Anyway, while zooming (sort of) down a hill next to a wetland area near my home, a little Red-Winged Blackbird flew out from the reeds along the road, settled right off my right shoulder, slightly out of arms’ reach, and paced me for several hundred yards. He occasionally flapped his wings wildly, and at other times, glided to stay in place off my shoulder. He turned his head several times to look at me. I could see him float up an down an inch or two on the wind as we both “flew” down the hill.

Now, here’s where some of you might think, “Uh-oh, Bill’s gone off the deep end…” As this little one flew next to me I imagined what it might be like to be him and fly, occasionally flapping wildly, and at other times, just floating on the breeze. It was almost in that moment of thought that I swear I could actually FEEL what it was like to be that little bird. Lighter than a feather, with green reeds rushing by. I could feel the slight dips as I glided, and the wind against my face. Now, remember, the operative word at the beginning of this paragraph is IMAGINED. For those few moments, I WAS the little bird. It was such a peaceful experience, and left me feeling good the rest of the day. I hope the little bird heard me say “Thank you” out loud as he darted back into the reeds. It was a very special experience for me, and I hope for him as well.

Anyway, I thought about it later, and regardless of what you might think or believe, my IMAGINATION was what made the experience so REAL, and now I FINALLY understand the principle of “ACT AS IF.” It takes imagination, immersion into your subject, whether it be a thin person to lose weight, a wealthy person to feel what it’s like to “make money,” or whatever.

Our success and happiness can be guided by our imagination, so DREAM BIG!!!

Now, however, as my daily activities are no longer deeply submerged in things scientific, I like to think of the possibilities.

For instance, have you ever REALLY thought it possible to be clairvoyant? I have, and think it is in the realm of possibility for us all. Does it take training? I don’t know, but it certainly must require you to train your mind to work in a special way. What with all the theory surrounding the zero point field, Akashic Records, and the like, I like to believe that scientists DON’T KNOW more than they actually know, and are sharing even less than that with the rest of us.

How about your body’s ability to heal itself without the assistance of drugs, medical devices, or doctors? Certainly there are books and books full of testimonials for various unconventional treatment methods, or spontaneous healing to convince all but the most hardened skeptic.

What I’m getting to here is, in the words of Napoleon Hill, I believe, “What the mind can conceive, it can achieve.” Why not take a little time, think of the possibilities, and see what happens?

Honor, courage, and just plain guts is what it is, I suppose. Honesty and integrity along with the willingness to see things through to the end.

I know Hollywood romanticizes the cowboy, but if there wasn’t some smattering of truth, the legends wouldn’t have persisted for all these years. And, truth be told, I’ve met my share of modern cowboys, giving an honest day’s work for an honest wage. Making their own way without help from anyone else or relying on the government, and enduring to the end, regardless of what life throws in their path.

The way I see it, there’s much to be learned from even a romanticized Western hero. Stand firm and stand tall. And, even when it seems the weight of the world is on your shoulders and everybody in town seems to be against you, grunt right back and overcome.

And, when it’s all over, swing your leg over the saddle and ride off, into the sunset.

I believe we’re all put here for a specific purpose. Whether you consider it the meaning of your life, or something you must achieve before you slip your earthly bounds, it’s a question I’m fairly you’ve asked yourself many, many times. I ask it myself quite often, as a matter of fact.

I used to think my “special purpose” was only to provide a comfortable, loving home life for my family. You know, a nice, warm home, sufficient food on the table, and taking the time to insure everyone was as healthy and happy as possible.

I also used to think my calling in life was to create as much joy as possible in as many people as I could. Certainly a lofty goal.

I think I’ve been fairly successful in both, for the most part, but as of late, there have been many times when I’ve felt certain there’s something more. Multi-millionaire, able to spread joy to others financially? Or, do something for the greater good with that money? That would be nice, but I don’t see it as my “special purpose.”

So, for months now, even at my “advanced” age, I’ve been looking at ways I can identify that ONE THING as Curly said in “City Slickers.” I’ve read tons of books, surfed various sites using all types of related keywords, and even experimented with my life a bit. But, that one thing just hasn’t surfaced yet.

Steve Pavlina wrote a wonderful blog post on how to find your purpose, and I’ve gone through the exercise several times without experiencing the physical indication I’d found it. Limiting my list? Perhaps. Not digging deep enough? No doubt. After all the books, all the web sites, and other resources, I think Steve’s method rang the truest to me. Just, in my case, no results yet.

So, on occasion, I break out the notebook, draw a line down the middle of another page, and start writing. Perhaps one day before my friends throw me in a hole in the ground and toss dirt on my face, I’ll find it. I just hope it doesn’t come with the same timing experienced by Charles Foster Kane.

I suppose this is another prime example of the scarcity principle of marketing/copywriting in action!!!

Whatever happened to “the good old days” when a clerk would just call the bank the check was from, give them the account number and the amount, and get approval? You remember way back when, don’t you? The clerk would pull a huge stamp from under the register, flip your check over, stamp it, and with the phone cradled against the shoulder, fill out some cryptic numbers and such while talking to the bank.

Technology is great most of the time, but I see it taking a bit away from us at the same time.

It makes me want to find some stationary and just write someone a letter. Any takers?

For instance, today, I got up, quickly put my taxes together, hit the send button, and flew out the door for a dental appointment. After an hour in the chair, I walked out with two brand, spankin’ new crowns adorning my back molars, with my lower lip dragging on the ground. I got home, checked Twitter, of course, just curious to see what everyone was “tweeting” about, and then settled-in for the remainder of my day.

