freedom

Hello everybody,
This was posted by my dear friend Leslie, on her Facebook page.
Everyone has a dear friend Leslie; someone you haven’t seen in years but manage to feel connected to through the miracle of social media. I met her over a decade ago, and even in those first few moments, as she helped me pick out only the coolest coffee table books to sell in my store—I knew we’d be friends for life.

I’d like to think we have the same taste. We don’t. She’s wayyyy hipper than I could ever dream of being, but that’s beside the point. One day, she told me that I had to have an exhibition of her husband’s art in my store, I did, and it kind of ended up defining the place.
So, now I cyber-stalk her on Instagram.  
When I see her post a particular swatch of fabric she loves, or a throw pillow, charcoal sketch, headboard, or couch she’s just purchased—I think to myself, Yes! Well done Leslie, I love that too!

When I grow up I want to be more like Leslie.
More diverse in my musical tastes (although I’m pretty sure we love all the same artists), more committed to finding small batch, off-the beaten-path, artsy-fartsy-folksy things to prop on a shelf in that very purposely, not-on-purpose way she has. Maybe I’ll even spring for a used-brick, New York lofty, so-good-it-makes-you-want-to-die, office getaway just blocks from Venice beach—only to be near hers.

Leslie is an adult. She’s good at it! But only in the best sense of the word—not in that stilted, 401K watching, void of any fun, kind of way. She’s a mother, a reader, a life-reinventor, a deep thinker, and an even deeper feeler (is that even a thing?). Leslie will know.
And besides all of that, we share the same sense of humor—self-deprecating and a little twisted, which often makes me snort-laugh coffee from my nose.

Anyway, Leslie posted this beautiful piece by Rania Niam the other day and of course, it touched my heart, I LOVED it, and wish I’d written it.  I think you’ll love it too, and Leslie. But you can’t have her. She’s mine. 

Carry on,
xox

You’re allowed to leave any story you don’t find yourself in. You’re allowed to leave any story you don’t love yourself in.

You’re allowed to leave a city that has dimmed your light instead of making you shine brighter, you’re allowed to pack all your bags and start over somewhere else and you’re allowed to redefine the meaning of your life.

You’re allowed to quit the job you hate even if the world tells you not to and you’re allowed to search for something that makes you look forward to tomorrow and to the rest of your life.

You’re allowed to leave someone you love if they’re treating you poorly, you’re allowed to put yourself first if you’re settling and you’re allowed to walk away when you’ve tried over and over again but nothing has changed.

You’re allowed to let toxic friends go, you’re allowed to surround yourself with love, and people who encourage and nurture you. You’re allowed to pick the kind of energy you need in your life.

You’re allowed to forgive yourself for your biggest and smallest mistakes and you’re allowed to be kind to yourself, you’re allowed to look in the mirror and actually like the person you see.

You’re allowed to set yourself free from your own expectations.

We sometimes look at leaving as a bad thing or associate it with giving up or quitting, but sometimes leaving is the best thing you can do for yourself.

Leaving allows you to change directions, to start over, to rediscover yourself and the world. Leaving sometimes saves you from staying stuck in the wrong place with the wrong people.

Leaving opens a new door for change, growth, opportunities and redemption.

You always have the choice to leave until you find where you belong and what makes you happy.

You’re even allowed to leave the old you behind and reinvent yourself.

Author: Rania Niam

https://thoughtcatalog.com/rania-naim/

“Boredom is the basement in the house of change.”

This post throws us all the way back to the end of 2015 but it feels more timely now than ever. Do we as women wait for things to implode in our lives before we make a change? Do we march our butts down to the basement where the dryer drowns out the whisper of discontent and fold socks, or do we pay attention to this soft whisper from the basement and make it our clarion call to change?
I would urge you to listen for the call.
xox

I just spent the day writing an article about getting divorced at twenty-six for a series on divorce at all ages.

I called it I Was A Twenty-Six Year Old Divorced Unicorn because that was how…um…unusual I felt at the time.

You see, my ex-husband wasn’t a troll. He wasn’t a bad guy in any way. We just weren’t a good match. But you need more than that as grounds for divorce. Right? I mean, how was I to know we weren’t a match that could pass the test of time when I married him at the tender age of twenty?

