despair

Dearest brave ones,
All I can say is that after the past six months—for almost everyone—including me—and tens of my friends—this could not feel more relevant.

Carry on,
xox

I found this a while ago…somewhere…I can’t remember.
I’m sure I was bleary eyed, in need of sleep, and I only had the presence of mind to copy/paste.

I wanted to show this to you guys. It’s by Katy Bourne and it’s so good I can’t even…there are no words.

This is for the ones going through hell right now. You know who you are. And for those of us that have been there and back. Katy obviously has, and her words are here to soothe all of our souls.
Enjoy your weekend,
xox

“You’re dangling precariously.
You’re frozen and trembling. You’re gripped with uncertainty and the ominous unknown. The wolf is at the door.

The bills are piling up, but no money is coming in. Or maybe your baby left you, walked right out. Perhaps you’ve made an epic mistake, with disastrous and irrevocable consequences. You can barely breathe, suffocated by the unwieldy weight of your own broken heart.

You frantically scan the landscape, looking for clues or any kind of lifeline. But the vista is barren. You’re shredded into a million bewildering pieces. You’re hanging on for sweet life. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re hanging on to anymore, or if you even can.

This is survival mode. And it will be okay.

Raw vulnerability is the midwife to grace.
Stripped of your old safety nets and certainties, you have nothing but openness and new eyes. There is a pouring in of all the things you never noticed before. Even a dew-soaked leaf takes on a fresh poignancy and buys you a nanosecond of peace and beauty.

The very light of day changes. It softens and clarifies. Your pain is not here to batter you. It’s just making passage for perspective, transcendence, and rebirth.

No matter the mayhem of the present moment, your heart is still steadily pounding. Your lungs are still expanding and contracting. Oxygen is still coursing through your body. And as you flail around in your anguish, your inner warrior is hard at work behind the scenes: rendering first-aid, holding your broken soul and keeping you alive.

He or she is fighting for you, more ferociously and diligently than you can imagine.

Your mind is your best weapon and your biggest obstacle.
It can spin you into infinite madness or ground you in brave resolve. Panic can make it chatter relentlessly, but you can bring it back to earth again.

Step outside. Turn your precious face upward. Breathe. The air and the sky and the sun will calm the clamor. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.

Grief is the natural and real response to loss and hardship.

Despair, however, is grief on steroids. Grief holds its own gentle resolution. Despair is resignation, a long-term forecast for gloom. Fear has an ugly snarl but limited power. Still, it rages like a lunatic, leaving you disoriented.

Courage moves through the chaos, one steady step at a time. Your heartache is like a free fall. You can scramble to fill the void, grabbing for whatever fix you can to numb the jagged edges. You can also persevere with quiet dignity. In every moment there are choices, even in survival mode.

The hardest part of survival mode is the ambiguity.

It will not budge. There is no clear pathway to relief or even a guarantee that you’ll find it. You are at the mercy of time and forces beyond your control. Such is the nature of ambiguity. Your present circumstances merely accentuate the point.

But even within the ambiguity there is possibility.

Although you’re shaking on the edge, there is a larger view available. This current difficulty, with all its sorrow, dread, and anger, is just a blip on a much greater narrative. There is spaciousness, wonder and the divine gift of impermanence.

All are there for you. There is elegant liberation in releasing your weary clutch. You have already traveled for eons. Grace is the tender seraph pulling you home, wherever that may be.
And you will be okay.”

Katy Bourne is a self-described ‘basic goober making her way in the world’. A child of the Southern plains, she spent her Oklahoma childhood throwing rocks, blowing saxophone in the school band and riding horses. The youngest of four, she was often left to her own devices and entertained herself by making faces in the bathroom mirror and dressing up the family pets. Having navigated numerous life challenges over the years — addiction & recovery, the death of a child, divorce, the ups & downs of parenthood, the music business — she is particularly interested in exploring themes of survival, grit and grace in the face of ambiguity. Katy makes her home in Seattle, WA. By day, she writes promotional copy for musicians and bands. By night, she sings jazz at nightspots, festivals and private events throughout the Northwest.
{You’ll Be Okay}

You could contact her via her website.http://katy-bourne.com

*Recently, a couple of you emailed me about this video. Yes, I did post it—over a year and a half ago—and yes it is derived from the work of the wonderful Brene Brown.

