forgiveness

The Learning Curve

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You’re my job;
You’re my beloved;
my boss;
my family;
A friend.
Or any recurring fucked up situation.

You hurt me, I hurt you back.
You know, like tit for tat and all that.
Into perpetuity.

You hurt me I walk away. Immediately.
No harm, no foul. You’re an idiot and I’m not going to stick around for a second helping.

See that thing on my shoulder? HUGE chip.
Note to self: Look into “Chip Removal”.

You hurt me, I thank you…and kiss you on the mouth.
Well, that’s figuratively speaking…and not right away.
If I got that close to you, I’d probably bite your lip—hard. I’d want to draw blood.

Back to the drawing board. Back to number one.

No, I’d thank you, but from a safe distance.
Why would I do something so asinine?

Because you showed me who you are.
You saved me from one more minute of anguish.
You stopped lying and pretending and shined the bright light of truth.
Everything became crystal clear.
And it hurt.
Like a fucking knife in the gut, it hurt.

Finally.
Clarity.
It’s not you.
Got it.
Moving on.

Thank you.

Carry on,
Xox

Temporary Insanity

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“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

~Albert Einstein

When the past tries to repeat itself what do you do?

I hide in the closet behind all the clothes, facing the wall…

But seriously. When you see yourself; on your ass; sliding down that same old slippery slope—what’s your strategy?

I take out my contacts and pretend I can’t see the colossal shitstorm bearing down on me…
Like the ostrich and the toddler playing peek-a-boo, if I can’t see it—it didn’t happen.

Bad decisions. Lousy choices.

In men, jobs, tankini bathing suits, and those nachos drenched in the horrific orange plastic cheese at the movies.
Why do I always think “this time it’ll be different?”

Humanity at large; and women in general, possess the “benefit of the doubt” chip.

As a card carrying member of both of those groups you can rest assured that many, many, questionable, less than desirable people and situations have benefited from my doubts.

That is until a friend along the way reminded me of the quote above by Albert Einstein.

It was the polite way for her to deal me the insanity card.

For a few years my entire deck was filled with insanity and jokers. I gave everyone another chance
.
“That’s okay.” I’d reply out loud.
“Hurt me again” my heart echoed silently.

Until I had had enough.

He cheated and cried. Big alligator tears of remorse. Then he did it again.

Apparently he had a complete lack of impulse control. When his dick saw a pretty girl it chased her down and dragged him along with it. So sad really. Such a sacrifice.

“It’s just sex, it’s not love!” he pleaded.

Was that supposed to make me feel better?

I was all doubted out. I gave no more benefits.
Even though he had begged, once again, for my forgiveness, I packed all of his shit into my car; drove it an hour to his apartment; and because I could hear him just having loveless sex from the street— I left everything on the sidewalk under his window.

And that my friends was the road back to sanity.

Teeny tiny postscript…

I had a temporary lapse about six months later. Hey, it happens!

Our chemistry was still intact, hotter than hot; I needed to get laid, and there may have been some Margaritas involved.

He swore he had never stopped loving me.
“What about the others?” I inquired. He knew what I wanted to hear, so he obliged. “Baaaabeeee” he cooed, kissing my neck, “I haven’t been with anyone in months, I’m concentrating on work.”

The lie caused his pants to go up in flames, but I never even noticed.

He had broken that unwritten rule, you know the one—he had stopped playing fair. Everyone knows neck kissing is the Universal signal for: You are one minute away from insanity… And away I went…

“Oh My God! He did it to me AGAIN!”
My screams reverberated throughout the entire house. “I truely AM insane!”

After I finally composed myself it was time to come clean (pun intended).

“We have crabs” I shamefully informed my roommates as I burned the bath towels, stripped all the beds and threw away my favorite pair of jeans.

Several days, many hours of creepy itchiness, and three bottles of anti-lice medicine later I had learned my lesson for good.

The Universe will up its game if you don’t get the message the first thirty-five times.

“The guys a louse” it said, biting its tongue, trying its best not to say: I told you so.

Point taken.

You can close your mouths now and Carry on,
xox

It Interrupted A Fight, And Then It Saved My Marriage.

