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Powerless

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November, as we know, is the eleventh month of the year.

It doesn’t take a Fulbright Scholar to know that. Its name (derived from Latin “Novem” meaning “nine”) carried over from the Calendar of Romulus (c 750 BC) when it was indeed the ninth of the ten months in that calendar. (As a side note, January and February were added to the calendar about 300 years later, giving us our present twelve-month calendar.)

A few factoids about the now-eleventh month of the year:

  • World Kindness Day is celebrated annually on the 13th. On this day, participants attempt to make the world a better place by celebrating and promoting good deeds and pledging acts of kindness, either as individuals or as organizations.
  • November also is the home to several “awareness campaigns” including Lung Cancer Awareness Month, Transgender Awareness Month, Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month, Military Family Month, National Adoption Month, COP Awareness Month – and many more.
  • If you’re tired of seriousness, Blasé Day (really) is celebrated annually on the 25th of the month. On this day we have permission to be blasé’ toward just about anything. To celebrate, it is suggested we yawn, feel “meh” and tune out; posting our actions on social media – but only if we feel like it.

Of course, most of us associate this month with Thanksgiving and gratitude — which I’ll admit has been difficult to feel when, for the last few weeks, our power has been cycling on and off like a strobe light at a rave.

If you don’t live in California, and are therefore not aware of this phenomenon, PG&E, the energy supplier for large swaths of the state, has been “de-energizing” vast portions of their electricity delivery-system as an attempt to minimize fire danger caused by the hot, dry weather and strong winds besieging the (not-so) golden state via what are known as “public safety power shutoffs” or “PSPSs”. The logic is if there isn’t electricity flowing through the power lines, should one be toppled by the gale force winds in a tinder-box parched region, it cannot start a fire. However, if one has listened to the news of late, one knows that California is ablaze from one end to the other. That’s not necessarily the fault of PG&E, but obviously, something more needs to be done.

Whose fault is whose is of little consolation to my inner child when he’s sitting in a light-less household sans heat, worried about food going bad in a lifeless refrigerator and anxious about how to make a living when he doesn’t have electricity.

“Someone needs to do something!” I yell with righteous indignation at no one in particular. “This is horribly unfair! How are we supposed to live like this?”

Granted the anger and frustration are legitimate. After all, this is 2019, not 1819.

[Read more…]

Thank you for the money tree.

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Editors note: This column is a follow up to a previous column, that is worth reading first.

I’ve thought regularly that if the low-life individuals relentlessly attempting to scam us out of our hard-earned income took a few moments and focused on how they might improve society, not only would the world be a better place, but they would perhaps be wealthier.

After all, an individual in a dark boiler room, chained to a desk, deceiving people on the phone can’t be a) very happy, nor b) very wealthy. What a miserable life!

Yet, that’s as much sympathy as I can muster for the scumbags who besiege us with a non-stop waterfall of scam phone calls intent on swindling us into purchasing credit card protection, extended auto insurance, or — now that I’m a certain age — Medicare options.  It’s become so prevalent that I don’t answer my phone; assuming – that if the call is legit – the caller will leave voice mail and I will return the call at my leisure.

Anyway, I doubt my experience differs much from yours. I receive – no exaggeration – between ten and 15 rip-off calls every day. So, when the phone rang, I was loath to pick up. Yes, it showed a local number with a person’s name but I’ve been Charlie Brown to that football too many times. Yet, something inside me said, “Answer it.”

I’m glad I did.

“Hello. This is Scott,” I said as I activated the speakerphone, poised to shut it off immediately upon hearing a south-Asian accent telling me that my computer is infecting the internet. Rather, I heard an elderly woman’s voice crack through the speaker.

“I read your column in the paper,” she said, “I have a gift for you.”

I stumbled, “Um, well, thank you. That’s very nice. Who is this please?”

She admitted to being private and didn’t want to disclose her full name. As much as she deserves credit for what you’re about to read, I’ll honor that, and will simply refer to her as “Ruth.” (Which was the name of my mother, who would have been the same age as is she.)

Said “Ruth”, “I’m 95 and I I’m blind so I can’t drive. Could you come by my house so I can give it to you?”

