The 9 Insights of the Wealthy Soul - Excerpt (Page 64-69)
Author: Dr. Michael Norwood

It was a Saturday when I met Kostos -- the angel. And as these things go, I have only faint recollection of how I began talking to the ridiculous looking pot-bellied stranger, nevermind telling him my deepest troubles which I had never confided to anyone.

I remember aimlessly walking in my depression around the cobblestone pathway of one of Tarpon Springs’ many lakes, oblivious to the gentle breeze wafting off the January waters and unaware of the elements of fate gathering at that moment to provide me with lessons that would last a lifetime. I faintly remember a sudden swish by my ear, being lashed in the cheek by the half-brained backswing of a fisherman's pole and then untangling myself from nylon loops of 20-pound test line. And from that, perhaps I can piece together what happened next.

"Yo ho there, younga man." The gravelly-voiced stranger turned to me in slow arthritic motion. "You a gotta watch where a you're walking. You a got my line all tangled up a now!"

I ran my fingers across my cheek, checking for blood. Cursing out the man never occurred to me; somehow the sting of his rod had felt good, a cosmic force of sorts that jolted me back to full consciousness for the first time in weeks.

I stood and gawked at the riotous-looking stranger. Quite unconsciously, despite myself, a smile formed on my lips. He was dressed in a white bathing suit, oblivious to the 50-degree temperature. The skin on his arms and face was dark and wrinkled, accustomed, it seemed, to harsher forces in his lifetime. His belly hung far over the nearly lewd level of the top of his bathing suit, appearing like the ballooned pouch of a gluttonous pelican filled with more mullet and water than it could ever swallow.

If I couldn't tell the man was Greek by his accent, the Mediterranean face gave him away instantly. Stubbled with graying whiskers, the skin there and on his shoulders and belly was ornamented with dozens of moles that bespoke a lifetime of exposure to relentless sun. The exotic purple prescription sunglasses that hung cockeyed on a beak nose were totally incongruous with the otherwise earthy appearance of the man.

But most outstanding in the comic demeanor was his emblemed captain's cap. It at once finished the cartoon image, yet at the same time hinted at another soul. A soul of someone who had, at some point in his life, wielded power.

Though I remember the second part of my encounter with him as if it were seared in the folds of my cerebral cortex, I can't recall what happened in the interim. I must have just stood there, watching him fish for some time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be slapped in the face by a stranger's fishing rod. And I'm sure it seemed the most natural thing in the world when after a while this complete stranger said:

"Heya, you got some a problem, young man. C'mon, you can tell it to a Kostos. Nobody understands a problems like a Kostos. I was a millionaire three a times in my lifetime, lost it every a time on a woman and a gambling. And I'm a now the poorest, a most wretched 70-year-old former casino owner you a ever met ... and duh most god-damna happy one-a, too!" With a vicious cast of his line, which I managed this time to duck under with split-second timing, he proclaimed: "There ain't a god-damna ting you can't a tell to Kostos!"

And so I told him . . . about Patty, about my broken heart, about my life, about it all. Just as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world that this stranger should ask.

And just as naturally he said the words that lifted my burden as if it never had been there.

"Boyo, yousa 21 a years old, yousa duh most young a doctor I ever met. Yousa just startin' dis here wonderful life, gotta everyting goin' for ya wit looks anda everyting, and look at duh dammed a mess you gotta going on in data head." Somehow, instead of insulting me, his words made me see, really made me see myself.

"Boyo," he continued, "You should a write data younga lady duh biggest tank-you letta like nobody ever has. She's a done you duh biggest a favor anybody ever coulda. Boyo, at your age, wit what you a gotta goin' for ya, you a gotta be a crazy tinkin' about hookin' yourself up wit just one a girl. You shoulda be goin' out wit a million girls!"

Anyone else could have said the same thing. Others had. But somehow, coming from this man at this particular point in time, the words resonated with near biblical meaning.

But he wasn't done with me yet.

"Somethin' else is a botherin' you, boyo," he said. "You can tell a me. C'mon a kid, nowa's duh time. Boy, get dis goddammed ting off your chest. Yousa 21 years a old and Kostos can see it's a been dere almost as long as you a have!"

How did he know? How had this man, this crusty old fisherman who never met me before in his life, read into the deepest, most holy part of me as if my heart were an Essene scroll and he a scribe knowing exactly where to unfurl it to my most shrouded secrets?

So I told him. I told him about wanting to be a writer. Told him about thinking that I'd never enter practice. Told him, most of all, about the extreme tension between me and my father, how I couldn't do anything without my father wanting me to do something else, how every conversation between us the last few years had turned into a shouting match.

"You wanna be a writer?" he asked, his eyes almost popping out. I meekly nodded. "Boy, what you a got to write about? You only 21 a years old. You a gonna spend your life a writin' about udder people's lives? Dats duh saddest ting I ever heard."

My eyes must have betrayed my hurt, for he affectionately grabbed the nape of my neck with surprisingly strong, calloused fingers, shaking me to my roots. "Listen, kid. I can see you gotta heart a gold. Datsa why all deese tings are a boddering you. You a got duh heart and duh soul of a writer, dat I can see fer sure-a, too." He puffed up his chest. "So does a Kostos for data matter. Only ting, Kostos don't know how to write." The air was blown out with a wistful sigh. "But you..." His voice rose. "You got an oppertunity to have it all. To help people, to earn a good a livin', to make your parents proud -- and at duh same a time, to have all duh hard and duh wonderful experiences of duh world so you got sometin' ta write about, instead of about someone else's life. You undastanda me?"

I nodded, something deep inside stirred.

"Now about your father." His voice suddenly became stern. "Boyo, let me tell you a sometin'. Your parents? Dey'se - duh - mosta - important - ting - in - duh - world - to-a - you. Do you hear me?"

