change

“Change is always an inside job” Another great one from that fence-sitter, Humpty of the Dumpty.

Carry on,
xox

Family is visiting, and I’m left with very little time to write. So, there may be some reprises this week…and they may start today.

Carry on with your summer,
xox

Man! That’s a hard lesson for me.
And lately, revisiting a situation in the same old manner I’ve done in the past just. Isn’t. working.

It’s insanity. Truly. Or in plain speak, it’s crazy making.

Thursday, I tried something different, something new, and I found my way out of crazy town. I know I’m not alone with my over-stamped passport and resident’s visa to crazy town so I thought I’d share what happened.

Things in my life have been going really well. Better than well. They’ve been magorific!
The writing is fun as hell, the possibilities on the horizon — endless. I have found myself happier than I can ever remember being.

I know that saying that out loud is deemed a subversive act, but it comes into play here—I just can’t help it—and besides, wtf’s with THAT?

Anyway…I’ve begun to realize inside this massive reinvention of my life, that my past comes into play pretty much…NEVER.
Nothing I’ve done in my life up to this point, besides learning to read and write, has made a rat’s ass of difference in what is transpiring these days.
That at once feels daunting — making me feel like a complete novice in my mid-fifties, a time where you’re supposed to know shit — and liberating — like I want to take off my bra and run topless down the beach just as I may have done as a girl.

The very day I was reveling in this realization, my past came to visit me. To test my resolve.

The City of Los Angeles wanted more tax money from my long since dissolved corporation. I’ve been sending e-mails and faxing paperwork to them for a couple of years. My corporation ceases to exist which means… I owe them nada.

This is the perfect time to say: I have little tolerance of bureaucracy, even less for bureaucracy when they bug you for money, and none at all when they aren’t entitled to the money they’re chasing.

Meanwhile, they’ve gotten creative with their estimations of my imagined sales and have compounded the penalty interest daily. I’m sure you know what that feels like.

It’s like arguing with an elderly, obstinant, and profoundly deaf, assholish uncle — who hates you.

When I saw the envelope my stomach sank. It sank so deep they were going to have to send James Cameron back into the inky blackness of the bottomless Marianas Trench in search of my poor stomach. Then the pit turned to venomous victimhood, which is the thug cousin of regular, generic victimhood.

It took me down the dark allies of shame and lack, places I am VERY familiar with.

My knee-jerk reaction was to rip it up or light it on fire, which is pretty much my knee-jerk reaction to everything.

Instead, I called my accountant and basically said, “Make this go away.” She barked back “It is tax season, I don’t have time for this!”, I think I heard her take a sip of beer or a hit off a crack pipe. “You’re going to have to do this yourself. Go to their Van Nuys office in person and take care of it.”

She may as well have suggested I jump into a pen of wild tigers while wearing Lady Gaga’s meat suit.

I hung up, ready to have a cigarette with the thugs in the alley of “this is not fair”.

“Damn. I’ve been so happy”, I lamented. And that’s when it hit me.
I’d rather stay happy than go back into those OLD feelings of victimhood and shame.
My past has NOTHING to do with what my life looks like now. This is NOT going to take me down! I will gather up my own stomach out of the pit of despair, go deal with the bureaucrats myself, and take care of this thing once and for all.

Are you with me?! Can I get an AMEN?!

But first I’ll eat a chocolate chip cookie, look at the paperwork with fresh eyes, see a phone number I’ve never seen before hidden on the back — and make a call.

Due to extremely high caller volume, (from people who were obviously much smarter than I was with much fresher eyes), I was asked to leave my number and they would call me back. “Bullshit!” I sneered and started to hang up. But that was the old way I always dealt with The City of Los Angeles. This new me left my cell phone number cheerfully on the recording.

By dinner time, I realized they hadn’t called me back but instead of fuming I just went back to Plan A.
I will go to Van Nuys and speak face to face with a human being, something I probably should have done years ago. There was no stomach pit, no malice, just anticipation of releasing an energetic albatross that’s been around my neck for years.

