Moving was never easy.

Aside from the organizing, sorting, and heavy lifting – all issues of inconvenience unto themselves – there was also the overlooked emotional aspect of leaving a location so intertwined with history, hopes, tears, memories, and laughter. The building might not have had a soul in the traditional sense, but it was infused with the energy of life, in the same manner as any living being. He was sure he could hear it breathing at times.

Planting himself in the center of the upstairs bedroom, he realized it was much larger when emptied than it was filled with furniture. He thought back to past conversations with his son in that space, often with him sitting on the floor, his back against the door, while his son pretended to ignore him while sitting on the bed playing video games.

Closing the door, he leaned his back fully against it and let the weight of his body allow him to slide downward until he was once again seated on the floor, looking to where the bed used to be.

Absentmindedly, he played with the carpet, pulling on a few of the loose threads, until the realization dawned on him that he could – technically at least – be accused of damaging what was now someone else’s property. “Well, it won’t actually be theirs until they get the keys, so I guess I’m okay,” he thought, gently yanking a few more fibers from the carpet, in quiet defiance of reality.

More attentively, he scanned the remainder of the floor covering, noticing where the carpet was well worn in areas exposed to foot traffic, and where it remained cleaner, due to furniture that sat stationary in those spots for years. “We really needed to replace this carpet a long time ago,” he thought. “Probably could’ve used a wash too, at some point in the last decade.” Consoling himself, he mused, “Not our problem now; besides, they’ll probably rip it all out anyway, so why bother?”

In the corner, adjacent to the window, a remarkably clean square section of unworn carpet focused his attention. Furrowing his brow, and tilting his head – as if that helped him recall better – he tried to remember, “What used to be there?”

It had only been 72 hours, but he was surprised by how quickly his memories were moving on. “Grandpa’s clock!” He exclaimed to the silent room, a faint echo bouncing from the barren walls. “How could I forget that already?”

A full-sized grandfather clock, complete with lunar cycle, had sat unmoved in that corner since the early oughts, chiming diligently, unrelentingly, and faithfully every hour, marking the significant events as well as the small moments that comprised their lives. Undisturbed, until three days ago, when it was swaddled in padding, gingerly lifted by a crew of three, and strapped into the back of the moving van.

He recalled the events and occasions it counted down.

While families gathered in the remainder of the house for birthdays and holidays, the timepiece proudly announced each hour to the guests, its chime loud enough to be heard on all three floors. He remembered looking out the window, watching the rain pelt against the glass, the pattern of the drops sometimes lining up in time to the ticking of the clock. Conversations on the couch with his wife were marked by its never-ending heartbeat. Every memory and event documented by its conscientious, persistent, and correct tally of the seconds.

Pulling himself back to the present in the silence, he observed how quiet now was this place; no longer a house, now an empty shell waiting for new life. Its heartbeat silenced, its sounds no more.

Grunting and favoring his aging knees, he lifted himself from the floor and walked to the dirt-free square, bending down to touch the carpet one last time.

“Thank you,” he said.

The rain picked up, gently tapping against the glass, a rhythmic, soft ticking, as if to say “You’re welcome.”

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can sign up for his newsletter at www.thistimeimeanit.com/signup He will be speaking at the Eureka Center for Spiritual Living on September 27. All are welcome.

That's the practical part. Now for the harder conversation.

To my very-far-left friends, I get it. We need to shake up the system. It needs a massive overhaul. But before we can cure the cancer that's infected our political system, we need to make sure the patient (our democracy) doesn't bleed out on the table. Otherwise none of it will matter.

To my Centrist Dem friends. The same advice as above. We must welcome new ideas and younger people who see things differently.

I also agree the Dems are far from perfect. But we're never going to get a perfect candidate, no matter who we elect. Think of candidates like a bus, not a taxi. They'll get you into the neighborhood. From there, it's on you to walk the rest of the way home.

So with that in mind, ask yourself: who's more likely to get us closer to our goals? Be pragmatic.

In Junior High, Mr. Hastings, our health teacher, espoused that a major reason we hang out with folks around our own age and who live in similar circumstances is due to our common “you knows.” Of course, you know that, because you and I share so much. (See how that works?)

If you’re unclear, a “you know” is a comment about something you feel or you’ve experienced, summed up with some version of, “you know?”

I’ll start. “I’m at that age where I wake up with a new ache every morning. I didn’t do anything different. At the end of the day, all I did was go to sleep. It’s annoying, you know?”

If you’re similar to me, you might say, “Oh yeah, I know exactly what you mean. It happened to me…”

See, you know? We’re now bonded. We share our YKs with others who have gone through, or are going through, what we experience. Yes, a 17-year-old girl living in Eastern Europe might share some “you knows” with a 71-year-old guy in the redwoods, but the odds are slim. So, to the opening point of this piece, we seek out others with similar “you knows.”

Most YKs are neither profound or serious. For example, if a cat falls asleep on a pile of clean laundry, a surprising number of otherwise rational adults will simply decide to wear something dirty instead of move their pets. Amirite? (That’s a variation of “you know,” in case you missed it.)

See? If you’re a cat guardian, you know. You probably even chuckled because you’ve considered doing that yourself, or maybe you even did it. Yet, that’s just one of the random, trivial you knows I learned while leading a workshop last weekend centered around the delightful book, Today I Noticed, by Willow Older and Deborah Huber.

My biggest takeaway was that I was reminded that some of the strongest bonds between us are formed not by political agreement or major life events but, instead, by small moments of instant, often-playful bonding.

Need more examples? How about these?

Computer passwords. See? Those two words probably tightened your intestines as they are the blight of digital existence. Not only do they slow everything down, but all the password-minders are now code-generated-gladiators competing in a fierce to-the-death battle attempting to “make it easier” for us as we surf. Chrome stored a one-time password from 2021 and insists on bringing it up. Firefox and Safari use others. Bitwarden and the Password app jump in with more outdated options, transforming a simply irritating situation into an episode of expletive-laden, red-faced, keyboard-pounding. (This doesn’t even consider passkeys, the latest cyber-torture inflicted on us.)

Okay, one more.

Often, while waiting to cross an unmarked intersection while walking, a kind soul stops their car to let me cross. I always wave to thank them, but as a further sign of appreciation, I don’t just saunter across the street but launch into a short, quick, awkward run-walk as a sign of how I’m moving quicker to not further delay them. I mean, when you think about it, I saved them a fraction of a second, if that, by doing it, but I feel I contributed to the greater good of society by being appreciative and grateful for their kindness. It’s a glimmer of a bond-creating “you know” between two strangers. “I know you’re being nice by stopping for me. You know I know that by me ‘hurrying’ across the street.”

With so much division, it feels as if our common ground is disappearing. And certainly, shared irritation at passwords or wearing a less-clean shirt will not mend what ails us. Still, it cannot be discounted that there is comfort in knowing so much of daily life remains recognizably shared. We laugh at the same petty frustrations. We still know the same small embarrassments. We still understand, and accept, what it means to surrender to dirty clothes because the cat claimed the laundry basket first.

This is not profound social philosophy, and I don’t mean to oversell it. Shared annoyance will certainly not restore civic dialogue or trust in our government. But there’s a quiet relief in knowing common ground does not always arrive in grand form. Actually, mostly, it makes itself known in insignificant indignities and the absurd rituals of our day-to-day. Sometimes it appears as laughter that breaks out before we catch ourselves disagreeing on other larger viewpoints.

Maybe that is why these moments matter so much. They are small, fleeting, almost meaningless. Yet they reaffirm that other people are so much more similar to us than we are dissimilar. Beneath our opinions, preferences, and private worries, we cross at the same crosswalks, we hate passwords, and we all have the same sleeping cats on the same clean laundry. It’s encouraging that a small flash of recognition, that quick laugh that says “yeah, I know,” is enough to make the world feel a little less lonely.

