The Positivity Factor:

An Anthology

By Lori Oliva

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Contents

Foreword 3
Inspirational Quotes 4
The Power of Positivity 5
Serving Through Kindness 10
Cliques aren’t Cute: An Apology 13

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Foreword

Something amazing happens the minute you decide to become positive…your thoughts

elevate, and you start to spread the love. Just the simple decision to smile changes the

dynamics of any encounter. You exude positivity through thoughts, which stems into

actions, and transforms situations.

When I’m positive, I feel lighthearted and carefree, and I attract positive people

and situations into my life. These short essays are a reflection of specific times in my life

when I’ve learned the importance of positive thinking. The essays in this collection are

diverse, but all revolve around the power of positivity. It is meant to be an inspiration for

creating positive change, and a testament to the simple, small steps one can take to

making it happen.

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Inspirational Quotes

“When we are ready to make positive changes in our lives, we attract

whatever we need to help us” -Louise Hay

“Success comes in cans, failure in cant’s” -Brahma Kumaris

“You are beautiful no matter what your mind tells you. That is a fact. If

you are aware of your own beauty and accept your own beauty, the

opinion of others doesn’t affect you at all.”, Don Miguel Ruiz

“Your generosity toward others is key to your positive experiences in

the world. Know that there's enough room for everyone to be

passionate, creative, and successful. In fact, there's more than room

for everyone; there's a need for everyone.”, Marianne Williamson

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The Power of Positivity

Cancer is a word that is first uttered in a whisper, that grows into a

statement, that evolves into a mission…survival.

By the time patients stepped into to the radiation therapy center, they

were in survival mode, and their eyes held a steely, intense look of

determination that said, “I am staring it down.”

It was my first job out of college and a big part of it was to help

foster a positive environment. At 25, arguably the most self-indulgent

time of one’s life, I had no idea what that meant.

After all, feeling at ease was certainly not hard to do in south

Florida where the sun pops out of the ocean at dawn and shines

blinding rays throughout 15-hour days. However, even in an area that

rarely gets below 40 degrees and where holidays are celebrated by

ship-sized yachts wrapped in white lights, cancer not only encourages

depression, it is an amazing equalizer.

So with a smile on my face and as much enthusiasm as I could

muster, I greeted both mega-rich and indigent patients, made coffee,

scheduled treatments, billed insurance, and read the obituaries.

Challenging duties for a disillusioned, 25-year-old, introvert who was

preoccupied by finding a job in advertising and getting paid to write

catchy headlines.

But it for the time being I worked in a cancer center, and while I

understood the importance of presenting a cheerful image, I had yet to

realize the power of positive energy.

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 By the time patients reached the radiation therapy portion of

their treatment, they were smiling again. They had experienced the

range of the emotions that accompany the disease: denial, anger,

sadness and sometimes pity, and had a peaceful, accepting way about

them. They had gone through weeks of chemotherapy, and finally

reached their last leg of treatment, which was a daily dose of radiation

for a duration of approximately five weeks.

Holidays at the cancer center were very upbeat. We decorated

the reception area with poinsettias and holly, and holiday cards. The

techs drew smiley Santa faces on the bellies of new patients getting

marked for radiation. Nurses sang and laughter from doctors bounced

off the walls throughout the day. We found humor in just about

everything, and encouraged patients to do the same.

I remember one December well. The treatment schedule went

something like this: 8:30 a.m. Martha came in, a sweet, soft-spoken

woman battling breast cancer who was known as the queen of Palm

Beach real estate; 8:45, Sal, a crooner from Los Angeles being treated

for thyroid cancer, and very proud of his SAG card; and 9:00 Mr. Wheat,

an elderly gentleman undergoing radiation for prostate cancer, who

relied upon county-funded transportation.

Mr. Wheat is the one I most remember. He was a 78-year-old,

slender man with a full head of white hair that he kept hidden under a

worn Miami Hurricane’s baseball cap that was frayed at the edges. He

had a sharp mind, but his body was failing, and required a wheelchair

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when walking distances more than 50 yards. He smelled of a

combination of body odor and diesel fumes from sitting on the

hydraulic platform of the running medical transport van as the driver

lowered him to the ground.

Making Mr. Wheat feel at ease was a challenge. Even though his

prognosis was good, he was cranky and cantankerous. That first day he

said nothing of the holiday decorations and didn’t react to the

spontaneous laughter going on around him. We were understanding

because unlike the rest of the patients, he came alone. There was no

spouse, son, daughter, or friend there to support him. That role

became mine.

I was assigned to meet Mr. Wheat at the front door for the

duration of his radiation treatments, where I wheeled him to the men’s

dressing room and waited for him to change into his hospital gown.

Every morning, as the medical transport van trucked up the narrow

drive, I prepared myself for any complaint that occupied his mind

because something was always wrong.

We didn’t let that stop us from trying to get Mr. Wheat to smile. I

teased him about his champion Hurricanes and asked him if he thought

the Associated Press got it right when they ranked them the No. 1

football team that year. Jeannie, his radiation tech, continued drawing

smiley faces on this tummy, and Dr. Harmon joked with him and said

that while the treatments were a pain in the bum, his cancer was 99.9

percent treatable.

