September 03, 2008

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August 25, 2008

Samia Yusaf Oman

The 2008 Olympics have come and gone. The most memorable moment for me had nothing to do with winning. In fact it had nothing to do with losing. It had nothing to do with million dollar training facilities, chest-pounding, arm-pumping, bragging gold medalists, sore losers, awful judges and announcers with deep voices roaring the names of winners they call “heroes”.

No. My favorite Olympic moment, which brought goose bumps and tears, was a simple one.

The image will remain with me for years to come.

I see it in slow motion when I think about it. A lone, skinny little girl running down the track wearing a white t-shirt and a headband. No spandex. No wrap around cool sunglasses.

It was seventeen-year-old Samia Yusaf Oman from Somalia. Running her heart out in the 200-meter woman’s finals. She probably ran the slowest 200 meters in history coming stone last out of the 46 runners that competed.

But that didn’t matter. She had already won. Won the opportunity to experience the Olympics games. To leave Mogadishu where she lives on grains and flat bread and very little protein. To get away from a war-torn country that has little if no Olympic training facilities. To get away from local militia who threaten to kill her on training runs because Muslim women shouldn’t be disgracing the religion. Away from her bullet-riddled neighborhood where her father was killed by a stray artillery shell.

What an amazing sight to see the cameras showing the winners at the finish line huffing and puffing and trying the catch their breath, Then suddenly the camera turns toward the crowd who are now on their feet and roaring. Slight confusion as the camera seems to be looking for the cause of the crowd reaction.

Then we see her.

Teenager, Samia Yusaf Oman. Running her little heart out. Head tilted to the side, arms pumping, spirit shining.

The noise of the crowd surges with compassion and reaches out across the stadium to illuminate her soul like the Olympic torch itself.

The look of triumph and joy on her face is now a frozen snap-shot that I will cherish and keep in the album of amazing moments that live in my heart.

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August 21, 2008

Got Milk?

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August 20, 2008

It seems to happen every time I get a little too big for my boots.

It was early one Sunday morning. I was in Italy sitting at a quaint outdoor cafe drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

The cafe was situated in a quaint cobblestone courtyard. Each table had a yellow umbrella and a vase of fresh flowers. The cafe had just opened for the day and I was the first person there.

I glanced up from the paper and noticed an artist setting up his easel a short way from where I sat. He placed the back of the easel toward me and began mixing paint. He smiled. I nodded and went back to the newspaper.

A few minutes later, I paid the bill, folded the newspaper and got up to leave.

“Excuse me,” he said in broken English. “Is hokay I paint?”

“You talking to me?” I said, pressing my thumb into my chest and looking around. There was no one else in sight.

“You,” he said pointing the end of the brush at me. “Yes. You sit. I paint.”

“I’d be flattered,” I said smiling. I sat down and re-read the parts of the paper I had skipped.

“Where are you from? He asked after he’d been painting for a while.

“South Africa,” I replied. “And you?’

He didn’t reply. He continued painting. I think he was French. He had a white moustache that was curled up at the ends and he wore a maroon beret.

I sat for two hours as he painted. I did the crossword, had two more cups of coffee and did a quiz to determine if I was a good husband. It turned out that I was a great husband, probably because I wasn’t married.

Eventually after almost falling asleep from sheer boredom, I saw the artist put his down brush and wipe his hands with a dirty, paint stained cloth. He tilted his head to the side and looked at his work.

“I like,” he said to himself as he rubbed his hands together. “You like?”

I got up and walked over to the easel. The painting was magnificent. The man was an amazing artist. He had captured the early morning light on the yellow umbrellas and the colors of the café. The painting was almost true to life. There was one thing missing from the picture though. Me.

I was a little angry that he made me sit for so long without putting me in the picture.

“Why didn’t you put me in the picture?" I asked.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Look at the cafe,” he said, pointing over the easel at the scene he had just painted

I looked over the top of the easel at the cafe.

“Are you in the picture?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I’m obviously not in the picture because I'm standing here with you.”

“Well then,” he said, smiling. “If you are not in the picture how can I put you in the picture?”

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August 11, 2008

Drawing Closer

I recently finished a short movie called "Drawing Closer" with my friend Carl Thiel. It's based on my work with children with cancer. (Carl wrote the script based on my story and directed, edited and scored the music.)

Watch the Drawing Closer trailer here.

Comments are welcome and appreciated.

Posted by trevor at 08:42 PM | Email Trevor | Comments (1)

Feathers Into Wings

I bumped into an old friend this past weekend. Her name is Becky. I first met Becky when her nine year-old daughter Megan was going through cancer treatment.

Megan Stento was an amazing little girl. She stood at the door of death with a baseball bat and said, “Come and get me.”

Megan taught me how to turn feathers into wings.

I remember visiting Megan at the hospital one morning and telling her about a new book I had just written.

“I'm going to dedicate the book to you, I said. “It's called The Other Side Of The Invisible Fence.”

“Thanks,” said Megan softly.

