death

It is ridiculously dark in a hotel room with the black-out drapes closed.

It is trip over stuff because it’s a strange room; blink, blink, blink for your eyes to adjust; bang your shin and stub your toe, dark.

I experienced all of those things on the way to answer my phone which was shoved in my purse, somewhere under piles of room service napkins, magazines and assorted other crap.

La la la la la la, my phone chimed its little heart out.

Who is calling me? Everyone knows I’m on my honeymoon and judging from how dark it is, (forgetting the drapes) it MUST be three am.

Five minutes earlier the ringing had woken me up, and I had stumbled like a drunken sailor, half asleep in the pitch blackness, to the bathroom. ‘Wrong number‘ I thought, still half asleep as I felt my way like a blindfolded mime, back to bed.
I heard it go to message. Now I was awake.
Hmmmmmmmm…that’s weird.

It started to ring again; this time I could swear it sounded more insistent.
LA LA LA LAAAAAA!
Curious, I quietly slid out of bed and started moving heaven and earth to find it, only to hear it go to message a second time.

Not even a moment later, as I was finally holding it in my hand, it started ringing again.

So did my husband’s phone, next to him on the nightstand, and so did the hotel room phone on my side of the bed. All at the same time it became a cacophony of three different rings, each one of them trying desperately at that point to get our attention.

I heard my husband’s voice behind me in the bed, “Shit, this CAN’T be good”.  He was suddenly wide awake as he grabbed both the room phone and his cell, putting one to each ear.
“Hello!” he announced tersely into both.

I had just flipped mine open to hear someone mumbling and weeping, and at the same exact moment we both lunged for the remote as three different people screamed into our ears “TURN ON THE TV!”

We were two days into enjoying our post wedding coma. Ensconced in a room overlooking the Pacific at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, still feeling giddy from the excitement of such a magical night.
Exhausted, we had given ourselves a couple of days to decompress before we were to fly to a friend’s party in Chicago and then on to Italy to have a motorcycle honeymoon.
None of those plans would come to pass.

My brand new husband pulled open the drapes with one swipe to reveal bright sunshine; it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was after six in the morning. It must be a movie, I thought, as we both slowly sat on the edge of the bed; watching in stunned silence; as the second plane hit the tower.

I think I screamed.

Friends and family were calling; apologizing for bothering us, but wanting us to know.
That’s what family does. They share bad news.

Just thirty-six hours before, they had all been loopy from too much champagne and wine, toasting and celebrating love—now they were crying and asking me Why?

I couldn’t wrap my brain around what was happening. Everything felt surreal, like a slow motion movie.
I certainly didn’t have any answers.

My husband is an architect/builder. He knows about steel and fire and in his most serious Bob The Builder voice he didn’t pose a question or wonder aloud—he made a statement: “I hope everyone’s out of there, that building’s coming down.”

And right on cue, as he finished that sentence…the first tower fell.

“Shit, shit, shit” he yelled, jumping to his feet.
I was screaming and shaking uncontrollably, “No, No, No…Oh MY GOD!”
Was this really happening?

Peter Jennings’ solemn voice said something to the effect of, “This has turned from an act of terrorism to an act of war.”

It was impossible to look away from the TV and I could not stop crying.

My mom called to tell me Pam, who is like a big sister to me, and had flown in from San Francisco for the wedding, had to deplane on the tarmac at LAX and run for her life; as fast as she could, away from the terminals and the airport, as directed by the pilot.

Really. He told everyone to RUN!
No one knew what was going on, and where the next attack, if there were to be others, was going to take place. Lee and my mom picked her up as she ran east on Century Boulevard with a whole crowd of other panicky, thwarted travelers.

Many of the woman had ditched their heels along the way, running in bare feet and business attire.

They had no idea where they were going.
How far would they run?
How far was far enough?
Where could you go that day to feel safe? I sure as hell didn’t know.
If you’d told me a place, I would have run there with you.

After the second tower collapsed and the news went into perpetual recap mode, I couldn’t watch another second; so I pulled on some sweats and sunglasses to hide my red swollen eyes, and walked like a zombie downstairs to the lobby.

