emotions

How are you with loss? OMG you guys I sucked at it!

Coping with any kind of loss has been a learning curve for me.

First I was a cold-blooded jackass looking for payback, then an armoured up she-devil, then, slowly, eventually. I started to figure things out.
Take a look, see if what you did was radically different (do tell) or if you are a part of my tribe.

Please share with anyone you know who might need this right now. I’d also love it if you’d leave a comment on the HuffPo.

Thank you, love you, and carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/learning-to-navigate-loss_b_8671602.html

This graphic has nothing to do with anything—it just made me laugh.

Heeeeeyyyyy…Why does my car smell like a fart?

It’s not the dog, our usual suspect in all things foul smelling—she’s with her dad.
So…I’m the only one in here and as far as I know I haven’t passed gas.

Why do the bank and the market and the stroll over to the beauty supply also smell like ass gas?

Maybe that rotten egg, sulfur smell is a natural gas leak. Yeah, that’s it.
We must have a major gas leak in our neighborhood. That could be dangerous.

Note to self: When I get home I need to call the Gas Company to come out and check on that.

That could be a lifesaver, especially with all of the cooking and candle lighting going on the next few days. Nobody wants their face blown off lighting a candle.

Then I promptly forgot.
I had other things on my mind.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was busy!

Someone else has probably called by now. It is up to another Good Samaritan to save our lives.

God, I hope it’s not my face that gets blown off.

I was reminded that I forgot, (See how that works?) by the smell of dog fart inside my own home!
The same one I had spent all day Hazeling. The one that was minus one poopy dog.

Sourly odiferous. That’s the smell.

I went inside and washed out my nostrils. I did! It was like that dog-farty-sour smell was somehow stuck inside my nose, tainting my entire day.

I lit incense. Nothing helped.
It just covered it up for awhile. A Nag Champa Poop blend.

Turns out I had dog poop on the bottom of my shoe and it had accompanied me all day everywhere I went.

Has that ever happened to you?

See where I’m going with this?
I’m not even going to say it because you guys are so smart you already know that I’m going to say that the poop on my shoe was exactly like a metaphor for a bad mood. Or sadness.

That you take that shit wherever you go.

Carry on,
xox

Have you been a victim of Family Holiday Dysfunction?  Yeah, me too.

That’s why they call it Turkey Day.

Here’s a reader’s holiday favorite NEW and revised on the Huffington Post.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/hard-feelings-with-a-side_b_8612360.html

Hang in there—it’ll be over soon!

xox

I don’t want to harp on it, but hey, after the atrocities of this past weekend, I was reminded of the brevity of life and how many things still linger on my To Do List.
So, if I knew the world (or my life) were to end tomorrow, what would I regret not having done?

Walking the 500-mile pilgrimage of The Camino to Santiago de Compostela, through France and Spain. (My guess is that the success or failure of this undertaking rests solely in the choice of shoes).

Cleaning out my closet and giving away everything I haven’t worn in a year—which will leave me five pairs of black yoga pants and a tattered Oprah t-shirt.

Go somewhere remote and take a two-week vow of silence. Seriously. (Not the Camino, I may need to ask for directions).

Write everyone that I love a letter expressing my deepest, most heartfelt feelings and use the nice stationery that’s still wrapped in tissue paper in a sealed box.

Write one New York Times Bestselling book—or five.

Order dessert.

Take dance lessons.

Learn Italian.

Cut my hair short and spiky.

See Pompeii.

Speak at a TED TALK.

Sing Karaoke in a foreign country.

Wear the gorgeous gown I wore at my wedding again (which by-the-way was not a traditional bridal gown).

Along those lines: Stop saving anything for a special occasion.
Open that bottle of wine, use the good dishes, wear those diamond earrings, dance in those insanely expensive shoes with the three inch Swarovski crystal heels.

Eat my favorite meal, Thanksgiving dinner, more than just once a year.

Bake more pies.

Start telling stories onstage.

Disclose all of my secrets. Then make sure I die. Immediately.

Sell a screenplay.

Spend more money. Yes, you read that correctly!

