What I Know For Sure (8 page)

I had grown up watching my cousin Alice be physically abused by her boyfriend, and I had vowed I would never take such treatment. But sitting there on the bathroom floor after he walked out, I saw with great clarity that the only difference between Alice and me was that I hadn’t been hit. Mr. Man was wrong: I did
not
think I was special—and that was the problem. Why was I allowing myself to be treated this way?

Even with these insights it took me another year to end the relationship. I kept hoping and praying things would get better, that he would change. He never did. I started praying for the strength to end it. I’d pray and wait to feel better. And wait. And wait. All the while repeating my same old patterns.

Until one day I got it. While I was waiting on God, God was waiting on me. He was waiting on me to make a decision to either pursue the life that was meant for me or to be stifled by the one I was living. I recognized the truth that I am all right just as I am. I am enough all by myself.

That revelation brought its own miracle. Around that time the call came for me to audition for a talk show in Chicago. If I’d stayed entangled in that relationship, my life as I know it would never have happened.

What is the truth of your life? It’s your duty to know.

In order to find out, know that the truth is that which feels right and good and loving. (Love doesn’t hurt, I’ve learned in the years since I was 29. It feels really good.) It’s that which allows you to live every day with integrity.

Everything you do and say shows the world who you are. Let it be the truth.

I’ll never forget
the moment when I decided to always choose myself. I recall what I was wearing (a blue turtleneck and black slacks), where I was sitting (in my boss’s office), what the chair looked and felt like (brown paisley, too deep and overstuffed)—when my boss, the general manager at the Baltimore TV station where I worked, said, “There’s no way you can make it in Chicago. You’re walking into a land mine and you can’t even see it. You’re committing career suicide.”

He used every tactic he could muster to entice me to stay—more money, a company car, a new apartment, and finally, intimidation: “You’re going to fail.”

I didn’t know if he was right. I didn’t have the confidence to believe I could succeed. But somehow I gathered the nerve to say to him before standing up and walking out, “You’re right, I may not make it and I may be walking into land mines. But if they don’t kill me, at least I’ll keep growing.”

In that moment, I chose happiness—the lasting happiness that abides with me every day because I decided not to be afraid and to move forward.

Staying in Baltimore would have been the safe thing to do. But sitting in my boss’s office, I knew that if I let him talk me into staying, it would affect the way I felt about myself forever. I would always wonder what could have been. That one choice changed the trajectory of my life.

I live in a state of exhilarated contentment (my definition of happiness), fueled by a passion for everything I’m committed to: my work, my colleagues, my home, my gratitude for every breath taken in freedom and peace. And what makes it sweeter is knowing for sure that I created this happiness. It was my choice.

Time is fleeting.
Those of you with children are ever cognizant of this fact—because your children keep growing out of and into themselves. The goal for all of us is to keep growing out of ourselves, too, evolving to our best possible lives.

Somewhere deep within me, even when I was a teenager, I always sensed that something bigger was in store for me—but it was never about attaining wealth or celebrity. It was about the process of continually seeking to be better, to challenge myself to pursue excellence on every level.

What I know for sure: Only when you make that process your goal can your dream life follow. That doesn’t mean your process will lead you to wealth or fame—in fact, your dream may have nothing to do with tangible prosperity and everything to do with creating a life filled with joy, one with no regrets and a clear conscience. I’ve learned that, yes, wealth is a tool that gives you choices—but it can’t compensate for a life not fully lived, and it certainly can’t create a sense of peace within you. The whole point of being alive is to become the person you were intended to be, to grow out of and into yourself again and again.

I believe you can do this only when you stop long enough to hear the whisper you might have drowned out, that small voice compelling you toward your calling. And what happens then? You face the biggest challenge of all: to have the courage to seek your dream regardless of what anyone else says or thinks. You are the only person alive who can see your big picture—and even you can’t see it all. The truth is that as much as you plan and dream and move forward in your life, you must remember you are always acting in conjunction with the flow and energy of the universe.

Move in the direction of your goal with all the force and verve you can muster—and then let go, releasing your plan to the Power that’s bigger than yourself and allowing your dream to unfold as its own masterpiece. Dream big—very big. Work hard—very hard. And after you’ve done all you can, fully surrender to the Power.

Awe

“In the word
question
, there is a beautiful word—quest. I love that word.”

—Elie Wiesel

I no longer make
a list of New Year’s resolutions. I do, however, give considerable thought every January as to how I can continue to move forward.

One New Year’s morning, I was sitting on my front porch in Hawaii, overlooking the ocean, meditating. I prayed to be more resolved about being fully conscious, allowing every experience to bring me closer to the deepest essence of life.

By nightfall my prayer had been answered in the most profound spiritual encounter I’ve ever had.

My friend Bob Greene and I were taking a hike. The sun had set, leaving wisps of lavender ribbons across the sky. Clouds moving down from the mountain spread out over the ocean, with only a small opening through which we could see the moon. All around us was the cloud mist and just one clear space of sky glowing with the light of a crescent moon.

“Look at that,” Bob said. “It looks like the DreamWorks logo. I feel like climbing up and sitting there with a fishing pole.”

It was surreal.

As we continued our walk, Bob turned to me and said, “Stop a minute.”

I stopped.

“Can you hear that?” he whispered.

I could—and it took my breath away. “It” was the sound of silence. Utter and complete stillness. So still I could hear my own heart beating. I wanted to hold my breath, because even inhaling and exhaling was a cacophony. There was absolutely no movement, no breeze, no recognition of air, even; it was the sound of nothing and everything. It felt like all life … and death … and beyond contained in one space, and I was not just standing in it, I was also
part
of
it.
This was the most peaceful, coherent, knowledgeable moment I’ve ever experienced. Heaven on earth.

