Being ever the smart aleck, he replied, “About 50 minutes.”

“No,” I responded. “How long will it take until I am fixed; you know, healed; normal?”

I am not alone when it comes to asking that question. One of the first items we want checked off our “to do list of change” is a date specific that we can mark on our calendar alerting us to the face that – voila – goal achieved! Like a prisoner sentenced to hard labor, we want to know how long until we are free.

From a logical point of view, the process of getting from “here” to “there” is actually pretty exhilarating. We find out about ourselves. We discover what we’re capable of doing. Others compliment and admire us. Life is new; every sunrise provides the option for multiple new adventures, unwrapping more of whom we really are. It would seem that with so much to gain, we would rather linger luxuriously in the progression instead of charge hell-bent for leather to the other side.

So, what’s with the big rush?

I’m not naïve, I am more than aware that it takes work and is, at times, prickly; yet most of our goal-driven society touts reflexively, “anything worth having is worth working for.” If I want a good marriage, I will work for it. Raising healthy, happy children is certainly an effort at times. Advancing my career and maintaining my house require expending resources. Certainly the best ME possible is a worthy objective, and therefore stands to reason that it also is worth the elbow grease necessary to achieve it.

We might not always be keen on it, but we are not a people afraid of hard work. So that cannot be the reason why the sprint to the finish line. I believe we are in such a hurry to “get there” because we are terrified of waking up with the realization that we have “lost our motivation.”

Like the despondent lover, we plead, “Don’t go; please stay. I’ll be good. What will happen to me if you leave?” If we can arrive at the altar before being jilted by our fickle paramour, everything will be OK.

Being a student of change (aren’t we all?), I am enthralled by our choice of words. After all, words reflect our thoughts. Thoughts determine actions. Watch what you say, it could become your life. Therefore, when we say, “I’ve lost my motivation,” it presupposes that motivation is some foreign entity residing in a distant land. Yet, we are the source of our motivation. We gin it up, and we turn it off. We control it; no one else does. Others can inspire us, coerce us, or force us – but motivate? Not so much. (Ever try and “motivate” a lazy teen? Get my point?)

The premier adjustment on the road to stable, long-term change, is to accept that the locus of control – where decisions are made – is internal, not external. Sure, “stuff” happens, and luck (or fate) can be players. Yet, they are bit parts. I own my spotlight. Once I accept that, the only thing in my way is me.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

I was the hostess ata memorial for a dancer who died in early 88 of the disease. It was hard for me to tell the story of the end of his life but it had to be me because those that knew him were too upset about his demise to speak. His parents disowned him. His landlord put him out of his expensive apartment even though the young man had paid his rent months in advance. And he didn’t return the money to the ailing man claiming he needed it to have the place cleaned of whatever germs were left behind. Out on the street and changed and frail from the illness everyone who knew this once virile, handsome human being turned away from him. There was no insurance to pay for his medicine. He survived on selling his belongings even though most of the things he sold were later trashed because of fear that they carried his disease. Someone was kind enough to rent him a space over a garage in the back of their house as long as he made no contact with the family. This former Broadway lead dancer moved in with his meds and a few clothes. He only had a mattress on the floor and a few sheets. A few friends who kept their distance would bring him food and blankets. He had no phone to call anyone. Those who visited never stayed long. No place to sit and nothing to talk about that could encourage the man to live.

He died alone a bony shell of his former self. What was even sadder was the fact that so few of his friends came to the memorial. In 1988 it was only the brave who wanted to be associated with those dying of AIDS. We lived in fear of the very air these sick people breathed.

Years later there are countries where AIDS is still the main cause of death. The myths about it still run rampant in this country. While many are shocked hearing that in some parts of Africa man rape young virgins believing they will be cured of the disease, those same people deny that their non-gay sons and daughters could get the disease. I remember being on a subway as young men talked about ‘clean’ girls. They could tell who did and didn’t have AIDS. And that was just a few years ago. People in this country have unprotected sex because they are sure their partners are disease free. When it is revealed that this sexual partner carries AIDS many go into denial. Parents still reject their children when they are informed they have the disease, husbands on the down low blame faithful wives instead of confessing to sex with men, and the elderly, thinking they are free of all the burdens of this life have become the largest growing group to spread the disease. The only thing I see different from 1988 is that we have more medicine and doctors know more.

It was called a gay disease, then it was called a black disease because it seemed to be in poor and predominately black countries. Then one of the major magazines did a story about the probable first case of AIDS: a white man of Nordic descent who was a flight attendant and infected most of the world. Other stories spread through religious communities saying that AIDS is God’s punishment for the sinful life lead by homosexuals.

The pain of of the lies still hurts me. I had friends die of this disease. I had an uncle who had adopted two children before he realized he had it. They were troubled and he was the only one who could handle them. When they found out he was dying they told him they hated him for deserting them. My daughter has a friend whose mother fell in love with a man she met at church, married him and a few months later found out he was was HIV-positive. He told her that his changing his life and being a part of the church was going to cure him. Now she has AIDS.

Sometimes we forget this disease still runs rampant even though there are better medicines and better care. I would have not thought about it had I not seen St. Elsewhere and remembered what I was doing in 1988 besides having a baby. I buried one friend to AIDS and learned of many others. Just because there are no new cases in my community does not mean there are no new cases in my world. I have to remember to remember this. Not much has changed about AIDS.

I’ve since queried other seniors about whether they feel “elderly.” Whether the respondent was 70, 80  – I even got to ask someone who was 99 – the answer was almost always identical, “I pretty much feel like I always have.’”

This begs a question: At what point do we accept that we’re “old” – or at least “older?”

This somewhat gloomy line of thought has been prompted by the realization that if we come with a warranty, I fear mine lapsed recently. Since I hit “double nickels,” seemingly all at once, my parts are sore, not working well, acting quirky, or just plain out of sorts. I have pains in places where I did not even know I had places. I am continuously complaining about some dang cramp or soreness, which I do not like doing, and I assure you that is definitely NOT me. My foremost fear is that I shall soon devolve into a cranky, wrinkly, grey-haired, curmudgeonly man-creature, who brandishes his cane at the clouds and rants at the heavens about the unfairness of life.

This is even more troublesome because I’m doing my bit to forestall that unhappy outcome. I walk regularly, eat well, take vitamins, don’t stress (except about this), attend Yoga classes, ride a bike; and – I might point out – I’m a heck of a nice guy! One would therefore assume with such a powerful curriculum vitae of healthy habits and proper outlook, I should easily surpass 125 years before I even go so far as to pull a muscle.

My loving wife has (gently) pointed out that I’m “not as young as I was,” and these symptoms could be interrelated. However I refuse to accept it’s the aging process. I’ll age gracefully (whatever the heck that means) but will not go gently, so off to the doctor I go where I inventory everything that’s sore, bruised, inconsistent, nasty, gnarly, gross, inflated, swollen, hot, cold, flat, red, or black and blue. He types and listens; studies the computer; clarifies a few details; and then says, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“There’s nothing serious; no need to worry.”

Sigh of relief… “What’s the bad news?”

“Your wife is right.”

“But Doc,” I proclaim, “I take good care of myself,” as if that argument will cause him to reverse the prognosis.

“Yes, you do. But at your age, things don’t recover as quickly. It would be worse if you weren’t doing what you’re doing.”

So, that’s it? Sounds like an attitude adjustment might be in order.

They say this is a “normal process” and I’m obviously I’m in it. In all honesty, I do enjoy the peace, self-confidence, and serenity at this stage of life. My marriage is wonderful. My friendships are close. And, overall, I am happy with where I am. That’s what really matters.

Placed in that perspective, I can handle a few bumps, bruises and a periodic cramp, as long as it’s “nothing serious.” I really do think I’m fine with that.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

For example, sometimes I walk from one room to another and forget why I was going to the new location. It happens, you know? I’m busy; I had a spark of an idea which didn’t lock it into the right location in my jam-packed brain and suddenly, there I am standing in the center of my living room staring at the wall painting, befuddled, questioning myself, “Now, why did I want to come in here?”

I could simply laugh it off, attributing it to the “human condition.” But, no, not me! I use this minor brain-blurp as a springboard to convince myself that I have the first symptom of long-term memory loss, providing me an opportunity to freak out about my vanishing faculties, forgotten youth, and the inevitable bleak fate which awaits us all, apparently much closer than I anticipated. From there, I spin into a tornado of dread and fright, racing to the internet, researching Alzheimer’s, dementia, and senility. It goes without saying that once one enters the festering, moldy hallways of the world-wide web, countless unimaginable horrific ailments are all now on parade, many of which can now be attributed to this very circumstance. I might as well give up, accept the inescapable, collapse to the carpet, hold my knees tight to my chest, while rocking back and forth, and babbling incoherently.

All right, I’m really not that bad; I’m taking poetic license. Please don’t send me referrals for therapists. This is what we call the “set up” making a broader point.

Research has actually proven that humans are “hard-wired” to assume things will go cattywumpus rather than not. Given the opportunity to attribute a random event to either good new or bad, we will usually assume the road has more potholes than flat patches.

In ancient times, it made sense to assume the worst. Primitive hunter-gatherers would go into an idyllic serene valley. The optimists would find this yet one more reason to relax, breathe deeply, catch fish, lie in the sun, and assume the best. Their counterparts, pessimists, spent every waking moment distressing about any type of calamity, turning their existence into an unending backbreaking chain of toil and labor, always one step shy of collapse.

Said the optimists to the pessimists, “Relax, take a load off. Don’t worry so much.”

Said the pessimists in reply, “Are you kidding? This whole thing could come apart at any second. You’ll be sorry.” With that, they’d turn on their heals and race into the hills, in search of protection from the impending, unforeseen catastrophe.

As it happens, while the pessimists are away engaged in their grueling method of survival, the river overtops its banks, drowns the unaware optimists, and leaves only the pessimists — who therefore became our ancestors. The trait of hard-luck survival has been passed down ever since.

Anticipation and planning surely have their place. Yet, it’s equally important to realize that worry is interest on a debt not yet owed. After all, if worry made things better, I single-handedly would be able to correct everything.

It’s going be what it’s going be, enjoy it while it’s here.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

Book Cover

Yesterday morning at approximately 2 a.m., I officially finished my first, full-length novel, The Gaslight Journal.