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 However, a week later Dr. Harmon discovered that his tumor was

not shrinking. So he increased the dose of radiation, which meant Mr.

Wheat was probably going to see some side effects. He was going to

become more tired and uncomfortable, which meant we were going to

have to work harder to keep up his spirits.

That same week, I came across a new Miami Hurricanes National

Champions baseball cap, and bought it for him. When the medical van

drove up, I walked outside wearing the cap. As the driver rolled him

onto the platform Mr. Wheat was smiling and called out, “If I were 50

years younger, I’d try to be your boyfriend!”

I took off the cap and gave it to him saying that it was an early

Christmas present. He then did something completely out of character.

He stood from his wheelchair and gave me a hug. We stood among the

diesel fumes hugging and laughing as the driver shrugged and drove

away. From that day on, Mr. Wheat’s demeanor visibly changed. He

stood straight, he smiled and most importantly, his eyes were lit with

enthusiasm. There were no more complaints and my conversations

with him took on a carefree tone. As I wheeled him to the dressing

room, we chatted about life, and he told me that seeing me every day

was the best part of coming to therapy.

That next week, Dr. Harmon discovered his tumor was shrinking

and that the radiation was working. Yes, in all accounts it was the

increase of radiation that was curing Mr. Wheat of his cancer, but I

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couldn’t help but think that something else was a contributing factor.

That was the first time I realized the power of positive energy.

Seeing someone every day for five weeks during the struggle of

their lives makes them family. In a time when there is so much

discussion about secrets and the power of intention in order to get

things, the power of positive thought often goes unmentioned.

For 10 years, Mr. Wheat successfully beat cancer and I went on

to write catchy headlines. While Mr. Wheat is no longer with me, the

lesson I learned that day will stay with me the rest of my life. The

energy behind thoughts, led to actions which lead to acts, and

transform situations.

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Serving through Kindness

Eleven o’clock, Sunday morning I walk out of my neighborhood

restaurant clutching my Styrofoam container of leftover pancakes. I

don’t know why I take them with me. In a half-hour’s time they’ll be

nothing but two round sponges sopping with maple syrup that crumble

like mercury into bits that are impossible to scoop with a spoon. But, I

think about the garnish of strawberries and blueberries that I couldn’t

finish, and hope that once my sugar high subsides, I’ll be hungry again.

As we walk, my companion and I chat about the things we have

to do today. He’s got laundry and prep work for a client meeting. I have

another deadline. Two minutes later, I see Ron digging through the

garbage, mumbling. His attention doesn’t waver as I approach him. He

is completely focused on pulling a soda can out of the trash. He jiggles

it next to his ear, listening for any sign of carbonation before his eyes

meets mine. Pausing, he smiles before tossing the can back into the

trash.

Understanding that he’s more hungry than I’ll be an hour from

now, I tell him that I barely touched my pancakes and put the container

on the lip of the concrete barrier surrounding the garbage can. As we

walk away, my questions my judgment in speaking with someone who

is talking to himself as he digs through the trash. I tell him that I know

Ron and that he is a part of the fabric of my neighborhood. He never

asks for anything and rarely takes something even when it’s offered.

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We turn around and see Ron reaching for the Styrofoam box only after

he knows we are gone.

My friend still questions my decision to speak with him, and

teases that my time spent working for a nonprofit organization has

made me soft-hearted. I smile and take his off-centered kidding, but

remind him that Ron is a human being too.

His good-natured teasing got me thinking. Is extending small

acts of kindness to people more vulnerable considered a weakness? I

hope not. Instead, I like to think we are becoming more open to

extending such random acts of kindness.

There was a time when I’d never think about speaking with

someone like Ron. In fact, I’d cross the street to avoid him. However, I

believe that we can no longer turn a blind eye to those who are

vulnerable.

There is a lot of talk these days about giving back and serving.

Many people don’t know where to begin. I have one suggestion. Begin

with kindness and by bringing a little light into someone’s life through

a smile, a gesture or nod. Service begins with the decision to help, and

trusting your intuition about who needs it.

Whether it’s holding a shopping cart for the frazzled mom while

she juggles the groceries and two rambunctious kids, or lending an

arm to an elderly person who is looking for a little stability, or by

simply offering a smile to someone who is having a bad day. Service

begins by raising your awareness and seeing spirit in others. That

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awareness blossoms into opportunities to extend small gestures of

kindness, which serve humanity and become a foundation for greater

acts of serving to come forth.

If one good deed deserves another, let’s set forth the chain

reaction of positive behavior. Take this time to state your intention of

seeing spirit in everyone without judgment. Let your intuition serve as

a guide as to who needs your help, make one small gesture of

kindness, and see how you begin to feel as your future unfolds.

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Cliques Aren’t Cute: An Apology

Dear Jodi,

For nearly 30 years I’ve been haunted by my role in an 8th grade clique

that I believe caused you a great deal of duress. It’s a regret that I’ve

never outgrown.

