WHAT WOULD YOU ATTEMPT TO DO IF YOU KNEW YOU COULD NOT FAIL …

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“Everybody stand up,” the facilitator said. It was a one-hour workshop on Living Beyond Limits and we were near the end of the session.

“Within the next two minutes,” he continued, “I’m going to let you experience for yourself the truth of what I’ve shared with you this hour.”

He explained that in the hundreds of workshops he had given and of the thousands of participants to whom he had shown the technique, only 23 were unable to successfully complete the exercise.

“Lift your right arm straight out to your right and point. Keeping your arm straight out, and your feet firmly planted, turn your body as far as you can and note the spot at which you are pointing.”

We all did so.

“Face forward,” he said. “Close your eyes and see that spot in your mind. With your eyes still closed, notice a new point about two to three inches to the right of that spot and point to it.”

We all did so.

“Open your eyes,” he said. “Now lift your right arm straight out and point. Keeping your feet firmly planted, turn your body and point to the new spot.”

Again, we all did so.

“Is there anybody who was not able to end up at a point past the first spot?” he asked.

No. Everyone had pointed to a new spot beyond the first point.

So how was it that we were able to turn our bodies farther than the point we had first established was “as far as you can” go?

Four things:

One. By talking about the thousands who had completed the exercise before us, the facilitator established for us a more than 99% probability of success. Even though we didn’t know what the exercise was, we felt fairly guaranteed of success.

Two. We established our baseline physical “limit” – the first point. It was a somewhat arbitrary, self-established limit. Despite being told to turn as far as we could, we stopped at a self-imposed comfort point.

Third. We mentally established a goal beyond the first one and we saw ourselves reaching the new point.

Fourth. Because we believed that we were going to succeed, and because we had visualized ourselves reaching the new goal, like thousands had before us, we responded in accordance with our belief.

WHAT ARE YOU REALLY SAYING ...

The irony was too perfect.

Parked just across from me was a beautiful 2010 Cadillac Escalade. Duly appointed in leather, chrome and all the niceties that wealth can afford in a luxury, platinum edition SUV, there was no subtlety in the message that this vehicle communicated. In the middle of its back window was a big window sticker that stated: “Bring It On. Vote Democrat.”

Parked next to the Escalade and appropriately to its right, was a 2009 Toyota Prius in that Silver Pine Mica color that says, “Be Green.” It too had a big window sticker on its back window, and it proudly proclaimed: “Oh It’s On. Vote Republican.”

So let’s repaint this picture.

On the left was an ostentatious, gas swilling (15 mpg), “Yeah, I’ve got money” SUV that shouted: Vote Democrat.

On the right was an unpretentious, gas stingy (nearly 50 mpg), “Yeah, I pinch pennies” hybrid that shouted: Vote Republican.

You can't make this stuff up.

HOW LONG IS YOUR LOVE LASTING …

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OMG. Look at them, I thought. They are sooo cute.

They were slowly walking toward the Whole Foods Market, hand in hand, and every now and again would look at each other with that ooshy smooshy “I’m so in love with you” look. There is something about the zeal and purity of true love that transcends the work and worries of the day.

As I am wont to do, being a writer and all, I waited for an opportune moment to approach them and ask them a few questions.

It didn’t take long. They had sat outside to enjoy some of the fresh fruit and bottled tea they had just bought.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m a writer and I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. Would that be okay?”

They looked at each other, smiled and almost in unison, said, “Sure.”

“You two seem so much in love,” I began. “How long have you been dating?”

“Dating?” she responded, as they both began to laugh. “Son, we’ve been ‘dating’ since our Junior year of high school but we’ve been married for almost 61 years,” she rather happily said.

“Sixty-one years. Wow, that’s great,” I said. “But you two seem like you just fell in love.”

“I did, son,” he said. “Just this morning. Just like I do every morning. When I wake up each morning, I give God thanks for two things. One, I thank God I’m still alive and then I thank Him that I have one more day with my beloved Hildie.”

“Oh Fred,” Hildie said, in that Wilma Flintstone sort of way.

“Well, it’s true Hildie and you know it,” he said to her. “Look at her, son,” he said to me. “How can I not fall in love with such a beautiful woman with each and every breath I take?” I nodded in polite agreement.

He went on. “She is my sunrise that gently wakes me every morning, giving me warmth and light for the day ahead. She is my dew that refreshes me and prepares me for the day’s growth. She is my shade under a maple tree that cools my brow from the mid-day heat. She is my soothing brook that renews my aching feet after a hard day’s work. She is my cup of tea that refreshes the lips. She is my candlelight that softens whatever harshness I’ve endured during the day and she is my blanket that keeps me warm through the cool night.”

“Oh Fred,” she said again, still in that Wilma Flintstone sort of way. “You’re just getting all poetic again.”

