compassion

Loves,
Maybe it’s the heat or the way the planets are aligned, or the damn solar flares are back, but I have several people around me, strong, capable, overachieving types——who are really struggling. And the very fact that things are feeling unmanageable for them has sent them into a playback loop of Why the fuck can’t I do this? — and I should be able to do this!
It’s like someone threw a Molotov cocktail laced with vulnerability and self-doubt into their lives and they don’t have the skill set to reach out to the bomb squad for help.
That’s where WE come in!
This is a post from back in 2014 where I attempted to explain a little bit about being one of the strong ones and what you can do to help us in a crisis. My hope is that it reaches the eyes it was intended for.

Carry on,
xox

When I walked up to my husband I had tears in my eyes. That is NOT a common occurrence in our home, in our relationship or pretty much ever so he looked at the picture I had in my hand, that I had walked over to show him. It was the photo above. He, on the contrary, is a “major weeper” so naturally, he became a puddle in seconds.

You know why?

We are both “strong people” and no one EVER asks us how we’re doing or if we’re okay.

Does that happen to you?

It’s really not that people don’t care to ask you, they just don’t think of it.

Since childhood, we’ve both known that about the world, so we ask each other with the promise that we aren’t allowed to answer with the obligatory I’m fine if that’s not the case. It’s a no-bullshit zone. Complete honesty is required. We have earned each other’s trust, so it releases us of any reservations about letting our guard down.

We understand that being strong is a blessing—and a curse.

I’ve had some really nasty shit happen to me in my life, and when it did everyone around me just assumed I was going to be “fine”. I always am, so they’re right.
But…

Filled with sadness and rage, (because we know those two always travel together) I have screamed at whoever was in the room, “What do I have to do, bleed? Does blood have to pour out my eyes in order for you to see how much emotional pain I’m in?”

The response was always the same. “I just figured you were okay.”

I love that I instill that level of confidence in people. It must be my stiff upper lip or that ability I have to stand upright in the midst of a crisis.

But please ask me how I’m feeling. Ask me how it’s going, or if I need help because I’m a big girl and I’ll let you know if you have overstepped my emotional boundary, although that’s pretty hard to do.
I’ve talked recently to many other strong people I know, to ask them what they need when the shit hits the fan.

I’m going to give you a few simple steps in my GUIDE TO HELPING THE STRONG:

1. Sometimes us strong ones, we need a hug. If you’re too uncomfortable to talk to me, hug me. I promise, I won’t ever push you away.

2.  Just a simple “I’m here for you,” when you don’t know what to say to us, is beyond appreciated.

3. We’ve heard “You’ve got this” all our lives, and eventually we will, because we’re the strong ones, just please don’t say that.

4. If we ever get from you the opportunity, willingness to listen, and the space to vent, please let us. We won’t self indulge and stay there long, we’re the strong ones, it just helps us process.

5. We will NEVER call YOU in the middle of the night, that has not been OUR role. WE get the calls. So, if you know something has just gone down, like a death or a huge loss, firing, humiliation, fight, whatever…call us.

If we cry, let us. I promise it’s not the end of the world.
Don’t try to get us to stop, or if you want to help at all —please don’t tell us we’re overreacting. I can assure you we’re not. Not even a little bit. How do I know? Because it’s not our nature.

One lesson I’ve learned: People HATE to see strong people vulnerable. It scares the fuck out of them.

I know for a fact that several of my love affairs ended because I showed vulnerability and upset the dynamics of the relationship. I was supposed to be the “strong one”.

If you’re one of the strong ones I suggest you email this to all your friends and family because I can tell you from experience that they’re at a loss as to how to handle you. And please, if you know a strong one, please take this to heart.

You strong ones, do you have anything to add?
What helps you?

I’d love to hear what YOU think.
Carry on, 
Xox JB

The rain was monsoonal, something as out-of-place in LA as a face with so much as a hint of a forehead frown line. 

