Hey you guys,
This is from last year, but we did it again a couple of days ago on New Years morning.

A couple we love was staying with us so before I would agree to serve them breakfast — we gathered up some scraps of paper and scribbled notes to ourselves. I’ve noticed that hungry people in pajamas will do whatever you ask of them.

We wrote down things we want to change, things that went well, single words that hold a charge, sayings that carry magic, curse words, blessings and more. Then we chanted some incantations and danced naked (well, maybe only I did that), and into the fire they went!

Instant Resurrection wth a side order of transformation. Brought to us by fire.

I highly encourage you all to do the same. Because who doesn’t need some resurrection? Especially after surviving 2016 ( the year that was supposed to be unbearably light.)

Carry on,
xox

Goddamn, I love rituals. Beginnings and endings. Marking time. Rites of passage.

I figure that love seeped into my DNA after sitting in a smokey Catholic church inhaling Frankincense for pretty much my entire youth (it may also explain a ton of other crazy attributes I’d rather not go into).
What it DOES explain is my obsession with incense, focused prayer, incantations, and human sacrifice. Well, that and the fact that I’m certain I had a past life as some kind of mystical druid sorceress taken right out of the pages of Mists Of Avalon.
Or better yet, Merlin.
But more likely the medieval court jester who wore a silly hat, sported pointy shoes with bells and lived under a bridge with the trolls.

Anyhow, I decided to take everything that had to do with my failed business and burn it.
A perfectly legal Ritual Sacrifice. Of paperwork. Paperwork that held power over me.

2015 was the year of dealing with paperwork. I would have rather had a root canal without Novocaine.
I finally found it in me to throw what merchandise remained into an auction and dissolve the corporation which had been insolvent for several years but had retained a kind of sick sentimental place in my heart—like a shitty high-school boyfriend or a threadbare flannel nightgown.

I basically broke up with ATIK. It was time. Actually, it was way past time.

The relationship had become unbalanced. In a nutshell, it had become completely, horribly and totally dysfunctionally one-sided. I was doing all the emotional heavy lifting, holding the history of our love together while Atik went on an extended five-year vacation with a stripper named Trixie, forgetting my name and the fact that we once meant the world to each other.
Oh well, shit happens.

Once the litigation shitastrophy dust had settled I was left with a HUGE satchel that I’d been toting around for years filled with tons and tons of legal fuckery.
It was heavy in all the ways you can imagine and others you cannot. It lived in a shed in the backyard as physically far away from me as sadistic legal paperwork feels comfortable and even though it’s my office— I seldom went back there. I hated that thing.

So I decided to burn the contents as a ritual releasing of the old dragged-behind-a-car energy of 2009-2012 in order to move on.

2016—The Year of Unbearable Lightness. Burn that shit and get on with it!

So I did.

I had to let it go. Stop life-support. Kill it. Put us both out of our misery.

Time of death of Atik Inc. 12 p.m. December 26, 2015.

After quickly going through the toxic waste of debauchery to make sure I wasn’t, in my haste to dance naked in the flames, torching something important, I started the gas in my fireplace, set my intention “DO NOT EVER Darken My doorstep with your toxic bullshit AGAIN!” (I cleaned that up. It was much worse than that).

And then I said thank you to the worst thing that has EVER happened to me for all of the valuable insights and gifts it has delivered. I really did you guys but it’s taken me six years to get there.

Then I squealed with unabashed joy as I watched it go up in smoke. All of it.

My husband came in from outside and said the smoke smelled really bad. Oh, I bet it did.

That paperwork held so much sadness and failure and hopes dashed. It was filled with terse language and mean words. Horrible words. Words that cut me to the core. Words that human beings should never say to each other. Mad words. Words filled with rage wrapped in legalese.

I’m surprised the smoke didn’t get all Voldemort and come back inside the house and strangle me. I’m telling you, that was a satchel full of failure and it wanted to finish me.

But, I have already risen from the ashes—I am FREE.

