feelings

This is a badass essay by Liz Gilbert about her favorite badass friends and her idea of what makes a badass (which of course I agree with wholeheartedly because she did all of the emotional research and thinking and I just nodded the entire time in complete agreement).

And when I did feel up to it (after a Triscuit or five with cheese—and a nap), I made a sloppy, unorganized and I’m certain incomplete list of my favorite badasses. BTW– if you’re not mentioned here and it pisses you off, KNOW that very reaction makes you a badass. And know that it was just an oversight on my part due to age and a brain made of Swiss cheese and try not to hate me too much.

My FAVORITE BADASSES (in no particular order):

Mom & Lee for being tanks and overcoming health obstacles (and for being regular readers of this blog which makes you an automatic badass, and if you laugh–an honorary badass).

My husband for obvious reasons and because HAVE YOU MET HIM? His picture is in the dictionary under badass. No lie.

My sister and brother for sharing our crazy fucking gene pool and still managing to gather together cool people to love and create a couple of great lives that entertain and delight me.
And for being there.

My friend Eva, for kicking cancer’s ass like a ninja-rock-star. And reinventing herself afterward.

My friend Kim, for her courage, grace and for maintaining her sense of humor in the face of her epic reinvention.

My friend Step, for being more fully realized at 35 than I’ll ever be, for accruing the most vertical miles skied, for believing in herself and her story so much she scored an unheard of bangin’ book deal as a first-time author AND for walking with me on imaginary hot magma.

Linda, Danielle and our beautiful writers group. Just that we all found each other and can keep up with all of the talent—makes us badasses.

Little Pants for just maintaining her equilibrium as a teenage girl in Los Angeles in 2016. I could NEVER!

To Nora for teaching me trust, courage and receptivity from beyond the grave. Talk about a badass!

This list could go on and on because pretty much everyone around me is covered in badass sauce. So…what about you? Who is your favorite badass? Do you have the courage to put in  the comments? (gauntlet thrown).

Carry on,
Xox

***

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE BADASS? By Liz Gilbert

Dear Ones –

Our sweet friend Ruth Sze at www.doodlebubbledesigns.com posted this lovely drawing on Instagram yesterday and I love it so. She invited us to ponder who our favorite badass is right now, and i invite you to do the same, and to tag that person in your response.

My favorite badass this week is my friend Glennon Doyle Melton (Momastery) because she always uses her broken heart to heal a broken world. She is a tireless and generous love ninja, who is not afraid to be vulnerable, not afraid to risk connection, not afraid to share her scars and fears so that others do not feel so alone in their confusion.

Also, this week, somebody was mean to Glennon (which makes me become a crazy she-wolf of protection for my friend!) but Glennon refused to let it stop her from her ongoing mission of love.

My favorite badasses are all people who are not afraid to feel their feelings.

A real badass is not afraid to forgive.

A true badass is not afraid to sit in her sadness and anger and pain until she works her way through it — rather than lashing out in retaliation at the world, or making other people suffer for her pain.

A beautiful badass — in my eyes — is someone who has learned that before she can make friends with anyone else, she must make friends with the crazy shit-tornado who is herself. Because until we love our own crazy shit-tornado, we can’t love anyone else’s crazy shit-tornado.

A creative badass is anyone who is not afraid to share her imagination with the public — regardless of the criticism that may arise.

A generous badass is anyone who says, “I have more than enough for myself and I ALWAYS WILL — therefore, I will share whatever I have with you.”

A resilient badass is anyone who stands in the wreckage of failure and error and says, “Oops. Guess we better start cleaning this up…anybody got a broom?”

A brave badass is anyone who has ever asked for help.

An optimistic badass is anyone who believes that this broken world is still worth fighting for.

A smart badass is anyone who can set boundaries without being punishing or vindictive.

And a holy badass is anyone who knows that — beyond this whole wild and messy world — there is power at work greater than anything we can imagine…and that we are part of that story.

I am so lucky to be surrounded by SO MANY badasses. It would take forever to list them all. But today, I especially honor Glennon, who had a rough week and who keeps going…and for whom I will ride or die.

Now…over to you guys.

Who is your favorite badass today?

ONWARD,
LG

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

We are all connected.
And not just by the proximity and outreach that is available to us via our devices.

It goes way beyond that.

I believe that everything is alive and has a spirit.

There is another web active in our lives besides that World Wide one. It is a web of life, of energy that connects everything and everyone on this earth.