And yes, I’m so happy to do it again!

Here it is, using the voice of the brilliant Brene Brown. It’s short, sweet and insightful.
Enjoy!

Carry on,
xox

I found this a while ago…somewhere I can’t remember. I think I was bleary eyed, in need of sleep, and I only had the presence of mind to copy/paste.
I wanted to show this to you guys. It’s by Katy Bourne and it’s so good I can’t…there are no words.

This is for the ones going through hell right now. You know who you are. And for those of us that have been there and back. Katy obviously has, and her words are here to soothe your souls.
Enjoy your weekend,
xox

“You’re dangling precariously.
You’re frozen and trembling. You’re gripped with uncertainty and the ominous unknown. The wolf is at the door.

The bills are piling up, but no money is coming in. Or maybe your baby left you, walked right out. Perhaps you’ve made an epic mistake, with disastrous and irrevocable consequences. You can barely breathe, suffocated by the unwieldy weight of your own broken heart.

You frantically scan the landscape, looking for clues or any kind of lifeline. But the vista is barren. You’re shredded into a million bewildering pieces. You’re hanging on for sweet life. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re hanging on to anymore, or if you even can.

This is survival mode. And it will be okay.

Raw vulnerability is the midwife to grace.
Stripped of your old safety nets and certainties, you have nothing but openness and new eyes. There is a pouring in of all the things you never noticed before. Even a dew-soaked leaf takes on a fresh poignancy and buys you a nanosecond of peace and beauty.

The very light of day changes. It softens and clarifies. Your pain is not here to batter you. It’s just making passage for perspective, transcendence and rebirth.

No matter the mayhem of the present moment, your heart is still steadily pounding. Your lungs are still expanding and contracting. Oxygen is still coursing through your body. And as you flail around in your anguish, your inner warrior is hard at work behind the scenes: rendering first-aid, holding your broken soul and keeping you alive.

He or she is fighting for you, more ferociously and diligently than you can imagine.

Your mind is your best weapon and your biggest obstacle.
It can spin you into infinite madness or ground you in brave resolve. Panic can make it chatter relentlessly, but you can bring it back to earth again.

Step outside. Turn your precious face upward. Breathe. The air and the sky and the sun will calm the clamor. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.

Grief is the natural and real response to loss and hardship.

Despair, however, is grief on steroids. Grief holds its own gentle resolution. Despair is resignation, a long-term forecast for gloom. Fear has an ugly snarl but limited power. Still, it rages like a lunatic, leaving you disoriented.

Courage moves through the chaos, one steady step at a time. Your heartache is like a free fall. You can scramble to fill the void, grabbing for whatever fix you can to numb the jagged edges. You can also persevere with quiet dignity. In every moment there are choices, even in survival mode.

The hardest part of survival mode is the ambiguity.

It will not budge. There is no clear pathway to relief, or even a guarantee that you’ll find it. You are at the mercy of time and forces beyond your control. Such is the nature of ambiguity. Your present circumstances merely accentuate the point.

But even within the ambiguity there is possibility.

Although you’re shaking on the edge, there is a larger view available. This current difficulty, with all its sorrow, dread and anger, is just a blip on a much greater narrative. There is spaciousness, wonder and the divine gift of impermanence.

All are there for you. There is elegant liberation in releasing your weary clutch. You have already traveled for eons. Grace is the tender seraph pulling you home, wherever that may be.
And you will be okay.”

