awareness

If you think you’re too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito
~The Dalai Lama~

It seems mosquitos are very effective teachers.
To some they teach tolerance and non violence.
They test your patience as they make their presence known.
They draw you into the present and make you pay attention.
Me? With me they bring out my deepest, darkest killer instinct. My inner Dexter.
At three in the morning, when I hear that high pitched whining in my ear,
I Want. Them. Dead.
So much for non violence.
And I’m the girl that carries spiders outside.
I’m a card carrying pacifist until the mosquito shows me otherwise.

Just when you’re certain of your enlightened state. At the moment you know who you are and what you stand for, you can leave it to one of God’s tiniest creatures to bitch slap you back to reality. Or leave crazy, itchy, welts on your ass.
She has a wicked sense of humor.
If THAT doesn’t get you off your high horse….

So……I’m a pacifist unless pushed. Good to know.
Can you be a conditional pacifist? What IS my breaking point?
Those are important questions that can lead to self discovery……..or not.

Here’s what I know for sure.
I know I can snap if my sleep is interrupted.
I have been known to scream obscenities at ignorant drivers.

Then there’s the little dog. The puppy. The boxer-shark puppy.
IT has been sent by God to torment; I mean test me.
I have swatted the puppy on the rump for numerous infractions. Not hard, don’t go all PETA on me. It’s a swat to get her to pay attention to my stern face. She has made a mockery of my stern face. My stern face is a joke to her. The older dog cowers, she points and laughs.
Forget about NO. NO has become useless. To her, it means HI and SURE. She thinks it’s her name. It is yelled so frequently it has lost all of its bite. 
Talking about bite; that one tests my patience with her incessant biting.
She bites when she’s playing. She bites when she’s tired. She bites to make a point. She bites AIR. 
She bites the older dog on her Achilles. Little bitch. I scold her. I forcefully push her away. I “time out” her. When all I really want to do is bite her back.
She wields an unbelievable amount of power in our house. She is small, but her presence is mighty. She is my teacher. She makes me question my parenting skills AND my pacifist membership.

OMMMMM…………Back to a loving place………..Between the Mosquitos and the boxer-shark puppy, I have some serious spiritual work to do.

Who or what is your trigger? I’d love to hear who tests your patience, tolerance and all around spiritual practice. Tell me about it in the comments.

Xox

Be careful of your thoughts, for your thoughts become your words.
Be careful of your words, for your words become your actions.
Be careful of your actions, for your actions become your habits.
Be careful of your habits, for your habits become your character.
Be careful of your character, for your character becomes your destiny.
—Chinese Proverb
Excerpt From: Dr. Habib Sadeghi. “Within.” 

Nope, I don’t have time.
How may times have we all said that? We’re stressed out, trying to eek out fifteen minutes here, an hour there, to get things done.
But, if you’re REALLY honest with yourself, it’s not the truth.
Even worse yet, it can be a self sabotaging belief. A bullshit tape that runs on an endless loop. 24/7.

When I say I don’t have the time for something, what I’m really saying is:
It’s not interesting enough.
It doesn’t sound fun.
It won’t be productive.
What’s in it for me?
I have something better to do.
And the Hall of Famer: It’s just not a priority right now.
Because truth be told, we WILL find the time for the things we want to do.

I seem to find time for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. I can loose hours to those three punks. I spend maybe ten minutes promoting the blog, and then I get sucked into their devious vortex for an hour of mindless trolling. Kim Kardashian did what!?
You know you do too.
What did we do before social media? It didn’t even exist in its present, obsessive form five years ago. And I still felt a time crunch.

We are all very discerning about what takes us away from the things we love to do.
Like spending time with family.
I was in a cafe the other day and observed a family of four. Sitting around the table, looking down at their phones. ALL of them. No conversation. No interaction. No connection. Not a good use of their time together.