We are all interconnected and anything that suggests the belief that we are separate is an illusion.

Nature is the supreme example of this web of interconnection. The bees need the flowers. The flowers need the bees to bloom.

And I fucked up and cut down a tree in our front yard, apparently upsetting the delicate balance of nature throughout the world, or at least Los Angeles, California.

We are the custodians of a one hundred and fifty year old ash tree. And he is our giant, grounded guardian.

Of that I am sure.

I remember a psychic predicting that I would live in a tree house one day, (which at the time seemed absurd), but when I purchased this house a few years later my friends all remarked “I see you got a little house with your tree.”

It is massive, one of the largest trees in Studio City and we are so blessed to live under its majestic canopy, feeling its energy, enjoying its shade.

On the curb just adjacent to Ash (we’ll call him Ash) was a nondescript tree-thingy.
The arborist that came to the house ten years ago during our remodel educated us, telling us all about Ash, and when asked he informed me that the other tree wasn’t any species that he was familiar with.

“It’s just a weed that someone let grow into a tree a long time ago” he told us.

Just A Weed Tree was a lot of trouble.
His canopy was dense and…ugly, even after the annual hair cuts we gave him, not light and airy like Ash’s.
He cast too much shade for anything to flourish and the birds loved to congregate inside that dense, dark green foliage and shit all over our cars.

He had the bad attitude of an overgrown weed. He was pushy. And greedy, lifting the sidewalk, and getting into our pipes on a regular basis.

Just A Weed Tree always appeared to be crowding Ash, vying for light; and in the severe drought that we’ve found ourselves under, I feared he was chugalugging at the water table—and I knew Ash was too polite to say anything.

I LOVE trees, I do, ask anyone. I absolutely adore Ash, but I was not fond of JAWT.
He wasn’t a tree. He was a garden variety pest.

So this past Saturday our gardener cut him down. It took two guys and they were fast and thorough, even grinding the stump.

We both forgot that it was happening that day so when we got home the whole look and energy of the front yard had changed dramatically.

There was no sign that Just A Weed Tree had ever been there. But you could feel a HUGE void.
That weed had a presence.

FUCK.

We both stood at the curb, “Wow” was all we could say.

Now you could really see the front our house, there was the added sunlight in our yard that I had craved (for the plants) and with JAWT gone you could fully grasp the wonder of Ash.

“It looks like they trimmed the big tree too,” my husband remarked as I went around picking up leaves still on their branches.
It appeared as if they had been cleanly cut and they were EVERYWHERE.

Except they hadn’t been cut. They had been dropped.
I’d never seen anything like it. They covered the entire front yard, the driveway and even parts of the roof. In the fall Ash drops single, dead, brown leaves, never bright green leaves still on their small branches.
What was up?

My arms were full, carrying the leaves to piles I had made on the driveway
And it suddenly occurred to me: Ash was showing his shock and disapproval at the death of his friend Just A Weed Tree.

I walked over to him, closed my eyes and rested my hand on the rough bark of his truck—and I could feel his stress and despair.

Oh Fuck.

First of all, I had always felt Ash was a female. Wrong. He has a very pronounced masculine energy.
And he was pissed. And under extreme stress.
Apparently the high pitched whine of a chain-saw has the same visceral effect on trees as a dental drill has on humans (yeah, okay, got it) plus he had known JAWT for over sixty years, since he was just a tiny little weed that had somehow been spared. They were buddies.

I could feel his despair and it felt awful. I should have known better. Trees do have feelings and I had callously overlooked that fact.

We had basically murdered his friend right in front of him.

FUCK.

We are all interconnected, residents of this web of life and I needed Ash to know that I could feel his anguish, so I stood with both hands and my forehead on his trunk, apologizing and conveying our sincerest condolences for the loss of JAWT. I also explained the water situation and the fact that his health and stability were of the utmost importance to us. Then I played to his vanity telling him over and over how gorgeous (handsome) we think he is.
“You Mister, are the star of this neighborhood.” I think he was flattered.

Raphael watched from a distance, he could sense what was going on, and he added his sympathies from there. “I hope he’ll be okay,” he said with genuine concern, gazing at the piles of leaves.

“Now that he understands and knows how sorry we are—he’ll be fine.” I replied.

And he is. After our little talk he never dropped another leaf.