My inner historian/collector had kicked in and I wanted to see if they had the newspapers in the gift shop without the headline of the event and also a later edition, with it.

The adrenaline of the past few hours had subsided, which had dropped us into a kind of numb stupor, so we also needed coffee. Bad.

The lobby was deserted. Everything was closed. No gift shop, no Starbucks, nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight…this huge hotel felt deserted.

Back upstairs, I called room service.
It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then the voice that finally answered sounded out of breath and off of hotel protocol. She didn’t say Hello, Mrs Bertolus, (which I was loving by the way), like they had been doing for the past couple of days.

“Yes? Hello, I mean, room service” she said.

“Um, are you guys open? Is it possible to get a pot of coffee?”

“I’ll try my best, I’m sorry ma’am, but no one has shown up for work this morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I completely understand—it’s just so terrible…”

“Yes ma’am” she said, “it’s so sad.”
She started to cry, which set me off.

“Don’t worry about the coffee” I sobbed, feeling like an ass. “Just forget it, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No ma’am, don’t be silly” she had composed herself, now the epitome of professionalism, “Your coffee will be right up Mrs. Bertolus.”

Ten minutes later a young man brought up a pot of coffee and some croissants, and after some caffeine and food, the shaking stopped and I felt a little better.

The government had halted all air travel until further notice. Planes were finding a safe place to land and staying put. It was unprecedented and I was relieved.

The absolute LAST thing I wanted to do was get on a plane.
We had a lot of phone calls to make and rescheduling to do.

Against my better judgement we kept our reservations that night for a seaside dinner. The place was beautiful… and depressing as hell. Everyone seemed to just be going through the motions. I sobbed like a three-year old through the entire dinner, having a hard time forgetting those faces we’d seen all day of the people who were missing.

“How can I enjoy any of this? People lost husbands and fathers, brothers and wives and sisters. So many people died today!” I put my head in my hands, I couldn’t eat.

“How can you not?” my husband whispered, resting his hand on mine.

“Those people would give anything to be here, where we are right now, enjoying life. We don’t join them in death, that’s an even greater waste. We enjoy our lives. Every minute. Every day to the fullest. I think that’s what they would want. That’s what I would want.”

Damn, he’s good.

Just writing these memories makes me cry. It instantly brings me right back.

I think it’s important to tell the story. To never forget what happened.
Everything before 911 feels different, simpler, like we lost our innocence.

It just happens to coincide with my wedding. I can never think of one without the other. I celebrate the ninth of September, and I light a candle on the eleventh.
In my life they are forever intertwined.

Just like our parents had the Kennedy assassination, this is our generation’s “where were you?” moment.

Do you have a 911 story? Tell us.

much love,
xox

“A woman would never make a nuclear bomb. They would never make a weapon that kills. They’d make a weapon that makes you feel bad for a while.”
– Robin Williams

The death of Robin Williams has really cut close to the bone for so many of us. 

Is it because we’ve watched in awe as he’s demonstrated his in-the-moment, out of body, brand of free form humor since Mork and Mindy?
Or
Is it because another beautiful human being has lost their fight with depression and addiction?

I used to love watching the people around him, from Johnny Carson and Barbara Walters to Charlie Rose, try to keep it together as he drifted seamlessly, and hilariously from discussing one of his movies, into a dolphin, a monkey or a dude on quaaludes.

“We had gay burglars the other night, they broke in and rearranged the furniture.”
~ Robin Williams

I had the privilege of seeing him at a small club on the Sunset Strip in the late 1970’s, just before his big TV break. We heard there was this guy who was nuts, and was about to become a huge star, Hollywood was all abuzz.
His standup act was a rapid fire, stream of consciousness barrage of curse words, accents, impressions and crazy voices, all improvised, as he ran back and forth across the stage for almost two hours, soaked with sweat and high as a kite. The act was filthy, filthy, filthy dirty, but not mean. It never was. I always liked that. 