Begun back sometime in 2001, this book was originally a fluke of an idea.  Because I’ve said previously that I had no confidence in my writing, I did not work seriously at the thoughts of ever finishing this book, let alone trying to shop it around for either a publisher, or to make available as a Kindle title, which I plan to do.  I am shooting for an early to mid-November release date, hyping the publicity for Christmas.

It was around this time that I also joined an online writing group on Usenet.  That group of people that I met there, taught me a lot about life, growing up, the value of friendships of people you’ve never met, and how with just a little relentless encouragement and a whole lot of craft, I was the only one holding me back from doing this.  Some of those people–Steve W., Barry A., Joe K., Alaric M., Bob W., and Amanda T., are still close friends and confidants to this day.  To be honest, I have no idea where I would be in all this, if it hadn’t been for their kind hearts, and taskmaster discipline.

I highly encourage you to find a good, active online or face-to-face writing group.  The benefits of an online group, are that it’s easy to post excerpts or short stories for critique, and many, many people have the benefit of making comment, so you get many varying POVs.  Plus, my favourite, being able to post stories, comment and commiserate, all without leaving your chair or changing from your peejays.

The downside of a group of this nature, is that you generally have to wade through several timezones before you get an answer, sometimes waiting for days or even weeks in some cases, as people are extremely busy and the level of posting is in high volume.  The other drawback is that because each poster is in equal probability an amateur as well as a published, experienced author, you never know, without trial and error, if the advice you receive will truly work for you.

The pros of seeking out a face-to-face writing group, inherently, are the same as an online group:  you learn how to give–by mere repetition and discussion–effective constructive critiques, and you get them in return, which, since true writing is only in the RE-writing, will only make you a better writer.  You also have that immediacy of advice, because once you read your excerpt, you then have the luxury of hearing its immediate affect on those listening, and they can offer comment while the work is still fresh in their mind, and they haven’t had an ample amount of time to think about it, which often happens in online groups–people have lives to live between the time they read your story, and the time they have to comment, so opinions are sometimes in jeopardy of changing in that time, and you just don’t have the access to those visceral, gut-wrenching opinions.

The downside of this sort of group, is that you have to get dressed before you leave the house.  Oh, and you have a specified time to meet each and every week, rain or shine.  You can’t just sit back in your cozy armchair if the snow is too deep and you don’t feel like reading Shteeve’s latest tome until in the morning.

As you can see, both groups have benefits and both have their drawbacks.  As to which one will work better in your situation is entirely up to you, but the important and only thing is, that you find one and become an active part of it.  Those who offer critiques and read our stories are an integral part of the writing process.  Even if your average reader does not know how to place into words why your story sucks, if it’s not polished and snazzed up, is rife with misspellings, grammatical errors and typos, he will simply know it does, and that will be more than enough to kill your sales, because avid bibliophiles TALK.

Now that my own group disbanned about a year ago, I am also, in want of a new, constructive and active group, because I’m not nearly done writing–I’m just getting started!

My web-site: http://www.carlarene.com

My blog: http://carlarene.blogspot.com

Become a “Twit:” http://www.twitter.com/carlarenecomedy

“Why is my marriage a mess?” “How come I weigh so much?” “Will I ever save enough to retire?” These are all questions a life-contractor might ask when examining a “dwelling” that appears not at all as the architect envisioned.

Nonetheless, each structure is built to our exacting specifications. Granted, sometimes “stuff” outside of our control happens. Earthquakes, illness, even political forces, can interfere with well-developed plans. Yet, the underlying truth for the vast majority of us is that the vast majority of time, we are where we are because of what we have done so far. Want to live differently? Act differently. New materials and a modernization might be the order of the day.

It seems like a simple solution. Yet the unhappy truth is that to accomplish that also takes planning. It is essential that we examine each and every brick; come to a decision as to whether or not it’s functional, as well as which others rely upon it for their support. Then, and only then, can we choose whether we simply demolish it or must substitute it with another. Of course, we can even retain some exactly where they rest.

Unfortunately, too often, we take the tact of a demolitionist and attempt to simply “start over.” That’s folly, oft-time guaranteed to fail, as we cannot just knock everything over and start anew. Those bricks labeled “how I treat my family” or “what I do for a living” are cemented to those emblazoned, “sit rather than walk,” “eat to handle stress,” and “chips instead of vegetables.” Starting from scratch is the metaphorical option of being homeless. I might not like where I live, but it beats the street. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Let’s presume however, that we take a more long-term line of attack and begin the careful disassembly and future reassembly. There is yet that other level: that pesky slab upon which everything rests. If we erect the most magnificent mansion rooted in a plot of sand, further problems are ensured. In this cautionary fable, that foundation consists of thoughts and feelings. Our actions, the bricks, are built upon inextricably intertwined thoughts and feelings. Should they not be able to direct well our actions, we shall yet again be housed in a hovel.

This begs an urgent question: Do we control our thoughts and feelings or do they control us? In effect, are we victims to the synaptic firings and hormone-driven changes of affect; or do we create them to serve our needs? Who is the master — and who is servant?

If we believe that we have little or no control over what enters our consciousness — in effect, they just “happen” — we are forever at the whim of those electrical impulses and influences. Any plan at any time can be immediately disrupted by seemingly random fluctuations pulsing though our system.

Conversely, if we can accept that our thoughts and our feelings can be developed, guided, molded, and in some cases, even controlled; we are given the most powerful tools imaginable. With those in the toolbox, there is no limit as to what we can construct.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

Yes, there are “acts of God.” Philosophically, one might even accept fate or destiny as insurmountable barriers. Yet, aside from those, the immense majority of people living lives of quiet desperation reside there because of what’s going on in their minds more than on our planet. With credit to Walt Kelly, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” We – not others – are more times than not, our worst adversaries.

I mean this not in a condescending, judgmental manner, as one might hear from no-nonsense hyper-achievers, “Just pull yourself up from the bootstraps, suck it in, and get it done. Don’t be such a wimp!” One cannot change years of brain wave patterns in the same manner in which he switches on or off a light. Negative thoughts today – click – positive henceforth. My objective today is also not designed to illustrate how messed up we are; I don’t think that’s true, we’re all doing the best we know how to do.

With appropriate disclaimers admitted, if we accept that we are standing in our own way, it begs the question, “Why would we do that?” Why do we NOT reach further, dream larger, and believe better?

The primary answer is: Fear; Fear of Success, and its dastardly sibling, Fear of Failure.

These concepts are tossed about often than a well-worn basketball in a high school gym, yet rarely do we take the time to understand the difference between the two. For in doing so, we might be able to get past them.

Usually, Fear of Success is an apprehension that achieving one’s goals could generate future events unforeseen or out of one’s control and we won’t know what to do with them. For example, if I lose weight, members of the opposite sex might look at me differently. I might need to deal with flirting, or even sexual tensions, that – until now – have been kept at bay by the extra layers in which I can (literally and figuratively) hide. Another illustration could be that I worry friends who currently socialize with me around food (such as going out to lunch) might no longer feel comfortable doing so. What will we do then? Will I lose friendships? Will I become lonely?

Fear of Success’s baseline concern is I might not like the way things are right now, but at least I know how to handle them. Change them and it could be worse.

Fear of Failure, far more common, is being scared that my goals are really just empty pipe dreams. The regret in attempting it – and failing – would be so much more devastating than the conditions in which I now find myself, that I’d rather just stay put. In other words, “If I don’t do anything, I can’t fail and therefore, I won’t be disappointed. As it stands currently, at least I have my fantasy to comfort me. I am unwilling to risk those.”

Fear is a normal, sometimes even healthy, emotion. Like a fortress it can keep out what might harm us – or, as a cage, it can prevent us from getting what we want.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

and they wanna drive us nuts

and they do,

some of us lose it bad

some of lose it good.

they are not happy

when you are happy when they are unhappy.

they want you to suffer with them

and die without them.

they are women

and they are out there

and in here

silently stalking

some irresistible

some tempting

all for the taking,

they hunt in masses

and alone

in search of our souls;

and they will get them,

cause we want their bodies,

their tits,

their asses,

their temporary love,

their attention and admiration.

that reassuring reward which comes with their approving conquest;

but we have to take their moodiness,

their insecurities,

that monthly instability

and long term lunacy,

promise to love them forever

have only them on our minds

and in our dreams;

though they shatter our fantasies

and create living nightmares

where they cast us on a journey through the maze that is their minds;

lost,

bewildered,

forever drifting

lost in love

eventual nomads of romance.

hence we continue to seek them;

the women!

the last of god’s creations

we go mad with them

and go mad without them.

Let’s put this in perspective. When the baby boomers started being born shortly after World War II, the entire population inhabiting this third rock from the sun was 2.3 billion. Therefore, if we lived in 1947, and we were facing this same predicament, every single, solitary, person would need to be on a diet.

While we’re playing “interesting facts to quote at cocktail parties,” let me toss you another: NOBODY diets to lose weight.

Huh?

Anybody who has ever tried to trim a pound from a pudgy mid-section, whether by changing the way she eats or by increasing her exercise level (or both), has not embarked upon that path to weigh a certain number or to drop X pounds. She launched into the process to achieve the BENEFITS that the weight loss will provide. Lifestyle change – in this case eating healthier – is simply the vehicle she has chosen to obtain an improved life; henceforth referred to as the “benefit.”

Moreover, how she chooses to define “better” is up to her: healthier, happier, more attractive, self-confident, more active, or anything else that tickles her fancy. But the bottom line remains that weight loss unto itself is not what drove the change, the results of it set the motion forward.

It might seem like we’re picking nits, but the cool thing about understanding benefits is that we can see them almost immediately, and that’s inspiring. However, waiting for the scale’s number to drop can appear to take forever, making the process feel much worse and more difficult than necessary. Restated, if I focus on benefits, the effort it’s taking to lose weight seems lessened.

For example, even if I am just starting my diet today, several benefits kick in even before one ounce has been lost. There is a sense of relief about overcoming procrastination, pride for moving forward on a goal, and my energy will probably spike due to the healthier combination of foods I’m now consuming. Conversely, if my sole measurement of success is a number on a scale, there’s one long road to hoe before I get any strokes from the process.