We stood there for the longest time. Trying not to breathe, in awe, I realized this was exactly what I had asked for earlier in the day. This is the meaning of “Ask, and it shall be given … seek, and ye shall find.” That moment was indeed “the deepest essence of life.” And what I know for sure: That moment is always available to us. If you peel back the layers of your life—the frenzy, the noise—stillness is waiting.

That stillness is you.

This is what I call a “glory, glory, hallelujah” moment. I wanted to hold on to it forever, and I have. Sometimes I’ll be in the middle of a meeting, with people lined up outside my door, and I’ll just inhale and take myself back to the road, the clouds, the moon.… Stillness. Peace.

I’m often confronted by
things about which I have no certainty at all. But I for sure believe in miracles. For me, a miracle is seeing the world with light in your eyes. It’s knowing there’s always hope and possibility where none seems to exist. Many people are so closed to miracles that even when one is boldly staring them in the face, they label it coincidence. I call it like I see it. To me, miracles are confirmation that something larger than us is at work. I believe they happen not just sometimes but every single day, if we are open to seeing them.

In my own life, miracles often involve the simplest things, like being able to run five miles in less than fifty minutes. Or being exhausted after a long run and craving a bowl of red pepper and tomato soup—then walking into the kitchen to find that my godmother, Mrs. E, left some on the stove for me. A miracle is watching a sunset the color of strained peaches and seeing it turn to raspberries by the end of my evening walk. It’s having pomegranate, kiwi, and mango on a pretty tray for breakfast. It’s admiring the pink peonies I cut from my own garden and placed in my bedroom. It’s when a green minivan pauses on the road and a young woman leans out the window to yell, “You’re the best teacher on TV!”—and she herself is a kindergarten teacher. It’s the sound of the birds and their individual songs and the moment when I wonder,
Are they singing to each other, to themselves, or just to be heard?

A miracle is the chance to roll in the grass with all of my dogs—and enjoy a full Sunday stretched before me with no obligations, no plans, no place to be. It’s the chance to come back to myself after a week of going, going, going and have time to finally just be—alone. To meditate on a log cabin porch, leaves rustling like water, newborn geese in the pond with their mother teaching them to swim. To feel the joy of this glorious life—and have the chance to live it as a free woman. If I know nothing else for sure, I know that the big miracles we’re waiting on are happening right in front of us, at every moment, with every breath. Open your eyes and heart and you’ll begin to see them.

Getting older is
the best thing that ever happened to me.

I awaken to a morning prayer of thanks posted on my bathroom wall from Marianne Williamson’s book
Illuminata.
Whatever age I’m at, I think about all the people who never made it that far. I think about the people who were called before they realized the beauty and majesty of life on earth.

I know for sure that every day holds within it the possibility of seeing the world with wonder.

The older I get, the less tolerance I have for pettiness and superficial pursuits. There’s a wealth that has nothing to do with dollars, that comes from the perspective and wisdom of paying attention to your life. It has everything to teach you. And what I know for sure is that the joy of learning well is the greatest reward.

I’ve heard truly amazing
stories over the years, about almost every human situation. Conflict, defeat, triumph, resilience. But I’ve rarely been more awed than I was by John Diaz’s story. In October 2000, John was on Singapore Airlines flight 006 when it exploded at takeoff. Eighty-three people perished in the flames. John and 95 others survived. John—who describes himself as a very straightforward, competitive, and pragmatic kind of guy—still endures physical pain from his injuries. But in other ways he is more alive than he was before he literally went through the fire.

The plane took off in typhoonlike conditions. Before John boarded, his instinct told him not to. He’d called the airline several times—“Are you sure this plane is taking off?”—because it was storming so badly. Peering out the window as the plane taxied, all he could see was rain. He was sitting in the very front of the plane and watched as the nose started to lift.

But the 747 had turned down the wrong runway.

At first he felt a small bump (the plane hitting a concrete barrier), followed by a huge bump right next to him where something (a backhoe) ripped a hole in the side of the plane right near where he was seated. His seat came unbolted and was thrown sideward. He could feel the motion of the plane rolling and spinning down the runway. And then it stopped. In his words:

“Then the explosion hit … a great fireball came right out and over me all the way up to the nose of the plane and then sucked straight back, almost like in the movies. And then there was this spray of jet fuel like napalm—whatever it hit … ignited like a torch.…

“And a gentleman, an Asian gentleman, comes running right up to me, fully aflame. I could see all his features, and there was a look of wonder on his face—like he didn’t even know he was dead and burning. And I figured, well, I must be the same. I really thought at that point I was dead.”

I asked John if he believed it was divine intervention that saved him. He said no. He said what helped him get out was his position in the plane and quick thinking: To protect himself from the smoke and flames, he covered his head with the leather bag he’d been encouraged not to carry on, then looked for the door and kept moving.

And then he shared something I still think about to this day.

The inside of the plane, John said, “looked like Dante’s Inferno, with people strapped to their seats, just burning. It seemed like an aura was leaving their bodies—some brighter than others.… I thought the brightness and dimness of the auras were how one lives one’s life.” John says that experience—seeing what he could only describe as auras, an energy of light leaving the bodies and floating above the flames—changed him, made him a more empathetic person. And although he still won’t call his brush with death a miracle, he does say, “I want to live my life so my aura, when it leaves, is very bright.”

What I know for sure: It is an awesome gift to be alive on this beautiful planet. And I want my time here to be as bright as it can be.

I know for sure
there is no real meaning to life without a spiritual component.

Spirit to me is the essence of who we are. It doesn’t require any particular belief. It just is. And the key to this essence is simply being aware of the present moment. It’s transformative. It redefines what it means to be alive.