I can lie and convince myself that I don’t have time for a workout and then talk to my sister for an hour or get lost in emails. When I tell that lie, my pants should catch on fire. At least running from the flames would burn some calories.
Pun intended.

I know, it seems like our 24 hour days are really about 18 hours. Unless you’re waiting to leave for a vacation. That day is 100 hours long…….So it’s all perception.

If you feel like you don’t have enough time, that is “lack” mentality. Lack mentality can permeate other areas of your life if you feel it and say it enough.
Case in point.
My husband is a designer/contractor. He is also an amazing manifestor. There’s just one catch. 
The first quarter of this year started slow. He had little stuff going, but nothing big lined up. So he asked the Universe, the Big Boss, for more jobs. Lo and behold, people started calling and emailing like crazy. He had ten proposals to do in two weeks. He started to feel the time crunch. He started to worry about having enough hours to meet with the clients, bid the jobs and write the proposals. All of those things are very time consuming. What if he got them all, then what? How was he going to be able to effectively run all those jobs at the same time? A bit of panic set in. It was very interesting to watch.
He no longer felt the lack of work, but he did feel the lack of time to get things done.
And you know what happened? Nothing. Everything stalled.

Partly from the freaking crazy energy lately, but mostly because:
You can’t ask the Universe for more, and then tell it you don’t have the time.
She hates mixed messages. They piss her off. So, she just stands in the corner, arms crossed, taping her foot impatiently and muttering under her breath: “Ya wanna be busy or ya wanna be a cry baby? Don’t over target, be realistic about what ya can accomplish in one day. I’m here, let me know when you’re ready.”

We have to be vigilant and clean up our energy, our perception and the things we say about time.
He’s working on that now. It’ll all work out. It always does.

To quote the brilliant Marie Forleo: It’s all figuraoutable.
So instead of saying we don’t have the time, let’s say instead: Let me take a look at my schedule, and see what I can figure out. The Universe likes to hear that. She may even take notice, unfold her arms and start to send great things your way.

I want to know, do you struggle with a “lack” mentality? If you’re honest, are there things that waste the precious little time you DO have? Do you agree that it’s all perception? I’d love to hear what YOU think.

Xox

I watched several people walk right by it. I did too. Twice.
Obviously some trash had found its way onto the path and into the planters in front of the door to the Y.

It looked like as if it had made a break for it on the way to the dumpster that lived around the side of the building. It was a few pieces of shredded paper, a power bar wrapper and parts of a banana peel. As I walked around it on my way in, I thought: Gee, someone needs to pick that up.
I’m sure the guy in the way too tight and shiny bike shorts, holding the door for me, thought the same thing.
After my 45 mins of extremely rigorous and effective circuit training (15 mins on the elliptical, 15 mins on the arm machines and 15 mins talking to Tina at the front desk)
I sprinted (walked slowly), with Bruno Mars still blaring in my ears, to my car.
When I saw that the trash was still by the doorway, I was annoyed, Jeez, that’s still there? I’d better go tell Tina to send someone to pick it up. And I walked right by.

What.  an.  assbite.

The sheer audacity of my own entitled ass-bite-ish-ness stopped me in my tracks.I looked around. Someone WAS sent to pick up the trash. Me.

I bent down, made sure I got all the pieces, walked back inside and threw it in the can that was next to the door. With my own, two, manicured hands. It took me less than a minute. Probably less than 30 seconds.
Sometimes I just shake my head in amazement…at my own behavior.

Who are we, when no one is watching? Are we assbites that walk by trash, or people in need? Do we turn our heads or pretend we’re on the phone?
Or are we people with some character? I think we can be both.