“Do you think God gets stoned? I think so … look at the platypus.”
~Robin Williams

The audience was filled with uptight industry execs and young people from the music, TV and movie worlds. We had NEVER seen ANYTHING like him.
The laugher was so loud and ceaseless, that I missed a ton of what he was saying. I thought people were going to have strokes; their faces beet red, all bent forward, barely able to breath – from laughter. I’ve never before or since witnessed anything remotely close to that night. He was Divinely inspired, with his high wire comedy act.
It felt courageously dangerous.

It’s a toss up which serious movie of his was my favorite. He was such a gifted actor, even more so because we all knew that wild side he was keeping behind some big thick, metal bars deep inside, delivering someone else’s written lines.
But the light from his huge heart always leaked through.

I wrote earlier this week about the unexpected death of a friend’s brother, and how we need to tell the people we love, that we love them – because they could be gone tomorrow.
Rita Wilson urged everyone today to do the same, because of Robin.
We also have to take depression seriously.
If you or someone you know is suffering from depression, please don’t isolate. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Please tell someone. Reach out, because you are NOT alone. As Anne Lamott wrote so passionately, with her unflinching honesty and understanding of the subject: don’t step off into the abyss. There can be resurrection.

“In America they really do mythologize people when they die.”
~Robin Williams

The number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

I read something this weekend that touched me, and reminded me about those certain sweet aspects of our connections with each other that get swept aside because we think we have all the time in the world.

The man who I worked for in the jewelry business for almost twenty years lost his brother on Tuesday in a very sudden and unexpected way.

Damned heart attack.

That loss will reverberate throughout their family in untold ways and my heart goes out to each and every one of them.

I didn’t know him well, but having been to family birthdays and holiday parties over the years, I’d met his wife and kids and we’d had our share of kitchen duty and kid clean-up casual conversations. He was an active outdoorsman, family man and cut up.
He had the huge grin of a Cheshire Cat, and I always liked him.

I was hoping to find out if they were having any kind of service for him, where I could go and extend my condolences, so I checked the obituaries in the LA Times.
He hadn’t suffered a long illness, and was only in his early sixties, vital and active, so his obit reflected how hastily it had been put together. It was short and sweet.

I scrolled down to the comments and although not too many people have felt compelled to comment beyond their shock and sadness, there was one that was so personal and tender, it really touched my heart.

It was written by his yoga teacher.
Apparently he had had a regular yoga practice for many years, (which makes me like him even more) and he had been to class on Monday, the night before he passed.
She wrote that some people bring something special with them to class; and that she will miss his presence.
She explained that he fell into the category of students that made her happy when she came into the room and saw them on their mat, in their usual spot. She said that she had wanted to say goodbye to him after class, but often people are so peacefully zoned out that she doesn’t like to disturb them, and she regretted not having her last hello/goodbye with him that night.

That was the takeaway for me.
We all skip those little moments.
The simple hi or goodbye, maybe even a nod or smile or that split second of eye contact to let someone know that you were happy to see them.
We respect their privacy and skip the hug.
Then the next day- they’re gone.

Her simple words reminded me of something I think we all tend to forget.
Life’s too short and I hate regrets, so if I see you, I’m going to say hello and probably hug you.

Love you all, big hug,
Xox

Holy Cow.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

There’s some weird energy out there and it’s been difficult to keep an even keel.
I feel the huge need for ice cream and donuts and pasta carbonara; that’s my sign that some shit’s about to hit the fan.

I kept it together yesterday. I made a salad for dinner even thought I wanted to carb load.
Uh oh. Rough water ahead.

Watched something on HBO last night that I shouldn’t have, I know how non-existent my tolerance for violence and especially violence against animals is, so I kept having to leave the room – but I could still hear it.

BTW, I’m no critic, but the show, although highly acclaimed, sucks balls. So fucking dark, no redeeming qualities or message, just gloom and doom and twisted violence.
What’s wrong with you people?
‘Nuf said. “Hey, horrible, horribly popular show, you will not be adding me as a viewer.”

