Where are my Crayons?

I was “row monitor” in second grade; sitting in the last seat making sure the students in my row behaved. On this day, all was quiet; no one messed with the law when Scott was around. My enforcement duties complete, I was able to turn my attention to the current “quiet time,” period that daily session where we did whatever we wanted, just so it was without sound. Priority one was schoolwork; so I pulled out my assignment list; decorated with pencil-drawn army men and a poorly drawn reproduction of Mighty Mouse. Nothing was pending so I re-filed it, still seeking something to occupy my time.

When our assignments were up to speed, we were allowed to retrieve our coloring books and engage our more artistic personae. Eagerly, I flipped pages, seeking the perfect image on which I could express by imaginative abilities. Alas, I had used all 64 colors on every image; every page had been filled; nothing remained

Sadly, I folded my hands on my desk, looked up at the ticking clock and waited. I had nothing to do, probably the last time in my life that has ever happened.

Fast-forward 50 years…

Who is more stubborn - cats or us?

My wife, Mary Ann, is one of the most nurturing individuals you will ever have the pleasure to meet. She is also a passionate advocate for animals. More specifically, one might refer to her as “one of those cat ladies.” I personally would not do that as the result would be that I would spend my evenings in solitary. (Of course, she would spend the night-time with our cats, proving my point. Yet, I think the irony would be wasted on her.)

We had three cats.

Sadly, “K.C.,” the elderly matriarch passed away early this year, leaving the two identical ginger cats, “Tiger” and “Motor.” (Let’s be clear; I did not choose their names, okay?) These “orange boys” are “inside cats,” because our vet said that the best way to ensure your kitties lead a long, healthy, purr-fect life is to not them prowl the streets. As nimble and agile as felines might be, they don’t understand the concept of automobiles.

Within our fenced backyard dwells a third, Birman, cat. She (we think she’s a “she” but we’re not sure) unexpectedly appeared six years ago, and although she has departed for short periods, she always returns. Exhibiting no fear of us, she’s incredibly affectionate, so we think she was abandoned. Due to her silky, strikingly beautiful, long, silver, and black fur, we call her “Smokey.” (I wanted “Velvet” but was over-ruled.)

Since K.C. passed, my wife has wanted to integrate Smokey with the orange boys, especially as the weather turns harsh. Last weekend, she was finally able to convince Smokey to come inside. To help her feel safe (as well as let the other animals acclimate) Smokey stayed in an unused upstairs bedroom, replete with bed, food, water, litter box, and a screened — but slightly open — window, allowing her the ability to survey the neighborhood from on high. After Smokey was given the good-health go-ahead by the vet, we would begin the process of assimilation.


Until the appointment, my wife checked on her regularly, refreshed her needs, and — in general — kept her company. All was proceeding according to plan until yesterday morning. Upon entering Smokey’s room, she discovered a Smokey-sized hole torn in our screen. During the previous night, Smokey pulled a Steve McQueen and escaped back to the “wild,” only to return to our backyard later in the day as smug as if nothing had happened. She was as affectionate as ever, and despite rejecting the four-star hospitality we had so graciously provided, was only interested in her standard nightly canned food repast.

“Why would Smokey prefer to live in the rain and cold instead of in a warm house?” my wife wondered.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” I granted. “However, if you look at it from her point of view, outside is all she knows. Frosty nights and wet grounds might not be pleasant, and she’d probably even enjoy being inside once she got used to it, but sometimes you stay with the discomfort you know rather than take the time to learn about something better.”

I’m not a cat; that’s probably evident. But, at least in that respect, humans are not that far removed. How often do we pass up the option for “better,” obstinately remaining with “same?” Even after accepting things can be better, we still have to shake up long-held behaviors, and usually, we decide it’s not worth the effort. So, on we plod…

With enough tuna to keep her belly full, and a warm fireplace by which she can lay, Smokey might have made the switch. We, on the other hand, can be a lot more stubborn.

Working Hard at Relaxing

I’m not dead.

At least when I wrote that; I wasn’t. Being the intelligent reader of this column, you put two and two together and surmised that in a flash. Hopefully, as you read this, I am still in the not-dead state of being — and shall remain so for decades yet to come.

Having proven therefore that I understand very little about what it’s like to die, you will cut me slack about not really knowing — but safely assuming — that no one’s last words were ever, “I wish I would have spent more time working and less time enjoying life.”

We would agree, wouldn’t we?

So, then what’s the deal with non-stop, dawn-to-dusk, 24/7, busy-making? We don’t ever just “chill.” Well, at least I don’t; maybe you do, but I’ll bet dollars to donuts that you’re in the same place. There’s so much to get done with so few hours to do it.

Forty-hour workweek; what’s that? Wake up. Shower. Shave. Throw some frozen waffles down your gullet while checking the mail and packing lunches. Get the kids to school, pick them up, and beat feet to soccer practice and gymnastics. Straightaway back, homework, meals, brush teeth, and off to bed. To accomplish everything requires groundwork: grocery and clothes shopping, housecleaning, home maintenance, and car servicing. These necessitate steady income — and, oh yes — have you heard the news about the economy? You better not slack off at work or they’ll swap you out quicker than a DVD rental on a Saturday night. So, off to the salt mines, bringing our assignments home so we can get them on our kitchen tables in the morning and the bed stands at night. We’re work harder while having the privilege of paying more for everything. Come end of day, it’s drop like a lead brick off a six-foot wall.

It’s no wonder we don’t have time for “a life.” Or do we?

My sister phones, “What are you up to?” She asks.

I reply, “I’m working hard at relaxing.”

Stop the clock. Re-read that response please: “I’m working hard at relaxing.” Huh? That statement makes as much sense as “same difference,” or “kosher ham;” but I swear it was my reply and I’m betting you relate. Our lives are so cluttered, that if tasks were boxes, we’d be featured on the TV series “Hoarders.” No longer are we human beings, we have become “human doings.”

