Take a Giant Leap

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Are you fed up with feeling anxious, depressed, worried, or tired? Are you ready to take a giant leap and leave those feelings behind? Would it thrill you to instead be filled with energy and enthusiasm?

Scientific studies have found that one of the most affordable and effective ways of improving mental health is exercise. Regular exercise can profoundly reduce depression, anxiety, ADHD, PTSD, and more. In addition, it can sharpen memory, increase self-esteem, improve sleep, boost energy and leave you more mentally resilient. And here’s the best part: you don’t need to train like a marathoner or triathlete, hire a fitness guru, or obtain a gym membership, all you have to do is walk.

I once swam and lifted weights regularly and occasionally still do, but lately, I’ve been walking more and more. I started on a treadmill, which was initially quite boring. I’ve seen people walking or even running on treadmills for an hour or more, but twenty minutes was the most that I could stand.

There were advantages to treadmills, however. I could force myself to walk faster and at steeper inclines. By pushing myself increasingly harder, treadmill workouts improved my energy and stamina, reduced anxiety, and made me feel more balanced. In addition; my resting heart rate slowed; my blood pressure dropped; my cholesterol levels improved; and ultrasonic scans showed no plaque buildup in my arteries or thickening of my heart wall—both of which were detected a year earlier. The technician administering the tests even enquired as to what I did to keep my heart and arteries so healthy at age sixty.

Nowadays, I’ve ditched the treadmill for the most part, finding Mother Nature preferable to the gym. I can walk anytime: before work, at lunch-time, or even late at night and take different routes to keep it interesting. I’ve increased my mileage and generally walk more than three miles. I’ve begun hiking more often and found that steep trails that once left me breathless are now easy. The best part is: I look forward to walking and even skip other activities to do it.

I’ve found another benefit of walking: it gives me time to reflect. As I walk I often think of positive aspects of my life: relationships, pets, hobbies, vacations, etc. When was the last time that you intentionally reflected on what’s right in your life?

On a recent three-mile walk, I reminisced about my three dogs for the first mile. By the end of that mile, my face hurt from smiling. I thought about my daughters during the second mile and was fighting back tears of joy by the end. I relived many wonderful moments that my wife and I have shared over the years for the last mile. Those three miles flew by and for the remainder of the day I felt at peace. I could not believe the impact of combining exercise with positive thinking.

I was once mentally ill and was told that I would be medicated for life. I fought that life sentence with diet, exercise, vitamins, supplements, and positive thinking. Subsequently, I have been free of both medication and mental illness for five years. I truly believe that if we take proper care of our bodies and minds, we can live a quality life free of medication and mental suffering.

It can be frightening to take the bull by the horns and begin exercising. Barriers such as injury or illness; lack of endurance; fear of failure; body image issues, or even the weather can stand in your way. However, all it takes is something that you do every day anyway: put one foot in front of the other.

Exercise has improved my life more than anything else, but I am not running marathons or competing in triathlons, I’m simply walking. It’s something that anyone can do—even you. When you do, be sure to reflect on positive memories, so that wherever you walk, it will be the best walk of your life.

I’d love to hear how exercise has improved your mental health. Please leave a comment or contact me through this website’s contact page.

An Engaging and Thought Provoking Listen

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Roughly fifteen years ago, my daughters landed their first acting roles at the Ahwatukee Children’s Theater (ACT) in a “Muppets” version of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Talented stage actor Michael Rubino, a co-founder of the theater, played Scrooge in that production. Michael took on other challenging roles during the years that my daughters performed there, always bringing passion, professionalism, and vitality to each.

Months before I finished writing the final manuscript of The Road to Amistad, I invited Michael to narrate the audio book. He had never narrated before, but with a long acting history and a penchant for challenging roles, the offer intrigued him. That brief conversation sparked a fire and in short order, he began producing audio books for Audio Creation Exchange (ACX), an Amazon affiliate. By the time I published The Road to Amistad, he had narrated five books and set his sights on becoming a Platinum Producer, which requires having published twenty-five.

When I first approached Michael, I had no idea his sixth audio book would be so remarkable. Michael brought each character to life with unique quirks, accents, softness, or gruffness, and consistently reproduced those characters chapter after chapter. In addition, he occasionally included unexpected sound effects that always brought a smile.