If I focus on the benefits received, which are plenty; rather than the effort it requires, which in reality is not really that much; not only will the end results be the same, but life will most likely be more rewarding and fun. Dare I say it: yet another benefit of being healthy.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

Sure enough, literally smack-dab in the center of the terminal is an enclosed, glass-walled chamber where smokers light up and puff away to their heart’s content. (That’s probably a bad choice of expressions in light of the activity we’re discussing.) What struck me was that through the grey misted air, they appeared as caged zoo animals, pacing in their restricted area, engaging in behaviors not accepted by the reminder of the population, while kept at a safe distance from those they could harm upon accidental release.

I found the whole thing to be incredibly sad.

Let me head off the armies of hacking militant, wheezing smokers who, even before they have finished reading this piece, are racing to computers to fire off angry missives about how I am insulting them. My comments are not as much levied at those who have chosen to engage in this habit as much as at the society that determines what is appropriate and what is not. Mores change and smoking, once considered “the cat’s meow,” is now considered gauche, existing in a strange societal limbo – scorned yet legal.

I am allergic to tobacco smoke. Moreover, having previously lived with a smoker, the stench that permeated and saturated everything from clothing to carpeting invoked regularly my gag reflex. So, I’m A-OK with the act being isolated. Yet, what is not tolerable to me is that it appears that we – the “Proper Members of Society” – are forever judging others in a misguided effort to feel better about ourselves, while ignoring our own annoying foibles.

Civility’s spotlight, although not shifting from the nicotine user, has lately expanded to include the overweight. As with users of cigarettes, behind their backs, we shake our heads and whisper to our “normal” friends, “It’s a shame that they don’t take care of themselves. I’d never let myself look like that.” We wag our fingers and click our tongues, satisfied that we are “better than that.”

It’s probably human nature to try and elevate oneself by putting down others. I know in my lesser moments that I am not immune. However, it seems that each and everyone of us has habits of which we would not want exposed to bright sunlight. Creating new sub-classes determined by what one eats or smokes is divisive, and we’ve got plenty of that going around.

I’ve got bad habits. You do too. It’s not a reflection of self-worth; it is a method by which each of us is trying to make it through the day without collapsing under the weight of its stress. I’m not advocating abandoning personal responsibility and “let it all hang out;” quite the contrary. The process of growth is the cycle of “identify, adjust, and modify.” It seems if each of us spent a tad more energy striving to be an example instead of a judge, it could alter the atmosphere just enough that we wouldn’t need a cigarette – or bag of chips – quite as often.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he works with overloaded people and organizations who are looking to improve communication, change bad habits, and reduce stress. He can be reached for consulting, workshops, or presentations at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com. He will sometimes work in exchange for chocolate.

“What do you mean, ”oops”? Nothing good ever starts with ‘oops’.”

“Really? I’m not sure about that. ‘Oops’ means I made a mistake.”

“I know what it means; I’m not stupid. But it never leads anywhere good.”

“I don’t agree.”

“OK, how ’bout this? I was at the dentist a few months ago. I was getting a tooth pulled…”

“Ouch; that’s not fun.”

“No, it’s not. So, they’ve got me in that chair that looks like something from the Spanish Inquisition. My mouth is numb, I’m drooling like a one-year old – ”

“Sounds attractive.”

“Anyway… They have the chair leaning way back, the light is in my eyes, I’ve got one of those rubber things in my mouth – what do you call ‘em?”

“Dental dam.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a dental dam in my mouth and the dentist is yanking and pulling on my tooth. Suddenly the tooth pops loose, the dentist loses his grip, I hear him say, ‘oops;’ and before you know it, he’s got me out of the chair, flipped over, patting me on the back like he’s burping a baby.”

“Wow! What happened?”

“Apparently, he dropped the tooth into my throat.”

“Really? Was it dangerous?”

“Well, he was concerned that it could get in my lungs. But it didn’t; apparently I swallowed it.”

“So everything came out OK in the end?”

“Is that meant to be cute?”

“No, maybe I worded it poorly, but I meant what I said.”

“Yeah, sure, I was fine.”

“So ‘oops’ was a good thing then.”

“No, it was a bad thing. He made a mistake. It could have had terrible results.”

“But, it didn’t, because he saw that he made a mistake, and corrected for it real quickly. Let’s say, he didn’t admit the mistake and just pretended that he still had your tooth in his pliers and just went about his business, not telling you what was going wrong.”

“Well, that wouldn’t have been smart. I could have got hurt.”

“Right, because he admitted his mistake and he learned from it, things got better. And, you know what? I’ll bet he’s much more aware of that problem now then he was back then.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“So, future patients are probably better off, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“So admitting his mistake took care of you quickly and will help others prevent from experiencing what you experienced. That’s two good things from one ‘oops.’”

“But it’s embarrassing to make mistakes.”

“Maybe. But it’s more embarrassing to make them repeatedly, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So, the quicker we acknowledge we made a mistake and the sooner we adjust the better off we are.”

“But, wouldn’t it be better never to slip up?”

“Sure it would. And wouldn’t the world be better if everything worked out exactly like we expect it to?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Spot on. And it’s equally unrealistic to assume you won’t screw-up now and then, especially if you’re trying new things. So without mistakes, there is no reason for adjustment, which means we’re not learning anything; therefore nothing changes. So, one could say mistakes are actually step one in improving our life.”

“But only if we acknowledge them and change them.”

“To do anything else would be a mistake.”

I didn’t see the creep at first. You never do for they sneak up on you without notice. And that’s what this guy did. He got on the train and was drawn to the girl in the cutout pants. Drawn to her porcelain skin straining through the holes she had created. She didn’t notice him as he eased into the seat, but I did. His eyes were fixed on the skin above her knees.

He was a small man who appeared harmless. In stature he was shorter than both girls. But uneasiness rolled over me as I watched him watch them. Was I being a voyeur or was I just being protective of a young woman without a clue? Not sure what he was going to do I decided to be a watchdog, just in case something got out of hand.

We were held in the station while an announcement was made. For some reason the next 5 stops were going to be skipped and that meant the Saturday shoppers who lived at those stops would have to take the train uptown to Harlem then take the downtown train back. There was a great deal of fusing and cursing as there usually is when these announcements take place and the little man, fixated on the skin of his fellow passenger, seemed not to want to get off. While others looked around deciding what to do he stood, preparing to leave. He checked his pockets, and then the seat, looking down all the time at the creamy white of the chubby girl’s exposed thigh in her cut out pants. When the announcement was made that the train would be making all stops and for everyone to get back on, the man made his move. He sat down so fast he fell onto the young woman his hand landing on her nearest bare patch of skin above the knee. I watched as his hand went flat touching as much skin as possible. The girl, of course, jumped and he moved quickly apologizing.

She smiled at him accepting this as an accident even though the train wasn’t moving. But I didn’t. It had all been planned. If you’ve seen enough creeps you can tell when they are up to no good.

He kept his hands folded in his lap, careful not to even lean on his prey. She wouldn’t have known since she was engrossed in conversation with her friend. Her back was now to him and he eyed the rolls of flesh that fell over the waist of her jeans in the rear. I watched as he inhaled so hard his head almost exploded with joy. Then he peeked over at the bare young flesh and quickly turned away. My head was down in my book, pretending to watch the man pretending not to watch the girl. I was a little afraid for her, his attraction was so obvious. But she got off two stops later.

The moment the girl left the little man put his hand on the seat where she had set, still warm with a hint of her flesh and a wicked quiet grin came across his face. He leaned back, closed his eyes and let his hand run slowly across the seat as if he were touching her.

I thanked heaven she was gone.

As I rose to exit a group of young women got on one of them is a very short skirt. Her legs were long and pale, just enough to bring the man out of his reverie and look at her as new territory. Instead of sitting she stood next to his seat conversing with her friends. He tried his best not to focus on her legs but he couldn’t help it. Fortunately he had to get off at the next stop. When he left the group of girls all flocked to the area where he had been sitting alone surrounded by four empty seats. The girl with the bare legs sat where he had been. “Wow, this is warm,” she said to her friends and they each touched the fire the little man left behind and laughed.

They had no idea what was going on inside his troubled soul and they were lucky. I, on the other hand, had the imprint of him rubbing that seat for weeks to come.

Two years later I was in charge of the dorm I had lived in since I had been a freshman. Girls seldom came to me with serious problems. But the Deans came to me with a few. One female student was kicked out for having sex with several basketball players although none of them had the same fate. It was rumored that she was living in my dorm. I found the dual standards ridiculous and voiced my objection to kicking the girl out even though none of the other female head residents said a thing. It was the sexual revolution, what did they think was going to happen to some girls who had never even been on a date before? I knew she was living in my dorm, waiting for spring break when she could go home and explain things to her parents. My residents and I had an unwritten policy. If I couldn’t see it I couldn’t act on it. Shortly before exam week the woman in question came to me because one of the girls she was staying with was a bit suicidal. The expelled girl went to stay elsewhere while I found the girl that concerned her scared to death she was going to fail and disappoint her parents. I didn’t just send her to counseling, I walked her there. After that I checked on her daily to see how she was doing. I didn’t always get in her face. I contacted her roommate and her friends. She didn’t pass most of her courses and she did not return after spring break but she didn’t try to kill herself.

Right now students are under stress to take exams and then take part in the ever popular spring break routines. Spring break is supposed to alleviate the stress of school, exams and difficult classes. Many students can’t afford to go anywhere and they claim that puts stress on them. If they are realistic they can separate what they need from what they want. They need to relax and it can be in front of the television set or sleeping for hours in their room at home. If they are having trouble making tuition payments spring break in warmer climates is not an option. We all, students and parents alike, want a vacation someplace nice. But if we cannot have it that is no reason to feel suicidal.

On my watch in the spring of 1972 a guy came to me because his girlfriend was acting strange. Her mother had attempted suicide- again- and the girl didn’t have the money to go home and see her. Her mother also said she didn’t want her there. This depressed  her more than anything else and her boyfriend was afraid that she would try to do herself in just to get her mother’s love. We sat and talked with her until dawn while she coped with the tragedy. I told my mom about it and she reminded me that she loved me and that if I needed to leave school and come home for any reason, she and my dad would not feel that I had failed them. They would help me in any way they could.

A Japanese classmate of one of my daughters dropped out of business school when her father committed suicide. Her mother told her that she had never approved of the father’s forcing the daughter to study business and that she could do what she wanted to now. Sad that this had to happen after the father’s death but the girl told my daughter for the first time in her life she did not feel the extra pressure that her dad kept putting on her. Happily, after a year off, she has found another school and is studying heart’s desire which is art.