I woke up this morning waiting for the sinking feeling I’m so used to. Even as I was reminded of my impending visit to the exitless labyrinth of bureaucracy, I felt only relief. That was HUGE for me.

At 9 AM, on my way out the door to the gym, I glimpsed the pile of paperwork I would need for my visit to Van Nuys, and I remembered leaving my number for a callback. You’d better take that with you, what if they call you while you’re at the gym?, I reminded myself. Before I could start laughing at the absurdity of that thought, the phone in my pocket started ringing.

It was The City Of Los Angeles.

I’m not kidding. I can’t make this shit up. No one would believe me.

It was Mrs. Garcia (I love how when I asked her for her name she told me, Mrs. Garcia. I was in middle school all over again), and she was all business. She asked me a couple of unanswerable questions before we found some middle ground, I stayed light and shameless, and in the space of ten minutes, a chain of pain that has been severely knotted up for several years — fell away.

Turns out I owed them nada. (Here’s where I want to scream I told you so!!!)
Thank you, Mrs. Garcia!

And thank you happiness for the giant attitude adjustment.
And thank you past, for teaching me this valuable lesson.
And thank you chocolate chip cookie for just being delicious.
And thank You Guys for reading.

Carry on,
xox

In case you didn’t see the latest from Liz Gilbert. It’s SOOOO good!
xoxJ

Dear Ones –

I’ve been going through a lot of big life transformations lately — moving through divorce, and loss, and the terrifying illnesses of loved ones, and outrageous upheavals of emotion — and none of it is easy.

Sometimes our transformations bring out the best in us, and sometimes they do not. When the ground breaks open because of an earthquake, you can be certain that everything — absolutely EVERYTHING — will be upturned, unearthed, or cracked open.

When you get cracked open, you will not always love what you discover about yourself. You wish you were a better person (whatever that means.) You wish you had handled this or that crisis with more grace. You wish you were stronger. You wish you were more certain about things. You wish you could go back and have that conversation all over again, and do it more wisely. You wish you were more forgiving. You wish you were more honest. You wish you were less judgmental. You wish you were less emotional. You wish you had figured things out sooner, or better, or smarter. Sometimes, you must face the truth that you have caused pain to yourself. Sometimes you have caused pain to others.

In short: You wish you were different. And wishing that you were different always, always, always hurts.

This is all very natural.

But we can choose in these difficult moments of self-doubt and regret and confusion whether or not we are going to hate ourselves for any of it…or whether we are going to practice self-love.
This is important.

The parts of yourself that you do not love are terribly vital, because they demand that you dig deep — deeper than you ever thought you would have to dig — in order to summon compassion and forgiveness for the struggling human being whom you are.

And until you learn to treat the struggling human being whom you are with a modicum of empathy, tenderness, and love, you will never be able to love anyone or anything with the fullness of your heart…and that would be a great shame. Because this is what we all want, isn’t it? This is what we came here for, right? To learn how to love each other with the fullness of our hearts?

Please know this: Whenever you withhold love from yourself, you are withholding love from the world…period.
We really need you to stop doing that.

The world has enough problems, without you withholding any more love.

Please understand that these difficult parts of yourself (the shameful parts, the regretful parts, and those episodes of your biography that are so spiky and troublesome and contradictory and embarrassing that you simply don’t know what to do with them)…please understand that these difficult parts of yourself are your ultimate teachers in compassion. Those parts of yourself are where you must begin learning how to love.

You guys? This is not a simple or straightforward moment in my life right now. There is a lot to sort through. There are a lot of parts of myself that I must examine now with unflinching honesty, if I am to grow.

I am willing to practice self-honesty. I believe in it, fully.
BUT SELF-HONESTY WITHOUT SELF-LOVE IS NOTHING BUT SELF-ABUSE.

And here is what I am finding, as I age: I simply do not have the stamina for self-abuse anymore. Just can’t do it anymore. I dip into it sometimes for a moment or two, but I can’t stay there — my heart just isn’t in it anymore. I used to be so good at self-hatred and shame! I could attack myself for YEARS — drowning in an endless wave of self-criticism. But I’m out of shape these days when it comes to self-hatred. I’ve lost that special kind of emotional endurance which is required for nonstop self-degradation and attack. I can’t do that to anyone else, and I can’t do it to myself, either. Too much practice in empathy and too many years of tenderness have ruined my chances to collapse ever again into the job of full-time shame.

