Faith

“Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

I am by nature, one of the most optimist people you will ever have the good fortune, or misfortune to meet, depending on your mood.

After being around for this long, I’ve developed the faith that things are always working out for me. (And when I say me I mean my husband, my family, those I love, my dog and my country—just to be clear.)

But, and I can say this from years of personal experience, a deep reservoir of doubt runs just under the surface of us optimists. We have a profound and abiding respect for it and unless you cohabitate with us or secretly videotape our most private moments (sicko), you will most likely never see it overtake us. Because we are extremely skilled at keeping it under wraps.

For many, it can be a struggle. Yet, at the end of the day, their cork always bobs to the top, their glass remains half-full and the sun comes up the next morning. Pessimistic curmudgeons never fight with themselves this way.

One half of them says things suck—and the other half agrees.

Sometimes I envy them.  

Many describe their doubt as an adversary they meet on the battlefield. They fight it tooth and nail. I was taught by a wise so-and-so along the way, I can’t remember who, that if you come face to face with your doubt—play devil’s advocate.

So I learned to stage a doubt and faith debate.

Instead of silencing my doubt or smothering it with chocolate sauce and salted peanuts and scarfing it down at midnight by the light of the refrigerator — I let it have its say.

When Doubt takes the podium he is disgusting—puffed up with hot air, bloated with confidence. He brings flow-charts. He quotes statistics. You have to hand it to him, he comes loaded with evidence and everything he points to has a basis in fact. He produces pictures and movies to remind you of past failures. When he thinks he has you on the ropes, he brings out a panel of experts who can back him up.

Don’t you fucking hate panels of experts?

If you’re like me I can only listen to his bullshit for so long before I start to argue—and that’s when the debate begins.

He can recite from memory an article he read or a study that was done which PROVES my dreams will never succeed. “I don’t believe that!” I interrupt. Then I site the exceptions, because if there are exceptions, well, then his theory sucks. I name big names, important names. Names we’d all recognize.

He sweats like a pig and drinks water while he feigns ignorance.

“Look around you”, he demands, his face turning the color of eggplant, “There is SO MUCH EVIDENCE. Nobody’s happy in their job, nobody likes what they do, what you hope to accomplish is impossible! Besides that, people are miserable. And they’re fat.” He stuffs half a Reuben with extra sauerkraut into his mouth between jabs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I step away from my podium for full effect. I have bare feet because, number one, it grounds me, and number two, it’s against the rules and this throws Doubt for a loop. Doubt is most definitely a rule follower.

While he wavers, I state my case. “While I cannot argue that there are those who may feel this way; when I look beyond all the flotsam, I see hope. And possibility. There have always been people like me—like most of the people I know—who despite all of the cautionary tales still run into the arena.”

Doubt shakes his head in exasperation. There is mustard on his chin.

“It’s easier to be scared and quit. Believe me. I know. But as more and more of us poke holes in your lousy logic, it deflates… like a flaccid balloon. And everybody knows you can’t win an argument with a flaccid balloon.”

“Wrong!” he bends low and hisses air into his mic. “Wrooooong.” His eyes are squinted closed as he all but disappears behind his podium.  He knows I’m right.

Doubt had his say and the more I argued for my crazy, optimistic, why-the-hell-not way of life, the more I stood flat-footed in my conviction—the more I started believing it.

Someone once said, “Faith is the act of believing what you cannot yet see.”
I think it was Bill Murray or some other saint who said that which makes sense because you’d have to be able to perform a miracle, like a brain swap, to maintain faith and optimism in this day and age. But then I think about living in the middle ages with no indoor plumbing and only porridge to eat and I feel a sudden wave of gratitude for exactly where I’m standing.

See how that works?

Carry on,
xox

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. … They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew some day, the train would come.”

When you read that story, about the train and the Alps, how does it make you feel?

Are you thinking, Why do I care about a train in Europe? I have three job interviews this week!

Are you more practical, like How fiscally irresponsible is that to build something that no one can use?

Or… are you more like me?

As you’ve probably already guessed, that little anecdote gives ME goosebumps the size of Montana hail, a lump in my throat, and every time I read it my boobies tingle a little—because that’s just the kind of inspiring, real life, stranger-than-fiction, magical nonsense that makes me excited to get up in the morning.

