courage

Hi everybody,
I wrote this back in July 2013 when I was writing mostly poem-y stuff.

When I read the words they felt even more timely than they did back then.
We had no idea at that time what was coming, the challenges our county would be facing just four years later.

Courage and Independence. To me, they are dance partners.

I don’t think you can have one without the other. Maybe independence leads—or maybe it’s courage. Perhaps they take turns. What would our Founding Fathers think?

What do you think?

On this Independence Day, I’m going to be grateful that I live in a country where independence and freedom are a RIGHT—not a privilege and I’m going to ask the Universe, or God or Bob or whoever grants such prayers to give me the courage to make sure it stays that way.

Happy 4th y’all!

Carry on,
xox

Do you have the courage to be yourself?
To not follow the crowd?
To meet YOUR OWN standards?
To march to your own drum?
Do you have the courage?

Do you have the courage to go left when everyone else around you goes right?
To know that on the other side of darkness
there is always the light?
Do you have the courage?

Do you have the courage to smile for no apparent reason?
To laugh out loud in a crowd?
To wear a hat no matter the season?
To stand out, tall and different, and proud?
Do you have the courage?

Do you have the courage when all eyes are upon you,
To always speak your truth?
To never compromise your convictions?
Even when you can show little proof?
To set the example, to start the trend?

Do you have the courage, my friend?

“America was not built on fear. America was built on courage, on imagination and an unbeatable determination to do the job at hand.”

~Harry S Truman

“If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences.”
― Criss Jami

Things that never happened because I didn’t have the guts.
The list is long. Like longer than Taylor Swift’s legs long.

How do I know for sure what could have happened?
I don’t. But my regret does.
I’m sure you know what I mean.

My regret is an artist who paints with broad strokes. Large, majestic scenery, filled with full-color landscapes of stories that never happened.

It also is a master in the art of persuasion.

Those stories look spectacular.
They seem amazing.
They are fucking fairy tales.

In these scenarios, my gutless self is replaced by another person. Someone who is risk averse; the acrobatic chance taker/failure dodger. For instance:

I’m a Broadway actress with a shelf crowded with Tony awards.

I’m a rock star, or the wife of a rock star (take your pick), who continues to tour and performs to sold-out crowds.

I’m a mother. Twin boys and a girl.

I’m an entrepreneur who shattered the glass ceiling and owns six companies that are all publicly traded.

I’m a seasoned lecturer and public speaker.

I’m someone who looks refreshed and rested, at least ten years younger (but whose wallet is twenty-five thousand dollars lighter.)

I’m the winner of Dancing With The Stars, The Voice, the Apprentice, and Jeopardy (the celebrity edition).

I’m a mentor on America’s Top Model after having my face grace more magazine covers than any other living human being.

I am resting on my laurels.

~OR HOW ABOUT~

I’m an aging hippie who lives off the land up in Oregon.

I’m an aging New Ager who lives off tips in Hawaii.

I’m the aging owner of a brothel somewhere tolerant of that sort of thing.

I’m busking on the corners of Santa Cruz.

I’m the ex-wife of seven men.

I’m someone who never married, looks thirty-five and owns dozens of Siamese cats.

I’m living in a Villa in Italy after cashing out, buying a one-way ticket, and hooking up with a guy named Paulo.

I have photo albums filled with pictures of me bungee jumping, sky diving and formula one racing, climbing Mt. Everest, Deep sea diving and waving my certificate that states I am the top of my class in NASA astronaut training school.

I’ve changed my name to Solange.

After surveying this list. The list that was supposed to summon that pit in my stomach. You know, the one that makes you feel bad about yourself and feeds regret?

Instead I had an epiphany.

What if those things didn’t happen not so much because of a guts deficit — but due to a keen sense of the obvious as far as knowing what I was capable of — an inkling of my life’s trajectory — a ginormous helping of common sense?

Ha! Take that regret!

P.S. I HAVE done many things in my life that required a shit-ton of guts, and so have YOU—but THAT my friends, is a list for another day.

Got any regrets?

