TimelessToday

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:13 AM | Comments (2)

August 22, 2017
The Afghani Cab Driver and the $250M Dollar Salty Snack Food

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I am getting into the back seat of a yellow cab, as I've done a thousand times before, having just tipped the too-smiling bellboy too much for holding open the door and inviting me, as he had been trained to do just last week, to "have a nice day."

Here, 1,500 miles from home, at 6:30 am in front of yet another nameless business hotel, I settle into position, careful not to spill my coffee on my free copy of USA Today.

In 20 minutes, I will be arriving at the international headquarters of General Mills, creators of Cheerios, Wheaties, and the totally fictional 50's icon of American motherhood, Betty Crocker.

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My mission? To help their product development team come up with a new $250 million dollar salty snack food.

It's too dark to read and I'm too caffeinated to nap, so I glance at the dashboard and see a fuzzy photo of my driver, his last name next to it -- an extremely long and unpronounceable last name -- as if a crazed bingo master had thrown all the letters of the alphabet into a brown paper bag, shook, and randomly pulled them out in between shots of cheap tequila. Where he was from I had no clue.

"Hello," I manage to say, nervous that my driver with the long last name would end up getting us completely lost. "I'm on my way to General Mills. Do you... know where that is?"

"Oh yes," my driver replies with an accent I assume to be mid-eastern. "I know."

Small talk out of the way, I now had three choices -- the same three choices I have every time I get into the back seat of a cab.

I could check my email. I could review my agenda. Or I could continue the conversation with my driver -- always a risky proposition, especially with cabbies from foreign lands who were often difficult to understand, tired, or, seemingly angry at Americans, which, I am not proud to say, often led me to become way too polite, overcompensating for who knows how many years of my government's pre-emptive strikes -- a response, I'm sure (mine, not the government's), which even the least sophisticated cab driver could see through in a heart beat.

"Where are you from?" my driver asks.

"Woodstock," I reply. "Woodstock, New York. And you?"

"Afghanistan."

Deep as we were in the middle of that war, I am stunned, my own backseat brand of battlefield fatigue now gathering itself for the appropriate response.

"Afghanistan?" I reply. "What brought you here?"

I could tell by his pause -- his long, pregnant pause, that things, in this taxi, were just about to change.

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"Well..." my driver says, looking at me in the rearview mirror, "I was out for a walk with my 10-year old daughter when she stepped on a land mine."

I look out the window. Starbucks. MacDonalds. Pier 1 Imports.

"So I ripped off my shirt and tied it around her leg to stop the bleeding. Then I went running for a doctor. But there was no doctor."

For the next 20 minutes, he goes on to tell me about his three-day journey through the mountains of Afghanistan, his bleeding daughter on his back, slipping in and out of consciousness. Villagers took them in, gave them food, applied centuries worth of home remedies, but no one knew of a doctor.

And then... a break. A man on horseback told him of some nurses from the Mayo Clinic who had just set up an outpost just a little way up the road. With his last bit of energy, he got there and collapsed -- the nurses managing to keep his daughter alive and flying her, the next day, to the Mayo Clinic in Minneapolis, where, three days later, he and his wife were flown to be by her side to enter into a year long rehabilitation process with her, so she could learn to walk with her new prosthetic leg.

"That will be $27.55", my driver announces, checking the meter.

Somehow, I find my wallet, pay, and hug my driver, lingering with him as long as I could in that early morning light.

I enter the well-appointed lobby of General Mills, get my security pass, and make my way to the room where I am supposed to set things up for today's salty snack food brainstorming session.

An hour later, fifteen 30-somethings walk in, checking Blackberries. I have a choice to make. Do I dismiss my journey from hotel to headquarters as a surreal preamble to the day -- one that has nothing to do with the work at hand? Or do I realize that my journey here this morning is the work at hand -- a story not only for me, but for everyone in the room that day?

Excerpted from Storytelling at Work
Storytelling at Work podcast
Idea Champions

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:53 PM | Comments (0)

August 11, 2017
Moses, Jesus, Jonah, and Me on The Toledo On-Ramp

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The spiritual literature of Planet Earth is full of stories that track the trials and tribulations of earnest souls on the path to God. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Like Moses in the desert. Like Jesus on the Cross. Every culture has their own, just like they have their own creation myths and favorite cheese. Indeed, the heroes and heroines of these soul-shaping stories have, in time, become a kind of code for the hard-to-describe qualities that define what it means to be an evolving human being -- the kind of stories we tell our kids whenever we want to impress on them something timeless and profound.

Good. We need stories. We need memorable examples of what's possible. What we don't need, however, is the assumption that the stories which have made it to the scriptures are the only ones worth telling. They're not. Each of us, in our own curious way, has had similar experiences -- modern-day versions of the archetypal challenges that try men's and women's souls. Like the time, for example, as a hitchhiker, I stood on the on ramp to I-70, in Toledo, Ohio, for ten hours, without a ride -- just the hot sun overhead and the creeping sense that God, if there WAS a God, didn't really like me all that much.

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What I didn't understand at the time was that there was a very divine choreography going on -- one that transcended my pinhole view of life, myself, and the universe.

The day started off quite innocently enough, in Montreal -- 1,729 miles from where I lived, me listening, along with 3,000 other people, to a very inspiring spiritual Master speak about his message of peace. It was a good day, a very good day, a day that filled me with joy and gratitude. After a good night's sleep in a modestly priced hotel, I began the long journey home, hitchhiking back to Colorado, with my good friend, Danny.

Three minutes was all it took for us to get our first ride. We simply stuck out our thumbs and entered a green Toyota, a pleasant young salesman behind the wheel. He shook our hands. He talked about his work. He gave us each a tuna on rye. Badadoom. Badabing. There WAS a God! Five hundred and sixty nine miles later, just outside of Toledo, our paths parted and our first ride of the day bid us a fond adieu.

The on ramp to the interstate was, shall I say, rather unexceptional. No movie was going to be made there that day, no marriage proposals made. Just two young, God-intoxicated men with their thumbs out, trying to get home before their money ran out.

One hour passed. Then another. Then another after that. Not a single car stopped or even slowed down. Many other hitchhikers came and went. But not us. We just stood there. If this was a junior high school dance, we were the fat girls with braces.

"Yo, Danny," I blurted, you know what this reminds me of?"

"No, what?" Danny said.

"Siddhartha."

"Herman Hesse's Siddartha?" he responded.

"Yes! Herman Hesse's Siddhartha."

"Really?" Danny replied. "And why is that?"

"Because," I replied, "Siddhartha once said that there were three things he had learned, in life, that had saved his butt. First, he could fast. Second, he could wait. And, third, he could meditate. So today, my good friend, we get to practice 1/3 of Siddhartha’s yoga -- WAITING. How cool is that?"

Another hour passed. Then another. Then another after that. If you are counting, dear reader, we are now in our sixth hour without a ride on the Toledo on ramp. Six.

One thing was becoming clear: Whatever Danny and I were doing wasn't working. So we decided it was time to experiment. First, Danny stood and I sat. Then I stood and Danny sat. Then we made a sign with "Denver or Bust" on it. Then we pretended to pray. Then Danny hoisted me up on his shoulders. Then I hoisted him on mine. Nothing worked.

If this was a coming-of-age movie, all our efforts would have seemed quite funny, especially the way the Director would have speeded up the film to give a kind of Charlie Chaplin-esque quality to it. But this wasn't a coming of age movie. There was no Director, no film crew, no catering tent. There was nothing except the two of us and the mid-afternoon sun shimmering off of the burning concrete, making everything seem vaguely like a mirage.

While Danny continued fixing his gaze on the oncoming cars, I found myself looking up at the sky and talking to myself. Was I being punished? Had I done something wrong in a previous lifetime? Was there some kind of lesson I needed to learn?

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Shooting a glance at Danny, it suddenly dawned on me that HE was probably the reason why we weren't getting a ride. In fact, the more I looked at Danny, the clearer it became that there... was... something... very off about him. While I couldn't quite put my finger on it, there was something about my so-called friend that was quite troubling...weird... strange.

"Danny," I said. "It's just not happening, bro. Let's check into a motel and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow is another day."

And so we did. And so it was. Thursday, October 4th was definitely another day. Fueled by bad motel muffins and even worse coffee, we made our way to the now very familiar I-70 on ramp and took our positions, thumbs pointing West.

Nobody stopped. Nobody slowed down. Nobody.

"I wonder if this is what Moses was feeling in the desert," I began thinking to myself. True, our missions were different -- him trying to get to the promised land, me trying to get to Denver.. and yet.. might it be not true that our inner experiences weren't all that different -- our demons, our doubts, our dreams?

It was just about this time, that Danny and I realized that it probably wasn't such a good idea for the two of us to be hitching together anymore -- that the sight of two young men standing by the side of the road, might just seem a bit threatening to oncoming motorists. Like maybe... we had... just escaped from a maximum security prison and were just about to steal their car.

So we split up.