By twenty-six I was desperately unhappy. Like can’t eat, can’t sleep unhappy.

Today I searched for the one word to describe how I felt at the time. At twenty-six I was not able to articulate exactly what I wanted and what I felt was missing. All I knew was that in my heart of hearts—I wanted more.
More than this relationship.
More than this husband.
More than this “until death do us part” commitment that was feeling more like a prison sentence than a wedding vow.

That’s when it suddenly hit me. Greedy. I felt greedy. On paper, I had so much. Everything. What all my girlfriends were clamoring for.

Greed instead of gratitude one friend scolded. 

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“You want more? More than what?” my dad had asked barely hiding his disgust upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “He’s a great guy and a good provider. What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!”

He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.

I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing and that I wasn’t able or willing to settle.

So that made me feel greedy. And greedy felt wrong.

Other people settle. Why can’t I?
Believe me, when I say, it would have been so much easier to just stay married!

“I’m a freakin’ unicorn! An anomaly; and NO ONE understands or knows what to make of me!”

Once I was single, I found out guys didn’t want to date a twenty-six-year-old divorcee. Used goods. High maintenance.

Typical First Date Conversation:

“So, you ever been married?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? He die?”

“Uh, no, we’re divorced.”

“He cheat on you?”

“Nope.”

“He left you?”

“Nope. I left him.”

(Beat) “Waiter, check please!”

Obviously, I needed to set my bar higher.

What I eventually discovered, after a whole lot of sleepless nights, and years of pain was that there were benefits to divorce; to asking more from life; to refusing to settle; to being greedy.

I also forgot that a Unicorn is a mystical, rare and beautiful creature.

So I’m curious…

This being what it is, more of a stream of consciousness, I want to turn the tables and ask you guys:

Q- What does it mean to you to settle? When have you done it and when could you not?

Q- Do you agree with the word greedy? What word would you choose when things look good but you want more?

Q- Are you a Unicorn? Why?

I love you all madly, carry on,
xox

In a month we’re off to Chicago. And the thought of that makes my butt clench. Tight.

It’s not the flying so much because think about it. Getting from California to Chicago just over one hundred years ago took weeks if not months of treacherous stage-coach travel through scorching deserts and over snowy mountain passes, never mind bouts of cholera and the possibility of Indian attacks.

Luckily, there is a different kind of coach travel these days and I concede that on some flights, especially if a baby is crying, it can feel almost as long and harrowing.

I appreciate the miracle of flight. I really do. I actually love sitting perched in a seat, in an aluminum tube that’s hurtling through the air, watching movies while I snack on things I never eat below 35,000 feet, like bag after bag of potato chips and soda, and then arriving at some far-away destination in the same clothes I put on that very morning.

Here’s the thing that sends me into a tizzy. The before part of flying.  The check-in part. The part that makes you regret your trip before you’ve even left the ground. You know what I’m talking about. All of the degrading malarkey (God, I love that word), that every airport in the world has put us through since 911. You can almost hear the sound of your personal freedoms being sucked right out of you over the garbled gate announcements during the two hours of lining up, waiting, wheeling, shuffling, packing and unpacking, waiting, X-raying, virtually stripping; taking off your shoes, belt, jacket, watch, sunglasses, and in one particularly mortifying case—my underwire bra, only to wait in line some more.

It would be comical if it weren’t so sad.

My husband and I fly frequently enough that sometimes the gods deem us worthy and bestow upon us the words  TSA precheck at the top of our tickets which I’m happy to report allows us to sidestep some of the madness—but I see you there, hopping up and down on one naked foot, trying to get the other damn boot off  while your purse shoots through to the other side unattended, the line backs up, and your other boot falls off the conveyor belt and into another man’s bag.

I feel your pain. I am you. I will be you in a month.

Listen, we have all agreed, as a collective, to hand over our rights to privacy. Into the dumpster that went along with any expectation of expedient air travel as a trade-off to make us feel safe.

I have no choice other than to give up my personal freedoms when I fly, but I will never stop talking about how it used to be.

Here’s the thing, flying used to be glamorous. And fun. You got dressed up. The flight crew engaged in polite small talk, as kids they even used to show us the cockpit. Now it’s locked up tighter than the room where Donald Trump keeps his wigs.