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So I’ve been thinking…
Have I ever been brave enough to sidestep​ an emotional tsunami filled with mean-spirited accusations and diminishing love that was headed straight for my marriage?

The answer, after searching the archives of my menopausal mind, turning over every rock and remembering the times when the shit hit the fan was …once.

It was one night, inside one fight, but sometimes that’s all it takes to turn a situation on its head and start over. 

I remember it clear as day because my husband and I don’t really argue that much. We bicker and disagree, but rarely does it escalate into a full-blown fight.

This day was different, and the reason behind it was palpable – FEAR.

My store, the business that held all of our proverbial eggs in its basket, had flooded and closed. Insurance was in full jackassery mode, and the situation appeared bleak. Bleak is an understatement; it was a clusterfuck on steroids.

He had been letting me handle most of the fallout while keeping a watchful distance. I was grateful and full of resentment all at the same time.
This was th hardest time of my life. Weren’t we a team?

Our we project in good times had become a me situation now that it was damaged beyond repair.

But to be fair, I hadn’t included him in much of the business set-up. He didn’t know the in’s and out’s of my insurance​ policy, and besides, I had managed to establish an uneasy alliance with all the players so they only wanted to deal with ME. He felt it best to keep his distance and watch it play out.

One evening, after peppering me with questions, those inquiries quickly turned to accusations. I, of course, became defensive. “Oh nice of you to finally join the circus, welcome to MY world!”  I sneered sarcastically. As he realized the gravity of the situation, things escalated. Name-calling ensued; lots of fuck you’s were thrown around — it turned ugly.

“How could you let this happen?” he yelled at me ​as if I could have somehow prevented an act of God. “You said you could make this business work, you sold me a bill of goods, what the fuck happens now?”

How did I know? I was just as overwhelmed as he was except this had been my dream, a dream that was now covered with a stench I couldn’t escape — failure.

Here was my partner, my best friend; how had he become so insensitive? Couldn’t he see I was suffering, treading water just to keep from drowning in despair?

“I won’t cry, I won’t let myself cry” was my mantra, knowing that when I get that angry I can’t contain the tears.

I reverted back to a default setting from my childhood; Stoic Sadness – I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking down. I would not let him know how much this hurt.

The fight was gaining momentum, words were on the tips of our tongues that could never be taken back, hurts leveled that would cut too deep to heal — it needed to be stopped.

I took a good look at him with eyes so clouded with rage it made me nauseous. And that’s when it hit me – I was hit by a thunderbolt of…Compassion.
It forced me to look again, and this time I could really see him. He was scared, just as scared as I was, maybe even more so. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were lost, lawsuits were pending, and his wife was a hot mess.

Something made me get up and walk over to him sitting in his chair. I had no idea what the next moment would bring. I didn’t have a plan. I was “winging it”.

My posture was such that it made him recoil. I remember thinking: that’s funny, he thinks I’m gonna punch him in the face, and let me tell you, his fears were not unfounded. There was a fist and a knock-out punch with his name on it—if I were the face punching type.

Instead, I put out my hand. It was a gesture that only confused matters.

He looked down at it and then up into my eyes.
Did I see…contempt?
I stood fast, my hand extended—this was a matter of life and death — our marriage was on the ropes.

“What?” he looked at my hand and shrugged like a punk.

“Come on, let’s go”, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I probably stood there for a good two and a half minutes, hand extended, while he considered the offer.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?” he asked.

“Just come with me.” I exhaled impatiently. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Slowly he rose out of his chair, shoulders sagging, eyes to the floor. His six-foot-three​ frame folded in on itself.

I took his hand, guiding him through the living room and down the hall. “What are you doing?” he sounded like a confused little boy. He wasn’t mad anymore, just worn down, vulnerable.

We kept moving forward.

I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. All I knew is that I was headed for our bed.

I laid down crossways on top of the bedspread, never letting go of his hand. His face read: If you think I’m going to have sex with you, you’re nuts, but that wasn’t my intention, we needed something more than sex could provide.

The bed became a life raft on which to ride out the tsunami.

Begrudgingly, he lay down beside me as I positioned our bodies face to face. When I moved in closer, he moved away. So much for being best friends, we had turned into adversaries​, total strangers whose faces were now inches apart.