Ten minutes later a car stops and Danny gets in, waving goodbye, with a shit-eating grin on his face. I wave back, newly certain my luck was just about to change. It didn't I just stood there, now a solo act. My feet hurt. My head hurt. My eyes hurt. This wasn't funny anymore. OK? "Look, here's the deal, God, or whatever name you are going by these days. I NEED A RIDE BACK HOME! DO YOU HEAR ME? I NEED A RIDE. Is that too much to ask? Is it?"

And then? Like some kind of astral Clint Eastwood emerging from a dream, I see a car slow down and stop. Lo, I say unto you, the car stops. The.. car.. stops. It stops. As in not moving anywhere. Stops. Seven feet away from me. Or maybe eight. A late model Chevy it is and, behind the wheel, a very attractive young woman. She is smiling, beckoning me to enter, pointing to the empty seat next to her.

She extends her hand and tells me her name is Lisa and, just like that, we are off. She offers me some water. She turns the music up. We talk. Fifteen minutes later, I see Danny standing by the side of the road. "STOP!" I blurt. "That's Danny. That's my friend. Danny. Stop!"

Danny gets it and gives me a high five. We ask her where she's going.

"Driving west," she says, "looking for love."

That's our cue. Having just spent two days listening to the most inspiring human being we had ever encountered, Danny and I let it rip, regaling her with all kinds of stories of the man we had traveled cross-country to see. His message. What drew us to him in the first place. And how we felt in his presence.

Entranced, Lisa asks us to keep on talking. We do. Then she asks us where we're going.

"Denver, Colorado," we say.

"Great," she replies."I'll take you there."

And so she does. Right to our front doors. 23 hours and 1,269 miles later.

By the time we got home, we had told her just about every story we knew about love, the purpose of life, and the teacher, back in Montreal, we had just seen. Lisa stayed in Denver for a month or so. There, she read everything she could find about the man we had told her about for 23 hours. There, she watched every video of him she could get a hold of. At the end of the month, she decided to become his student and receive the gift he called "Knowledge," her long journey West, looking for love, fulfilled.

COMMENTARY:

Back in the the 15th century, it was Copernicus, the savvy Polish astronomer and mathematician, who first disavowed humanity of its long-held belief that the Earth was the center of the universe, replacing it, instead, with the sun.

Copernicus, a man after whom very few children are named, somehow knew that his fellow human being's construct of reality was seriously flawed -- that the center of things was not our planet, but the star around which our planet revolved. And while many of us post-Copernican homo sapiens have long ago come to agree with him that the Earth is not the center of creation, we have not always understood the psychological correlative of that construct -- that our so-called "selves" are not the center of the universe either -- and that we, in fact are not always the stars of our own movies.

What I experienced, standing on that Toledo on ramp for ten hours many years ago, was a direct result of the way in which I had positioned myself in space and time -- me the center of my self-invented universe. The attachment to my desire to get back home in a time I had conceived of as "reasonable" was the belly of the whale that swallowed me whole.

The more my need to get back home was thwarted by unresponsive motorists, the more I morphed from a deeply spiritual being to "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken me." My thoughts and feelings all took shape in response to the way in which I had constructed reality. Producer and Director of my own movie, I now had all the proof I needed to cast God as the boogeyman, Danny as a loser, and my own rapidly dissolving self as a victim of some kind of strange karma. What I didn't realize at the time was that even though I had had cast myself as the star of my own movie, I was also the extra in someone else's -- and that someone else -- Lisa, had a story line that was way more compelling than mine.

Her need to "find love" and, ultimately her spiritual Master, was the major plot of the story I had found myself in. My need to get back to Denver was only a sub-plot. Not once during my dark night of the soul on that Toledo on ramp did it ever dawn on me that the so-called reason why no one had picked us up was due to the fact that there was a woman, 10 hours away in Philadelphia, who was just beginning her journey West towards love. The choreography was perfect, even if it took her 10 hours to get across the stage to the precise location where we, the other actors stood, staring at the sky, waiting for our cue.

Time? You think you have it but, actually, it has you. On any given day none of us have the slightest clue about how long anything will take. Just because you have a goal, desire, or agenda doesn't necessarily mean it's going to happen. And the absence of it happening doesn't necessarily mean there is something wrong with you, that you're the victim of karma or need to more diligently visualize the outcomes you want. Life is a play. You are in it. Sometimes you're hero. Sometimes you're the extra. Your choice? To enjoy the ride or not. Even if the ride doesn't come.

FOOD FOR BEYOND THOUGHT: What project of yours is taking longer than you imagined it would take? What lessons or learnings might be in it for you?

MitchDitkoff.com
Excerpted from my forthcoming book
A related story about time

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:16 PM | Comments (2)

August 08, 2017
I'm From Woodstock. Yes, I Am!

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I'm from Woodstock. Yes, that Woodstock, the famous Woodstock -- the most famous small town in the world, some people say. Former home to Bob Dylan. Jimi Hendrix lived here for a summer in the house right across the street from where I live now...

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John Sebastian still lives here, as do a ton of other musicians, artists, writers, healers, therapists, car mechanics, plumbers, electricians, and just about anyone else you'd expect to live in a small town.

Other than winter lasting six weeks too long, I love Woodstock. I've been a resident for 21 years and I'm proud to call it my home.

That being said, in the early days of starting up my consulting business, I noticed a curious phenomenon about Woodstock, or at least my relationship to it, whenever a client or prospective client asked me where I was from.

Euphemism-itus.

If I declared myself to be resident of Woodstock, I ran the risk of not only being stereotyped as a counter culture whack job, but being in cahoots with an entire generation of freaks for whom the word "corporation" was second only to "military industrial complex" on the list of buzz kills -- a moment fully capable of leaving my inquisitor with the impression that I was either dangerous, highly unqualified to be of value to their company, or a candidate to be paid in 100 pound bags of chickpeas.

So, I decided to take the low road.

With a big mortgage and a family to support, I saw no reason to scare away potential clients -- especially potential clients who, when push came to shove, were asking where I lived just to break the ice.

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"Two hours north of Manhattan" was my standard response. "Upstate New York" was my backup, followed by "The Hudson Valley", "65 miles south of Albany", and the always dependable "Foothills of the Catskill Mountains".

So there I was in Munich at the International Headquarters of Allianz, one of the world's leading financial services institutions, with 142,000 employees and billions in sales.

My task? To lead a workshop, the next day, for the company's hard driving senior leadership team in an effort to jump start the launch of a company-wide effort to "gain a competitive edge through increased innovation".

Corporate speak? Of course it was. But it didn't matter to me. I didn't care what euphemisms my clients used to frame their business challenges. If I sensed even the smallest willingness on their part to become more innovative, I was there.

There, in this case, was the well-appointed, pre-dinner reception for Allianz' Senior Team and a handful of outside, consultants, like me, who had been flown in from God knows where to help the company reach its ambitious business goals.

The dress code? Business casual. The bar? Open. The client? Dutifully introducing me to anyone he could collar.

And so it went, the small talk, the head nods, the firm handshakes -- me patiently waiting for the waiter with the pizza puffs and the inevitable moment when the "Where do you live?" question would head its ugly rear.

Somewhere, in between my first and second glass of chilled 1987 Riesling, standing next to three large German men I had just been introduced to -- Guenther, Heinrich, and Hans -- the question was asked.

I opened my mouth to say "Two hours north of Manhattan", but out came "Woodstock".

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Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the cumulative affect of the past ten years of mouthing geographical euphemisms. I don't know. But whatever it was, I knew this was going to be an interesting moment.

For three very long seconds, no one said a thing. The word just hovered in the air like some kind of Superbowl Blimp.

Guenther was the first to speak.

"Wow!" he announced. "Did you actually go to the festival?"

Hans smiled broadly. "My older cousin went. Lucky bastard. I was too young."

Heinrich just stood there, expressionless, saying nothing. Then he raised his right hand and gave me a rousing high five.

"I love Joe Cocker!" he announced.

Somehow, I got the feeling that tomorrow's innovation workshop was going to be just fine.


Excerpted from the newly published Storytelling at Work

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August 02, 2017
MONIKA'S STORY: Just One of the 140 Million Orphans in the World

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This is Monika. She is six-years old. Soon after Nepal's devasating earthquake in 2015, she was found, abandoned and alone, wandering from tent to tent, village to village, begging for food. That's when the Himalayan Children's Charities first heard about her and that's when Monika's life took a major turn for the better. Read the full story here in the Huffington Post by the author of this blog.

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July 16, 2017
French Camembert

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As the story goes, camembert was originally created in 1791 by Marie Harel, a dairy farmer from Normandy upon receiving some advice from a Catholic priest from Brie. It's unique smell has been variably described as funky, earthly, mushroom-like, foul, stinky, nauseating, and the secret project of a chemical company.

Camembert, one of France's most popular cheeses, is made from unpasteurized milk and is rich in chemicals like ammonia, sodium chloride, and succinic acid. It is rated, by a leading food blog, as the second stinkiest cheese in the world, just behind Pont l'Evesque. Even when it's wrapped in its fashionable French box and the box is contained within an unfashionable plastic container in the refrigerator, it still stinks to high heaven.

If you've never tried it, here's all you need to know: Camembert is to American Cheese as Lady Gaga is to Marie Osmond. Got it, mon ami?

