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    Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Best Advice I Ever Heard: 101 Stories of Epiphanies and Wise Words
    Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Best Advice I Ever Heard: 101 Stories of Epiphanies and Wise Words
    Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Best Advice I Ever Heard: 101 Stories of Epiphanies and Wise Words
    Ebook430 pages6 hours

    Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Best Advice I Ever Heard: 101 Stories of Epiphanies and Wise Words

    By Amy Newmark

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    About this ebook

    You’ll read great advice in these pages about how to live your life to the fullest, achieve success in your career or vocation, keep your marriage fresh, and raise happy, healthy children.

     

    Have a few words of wisdom changed everything for you? Has a piece of advice from a friend, or even a stranger, opened your eyes? It only takes a few well chosen words to solve a big problem, reorient your focus, and change the trajectory of your life. We’ve been reading these stories for years—stories about how one little piece of advice made a big difference.

    So we asked the public to send us stories about the one piece of advice that reoriented them, solved a problem, or changed the trajectory of their lives. And we present an amazing new collection in these pages—101 stories that have the power to change your life, too.

    We also have plenty of stories containing great advice for making yourself happier and healthier, and for pursuing your passions and dreams. And if you take some missteps along the way we also have stories for that, with a chapter on how to turn failure into fabulous.

    What a great gift of hope and inspiration!
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChicken Soup for the Soul
    Release dateNov 6, 2018
    ISBN9781611592849
    Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Best Advice I Ever Heard: 101 Stories of Epiphanies and Wise Words
    Author

    Amy Newmark

    Amy Newmark is Publisher and Editor-in-Chief of Chicken Soup for the Soul.  

    Read more from Amy Newmark

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      Chicken Soup for the Soul - Amy Newmark

      How Sweet It Is

      There is no better way to bring people together than with desserts.

      ~Gail Simmons

      The sign said Going Out of Business Sale and it drew me into a gravel parking lot streaked with overgrown grass. The dilapidated building and I had a lot in common. I was divorced; some of my children were acting out, one so severely he was in a delinquents’ home. I felt like I was failing as a mother. The master’s degree it took me eight years to earn had priced me out of the freelance market, and the senior housing project I’d been working for sold out, so I was jobless.

      Something beckoned me inside. I strolled the picked-over aisles of the once-quaint gift shop. The rear wall was lined with plaques. One of them made me laugh out loud: Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.

      Seven months passed after that. The fifty résumés I sent out yielded two interviews and no job offers. My savings account was dwindling. I couldn’t afford to eat out, but occasionally a friend or relative would treat me. I remembered the advice on that plaque and I always ordered dessert before — or instead of — dinner!

      I got my family and friends to join me in eating dessert first. One time, my sister and I ordered an amazing chocolate creation. It was about ten inches tall, and elaborately decorated like a lighthouse, with a white chocolate beacon. It was scrumptious. Chris and I still talk about the buzz in the restaurant when we ate it first.

      Another time, a friend and I drove from Milwaukee to a writing conference in Toledo, and then drove up to Detroit to visit Chris. She and her husband Mike took us out for my birthday. On the way into the restaurant, we passed the dessert cart. In its center was a three-inch chocolate rose, festooned with carved petals. I’ll have that, I told the hostess who seated us.

      That’s not for sale; it’s just decoration, she said.

      Mike excused himself. Shortly after he came back, a waiter arrived with that rose on a fancy dessert plate, garnished with raspberry sauce.

      Mike! I exclaimed. That must have cost a fortune!

      You don’t want to know, he said.

      I don’t share well with others when it comes to chocolate. But that night, I offered to share my rose with Mike.

      Finally, serendipity led me to a new career in the cosmetics industry. I was able to finance two of my sons’ weddings. I was meeting great people and having fun. I replenished my savings account. And I could afford to buy myself those dinners — still ordering dessert first.

      I made a new friend, Audrey. Neither of us noticed the fifteen-year difference in our ages and we became fast friends. We started having lunch together every Monday.

      The wait staff laughed when we ordered dessert first, and then applauded our decision. We became regulars and went through the entire dessert menu, each ordering something different so we could share. We asked waitresses to cut each serving as equally as possible so we wouldn’t squabble about who got the larger piece. We laughed a lot. We never ran out of things to talk about. Audrey was a fount of wisdom, and I shared my faith with her.