Katy Bourne is a self-described ‘basic goober making her way in the world’. A child of the Southern plains, she spent her Oklahoma childhood throwing rocks, blowing saxophone in the school band and riding horses. The youngest of four, she was often left to her own devices and entertained herself by making faces in the bathroom mirror and dressing up the family pets. Having navigated numerous life challenges over the years — addiction & recovery, the death of a child, divorce, the ups & downs of parenthood, the music business — she is particularly interested in exploring themes of survival, grit and grace in the face of ambiguity. Katy makes her home in Seattle, WA. By day, she writes promotional copy for musicians and bands. By night, she sings jazz at nightspots, festivals and private events throughout the Northwest.
{You’ll Be Okay}

You could contact her via her website.http://katy-bourne.com

“As long as you are breathing, there is more right with you than wrong with you”
-Jon Kabat-Zinn

How did you feel when you read that?
Did you want to reach through the computer and strangle me…or give me a hug?

You know that says a lot about you…but no judgement here, I’ve been there and I totally get it.

If you’re in the thick of it you want to kill me. If you’ve survived you’re more inclined to hug a fellow survivor.

Believe it or not I hate clichés and saccharin sayings that leave that bitter/sweet taste in your mouth.

But you’ve got to agree — if you’re still breathing, well, that’s half the battle… that is unless you have a migraine, then even breathing hurts.

Or unless you’re grieving, in which case you keep sighing not really breathing per say — long mournful sighs, at least that’s what I did.

Or you’re struggling with a broken heart, mind numbing stress, chronic pain, or Spanx that are one size too small. All of those things facilitate short, shallow breathing which doesn’t really count because little or no oxygen gets to your brain and you walk around in a kind of half conscious stupor.

A bit of advice because I’ve experienced all of these: You will regret any decisions you make at this time – so don’t.

Are there more things right with you than wrong in that moment?… that’s debatable.

I could argue this ad nauseam because I’ve had years days where I felt as if breathing wasn’t such a gift, and if you had asked me to compile my lists of things going wrong and the ones going right, — the former would be a mile long and the latter would have one word…breathing…I’m fucking breathing.

But you guys, if you are breathing, which I’m presuming you are, then there’s always tomorrow.

Not to sound too callous here, but if breathing is annoying you go make yourself a sandwich and take a nap — otherwise known as the Universal Reboot.

“Despair — The belief that tomorrow will be just like today.”
~Rob Bell

Ask anyone who’s having their best-day-ever if tomorrow will be exactly the same.

Hell no, I wish, will most likely be their answer.

It’s just the way the world works — so keep breathing, there’s more right with you than wrong.
I swear.

Hey, hands off the neck…

Deep breath…and Carry on,
xox

You know that phenomenon that occurs when you spill red wine? How it is attracted to anything residing in the white color palette?

And even though it was only half a glass (okay maybe 3/4 of a glass – it was shitty day) the spillage appears to be more like an entire bottle and requires four rolls of paper towels to clean up.

You familiar with that scenario?

One glass of wine that has now ruined:
1) Your new silk and linen blend light beige pants that you’re wearing for the first time.

2) The white flokati rug that has the nerve to sit under your friend’s coffee table. (Who has white rugs?)

3) Your reputation as someone who can balance a glass of wine, a cocktail napkin, eat some kind of tartlet stuffed with cheesy goodness — and tell a funny story, without spilling a single drop.

What about a drop of black dye in a cup of water?
It swirls and undulates, acting as if it’s alive as it permeates every molecule.

Until in a matter of seconds it appears as if by magic that the entire contents of the cup had turned the color of midnight.

A single drop.
An entire glass.
Saturation.

When I wake up in the mornings, even before I get out of bed, I practice gratitude.

I’m thankful that I had the good fortune to wake up, that I can smell coffee in the other room, and that I don’t have to be woken up by the shrill ringing of an alarm.

I do that to get myself into a good feeling place. To keep my imaginary glass of water clear. It makes for a smoother, better day all around.

Most days I can stay there on pretty solid footing.