The need to succeed in college does go beyond parents. It has to do with competing for the better jobs and the better partners in life. So, in the end, the competitive society we live in is to blame. Students understand this and try to get as many options for relaxation as possible. But forever in the back of their mind is the fear of failure and for many of them that fear will not allow them to go home and regroup. Parents and professors must be away that while we stress with less pay and higher bills we have adjusted to this way of life, even though some adults kill themselves when they can’t cope. Young people need to be taught how to handle the departure from carefree student to harassed adult. It should not be a college course, it should be something they learn at home. Not everybody is going to succeed in life the same way and we have to accept that. We need to start the acceptance with our kids so they will call us when they are failing instead of jumping off of roofs.

Things like this happen to me every now and then. I believe there is another level of reality and it is often privy to us only in dreams. In the daylight hours we let our minds concentrate on things that we can see. Those who walk around in the sun with their minds open to the voices from another level are called crazy. Perhaps some of them are, but many of them are just unable to grasp the difference between the seen and unseen world. They can’t separate the two or interpret the strangeness of the second reality. Once my head hits the pillow I can barely grasp it myself. I have awakened to phones not ringing, voices not calling and, my all time favorite, a dog not standing next to my bed barking. These things were so real to me that I had to wake up but what they mean I don’t always take the time to figure out.

In sleep I let my mind relax to see other realities. Sometimes those realities lead me to creativity. Other times they lead me to a dream dictionary I picked up years ago that helps explain things. I wonder who decided that dreaming about fish means someone close to you is going to give birth. Do these interpretations go all the way back to the Joseph of the Old Testament who was famous for how he explained dreams, especially the dreams of the Pharaoh?. If I think about a person before I go to sleep, especially someone I haven’t seen in a long time, that person might end up in my dreams. Other times there is just a mass of confusion that I cannot explain.

Last night I dreamt I was in the subway waiting for an hour to get on a train stuck in the station. It’s a nightmare that does happen in real New York rather too often. The doors of the train I wanted to board were closed so I couldn’t get in. But the car was packed and I didn’t want to be another sardine. Another train connected to the first one and still no movement. Finally I decided that I could take the A train home and left that area.

I assume I was in the 59^th Street Columbus Circle station where you can catch a few different subway lines that go uptown to Harlem. I had been waiting on the number 1 and all I would have to do in the real world to get to the A was go up a couple of sets of stairs. The problem was the dream station was being worked on and I couldn’t get where I wanted to go. In my struggle to get to the A train I went to several Transit workers who allowed me to go in secret passages and tunnels. I went through storage areas, had to go outside and come back in, and finally ended up in an attractive underground restaurant that had a wine cellar connected to the A line. Along the way I had picked up a woman in her 30’s and her 12 year old son. How did I know their ages? Hey, it was a dream. However she refused to go with me through the wine cellar. I finally got to the right platform and missed the train. I turned and there was another one coming but it wasn’t going to stop and then. . .

The phone rang for real. Someone in Africa calling my husband who slept through the whole thing.

I didn’t think about what this dream could mean until I was on the bus this morning. The bus I almost missed that I had to run to catch it.

Hummmm

While getting settled the MTA made an announcement that there would be service interruptions on the A train from Friday midnight to 4:45am Monday. The A train, the same train in my dream.

Hummmmmmmm

I started thinking about the pieces of my dream again. What would possess my unconscious mind to think I had to go through a restaurant to get to a train? Then I connected the dots. Earlier that evening, my hairdresser told me there had once been a really good Chinese take out place underground where the A train stops on 145^th St.. Another piece of the puzzle solved.

But why was I so lost and why the mother and the 12 year old boy?

It was only when I started writing this that I realized what was going on in my dream. I have been trying to find a way to publish my novels for many years. I have had agent approval but it didn’t seem to be the time for my style or my story with big publishing houses. So, after a long period of debate, I decided to self publish. Yesterday I finished the edits and this weekend.  I can complete the rest of the paperwork. I had to go through a lot to get here but I think I have found my way.

The mother and son? Well that represents a few family issues that I recently learned about and they all involve mothers and sons. Funny how they couldn’t come with me on my dream journey to the A train but then it wasn’t a trip they needed to make.

So I have become Joseph and I have interpreted my dream. When we allow the mind to wander on its own it reveals a lot to us. Sometimes it isn’t what we want to know and we can even create dream barriers. But if we rest, close our eyes and let the other reality happen, it might solve a mystery. Perhaps something special will be revealed.

Yet, once in a while, something crashes through that dense wall of denial and I can no longer avoid looking.

Today, at a very powerful, presentation, I learned that the three leading causes of death in the U.S. in 1900 (Pneumonia, Influenza, and Tuberculosis) are not even in the top five 100 years later (heart disease, Cancer, and stroke). In effect, over the span of an extended lifetime, our biggest health concerns have shifted from being “attacked from the outside” to being “attacked from the inside.” That’s a powerful bit of data.

Part of the reason is that we are now under constant, unending, on-going, chronic stress. Sure, we’re not fighting off saber-tooth tigers anymore; but we pay too many bills with too few dollars, or we attempt too many things with too little time, or both, or more. Our body can’t perceive the difference between “saber-tooth tiger stress” and the “IRS is on the phone for you” stress. All it understands is that something is a kilter; we are under pressure. (Whether the stress is caused by actual or perceived events makes no difference; we respond the same.)

Couple that fact with the detail that our modern diet is so out of whack that nutritionists refer to it as “hyper inflammatory.” That means that when threatened, our body throws the preverbal kitchen sink at almost any problem. Instead of marshalling a couple of “antibiotic soldiers” to quell a minor disturbance, it delivers an entire, heavily-armed, fully equipped battalion. Once the threat has been eliminated, those extra soldiers hang around with nothing to do – except leave waste products. Blend that with our constant stress-level, and well, we’ve got bunkers of waste-producing soldiers camped out all over our insides, lining our cells with all sorts of unnecessary non-disposable nasties.

Since stress is beyond our control, we cannot dispel it and send the soldiers on leave. Rather, we can only disarm the situation by thinking differently, moving more, and changing how we eat.

Here’s where today’s talk made its impact on me. Eric, the presenter, offered clear, easy-to-implement ideas to begin to reverse the course. Take some Fish Oil, increase Vitamin D, drink Green Tea now and then. He was honest; it’s not a panacea; it’s merely a few doable actions that can improve one’s heath. They are things I can do right now – and I did.

Not only are simple ideas usually the best, but, now knowing what I’ve learned, they don’t stress me out as much as doing nothing.

Whether it was my training as an artist (writer, actress and painter you look at people all the time) or just my tendency to observe those around me in case they attack and I need a good description I catalogued everything I could about him. He was huge, at least 6’4”, and perhaps as wide. His hair was matted, unkempt dredlocks some down past his chest. He wore a heavy coat bound at the waist with a woven leather belt. His shoes were, however, an unexpected treat: pointy- toed red alligator most likely a size 13. I told myself I could pass him and pretend that I didn’t see him. Unfortunately, he was staring at me as if he knew me.

In the seconds before we came face to face I tried to place him. Where had I seen him? Where had he stared me down before? My heart skipped a beat as I thought this could be the ex-boyfriend I dropped 30 some years ago because he was crazy. To prove his insanity he stalked me for several months after I told him I never wanted to see him again. He was amazingly tall and from the city as well. Did he come home to New York and go totally batty?

Was the man before me someone I passed on the street and ignored? Someone whose hand was extended and I refused to share the wealth they thought I had? There are days in this sometimes bleak city when you pass someone in need on every corner. You know you can’t help them all when you are barely able to get by and help yourself. You end up passing them all. Passing those sitting on grates that warm them with hot air from furnaces below ground, pass those who have hand written signs explaining their current fate and pass those released too early from mental hospitals or who never had a needed psych evaluation. You grow immune to the minions you can’t help, their gloveless hands, chapped lips and dirty faces.

This mountain of a man was unforgettable. Not my ex I was sure, not someone I had ever seen since those in need show up in different places around the city where they can find warmth, food and shelter. Some refuse the homeless shelters, which can be violent. They sleep in the subway moving from station to station. This scary, wide eyed man was very unfamiliar.

His eyes on me I did not hold my purse tighter or try not to look at him. There were a few more people bundled up on the cold street besides me so I didn’t feel so alone. But if Goliath had decided to jump me, there was the possibility I would be on my own.

He stopped in front of me so I couldn’t pass. Ignoring what could be conceived as a belligerent move, I stepped to the right. He grunted: “Nice hat.”

My first thought was “What?” Then I remembered the powder blue chapeau pulled down over my ears, it’s furry warmth keeping out the blustering cold.

I smiled and said: “Thank you.”

He lifted a hand that was covered in what was once a leather glove and pointed. “Matches your coat,” he said and stepped to my left going about his business.

I moved in my intended direction, my pace the same as before. I tried not to think how fearful I was of a man, giant and slightly dirty, who just wanted to compliment my wardrobe. I thought him crazy. I assumed he was harmful. I thought him anything but human and that was sad as well as wrong.

Perhaps better safe than sorry could have been considered my motto but I was having a hard time trying to forgive myself for my profiling. I didn’t know if this man was homeless. I didn’t know if he was crazy. He just fit the picture and fear created a prejudice. I was reminded of all those times in the subway where white women had moved away from young black boys, their purses held close to their chests, because they assumed the kids were out to rob them. Although I could claim that I was feeling fear for my own protection from someone probably a little crazy I knew I was doing the same thing. Most of us don’t think of the homeless and mentally challenged as still part of the caring and feeling human race. We avoid them so as not to confront their needs or be confronted by their insanity. We are wrong. I was wrong. There was enough humanity in this man to see the beauty in a blue hat and to see that I had taken the time to match it to my coat. It was a simple thing but it was important.

I was still ashamed as I walked on my way knowing that a man with a suit could jump me or someone dressed as a nun could beat me up but I chose to resort to urban fear of a large man who only wanted to say something nice. I could have returned the compliment and showed that I understood his humanity. I did admire his red shoes.

Let’s begin by populating it with lots of tired, irritable inhabitants confined to a cramped area with hardly any places to rest and absolutely no spot to get comfortable. Many of these folks will wear too much perfume or, better yet, haven’t seen the working end of a shower in days. Of course, the whole environment has to be far from home, and – oh yes – let’s make it extremely loud.