      As time went on, Audrey’s appetite waned. We shared one dessert instead of two. She took most of her lunch home for her husband. But we spent the same amount of time chatting. Waiters and waitresses from all across the restaurant came over to our table. We knew you were here, they’d say. We could hear you laughing.

      As Audrey’s health deteriorated, it became more difficult for her to get around. Nevertheless, we clung to our Monday lunches, with dessert first, until a few weeks before she died. I miss her. I miss our bonding over apple turnovers, hot lava cake or key lime pie.

      I resolved not to let the dessert-first tradition die. One of my adult granddaughters and I get together for dinner several times a month, and we always have dessert first. We’ve gone through the dessert menu at one restaurant and have moved on to another. We talk and laugh and share the little details of our lives. I listen between the words for things she’s not saying, and I ask God’s guidance for how to respond to her needs without meddling.

      Eating dessert first is about spontaneity and not taking ourselves too seriously.

      For my birthday this year, Shauna made me a plaque: Life is short; eat dessert first. It dominates my grandma wall. We both know the message is not really about eating sweets; eating dessert first is about connecting with those we love, listening with our hearts, and sharing the things we’ve learned. Eating dessert first is about spontaneity and not taking ourselves too seriously. It’s about embracing change and living in the moment. And in those moments, in spite of their uncertainty or brevity, we glimpse how sweet life is.

      — Diane C. Perrone —

      One Brave Thing

      The biggest rewards in life are found outside your comfort zone. Live with it. Fear and risk are prerequisites if you want to enjoy a life of success and adventure.

      ~Jack Canfield

      After separating from my husband in 2004, I descended into a dark hole of depression. I was living in the little box my husband’s words and actions had built around me. I was not a brave soul, and at that point in my life I had no idea what was to come. Even though my second book had just been accepted for publication, I was stuck. I didn’t know how to move forward with my life.

      A good friend who had helped me grow strong enough to leave my husband took me out to lunch one day. After we placed our orders, she folded her hands together on the table and leaned in as if about to impart a tremendous secret.

      You’re stuck, she said.

      I blinked and nodded as tears began to fill my eyes. Stuck and scared and not sure how to fix myself enough to get unstuck.

      My friend smiled and nodded. Been there, done that, burned the T-shirt. You need to do one brave thing.

      For some reason, whenever the word need comes out of someone’s mouth in relation to my life, I immediately start thinking of reasons why I can’t do whatever the You need to… is.

      Even as I began to shake my head, my friend leaned closer. Stop. Right now. Just hear me out, okay?

      I nodded and leaned in, too.

      One brave thing a day. That’s all you have to do. Just one small thing every day, and you’ll be able to change your world forever.

      As I sat and contemplated her words, she took a sip of her iced tea.

      After nearly a minute, I asked, But what is the one brave thing I should be doing?

      She smiled in a way that made me think of Yoda. Whatever it is you’re not doing now because you’re afraid. You could make that phone call to the coffee shop asking to do a book signing, call the library and set up an appearance, submit another book, or just go next door and introduce yourself to the neighbors. All it takes is a minute of courage to start and then a deep breath to follow through. Just one thing. One brave thing. Every day. Think you can do that?

      At that moment, the waitress arrived with our lunches, so I had a minute to process.

      One brave thing a day. That’s all you have to do.

      One thing.

      Just one thing.

      That shouldn’t be too hard, I thought. And I had hundreds of things to choose from. My want-need-should list filled a dozen pages in a notebook I kept on my desk. I’d started the lists ages ago, and pulled out the notebook every couple of months to add to the lists or reprioritize the numerous entries. Rarely did I actually cross something off the list.

      As I mixed my Cobb salad together and assured the waitress that everything looked fine, I gave serious thought to my never-ending to-do list.

      One brave thing a day.

      I like it, I said finally. And I think I can do it.

      My friend smiled. You might surprise yourself. Now, can you commit to me here and now that you will do one brave thing every day for the next month?

      A month? Thirty brave things. All at once the fear that had been my constant companion for most of my life kicked in once more. I don’t know, I stammered.

      Her smile widened as compassion and understanding shined from her like a porch light in the night, somehow dispelling my trepidation. Okay, how about doing it for just a week? And really, all you have to do is one brave thing a day. Don’t look at the whole week ahead; just look at today. All I ask is that you try for the next seven days to do one thing every day that takes you out of your comfort zone. Some of them may work; some may not. All I ask is that you try. Then, once you’ve done that one thing, I want you to call me and tell me what you did and how it turned out.

