This is Mike.

I met Mike when I noticed his van in a parking lot. 

On the Van door it read:  “Guitar Hospital.” 

That was enough to pique my interest. 

Mike invited me into his workshop, which was tucked into a back room of a local gift shop in Delray Beach.  On the wall were various vintage guitars in various states of repair.   “I started working for Gibson guitars in 1972,” he said.  Mike went on to say that he had played in a band in college, but now repaired and restored guitars.

Mike’s face lit up when he talked about his career choice, but he said that “I get these young kids who come to me and ask me to teach them the business, but they want to learn it all in a few weeks.  I apprenticed for eight years!” 

When I asked to take his picture he said “sure, but let me grab something and look busy.”  What you can’t see in this picture is that Mike had more than enough worked waiting to be repaired – stacks upon stacks of guitars waiting for someone to bring them back to life – someone who was willing to spend eight years learning their trade.   

This is Santa.  I met him at an outdoor event in West Palm Beach.  It was early in the day and Santa had a bit of time to speak with me before all manner of children (and surprisingly, quite a few very good looking women) began their yearly visit to his lap.

I asked him how he was able to wear such a heavy suit in our 78 degree weather, and he explained that his suit was packed with ice packets.  "Much the same technology as used by some of our troops in Iraq," he said.

Santa.. I mean Frank, told me that before he retired he worked for the Internal Revenue Service for more than 20 years, but that he began his Santa career about four years ago.

I asked him if he had ever had a sad moment as Santa, and he began to tell me about his work with children diagnosed with cancer.  He told me of a time when he was standing with a parent whose infant was being held down so the nurse could insert a needle into her vein.  "I was just standing there with this silly suit on, and holding a pathetic little gift.  And as I stood there, the child was screaming, and the mother was crying and holding on to my arm so tight.  And I thought - what can I possibly give to this child and her mother?  I'm just a man dressed in a silly red suit with a little gift, and this mother is in such pain."

Frank, I mean Santa, had a hard time resolving that moment in his own mind.  And I understand.  Life is not always kind or gentle.  A child's pain is horrific and as a parent himself, Frank had a difficult time containing his own feelings.

But, I'm glad Santa was there, and I'm sure that this mom who held on so tightly was also glad, for at that moment, Frank (or Santa) became more than a man in a red suit. He became another human being who was willing to share the pain.  He was there for her, and sometimes, just being there is enough.  I believe in you Santa.

This is Christi.  I met Christi while having breakfast at a local café that sits alongside a beautiful tidal river here in Rhode Island.  Christi told me that she had worked in Madagascar with the Peace Corps.  We talked about how different life is there as compared to here in the United States.  I recalled my own culture shock when I came  back to this country after spending some time in Central America, and joked about how she must have felt walking into a  Department Store after living in such a distant place. 

Christie said "...it's not really the shock of the materialism that was difficult for me, it was the change of relationships between people and their community."  That struck me.  Obviously, Christi looks at life through her heart.  Apparently, it's not the visual that concerned Christi as much as the relational changes that she felt. 

Having been a psychotherapist, I understand how important relationships are.  They are paramount. They are what preserves us and keeps us safe.  Christi knows relationships.  That is a special thing -- a beautiful thing.

This is Kim.  I met Kim as she was standing at the edge of Lake Erie in a small town named Vermillion.  It was a hot sunny day and Kim was looking for her children.  Kim told me that she was born and raised in Vermillion, but "never really appreciated the town."  "It's a shame," she said, "but you never really appreciate where you come from until after you move away."  Kim did move away to college, but eventually moved back.  She said "I really love it here." I asked if I could take her picture and she laughed.  "Sure" she said.

Later, I wondered how many parents have looked out over the horizon wishing that their children knew what Kim had learned -- that sometimes, coming home is a good thing, and that small-town America is home.

Tonight, Kim, your children will be in bed, exhausted and safe in your home in Vermillion Ohio -- A very small town.

This is Dale. I noticed Dale as he was parking a beautifully and intricately decorated Harley Davidson motorcycle at the Narragansett sea wall. The cycle was covered with colorful small beading displaying suns, feathers, and other Indian designs. 

When I asked Dale if he had done the artwork himself, he said "Do you have a moment?" and proceeded to explain his Narragansett Indian heritage and the symbols that decorated his hat, jacket, and bike. At the front of the motorcycle was beaded his Indian name - Buffalo Heart. I asked him why he was given the name and he said, "Well, I was named "Buffalo" because I'm big" (which he is), and the "Heart" was given to me because I'm a kind person and I have a big heart." (which he does). 

When I met Dale, I instantly liked him. He's a big man with a big heart. Dale is the kind of guy that makes you feel appreciation that his path and your path crossed. Thank you Dale. 

By-the-way, Dale said he is part of the Turtle Clan. I like that. 
Turtles are good things to be.

This is Lori. I met Lori on a very hot and humid day in Newport. Lori smiles a lot and quickly says that she loves her life. At one time she apprenticed with the Boston Ballet but stopped dancing when she married. She says that she loved dancing but that "now my children are my jewels." Lori is single now and says that she is simply happy being who she is. 

To me, it seems as though Lori never stopped dancing. Although she is no longer with the Ballet, she is dancing through life. Lori is happy dancing to her own music. 
Life is Lori's ballet.

This is Hamish. Hamish was originally from New Zealand but moved to the United States when he was in his twenties. I met him in his antique store which he opened 18 months ago. He is also an accomplished guitarist who plays in local clubs.

Some time ago Hamish was diagnosed with colon cancer and did not think that he would live. I asked him if that experience changed his attitude towards life. He nodded and said "... for four years I sat and did nothing, waiting to die. When I didn't die I thought I should probably do something."

I like that.

A lot of people sit around waiting to die but never learn what Hamish did after four years -- that it might be a good idea to get up and do something. Sitting and waiting for death is probably never a good idea.

Good for you Hamish.