Now, let’s spruce up the annoyance factor by tossing in some arcane commands.

Rule one: You are only allowed to have in your ownership one container of essential items; but the consequences for possessing those is that is you must drag them behind you wherever you go; a ball and chain. Rule Two: Not for a minute can you let them leave your custody. If you want to add more items, you can purchase from a very limited supply of things that will be far more costly than they should be, and you must stand in long lines to obtain them (don’t forget, you must have your container always in tow).  Rule Three: Nosy, ill-mannered, discourteous natives will handle and interrogate you at will, sporadically rummage through your package of personal belongings, and time after time subject you to yet additional seemingly useless rules which may change at any time.

I think we’re done. What shall we call it?  Dante’s Inferno? Hell? How about, “An Airport?”

Traveling has a knack to make anybody cranky; so, I had empathy for the nine-year-old with the pink suitcase waiting in the petrified line to board the jet. Her dad, bent close to her, staring unflinchingly into her eyes, was wagging his finger for emphasis and scolding her sotto voce. “We don’t push people out of the way. We wait our turn, do you understand?”

Her eyes drilling into the floor of the gateway, an angry expression contorting her face, she rocked defiantly from side-to-side, holding steadfast, “He’s not ‘people;’ he’s my little brother! And he’s slow! I want to get on the airplane all ready! I’m tired!”

“I understand,” replied her father, “We’re all frustrated. But that doesn’t excuse pushing. Are we clear?”

“I want to get on the airplane!” She stomped her foot for emphasis and crossed her arms across her chest.

“We will go on the airplane when you apologize to Robbie. Tell him you’re sorry.”

Begrudgingly realizing she had no choice and finally accepting the parameters, she faced her sibling, mumbled something, then looked back at Dad.

“Very good,” he said; hugged her, rose to his full height and took her by the hand as the family proceeded forward. She had learned her lesson, her reward being that she now able to proceed to her objective.

As I watched the drama, it dawned on me that this process does not end when we move away from our parents. It is a sequence that presents itself continually: Frustration. Lesson. Acceptance. Progress. Repeat cycle as necessary until learned.

The only difference between those of us with single-digit ages and smooth skin, and those of us with a few years under our belts and a road map of wrinkles, is that we aren’t always fortunate enough to have someone explain the guidelines so clearly.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. Join him on a nationally broadcast teleconference about weight loss on March 7, 2010. Find out more at http://www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com

My mother, 85, was a woman of many great accomplishments. She was an artist of modest repute who sold everything she painted. Her life was art: she surrounded herself with it and believed that artistic expression and the intellectual life had the most meaning for her. She was also a very difficult person to live with and, in adult life, to be around: peremptory, critical, stubborn and intractable in her opinions and views. She carried psychic scars from her youth that I’m sure contributed to her need to express herself in art. In fact, I believe it’s the scars, trials and tribulations of life that lead us to turn to artistic expression. Great poems aren’t written about tranquility; they’re about agony, conflict, pain.

My mother’s last full year of life, 2009, was filled with tribulations. She decided to quit painting, and like anyone who retires from their lifelong occupation, faced separation anxiety and a vacuum in what to do with herself. Then she rubbed her eye too hard and separated her retina, which caused her near-total blindness in one eye. That on top of major hearing loss meant she’d mostly lost two of her senses. She fell into a profound depression just days after I spent a few weeks visiting, then her husband of 40 years [not my father] fell ill and after a hospital stay and rehab convalescence, was moved out of the house into an assisted-living home.

My mom was left alone in a big house with only her dog for company. Her depression worsened and my two brothers and I began rotating visits, often within a week or so of each other. My last visit was just a few weeks ago, and trying to care for her was so rough that my youngest brother flew in to provide additional support. We – the whole family, including my mom – agreed she needed hospitalization and 24/7 care to try to conquer the anxiety and depression. All to no avail: ten days after we left, our mother slipped away in the middle of the night.

Music has been an emotional accompaniment to me throughout my life, and this was no exception. Smatterings of the songs on side two [record version] of the Beatles’ “Abbey Road” began sneaking into my consciousness, then increasing in frequency and often poignancy. Finally unable to shake it out of my head, I told my mom I had some shopping to do and took off in the car with my iPod. I plugged in and skipped to “Because” and starting singing along as I drove. I’ve always thought of these songs as a suite, as an oeuvre unto themselves, and as I drove and listened and began singing along, it became a paean to my relationship with my mother. Before long I was singing at the top of my lungs, then the tears started and would not stop. I had to pull into a parking lot to finish listening and crying. And as the Beatles sang,

“And in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love

You make.”

At that moment I knew, really knew, what this relationship – and perhaps all relationships – are all about. How could these guys be so wise, so prescient, at such a young age? Of course, that was their great gift to us: their wisdom and insight, set to extraordinary music.

As I thought about writing this posting today, I pondered what I really wanted to say. I’m getting to that next, and it’s the reason I chose the title – from the album. It’s from an old English children’s song that Paul sings in “Because.” I hope my mom went to a good place when she passed on. When I was a teenager she turned away from conventional organized religion and developed an interest in Unitarianism, which led me to the discovery of the difference between spirituality and religion. I’ve never ceased believing in God, or Dog, or a higher power greater than my own understanding, but my mom renounced not only religion but God, and so died without belief. I want to believe she went to a better life than the one she had been living, and that it is her heaven -  because I have a sneaking suspicion that whatever each of us imagines is heaven, that’s where we go when we die.

I’ve listened to the “Abbey Road” suite several times since, and curiously I’ve had those song snippets playing randomly in my head at any time of the day or night. Each time I was struck by how many lines or verses or sentiments in that music parallel my feelings and experiences of my mother, right down to the very last ditty Paul sings about Old Madge. Then, last night, “Golden Slumbers” brought me out of a sound sleep at 2:25AM. I sat up, wondering why this should wake me in the middle of the night, then I heard my phone ring. It was the nurse supervisor calling to tell me they had lost my mother.

Tomorrow I fly to Phoenix. Maybe now I can find peace and perfect silence in my mother’s memory.

The sales person reiterates, “You can’t pay for that many toys using pennies.”

“That’s all I’ve got. I can’t pay you in milk, cookies, or crayon drawings; but sometimes children leave me pennies. That’s all I own.”

The clerk shrugged. “I’m sorry Sir, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”  He abruptly turns to me, next in line, and disregards the pudgy gentleman.

Trying to avoid looking at the old-timer, but finding it impossible to notice his eyes losing their sparkle, I inform the clerk to charge me for both our purchases. “It is a blessing to give,” I tell the shopper as he looks on in amazement.

The heavy man shakes my hand profusely as he lets out a deep robust belly laugh, his middle shaking like jelly, “I’m going to make sure you get something astonishing tomorrow morning! It’s my greatest gift!” With that, he again laughed his full, rich, belly-quaking laugh, gathered his packages and hurried into the cold.

The next morning, I raced downstairs, not knowing what to expect — sure that whatever it was, it would be big, or expensive — or both. I surveyed the living room. Nothing. Then the obvious became apparent: “Come on Scott, you’re an adult. What were you thinking? How silly to even pretend. He was an eccentric geezer who cashed in his penny jar, that’s all.” I brushed aside my foolishness and started to exit when I noticed a simple envelope adorned with an embossed snowflake and a monogrammed “S.C.” Slitting it open, I pulled out a handwritten note on parchment: “Henceforth, you will realize how fortunate you truly are. Your life is full even when it seems not. Enjoy your blessings. Thanks for the help.”

Reverting to my previous analysis of a well-meaning gentleman whose ornaments weren’t hanging from the right tree, I shoved the memo into my pocket and cradled a warm cup of tea between my hands, noticing the heat against my skin on this chilly morning.  “What a simple pleasure,” I thought as I sipped it. It tasted soothing and generated a lovely glow in my belly, which — I noticed — is looking rather flat these days. I ushered a silent thank you to God for my health, and smiled, realizing how very fortunate I am. While others are concerned about getting enough, I have to cut back, an important reminder this time of year. My mind wandered to images of family and friends, and how much I benefit from their presence in my world. I surveyed my house; I’m not wealthy, but I do have a roof over my head, a fireplace, full kitchen, and belongings others couldn’t even imagine. I live in an area I love. I have my health, family, friends, and faith. What do I lack? I really do have it all.

Sitting in silence with a crumpled note on my lap and a radiance emanating from deep within, I understood this was a memory in the making and I would value it forever.

The old man hadn’t left a thing but had indeed given me the greatest gift of all.

Being ever the smart aleck, he replied, “About 50 minutes.”

“No,” I responded. “How long will it take until I am fixed; you know, healed; normal?”

I am not alone when it comes to asking that question. One of the first items we want checked off our “to do list of change” is a date specific that we can mark on our calendar alerting us to the face that — voila — goal achieved! Like a prisoner sentenced to hard labor, we want to know how long until we are free.

From a logical point of view, the process of getting from “here” to “there” is actually pretty exhilarating. We find out about ourselves. We discover what we’re capable of doing. Others compliment and admire us. Life is new; every sunrise provides the option for multiple new adventures, unwrapping more of whom we really are. It would seem that with so much to gain, we would rather linger luxuriously in the progression instead of charge hell-bent for leather to the other side.

So, what’s with the big rush?

I’m not naïve, I am more than aware that it takes work and is, at times, prickly; yet most of our goal-driven society touts reflexively, “anything worth having is worth working for.” If I want a good marriage, I will work for it. Raising healthy, happy children is certainly an effort at times. Advancing my career and maintaining my house require expending resources. Certainly the best ME possible is a worthy objective, and therefore stands to reason that it also is worth the elbow grease necessary to achieve it.

We might not always be keen on it, but we are not a people afraid of hard work. So that cannot be the reason why the sprint to the finish line. I believe we are in such a hurry to “get there” because we are terrified of waking up with the realization that we have “lost our motivation.”

Like the despondent lover, we plead, “Don’t go; please stay. I’ll be good. What will happen to me if you leave?” If we can arrive at the altar before being jilted by our fickle paramour, everything will be OK.