I may have a had a little help with my pyro-ritual. There may have been a fellow recovering broken-hearted soul who was throwing his/her “annus horribilis” into the fire right beside me.

So now WE are free.

I cannot recommend this ritual highly enough.

Please, please consider doing this with anything toxic from your past. You don’t need a fireplace! I did it many years ago to free myself from a relationship whose grip I could not escape. I just put a large metal pot in the kitchen sink and lit a match burning all the old photos and letters. Many years later I did it again in my backyard on a rainy night (you may remember that post).
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=1877&action=edit

Fire is healing.
Smoke is healing.
Endings are healing.
Rituals are healing.
Starting a new year feeling lighter is healing AND freeing.

And I’ve come to realize I’m a bit of a pyromaniac.

Love you all & Carry on,
xox

Ruby supervises the process about half-way through.

My friend Michele wrote this to all of her friends recently and I have to say, right on my sista from another mister!

Carry on,
xox

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.

Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post because it’s all about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no small feat.

He’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeon rapscallion of epic proportions.  HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.

Here on Earth 2.0, I miss common decency. I think we all do.

So here’s a dollop courtesy of my own, personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him, all of you, and your decency and continued loyalty. Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2019!
xox

AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is an understatement!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and the sex.

Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this coming.

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to completely ignore me and practically fall all over themselves (in a nebulous, ghosty way), calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, nope. Nothing like that.

More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Abbot to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly. I have to aquiece to the undenialble fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.

I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.

He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.

So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him.

He had becoome Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.

Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the person sloooooowy backed out of the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of them was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t do it!)

As the pickup truck drove off, the driver made eye contact and flipped my husband the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

No matter. He walked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over.

So, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and left.

The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood up to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.

So decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes you guys!

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eyeroll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.

Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox

There are Masters walking among us you guys. Teachers. Wise ones.

They don’t wear white robes. They don’t levitate or walk on water (well, not in public).

They wear the disguise of a mere mortal.

Sometimes, the ones we tend to overlook the easiest. The unassuming. The forgotten.

The harried waitress, the sweet kid at the Christmas tree lot, the homeless guy in front of Starbucks.

Read this short story about just such a Master from my wickedly talented writer, sister-friend, Mel—in my other sister-friend’s new magazine! #lovemytribe

Then go and grab yourselves some holiday cheer!
Carry on,
xox

http://www.huntsvillelifemagazine.com/single-post/2016/12/18/A-LESSON-IN-HUMANITY

You are going to be so happy to know this!

As I was digging through my totes of Christmas decorations this year, at the very bottom, buried by an old, torn tree skirt that is too sentimental to throw away yet always escapes me when its time to take it to be mended, and an old reindeer antler headband for the dog, (which still makes me guffaw with laughter and infuriates my husband—because dogs have no business wearing hats or headbands)—was the Troll Angel.

“Sister girl, where have you been?” I squealed.

She looked up at me with those oversized eyes, cotton candy mohawk and the same bad attitude she displayed thirty years ago. God I love it when inanimate objects freeze in time!

You see, the Troll Angel was the tree topper for my sister and me when we lived together in the 80’s. It said Yeah, my face looks like this because I have a Christmas tree up my skirt—what’s YOUR excuse?

It was irreverent and full of sass. Just like us. Which got me to thinking…

We keep ornaments for a lifetime but treetoppers change with the times. I think a treetopper may just be an un-unsciency marker of where we are in life.

This is mine these days. A vintage 1960’s brightly colored version of Aunt Barbara. All business in the front —and party in the back. Tipsy…topsy..turvy. Kinda like the current me.

But, seriously! Think about it. I had a guy friend back in the day when we were a decade shy of thirty, who displayed an old deflated basketball on the top of his tree. It was from some high school championship game he…blah..blah…blah…anyway…through the years it got so old and frayed it started to looks like Wilson from Castaway. God bless him, he kept it that way until he got married. Then that girl started calling the shots and threw that thing out faster than you can say #Christmasbuzzkiller.

My accountant’s tree wears a Santa hat. Wow. What an imagination!