Other days I can’t make it to the bathroom without the spilled wine worries invading my thoughts; staining everything I think.

Recently, it seems as if black ink has been saturating me right as I come to consciousness. I think one nice thought and I get hijacked. BLAMO!

Black ink in the form of a troubling thought is swirling in my head as I try to find my balance; it’s reminding me of something awful, making gratitude the boulder I’m now struggling to push up the mountain of my mind.

If it takes hold I’m screwed. Covers over the head, might as well go back to sleep and reset, kind of screwed.

You all know how that goes. Once the wine or the ink stains your brain, once it permeates the entire glass of water, it is such an effort to escape –– it can ruin a whole day.

Then I remembered what my husband told me he was doing. Instead of letting an awful thought take hold and then attempting to play catch-up all day; he just kept his gratitude driven thinking going 24/7.

It took work but he was up to the challenge. The alternative was unacceptable –– it felt like hell.

“You can’t process thoughts from opposite parts of the brain at the same time.” He reminded me. “It’s impossible! Try being sad and grateful at the same time. Or happy and anxious. Love or hate. You just can’t do it. So I just drive around these days, ALL day –– feeling appreciation and gratitude. It keeps my thoughts from going dark”

He was right! (Damn, I hate when he’s right – insert forehead slap here) but what he’s doing is SO much easier than trying to turn your emotional ship around after its run aground.

You have the choice to pick a better thought. You do. I challenge you to try it.

Don’t get me wrong, some days are going to be a fight.
A fucking fist fight street brawl.

It will feel like using a tweezers and a magnifying glass to look for a needle of happiness inside of a haystack of sad.

But don’t give up. I know you; you won’t. You’re scrappy like me.

Feeling grateful, or something above despair, even in the shit times, is like those drops they give you to take to the Amazon to clear the water of all those swimming amoebas that’ll kill ya.

You swirl it around for a couple of minutes and viola! Your cup is full of crystal clear drinking water.

Let gratitude clear your glass of water. If gratitude is too far of a reach try a happy place moment.

I go to a beach on Maui on a seventy-two degree day, with zero wind, perfect rolling waves, warm water and my twenty-five year old body…sadness, at a least for a few minutes – out of sight, out of mind.

It’s a start, and SO much better than an entire day of feeling bad.

That’s all.

Carry on,
xox

Late one night last week, our dog, a nine year old boxer, startled us all awake…

The puppy heard it before anyone. She brought it to our attention by running around the bed, her nails tapping out a sort of morse code S.O.S. on the wooden floor. She may be young, but she’s resourceful.

It was 3 am. My husband got up and went to look into the old girl’s cubby in the wall, her virtual cave of a bed, to see what was what.

Querida (Dita for short) was thrashing around, on her back, legs in the air, doing the cartoon run for her life. You know, the one that gets you nowhere.

I could hear her wild breathing – the snorts and hoarse panting. It sounded like she was in the fight of her life with an invisible foe. Come to find out she was battling her own demons.

It appeared (as reported by a somewhat reliable source, my husband) that Dita had somehow become wedged between the wall and her down filled, hotel bed quality, better than any dog deserves – cushion. A crevice had opened during the night, and while she lay unaware, peacefully dreaming her sweet doggie dreams, it had swallowed her whole.

He reported that she looked like a bug on it’s back, struggling to right itself, only problem was – she was uncomfortably wedged until he was able to free her.

When he pulled her out of what I’m sure seemed to her to be a deep, dark, Grand Canyon sized chasm, my girl tried to shake it off.
She paced; wandering around our dark house, going in and out of every room, as if searching for her lost car keys. Several minutes later I heard her take herself, in her adrenaline infused stupor, outside to pee, after first tussling with the doggie door. I think she just needed the cool, fresh air.

Her breathing was rapid, she was panting, her little heart running a marathon.

As I watched my dog use the ancient instinct she was born with to navigate the terror inside that dark and twisted place that was her mind – I had a realization.