Camembert, in France, is something of a cult. It isn't just consumed, it's worshiped -- talked about, I would say, a whole lot more than Jesus. That is, IF the past two weeks of me visiting my French relatives is any indication.

In America, where I come from, cheese is something to slap on a hamburger or serve to guests before a meal so they don't get cranky. In France, cheese is served after the meal. It is not a snack. It is not an appetizer. Mon dieu! Au contraire! It is a complete and total course unto itself -- a highly purposeful serving of seriously shopped-for food that is served between the meal and the dessert.

As an occasional visitor to France, what I find most astounding about camembert is not its royalty status in the French cheese world, but its capacity to bridge the inter-generational gap.

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Put three generations of French people around the dinner table -- all with very different tastes in music, fashion, technology, and politics -- and, with the presence of camembert on the table, you will soon begin to experience a fascinating phenomenon. As people get their first whiff of the round, soft, runny, buttery, glowing wheel of divinity, all other conversations cease. Where only seconds before people were arguing about the economy, the weather, or Donald Trump, now a kind of harmonic resonance can be palpably felt. All eyes are on the cheese. All conversations are about the cheese. Deeply felt reflections on past cheese experiences fill the room.

Bottom line, the camembert has become the sun around which all the rest of us revolve. The aches and pains of my 90-year old mother-in-law? Whether to pick up the phone each of the 35 times she calls every day? Poof! Dissolved in thin air! Fini!

Only camembert remains.

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July 15, 2017
She Doesn't Leave Her House All That Much Anymore

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She doesn't leave her house much any more. Sometimes, yes, but not very often. Sunday is her big day out. That's when Joelle, her youngest, now a grandmother herself, picks her up at 5:00 and brings her home -- just a 3-minute drive in a small, white car Henriette used to enter and exit with less difficulty, her right leg needing now a bit more time before the passenger door can close.

Everyone in the family is always happy to see her, taking turns kissing her cheeks and easing the short distance to her favorite couch where she sits and lets out a sound only the French can translate. She is happy to be here -- the table being set in the next room, the flurry of activity in the kitchen, her three great-grandchildren fighting over a toy on the floor just a few feet away.

Other days, her balcony is as far as she gets. There, in her freshly ironed skirt and blouse, she stands behind the flower boxes and simply observes. The roses by the front gate have opened wider since yesterday. The neighbor, two houses down, has a shiny new car. The mailman walks across the street. It is good here on her balcony. Very good. It's flat and she can hold on to the handrail. And while, indeed, sometimes the handrail is wet from last night's rain, Henriette doesn't seem to mind, her petunias no longer needing to be watered.

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No one knows how long she stands there on her balcony, what with everyone else's coming and going. And nobody needs to know. It's enough they wave and call her name. It's enough they bring her chocolate and quiche and sit in her living room to talk. Not every day, mind you. That would be too much. No. Just enough to restore her faith in God.

Most of Henriette's neighbors have known her for 20 years. Some have known her for 30. They all still have the colorful hats and scarves she knitted for them back in the day -- the ones they do their best to wear in late autumn when the weather turns cold.

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July 13, 2017
Written Watercolors from France

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For the past two weeks I've been living in France with my wife, Evelyne, helping to care for my 90-year old mother-in-law. It has been a very moving journey -- so much so, that an entire new dimension of storytelling has emerged for me. "Written watercolors," I like to think of them, sketches of the timeless human spirit as the body starts to age. Each of the stories will take you less three minutes to read, but the feeling contained within I hope will stay with you forever.

The Sign

The Table
Waving Goodbye to Henriette
My Mother-in-Law's Basement
The Phone in France
Jean's Wine Cellar
She Doesn't Leave Her House All That Much Anymore
French Camembert

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:53 PM | Comments (1)

The Table

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This is the cement table, my wife's father, Jean Pouget, built with his own two hands, 40 years ago in the French countryside -- a place for him to sit and sip aperitifs after work. Sometimes he sipped alone, sometimes with his wife, Henriette, now my 90-year old mother-in-law. The base and top were made from a mold and so were the sections of the small patio on which it rests, now all at odd angles to each other, like neighbors who no longer speak. The mosaic tiles, on top, are not exactly where he placed them, the grout having long ago come undone, so many storms having come and gone. Henriette, dear sweet Henriette, is no longer able to make her way down from the front porch to the table. She's not walking as well as she used to and she doesn't want to fall. So the tiles just sit there, sharp pieces of a puzzle no one puts together. Time has moved on... and so has Jean -- a man I have never met, but feel him, today, sitting next to me, like a rock, the last few rays of light finding their way through the tree tops where the two of abide.

MitchDitkoff.com

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:38 AM | Comments (0)

My Dad Loved Plaid

This just in from a long-time friend of mine, Cathy Deutsch:

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My father was a garmento. He worked on 36th Street in the very heart of the garment industry for over 40 years and had a passionate love of plaid. His name was Stan and all who knew him called him "Dapper Stan". He wore plaid shirts almost every day. Not flannel, as he was no lumberjack, but crisp beautiful shirts from the menswear department at Macy's which was just up the street from his office.

Every day or so he would come home from work with a Macy's bag with yet another plaid shirt. When I was a little girl of maybe 9 or 10 I remember going school-clothes shopping at A & S with both my parents. I fell in love with a plaid jumper. When I came out of the fitting room, all excited, he inspected the seams.

"The plaids don't match up", he said and wouldn't let me buy the dress. He felt quality at any price was important and taught me to look for small details.

He never set foot in Barneys or Bergdorfs, but boy did he have style! When he was a young man, he had his suits made in Chinatown because they got the pleats on the pants just right and he had all my mother's clothing, for special occasions, custom-made at one of his showrooms.

Sadly, my father passed 15 years ago. We honored his love of plaid by laying him to rest in his very favorite plaid shirt and khaki trousers. I miss him, terribly, every day and always feel him over my shoulder looking at seams and details when I do my buying. If he were still with us today, I would treat him to a Burberry. He would have loved it -- after inspecting the seams, of course!

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:20 AM | Comments (0)

July 09, 2017
The Phone in France

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The phone in Evelyne's sister's house, in France, rings 25 times a day at least, the calls always from the same person, Henriette, her mother, who lives less than a mile away, alone. They begin around 9:30 in the morning.

If we don't answer, the phone rings again three minutes later, but not for as long. Perhaps, Henriette thinks, she dialed the wrong number the first time and if she dials again, she will find us home. Our strategy for responding to her is not all that clear. If we answer each call, that will, it seem, only enable Henriette and she will call again in 30 minutes or less, having nothing again to say, but wanting to hear a voice on the other end. Does she need anything? No. Does she have any updates for us? No. Does she want us to pick something up at the store? No. She just wants to hear a familiar voice -- a break from a day of game shows on her flat screen TV.

If we don't answer, which is sometimes our plan, Henriette ends up feeling ignored, which is never a good thing, but sometimes we are simply not at home. Joelle and Evelyne tell Henriette, firmly, there is no need for her to call so often. They tell her that they love her and will stop by later in the afternoon, but this rarely does any good. Henriette likes to dial the phone. It is one of the things she still knows how to do, having stopped crocheting and crossword puzzles three years ago.

I think about the ninth call or the 15th of the day when Evelyne and I just look at each other, not quite sure what to do. Sometimes we take a step or two towards the phone, then stop, letting it ring. Sometimes we don't even get up from the couch. Sometimes we pick up the phone immediately, even though we agreed earlier in the morning that we would not do that.

MitchDitkoff.com
Unspoken Word
My book of stories
TimelessToday

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:27 AM | Comments (0)

MY MOTHER-IN-LAW'S BASEMENT

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Henriette Pouget, my 90-year old French mother-in-law, who lives alone in a house with nothing out of place, is no longer able to navigate stairs on her own.

Though she's been to Germany, Luxembourg, Martinique, and America, her basement is now out of bounds. Neither of her two daughters will allow it. They are very firm about that. The key to the door is still in the lock, but she has not turned it in years. Touched it? Maybe. But turned it? No. So when it was time to retrieve the shovel for today's planting of purple flowers on her front lawn, it was my turn. Slowly, I opened the door and began my descent.

The first room I entered was at least 10 degrees cooler than the ones upstairs, a nice surprise on this brutally hot day here in the north of France. "Climate change" the neighbors like to say. "Mon dieu!"

It is small, this room, but not too small, kind of like a 3-table jazz club only the locals know about. In the corner is a bar, built on weekends and nights, by Jean, Henriette's long-deceased husband -- a project, I am told, that was very important to him -- his chance to make something special away from the noise of the factory floor where he worked the day shift, building Citroens, for 32 years. Many half-filled bottles line the shelves above the bar: rum, Nolly Ambre, Gran Marnier, a St. Raphael rouge, some Scotch, Pernod. I can see Jean pouring a round of drinks for his favorite neighbors on a Saturday night, much laughter filling the room, Henriette with a tray of something in her hands.

