OMGabe

by Gabe Berman – the author of Live Like a Fruit Fly

Archive for the category “forgiveness”

Lilies In The Field

It’s been said that we make plans and God laughs.

This might be true.

And if it is, the larger, almost incomprehensible truth behind this truth is that God plans for us to make plans.

So, where does this leave you and me in this moment?

Having the last laugh.

Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.

love/thanks,
gb

www.WinTheWarWithYourMind.com

20170719-141932.jpg

Fuck Pride

It took three tries and two long pauses between those tries to get the goddamn sentence out of my mouth.

“Remember the music from that movie daddy…”

“Remember the music from that movie daddy would…”

“Remember the music from that movie daddy would…always whistle. Once Upon A Time In America with Noodles? With De Niro playing Noodles?”

My mom checked back into the old files in her mind and within a second, smiled in acknowledgment.

And after I almost cried three times, I smiled too.

It was a nice moment for us to share.

We watched Tarantino’s latest flick together tonight. The Hateful Eight. Ennio Morricone composed the music for it. And for the Once Upon. My dad would randomly whistle a song from that score while reading the New York Times. And then he’d look up from the paper and say to me, “Hey, Noodles!”

I wonder when I’ll stop being eviscerated by these memories.

Hopefully never.

love/thanks,
gb

My new book – Love Looks Like This

20160422-015712.jpg

The Apprentice Is Now The Master

Totally black.

The screen went totally black and it became completely silent in there.

Just ten minutes left of the mystifying movie Midnight Special and the projector shut down.

As if sitting in a crashing fighter jet, I ejected myself out of the seat and headed to the lobby to alert the officials while everyone else in the theater just sat that there like helpless lambs.

The movie was back on in minutes. The ending was remarkable. Super sick flick. See it.

That was me being my dad. Jumping up like that. Making sure everything was okay. Ready to fix, fight or flee without hesitation.

If there was a fire or an armed maniac, I would have been in my car, completely safe, before anything went down.

100%.

No doubt.

My dad and I used to say that the nazis never would have gotten us.

Get on these trains?

Not. Very. Fucking. Likely.

Maybe this feels like I’m reaching. Like escaping a movie compared to a death camp is a stretch.

Well, it’s not.

It’s just a difference of a degree.

When I was young, feuding with my dad over everything and nothing, I prayed that I’d just disappear. That I could just be an orphan.

But now, after all of these years and after all of these experiences, I literally couldn’t be more grateful that I’m Harold Berman’s son.

So, what does this mean for you, the reader?

Probably nothing.

I just knew I needed to share. And now we’ll see what unfolds next.

And, I just looked out the window and saw a little brown bird picking twigs up with it’s beak. Presumably to make a nest. For its kids.

There’s no better way to end this than with that.

thank you, so much, for taking the time to be with me in this moment,
gb

P.S I snapped this photo right before the movie restarted. Normally I would have texted it to my dad. And he would have said, “You’re a real pisser.”

read my new book, LOVE LOOKS LIKE THIS, here: http://www.amazon.com/Love-Looks-Like-This-Berman/dp/0692665382/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1458762345&sr=8-6&keywords=Love+looks+like

20160403-174958.jpg

Reflections On Reflections

Looking for reasons not to give us the money we asked for, two guys with bad teeth and beer bellies inspected my dad’s car with staged faces of disapproval.

We haggled for a minute, for old time’s sake, but quickly agreed on a price and shook on it.

My mom cried a little.

I couldn’t watch them drive it away.

I know I’m not the first son to write about his dead father’s car so I’ll spare you from what’s already been said so many times. But c’mon, you know how it is, part of his soul was in that damn thing.

While I was riding shotgun, he’d point to some woman in the street and say, “Do you know her?”

And like a slight-of-hand magician who masterfully misdirects the audience, he’d quickly press the button for my heated seat as I looked away. In the middle of the summer. And I’d sit there, with my ass on fire, instead of giving in to the fact that he got me.

Bastard.

Before we sold the car yesterday, my sister called and asked me to look under the driver’s side seat for toothpicks. So I got on my hands and knees and found a few for her.

My dad’s old toothpicks.

A little gross maybe, but after Hurricane Sandy had her way with almost everything in the house, they’re just about the only things we have left of his. That, and our DNA.

Our hands are (were) so different though. His were thick and powerful from working with them for most of his life while mine are, to be honest, fit for a yoga class. And while I’ve been driving his car around for the last year or so, I’d often look at my hands on the steering wheel and think of his.