That passage is from a favorite movie of mine, Under the Tuscan Sun, which if you haven’t seen it or read the book, (which is marvelous) is about a woman going through a profound life change whose purpose, timeframe and final destination are completely unknown to her. Day after day, terrified and miserable as fuck, she just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Like we all do. Even people who aren’t steeped in faith find a way to carry on. Maybe they get it from stories about trains.

If you think about it from my very Pollyanna Perspective, every great work of art, creative endeavor, and scientific accomplishment started with some track building. I’ll take it a step further and insist that we all lay down tracks we can’t use until we flesh out our ideas from start to finish.

I do it every freaking day and so do you!

A dear friend of mine has gone back to school to get her degree. There’s no job lined up yet, no clientele or guarantee of employment waiting for her at the finish line. Nevertheless, I see her working her tail off—laying the tracks.

From the age of thirteen, Misty Copeland would practice up to eight hours a day, barely listening to the naysayers who insisted that she was too dark, too curvy and had started dancing too late to have a real career in ballet. She was too busy laying tracks for a position that did not exist before her—the first African-American principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.

Steve Jobs imagined the smartphone, a technology so innovative that it didn’t exist before he thought of it. I’m sure plenty of intelligent, well-meaning people told him not to waste his time or money on what must have seemed like an insurmountable amount of track building. But he did it anyway.

He gave us something we never knew we needed—that now we can never imagine living without.

Like a train across the Alps.

What tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

Carry on,
xox

“I mean, you live in a great, big, vast world that you’ve seen none percent of. Even the inside of your own mind is endless; it goes on forever, inwardly, do you understand? The fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to say ‘I’m bored.’” ~ Louis C.K.

Once upon a time, there was a theoretical physicist named Erwin Schrödinger.

I know. Yaaaaawn. Don’t nod off. Stay with me here because this is about cats—and it’s going to get interesting, I promise. Plus I just quoted Louis C.K. to you for crying’ out loud!

He, not Louis C.K., that other guy, Schrödinger. He developed a theory way back in 1935 that even had Einstein scratching his head and with that flyaway white hair of his that was no easy task. Plus he had a big brain and big brains have a hard time making u-turns when it comes to rules of the universe, reality, and cats. In that order.

Schrödinger’s theory went something like this (and I’m simplifying it DRAMATICALLY so that even I can understand it):

If you put a cat in a box with poison and close the lid, the reality that the cat is alive AND the reality that the cat is dead exist at THE SAME TIME. Only when you, as the observer, open the lid does one outcome become a reality.

Wait. What?

He went further. The cat and the observer are linked by something called entanglement (which is the theory that all of our atoms are mixed together so they affect each other) so that makes the outcome affected by the observer’s expectations.

Expect the cat to be dead—open the lid—the kitty is muerto.
Expect a live cat—open the lid—your have a very alive, very pissed off cat who climbs up your arms with its claws and eats your eyebrows.

Both realities exist until you open the lid. The one with the dead cat and the one with no eyebrows.

Don’t you fucking love science? And theoretical physics? See why Einstein was head scratching?

By-the-way, I can hear you and no cat was ever hurt during these experiments. They are theoretical so I’m guessing migraines were the only casualty of this big thinking theory.

I heard about this for the first time about a month ago.
Then I read about it.
Then it was on a podcast.
Then it was mentioned by Monroe (because he’s the smart, sciencey one) on the Grimm T.V. show finale.
So, apparently, it has become part of the popular zeitgeist.

What does this have to do with me and my life you ask?

Nothing.
OR
Everything!

Listen, if we have the power to entangle our way out of shitty results, well, why wouldn’t we?

So, like you do when a quantum theory crosses your path—I decided to test it. On a friend.

I was talking to a dear friend the other day about some test results she’s waiting for. Actually, she’s dreading them. Like we all do with something that could our take our life in a direction we’d rather not go.

So of course, I mentioned the cat!

“There are both good and not-so-good outcomes for the test results UNTIL they open the envelope and you read them,” I assured her.

…Crickets…

“Seriously. You have the power here. What are your expectations?”

“Well, the doctor said to be prepared for the worst…”

“Okay, well, I fucking HATE your doctor! You might want to mention to her that her bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Just so you know—HER cat died. Because it was a cat—and it listened to her—and she’s a morbid bitch in a white coat.

YOU, on the other hand are a human being. YOU can change your expectations.”

“I can?”

“Sure! You can expect one of two results, Right? Why not steer yourself toward the one you want? The positive outcome. Entangle all of your atoms over THERE. The universe is waiting for you to decide!”