So it should come as no surprise that I had nightmares.
The one I had right before I woke up, heart pounding, sweating and feeling defiled, was that someone; a team consisting of a sinister fat man and a middle aged woman from that fucking show, had my boxer shark puppy. (Cue sinister music)
Once I discovered her after she’d been missing for awhile, they would not release her to me.
They were holding her for ransom for the sum of $300,000-!
He, the fat man, actually informed me of that figure with a straight face.
I knew I didn’t have that in my wallet, so I started beating them both with my red, five inch stiletto heels (you know, the ones you run around looking for your missing puppy in.)
I grabbed the dog while they were defending themselves against my very brave and surprisingly effective shoe assault, and ran from the scene, scream crying and barefoot.

Then I woke up, winded from running and still in fear’s grip.
Whew. That was a close one.

I know enough about dream interpretation to know that what matters most is how it made you feel. I felt anxious and afraid for my eight month old puppy, who I’m madly in love with, but tests my patience every day.
But, it was just a dream and I needed my coffee – bad.

Mistake number one: coffee won over meditation. 
It’s always a fight and I can tell you how my day will go, by which one wins.

I needed a reset. I should have meditated the fear away while it was weak.

Los Angeles has switched weather with Mumbai the past few days, so we have been opening up the house, all the doors and windows in the morning for some fresh, cool-ish, non air conditioned air. The dogs love it. They run around out back through the sprinklers while it’s still cool, doing their doggy business, while we have our coffee, faces buried in our iPads.

This morning I noticed that it had been awhile since I had been slimed or my feet stepped on with muddy paws by the puppy. When I listened….too quiet.
Just like a toddler, that is NOT a silence you want to hear.
I stuck my head out in time to see her playing rambunctiously with a dying mouse on the lawn. It was just barely breathing, not a bite mark on it, it had clearly been poisoned.

I screamed for her to stop and screamed RAPHAEL at the top of my lungs.
That is his signal to come quick with a shovel because some form of wildlife has breeched the perimeter and it’s not okay.
Although most would call where we live the burbs, it is teeming with squirrels and possum, raccoons, skunk, coyote, mice and tree rats. I have no idea why, but they often pick our property on which to make their earthly transition – to die.
I love it and I hate it.
They must know the big guy lives here and won’t let them suffer.

It’s barely seven o’clock and poor man has to finish off a dying mouse.
Thank God for him.
I could NEVER.

The older dog is……indifferent.
The puppy? She’s in a frenzy and since I’ve now shut all the doors, she’s looking for a place to make a break for it. I close the gate to the grass, leaving them just the small poop area.
We agree that someone is poisoning the rats and mice, which is sad I suppose and was really just a matter of time (there are SO many this summer and they’ve been very conspicuous and vocal at night) and we don’t want her looking for bodies in the bushes, woodpile, etc.

No sooner do we finish that conversation and he walks back into the house; I spot her doing the one sided game of catch with another dying mouse in. the. poop. area.

RAPHAEL!

Shovel, kill, toss. Its seven fifteen. It’s been that kind of morning.

So did the fear of her safety manifest this threat to her safety?

I did call the vet; he said she’d have to ingest the poisoned rat to become poisoned herself.
Whew.

What the hell? When I dream of travel or food or sex with an A-list movie star (you know who you are) they NEVER appear in my real life, damn it.

FEAR is a POWERFUL emotion. Let’s just be clear about that.
If you stay stuck in its grip, shit will go down.

I hightailed it to the gym with chanting in my earbuds and shifted the energy.
Then I drove back to Shangri-La.

Do you ever let your dreams color your whole day? How do you break their spell?
Tell me, I’d love to hear about it. I clearly need the help 😉

You’d rather listen? Okay!

https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/shovel-kill-toss-its-seven

Love from Wild Kingdom,
Xox

“I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back
I play for keeps, ‘cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, and I’m standing tall
I’ve seen a million faces an I’ve rocked them all

I’m a cowboy on a steel horse I ride
I’m wanted dead or alive
I’m a cowboy, I got the night on my side
I’m wanted dead or alive

And I ride, dead or alive
I still drive, dead or alive

Dead or alive

Dead or alive”

(From the song Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi /Songwriters Jon Bon Jovi, Richard Sambora. Published by Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)

Call me crazy, but it seldom, if ever, occurs to me that I could die on the back of our motorcycle.