Through some fluke of nature, some law of weird science, Dita really IS my daughter, because here it is 3 am and she is having a panic attack!

Panic attacks used to be my wheel house, I know them well. Boy, could I relate.

Curiously, our attacks were identical, the reactions the same – an instinctive, primal, repetitive dance of self preservation.

I too have woken up flailing like a bug on my back, my brain convincing me of my imminent demise after falling into an invisible abyss. I too have walked the halls, alone, searching for comfort, my hand feeling its way in the dark, touching old wood in the hopes of grounding; soaking up its familiarity. I have not gone outside to pee, (there but for the grace of God), but I have spent the hours just before dawn shaking in the bathroom; waiting for my heart to stop racing.

And it is ALWAYS, without FAIL, 3 am(ish). WTF?!

Have you ever had an anxiety or panic attack? If you have you know what I’m talking about. I would not wish them on my worst enemy. On those unfortunate souls I wish a bad perm and severely chapped lips. Anxiety attacks, in my opinion, are somewhere along the lines of emotional water boarding.

They are torture.

Mine felt like a cross between a heart attack, loosing my mind, and being chased through the streets by a Velociraptor. My heart would beat out of my chest, while an elephant or two pulled up a seat right there and got comfy.
I would obsess on my breathing and start sweating, gasping for air – fight or flight in all it’s glory.
The sky appeared to be hung too low, making me feel like Chicken Little.
My sanity seemed elusive, my thoughts raced.

I have actually looked at myself in the mirror and not recognized the person behind my eyes.

Sometimes it would be preceded by a stressful situation; but often times not. Hence waking up in a full panic for no apparent reason; which just added confusion to the already fear infused emotional cocktail that was messing with my head.

Why me? Why now? When will it end?

I watched my poor pork chop of a boxer (she’s not fat, just thick in the middle, from age – again like her mother) try to navigate her fear, struggling to maintain her sanity. She had believed the story her mind was telling her, and THAT’S when the terror took hold.

She believed she was trapped ( huge anxiety trigger) and it caused her to hyperventilate (classic step two of panic attacks) which then convinced her she was going to die.

So she did what you do in that situation. You flee, you run, you take a walk, you look for someplace that holds comfort for you – you do whatever it takes to gather your wits.

Once we figured out what was happening, which took us awhile because we were all so groggy (except for the puppy, who thought being up in the middle of the night warranted popcorn, bad TV and a pillow fight) we brought her up onto the bed with us; disoriented and frantic.
Because isn’t that the final solution you come to after you’ve worn out all the other options? That you must eventually find your way back to bed?

Elizabeth Gibert wrote about just that in Eat, Pray, Love.
After spending hours crying on the bathroom floor, begging for mercy from her emotional pain; a voice in her head answered her prayer for guidance, “Go back to bed Liz” was it’s simple directive.

Since Dita was too scared to go back to her own bed, ( do you blame her? It had tried to eat her alive.) I knew the next step – she had to come up with us. (I would have crawled in bed with my parents during my attacks – if I’d lived at home and wasn’t 25, 35, 40.)

With one hand on her head, I laid there deep in thought, realizing that her fear had been as baseless as mine all those years ago.
She was fine. It was self invented – self inflicted.
Easy for me to say from where I sit NOW, but it’s true.

Her mind presented false evidence that appeared real. FEAR.
With hindsight I could see that mine had been just as ridiculous.

After another fifteen minutes she took a deep, calming breath; settled down, and fell asleep. My husband and I then took a turn, each taking our own deep breath – filled with relief.
I continued to stroke her graying, velvet ears, listening to her softly snore.

I’m happy we could help her.
Because of my (our) familiarity with this kind of behavior, we had kept the lights off and stayed calm, talking to her softly, petting and kissing her face. We hadn’t shadowed her, following her from room to room, asking her what was wrong. That would have made her feel more anxious. Animals can sense energy, they can feel your fear.
No, we did all the things I’ve learned in order to calm myself when I’m in the midst of an anxiety attack; slow, deep breaths, remaining calm and finding a place to feel safe. Apparently that works for people and dogs.