You know?

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can sign up for his newsletter at www.thistimeimeanit.com/signup

Well, in all fairness, I guess I should be a little more forthcoming on the conditions.

To clarify, I was first in my class. Events like these divide the participants into various classes. As you might guess, to have 21-year-old men competing with 60-year-old women or five-year-old boys wouldn’t be fair. So, one’s class is partially determined by one’s age. Being 71, I was in the 70 to 74-year-old class. After that, classes are also divided by gender, so more specifically, my class was Men 70-74. And, I guess in full disclosure, I need to point out that there were only two of us in that class.

Yet, the truth remains, I came in first! Of course, the other guy could say he came in second and that still sounds impressive; you take your victories where you get them, y’know?

Most importantly, despite my fears and the discomfort of running, and no matter in which place I landed, I got out there and did it. I was hoping to run the full 5K, 3.1 miles, without walking. I did a lot better than the last time I ran, running about 2.8 miles (but making sure to sprint like Tom Cruise in an action movie for the last several blocks so it looked impressive as hell at the end).

If you haven’t been to a marathon – let alone participated in one – you can’t imagine a more joyful, encouraging experience. I know I didn’t picture it that way prior to being involved. My expectation was a bunch of sweaty, sore, panting people bent over, hands on knees, trying to recover from over-exertion, asking of themselves, “Why in God’s name did I sign up for this again?”

Sure, I imagine there’s an element of that. After all, there were a couple hundred people there; some had to be thinking that. Yet, overall, the event is an explosion of positivity and inspiration. Absolutely everybody you pass on the trail, virtually without exception (providing they can breathe enough to do so), is cheering you on. At each street’s intersection where volunteers protect the runners from cars, the volunteers call out, “Great job! You’re doing it! Fantastic! Keep going! You got this!” In a few cases, passengers in the stopped cars added their support.

I usually run alone. Being slower, older, and somewhat self-conscious, I find it easier to put on my headphones, stare at my feet, and – like a horse with blinders – stay totally focused on what’s in front of me. That’s all. Looking too far down the road is intimidating. Watching others is distracting. So, I stay in my own world; one foot in front of the other until I get to the finish line.

That wasn’t possible in this situation; I noticed every manner of runner. One woman was pushing a stroller. Two other women were having a conversation while they ran. (I gotta admit, that really impressed me as I sound like the broken bellows of a pipe organ when I open my mouth while running.) A sub-teen went scooting by me, as did several older runners who hit the turnaround point and were almost back before I even reached the half-way mark.

Yet despite the variety – or maybe because of it – from beginning to end, it was a party atmosphere with bright colored outfits and shoes, horns honking, banners flapping in the breeze, and so many uplifting, reassuring people of all walks of life encouraging strangers and friends, that you cannot help but leave the event feeling better than when you arrived, even if you’re panting.

I’ve complained (a lot) about running. It’s uncomfortable, obviously tiring, and the weather doesn’t always cooperate. Yet, I continue to do it. Folks ask me what I get out of it, and honestly, I’m not really sure. I enjoy the sense of accomplishment about pushing myself past barriers. I love the fact that it allows me to indulge in goodies and treats guilt-free. Of course, at my age, I get “bragging rights” for even trying.

Maybe the biggest advantage is it’s a time where I put everything else on hold. There’s no ringing phone. I’m not overwhelmed with bad-news alerts about the depressing state of our country. There is only me, the road, my headphones, and the slapping of my feet against the asphalt. It’s a respite so badly needed.

I’m not suggesting you get off the couch and start training (although I totally support that idea). But in times of so much overwhelm and darkness, it turns out running slowly – or even walking – for 2.8 miles is cheaper than therapy.

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(Special thank you to the Humboldt Bay Marathon/5K, and specifically Terri, for all they do to make this wonderful event take place. You can find out more about it at humboldtbaymarathon.com)

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can sign up for his newsletter at www.thistimeimeanit.com/signup

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I begin with a ten-minute warm-up where I ride a virtual bicycle almost anywhere on the planet. I’ve pedaled through Ukraine, visited the pyramids, and toured Paris. After loosening up, I play one of several virtual reality dance apps; the most fun I’ve had since rolling down grassy hills as a small child. Completely immersed in a computer-generated world with all manner of balls and other objects flying toward me in rhythm to some of my favorite songs, I knock down the objects by swinging my hands. Not only does it burn calories and improve hand-eye coordination, but when I’m “in the zone,” it’s as if I’ve visited another world. My mood is uplifted. I am energized. Life is grand.

That was how today started. I finished my virtual ride through the French Alps and then played Synth Rider for 45 minutes, ending up with my standard 53 push-ups. Inspired, proud, and feeling strong and upbeat, I left the house for my 30-minute walk, listening to one of my favorite podcasts.

“Thank you, God. This is a good life,” I thought as I returned home.

While hanging up my keys, I accidentally dropped them behind my printer stand, triggering several choice not-for-print exclamations. I peered over the edge of the stand and, between the other stuff that has fallen back there over the years as well as dust bunnies that could win competitions, couldn’t see the keys.

“What the hell?” I said to no one in particular. “Where could they go? They have to be here.” My pursuit led to me getting on my hands and knees, unplugging the printer, moving everything off the stand, and dragging the whole mess across the office so I could squeeze in the space behind my desk. Finally, my office in shambles, I found the keys buried under some piles.

The upbeat, joyful mood of 15 minutes prior was evaporating faster than water droplets on a hot skittle. As I shoved and slammed back in place everything I had torn asunder, instead of swaying to the music in my head I was pounding on tables and kicking trash cans, upset over the mess that was now my workspace (not that it’s very neat, to begin with).

I was reminded of a Christmas card I received one year, showing a cartoon of a very skinny, emaciated Santa. In the drawing was a plate of cookies with a note, “For Santa.” The thought balloon over Santa’s head said, “I guess one cookie won’t hurt.” Along the top of the card was written, “It all starts small.”

But isn’t that the way everything begins?

Little by little, minute step after minute step, what began as a random passing thought flourishes and evolves, eventually taking over your life. I had moved the needle of my day from “wonderful” to “awful” in less than a quarter of an hour because of something so minor as dropping my keys.

Even in the best of times (and I don’t think anyone would refer to the present day in those terms), if we allow ourselves to focus on the minor irritations of daily living, we lose sight of all we still have. Add into the mix the heightened frustrations of climate change, a dysfunctional and corrupt government, war, inflation – and oh yes, creeping authoritarianism – and simply finding a smile or kind word to say can feel overwhelming.

But, that, more than any other reason, is why we need to not sweat the small stuff, as “small stuff” doesn’t remain small very long. Rather it takes over what space it can find in our already over-taxed brain.

If you, like me, periodically find your mood slipping, there are three questions to ask yourself:

• Can I change this?

• If not, can I leave the situation?

• If that’s not possible, how do I accept what’s happening?

Now, more than ever, we need to find the small positives; the cracks of sunshine slipping through the darkness. Everything starts small. But they too will grow.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can sign up for his newsletter at www.thistimeimeanit.com/signup

My doctor ordered for me a Pulmonary Function Test (PFT). While attached to a computer that measures breath function and lung efficiency, the technician demonstrated the different patterns of deep breathing necessary for the procedure. It’s as if he went into a trance; closing his eyes, swaying to the rhythm of the machine, and using full body motion to illustrate the results. More than an explanation; it was a performance. As an actor, I was impressed – and amused. Who would think a medical test could be so entertaining?

