awareness

• People always ask me if I’m afraid I’m going to die on the motorcycle, which leads me to ask them: Are you afraid to live?

  About ten years ago, we, my hubby and I, decided to take our “Left Turn Ride.”
  Our plan, (which was hatched over too much wine on a Friday night, but brilliant just the same) was to ride up the west coast of the US, from LA to Vancouver Island, British Columbia, staying as far left as the roads would allow without having to wear a wetsuit.

  Our trip motto: When in doubt – turn left.

  Those were in the days before I met Ginger who turned me onto custom earphones and the concept of riding with music playing at all times. I now go to great lengths to assemble the perfect soundtrack for each day of our rides.
  Big, sweeping instrumentals for curves and great scenery, Sting for the moors of Scotland and Ireland, Billy Joel, Annie Lennox or Gaga for city riding and even a best-selling book for the long stretches of flat, straight, highway in Wyoming.

  On this “Left Turn Ride” I had only my own thoughts to keep me company, which could put me into a kind of zoned out state of bliss, or wreak havoc, depending on what I was seeing, how much sleep and coffee I’d had, and my general state of being that day.

  I know.

  Crap shoot, in head to toe Kevlar, on two wheels going 80 m.p.h.
  
  I’m a pretty even-tempered person, relatively low maintainance (if you just heard a thud, that’s my husband falling out of his chair) I’ve even been known to fall asleep on the back of the bike.
  No, you don’t fall off.
  No, I don’t admit any of this to my mother.

  Up the coast of Oregon and Washington we rode through mile after mile of gorgeous redwood forests.
  The scent of pine is one of my all time favorite things in the world next to the sound of babies laughing and bacon.
  Redwoods and Pine trees are at the top of my list of the reasons Why I Ride.
  They feed my soul.

  Sometimes the forest gets so dense and dark and the smell gets so strong, like a Christmas tree farm, you become completely transported to another time and place; of fairies, devas and magic. The trees truly are not just living, but ALIVE, and so is the forest……and therein lies the rub.

  One day in central Oregon, if I remember correctly, we saw remnants on the road of a deer that had the misfortune of meeting the front bumper of a logging truck at 65 mph.
  Then another.
  The next day, a red pickup truck was at a gas station, totaled on all four sides as a huge buck had gone up and over the front hood and windshield, with its legs making contact with the side panels on its way down the back and straight to heaven.
  That is when my thoughts, left to their own devices without the distraction of music, went to work on me.

  “What happens if we hit a deer?” I asked later at lunch, picking all the good bits out of my salad.

  My husband looked at me as if I just slapped him and slowly put down his fork.
  Shaking his head and fiddling with his paper napkin (he HATES paper napkins, it’s the French in him) he let out a long sigh.

  “Well, I will try to slow down if I have the chance, I won’t jam on the brakes and I won’t swerve to get out of the way because THAT will kill us for sure.”

  I stopped chewing.

  “When we hit it, the guts will splatter all over us, the deer will die, it’ll total the front of the bike, but hopefully we’ll be okay.”

  Shit. I dropped my fork.

  “If it’s an Elk or a Moose, you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
  I’ll do all the same things, I’ll slow down, go straight ahead…..but we’ll all die. That’s a huge animal.”

  He nonchalantly picked up his fork and started to eat again, like he just given me the weather report.
  Cloudy with a chance of reindeer.
  I’m crying now, and in my best freaked out seven-year old voice I wailed:
  “What!!!!!!!??????? You mean…we could DIE! Holy shit!”

  He was laughing now, big giant guffaws of laughter.
  “You’re kidding, right? It never occurred to you that you could die on a motorcycle?”

  Because my fate suddenly seemed uncertain and life too short; I stopped a passing waitress and ordered a hot fudge sundae.

  “Well, no. Certainly not at the hands of a Bambi.”

  He went on to explain that the greatest threat was when the wildlife was most active – dusk and dawn. That is apparently when the most vehicle versus fauna accidents occur.