If I can tell you one thing, it’s that she is fortunate to be a dog. With a minimum of baggage, and tons of good canine instinct, she was able to calm herself in a little less than an hour. That makes her my hero; I only wish I’d been that adept.

Yep, she’s my fearful, furry daughter and clearly I’m her mom.

“As day turned to night, and our collective sense of history had changed: there would now be a before 9/11 and an after 9/11.”
~ The 9/11 Museum

After forty eight hours and three thousand miles, I still can’t shake off the 9/11 Memorial Museum.

I had to hold back the ugly cry for over two hours. My lip was swollen from biting it to keep from blubbering.

It started with the fountains.
They inhabit the exact foot print of each tower, and are stirring and haunting and beautifully done. I first got choked up as I read that the names engraved in the granite around each fountain are not in the usual alphabetical order, but in groups requested by the families.

All the firefighters are listed with their station buddies, same with office co-workers.
“Put my husband’s name with all the people at Cantor Fitzgerald.” I can’t even imagine saying.

As you ride the escalator down seven stories under the World Trade Center site, it hits you – this is so much more than a museum. It is a sanctuary.

Although you’re allowed to take pictures with your phone, after I took the one above, I stopped. It felt sacrilegious. It’s not that kind of place.

There is energy locked there. 
An overwhelming amount of sadness, fear and shock.
Residual shock feels like fear on steroids. Imagine fearing for your life, yet not knowing what is happening. 
It was palpable – for both of us. Places and things absorb those heavy emotions. We pick them up. Oh goodie.

Short side story: we were riding motorcycles in Spain, in the Basque Country, on our way to Bilbao. Oh happy day, right? No so fast.
“What is this place? It feels awful here.” I was tugging at my husband’s jacket, yelling into his helmet, as we slowed down to ride through a town center.
I had been hit by a wall of sadness, a tidal wave of despair…and shock.
“I know” he said and pointed to the sign as we left town and that horrible energy behind.
GERNIKA.
I got chills. My chills got chills. 

Back to the Museum.

When we got to Foundation Hall, with the original retaining “slurry” wall and it’s cavernous appearance, we both stood there for a long time. It felt like church.

It has in its center, the “Last Column” a 36-foot high steel column covered in mementos, memorial inscriptions, and missing posters placed there by rescue workers and others at the site.

Tears ran down my face. The lump in my throat felt like a soccer ball. The ugly cry was lurking.

My mind couldn’t even begin to grasp the severity of the damage to these immense steel structures. You think you’ve seen every TV special and book, every image and report, yet, unless you are there, standing in that spot, it is incomprehensible.

There are sections of steel ten feet wide, curled up like a piece of saltwater taffy.
They have a section suspended in mid air – from the plane impact zone.

It is sobering. I stood there again – staring – lost in thought – for a long time.

Same with the last remaining “survivors staircase” used by hundreds of people who ran for their lives. You could feel their fear.

In front of a huge chunk of one of the elevator motors, a remnant bigger than a car, (it is estimated that more than two hundred people died inside elevators that day. Ugh, I could have done without knowing THAT) a Docent told a great survivor’s story and the fact that these were the first elevators in their day, that could carry you from the lobby to the 100th floor in under a minute.

Inside the Historical Exhibition (which was fascinating) you are bombarded on all sides by that day, Tuesday, September 11th; from its ordinary start, all the way through the subsequent events, in a series of timeline galleries.
This is where my bottom lip got a workout.

There’s a section where they have a series of phone messages left by a husband to his wife, telling her the other tower has been hit and “don’t worry.” In the third or forth message (I was too emotional to remember) he’s loosing his cool. You can hear the public address system and chaos in the background as he cuts it short “I gotta go.”
He didn’t make it out.