Back in the day, right after I bought my house, I LIVED at the 24 hour Hollywood Home Depot. I would walk down EVERY aisle like it was a gourmet market. Even the lumber department. It was dependable, free entertainment, in the fact that it was consistently crowded with a cross-section  of the most unique examples of humanity on the planet. It was the bar scene from Star Wars. AND, they played KROQ, an alternative rock radio station on the store PA after 6pm.
One night (It seemed I always needed a plunger or a dimmer switch at 11pm) in the aisle between electrical supplies and sprockets, was a sharp something or other that hadn’t been put back properly. As I absent mindedly strolled by, rocking out to The Clash, it jumped out and sliced my leg. Bad. Blood was suddenly EVERWHERE. It started to resemble a crime scene and as I looked around for help…crickets. There had easily been ten people on that aisle seconds before, and now it was deserted. Not a single soul.
People freak when they see blood. And a girl in denim overall shorts and Doc Martins hopping on one leg, yelling “OWWWWWWEEEEE” loudly.
They don’t want to get involved.
I’ll never understand that. When you see someone fall, find a crying, lost child, or stumble upon a bleeding new homeowner –– see if you can help.
Be a person of some character. Even if no one else is watching.

Someone must have hunted down an employee, because a guy that looked like my brother, if my brother was COVERED in tattoos and wearing a Home Depot shirt, came to my rescue.
He quickly wrangled the guilty object that cut me, back into its cubby, tied a bandana around my ankle and told me to go get stitches. In that order. He also alerted me to the fact that I roamed those aisles “at my own risk.”

Regardless, he was kind as he smiled and helped me back up on my feet.
Just then, my hero appeared. I heard angels singing.
He showed up with one of those flatbed wheelie things, and asked if I needed transport to my car. How chivalrous.
See…now this guy had some character.
Problem was, he resembled a biker/vampire, and I was sure the smell of my blood had beckoned him to my side. I declined his kind offer, and hobbled alone in the dark to my car, looking over my shoulder for a bat or my very pale, thirsty, knight in shining armor.

With all the cameras everywhere and YouTube video postings, we will all eventually  get caught in the act. But we have a choice. Will it capture us in a random act of helping or hiding? 

Tell me, are you the person that springs to action when someone falls or drops trash? Or have you caught yourself not wanting to get involved? Also, has something happened to you, and no one helped out? I’d love to hear about it?

Carry on, 

Xox

Saving Our Lives For Later?

One of the tragedies I would encounter on a regular basis as an Estate Jeweler was looking at gorgeous, incredibly made jewelry………that was seldom or NEVER worn.
The nervous relative would be standing in front of me, anxious for an appraisal and dollar value of their Great Aunt Barbara’s treasures. I would carefully open old, leather, fitted boxes, revealing that hint of her Shalimar.
Inside, I would find a stunning Art Deco diamond bracelet, carefully wrapped in Kleenex. Or strands of vintage pearls, still in their original black cloth pearl folders. Splendid Victorian era, carved hard stone rings, Georgian mine cut diamond earrings, all meticulously cared for, wrapped up and stored away. 
It’s easy to tell if a piece has been worn a lot. It has all the tell tale scratches, the worn clasp, the abraded stones that go along with being “well loved” as we so delicately put it. Unfortunately, much of the jewelry that relatives walked in with, had been locked up in safes or safe deposit boxes. Aunt Barbara had tucked it away for a special occasion. From the looks of most of them, that occasion had never come.

Unfortunately, I do that too. Don’t you?
Why do we do that? It’s really so sad. Why are we saving our lives for later?
Did we get it from our parents?
Some of them lived with all the furniture covered in plastic. The sofa frame would wear out before the fabric. That’s crazy.
We had a living room that may as well have had red ropes around it. Or caution tape. We were not allowed past the perimeter. A whole room in the home of a family of five, that was off limits.
What a luxury. What a waste. What the hell.

I recently found a beautiful dress in the dark recesses of my closet. I have worn it maybe twice. There it was, hiding in its garment bag, waiting to be shown off again. Trouble is, I’ve waited too long. It’s slightly out of style, meaning it’s too young for me now, and it’s become too small. Shit. I hate it when clothes mysteriously shrink. I love that dress. Why didn’t I just wear it more.
What was I waiting for? An invitation to high tea? Dinner with George Clooney?