It’s kind of like when I get my haircut now. I’ve been going to his barber since I’ve been back here in New York. An old Cuban lady he liked a lot.

I sit in her chair and look at myself in the mirror and I think about what he might have been thinking about as he looked at himself in the same mirror.

In the reflection of the reflection in the mirror behind me, you can see the tuxedo place across the street where my dad and I rented tuxedos for my sister’s wedding. I cried happily that day but as I write this now, my tears have a different tone.

I’m sitting at the dining room table, listening to Time Out by Dave Brubeck. My dad’s all time favorite album.

Years ago when I wrote for the Miami Herald, I’d come home for a visit and procrastinate the days away until needing to pull an all-nighter to get my column in before deadline. I’d write right here at this table and my dad would wake up at around four in the morning to ask me how I was doing.

My parents were proud of me then.

I know this is totally getting off topic, but hopefully my dad is looking down on me now and has finally realized that it’s not always easy being me.

Anyway, my mom already has a boyfriend. And I guess I have the right to be a prick about it, but I remember to take the high road instead. I’m just happy she’s happy again.

She certainly deserves to be.

In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

www.WeightLossCoffeeMiracle.com

www.WhereIsGodWhenOurLovedOnesGetSick.com

20140918-001225.jpg

Cosmic Drano

My friend’s parents are complete assholes.

It’s true. So, why should I beat around the bush and call it anything other than what it is?

His dad is an asshole and his mom is asshole.

And before you jump down my throat for not sounding “spiritual” enough (not you of course, but other lackeys reading this right now), let me assure you: I simultaneously see their inner essence. I see their perfect souls as clearly as I see my fingers typing on my iPad.

With that said, they’re cup runneth over with ego. And it camouflages their intention to love.

Their fear, and selfishness, and judgement, bubbles up and oozes over like lava from an active volcano and my friend invariably gets trapped in it like those poor bastards in Pompeii.

Who’s fault is it though?

You might think I’m going to say it’s my friend’s fault, but I’m not going to.

Why does he have to be as evolved as an Eckhart Tolle in order to simply get through a dinner or phone call with them?

Why can’t they just chill the fuck out and realize the truth?

What truth?

There is no spoon.

I remember when my parents used to visit me back in Florida. If I didn’t commit to a mantra of forgiveness, I’d end up swallowing my own tongue in an intentional act of seppuku in order to escape.

But I now sit in a Starbucks on Long Island after watching my dad dwindle away for eleven months from brain cancer.

And there’s nothing I wouldn’t trade away to hear his voice again.

Because I know, as I’ve always known, there is no spoon.

All of that ego-based bullshit is just that: bullshit.

It has no real weight. It’s an illusion.

And in one moment it’s here, and the next it’s not.

Gone.

Forever.

Like a warm dream you once had as a child.

And disappearing with that illusion, are our bodies.

Gone.

Forever.

Like a warm dream you once had as a child.

When will our loved ones figure out that we are just passing through transitory states together? Transitory states together with very limited time.

When will they fully focus on the only thing that matters?

When? Probably never.

That’s why we’ll have to focus on forgiveness. Because forgiveness unclogs the passages to gratitude.

Start with forgiving yourself for becoming so irritable at times.

It’s not your fault.

Because you just want unconditional love to flow. And how can that ever be faulty?

“In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

www.WeightLossCoffeeMiracle.com

www.WhereIsGodWhenOurLovedOnesGetSick.com

20140316-185836.jpg

Can You Handle The Truth?

Was Karl Marx right?

Is religion the opiate for the masses?

Hallucinogenic is probably more correct.

In my completely non-humble opinion, religion warps the truth about God.

It’s like a bad LSD trip.

What’s the truth about God?

We can’t even answer this because the question itself is faulty.

It’s like asking – what’s the truth about truth? Or, what’s the God about truth? Or, of course, what’s the God about God?

Head explode yet?

Don’t sweat it. I can barely keep up and I’m the one writing this (kind of).

What’s the truth about God?

God is truth. Truth is God.

So you see, as crazy as it sounds, atheists believe in God more than many religious people.

Because they believe in truth.

Many religious people believe they’re the sole keepers of truth. But how can their truth be more true than the truth of others?

It can’t.

That, as Spock would say, is illogical.

Religions are stories based on truth.

And stories are just stories. Regardless of how old and ornate the churches and temples are.

