Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition

by Jack Canfield

  Before long, there were so many dog-eared pages in that book it ended up twice as thick as it was when I bought it. Simply oozing inspiration, the positive reinforcement on each and every page was indeed chicken soup for my soul, and I re-read the stories again and again whenever I was troubled or life just got too difficult.

  My investment in that little book turned out to be one of the best I’ve ever made because the stories in it helped me learn to love myself, and once that happened my life began to change for the better. I finally realized I was a good person, worthy of the best, and the past was just history!

  Today I am happily married to the love of my life, and he’s a good man I trust with all my heart. He loves me unconditionally and that love is reciprocated without hesitation. I know I am where I was destined to be!

  After a multitude of moves, nineteen years have come and gone since I read the original Chicken Soup for the Soul and I still have that book. From time to time I pick it up and re-read the stories; however I always come back to the one that helped me change my life and embrace a positive attitude. I would strongly recommend “My Declaration of Self-Esteem” to anyone that needs a nice warm cup of chicken soup for the soul.

  ~Annabel Sheila

  My Declaration of Self-Esteem

  What I am is good enough if I would only be it openly.

  ~Carl Rogers

  The following was written in answer to a 15-year-old girl’s question, “How can I prepare myself for a fulfilling life?”

  I am me.

  In all the world, there is no one else exactly like me.

  There are people who have some parts like me but no one adds up exactly like me. Therefore, everything that comes out of me is authentically mine because I alone choose it.

  I own everything about me — my body, including everything it does; my mind, including all my thoughts and ideas; my eyes, including the images of all they behold; my feelings, whatever they might be — anger, joy, frustration, love, disappointment, excitement; my mouth and all the words that come out of it — polite, sweet and rough, correct or incorrect; my voice, loud and soft; all my actions, whether they be to others or myself.

  I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears.

  I own all my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes.

  Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me. By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with me in all my parts. I can then make it possible for all of me to work in my best interests.

  I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me, and other aspects that I do not know. But as long as I am friendly and loving to myself, I can courageously and hopefully look for the solutions to the puzzles and for ways to find out more about me.

  However I look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever I think and feel at a given moment in time is me. This is authentic and represents where I am at that moment in time.

  When I review later how I looked and sounded, what I said and did, and how I thought and felt, some parts may turn out to be unfitting. I can discard that which is unfitting and keep that which proved fitting, and invent something new for that which I discarded.

  I can see, hear, feel, think, say and do. I have the tools to survive, to be close to others, to be productive, to make sense and order out of the world of people and things outside of me.

  I own me and therefore I can engineer me.

  I am me and I am okay.

  ~Virginia Satir

  Used with permission of the Virginia Satir Global Network www.satirglobal.org. All rights reserved.

  Lunch with David

  Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.

  ~Jane Wagner

  The very first story I wrote for the Chicken Soup for the Soul series appeared in Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul. When my copy of the book arrived, I immediately sat down to read the entire volume. Early on, I came to Teri Batts’ story called “Lunch with Grandma” and I began to laugh out loud. My chuckles turned to guffaws and the noise wafted through the house. Curious, my husband came upstairs to see what had amused me, but when I tried to read the story aloud to him, I couldn’t control my own chortles. In truth, I could barely breathe as I laughed and shared this wild adventure of Teri taking her grandmother, afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease, out to lunch.

  Little did I guess that a few years down the road I would step into the role of caregiver again. This time it was my cousin who needed help. David was only fifty years old when doctors diagnosed him with Pick’s disease. Similar to Alzheimer’s, this form of dementia affects the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. The lobes slowly shrink and steadily impair the ability to recognize faces and find the right word. In David’s case, after a few years he could no longer distinguish the faces of people he loved. When I visited, he did not know if I was his cousin, his sister, his daughter or his wife. Simple words like “clock” and “glass” fled from his mind and left him groping for weak substitutes that could express his needs.

  In his earlier years, my cousin had amazing gifts. For example, when he was an eighth-grade student, he took a woodshop class at school and, for his class project he decided to build a harpsichord. Not a walnut bookshelf, like his classmates made. Not a pair of oak candle sticks. A full-sized musical instrument. For years I listened to David play the keys of that instrument every time I visited his home. His fingers flitted across the keyboard and produced sounds that set my heart dancing.

  Today, that harpsichord sits in the front hall of his home, a mute reminder of the woodworking talents my cousin once had.

  When he grew up and graduated from college, David became a successful director of a well-known museum near my home. His knowledge of history and his passion for facts made him well respected in his field. He served as president of a national historical society. The onset of the Pick’s disease forced him to leave these roles.

  Today, when I visit him on the dementia ward, he can’t remember what he had for breakfast.

  At first I watched the slowdown of David’s mind from a distance. His wife bore the brunt of caring for him during those early years. As the task of looking after David began to weigh heavier and heavier upon her, I gave her a copy of Chicken Soup for Caregiver’s Soul, hoping the stories would encourage her.