Anyway, to the point, although he said a doctor will interpret my results, he stated that my numbers were outstanding, adding that he wasn’t surprised because he could tell I stay in shape. It was reassuring, but I’ll admit to some mild confusion too. Even now, I’m not used to being described as “active” without irony. For most of my life, that description belonged to others, the sturdy, energetic types who enjoyed movement and owned matching water bottles and moisture-wicking athleticwear.

Not me; I was the overweight kid in a time where obesity was not common place, but rare. Teased regularly, I learned early that there were categories in life, and “fit” was a club whose members were not waiting eagerly for my application. So, when a medical professional calmly refers to me as one of the healthy people, part of me still wants to turn around and see who he’s talking to.

What made his comment resonate even more was that it came on the heels of another moment that had already left me amused. The previous day, having time to kill before my 10AM appointment, I decided to run and wound up jogging more than a mile before stopping. No one was chasing me. No dramatic soundtrack was playing. I simply began jogging and just kept going until time ran out. Even more unexpected, I had the realization that I could have gone a little farther.

As I cooled down, I stood beside my car in the parking lot, eating cherries and drinking water, and the whole scene felt so out of character that I almost wanted to laugh. If you had shown that image to my younger self, he would have assumed it was from somebody else’s life. Mine was not the biography that led naturally to “man jogs willingly, then refreshes himself with fruit.” And yet, there I was, apparently starring in exactly that kind of story.

At 71, I seem to have become the sort of person who runs before appointments and thinks of fruit, rather than scones, as the post-exercise treat. I’m still not sure who is this person; he seems suspiciously responsible, doing things with intention, even hydrating and getting great medical news, accepting it without hunting for the fine print. What am I doing here?

I’m not saying I’ve become a fitness influencer. Nobody needs worry that I’m about to start posting inspirational slogans about discipline, or referring to a peach as “fuel.” But it does seem that I have drifted, almost by accident, into the general category of “healthy, fit older man.” I have to admit that has its charms.

Taken separately, these were small moments: a technician reading test results, a run that went longer than expected, a handful of cherries in a parking lot. None of this would qualify as a major athletic achievement. No medals were awarded. There was no crowd. No one dumped Gatorade on me. But together, the moments are evidence. Do not fear that I’m about to use the phrase “wellness journey” with a straight face; but this is confirmation that the image I had of myself for decades is no longer as accurate.

That may be one of the most overlooked parts of getting older.

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You spend a lifetime developing a fairly settled idea of who you are. You collect facts, memories, embarrassments, habits, and limitations, and from those pieces you build a self-portrait. Mine included “not athletic,” “not graceful,” and “never, ever, ever jogging voluntarily.” Those descriptions were not invented out of thin air. They were earned honestly enough. But maybe the trouble with old self-definitions is that they can keep hanging around long after they have stopped being fully true.

Life, if you’re lucky, occasionally updates your file. Not all at once, and usually not in dramatic ways. Sometimes it arrives when a technician says your PFT numbers are strong and nonchalantly places you in the category of active people. Or it might arrive in a parking lot, where you find yourself eating cherries after a run and realizing, with equal parts pride and disbelief, that your body has become more of a friend than it used to be.

What moves me about this is not just the health of it, though I’m grateful for that. It is the reminder that we are not required to remain exactly who we once were. The boy I was carried a lot of embarrassment about his body. He would not have guessed that one day his asthma-infested lungs would get compliments, or that his legs would carry him more than a mile without complaint, or that any of this would feel common enough to be almost funny.

But maybe that is the best part. Sometimes you’re lucky enough to live long enough to become your own surprise. Even if the surprise is an older, sweaty guy in a parking lot, eating cherries.

Lately, there’s been a lot of talk about freedom.

That makes sense, given that last month marked the 250th anniversary of our country’s independence.

Yet these are trying times, and the very definition of “freedom” is open to interpretation. Are we still free when American citizens or legal immigrants can be scooped up off our streets without due process? When the federal government uses investigations, lawsuits, and suspended research funding as leverage to force universities to change admissions systems, antidiscrimination policies, and academic practices? When Guard troops are deployed to major U.S. cities under the rationale of combating crime? When the DOJ pursues a nationwide campaign to obtain states’ complete voter registration databases and partial Social Security numbers? When members of Congress are harassed and told to “go back home,” when the United States is their home? One might argue that is the antithesis of freedom. But that discussion will have to wait for another time. It’s too vast in scope to handle in a few hundred words.

So, in my attempt to remain sane, I’ve turned inward and started thinking small, controlling only the facets of my life that are actually in my realm.

Freedom, too, can land in that arena.

When I think about what freedom is, my thoughts also turn to freedom from fear, anxiety, and the racing thoughts that pull us out of the present moment and into imagined futures.

As I stated, there is so much right now that can stir fear. Our political climate leaves us feeling divided, exhausted, and uncertain about the future. The climate makes us feel vulnerable; the entire planet is shifting in frightening ways we cannot control. And loss, in all its forms, reminds us how fragile is life. It is no wonder the mind races. It is no wonder anxiety rises. We are living in a time when fear can feel like the background music of daily life.

Fear does have a purpose however. It is designed to protect us. It attempts to create a fortress of safety around us, something strong enough to keep pain, uncertainty, and danger at bay. Yet, that same shelter can become a jail. What begins as protection often becomes imprisonment, keeping us secluded, narrowed, and cut off from life itself.

That is where faith comes in.

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Let me clarify what I mean by that word. If “faith” is, for you, another word for God or religion, that’s fine. It works for a lot of people, and I’m glad it does. But it doesn’t work that way for everyone, and it isn’t my place, or anyone’s, to say it should. So, to me: faith is simply the act of believing in something you cannot see. God, Universal Spirit, Karma, Luck, call it what you want. They’re all facets of the same thing. Sometimes faith whispers, sometimes it shouts, but it exists on a gradient, and I’d bet we all carry some level of it, some belief we lean on, even if only now and then.

Think about the last time you drove your car. You didn’t test the brakes in the driveway first, or check that the guy coming toward you in the other lane was planning to stay in his own lane. You just went, trusting a thousand things you couldn’t verify and mostly weren’t even thinking about. We tend to save the word for the big, capital-letter stuff, God, the afterlife, whether it all means something, but most of us are running on faith all day long without noticing, because paying attention to everything would be exhausting.

With that as the definition: virtually every action and decision we make is the result of an engagement between fear and faith. When we’re stagnant, fear is cementing us in place. When we move forward, it’s faith guiding us to a more hopeful, happier place.

Faith does not judge. It does not deny what is happening, and it does not pretend everything is easy. But it invites us to get centered, to be where our feet are, and to remember that this moment is enough. For me, freedom is the ability to stay in the present.

Fear asks, “What if everything goes wrong?” Faith asks, “What if I can trust this moment, this breath, this life? What if something better is around the corner?” Freedom is not found in control, but in trust, in listening to our connection to that Greater All, however we define it, in believing there is more to us than what we see and feel.

The spirit of freedom is not the absence of challenges. It is the presence of peace in the middle of them.

Each time we pause, breathe, and return to what is true in this moment, in this space, at this time, we step out of fear and into faith, and into a freedom no outer condition can take away.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus can be reached at scottq@scottqmarcus.com or you can sign up for his newsletter at www.thistimeimeanit.com/signup

My wife and I are caretakers of two sick animals here at home. Willie, our 13-year-old Schnoodle and undoubtedly the sweetest soul I’ve ever met, is suffering from early-stage chronic kidney disease. There’s no cure. All we can do is hope to slow its progress.