She gets her test results at the end of the week and regardless of what happens—she’ll get through it, she’ll regroup—and ultimately—she’ll be fine. 

But today. Right now, right this very minute WE have the power to help her because science has proved that our atoms are all entangled. Let’s expect a happy ending. Let’s expect the cat to live.

Will you do that with me?

xox

(Two days later)

**You guys! I wanted to let you know that we did it! My dear friend got her test results back and lo and behold, she’s fine! The cat was alive you guys! Thank you to everyone who helped us out with this thought experiment. We are SO f*ing powerful!

xox Love you!

Hello my fellow seekers,
This is a post from back in 2015.

It is my one and only Good Friday post so I trot it out every year on this day only this year it holds a bit more significance than the previous two since my deceased father has been around a lot more than normal.

As I wrote that I wondered about what constitutes “normal” when it comes to visits from dead relatives, but I have to say, in this instance, it has gone from almost never, to several times a week.

He arrives as cigarette smoke. Day, middle of the night, in my car, when I smell smoke—I know it’s him.
He hadn’t smoked in over twenty years when he died (of lung cancer) but he did my entire childhood and he LOVED it so I’m certain when he crossed over, as he stood at the Pearly Gates, they handed him the rule book, a white robe with M & M’s in the pockets, and an endless supply of Lucky Strikes.

We don’t chat like I do with the other disembodied ones. Apparently, he’s still not a chatty guy. But I will continue to ask him why he’s around and congratulate him on the use of cigarette smoke as his signal—it’s genius.

I hope this finds you all practicing devotion wherever you find it.

love you & Carry on,
xox

DEVOTION

de·vo·tion
dəˈvōSH(ə)n/
noun.
1.) Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity
synonyms: loyalty, faithfulness, fidelity, constancy, commitment, adherence,allegiance, dedication.

2.) Religious worship or observance.
synonyms: devoutness, piety, religiousness, spirituality, godliness, holiness, sanctity
“a life of devotion”

3.) Prayers or religious observances.

Devotion. What does that mean to me? What does it mean to you?

As a Catholic, I thought I had an idea, but the edges have blurred and I’ve been left to define it for myself.

This is an interesting time of year.
It’s ripe with the energy of endings; and new beginnings.
Deaths and re-births —— figuratively and literally.

We can practice our devotion inside this energy of change with Easter, Passover, the full moon, eclipses, and all other assortments of ancient and new age cosmic rites of passage.

Take me for instance; I am sitting as I write this, in a pew, basking in the warm glow of stained glass, inside of St. John The Baptist De La Salle Catholic Church— the church I grew up in — the church of my youth.

The one where I whiled away hour after hour of my childhood.
Some in innocent devotion, kneeling with sweaty little girl hands piously folded together, fervently praying my little girl prayers and later, in a pre-pubescent stupor, stifling yawns during my eight years there in the late sixties, early seventies.

Now, I’ve gotta tell ya, this retired Catholic is finding it…surreal to be back here, and I have to make this snappy.

I could spontaneously combust if the powers-that-be realize that I’m here, or the light from that stained glass baby Jesus hits me just right.

All kidding aside, recently my Catholic roots have been calling me. Their Siren’s song running lightly in the background of my life.

It all started when I began burning Frankincense incense in the mornings. I attempted subconsciously to counteract its effects on me by simultaneously playing a Buddhist chant with mixed results — that smell to me—still to this day–signals Lent.

Then I noticed, lo and behold it is exactly that time of year. Hmmmm…

That smell transports me back to Stations Of The Cross, a ritual of remembrance of the absolute worst day in the life of Jesus Christ.

As a little girl I loved rituals.
The smells, the cool, dimly lit ambiance, the notes played on the organ that resonated inside my chest and head, and the drone of the priest’s voice. They all conspired to “send me” to another place and time. They still do.

As I write this there is an actual organ rehearsal happening right this minute. Sending me…

Yet, even as that devout little girl, I had a hard time wrapping my brain around commemorating the days leading up to someone’s horrible, torturous, barbaric death and THAT little kernel of doubt, that one right there, started my life as a seeker.

Devotion as a religious observance.
I sat with my dearly departed father Friday in another church much closer to my home, (that now makes my church sitiing twice in one week, a personal record as an adult).

We sat together devoutly, he with his invisible hand on my knee to keep me from bolting during Stations Of The Cross, the first one I’ve sat throughout since eighth grade. It was faster and much…dryer than I remembered.

