THE LESSON OF "VIRGIL"

"What a man can be, he must be" - Abraham Maslow.

My father, who was one of the last cases of polio in the United States spent his entire life in a wheelchair. He lived in a highrise apartment building about a mile away from my home throughout his mid-fifties. I would visit him and I was so blessed to spend every Tuesday night and most weekends discussing philosophy, spirituality and the "meaning of life" with my Dad who I saw as a spiritual giant.

I never really cared for his building, however. But it did have elevators. He didn't have to take out his own trash, there were night attendants and mailroom clerks that took good care of Dad and he didn't have to maintain a yard. He lived on the eighth floor so he had a nice view of the Philadelphia skyline along with a spacious balcony where I would often find him meditating or in prayer. My only real opposition to the building was the age of all the other residents.

Apparently my father wasn't the only one who chose the building for its disability-friendly amenities. It appeared to me that Dad was by far the youngest Tenant in the building.

My Dad engaged everyone he met. He was the quintessential "people person". He never chose awkward silence in an elevator over the potential of sparking up a conversation with his next great spiritual teacher! He knew his neighbors and they knew him.

One day, as Dad wheeled himself onto the elevator he noticed a quiet elderly man standing in the corner. Dad greeted him with a smile as the elevator doors closed. The man returned the greeting with a warm smile of his own. As Dad went to press 8 on the elevator panel he noticed it had already been activated. He turned to the elderly man and asked "you live on 8?".

"Yep", the man replied.

Dad, surprised that he didn't know one of his neighbors asked inquisitively, "when did you move in?"

"bout' two years ago" came the reply.

The elevator doors opened and the men exited and turned the same corner and began down the same corridor. The elderly man stopped at 804. My Dad lived in 809.

"You've lived in this apartment for two years sir?" Dad asked, shocked that he had never even seen this gentleman before today.

"Sure have, and the name is 'Virgil'", as he reached out and shook Dad's hand.

"Pete. Pleasure is all mine. Sorry for pestering you with the questions Virgil but I am shocked that I have never met you and we are literally across the hall from each other", Dad said almost apologizing.

"Well, Pete, I don't get out of the house that much. I am an artist ya know!" Virgil said, his face filling with pride. "Wanna see something?"

Dad never passing up an opportunity to "see something" said "Sure!".

Virgil after fiddling with his key for a moment, opened his apartment door and motioned to Dad to come in. Dad entered the apartment and noticed it was a small studio with a kitchenette. A bed with a white sheet on it was in the corner of the room and every occupiable inch of space besides that bed was filled with art or instruments of art. There were oil paintings, drawings, sketches, etchings, eisels, paint cans, and brushes everywhere. Dozens of pieces of art were on the walls, laying on the floor, leaning against countertops and stacked one on top of another. Landscapes, portraits, and every other concievable imaginative creation filled this tiny place.

"Wow! Virgil, you weren't kidding when you said you were an artist! This is incredible work!" Dad exclaimed.

Virgil got ten years younger from the excitement. Someone was appreciating his art and he could hardly contain his joy. "Would you like a piece, Pete?" Virgil asked, his voice filled with hope.

"Oh, no I couldn't" Dad said, his mind racing with how much art like this must cost.

"I insist, its a gift!" Virgil said, "how bout' this one, it was one of my first ever" and he handed dad a frame with what appeared to be a photograph of a persian cat in it. Dad grasped the frame and upon closer inspection realized it wasn't a photograph at all. It was a piece of metal that was etched with thousands of intricate lines. From 2 feet away it looked like a photograph of a cat. From two inches away it looked like indecipherable scratches on a car door. It was incredible. Virgil beamed as he watched Dad stare in awe at his creation.

Dad began making his way toward the door with his gift and said "Virgil, your amazingly talented, thank you so much for the gift. It's beautiful."

Just as Dad had gotten halfway through the door into the hall, Virgil exclaimed "I didn't know I could do this!"

"Do what?" Dad asked, slowing the momentum of his wheelchair with his thumbs.

With a distinct tremble to his voice Virgil looked down at the carpet and said:

"I moved here two years ago after my wife died. My kids have families of their own now and I was lonely. I was bored. As a young man I worked two jobs to take care of my family. I served in a world war. I just didn't have any time for hobbies" His eyes began to well up with tears and his voice took on an even shakier tone.

"I spent the last year of Sarah's life taking care of her and when she died, I moved here and just watched TV all the time. It was horrible. About 8 months ago I tried to draw something. I'm 85 years old and I only realized 8 months ago that I am an artist. I've been working every minute since, trying to fit a lifetime of purpose into the remaining days of my life. My wife of 62 years who knew me better than anyone on earth didn't know I could do this. I never made her a single painting. I now have twenty paintings of her though" as he motioned to a stunning portrait of a beautiful young woman hanging on his far wall. "I just didn't know myself. I was just too busy to even find out who I was" he said, the pain now visibly palpable on his face.

Virgil died 2 months later. Dad died 8 months after that. That picture of the persian cat is a constant reminder that we must find out who we really are. Not "someday". Not when the conditions are perfect. Not when all the bills are paid. Right now. This very instant.

"'Someday' is a disease that will take your dreams to the grave with you." Timothy Ferriss