Now that it’s Spring, I look forward to breaking up my day with a nice 15 to 20 mile bike ride at lunch. But today, the skies looked a little dark, and the temp was a bit cooler than normal. I waited, and waited, and waited… Didn’t get much work done either, and by the time I decided the elements were all perfect for a ride, it was too late. Other commitments got in the way. “He who hesitates is lost” rang through my head for several hours thereafter, and now, I wonder if I really accomplished all that much, even though I woke up on the right side of the grass today.

Tomorrow is supposed to be much cooler, with rain and snow threatening, but you know what, I’m going to go out for a ride at lunch anyway, regardless of the wind or weather. Sometimes, you have to take the chance, and step out for those things you want.

Even the most mundane of days contains a lesson, doesn’t it?

I also had a nice, long phone conversation with a very precious friend of mine (billable hours timer clicks off…). We chatted for a long time about internet marketing, making career changes, family, and many other things. You know, the time flew by, and when we had hung up, I realized this visit over the phone was one of the best parts of my day today. Isn’t that usually the case?

I grew up in a semi-rural area of Western New York State where there was no such thing as sidewalks, fences (except those to keep the dairy cattle out of our yards), or wicked people. We all knew each others’ parents, were always welcome at each others’ homes, and spent most, if not all our waking hours playing outside, even in the bitter Winter weather, common near Lake Ontario.

One of our favorite things to play, of course, was “Army.” All of us watched “Combat” on the old black and white, and after each episode, we could hardly wait to go outside, pick sides, and commence to make the world safe for democracy.

We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich, either, and there wasn’t the proliferation of toy stores there are today. We rooted around each others’ garages for things to make guns and other deadly weapons from, usually out of scrap wood our fathers had tossed aside from some project. Of course, after the battle we had to return everything since we never knew whether Dad had specifically saved that piece of wood for some other purpose. We’d cut, and nail, and hammer, putting together deadly Thompson or Schmeisser machine guns, or M-1s if we had an especially long piece to work with.

Well, one day, rooting in the garage right after breakfast, I found the PERFECT accessory to go along with my Schmeisser. An old fishing rod handle, the rod broken off, lay in the corner, and I though what a wonderful “Potato Masher” (German hand grenade) that would make. So, out of the garage I ran, heading up the hill to meet all my buddies, Tommy, Jimmy, Billy, and several others, to pick sides and start the war.

Well, as luck would have it, I wound up on the German side, while my best friend, Timmy, was on the American side. Our road had ditches on each side, providing perfect cover for the would-be warrior. We settled-in, bobbing up and down, making machine gun noises with our mouths, and shouting, “I got you…YOU’RE DEAD,” which was always replied with “Uh-Uh, you missed!” And so the morning would go until our moms called us all in for lunch.

Well, I waited for the perfect time to lob my grenade across the street to devastate the enemy. It didn’t take long.

Timmy, a bit younger than the rest of us, bobbed up with his plastic helmet flying off, his deadly stick-gun raising to shoot me. I cocked my arm back, the Potato Masher winding up, but instead of lobbing it across, since I was also in little league baseball, I threw a perfect strike!!!

I watched as the deadly missile screamed across the street, headed directly for Timmy. THWACK!!! Perfectly aimed, the handle hit Timmy right between the eyes!

I felt the blood rush out of my head, as I watched, in slow motion, as Timmy’s eyes rolled back into his head, he pitched backward, and blood started gushing all over his face.

MOM! MOM! Billy killed Timmy! Billy killed Timmy! Mrs. Zeigler, dressed, of course, in the requisite 50s mother cotton dress and apron, started running from their house, and I high-tailed it to my own, crying all the way.

I got home, ran upstairs, and hid in the section of the attic my dad hadn’t yet finished, crying. I KNEW I had killed my best friend.

It seemed like forever before my mom came upstairs (of course, there were several times beforehand the phone rang and I heard mumbled talking downstairs).

Mom retrieved me from the attic, marched me downstairs, and walked me to the front door, saying sternly, “You need to go up and see Mrs. Zeigler.” She pushed me out the door, shut it in my face, and left me standing on the front porch.

So, what do I do? Should I run? Are the police up there waiting for me? The only good place to hide outside was too far away, on the other side of the dairy farm, and I wasn’t allowed in the pasture during the Summer, so I had only one choice…face the music.

I slowly walked up to Timmy’s house, expecting to find him pale and stretched out in a wooden box propped up on the side of the house, just like the Westerns I loved watching.

I got to Timmy’s house, rang the bell, and Mrs. Zeigler came to the door, saying, “Come in.” My head low, I followed her to the kitchen, and what did I see but Timmy, sitting at the table, two plates with sandwiches and even potato chips in front of him. A big bandage covered his forehead, and he was smiling. HE WAS ALIVE!

Mrs. Zeigler said, “Sit down and have some lunch.” Almost as if nothing at all had happened.

While eating, I found out Timmy had been taken up the street to the neighborhood doctor (he practiced out of his home), gotten 4 stitches in his head, and was sent home, just a little worse for wear. While we were finishing our chocolate milk, we planned what to do the rest of the day, and decided we were going to camp out in his backyard that night, staying up as long as we could, reading comics by flashlight, and catching fireflies in the dark.

Just a couple years later, at age 10, I cried as my family moved to California, taking me away from my best friend. I only saw him one more time, a couple years later, and that was it. I never heard about him again.

Sometimes, as I think about my childhood, I wonder whatever happened to him, his brother, and sister. And, I remember how, regardless of which side I was on, I always made sure Timmy and I fought together from then on.