Then there’s Oreo, our 10-year-old Tuxedo cat, another sweet soul, who has pancreatitis. Both need care, and on days too often, they move through the hours with a subdued, fragile air that makes me watch them more closely than I want to. Every small thing seems to matter: whether they eat, whether they sleep, whether they lift their heads when I walk into the room. Their bodies carry a quiet message I can’t avoid: they won’t be with me forever. Love sharpens that knowledge. So does routine. We keep filling bowls, offering comfort, cleaning up messes, counting pills, adjusting blankets, while some part of my mind keeps circling the same hard fact: Father Time always wins in the end.

There’s tenderness in this kind of caregiving, but there’s also fatigue, and I think we’re sometimes too quick to pretend otherwise. We like to tell ourselves love makes hard things easier, and sometimes it does. But sometimes love simply makes us stay. It keeps us showing up, doing what needs to be done long after the first wave of energy or optimism has passed. There’s devotion in that, but there’s also wear and tear. You can be grateful for the chance to care and still feel wrung out by it. You can love deeply and still be tired of being needed.

And as they say in late-night ads: “But wait, there’s more!”

The news keeps arriving with its familiar, unrelenting, grinding force. One more story, one more effort to make it harder for people to vote, as if democracy were an inconvenience to be managed rather than a right to be protected. The details change, the language shifts, but the underlying rot is the same. I’m not shocked. Shock requires novelty. What I feel is duller and heavier: exhaustion mixed with anger; discouragement threaded through with disbelief that we’re still fighting over things that should have been settled long ago. I feel like I’m trapped in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.”

It’s not just the bad news that wears us down. It’s the repetition, the steady drumbeat. Cruelty dressed up as policy. Exclusion disguised as order. Indifference presented as realism. At some point outrage stops feeling energizing and starts feeling like one more drain on an already overdrawn spirit. You can only brace yourself so many times before the body and mind start to sag under the strain.

Taking care of sick animals has a way of shrinking the frame. The day becomes immediate, practical. Pills. Water. Appetite. Energy. Comfort. You learn to measure time not by ambition or accomplishment but by whether a creature you love seems a little more at ease than he did an hour ago. There’s something humbling in that. Maybe even something clarifying. It reminds you that life isn’t always lived in big ideas or dramatic turning points. Much of it is lived in small acts of attention. Still, even the most loving attention can become exhausting when it’s constant, and the world beyond your front door feels just as demanding.

That private tiredness doesn’t stay in its lane. It spills over. It colors the way I read the news, the way I think about the country, the way I move through my own day. So, when I hear about voter suppression or the latest cynical attempt to narrow who gets heard and who gets counted, I don’t just feel political anger. I feel depleted, watching the same grim machinery grind on year after year, dressed up in new talking points but powered by the same old fear and bad faith.

I live in a place where many people see the world more or less as I do, and I know that’s a blessing. There’s comfort in that kind of shared understanding, in not feeling stranded among strangers. But agreement isn’t relief. It doesn’t change the fact that there’s only so much one person can do from one house, in one day, with one finite supply of emotional energy. I can’t save my animals from time. I can’t single-handedly repair the country. And I certainly can’t absorb every fresh blow without eventually feeling flattened by it.

Yet I don’t want to give myself over to despair, to become numb, or bitter, or so overwhelmed I stop paying attention altogether. I don’t want exhaustion to become an excuse for withdrawing from everything that matters. So, I keep looking for some middle ground between helplessness and overexertion: the quiet discipline of accepting that my power is limited while still using the power I have.

Maybe the lesson here is one I keep resisting: life is fragile, energy is finite, and there’s no prize for driving myself into the ground. The animals need care. The country needs better. I need some mercy too. So tonight, I want to remember that endurance isn’t punishment. Sometimes it means doing what matters, then setting it down before it breaks you.

Today is about exhaustion, limits, and the small, stubborn work of standing firm anyway.

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus can be found on substack at scottqmarcus.substack.com. You can sign up for his newsletter at www.thistimeimeanit.com/signup

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What in God’s name was I thinking? (or was I?) To be honest, I didn’t think I would do it again, but as my grandmother used to say, “Man plans; God laughs.”

A little background is in order.

I began this journey three years ago planning to run my first 5K before I turned 70. Back then, I referred to it as “jogging,” and was quickly informed that those who choose to engage in that activity are not to be referred to as “joggers;” rather, the appropriate term is “runners.” (I got the impression that “jogging” is almost a pejorative.) I guess I therefore must consider myself a “runner.” That terms feels awkward as I’m sure when people see me, they’re saying to each other, “Look at that old guy shuffling down the street. Good on him.” Therefore, maybe a more accurate moniker is I’m a “fast shuffler.” Words matter.

Anyway, I appear to have left the figurative route in this diatribe. So, no pun intended, let me get back on the path and sum up my feelings about whatever you want to call it.

I hate running (jogging, fast-shuffling, whatever…). Succinct enough for you?

No, really. When I’m huffing, puffing, gasping and wheezing down the trail, my feet spanking hard against the uncompromising asphalt, sucking wind, disregarding the stitch under my ribs, pleading to the Gods that I won’t collapse before I reach my destination, “Runner’s High” is not on my list of descriptors. To me, that’s akin to Nirvana a mystical, sacred, restful place that doesn’t really exist, but all aspire to visit.

The next question therefore would be “why do it?”

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No normal, sane person would choose to engage in a painful, avoidable behavior over and over again. Well, first, this assumes I’m normal and sane. And, for argument’s sake, let’s accept that.

Beyond that, I have found that I am the type who takes on challenges I have not “war-gamed” to their logical conclusion, assuming I’ll figure my way through it once I’m knee-deep in the big muddy. That overarching philosophy has oft-times led me to some wonderful discoveries and allowed me to get to know some marvelous people. So while I’ve indeed met said marvelous folks, I’m still waiting on finding said “wonderful discoveries.”

When I was 69, my son, who lives far away, decided to take up jogging, um, excuse me, running. I thought it would be fun if we did it together, tracking each other’s progress via apps on our phones. Granted, per my previous comment, I had not thought this completely through and did not take into consideration that he’s half my age and in great shape.

Alas, I was now committed; and began using an app appropriately named, “Start Running.” My first excursion consisted of four minutes of running. In full disclosure, that was made up of four one-minute running segments, separated by one minute walking periods and a five-minute warm up and cool down. Every couple of days, I added time, eventually achieving a level of about 20 minutes.

A 5K – at my speed – requires about 30 minutes of nonstop running, and although I was not yet there, the local Marathon folks, encouraging as they are, decided that I would be the sole participant in a 5K created just for me, on the same day as the local marathon. Crossing the finish line was fantastic; cheers and yelling greeted me as I ran under the arch, emblazoned with “Finish.” The organizer called me on stage to award me with First Place for my division (of which I was the only person but we all like our T-ball trophies, don’t we?).

Having achieved my goal, and in part to heal my knees, and recover from an unrelated surgery, I took a hiatus, weirdly, missing it.

Yet, here I am again. The question remaining, “Why in God’s sake are you doing this to yourself?”

Fair question, and having given that a lot of thought, here’s my list.

Studies show that once you stop being active at my age, you don’t pick it up again later. So, not wanting to spend my remaining years sedentary, I force myself. Active older folks (of which I guess I am one) show reduced risks of everything from obesity to heart disease to Alzheimer’s, even cancer. I’ll take any help I can get. Also, in a world that pinballs from one catastrophe to another, running moves my focus from what’s going on “out there,” planting it firmly in what I’m feeling and doing “in here” right now, isolated from so many anxious thoughts. Of course, I’ll also admit a sense of vanity, I’m at my lowest weight in 40 years; my clothes hang nicer, and damn, I gotta say I’m lookin’ fine. Oh yes, running is also an excuse to buy really nice higher-end athletic shoes.