Truth be known, although I’ve written this column for almost 15 years, never before had anyone invited me to their house in order to bestow presents upon me. I wasn’t sure how to handle it.

“What is it you want to give me?” I asked.

“I don’t want to tell you,” and then added, almost as afterthought. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

I’ll own up to lots of irrational fears, but being bludgeoned by a sight-impaired house-bound nonagenarian who’s a fan of my writing isn’t even on the list. It put things in perspective. “Not a problem; where do you live?” [Read more…]

Looking Back – And Looking Ahead

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The holidays were behind her; decorations stuffed in the attic until next year.

She liked gussying up the living room every December, but there was also a sense of relief once the house was restored to a less chaotic, more familiar décor.

Breathing in the return to normalcy while sitting on a weathered wood bench on the back deck, a cool breeze gently tussled her hair; causing her to pull tighter around her neck the red fleece sweatshirt; raising the zipper high to help block the chill. With both hands clamped around the mug of hot tea between her palms, she savored its radiance as it emanated from the ceramic, warming not only her hands but her soul. Try as she might, she had not been able to find a flavored tea that replaced the bold satisfaction of morning coffee, but tea didn’t impact her stomach unfavorably. “Ah, the sacrifices one makes to Geras,” she thought, amusingly surprised that she remembered the name of the Greek God of Aging.

She sighed and redirected her attentiveness to the untidy back plank fence bordered by weeds attempting to reclaim their space. “The back yard really needs attention,” she considered, but knew there were yet several more weeks of winter and nothing would get done until the gray cleared and the rain stopped.

“No need to concern myself with that now…” Her thoughts drifted and she trailed, letting them lead wherever they might stroll.

“Another new year,” she mused, holding tighter the mug, hoping to claim a bit more heat. She pondered what was in store for the coming months.

She didn’t make resolutions; they were merely repeating the unkept promises she of last year; as she tried to catch up with those from the year prior, which were actually tasks undone from the year before that. At some point, why bother? “Just do your best and keep moving forward,” was as close to a New Year’s resolution as she came.

Yet, the newness of another January was not lost on her. With the changing of the calendar, there came a freshness, a bloom of new possibility for the time ahead. A clean slate was laid out in front of her, what would she do with it?

It was getting harder to say she was still “middle aged;” after all, few folks make it to 120. Was this where she expected to be in her sixties? She contemplated that for a moment and realized she didn’t have an answer. Was it a myth that some kids knew exactly who whey wanted to be from their first day? That had never been who she was; instead following a more meandering road.

“Retirement, what a concept,” she thought.

Many of her close friends, after having spent decades in a nine-to-five, walled off behind a cubicle; were now starting to collect pensions. Some were traveling, or spending times with grandkids — or both. Others pursued long-hibernating passions they had put on hold since their twenties. A twinge of envy flittered across her emotional horizon; there would be no retirement party for her, her course would continue until she decided it was at its end. And even then, what would that look like? Would she simply wake up one morning and declare, “I’m now officially retired,” awarding herself a watch and a cake?

“Did I really choose this?” she asked herself, “Or did I just let it happen?”

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she recalled the choices that brought her to this place. What if she would have finished college instead of pursuing her craft? How about if she had married someone wealthy? Everything would have been different, she pondered, a pinch of melancholy seasoning her mood.

A song drifted across her thoughts, something about a woman who died and was sweating her interview with Saint Peter, who was going to look up in some colossal journal every decision — good or bad — that she ever did, and then decree where she will spend all eternity. “Will I have done enough to get into Heaven?” the singer wondered. Enter the chorus: “There’s nothing I can do about it now.” Might as well relax; it’s too late to change it.

“Yep, nothing I can do about it now,” she reminded herself and exhaled deeply the tension that she didn’t realize she was even carrying until that moment.

Whether planned or not, no one could argue that she was her own woman; traveling her own road; pursuing her own dreams; following her own uncharted course. She assumed there yet more twists and turns ahead; in those lie possibilities and dreams. “Who knows what’s in store? I might yet be in for some exciting times.”