I watched it coming down like an aggressive shower curtain of water slapping against the window while I waited in line at Trader Joes. So much for timing my run to the store in-between squalls. I knew I shouldn’t have lingered over the bone broth. What’s the thing with bone broth anyway? It’s like the second coming of Christ. And why do I do that? Why do I decide to do the deep dive into researching an item on Google, before deciding whether to buy it or not while I’m actually STANDING IN THE STORE?  

When I see people like me I just want to kick ‘em! Don’t you? 

Anyway, TJ’s was packed, just like most places are when it rains. It’s a phenomenon I can’t explain but it’s real. Ask anyone who’s ever worked in the service industry and they’ll tell you that the harder it rains the more people decide to put on pants (or not) under their raincoats—and shop. Or eat out. Or eat out then shop. 

It’s a thing. Trust me. 

Once I snapped out of my weather induced coma, it occurred to me that my line wasn’t moving. Isn’t that one of life’s great mysteries? How we always manage to get in the slowest line? Even after I do my due diligence by standing back and carefully sizing them all up! Even after deciding on the speediest checker, somehow, SOMEHOW, mine is the checkout line where the old ladies’s eggs fly out of the carton. Or the nice young man who’s bagging the groceries and has been blessed with the gift of gab discovers he went to middle school with the customer in front of me’s daughter and what a perfect time to get all caught up! Or the twenty-five pound bag of dog food (the only thing the man in a hurry in front of me is buying because god forbid he shows up at home without it—I’ve seen that look from Ruby) springs a leak right when he picks it up and kibble sprays like it’s coming out of a firehose, EVERYWHERE or, or, shit!

I decided it’s just the fickle-finger-of-fate and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it now. Meanwhile, our line was at a standstill. So naturally, like a morbidly curious lookie-loo at the scene of an accident, I moved in for a closer look and you’re never gonna guess what it was that was holding us up. 

Go on, take a guess! Nope. Wrong!

The guy behind me must have seen it too because he went apoplectic. “Oh, sure, that’s just great!” he announced in his outside voice as he craned his neck in search of a quick escape.  

Here it is. Here’s what was causing the delay and subsequent pileup: The woman in front of me was going to WRITE A CHECK!

That’s right. A paper check. Like, one that’s been happily retired, living in a checkbook with all of it’s antiquated friends for the past several decades. I felt like I’d slip streamed the timeline back twenty years. Back to when I was thin and blonde, and..hey, maybe this wasn’t so bad…

Anyway, she was mid apology when she overheard the guy behind me loose his mind. Flop sweat appeared on her upper lip as she looked around nervously. Then she asked the checker for a pen. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed,’ she said.

I was embarrassed for her.

“No problem,” replied the checkout girl, but I could tell it was a huge problem for her since she couldn’t find a pen that worked.

Having once been a Girl Scout, I fished one out of my purse and handed it to her.

“Here you go,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied, and proceeded to write as fast as a human hand can move a pen across paper.

“Oh, for the love of god!” Cried the mom with two kids dressed in matching yellow rain coats who’d just gotten into line behind me. “Really, a check?” She was livid.

“What’s a check mommy?” one of the kids asked as she huffed away. “It’s a relic from our distant past,” she answered in her snarkiest mommy tone.

The woman in front of me was shaking as she handed me back the pen. Our eyes met as an explanation tumbled out of her mouth like popcorn does at the movies.

“My entire backpack was stolen in Barcelona, along with my wallet and passport,” she explained to no one in particular. “I had to go to the American embassy just to be able to get back in the country.”

I nodded sympathetically. I’ve traveled extensively in Europe and that sounds like my worst nightmare. I can’t imagine what she went through. 

“We got home late last night and there’s no food in the house…”

The cashier interrupted. “So I guess I can’t get any ID then, right?”

The hungry woman shook her head.

I’d heard enough. I pulled out my wallet but the manager, who I’m sure had noticed the back up, showed up right about then. “It’s cool,” he said. “I’ve seen her here million times.” He smiled a reassuring smile while scribbling his initials on the front of the check. “Haven’t done THAT in a while,” he said as he walked away. 

My anger had long since dissipated. After an entire line at the market had check-shamed her, now all I felt was compassion for the poor woman. No debit card to get cash. No credit cards. No drivers license. How else was she supposed to eat?