Megan was a beautiful child with a smile that could reach across an entire room and hug you unconditionally. The effects of chemotherapy and grueling radiation sessions did not dampen her wonderful demeanor.

“As soon as the book comes out, I'll read it to you,” I offered.

Megan said nothing for a few seconds. Then she spoke, her words sending shockwaves through my entire being.

“You'll have to read real loud if I'm in heaven.”

“I will.” I said. “If you die before this book comes out I'll climb on the roof of my house and read so darn loud you'll hear me all the way up there.

Megan fought an incredible battle, but she was no match for the savage cancer that ripped her body apart from the inside out. She died only days after our conversation.

Megan's mom Becky spoke to me after the funeral. “You are going to keep you promise to Megan aren't you?”

“Of course I am,” I said, fighting back my tears.

Becky called me later that day and asked if the family could come over to my house when I climbed on the roof to read the book. She thought it would be a good memorial to Megan.

“Absolutely,” I told her.

“Becky called me the next day and asked if I wouldn't mind very much if Megan's class came to the reading on the roof.

“I would love that.” I told her.

A few days later the principal of the school called and asked if the entire school could come to the reading on the roof.

That's when I said, “I don't think it's possible. My garden is too small.”

Well, that did not stop Becky Stento. By the next morning she had arranged for me to do the reading on the roof of the Laguna Gloria Art Museum here in Austin. The location was ideal. The two-story building had a flat roof and was surrounded by a beautifully manicured green lawn.

It rained the entire week before the reading. Then on the morning of the event, as I climbed the stairs to the roof, the sun came out and bathed the entire garden in a warm golden light.

After climbing the stairs I approached the small wall running around the perimeter of the roof. I leaned on the wall and looked over the edge.

My heart stopped.

Sitting on the lawn on chairs and blankets were almost a thousand people. I still do not how so many of them heard about the event.

The entire crowd was completely silent. No words were spoken but I could feel their collective hearts singing together like a giant silent choir. The only sound I heard was the chirping of happy birds in the woods surrounding the lawn and the occasional barking of a dog way off in the distance.

The silence touched me in ways I cannot describe.

I looked up into the sky and read the book to Megan.

As I completed the last sentence a movement caught my eye. Behind the crowd, a little girl in a white summer dress had wandered off alone and was happily dancing in circles by herself, her face skyward, her eyes closed and her arms outstretched. She made turn after giddy turn as her dress floated around her like soft white feathers from an angel's wings.

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August 05, 2008

Dear Mrs Varrie (even though you died many years ago),

I never had the chance to thank you for something you did 42 years ago when I was in second grade.

It happened at Linksfield Primary School. I had been sent to the principal’s office by another teacher for asking why drawing was not allowed during quiet time.

“Because!” said the teacher.

“But I’m not disturbing anyone.” I said. (I have always had this incredible desire to sketch when I am relaxed and sitting quietly.)

“You’re disturbing yourself.” She said.

“That makes no sense?” I replied.

“You have no sense,” she said. "That’s why you are in the D class. Clever people with good sense are in the A class."

“How come you are teaching the D class and not the A class?” I asked. “Is it because…?”

Then all hell broke lose.

I was hauled by the collar to the principal’s office where I sat, for what seemed like hours, ready for a giant spanking. (But my mom always told me to speak the truth and be honest about what I was feeling!)

Then you came along Mrs. Varrie, the best second grade teacher in the world.

You asked me why I was there and I told you.

You looked around, took me by the hand, and led me back to Mr’s D’s classroom.

Outside the room you bent down and spoke to me.

“Trevor,” you said. “You are a wonderful boy. Even though you have problems learning, I promise you will do just fine. Don’t let anybody put out that lovely bright light inside of you.”

I wanted to hug you on the spot Mrs. Varrie.

I wish I had.

You went inside and told Mrs. D that you had spoken to me and that I needed to come back into class.

I did.

And during quiet time I smiled to myself and gazed out of the window as I drew a thousand pictures inside my mind while Mrs. D scowled at me.

Thank you, Mrs. Varrie, for fueling my inner fire, while others where trying to extinguish it!

Trevor

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July 15, 2008

I will be away on a USO tour to England and Germany until July the 30th. Please stop back for a visit or, why not, grab a cup of tea, coffee or some witblitz and scan through some of the older entries.

Peace In. Trevor out!

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July 11, 2008

I love the sheer honesty and purity that kids have before they are influenced and molded by the world around them. Their innocence and clarity in dealing with life is so uncomplicated and refreshing.

Thinking about this reminds me of my stint as a counselor at a camp for siblings of kids with cancer a number of years ago.

I led group D, a crew of eight children between the ages of eleven and thirteen.

Each child was different. Each child was special. Each child had been through the harrowing ringer that childhood cancer drags families through.

The camp was located in a challenge course arena and our task that day was to scale a climbing-wall sixty feet high.

Each person had to wear a helmet and a harness when it was our turn to climb.