Looking at him in that moment, he was not the grown man who had been raging at me just minutes before – I saw a very scared nine-year-old​ boy – and that started to soften my heart.

“We need to remember what we love about each other”, I whispered softly, as I stared into his eyes, digging deep to think of something to say.

I feared he would get up at any moment and bolt for the door, but he just lay there, emotionally exhausted.

Tentatively, haltingly, I began.

“I love your eyes.” he closed them briefly, a long blink.
“I love the way you smell.” I started with the easy stuff.
“I love what a good doggie daddy you are.”

Did he crack a smile? If he had it was gone in a flash.

He wasn’t making it easy, but I continued undaunted for another few minutes until momentum began to build.

“I love your funny French accent.” I was on a roll. “I love how you mix your metaphors ​and invent names for things…like Ricky Ricardo does…”

He interrupted, “I love how that makes you laugh — every time.”

Now we were both laughing. Then he pulled me close, burying my face in his chest — and our laughter turned to sobs.

“I love what a big crybaby you are”, I mumbled into my best friend’s chest after a couple of minutes.

That made us both giggle uncontrollably, like teenagers, and suddenly I felt safe again. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief knowing that in that moment, we were a team again, we had found our momentarily misplaced love, and by the Grace of God – compassion had saved my marriage.

Carry On,
xox

*Holy Crap you guys,
This was a hard one to write and re-live. SUCH a painful time for us. My hope is that maybe you’ll think of this during the next big fight, and take a second look at the person and the situation. Compassion is an equal-opportunity-saver of anything for those who are willing to be happy—instead of right.

I know you guys have turned some horrible situations around by the Grace of God –– Care to share?

At The Precipice Of Compassion

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*Below is a post by Dr.Lissa Rankin,(I follow her on Facebook).
She is an MD who over the past few years has fully realized the body/mind connection. Last year she became “one of us” in the fact that she had a mystical spiritual experience, and is now in hot pursuit of the how’s and why’s by traveling the world talking and studying with shamans, healers, and the like. She is thoughtful, and wise and full of curiosity, and i really admire her.
When I read this I could think of about fifty gazillion of us that needed to hear it.
xoxJ

Take it away Lissa!

“Think of someone that’s making you crazy.
Now close your eyes and really feel how it feels to experience your emotions around this person. Let yourself really go there. Feel it in your body. Then open your eyes again and shake it off.

Now try something different if you dare.
Think of that same person, but don’t give yourself even an ounce of permission to think of yourself as a victim of this person’s actions or behavior. What if everything that’s happening in your dynamic with this person is perfectly orchestrated by the souls of both of you to help you grow? What if you have, at least on some soul level, invited this person into your life as a teacher? What are you learning from this person- patience, resilience, forgiveness, acceptance, the ability to love without conditions or attachment?

Now close your eyes again and think of this person, but this time release all your judgment and righteousness and call upon every lick of your empathy and compassion.
Can you see how maybe if you were in this person’s shoes, you might behave the same way? Can you try to understand why he or she is how he or she is? Can you feel the opening in your heart as you soften? Touch your heart with your hand. Can you feel it, the love inside, the Divinity within you that is not separate from the Divinity within this other person? Can you open your heart even more and find gratitude for this person, for all you’re learning from him or her, for the blessing it is to have this person in your life?

From that heart space of love, compassion, peace, acceptance, and gratitude, do you notice a difference in how you feel in your body? Do you notice any call for inspired action arising?”

Lissa Rankin

The Christmas Avatar

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*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Last Christmas, but it’s timeless for the reason that he never ceases to amaze me with his decency.
Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and a prosperous New Years!
xoxJanet

 

Avatar

av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is an understatement!
Since he’s French, there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked uber normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
I was devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and the sex.

Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out on one of our early dates,
after a glass of wine, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way, so I should have seen this coming.

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in beings of higher wisdom. So I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to completely ignore me, and practically fall all over themselves, calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What!? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Nope.
More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly.
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.

It just happened for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.

He told me the story that night, on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th to start his shopping.

So…he’s navigating an overcrowded parking lot, and he’s hungry.
You get the picture.