Carry on,
xox

This is from last summer but I like it — which is rare.
Happy Friday!
xox

At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are, and what you want
~ Lao Tzu

I can remember doing this exercise in one of Diana’s meditation workshops years ago after I had read about it in a book from my long distant past (please don’t ask me which one, that I can’t remember) I just remember being gobsmacked over the realization that the cells of my body may collectively know more than my brain, how I actually feel about things – so we tried it.

We being the women in the Wednesday group, and no men, you don’t need a uterus to try this exercise although it IS about observing the reaction your body has to certain words.

As a matter of fact one of my male friends says his butt puckers up.
Ha! I’ve got ya now…….keep reading, you’ll understand in a minute.

Words carry energy, on that we all agree, correcto?

Certain words can either feel expansive or contracting.

Expansive words/energy have to do with keeping your heart open, being receptive, being vulnerable.
Arms uncrossed, face and upper body open.

Contracting words/energy are all about fear, suppression, closing the gate, hoisting up the drawbridge and filling the moat with water – and a dragon.
Gathering in, armoring up and closing down.

Try this out, it’s visceral, the change may be subtle, but you will feel SOMETHING,
And that feeling is what you want to be on the lookout for.
Here goes. Say the word aloud:

Cancer
Money
Vacation
Commitment
Puppy
Deadline
Hospital
I Love you
Snake
Failure
Hate
I’m proud of you
Idiot

Did you feel it, that very subtle, or not so subtle opening and closing reaction as your body feeeeeeeels the energy of each word?

If you’re a doctor the word hospital probably won’t trigger you negatively, although, if someone says to you: They had to rush Timmy to the hospital!
I doubt you’ll feel nothing.

The same thing with money. It can have a very expansive feeling for some, and make others want to jump off a bridge.
That word has felt different ways to me at different times in my life, same word, just different energy.

Puppy is a mixed word for me nowadays also. 😉

Snakes? Snakes make me shiver. ‘Nuf said.

Remember: Language is a powerful thing, it can harm people as efficiently as a weapon, or raise someone’s soul to new heights, so be careful – really.

It can also give you the insight you need when your mind is chewing on a problem like a dog with a bone.

Say the word or words that coincide with what you’re thinking about out loud, and see how it feels in your body. Voila! There’s your answer.

I quit
I’m pregnant
Marry me
Let’s move
I’m leaving
I’m sorry

It’s a good one, I know!
Keep practicing and you’ll get better and better at figuring out how you REALLY feel about things.

If you feel inclined to comment, please do below. Remember the tribe learns a lot when you share from the heart.

Much love,
xox

I had coffee with a friend this week and she mentioned the blog, Hala! and God bless her.

She was particularly triggered by the post I wrote about paying people compliments, and the fact that we can be pretty stingy with our admiration.

“You know why I don’t get compliments?” she asked me, apparently not expecting an answer because she didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.

“Because I deflect them. I’m like a superhero with a shield. They make me so Goddamn uncomfortable that my face and chest get bright red, and I either start laughing or I tell the person to shut up.”

Did I hear that right? I’d seen her blush, maybe even giggle, but the shut up part…
She could tell by the expression on my face that her statement needed further explanation.

“I just did it the other day, the guy at the car wash complimented my choice of vehicle and I ran away. Like a nine-year old. But before I did, I told him to shut up. It was like a reflex, a hit and run, I just blurted it out…Shut Up!” she was clearly mortified, but on a roll.

“Hey, you have nice eyes. Shut up! Fuck you, Perv!” Now she was acting it out, with hand gestures and everything.

“Nice job on that report. Shut up! Asshole! Raise your bar! You need higher standards!

Oh My God whats wrong with me? It’s like I have Compliments Tourette’s.”

We were both laughing, yet at the same time I realized that what she does is more common than we’d all like to admit.

Why can’t we take a compliment gracefully? The key word here being: grace.

I used to be terrible at it too. I’d look at my feet and mumble a very insincere thank you, when all I wanted was for the perpetrator of the abomination to disappear. Insecurity I suppose. Feeling unworthy? You betcha.

Back in the day, people used to compliment me on my big, white teeth, (now thanks to Crest White Strips they are a dime dozen) and it made me cringe. I had done NOTHING whatsoever to earn those teeth. Okay, maybe worn braces and brushed, but honestly, they were just the luck of the draw. Like winning at Poker. So it never felt like it was right to say thank you.
Now I do. I jump at the chance. Sure, God and my parents gave me great teeth, but I’ve maintained them and appreciated them EVERYDAY. Plus after fifty you’re just so grateful when someone says anything without prefacing it with Ma’am.