  My husband has this theory about accidents. They are a series of random events that converge at the same time and place. If you remove ONE component, the accident cannot occur. For instance, if you forget something and run back into the house delaying your departure by five minutes, that will either place you on or remove you from the accident timeline.

  I wanted to remove us from that timeline.

  My new rule: No riding before nine in the morning and kickstands down by five.
  
  Suddenly my beautiful pine forests were filled with terrifying, furry, four-legged terrorists ready to leap out at any moment and render us dead.

  Why I Ride is all about the experiences. It’s about Living life.

  Hadn’t I just said that to the person that asked me if I was afraid of dying?

  Now I found myself afraid for tens of hours a day, my eyes searching for animals lurking in the landscape, ready to leap.
  Cute became creepy.

  Fuck I hate fear, it changes you…..it was changing me.
  It was making me afraid of some implied danger, trading beautiful experiences for the illusion of safety.

  I was willing to forgo some of my all time favorite things –– the sunrise and sunset rides, the mystical, foggy, early morning departures right after coffee with the promise of a big breakfast after a couple of hours of sleepy coastal roads.

• No way Jose, I’m sleeping in. Those brazen killers will be stirring at that hour.

  Wait…why do I ride?
  (To be continued)

  Xox

  

Creation!
Think about it.
This world operates on a kind of cosmic auto-pilot where Divine Order prevails.

Buds turn into flowers, acorns to oaks, tadpoles to frogs and an egg and sperm into a human being.
It is automatic, pre-programmed alchemy, mixed with a dash of abracadabra and a pinch of magic.

If you’ve ever planted a garden from seeds you’ve witnessed this.
One day there is dirt. Then maybe some dirt and fertilizer. Later, you throw down some seeds, quite randomly actually, trying your best to duplicate Mother Nature; add some water and sunshine and voila! In a few days, from what was previously barren earth, little green sprouts start to peek their way into existence.

You, with a lot of help from the Universe, have created SOMETHING from NOTHING.

That never ceases to amaze me when I slow down long enough to actually let it sink in.

SOMETHING from NOTHING.

Ideas become real, caught in third dimension, for eyes to behold, scholars to ponder, haters to hate.
We cannot help it, residing in this world of creation.
It is everywhere.
Bee hives and boobies, birds nests, coral reefs, ant hills.
Nature is constantly showing off. Her cycles of birth, life and death, showing us the way.
It’s that ashes to ashes thing she does so well.

SOMETHING from NOTHING.

The earliest men and women stared at the blank walls of their caves and after dinner and dishes, they drew with ash from their fire what they saw around them.
It’s in our genes.

A blank canvas calls the painter to it, like the marble summons the sculptor.
Aren’t we all glad the marble didn’t summon the painter, the canvas the cook?
Divine Order is savvy that way. An acorn doesn’t become a rosebush any more than we hatch from eggs, it’s all been worked out and it’s perfect.

SOMETHING from NOTHING

It’s the same with writing.
I start with a blank screen. Some days it taunts me with its blankness, but then the Muse starts to talk, and when she talks I listen – and I write.
Soon, that blank screen is filled with five hundred words. In the old days I would have been engulfed in a sea of crumpled rejects, these days if something doesn’t jell it’s as easily forgotten as delete, delete, delete.
I know I’m no different from every other writer when I confess to being as surprised as anyone, that the ideas actually make it to the page.

SOMETHING from NOTHING.

Cooking.
Random ingredients, spices, oil, water, et al, gathered into an empty pot, simmering, beckoning for recognition. An hour ago this dish ceased to exist. I’ve said it before – add the final ingredient, LOVE.
It’s freaking alchemy. I’m telling you.

If you make jewelry, it all starts with an idea. Then add gold, stones and artistry.

If you build a house – idea. Then add dirt lot, lumber, elbow grease.

If you write a song, it’s an idea that attaches itself to music. How about THAT.

Every Corporation, company, great cause, charity, invention, started as an invisible idea.

SOMETHING from NOTHING.

As I see it, it goes:
idea, intent, execution…..stand back……repeat.

We all do this in so many aspects of our day to day life, I think it’s important to recognize the alchemy and be appreciative of the fact that Divine Order exists.