Her elderly orange cat, tired of being ignored, hopped onto her lap, brushed its head against the warm mug and snuggled into her lap, purring loudly. Transferring the mug into one hand, she stroked the cat’s fur as they both stared out into the dreary, unkept lawn.

“Life is good. Thank you,” she said to no one in particular, and smiled as she sipped some tea. “Not a bad flavor at all…”

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is the CRP (Chief Recovering Perfectionist) of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com. He is available for coaching, speaking, and reminders of what really matters at 707.442.6243, scottq@scottqmarcus.com or www.facebook.com/ThisTimeIMeanIt.

A Month of Gratitude

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Almost everyone is into challenges these days.

If you own a fitness monitor, no doubt you are well aware of them: “Mary M challenges you to the workday hustle.”  Because I have such a device, I receive challenges constantly. (For the record, I don’t accept them. Please don’t invite me.)

Recently, the craze which spread across the globe was the Ice Bucket Challenge. In this seemingly masochistic event, a bucket of ice and water was dumped over a person’s head to promote awareness of ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) and encourage donations. I was never sure the relationship between them, but, what the heck, it was for a good cause.

At the risk of being judgmental (okay, I’ll own it; I am judging), some challenges are simply downright weird. As illustration, the “eat it or wear it challenge,” where participants each place one food into one of a series of numbered paper bags. A bowl with folded slips of numbered paper, each corresponding to a bag, is passed among the contributors and each takes a turn choosing a number. He or she then has to either eat a spoonful of the food in that bag, or must wear said food. Yep, you read that right. It’s weird, isn’t it?

Anyway, tips to make this more stimulating include choosing foodstuffs such as baby food, hot sauce, and horseradish. The question remains, “Why would anyone do this?” Unsure. However, it’s safe to assume a prerequisite for this challenge is possession of way too much time on one’s hands, and a worrisome lack of culinary and fashion senses.

That said, I have a challenge for you. Don’t worry, you won’t have to protect your clothing.

Step 1: Take a deep breath, relax your posture; loosen your muscles, and settle yourself down. (Go ahead; do that now; I’ll wait).

Step 2: Think of something for which you are grateful. It matters not what it is. Feel it deeply; let it flow over you like a warm shower.

Step 3: Try and feel angry, frustrated, or sad while you feel grateful.

Can’t do it, huh? I knew that. It’s impossible to feel bad when you feel thankful. It can’t be done. Period. Gratitude and anxiety cannot exist in the same sphere; only one will survive.

So, to that end, as we enter the last month of the year, I figured — ever being the helper — that I’d provide a catalogue of reasons to stimulate gratitude; 31 of them to be exact, one for each day. Feel free to add your own.

I am grateful for…

[Read more…]

What Makes One Happy?

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Sometimes, life is just plain freakin’ glorious.

Sitting next to a loved one, inhaling deeply the cool air of an autumn night while watching the sun slip soundlessly over the horizon, casting shades of red, orange, yellow in a broad fan across the sky, backlighting the clouds; can it really get better than that?

Sure, I guess it could. But if life consisted of an unending string of moments such as those, why go to Heaven? It’s all right here.

Actually, when you think about it, our lives are probably pretty good more times than they’re not.

I mean, yeah, “stuff” happens; into every life some crap must fall and all that. But, really, unless life has dealt you unending sucker punches, those moments are thankfully scattered.

To that end, I’ve stolen a line from one of my favorite talk show hosts, Thom Hartmann. When a caller gets on the line, they many times robotically ask, “How are you?” Mr. Hartmann’s reply — which I’ve now commandeered — is “I’m great, but I’ll get better.” Try it sometimes. Others find it perplexing. Oft times only hearing “I’ll get better,” they’ll react, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear things aren’t going well.” If they actually pay attention, in many instances, I’ll get a chuckle. Yet, mostly, they just don’t know how to handle it; no one says how great things are. It’s just not done.

So, why do we so often downplay the beauty and exhilaration that is this thing called “Life?”

[Read more…]

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Scott "Q" Marcus 707 834.4090 scottq@thistimeimeanit.com

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