Jon Bon Jovi wailed into my ears while the sexy, steel string guitar licks washed over me as I hunkered down into my husband’s back, attempting to escape the fire hose strength deluge that had just broken loose from the sky.

That song is always in heavy rotation on the endless loop of music that occupies my mind on these long rides. It’s our anthem. A clarion call from the open road.

I usually murder it, loudly sharing the harmonies with Richie Sambora. “Waaaahhhh teddddd” …but not that day.

The rain came at us in sheets, slicing gray from every direction.
Somehow, it was finding its way UNDER my helmet, making it nearly impossible for me to see a thing. Racing down the two-lane highway in northern Montana at 60 miles an hour wasn’t helping.

The storm had left us no choice.
We were half way through another three hundred mile day of a 4500-mile loop.

LA to Glacier Park and back.

That day we were trying to make it through the Blackfeet Indian Reservation to St Mary’s at the base of Glacier Park. About as far north you can go and still remain inside the US.

The rain had stayed away… so far, which is why we take our longer rides in September; the weather tends to be reliable. Little did we know that this was an early start to one of the wettest, snowiest, coldest winters on record. The “Polar Vortex” winter of 2013.

I heard the weather warnings on my way back to the bathroom at the rickety little joint where we had stopped for lunch. They crackled from the ancient portable radio that wore a coat hanger as a hat and was sitting on a chair in the bar. That sinister weather alert tone followed by the robotic voice that droned on and on, full of dire predictions.

Our guys got out the maps and basically informed us that we had no choice but we still took a vote—we’re democratic that way.

The vote said GO but go NOW!

The storm had used the morning to turn into a motherfucker.
Barreling across the plains, the ominous, dark, ground level clouds and distant thunder felt like a herd of stampeding black horses rolling in behind us, giving chase.

“It’s all the same, only the names have changed…”

In my imagination, as we rode the eight to twelve hours each day, WE were part of that wild herd.

A couple straddling the back of a wild stallion.

Cherokee, Apache, Navaho, Sioux, it didn’t matter. We were feral; mad with love and wanderlust, wildly riding the Great Plains bareback, looking for the next great adventure. Our deep brown skin glistening in the sun, our long black hair whipping in the hot Montana wind. That was the spirit of who we were then….and who we are now.

“I’m a cowboy on a steel horse I ride.”

The four of us were determined to outrun it. We were convinced we could.

I’m tellin’ ya, we’re badass.

Have I mentioned yet that I’m riding on the back of my husbands BMW 1200GS Adventurer, and we are accompanied by our trusty fellow riding couple, JT and Ginger? After meeting them in Spain in 2005, we have ridden the world with them.

I’ve been writing this blog since November 2012. Almost two years.
Up until this past September, it was NOT in my own voice.
I was too timid to come out of the shadows. A spiritual coward (my own label).
It was your run of the mill, generic, spiritual wisdom.
No humor. No personal stories and definitely NO F-bombs.

I know VERY few of you were readers back then. I know that because I had 23 followers, all friends, and family who were kind enough to hit follow after I sent them the I have a blog email.

Back to Montana and that freaking storm.

I wrote what happened next in Total Loss of Control (it’s in the archives).
We narrowly escaped being killed by a passing truck.

“Dead or alive”

But this post isn’t about that, it’s about what happened afterward.

Something did die that day. The part of me that wanted to remain in hiding.

When I checked in with the Muse that night to write the blog, I suggested like an idiot, that she might want to write about the harrowing experience of earlier that day.
You know, find the message in the mess. Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, you should really write about me almost dying today, that was pretty intense.

Muse: You write about it.

Me: Well, I don’t really write this stuff in my own voice. I just kind of download the wisdom and give it my best shot…but I think there could be some really good shit in that story.

