The value of a firm handshake

I have had several unpleasant handshake experiences over the past few months, and I'm just wondering what happened to the firm American handshake?

Frankly, when you extend your hand in welcome, friendship and especially as a symbol of your honesty in business dealings it is simply creepy to get back a limp, clammy dead fish of a hand with absolutely no shake to it. Yuck!

But this happens way too often (once a decade is reasonable). I used to assume this kind of handshake was mainly relegated to the female of the species, but unfortunately I've run into a couple of men recently. I want to grasp their shoulders and shake them and announce, "That's not the way you do it!"

There's nothing more American than sealing a deal with a handshake. What does a lack of backbone on a handshake say about the person you've just sealed the deal with? Shady, weak-willed, anemic? I'm sorry, only older folks and those who are ill should deliver this type of handshake.

Boy, I'm passionate about this one.

Seriously, though, I've wanted to coach those who came looking for a job or wanted to offer me one when I've run into the limp handshaker. How can they expect to be taken seriously if they can't even deliver a confident handshake? Women especially must be cognizant of the impression the give when they clasp another hand in the business world. You must make the other person feel comfortable that you can handle what lays ahead or that they can trust you to stick to what you've offered in a job or business deal.

So, let's revive the good old-fashioned handshake, for the sake of all those who use it as a daily tool and especially to live up to our American ideals! Okay, that may be a little over the top, but you know what I mean.

Shake on it?

Loss of Awe

I lay in Wanda the other morning staring out the back window at the treetops that loom above my RV home. While I wasn't ignoring them, it dawned on me that I had lost a sense of awe I had when I first moved there. As soon as I realized I was taking for granted those deep green leaves attached to the wandering arms the old oak tree that stands at the back of my space and outlined against a pearly, aqua blue sky, I snapped out of it.

I saw again what I had seen the first time, incredible beauty there for me everyday of my ordinary life. There is a quote from Albert Einstein that seems so appropriate for what I'm trying to get at:

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." --A. Einstein

And isn't this true? It is so easy to lose our sense of wonder at the things we are surrounded by, because we experience them every day. They become commonplace to us. But they are anything but commonplace.

I visit my parents home about once a month now. When I could get there very rarely I would breathe deeply and feel a profound relaxation come over me. Now that I've been there about ten times since arriving in California, I realized the other day that I don't do that anymore.

Nothing has changed about the location, only my own desensitization has affected my outlook. I forgot to notice how wonderful the place is. By the way, that's a picture of their front yard. Looking out over BLM land from their backyard deck is even better. The turkeys and deer that wander across it every day think so too apparently.

So, I've vowed to try to incorporate a moment in each of my days to "stop and smell the roses," because really that's what life is all about.

It doesn't have to be the outdoors either. Perhaps, it's savoring the taste of that marvelous wine or appreciating the tinkling laughter of a child we pass in the mall or the smile of someone we love that we've seen everyday and don't realize how much we'll miss when they're not around. It's all the little things I am given every moment that I want to relish while I can.

Join me?

Downsizing all over my life

Now that I've downsized my living accommodations, it seems so natural to keep up the trend. I find I packed way too much stuff for my new lifestyle; too many dishes, too much "I might need this someday" stuff and amazingly too many clothes.

Yesterday I did myself a little favor. I saw this brightly colored basket and thought "Wouldn't that make a nice purse?" Then I proceeded to nearly talk myself out of it, because (as you can see in the background) the big, black purse I had been carrying held everything I would ever need. This little confection of a container clearly wouldn't. But my desire for more simplicity won out.

This morning I began transferring the absolute necessities and surprisingly, the little purse held nearly everything, except the old Dooney & Burke wallet I've carried for four years. Again, black leather and over-sized, the monstrosity had to go. So, today I picked up a $5 little red, zippered wallet, which is more like a pouch with a window than an actual wallet and again felt a bit more freedom.

Every part of my life seems overburdened somehow, and as I go through each week, I find myself throwing off the parts I don't need. I must be careful, though, to understand that many of those I speak to, are now in the midst of raising their families, feathering their nests, etc., so that not only does my joy at these small releases seem foreign to them, but in a way, it is a betrayal to the life they are in the middle of living.