      A week sounded more reasonable. And like she said, all I had to think about was today.

      Okay, I’ll do it, I said, feeling happier already.

      Good, my friend said with a grin and nod of approval.

      After she dropped me off at my apartment that afternoon, I pulled out my book of lists. Flipping through the pages, I found myself growing overwhelmed. I closed the book again, laid both hands on it and said aloud, Help me, angels. I need to do just one brave thing. What should it be? One thing. Just one thing.

      Immediately, the words book signing came to mind. The one thing I had been dreading most was putting myself out there as an author. Not giving myself time to think too much about what I was doing, I flipped to the page of possible book-signing locations. The list was complete with phone numbers. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the local library.

      Five minutes later, I hung up. My smile could not be contained. I had a date to speak to the library’s teen reading group about my young-adult novel and my life as a writer.

      I felt so excited about knocking that out of the park that I made three more calls and booked two more signing dates. Then I called my friend and thanked her.

      Even now, thirteen years later, when I find myself stuck, I remind myself of what I now refer to as OBTAD. One. Brave. Thing. A. Day.

      — Susan Walker —

      Put Enough Paint on the Brush

      Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart to give yourself to it.

      ~Buddha

      My grandfather was a house painter. No one could paint a wall like Grandpa. Consequently, he was always in demand. In his lifetime, he must have painted hundreds of houses inside and out. It wasn’t hard to tell that he loved his work as well as his life. He was a happy, outgoing man who made friends easily.

      Once, while in college, I helped Grandpa paint a house. While working inside, I noticed how skilled he was at giving a wall a quality coat of paint so quickly. As a matter of fact, he could carry on a conversation with the homeowner, laughing all the time, while painting three walls to my one.

      At one point, he stopped to watch me. He noticed how I took my time dipping the brush in the paint bucket and how I carefully wiped off both sides of the brush as I pulled it out so as not to waste any paint. Then I spread the thin coat of paint on the wall without spilling a drop. It was a slow, tedious process, but I dared not laugh or kid around for fear of making a mess.

      Finally, he gave me some advice. Here, watch this, he said, as he took the brush from my hand and dipped it into the bucket. He pulled it out heaping with paint. See, this is how you do it. Don’t worry about spills and messes. They can always be cleaned up. Treat a wall the way you treat people. Be generous. Have fun. Always put enough paint on the brush.

      With that, he turned and applied a thick coat of paint on the wall while resuming his conversation with the homeowner. Yes, he did spill a few drops, but I noticed how much better his wall looked than mine. I also noticed how much fun he was having.

      I’ll always remember the lesson my grandfather taught me that day.

      Life is not always perfect. Some days, we spill very few drops; some days, we spill a lot. The only thing that really matters is what the wall looks like when we are done (and how much fun we had painting it). Put enough paint on the brush!

      — Tom Krause —

      What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?

      Your life does not get better by chance. It gets better by change.

      ~Jim Rohn

      Most of my life, I let fear stop me from doing the things I wanted to do. I was always stopped by the what ifs. I don’t know how I managed to scratch my way out of a bad marriage. Blind determination, I suppose, driven by a desire to just get out.

      My two best friends were always there for me through it all, each supporting me in different ways. One of them was my girls’ night out gal, and we would go out for dinner and cocktails every other Friday night.

      One night, we were trying a new restaurant. As we chatted, my friend leaned in to me and whispered, The bartender keeps staring at you. I very discreetly looked over at the bar, and I practically fell out of my chair. The bartender was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen! We have to have a drink at the bar, I said. I was surprised these words came out of my mouth, as it was unusual for me to be so bold.

      We proceeded to the bar, and the exchange of energy between the bartender and me was undeniable. He was so good-looking and emitted such good energy that I felt as though he was out of my league. Quite honestly, I didn’t think I’d see him again, so when he messaged me a day later, I was floored. Throughout that week, he and I messaged back and forth. He invited me to come down while he was working, and said he’d buy me a drink. But then, the communication just dropped off. I assumed he had lost interest, but that invitation still gnawed at me.

      That weekend, my other best friend, who never gets a chance to go out, made a once-in-a-blue-moon plan to meet me for drinks. I told her I really wanted to go back to where that bartender worked. Just as I was about to leave my house, she texted me. A snag had come up, and she wasn’t sure she’d get there.