On the wall, across the way, are framed pictures of classic cars: a red 1936 Bugatti, a white 1928 Excalibur, a blue 1927 Rolls Royce and three others. In the far corner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and a few of his writer friends are knocking back cocktails and practicing their French. They like Jean. He's a good man. And though he didn't have all that much to say to his wife and two daughters, his words, when he spoke, stood guard for years, like the tiny tin soldiers no one ever gave him as a child.

Behind a door, to the right, is a guest room -- or used to be -- the place where Henriette's sisters, once a year or so, would stay. On the wall? Two framed photos. One is Evelyne, my wife, at six months old, with a blond mohawk before it became all the rage. The other, directly over the bed, is a black and white of Evelyne and her brother, Gille, Henriette's first born before he died, at nine, of some kind of rare blood disease the doctors couldn't quite explain. He is five in the picture. Evelyne is three. She is kissing him on the cheek, her eyes closed. He is smiling.

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My book of stories
TimelessToday

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July 08, 2017
Waving Goodbye to Henriette

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Evelyne and I have been visiting her mother, Henriette, twice a day for the past week or so. Our visits are short and sweet. We sit in her living room and, after she turns off the French game shows on TV, we talk. Well, actually, Evelyne talks. My grasp of French, not unlike my grasp of trigonometry, is only "un petit peu". So Evelyne translates for me, when it's my turn, which is actually kind of cool, because it makes our conversations with Henriette a bit longer.

We ask her how she's doing. We ask her if she needs anything. We show her the photos we took of her, on the couch, yesterday. And we banter, the French way. "Badinage" it's called and Henriette is very good at it -- the playful way French people make fun of each other -- yet another way of staying young, I suppose.

I write "Je Taime" on a few pieces of scrap paper and leave them in various places around the house, so later that day Henriette will be reminded of how much she is loved. She asks me if I want some water, her need to serve, even at 90, still so very strong. She gets up slowly from the couch, steadies herself for a brief moment, and walks to the kitchen -- or should I say "waddles" -- a new kind of side-to-side movement that keeps her from falling. The water she brings me is perfectly chilled and served in a beautiful glass.

The first few days Evelyne and I said goodbye to her after one of our visits we simply drove off in the direction our car was facing -- which was away from Henriette's house. She did not like this at all. Her preference, she explained, was for us to turn the car around and drive past her house so she could stand on her balcony and wave -- and we could wave back. This is what we do now. Waving goodbye to Henriette, as she stands behind her purple and white petunias, happens twice a day here in the little town of Courcelles-Chaussy.

My poetry blog
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My book of stories

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July 02, 2017
The Sign

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The small sign under my mother-in-law's front door bell in France says "J. Pouget." "J" is the first initial of her long-gone husband's first name, "Jean" -- a kind man who died 34 years ago after a lifetime of working in a Citroen factory and dreaming of the time he would one day retire. The two of them met, as young children, during the war, in a Catholic orphanage, where Henriette lived -- or tried to live -- for 12 long years. Jean, I learned, today, would travel, once a month, by train, from his orphanage more than two hours away, to visit his sisters -- girls who had become Henriette's best friends.

Her mother died in childbirth -- not Henriette's, but her sister's. Suddenly widowed and now completely overwhelmed, her father, a conductor for the local railroad, decided to take his six daughters to the local orphanage and leave them there -- a not uncommon act, in Europe, during the second World War. Henriette was six at the time.

Once a day, her father would eat lunch there, the orphanage being conveniently located on his train route. That's when Henriette and her five sisters would press their noses up against the glass and watch their father eat. When he was done, often late for work, he would meet them in the lobby, allowed only five minutes for a hug, dig deep into his black satchel and secretly give a handful of candies to the eldest for her to distribute to the little ones at the end of a long tiled hallway where the nuns couldn't see. There, the girls would rip the wrappers off and eat their candy quickly, dreaming of the time their father would next return.

A book of my stories
My website

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June 14, 2017
The Afghani Cab Driver and the $250M Dollar Salty Snack Food

The story in the Huffington Post
13 of my video stories on GlowDec
Podcast, interviews, and storytelling links
Who I am in the marketplace

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May 30, 2017
The Toledo On Ramp

The spiritual literature of Planet Earth is full of stories that track the trials and tribulations of earnest souls on the path of God. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale, for example. And Moses in the desert. And Jesus on the Cross. Every culture has their own, just like they have their own creation myths. Indeed, the heroes and heroines of these soul-shaping stories have, in time, become a kind of code for the hard-to-describe qualities that define what it means to be a highly resilient human being.

Good. We need stories. We need memorable examples of what's possible.

What we don't, need, however is the assumption that the stories that have made it to the scriptures are the only ones worth remembering. They're not. Each of us, in our own way, has had similar experiences -- modern-day versions of the archetypal challenges that stretch a human being to the point of breaking. Like the time, as a cross-country hitchhiker in Toledo, Ohio, I stood on the on ramp to I-70 for ten hours without a ride. No matter what I did or didn't do, no matter how much I prayed, meditated, or surrendered, where I stood, how I stood, or what sudden deals I made with God, no one would pick me up. No one...

To be continued... excerpted from my forthcoming book, Storytelling for the Revolution.

MitchDitkoff.com

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:44 PM | Comments (0)

March 21, 2017
The Very Unexpected Journey

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Yesterday was a very off-the-grid day for me. It began as most of my days do here in San Miguel. I slept until I wasn't tired. I meditated. Then I checked my email. Upon noticing the internet was down, I got the keys to my out-of-town neighbor's apartment, let myself in, booted up my Mac, and logged onto a webinar I very much wanted to attend.

So far, so good. The sun was shining. Donald Trump was not yet President. And to my left, wrapped in silver foil, I saw something that looked like gum, so I opened it up and, seeing that it wasn't gum, but a small bar of chocolate, broke off two pieces and wolfed them down.

The webinar -- all about the phenomenon of "collective narrative" -- was surprisingly captivating -- so instead of playing the role of passive webinar participant, I decided to accept the moderator's invitation to enter comments in the chat box. "The world is an illusion, but you have to act as if it's real," I wrote, quoting Krishna.

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The webinar presenter, savvy business consultant, Peter Block, seemed almost Zen Master-like in his demeanor. Deep. Sagacious. And astoundingly precise. The more I listened, the more inspired I got, almost as if I was on the receiving end of some kind of cosmic transmission -- what spiritually-minded people would call "shakti".

Wow. This webinar was definitely impacting me. Fascinated with what I was learning and feeling a sudden need to stretch, I entered into a series of standing yoga positions that looked nothing like the ones in the books I'd bought, but never read.

Webinar over, I began packing up my stuff, but the process of packing seemed to be taking a very long time.

"Hmmm", I thought to myself. "Maybe it had something to do with me trying to process all of the cool wisdom about story that had just been shared with me."

Possible? Sure, why not? Who knows how the mind works and how it affects the body. Yes, I was moving more slowly than usual. And yes, I was feeling light-headed, but hey, I was living in a mountain town 6,000 feet above sea level! The air was thin and I, most surely, was not getting my usual dose of oxygen. Strange. I was feeling strange. Not bad strange, mind you. Good strange. Fun strange -- the kind of strange where nothing mattered and everything mattered both at the same time.

Home now, I entered the kitchen and began talking to Evelyne, my dear, sweet, wife, who mentioned that I seemed to be 'in a very different place than she was.'

"Are you OK?" she asked, a look of concern in her eyes.

"OK?" I responded. "I am more than OK." "I am divine."

Yes, I was talking. That I was sure of. But my syntax and pacing were odd -- almost as if I was translating a Dead Sea Scroll in a language I didn't quite understand.

Feeling a need to lie down, I found my way to the bedroom, turned on some music, and flopped down on the bed when all of a sudden it dawned on me that my light-headedness had nothing to do with the thin mountain air, and must have been health-related -- that I was likely experiencing the slow motion onset of a heart attack -- you know, what happens to men my age who haven't had their cholesterol checked in a while.

"Great!" I thought. "I'm going to have a heart attack in Mexico. Who knows if they'll even accept my health insurance?"

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The good news? I wasn't panicking. Not in the least. No, I was far more curious than fearful -- fascinated to discover if I had the power in me to neutralize the onsite of a heart attack through the skillful use of my mind. So I... slowed... my breathing down... way down... the kind of down I imagined cave-dwelling yogis do when they hibernate for the winter. It worked! And thirty seconds was all it took! I wasn't having a heart attack any more! I was just feeling good. Really good.

About this time, Evelyne informed me, from the kitchen, that I absolutely needed to take our neighbor's dog out for a walk and pick up the laundry three blocks away. While her request seemed poorly timed, I realized that, earlier in the day, I had promised and, being a man of my word, decided to follow through. Stuffing some pesos into my pocket, I walked downstairs, fetched the dog, and began the three block trek to my local lavandaria.

As I walked the back streets of San Miguel, it soon became obvious that my gait had a bit of a stumbling quality to it. I wasn't so much walking as meandering. Yes, technically speaking, I was moving forward, but not directly forward -- an experience I realized was not all that uncommon in beautiful San Miguel, what with the cobblestone streets and so much beauty to distract you. So I let that thought go, but then another took its place -- a now very familiar thought -- the heart attack thought -- the same one I had just minutes ago in my light-filled apartment.