And no fragrance of frankincense — a crushing disappointment.

Still, I sat with my dad on the tenth anniversary of his passing… in a church…during Lent. And only one of us made it out alive…barely.

I’ll tell anyone I did it for him, but truth be told, that experience was calling ME.

Devotion.  

To others?  To a practice?  To a cause? 

I think we can all relate to that.

How about…

Devotion as Love and loyalty, enthusiasm for a person or an activity.

To tradition.

To family, friends, and matters of the heart.

To times past.

To ritual.

To the planet.

To sacred places; temples, sanctuaries, churches, nature, Sephora, the bakery.

To whatever sends you and floats your boat.

To kindness and courage.

To mala beads, crystals, chanting, yoga and meditation.

To ancient childhood memories resurfacing.

To triggers; Smells. Sounds. People.

I’m getting a bit misty-eyed over here.
It must be a combination of the lousy organ music (he just needs more practice), and the fact that my fifty-seven-year-old butt is currently seated on the same hard wooden bench that my innocently sweet, but always questioning, seven-year-old butt sat.

Devotion to change.
I used to believe that religion and spirituality were mutually exclusive.
One told you no, the other said… perhaps.

Call it old age, or just a general unclenching of the fists that happens naturally over time, but I’m finding myself more and more belonging to Team Meh where our motto is: “Well, that’s not my thing — but good for you!”

Devotion to Neutrality or I’m in a Switzerland State of Mind
Daily I struggle with judgment. I know, it’s just me.
I’m striving to be for more things than I’m against.

I feel like after this week I can move the Catholic religion to my neutral list. At last!

Some people hang out in groovy cafes and write. I sit weeping in Catholic Churches.

Who knows what’s next?

Can you explain devotion? What are you devoted to, I’d love to know.

Happy Easter & Passover my loves,
Xox

Um, Yeah, what he said.

Since Donald Trump landed with a giant, orange thud on my radar two-ish years ago, I have watched him traverse the political landscape with a mix of slack-jawed awe and mild nausea.

Who is this guy and how in the hell did this happen?

Previous to running for the office of President of The United States he was just another self-aggrandizing blowhard who lived in a golden tower, cheated on his wives, called himself a billionaire, starred in a cheesy reality show and had something to say about everyone and everything.

Not necessarily an educated opinion—just something to say.

He assumed he had an audience. I guess he thought people cared…Right? Someone must have said that to him once, “Hey, Don, I’d love to hear what you have to say about Roe V Wade!”

He slithered his way through his preferred method of communication—a Howard Stern interview, waffling back and forth on his opinions of the Clintons, Barack Obama, abortion, and the Iraq war on a regular basis.
It was all in good fun back then.

Just a couple of douches talking nonsense.

New Yorkers couldn’t stand the guy and yet, without ever holding public office or participating in any kind of community organizing besides building skyscrapers with his name emblazoned on them in thirty-foot high gold lettering—he gained some traction.

And in 2015 after some consideration (I can’t write that it was careful because that word can never be used in the same sentence as his name), Trump decided to you know, run for Leader of the Free World.

After the most wtf campaign on record and the most wtf win in the history of winning—he now sits behind the big desk in the Oval Office.

“Nothing like this has remotely happened!” has been echoing around the globe since November and I for one have just GOT to put some kind of positive spin on this…this…this anomaly.

What is an anomaly anyway?

Webster defines it as “something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.”

An oddity. A peculiarity. 

A quirk. A rarity.

Something inconsistent with the norm.

Yes, yup, uh huh and bingo.

It seems to me we are now living in the Age of Absurdity. I can resist (which believe me, on the things that matter I am) but on one point in particular, I say, if you can’t beat ‘um—join ‘um. Do you wanna know what the tipping point was for me?

One word. Oprah.

She voiced in a recent interview exactly what I’ve been thinking.

When asked if she was interested in running for President she responded saying that Mr. Trump’s election had made her re-evaluate her previous skepticism about running for President.

“I never considered the question even a possibility,” she told David Rubenstein on his Bloomberg Television program when pressed about whether she might consider running in 2020. “I just thought, ‘Oh… oh?'”
Referring to Mr. Trump, Mr. Rubenstein said: “It’s clear you don’t need government experience to be elected president of the United States”.

“That’s what I thought,” she continued. “I thought, ‘Oh, gee, I don’t have the experience, I don’t know enough.’ And now I’m thinking, ‘Oh.'”

