emotions

INTENTIONAL
in·ten·tion·al
inˈtenCHənl/
adjective
1. done on purpose; 
synonyms: deliberate, calculated, conscious, intended, planned, meant, studied, knowing, willful, purposeful, purposive, done on purpose, premeditated, preplanned, preconceived

I’m not someone that does year end resolutions.

As a matter of fact I haven’t met a resolution I didn’t obliterate. If they lasted past January (which they didn’t), but if they did, they would be sure to crash and burn before making into the first week of February.

You know who you are expensive gym membership, French lessons, books taunting me on the nightstand.
I’m just not that girl.
Kinda like giving things up for Lent. I sucked at that too.

What I do like to do, and believe in doing; is to set an intention for the New Year. That I can do.

I meditate the day before and again on the morning of the first – with purpose.

You can just sit quietly in your favorite chair in your jammies and cosy socks, with your eyes closed, that’ll do just fine.
Then pick a feeling you want to feel. Can’t think of one?

Imagine an obstacle or problem – solved.
How would that feel? Like relief? Freedom? Joy? 

Imagine that stubborn project completed. Pride? Relaxed? Accomplished? Feel that?

Imagine your knee or shoulder or back, free of pain. How do you feel? Strong? Healthy? Vital?

Pick an emotion and marinate in it while you sit and breath. Pull it with you into 2015. Call it forward. Be deliberate. Do it on purpose.

If your mind strays (and it will) dive back in and marinate some more.

As you marinate it will tenderize you, I promise.

If you can stay in it for five minutes, congratulations! If you can do more, you’re a super star!

Be intentional for 2015.
If you believe that we create our reality (like I do), you don’t have to imagine the specifics of the events of the year – just hold the feeling.

I’m going for satisfaction. It is my Holy Grail. I can admit that I am almost never, truly and deeply satisfied. I could do/be better. There is always more that could be written/said/done.

That will be my intention this year, to feel satisfied.

How do you want to feel in 2015? Would you want to share?

Loving you into the New Year,
Xox

Some Monday morning wisdom. Self explanatory.
Take it in.
Marinate.
Let it settle –

Big love,
Xox

“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

My friend and I were talking yesterday, reminiscing about the state of the world, immediately following 9/11.
Everyone was shell shocked, which disarmed their defenses.
People were kind. They went out of their way to help, they got involved.

Even the French. If you can believe it.

I can say that. I’m married to a Frenchman.
Actually he’s half French, half American.
He has the arrogance and love of food of a Francophile, the other half, Yankee Ingenuity and some Huckleberry Finn “Aww shucks.”

We were given ninety days to use our honeymoon tickets, whose dates fell inside those post September 11th “no air travel” dates.
Wasn’t that nice of them?
It was Air France, so yes, it was EXTREMELY nice of them.

Just under a month later we jetted off to Paris to visit his family.
Italy would have to wait.

“Air travel is safer than it’s ever been” he kept reassuring me, “they’re not going to use planes again, not with everyone watching.”

I suppose he was right, but there weren’t enough drugs in the world to get me through the airport, with the new security and National Guard presence, and then allow me to spend eleven hours in high altitude anxiety, without a puke or five.

Once we landed, I noticed it right away. The energy was palpably different.

There wasn’t any fear in Europe. No recent trauma.
No low grade anxiety that we, in the US, had been marinating in for a month.

I felt lighter immediately.
I felt I could smile and laugh again – except it was Paris and that’s forbidden.

Then an anomaly occurred.
Once a person heard me speak English, they would ask: American? I’d nod, and they would touch my shoulder or take my hand, “So sorry” they would attempt in their best American accent.

Are you kidding me?

In bistros, they would meet my eyes when they heard me speak, and give me a very soulful, extremely sympathetic, little grin. A sort of Mona Lisa smile of compassion. With a tilt of the head.

That’s a HUGE outpouring of emotion for them. I was very, very touched.

The take away for me on that trip and in the weeks and months that followed the tragedy of 911 was this: the world can feel like such a small place. Like a little community, where we all feel each other’s pain.
It was the first time in my life I’d ever noticed that.

The country that holds most Americans in low regard, (I know, BROAD generalization, but…) touched my heart and shared my grief.

Instead of cringing when they heard me speak, which I’ve experienced more times than I can count, my American-ness drew them to me like a magnet, so they could extend their sympathies.

We were all just citizens of the world…for awhile.
I miss that.