When they look at me with a bit of wonder and a tiny bit of jealousy in their eyes, I am tempted to tell them not to worry that someday they will be here, too. But then I quickly remember you can't tell people things like that. They don't listen. I never did.

Those that look at me with tilted heads and glassed-over eyes don't understand, aren't jealous of my sense of freedom and will certainly never want to be released. And that is what makes this wonderful world go round...our differences. Hail to the Universe!

My muse has returned...and her name is Shirley

Those of you who know me well know I name everything. My RV is Wanda. My little Toyota Yaris is Bebe. My computer is Toby. Now, I've named my muse and she is proudly called Shirley.

Okay, I know this is a little wierd for most people. But what can I say? I need to name things to relate to them somehow. A name requires a personality. Shirley is perfect for my muse. She's a bit quirky like Shirley MacLaine and has a lot of spunk. You know anyone named Shirley has to have spunk.

Anyway, one of my favorite movies of all time is The Muse, with Albert Brooks. I confess, I love every movie Albert Brooks is in. He's funny and good-looking in a quirky kind of way (there's that word quirky again)and my God, can that man whine! There's an art to whining - truly there is - and Albert has it down.

In the film, Albert is a screenwriter (been there, done that) and he's horribly blocked. Sharon Stone comes to his rescue and that of several Hollywood personalities, like Rob Reiner and Marty Scorcese, because they all believe she is a muse - one of the seven sisters that were daughters of Zeus in mythology and inspired artists of literary, dance and musical persuasions.

Well, I don't believe I have a muse. I'm absolutely certain of it, because she's come home to roost again. I woke up in the middle of the night, inspired by a new character for my novel and dictated into a tape recorder, too sleepy to get up and type. I transcribed that tape this morning and I had nearly a 1,000 words!

I've struggled to get back into my fiction writing ever since I started into journalism in 2005. Non-fiction is such a different mindset and a writer must suppress the creative side to such a great degree that it's nearly painful. Along with the long hours in Maricopa, finishing the novel I was 309 pages into wasn't going to happen.

But now Shirley's here! I'd like to think it's an alter-ego, but I think the concept of muse has to stay separate from the writer and be acknowledged. Somewhere out in the Universe, I'm sure there's a colony of would-be muses learning their trade and "earning their wings" like Clarence in It's a Wonderful Life. Now that I've convinced you of what you may have suspected all along - that I'm a bit touched in the head - I'll leave you to consider finding your own muse.

In the meantime, tonight I'm setting up my computer so that I can get up and start typing when Shirley returns!

Morning pages unlock the subconscious

A book by Julie Cameron, entitled "The Artist's Way" has inspired me since 2005, but recently re-reading it has jump-started my serious writing.

The reason for this renewed spirit has been the revival of my "morning pages. Cameron's book contains vast wisdom about the nature of artists, which in her world includes writers, a feeling I subscribe to but isn't shared by everyone. It is an uncomplicated book with an uncomplicated way to find your muse. There are only two steps.

One is to commit to doing three pages of journal writing every morning just as you rise and are waking up. Sounds painful and boring doesn't it? Well, for the first few days it is a bit boring and then you let go of your inhibitions without even realizing it and low and behold ideas come to you, seemingly from nowhere. Putting words to empty pages is no longer an agonizing act. I'm not sure how it feels to painters and actors and such, but I suspect it's similar.

Floodgates just open. It's tricky for writers, but we especially want all our writings to be profound and meaningful. Well, after a few mornings of writing your pages, that idea becomes laughable. In fact, Cameron says that the biggest challenge for writers is not "writing" the pages - just letting them flow.

It worked so well for me before that I got 309 pages into a novel. I need to return to that novel as well as tackle my postings for SacramentoandBeyond.com, and I'm not sure why it took me so long to get back to first base. But I'm there and I recommend the process for anyone honestly searching for their inner artist.

The second step is something I embrace with equal enthusiasm, but is definitely not as effective at chipping away at my procrastination. Still, I am trying to follow her lead, and have planned my first Artist's Date in a very long time for next weekend.