That’s crazy, right? …CRAZY GOOD!

Will Oprah run? Probably not. But that’s not the point.

How many of us think we’re “unqualified” for a promotion because of the way things have always been done?
How many of us never even try things we know nothing about like writing books, screenplays or musicals?

What if we could accept this new normal and have the kind of faith in ourselves that Trump apparently has? We don’t have to go all dark and twisty narcissistic. What about supremely, peculiarly and unexpectedly confident?

You know what I mean.

If you’re like me you reconsider opportunities because of your age (too young or too old), your inexperience, the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the “system”, and the knowledge that certain things Just aren’t done that way.

I think we can all agree that time is over.

All bets are off.

The rules have all been broken. They are scattered at our feet. That can either be a bad thing—or a good thing.

I say if the idea occurs to you and you think you’d be good at it—go for it!

Who knows, you may end up President of The United States.

Carry on
xox

“Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

I am, by nature, one of the most optimist people you will ever have the good fortune, or mis-fortune to meet, depending on your mood.

After being around this long, I’ve developed the faith that things are always working out for me. (And when I say me I mean my country, my husband, my family, those I love and my dog—just to be clear.)

But, and I can say this from years of personal experience, a deep reservoir of doubt runs just under the surface of us optimists. We have a profound and abiding respect for it and unless you cohabitate with us or secretly videotape our most private moments (sicko), you will most likely never see it overtake us. We are extremely skilled at keeping it under wraps.

For many it can be a struggle. Yet, at the end of the day their cork always bobs to the top, their glass remains half-full. Pessimistic curmudgeons never fight with themselves this way. One half of them says things suck—and the other half agrees.

Sometimes…I envy them.  

Many describe their doubt as an adversary they meet on the battlefield. I was taught by a wise so-and-so along the way, I can’t remember who, that you have to face your doubt—and play the devil’s advocate.

It helps me when I stage a doubt and faith debate.

Instead of silencing my doubt or smothering it with chocolate sauce and salted peanuts and scarfing it down at midnight by the light of the refrigerator — I let it have its say.

When Doubt takes the podium he is disgusting—puffed up with hot air, bloated with confidence. He has flow-charts. He quotes statistics. You have to hand it to him, everything he points to has a basis in fact. He produces pictures and movies to remind you of past failures. When he thinks he has you on the ropes, he brings out a panel of experts who can back him up.

Don’t you fucking hate panels of experts?

If you’re like me I can only listen to his bullshit for so long before I start to argue—and that’s when the debate begins.

He can recite from memory an article he read or a study that was done which PROVES my dreams will never succeed. “I don’t believe that!” I interrupt. Then I site the exceptions, because if there are exceptions, well, then his theory sucks. I name big names, important names. names we’d all recognize.

He drinks water. He feigns ignorance.

“Look around you”, he demands, his face turning purple, “There is SO MUCH EVIDENCE. Nobody’s happy in their job, nobody likes what they do, what you hope to accomplish is impossible! Besides that, people are miserable. And they’re fat.” He stuffs half a Reuben with extra sauerkraut into his mouth between jabs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I step away from my podium for full effect. I have bare feet because, number one, it’s against the rules. And it throws Doubt for a loop. Doubt is most definitely a rule follower.  And number two, it grounds me.

“While I cannot argue that there are those who may feel this way, when I look beyond all the flotsam, I see hope. And possibility. There have always been people like me—like most of the people I know—who despite all of the cautionary tales still run into the arena.”

Doubt shakes his head in exasperation. There is mustard on his chin.

“It’s easier to be scared and quit. Believe me. I know. But as more and more of us poke holes in your lousy logic, it deflates… like a flaccid balloon. And everybody knows you can’t win an argument with a flaccid balloon.”

“Wrong.” he bends low and hisses air into his mic. “Wrooooong.” His eyes are squinted closed as he all but disappears behind his podium.  He knows I’m right.

Doubt had his say and the more I argued for my crazy, optimistic, why-the-hell-not way of life the more I stood flat-footed in my conviction. I started believing it.

Corks bob, glasses fill—and there’s the win.

Someone once said “Faith is to believe what you do not yet see.”
I think it was Bill Murray or some other saint who said it. It would have to be a saint because to maintain faith and optimism in this day and age, well, that would really be a miracle. But then I think about living in the middle ages with no indoor plumbing and only porridge to eat and I feel a sudden wave of gratitude.

See how that works?