The first person to climb the tower was Abi, a wild thirteen-year-old who was going through the "you-don't-have-to-tell-me-nothin'-because-I-know-it-all" stage.

Abi was a loud, aggressive, and arrogant l kid.

I must be honest and say that I did not like Abi very much. He was one of those kids who disrupted everything. He cussed all the time and was cocky. I'm ashamed to say that I would have preferred him not to be there.

Abi attacked the tower and climbed it in no time. Once back on the ground, his body language reflected his attitude. Cool. I'm a lot braver than you guys give me credit for.

"Hey, next time I wanna do it without that dumb harness," he said, once his feet were firmly planted on terra firma.

Abi's brother Sammy climbed next, also without any hesitation.

Two of the girls in the group sat out the exercise because they were afraid of heights. A few kids got half way up and decided to come down.

I was due to climb last and although I acted as though I didn't have a care in the world, I was beginning to get a little nervous about my impending climb.

Rachel, an eleven-year-old going on forty climbed up before me. Rachel had lost her thirteen-year-old sister Jonna to cancer the year before. As you can imagine Rachel was devastated by her sisters death. Jonna had been Rachel's hero. She told me when Jonna died it felt like there was a knife stuck in her heart and she couldn't get it out.

As one would expect Rachel carried Jonna's death around with her like a heavy sack of potatoes.

She carried that sack with her as she climbed the tower. It was heavy going and she struggled a lot. She lost steam pretty quickly and hovered on the rest platform that was situated about a third of the way up.

I was hooked up to the harness and climbed up alongside her. It wasn't easy. My whole body trembled as I clutched at those little wooden blocks and pulled myself up.

I climbed alongside Rachel and noticed she was crying.

"C'mon, Rachel, you can do it," I said.

"I don't think I can." she replied, sobbing.

I decided to climb above Rachel to see if I could help her up.

I heard the kids on the ground thirty feet below egging us on. That's when I made the mistake of looking down. I instantly felt faint and dizzy. Although I wanted to help Rachel, all I could think about was myself. Forget her! I wanted to be Mr. Cool Dude and didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the kids below. Especially because I was bragging earlier on about how I had been in the army and this tower was nothing. I'll be honest, if I didn't continue climbing right there and then, I wouldn't have made it. To tell the truth, climbing that tower is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. The climb was a lot more difficult than I had ever expected.

I hit the top and signed for the belay guide to release the rope so that I could repel down. I had made it to the top and I wanted off that tower as quickly as possible.

I forgot about Rachel. I just wanted to get off that tower.

As I repelled down, I passed Rachel. Her whole body was shaking as she clung to the tower. She was sobbing loudly.

"Rachel, you want to come down?" shouted Cheryl from the bottom of the tower. (Cheryl was the belay guide who was controlling Rachel's harness.)

"I don't know," sobbed Rachel.

"Do you think you can make it?"

"I don't think so," said Rachel.

Rachel seemed frozen and she was just twenty feet from the top. I've got to hand it to her; she gave it her best but could not climb another inch. Her fingers, white at the knuckles, barely held on. She was crying so hard I that could see her tears falling down and bouncing off the tower.

Rachel was stuck in that position for almost fifteen minutes. She couldn't go up and she couldn't come down. To help her, we all stood back from the tower and yelled encouragement. Abi suddenly broke away from our group and sauntered over to the foot of the tower. He put his hand up to his eyes to block the sun and squinted up at Rachel. He then said something that sent chills down my spine. I will never forget that moment as long as I live.

"Rachel!" he yelled. "Rachel!"

Rachel turned and looked down at him standing below her at the bottom of the tower.

The moments that followed will remain etched in my mind forever.

"You can do it," he said. "Do it for your sister. Do it for Janna!"

The power of his suggestion seemed to stop time. Everything in the universe appeared to pause for a second.

I will never forget the look on Rachel’s face as long as I live.

Then suddenly, I saw Rachel heave her body forward and sobbing hysterically, she began to climb. Rachel did not hesitate for a second. She climbed the last twenty feet with sheer heart and soul, never stopping once.

When she reached the top she turned and looked down at us. The look of joy and triumph on her face is an image that I will always carry with me.

When she got down to the bottom of the tower, we all crowded around her and hugged her. Some of the kids cried with Rachel. I did too.

Abi, who thought girls were the enemy and wouldn't dare touch one with an extremely long stick, sidled up to Rachel and put his arm around her.

"I knew you could do it," he said.

He gave Rachel a pat on the back and sauntered off to the cabins to get ready for dinner.

I share this story because so often we judge people on first impressions. I did not like Abi and wrote him off right from the beginning of camp, yet he did something really amazing by helping Rachel achieve something she will never forget.

At the time I did not realize how hard life was for Abi having a sibling in treatment. I just judged him by how much he was irritating me.

Let me tell you, Abi is a great guy and I am ashamed of myself for not seeing past my initial dislike for him.

Thank you Abi for teaching me a great lesson.

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July 08, 2008

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