Carry On,
xox

“Can I get a little help here? Anybody?”

Oh, Hello Rut.

At least I think that’s you. I haven’t seen you in a while and even though you tend to show up in my life on a semi-regular basis—you rascal—you always fool me.

Never one to pass up a good disguise, in the past, you’ve arrived wrapped up in a blanket of safety and security—sunglasses—and a hat.

Always a damn hat.

“Tell me, who doesn’t love safety and security”, you coo. “No one”, I answer. “Unless… it starts to feel like a high-security prison.”

You scoff loudly and keep on digging a deeper hole.

Webster defines you as, A habit or pattern of behavior that has become dull and unproductive but is hard to change.

I don’t know why I listen to you but I do as you feed me all of your bullshit stories and disproven theories, and I’ve come to notice that when you’re around there may be safe & sound—but there’s no growth or change. Just more of the same ol’, same ol’.

I have to admit, that may feel good for a while but even a table full of chocolate gets boring if that’s all you get to eat for months. Sometimes a girl just wants a steak.

Lately, you’ve taken on the guise of rules and rigidity. Keeping to a strict schedule. No wiggle room, no deviation, no slack, no life—no kidding.

Then, like all Ruts do, you point at all of the surrounding chaos as you sing me a sweet lullaby and lull me into complacency. That all works fine as long as I stay inside of this hole you’ve dug for me.

But you see, here’s the thing: Writers/artists/people need to be IN the world not just OF it.

Sometimes a person needs to put their feet in the sand, feel the warmth of the sun on their face, and set out walking in a pine forest with absolutely no destination in mind. But with you around that isn’t easy. I can feel the tug of your two goons Shame and Guilt around my ankles pulling me back into the chair where they place my fingers firmly onto the keyboard all the while chanting “Write, write, write something good.”

So, I get it. This time you look like creativity wrapped in obligation, except everyone knows those two don’t mix.
They’re like oil and water,
Kanye and Taylor Swift,
Democrats and Republicans.

Be gone Rut! I’ve seen thru your latest ruse. You can go and look for another soul to crush but I’m ratting you out right here and now so…good luck with that.

PS. See ya. I’m going on a walk to nowhere and I can’t tell you how long I’ll be gone.
PPS. I hate your stupid hat.

Carry on,
xox

Hello brave ones,

This is a post from ages ago. Three years to be exact but it has been a topic of constant conversation these days.

When do you take the leap to change?

I like the idea of permission, and I LOVE the concept of Grace.

So today, if you’re contemplating listening to your gut. Or you’ve already taken the leap and you feel like you’re in free-fall—maybe this will help.
That’s always my wish.

Carry on,
xox

Both feet have to leave the ground to leap.
Ohhhhhh Shiiiiiiit!

…and therein lies the rub.

When am I ready to leap you ask? Uh, just this side of NEVER!

We seldom feel like we’re ready….it just isn’t the right time…not yet.

But what the hell are we waiting for?
An illness?
Divorce?
The empty nest?
More diplomas?
Losing a job?
More zeros in our bank account (Ahhh, now I’m getting warmer) but how many are enough?

How about PERMISSION?
The WORD from God-on-high that all systems are go, and you’re ready for launch.
That’s what I want!
That’s what we all want. Right?

But you know what you guys? We’ve got that. We have our internal guidance, our intuition, our gut, to let us know when we’re getting close.

We’ve all been there. You get that restless feeling.

You start asking life WAY too many questions.

You feel as if you can’t continue to do that thing you’ve been doing for one. more. minute.

That to me, signals one foot off the ground.

Then I have to suck up every ounce of courage to trust those signals, and
Lift. The. Other. Foot.

Permission is Grace’s secret weapon.

If you give enough value to the signs; the synchronicity, that jumpy little feeling in your belly, and you turn away from the fear and doubt and really show up for yourself; you grant Permission.
Permission’s bodyguards, Faith and Courage, then clear the path for Grace to enter.

Then you know what Grace does?
She lends you her hand and helps you balance…
so you can lift your other foot to leap.