These days I also chase that good feeling you get when you give a compliment.
Like an addict with a drug.
I give out compliments like Tic Tacs. Because people deserve them. AND it gets me high.
Just saying’.

“Oh but wait” she warned, holding her palm up to face me, “It gets worse. If you don’t hate me already, you will after this!”

“Well Okay – Don’t leave a sister hanging – spill it!” I was playing along with her game of ‘true confessions’.

“I don’t pay ANYONE a compliment, doesn’t matter what they did, even if I’m thinking it, I don’t say it because I want to save them the humiliation that I feel.
That’s fucked up…right?”

I wouldn’t dare judge her. That made perfect sense to me and it actually possessed more altruistic overtones than not wanting to make a fool of yourself, which was the most common reason I used to come up with for not complimenting the people who deserved them.

We had a laugh and a damn good cup of coffee. But it really got me to thinking…

What do you guys think about this?
Are you like my friend? Is it all just too humiliating for words?
Does that humiliation override how good it feels to give or get a compliment? Or have you become so grateful, like me, when someone throws one your way that you can’t say thank you fast enough?
Have you developed grace or are you still searching for it, like my friend? How did it happen for you?

I’m curious. Tell me in the comments.

xox

The Sound Of Silence
-By Simon and Garfunkel

“Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted
In my brain still remains
Within the sound of silence.”

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed Monday.

I went to sleep in lovely Los Angeles, California and woke up on the dark side of the moon.
It was desolate, deplete of oxygen, and I found myself suffocating in sadness.

I had nightmares all night long, you know the ones. You can’t for the life of you remember anything except how awful they left you feeling upon awakening.
A pit in your stomach, a heart full of dread and a bitter aftertaste as a parting gift.

The dogs are fine, our health is good, the weekend was unremarkable…

So what gives?
There was no apparent reason to feel such malaise, but I have the kind of mind that searches for a reason, so I spent an hour digging up the corpses of buried woes.
It’s the opposite of a gratitude list.
It reminded me of a mutant case of PMS on steroids.
I’m sure you can relate.

Starting with Woe Number 378:
Why can’t I lose that stubborn twenty pounds so that I can be the weight I was MY WHOLE LIFE – until I turned fifty? There is not a bag of potato chips big enough to sooth me. Could it be because I eat the same amount of food that my 6’4″ – 250 pound husband does. Sometimes more? Nah. I didn’t think so.

Number 217
God dammit, some days I’m so God damn old.
I wrote the previous post about it. Hey, maybe that’s what sent me off the deep end.

BTW – I couldn’t write on Monday – just wasn’t feelin’ it. I couldn’t have found an inspirational thing to say to you if you’d have paid me a million dollars. Seriously.
Not sure today is any better, but misery loves company, so I thought I’d share.

I function at a pretty high happiness level, so this felt like shit and I was desperate to feel better.

Sat down to meditate…it felt like the express elevator into the abyss, so I took a pass.

I took off on my power walk like I always do in the mornings. It helps balance me.
That’s when I listen to all the inspirational talks I have on my phone. It sets the mood for the day, and usually when I get back – I’m pumped! AND I’ve accomplished the 10,000 steps needed to keep a flat “writer’s ass” at bay.

Every step from that point on is gravy. Even the ones to the fridge. It’s the law.

But Monday I was so low that the walk only got me to a place where I could suppress the ugly cry.
Tears were right at the surface.
Big ones. Unspecific but insistent, with sobbing and snot and oy, oy, oy-ing.

Number 442
The boxer-shark-puppy has dug up half the back lawn and it is a continuous mud pit. The dried mud is everywhere, paw prints, nose prints, butt prints, you name it; to the point where I’ve stopped sweeping or washing or hosing the outside living area. We all just sit in the filth.
She has also become extremely destructive, eating our plantation shutters, chairs, and a carefully curated list of items she knows I really love.

When I returned from my calming, centering, inspirational walk, the puppy had breached the defensive fort my husband had built to keep her away from the shutters, finding an opening and then dropping in from above, like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.
The old dog just watched while she gnawed a shutter-slat into a toothpick.