  But a time came when she was no longer able to care for her husband at home. She moved him to a care facility nearer my home. She visited several times each week. I promised to visit regularly too.

  David’s new home was lovely. The staff was friendly and unfailingly patient with the residents. I was amazed how each member of the staff knew the names of all the residents. As David and I walked the halls outside the dementia wing, even the people sweeping the floors and preparing meals waved and greeted David by name. The staff set aside a place for David to have his own woodshop where he could continue to work on simple projects with his hands. The meals were good and the rooms clean.

  Still I found the environment depressing. I asked a friend who worked on a similar unit in another care facility how she coped with the melancholic atmosphere. She surprised me by saying how much she enjoyed the ward. “In the nursing wing, the people have active minds but their bodies are failing. Many of them truly are depressed and they often complain. But here on the dementia unit? The people don’t realize that their minds have gone. They are grateful for each activity and take each day as it comes.”

  Could it be true? I was so focused on what David had lost. I thought back to Teri Batts’ story of taking her grandmother to lunch. Instead of grieving over what no longer was, Teri entered into her grandmother’s new world. She joined her grandmother as she crawled across the floor of the restaurant avoiding “danger.” Instead of tears of grief, Teri produced tears of laughter.

  These days I still visit David regularly. Occasionally he sits down at the piano in the group activity room. His nimble fingers pull harmonies from the old instrument. That portion of his
brain remains intact. I rejoice in the pleasure he gives his listeners. A fellow resident begins singing a tune. David and I enjoy a meal together. A female resident walks off with his dessert. He responds with a gentle smile.

  I remember better days, but I do not grieve. Thanks, Teri, for the reminder that laughter is still the best entree on the lunch menu.

  ~Emily Parke Chase

  Lunch with Grandma

  Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.

  ~Victor Hugo

  Although uncertain, unprepared and unaware of the challenges of Alzheimer’s disease, I headed to Charlotte to help Mom care for Grandma. With my usual upbeat, positive attitude, I rose the first morning full of enthusiasm and knowing exactly what to do, or so I thought.

  But before my first cup of coffee, I entered the bathroom to find Grandmother attempting to brush her teeth with a razor. Shocked and near hysterics, I yelled for my mother while trying to retrieve the razor without hurting Grandmother or myself. Mom quietly walked into the room, confiscated the razor and took control with a smile and what looked like an invisible tear. Tears were many as the day went on. The “tuff one,” as I had been called, had met her match.

  A few days passed and I became more confident as Mom and I realized that Grandma did things born of habit. So we began playing on her habits — messing up the living room so she could straighten up again and again, assigning her the chore of sweeping the porch, and washing unbreakable plates and cups as I dried them and put them away.

  My confidence grew. I decided to take Grandma to lunch, just the two of us. Against mother’s better judgment, I decided to take her to a steakhouse with a salad bar, so Grandma could pick out what SHE wanted to eat.

  Riding to the restaurant was no problem; she just loved these new-fangled vehicles. Happily, we entered the steakhouse, got our plates, and ventured to the salad bar. But Grandmother didn’t know what anything was, not even a roll. She refused to eat anything except the pretty “red stuff” that wiggled. Finally, with only gelatin on her plate, we sat down and had a wonderful lunch. She swirled the good “red stuff” around in her mouth, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  All of a sudden, she grabbed my arm and yanked me to the floor, pulling me under the table. I was too shocked to scream. I took her arm and gently coaxed her to stand, but she clutched my arms with a surprising strength and jerked me back to the floor. “Indians!” she cried out. “We must escape!”

  Trying desperately to understand, I said, “Where are the Indians?”

  Frightened, she pointed to a group of people that had just entered the restaurant. Then she started crawling on the floor, dragging her purse behind and motioning me to follow her.

  “Come on!” she commanded, her irritation and my embarrassment mounting.

  What the heck, I thought, swallowing any pride I had left. I crept behind her between and under empty tables, making our way through the great Wild West toward the salad bar. Once we arrived safely, she pulled me toward her and said, “That way to the door! We can make it,” she said. “Be brave!”

  Off we went in a fast crawl, her in her dress, me in cut-off blue jeans, both of us dragging a purse and turning our heads from side to side as we went. She was looking for danger and I was looking to see who was staring. Just when we were getting close to the door, the manager came from behind the counter. Terrified, Grandma flung herself over my body to protect me.

  The manager gazed down at the two of us piled in a heap on the floor and asked, “Can I help you ladies?”

  I burst out laughing. Grandma pulled herself up and bent over to help me since I was laughing so hard I couldn’t stand. She brushed me off and asked me, “Are you okay, honey?”

  The confused manager asked the obvious question. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Of course, everything is quite all right,” Grandma said, “now that you are here, Marshall Dillon.”