      I really wanted to go to the restaurant, but by myself? My internal thoughts were not helpful. What if she never shows? I can’t walk into a bar alone. I’m afraid to do it. I don’t even know if he’s interested. I’ll look like a fool. I sat there paralyzed with fear, swaying radically between taking off my make-up and going to bed or standing up and getting in the car. I started scrolling through pictures on my phone, mostly screenshots of social-media memes I had saved for one reason or another. Then I landed on the meme that would change my life forever. It said, What would you do if you weren’t afraid?

      It was a simple question really, but extremely profound. If I eliminate all my fears from the situation, I asked myself, what will I do? The answer was exactly what I did. I got in the car and drove straight to the restaurant. I cast fear aside and did exactly what I wanted to do, despite the negative possibilities.

      The result? He and I have been together for two years and share a wonderful home together. His love is beyond anything I could have dreamed of.

      If I hadn’t cast fear aside that night, I would have missed out on the love of my life.

      If I hadn’t cast fear aside that night, I would have missed out on the love of my life. So now, when opportunities arise and I’m apprehensive or don’t know quite what to do, I ask myself that one question: What would you do if you weren’t afraid? Whatever the outcome, at least I can say I didn’t let fear hold me back.

      — Sarafina Drake —

      Remember Who You Are

      Always be a first rate version of yourself and not a second rate version of someone else.

      ~Judy Garland

      My husband Ben and I watched as our daughter Jennifer pulled on her coat and headed out the door on a Saturday night. At sixteen, she was dating, and this was a movie night with a group of boys and girls.

      As she reached for the knob, Ben called out, Remember who you are!

      Jennifer grinned and nodded. Those words were like a warm cape she tossed onto her shoulders as she shut the door behind her.

      To Jennifer, the phrase Remember who you are meant that she was a good person, a nice girl. She knew that every time she left the house, she represented her family to the world. Her behavior reflected on all of us. Jennifer wanted to make sure she told our family’s story with her actions and words.

      To me, it meant, Remember that we love you. Remember that no matter what you do in life, our love is all encompassing. We will be there for you, through thick and thin. And remember you were chosen by a wonderful man to be a part of his life, and to carry on his legacy of kindness, goodness and dignity.

      I was a single mom when I met Ben. I found his Southern humor and down-home phrases attractive. A bachelor in his mid-thirties, he often told me he was a hard dog to keep under the porch. We started out as friends, but deeper feelings developed.

      When Ben first asked me out on a date, I assumed it would be nothing more than a few hours of fun, not the beginning of a courtship. He thought I was a nice person, although I had experienced many difficulties in life and made plenty of mistakes. And he found Jennifer to be most charming, as he would say.

      We dated for a short while, and then he dropped off the radar. I was more than a little hurt. As quickly as he had stepped into our lives, he stepped out again. Jennifer often asked about him. She was only eleven, and I wanted to protect her from the ache that comes when romance falters and sputters out, so I did my best to hide my disappointment.

      Much to my surprise, Ben called one evening several weeks later. He wanted to see us again. I reminded him that he had walked away abruptly before, and I wondered what had sparked his interest now. There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Ben spoke.

      I knew when we met that you and Jennifer were a package deal, he began. This would have to be a serious relationship right from the start because a child was involved. I needed to take time, think about everything, and decide if I was willing to be a part of your life and Jennifer’s. I know now that this is what I want.

      When Ben was a child, his grandmother often told him, Remember who you are. This was a family motto, teaching Ben what it meant to be a person who could hold his head up in any storm, show respect and consideration for everyone, and not make promises he couldn’t keep.

      Ben remembered. And he stepped forward and made a promise to Jennifer and me that he planned to keep forever.

      We married in a small church in Oregon. Ben was nervous that day. So was I. We were both well aware of the tremendous responsibility we were taking on. Jennifer was beaming with the innocent optimism of youth. She looked at me and grinned.

      Ben’s the kind of dad you see on television, she said, which to her was the highest honor.

      Together, we raised Jennifer. Ben was often astounded by the spats Jen and I had as we weathered the storms of junior high and high school. He said we sounded like two Poodles barking. Then we would all laugh. Ben always brought harmony and peace. His was the voice of reason.

      He never raised his voice to Jennifer, nor punished her for transgressions. When she flubbed some opportunities in college, I was angry and hurt, wanting to pull her out of school because college was not something to be taken lightly. But Ben was more understanding.

      My parents gave me chances, he said, and we should do the same for Jennifer. I believe in her.