I have loved all the hatred for myself out of myself.
(Well. Mostly, anyhow.)
🙂

And so now, when I suffer and struggle, I ask myself, “What part of you is hurting, Liz, and how we can love it — even as you are hurting?”

We must begin there — with the parts that we do not love.

This doesn’t mean being complacent. This doesn’t mean living in denial. This doesn’t mean that I have stopped trying to grow and transform. This doesn’t mean that I am excused from being self-accountable. This doesn’t mean burying my head in the sand, or telling myself lies. It just means: There is no part of myself anymore that I do not believe is deserving of love.
And that’s good news.

Because the only way I’m ever going to learn how to love any of you beautiful freaks — by which I mean all 7 billion of you gorgeous, unpredictable, troubled, weird, contradictory, struggling, devastatingly inspiring, broken, and perfect humans with whom I share this difficult planet — is if I can learn how to love my own freaky-ass self, too.

If I can accept me, Dear Ones, I can accept anyone.
So this is where we shall begin.
OK?

LG

I’ve been a redhead and a blonde. Blondes have more fun—you know they do! I can’t help it, they just do!

I’ve been both mindsets—I can be both mindsets. The growth mindset is more fun. It just is. You know that too!

Which one are you?

Are we having fun yet????

Carry on,
xox

“I don’t have to settle. I don’t have to tolerate the life I have, even if it’s good. I want great, magnificent, and outstanding.”

Take the time to watch this.
SO good.
It’s summer. You have time.
I’m not kidding!

PS. There’s naughty language used, wear your headphones if kids are around.

Carry on,
xox

Really? Wow! That explains so much!

Just to clarify:
Let’s say you’re feeling unmotivated, unsure of yourself, aimless, can’t find your passion, directionless, not clear on what your purpose in life is. You’re in good company — most people are in the same boat.

Aren’t you happy to know that?

You just thought you felt like shit for no reason. Now you know, discontent is one of the early symptoms!

It’s doing you a favor, trying to get your attention. I know this from personal experience.
I have the black and blue poke marks to prove it!

Please don’t do what I do—do what I advise. Pay attention.

That is the end of today’s Public Service Announcement.

Carry on,
xox

It’s not a good idea to touch your hair when you are in transition. Or change your appearance at all for that matter.

I can offer that advice because I know from personal experience.

The first time was second or third grade, I can’t remember which, when I was unceremoniously transferred without any warning from Miss Law’s classroom, which I adored because it was very progressive (she had us sit with our desks in a circle), to Sister Francis Ann’s dark and dreary classroom where the desks were all in ROWS.

That night I cut my own bangs. Badly. With plastic doll scissors. But I never admitted it. Until now.

I always seemed to get a bad haircut right about the time I was losing my front teeth or getting braces. Like I couldn’t just leave well enough alone.
What about you?

Was it bad timing?

One of the traumas of childhood?

Or a tragic coincidence?

I can’t be sure, but I have the pictures to prove it.

Due to the fact that pixie cuts were all the rage for little girls in the 1960’s, and that I wasn’t asked or consulted in any way because, well, because it was back in the days when kids didn’t get a vote and my mom chose my stylist and paid for my haircut, I decided to fly in the face of conventional thinking I followed the trend and wore my hair like a boy.

At first a toothless boy.

Then a little boy with teeth too large for his/her face to which the braces only added insult to injury.

Nothing says “Hey, I’m well adjusted”,  like showing up to the first day of a new grade wearing braces, a uniform, and your dad’s haircut.

Damn…childhood. It’s no wonder we’re all so fucked up when it comes to transitions and change.

Make yourself look as bad as you possibly can—venture out into an awkward social situation—and then try to make new friends.

Which I think became a pattern for me.