Could it be? Was this really happening to me? Was I just about to die? Passing out on the street, near the intersection of Refugio and Vergel, would not be a good thing. First of all, I had no clue how to say "Excuse me, I am having a heart attack. Please take me to the nearest hospital." And secondly, I didn't want to worry Evelyne.

Clear that dying of a heart attack was not a good idea, I immediately returned to my earlier mind-over-matter practice and simply gathered my centrifugal energy. Bingo! Victory! It worked like a charm. Suddenly, I was not having heart attack. On the contrary, I was having some kind of spontaneously occurring spiritual experience -- an unexpected opening of my kundalini, I think, or my chakras, or whatever happens on the inner planes when someone becomes awakened.

Possible? For sure. Why not? Indeed, I had often read about this kind of unexpected infusion of mystical power -- much like the New Jersey housewife, years ago, who suddenly was able to channel enlightened souls from the great beyond -- or Meher Baba, one of my early teachers, whose own teacher hit him between the eyes with a small rock, causing him to wander around India for weeks, totally out of his mind.

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"God intoxicated" was the phrase used to describe him. "Ecstatic."

Might this be the state of consciousness I had unexpectedly entered into? I mean, really, I was blissed out of my tree -- in a state of pure being -- a realm I might never return from -- most likely, my new normal -- a realm of existence that was clearly going to require some integration on my part. That is, if I was ever wanted to find my socks again.

Flashing on my list of undone tasks for the day , I remembered I had a conference call coming up with a prospective client from a large corporation -- a call to explore my ideas for how I could help 1,400 of their tax auditors, in just 70 minutes, become more innovative.

As I announced this to Evelyne, upon my return, she was not, shall we say, confident I was in the right frame of mind for such a communication. Always the optimist, I assured her I was fine and proceeded to lie down on the bed to organize my thinking. Ninja-like, I started writing notes on a yellow legal pad, three pages worth -- very little of which was legible -- when I realized that the real point I wanted to make on the call was not a point at all, but a question -- perhaps, even, THE question: "What do you want to create?"

I mean, really, if a multi-billion dollar organization wanted me to have some kind impact on 1,400 of their tax auditors in just 70 minutes, it sure seemed important that I understood what outcome they were looking for. Right? So I jotted down my question, dialed the number, and proceeded to have an extremely lucid 30-minute call with two women from the financial services industry who, it seemed, were becoming increasingly intrigued with what I had to say -- so much so, in fact, that they asked me to submit a detailed proposal by the end of business day Friday.

It was 3:30 pm when the call ended. Remembering that Evelyne and I had guests coming for dinner in three hours, I began rallying my troops, some of whom most definitely had deserted. I washed some dishes. I set the table. I found my stuff and cleaned it up.

Dinner was fantastic. The conversation was inspiring. Many jokes and stories were told. And then, about 45 minutes into the meal, my downstairs neighbor, having just returned from his day trip to Queretaro and wanting to thank us for taking care of his dog, walked into the kitchen and started talking to Evelyne. I could hear loud laughter. Much loud laughter. Borderline hysterical laughter.

Then they both appeared in the dining room.

"How was the chocolate?" my neighbor asked. "Did you like it?"

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A great silence filled the room. Ahhh.... NOW I understood! The chocolate I had eaten six hours ago was not your average piece of Mexican chocolate. It was, shall we say, of the "medicinal" variety -- and the amount I had eaten was more than enough for two people. Cosmic shakti coming through my laptop? No. Slow motion heart attack? Not quite. Thin mountain air? Uh uh. Spontaneous spiritual transmission from the great beyond? Not today.

Those, of course, were all great stories -- narratives I had told myself several times today, but they were pure fiction. The real story -- the story behind the story -- was the story of how I am, just like you and all of of the other 7 billion people on planet Earth, a story-making machine, a spontaneous crafter of tales. Something happens -- a thought, a word, a deed, a moment in time -- and we do our best to make sense out of it, connecting the dots in our own curious, mood-driven way.

We perceive. We conceive. We interpret. We express. Our choice? To embrace it all. To enjoy it all. To go with the proverbial flow. And, most importantly, to realize that we are the Writer, Producer, Director, and Star of our own show.

More of my stories here

My day job

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January 17, 2017
The Flower from the Sky

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Be Here Now was the Bible of the 1960's or, if not the Bible, then at least the Bhagavad Gita -- a book that bridged the gap between East and West for an entire generation of long-haired, counter culture, God-seeking souls. And I was one of them.

The author of the book, Baba Ram Dass -- the ex-Harvard psychologist and popularizer of LSD -- was fast becoming a new kind of spiritual rock star. He had just returned from his pilgrimage to India with a ton of love and something far better than the Holy Grail -- the ability to communicate the essence of Eastern wisdom in ways even suburban hippies could understand.

I read his book five times the first month I owned it. I read it twice the second month. So when I heard that he was going to be speaking just a few miles from my abode in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I bought a ticket and went.

The evening was divided into three parts: Part One was a kind of introduction -- Ram Dass holding forth in ways even your mother would enjoy. He was charming. He was inspiring. And he made a lot of sense. A hour into his discourse, Ram Dass announced that there was going to be an intermission and that if anyone REALLY needed to leave, now would be a good time. And so some did.

Part Two went deeper. Much deeper. If Part One was Spirituality 101, Part Two was graduate school, complete with astounding stories about his Guru, the blanket-wearing, Neem Karoli Baba. After an hour or so, he informed the audience there was going to be yet another break, the perfect time, he explained, for anyone to leave who had to get home for any reason. And so, another bunch of people left, leaving about half of the original audience in the hall -- the hard core -- people who weren't going to leave until Ram Dass, himself, left or hell froze over, which ever came first.

Part Three went even deeper -- a magical mystery tour into various nooks and crannies of the spiritual adventure that all of us were on, no matter what path we walked. And then, as the midnight hour approached, with a sly smile and a slow bow, Ram Dass walked to the front of stage, removed the garland of flowers that adorned his neck and, one by one, began tossing flowers into the audience -- his gesture of recycling some of the love that had been directed at him all night. Immediately, most of the audience stood up and began reaching, Ram Dass continuing to toss.

When he turned in my direction, I had a decision to make. Do I stand and join the people standing all around me, or do I simply sit, cross-legged, where I was, hands on my knees in classic mudra position, thumb and index finger joined, my other three fingers extended, palms upward to the sky?

Content as I was, free of need, I did not move. I just sat there, watching Ram Dass toss another flower. It was yellow and I could see it coming towards me -- in slow motion, it seemed, a kind of time lapse photography of my life. The closer it got, the more people reached for it, everyone wanting a memento of the evening. I continued sitting my ground. Looking up, it felt as if I was living in a giant pin ball machine, the many arms above me, all at different levels, flippers poised for action. The tallest person near me was the first to touch it, but when they closed their hand, they missed and the flower continued its descent. A second person reached... and then a third -- in a succession of seven -- each failing to catch the object of their desire. I did nothing. I just sat there, watching, both of my hands open on my knees.

And then with absolutely no effort, not a millimeter of adjustment to the falling object from the sky, the flower landed perfectly in my right hand, bright yellow petals facing upward to the sky.

Just... like.... that.

COMMENTARY:
This little story happened to me 44 years ago, but it feels like yesterday. And WHY it feels like yesterday is because the lesson I learned was a timeless one.

What kind of effort do I need to make in life? What does it take to accomplish what it is I want? For most of my life, I have made a ton of effort, standing tall, reaching for what I want. Effort, I have reasoned, is what it takes to accomplish my goals. Effort... and tenacity... and a whole lot of perseverance. Who can argue with that? Read about the lives of anyone who has ever made a difference in the world and you will discover they have made a tremendous amount of effort. Makes sense. True. I get it. But there are times when the garden variety kind of effort human beings make will not suffice -- when trying... and reaching... and grasping... actually get in the way. Ever try to catch a milkweed pod floating by you? More often than not, just the wind of your reaching will be enough to push it further away. Bold reaching doesn't always work. Nor does grasping. Sometimes, we need to let things come to us. Sometimes, we need to simply strike the pose of RECEIVING and trust the process of our life.

That's how the flower landed in my hand. And that's how the flower will land in your hand. Knowing when to sit and when to stand, of course, is something only you can decide. There is no formula, no blueprint to follow. It's a moment-by-moment act of discovery. If you are experiencing, these days, that all of your standing and reaching and grasping is leaving you empty-handed, consider another approach. Slow down. Sit still. Open your eyes and your heart and your hands and let whatever you want come to you in its own sweet time.

Excerpted from my forthcoming book
My favorite website

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:12 PM | Comments (0)

September 27, 2016
The Best Archer in All of China

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Once upon a time, in China, there was a young man named Wu Li, a most gifted archer -- so gifted, in fact, that by the time Wu Li was 21, he was known, far and wide, as the best archer in all of China.

One day, upon returning home from yet another tournament victory, Wu Li found himself rushing through a marketplace and bumping into an old man carrying a basket of potatoes which went flying everywhere as the old man fell to the ground with a thud.