      Through his gentle guidance and loving care, Jennifer finished college and earned a master’s degree. She now enjoys a career in teaching and is a preschool director.

      Throughout those years, Ben often smiled and reminded her, Remember who you are. That phrase often caused good-natured eye rolling and laughter, but underneath it all was a declaration of love and respect, the foundation of our little family.

      Ben was there for her wedding, there when our grandson Ronan was born, there to help decorate the nursery and take Jennifer and the baby to doctor check-ups.

      But one day, a swift and cruel lesion in his brain sent him to the sidelines. The doctors gave him a year to live. We spent endless days at the hospital for surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, blood tests, and check-ups. No matter what the doctors tried, the cancer grew.

      That last Christmas, Ben cradled Ronan gently in his arms. His disease now confined him to a wheelchair, and wide, angry scars tracked across his skull. The cancer was growing in the part of his brain that regulated speech. Ben could only say a few words, and sometimes they were garbled. But that Christmas Day, he laughed out loud when Jen looked at her baby son and said, Remember who you are, Ronan. Ben knew his advice would carry on.

      Somewhere in this vast universe, on the February day Ben took his final breath, I like to think he was ushered into heaven by a voice that said, Ah, Ben. Welcome. I see you always remembered who you are.

      — Sharon Frame Gay —

      Walk Quietly

      Look at a tree, a flower, a plant. Let your awareness rest upon it. How still they are, how deeply rooted in Being. Allow nature to teach you stillness.

      ~Eckhart Tolle, Stillness Speaks

      On my third day of walking the Via de la Plata Camino de Santiago (a 1,000-kilometer — 625-mile — walking pilgrimage in Spain), I faced one of the greatest challenges of my life: an incredibly steep hill after a very long day of walking. Even months of preparation, which included walking hundreds of miles in and around the Las Vegas desert where I live, hadn’t prepared me for the humidity of southern Spain. Before I realized what was happening, I got blisters on my feet, irritated by my damp wool socks. By the third day, the blisters had burst and each step produced horrible pain. I think the correct term for what happened is that my feet were shredded.

      So, here I was, facing the steepest climb I’d ever seen, and each step was so painful that I could barely move. I didn’t think I could make it up the hill, and I didn’t know what to do. The alternative was to walk back the way I’d come through the massive national park and then walk the level road into the next town — a 25-kilometer journey I knew I’d never get through.

      Standing there, scared and desperate, I wondered why I had come on this seven-week walk. I’d been dreaming about the Camino de Santiago ever since I’d read Shirley MacLaine’s book, Out on a Limb. Years later, I watched the Emilio Estevez movie, The Way, about the Camino, and that encouraged me to go ahead with this journey. I planned, chose a route, and tried out different hiking clothes, sleeping bags, and backpacks. I walked four to ten miles every day for about six months — on tracks and through the hills and mountains surrounding Las Vegas. I read books and guides, and arranged my schedule to allow for nearly two months away from everything to have this experience of a lifetime. And now, on Day 3, I felt like a failure. How could I make it to the final destination — the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela — if I couldn’t get up this hill?

      I took another few steps and stopped, panting through the pain. A few more steps, and more panting. Somehow, I held back the tears. Then, seemingly from nowhere, along came a fellow pilgrim I’d met the night before at the hostel. He smiled warmly when he saw me.

      Jon, a retired accountant from Switzerland, was walking his twelfth Camino. He said hello, asked how I was, and then listened to my fears. He was silent for a long moment and then said only two words: Walk quietly. He smiled kindly again and then walked quickly up the steep hill and disappeared into the trees.

      For the briefest of moments, I wondered if he’d actually been there in front of me or if I’d hallucinated the encounter because of the pain.

      I took another two steps up the hill, and pain shot through me. I panted and tried to catch my breath. Walk quietly rang in my ears. Walk quietly. I allowed my breathing to return to normal. I prayed silently for help and strength, and Jon’s words echoed in my head.

      Part of my spiritual practice is a few minutes each day of quiet-mind meditation. So I breathed deeply and quieted my mind. I took a few more steps. Again, my breathing was labored, so I waited and quieted my mind. I realized that walk quietly meant without labored, noisy breathing. I took another step. It meant to walk without chastisement of myself in my own head. I took another step. This wasn’t a race, but a long journey. Long journeys happen one step at a time. I took another step. If I walked quietly, I could hear the birds in the trees while

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