Cliques aren’t cute, and mean girls aren’t funny, and being teased,

rejected or humiliated at any age is difficult. But at age 13, being cast

out of a group to which you’re trying to belong is shattering, and I’m

sorry.

All girls start out curious and resilient. We participate fully in life, freely

giggling, playing, running, speaking, singing and yelling. However,

sometimes we get hung up on negative thinking, pettiness, peer

pressure and marginalizing, which do nothing to foster our healthy

emotional growth.

People say everyone goes through rejection. You experienced it, I

experienced it, and so did the other members of the group. We were all

cast out at one time, but that doesn’t excuse the mean-spirited nature

of cliques and the emotional harm they can inflict.

Our group seemed to be a revolving door that always had someone on

the outside. I remember times when I was cast out, and I only can

imagine how it felt to you. The dynamics of the group were

unpredictable and subtle, but that’s how negative behavior begins. I

remember the cycle went something like this: on any given day, the

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group would form at recess. You knew you had been cast out when you

had no idea where they were meeting, and after lunch you’d see your

friends hanging out across the schoolyard without you. Then the

whispers and giggles started, followed by the afterschool gatherings

that included everyone but the odd-girl out.

Experts say that type of behavior deconstructs a strong foundation of

security that’s necessary for adulthood. I believe it’s just plain mean

and don’t understand why adolescent cliques that thrive upon

insensitivity, pettiness, gossip and betrayal are so common.

After all, 13 is an age when girls should be building their self-esteem

and discovering their unique offerings instead of spending their

emotional energy second-guessing themselves or in doubt that they

are anything less than spectacular.

You were spectacular then as you are today. Bright, intelligent, funny

and kind, and I’m sorry if I made you feel anything less than that.

At any other age the solution would be simple…find other friends. But

at 13, your friends are your world. Finding replacements aren’t an

option especially when you’re caught up in wondering when your turn

to be shunned will come. So, like a pack of wild dogs, we turned on

each other to protect ourselves.

It’s exhausting to constantly be on guard, but like any warrior you

become an expert at self-sufficiency. Because telling anyone what

you’re going through leads to further alienation, and a whole other

dimension of hell.

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Making your way through adolescence isn't easy, and feeling lonely is

common. Being a member of a group was a way of belonging at a time

when were confused about so many things: our bodies, our minds and

our feelings.

Being shunned magnifies the loneliness that an adolescent teen is

already facing, and being ridiculed can trigger extreme actions. Too

many times girls participate in hurtful patterns of behavior that can

emotionally scar not only others but themselves as well. Thirteen is

arguably the most sensitive age of a woman’s life, and being shunned

by peers makes it easy to feel invisible. It’s easy to feel as if you don’t

have any friends, or that you can’t talk about what’s going on for fear

you’ll alienate yourself even more.

The 8th grade Catholic schoolgirl in me wants to say I’m sorry for the

way I harassed you, a beautiful, bright, funny, intelligent young woman

to the point where you took out your aggression on me, and beat me

up on the playground. But that somehow sounds singular and passive

aggressive, and this is no isolated incident. Cliques are an epidemic,

and needling someone to their breaking point is cruel, malicious and

brutal.

Every girl holds unique qualities, but unfortunately, often times it is the

girl who is seen as different and even likeable who is shunned. Your

high energy, charm and wit and sharp intelligence was perceived as a

threat to me and the other girls. But you didn’t allow it to break your

spirit. Instead, you refused to become a follower or to be effected by

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our taunts. At an age where most girls are confused, and succumb to

peer pressure, you were together enough to stand on your own and not

let our mocks affect you. The fact you ignored our attempts to make

you feel bad made us push harder. Every recess we tried to break your

spirit and at least make you cry. You refused. Thank god. But one day,

you had enough, and fought back.

The nuns said they were shocked to see two girls fighting. I believe

that they were more shocked that they did not recognize the signs of

the dysfunction until it escaladed into a schoolyard brawl. After all, we

were good girls. We came from good families, we went to school every

day, we were on time, we got good grades and we went to mass every

Wednesday.

But cliques are socially complex, hierarchal, multi-layered and operate

under the radar.

However, this experience did not hold us back from becoming friends,

for which I am very thankful. I believe that fight shifted our awareness,

making us conscious of our actions, and that we were responsible for

them.

We went on to become cheerleaders and honor society members. We

graduated in the same high school class and visited each other in

college. Many people never have a second chance, and I can’t imagine

growing up without having you in my life and being your friend.

Even as women, experiencing rejection still hurts, but understanding

that it’s a part of the grand scheme of life takes away much of its sting.

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Knowing that we have a voice, we are empowered and that we can

move on to accomplish great things keeps rejection in check.

Thirty years later, I want to say that I’m sorry for undermining your

quest to speak freely, laugh loudly and to be yourself. Our 8th grade

clique may have done nothing to help us recognize our own strengths

and talents, but somehow we managed to find our way, and put that

period behind us. I thank you for letting that happen, so that we could

both go on to become strong women who face challenges head on,

celebrate achievements and call upon ourselves to make our world

brighter one day at a time.

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