Last Saturday, you know what I did? I could have worked on my computer, or mowed the lawn. Goodness know, there were bills aplenty requiring my attention. Nope, didn’t do any of those. Instead, I made a conscious decision to do nothing.

It didn’t start that way. My dog, Jack, and I went for a walk. Upon returning, he scampered into the backyard, rolled about on his back, feet to the sky; and then did what animals do so well: Absolutely nothing. Zero. He simply “was.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I did that, so — not having a better plan — I joined him! I didn’t put my feet in the air, but I honest-to-God did lie down in the grass and watched cloud animals pass over my head. I felt the sun on my skin. I let my mind go where it went. For a short time, Jack and I simply appreciated that we exist.

Even machines have an off switch. Surely we deserve as much as do they. The world’s going to keep on turning, even if you’re not the one who’s pushing. Take a moment and recharge. You’ll get more done later.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CRP of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

Things Are Not As Bad As We Make Them Out To Be

Complain, complain, complain…

My, but we’ve become a grouchy lot, haven’t we? Maybe it’s climate change, or the economy; who knows? It could be the alignment of the stars for all I know, but we’ve got our cranky pants hitched on and we’re wearing ‘em a little too snug around our sensitive parts.

Okay, maybe YOU are not cranky, but many of us are, and if you won’t own it, I will.

I’m at the supermarket loading up on low-calorie, high-fiber, sugar-free, non-fat, no-taste foods that I force down my gullet in order to keep my weight in check. I really want chocolate, french fries, and chips; but that’s not happening, so I’m feeling deprived. Adding insult to injury, I don’t have time for this errand, but since my refrigerator resembles an arctic cave, I’m cooling my jets in the check out line. The lady in front of me waits until after the clerk has totaled all her groceries before she takes out her checkbook, enough of a trigger to kick my internal curmudgeon into overdrive, “Hey lady!” the voice in my head screeches. “You didn’t realize you were going to have to pay for this before hand? Couldn’t you have check ready when you got in line … besides you’ve never heard of debit cards?!!” Since I won’t comment out loud (I’m too “polite”), I roll my eyes, exhale with exasperation (making sure she hears it), shift my feet restlessly, cross my arms, and set my attitude to low burn.

Or have you ever had your cell phone drop a call? Jeeze! That irks me! It wasn’t even a particularly important call, and to be honest, I didn’t want to talk to him anyway, accidentally selecting ACCEPT instead of DECLINE because the layout of the phone is so stupid. Nonetheless, I’m now heavily vested in commiserated about how his 62-inch 3-D TV’s glasses suck. Really? That’s your grievance? There are people who would love simply to witness a sunrise, and you’re grouchy because your nifty cool absolutely amazing invention doesn’t come with rechargeable batteries? I mean, come on! Yet, I’m empathizing — at least until his call explodes in a burst of static and I detonate a blast of curse words at my phone, cellular carrier, and even the government for allowing such inferior systems to get to market.

Time for a chill pill; on the grand scale of life, most of what rankles us is not even a blip on the radar screen of “real” problems; it’s microscopic. Half the time, we don’t even remember it long enough for it to survive the ride home, let alone why we got so upset in the first place; yet we’re singing “ain’t it awful” with the volume on full.

I’ve got a phone in my pocket that connects me to anyone on the planet, lets me watch family movies, listen to music, and take photographs. It’s got more power than the entire computer system on the Apollo space crafts; and I have the gall to launch a hissy fit because I have to push REDIAL? Or I complain about having to drop a few pounds — while half the planet would beg for what I throw away? Spoiled, you’re table’s waiting.

We don’t live in a golly-gosh-gee-willikers fog of happy thoughts and pink ponies; I’m not saying that either. Sometimes, life is tough, sure. But equally true is that most of our “problems” are better than what most of the people on most of the planet face most of the time.

For that I need to be mostly grateful.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

Dog Trains Man: How a Rescued Dog Taught Its Owner New Tricks

I’ve heard tell that dog owners (or “guardians” as some prefer) look like their dogs. I did not realize with how much haste that transpires.

We have been considering adopting a dog for a few years. As with any important project, we began by identifying what we wanted. One, he must be a rescue dog. Two, she must not be bothered by our two cats (of course how they respond to the dog will be their decision). Three, we wanted a smaller dog that had some personality but was not hyper. Those were the “must haves,” the remainder were “would likes.” We surfed websites, monitored our newspaper, and checked shelters and animal control with regularity.
Welcome “Jack.” He’s a five-year old mini-Schnauzer with a persuasive, mostly subdued personality who loves our backyard, follows me like a shadow, is housebroken (yay!), and even understands some commands, allowing me the option to train him even more; something I wanted. While I write, he has already taken to lying in his bed, apparently content to watch me type. (I guess he’s hard-pressed for entertainment.)



As for similarity — although I did not think of it when I picked him up; he already resembles me (or I do him). His hair, although dark of base, is basically “silver,” slightly disheveled, and he sports a gray goatee in need of a shave. More striking is that he is also into yoga; I’ve seen him doing “downward facing dog” repeatedly. (Insert rim shot here…)

The one attribute of which I am NOT fond is that, although he slept through night one without incident, he is evidently an early riser, quite contrary to myself. A perk of self-employment with one’s home as the office, is the ability to grab a few extra winks each morning, since my commute consists of four stairs. Alas, I fear those days have passed, as Jack is part rooster, prone to rise with the sun (especially ill-fated since this is summer and first light is unfortunately early).

Therefore, today, I awoke far earlier than was my pattern. My wife, snickering wickedly, commented, “Looks like your days of staying up late are over.”