I nodded, not daring to speak.

"I a got a son. Dat boy calls a me from Callyforni three times a week! You hear, three! He a don't, he knows I come out a dere and I box his a ears! And you know a why?" I shook my head. "Of course you don't, because nobody ever told ya. No kid a knows. But ya know what?" I shook my head.

"Every damned a parent knows. Because I gave birth to data boy, datsa why, and for no udder reason. I gave a data boy life, and whaddever dere may be between us, I lova dat boy like a nuttin' else in dis world."

I felt weak.

"And you know whatta else, kid? Your daddy feels a duh same way 'bout you. Datsa why he's always tryin' a tell you what to do. Undastand?"

I nodded, not comprehending why I, who never shed a tear, suddenly was afraid to blink.

"Now, let me ask you a sometin' else. You a gotta brothers and a sisters?"

I shook my head no.

"Damn! Dat's even worse."

"Well, I had a sister," I said. "But she died of cancer five years ago."

Kostos slapped his forehead, almost falling over backwards into the lake. "God-a-damn! Datsa duh worsest. You can't get no worse dan dat!"

"I know," I whispered.

"Boyo, you gotta any idea how important you a are to your parents? You even begin to know how much dey lova you, how much dey worry about a you?"

I shook my head.

"Dere ain't a second dat goes a by in any single day dere notta tinkin' about you. And you know sometin' else? Wit all dat hard time yousa cryin' about dat your daddy gives a you, dere's only one ting dat he really wants from a you."

He stared at me. I whispered: "What's that?"

"Respect. Dat's all. Respect. Just datta you listen to him. Listen to duh advice he's a gotta give from all his years of experience, goin' tru all dem hard a times. Just like I demand from my a son."

I was speechless. The fisherman gave me a few seconds to let it sink in. "You a understand data, boy?"

"Yeah," I said, but suddenly feeling some of my old rebelliousness rising. "But what do I do when he wants me to do something I don't want to do?"

"You say, 'Yes, Dad, yes, sir, yes Dad.' "

"And?"

"And den, providin' dat you'va decided not to take summa his advice ... you go out and do exactly as you was a wantin' to do."

The reply dumbfounded me. For a moment I was speechless. "But won't he be mad at me for not following what he said?"

"He won't have duh chance if you don't tell him until after yousa gone ahead and done whatever it was you a wanted. Right?"

His psychology was boggling. It defied all logic ... but somehow it made perfect sense.

"Listen," he put his coarse arm around my shoulders. "Your dad don't wanna you doin' exactly like he a says. No more den I wanna my son to. He won't have nuttin' to be a proud of datta way. Your dad just a wants you to hear him out, fer cryin' out loud."

Those words I did hear. And they spelled a changing point in my life. For sure, I'd have many more fights with my father over the years, but none so vehement or so prolonged that I would let them create any shadow of a doubt that I still loved and respected him. I realized that my father, like Kostos, was from the old school. There was nothing I could do to change him, change his need to advise me; yes, even to boss me. But Kostos was right -- however tarnished, however obscure the message after passing through the filter of my father's pysche, everything he said came from his deepest core of love.

So even though we'd still fight -- almost as if by biological principle -- I'd always end up swallowing my pride and calling a few hours later to tell Dad I was sorry. To tell him I was taking into consideration what he said. To simply say "thank you."

And it wasn’t until now, now that I no longer have someone to consult with, someone to ... yes ... even fight with to iron out my own thought processes, that I realize how much I did indeed value my father's opinion. For why else did he always get to me if I really wasn't seeking his approval? And how I now wish I had him here, if only to bounce an occasional idea off him.

After my encounter with the Greek, whenever I wanted to do something I knew would meet my father's harsh disapproval, I did as the fisherman advised -- not tell my father until after the deed was done. This was how I sold that first practice after owning it less than a year and a half.

Though I was making more money than most 21-year-olds could imagine, I was completely unhappy -- with the town, with the style of practice, with my entire life. And looking back, I thank God for my decisiveness, otherwise I would now be very rich but totally miserable young man probably with a drinking or drug problem. Though it would take years, I would eventually find my niche in the health field, one that would bring me unimagined fulfillment -- and incredible happiness to my father for seeing me so fulfilled.

But when I decided to put that first practice up for sale, I knew the fisherman was right. I couldn't tell Dad. So I waited until after it was sold. And to my amazement, when I did tell him, though he was stunned -- shocked -- he accepted it. What else could he do at that point?

Strangely, I never again ran into the fisherman, try as I might to later find him around the lake casting his murderous line. But like some odd, brown, oversized angel, he served a divine purpose in my life just when it was needed most.

I now realize that our times of greatest strife may often become our moments of greatest revelation. Such was what I learned with Kostos, what I learned from what happened with my father after Black Monday and, on a more material level, what I learned after watching what happened with the stocks, such as MCI, that my father picked when they, too, were at their lows.

And since that day of meeting the crusty old fisherman, there always has been a prayer of thanks in my heart that he was sent my way.

And for my father who, though less than perfect, nevertheless perfectly loved me.








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Dr. Michael Norwood is the author of The 9 Insights of the Wealthy Soul and two other Weatlhy SoulT handbooks. His books have been featured in places like The Wall Street Journal, The Atlanta Constitution, and The Miami Herald and he has been featured on approximately 60 radio stations in the last month alone. To preview his life-changing books series or to sign up for a complimentary subscription to The Wealthy Soul Newsletter as well as to see his beautiful photographic Flash production of The Journey of 1001 Miracles, visit www.wealthysoul.com. To receive his complimentary 30-day transformational program, The Gifts of Departed Loved Ones, visit www.grieftograce.com .

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