So I had to beat my dog. Number 12.
There came the tears. I hate training and punishment. I cried my head off – she filed her nails and popped her gum like the brat she is. (Relax – it’s one of those flimsy little coupon flyers wrapped in a plastic bag, so it sounds worse that it feels – followed by a time-out in a small bathroom.)

At noon I recovered enough to go help a friend brainstorm some work stuff, which focused my mind and actually felt really good. As I walked up the driveway upon my return, a light rain was falling. I was at once reminded of the puppy destruction displayed in the side window, the fact that our gutters are filled with leaves and our trim needs paint along with the pit of impending mud in the back.

That acted like a one way ticket straight back to hell.

Which led to the “Come to Jesus” talk last night.

Not the puppy and I – me and my husband.
I think he was a little scared of me in my melancholy state. Probably because I started with the declarative statement: “I know I’m a piece of work right now, and you love me but you’re probably not in love with me – anyway…”
Looking at me like you do a wild beast that’s about to rip you to shreds, he backed away, shaking his head, and silently (that silent part is SO smart) got the crate back down from the attic so that the puppy will live to see another day, and we can salvage some window coverings and continue to sit on chairs with legs.

Then I watched “When Harry Met Sally” to remember how to smile, and went to bed.

Some days are beyond salvaging.

All this to say: Holy Shit! I have horrible days. I do!

Dark side of the moon, sounds of silence, I can’t meditate, so don’t ask me to, beat the dog, see every flaw, cry baby, demon possessed, post menopause PMS, wild beast, unreasonable, pick a fight, non-salvageable days.

Here’s praying today’s a better day.

Dear God (or Source or Whomever),
Every day is a gift.
Filled with potential.
Please don’t let me spend another day in hell.
I won’t call the day wasted, even though it sure felt like it.
I’ll just consider it part of the ebb and flow of life.
It will make me appreciate the good days that much more.

…Oh, that’s sneaky God. That thing you do.

Water never tastes as good as when you’re really thirsty.
Food never tastes better than when you’re famished.
It never feels as good to sleep as when you’re exhausted.

Okay.
I get it.
Wise guy.

Xox

Hi Loves,
Holy Moly…
Transformation is messy, and difficult and at times infuriating! Don’t loose hope. Don’t throw in the towel at the 11th hour.

Remember, before the caterpillar’s transformation into the beautiful butterfly is complete – it is literally soup.

Don’t open the chrysalis before you’re cooked.
Don’t take score too soon.

We are ALL in the process of transformation, the journey from one point to the next spanning our entire lives. You WILL get to your destination – you WILL metamorphose, of that I am sure.

The grander, more ambitious and fantastical the transformation – the more hellacious it seems during the process.

Don’t listen to the soup. The soup is well…soup. It’s uncomfortable and ugly and incomplete. The soup does’t know shit and it doesn’t give good advice.

Soon you’ll take flight,
Love you!
xox

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

I’ve always been fascinated with death and what happens on the other side AFTER we die.

Religions teach pearly gates, heaven and hell sorts of scenarios.

Some schools of thought say there’s a celebration, the likes of which we’ve never seen.

Others teach that the birth process is actually harder on our souls, since death is re-emerging back into the energy from whence we came.

Even the people who have experienced an NDE (Near Death Experience) are only allowed to go so far – turned around at a certain point, and sent back.

It seems no one with an All Access Pass has ever been inclined to leave the party and report back to us poor slobs, just exactly what’s going on over there.

That has always intrigued me.

I really liked one school of thought I heard many years ago, about a kind of life review process. No heaven or hell; just a movie.

Now if you’re my husband you’re thinking: Well, that sounds like hell, how long is it? Is there popcorn? Are there previews? Where’s my seat exactly?
Settle down big guy. (He’s actually had an NDE so he has NO fear of death whatsoever, as long as there’s no loooong, drawn out movie to sit through).

This is how it was explained to me: Just after you die, you watch a review, in the form of a movie of sorts.

It races past you, as an IMAX type of experience – and it is the Movie Of Your Life.

There is no soundtrack, actually there is no sound at all – there is only emotion.

You see, you get to feel the emotions you evoked in everyone around you. In every second of your life.

Wha-What!? Well, that’s just…horrifying!

Can you imagine? All the times you made someone sad, hurt their feelings, infuriated them, even made them cry?

We cause others pain during our lives, but I’m willing to bet that a good portion of it is unintentional.
The rude remark, the overheard gossip, the accidentally-on-purpose forgotten Valentine’s Day.