Being a student of change (aren’t we all?), I am enthralled by our choice of words. After all, words reflect our thoughts. Thoughts determine actions. Watch what you say, it could become your life. Therefore, when we say, “I’ve lost my motivation,” it presupposes that motivation is some foreign entity residing in a distant land. Yet, we are the source of our motivation. We gin it up, and we turn it off. We control it; no one else does. Others can inspire us, coerce us, or force us — but motivate? Not so much. (Ever try and “motivate” a lazy teen? Get my point?)

The premier adjustment on the road to stable, long-term change, is to accept that the locus of control — where decisions are made — is internal, not external. Sure, “stuff” happens, and luck (or fate) can be players. Yet, they are bit parts. I own my spotlight. Once I accept that, the only thing in my way is me.

I didn’t notice it at first because he looked like so many other men is black jackets and black hats on the streets of New York. It wasn’t a fashion statement but the trim and the writing on the hat were gold, green and red. Big letters proclaimed “Viet Nam Veteran” and he looked the part, looked the age. That slight bit of machismo in his ever so slow but precise step was a reminder of the brothers who came back from that conflict with a different mindset all together. He sat in the very front, behind the driver and once he got settled he pulled out a copy of Jet Magazine. I grew up reading a copy of that publication every week. My mother decided that would be the only publication she continued to subscribe to after my father’s death.

“Hum, well,” the Veteran said aloud and leaned over to read the magazine. The price tag was still on his hat. “$19.95. Is he a vet I wondered or a pretender to the times?

“Nice, good body.” I was sure he was referring to the picture of the week that was something of a Jet centerfold. When black women were not considered beautiful a lovely woman of African American descent graced the center of the magazine. I don’t remember when they started dressing in what passed for bikinis but it this beauty made him smile. It was then I decided to give him his due and consider him a vet even though the price tag on the hat was throwing me.

“I like that.” His voice was loud but not brash yet when he spokes everyone looked up. Afraid. He didn’t look like the crazies that roamed the streets and gathered enough change to ride a bus or sleep on the train. He was clean shaven and freshly showered. Despite my sinus headache after shave floated my way each time the front doors opened. I looked at his hands and saw manicured nails that were in better shape than mine.

Crazy, clean and groomed. But what was with the hat? I wanted to tell him about the tag but then I didn’t want to embarrass him. If I approached him on the bus, especially with his Tourettes like outburst, everyone would look his way. And mine. They would think I knew him, or was trying to get to know him. They might even think I was trying to get him to shut up because every time he spoke the baby in the back cried and the woman knitting dropped a stitch.

“That’s right.” He said it to no one and I wanted to know how he got that way. How he got to wear that hat and talk out of tune. Was this a product of the war or the environment that surrounded him afterwards? Why he was in all black?

It didn’t hit me until I got off the bus and he exited slowly after me. The next day was Veterans Day but there were events all week long to honor those who went to war. He was probably on his way to one of those events and got the new hat to replace something lost or worn. As a writer I conjured up a lot of stories about this veteran in my imagination. But there was none better than the one that said he had a home and was able to keep some benefits. He had enough money to buy a hat for his day for $19.95. Or he had someone who loved him enough to give it to him.

He strolled down the street towards Columbia University. I thought about the many veterans this nation has forgotten who have no homes, no benefits and no care for their injuries that have continued long after their service to this nation. I thought about those who died in that same service.

I saluted them all as I wished him safe passage. Some brother in arms would make a joke about the hat and the price tag and that would allow him to create a story about how and why he had it. I wished I could hear it but it was not my place to intrude. I am not a veteran just a grateful citizen. It’s time to show him honor and respect.

Loss of interest in normal daily activities

Feeling sad or down

Feeling hopeless

Crying spells for no apparent reason

Problems sleeping

Trouble focusing or concentrating

Difficulty making decisions

Unintentional weight gain or loss

Irritability

Restlessness

Being easily annoyed

Feeling fatigued or weak

Feeling worthless

Loss of interest in sex

Thoughts of suicide or suicidal behavior

Unexplained physical problems, such as back pain or headaches 

There are no known specific causes of depression.   However, a variety of biochemical, genetic and environmental factors are thought to play a role. What I would like to focus on are some possible physical/nutritional causes that you can take steps to address.

Let’s begin with nutritional deficiencies that may be underlying factors:

Decreased levels of minerals, particularly, magnesium, iron and zinc as well as vitamins C, B3, B6. B12 and folic acid, have been found to increase risk.  These nutrients are necessary in order for your body to convert amino acids in your foods into brain chemicals.

That brings us right into amino acid deficiency.  Amino acids are necessary for production of brain chemicals and hormones that impact your moods and ability to effectively manage stress. 

Inadequate intake of Omega 3’s, common in our SAD (Standard American Diet), is associated with increased risk of depression.   

Certain foods are known to cause health problems, including depression.  ANY food you are allergic or sensitive to can cause your immune system to over-react, which can be a risk factor. The foods most commonly found to be the culprits include wheat, dairy, oranges, eggs, foods that contain yeast, shellfish, nuts, soy and the nightshade vegetables like eggplant, tomatoes and potatoes.

A diet high in refined carbohydrates can cause nutrient deficiencies as well as blood sugar imbalances, which in turn have been linked to lower serotonin levels (the feel good brain chemical).

Heavy metal toxicity has been linked to anxiety, depression and fatigue.

There are also several physical conditions that are thought to contribute to depression:

Adrenal fatigue can be a major factor in depression.   The adrenal glands produce hormones including DHEA, adrenalin and noradrenalin which affect the ability to deal with stress and motivation. Stress itself is a primary cause of adrenal fatigue.

Closely linked to adrenal fatigue is hypothyroidism or under-active thyroid, which is one of the most common causes of depression.

The information I have shared is not exhaustive.  There are multiple causes for depression and as I mentioned, each person experiences not only depression, but their life circumstances differently as well.  What may devastate one person is just a minor bump in the road for another.

So, what steps can you take to optimize your nutrition and minimize your risk?  Here are my suggestions:

Include a high quality mineral supplement daily.  One of the best ways to get all the necessary minerals in an easy-to-absorb whole food form is to use a green food micro algae like spirulina or chlorella.

A diet low in protein and high simple (high sugar) carbohydrates will deplete the nutrients needed to maintain stable moods, so be sure to eliminate or severely limit simple carbs, replacing them with complex whole grains, and get adequate high quality protein daily.

Be sure to include sources of essential Omega-3 fatty acids. You can optimize your intake by including wild caught tuna and salmon, sardines, nuts, seeds, avocados, cod liver, flax seed and krill oil supplements.

Pay attention to any foods that you may be allergic or sensitive to.  If you suspect a food, eliminate it from your diet for three weeks and monitor any changes you experience.  Gradually add the offending food(s) back and if the symptom returns, you know that you must avoid that particular food.

Eliminate or severely limit sugar by avoiding processed carb foods and replacing them with whole grains, fruits and vegetables.  Eating a balanced, whole food diet will help balance your blood sugar levels which, will impact your moods.

It is important when including fish in a healthy diet that you choose wild caught fish and those lowest in heavy metals.  Also consuming adequate fiber and minerals can help reduce this toxic load.

There are also some natural herbs and nutrients that are believed to be effective as natural treatments for mild to moderate depression such as 5-HTP, SAM-3 and St. John’s Wort.

Adrenal fatigue and hypothyroidism are closely related and we’ve discussed them in previous newsletters.  Learning and consistently practicing effective relaxation and stress management techniques is extremely important as stress depletes the adrenals.  Using prayer, meditation and techniques like reframing events are very helpful.

Finally, exercise is a very powerful method for reducing stress, normalizing insulin resistance and increasing production of endorphins – the feel good brain chemicals.  In fact, research has actually found you can effectively change your brain for the better with regular exercise.

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.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

She pointed to the pastries on the bottom shelf, secured safely behind the transparent barrier, and looked upwards to mom. “Cookie?” She was few in words but her eyes expressed a dictionary.

“No,” said her mom, “Not now. You can have milk if you’d like, but not a cookie.”

Undeterred, she continued to stare down her mom, pointer finger pressed tightly against the glass.

“No,” her mom repeated. “It’s too early.”

No change; defiance; a principle was at stake.

Mom squatted, lowering herself to eye level of the toddler. “I’ll tell you what. If you’re good today, Daddy will bring you back this afternoon and you can get a cookie then. How about that?”

The young girl considered her option, decided it was acceptable and walked away from the glass.

“Interesting how early it starts,” I thought. She can barely use words, but already her rewards are provided in the form of sugary goodness. It reminded me of the joke where Johnny, being the rambunctious young lad that he is, is riding his bike full tilt down the driveway, utilizing all the energy and enthusiasm appropriate to a six year old. Approaching a bump too quickly, he loses control of his two-wheeler and tumbles onto the cement.

Strong, but in pain, he picks up the bicycle and hobbles back to the porch, limping slightly from the accident. Mom inspects his damaged knee, assures him that it’s minor, and says, “You know what will make it better?”

“No,” answers Johnny. “What?”

“A cookie.”

Mom reaches into the bear-shaped ceramic jar on the counter and pulls out a large chocolate chip round reward. She hands it to Johnny, who immediately holds it against his bruised knee.

“When will it make stop hurting?” he asks.

Personally, I think it’s fine to take pleasure in the taste of food; it’s a sense to enjoy. Yet an overhanging question is “Why are we doing it so much?” I do not believe that the only reason to eat is for sustenance or nutrition; but we also must keep that in the forefront. When we look at the shape of our society today (pun loosely intended), it seems to be apparent that we forgot that we eat to live, not the other way around.

When I’m bored, I want to eat. When I’m sad, I eat. When I’m angry — you got it. You know, there are people who, when they’re bored, they read a book? When they’re sad, they call a friend; and when they’re angry, they take a walk. There’s a clinical term for that kind of personality: it’s called “skinny.”

Those habits didn’t develop themselves overnight. Somewhere down the line, they learned something different and their actions took a different path, leading to a healthier life. Maybe, — who knows — as a small child, they were told,  “If you’re really good, Daddy will take you on a bike ride later today.”

We might not be children but a bicycle won’t care.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

I was prompted into this observation because recently I wrote what I thought was a playful look at fried foods available to me on a trip to New Orleans. I admit to taking license with the details; yet overall, the premise was true: due to the preponderance of deep fried options, I find it harder to stick to my diet in the South. One might even consider it a compliment to southern cuisine. One might, yet, that is not how it was taken. I recently made the mistake of wading into the cesspool of on-line comments posted by some readers. “Outraged” was the main entrée on the menu of insults.