"Old man!" shouted Wu Li, "Get out of my way! Don't you know who I am?"

The old man looked up, squinting. "Oh yes... I know who you are. You are Wu Li, second best archer -- all of China."

"Second best?" bellowed the Wu Li "Second? Surely, you humor me, grandfather. I am the best. Everyone knows there is no one in all of China who can beat me."

The old man, slowly gathering his potatoes, nodded his head. "Oh yes, you are great, my young friend. But there is... ONE... even greater than you!"

Wu Li laughed. "Surely you jest, old man. Tell me, who is this impostor you speak of? Where does he live?"

"Oh," replied the old man as if entering a temple. "His name... is Master Po. He lives many miles to the North -- high atop Mt. Chan."

"Then I will go and challenge him,' putting an end to all of this nonsense once and for all."

Pushing past the old man, Wu Li marched off into the distance

For 30 days and nights he traveled -- through wind and fire, lightning, and hail. When he arrived at the foot of the mountain, Wu Li could not believe his eyes. The mountain was sheer rock, covered with ice, and pitched at a 90 degree angle straight up to the sky.

A lesser man would have ended his journey right then and there. But not Wu Li. He climbed. And when he was done climbing, he climbed some more.

On the 8th day of his ascent, the crest of the mountain now visible through the mist, Wu Li reached over head, found a small outcrop of rock, pulled himself up, stood to his full height, and found himself looking at what appeared to be a little old man sitting under a blanket.

Wu Li opened his mouth to speak, but it was the old man who spoke. "Welcome wayfarer, I... have... been... expecting you."

Wu Li took a breath. "I AM WU LI -- best archer in all of China. I challenge you."

The old man, motionless as the mountain, smiled, bowed, then looked to the sky.

"Very well... as you are my guest, please, my friend... go first."

Wu Li grabbed an arrow from his quiver, notched it on the string of his bow, closed one eye, tilted his head, drew the string back and, with all his might, let the arrow fly.

As the arrow neared the top of its flight, Wu Li pulled a second from his quiver and shot it high, halving the first in two and, in a rapid succession of ten, continued, each arrow splitting the one before it, arrow halves landing in a perfect circle around Master Po and, upon entering the ground, made the ancient sound of Om.

"Hmm," said the Master. "Impressive, most impressive. Now, it is my turn."

Reaching behind him (where there would have been a quiver if he had a quiver), he pulled what would have been an arrow (if he had an arrow), notched what would have been a string on what would have been a bow, closed one eye, pulled slowly back, paused for what seemed like eternity, and then -- in slow motion pantomime -- let go.

Smiling ever so slightly, he turned to his challenger.

"You, my friend," explained Master Po, "have mastered the art of shooting with a bow and arrow. I, on the other hand, have mastered the art of shooting without a bow and arrow."

(Adapted from an old Zen story)

New book by Prem Rawat: Splitting the Arrow

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:09 AM | Comments (1)

August 10, 2016
What I Learned From Listening to Ravel's Bolero for 14 Hours Straight

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During the course of a lifetime a human being goes through many rites of passage. Birth, for example. First love. The death of a loved one and enduring a Republican primary debate. For me, one of the most memorable rites of passage happened in college during my "pledge weekend" -- the weekend I was initiated into a fraternity.

I realize, of course -- especially in these politically correct times -- that college fraternities are rarely associated with anything remotely smacking of insight, awareness, or transformation. But for me it most certainly was -- at least on the rite of passage night I was initiated into Pi Lambda Phi -- an experience now permanently etched into whatever remains of my mind.

The initiation?

To sit blindfolded in a pitch black room, next to 21 of my sweating classmates, all of us holding 17 marbles in our left hands while listening to Ravel's Bolero for 14 hours.

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That is not a misprint, folks. Fourteen hours of Bolero. Fourteen.

If you are not familiar with Bolero, allow me to briefly introduce it to you. It goes a little something like this: dahhhh, dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah, dah, dah dah dahhhh, dah dah dah, dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah.

It is, shall we say, an extremely REPETITIVE piece of music, a kind of mental military mantra, one that requires the kind of refined sensibility to appreciate that none of us in that room possessed. I think the operational word here is TORTURE -- a kind of classical music waterboarding experience I still have not yet completely recovered from. Five minutes of Bolero is usually enough for most people. Fourteen hours is like the last year of a really bad marriage.

Now here's where it really gets interesting... by the grace of the Bolero gods and the fact that the recording we were listening to had been made on a reel to reel tape player, every 17 minutes or so there would be a four second delay before the music looped back to the beginning. FOUR SECONDS. That was it. Every 17 minutes we had a four second reprieve from Mrs. Ravel's lunatic son.

What I learned during those four seconds taught me a lesson I will never forget.

Those four seconds were not memorable because of the SILENCE itself, but because of what happened DURING that silence -- the space that opened up -- a chance for the 22 of us to enjoy a blast of divine humor -- humor initiated by the youngest of us in the room that day, the Honorable Barry "Boonbeam" Birnbaum (now a much sought after attorney in New York City). What Barry did during those precious few seconds not only renewed and refreshed us, it most likely prevented the lot of us from spending the rest of our lives in a loony bin.

"Nice beat, but you can't dance to it" was Barry's comment during the first of our four second reprieves. "More bass! More bass!" was his commentary the second time around. "I much prefer the London Philharmonic version", he interjected after Round Three. And so and so on it went, 49 times every 17 minutes throughout that dark night of our collective soul.

The smiles and laughter that followed Barry's comments refreshed our minds and rebooted our souls. Humor saved the day. Humor gave us new life. Or as Gandhi once confessed: "If I had no sense of humor I would long ago have committed suicide."

Humor is the great equalizer, no matter who you are and what you do. It opens the heart, relaxes the mind, diffuses worry, energizes, uplifts, renews, restores, and rejuvenates. I like to think of it as one of the core universal truths on planet Earth. Beyond this Earth, I cannot say for sure, other than my perception that ETs from other worlds, at least in the pictures I've seen of them, never seem to be smiling. I don't get it. They all so serious. All that "advanced consciousness" and still no sense of humor. Really? REALLY?

I have no idea if extraterrestrials listen to Bolero or think George Carlin is funny, but I do know this: HUMOR IS A GIFT FROM GOD. Humor is divine. Humor is wisdom wearing a smile.

Why else do you think the court jesters had the ear of the King?

This story is NOT included in my new book on personal storytelling. It would have been cool to have included it, but I didn't write it until the manuscript was done.

PS: If you like my blog, feel free to SUBSCRIBE. Simply enter your email address in the space provided in the sidebar and click "submit." Then click on the "verification email" you will receive to confirm your subscription. Once done, you will receive an email alert everytime something new is posted. And it's free. Free is good.

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August 03, 2016
The Martial Arts of the Mind

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Ten years ago I was invited to teach a course on "Innovation and Business Growth" at GE's Crotonville Management Development Center for 75 high potential, business superstars of the future. The GE executive who hired me was a very savvy guy with the unenviable task of orienting new adjunct faculty members to GE's high standards and often harsher reality.

My client's intelligence was exceeded only by his candor as he proceeded to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that GE gave "new instructors" two shots at making the grade -- explaining, with a wry smile, that most outside consultants were intimidated the first time they taught at GE and weren't necessarily at the top of their game.

I'm not sure how you say it in Esperanto, but in English what he said translates as "The heat is on, big time."

I knew I would have to raise my game if I expected to be invited back after my two-session audition was over.

And so I went about my business of getting ready, keeping in mind that I was going to be leading a 6-hour session for 75 of GE's "best and brightest" flown half way around the world -- high flying Type A personalities with a high regard for themselves and a very low threshold for anything they judged to be unworthy of their time.

I had five weeks to prepare, five weeks to get my act together, five weeks to dig in and front load my agenda with everything I needed to wow my audience: case studies, statistics, quotes, factoids, and more best practices than you could shake an iPhone at.

I was ready. Really ready. Like a rookie center fielder on designer steroids, I was ready.

Or so I thought.

The more I spoke, the less they listened. The less they listened, the more I spoke, trotting out "compelling" facts and truckloads of information to make my case as they blankly stared and checked their email under the table.

Psychologists, I believe, would characterize my approach as "compensatory behavior."

I talked faster. I talked louder. I worked harder -- attempting in various pitiful ways to pull imaginary rabbits out of imaginary hats.

Needless to say, GE's best and brightest -- for the entire 45 minutes of my opening act -- were not impressed.

Clearly, I was playing a losing game.

My attempt to out-GE the GE people was a no-win proposition. I didn't need new facts, new statistics, or new quotes. I needed a new approach -- a way to secure the attention of my audience and help them make the shift from left-brained skepticism to right-brained receptivity.

And I needed to do it five minutes, not 45.

The next few days were very uncomfortable for me, replaying in my head -- again and again -- my lame choice of an opening gambit and wondering what, in the world, I could do to get better results in much less time.

And then, like an unexpected IPO from Mars, it hit me. The martial arts!

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As a student of Aikido, I knew how amazing the martial arts were and what a great metaphor they were for life.