Walk among pine trees more often.
A pine forest is my favorite smell on the planet, followed by melted chocolate, puppy breath, and onions and garlic sautéing in butter.

Smile more at strangers.

Hug my dog and my husband more often. I can’t imagine how that is possible, but I’m going to try.

What’s on your list? Care to share?

Carry on,
xox

After years of exhaustive, mind-numbing, soul-crushing research and a lifetime’s supply of tears—I have found this to be true.

Sadness is pretty much at the root of anger. And jealousy. And insecurity. And, and, and…

Are you mad? What are you sad about waaaay underneath all that rage?
What is anger protecting?
What is so raw that you’ll pick a bar-fight in order NOT to look at it.

Hey, listen, don’t kill the messenger!

Tell your bodyguard to back off.

Love you,
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

*The other day at lunch with a couple of my brilliant writer gal pals, Adrienne was telling us the story of her Elephant Journal piece that went viral. “I just woke up that morning and wrote a sort of rant, a list of all the things I was done with—then I sent it off and forgot about it. When EJ notified me it was up and I went to check it out, the numbers were staggering! I guess it resonated.”

She’s being modest. At over 3/4 of a million views and almost half a million shares.
Uh, yeah, Adrienne, I’d say it resonated.

It sure did with me so I asked her if it as okay to share it with you guys.
I know you’re going to love it! By the end, I was practically standing on my chair, cheering:

She was done! I am done!

See how many resonate wth you.

Take it away Adrienne.
xox

She was done not fully being herself.

She realized she was the only self she could be—and not being unapologetically true to herself was a disservice to her soul and the world.

She was done listening to the noise of the world. She realized the quiet voice of her own soul was the most beautiful sound.

She was done questioning her motives, her intentions, the call of her soul. She realized questions seek answers, and maybe she already knew the answers.

She was done striving, forcing, pushing through and staying on the hard path. She realized toughing things out might be a sign to pick another path.

She was done with friends that admonished her to be more light and breezy. She realized they didn’t understand she swam in the deep waters of life, she felt at home in their dark depths and died if she lived on the surface.

She was done with the distractions, the denials, the small addictions that pulled her away from the true desires of her soul. She realized that strength of character came from focus and commitment.

She was done not following the desires that yelled out in her soul every day. She realized if she did nothing about them, they died a quiet death that took a piece of her soul with them.

She was done with dinner parties and cocktail hours where conversations skimmed the surface of life. She realized the beverages created distortion and a temporary happiness that wasn’t real and disappeared in the light of the day.

She was done trying to please everyone. She realized it could never be done.

She was done questioning herself. She realized her heart knew the truth and she needed to follow it.

She was done analyzing all the options, weighing the pros and cons and trying to figure everything out before leaping. She realized that taking a leap implied not fully seeing where she landed.

She was done battling with herself, trying to change who she knew herself to be. She realized the world made it hard enough to fully be herself, so why add to the challenge.

She was done worrying as if worry was the price she had to pay to make it all turn out okay. She realized worry didn’t need to be part of the process.

She was done apologizing and playing small to make others feel comfortable and fit in. She realized fitting in was overrated and shining her light made others brave enough to do the same.

She was done with the should’s, ought to’s and have to’s of the world. She realized the only must’s in her life came from things that beat so strong in her soul, she couldn’t not do them.

She was done with remorse and could have’s. She realized hindsight never applies because circumstances always look different in the rearview mirror and you experience life looking through the front window.

She was done with friendships based on shared history and past experiences. She realized if friends couldn’t grow together, or were no longer following the same path, it was okay to let them go.

She was done trying to fit in—be part of the popular crowd. She realized the price she had to pay to be included was too high and betrayed her soul.

She was done not trusting. She realized she had placed her trust in people that were untrustworthy—so she would start with the person she could trust the most—herself.

She was done being tired. She realized it came from spending her time doing things that didn’t bring her joy or feed her soul.

She was done trying to figure it all out, know the answers, plan everything and see all the possibilities before she began. She realized life was unfolding and that the detours and unexpected moments were some of the best parts.

She was done needing to be understood by anyone but herself. She realized she was the only person she would spend her whole with and understanding herself was more important than being understood by others.