We save all our good books for summer, for the flight and vacation we never take.
That fate has also befallen many a bikini. I’ve given away several with the tags still on.
We save the “good coffee” for the weekend. 
The “good dishes” for……never.
We save being happy until we have more zeros in our bank accounts, and less on our bathroom scales.
We save the good bottle of wine for a special occasion, the champagne for a celebration.
We save good towels for company, tax refunds to pay bills and compliments for birthday cards.
We gotta stop doing this!

I’ll never forget this story. My friend’s Uncle Saul finally retired. After 47 years at the same job, he was anxious to start his life. He was an avid golfer and an aspiring photographer. After he booked a trip to Scotland, he splurged on expensive new clubs and a brand new fancy camera, complete with all the lenses he would never let himself afford. Yep, you know where this is headed. Uncle Saul died in his bowl of Wheaties, three weeks before his trip. When my friend went to clean out the apartment, she was overwhelmed with sadness. Among the piles of unread books and un-opened film, were his spiffy new golf clubs and his never been used camera in its fitted shoulder bag. On the desk were the plane tickets. He died with 1.5 million dollars in the bank. Why? He was 78. He waited too long to start his life.
That marked me. I had to make some changes.

My own way of living before I die, started right away.
Being in the estate business for so long, I have collected a couple of mismatched sets of silver flatware. Okay; I have enough to set a dinner party at Downton Abbey. Then my husband came along with some of his mother’s.
One day after using it all for a holiday dinner, I was carefully washing and drying it by hand, as you must do, before I could return it to its special felt lined chest.
As I admired the intricacy of the design and the substantial weight of the knife in my hand, I said: “Fuck it.” Probably out loud. “I’m going to use these every day.”
I ordered the special felt that keeps them from tarnishing and lined the silverware drawer. Now for almost fifteen years, we have used that beautiful silver for every meal. Even pizza. When I use it, I feel special and that’s the point.
It does demand to be treated like Royalty. It can’t go in the dishwasher and truth be told, it does tarnish. It’s a commitment. The tips of the forks tines are always black. It will never be shiny bright like stainless. I like that. I’m sure it horrifies some people. 
I do cringe every time I tighten screws with it, loosen lids, open packages and pry stuff apart. 
It’s living a 21st century life. My life.
I refuse to save it for later.

Tell me, are you saving your life for later? Or have you started to use the good towels? I’d love to hear your story.

Xox

REALIZE
re·al·ize
ˈrē(ə)ˌlīz/
verb
1. become fully aware of (something) as a fact; understand clearly.
“he realized his mistake at once”
synonyms: register, perceive, discern, be/become aware of (the fact that), be/become conscious of (the fact that)

I have recently, like in the last few days, fallen madly in LOVE with the word realize. Because I just gained a deeper understanding of its meaning.
When you have a realization, you suddenly see that thing with REAL EYES.
Hence the phrase: Oh, I see.
Holy mother of God, I think the top of my head just blew off.
How has this escaped me until this very week?

This experience is similar to my optician working his magic and professionally cleaning my glasses AND discovering I had an astigmatism in BOTH eyes thus changing the prescription on my contact lenses. In both instances, although I perceived my vision as clear, it was as if a dense fog had lifted and my eye sight had gone High Definition. I saw everything differently.
I’m no longer allowed to look up close, at any part of my husband. I can see things too well. I see them so clearly that I get the same intense look on my face as that chick on CSI, when she’s examining gory body parts under the microscope.
Holy shit……Oh, I seeeeee.

For all of us from the Oprah Show generation, a realization is an Ah Ha moment.
“My health problems all stem from my inability to make a change” said a friend, over salad. Ah Ha moment. And a life changer. It disrupted a pattern and started a new trajectory.