I’ve read The Road to Amistad countless times, but Michael’s wonderful narration made me laugh, cry, and beg for more. Because I know him personally, he allowed me to listen to each chapter as he finished it. I waited patiently at my computer each night for the next amazing installment, sometimes until well after midnight.

Thank you, Michael, for your incredible creativity, talent, and dedication to producing a quality audio book second to none. It has been an honor working with you and I wish you the best of luck on your journey to becoming a Platinum Producer.

To learn more about The Road to Amistad audio book and to listen to a sample, click here.

The Little Man and the Crowd of Miseries

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Once upon a time, a little man lived in a ramshackle cottage on a weed-choked lot not far from a castle. Every day, the little man opened his door to find a huge crowd waiting. As the door swung open, they all shouted “Huzzah!” Then, one by one, they shared their miseries with him.

The little man was very popular because he was a good listener. He also possessed a great talent for transforming suffering into anger and riling the crowd. Fueling their rage filled him with a sense of power and purpose, which he greatly enjoyed.

The crowd spent the day together roaming the countryside, complaining, swearing, and shouting, always with the little man at the lead. At the end of the day, however, the little man returned home exhausted.

When he looked back upon each day, he realized that they were all the same: nothing accomplished, nothing changed. Many days he felt too tired to fix himself dinner, or he drank himself to sleep and forgot about dinner entirely. His life depressed him, and surprisingly, he felt lonely. After many years of the same routine, his health began to fail leading to frequent headaches, illness, and fatigue.

One morning, the little man awoke with a realization: No one is holding a crossbow to my head or a broadsword to my throat forcing me to do this.

Rather than continue his downward spiral, he instead decided not to open the door. Every so often, he peered through wooden shutters at the crowd gathered outside. They gazed at the door expectantly, talked among themselves, and shrugged their shoulders in confusion.

“Where is he? Why won’t he come out?” After a time, they began to leave, and by noon, everyone was gone. The little man breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I’m alone.

Slowly, he opened the door to the most beautiful day he could remember. He left his home and strolled through the nearby wood. Bumblebees droned and Peacock butterflies circled lazily in courtship over his head. Celandine, Primrose and Bluebells painted the earth in shades of gold, yellow, and blue at his feet and the repetitive ballad of a Song Thrush whispered in his ears.

He followed a meandering path until it ended near a breathtaking waterfall. A beautiful little woman sat at water’s edge admiring the splendor. The snap of a twig underfoot caused her to turn in his direction. Upon seeing him, she smiled invitingly. Immediately smitten by her charm and good looks, he joined her in reverie.

The little man married the little woman, and they moved into the cottage together. Lush grass and pristine gardens replaced weeds and perfectly groomed thatch sealed the leaking roof. The cottage became one of the loveliest in the kingdom. People came from all around to see it, but most days, the little man and woman were not there—they were busy exploring all the wonders that the world had to offer.

*** We are victims of life not by design, but by choice ***

Image by Ron Adams, Flikr Commons

Together or Alone?

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This morning, I pondered the differences between my two novels: Detour from Normal and The Road to Amistad. Joined at the hip in many regards, these novels are nonetheless as different as night and day in a certain respect: one is about being alone and the other is about being together.

In Detour from Normal, I was thrust from normalcy into a life of cold, heartless professionals and the tragically mentally ill. A normal person in my place would feel frightened and alone, and many of the experiences I described are from a solitary perspective. Instead of feeling terrified, I felt at peace, and at times, blissful. A mysterious process had freed me from judgment, expectations, worry and fear.

That mindset allowed me to befriend people who were toothless, foul-smelling, crippled, rude or unable to communicate—people I would never associate with before. My best friend was a drug addict recovering from his eighth relapse who had lost his job, savings, car, home, wife and family because of addiction. Through different eyes, I found these people funny and interesting, and for those among them who felt frightened and alone, I became their guardian angel. It was an immensely freeing experience and I could not help but imagine what the world would be like if everyone could live life as I did then.

The Road to Amistad explores just such a scenario. People from all walks of life were spontaneously freed from their mental prisons and introduced to my world overnight. Unfortunately, their changed mindset more often than not led to heartache as family and friends demanded the return of their absconded loved ones.