She was done looking for love. She realized loving and accepting herself was the best kind of love and the seed from which all other love started.

She was done fighting, trying to change or not her accepting her body. She realized the body she came into the world with was the only one she had—there were no exchanges or returns—so love and acceptance was the only way.

She was done being tuned in, connected and up-to-date all the time. She realized the news and noise of the world was always there—a cacophony that never slowed or fell quiet and that listening to the silence of her soul was a better station to tune into.

She was done beating herself up and being so hard on herself as if either of these things led to changes or made her feel better. She realized kindness and compassion towards herself and others accomplished more.

She was done comparing and looking at other people’s lives as a mirror for her own. She realized holding her own mirror cast her in the best, most beautiful light.

She was done being quiet, unemotional and holding her tongue. She realized her voice and her emotions could be traced back to her deepest desires and longings. if she only followed their thread.

She was done having to be right. She realized everyone’s truth was relative and personal to themselves, so the only right that was required was the one that felt true for her.

She was done not feeling at home in the world. She realized she might never feel at home in the world, but that feeling at home in her soul was enough.

She was done being drained by others—by people who didn’t want to take the time for their own process and saw shortcuts though hers. She realized she could share her experience, but everyone needed to do the work themselves.

She was done thinking she had so much to learn. She realized she already knew so much, if she only listened.

She was done trying to change others or make them see things. She realized she could only lead by example and whether they saw or followed was up to them.

She was done with the inner critic. She realized its voice was not her own.

She was done racing and being discontent with where she was. She realized the present moment held all it needed to get her to the next moment. It wasn’t out there—it was right here.

She was done seeing hurt as something to be avoided, foreseen or somehow her fault. She realized hurt shaped her as much as joy and she needed both to learn and grow.

She was done judging. She realized judging assumed the presence of right and wrong—and that there was a difference between using information to inform and making someone else wrong.

She was done jumping to conclusions. She realized she only needed to ask.

She was done with regrets. She realized if she had known better she would have done better.

She was done being angry. She realized anger was just a flashlight that showed her what she was most scared of and once it illuminated what she needed to see, she no longer needed to hold on to it.

She was done being sad. She realized sorrow arose when she betrayed her own soul and made choices that weren’t true to herself.

She was done playing small. She realized if others couldn’t handle her light, it was because they were afraid of their own.

She was done with the facades and the pretending. She realized masks were suffocating and claustrophobic.

She was done with others’ criticism and complaints. She realized they told her nothing about herself—only informed her of their perspective.

She was done yelling above the noise of the world. She realized living out loud could be done quietly.

She was done needing permission, validation or the authority. She realized she was her own authority.

She was done being something she was not. She realized the purpose of life was to be truly, happily who she was born to be…and if she paused long enough to remember, she recognized herself.
~Adrienne Pieroth

Adrienne Pieroth is a meditation teacher, single mother of two teenage boys, conscious co-parent, writer, mindful technologist and lover of all things human, mindful and heartfelt. Before leaving the world of high tech to raise her sons, she was a network engineer and systems designer. She still loves technology and works to raise people’s consciousness around their digital presence and the use of technology in their lives. She lives between Santa Fe, NM and Los Angeles, CA and can usually be found hiking in the mountains or walking on the beach.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/04/she-was-done/

Thank you, doctor, for keeping me waiting forty minutes for my fifteen-minute, two hundred and fifty dollar consultation.
I was your second appointment of the day. How could you be running that far behind? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m firing you on account of bad time management. I may not have all the letters after my name, but my time is just as valuable as yours.

Thank you, dear friend who is chronically late because she can never find parking.
Because of you I keep a ten-minute window ahead of all my appointments, even lunch dates, to make sure I can wrangle the admittedly criminal lack of sufficient parking in Los Angeles.
I love you so I’ll tolerate this one character flaw.

Thank you every commercial airline I’ve ever flown.
You treat departure and arrival times as loose suggestions, which has forced me to get all the apps that alert me of your lateness so that I don’t end up getting trapped at the airport, overspending at the duty-free shops, or standing so long at the arrivals gate that I end up printing a random name on a box lid just to fit in.