I remember once, in the midst of a terribly painful break-up (to be distinguished from all the other break-ups that were a laugh riot), drinking and dialing my hairdresser who was a friend. I needed to re-invent. So…we proceeded to spend the rest of the night smoking cigarettes, drinking two-buck-Chuck, cursing sexy bad boys and dying my blonde hair a hideous shade of eggplant purple/red/black/vomit.

Then we both agreed (at least that was her side of the story), that the only thing I needed to make me look even cuter—were bangs.

The next day I wanted to die. No, seriously. I wanted to drop dead at the sight of myself.
I had an audition and I was now sporting bangs. Bangs the color of eggplant vomit; that matched the rest of my hair; and that was the least of my problems.
I was single.
Again.
It was a real catastrofuck.

This is my darling sister, whom I lived with at the time, and I’m sure we’re laughing at the eyebrows I had to draw on with a black pencil to match my hair.

Even my mom, the one who had me pixie-cut, hated it. She actually cried and asked why I was deliberately defacing myself. Like I was cutting or something. She said I “needed help.”

I didn’t need a shrink to tell me I sucked at transition. I had a bigger issue. Control. If something happened that I didn’t have any control over…watch out! Bangs were in my immediate future.

They still are.

If you know me, you know how many different colors and styles I’ve worn my hair over the years and if I trace it back, something emotional was always happening, some change or transition, right around the time I did the big ones.

I just did it recently. When I decided I was a writer, I also decided it was time to stop dying my hair and go gray!

So, that just goes to prove that old neurosis die hard although I’ve gotten a gazillion times better.
I recognize what’s about to happen when I get wobbly and start fingering the scissors.

Bangs.

Then I go and hide them from myself.

I’ve also outgrown drinking and dialing my hairdresser and I try not to make huge changes in my appearance before an important event—although I have a big meeting at the end of the month and I’m not sure my hair is purple enough underneath…I’m serious.

The other day I tore a picture out of a magazine of a cute way to wear gray hair with…bangs.

I’m doomed.

What do you do under similar circumstances? Loose weight? Buy boobs? Grow a beard? (Yeah, me too)

Carry on,
xox

Transformation tourism

“I bought the diet book, but ate my usual foods.”

“I filled the prescription, but didn’t take the meds.”

“I took the course… well, I watched the videos… but I didn’t do the exercises in writing.”

Merely looking at something almost never causes change. Tourism is fun but rarely transformative.

If it was easy, you would have already achieved the change you seek.

Change comes from new habits, from acting as if, from experiencing the inevitable discomfort of becoming.

Seth Godin

SETH GODIN is the author of 18 books that have been bestsellers around the world and have been translated into more than 35 languages. He writes about the post-industrial revolution, the way ideas spread, marketing, quitting, leadership and most of all, changing everything. You might be familiar with his books Linchpin, Tribes, The Dip and Purple Cow.

His newest book, “What To Do When It’s Your Turn”, is already a bestseller.

sethgodin.com

Once upon a time I took score too soon.
I was convinced that my life as I knew it was over. Which it was, but not in the sucky way I thought.

I told you guys back at the start of this year how a past love from thirty years ago had contacted me, wanting to reconnect. I also told you how squirmy it made me on account of—he quite literally broke. my. heart!

At the time of our breakup, it seemed as if he’d dumped me right out of the blue, with no rhyme or reason; and it took me five long and torturous (for those around me), years to get over him.

My days consisted of wanton displays of reminiscing, whining, moaning and crying, all of which demonstrated a complete absence of any self-respect or common sense. The cry-fests were of such unending duration that I was single-handedly responsible for the uptick in Kleenex stock at the time.
You’re welcome Proctor and Gamble.

When I was telling my friend Kim (you all remember Kim. She’s the no shit-taker Janet whisperer), the story back in January, I remembered, for the first time in like, forever—this little tidbit.

This nugget of wtf.

This slight of hand that destiny dealt me.

It should have always been the prequel to this tale of woe. The appetizer, the trailer of coming attractions, but it never was, because I forgot about it. Until this year.

Late one hot summer night in 1986, I got off the phone with my luvah boy-toy after what could be described as a three-hour nasty-chat that sizzled the telephone lines between Long Beach, where he was attending college, and LA, where I was busy robbing cradles.

