Ready for a miracle story? But not a religious one. This is the non-denominational kind. All faiths (and athiests) welcome.

This is a true story that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt (at least to me) that human beings are, despite all news headlines to the contrary, inherently good.

It begins with an innocent bike ride. My husband and I love to bicycle on the weekends. A few Saturdays ago we were riding on an off-road bike path at Blaisdell Park in Central Oahu. “Off road” means there are no cars anywhere around. The hidden path, which runs along Pearl Harbor, can only be accessed by walking or bike.

We had ridden approximately 6 miles from where we parked our car (we transport our bikes on a bike rack so we can ride all over Oahu), happily on our way to West Loch Shoreline Park in Ewa Beach. It was a beautiful sunny day. We pedaled past graffiti art and hidden streams.

Some people don’t like riding this particular bike path because it’s extremely isolated and includes a large community of homeless men and women. But we’ve always loved riding there and always felt safe.

On our way, we were thrilled to discover a newly paved part of the path (thanks to the efforts of the Hawaii Bicycle League) and stopped to enjoy the historical markers when my husband’s phone rang.

The history of Waikele Stream Bridge

He took the call, pulled out his wallet, and set it on the concrete ledge while searching for something. Afterward, we hopped back on our bikes and rode two more glorious miles to West Loch, where a lively Tahitian dance troupe was rehearsing.

One of the friendly dancers pulled my 77-year-old husband up, urging him to shake his booty to the thundering drums. What a scene! What a wonderful way to spend the afternoon.

What could possibly go wrong?

Hubby shaking his booty to Tahitian drums!

We took off like bats out of hell, my husband far ahead of me. But then—he stopped. When I reached him, he was slumped on the ground beside his bicycle, staring at a flat tire.

I barely slowed down.

The entire time, I sang out loud, a sort of prayer-song that burst spontaneously from me; a song affirming that Light surrounded his wallet; that Light surrounded his heart because he was very upset - and a few years ago he had literally keeled over on the couch and ended up having open heart surgery.

I pedaled as fast as I could, singing over and over about the Light, affirming over and over my belief in miracles.

The wallet could still be there.

It’s possible.

Anything is possible.

I pedaled hard and fast, singing and praying, praying and singing. I could see the concrete bridge up ahead. I could see the historical marker. I practically flew to the spot.

But…

No wallet.

Gone.

I rode back to Dennis with the bad news. To make matters worse, our bike pumps failed, and the spare tube was useless.

Miles from the car, stranded, with one working bicycle.

Dennis ended up walking his bike two miles back to West Loch. I rode six miles, alone, back to the car, loaded my bicycle on the rack, and drove to Ewa Beach to pick him up.

At the park, we called the police and filed a report. As we drove home, Dennis seemed calmer. “I thought about it,” he said. “I decided that maybe my wallet and that money was the answer to someone’s prayers.”

What a beautiful perspective.

I reminded him of my old ex-boyfriend, David—how decades ago, he left his wallet in a New York City bar, with a hundred dollars inside. He was new to the city and really needed that money. A few days later, a stranger called and returned it, untouched.

Or the time, many years later, that same ex had his old junker stolen in Baltimore. Two weeks later, the police found it—with brand-new brakes.

Anything is possible.

I really felt, in my heart of hearts, that the wallet could show up.

Almost a week later Dennis received a notice in the mail from the post office that he had a package but needed to pay the outstanding six dollar postage.

“It’s your wallet!” I exclaimed exuberantly. “I know it!”

And yep, you guessed it, I was right!

The entire wallet, untouched, with every last dollar bill.

So what’s the moral of this story?

It’s simple (again, at least to me)…

People are inherently good.

Life is inherently good.

Miracles abound.

But when it doesn’t feel that way, take a deep breath and remember what the 13th century mystical Sufi poet Rumi has to say…

That’s it for today.

Love & miracles,

Marcia

P.S. I’m sooooooo excited! I just received the first round of my audiobook for QUEST, my latest novel and it’s amazing to hear this incredibly talented British narrator bring the story to life. When it’s ready the audiobook will be available on Audible, Spotify, Google Books, and more. Of course, I’ll keep you in the loop!

P.P.S. In case you already forgot…you don’t have to look very far to find a miracle. Feel your heart beating. Listen to a bird singing. Watch a toddler giggling. We live in a universe of wonders…

A peek into my backyard

P.P.P.S. Here’s a surprising global scientific study about honesty & lost wallets!

I remember the moment vividly.  I’m driving on H1 into Honolulu, smack in the midst of the wild roller coaster called menopause, the 50-something mother of a screaming toddler, feeling trapped, stuck, like I need to do something. Something Different. Something Fun. Something Frickin’ Exciting.