Fast forward a few weeks...

My second session, at Crotonville, began exactly like the first -- with the Program Director reading my bio to the group in an heroic attempt to impress everyone. They weren't.

Taking my cue, I walked to center stage, scanned the audience and uttered nine words.

"Raise your hand if you're a bold risk taker."

Not a single hand went up. Not one.

I stood my ground and surveyed the room.

"Really?" I said. "You are GE's best and brightest and not one of you is a bold risk taker? I find that hard to believe."

Ten rows back, a hand went up. Slowly. Halfway. Like a kid in a high school math class, not wanting to offend the teacher.

"Great!" I bellowed, pointing to the semi-bold risk taker. "Stand up and join me in the front of the room!"

You could cut the air with a knife.

I welcomed my assistant to the stage and asked him if had any insurance -- explaining that I had called him forth to attack me from behind and was going to demonstrate a martial arts move shown to me by my first aikido instructor, a 110-pound woman who I once saw throw a 220-pound man through a wall.

Pin drop silence.

I asked our bold risk taker to stand behind me and grab both of my wrists and instructed him to hold on tight as I attempted to get away -- an effort that yielded no results.

I casually mentioned how the scenario being played out on stage is what a typical work day has become for most of us -- lots of tension, resistance, and struggle.

With the audience completely focused on the moment, I noted a few simple principles of Aikido -- and how anyone, with the right application of energy and the right amount of practice, could change the game.

As I demonstrated the move, my "attacker" was quickly neutralized and I was no longer victim, but in total control.

In three minutes, things had shifted. Not only for me and my attacker, but for everyone in the room.

That's when I mentioned that force was not the same thing as power -- and that martial artists know how to get maximum results with a minimum of effort -- and that, indeed, INNOVATION was all about the "martial arts of the mind" -- a way to get extraordinary results in an elegant way.

PS: I was invited back 26 times to deliver the course.

THE COMMENTARY

Every day, no matter what our profession, education, or astrological sign, we are all faced with the same challenge -- how to effectively communicate our message to others.

This challenge is particularly difficult these days, given the glut of information we all must contend with. The amount of information available to us is doubling every ten years! Yearly, more than one million books are published. Daily, we are bombarded with more 6,000 advertising messages and 150 emails. As a result, most of us find ourselves in a defensive posture, protecting ourselves from the onslaught of input.

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What I've discovered in the past 25 years of working with some of the world's most powerful organizations is that if I really want to have get my message across, I've got to deliver it in a what that gets past the "guardians at the gate" -- the default condition of doubt, disengagement, and derision that comes with the territory of life in the 21st century business world.

My rite of passage at GE was a microcosm of this phenomenon.

Indeed, my presumptive effort to "win over my audience" by impressing them with data, case studies, and best practices was a losing game. Not only was I barking up the wrong tree, I was in the wrong forest.

The key to my breaking through the collective skepticism of GE's best and brightest wasn't a matter of information. It was a matter transformation.

They didn't need to analyze, they needed to engage -- and it was my job to make that easy to do. Or, as Mahatma Gandhi so deftly put it, I had to "be the change I wanted to see in the world."

I had to do something that invoked the curious, playful, and associative right brain, not the logical, linear, analytical left brain -- tricky business, indeed, especially when you consider that most business people, these days, have a very low threshold for anything they judge to be impractical

Which is why I chose the martial arts as the operational metaphor at GE, my attempt to move them from the Dow to the Tao.

Impractical? Not at all.

Bottom line, whether we know it or not, we have all entered the "experience economy" -- a time when being involved is at least as important as being informed.

Information is no longer sufficient to spark change. Data is no longer king. Thinking only takes us part of the way home. It's feeling that completes the journey -- the kind of feeling that leads to full on curiosity and the kind of engagement that opens the door to exciting new possibilities.

Which is exactly what happened at GE when I made the shift from marshaling my facts, to marshaling my energy -- and by extension, the energy of 75 of GE's best and brightest.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT: What message have you been trying to deliver (with too little impact) that might be communicated in a totally different way -- a way that more successfully engages people and leads to measurable results?

Excerpted from Storytelling at Work
Idea Champions
Applied Innovation
My Keynotes
It All Began With Balls
Big Blues from the Viagra People

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:14 AM | Comments (0)

July 06, 2016
What I Learned From Ten Chemical Salesmen and Some Masking Tape

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As a person infinitely more interested in alchemy than chemistry, not once during my formative years as a young entrepreneur did I ever, once, aspire to sit in a room with 10 middle-aged, overweight chemical salesmen from New Jersey -- modern day Willy Lomans driving 100,000 miles each year to call on purchasing agents from Maine to Virginia in a heroic attempt to sell more of their company's product and, eventually, win the "President's Award" that would be bestowed on them, at their year end pow wow, in the Oakwood Room or the Bellmore Room or some other vapidly named meeting space in a modestly priced hotel still trying to figure out how to reduce their high rate of employee turnover.

But that's exactly where I found myself.

Somehow, their boss, my client, a Regional Manager responsible for convincing upper management that this year was going to be a banner year -- had gotten my name and asked me if I could help his people get out of the box and increase sales by 20%.

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While my more politically correct friends chided me for choosing to work with a chemical company, I had absolutely no problem with my choice -- having long ago made peace with the fact that every business, no matter what industry or how skillful its PR department was in raising its perceived value, had something wrong with it.

Unless I wanted to be a potter in Vermont, there was always going to be something unseemly about the marketplace. And besides, I had a wife and two young kids to support.

The morning session with the ten chemical salesmen was all they hoped it would be -- an upbeat opportunity to bond and brainstorm. The ideas were flowing and so was the coffee. Everyone was happy.

During the lunch break, I stayed back to set things up for the afternoon session -- one I was planning to begin with a hands on activity that required me placing a 20 foot length of masking tape on the floor, parallel to the entrance, which I proceeded to do without a second thought.

At 1:00, the time I had asked everyone to be in their seats, the room was totally empty. Just me and the briefcases they had left behind.

Maybe I had the time wrong.

I looked at my watch. I looked at the clock on the wall. Both of them had the exact same time: 1:00, the time the afternoon session was supposed to begin. Then I looked at the door. It was open, but all ten of the chemical salesmen were standing outside the door, in the hallway, unmoving, as if they were waiting for a bus.

"C'mon in guys", I called. "It's time for the afternoon session to begin."

"We can't", they replied, standing their ground.

I walked across the room and asked them why.

In unison, they pointed to the 20-foot length of tape on floor.

"Hey it's OK, guys. It's just a piece of tape -- just part of an activity we'll be doing in a little while. It's no big deal."

But they just stood there, looking at me. Frozen in time. As if the tape was electrified. As if they were about to do something very wrong. As if they were going to make a BIG MISTAKE they would, somehow, later regret.

COMMENTARY:

It is now 20 years later and the image of those 10 chemical salesmen, unmoving, convinced they were not allowed to step over the line, is still very much with me, burned into whatever part of my brain is reserved for moments like this.

I owe these gentleman an eternal debt of gratitude because they helped me understand a part of the human psyche that I had never seen as dramatically before -- how the decisions we make about what we can do and what we can't do are often utterly arbitrary, ruled more by the meaning we ascribe to phenomena than by any intrinsic, irreversible Laws of Nature.

The chemical salesman saw the masking tape on the floor and interpreted it as meaning STOP. Their conclusion was a function of their collective generalization of past experiences they had about lines -- unbroken white lines in the middle of a highway, property lines separating neighbor from neighbor, and countless "B" movies where the tough guy draws a line in the sand with a stick and dares anyone to cross it or "else."

Yes, of course, some lines serve a purpose. I'm glad that the guy driving 75 mph in the oncoming lane doesn't cross the line. That's a good thing.

But the moment with the chemical salesmen was not the interstate. It was just a piece of masking tape on the floor in a hotel meeting room. No game was being played. No rules had been set. There was absolutely nothing to lose by stepping over it.

Wherever I go in corporate America, I see this same phenomenon playing out in a thousand different ways -- less visible, perhaps, than my moment with the chemical salesmen, but just as limiting.

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What are we so afraid of? What line are we afraid of stepping over? What imagined consequences paralyze us at the threshold and prevent us from moving forward?

One of the reasons why innovation is inert in so many organizations is because masses of intelligent, innately creative people are interpreting tape on the floor as lines that cannot be crossed. We are fabricating boundaries where none exist. We are drawing lines in space -- lines that separate, isolate, and marginalize. Lines between us and our customers. Lines between the past and the present. Lines between what's possible and what's not.

The bottom line?

All obstacles are no more than 20 foot lengths of masking tape on the floor. Whether you put them there or someone else puts them there, they have no power other than the power you attribute to them. If the lines are no longer useful, remove them. If you try to remove them and you are besieged by a raging hoard of anxious people trying to convince you to stop, it may be time to move on. Find another company with less lines. Or start your own.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

On an 8 X 11 piece of paper, napkin, wall, or extended stretch of sandy beach, make two columns: Column #1: "20 Foot Pieces of Masking Tape I Haven't Yet Stepped Over" and Column #2: "What I Will Do This Month to Step Over Them."