Carry on,
xox

I LOVE when the Universe sends me a love note saying just the right thing—at just the right time, don’t you?

This one was so good I had to share it.

Waiting can be haaaaaarrrd. So, be impeccable with your thoughts and words, your dreams and desires, and stay focused because it’s ALL cueing up behind the scenes.

“Janet, do you know what happens in time and space just before something really incredible happens? Something mind-blowing? Just before a really HUGE dream comes true?

Do you?

Absolutely nothing.

At least not in the physical world.

So if, perchance, it appears that absolutely nothing is happening in your life right now… consider it a sign.

All the best,
“The Universe”

Sign up to get your own Notes From The Universe:
tut.com

Carry on,
xox

“I don’t know.”

Probably the scariest words this side of “It doesn’t look good” and “We have to talk.”

And why is that?

Maybe because from the earliest age we are asked, no, make that we are expected to know EVERYTHING.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Who invented Velcro?

What do I want for lunch every day?

Where should I go to college?

What’s my major?

Do I want coleslaw or fries with that?

What is love?

Is there a God?

Where do I want to work?

Who do I want to marry?

Do I want children? How many? Boys or girls?

What state do I want to live in and which neighborhood?

Am I going to work or be a stay-at-home parent?

Do these jeans make my butt look big?

Should I stay or should I go?

How will I know when to leave?

Should I buy or rent?

How much do I need for retirement?

When are you too old to wear a bikini?

Donut or green juice?

Burial or cremation?

Holy crap! The sheer volume of questions we’re supposed to know the answer to is mind-boggling! And the fact that we come to a decision on most is commendable. We were taught well.

Consider my life. I’m no different from you. Not knowing what I wanted had NEVER occurred to me. I learned that saying I don’t know was unacceptable. It wasn’t one of the choices. There was no plan C. No other box to check. When I didn’t know the answer, I winged it. I made shit up. I turned at the fork in the road. I didn’t stand there with a map or spend time consulting my GPS. I had a five-year plan. I made a decision and dealt with the consequences because acting like I didn’t know which way to go, which most of the time I didn’t, seemed like the bigger risk.

But as I’ve gotten older and presumably wiser, I’ve discovered:
1. Not having children was the right decision for me (whew!)
2. The only woman who can get away with wearing a bikini after sixty is Helen Mirren.
3. It’s okay to say “I don’t know”.

Thinking I had to have all the answers started to feel like prison to me. It left no room for chance, spontaneity or dare I say—magic.
I slowly discovered that saying I don’t know opened the door a crack allowing a myriad of possibilities to flood in.
I don’t know went from feeling shameful to liberating. It became my Get Out Of Jail Free Card.

I throw “I don’t know” around like confetti. I aim to live a more inspired life. I no longer feel the need to know the end-game. I’ve pretty much taken my hands off the wheel and let a force that is much more daring, interesting and magical take control of my life and I’ve got to warn you IF you decide to go this route—buckle up—you’re in for one hell of a ride!

Carry on,
xox

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is.” ~ Albert Einstein

So, you guys, this is a video that I saw on my Facebook homepage ONCE. One time, (if you can believe that, because when does THAT ever happen?), a few months back and it moved me so much I wanted to tell you guys about it.

I wanted to tell you the story of Chloe, but, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, when I looked at my notes I couldn’t make out the name I had scribbled while I watched. I tried everything. But it didn’t look like Chloe AT ALL! Curtis, Caitlin, Cody, none of those were right and without the name, well, I was screwed because the name plays such a huge role in this story. So, not only was I unable to write about this amazing story, I couldn’t find the video either!

BECAUSE IT’S CALLED CHLOE!

Then lo and behold, this past Sunday, Oprah ran it on Super Soul Sunday because it’s that good. Hallelujah! Mystery solved and here it is.

I’m showing you this on the weekend so you’ll have plenty of time to watch it. Really, you must watch it.

Okay, maybe not.
But…how about this? Maybe if, and only if, you’ve gotten tired of waiting for something you wanted with your whole heart.

Or, if you’ve questioned or even cursed God/Universe/The Lord/Bob, whoever, because it was looking like the thing you desired most in the world was being withheld from you.

Or, have you ever felt that horrible feeling that washes over you on those days when you lose your faith and you think “Yeah, this thing ain’t gonna happen. Never in a million years. What a complete and total FOOL I’ve been!”

Have you felt any of these? I have. All of them.  You need to watch this.

Carry on,
xox