Xox

Oh, for crying out loud! Why do we do it?

Why do we choose to live so small?

When I was a little kid, I was HUGE. A great, big, unedited, unabashed, force to be reckoned with and I’m guessing you were too.

The other day I was a quivering bag-of-doubt when someone really wise asked me, “Who did this to you? Who made you think life was setting you up to fail?”

Well, good question. I have absolutely NO idea!
Was there one person, a family member or a teacher who caused me to feel like a quivering-bag-of-doubt? No. Not really. My dad wasn’t a huge fan, but that was motivation to me. Besides, I’m not into the blame game anymore, but— it did make me think about how ridiculous I can be.

I think it’s society at large that makes us dial ourselves down. Don’t you? We’re taught appropriate behavior and since we want to fit in—we follow the crowd.

Well, guess what? I don’t wanna follow the crowd anymore. Do you?

I want to write my own story and make it GREAT! I want to blaze my own trail and as of late, I want to swing for the fences!

Swing For The Fucking Fences! (Okay, I may have had too much coffee).

But why the hell not?

Who’s with me?

Hey batter, batter!
xox

We had a day of gratitude yesterday, me and my husband.

As we mentioned to each other how grateful we were for the simple things in life, parking spaces appeared (with time left on the meter), hassle-free food at a crowded concert showed up, there were even two empty seats in front of us for the first half of a sold-out show.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

Shut the fuck up! What do we have to be grateful for? Face reality! The world is a horrible, threatening place filled with uncertainty, hate, and people who are looking to do us harm.

Well, maybe you’re not saying that, but people do. A lot of people. And they get very angry when the word gratitude gets mentioned.

These days, saying you’re grateful has become a subversive act—the molotov cocktail of declarations. If you have the audacity to utter the words in mixed company, say at a bar-b-que or something, it can make you a lightning rod for a spew of vitriol the likes of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

To some folks, it’s as bad as admitting you want Hillary—or that you slap puppies.

Too bad.

Yesterday we felt gratitude. There. I said it.

We are blessed in so many ways and whatever argument you yell in my face you cannot talk me out of it—so please stop trying. And I realize it is just as impossible for me to change your mind.

Reading this will not help. Words will never change you. That I know for sure.

You have to be willing to look at things differently, literally take your eyes out of your head and dip them in something pleasant–and preferably fizzy—perhaps some pink champagne or one of those fruity Pellegrino drinks that are a “thing” right now. Let the bubbles help clarify your vision.
Do something, anything shocking to break the pattern.

Because only seeing the shit in life is a BAD HABIT.

And…right about now you want to take a fork to my face. But listen, I know that from experience!
It was my bad habit too. My default setting. I was so fucking vigilant and valiant in my suffering—I would have made ya proud.

Sound familiar?

OMFG, do I have bad habits!
I chew my cuticles until they bleed, I dispense unsolicited advice, I say the word fuck before breakfast more than Richard Pryor did in his entire career, and at certain points in my life I have fallen into the habit of pessimism—and I’m oversimplifying the depth of my angst by using that word. Call it depression, call it anxiety, call it a four-years-long bad mood—NEVER have any of my other bad habits tried to systematically dismantle my soul day in and day out—like that fucker did.

From the moment I woke up until the moment I closed my eyes and even those hours in between when human beings are supposed to be asleep, I could ONLY see what was going wrong and how unfair, unjust, and just plain awful my existence had become.

Can you say Shit. Show?

So, I get it.

You guys, I don’t pretend to know how any of this works, this perpetual darkness thing, what I DO know is that eventually, I hated feeling so damn bad–it was exhausting, like breathing water—and I wanted a way out.
Desperately.
I drank excessively, I ate too much, I meditated, I exercised fanatically, I chanted, I cut my own bangs and I Ommmm’d my ass into submission, seeking and searching. Like a five-pack-a-day smoker, I sought a patch, something to slap on my arm to numb my addiction to feeling bad.

But this was what kept showing up:
Practice gratitude, I read somewhere.