So on August 9, I’ll pull on my customized pair of Hokas and do the thing I claim to hate all over again. See you at the finish line. I’ll be the one gasping – but wearing some amazing shoes.

Being Memorial Day, I wanted to give some attention to my deceased father, a World War II veteran. We had an estranged relationship, but after he died, I was able to forgive him and find peace in what we did have, rather than resentment over what was lacking.

To that end, I returned home to the apartment building where my family and I spent my preteen years. I don’t know what I was seeking – if anything. It was more of a need to connect with our past and try and recall the positive aspects of my dad.

It had been almost 60 years since I moved away, so I expected there would be differences of course. The building hadn’t been maintained well; cracks in the stucco, appearing like varicose veins, strangled the walls. Ivy gripped the structure, ascending to the second floor, leaving only the windows untouched – blank eyes peering out from a forgotten past. The yellow exterior paint, once bright and vibrant, was washed-out into gray; matching the drab, dirty, peeling exterior in mood.

But what was most surprising was the door. Unlike everything else about the decaying exterior of the complex, it stood boldly, brashly, brightly illuminated – an enticement to enter. The door handle was polished brass, the hinges appeared new; even the jamb looked untouched by the weathering of the decades.

Tentatively, I turned the knob; the door easily opened, allowing access to another room, which – as odd as this sounds - seemed to exist not in the building, but in another dimension. I don’t know how I knew that to be true, but crossing the threshold and entering the tight, square darkened space, I could feel the energy shift. Sometimes, you have nothing to base your perceptions on, but you know – for a fact – that they’re accurate. Such was the case, as I stood unmoving in this space, allowing my eyes to adjust after leaving the bright sunlight outside. I also needed to reclaim my emotional footing, as the swing in energy was abrupt.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a malevolent feeling. I wasn’t scared – well, maybe a little nervous – I mean, who wouldn’t be in a situation like this? Yet there was no aura of trepidation – more a full sense of calmness, an emotional body pillow enfolding me in protection.

After allowing myself time to acclimate, and hearing the thud and click of the door closing and latching behind me, I perused my new environment. It was barren; nothing on the walls, no paintings or prints; no bookshelves; not even a window. It was as if there were to be no distractions – nothing to pull my attention from the middle of the room, where there was at a table with a burning candle – the sole source of illumination for this shadowy chamber. Adjacent to it was a chair – again, nothing elaborate, no ornamentation, no throw pillow – simply a gray folding, metal chair with a tan padded seat; urging me to sit and contemplate the mystery of where I found myself.

But more alarming – or unnerving – was what was placed squarely on the table next to the candle: a sealed envelope, containing a message to whomever came into this chamber. I was convinced the entire presentation was designed specifically for me. Again, no reason to know that, but of that I was certain.

As my gaze focused on the envelope, I realized my perception was accurate, for written in pen on the envelope was a simple expression: For Scott.

With trembling fingers and a racing heart, I turned the envelope over and over in my hands, afraid – and excited – to see what it was. It was then that I heard the voice. One that I had not heard since he left us 30 years ago.

“Scott.”

“Yes? Dad is that you?”

“Yes, my son. I’m glad you came to visit. Open it. It’s for you.”

I slid my finger under the flap, gently tearing open the paper, pulling it out. I unfolded the letter and began to read, “From a veteran to his son…”

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When my cousin and his family go on vacation, the word “go” does a lot of lifting. They go, go, go. After driving long hours to get to their destination, detouring to every tourist location and waypoint along the way, they check in to their hotel, and then plan out every out every free minute. They’ll drive, bike, train, or boat their way to as many recommended hot spots as can fit in 24 hours, collapsing at day’s end and beginning the whole rigamarole yet again come the new day’s sunrise. No judgment implied, but their getaways strike me as the type of vacation from which one needs a vacation after returning home. More power to them, but I just don’t have that in me.

Hard cut to the opposite: My favorite escape is cruising. Unpacking once, never driving anywhere, and spending countless hours doing zip squat while watching the waves roll by is as close to heaven as I can imagine. All meals are provided, we can leave the ship and explore unique locales, or stay on board and experience a whole myriad of entertainment. Cell phones don’t work and since I don’t have my laptop, neither do I. The sweetest part is I take the time to read. Relaxing in a chaise lounge with a drink (adult or otherwise), I catch up on all the reading I don’t get done when at home.

Fiction is my preference; my favorite authors are Robert B. Parker (RIP), Dean Koontz, Johnathan (or Faye) Kellerman, and – if I’m in the mood – Stephen King. (My favorite book of all time is King’s 11/22/63.) With all the “heavy reading” I have to do, I prefer the escape.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading it’s just that, outside of vacation, I don’t take the time to read. Sure, I’ve got excuses: I haven’t retired yet so there’s that. Also, it’s only my wife and I in a too-large house so there’s a lot of time devoted to keeping it clean (such as it is), handling repairs, and working around the yard. Plus, of course, a certain amount of my energy has to be dedicated to chores like keeping the pantry full and creditors at bay. Bottom line, when night time comes I’d rather shut down my brain than engage it, no matter how much I might enjoy what I’d be reading.

However, this year, I have made a conscious effort to change that and two books have jumped out at me. (Oddly neither is fiction.) I’ve become fascinated with No Bad Parts by Richard C. Schwartz, PhD and the Internal Family Systems model of how we think and act. (Most likely, that will be the subject of a future column.)

On the other end of the spectrum, in a gift shop, I found a delightful little book (literally) by Willow Older and Deborah Huber, Today I Noticed. One can (and will) consume it in less than an hour; a collection of observations of the small things that make life gentler and more colorful. Two friends inspired by their own inattention, they decided, to write it after noticing how little they pay attention to and deciding that they would take the effort to mindfully notice what is happening around them. (The book includes blank pages at the end so you can write your own TIN reflections.)

Their observations range from silly (“Today I noticed that even as an adult, I can’t resist making a ‘moo’ sound as I pass a field of cows.”) to poignant (“Today I noticed that we’re all improv artists … of life.”) to grateful (“Today I noticed that my heart beats quietly all day long as I rarely even notice.”) to inspirational (“Today I noticed that there are so many people in the world, and I will only experience being one of them.”) Each TIN entry also includes an endearing drawing, multiplying the joy of flipping through its pages.

But, more importantly, on what might appear to be a significant change of subject, too much of the world is out of our control; dare I say it, very little is within our control. To counter that feeling of powerlessness, I’ve made the choice to “go small.” It’s not that I ignore the stress, turmoil, anger, and divisiveness that permeates our lives (I wish I could), but, instead, am making a conscious effort to focus on the beauty where my feet are.

In this “small world,” lives my family, friends, and community. In this “small world,” little things matter: a smile from a stranger, sidewalk art drawn by a child, or simply the rare ability to sleep in on a weekend and rise refreshed. In this small world, I walk taller, lighter, and happier.

This book reminds me of those – and encourages me to seek out more.

Dare I say it, it’s like a vacation.

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My goal in all these years has been to be a reflection of each of us – doing my best as I navigate the day-to-day. Just like you, I’ve been thrilled, furious, heartbroken, and occasionally baffled by what I see, and I haven’t been shy about saying so. Topics have wandered from diet and exercise to politics, obituaries, and even the occasional detour into creative writing. I hope, no matter what the topic, something lands. And when it does, often I receive feedback.

Early on, I was approached by a gentleman who recognized my photo. Making a bee-line to me in the soup and coffee aisle, he queried, “Are you that guy?” while pointing directly at me.

After confirming that was indeed me, he proceeded to throw open wide his sport coat, showing off with great pride his rather impressive mid-section, and informing me how pleased he was that he had “lost this” last year. “I was so happy with the results, I’m going to do it again this year!” he exclaimed.