Growling (yet another similarity with a dog), I dragged my carcass from my bed to begin this new, unexpected routine. Change had once again scampered into my life, this time in the form of a twenty-pound canine that could not wait to take a walk. “I must teach him the command, ‘sleep,’” I wearily lamented as I secured him in his harness.

But that’s the way it is, isn’t it? We make our plans and move forth into the yet to come. We believe we’re in control — but it’s illusion. Life steers; we are passengers. Whether changing how we eat, seeking mental health, developing relationships, financial planning, or simply adopting a furry friend, the results of our actions cannot always be predicted nor controlled.

So, once again, I am fine-tuning to the unexpected, a progression without end, and one in which we all engage non-stop. Sometimes, the adjustments are painful; other times, thank God, they are minor. Yet it is unavoidable.

I detest getting up early; it fouls my mood.

But, conversely, I can be buoyed by the outpouring of warmth from this newfound community of “dog people,” which has already been as heartwarming and loving as the joy elicited by Jack when I reach for his leash and we head out into the (too early) morning. It’s my choice.

Now, which one of us is really training the other?

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

The New Normal: Our Economy Will NEVER Return to What it was - and What to do About That

I’ve had a revelation.

Since the “great recession” of 2008 (which appears to still be in process) came trampling through our economic landscape, I have been — like so many others — waiting and hoping for the rebuilding. When will things get back to how they were? Can we soon return to easier times of job security and stable wages? My ship is weary of white caps; I long to navigate calm seas. When can we be there?

While pondering such issues, it fell hard on me, like a load of gold bricks sold on many radio talk shows as a “hedge against hard times.” The economy — and our lifestyle — will NEVER return to how it was. The “good old days” (such as they were) are in the rear view mirror and we have no reverse gear. We cannot turn around and they will not come back.

That's an upsetting — some might say "terrifying" — concept. Never again will we be able to conduct our lives and businesses like we did “back then.” What we are now experiencing is — and will continue to be — the “New Normal.” Until our last days, and those of our grandchildren, “different” will be “ordinary.” Future generations will study the heyday of the 1990s and early 2000s much the same as we picture the gay 1890s or the early 1920s; wild, excessive, booming — and only imaginable as images in history books.

I don’t mean to be a downer, but it’s time we bow to an ever-apparent reality and accept facts for what they are, not what we long for them to be. Denying the obvious delays the inevitable, which furthers great hurt and denigrates our lives. Striving to maintain an illusory status quo by rejecting reality prolongs its effects; and makes worse the pain.

Having said that, I do pride myself on being positive, while understanding that the set up of this column might appear less than optimistic. Yet, it can be. Due to this unhappy situation in which we find ourselves mired, we are becoming more resourceful, better planning our expenses, accepting gratification in that which we took for granted previously, and we are contributing more to our local communities.

These are wonderful changes. Many considered getting “more involved in our communities” or “cutting back on frivolous spending” numerous times before. However, until now, the pressure was not convincing enough to force action. “One of these days…” has arrived. It is today.

Significant change is always born of fear, force, or pain. No one gets up one morning, totally content with life, and says, "Let me see how I can change it.” Rather, when circumstances become too uncomfortable, we decide to do something different. The great recession has inflicted much fear and great pain, and has forced upon us harsh change. Although things will never be as they were, we overlook that they can be better. We will have tools and techniques never before considered. We will at some point re-establish equilibrium. Our world will forever be altered; yet it will also be unique with a new set of advantages and benefits; unknown to us today, but surely waiting over the horizon.

The quicker we accept that there is no turning back, the speedier we will face the future — and the faster we will experience these new advantages.

Some might disagree with my analysis; I accept that. However, should I be off track — and society does return to “how it was” — there’s is no down side, for if we adjust, we will be healthier and stronger for having worked together and supported each other through these times.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

The power of intention

Being a news junkie, I’m glued to the cable networks. Wedged between the peccadilloes of badly behaving starlets and inappropriately tweeted photos, the anchor brings in two political panelists to discuss the upcoming election (Already? Really? Oy!) To feign “balance” he has a GOP strategist and his Democratic counterpart (as if there are only two sides to a story – but don’t get me started). I don’t remember the first question, and frankly, it doesn’t matter; but what I do recall was once the argument commenced, it became animated without delay. Lots of energy and of course, disagreement, exchanged between the duo.

It could have been either one; but in this case it was the GOP guy who started “powering” over anything stated contrary to his position. When the Dem countered, the Repub would shout him down, yelling ever louder. He didn’t call names; he wasn’t condescending; and – to be honest – he made logical sense (although I disagreed). But this is not about politics.

After the “discussion” ended, I had a mental image of him talking to his friends off-camera. They were probably all high-fiving, shouting, “Wow! You blew him out of the water,” or “He couldn’t hold a candle to you.” Congratulations would abound; backslapping would ensue.

That’s when it dawned on me; his intention – as far as I could discern – was NEVER to have a discussion, but rather to prove his point; and that’s what showed.

The number one law of change: Intentions direct actions.

When a client asks for advice, my first reply has become: “What’s your intention?” Almost nothing matters more in one’s actions or communications than understanding that unassuming question. Unfortunately, most of us do not take the time to dig deep enough to analyze that. The result is we find ourselves in a most unhappy place.

Let’s take a simple example. You’re upset by someone else’s comments. Your feelings are hurt. So, you decide that you “need to talk to her.” That’s fair; and if done well, it’s even “healthy.” But if the intention of what you’re trying to achieve isn’t clear to her, you’ll get in hot water. If the intention is to “give her a piece of your mind,” your communication will be much different than if it is to better understand what she meant, or to heal a rift. If you are looking to minimize the chance of conflict and actually accomplishing something, slow down long enough to understand the intention (preferably BEFORE opening your mouth; but it’s never too late).