Muse: It didn’t happen to me. I happened to YOU. YOU write about it.
How you felt, your thought process...

Me: Uh…yeah, here’s the thing..I don’t write.

Muse: Don’t interrupt me.

Me: Sorry.

And that’s when I started writing in my own voice, with my own personal stories and my “take” on things.
I even apologized in the first few posts.
“Oh hi, sorry, it’s just me here again”

Lame.
Timid.
Living small.
As far from courageous as you can get.
Shirking all responsibility.
Impersonal.
Total lack of vulnerability.

“I play for keeps, ‘cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, and I’m standing tall
I’ve seen a million faces an I’ve rocked them all”

I can’t see your faces….but I know you’re there. I can feel you.
There’s so many of you now, and if I look at the analytics, you all started to read from September to today. When I started to write.

Changed my life.

Thank you. You keep me pure and true and courageous.

Much love and appreciation,
Xox

“If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.” 
― David Sedaris, Barrel Fever

Once upon a time, I hung out with a shaman. 
He was my own personal “pocket shaman.”
He went everywhere with me, and helped me through all the wild things that were happening back then, with his wild eyed magic, his herbs and teas and his amazing energy work.
I was NOT having a good time with my spiritual awakening. I was a sick, whining, complaining, crying, hot mess.

He did love me, so he was somewhat indulgent. But he was so much further along on the spiritual path than I was at that time, that after awhile, he wouldn’t tolerate my behavior.
He would not continue to hear my complaints, no matter how valid. He could not bring himself to listen to my stories of victim hood for one. more. second.
He would just turn and leave the room…….while I was in mid sentence.
With my head in my hands, weeping, I’d beg for his advise about a situation that was causing me intense emotional pain, and his response would be: “We’ve discussed this, you know what I think you should do, I’m not talking about this again with you.”
WTF?! “Don’t you want to help me?”
“I’m not helping you by continuing to talk about it. If you want to stay there, if you want to summon a co-complainer, someone who will join you at your pity party, go call a girlfriend.”

I started to hate him. (I don’t want to say hate….. but I’m being honest here). 
I remember screaming at him to listen to me.
“You’re NOT my friend, you DON’T love me!”
“I DO love you! but you’re right, I’m not your friend, I’m your teacher, I’m here to help you. I will not come join you in your pain. A true friend would not keep you in this misery”
I remember slugging him hard in the arm as he turned and walked away.
Not my proudest moment.

“It is terribly rude to tell people that their troubles are boring.” 
― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

My friend Wes is similar. He wouldn’t commiserate with me when both my cats were killed by coyotes within a week of each other, and it almost ended our friendship. He just wouldn’t go there. He listened with compassion, when I cried about it in the beginning; but he wouldn’t indulge my need to keep talking about it, and stay in the “why” of it. He would get quiet, make a joke, or change the subject all together.
God, that was annoying.
He did it again when my business went south. I remember being at dinner with him and feeling so hurt and angry, because he seemed bored with my plight. He listened, but he wouldn’t engage. It was so freaking frustrating; like standing at the net with my racket and my opponent won’t return my serve.
Over and over and over again.
I felt ENRAGED!
The rage inside felt familiar; very similar to what I had felt toward my shaman friend years before. I had to restrain myself from hurling my body across the table and stabbing him in the neck with a fork.
Note to self: I am a pacifist ONLY if you indulge me, by listening to endless hours of my sad, sucky stories.

Staying in wounded victimhood has it’s own special high. With all the words of encouragement and people trying to help, it keeps you from having to stand on your own two feet, move forward, and take some responsibility.
Sympathy can be addictive.

Here’s the thing. They both loved me a ton, and they reacted in the most loving way possible. They wouldn’t stand with me in the energy of my pain for any longer than necessary. It’s a kind of spiritual “tough love.” I get that now.
And they did it at their peril. I felt abandoned and betrayed, and I lashed out accordingly. I strung together tirades of four letter words that would have made a drill sergeant blush, and there were long periods of time where I didn’t see either of them. I wasn’t ready to move on. I wanted to beat the dead horse and then some.
They would not meet me there. They stood in the place of my healing, of my wholeness, not my woundedness……….and they waited for me there.
It took awhile to join them, but eventually, I did.