My sister swears it’s physical. When something really registers, she insists a door creaks open in her forehead, and let’s the light in.
Palm held to forehead slowly opens. Creeeeeeeeak.
I’ve been there. I think I’ve actually heard it.
We’ll be deep in conversation on one of life’s great mysteries like; what’s the deal with chin hair? When all of the sudden her eyes get real big, and her mouth drops open. We don’t even say anything. We both just put our palms to our foreheads and make the creaking noise.
Then we laugh so hard, no sound comes out.

This happens to me ALL the time with spiritual books and CD’s. I re-read the books that call me before bed. Through the winding canyons of Los Angeles, I play CD’s over and over in the zen monastery that is my car.
Because; for the almost 40 years I’ve been doing it, I’ve witnessed something curious. Realization tends to sneak up on me. It doesn’t come when called, or stop and turn around when chased. Realization comes to me when I least expect it, through repetition and a relaxing of the mind.
In a car ripe with dog farts.

I will know the material so well I can practically recite it verbatim. Then one day, my perception will shift. A word or a concept will click. I’ll hear or see it differently.
And I get it. I mean I REALLY get it. I now understand it in a totally new way.
I have a realization. I see it with REAL EYES.
After certain events in my life, after a perceived failure for instance, I re-read a chapter on the subject and wailed my head off, accompanied by big sloppy sobs. The previous ten times I had read it……nothing……crickets……it didn’t even register.
Now, I see it with REAL EYES.
As I keep aging, growing and changing, so does my understanding of pretty much everything, as evidenced by this post.

The drawing above is a perfect visual aid for this concept.
How convenient.
At first glance, it’s a young woman. But if you shift your perception, take your time and look deeply, an old crone appears. 
Then, she’s all you see. She’s real. The easy, first glance girl disappears.
The crone’s been there all along, but if you didn’t take the time for a second look, you’d have missed her……..Oh, I see.
Did I just hear the sound of a hundred doors creaking open?

I’d love to hear about any Ah Ha’s you’ve had recently. Something you suddenly saw with REAl EYES. Tell me about them in in the comments below.

Xox

Words to live by. Happy Sunday!

Xox

When Was The Last Time You Felt Proud of Yourself?

“If I weren’t too proud, I’d boast of my exaggerated opinion of myself.”
― Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic

Sounds narcissistic right? I can remember in my early 30’s a spiritual teacher advised me to do something wayyyyy out of my comfort zone.
“The accomplishment of this task will make you feel proud of yourself, and you haven’t felt that since you were a child. It will do you some good.”
Afterword; I did feel proud. It did do me some good and I liked the feeling.
We do feel it as children until it’s ridiculed out of us. That’s a freaking shame.
I get it. It is a tightrope act and it’s not supported AT ALL by society. On the contrary, we are pushed to accomplish Herculean feats in our lives. Balancing the demands of family, career and the feeding of our souls, all without displaying one iota of self satisfaction.

Pride in yourself, or a sense of satisfaction, goes hand in hand with having self esteem. You should pat yourselves on the back if you get something right.
It’s a f#* king miracle that we get any of it right. But be warned: If you go too far, then you are acting proud or arrogant. I’m sorry, but that is a load of old, outdated, stinky BS.

The old maxim “Pride comes before a fall” plays on the fact that when you are proud of what you have, you are also at risk: having something means you have something to lose.
I guess they meant friends.

It’s totally acceptable to be “proud parents”or “proud of the graduate.”
That’s sad, because it just reinforces getting validation of yourself….from the outside.
God forbid you feel some pride on the inside. I like that. It rhymes.
I think we should tweet that: Feel some pride on the inside!

I’m a big proponent of feeling proud of yourself. I highly recommend it.
I give you all permission, just like that teacher gave me.
Just be quiet about it lest someone turn you in to the “Who do you think you are” police.
You can tell me….. I’ll give you props.
Here, I’ll share some of mine first, to walk the talk. Try not to judge.