This is because attitude transmits louder than words. A popular study went so far as to say that what we say accounts for less than ten percent of our communication; it’s tone and body language (attitude) that matter most. In effect, we might be able to massage what we say, but it’s a heck of a lot harder to mask what we feel.

We can apply this same principle to our own actions.

When trying to change a habit, it’s imperative to first analyze what is the intention of the offending behavior. What does it get us by continuing it – and what is the resultant cost? Once we realize why we we’re doing it —our intentions — our next question can be “How do we achieve those goals without the unpleasant side effects?”

Every behavior is born of positive intention; one designed to make our lives easier. Unfortunately, if we don’t look beneath and understand those intentions, we can create a mess, even if that wasn’t what was intended.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

More than being positive

A column in a recent issue of Newsweek magazine has prompted me to think — always a dangerous practice.

The piece, penned by Julia Baird, was entitled “Positively Downbeat,” and the basic thesis was that positive thinking was actually making us all more miserable, rather than happier. As evidence, she sites a study from the General Social Survey by economists Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers of Wharton. They found, that despite three decades of economic growth in America (current tumultuous financial climate excepted), men and women are no happier now than they were in the seventies. To further hit home the point, the study found that women in 1972 were, on the average, actually more content than they are now.

Being a devotee of “positive thinking,” I was perplexed. How could it be that lighting a candle rather than cursing the darkness would make us more miserable? Intuitively, it made no more sense to me than a study that came out a few years ago, finding that low-calorie foods caused obesity. As in that report, something was obviously askew.

Ms. Baird references another author, Barbara Ehrenreich, who in her book, “Bright-Sided: How Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America,” calls positive thinking a “mass delusion.” Among other ideas, Ms. Ehrenreich argues that the foundation of positive thinking is the belief that you can will anything you like into happening: recovering from cancer, getting a promotion, becoming a millionaire.

It is in that statement that I found a foothold; believe as you wish, one must also accept that the universe will not change its rules to accommodate our whims, fantasies, or desires.
Positive thinking is not blind, naive, magical wishing. I cannot rub a crystal ball, site solemnly my affirmations, and assume that all will go exactly as I foresee. After all, I might fancy Sandra Bullock and myself alone on a tropical, romantic, desert island, while at the same time, her thoughts are, “not in my lifetime buster.” I can posit positive until the furrows in my brow are canals, and still move no closer to Ms. Bullock than the DVD I rent from the video store.
Positive thinking does not materialize nirvana for me. What it does is gives me a stake in my own outcomes; so my life becomes mine, for better or worse. Once I accept that I have the wherewithal to direct my actions, I am empowered, not anointed. With the assumption that I am a (mostly) capable sentient being with talents, ideas, and skills; also comes the responsibility of utilizing those gifts to the best of my ability.

An optimistic outlook will not guarantee a life of luxury or ease, it is simply a tool that allows us to deal with events better when they appear difficult and allow us to further enjoy them when they do not. Positive thinking transfers the impetus of action from “out there” to “in here.” But if “in here” continually seeks its happiness “out there,” it is a void that will never be filled.

Trying Times

I am trying to lose a few pounds (again).

I'd put odds on the fact that I'm not the only person in our sleepy burg with such a stated goal. Others are trying things too: stop smoking, be more active, spend more time with their families. As a whole, we TRY many things. The more important question is, "Are we DOING them?"

I wish I could remember which wise sage pointed out "trying" is "saying 'no' with grace."

A friend lost into your past surprises you by reappearing while you are squeezing cantaloupes at the grocery store. Pre-ordained ceremonial niceties commence, "How are your kids? What's your husband doing these days? Are you still working at the same place?" It's a pleasurable oasis of exchange with someone who used to be close. Yet, after the first few paragraphs, what remains to be said? An awkward silence slithers between you until finally you utter, "Let's get together and catch up. It's been too long."

She replies warmly, "I'll try and call you next week, OK?"

"Sounds great," you say before exchanging air kisses, and continuing on your mission of securing the finest produce. You know she won't call. You know you won't either.

She could have said, "No, I'm too busy," or "No, I'm not interested." Rather than such bluntness, she replies with the socially approved, milquetoast, "I'll try."

Underlying her intentions was, "No" - delivered with grace.

In those situations, "I'll try" is caring; it diffuses rough, confrontational, unkind exchanges. However, in so many other circumstances, we use "try" as a justification for our own unwillingness to change. After all, what if we give up or decide later that the objective takes too much effort? It hurts to boldly state, "I AM losing a few pounds," only to face questions at a later time when well-meaning friends inquire, "How's the diet going?" It saves face to be able to reply, "I tried, It didn't work," rather than, "I wasn't willing to do it," or "I changed my mind."

In reality, what is there to "try?" Am I actually eating less? Am I really more active? Select one: "yes" or "no." If I choose to not act on my own words, I am not "trying," I am simply "not doing."

Of late, I find myself stating proudly to anyone within earshot what I am "trying" to do. In actuality, I am setting the stage for the excuses I might use at another time.

"I am trying to lose weight," I say.

My friends nod in agreement, commiserating. "It's tough, isn't it?"

"Yes. But I'm really trying hard."

"Good for you," they say, "I admire you."

Yet, my scale has not moved; my waistline has not shrunk. The glaring unavoidable reality is I am not "trying," I am stagnating. The moment has arrived; it is time to stop "trying" and begin "doing."

The use of the word "try" is so addictive; it's tough to ratchet up the commitment to "I'm doing." But I'm trying.

One of these days

One of these days, I'm going to get back on track with my diet. Really. I'll burst out of bed inspired, invigorated, and enthused. I'll clear the kitchen, throw out the junk food, pull out my motivational books, and start weighing, measuring, and monitoring anything that crosses my lips. No crumb of cuisine will be too trivial to escape my scrutiny. Yep, that's the way you lose weight you know. One of these days, boy am I going to get my eating act together! I'm just so busy right now.