A few managed to avoid that struggle and find a unity of spirit with others like themselves. Friendship and trust thrived regardless of former walls that separated them. They were magnets to each other, formed strong friendships and accomplished great feats together. None among them ever felt separate or alone.

Nowadays, it is difficult for me to tread the line between alone and together. I have a wife, children, friends and a full-time job. There are many rules and walls that impede me and I have limited time and resources.  It would be easier to abandon my vision and rejoin my former world, but I don’t want to close doors—I want to open them. I don’t want to be alone—I want to be together. I want to be part of something big.

I hope that you will read both Detour from Normal and The Road to Amistad and open your mind to possibilities that are ours for the taking. If my message rings true, press the button; twist the throttle; swing; jump; do whatever it takes to begin your own journey, and as you go forth, spread the word so that you may do it together instead of alone.

Resilience

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What is Resilience? According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, it is an ability to recover from, or adjust easily to misfortune or change. Resilience can result from severe trauma, like a switch flipping in a person’s mind—a kind of wakeup call that closes a door to their immediate suffering, often opening a new one to latent passions.

That is what happened to me following surgery, adverse reactions to medications and resulting temporary mental illness. Within months, I embarked on a writing career and published my first book, Detour from Normal, just over a year later.

I asked doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists and counselors about my experience and was met with blank stares. The best they could offer was a pill to numb my mind and make me forget. Family and friends were no better—they either longed for the day I would fully recover, made fun of me behind my back, or shunned me.

I could have let that hurt my feelings or taken an easier route and pretended to be the old me. Instead, I chose a new path, convincing others even more of my continued lunacy. I desperately needed to understand why I changed so much.

At first, there seemed no answers. Eventually, however, I painstakingly assembled the pieces to the puzzle, one that perhaps only I could solve. Along the way, I discovered that few people in the world understood resilience, a fact that left me feeling isolated and alone.

As time passed and my desire to share my knowledge grew, I decided to write another book. I knew from my experiences that readers would likely be skeptical, so I hatched a brilliant plan: I’d divulge everything I’d learned in the form of an entertaining story, a kind of parable. If readers thought it crazy, I would tell them “It’s just a story.” Who knows, a crazy story might prove more popular than a sane one. On the other hand, suppose that my words changed lives and others became resilient without having to suffer trauma? It seemed a win-win proposition. I began writing.

More than anything, I wanted to live and breathe my story–experience what my characters did first-hand. Over the ensuing years, I traveled from the desolate to the exotic through Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and Idaho. I hiked down dusty desert roads; four wheeled through rugged wilderness, and gazed upon some of the most beautiful scenery in America. I even joined Toastmaster’s for a year to overcome a fear of public speaking, following the path of my protagonist. Frequently, I carried a notebook. On one road-trip, I pulled to the side of the road repeatedly to record notes–sixteen pages in all.

Although I aspired to be a great writer, I paled in comparison to any number of famous authors. Seeking tutelage, I found a local English teacher. Over the next year, we painstakingly dismantled two years of work and created a new story unlike any other—a story of a formerly mentally ill man’s quest to make sense of his new life; of finding others like himself; of his burning desire to share his gift with the world to end suffering and open doors to endless opportunity; a story that I believe is our destiny.

Thus was born my second book: The Road to Amistad. Soon, I will proudly present it to the world. I hope that you will join me then on an incredible journey into the unknown and test your own convictions about your mind.

UPDATE: The Road to Amistad was published on February 19th, 2016.

Kissed by a Hobo

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I stopped to pump gas at a Circle K in Tucson a while back and as I pulled up to the pump, I noticed a homeless man pushing a cart full of his meager possessions toward me. Hoping to discourage him, I left my door open blocking his way as I entered my credit card information at the pump. I didn’t want to say no to this man, but that’s what I normally do in such situations, not because I am uncaring, I just didn’t what to support a drunken lifestyle, believing that by withholding my generosity, I will somehow change his life for the better. Not to be deterred, the man made his way around the pump and caught me just as I reached for the nozzle.

“Excuse me, but could you spare eleven cents?” I scoffed at his request. Who would beg for eleven cents? “I’m eleven cents short to buy a boodie.”

“A  footy? “ I asked, clueless of what he was talking about.

“No, a boodie.”