Sending Saturday Love,
Xox

This past Wednesday night, at the women’s group that I so dearly love, the topic was intimacy, and the fact that, as Brene Brown has found in her over twenty years of research:

Vulnerability is essential for intimacy.

According to BB there can be no emotional, spiritual, or physical intimacy without vulnerability. 

Well…then…… shit.

Vulnerability is haaaaaard (said in a teenage whiney voice)

It leaves you open to emotional annihilation.

We’ve all been there. You’re completely and totally won over by someone who seems to meet you at the steps of intimacy. They hold your heart with their slippery hands and you give that unreliable soul the keys to the kingdom, or as Elizabeth Gilbert wrote Friday on Facebook, the keys to a small hidden lockbox.

She writes:
My girlfriends and I were talking about how all of us have a small lockbox hidden deep inside our souls, in which we keep the most fragile, frightened, innocent parts of ourselves.

If somebody loves you (and loves you WELL) they will come to learn what’s inside that secret lockbox of vulnerability, and they will be so careful to never use that information against you — to never manipulate your vulnerabilities, or mock them, or use the knowledge of your frailty as a weapon of power or diminishment.

My friends and I were talking about times in the past when we have opened ourselves up in love (or even friendship) to the wrong sorts of people — to people who found our most secret vulnerabilities and — instead of saying, “Oh, dear one, now that I know this about you, I will always protect you so carefully” — they said, “Aha! Now that I know this, I can really start messing with you!”

Then the betrayal happens, which along with the breach of trust and connection, is one of the major blocks to vulnerability. 

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that we talked about it this week and she posted her amazing post about it today.

In living rooms, yoga classes and cafe’s all over the world right now, women especially, are craving intimacy and learning the role that vulnerability plays.

Society and certain jobs (military, law enforcement, hospitals) discourage it.

But we women are getting courageous. And we realize that we are desperately in need of more human connection.

We are ALL in this together, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
Here’s another great piece of wisdom from Brene Brown:

When we loose our tolerance for vulnerability, we loose our tolerance for joy.

Because; we loose our courage to be joyful.
It is such a daring act, because it is so fleeting.
It is over in a minute or it can be taken away just as fast.

Think about that. We will sacrifice joy, in order to keep safe, the secrets in our lockboxes.

Bottom line…..life is fuckin’ risky.

It’s ALL a risk. Love, intimacy, vulnerability, connection, joy.

The whole shebang.

But it’s a risk I think we all should be willing to take.

Be kind to yourselves this lovely weekend.
Xox

Show of hands, How many of you are doing something else while you’re trying to read this?

The operative word being: TRYING.

Are you talking on the phone? Eating? Tying Timmy’s shoe? Texting? I only ask, because I’m one of you. We are the chronically overextended. The magicians of mult-tasking. We haven’t met a list, task or scheduling challenge whose ass we couldn’t kick.

If you want something done ask a busy person to do it.
~Lucille Ball~

Oh, Lucy, I do love you, and I’ve quoted this MANY times. It may be how I’ve lived most of my life, but it’s an old, dying paradigm.

It is true, that busy people like you and me, we can take on what others have shrugged off, no problemo.

We’ll write that email, while texting, syncing our calendars, peeing and getting dressed, but something will have to give. It may not be accuracy, although studies have shown that it does tend to be a casualty. Case in point: my shirt will be buttoned all wrong, and I’ll send a flirty text, in error, to the last person I texted…..my brother. Inaccurate And inappropriate.

What WILL be lost is: Depth of Connection.

Do you even care? I think you do. I sure as hell do.

We are partially tuned into everything while never being completely tuned into anything.

Not only are we looking down at our devices instead of making eye contact during a conversation, our communication can be so freaking dry.

We aren’t moved by a friend’s loss because it never travels from our ears to our hearts.

We write a quick Happy Birthday on a friend’s Facebook wall, often forgetting to send the card or call. Shame on us.

The quick email or text answer we shoot off after only half reading the question, can come across as impersonal and detached, because we didn’t take the time to write mindfully and thoughtfully. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve misconstrued a text ( meaning got my feelings hurt, or got pissed) for lack of a tone of voice. 

Oh hey, I have an idea. Maybe a phone call would have been better, but…shit. We don’t have the time, and we would have to actually engage emotionally.

It is so much easier to send a sad face emoticon 🙁

My husband has this nifty trick. When the doorbell rings at dinner time, which is the bewitching hour for solicitors, he answers the door with his phone to his ear, pretending to be deep in conversation. That sends the universal, non-verbal signal: “Can’t you see I’m busy? Fuck off!”
It works every time. He’s back at the table in two seconds flat.