Someday soon I've got to start exercising. I could wake up earlier, strap on some tunes, and stroll around the block. It's just so warm in bed, and I've been waiting for the rain to stop; my raincoat is so old, I'd look silly walking around town in it. I'm looking forward to a patch of blue sky so I can get back out there.

Just as soon as I can get around to it, I need to start a journal. I've been organizing my thoughts - even thinking about jotting down a few notes. I considered using a yellow-lined pad, but I really want to keep my thoughts and feelings for years. Recording something so important on any old bland notebook would be tacky, so I'm toying with buying a deluxe, leather-bound journal - maybe even an expensive pen. When I can put away a few dollars, I'm so there.

In a little while, I think I'll even go again to my meetings. It's just, well, you know how it is: holidays, travel, celebrations... who can control themselves with goodies everywhere? A slip-up here, some sloppiness there - boom - eight pounds! I almost went back last week, except it's so embarrassing to keep putting on the same pounds - so I'll knock them off first, and then head back. In a few weeks, it'll be a better time anyway.

One of these days real soon, I'll get it all together. I've been planning it a long time; I just want to make sure I do it right, no mess-ups allowed. So I'm waiting until life settles down before I get started. Let me tell you though, when the time is perfect, there's no stopping me.

I can feel it coming, one of these days, real soon, right about the corner...

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus, THINspirational speaker and author lost 70 pounds over 14 years ago. He has a free motivational e-zine at www.THINspiration.com. His book, THE SHADE OF TREE IS THE VERY BEST SHADE THERE IS, is available at www.ShadeOfATree.com. He can be reached for presentations or comments at 707.442.6243 or scottq@THINspiration.com.

I believe

I believe there is more to each of us than we could ever know.

I believe there is one Source connecting everything, everywhere, always. It sits not on high, separate, watching passively, as we meander through the parade of choices composing our lives’ stories. Instead it is inextricably intertwined within and around, nearer than our breath, no further than our thoughts.

I believe each and every thing we experience, feel, or think is born of that source. Every powerful spark of inspiration, tinge of emotion, or idea that will ever take shape is created of that place, centered deep within — and connecting — each of us. It is that innate connection we all share that has driven us from wanderers to farmers, thatched-leaf hut villages to expansive cities.

That force within us has guided us as we have fashioned astounding, spectacular, creations that can light the darkness, locate unseen ill-nesses, or further connect us: anywhere, anytime, with the tap of a SEND button. We hurl computerized, complex objects billions of miles across a darkened sky to land with pinpoint accuracy on far-flung worlds so distant that they are invisible to the naked eye — and would have remained unknown if not for others inspired to create by that exact same source we all share. We create because the Universe is in a constant state of creation. Being of it, we do the same.

We have founded treatments for afflictions and ailments from scurvy to smallpox, measles to polio. And someday, it is as sure as we exist that morning will dawn over a world devoid of cancer, AIDs, and Alzheimer’s. We know we will find cures; we are merely in the process of bridging the distance between inspiration and implementation.

When we believe, we do spectacular, astounding things — and will do far more. It is what we do because it is who we are.

Our greatness has names, some known to many: Mother Theresa, Albert Einstein, Miguel Hidalgo, Fa-Ngoum, Martin Luther King, Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha. Some are lesser known: you, the store clerk, the daycare worker, and me. Yet, within each is the precise unchanging power that created all who have come before and who will ever be.

Since we are part of the universe, we must be infused with the same stuff that created our rivers, mountains, oceans, and even our Mother Earth. Moreover, beyond that, the same universal force that envelops each of us, at all times, wherever we are, wraps the furthest star in the darkest night. Therefore, when we gaze far into the nighttime sky, we see some of ourselves. We cannot be separated from that which created us; it is denial of what we are, and what we can be.

I believe all this. And because I do, I am convinced that a force so pow-erful, so creative, so expansive to do all this, would never put anyone on this planet doomed to fail, whether her goal may be to change the future of millions or simply to lead a happier life for herself.

I felt we needed to be reminded. I sure do.

The New England Journal of Medicine, in a study of over 12,0000 people, suggests that obesity may be contagious, like a common cold. Apparently, when a study participant's friend became obese, that participant had a 57 percent greater chance of becoming obese himself. In pairs of close friends, one person becoming obese meant his friend had a 171 percent greater chance of following suit. "You are what you eat isn't the end of the story," summed up study co-author James Fowler. "You are what you and your friends eat."

As a child, if I insisted on going outside without a jacket, my mother warned, “If you get sick, don’t complain to me.” How will this new news play in today’s health-conscious world?

“Mommy, can I play at Scott’s house?”

“Isn’t he the overweight boy down the street?”

“Yes, he’s very nice. He’s got cool toys.”

“I don’t think I want you to go there sweetie. You might catch a case of chubby.”

“I won’t mommy. Please.”

“If you do, don’t expect me to let out your seams.”

I don’t wish to poke fun, but can one be “infected” with obesity? The research, in my mind, simply points out the old adage, “Birds of a feather flock together.”

As illustration, someone who enjoys triathlon training and a buddy who is an avid video game enthusiast might enjoy each other’s personalities, and share similar views on politics and morality. Yet, would they hook up?

“Hey, Chris. Want to get together this weekend?”

“Sounds great. What shall we do?”

“We could grab something to eat, go to the mall. What do you think?”

“Sounds fun, but I’ve got my exercise regimen. How about we go to the pool first?”

“I can’t swim.”

“What about cycling?”

“Don’t have a bike.”

“We could go for a run.”

“I’ll just meet you there.”