Airports had a buzz of excitement back in the day, not like now, where the low hum of stress meets you at the curb—that is literally where my butt clenching starts. There are airports in foreign countries, (I just saw it recently in Mexico), that have full-on military walking around with assault rifles at the ready. That does not bode well for me. It forces me to drink before I board my flight which not only exacerbates the anxiety it makes me stupid and clumsy.

I have given up my freedoms, I have. But I suppose some part of me thought this would be temporary. You know, maybe for a year or two. Now there is an entire generation that only knows air travel to be this way. This ridiculous, freedom-sucking, unorganized, cluster-fuck of a way.

But I for one will never forget that it was not always like this. That we used to check our bags and walk on planes like civilized human beings. Because if we forget that, IF we accept the way things are now as normal, then, in my opinion, fear and terror have won.

Carry on,
xox

On Sunday and Monday, the weather seemed to mirror the energy of chaos that’s rampant in the world right now.

Isn’t that interesting how the weather mirrors energy? I remember 9/11 was a bright and sunny Indian Summer day in New York City with beautiful clear, blue skies, and the next day the skies turned grey and gloomy as they opened up and cried all of our collective tears.

I find that fascinating.

Anyhow, on Sunday, as the cold winds whipped our yards into a frenzy, tipping over pots and tearing branches off of the mature trees we have surrounding the house, and chucking them onto patio furniture, our cars in the driveway and turning the path to the front door into a sort of hero’s journey of leafy obstacles, I decided to do what I do best: hide in bed with the dog, a book, and some movies on TV.

Reading and watching TV at the same time is a habit I acquired as a teenager in high school.
It serves no purpose other than to keep every quadrant of my brain activated and occupied—so I’m unable to dwell on any of life’s other distractions, like personal hygiene, eating, or worrying about whether a terrorist sleeper cell exists in my neighborhood.

When I finally did decide to assuage the loud rumblings of my stomach by enjoying some cheese on a Triscuit and cup of Earl Grey—hot—I turned my full attention to the movie since it was nearly impossible to hold my book and a cheesy Triscuit at the same time.

It turns out the film was fairly recent and was only about ten minutes into the plot, which meant that now that I had given my body some brain food (as I like to call complex carbohydrates), I would be able to catch up quickly with what was happening on screen.

The movie was Invasion, a current-ish, snazzy remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers with a younger Daniel Craig (yum) and an actress whose face is Botoxed so heavily that NOTHING moves. I found this incredibly puzzling since the only way those infected with the alien virus (that has turned almost the entire population of earth into emotionless robots) can identify those who have yet to be “turned” is their show of emotion.
When an uninfected person would run or scream or cry, they would stick out like a sore thumb and get apprehended and infected into compliance.

Yet here’s the heroine of our story looking like a gifted ventriloquist, her mouth stuck in an insipid grin while out pours the sound of full monologues of terror and grief. “I can’t find my son!” she wails in agony while her face maintains the serene mask of a woman getting a pedicure.
Interesting casting choice.

But that’s not what I wanted to focus on here.

As I sipped my tea and snarfed my carbs, despite the sketchy casting choices, I started to marvel at the synchronicities the movie was bringing up as it drew me in.

I’d spent the morning getting caught up in the atrocities in Paris, vacillating between feelings of disgust and pity toward humanity.
What a fucking mess we’ve made, I lamented. Look at all the pain and the sorrow caused by a few people’s feelings of deep despair and hatred.

Human emotions run amok. What in heaven’s name is the answer?

In the movie, an alien species had devised an answer: Remove all those troublesome emotions from humanity and then have the wiped out, robotic humans clean up all of their messes, leaving Earth a sort of over sanitized, completely passionless and uninteresting version of itself. Like Disneyland or Switzerland on steroids.

In the background of certain scenes was TV coverage of wars ending, peace accords being signed and walls coming down.
Neat and tidy with a handshake and minimum of fanfare.
Sounds great right? Especially after the events in the past couple of days.
But along with the absence of hostility, there was a complete lack of joy, or passion, no relief or cause for celebration.