I imagined being in the same predicament and doing the exact same thing. 

Man, there were SO many lessons in that encounter.

People! Slow down! What’s the fucking rush?

Shit happens. 

Barcelona is divine but criminals live there too. 

American Embassies are essential in times like that.

There’s SO MUCH distracting candy around the checkout counter at TJ’s that found its way into my cart that it’s ridiculous. 

Have some compassion. Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

Carry on,
xox

Oh, Billy Bush.

I recently saw an interview with you on one of the morning shows.

You looked remorseful and you sounded truly humbled. And while my inner feminist still wants to punch you in the face for giggling like a hormonal adolescent at Trump and goading him into hugging that soap star, I have to admit that you took the brunt of this debacle.

You got fired while the other guy, the guy who uttered all the misogynist crap, he became the leader of the free world and that’s not fair. You have a conscience. You had to face your own teenage daughter asked you why you laughed because “It wasn’t funny, dad.”

I bet walking across hot coals was probably easier than living thru that moment.

Speaking of hot coals, I heard that you used this seven months off to self-reflect, do yoga and attend a Tony Robbins seminar. You told the interviewer how Tony had pointed you out in front of 9000 attendees and said, “One moment in your life does not define who you are.”

Wow. How incredibly profound is that? One shitty moment does not define a person.

Oh, Lord have mercy because I’ve had my share of “those moments.” But then again, who hasn’t?

I cringe when I think of all the times I laughed at inappropriate innuendo.
Or the times my big mouth said something thoughtless.
The judgmental, snarky remarks.
The clumsy responses; wanting to be funny or sound smart or be liked.

Uh oh, that’s more than one moment, isn’t it?
But wait, this is about you, Billy.

As outraged as I was last October I realize now that you were just trying to stay in someone’s good graces.
Someone who at the time was at the height of their fame, who was powerful and well-connected and lived to be a provocateur.

It takes guts to speak truth to power. We are witness to that every day with the same man and the high-powered people who surround him in Washington. What did we expect from a celebrity reporter?

I try to be a better person every damn day and I have to assume you do too, Billy.

My wish for you is that the public has a short memory and that they practice compassion where your next career move is concerned.

Listen, I don’t know if you’re taking suggestions but I think covering politics might be your next step. I’m not saying that you might have a score to settle, I’m just suggesting that after everything you’ve learned you could be the perfect person to speak some truth to this kind of abuse of power.

Carry on,
xox

Tony Robbins Quotes

I have a tribe. A writing tribe of women.
Mel is a part of that tribe.

Mel writes in a way that her words paint pictures inside your imagination.
Mel’s writing transports you to the very place she intends to take you.
And while you’re there…she steals your heart.
She does it to me every fucking time.

My editor says I make her snort laugh coffee out her nose.
Mel made her editor cry.
She wins. Because everyone knows editors have their tear ducts removed. They never cry.

Her editor at Elephant Journal also told her “This is, hands down, one of my favorite elephant articles to date.”

Well…That…a compliment…That is an occurrence so rare it’s up there with editor tears and portraits of Jesus on burnt pieces of toast.

Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed her with all the gushing I’ll let you see for yourself. I’m posting the link only so you will go over and tweet and comment.

Ladies and gentleman, my friend, Mel Maure:

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2016/10/stop-ignoring-these-connections-they-can-turn-your-day-or-life-around/

*Melanie Maure is a forest-dwelling kind of gal who splits her time between writing and private practice as a psychotherapist and she teaches a little yoga on the side. One of the strongest influences on her writing is the twenty years experience she possesses helping people navigate PTSD, injuries and the effects of physical, mental and emotional trauma.

As a woman, therapist and writer Melanie believes humor is a key ingredient for recovery and growth, and her writing often reflects this belief. She is currently in the third round of revisions on her debut novel, which recently received agency representation with RO Literary. Mel did an extremely awkward happy dance on that day.

Melanie lives works and plays in Peachland, British Columbia with her husband Jason and her fur-child Slim Jim.