As Tevye said in Fiddler on the Roof, “A fish may love a bird. But where would they build a house?”

It is a function of human nature to feel best with people who are most like us and do as we do.

When I say, “you know?” I’m reassured when my friend says, ‘Yeah, I do.” That’s why we’re buds. If one enjoys sedentary, high-caloric activities, it stands to reason that so too will those around her. If she begins jogging, she didn’t catch a dose of “fitness;” she changed a routine. Desiring to share that newfound interest, she will seek out others of similar mentality.

The biggest surprise to me was that this surprised them. Most people recognize that smoking and drinking are influenced by group standards, but apparently that realization is relatively new for obesity where so many still consider it a moral failing or merely a clinical condition. Obesity, like so much of life, is largely a function of behavior patterns. To change it, we must change what we do, not necessarily with whom we do it.

So — what the heck — try taking a walk with a friend. It couldn’t hurt, and, who knows, you indeed might catch something: a healthy habit.

Past my twenties

Recently, I had a revelation: I am no longer 22 years old.

There were obvious signs prior to this new dawning. For example, of late, in order to read small print, I must either remove my glasses or post the document across the room. Conversely, I must also use the "zoom" feature on my computer monitor to increase font size for virtually everything on screen.

I also must admit a tinge of guilt in continuing to list "brown" as my hair color on driver's license applications. Rather, "gray with a small bit of brown remaining" is more appropriate. (Since there is not enough space to use this accurate description, I rationalize "brown" as being as honest as possible.)

Oh yes, one other indicator that I am not 22 is that I am the biological father of a 23-year-old. Even the most forward thinking and mature 22-year-old would be hard pressed to have 23-year-old offspring.

Alas, despite this ever-growing chorus of facts, the dawning of my age did not fully appear until I weighed myself last week. I have been trying to knock off another six pounds and have stalled for some time. (OK, to be honest "some time" is approximately five years...) As I stood on the scale, glaring at the wretched red LED flashing between my toes in its hateful block numbers, a river of rushing thoughts coursed through me. In that cacophonous cascade of cognizance, one thought rose above all others: "I'm as diligent as I was 30 years ago but my weight won't budge. Back then; I lost three pounds a week! It's not fair!"

As I stomped from the scale (heading directly for the kitchen), a thunderbolt realization crashed through me: "It is not 30 years ago." No longer a young man of 22, I am now middle-aged. The rules for twenty-somethings do not apply.

Instead of trying to understand the ins and outs of a healthy weight and diet for a 52-year-old, I waste energy lamenting the fact that it is not as easy as it was "back then." How much precious time have I thrown away complaining about what no longer is rather than accepting the realities of what actually can be?

"I've never had to work so hard to lose weight." "I've always eaten this way." "I didn't have to work out when I was younger."

The thoughts and ideas we hold from earlier days were accurate and appropriate - in earlier days. But time moves forever backward into history, leaving us hostage to it, or empowered by the opportunities of the present.

This is neither a treatise against getting older nor a complaint about the travails of aging. Mostly - as long as my health holds out - I welcome the wisdom and peace of being an older man. But instead of grousing that I cannot lose weight like a 22-year old, it makes more sense to learn the rules for a 52-year-old - at least until I'm 53.

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds more than 12 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at www.TheEatingCycle.com, scottq@scottqmarcus.com, or 707.442.6243.

I'm proud of you

His energy reminded me of a tightly coiled spring, overloaded with caffeine, bouncing on a trampoline. Of course, most three-year-old children do not walk in an even, orderly, refined gait, and he was no exception; bouncing and bounding in a generally forward direction, yet so easily distracted by the zip and zing of the airport. Although secured to mom by a strap attached to this belt, she, pushing a stroller, periodically reached out and pulled the young boy closer as they walked and he strayed.

"Look," she said as they climbed aboard the moving walkway connecting the terminals, "It's a magic sidewalk."

For an instant, the short redheaded lad analyzed the metallic, moving, pathway, and - with some gentle guidance from his mother - hesitantly clamored on board. The young family stayed to the right so other, more hurried travelers, could pass.

"Him's my baby brother," the young man told everyone who walked past, pointing into the stroller. "His name is Lance."

The scurrying line of travelers, tugging rolling suitcases behind them as they dashed to planes, showed a variety of responses. "He's very handsome," said a smiling, matronly woman with a floral design carry-on. "That's nice," commented a dapper-dressed man in a pinstripe suit, carrying a computer case. Many simply smiled; others ignored the small lad.

When no one was in earshot, he studied Baby Lance, reaching into the stroller and rearranging the blankets of his infant brother.

"Him shouldn't be cold," he told his mom. "He could get sick."

She smiled and re-straightened the blankets, telling the young caregiver, "Thank you. You're a wonderful brother. You take very good care of Lance. Do you know I'm very proud of you?"

He hugged her leg. She patted his head. The walkway rolled on.

I was taken back to my own mother, who always reminded me of her pride in me, even in our last conversation. With her gone, it dawned on me that we don't hear, "I'm proud of you," so much as we get older.

We are quick to condemn our errors - and reticent to take pleasure in our accomplishments, mistakenly translating pride of accomplishment with arrogance, and self-satisfaction with conceit. In a desire to be modest or humble, we oft-times sacrifice the awe and wonder in what we accomplish for the frustration and irritation of what we do not. If I slip, I do not focus on my previous successes; rather I rebuke myself with hateful internal dialogue: "Wow, you blew it! What an idiot!" Our self-talk is sometimes so painful that it would be labeled abusive - and rightly so - if said to anyone else.

It is foolish to disregard one's flaws and ignore the lessons from our mistakes. Yet, I wonder what would happen if we more often told others - as well as ourselves - "I'm proud of you." It might not make a difference, but I cannot believe it would harm anything.