One mixed faith couple I know have a Star of David on the top of theirs. I think nothing says Christmas like compromise.

Many well intentions are housed in a tree topper.
Here are a few examples.

This one says: “Dog people can be scary.”

This one says: “Diane, get my flute!”

Okay, you guys. Go look at your tree. What does the topper say about you? It’s uncanny, right?

Happy Holidays & Carry on,
xox

This is making the rounds on social media and I adore it! So, of course, I had to share it just in case you haven’t seen it yet.
Big candy cane kisses,
xox

I don’t know about you guys but I love “unknown”. “Unknown” is so wise and says the greatest shit. Which leads me to believe “unknown” knew I needed to remember this now more than ever.

Carry on,
xox

Hi everyone,
One more week to go!

I hope this finds you not too stressed out and enjoying at least some of the cheer the holidays have to offer. Me, you ask? I’m coping with regular meditation, lots of self-care and…oh who am I kidding? I’m polishing off chocolate chip cookies at an alarming rate!

Listen, this is the season of giving and I’m such a giver (ha) that I wanted to pass along this podcast to you guys. It’s longer than normal so I’m doing it on the weekend because it’s totally worth a listen!

The interviewer is my favorite bookmama Linda Siversten, founder of my favorite book tribe the Big Beautiful Writers Group, and she’s sitting down for an in-depth chat with one of my favorite gurus and her pal Guru Singh.

They talk about life, creativity, the “ambrosia” hours, his book Buried Treasures, (which I read this time last year and loved!)  Even the election results!

Listen to it while you wrap presents. While you’re sitting in the airport or stuck on the freeway. I listened while I ran errands yesterday and the time flew by!

Okay. Here you go. Gird your loins. You will make it through these last seven days, I promise.

Love you,
xox

https://www.amazon.com/Buried-Treasures-Journey-Where-You/dp/1497594324/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1482070677&sr=1-1&keywords=buried+treasures+guru+singh

bookmama.com

This is one of the most requested holiday posts. Happy Weekend ‘y’all!

If you can believe it, and I know you can – I had a dream last night about being a snowflake.
I was with all the other snowflakes, waiting in line to fall to earth.

It was very noisy, because us snowflakes are a chatty bunch.
We have to get it all out before we jump.
All the gossip the complaining and the bad snowflake jokes,(and trust me, they are the worst), because after we leave the cloud – we are required to remain silent.

Everyone was laughing, chewing gum and eating Red Vines, as snowflakes do. Man, there was a lot of excitement in the air!

What I can remember the most, is looking around and admiring, well, really, I was envying everyone else’s designs.
There was such a display of creativity and individuality that it blew my little snowflake mind!

Every flake seemed to be showing their best crystals.
One was really pointed, with great right angles, and deep cuts.
Another had more rounded edges, with huge cut out sections. (Someone had obviously been running with scissors.)

But what I noticed above all else, was that the designs matched their personalities perfectly.

The outside totally matched what was inside.

What strikes me now as I’m thinking about it, was that I was unable to see MY design. I could not get a glimpse of myself.
There are apparently no full length mirrors at that point in line.

As I looked for a shiny surface to catch my reflection, I began to notice how I was being looked at with the same degree of admiration by the other flakes – but of course, even though I had no idea what they saw, I liked THEIR designs better than my own.

I wanted to go back to the “snowflake drawing board” and make just a couple of revisions. I felt inspired. No one told me we could make a nip here or a tuck there.

I had no idea we could be as bold as what I was observing around me.

As I got closer to the front of the line, I suddenly had this realization:

I WAS special and I was good at this,
I had done this many times,
I had fallen as rain,
I had pelted the earth as hail and sleet,
But now, HA! I got to be creative – I got to be a snowflake!

One of a kind – sparkling, crystalline, and magnificent!

All of the sudden there was a hush as we all became more present and very serious. Everybody ditched their gum under a table, gave each other big hugs, making sure not to smear our sparkles, and with a minimum of fanfare, but filled with great pride,

…We jumped. Look for us!

Merry Christmas Loves,
Xox