Melanie can be found in the woods or at these more convenient locations: email, Instagram, Facebook.

Have a great weekend and Carry on, 

xox

On Sunday and Monday, the weather seemed to mirror the energy of chaos that’s rampant in the world right now.

Isn’t that interesting how the weather mirrors energy? I remember 9/11 was a bright and sunny Indian Summer day in New York City with beautiful clear, blue skies, and the next day the skies turned grey and gloomy as they opened up and cried all of our collective tears.

I find that fascinating.

Anyhow, on Sunday, as the cold winds whipped our yards into a frenzy, tipping over pots and tearing branches off of the mature trees we have surrounding the house, and chucking them onto patio furniture, our cars in the driveway and turning the path to the front door into a sort of hero’s journey of leafy obstacles, I decided to do what I do best: hide in bed with the dog, a book, and some movies on TV.

Reading and watching TV at the same time is a habit I acquired as a teenager in high school.
It serves no purpose other than to keep every quadrant of my brain activated and occupied—so I’m unable to dwell on any of life’s other distractions, like personal hygiene, eating, or worrying about whether a terrorist sleeper cell exists in my neighborhood.

When I finally did decide to assuage the loud rumblings of my stomach by enjoying some cheese on a Triscuit and cup of Earl Grey—hot—I turned my full attention to the movie since it was nearly impossible to hold my book and a cheesy Triscuit at the same time.

It turns out the film was fairly recent and was only about ten minutes into the plot, which meant that now that I had given my body some brain food (as I like to call complex carbohydrates), I would be able to catch up quickly with what was happening on screen.

The movie was Invasion, a current-ish, snazzy remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers with a younger Daniel Craig (yum) and an actress whose face is Botoxed so heavily that NOTHING moves. I found this incredibly puzzling since the only way those infected with the alien virus (that has turned almost the entire population of earth into emotionless robots) can identify those who have yet to be “turned” is their show of emotion.
When an uninfected person would run or scream or cry, they would stick out like a sore thumb and get apprehended and infected into compliance.

Yet here’s the heroine of our story looking like a gifted ventriloquist, her mouth stuck in an insipid grin while out pours the sound of full monologues of terror and grief. “I can’t find my son!” she wails in agony while her face maintains the serene mask of a woman getting a pedicure.
Interesting casting choice.

But that’s not what I wanted to focus on here.

As I sipped my tea and snarfed my carbs, despite the sketchy casting choices, I started to marvel at the synchronicities the movie was bringing up as it drew me in.

I’d spent the morning getting caught up in the atrocities in Paris, vacillating between feelings of disgust and pity toward humanity.
What a fucking mess we’ve made, I lamented. Look at all the pain and the sorrow caused by a few people’s feelings of deep despair and hatred.

Human emotions run amok. What in heaven’s name is the answer?

In the movie, an alien species had devised an answer: Remove all those troublesome emotions from humanity and then have the wiped out, robotic humans clean up all of their messes, leaving Earth a sort of over sanitized, completely passionless and uninteresting version of itself. Like Disneyland or Switzerland on steroids.

In the background of certain scenes was TV coverage of wars ending, peace accords being signed and walls coming down.
Neat and tidy with a handshake and minimum of fanfare.
Sounds great right? Especially after the events in the past couple of days.
But along with the absence of hostility, there was a complete lack of joy, or passion, no relief or cause for celebration.

Worst of all—there was a complete absence of love. If you showed compassion or love—Busted! They’d catch you and infect you into a robotic shell of your former self.

Supposedly it was all done for our own good. A wiser species trying to save us from ourselves, but, um no thanks guys. We will deal with the emotional lows if you’ll leave us the highs of love, joy and caring—thank you very much.

And therein lies my cheesy, frozen-faced, synched-up Sunday afternoon movie revelation.

“Humanity is capable of such horrible nightmares and such beautiful dreams” to paraphrase a line from the movie Contact and as empty and fed up as I can feel after horrible things happen— if we try and force change—or wish the world were different—we unleash a whole slew of unforeseen complications and lose sight of our greatest gifts.
Freedom, Compassion, and Diversity.