Now Boarding

It is more convenient to take a trip to a convention center to speak to 300 people than it is to cram them all in my living room. Therefore I spend a goodly share of time in airports. Although there are many kind and respectable people employed within, I often find myself irritated with the process of getting from where I am to where I wish to be, specifically the lines, security, and all-too-common delays.

This frustration - coupled with the need to arrive for my flight before even the sun is awake - causes me to not sleep well the night prior to my travels. Because I am paranoid about being late, I plan to rise at 4AM, which will provide enough time to clear security, check in, and stagger over to the local barrista so he can jump-start my heart with excessive doses of caffeine. To make sure I actually do rise at such an inhumane hour, I set an alarm clock, cell phone, and PDA. (Should all three blare at the same instant, I would probably suffer a heart attack from the unexpected cacophony and miss my flight anyway.)

Reality is alarms are unnecessary because I toss and turn through the night, afraid to oversleep. The internal insomniac conversation is akin to this:

2:00 AM: "I'm going to be so exhausted tomorrow. C'mon Scott, relax! Fall asleep NOW!"

2:30 AM: "OK, if I pass out this second, I can still get 90 minutes; I can get by on that."

3:00 AM: "I'll sleep on the plane and take a ten minute nap between presentations. Cats get by on short naps, why can't I?"

3:15 AM: "Sleep is over-rated. Maybe I should just get up. I'll drink lots of coffee."

3:30 AM: "Oh, forget it! What's the use? I might as well get moving."

With that thought, I drop my feet over edge of the bed and drag my exhausted body into the shower, hoping to revitalize myself enough to get to the airport before collapsing in the arms of Hypnos, the God of Sleep.

As I recently lie restlessly in the darkness, I thought, "At which point do I finally decide to face the inevitable, get up, and get moving?" I know how this is going to turn out; I might as well accept it. What causes me to finally cross that line? When do I shift from inactivity to realization to action? I squander so much time forcing myself into stagnation, knowing all the while the outcome is predestined. Denial and delay are not successful strategies.

This routine, I decided, is a metaphor for much of life. As frustration mounts and the inevitability of what needs to be done pushes ever closer, we find unlimited rationales to avoid doing what we'll eventually do anyway. "There's always later." "Problem, what problem?" "Ignore it and it will go away."

The alarm is blaring; the destination awaits; all seats are boarding. Check your baggage, it's time to go.

Speeding Through Life

The very first time I sat in the therapist's office, my initial question was not in search of personal insights, philosophical uplift, nor deep understanding. Rather it was a rudimentary and mundane query, "How long will this take?"

Glancing at his watch, he glibly replied, "About 50 minutes."

"No," I countered, "I mean how long before I am fixed?"

"First of all," he said, "You're not broken; you do not need to be fixed. The thing about mental health is that you understand you will never completely 'get your act together;' you develop tools that help you handle better the problems you face and enjoy your life more in the process. However, once you deal with the surface issues, others will come to view; so in a manner of speaking, one never gets there. Shall we begin?"

Forty-nine minutes to go; this was going to be a very long hour.

Since then, I have indeed learned quite a lot:

1. I make positive choices more often than I don't.

2. Despite knowing the correct thing to do - I do not always opt to do so. (However, one those occasions when I choose to "walk off a cliff," there is some small measure of satisfaction in at least knowing I am making a choice, and not merely a victim of random circumstance.)
I still want to rush the process so I can be "there" already. At times, I tire of self-analysis and deep thought. I simply expect the Universe to operate the way I think it should. What's wrong with that?

3. As illustration, I wish I could lose those "extra pounds" without having to change any habits. That way, I could stop thinking about calories, carbs, and calisthenics every blasted waking minute. Then - I promise - I will lead a 100% healthy lifestyle and maintain this new body. It's not like I don't know how; so what use is there in undergoing this torturous, monotonous process of yet again? I swear I have learned my lesson. Just get me to the destination and I'll prove it.

Insanity is described as "doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result." If I am indeed seeking physical and mental health; and every time I follow the "hurry-up-and-get-there path," I regain my weight; maybe a thought adjustment is required.

Those things of which I am most proud (physically, emotionally, and spiritually) all came from effort. I saved money, educated my mind, and developed my beliefs. Setbacks, although unpleasant, were the genesis for understanding and growth.

If life is a journey and not a destination, why race for the end? I lament how quickly my days pass, yet disregard the present, urgently longing for tomorrow, sacrificing the only actual time I have: Now.

Maybe if I can enjoy today, tomorrow will be even better.

In An Instant

(Note: Originally published in April, 2007)

It is not over years, but in an instant that everything changes.

Elizabeth Edwards, wife of presidential candidate, John Edwards, and a powerful figure of her own accord, has had a reoccurrence of breast cancer, metastasizing in her bones. One minute, she's "cancer-free," the next moment, she is facing a decision that could be of historic proportions for our country.

So much happens in one tick of a clock.

Tony Snow, White House press spokesman, enters the hospital for a "routine" procedure to remove a growth from his abdomen. It is a safe bet to assume that day turned out to be anything but "routine" for the Snow family.

Two political figures, with widely disparate views, are at once united in a battle against a common enemy; a poignant reminder that more binds us than drives us apart. It matters not what one owns, or the power one wields, mortality is unimpressed by stature.

It goes without saying that not only the rich and powerful, or those with access to our national spotlight must face their moments. Each of us, is - or will be - confronted with "instants" that upend everything we know. (I pray for the courage of Ms. Edwards when mine comes.)

These national events, coupled with cheerless news from some friends, have brought to the surface emotions I prefer to avoid, yet apparently, cannot. I hold little fear of heart attack or stroke. I do (most of) what I can to avoid their cold grasp: I eat well; engage in moderate, regular, exercise; and have years (and years) of therapy to cope with the psychological and emotional ravages that might trigger such events.

