Physicist Stephen Hawking's rules for life

The advice seemed simple enough. What made the bromides somewhat remarkable is that they were being offered by Stephen Hawking, the British theoretical physicist who generally stays busy dealing with such weighty matters as quantum gravity and black holes.

On a recent evening news broadcast, Hawking, who suffers with ALS, is confined to a wheelchair and speaks with the aid of a computer, was being quizzed by Diane Sawyer about life and the Universe when the interview turned briefly to more personal things -- family, his wife and children.

Apparently Hawking can be a very straight forward sort of a guy when it comes to parenting -- in a poetic, Einsteinian sort of way. He has three rules for living that he's shared with his children about life, love and work. He also shared the advice with Diane and her audience.

The harsh metallic tones of his computer-generated voice couldn't hide the human nature of the code -- spend time looking at the stars, not at your feet; if and when you find love, hold onto it tightly; always work, it gives meaning to your life.

Hawking's daughter Lucy, a lovely woman sitting at his side through much of the interview, chuckled and told Sawyer that of course there was much truth in what her father had to say, but "if you're always looking at the stars, there's a good chance you're going to bump into a light post" one day.

Such is the problems with bromides!

Since I've been thinking a bit about life and work over the last year, ever since I walked away from the place with the printing press that I called home for several decades, I found what he had to say about work, ahhh, interesting.

There seems to be two huge camps of thought on the topic -- work is good; it keeps you active and alive and, as Hawking says, provides structure and meaning to life. And then there are the folks who argue that life is about a whole lot more than work, that one's career is mostly about making money to be able to do the real things you want to do with your time.

There's a bit of sense in each camp and the worth of both views seemed to come together in my mind while watching the Tony Awards the other night. Most of the winners, breathless and filled with thanks, spoke about how "lucky" they were to be working in a field they loved -- acting, singing, dancing, directing, producing.

They all had managed to find a way to make money, doing what they were passionate about in life. I imagine that Hawking feels the same sort of passion for his chosen field -- astro-nuclear-fusion-cosmological-stringy-theoretical physics and book writing.

The challenge, it would seem, is to find that thing -- accounting, baking, lawyering, painting, counseling, gardening, teaching, selling, plumbing, governing -- you're passionate about and then figure out how to make a living at it. So at this stage of the game, I think my choices are writing, phtography, painting or drinking. I know what I enjoy the most and do the best. Now if only I can figure out how to handle the headaches and dehydration.

WORDS OF WISDOM: Physicist Stephen Hawking (photo above) offers up some good advice on life, love and work.

Running to capture a dream

It was a fantasy, one of those little dreams that float through your mind when thinking about goals well out of your reach.

And it was long forgotten until earlier this month on Mother's Day when Dallas Braden of the Oakland A's did the impossible -- pitched a perfect game. The Tampa Bay Rays took 27 shots at Braden and he accomplished what only 19 other pitchers in professional baseball have managed in the history of the game.

Perfection!

He's now a member of a tiny fraternity that includes such iconic personalities as Cy Young, Sandy Koufax and Randy Johnson. "It's pretty ridiculous," Braden told The New York Times, "to be in that kind of company."

Watching the news clips and hoopla play out on the evening news, my mind started drifting back a few years -- actually a few decades. And there it was -- the fantasy! I was once again back on the road, huffing my way through another training cycle, living the dream.

The fantasy, in one fashion or another, is out there in many of our minds -- the quarterback in the Super Bowl, tossing the winning pass as time runs out; the humble slugger facing a fiery closer in the seventh game of the World Series, whacking a walk-off homer; the tiny point guard, playing for a cinderella team in the Final Four, going for three and hearing only the whoosh of the net and the roar of the crowd.

But my fantasy was never about such mega-events, team sports played with a ball. Truth be told, I was always too small and too slow to make it big in football, baseball or basketball. I played at all three sports as a youngster, even made the all-star team my last year of playing little league baseball.

But after vegetating on the sidelines for two decades, I joined a softball league when I was in my early 30s and immediately realized that I had absolutely no talent for the game.

So I started searching for the athlete I knew was part of my life and ended up finding that guy while jogging in my neighborhood. It began with a very slow mile -- 15 minutes or so. But something clicked and over the next few days, weeks and months I managed to shed a few pounds, significantly increase my pace and create a fantasy. But first, a little history and context.

In 1972, I found myself in Germany, in the army and stationed at a NATO base outside of Heidelberg. That summer, the world returned to Germany after kicking Nazi butt 25 years earlier. The summer Olympics were being held in Munich and each evening the international community I was part of gathered together to watch the Games and cheer for our country's athletes.

The men's marathon took center stage as the Games were coming to an end. It's the first time I recall watching a long distance race and it was an American, Frank Shorter, who entered the Olympic stadium first that day, tens of thousands of fans calling his name, millions of others watching the event on television.

Twelve years later in Los Angeles, a young woman, Joan Benoit, managed to capture center stage and the world's attention by winning the first woman's Olympic marathon.

It was a breathtaking achievement, this wisp of a woman from a small community in Maine pulling away early from the pack of world-class talent, cheered on by hundreds of fans on the streets of Los Angeles, thousands waiting for her to enter the Olympic stadium and millions watching the spectacle play out on TV.

It's that spectacle that became my fantasy, my dream, to run into an Olympic staidum, my name on the lips and in the hearts of thousands. It's a fantasy, a mind game really, that I thought about each time I laced up my running shoes and pounded the pavement.

And, of course, it's a fantasy that never came true.

No, I've never experienced the thrill of dashing through a darkened tunnel into the light of a packed Olympic staidum, or heard my name called out by thousands as I floated around a track.

But this much I know is true. All those years ago when I was running every day, I managed to grab hold of something special, a tiny piece of the magic that Benoit and Shorter shared.

The dream kept me running and kept me company when I was tired. It was there on frigid mornings in winter and blistering days in summer, on painful runs that lasted for hours and short sprints that took my breath away. The fantasy pushed and pulled and prodded and waited patiently as I grew faster, stronger, willing to go the distance.

My reward?

There was a slight chill in the air as I approached the Queensboro Bridge, just one of thousands of runners pounding onto the span that would take us into Manhattan. We were two hours into the New York City Marathon and I knew the winner would cross the finish line in minutes.

I was yet another two hours from Tavern on the Green in Central Park and growing weary. I had managed to hold to my pace, a mile every eight minutes, but now I was slowing, banging against the proverbial wall, just about ready to call it quits.

And then I heard a noise, a rumble off in the distance. With each step the sound grew, a tiny muffled roar that seemed to call my name. The dream was waiting, out there again, pulling me into the Big Apple.

The noise grew and my pace quickened. The shadows of early afternoon cast me into momentary darkness and for an instant I was running toward the light, through a tunnel and into my dreams.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of fans were clustered at the foot of the bridge. They were filled with energy and good cheer, offering a hearty welcome and words of encouragement for family and friends, neighbors -- and me!

This was real. No fantasy, no dream. I had done the work, paid the price and here was my reward. Magic!

POUNDING THE PAVEMENT: Thousands of runners (photo above) make their way into Manhattan, looking for magic as they take part in the New York City Marathon.