I know people that enter EVERY room like that. Cellphone up to the ear, chatting away, while shaking hands and air kissing their way through the party, meeting or lunch date. Meanwhile, all of us on the receiving end are wading in the shallows of their connection. To me it always feels like that same F-You message my husband so brilliantly employs.

I, for one pledge to try harder, to be smarter about making that deeper connection. Strive for some substance over fluff. Who’s with me?

And every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling “This is important! And This is important! And This is important!
And each day it’s up to you to yank your hand back, put it on your heart and say, “NO. This is what’s important.”
~Iain Thomas~ Excerpt from Thrive by Arianna Huffington

Do you catch yourself walking and texting or entering a shop while you’re on the phone?
Have you been caught on the receiving end of the shallow connection?
I’d love some feedback on this. Tell me in the comments below!

Xox

I love our Wednesday Women’s group. We get together after a long day, notebooks in hand, and settle into our sacred circle with the intention to transform our lives. We let loose the habits shaped from our pasts, divulge an occasional secret dream, and bask in the fertile conversations of our lives reimagined. Even though Saturday put up a good fight, Wednesday is now my favorite night of the week.

This week we discussed gratitude. I LOVE me some Gratitude, and its sister, Appreciation. I truly believe they are the stepping-stones to a happier existence. I’ve witnessed how they can literally transform a life.

That being said, when terrible things happen in life, and they do; the losses, the failures, the disappointments and the heartbreaks. You do yourself a disservice by immediately slapping a happy face bandage over the feelings.

Back in the day at the start of the “New Age” movement, it was taught that everything could be solved with a positive affirmation and a side of gratitude.
“Be grateful that your life is in shambles, you’ll be a better person. Now say this affirmation: When shit rains down on me, I will smile and grab an umbrella”.

So, that’s what a lot of us did.

I did.

I was the poster child for laughing through tears. I had notes with positive affirmations stuck all over my house. I had them written in lipstick on my bathroom mirror.

I firmly believed that I could “positive think” my way out of every sad, sucky situation. But there was no feeling behind my gratitude, it was all lip service. I was hurting and the last thing I held in my heart at that moment was appreciation for the situation. I could have tattooed an affirmation on my forehead, that still wouldn’t have made it so.

When you know this stuff as well as I do, you think you should implement all the teachings you have in your back pocket to navigate your pain. All you do is delay it. Pain, anger, grief and the rest of the crew HAVE TO BE FELT in order to dissipate.

Then, and only then, can the gratitude flood in and fill the void.
But not one minute before.

Oh shit.
I messed that up for over thirty-five years.

I’ve had “delayed reaction syndrome” regarding my darker emotions. Sadness hits me months later. I can throw a dinner party with balloons and sing with the band minutes after terrible news.

I’m THAT girl.

I misunderstood the directive: This too shall pass.
I never let it pass me, I ran faster, in my endless race of avoidance.

I used to feel guilty for feeling sad and wanting to cry all day. I thought I should be able to rise above it. I would gear up with my pad of Post Its and search for the silver lining every time life took a terrible turn. But often that lining is buried deep under multiple layers of anger, pain and resentment. You have to really get in there and mine for it. Otherwise, a positive affirmation scab can form, and everything just festers underneath.

It’s not pretty, I don’t recommend it.

I do believe you can “Fake it, till you make it” which is affirming a behavior as you learn it, but not until the underlying issues are resolved.
Oh yeah….that.

I hold such deep admiration for those cultures where it’s accepted to wail with grief. Men AND women, what a relief that must be. They just give into it, and let all that emotion out. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. Seems so much healthier.

I’m always afraid the sadness will be so deep it will swallow me whole, and my wailing will never cease. Dogs will continue to hear it for weeks and pray for sweet relief.

So this is my cautionary tale of not reaching for gratitude too soon.

We discussed this at length on Wednesday, because we are all about transition through transformation. We all agreed that we would not cheerlead someone out of their pain. Myself included, because I am the biggest offender. We would hold the place for them to feel through the layers until the onion is peeled.
We won’t let them wallow either. Tightrope walking, I know. But so do-able in this group, and for that I am TRULY grateful.

Are you someone who can process your emotions in real-time, or are you more like me with “delayed reaction syndrome”. Let me know in the comments below.

XoxJanet