Keeping my outside voice silent, I thought, “If it had worked so well last year, you wouldn’t be doing it again this year.” Yet, I understood it was a compliment, apparently my words connected with him. That was the first time I realized the impact.

In 2011, several columns were devoted to being hit by a car while biking. Despite torn clothes, a bloody leg, sore ribs, and including my first-ever emergency ride in an ambulance, I was fortunate to walk away from it, overflowing with fear and gratitude. Multiple readers reached out, offering prayers, glad I hadn’t fared worse. (I was too.)

More recently, 2024 to be exact, I decided that I wanted to participate in my first 5K. Never having run any further that what it would take to dodge a fast-moving vehicle in a crosswalk, I embarked upon a training program to accomplish my goal. Of course, I acknowledged it in my copy, referring to the activity as “jogging.” Although encouraged by a reader, I was informed that it was not called “jogging,” but was referred to as “running” and I should “get it right.” Potato. Pawtato. Yet, I deferred; referring to it to this day as “running.” (More established “runners” – don’t call them “joggers” – probably call what I do “shuffling quickly.”)

Yet, out of the hundreds and hundreds of pieces I’ve written, two stand out.

After lamenting how finances were tight due to a barrage of home repairs, I joshed that it would be so much easier if I could grow a money tree in my backyard.

An eighties-plus reader reached out via phone. “I read your column about the money tree. If you’ll come to my place, I have something for you.”

Confident that an octogenarian woman living alone in a tiny apartment would do me no ill will, I knocked on her door. Inviting me inside for tea, she presented me a plastic potted plant; taped to several of its leaves were dollar bills. She informed me that in these later years, she was doing “random acts of kindness” and created this after reading of my travails, becoming one of the nicest and more thoughtful acts I’ve ever experienced. (The “plant” still sits atop my bookcase, not one dollar spent.)

The other standout was from a man tasked with cleaning out the house of his recently-passed, Aunt Barbara. He sent me a photo of her refrigerator; taped to it, among the collection of magnets and drawings, was an article I wrote many years prior entitled, “Five Words That Will Change Your Life.”

I do not think I ever met Aunt Barbara, but for that ability to touch someone unknown – even after they have passed - I am humbled and deeply appreciative. Her sentiment – and all the comments I’ve received from folks just like you – have affected me beyond words.

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I’ve written about diet and politics and grief and joy - sometimes in the same week - because that’s what life hands us. Through it all, I have believed that we are more alike than different. We’re all just trying to get through the day without too much damage, with the sun setting on a day a tad better than the one on which it rose. I wish for you that somewhere in all those words, you found yourself smiling, nodding, or just realizing how grateful you can be.

For these 22 years, I am thankful beyond words. I’m 71 now. Here’s to this piece hanging on a refrigerator when I’m 93.

I don’t mean – as Frank Sinatra sang, “Roll myself up in a big ball and die;” rather without exception, dropping all your assumptions and judgment – from the minute to the significant. You wouldn’t fret about the weather. No longer would anger be the default when you read the headlines. The cost of groceries or the number of your bills wouldn’t sway you. You would be a student of the news; not an angry viewer. If someone didn’t treat you in a manner you considered “fair,” you’d move on, not spiraling in your own mental loop.

Nothing would get under your skin; you’d be in a sublime, ever-calm, state of peace and acceptance.

Twenty-five hundred years ago, Gautama Buddha landed on something we’re still wrestling with: suffering doesn’t come from change, it comes from our insistence that things shouldn’t change. It is the expectation of what we assume, rather than the acceptance of what is, that causes so much hurt.

Think about it.

Not only do the physical world and our relationships change, but so even does our very being. Although Gautama wouldn’t know it, our bodies replace themselves with a new set of cells every seven to ten years; some of our most important parts are revamped even more rapidly. Physically you are no longer who you were not too long ago.

That’s a striking concept by itself, but let’s take it deeper. Yes, you have the same memories of that collection of cells that comprised your body a few decades ago, but are you really that exact unchanged person mentally or emotionally? Do you maintain the same worldview you had back then? Are your values the same? Did that which gave you enjoyment then still give it to you now?

There are resemblances, but let’s circle back to the main concept: Nothing – not even us – remains constant. Attempting to cling to the wispy, cloud-like expectation of permanence is the thing that trips us up every time; the cause of all suffering and sorrow we face for when the inevitable occurs. At that time, we are hurt, angry, sad, grief-stricken – or all of the aforementioned.

I understand this. I believe this. However, I do not live this; I’m not that evolved. I retain expectations, hope, desires, and dreams of what “should” happen as well as how I want my short time on this planet to be. My life, like yours, is driven to a large extent by my expectations; expectations such as how we each expect to be treated with love and respect. We want society to act in a moral and fair fashion. On our most basic level, we expect we’ll be here through day’s end – and well beyond.

Yet, once we release what we expect will transpire for what actually does, our outlook settles. When we get out of our egos and exercise this heady, potent idea, it becomes apparent that while we are welcome to expect anything we want, that which we actually receive is beyond our control. Per the Buddha, therein lies the struggle. How much sadness, frustration, and anger are caused by attempting to fit our square expectations into the round hole of our lives?

It’s simple in concept, difficult in practice, but take a moment to envision what it would really be like if you began each day with absolutely zero expectations of what is to come; to rise to a fresh moment each dawn. Fear of what the day will bring as well as regrets about what it did not would not exist. Past disappointments are wiped out. Life would be received with wonder and awe, rather than tainted with worry; knowing it will unfold as it will – and we will react exactly as we need to.

How much happier could we be enfolded completely in the NOW, accepting it for what it is and what it is not – rather than for what it could have been?

I expect that might take a minute to sit with. And yes… I see the irony in that expectation.

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Scott “Q" Marcus

Need your help for a fun assignment.

Over the last several years, I have had the joy and responsibility of designing the artwork for the monthly theme each month at the Eureka Center for Spiritual Living. The minister tells me the theme and I design the image based on that theme. All said and done, I have about 175 images I’ve made…

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5 months ago · 5 comments · Scott “Q" Marcus

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That card was designed for the the theme (cue the drum roll): “Possibilities.”

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In no particular order, here’s the next card.

What does it make you think of? What would you call it? Is there an affirmation you’d put to it? Any other comments?

Please share. I’m looking for all the input I can get. I hope you find these beautiful and inspirational. (I’ll announce the original theme for this card when I put up the next card.)

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I try to make them colorful, light, fanciful - and images of a place I would like to visit.

I have decided that I am converting 52 of them into an Affirmation Card Deck, which I hope to have available by end of year. Each card will have an image on the front and, on the back, a description, an affirmation, and a journal entry prompt.

I am going to start posting them here with this one. You won’t be able to tell what the theme was as I’ve removed the text from them but that doesn’t matter. What I’d love is for you to comment on what you think the theme would be for that card as well as anything that it brings to mind. If you have a title suggestion, even better. (I also asked Claude to do the same thing and it’s fascinating what it came up with.)

I’m hoping it will give me some ideas as I move forward on this project.

That said, here’s the first card - in no particular order. WDYT?

Each day, upon opening my eyes, sadly, my first thought is, “What fresh catastrophe awaits in this nightmarish, post-apocalyptic hellscape in which we live?” (Alright, that’s a slight exaggeration; I rarely use the term, “post-apocalyptic.”) That said, each week brings with it the latest horrors; I wonder when we’ll finally hit bottom so we can rebound and start to heal again.

With our latest “excursion” into the middle east, (a term better suited to a trip to the outlet mall than a war). I find wisdom in JFK’s “Peace Speech” at American University in June, 1963, eight months after the Cuban Missile Crisis.