What do you guys think?
Carry on,
xox

Me and Ruby watching TV and being Sunday bed-slugs.

So…My loves,
I like to give myself at least 24 hours to process a tragedy.
As someone who suffers from delayed reaction syndrome, a name I’ve come to give my unique way of dealing with disaster or tragedy, I know my emotions will swing wildly from a deep numbness, to fear—from resignation to profound sorrow.

So I sit…and I wait. And mindlessly fold socks and eat too much raw cookie dough.

Once I run the gamut of responses and gather myself (literally gather up all the scattered pieces of my SELF), I can see beyond the tragedy to something bigger.

You see, we can get caught in the cycle of hate and revenge (because that’s worked so well up until now), or we can KNOW in our hearts that the Terrorists, contrary to how it seems, have already lost their fight. The only thing their acts of cowardice do is open the Global Heart even further, releasing a torrent of love, compassion, and grace and a renewed sense of CONNECTION—ONENESS.

Sending you all my love,
xox

I was reminded of the most beautiful Buddhist meditation/prayer for fear.

It is recited by Colleen Saidman Yee at the end of her yoga classes.
I just love it and I thought you would too.

Here are her words.

“It goes something like this: Sit down and notice where you hold your fear in your body.
Notice where it feels hard, and sit with it. In the middle of hardness is anger.

Go to the center of anger and you’ll usually come to sadness.
Stay with sadness until it turns to vulnerability.

Keep sitting with what comes up; the deeper you dig, the more tender you become.
Raw fear can open into the wide expanse of genuineness, compassion, gratitude, and expectancy in the present moment.

A tender heart appears naturally when you are able to stay present.

From your heart, you can see the true pigment of the sky. You can see the vibrant yellow of a sunflower and the deep blue of your daughter’s eyes.

A tender heart doesn’t block out rain clouds, or tears, or dying sunflowers.
Allow beauty and sadness to touch you.
This is love, not fear.”

Isn’t that beautiful you guys?
Happy weekend,
xox

You can catch Colleen’s entire interview with Marie Forleo and hear her say the prayer on my Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/Theobserversvoice

Colleen’s new book:
Yoga for Life
A Journey to Inner Peace and Freedom

http://books.simonandschuster.com/Yoga-for-Life/Colleen-Saidman-Yee/9781476776781

Because it’s Sunday.

Carry on,
xox

Have you ever hugged a porcupine? Yeah me neither.
Although lately I could swear that I walk away from some hugs covered in quills.

I’ve developed the good sense to steer clear of the obvious porcupine people—the toxic, difficult, hard to love ones.

I don’t even own the suit of armor it took to get close to them anymore.
I think I sold it years ago at a garage sale.

Anyhow, lately I’ve suffered some pretty prickly encounters with previously un-prickly people.

Which surprised me. Then it didn’t. Because I had an Ah-ha.
Let’s hear it for those Ah-ha moments!

The other day while I was pulling embedded quills from my forcepts (ouch) I had time to think, and it occurred to me that certain people (The obvious porcupine people) wear their quills facing out, mostly as a defense, and after a while—people tend to leave them alone.

While others wear their quills on the inside—hurting only themselves in the process.

I saw a video recently of a snake that swallowed a porcupine whole. It was gross but kinda cool. Anyway, the poor mis-guided snake who never received the DO NOT EAT PORCUPINE memo died soon afterwards, the quills rupturing all of it’s internal organs.

Eventually, I suppose we all figure this out—because the pain gets too great …and we’re smarter than a snake.

We take our quills and turn them inside-out just before we discard them for good—as an act of self-loving transformation—in order to save our own lives. It leaves us raw and vulnerable, and some innocent (or not so innocent) people may be stuck by our pointedness in the process.

Note to self: Hug at your own risk. Oh, and use oven mitts.

I know for me, during times of intense introspection and change, as my quills work their way from the inside-out, I get pretty prickly, and if I’ve left a quill or five in your arms during a hug—I’m sorry (Raphael).

It’s all about empathy and compassion you guys. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go watch a video of a porcupine eating a pumpkin.

Carry on,
xox