It was a night in April, 1955. I was nine years old, soon to be ten in May. I was asleep in my bedroom and my brother’s bed was empty, because he was staying over with cousins in Brooklyn. Earlier that day, my father was taken to the hospital, after having suffered a heart attack. I was confused and frightened, with no one to talk to.

Some time during the night, I heard my mother scream, utter a few words and cry. The hospital called to say my father died. I lay in my bed, huddled over on the right side, close to the wall, because it felt safer. From that night on, it is how I have always slept. I have never liked even being touched, not wanting to risk breaking my long ago, cocoon of security.

When I saw that photograph of the starving boy yesterday, I could feel him deeply within and I wanted to be my nine year old self and put my skinny little arm around him and just sit. I didn’t understand what was happening to me all that long ago. The world felt incredibly big and I felt so small and helpless.

I got angry yesterday and forgot why I feel compelled to write and share. When I veer away from my story and over into a kind of self-indulgence, thinking I have something of value to impart, I lose my way. It is so easy to be overwhelmed by the magnitude and multitude of crisis enveloping us these days. Sometimes, I just can’t help myself, but a cathartic exercise doesn’t necessarily make for a good story. So, yesterday I wasn’t writing to you and what I had to say was too big to touch you the way the little boy touched me.

I started thinking about how I have been living my life, too quick to indict myself for doing nothing to change the world, to save this boy. It was tough living in New York City for so many years, because the place is overwhelming in its size and complexities. It was easy to feel inconsequential, unable to do anything other than what you need to do to survive until the next day. There are many reasons why I had to leave that beautiful monster.

One of the first things I did, acclimating to a new life in the high desert country of New Mexico, was to become a volunteer fireman. I started wearing cowboy boots, bought a pick up truck and had as many as three dogs, living with me in a small adobe home, overlooking an ocean of open land. I’d have to think carefully about all the different things I did out there, determined to earn the stripes of a maverick. Amongst other things, I helped launch a commercial radio station and make it into a vital part of the community. I began nurturing a quiet desire to make small differences in people’s lives.

When I came to Kauai, I was making a living selling Gospel music videos on Black Entertainment Television, a vestige from my NM adventures. I fell deeply in love with this place and while earning a living was always the subtext of my efforts, I found myself wanting to help. I swear it was not about me.

While still in Santa Fe, I got to spend quality time with the Buddha. I was intrigued by his first of the Four Vows: “Sentient beings are numberless, I vow to save them.” The deal is your own salvation is predicated on your efforts on behalf of others, a job without end, its own reward.

After reading yesterday’s post too many times, saddled with the idea that there was nothing I could do about this child, I started to inventory all the things I have done or attempted to do since getting here around fifteen years ago. Wanting to improve the lives of others has always seemed to take precedence over adding to a forever leaking, bank balance.

The little boy touched my own feelings of loss and abandonment and hopelessness that filled my dark bedroom many, many years ago. Over time, I have come to realize I am a product of my past and I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Like all of you, I am monumentally imperfect, but I wouldn’t trade a single experience and risk becoming someone else.

If everyone of us devoted some of our time to improving the lives of others, no matter how small, we can make a difference. Relieving the suffering in the world is overwhelming and breeds a tragic sense of impotence, not the message I had in my heart yesterday..

I apologize for sharing my pain the way I did. My vulnerable child has never left me and I saw that photograph and pulled the covers over my head in the dark, loneliness of my bedroom.

Today, on Thanksgiving, I understand a little more than I did yesterday. We can change the world with small gestures and my sadness has been replaced with possibility. The little one is likely gone by now. I need to do better, because he deserves it and I am going to keep trying. It is all we can do.

I love you and Happy Thanksgiving.

Larry