SOMETHING from NOTHING.

What do you think? What have you created today?
Do you take the time to notice Divine Order in nature?
I’d love it if you told me what you create from nothing – Share it with us!

If you’d rather listen than read, I get it, here you go:

https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/something-from-nothing

Big love,
Xox

Remember permission slips?

Those signed (or forged) whichever the case may be; pieces of paper that granted us access to off the grid childhood activities?
Weekend trips with Girl Scouts, grade school field trips to museums or the Observatory, Wednesday McDonald’s hamburger lunches in sixth grade?

Proudly, I had my dad’s signature down pat, the giant R of Roy with the straight tail of the Y, ending downward, no curling back up, no frills at all, very masculine, completely unlike my own girly sixth grade cursive; so occasionally, even though I had brought my delicious Spam with mustard on Wonder Bread sandwich in my Partridge Family lunch box for lunch that Wednesday, I’d permission slip myself a burger.

Forging (not to be confused with foraging) for food……hmmmmmm I’m sure there’s some deep hidden meaning in there.

Anyway…….
Brene Brown talks about writing HERSELF permission slips.

I LOVE that idea.

When she was on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday, she had one tucked inside the pocket of her jean jacket.

It read: I give you permission to be excited, goofy and uncool.
Just show up and be seen.

From what I observed she didn’t get too giggly or over stare, she had her occasional “Holy Shit, I’m sitting with Oprah” moments and they felt completely authentic and actually a bit brave.
She didn’t pretend “Oh hey, no big deal, I’m fine, I’m cool.”

As the story goes, after the show she heard that Maya Angelou was in another part of the building recording some audio poems. So instead of nonchalantly replying: “Oh, that’s nice” she abandoned cool once again and told Oprah how much she admired Dr Angelou.
After all, she still had the permission slip in her pocket; and as is often the case, the Universe rewards genuineness.
Oprah asked if she’d like to meet Dr. Angelou.

Hell yeah! (My words – just guessing)

Here are her feelings about the encounter in her own words:
“So grateful that I got to meet Dr. Angelou, look her in the eye, and tell her what her work means to me. When I told her that I love playing her reading of “I shall not be moved” for my students and children, she grabbed my hand and sang, “Like a tree planted by the river, I shall not be moved.” It was a sacred moment.”

Just imagine if she’d brushed off the mention of Maya Angelou with a Too Cool For School attitude, she would have missed that once in a lifetime moment.

How many wonderful, sacred, ridiculously epic moments do we circumvent due to our habit of playing it cool?

How many beautiful creations do we talk ourselves out of?

How many people do we meet and feel a connection with……and do nothing?

How many books are unwritten, paintings un painted, businesses un started and plans unhatched because we lack the courage?

Maybe all we need is PERMISSION.

I for one, have started her practice of the permission slip.

Here are some I’ve written lately:

I give myself permission to not always know what I’m doing.
I give myself permission to play more.
I give myself permission to suck while writing the book.
I give myself permission to be happy even though I don’t have a “job”
I give myself permission to not like everyone

If you Google BRENE BROWN PERMISSION SLIPS and look at images, there are hundreds of ideas if you have trouble getting started.

I’d LOVE it if you’d write at least one thing in the comments. Tell me, share, you’ll give other people the courage to do it and maybe give them a few ideas too.

Go ahead –
I give myself permission to__________________.

I give myself permission to adore you guys,
Xox

*This is reprise of a popular post from November of last year, so it will be new to many of you. Enjoy your weekend!

Standing and staring at my naked reflection in the Nordstrom’s dressing room mirror (that in its previous life was a circus fun house mirror.) I’m cringing under that hideous fluorescent lighting that is so bright you could preform neurosurgery, yet somehow, it still manages to cast perfect shadows on every lump, bump and divot my thighs possess; I suppress the urge to cry as a Cadillac sized lump forms in my throat.

I am not trying on swimsuits, although that form of torture is just as necessary an evil.
I’m standing with a pile of Spanx at my feet, racked with waves of intense vulnerability even though I’m the only one in the room. Hell, who am I kidding? I’m a tougher self critic than a thousand Joan Rivers’.