In the section of the timeline where the towers have both collapsed, you hear all the alarms, the shrill whistles, that emergency personnel wear. These alarms go off if a firefighter is motionless for over 30 seconds. It’s a sound no fireman wants to hear, and there were hundreds of them.

“Where’s the damn Kleenex” someone next to me said out loud, looking for the tissue stands they have strategically placed throughout; I handed HIM one of mine – avoiding eye contact. 

Inside this exhibit are things that will not only blow your mind, they will blow your heart – WIDE OPEN. Don’t go if you can’t stand feeling emotion, it’s unavoidable.

I gasped out loud, my hand flying up to cover my mouth a few times. People turned around, but then just gave me a knowing look. For over two hours we did that – for each other.

As the anthropologist I am at heart, I was mesmerized by the endless displays of everyday “stuff” they’ve recovered.
Wallets, dry cleaning tickets, eye glasses, flight attendant wings, stuffed toys, drivers licenses, pictures, keys, gym passes, paperwork, tons of paperwork… and shoes. So many shoes.
Shoes get to you. Someone picked out those shoes that morning, put them on and somehow, in the course of that horrible day, became separated from them.

Some looked perfect – others had a story to tell.

At around the 2 hour mark, I ran into Raphael.
We’d become separated and he’d been doing the galleries in reverse order. “I’m done, I can’t take much more” he whispered. “Then don’t go in those rooms, it’s INTENSE” I cautioned, pointing behind me.

“This whole thing’s intense.” He was walking forward, staring straight ahead, shaking his head. There in front of us was a truck that looked like Godzilla had stepped on it, fighting for his attention.

That was the thing, just when you’d swear you couldn’t take one more minute, you’d turn a corner and see something completely unbelievable.
We knew how the story ended, yet, we couldn’t tear ourselves away. Well done 9/11 Museum.

About a half hour later he texted “out in the front where it starts.” He’d had enough.

I picked up my pace, and we both took the escalator up, up, up, to the sunny surface in silence. It was three thirty in the afternoon. 

I wish I’d cried. I wish I’d let the ugly cry take hold, squishing my eyes, distorting my face, having its loud and sloppy way with me. I’d feel better by now.

Instead: Plan B
“I need a drink.” 
“Me too.”
We caught a cab, grabbed a late lunch and a bottle of wine. Then we walked the HighLine.

Saturday afternoon drunken exhaustion trumped feeling emotion, and I DON’T recommend it.

I should have cried. I know better.

Xox

As we rushed out though the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my bonus. It stopped me in my tracks.
Damn him!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day – in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood.

We had grossed over one million dollars – in a week, the two of us, and I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss that hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes, or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be? The third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating fucktard, power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but instead his pocket change, I had won one battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he yelled impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked back in my direction with a “help me” face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door, not even turning around to see where I was.

“ I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me when, in one fluid motion, he arced to the right, making a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Then he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached with out with both hands in time to catch most of them, but watched several make a break for it, rolling on their sides with great momentum underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it; now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing I didn’t have any time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in every pocket of my purse, and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

The pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, who was dangling a cigarette with two inches of ash from her lipstick stained mouth, straddled two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her concentration.

“Janet, let’s go!” He bellowed from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors and then turned right to join the cab line.

I could hear those damn plastic chip clinking together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour that it takes to get from Vegas to LA, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly ask him, he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames, tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with he and his wife. I know that’s what we had agreed to but seriously, someone was going to die if I got in that car with him— and I was way too overdressed to go to jail.

As we walked out to the curb, I saw his wife’s car to the left and without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right and jumped into a cab that just happened to be waiting there in front of me.
The moment the door shut… I lost it.