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be on stage. In front of an audience. As a child, I remember playing the White Queen in Alice in Wonderland at a Jewish community center in Brooklyn where I had to make my entrance by walking backwards across the stage. I remember begging my mother, when I was about five years old, to let me take acting classes but she said no. So, I grew up to be a writer instead. But I always loved theatre. Loved standup comedy. And absolutely adored improv.

The traffic slows down so I call a friend in Makiki, complaining. “I can’t stand it anymore. I have to do something new! I want to study improv.  I want to take classes. But I want a really, really, really great teacher.”

My friend, a talented watercolor artist laughed. “You must be psychic,” she said. “I literally just read in the paper that Alan Arkin is coming to Honolulu. He’s teaching a weekend improv workshop through the University.”

I almost slam on the brakes. Alan Arkin? THE Alan Arkin? The Russians Are Coming Alan Arkin?  Second City improv pioneer Alan Arkin?!

Barely able to contain my excitement, I immediately call UH. A young man answers. It’s a very brief conversation.

 “The class is full.”

His words fall on deaf ears. That’s impossible! How could I not be in that class? Alan Arkin coming all the way to Hawaii? To the most geographically isolated land mass on the planet? To teach improv? Exactly what I just said I want to study? The class is meant for me. It’s destiny! It’s exactly what I need. They can’t possibly say no to an exhausted, fifty year old menopausal emotional wreck!

 My words fall on deaf ears

“Sorry. The class has been full for weeks,” he repeats. “There’s already a wait list.”

Desperate, I call another friend, a grad student at UH, and she tells me that if I really want a shot at getting into the class I have to show up on the first day.  Just show up, she insists. That’s my only chance.

So, with a great deal of trepidation, that’s exactly what I do. I get there early Saturday morning. Walk to the crowded registration desk. I see students taking their seats inside the large glass-walled classroom. The registration guy tells me that if someone who is registered doesn’t show up, then maybe I can get in. But I’m second on the wait list. Someone is ahead of me. I stare through the glass wall and spot Alan Arkin. There he is. Just sitting there. My ex-New Yorker chutzpah takes over and I push open the door, boldly introducing myself.

“Are you in the class?” Alan asks.

“No,” I reply, suddenly gripped with an overpowering desire to be funny. “I’m on the wait list. But I’m hoping the person ahead of me gets hit by a bus.”

 Silence. No smile. “That’s not very nice,” he says.

 STRIKE ONE.

I mill around outside of the class as more students show up. When I notice a petite blond-haired woman pick up the restroom key I follow her, not knowing what else to do.

 “Are you here for the class?” she asks.

 “Yes,” I chirp, a bit too enthusiastically. “I’m on the wait list. But my plan is to schmooze Alan Arkin and convince him to let me in.”

 She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes kind.

“I don’t think that will work,” she says gently. “I’m his wife. He’s very strict about the number of students in a class.”

 STRIKE TWO.

Back at the registration desk, it looks like class is about to start. Everyone who registered has shown up so there’s no chance of me getting in. When Alan steps out of the room for a moment, I make a beeline for him. He’s gotta like me. We’re both Jewish. Both originally from Brooklyn. 

I start talking to him, or rather talking at him, barely able to disguise my wildly desperate need for his approval, but he doesn’t crack a smile. He politely listens, deadpan. Then he excuses himself and heads into the classroom, closing the glass door behind him.

 STRIKE THREE.

I slump down on a stone bench directly across from the classroom and fight back tears. It’s over, Marcia. You tried. You failed. Go home. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and do the only thing left to do. Surrender. Take my hands off the wheel. Let go of my fierce need to control. As I relax, my breathing softens. Then, for some reason, I open my eyes to see Alan looking straight at me. He motions to me. Hesitantly, I walk over and open the heavy glass door.  He smiles. “You’re sitting so quietly,” he says. “I can’t leave you out there.  Join the class.”

That day was the beginning of my life-changing relationship with Alan Arkin and his wife, Suzanne. The weekend of improvisation was one of the most exciting experiences of my life. Being given permission to be spontaneous and not hold back, I felt liberated, enjoying the hell out of following my crazy instincts and impulses, taking creative risks, and at rare moments, seeing Alan Arkin laugh at something I did.

After that weekend, I was hooked. A few weeks later, Alan and Suzanne asked me to help them organize a 6-day improv camp on Molokai. I felt like I won the lottery. Those 6 days were probably one of the highlights of my entire life. There were about fifteen of us, from around the country, eating meals together, laughing together, and spending all day and evening practicing the art of improvisation. Alan was a deeply spiritual, compassionate, and extraordinarily wise teacher, always stressing that improv is not at all about trying to be funny. In the end, it’s about being genuinely present and a hundred percent authentic.  