So, what is the truth? What would be the one rule of God if she/he/it revealed the one, holy commandment?

Before we get to that, let me tell where this is all bubbling up from.

A friend of mine is a catastrophic loss insurance adjuster and told me the other day that a very religious man didn’t allow him into his house on a Saturday after Hurricane Sandy.

This is warped thinking. A bad trip.

If it wasn’t for the hallucinogenic of religion, any truth seeking person would ask, “How come it’s okay for God to destroy my house but not okay for him to send over one of his angels on the Sabbath to help fix it?”

God didn’t destroy the house? You mean to tell me that God is separate from the weather?

It doesn’t take deep inquiry for the illusion to fade into mere mist.

Which brings us back to the one, holy commandment:

Love.

Love yourself, and others, unconditionally.

Love without condition, expectation, or exception.

Unconditional love for ourselves and others is like the needle in Mia’s heart in Pulp Fiction. It awakens all.

And if our old stories teach us anything other than unconditional love, it’s time to let them go.

Truth/God/Love is our savior.

In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

www.WhereIsGodWhenOurLovedOnesGetSick.com

www.WeightLossCoffeeMiracle.com

20140301-175735.jpg

Dear Dad…

Dear Dad,

I’m sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring at my iPad.

Paul Simon’s “The Boy In The Bubble” just came on Pandora.

I can still hear you singing along with the song (typing that made me cry).

– – – – – – – – – – – – – — – – – – – — – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – — – – – – – — – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – — – – – – – — – – – – – –

Amazing. “Son of a Preacher Man” is playing now.

Are you sending me a sign that you know I’m writing about you (we’d look over to each other, smile, and silently agree that we were done changing channels when we caught Pulp Fiction on TV)?

I hope so.

Actually, I know so.

Thank you.

I couldn’t miss you more.

love/thanks,
gabe

20140221-224850.jpg

iLiveLikeAFruitFly

Steve Jobs: Secrets of Life in 1 minute and 42 seconds:
CLICK ME

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

www.WeightLossCoffeeMiracle.com

20140218-192227.jpg

My Dad Killed My Math Teacher

The last words to come from my math teacher’s lips were, “Gabe is a really good kid.”

It was open school night and I was in the sixth grade.

I was home, watching TV with my sister, and all of the parents in the neighborhood were walking from classroom to classroom.

My dad introduced himself to my math teacher. They shook hands.

Immediately after saying, “Gabe is a really good kid,” my math teacher dropped to the floor like Sonny Liston.

He died right there at my dad’s feet. Massive heart attack.

Hopefully, they’re up there now, laughing about it.

But probably not.

In all likelihood, they see each other from time to time in Heaven’s Cafeteria. It’s a 24-hour joint. They politely nod, but that’s about it.

My math teacher sits at a table with his family and my dad sits with ours.

Jimi Hendrix is hanging with Jesus at an adjacent table.

Jesus gets hit with a spitball and says, “Hey, what the…?”

My dad keeps his classic straight face and avoids making contact with the big guy.

Jesus silently forgives him.

And so have I, for every time he got mad at me, my mom, or my sister for apparently no justified reason.

I now know he was doing the best he could at the time.

www.WhereIsGodWhenOurLovedOnesGetSick.com

www.LiveLikeAFruitFly.com

www.WeightLossCoffeeMiracle.com

In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

20140213-155244.jpg

Raise Children As Christians?

Two older women at the table next to me at Starbucks were talking about wallpaper. Or maybe it was about gift-wrapping paper. I was only idly listening.

That is, until one of them closed the wallpaper (gift-wrapping?) catalog and said, “And that’s why I believe it’s so important to raise children as Christians.”

I was tempted to ask, “But which Christianity? The Republican version based on the false gods of Guns & Greed? Or the unconditionally loving and forgiving versions of Dr. Martin Luther King and Jesus Christ himself?”

Although, of course, Jesus wasn’t a Christian in the religious sense of the word. Nor was he white. Nor would he be a racist. Or homophobic. Or against healthcare for all. Or for the fetishizing over assault rifles. Or for lining the pockets of the rich at the expense of the middle class.

“If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.” – said by a very dark skinned Jew over two thousand years ago

“In Live Like a Fruit Fly, Gabe Berman shares his recipe for living a more joyful, worthwhile, and abundant life in every way. A witty, entertaining, and insightful read.” — Deepak Chopra, Author, The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success

20140121-143912.jpg

Post Navigation