“Does he do that a lot?” I asked her.

“At least once a week,” she said.

“For sixty-one years?” I asked. I tried to do some quick math in my head, but that just wasn’t working.

As if to answer my unasked question, Hildie said, “That’s 3,521 poems he’s written me over the years, and I still have every one. From the first one he wrote on the one-week anniversary of our first date to the one he gave me two days ago.”

I sat there in stunned silence and awe.

“And I cherish each one,” she added. She looked at him, smiled and her eyes sparkled in a way that, were I not sitting across from her, I would have said was ‘shopped (as in a photo manipulated with Photoshop®).

Fred turned to her, smiled, and his eyes glistened with what I can only describe, rather poorly, as a man deeply and profoundly in love. Suddenly I felt very awkward, as if in the middle of something that shouldn’t have a middle.

“Um … Uh,” I stammered. “Thank you for sharing,” I said. “And congratulations.”

I sat in my car, occasionally shaking my head in near disbelief at the thought of someone writing a poem a week, and more, for more than 61 years. And all for the same woman. And she, saving each and every one, treasures as much for her heart as for her mind.

Treasures, I’m sure, that she cherished so deeply in her soul, that when she died and went to Heaven, they would still be there into eternity.

Treasures, I’m sure, that came from so deeply within his soul, he had no choice but to tenderly lay each word upon paper to present to the love of his life.

They expressed a love for each other, so unconditional and unending, that surely no thief could ever steal, no adversary could ever kill, no thing could ever destroy.

Perhaps they found the answer to the eons-old question: What is love?

DOES YOUR BEHAVIOR MATCH YOUR BUMPER STICKER …

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He leaned back in what had to be the most comfortable recliner ever created. The light shone behind him in that Hollywood way that makes the hair look like pure gold. He drew the Cohiba Behike slowly under his nose, as if savoring each millimeter of the hand-rolled silken leaves. Then with a quick and confident move he cut the cap.

He said, “light,” and before the word had even finished leaving his mouth, the white flame appeared just below the tip. As he rotated it, the leaves took on a glowing ring and he gently blew on them until he had rounded ash on the tip.

He put it to his lips and with a master’s touch, gave a puff outward. He then closed his eyes and drew an inward puff.

As he exhaled the smoke, it seemed to rest around his head like some heavenly halo.

“Mmmm,” he said simply. “It is good.”

At least that’s how I imagined it might look like, after hearing a little girl ask, “Why does God smoke, daddy?”

She and her dad had just exited from their minivan emblazoned with a bumper sticker that proclaimed: Do What Jesus Would Do.

Obviously, she had made the connection. If daddy smoked, then God must smoke. Which provoked my image of what God would look like stoking a stogie. Yet as strange as that must seem, her daddy’s response struck me even stranger.

“Because God is under a lot of stress, honey.”

Wow. Really?

Your little girl is thinking God smokes and the best answer you can come up with is that He’s under a lot of stress? Somebody needs to issue a recall on that guy’s bumper sticker.

I’D LIKE MY HAND BACK NOW, PLEASE …

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Having recently sprained the little finger on my right hand, I’ve been compelled to give a lot of thought to handshakes. Especially since some well-intentioned gentlemen have caused me some pain in the process.

Oh, not the kind of pain that makes me physically grimace and wince and squeal like a little girl (because that would not be manly), but the kind of pain that makes me mentally grimace and wince and squeal like a little girl (because in space, at least the space in my head, no one can hear you scream.)

In my life, I’ve shaken literally thousands of hands. From the dirty yet appreciative handshake of the beggar I brought to McDonald’s for a hot lunch and cold drink, to the clean and manicured handshake of a multi-millionaire who invited me into his lakeside mansion for cold-cuts and hot tea. From the weak to the strong, from the literally insane to the genius inane, from the powerless man on the streets to the most powerful man in the United States (the President), I’ve experienced dozens of different kinds of handshakes, including some that aren’t really handshakes.

I like to think that I have the best kind of handshake, an “old school” gentleman’s handshake. Neither particularly memorable nor offensive, it is a simple yet appropriately firm grasp of the hand.

But where on that handshake spectrum, do you think yours is and how many have you cringed at? Consider some of the possibilities:

The Bone Crusher. The Air Brusher. The Cold Fish. The Wet Fish. The Limp. The Bump. The Two-Finger. The Two-Hander. The Grasp-Bump-and-Pat (starts with a hand shake, then you pull each other forward and bump chests while patting each other on the back). The Come-Here-You (no handshake, just a hug – whether you want one or not). The What-Was-That. And my favorite handshake I love to hate – The WTF (where it sometimes starts with a handshake and then progresses to fist bumps and jazz fingers and air waves and arm-thingies and twists and turns and, you get it – WTF?).