After finishing my post virtual-sex cigarette, I fell asleep ten times less horny and fifty times happier than earlier that night.
He was the love of my life…or so I thought.
Deep into my sexy, sweaty, summer stupor, I had a dream. It was as vivid as real life; only way more interesting.

I was walking barefoot into a cave, running my hands along its cold, smooth, stone walls, feeling the powdery sand between my toes as I ventured further and further into its pitch-blackness. It was cool and dry and I can still smell the mustiness that filled my senses as I  inhaled deeply. Even though I’m not a fan of dark cave walks in real life; at the time I felt more curious than anything else.

Suddenly, there was a male presence ahead of me dressed in a black robe with a hood that obscured his face. Again, in real life that is the universal sign for ‘run for your life’, but inside of this dream instead of being afraid I started a conversation, you know like you do with black hooded figures in pitch dark caves.

It’s not like our lips moved, well, maybe his did but it was so dark I couldn’t see them and besides, it was a dream, so we communicated telepathically. I started by asking him who he was and he immediately broke the ice with an ultimatum.

“This is not the direction your life is meant to go. This relationship must end.”

“Whoa there big hooded fella” I replied, appalled by his rude opening line. “That will NOT be happening!”

“He is not the one for you, this is not where your life is headed, let him go and move on.”

“I don’t remember asking you for advice, this is none of your black capey business.”

“This must end. Now”,  He demanded.

“No!” I could feel myself getting emotional as I argued back.

The tone of his thought/voice was firm and unwavering. There would be no compromise. I started to cry.

“But.. I love him.”

“This is not the life you are meant to live. The relationship must end.”

As he said that, I began to sob, and before I knew it this large hooded figure reached out and pulled me in for a hug.

I kid you not.

The moment we made contact I felt an amazing rush of incredible love and I knew EVERYTHING.

I mean EVERYTHING.

Who killed J.R., why we are here, the reason for it all, the cure for cancer, the names of all the planets in our galaxy and every baby that will ever be born on Earth. EVERYTHING.

I remember thinking for one split second remember this and omg it is all so easy.

When he let go of me I knew in my kishkes that my life had been changed forever, but I didn’t remember anything else.

“Show me your face” I begged.
“Not now”
“Then when?”

It was everything I could do not to reach up and pull the hood down but I was suddenly distracted by a telephone ringing in the distance. I turned around and started to run to answer it. As I raced out of the cave and back toward the light and the sound of the ringing, I remember glancing over my shoulder to see if he was still there—but he was gone.

I opened my eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the blinds and my telephone ringing loudly on the floor just where I’d left it the night before.

“Hello?” I croaked, my mouth so void of saliva that my lips were sticking to my teeth.

Silence. Then, “Hey baby…we have to talk”. And right then and there he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore. I pleaded for a reason, something I did wrong, something I could do to change his mind, but he was adamant. Just like that, we were over.

“That hooded dude did a Jedi-mind trick on your boy!”, Kim exclaimed at the end of my story.
“Really? You don’t see it? It’s as plain as day!”,  she snort-laughed seeing the gobsmacked expression on my face.

Why hadn’t I ever thought of that?!

“OMG! He still can’t explain why he left you, hence all the regrets and looking back”,  she howled.

She’s right. The dream provided me some warning for the impending 180 my life was about to take, but the Universe took the wheel and forgot to share its plans with my friend.

In the middle of it all, I took score.
Note to self: Don’t take score in the middle.

I was convinced my life was over when it was only just beginning.

In response to my extreme dumb-shittery during our time together, his departure facilitated a life-long spiritual practice . I went on a journey of self-discovery, saw the world, and started eating meat again, just not in that order.

And beware of black-hooded telepaths who hang out in caves giving hugs—for they may speak the truth.

Carry on,
xox

To all of you out there, and there are many, many of you, who are willing to be toast on your way to transformation—we are all in this together—and I applaud you with my crispy, toasted little hands!

Love,
The piece of burnt toast you’re smelling right now.
xox