I’m often the proudest of myself when I do something I don’t want to do, or complete a task that I couldn’t even pay somebody to do, it’s so hellacious.
I whooped and hollered with pride, while dancing and giving myself a high five after navigating the labyrinth of automated prompts and reaching a human being, during my tech problems last week. I also took pride in that fact that there had been minimal cursing……..on my part.

I feel proud after I get my ass to the gym most days. That’s epic for me.

I just helped someone anonymously. Not just me, there were a bunch of us. That person will never know who came to her aid and it still feels good. So, that good feeling, that warmth you feel; it’s some of the liquid love that your heart releases AND I’m gonna go out on a limb and name the other part of it.
Pride. There. I said it.

I was recently typecast as that drunken bitch, Miss Hannigan in a small production of Annie and I’m proud. I’m proud that at 56 I can still tackle all the physicality, singing, dancing and rehearsals required. I’m also proud of my complete lack of vanity displayed in this role (see above).
It’s okay to feel proud when you’re courageously unselfconscious. 
I give us all permission.

I feel some pride every day when I hit “post” for this blog. Writing something daily is a huge commitment and one I do not take lightly. Consistency breeds familiarity, and it’s important to me that you know who I am. Warts, boa and all. Authenticity is the new currency in my life.
I have pride in this work, and the fact that it touches people.
I do do a daily, sometimes hourly Ego check. I make sure my hats still fit and that my maniacal laugh is under control.

There’s other stuff, I’m sure, but I don’t want to get pushed off the tightrope into the rocks below. God forbid.

Let’s start a new movement, shall we? Where we foster good healthy self esteem and support self pride. Where we don’t sneer at the occasional “pat yourself on the back” or the “self five”, as I like to refer to it. Let’s all Feel some pride on the inside!
Don’t panic, we will continue to remain ever vigilant in our efforts to not go overboard and ruin it for everybody.
…Donald Trump.

What have you done lately that made you proud of yourself? It’s okay, you can tell me, no one will know. It’ll be our secret. Then I can give you a “virtual five.” I’d love to hear about in the comments 😉

Xox

As I write this, I can feel the soft, cool underbelly of the big, older dog snoozing on my feet.
The puppy appears to be asleep except her eyebrows give her away. They signal that she is following my every move. She is plotting another caper and is patiently waiting for me to quit writing, get up, and leave.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”

That is their credo, their theme song, and the canine unspoken agreement.
If I’d let them get tattoos, that’s what they’d say.
But that statement gives ME a pit in my stomach. It sparks a crusty, old, unkind memory that hits me like a sucker punch.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”, is a quote is from the cover of a book about dogs.
It’s kinda funny, but it got me to feeling and thinking, which makes me run to start writing. Isn’t it weird how something as innocuous as the title of a dog book can trigger an emotion?

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is a declaration of ownership of…the scraps.
The stuff that is tainted enough that it isn’t fit for public consumption.
It can’t even pass the five-second rule.
Most likely the crap on the floor came off the bottom of someone’s shoe — literally.

“I call it! It’s mine!” That’s fine for Fido, but not for us.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
It is the cover page and the first rule in the Dog’s Life Handbook.
Not ours. Our first rule is “Call Your Mother.”

But what about us? How many times have you and I settled for the scraps in life?
From the blouse at Target that is marked down to 99 cents but is missing a button, (which as much as we say we’re going to—we never replace), to accepting pity sex from your ex-boyfriend?

That shitty “bridge” job that was just supposed to get you through the summer?
What happened? It’s five years later, why are you still there?

I’ve been so broke I have lived off scraps. Specifically, days of leftovers salvaged from one meal or my sister’s “doggie bag” from El Toritos. The irony of the name does not escape me.

I drove a piece of shit car that wanted nothing more in its life than to shimmy sideways.

I’ve also settled for the scraps of affection thrown to me in a dying relationship.
I’ve been seated at the table. I’ve enjoyed the love feast. But when I sensed the end, I did not push away and say my goodbyes with dignity. I dove for the scraps.
Ouch. Oh, hi Fido, funny to see you down here.