“A booty?”

“No, you know, a boodie.” He repeated louder in frustration. “One of those big beers.”

“Oh.” I said, unable to make the logical connection. I reached into my pocket and pulled out what little change I had. “Looks like I only have two cents. Tell you what…” I paused, realizing I had no idea what was in my wallet. I pulled it out and opened it to reveal a five and a one dollar bill. I reached for the one and pulled it out. “I’ll give you a dollar.”

Before I knew it, the man wrapped me in a powerful bear hug. He was so happy that you’d think I’d offered him a million dollars. “You are so kind.” He said, hugging me even harder. Despite my reservations over hugging a hobo, I returned the hug equally strongly, laughing at the absurdity of the scene. Then, he did something really over the top: he kissed my head.

A dollar means nothing to me. I make that much in minutes at my job. I probably have a hundred dollars in change sitting in my piggy bank at home from emptying my pockets every day just so that I don’t have to lug it around the next day. It accumulates like dirty laundry until there is enough to warrant me bothering with it.

Eventually, the man stopped hugging me and with tears in his eyes, thanked me once again before continuing on his journey, clutching his dollar close to his heart. I proceeded to pump over fifty dollars of gas into my van in roughly the same time as our total interaction. I replaced the nozzle, screwed the gas cap on, and headed to spend another thirty dollars on pizza with my wife and children.

Surprisingly, that hobo’s hug and kiss made my day. I wished I’d given him the five instead, or even both bills. After he left, I realized that this is his life. I wasn’t going to change it one way or another with money, but maybe I could make a difference by treating him like a human being for a moment, by sticking around and listening to his stories. I can only imagine the places he’s been and the things that he’s seen. Perhaps talking with him would make a bigger difference in my life than his.

I’m crying as I write this thinking of the unfairness of it all. That hobo is equally the miracle that I am, blessed with the same extraordinary machine and unlimited capacity to thrive and succeed at anything he wishes. The only thing that makes us different are the beliefs and thoughts that fill our minds and the choices we make because of those thoughts. We are all capable of so much if only we knew how to get out of our own way.

Image courtesy of Vit Hassan, Flikr Commons

Clunker for Sale: Needs Work

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I was fed up with my car: there was a rock chip in the windshield directly in front of my face, a squeak when I released the brake pedal and it wallowed and bounced on worn-out struts. A bad idler pulley made a whirring sound when using the AC, the tires shook above 70 mph, and an exhaust leak rumbled beneath the passenger floorboard. I wanted to get rid of it, but a better car would set me back $5,000 in addition to the pittance I’d receive from selling my clunker.

I had a choice—continue to suffer or take action. I chose the latter and began chipping away at the list of annoyances. I disassembled the rear brakes, lubricated some rusted areas, and reassembled them eliminating the squeak. I fixed the rock chip, ordered new struts, bought a new pulley, balanced and rotated the tires, and purchased a new exhaust gasket. In no time, the annoyances would be history.

I soon noticed that fixing those problems did not bankrupt me or take much time, yet I suffered and complained about them for ages. I noticed something else:  the annoying things did not keep me from having a good relationship with my car—my attitude did. I placed the blame on the car and nearly abandoned it. But the car was just being what it was. It had no power to change itself. I was the one who needed to change.

When I finally chose to get my hands dirty, something strange happened. I bonded with that car. The dirt was the car’s blood and I was a surgeon elbow deep in it saving its life. When I stopped being the problem and became the solution, my relationship with the car changed. I liked it again. It no longer seemed like a stranger. We were partners, just like in the beginning.

All along, it was me at fault. I refused to hear the car’s cries for help. I shirked my responsibility in that relationship and my expectations were out of line. With a little time and effort, that annoying car might just be one of the best cars I’ve ever owned.

We all do this every day: we shirk our responsibilities in our relationships with family, friends, cars, jobs. We complain day in and day out, and we long for something better when we are perfectly capable of turning every one of those relationships around with very little effort, saving ourselves years, or perhaps a lifetime of suffering. Instead of running away, we can bring ourselves peace and strengthen bonds that might otherwise be permanently lost.

Taking a moment to reflect, we may find that our complaints are a compass pointing the way to a happier and more fulfilling life.

Image courtesy of Kenga-LAS, Flikr