Alan Arkin’s presence in my life literally changed everything. That burning childhood desire to be on stage emerged in full force. After the week on Molokai, I decided to do something I had promised myself I would do for decades: I auditioned for my first theatre play, The Miser, at HPU. The director, Joyce Maltby, didn’t know me at all since I had not been involved in the theatre scene. But a good friend of hers, a renowned local playwright who had been in the same improv weekend with me, apparently urged her to cast me because of what she had seen me do in Alan’s class. I got the part and had an absolute blast. It was a thrilling experience.  And I never would have tried if it hadn’t been for all the encouragement I received from Alan.

Over the next few years, I stayed in touch with Alan and Suzanne, helping organize a few more Hawaii-based improv workshops. And I continued to do more and more performance-inspired work, including studying improvisation in Honolulu with various local teachers, then going on to study with Mick and Tess Pulver, doing their amazing Breakthrough Performance Workshops; writing and performing my solo show, WHO THE BLEEP AM I?; and finally co-writing and co-performing a successful 2-woman musical, MONEY TALKS: But What the Hell is it Saying, that my creative partner, Lucie Lynch, and I performed for many years all over Hawaii, and Colorado.

I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico with my husband visiting friends when I learned of Alan’s passing on June 29th. It hit me hard. Even though I hadn’t seen him in many, many years, I had stayed in touch with him a bit through email. And as strange as it might be to say, I loved him. He always felt like family to me. I always felt this deep, profound connection. Maybe that’s why he welcomed me into his class that day. Maybe in some small way, he felt it, too.

I feel so blessed to have known him, to have glimpsed his tender-hearted spirit, to have spent precious time with him and Suzanne. I realize that I can’t in any way imagine the profound loss his family and close friends are feeling. And I know it might seem like he was, to me and many other students, “just” a teacher. But his generous spirit, wisdom, and creative joy had a monumental impact on my life. One that I will never ever forget. 

Mahalo nui loa, Alan, from the bottom of my heart. May your beautiful soul continue to forever soar. 

(Reprinted with permission from LOST & FOUND ON LANA’I: The Trials & Transformation of One New Yorker Living in Paradise, 1995, by Marcia Zina Mager)

The other day a sea shell spoke to me.  It was a moon white cone shell with dabs of amber gold. I was walking along Frasier Avenue, minding my own business by frantically worrying about a personal problem. All of a sudden this shell leaped out at me. (Well, maybe it didn't actually leap but it made its presence known!) So I bent down to scoop it up and it began seriously philosophizing.

         "Life is more than pain and misery," the shell said. "Feel the perfect smoothness of my body. This is the miracle of life."

         Knowing full well how important it is to listen carefully when a shell or a tree or a flower decides to speak, I took a deep breath and did as I was told. Wrapping my fingers more firmly around the shell, I felt the cool smooth surface. Oddly enough, it immediately calmed me down.

         "This is the miracle of life," the shell repeated, "Nature and God have conspired, over eons and eons of time, to create this perfect shell. Thousands of years in the ocean, touched by infinite waves and creatures, washed up on endless shores, played with by countless numbers of smiling children. And then, by even more miracles, it found its way to this dusty dirt road, sixteen hundred feet above sea level, to be picked up by your hand.  This," the shell said for the third time, "is the miracle of life." 

         I thought about what it was saying and started to look around at what I was passing by. Sleepy plantation houses with well-trimmed bougainvillea bushes in every color and stunning bird of paradise displays. I began to notice the soothing chatter of the mynah birds, a sound I would not have paid attention to because of all the miserable chatter in my worried mind.

         "Lift your head up and out of the rushing river of human pain," the shell piped in, "and feel what's surrounding you."

         As I strolled along Frasier, holding this shell and listening to its amazing discourse, I continued to look around at Lana‘i’s beauty: lush banana trees leaning into the shadow of towering pines; mist-covered mountains, endless fields of green and gold. The problem I had been fretting about was quickly melting into the wondrous wisdom of this shell.

         I know all this sounds pretty wild. An ex-New Yorker turned “haole,” living on a small rural island in the middle of the Pacific, listening awestruck to the soundless words of a small white cone shell.

         But then many things on this island are pretty amazing, don't you think?  The wild spinner dolphins who come to rest and play in our bay, the rare gigantic whale shark who gently gives a diver the ride of a lifetime, the amazing cowry and auger shells that look better than any buried treasure you can find. And the miracles don't stop there: Tiny white gecko eggs, smaller than a thumbnail, that hatch inside palm trees; spectacularly painted parrot fish that look like God had a field day with His/Her easel; all those amazing creatures, large and small, that live beneath the sea and upon the land, innocently unaware of their own magnificence.

The truth is ... magic happens. Every day. Reality, I've come to realize, is much, much larger and grander and more fantastic that we can even imagine. But don't take my word for it. The next time you stumble across an ordinary sea shell, pick it up. And listen. It just might have something extraordinary to say.