I have pretty healthy self-esteem, but there have been some glaring lapses.
I wasn’t alone. Gwen Stefani of the band No Doubt had a hit song “Bath Water” during that time.
Part of the chorus being: ‘Cause I still love to wash in your old bath water, Love to think that you couldn’t love another, Share a toothbrush….you’re my kind of man.’  UGH.

At a certain point, I’m gonna say around my mid thirties, I said: no more scraps.
And I meant it.

No more second-hand clothes, no more beat up chairs-full-of-promise fished out of dumpsters. Enough of the stuff left on the curb because it didn’t make the cut at the neighborhood yard sale. Enough of the sloppy seconds from lovers. I was finished being broke, I was done with settling.
I deserved better than that. I deserved the best.
The best love.
The best life.
The best-made plans.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is my dog’s credo, I’m clear about that now and they can have it.

Tell me, have you ever settled for the scraps?

Carry on,

Xox

The Vessel Of Divine Mischief
This was on Caroline Myss’ Facebook page yesterday morning. She posts a prayer daily. I follow her because; well; because she rocks. I’ve read all her books and I’ve seen her speak many times. Her writings and lectures prompt profoundly deep and thoughtful soul work. It is neither frivolous nor trite. It is not for the dabbler. I know her to be easy to laugh in person, but not a cut up….AT ALL. There is no inner stand up comedian seeking an audience in Caroline. That’s why I loved this Soooooooo much.

Caroline’s Daily Prayer:
Today I ask for the courage to be a holy troublemaker, a vessel of divine mischief. People far too often assume that there is no humor in spiritual guidance, no “lightness in Light” but the truth is, it is we who are heavy, serious, and burdened by the fears that drape human existence. Let me be a vessel for divine mischief today.

Yes! SHAZAM! That is my mission statement. I am the vessel of divine mischief. My patron saints are:
Our Lady of Perpetual Naughtiness
Our Lady of Divine Irreverence
Our Lady of the Perpetual Potty Mouths
And finally: Our Ladies of General Bitchiness, Brattiness and Snarkiness
My divine mission is to deliver spiritual humor, because this shit can be mind numbingly serious. Don’t get me wrong, I have a deep respect for the material, I just think the delivery system can be lightened up a bit.
Yesterday, I went on WordPress Reader to look up the category of Spiritual Humor.
That is how I tag my blog. I wanted to see what the other vessels of divine mischief were up to. Guess what? I’m the only one.
What?
How can that be?
No other Holy Troublemakers?
That’s all at once awesome……and a crime.

When I first started writing, a year and change ago, it was very different. You can go way back and look. The writing was straightforward, clear and succinct. It wasn’t the least bit funny. The muse trolled my brain for wisdom accrued and then delivered it in the written word, without any trace of my personality whatsoever.
On a motorcycle ride in September of last year, we had a very close call.
(look up Total Loss of Control, the links are not working)
I was still posting every day, so I told the muse to write about the experience. She put out her cigarette in her gin and tonic, gave me the once over and told ME to write it: In my own words. People dig that shit.
Gulp

As I’ve continued to use more of my own life experiences and continue to write in my own voice, that naughty, sassy, funny part of me has shown up.
I’ve become the vessel of divine mischief.
What I write may sometimes be inappropriate and I might not appeal to everyone. Do I want to appeal to everyone? Most certainly not.
I’ve gotten the courage to be the Holy Troublemaker for all the world to read.

When I tell people at dinner parties that I write a Spiritual Humor blog, they look……relieved.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Deepak, Eckart and Marianne, but man, they can be intense.” they’ll lean in and whisper, while chewing in my ear.
I agree. This was the blog I wanted to read, so I had to write it.
People DO dig this shit, and I dig you people.

