I just watched the video clip Magda sent out. It’s where the professor from Carnegie Mellon gives his final lecture again on Oprah. He has pancreatic cancer and has exhausted all treatments; he has but months to live. His is a reflection on life, on values, on our choice to be happy…..or morose. He urges the audience to aspire to excellence and to relentlessly pursue dreams even through failure. I am reminded that we are but visitors here - to relish and revel in this uncertain journey.

I was orphaned at 34. My beloved mother died months after I married; Dad 4 ½ years later. In between that time, I watched as my sister grieved the loss of her only child Nicholas. He was seven years old. There is nothing more painful and heart wrenching than the loss of a child. Nothing.

It was a difficult, life altering time for me. Up until that point, I’d suffered no losses. I was cognizant of death, I just hadn’t internalized it much. All of a sudden, though, I had become very aware of my mortality. It was a time to fashion my reason to be or at least make a little sense of it all. I never did master the reason to be; but, I did manage a way to celebrate this life. My world view was shaped by one of the greatest gifts I have ever received - my father’s unfinished autobiography.

I remember when he told me he was writing his story. In that thirty-something-year-old way, I dismissed him. I couldn’t imagine he had anything that interesting to share, I stand corrected.

My parents were German immigrants. Both grew up in Hamburg during WWII. Six years older than Mom, Dad came of age at this time. His unfinished story begins with an eleven-year-old boy caught up in the excitement of war and Germany’s “greatness.” Dad would go with his buddies collecting shrapnel and harassing SS soldiers. It was a glorious golden time, Germans felt righteous and invincible. All that quickly tarnished.

As the war progresses, things get more difficult and dangerous in Hamburg - to the point where Dad is sent to the country. He doesn’t stay long, however; the family misses each other too much. Once back, he is enlisted in Hitler Youth. He marches, salutes, performs and becomes more wary of the whole war machinery. Opa (my accordion playing, former communist grandfather) says little, for he is quite disenchanted with Hitler, but he knows it is best to keep mum.

At one point, the Brits begin their fire bombing campaigns. I can’t tell you how many times I naively asked my parents if they’d been bombed during the war. Mom said a neighboring house was hit, Dad always said nothing. I wonder what he had been thinking.

I won’t go into great detail. I can’t do his story justice. But, one night the alarms sounded and the families went down to their shelters. As the onslaught raged, the basement became intolerably hot. Despite being halted by an SS soldier, Opa forced his family out into the street. From there my father ran in the roaring wind and fire storm. He saw people sucked in by the force of wind, igniting as they become stuck in the melting asphalt. It is horrific. My father loses consciousness under a train.

A day later my father is reunited with his family. His entire family – mother, father, brother and sister have survived the Hamburg Fire Bombing. It is one of the ten worst bombings in history – overnight 45,000 people are killed. Everyone in my father’s apartment has died. Dad’s childhood friends are mummified in the basement.

One other person who died that night was Aunt Rosie. She was the Jewish piano teacher my grandparents had been hiding in their apartment. She had stayed upstairs as everyone hid in the shelter. When I learned of this, I was floored. All my life, even as an American, I had felt that collective guilt of the Germans. I had many Jewish friends and always wanted to apologize. And, here I learned that my grandparents had put their lives on the line for that which was good and right. I was proud.

Anyway, I’ve gone on, but from this story I gained my world view. I’ve probably read it six times and each time I read it I cry. I cry for a boy who loses all his friends and his childhood at 14; for my grandparents who are so brave and ultimately broken. I cry for the unfathomable loss and suffering of so many people. I cry for Aunt Rosie.

I cry because I AM ALIVE.

You might ask how can such a tragic story leave one with a sense of optimism. And, on one level, it can't possibly. It's too sad. Yet, I am left with this profound sense of the miracle of life. I have absolutely no reason to walk this earth. My father along with his family should have died. But, they didn’t. And, in this I revel.

I was left with the sense that we all have our miracle stories that have allowed us to experience this good and beautiful earth. Along the way I have learned the price of admission is huge. We will all suffer loss and feel pain; be it early in life or late. Some are dealt more than a fair share, others are relatively spared. Nonetheless, life is a gift. My art, my attitude, my life celebrate the simple joys of being here. It's a great trip and I am thankful.