When I was so small that my head barely touched the windowsill, we lived in the ever-green forests of Vermont. Our home was far, far away from any town or city, but that was the way we liked it.

Some winters, it got so cold that the river would freeze, which was unusual for water like that, water which ran so fast and deep. It felt as though time had stopped near the river, and so it had decided to become solid, settling in to wait for spring. We liked to skate on that river, my grandfather and I, even though the ice was uneven and his brown leather skates was so old.

One night, in the most frigid winter my young mind could recall, long after I should have been asleep, I caught my grandfather sneaking out of the front door, his ancient leather skates in his hands. He looked sheepish when he saw me, like I had caught him doing something silly, but I was so young that I thought no adult could ever do wrong. Especially not my grandfather, because he was the model of wisdom in my eyes.

“Grandpa, where are you going?” I asked.

“Skating on the river.”

“Why would you go out now? We did that yesterday morning.”

He looked a little thoughtful, and then he said: “It’s just that when you go out there, on the coldest, stillest night of the year, and you lie on your back on the thick, bubbled river ice, you can hear them.”

“Hear who?”

“The fish. Trapped there under the ice. You can hear them singing their water y winter song. And if you hold your breath, you can almost hear the stars singing in harmony.”

Years ago when Sam Haskell was nine, a television commercial attracted his attention. P&G (宝洁公司）had launched an ad campaign with the “Cheer Man”, a character who visited neighborhoods around the country. If he rang your doorbell and you had a box of Cheer (a brand name of P&G’s detergent) or even something like “Cheer” written on a piece of paper, you’d receive ten dollars.

Sam was convinced the Cheer Man would come to his home in Mississippi. He made a three-foot by four-foot sign with the Cheer logo and hung it in his bedroom. He was ready, and he told his classmates and everyone he talked to that the Cheer Man was coming to his house. People laughed at him, but his mom kept encouraging him to dream. Time went by and the advertisement was no longer on TV. Sam stored the sign in his closet — but he still believed the Cheer Man was coming.

The next summer, when Sam was ten, he went to a neighborhood birthday party. Playing soccer on the lawn, they heard what sounded like someone shouting through a megaphone. As the noise got closer, they saw it was a car with a loudspeaker on the roof — a man was yelling, “Cheer! Cheer! Cheer…is here!”

Sam watched in awe. The car was still several blocks away, but he knew in his heart that it was going to his house. Sam ran home, grabbed his sign and rushed back outside holding it over his head. His heart pounded in excitement.

And then, just as he’d dreamed, the Cheer Man stopped in front of his house, walked up to Sam and said “You get the ten dollars.”

Young Sam learned a valuable lesson that day about believing in a dream. He discovered that everything is possible. The knowledge paved the way for Sam’s future as a television executive and producer in Hollywood. In 2007, TV Guide named him one of the 25 Most Innovation and Influential People in Television over the last quarter-century.

A Houseplant Is Helping Me Survive

My wife Hannah and I usually don’t keep houseplants. Anything in pots gets either overwatered or underwatered. After my diagnosis (诊断) with brain cancer, I loved the idea of having something new and green and alive around us.

When my friend Mitch gave me what he said was a lucky bamboo plant, we placed it in the living room window where I spent much of each day. I told Hannah I wanted to look after the plant myself. When it didn’t immediately turn yellow or brown or lose all of its leaves, I was pleasantly surprised.

As a doctor, I was used to being the one who provided care, not the one who received it. Since my diagnosis, it seemed, I had to rely on help from other people. Taking care of the plant gave me the feeling of being happy and satisfied when I felt useless. Watering the plant, as small an act as it was, connected me to a central part of my old identity and taught me I could still be a caregiver.

Over the next few months, I recovered from surgery (手术). Even after I returned to work, I continued to care for the plant. Soon, it had nearly doubled in height and its leaves were shiny. Both the tree and I became healthier.

Then, without any reason, it began to show signs of stress. Its leaves kept browning and dropping to the floor. “I can’t even care for a simple plant!” I yelled. “If my lucky bamboo dies, I might die too!” I couldn’t shake the feeling that the plant had become a symbol (象征) of my health. Now that the plant was struggling, I grew increasingly depressed and fearful.

However, recalling what I’d experienced, I learnt that I had wrongly connected my care for the plant — something over which I had at least some control — with my own survival — something over which I had no control. As I realized the fact, my anxiety was actually eased. I searched online to figure out how to take care of my plant. When it was back in the sunny window, we both became healthier again.

Now, whenever I look at the plant, I would think of Mitch and the other people who have cared for and supported me.