One person pronounced, “The South won’t miss your rude and snotty little yankee-on-a-diet attitude,” wondering if I was “raised by salad eating wolves,” (Huh?) and concluding, “You’re real lucky none of those Good Ole Southern Boys heard your pansy **** complaining … or they would have schooled you on proper etiquette in the Deep South.” Ouch. “Bitter, table for one please.”

Someone else was enraged I was bringing my “ugly American” attitude where it didn’t belong. Isn’t New Orleans part of America? I don’t know whether to be insulted or confused.

Sussing out a new column, I searched the internet for, “I am outraged.” Presented with over one million listings; I entered a virtual culture of enraged, upset, venomous folk; ready to jump onto the seeing red bandwagon at the drop of a hat. Outrage boiled over because of the approval of an artificial sweetener by the FDA. Indignation was rampant because a baseball player opted for elbow surgery.  There was high dudgeon because Queen Frostine, a character in the game Candyland, had been demoted to Princess. So distressed was he by such discrimination, that he made a solemn pledge to never again buy another game from the manufacturer, and was arranging a boycott.  All is far from sweet in Candyland.

People, please, can we take a breath? Let’s slow down long enough to step back from the brink and move distant from the precipice of righteous anger. Let’s put the “go-ahead-cross-this-line” bravado on the back burner long enough to hear what someone has to say before we puff up, poke our finger in his chest, and give him the piece of mind we think he deserves?

Sure, there are concerns a plenty; enough to last for generations. We face a heating environment, a teetering economic platform, and a divided political system. There are injustices galore on which we can focus. And maybe that’s the reason we’re so easily thrown into a tizzy at the slightest affront. However, do we have to react like moths to light with “outrage?” How helpful or pleasant is it to live in a 24-hour state of hyper-tension, tight jaws, and clenched fists?

Maybe – just a thought here – we could try smiling quicker, listening longer, and thinking deeper. It might not help, but it sure couldn’t hurt. Of course, if you disagree, I’m sure I’ll get outraged letters.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds almost 15 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. He can be outraged at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips

However, what my spam-catching system cannot tell me is how many of my 41,134 approved messages were forwarded, usually commencing, “I normally don’t forward things like this but…”

Upon opening said missive, I am informed that Bill Gates will send me $5,000 if I pass this along; or am reminded of the navy ship telling the lighthouse to move; or – more likely – a friend is warning me that if I don’t forward this, I shall suffer severe tragedies. (Point of interest: What kind of “friend” would send me something as horrific as that? Just wondering…)

And as long as I got me started, two notes about e-forwarding “etiquette.”One: If you absolutely INSIST on doing it, do not – repeat DO NOT – include all the other comments from everyone and their brother. No one wants to scroll through 67 pages of “>>You gotta see this…” or “>>Send to everyone you know.” Delete others’ comments; send what matters – but only if necessary, please.

Number Two: If you wish to respond, use REPLY, not REPLY ALL. Jeeze! They oughta take that button away from people who don’t know how to use it. The only thing worse than 67 pages of comments is 67 emails replying with, “COOL” or “BITCHEN, THANKS!”

Oops, excuse the tirade; pet peeve; I got sidetracked. Now, where was I?

Oh yes, once in a while, something great does cross my computer screen, and it’s worth telling others about. The RULES FOR BEING HUMAN, by Cherie Carter-Scott, fits that bill, consisting of ten brilliant lessons on how to manage your time on Planet Earth.

They start simply: “You will receive one body. You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the entire time you’re here.” I mean, how much time do we spend glaring at our profile in any passing shiny surface, bemoaning the fact that we don’t look like Anglina Jolie or Jennifer Aniston? (Personally, I don’t waste a lot of time doing that, but I have unfavorably compared myself to Brad Pitt.) It’s not conceit to accept your strong points. Sure, work on our weaknesses. But shame is not attractive so you might as well get rid of it.

The Rules also remind us, “There are no mistakes, only lessons. A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you learn it. When you have learned it, you can then go on to the next lesson.”

How many times have I done the same thing over and over, fooling myself by the preface, “This time it will be different.” Sorry, this time will be like the last 17 times, unless I actually do something different.

“Don’t you think you might try something else?” asks the Universe.

“I don’t want to,” whines my cranky inner kid.

Ultimately, I begrudgingly accept that the Universe will not change it rules to accommodate my whims fantasies or desires and proceed forward. Stomp fee. Kick loudly. Next lesson please.

Altogether, there are ten rules, covering all phases and aspects of existence. Each is simple. All are brilliant. And they end with, “You will forget all these.”

You’d think, after all these years in this body, I might understand how things work. You’d think that – but you’d be wrong.

P.S. Please forward this article to everyone on your email list.

Much of this internal noise or self-talk is negative – thoughts of worry, anger, fear, anxiety, guilt and shame. Those thoughts, as we’ve seen before, create chemical reactions that powerfully affect your physical body. The seemingly never-ending cycle of noisy self-talk, if not dealt with, can cause chronic stress which has been implicated in heart disease, cancer, depression, fatigue, digestive problems, chronic pain and more!

It’s critical that we find ways to quiet this inner conversation and change it from negative to positive in order to create vibrant wholeness and true health. We are told in 2 Corinthians 10:5 to “cast down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.”

The first step of the 3-D Living Program deals with detoxing or cleansing spirit, soul and body and outlines several strategies for taking your thoughts captive and making them line up with the Word of God. Your thinking is critical to a healthy spirit and soul. To me, this is foundational if we are to live in peace (shalom-wholeness). I would like to focus on one very effective and possibly misunderstood way to achieve this – meditation.

Meditation has been proven to quiet the mind, relax the body, reduce stress hormones, boost the immune system, lower blood pressure, improve concentration and sleep, relieve headaches and even lower the risk of heart disease and cancer. But for many Christians, meditation has a negative connotation because we automatically think of “transcendental meditation.” It conjures up visions of “contemplating your navel,” emptying your mind and chanting or, worse, leaving yourself open to ungodly spiritual forces. What I am suggesting is Christian meditation and yes, there is definitely such a thing!

We are encouraged numerous times in scripture to intentionally fill our minds with God’s Word. For example:

Philippians 4:8 (Message Bible) Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.

Joshua 1:8 NIV Do not let this Book of the Law depart from your mouth; meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. Then you will be prosperous and successful.

Isaiah 26:3 NLT You will keep in perfect peace, all who trust in you, all whose thoughts are fixed on you!

Matthew 15:19 reveals the intimate connection between spirit and soul (mind, will and emotions): “For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, all sexual immorality, theft, lying, and slander.”

There are different ways to meditate on God’s Word and spend quality time in His presence, allowing him to draw you into a closer, more intimate relationship.

You can choose a particular scripture from your Bible reading or daily devotional and just repeat that scripture to yourself throughout the day – think about it, imagine yourself “doing” it or as one of the participants in the scripture. How can you apply it to your life today?

One of the best ways to spend time with God in meditation is by using a Christian meditation CD. There are some excellent ones you can purchase. I have used several myself and they are wonderful! By simply popping the CD in and either listening just like that or putting headphones on and shutting out everything else, you can close your eyes, take a deep breath, relax and let God’s Word fill your mind, reset your thoughts and prepare your spirit for the rest of the day. It’s an excellent way to begin or end the day.

I encourage you to make Biblical meditation part of every day and I guarantee you will realize great benefits in your life.

Much like reframing an old picture can give it new life, so can reframing the situations that cause us stress. According to Dr. Don Colbert, author of The Seven Pillars of Health, the term “reframing” means learning to see the past, present and future in a positive light.

Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy (CBT) is a treatment that focuses on unhealthy patterns of thinking and the beliefs that underlie them. For example, a person who is depressed may hold the belief, “I’m worthless,” and a person with a phobia may hold the belief, “I am in danger.” By using CBT, the person is encouraged to view the belief as just one possible interpretation rather than fact and to monitor their thoughts. In this way they can retrain themselves develop more constructive thought patterns.

The Bible is the original source of CBT. Romans 12:2 Amplified: “Do not be conformed to this world (this age), [fashioned after and adapted to its external, superficial customs], but be transformed (changed) by the [entire] renewal of your mind [by its new ideals and its new attitude], so that you may prove [for yourselves] what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God, even the thing which is good and acceptable and perfect [in His sight for you].”

It’s so easy to dwell on negative thoughts and situations. Reframing is a way of challenging yourself to see the positive in everything that is happening around you, however bad it may seem. It gives you hope that even in a hurtful situation, there are lessons to be learned. Every situation can be reframed – you just have to learn to pay attention to your thoughts and be willing to challenge them rather than blindly accept them. When your perception changes, your response and behavior change as well.

When I first learned about this, I asked the Lord to show me how to best use it in my life and to help my clients. He explained it to me this way: “Refocus your lens.” When you try to photograph something very close up with a narrow lens, it can become distorted. It also magnifies the flaws. When we look at a person or situation through a narrow lens, we can become overly critical and nit-picky. If we simply refocus to a wide-angle lens, we can then see the “big picture” so to speak. Everything returns to the proper perspective and proportion. It makes all the difference.

If your dad was cold and unaffectionate or harsh and abusive, you may see all “fathers” that way, including God. Refocus.

If you observe your husband or wife with that narrow lens, every little fault is magnified and becomes annoying. Refocus – look at the big picture – see their generosity, diligence and sensitivity. Maybe you didn’t get the new job or promotion. You can get down on yourself and be upset or refocus – thank God you still have a job and believe God has something better for you.

Reframing or refocusing, as I call it, is finding the positive in any situation. There is always something we can learn and some positive we can glean from it. We can’t always control what happens to us, however, we ALWAYS have the power to choose to control our response to it. Making that conscious decision to challenge thoughts, not just accept them, begins with renewing your mind to the Word of God. The apostle Paul illustrated this concept beautifully for us in 2 Corinthians 4:8 NLT: “We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.” Talk about finding the positive!

You can choose to be a victim or a victor who intentionally makes a decision to learn from events and move on. Things can be  problems or challenges; disasters or opportunities; stumbling blocks or stepping stones. People can be stubborn, shy and slow or determined, sensitive and thorough . We are told in 1 Corinthians 13:7 Amplified: “Love… is ever ready to believe the best of every person…” That includes thinking well of yourself!