As long as I’m venting, thank you private jet travel.
I’ve been fortunate to partake in your luxurious expediency and I must say: You have ruined me.
It is my belief that NO individual who is financially incapable of sustaining their own jet ( which is 99% of us), should be allowed to fly private.
It is a mind fuck on steroids.
When they say they’re leaving at 10, you may arrive at 9:50, but you will be wildly, inappropriately, “rookie” early because by 9:53 someone will have taken your bags, lead you to your double-wide, leather, Barcalounger; peeled you a grape, dipped you a strawberry, massaged your feet and told you a joke. There is no long security line, no barefooted X-ray pat down or frantic belt removal.
And if everyone is on board by 9:54 — they just take off.
What?
It’s too good. I can’t take it! Never again.

And last but not least thank you over-entitled rock singers. You know who you are.
At my current age of fifty-seven I’m well aware that I’ve wasted vast portions of my youth, hundreds if not thousands of hours, waiting for you to start your fucking concerts and I’m pissed and I want that time back! I know you’ve been to the arena or stadium. You had a soundcheck and a driver for Pete’s sake. Why can’t you manage to be fed, made-up and dressed by showtime? I can.
Is that too much to ask for the millions we’re paying to see you live? I just don’t get.

And thank you, Taylor Swift. Although I’ve yet to see you live, I heard you start your set right on time. Just one of the things I love about you.

Sorry about that, I just needed to vent. I have a thing about punctuality!
What about you? Are you late as a habit? Do you think it’s rude? How long will you wait for someone?

Carry on,
xox

BEST
adjective
Of the most excellent, effective, or desirable type or quality.
“the best pitcher in the league”

The Best! What does that even mean anymore?

I’m here to downgrade the word best or rather the world at large has done that for me being that The Best doesn’t hold the same weight that it used to.

You did your best honey and that’s all that matters.
Those words could soothe my soul as a child. I knew, as the type A, perfectionist, driven for accolades, honor roll, and extra-credit-ass-kissing kid that I was—that my best had taken me hours, maybe even days, it had made me sweat blood, and I had left NOTHING on the table.
My best was enough.
Actually it was probably more than enough.

An “A” for effort. Right?

But over the years as we mature and grow and hopefully get a life—our best changes.

When I was five, just coloring inside the lines was the best I could do. By eleven I could color like nobody’s business!

I know I’m a much better wife than I was the first time around, although I would have assured you at the time, through gritted teeth, with a flip of my over highlighted blonde hair and a ton of attitude—that I was the best wife EVERRR (valley girl speak) and that he was lucky to have me.

Some people are so incredibly proficient that even on an off-day their half-ass work is better than most people’s best.
My friend can grade diamonds like a Mofo. Without a microscope. In the dark. With her eyes closed. And never get it wrong.
It’s a superpower what can I say?

So best is subjective. It morphs and changes. You have to consider all sorts of outside influences.

How many times have you been introduced to someone with the lead-in being: This guy’s the best________.”
Is he the best? In the world or in a five block radius? Who determines that? Did someone take a poll? Did his mother get to vote 17,000 times?

How do we ever really know if someone or something is The Best?

I am the best writer.
In.
this.
room. (which is currently void of other human beings).

Donald Trump is the best candidate for President of these United States.
Who says? He does. Loudly and often.
We, the voters will be the judge of that—so, is he doing his best?
I can’t tell.
If he wins he’ll say he did. If he loses the nomination he’ll say he was distracted, misunderstood, or that we’re too stupid to recognize greatness.
Either way, was his best good enough?

I suppose I’m becoming less and less impressed with the word best.
Best by whose standards?
Our own or society at large?

When we chase wanting to be the best at something what are we running after?

My best is constantly changing. These days I go more for a feeling.
Am I proud of what I just produced?
Also, is it unique in some way? Or is it the same old, same old, re-hashed, 2.0 version of somebody else’s best?

What do you guys think? Has best lost its sparkle? How do YOU determine if something is The Best?
Does that joint at the corner really have THE BEST pizza in town or is that just a marketing ploy?

You really are THE BEST readers of any blog EVER! (I know because I can feel it) and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this.

xox