I worship at the altar of several other writers who I think should be in the Spiritual Humor category, even the Hall Of Fame.
Anne Lamott, Tosha Siver, and Liz Gilbert. I also love anything the late Nora Ephron ever wrote. She would have killed it in this category. But at least on WordPress for right now, I have it to myself.

Tell me, do you love yourselves some spiritual humor? Since you’re here, I’m guessing you do. Does it make it easier to digest? What’s off limits? Anything?
I’d love to hear about it in the comments below.

Xox

“I had tended to view waiting as mere passivity. When I looked it up in my dictionary, however, I found that the words passive and passion come from the same Latin root, pati, which means “to endure.” Waiting is thus both passive and passionate. It’s a vibrant, contemplative work. It means descending into self, into God, into the deeper labyrinths of prayer. It involves listening to disinherited voices within, facing the wounded holes in the soul, the denied and undiscovered, the places one lives false. It means struggling with the vision of who we really are in God and molding the courage to live that vision.”
~Sue Monk Kidd~

Sue Monk Kidd was on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday a couple of weeks ago. I’ve loved her for almost 25 years.

Her most famous book is “The Secret Life of Bees”, but I became familiar with her after reading her spiritual memoir “When The Heart Waits” in 1990. That was a time when not too many people were brave enough to write about their spiritual journey of transformation. My copy is water stained from reading in the bath, highlighted with a yellow marker, has my insights written in the margins and is dog-eared almost beyond recognition. I ate it up with a spoon when she wrote that waiting for your purpose is a sacred endeavor.

Waiting is not always passive. It can be a passageway from one way of being to another. She gave me permission to wait for the reveal.

These days, even more so than 25 years ago, waiting, being still, has gotten a bad rap. Inactivity is THE cardinal sin of the 21st century.

She used the analogy of the caterpillar in the chrysalis. If you poke a hole to check on its progress, the butterfly’s wings will be underdeveloped, and it will be unable to fly. The same thing happens if you try to help it break through. Every second, every step of the process is critically important to the transformation…and the survival of the butterfly.

Just let that one sink in……All the way down to your toes.

This quote from “When The Heart Waits” is one of my favorites.
I need to add it to the list.

“When the heart weeps for what it has lost, the Spirit laughs for what it has found” 

That makes my heart stop every time.

When Sue had her chat with O, she relayed an insight she had around 50.
She realized she had been a seeker all of her 20’s, 30’s and 40’s. In that respect we are kindred souls. But recently she’d admonished herself.

Enough seeking, she needed to “find” something.

It was time to become A Finder.

That just about made my head explode. Now I get it.
That’s what happens in your 50’s. The energy you expended as a seeker is replaced with the energy of “finding” and sharing. You’ve sought, delved and explored. You’ve attend countless retreats, seminars, conferences and sweat lodges. You’ve discovered along the way you DID get some answers. You have found nuggets of truth. Things you KNOW FOR SURE. All your seeking has borne fruit. That fruit is deliciously ripe and ready to share.

It’s the reason I write this blog.
I used to spend hour upon hour, day after day reading everything spiritual I could get my hands on. At one time I had over three hundred spiritual and self-help books. I have given half of them away.
Now I spend hours writing what I’ve learned.

I will always be on a journey of asking WHY? I’m hard-wired for it. But I’m also hard-wired to share anything and everything I know.
THAT is the payoff, the pay-it-forward of the seeker. We get to say: Hey, you wanna know what helped me? Have you read this or seen that?

I feel like in our second acts we are now Finders.
Things start to make some sense. Not everything, I still can’t wrap my brain around vows of chastity and silence.
What I HAVE found is that I am much more willing to wait and see how things work out.
I’m not perfect, some days I still want to see the progress inside the chrysalis.
I am forever a work in progress. I will always be asking questions. But I’m embracing my inner Finder.

I feel like she has a lot to share.

Tell me what you know about waiting. How comfortable are you with being passively passionate or passionately passive? Lol.

Xox