Now the artist's date is a time set aside for you and your inner artist to just experience. She suggests trips to the toy store, pet store or park. Museums, art galleries, libraries, any place where you can be alone and explore. No others are allowed - just you and yourself. I remember my first artists date was a trip to Michael's the arts and crafts store. I really enjoyed wandering among all the aisles of do-it-yourself treasures. It was fun. I lost track of time and I came away with a sense of creation being just around the corner.

So, if you want to expand your creative side, try the morning pages and artist's date and even better, buy Cameron's book. It will be an investment in yourself that can't be beat.

Denial surrenders the battle

Two people that I love very much have grave health issues. They are choosing not to face those issues, but rather live in a denial of sorts.

One needs oxygen to make it easier on his body because he has COPD - Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder - but resists the need for oxygen as if giving into the canister of life-giving substance somehow reduces him, makes him an invalid. The truth is that without the oxygen he is much more of an invalid. Because of his stubbornness he is making his body work so much harder and probably ultimately denying his family his presence for a longer period of time. He also insists on doing too much, over-extending himself. We watch helplessly.

The other has just been diagnosed with a blockage in an artery of her brain. Rather than accept the offered help of her family, she chooses to continue on as if nothing has changed. No help around the house. No reduction in her activities. No giving in. Or so she thinks.

The truth is that while they both feel they are acting bravely, they are really simply sabotaging themselves. Any great general would tell you that it does no good to fight an enemy without admitting that enemy's strengths. Any disease has a certain power over you, and simply denying or refusing to recognize that power in essence increased it's power.

Marching into battle pretending that the enemy doesn't have cannons or that there aren't archers in the bushes shooting arrows at your army doesn't make any sense, yet repeatedly I've seen sick people just ignore their illness, thinking that somehow they will prevail.

Doesn't it make far more sense to do everything you can to help your body fight the disease? Rest when you need to. Reduce the stress of everyday living by accepting the help of others. Put the oxygen mask on and inhale deeply. Take your meds without complaint. In many cases, they keep you alive.

Most of the time, sick people get angry at being sick. Of course they do. It's something to get mad about. However, I lived through being the fall guy once, watched others take the heat for their loved ones anger and now am watching it happen again. While I completely understand the anger, I wish I could make the ones I love understand that pushing away the support of your family and letting your anger out on them, isn't the right way to go.

This is a very personal post, but there are lessons in it. For the healthy who are dealing with a sick person, try to hang in there and give them the support they will so often try to resist, but don't let yourself become a whipping post. If you are dealing with an illness yourself, try to think of it as a battle that can be won, at least to some degree and remember that it is painful for those who love you not to be allowed to help.

And for those of you who don't fall into either category, thank your lucky stars!

Oh, to be 12 again...

Our Father's Day family picnic was on Saturday, instead of Sunday, and required an hour and a half drive from Sacramento, but it was well worth it. Two miles outside Oakdale, California, there was a picnic area right along the Stanislaus River and it was equipped with a rope for swinging out and falling into the lazy pooled water on our side of the river.

Every part of me longed to put on my bathing suit and swashbuckle out over the river, let go and plop into the tantalizing liquid with a big splash. I could feel the silky water on my skin and hear my own laughter as I burst from under the cold water. I haven't wanted to go back to twelve-years-old for years, but on Saturday, I really wanted to quit being a grownup for an hour and just play.

The desire was so strong and sense of identifying with the age of twelve so clear, that it gave me pause. What was it about being 12?

Well, at that age, we really don't know how anything is going to turn out and certainly don't care. Tomorrow is about as far down the road as we can see. We don't feel consequences hanging over our heads.

Our sense of self hasn't yet been destroyed by the treacherous teenage years. We're poised between childhood and just enough adulthood not to want to ask if we can risk a swoop and drop into a river. We're confident enough to try it, without a lot of coaxing. That's what we (members of the human race) are like at age 12.

I would never want to go through the intervening years between 12 and 40 again. You couldn't pay me enough to do it. But if I could have another day of being twelve, with an awareness of it, boy would I have fun.

I'd play softball, basketball and toss a football around for a while. I'd run like the wind, until I couldn't anymore. I'd climb a tree and I would definitely swing out over a river and drop gleefully into it.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to go back for just one day?