Instead of dwelling on the negatives, refocus your lens and find the hidden blessing! You can do this with nearly every situation – even the most traumatic ones. This may sound simplistic, but by choosing to practice this Biblical principle, you will reduce your stress level dramatically and improve your health and relationships as well. Just remember that this is a process. Don’t be hard on yourself as you learn to refocus. Changing any habit takes time and this is no exception.

We are always to find the beautiful and good in our lives. Every good and perfect gift comes to us from God (James 1:17); He sees us and all He created and calls us “good” (Genesis 1:10); every situation may not be inherently “good” but God can turn it to our good (Genesis 50:20); we are to thank God IN all circumstances (1 Thess. 5:18) and overcome evil with good (Romans 12:21).

Do you need any more reasons to begin refocusing today?

Its easier when you are young and first in love to be affectionate every morning. Perhaps you take the time to wake up a few minutes early and look at the one you love.  Watching the sleeping lover you notice a birthmark on his back. You touch his arm and he giggles in his sleep. That’s his ticklish spot. Once you are both awake you stare at each other as if embarrassed, new love will do that to you even if you have been dating for a few years and are newly wed. Its not just adjusting to someones morning breath, morning routine or morning mood, its adjusting to someone else in your space. And love does mean sharing a lot of space. You want to touch all the time, be together all the time, make love forever. You swear that once you are old, and that usually means when you are past 35, you will still have the same passion until you are old and gray.  

Each morning you kiss each other good bye. Not because you think you will never see the other person again. Youth believes it can last forever. You kiss because that’s part of being young and in love.

The kids come, far apart or close together but they interrupt the flow of romance. You kiss each other despite spilt milk, vomit and the screams for more cereal. He leaves and you stay which may tick you off. Your body starts heading south, his hair starts getting thin and when the cute receptionist at the pediatrician smiles at him he holds in the gut that you have somehow grown to love. Still you kiss each other goodbye in the morning but now its out of force of habit.

The kids go off to school and leave you alone to stare at each other when you aren’t staring at the television. Every now and then you wake up early because you are having a hot flash or you have to go to the bathroom and wonder who is the balding guy with the slight case of flatulance laying next to you with his mouth open calling hogs. Years ago when love was new you married him for better or worse. You know the snoring, the scratching, the drooling is not ‘worse’ because you have been there. Worse was a miscarriage and he held you every time you cried until you got over it. Worse was him having the boss from hell who tried to fire him. You made his favorite dinners, took over everything on the home front and had a cold beer waiting for him each evening even though you have two kids and a full time job. Worse was him losing his job and you taking two to save your dream home. He cooked, he cleaned, you all survived. But each morning you kissed each other goodbye because it helped.

Then one day you get too comfortable in your commitment and you forget that departing kiss.  He doesn’t remind you and when you don’t remember the next day it becomes the new habit. You have been together so long you don’t need to touch each other. Each detail of body and soul was revealed a million kisses ago. You bet the other will be there in the end.

Then something happens to remind you about the importance of your relationship. It could be one of you gets ill, it could be 9/11, it could be the loss of someone you both love. You start to think how would I feel if I got a call that he had been in the tower, he passed away, she had a heart attack. Though you can’t bring back youth you can bring back the way you felt about each other. You kiss each other goodbye because life is short and one day the other won’t be there.

One kiss and you are good to go. You have touched the one you love and left the indelible mark of your permanent affection. Maybe you will bring her roses tonight, maybe she will bake you cookies. Maybe you will find the time to give up the game and she will give up the movie and the two of you will sit out in the night and watch the stars. You may feel too old to make out under them but they are fixtures in the firmament and they have seen the love that you have for one another. Never again will you leave without a kiss.

One kiss cannot save the world. Maybe it made Sleeping Beauty wake up but it will not stop war or starvation. It could be the key however to remembering that you are part of a time, part of a relationship. It could remind you that when the day is over there is someone waiting for you no matter how good or bad life gets. And they will probably kiss you back.

Recently I wrote about snitching in the black community. That was inspired by something a man in his 50s, a man who has lived on my block in Harlem for over 30 years, screamed at me when I tried to allert him about the situation. “Why should we believe all this hype? How do we know this (rape) happened? We don’t need nobody coming into our neighborhood telling us what to do.” He was angry another black man had been accused of a crime and was being tried in the media before a trial and before anyone really knew his identity. In the old days when the police presence in Harlem would have been close to none, the man speaking would have been part of a posse that found the culprit and beat or maybe killed him for defaming local females. It was a time when those in Harlem had to take care of their own because no one else cared about the residents. Things have changed and the police has put together a task force, printed posters and set up community meetings to advise women how to protect themselves and neighborhoods what to do.

Still the rapist attacks and gets away with it. He is someones son, brother, maybe husband or father. He has a problem with power and he is using as much power as he can against women. Someone knows him and can’t speak up because of that code that says beyond anything protect your own. What if the shoe were on the other foot and it was one of their family members brutally raped by an unknown assailant?

This ain’t stealing gumdrops from the candy store, or turning your head as someone sneaks onto the bus. This is a very serious crime that has halted activity in a neighborhood to the point of closing it down at night and set the ability of women to come and go as they please back hundreds of years. Even as I write this I am aware that in most countries in the world women are treated like property or simply used for sexual pleasure by domineering forces.  Perhaps we shouldn’t complain since we can bring rapists to court and justice in this country while in other places women are flogged for making fashion statement. My family used to laugh when I said New York was open all night. Well these days for unescorted women this city is closed after dark. Our freedom to enjoy life has been deterred by not just the rapist but by those who hinder his capture.

In buildings without doormen, and that is the case with most Harlem apartment buildings, there is a buzzer system. Most people buzz in only those they know. But in some buildings where not all the buzzers work or where people know most of the tenants you can buzz any apartment and someone will let you in. This is one way a rapist can enter. Another is following on the coattails of someone who who lives there or someone who has just gained entry. Most New Yorkers look the other way, pretending it is not their responsibility that someone they didn’t know walked in with them. They don’t say: “Hey do you live here and in what apartment?” or “Who are you going to see?” When a crime happens in their building they claim they have no idea how the criminal got in even when they know they allowed  it. Most probably couldn’t tell you if the person they let in was male or female. It is part of that New York state of mind to drown all that out with headsets and cell phones, something the police are telling women not to wear when they are walking the streets and entering buildings alone.

So someone KNOWS, HAS MET, HAS LET IN, the Hamilton Heights Rapist. They looked at him up close and had no idea that he was about to strike. This is the third building he has entered. The third time someone had to let him in. The first rape took place in an alley and someone might have walked past seeing a man on top of a woman and looked the other way because they did not think it was their business or they did not want to get involved. They may have even thought as most of us do when we see a couple making out in public “Go get a room.”

We are all involved. We are all witness to these crimes, even those who read this and live no where near New York and the once illustrious and booming Harlem. In this wonderful age of technology there are ways to get involved without going public. But you must get involved when something soils your community. No one need ever know that you have given out information on something you saw or heard that didn’t look right to you. Those same people who observe the undercover cops (and believe me there are those that can sniff them out at 100 feet) calling on you probably know more about this series of rapes than you do. Calls, emails, video meetings- think beyond walking into a precinct if you know something about this or any other crime. Think beyond your own selfish fear that you will be called a snitch if you save someones life.

Rape is a crime you never get over. If you know something about this crime confess it to someone who can do something about it. Somebody knows the Hamilton Heights Rapist. Somebody needs to say something. NOW!

FYI: After I wrote this I learned that the last rape took place in the victim’s apartment. The man waited for her on the fire escape and then broke in raping and robbing her. Ladies, please be careful. Check your windows, lock you windows and doors and when you come in from work have an escort with you to check the area, the closets and anywhere someone could hide.

I was eager to hear about it but didn’t want to come across as “too” eager; might scare him from talking. “I’m proud of you. How are you doing?”

Brief pause, analyzing his feelings; “Hard to explain, really. I felt extremely awkward when I first walked in. I really wanted to turn and run, but I decided I came this far; I’ll stay until I feel comfortable.”

“And did you get more comfortable?”

“Not much. I guess I’ve got to keep going back until I do.”

“Great attitude,” I said. “I can only imagine how much courage it took to show up. We’ve been talking about it for years. What made you finally decide to go?”

“I realized things weren’t going to get any better until I made them better. I’m tired of feeling bad all the time. I felt like I was trapped. I was always angry. I was ruining my relationships. It was just time. Any of the above; all of the above, you name it.”

“I’m glad you decided to take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I know it’s going to be a long journey but I might as well get started. It’s not going to get any shorter by waiting, is it?”

I chuckled, “No, you’re probably right. So, can you tell me what it was like?”

“Well, there were about 30 people, about five of us were first-timers. I introduced myself when they asked who was new. Everyone said, ‘hi,’ just like you see in the movies. Then, several people got up and told stories. I sat and listened.”

“Hear anything useful?”

“Yeah, several people sounded like they were telling my story, always trying to do everything perfect, getting really upset when other people don’t do what they say, blaming everyone else for what goes wrong; you know how I can get.”

“Yes I do.”

“One guy talked about the difference between peace and serenity. He used a grocery store example. Want to hear it?”

“Sure, I really would.”

“He said, ‘You know when you stand in line at the checkout and the sign says MAXIMUM 10 ITEMS? You’ve achieved peace when you see someone in front of you with 12 items and you don’t let it bother you.’”

“How do you know when you’ve achieved serenity?”

“When you don’t count the items.”

“I like that.”

“Me too. I’m tired of counting everyone’s items. I’ve got to take care of my own if I want things to get better.”

“How did everyone treat you?”

“Really warm; very, very friendly. Nobody knew me. But they didn’t care. They all seemed really glad to see me, shook my hand, welcomed me to the meeting. I felt like I was coming home to family. That’s part of the reason I’ll go back.”

“So, I know it’s only your first meeting, but did you hear anything special?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve got loads to think about.”

“What stands out?”

Long pause, “Nothing happens until you ask for help. There are lots of people who will help, but you’ve got to open the door.”

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a THINspirational speaker and author. Since losing 70 pounds over 14 years ago, he conducts speeches, workshops, and presentations throughout the country. Join him on facebook at facebook.com/scottqmarcus or follow him on twitter at twitter.com/bestdietingtips