He finally sees a car ready to pull out of its space, so he positions himself, left blinker on, and waits…and waits…while the person sloooooowy backs out. Meanwhile, on the other side of them is a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband sees what’s up and aggressively blocks the spot with his black Porsche and then pulls in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t)!

As the pickup truck drives off, he makes eye contact and flips my husband the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But it’s Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

He walks in to get a quick burger, and realizes while he’s eating,
that middle finger, pickup truck guy is eating with some friends a few tables over.

So, he gets out a pen and writes a note on a napkin.
He then attaches $20 and hands it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and leaves.

The notes says:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

As he glanced back, while walking away, he sees the guy showing the note to his buddies and looking around the cafe.

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
It is an honor to be his consort.

Xox

Hard Feelings With A Side Of Blame – An American Thanksgiving

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Hi Loves,
A few of you asked me to re-post the Thanksgiving essay from last year. I hope it helps ya’ll to keep it together!

I also wanted to add how extremely thankful I am for all of YOU and your big, open, hearts.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends!
xoxJ

Thanksgiving in the U.S. can be brutal because of all the Norman Rockwellian expectations. Unfortunately, what we imagine as warm and fuzzy, can quickly turn cold and prickly.

Even though everyone at the table is somehow related, dinner etiquette can morph
into a kind of blood sport. Back handed compliments and thinly veiled sarcasm abound, and it’s just not Thanksgiving unless someone ends up in tears.

Add a tons of carbohydrates, lots of judgement, a dash of shame, with a pumpkin pie chaser and voila – Hilarity ensues!
NOT.

When you put together people that only find themselves sitting in the same room once a year, there isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to keep you in “that loving place”.

It can turn into a real numb-fest.
The carbs numb you down,
The booze,
The sugar,
The football,
The sour cream onion dip,
Yes, you heard me. It all numbs you down, so you can smile and remain polite, making sure that everyone lives to see another holiday.

But let’s all try to remember, shall we, that everyone has the highest of intentions when they pull up the driveway.
And each year can be a fresh start.

When you make forgiveness the first course, it helps you remember that everyone is just doing the best they can and it makes the rest of the day play out differently.

My family is loving, relatively sane, and really quite civil – now.
I think that’s because we’re all so damn old.

The last time we served crazy for Thanksgiving was during the Reagan
Administration.

Gone are the comments lobbed across the table by uncle Bob, that are meant to be funny – but aren’t – followed by that uncomfortable silence.

So…let’s all practice forgiveness, humor, acceptance and gratitude; choosing to operate from the heart, remembering the true intention of this day.

Take a deep breath, put on your best holiday smile, and listen with love, as your well intentioned aunt gives you her unsolicited opinion on how much she dislikes your new haircut.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Xox

Liz Gilbert – Ultimate Forgiveness

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I talk an awful lot about forgiveness on this blog – please forgive me. (wink)
I do that because I love you, and I want you to be free of the toxicity of hate, hurt, anger and grudge holding.

Read on. Liz wrote an amazing essay about the ultimate in forgiveness.
It’s a good one, it’s gonna make you cry.
-you’re welcome.

XoxJ

Take it away Liz-

ULTIMATE FORGIVENESS

Dear Ones –

This weekend’s Oprah’s The Life You Want Tour in Houston was incredible. THANK YOU to all who were there, for your energy, your passion, your open hearts.

As usual, I was in the front seat during the all the talks and workshops, leaning in hard to catch all the wisdom I could.

And as usual, it was Iyanla Vanzant who got to me — as in: She made me weep.

This is a photo of me clutching a scarp of paper upon which I wrote something she said — something that, if I can put it into practice, could truly change my life.

Yesterday, Iyanla was telling the story about how her husband of 40 years recently left her for another woman — for a friend of hers actually. She was talking about the anger, the indignation, the grief, the shame, the humiliation of this event. All completely understandable, of course, for such a large-scale betrayal.

Then she spoke in detail about all the steps she took to try to work her way out of her anger and back into grace — because she knew that if she held onto her rage forever it would only burn a hole of bitterness through her soul.

In the end — after all the crying and fighting and suffering, and after working hard to arrive at some model of forgiveness for both her ex-husband and the other woman — she had a revelation of love. She decided to love them. She decided to actually BE IN LOVE WITH THEM. Not just to forgive them, but to LOVE THEM — for their humanity, for their weakness, for their own strange grace, for their intimate role in her destiny.