And for the women who think I’m being sexist when I use the term “gentleman’s handshake.” Please. My wife and I have raised three strong, independent and successful daughters. Sometimes I call them my girls. And sometimes I call them my guys. For me it’s rather non-gender-specific. So in this instance, a “gentleman’s” handshake is not gender-specific or restrictive. I’m just not so politically correct that I find it necessary to refer to it as a “gentlewoman’s” handshake or a Ma'amShake or some other such silly reference.

Man or woman, when it comes to a handshake, all I really want to know is three things:

Do you believe in yourself?

Are you confident in your abilities?

Do you have a weapon in your hand?

If your answers are yes, yes and no, respectively, then give me a handshake that conveys that and forget all the other crap.

And if you grasp my hand and you notice a muffled scream emanating from the back of my head, don’t worry about it. That’s just my little finger being re-sprained.

HOW MANY TIMES A DAY DO WE THROW PERFECTLY GOOD WORDS AWAY …

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I like words. Big ones, small ones, common ones and unusual ones. When I was a kid I liked reading the dictionary. And the thesaurus. And yes, it was a really weird thing for a kid to enjoy doing. Even today, I will occasionally go to the dictionary and just read a page or two. Still weird but still enjoyable.

I recently used the word “deleterious” in something I was writing. I didn’t think about what word to use nor did I make a conscious decision to use that particular word, it just flowed naturally out of me.

I was questioned about my word usage and was tempted to replace it with something simpler and more readily understood. I decided it was a perfectly good word to use that accurately described what I wanted to say.

When my daughters were growing up and first learning to talk, my wife and I decided that we were going to speak “normally” to them. Regular adult conversation, not “baby talk.” If they didn’t understand a certain word we used, they asked what it meant and we told them. Instead of dumbing-down, we smartened-up.

Today, they are excellent communicators.

As you go through the days and months ahead, don’t be afraid to use a word or two that might require you to explain what it means. Your brain will thank you and the world will be a “brighter” place.

NOT EVERY BUM IS A BUM …

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It was my first month as Manager of the roadside diner, and the owner had stressed the importance of not giving free food or scraps to the transients and homeless that liked to come in. We typically got up to a dozen who would stop in at various times, asking for food. He told me that he had to learn the hard way. Once you give in, the word goes out to the streets and the diner gets inundated with people expecting, and sometimes demanding, their free handout. I took his advice to heart.

“Sarge” was a regular. He always came in around mid-morning and sat in the booth closest to the kitchen. He quietly drank his coffee, ate his plain donut and read a well-worn Bible. He always paid for his breakfast in coins, and he always left a 35-cent tip.

One day, during a slow time in the diner, I asked him how he came to live on the streets.

“Just one of those things,” he said. “Just one of those things.”

I then asked him why, since he didn’t have a lot of money, he always left a tip for the waitress.

He tapped his Bible, and said, “The laborer is worthy of his wages.”

There was something different about Sarge, something that told me he wasn’t like the usual transients and homeless that came in looking for handouts. There was a respectful quietness about him, and yet at the same time, a subtle strength. He was sort of like Mahatma Gandhi and the Incredible Hulk rolled into one. He never bothered anyone and no one bothered him.

One morning, about halfway through his coffee and donut, he began crying. I sat down across from him and asked what was wrong. He told me that about four years ago, he had befriended an old dog and they had been together ever since. But overnight, his dog died.

“I’m really alone now,” he said.

I asked him if there was anything I could do for him. He said, “No. Thanks, but no. Nothing.” And he lowered his head.

I offered him a breakfast special, but he said he couldn’t afford it. I told him it would be on the house.

“No. Thanks,” he said. Then he tapped his Bible and said, “The laborer is worthy of his wages.”

I told him that I could use a little help organizing a storage closet and I would really appreciate it if he could help me out, in exchange for a breakfast or two.

He looked up at me, studied me for about ten seconds, and said, “Okay. I can do that.”

He spent about a half hour and did a rather good job of organizing and cleaning the storage closet.

I don’t know how long it had been since he had eaten a full meal, but he seemed truly grateful for his breakfast. I gave him my business card and told him that if he needed anything, to give me a call and I would see what I could do.

He looked at me, and again studied me for about ten seconds. Then he said, “Okay. I can take your card,” and he nodded his head.

I got distracted by a delivery guy in the back of the diner, so I didn’t notice when he left. But I did notice he left 68 cents for a tip.

Later that day, I found his old Bible sitting on one of the shelves in the storage closet. I put it by the cash register so that I could give it to him the next morning.

The next morning came and went, but for the first time, Sarge did not.

A few days later, a police detective stopped in the diner to ask me a few questions about Sarge. He had died after being hit by a drunk driver.

The detective said they found my business card in his shirt pocket.

Written on the back of it, in pencil, were two words: “Not alone.”