If, having done so, you still aren't inspired to step over the line, contemplate the following quotes from some of my favorite steppers over lines.

"Don't be afraid to take a big step. You can't cross a chasm in two small jumps." -- David Lloyd George

"Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it." -- Goethe

"Security is mostly a superstition. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." -- Helen Keller

"It's not because things are difficult that we dare not venture. It's because we dare not venture that they are difficult." -- Seneca

"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far it is possible to go." -- T.S. Eliot

This story is excerpted from my forthcoming book, WISDOM AT WORK: How Moments of Truth on the Job Reveal the Real Business of Life. If you are a publisher or know of a publisher who would resonate with this kind of material, email info@ideachampions.com.

Excerpted from this book
Another one from the book
Idea Champions
Step over the line
Step over the line with some aspiring innovators
Help others step over the line

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:24 AM | Comments (0)

April 18, 2016
The Origins of the Stop Sign

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I've been doing some fascinating research lately on the origins of common objects in our lives -- things we see daily, but often take for granted. Like the Stop Sign, for example.

Most people think the Stop Sign was created to regulate traffic. Not true. According to Dr. Ellison Burke of the Global Institute for Slowing Things Down Before You Hurt Yourself, the origin of the Stop Sign has nothing to do with traffic -- and dates back several thousand years.

Historical references to the Stop Sign have been noted in more than 27 civilizations, most notably Babylonia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Sumeria, Crete, Rome, and the Han Dynasty.

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According to social scientists, each of these civilizations experienced one or more periods of rapid growth now referred to in the literature as "Societal Acceleration Syndrome" -- the way in which daily transactions speed up in proportion to a civilization's escalating Gross National Product.

In other words, speed has become one of the most statistically predicable indicators of a civilization's development and, as I will note later in this article, eventual decline.

My research doesn't end here, however. In each of the above-mentioned civilizations, there have always been a small, but vocal group of citizens who -- concerned about the quickening pace of daily life -- have warned the masses about this dangerous phenomenon.

Indeed, a joint longitudinal study conducted by the Yukon Archeological Institute and the Asian Society for Shorter Haiku, has revealed that this "small, but highly committed group of socially responsible citizens" has made repeated efforts to diffuse their respective society's "escalating addiction to velocity."

In Sumeria, for example, a fringe group of philosophers and poets routinely posted "Styopsian" signs at strategic intersections throughout the country -- not to stop traffic, but to stop unnecessary "mind movement."

Their effort resonated with the citizenry and eventually led to the widespread appearance of what modern day sociologists now refer to as "stop signs" -- in urban centers, villages, cattle crossings, and universities.

One of the most curious facts I've unearthed in my research is this: For the past 2,000 years, Stop Signs, regardless of the country of origin, have always been octagonal.

Apparently, each side of this iconic 8-sided, cross-cultural symbol for stillness, has been imbued with a secret teaching of great import:

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1. Slow down
2. Pay attention
3. Look around
4. Pause
5. Look within
6. Breathe deeply
7. Appreciate
8. Move consciously

And so... the next time you see a Stop Sign, you may want to remember that you, no matter where you think you're going or how quickly you need to get there are, in fact, in the act of receiving one of the most timeless of teachings -- one that preceded Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, texting, and Donald Trump tweeting in the middle of the night.

Next week... the YIELD SIGN.

ED NOTE: It has recently come to my attention that some readers of this blog have questioned my research methods and the veracity of my findings. A quick Google search of "Dr. Ellison Burke" and the "Global Institute for Cross-Cultural Studies," they claim, reveals not a single link. Frankly, I am baffled by their assertions and have assigned five of my brightest research assistants to get to the bottom of the matter. In the meantime, as I put to rest the niggling, naysaying deflections of my detractors, you may want to contemplate the timeless words of modern-day social scientists, Simon and Garfunkel: "Slow down, you're moving too fast, you gotta make the morning last."

This story NOT included in this book
This story NOT included in this website
This story NOT included in this training
Stop Signs 'R Us

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:50 PM | Comments (0)

April 03, 2016
The Gift of a Brand New Shirt

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ED NOTE: This lovely story, about the generosity of a grandfather's love, was written by singer/songwriter/troubadour Marc Black.

As a boy, my father did not consider himself poor, but his family had very little. He grew up in Brooklyn with two brothers, a mother who was an English teacher and a father who was often 'away on business trips'. He was particularly fond of his grandfather, Wykoff, whom they all called Wykey. He was kind of a mythic character who had a great sense of humor and was known to be strong enough to carry a piano on his back.

One day when I was quizzing my Dad about his life in Brooklyn, he fondly remembered that he used to go to visit Wykey with his younger brother. They would carry a baseball bat and run across the 'dangerous' Italian neighborhood for the visit. Beside just enjoying seeing his grandparents, he and his brother were often treated to penny candy at the corner store.

One summer day when he was about four or five years old, they visited only to find out that it was Wykey's birthday! My Dad was mortified that he didn't have a present. But then he had an idea.

He went upstairs to his grandpa's bedroom, opened the drawer where Wykey kept his laundered white shirts -- the kind that had been returned from the laundry, stiff with cardboard and looking like new. My Dad and his brother then excused themselves, saying they had to get home, but not before my Dad took one Wykey's shirts and tucked it under his own.

Then they ran all the way home, found some wrapping paper (he wasn't too clear about where or how they found this), wrapped the shirt as a present, ran back to his grandparents' house, and proudly presented their gift of a 'brand new shirt' to their grandfather. Wykey played along 100% and graciously accepted the gift. He even bragged about how his wonderful grandsons knew his exact right shirt size.

This secret was never spoken of or revealed, but the generosity of love between a grandfather and his grandchildren was on full display.

More about Marc

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:12 AM | Comments (0)

December 06, 2015
The Joys of Self Publishing

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Ever since my new book came out 10 days ago, a bunch of aspiring authors have been asking me about the pros and cons of print-on-demand self-publishing.

If that describes YOUR interest, feel free to leave your name in the comments box below and I will forward you my soon-to-be-written story about that particular phenomenon. Many pros. Few cons.

In the meantime, just this morning, I experienced one very practical PRO in regard to self-publishing. Here it is: Since I always have a bunch of books in my house, it's quite common for friends and neighbors to buy them right off of my dining room table. Being my own retailer, you might say, has given me extra insight into the "worth" of my book.

Here's the math: The book sells for $18. The cost of printing a book is $4.00 (as long as I order more than 100). That means I earn a $14 profit for every book I sell myself. OK. Interesting. But not all THAT interesting -- that is, until I get to see how my $14 profit translates in the world.

Last night, for example, my good friend, Peter Blum, bought two books. That's a $36 expense for him and a $28 profit for me -- the cashola going straight into my wallet.

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This morning, in a particularly "home improvement" mode, I went to my local hardware store and bought two roles of "weatherstrip and caulking caulk". That cost me $10.51. Then I went to Bread Alone, my local cafe, and had a soy latte, pumpkin muffin, and Daily News. Let's call that $7.25. Freshly caffeinated, I made the short trek over to my local pet store to buy Chili, my wonder dog, a few cans of healthy dog food. So there goes another $10.25.

So there you have it -- two books sold in exchange for keeping the Northeast winter chill out of my house, treating myself to some yummies, and feeding my dog for a day and a half.

This is just ONE reason why I enjoy the print-on-demand self-publishing route. It makes the life of a writer even more down to earth -- less like an "auteur" and more like a welder.

So...if you want to contribute to my ongoing experiment of earning my living via writing, all you need to do is click this Amazon link and decide whether or not you want the old-fashioned PAPERBACK version of my book or the download-to-the-device-of-your-choice KINDLE version.

One book purchased by you equals any of the following for me: a large chunk of parmesan cheese, six gallons of gas, seven days of internet service, 70% of my last parking ticket, a delicious lunch (with cervesa) in San Miguel de Allende, 9 seconds of my kids college tuition, and 14 one-dollar donations to various panhandlers on the street.

Excerpts from the book (scroll)
Storytelling at Work Facebook page

Storytelling at Work podcast (interview)
Idea Champions

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Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:51 PM | Comments (0)

November 25, 2015
My New Book Now on Amazon

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Arnold Toynbee, the author of The History of Western Civilization, once said: "I sat down to write my book one summer and 27 years later it was done." I can relate. Storytelling at Work only took me four years, but sometimes it felt like 27.

Anyway, the big moment has finally arrived. My book is now available, on Amazon, in two formats: paperback and Kindle. If you believe in the power of personal storytelling to uplift, inspire, and deliver meaning that sticks, this book is for you.

And please feel free to forward the link to your friends. This is a grassroots book marketing campaign. Thanks!

Read more about it on my website

Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:55 AM | Comments (0)

ABOUT THE BLOG

Storytelling at Work is a blog about the power of personal storytelling – why it matters and what you can do to more effectively communicate your stories – on or off the job. Inspired by the book of the same name, the blog features "moment of truth" stories by the author, Mitch Ditkoff, plus inspired rants, quotes, and guest submissions by readers.

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