She said that at first she thought she was going crazy, with this idea of loving them. (“Are you out of your mind, Iyanla? You’re in love with the woman who took your husband?”) But she knew in her heart that love was the only way out of this emotional hell for herself. Huge, holy, magnificent love, And then she said this, about her husband and the other woman, which I wrote down (through tear-filled eyes) on this scrap of paper:

My love of you — it’s got nothing to do with you. I’m trying to save myself. So I love them. I get to choose my relationship with them. Doesn’t mean I will invite them for Thanksgiving. But I can love them from my altar and from my prayer table IF IT MEANS MY FREEDOM.”

I wept when I heard this.

Your forgiveness of people who have harmed you has nothing to do with THEM.

Your forgiveness is about YOU trying to achieve liberty from the prison of your own suffering, your own anger, you own grief, your own darkness, your own obsessive thoughts, your own indignation.

Love is the only way out of that prison. Radical, outrageous, nearly impossible, superhuman LOVE.

Please understand that — even as I write these words — I do not entirely understand how to get there.

But I really want to get there.

Because I want and need this kind of love and forgiveness in my life so desperately, I can’t even tell you.

And I believe in it, even if I don’t always know how to do it.

I’m gong to cling to this scrap of paper for a long, long time.

(Actually, I’m going to more than cling to a scrap of paper. I should tell you that I just signed up already for an e-course that Iyanla Vanzant is teaching on forgiveness. Because I really need that shit — and there’s something about the way this woman speaks and teaches that goes right through the spine of me and really works for me. I don’t even know what an e-course is, actually, but I signed up for it, anyhow. Because all I know is that her e-course is called HOW TO FORGIVE EVERYONE FOR EVERYTHING, and that’s exactly what I need to learn how to do in this lifetime. What we all need, maybe. Here’s a link to the course, if anyone wants to do it with me: http://bit.ly/1wdp8mf)

I just want to be free.

If anyone out there has had this experience — working through your anger and into forgiveness…and then even further into LOVE — please share it here. I want to learn all I can about it.

ONWARD EVER…INTO GREATER AND GREATER LOVE,
LG

A Rainy Day, Lost Luggage, and Christmas Lights

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I love these as a litmus test.
We should be able to stand behind one of those one-way mirrors that they have in police stations and episodes of Law and Order, and put that “special someone who we’re thinking of committing to, through these circumstances.

They don’t have to pass all three – how about two out of three? I’m not a total ass.

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I’ve seen men walk with a CLOSED umbrella over their heads. Like its emasculating to try to stay dry. “Real men get wet.” Sorry guys, that’s a fail.
Kinda like not turning on the windshield wipers until you can barely see – so as not to scratch the glass. (One guy’s excuse, as we narrowly missed hitting a pedestrian) Fail.

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I once traveled overseas with a guy who had purchased brand new expensive Hartmann luggage.
The whole matching set. They were so new and beautiful they screamed STEAL ME.
Alas, the garment bag didn’t show up for 24 hours.
He didn’t need ANYTHING in that bag that day; it was 2am when we landed. He had his toiletries and two other suitcases of stuff, yet he pitched a fit that came close to starting an International incident, in a room that had one naked little lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and a clerk who I’m positive spoke not one word of English. He just kept nodding, handing us coffee, and paperwork to fill out. Mountains and mountains of paperwork.

Well played airport luggage guy. I didn’t sleep for two days from all the strong coffee, but I found out who I was dealing with the minute I landed on foreign soil.
Fail.

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Now, I can snark away at the previous failures because it is I who fail the tangled Christmas light test. EVERY FRICKIN’ YEAR.

I will swear under oath, on my mother’s life, that I put them away neatly wrapped into a tight circle with the ends plugged into each other, yet, when I take them down from the attic every year, they look as if they have been stolen by honey badgers to make a nest, or used to light the Eiffel Tower or to start a yarn ball; and then thrown back in the box as the biggest, tangled mess that ever existed.
Lights are missing; some are broken.
How is that even possible? They obviously live a life from January to December; that I know nothing about.

AND they NEVER light the second year. What’s up with that?