Cancer, however, is a far different story. The very word slams a stake of terror through my heart.

My mother was a victim of that wretched, abominable, scourge; dragging her from diagnosis to death in 18 blindingly short days - an instant. It was an horrific, dreadful period where we helplessly watched her decline from what we thought was healthy, vibrant, and active; to her demise. Seven years hence, it remains a gaping tear in the fabric of my life.

Yet, although I still bitterly miss her, and feel deeply for others facing such challenges, I believe with utter certainty that it is a travesty to park myself idly and fearfully by the side of life's road, waiting for whatever fate shall bring. Death may be natural, but avoiding Life is sinful.

Until that moment when I have no options, I still retain some control. In any fragment of time - including this very second - I must therefore remind myself to inhale deeply the beauty of all that surrounds me; smile more often at the pleasures I possess; and honor those who no longer have those options by infusing myself, totally, and completely with the Spirit of Health and Wellbeing that I still possess in THIS instant.

Coloring books and commitments

I was "row monitor" in second grade; sitting in the last seat, making sure all students in row #4 behaved. If not, their name was recorded in my official "monitor's notebook," which at day's end, was delivered to the teacher. Right now, during daily quiet time, everyone was behaving appropriately. No one messed with the law when I was on duty.

If all was calm, and we had no pending assignments, we were given permission to color. Each of us had a coloring book in our desk for just such occasion. Eagerly, I pulled my precious book from inside my desk and began flipping through the pages, looking for just the right picture. I always colored the "way cool" pictures first, usually images with robots or ray guns. Alas, they were all completed. Slightly disappointed, but undaunted, I dropped to the next level, the boring pictures - the ones with horses or girls in them.

"Make a mental note," I told myself, "get a new coloring book - no girl pictures." But since that was all that remained, I began flipping pages. Nothing. The entire coloring book was full.

Sadly, I slid my book into its home, folded my hands on my desk, looked up at the clock, sighed, and waited; I had absolutely nothing to do.

I believe that was the last time I remember that happening.

Back then; there was more time than I could ever fill. Its vast landscape stretched out unbroken in front of me forever, no urgency, a million tomorrows yet to come. To a child, there seems no end point, no termination; life is a road without finish. Anything is possible whenever one should choose.

My life today is poles apart from how it was when I was seven. Now, I pay considerable sums of money to take cruises, putting me in a place where I force myself to do "nothing." Like an addict going through withdrawal, the first few days without assignments and deadlines feel awkward and uncomfortable. Finally, when I can settle down and relax, I become tense over my pending return to the garble of assignments and responsibilities that cascade through my waking hours, keeping me amped from before dawn to after dark.

In a world crushed by deadlines and everyday jobs, we too often delay Responsibility One: taking care of ourselves so we can enjoy this ride as long as possible.

"One of these days," I will get my act together. "Someday soon," I will eat correctly, "When the time is right," I will spend more time with my family.

We - like the wide-eyed children we no longer are - feel there's constantly tomorrow, still another sunrise to come. That might be. However, there is no guarantee.

Why not begin today?

Now, where did I put that coloring book?

About the author: Scott "Q" Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and columnist. Since losing 70 pounds over 13 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. His second weight loss book, "MORE Striving for Imprefection: 52 additional columns on weight loss, habit change, and other acts of faith" was just released. Both books are now available at www.TheEatingCycle.com or by contacting him at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or 707.422.6243.

Point of View

Due to a recent bout of unexpected sunshine, I was persuaded to abandon the comfort of our couch to work in our yard. Although my wife's and my relationship is quite balanced, she has deemed lawn upkeep as "Scott's job." I know not why, as I have not requested this high honor, and, to be quite frank, am not particularly skilled in this arena. Nonetheless, being her loving pawn, I march duly forth with lawnmower and weed eater to engage the high grass.

Our lot is not particularly large, unless one is faced with the prospect of mowing it... and the grass is long - and wet; three intertwined dynamics of last weekend. This permutation of factors means I cannot simply drag the mower over my property once; rather I must set the cutter to maximum height, labor to and fro, back and forth across the bumpy lawn (periodically grinding to a stop on uneven clumps of mud), shake the bulky, heavy, dismally designed bag with the ridiculously narrow opening numerous times, then repeat, repeat, repeat. After this preliminary trimming, I lower the cutter and engage in this funfest yet again.

While attempting to stuff the gooey, wet, stinky, clippings into the lawn bag, it rips and falls, spilling a mess along the sidewalk. I now grab the push broom (a tool close to useless for sweeping wet, sticky grass from asphalt) and proceed to sweep (such as it is) and scoop the grass back into the sack, only to have it yet again tumble (this time to the other side), spilling even more of its contents, changing my routine from sweep and scoop, to sweep, scoop, and swear.

Whether triggered by the pain in my back, the sun in my eyes, or the sweat soaking my brow, I do not know; yet a random thought skipped across my mind as I bent down to lift the green waste, "At least I'm not shoveling show in freezing temperatures. THAT would be a major drag."

And in that instant, lifting wet grass in overfull, black, heavy lawn bags seemed a lot better. How can I complain about maintaining my very own front yard, in a good neighborhood, on a mild day - and being healthy enough to do it - when so many cannot even afford a mortgage? And what about those who simply wish for a roof over their head? In that light, I'm blessedly fortunate.

With that thought as a launch-off point, I realized again that point of view is essential. Many go to bed with distended stomachs and hunger pains, and I so quickly lament that my double Grande extra hot latte has to have non-fat instead of whole milk, or that I must bypass ordering a chocolate muffin to accompany it.

Funny, huh? Look one way; life stinks; look another's it's mighty fine. (I will still admit however that it would a gardener would make it even a little better.)