“What kind of peace do I mean and what kind of a peace do we seek? Not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war. Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave. I am talking about genuine peace – the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living – the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children – not merely peace for Americans but peace for all men and women – not merely peace in our time but peace for all time.”

And I find myself unable to stop wondering – what if it could be?

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I’m not just quoting Kennedy nostalgically – I’ve lived in moments where this felt possible. I remember when I was a talk-show host, the 1986 Reykjavik Summit between Mikhail Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan, took place. The two most powerful leaders of the most formidable military forces, and stated enemies of each other, chose to try to find a common path. Although no formal agreement was reached, the discussions significantly advanced nuclear arms control dialogue and set the stage for future treaties.

I recall asking of my audience, “What if this is the beginning of a new, more cooperative relationship between our two countries? What if this is a step toward world peace? What if we’re beginning a new phase in the history of our planet?”

Ridiculed by callers telling me to “get real” and “it’ll never happen,” I understood the skepticism. It never happened before, why now? Yet reality is also that everything ever created – absolutely everything – began as that two-word thought: What if?

Every great work of art, every building, every scientific discovery, every thriving career or relationship began with that inspiration. But where does that spark originate? It doesn’t magically appear; it must come from somewhere. There must be a creative process, a mechanism, that pulls an idea out of seeming nothingness and brings it into awareness.

Since energy can never be destroyed and since our thoughts – and we – are energy, logically there must be a storehouse of it all, in effect a battery of creative ideas. It is too vast to understand, but I picture it as an infinite, invisible, “database” containing every possibility, memory, disappointment, revelation, joy and sorrow. It is beyond time, beyond space, beyond comprehension. It is the sum-total of all our hopes, dreams, thoughts, and ideas. If we could tap into it, imagine what we could create. Picture an infinite hard drive containing everything that ever was or could be, with no search bar, no directory, no way to navigate it. It’s all there, but without access, it’s useless.

So how do we locate what we need within something that vast? How does an idea move from the gray fog of endless possibility into the sharp clarity of lived reality?

We go inward.

Upon quieting our rational, analytical thinking, we open a portal into the subconscious, the part of us directly connected to It. Free from practical limitations, judgment, and fear, our subconscious can search freely that never-ending intelligence and pull out exactly what we need. This is not a one-way channel. We aren’t separated from It. We receive and return this energy, cycling back and forth, further expanding on something that was previous nothing. Eventually, when well enough formed, we pass it to our conscious mind, to begin the work of making it real.

Silence creates thought. Thought becomes inner dialogue. Inner dialogue drives action. Action manifests what we desire.

Back to the point at hand. The situation we find ourselves in sucks; there’s no other way to describe it. It’s frightening, maddening, infuriating, unnecessary, painful, and overwhelming. That’s all true.

Yet equally correct, it will come to an end; not as quickly as we’d like, but I believe that it won’t be as far away as we dread it will be. Therefore, there can be no harm in picturing what it will look like on the other side.

What if we stilled ourselves enough to hear our inner voice? What if we worked for a better world? What if peace is already happening – and all we have to do is look for it?

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If you don’t remember March 11, 2020, you’re obviously under the age of six. It was the date the World Health Organization officially declared COVID-19 a global pandemic. Most actual lockdown orders in the United States came a few days later — a national emergency was declared on March 13, widespread school and restaurant closures followed on March 16 and 17, and California issued the first statewide stay-at-home order on March 19. But March 11 is the date that stuck. It was the day everything changed.

As it turns out, I was writing a column that day too. So, I thought I’d pull it up and see — in real time, as they like to say — what I expected of the then-forthcoming pandemic. I’m reprinting it here in its entirety. For better or worse, here’s what I thought.

After it’s over…

I am always leery to write about current topical events because, there are four to five days between the time I write and the time it goes to print. In the fast-spinning whirlwind of today’s news cycles, those flips of the calendar can constitute a “forever,” with something that’s of import now having been elbowed off stage by the time it’s in black and white.

I am confident that this will not be one of those times.

COVID 19, the Coronavirus, is triggering global panic. As I write this, the World Health Organization (WHO) just declared it a pandemic, citing “alarming levels of spread and ... levels of inaction.” Right now, there are over 120,000 documented cases worldwide and over 1,000 here in the United States. I’m positive that by the time you’re reading this, those numbers will seem nostalgic. Things move blindingly fast. As illustration, three weeks ago, we hadn’t even heard of “self-quarantine.” Miriam Webster now catalogues it in the top one percent of lookups.

One might say that the media is over-hyping the crisis to get eyeballs and clicks. One might be right. Yet, there’s also a legitimate cause for concern. Between the unreliable information stream; the natural fear we all have of the unknown; as well as feeling that we are leaves in the rapids, propelled without control; it’s normal to have to hold at bay the nauseous sense of panic welling up in our throats.

As the serenity prayer says, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” This condition is so not in the “change the things I can change” column. The best advice is “remember to breathe.” Clear a moment. Close your eyes. Take a long, deep breath. Let it out. Repeat. Color it “acceptance”

However, what will our society look like post-virus?

And yes, it will be gone. There will be a morning after. Most of us will be here when the sun rises on that day. If we use China as a template, the scourge – if handled well (and that’s a topic for another column) – will take about eight weeks to run its course.

I’m sure there are greater predictive minds than mine looking to that time, although I think some consequences are already making themselves known.

Per Wikipedia, “Social distancing is … (a method to) control actions … to stop or slow down the spread of a highly contagious disease.” As we all know, it is being implemented by curtailing and canceling large gatherings, such as concerts, sporting events, conventions – let alone schools, churches, and businesses. Cities have banned gatherings over 250 people. Italy has virtually locked the doors and thrown away the keys. New Rochelle, NY has a one-mile containment zone. All of these actions are being executed with the intent of flattening the “expansion curve,” a lofty goal but with side effects.

We are traveling less – even within our own towns. We remain more in our homes, associating only with those we trust.

Sadly – out of a perceived necessity – we are even reconsidering hugs and handshakes, trading them for fist, foot, and elbow bumps, as well as bowing.

Culture has been defined as “that’s how we do things around here.” Our culture – for better or worse – will not “do things” like we did before this disease. It will not look nor feel the same, even after the Coronavirus is relegated to the same place in history as polio, SARS or the Black Plague. We will “do things” differently

As humans, we are hard-wired to be with others. That is why we form close relationships, build communities, construct cities. This epidemic is putting us at odds with our nature, causing sadness and internal conflict that will remain long into the future. It will show itself as us being more physically — and emotionally ­— isolated; nesting more, using virtual links more frequently than we do now, seeking out that connection we no longer feel safe receiving in public. Fear and suspicion of the “other,” already a major difficulty in society, is being amplified.

You might or might not agree with my calculations but, being a battle-scarred optimist, I want to believe that maybe, just maybe, this horrendous period will give bright-light brilliance to the fact that — no matter our color, gender, sexual preference, political leanings, even the country in which we live — we are One. Each of us loves and fears and does the best he or she knows how to do. Yet, in a New York minute, it can all be change, through no fault of our own.

I do know that no matter what the future carries, we stand a better chance if we can find ways to help and hold each other through this period, whether that’s via a video conference or as part of large conference.

This will end. What happens afterwards is being created now. Choose wisely your reaction.

Stay healthy. Be well.

The exam room was too small.

The paper on the exam table stuck faintly to the back of her legs every time she moved, a faint crackle as she adjusted.

Across from her, the medical posters felt less like information and more like witnesses.

There was a muscular system diagram showing a human body with the skin peeled away, red for arteries, blue for veins, each carefully labeled, the face, looking to the side, viscera exposed, its eyes expressionless. Near the sink in the corner, by the blood pressure monitor, was a cheerful hand-washing poster feeling more like it belonged in a kindergarten classroom than a room where doctors delivered fate.