The box guarantees: will light up even if lights are missing.
It’s a mortal sin to lie at Christmas – Christmas Light Company. Don’t BS a Catholic.

Impossibly tangled with only half the strand lit up. I can feel my blood pressure spike.

Now it’s a thing. They do it to mock me.

But I’ve created my own solution:
I have two imaginary twin sons that help me decorate for Christmas, since my husband is related to the Grinch and stays as far way as possible on tree trimming day.
Timmy and Tommy.
They are gay and they are fabulous. They wear Christmas sweater vests and make Martha Stewart look like a hack.
We make cider and put on the carols and then I make them take the lights out of the box. I see them trying to hide the tangled mess from me, behind their backs. I’ve kicked my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy – out of frustration.
Two hours to untangle the fucking lights and then they don’t light? Do you blame me?

So the past few years I’ve just gotten drunk on egg nog or spiked cider, sung my Karen Carpenter carols and let my imaginary boys do it all for me.

So now you know. I have a wicked temper, a vivid imagination and I need to get a life.

Hey, I said two out of three, remember?
Maybe my husband isn’t the Grinch. Maybe he’s just smart.

What are your two out of three?

xox

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Let’s All Create Diamonds Instead

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You must never allow something that happened to you to become a morbidly treasured heirloom that you carry, show people, put back in its black velvet pouch and then tuck back into your jacket where you can keep it close to your heart.”
~Augusten Burroughs

Same topic. Wounded-ness. Forgiveness. Healing.
Seems to be in the air these days.
Everyone’s got an axe to grind.

What if one day you took that pouch out of your jacket pocket and diamonds spilled out instead?

How could you tell your sad little story when all you held in your hands were…diamonds? Not your morbid heirlooms, just beautiful crystals forged under pressure from the blackest of coal.

What if your heart had transmuted your sad stories into diamonds through the alchemy of forgiveness?

What if we all refused to enable each other’s wounds?
Because we were so dazzled by the diamonds we found there, in our pockets. We could finally see our stories transformed into the gems they really are.

THAT is the power of forgiveness my loves.
Let’s all make diamonds…

Xox

What are you going to take out of the black velvet pouch and turn into a diamond today? Tell me about it?

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Case Dismissed

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The marvelous Elizabeth Gilbert is on tour around the country with Oprah and assorted other speakers, all with a spiritual bend, and yesterday she listened to Mark Nepo who I’ve quoted a ALOT on this blog.
His answer to a question was profound and transformative.
To me it was another forehead smacker (if you know what I mean).
Here it is, according to Liz, in case you missed it. SO GOOD.

The question was about how to make peace with your own past. How to forgive, how to move on.

Mark began his answer by speaking candidly about his painful relationship with his parents, particularly with his father. There was so much suffering, so much anger. After his father died, he still held on for years to that outrage, that pain. By doing so, he kept those old wounds open.

He said, “Then I realized something. I was keeping my old wounds fresh and open, as evidence for a trial that would never come.”

He further explained: “It was as if I was waiting for some big Law & Order episode to happen in my life someday, where I would be able to finally lay out my case against my father to a judge and jury. So I didn’t want to let the old wounds heal, because — if they did — then I wouldn’t have fresh evidence, and nobody would believe how much I had suffered. But then I finally realized — that day of trial, that day in court? It will never come. There is no such thing in life as that courtroom. Which meant that I was keeping my old wounds open for no good reason at all, when all those wounds really wanted was to be allowed to heal.”

With that understanding, the healing began at last.

That’s genius!

I can’t tell you how many imaginary depositions I’ve compiled to prove the abandonment, injustice, rudeness, selfishness and hurt, visited on me by someone in my life.
Evidence for a trial that would never happen. A verdict never rendered. Shit.
And it never even occurred to me until I read this, that that’s what I was doing.

Haven’t you?

What a colossal waste of time. And energy.

Maybe even years wasted.

Hey, we’ve gotta let this shit GO. Agreed?

Case dismissed, not on account of the lack of evidence (oh, there’s plenty) but on lack of interest.

Let the healing begin…Amen!

xox

Are you ready to put down the gavel and dismiss the accused? Are you ready to heal?
Tell me why.

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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