I want to caution you: Please, Don’t try this at home. It may not go well. People want a shoulder to cry on, and if you take that away; they may punch you.
Be advised, there will be hurt feelings. But it IS the more loving act.
Maybe someone is loving you this way right now.
Food for thought.
Carry on.

Any thoughts? I’d love to hear ’em.

Xox

There is a tightrope that lives at the edge of the cliff,
that spans to the other side.
If you fancy going any further, my friend,
the need for balance is implied.

To take a first step may terrify,
those among you that fail to comply.
For lack of fortitude, courage and balance, has caused,
Many a hopeful to die.

Their death isn’t really an ending as such,
it is merely another chance to try.
For energy doesn’t just disappear to dust,
It regroups for another ride!

Each time you arrive at the edge of this cliff,
with the tightrope firmly in your sights,
just take a deep breath, and don’t look down,
for that will trigger your fear of heights!

But if you let yourself glimpse down below, my love,
for more than a minute, you’ll spoil the plot,
you’ll see that there’s a net of gold, just beyond the edge,
and an angel has tied every knot.

So don’t fear what you see, and don’t understand,
or what is hidden in plain sight.
You’ll discover there’s help every step of the way,
that you can’t see when you put up a fight.

So run across the tightrope, please give it a try!
save your fear for another day.
Now that your know that you never really die,
you can more than live…you can play!

There are quite a few people around me who are reuniting with old family or friends. Awww, that’s so nice, right?
The interesting part is, the people that they’re getting reacquainted with are…dead.
Stop it! It’s still nice! And not at all creepy!
On the contrary, for them it’s been like picking up a conversation where it left off.
All warm and cozy and familiar, even though for a couple of them it’s been 25-30 years.

The veil between our two worlds has become very thin and transparent.
My intuition tells me that if you want to reconnect with “Uncle Bob” there’s never been a better time energetically, than now.
There is only one caveat.
If you’re interested in hanging with them, without getting the Grimm Reaper involved, you must match their energy.
This is tricky, but a lot of people are doing it.

Now, the dearly departed have left their bodies behind, and have merged with God, or the Universe, or for this, like the term Pure Positive Energy.
They seemed to have changed, they are the best version of themselves.
They have dropped the ego and are acutely aware of WHO THEY REALLY ARE.
They have BECOME that.
They have graduated, so to speak, and are free to visit the underclassmen.

What I’ve noticed with my friends, is that they have also graduated, in a different way.
They have reached a point where they also realize WHO THEY REALLY ARE,
but they didn’t have to die to get there.
They are leaving behind all judgements and guilt,,and getting into the ZONE.
They are lifting off of fear and worry, doubt and anger.
They are starting to be free and enjoy life.
They are doing that through meditation, or running, or sculpting or gardening, etc, etc.
Whatever floats their boat.
One even gets into the zone driving her car.

So…you’re just cruisin’ along and…Hello!
A visceral conversation ensues with your dad, or sister, or your best friend who passed.
You can actually “feel” their words.

Funny thing is, they were always there, waiting patiently for you to meet them, by remembering WHO YOU REALLY ARE.
They needed common ground.
Don’t worry about how long it took, 5 years is like a minute to them… trust me 🙂

And it’s no coincidence they’re stepping up to speak with you at this time.
Certain loved ones are very dialed in to where you are and what’s going on with you.
They have just the right thing to say, or better yet, a healing you can use right about now.

They can become your own personal angel if you let them.
Need advice, go for a run and ask “Uncle Bob”.
Get your hands in the dirt of your garden and “poof” your dad is there with an answer to a question.
I’m not kidding!
Don’t you just love that?!

Try it!
Sit and remember, you’re not just a soccer mom, or an accountant, or a bad daughter.
You are a spiritual being having a human experience!
Now go! Have a chat with your dead friend!

XoxJanet