  Grandma pulled me to the door as I laughed. Once she got there, she turned back to the manager and said, “I’m sorry, sir, we forgot to pay.” She took a dime out of her purse and placed it on the counter.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said and gave her a big smile.

  By now I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe. My grandmother gripped my arm and jerked me toward the door. “We have to get out of here, Teri,” she said. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  ~Teri Batts

  The Tipping Point

  If at first you don’t succeed, do it like your mother told you.

  ~Author Unknown

  Most of my adult life has been spent in and out of prison, and 2008 was no different. That was the year I began serving this seven-and-a-half-year sentence for charges stemming from problems I’ve had in my life with addiction. Only this incarceration would prove to be a major tipping point for my loved ones.

  After endless disappointments, the last of my family and friends had finally had enough. They gave up hoping I’d realize the errors of my ways. I was entirely on my own — completely and absolutely alone.

  Loneliness can do one of two things to a man. It can cause him to give up, abandoning all hope for his own self, or it can instill in him a drive to find something better, no matter how much negativity he must first overcome.

  For the first year and a half I had succumbed to a very depressing, dark time. That was until I found a reason to demand better of myself thanks to the book Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul.

  I had heard of the series but never read a Chicken Soup for the Soul book and had no idea how much of an impact one would have on my life. The first time I read Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul, I was in solitary confinement. If there was such a thing as rock bottom, I was certainly there. In such a cold, bleak environment, the stories I read were like a campfire, warming me deep down to my core.

  One story in particular — “Success — Who Can Judge?” — influenced me the most. It was written by Tom Lagana, who also was one of the coauthors of Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul. The story was about a man named Rick who, much like myself, spent most of his life incarcerated. With so much time I still had to serve, this story helped me to see that there was real opportunity in front of me . . . an opportunity for major, positive changes. At my absolute lowest point, there I sat, greatly inspired by Rick and all he had overcome. His story was a mirror image of my own, and I began to think, “If this guy can make the changes needed in his life, why not me?” So I decided to focus on finding something I could feasibly accomplish while incarcerated.

  While reading Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul, I also noticed that the cartoons included were created mostly by people who were incarcerated. Matt Matteo’s cartoons appeared frequently throughout the book. As an artist myself, I was amazed by his talent and reach. Here was a guy who was incarcerated making very valid strides toward more positive things. I realized then that I wanted to do the same thing. I wanted my life to have purpose and meaning, even while I was a prisoner. That passion became my focus.

  Thanks to the contact information in the back of the book, I began corresponding with Tom Lagana and Matt Matteo. Both provided me with invaluable insight as to how to start creating my own cartoons, as well as uplifting words of encouragement and kindness. I created cartoons at a frantic pace and even began submitting my work to many different publications. It gave me a great sense of accomplishment.

  Now I am more than four years into my incarceration journey, still creating cartoons, and have found direction in my life. I’ve set realistic goals I plan to achieve once released and work daily toward showing my loved ones I have the capability to be successful.

  I realize now that there was another tipping point to this story . . . one I so desperately needed so that I could find reason to change my life for the better. That tipping point was Chicken Soup for the Prisoner’s Soul. Thanks to Rick’s story, cartoonist Matt Matteo, and coauthor Tom Lagana, I found hope in a seemingly hopeless situation.

  ~Joseph
P. Guerrero

  Success — Who Can Judge?

  While awaiting sentencing, I decided to give stand-up comedy a shot. The judge had suggested I get my act together, and I took him seriously.

  ~Tim Allen

  In September 1997, I coordinated a project to bring a group of motivational speakers into prison for Make-a-Difference Day. The warden had given me a list of specific criteria each speaker needed to meet in order to gain entrance to the prison for that program. The first item on that list was: “No criminal record.”

  I had volunteered in this prison for the past five years, and when I decided to coordinate this program, I had immediately thought of many potential speakers — including several former inmates. I had been especially excited about inviting one in particular to speak — Rick.

  Rick had spent most of his adult life in prison. It appeared he was on the in-and-out plan. First he would be in, then he would be out — released just long enough to get himself sentenced to be in again. But two years earlier he had been released, and he had not returned. He had finally found a way to become successful in society. I was proud of him. I believed his story could help make a difference to the current inmate population in a way no other motivational speakers could. After all, Rick had been there, and now he was a success — on the outside.

  So I asked the warden to make an exception. “Obviously, he has found a way to live successfully and responsibly,” I pleaded. “I’m sure his message could move these inmates like no one else’s.”

  “Tell me the name again,” the warden requested.

  “Rick,” I said, and I gave his full name.

  “But Rick is in Booking right now — he was brought back in last night.”

  I felt my heart drop. I must have been wrong. Rick wasn’t a success after all. He had been out of jail for two years — but now he was back. And probably for life. Hadn’t the judge warned him at his last sentencing? If he was arrested and convicted again, he would be sentenced to a life term as a habitual criminal.