The clock ticked. “Who still has ticking clocks?” she thought.

She felt her husband’s hands in hers. The warmth, now more than ever a comfort in contrast to the coldness clamminess of her own skin.

What attracted – and terrified – her most was a breast cancer placard with a loud pink title, “Signs to Look Out For.” Underneath, it cautioned: “Take a few minutes once a month to do a simple self-examination. It can save your life.” Yet, that’s why she was here.

A beep announced a text message on her phone. She didn’t pick it up but saw the message: “Thinking of you. I know everything is going to be all right,” followed by heart and a kiss emoji.

Somewhere in the hallway, a printer whirred to life, then stopped. A cart rolled past the door. Voices murmured - then disappeared.

She realized she was holding very still, as if the motionlessness might freeze time. At this point, she was Schoedinger’s cat caught in a box where all truth was possible.

Footsteps stopped outside the door. The handled turned. The doctor entered, flashed her badge across the computer, sat on the stool and then turned to face her. She always liked her doctor; today, she wanted her to be far away.

The news was not what she hoped for. Scratch that; the news was everything she didn’t want to hear. “I know this is scary to hear, but the biopsy shows an early, low volume cancer. In cases like this, outcomes are very good, and treatment is usually very effective. You did the right thing getting this checked.”

The doctor paused, waited for her reaction. Seeing none, she continued, “I know this is a lot to take in. It’s completely normal if you’re not processing everything right now. I’m here as long as you need me.”

She tightened the grip on her husband’s hand. He responded in kind. Trying hard to listen to what the doctor said, but it all sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher on the cartoons, “Whah, whah, whah…”

Swallowing hard, she croaked out some words,

“You say we got it early and treatment should take care of it?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor. “I know the word ‘cancer’ is terrifying, but I want you to hear me clearly: you got this very early, and it’s the kind we treat very successfully. The odds are overwhelmingly in your favor. It’s okay to feel scared, but I want you to feel a little hope, too - because there really is a lot to be hopeful about. We’ll take it one step at a time - together.”

The combination of fear, anger – and hope – was too much. The dam collapsed, she sobbed uncontrollably. Her husband put his arms around her, as she sank into his chest.

That was five years ago.

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In some ways, it seemed like yesterday, or maybe it was another life, so long ago in someone else’s body. She shared the memories of that alternative person, but it wasn’t her any longer.

The fluorescent lights felt softer today, warmer than usual. Sitting on the same exam table, paper still crackling under her legs; the posters on the wall; the heart, the muscles, the “Know Your Lemons” breast chart; all seemed smaller now, almost friendly. After all, she had seen them a million times since then.

The doctor sat across from her yet again. She flipped through her chart, smiling as she looked up.

“I have wonderful news. You’re completely clear of cancer. Every scan, every check - perfectly clean. You’re doing incredibly well.”

A wave of relief hit her, sudden and strange, unfamiliar yet welcome. Her chest lifted; tears again sprang unbidden, but this time, they were lighter. Joyful. The tension she’d carried for so long leaked out in quiet small sobs. Her husband was at her side, as he always was, this time hugging her in uncontrollable joy. If the room was bigger, they would have danced. They tried anyway.

Laughing gently, the doctor added, “You’ve worked hard to get here, and you’ve done everything right. You’re free from this, truly,” as she let herself out of the room, giving the couple time alone.

She let herself breathe, for the first time in years feeling the word “cured” settle into her bones.

There was still so much life ahead of her and she wasn’t going to waste a moment.

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I know, I know, it’s shocking, right? You’ve been reading my columns and developed this impression that everything I do works out perfectly, nothing ever goes askew, and — no matter the circumstances — I am always in a lovely mood, cavorting with unicorns and fairies on a rainbow draped planet.

So, yesterday, I was surprised to find myself in an ornery, dark-cloud, I-hate-everyone-and-everything, cranky pants-too-tight disposition. If I had to wear sandpaper underpants, I couldn’t have been in worse humor.

I get it, we all get that way at times. Yet, I made my career as a motivational speaker and writer. On top of that, I’m a licensed practitioner for a new thought, “believe all things are possible” spiritual philosophy. Those of us who are supposed to show others how to change their attitudes aren’t supposed to fall victim to those same moods and temperaments. (Besides, looking at it from a career perspective, motivational speakers and practitioners with bad attitudes don’t seem to be in high demand.)

Alas, the day was unusually maddening and I charged head-long, full-tilt to an irritated place I usually avoid, allowing every pint-size peeve to get under my skin.

I could blame it on specific events.

Our mortgage was transferred from one company to another — no biggie, sure. Yet this new mortgage company, with its space-age name, is deeply committed to sending me promotional materials. Through snail mail, email, and texts, I am constantly alerted about how much equity I have in my house and how I can use it to ‘Make those long-planned improvements!’ or ‘Consolidate your high-interest credit card debt!’ or ‘Go on your dream vacation!’ (They really do adore exclamation marks.) Because these notices come from my actual lender, I dare not unsubscribe, forever afraid I’ll miss something that actually matters. Still, if they’d ease up on the mailings alone, we could solve the housing shortage with the lumber saved from all that unprinted paper. Just sayin’.

Next up: I recently had my first surgery in my 71 trips around Sol. I’m told that’s impressive, but the flip side is that I had absolutely no frame of reference for recovery. Nobody tells you that ‘gently resume your exercise regimen’ is doctor-speak for ‘shuffle to the mailbox and feel proud of yourself.’ I interpreted it as clearance to go on a 12-mile bike ride. An e-bike, yes — I’m not completely without sense — but still. My body registered its disagreement promptly and thoroughly. There’s something particularly humbling about being surprised by your own limitations at an age when you assumed you’d have yourself mostly together.

Want more? Sure, you do.

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I subscribed to new software that doesn’t work. We all hate the subscription model that’s become an annoyance in all our lives. But, in this case, there’s no tech support, no phone support, no email support, and the chat support is a robot that misunderstands everything.

Finally, the coup de grâce; Each day, in an effort to remain positive, I have my computer prompt me to write down three positive events. It did as it was supposed to. I responded by calling the computer a series of choice four-letter words for interrupting me.

Like I said, not a good day; slamming chairs, pounding on desks, swearing at the computer. I hate days like that.

Why do we permit ourselves to trash our mental health? After all, no one makes us feel a certain way. We – in this case, I – choose to feel what we feel.

I probed the cantankerous voices screaming between my ears and decided there was some deep-seated memory about having to defend myself against being taken advantage of, which goes back a long time. So, there’s that. But, more importantly, my internal dialog went dumpster-diving because I let old tapes about how things “should” work drive how things “actually” work. I expected “the perfect” and, of course, all I got was the “real.”

My truth is I’m pretty fortunate. If my biggest issues at this moment are annoying marketing companies and chatbots that require hearing aids, I’m def on the upper side of life. My health is good, as is my relationship with my wife. I live in a beautiful part of the planet in a community that matters deeply to me. My livelihood is derived from creative projects while working with positive people (um, this writer sometimes excluded). I am grateful; I lead a good life. The “poor me” messages are untrue.

But when I let them in, they take a wrecking ball to my attitude, maybe even my life.

Slowing down, I took a moment to get past myself and look at reality as it is, and not as it was or what it might be — and replanted myself firmly in the Now — and I got to see how blessed I am. Suddenly, the mortgage company and the itchy surgery scar didn’t matter so much; they’ll get worked out. I returned to writing in my journal. I felt better.

However, I gotta say, software via subscription still sucks, just no way to get around that.

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