I began to sob like a little girl, gasping for breath, snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat with respect and they blatantly disregard that?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! I couldn’t quit. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was single.
Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That always made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late night traffic on LaCienega, I could see the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, looking at me in the rear view mirror. If I hadn’t already guessed that he was from India, with his deep brown skin and white turban, his accent gave it away as he asked softly,

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so saaaaaaaad, I don’t know what to do.”

I could see his eyes searching my face in the rear view mirror as I accidentally wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he cooed in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail louder, “With poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

For dramatic effect, I grabbed a couple out of my bag and threw them on the seat.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
Really? I guess he had a point.
The cab slowly came to a stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, I had to scramble around to find my bag and scrounge for cab fare. As I did, the lovely turbaned cabbie grabbed my suitcase from the driver’s side backseat where I had launched it, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me.” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to clean the river of snot from the side of my face.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could argue with him or even thank him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived.

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, which is a labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts and one way streets. Even with the best directions from the back seat, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises. How is it that he had he managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one way streets inside the complex to deposit me right at my door?
The only answer? He was an angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor and slowly walk inside to the elevator, I noticed he had propped the doors open with my bag and pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox

“Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they’re finished”
~Dan Gilbert from TED 2014

There is a young, female photographer, Chino Otsuka, who is photo shopping her current, twenty something self, into pictures from her childhood. It’s really quite remarkable. She’s able to get the shadows right and all the little details that make it absolutely seamless.

My jaw dropped when I saw them.

That got me to thinking.
Because my jaw doesn’t drop often, therefore it must trigger my brain.

As I admired Chino Otsuko’s photographs, they reminded me of an exercise I did once in a workshop.
Last Wednesday, at our Women’s group, we tried it, and it rocked.  It’s pretty powerful, and can be amazingly healing.

You go back as your present day self and sit down next to your younger self at time of turmoil or change. 
So, think about that for a minute…
What if we could visit our younger selves?
Like a visitor from the future, what would we do or say?
“Damn, you’re beautiful and your body rocks and you’re convinced you’re a fat pig.
Here’s some stock tips?
Fashion advise?
Quick, get me a scissor so I can cut off that mullet?”

Through the course of our lives, we’ve all had times of despair.
If we saw the “us” from that time, would we even recognize him or her? Would we pass her on the street and smile, or cross the street to avoid eye contact, and that dark cloud overhead?

Go back in your memory, to a dark time in your life.
How old are you? What are you wearing? Where are you? What time of day or night is it? Look around and gather intel.
Now, feel the sadness, betrayal, fear…..all of it. Really go back there.
Then remember, you’re just visiting and it’s part of the past.

Now, go and be next to “you.” Sit in the car, or on the stairs or stand on the beach.
It’s a bad time, so comfort them. Would you put your arm around them? Wipe their tears? Crack a joke?

No one could know better what you needed at that time, than you…….so do it.
After awhile, start to talk to them, the “you” from that painful time in the past.
You’ve made it through to the other side. Tell them. Give them hope. Tell them how you did it.

Say gently: This Too Shall Pass. Whisper it. Don’t make eye contact or they may slug you.

People say that potentially irritating phrase all the time for a reason……Because it’s true.

In that moment of doubt or pain, we are convinced nothing can change, or worse yet, that the change will kill us.

We’re convinced we are finished; when this is actually a journey and we are works in progress.

Don’t tell them how long it’s going to take or what collateral damage will be left in its wake.
One woman said she would have given up if she’d been told it would take ten years. She could barely stand one more minute of her pain.

Be kind and compassionate and let them know that all will be well.

THAT you know for sure, because here you are!

You didn’t die, you didn’t give up. You put one unsteady foot in front of the other in that slow march out of hell.
But look at you now.
Like a Phoenix from the ashes, you have emerged strong and brave and ready to kick ass.

It really is an interesting exercise and I suggest you give it a try.

I’d love to hear where you met your past self and what you said. Tell me about it below.

Carry On,

Xox

This video is so clever! Using the voice of the brilliant Brene Brown. It’s short, sweet and insightful.
Enjoy!