"You know Dad," Zach is talking with his mouth brimful of cereal, "I think my life has been pretty full."

"Really?" I say to my son.

"Yeah. I mean, think about it. I have actually held a Serval Cat. In my lap. I have touched a real NASCAR race car. I have been on an Aircraft Carrier. I have ridden in a real Ferrari. I have touched the actual Spruce Goose. And I have been within one foot of a Crossbill. Not bad."

No, son, not bad. Even better that you see it that way.

In Seattle, we celebrated the first week of summer. The 4th of July is our demarcation; it is when our thermometers venture above 70. (I realize that there will be little sympathy to be found from the majority of you who live in parts of the country whose weather spares you the need to purchase a sauna.)  Anyway... I saw an article in the Sunday paper about "Summer Wish Lists;" those things--or ambitions--we hope to accomplish with all of our free time fueled by unchecked post-Memorial Day enthusiasm. The list varied: Teach my dog manners. Befriend my parents. Get rid of my beer and curry belly. Break up with Frank. Treat myself to a polka-dot pedicure. Make ripples! Not bad. Although I suspect that many will appear on the "Unfinished Summer Wish List" after Labor Day.

I suppose that I have my own catalogue of unfinished business.

But here's the deal: Life is good when you find yourself knee deep in delight in something that isn't even on your list.

A few summers ago, I danced in a barber shop. On a May day, I drive by the Mud Creek Baptist Church. In contrast to the name, the building is new red brick. Down the road sits a tired and weathered sandwich-board-sign: Carol Helms Barber Shop. Beyond the sign, a double-wide. In front, a simple wood sign and a red, white and blue barber pole. It could be 1965. I am standing here, in front of Carol Helm's Barber Shop, on an early Thursday morning, just outside of Hendersonville, North Carolina.

Carol has invited me to stop by, and listen to the music.

Every Thursday morning is music jam. Has been every Thursday morning for 12 years. There are maybe a half dozen cars in the lot when I arrive, coffee in hand, before eight a.m. From the parking lot, I hear Jim Reeves, or at least someone who sounds a bit like him. The air here, humid and dense, holds the music.

The rule at Carol's is simple: If you have an instrument and a love of music, you're welcome to drop in. I see banjo, guitar, bass, mandolin and fiddle.

Carol is standing behind the barber chair, scissors and comb in hand, working at a customer's hair. I'm not sure that cutting would be the correct verb. From what I can tell, the choice here is short, shorter or Marine. Carol is affable. With wavy silver hair, he welcomes me with a handshake and a warm smile. "Glad you'll could visit," he says.

"Glad to be here," I try to match the Carolina lilt.

He looks at my hair and says, "It looks like you'll haven't been in a barber shop in some time. You want me to work on that?"

I look at the customer sitting in the chair and tell Carol, "Maybe next time, if that's alright by you."

The space inside Carol's is about 12 feet by 25 feet, and the musicians--a dozen or so on this Thursday--are squeezed into one end, chairs pulled together, but they don't seem to mind. They take turns, going around the circle. "Let's do some Hank Williams, key of G," and off they go. When a new person arrives, he (or she, there are two women in the group) pulls up a chair and joins in. The group ranges in age from late 30s to mid or late 80s.

During a break I ask what they love about these Thursdays. "This is not a time for politics or differences or whatever's weighing you down. If you love music, you're welcome here." The younger woman adds, "Our idea for a bumper sticker, is 'make guitars, not bombs.'"

By the wall, just listening, sit two local good 'ole boys, John Deere hats riding high on their foreheads. And I bet if I asked them, they might tell me that listening to music down at Carol Helms' every Thursday makes for a pretty full life.

I figure that would be right.  I do know that there is something going on at Carol's we all could use on a regular basis.

In an airport recently, this magazine caption caught my attention, "Life Aspiration to be a Millionaire." I shake my head, mystified. Not because I don't daydream about having a few million set aside for a rainy day, but it's all about the measures we have by which we gauge the progress in our lives. And our perspective about success is not too subtle. It's all about size. What are you worth? What did you accomplish? How much bigger (in value or bank account or faith for that matter) are you than the next guy?

As a result, we put each moment through its paces, evaluating it, judging it for significance and worth. We want to know if it measures up, and then, and only then will we embrace it, and make it a part of our lives. It is not surprising that it is easy to live lives based upon comparison, and in the end, shame or regret.

I think about Zach. And agree with Rabbi Abraham Heschel, "We teach children how to measure, how to weigh. We fail to teach them how to revere, how to sense wonder and awe. The sense of the sublime, the sign of the inward greatness of the human soul and something which is potentially given to all men, is now a rare gift."

Here's the point: As long as success is measured by keeping score, we lose track of most everything that makes us human and therefore, glad to be alive:

- small gestures of kindness

- acts of inclusion or community to someone left out, or someone on the fringes

- extending a hand of healing or acceptance to someone who hurts

- reveling in the gifts of the senses

- resting in a moment of gratitude

- sharing laughter, a smile, camaraderie or joy

- dancing in a barber shop.. somewhere in the Carolinas...  

So you want ambition? Aspiration? Okay. Aim high. Shoot for the stars. Dream big. Seriously. But, above all else, my friend, don't deny the rest of us your gifts and abilities and presence, just because you think they are ordinary.

Tonight I'm on my back deck. The moon will be a perfect half, or close enough. Dusk is still a ways off and I'm reluctant to leave my patio chair. The evening bird choir concert has begun. And in this light, the calla lily blooms appear as flames. Foxglove blossoms spill from the stalks near the stream. And I understand what my son meant about a full life.

How lovely to think that no one need wait a moment, we can start now, start slowly changing the world! How lovely that everyone, great and small, can make their contribution toward introducing justice straightaway... And you can always, always give something, even if it is only kindness! Anne Frank