I was assured that we will all be surprised and shocked by the emotions we’ve unknowingly caused in those around us.

The cure for that is waking up. Be conscious of the “wake” you leave behind you.

Are you jackass? Cut it out – or be prepared to be appalled, your movie’s gonna suck.

I for one, intend to do better.

But the reason this whole concept is fresh in my mind these days, is because I was recently reminded that it does work the other way.
We can also cause someone JOY unintentionally.
Yes, we do that too!

Every now and again, someone will relay a story that will swell my heart with this unintentional joy; and I don’t have to wait to die and watch the movie!

Remember those Agapanthus stalks from my garden that I dry and put outside in a bucket marked “Free Magic Wands” during the summer?

If you’re new to the blog, I wrote about it here: http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2014/08/spread-your-magic-however-you-can-with-audio/

The other day one of the neighborhood dads stopped and asked me if I had any more of my “magic wands”. (I don’t, summer is over. I hand the magic over to Santa for the winter).

He went on to explain that his six-year-old son had tied one onto the handlebars of his bike, and had ridden around with it for months.
“It just disintegrated last week, which is why I’m asking.” he said.
“My son loved that thing; he told all his friends he was like Harry Potter, that he had a magic wand” the dad went on to tell me. “He sent all his friends here to get one.” (That explains why I kept running out!)

I just stood there, listening, picturing the wand working it’s magic in that boy’s life. Holy Cow. It felt AMAZING.

Go Figure. I had gone the whole summer clueless, basically doing it for my own amusement.

That’s just a little thing, but it really made someone happy – behind the scenes. We ALL have those, of that I’m certain.

Think about it. I wonder what YOU’VE done lately that unintentionally touched someone’s heart? A hand written thank you note? A spontaneous love text?

I saw a hipster dude stop and put down his coffee to help an elderly gentleman down some steps yesterday. It almost made me cry.

You may never know…until the movie!

I’m wagering that the ratio for most of us, good to bad, joy to sadness – is ten to one. I’m just that much of a Pollyanna.

NOTE TO SELF: Send a mental note to the cosmic editor of MY movie, that he can go ahead and cut that scene – I already felt it!

Have you ever entered a room only to be overcome by its personality?

You know – you’re living your life, having a pretty good day; your coffee is hot, the traffic was cooperative, and as you enter your work environment for the morning meeting… SHAZAM!
You’re hit head on by the personality of a crisis.
A late delivery, a screw up, all the computers are down; in other words, some kind of seemingly unfixable, colossal, earth shattering, crisis.
If a room could manage it, it would be running around in circles, with its hair on fire, shrieking – because that’s exactly what it feels like when you walk in.

So then what happens to you? 
Right!?
I know – me too.

It’s happened to me more times than I can count (when it goes beyond fingers and toes, I just stop).

Yep, that’s right, doesn’t matter how high you’re flying, that room and its personality facilitate an energetic face-plant, and before you know it you’re shrieking, running in circles and pulling out your own flaming hair.

If you have the presence of mind, the minute you open the door and feel the yuck, turn around and make a clean getaway, before any of it gets on you.

Call from the corner and tell them you can’t come in – save yourself.

Or if you’re Yoda, Buddha, or Gandhi, you can stand in the middle of the turmoil, keep a cool head and attempt to stop the madness by your example.
Then get the hell out of there before they all start throwing things at you – like scissors and inkjet printers.

It is the rare individual who is immune to the personality of a room.

I can be in a great mood and if my husband comes home and he’s grumpy, surly and out-of-sorts, it changes the personality of the entire HOUSE...and down the rabbit hole I go.

But you know what? There is a silver lining. The opposite is true as well.

I’ve been foul. All dark and twisty; and walked into a room or a store where good music is playing (Christmas carols do it every time) and people are laughing and joking around and before I can say “Hey! I’m trying to be in a bad mood here!” It all gets turned around. The personality of the room sweeps me up in its arms and tickles me (that rascal) and I find myself smiling.

I don’t care what religion you believe in, try to watch the above video and not be moved.
Can you imagine? Racing to the mall, battling the crowds, and then being met by the personality of THIS room?

What an amazing surprise! Just TRY to stay Grinchy.

Plus if you know me, you know I love a good flashmob, choirs, Christmas, and shopping.

This is the feel good mothership – for me.

Xox