But everyone can relate to that…right?

Oh, what about singing alone on stage?
Is that vulnerable enough?
Under the unforgiving gaze of a spotlight on a pitch black stage, I’m positive everyone in the front row can see my lips trembling…
Deeeeep breath…can they smell my flop sweat?

But all of this is my own damn fault.

When spring had sprung back in 2010 and I realized, shit,
who am I now that I don’t have a job, let alone a career?

Life appeared black and white to me, drained of all color.
I fell into a funk. it was deeper than a funk actually, it was my own personal, dark swirling edie of despair.

During that long summer, I would sit at the computer in my pajamas at two in the afternoon (something I NEVER do unless I’m ridiculously ill, in which case I don’t troll the internet, I watch I LOVE LUCY reruns) and I would search the World Wide Web for something to make me happy.

I’d spend hours watching silly cat videos, and babies laughing at tearing paper.

What brings me joy? I would ask myself.
Myself thought the question was rhetorical, so it just kept putting different searches into Google.
What makes me happy, besides what I’ve done all these years?

Who AM I without that?

Singing used to make me happy, I thought one day, remembering the ancient history of that time long, long ago, before I turned 30.

MUSICAL THEATRE ADULT WORKSHOP

I had sung and done theatre from the age of about 7 until I turned 30.
That was the day I became a grown up.
Better said, it was the day I realized I wanted to live above the poverty level. I wanted to have more than $50 in my my bank account.
I wanted to see the world, AND I also realized that if I worked as long and hard at something else, Anything else, I could be a success.
So I did, and I was.

Cut to: 
20ish years later, 
no store,
No career,
Epic debt,
What’s a girl to do?

I decide to sing again.
Cause THAT’S what people in dark swirling eddies of despair do.
They make GREAT decisions AND they break into song.

I hadn’t sung a note since quitting all those years ago, my husband, having met me in my 40’s, didn’t even know that side of me.

But the fear that came up when I thought of getting back on stage, was different than the fear I had been experiencing around the loss of the store.
It felt familiar, like an old friend somehow.

And the pounding of my heart and the stage fright,they brought me back to life.

So I hit SEND on the application, and left it up to the Universe.

Six months later, as a Christmas present, I got an email back.
They were doing CHICAGO, and was I still interested?
Hell NO! CHICAGO!!! Really!?
I can’t dance, and I hadn’t sung since Jesus was a boy.
And those skimpy little costumes? I’m over fifty.
NO WAY!
FORGET IT Universe. Nice try. Jeez.
I just want to ease back in, stick out my toe, not dive off the deep end.

Above is a picture my talented sister took during the show.
That’s me in the middle, I’m Velma.
So…you’re starting to get me now huh?
I can’t do anything half way. When I jump…I jump!
See that woman?

No more black and white, back to a Technicolor life.
That’s a picture of me, Janet, finding her bliss.

*much love to Amanda,Jules,Mark and Jeremy for their immense talent and endless patience

Dearest, Darling Failure,

Do you mind if I call you by that name?

I realize it’s much more politically correct to refer to you as re-direction, contrast, un-met goals, course correction,
blah, blah,blah.

I admit, you do possess ALL of those more soul soothing attributes; but let’s be honest here, let’s call a spade, a spade.

You are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — No One wants you around!

When shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end, when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over, when things in our lives fracture and give way under stress, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.

In any case; I’ve come to know you well over the past few years and – well – I’ve fallen for you….
Hard.

I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe; and you have become my friend.

You shook things up for me BIG TIME.
You took my tiny Etch A Sketch of a life, with all of it’s perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F-five tornado.

But I love you for that, ya big lug.

Just uttering your name, failure, can definitely set a negative tone and cause anxiety; please don’t take it personally, we just don’t want you in our lives and when you do show up – we’re afraid you’ll never leave.

But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.

When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day?
I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.

You know what I do the days success holds my hand?
I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.

Success has its value don’t get me wrong, but you, failure, your lessons have marked me deeply and profoundly, and I love you for that.

Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth or made me an internally richer person. 

But by God, you have failure.

Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.

You gave me a glimpse of my true nature. You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments, but they have transformed me.
You made me better. Better in business, better in life. A better friend, sister and wife.

Damn it, I love you man.

We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you, I know I did, but I realize now that was a mistake.
It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword, and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.

I truly love you failure
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.

Big hug and a sloppy kiss,

We’ve all failed at something, What have you learned from your failure?
Do you agree that it’s made you a better person? All the action happens in the comments below, don’t be shy, your feedback could help someone.

Xox

“I had this conversation with my daughter about a boyfriend after her relationship ended and I said, ‘What do you miss about it?’ And she said, ‘I miss how I felt while I was in that relationship.’ And I said, ‘Well, you can give yourself that.’ She didn’t miss him. She missed who she was. These are all things we can give ourselves. They do not depend on a man… “
~Arianna Huffington

I wish Arianna had been my mom, imparting that kind of insightful wisdom to me as I sat sobbing into a vat of Ben and Jerry’s while watching another relationship crash and burn, all those years that I was single.

I did finally figure that out, but I was around thirty and it was hard won; I had the skid marks on my heart to prove it by then.

Every man that I had shared a relationship with left his emotional imprint on my life.

Some more than others.

“Oh Ouch, THAT one’s gonna leave a mark.”

Besides the break up yuck, they very generously left me with some lovely parting gifts.
One guy had a great sense of humor and loved music, another was smart and a foodie, while another was so sensitive and loved so purely that I wanted to wrap his heart in scotch tape and bubble pack so it could stay that way forever.

Many DID make me feel like the best version of myself when I was with them; funny and smart, possessing impeccable taste and wisdom; a vixen who could recite poetry, cook and wear sexy lingerie all at the same time.
You know, THAT version.

It finally became apparent to me that it wasn’t the guy, it was the attention and energy he focused on ME.

When someone shines their light on you, when they gaze at you with eyes filled with newly minted love, you can have the biggest nose zit or spinach in your teeth, and they make you feel like you’re freaking Angelina Jolie.

I felt worthy; and I had to figure out a way to feel worthy without someone else’s validation.

Once the glare of their spotlight dimmed, I soon figured out that some of the guys weren’t all that great.

With some distance between us, I realized I didn’t miss THEM , I just missed the travel, nice restaurants, fun filled weekends, jazz tapes and smart banter that each one of them had added to my life’s repertoire.

Okay, I can do this, I thought, I won’t wait for a man to do it, I’ll make my own damn jazz mix tapes and take myself out on dates.

I unapologetically saw every chick flick I wanted to see.
By. My. Self.

I love live music and theatre, so I would buy a ticket, or two, and go with a friend.
Eventually, I purchased season tickets to the Hollywood Bowl and The Pantages and a membership to LACMA, where I would wander unselfconsciously, and watch with relief, all the other couples awkwardly navigating their first dates. The museum’s Friday night “open house” with wine, cheese, music and free art made for fantastic people watching.

I started to treat my weekend nights like date nights, only I was dating……myself.

If someone mentioned a great new restaurant, I’d grab a girlfriend and go for happy hour, or Sunday brunch.

I missed the weekend trips so I started traveling alone.
I drove from LA to Steamboat Springs Colorado to see my friends, and visited the same friends in Europe for three weeks By – My – Self.
I’d do weekend jaunts to Santa Barbara, Big Sur and San Francisco.

My days and nights were full and fabulous.

Dating myself helped me get to know me better.

Previously I would morph to please a man, not wanting to seem too high maintenance or valuing his preferences over mine.
Not any more.

I knew what I wanted to do and I went for it.

I’m pretty sure that’s when the worthiness came in.
It won’t stick if you’re not 100% authentically yourself.
You can’t be posing on some guys arm, acting as if you like Ethiopian food, violent foreign films and polo shirts.

Worthiness will evade you until you live your OWN life.

You can even carry this into a committed relationship.
My husband goes off riding motorcycles with Mad Max style gangs of middle aged men in some remote desert around the world pretty regularly; leaving me to my own devices.
This is when I take the opportunity to reacquaint myself with myself and do only the things that please ME.

