Last week I spoke to medical students in Portland, Oregon and then drove to the central Oregon coast that evening to address the Oregon Rural Health Association. That drive usually takes a couple hours, but it took me twice that long because there was a torrential storm with pelting rain and strong winds. The windshield wipers were slapping time (more to the rhythm of Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain, than to Me and Bobby McGee). I was on a dark, two-lane country road hunched over the wheel, gripping it with white-knuckled intensity. When I arrived at the lovely Salishan Lodge, I celebrated my death-defying carnival ride with a glass of champagne and twin lobster tails (my preferred Last Supper meal).

The next morning it was still raining when I addressed the group, and began my remarks by telling them how delighted I was to be with them, having survived last nights incredible ride. Over the next 2 days I continued to bear witness to the awesome power of nature. The rain continued almost unabated, interspersed with moments of sunshine and one hailstorm with pellets the size of ping pong balls. The most extraordinary sight were the 30′ waves, rarely seen here. The pounding surf so intense it left a three foot layer of foam on the shoreline.

I holed-up in a pub that looked directly out on the ocean, where I wrote, sipped, and was mesmerized by the waves that carried a huge tree trunk, in and out from the shore, as if it were a toothpick. There is something about being surrounded by the awesome power of nature that always tames the ego. In the midst of such displays we recognize our mortal insignificance, our presence on the planet, we are like a buffalo fart in a blizzard.

That’s the state of awareness I was in when I arrived at my nephews home in Portland. He’s a soccer aficionado and was watching a soccer game with a friend. It was a Saturday afternoon party watching the pre-recorded games from the world’s premier leagues. It’s also my favorite game; played soccer as a boy with my father. He was a great player, and he was graciously tolerant of my hopeless mediocrity. As I am talking about him, I remember that day is the 32nd anniversary of my fathers death.

On top of my already reflective mood, comes this awesome synchronicity. Talking soccer with the boys, I am filled with such warm nostalgia. I described Sunday afternoons in Van Cortland Park, with soccer leagues representing every country in Europe, and refugees speaking German, Italian, Hungarian, and Gaelic, smelling the picnics on the grass. My father was a good, kind, and gentle man.

What a weekend it was, filled with potent serendipitous events that made me think about the existential questions and ponder about what it all means. And what new awareness came to me? Maybe just new reminders…. Enjoy every supper as if it were your last; spend time kicking balls with someone you love; walk in the rain more often; love the ones you live with because they will tell your stories and smile.

http://www.patchadams.org/parent-child-trip

http://www.walkingstick.org/programs

So here we are in the midst of critical struggles: the war in Afghanistan, an almost unprecedented economic recession, and healthcare reform gasping . . . and I get a reprieve.

I just returned from my annual trip to the National Caring Awards, where I am reminded that there is another real world where people transcend self-interest and serve others. Every year, five young people (under 18), five adults and one international honoree are cited for their caring contributions to humanity.

Among them was Larry Selman, a mentally challenged, middle-aged man known as “the collector of Bedford Street.” I knew nothing about Larry before we met at a pre-award ceremony luncheon. During the informal greetings, I introduced myself, and he responded by asking me for a donation to fight breast cancer. I was a little taken aback and told him I didn’t have my wallet with me and would catch him later.

Larry was raised in Brooklyn and lived with his parents until he was 26, when they both died. Isolated, fearful, shaking uncontrollably, he was hospitalized in a mental institution. After two months, an aging uncle got him released and ultimately Larry moved to Greenwich Village where he barely got by on his disability checks. But Larry Selman became the glue for the community. He’d sit outside with his dog, greeting all passers-by, laughing, teasing, and asking for donations to give to charity. With the money he raised, he supported community organizations, AIDS programs, hospitals, and muscular dystrophy. Over the past 20 years, he has collected more than $400,000.

A few years back, Larry had a stroke and needed a wheelchair, so his neighbors of 30 years began to collect for him. Larry Selman became a mirror for their own ascendant spirit — they saw in him what they could choose to be. A local filmmaker made an Academy Award-nominated documentary film about him called The Collector of Bedford Street, and the community established a trust fund that helps sustain him.

In the midst of all the crap, you meet a Larry Selman and it rekindles your humanity. There are many good people who give something, but there are few people who have nothing and give everything… that’s a whole different kind of giving.

Whatever my struggles, uncertainties, and occasional despair, here I see a mentally challenged, middle-aged, post-stroke, diabetic man in a wheelchair and feel hopeful. Reach out and fill the cups of others, and you’ll build a caring community.

P.S. I sent Larry a check. Visit him online at www.thecollectorofbedfordstreet.com