(Reprinted with permission from LOST & FOUND ON LANA’I: The Trials & Transformation of One New Yorker Living in Paradise, 1995, by Marcia Zina Mager)

I've always envied people who had "faith." That age-old, mystical wellspring which inspires and guides through the toughest storms. I don't think I ever understood what faith really was. I did, however, understand "belief." Belief was something I felt I did possess. After all, I believed in God. But the problem with "belief" is that its very definition demands proof. If I "believe" in God then someone can come along who believes differently. We can then get into a big argument over whose God is better and soon enough the whole discussion collapses into a battle of wills.

         Then I met a man named Peace Pilgrim II. Sixty-eight years old, British accent and sparkling blue eyes. He was visiting Lana‘i for a few days and I had an opportunity to spend time with him. Some years ago, this very normal man with a very normal life heard an inner voice tell him to give away all his possessions, go on the road, by foot, and spread the message of peace. It wasn't as bizarre a directive as it sounds because in 1953 someone else had done the same thing. The original Peace Pilgrim was a woman who gave up everything she owned, including all her money, and began a 28 year walk for peace. In the first 11 years of her journey she covered more than 25,000 miles. It was eight years after her death that Peace Pilgrim II got his calling and began his journey. Following in her footsteps, literally, he too vowed to only eat a meal and sleep in a bed if someone offered. If I hadn't met this man, I could have easily dismissed what he was about. But for some reason I found myself hanging on every word of his story. What his very first day on the road was like, saying good-bye to his family, not knowing where he was really going or when he would eat next. I could vividly imagine the fear he must have felt that first day, no longer having the comfort of a telephone number or address or even a penny in his pocket.

         Yet what struck me most about this man named Peace was how willing he was to do it. Not that it was always easy. But when night came and his stomach ached with hunger and he found himself in a strange cold town, he'd simply ask God for a little help. And like clockwork, someone would always appear; a friendly stranger offering him a hot meal, a warm bed, a classroom to give his talks. And so it went. And so it still goes for him.

         Faith. The man had a wellspring of faith. Listening to him, I found myself envying him. He had the very thing I wanted yet never thought I could attain. I had always felt that somehow I wasn't as spiritually well endowed as people like Peace. That somehow he had claimed a secret that would never be mine. Faith. It was as real and comforting to him as a warm king size bed.

         I went home and began thinking about the difference between faith and belief. I realized that most of my life it was belief in God that I held;  a belief that worked only until it was shot down by life's harsh realities:    a friend's suicide, major career disappointments, losses and hurts that ate away, like termites, at its very foundation. So I asked myself, what is faith? Where do I get it? How do I take that eternally talked about "leap?" Then, all of a sudden, the truth snuck up behind me and pounced! You can't "get" faith, it whispered. You can't learn it from anyone. You can't study it. And there's certainly no how-to books full of rules on achieving it. The reason for this is obvious: Faith is simply faith. You can't grab it or borrow it or steal it because then it wouldn't be faith. It's called a LEAP, silly, because that's what it is! A LEAP! You just do it. Walk up to the edge, look down at the abyss, take a deep breath, and LEAP! That's faith. It lives inside the heart, not inside the brain. Belief is a mind thing. Sure I believe. Here's the reasons why. But faith requires no proof, no list of reasons. Faith is not something you argue with. It's simply there, like the wind. All you have to do is stand up and claim it.

         My monumental realization, thanks to Peace, was that faith is simply faith. You don't have to be intelligent to possess it. You don't have to be literate or articulate. It doesn't matter how long you didn't have it or how long you didn't want it. Once you realize it's available to every human being on the face of this earth, no matter who they are or what they've done, it's well, quite amazing. I knew then and there that I possessed as much glorious faith as Peace Pilgrim himself. And I didn't have to give away my favorite dishes and head out, penniless, across the desert. Faith is mine. It's simply a matter of breathing it in.

         Ever since that moment of divine understanding, things have been a bit easier. When I get worried about something, I remind myself I don't have to figure it out or understand it. I can just close my eyes, take a deep breath and leap into that eternal wellspring. And if the results don't turn out the way my eager little mind predicted, well, that's just more reason to leap even higher. Faith has nothing to do with proof and results. Faith is lying down on a bed of grace that has always been there and always will be there. Faith in the Divine Mystery, faith in the Eternal Intelligence of All Life, faith in my future, faith in my present, faith in the Presence that lives within everyone. 

         Pretty amazing, this faith stuff. Try it. The leap may seem awfully scary at first but I promise you, it offers untold rewards. Like the old French saying goes:

                  Come to the cliff, he said.

                  They said, we are afraid.

                  Come to the cliff, he said.

                  They came.

                  He pushed them.

                  And they flew.