At this stage of the game me, myself and I have such a long and rich history there’s no need for a ton of chit chat, we communicate telepathically.

We go buy our favorite Non-GMO cornbread crust pizza that my husband thinks tastes like drywall, and plenty of rag mags like People and US. 
We go play with our make up and false eyelashes, and cook eggs in a teddy.
We usually earmark some time for a massage, a long, turn of the century British film, and a bubble bath.

We may even go shopping and buy ourselves a little something at one of the expensive local boutiques – because, well, because we’re worth it 😉

What do you do to give yourself an interesting and full life? How do you get away from needing the outside validation to feel worthy?
I’d love to hear your stories!

Sending only love,
Xox

At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are, and what you want
~ Lao Tzu

I can remember doing this exercise in one of Diana’s meditation workshops years ago after I had read about it in a book from my long distant past (please don’t ask me which one, that I can’t remember) I just remember being gobsmacked over the realization that the cells of my body may collectively know more than my brain, how I actually feel about things – so we tried it.

We being the women in the Wednesday group, and no men, you don’t need a uterus to try this exercise although it IS about observing the reaction your body has to certain words.

As a matter of fact one of my male friends says his butt puckers up.
Ha! I’ve got ya now…….keep reading, you’ll understand in a minute.

Words carry energy, on that we all agree, correcto?

Certain words can either feel expansive or contracting.

Expansive words/energy have to do with keeping your heart open, being receptive, being vulnerable.
Arms uncrossed, face and upper body open.

Contracting words/energy are all about fear, suppression, closing the gate, hoisting up the drawbridge and filling the moat with water – and a dragon.
Gathering in, armoring up and closing down.

Try this out, it’s visceral, the change may be subtle, but you will feel SOMETHING,
And that feeling is what you want to be on the lookout for.
Here goes. Say the word aloud:

Cancer
Money
Vacation
Commitment
Puppy
Deadline
Hospital
I Love you
Snake
Failure
Hate
I’m proud of you
Idiot

Did you feel it, that very subtle, or not so subtle opening and closing reaction as your body feeeeeeeels the energy of each word?

If you’re a doctor the word hospital probably won’t trigger you negatively, although, if someone says to you: They had to rush Timmy to the hospital!
I doubt you’ll feel nothing.

The same thing with money. It can have a very expansive feeling for some, and make others want to jump off a bridge.
That word has felt different ways to me at different times in my life, same word, just different energy.

Puppy is a mixed word for me nowadays also. 😉

Snakes? Snakes make me shiver. ‘Nuf said.

Remember: Language is a powerful thing, it can harm people as efficiently as a weapon, or raise someone’s soul to new heights, so be careful – really.

It can also give you the insight you need when your mind is chewing on a problem like a dog with a bone.

Say the word or words that coincide with what you’re thinking about out loud, and see how it feels in your body. Voila! There’s your answer.

I quit
I’m pregnant
Marry me
Let’s move
I’m leaving
I’m sorry

It’s a good one, I know!
Keep practicing and you’ll get better and better at figuring out how you REALLY feel about things.

If you feel inclined to comment, please do below. Remember the tribe learns a lot when you share from the heart.

Much love,
xox

Damn, this always makes me feel better.
This goes for those of us that had it figured out early, took a right turn and are re-inventing ourselves in our fifties.

Success takes many paths and it is never a straight line.

You’re welcome.

Sending Monday love,
Xox

The difference between impossible and nearly impossible

Is as big as any difference we encounter.

All we need is ‘nearly‘ and we have completely transformed the problem–changing it from one to avoid to one to commit to.

Here’s the hard part: having the ability to see (and to announce) the ‘nearly‘ part. 

Almost every breakthrough comes from someone who saw nearly when no one else did
~ Seth Godin

LOVE me some Seth. Makes ya think. Have a wonderful Sunday!

Sending love,

Xox

* I wish I’d written this. Let it sink in.
Happy Saturday,
Love, love,

Xox