Worst of all—there was a complete absence of love. If you showed compassion or love—Busted! They’d catch you and infect you into a robotic shell of your former self.

Supposedly it was all done for our own good. A wiser species trying to save us from ourselves, but, um no thanks guys. We will deal with the emotional lows if you’ll leave us the highs of love, joy and caring—thank you very much.

And therein lies my cheesy, frozen-faced, synched-up Sunday afternoon movie revelation.

“Humanity is capable of such horrible nightmares and such beautiful dreams” to paraphrase a line from the movie Contact and as empty and fed up as I can feel after horrible things happen— if we try and force change—or wish the world were different—we unleash a whole slew of unforeseen complications and lose sight of our greatest gifts.
Freedom, Compassion, and Diversity.

What do you guys think?
Carry on,
xox

Me and Ruby watching TV and being Sunday bed-slugs.

I just came back from two days immersed in one part progressive religion, two parts spirituality, and three parts humor.
Which, as long as you’re asking, is a very compatible cocktail combination for me.

And surprisingly, there was cursing and f-bombs — like the cherry on top.

I went with my sister to see Rob Bell Keep Going 2105 in Laguna Beach California.

We were turned on to his dynamic motivational speaking at the Oprah Tour last fall.

He has a background as a pastor, but he is not all Jesus this and bible verse that (which would have simultaneously turned me off, put me to sleep and set my hair on fire). He has a brand of progressive spiritual humor that I could get with.

The other speakers involved were articulate, smart, funny, touching, creative and completely engaging. I loved them all.
Check them out:

Rob Bell is a bestselling author, international teacher, and highly sought after public speaker. His books include The New York Times bestseller Love Wins, along with What We Talk About When We Talk About God, The Zimzum of Love, Velvet Elvis, Sex God, Jesus Wants to Save Christians, Drops Like Stars. At age 28 he founded Mars Hill Bible Church in Michigan, and under his leadership it was one of the fastest-growing churches in America. In 2011 he was profiled in Time Magazine as one of their 100 most influential people. Rob was featured on Oprah’s 2014 Life You Want Tour and will be speaking at venues around the world in 2015 on the Everything is Spiritual Tour. He and his wife Kristen have three children and live in Los Angeles.

Vicky Beeching—
Vicky Beeching is an Oxford-educated theologian, writer, broadcaster and keynote speaker. She appears regularly on BBC TV, Sky News and writes for publications like The Guardian and The Independent. She’s been profiled by The Huffington Post, BBC World Service and Time Magazine Online. Vicky advises the United Nations on LGBT equality and religion. She is based between London, England and Washington D.C., USA.

Carlton Cuse—
Arthur Carlton Cuse is an American screenwriter, show runner and producer, most famous as executive producer and screenwriter for the American television series Lost for which he made the Time magazine list of the 100 most influential people in the world in 2010.Harvard graduate Cuse is also considered a pioneer in transmedia storytelling.

Peter Rollins—
Peter Rollins is a provocative writer, philosopher, storyteller and public speaker who has gained an international reputation for overturning traditional notions of religion and forming “churches” that preach the Good News that we can’t be satisfied, that life is difficult, and that we don’t know the secret.

Peter gained his higher education from Queens University, Belfast and has earned degrees (with distinction) in Scholastic Philosophy (BA Hons), Political Theory (MA) and Post-Structural thought (PhD). He is the author of numerous books, including Insurrection, The Idolatry of God, and The Divine Magician. He was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, currently lives in Los Angeles and will die somewhere as yet not known.

Pete Holmes—
Pete Holmes is a comedian. Maybe you know him from his podcast You Made It Weird. Or The Pete Holmes Show! Or his videos with FrontPage Films. Maybe you saw his hour special Nice Try, The Devil, or his half-hour Comedy Central Presents. Or on Conan. Or Jimmy Fallon. Or maybe you saw him on VH1. Or heard him as the e*trade baby or on Comedy Central’s Ugly Americans. I mean, who knows. Pete also draws cartoons for The New Yorker, wrote for NBC’s “Outsourced” and FOX’s “I Hate My Teenage Daughter.”

Crazy good, right?

I love attending these things. When they work. There have been instances where I’ve been locked in a room for days with a bunch of New Agey crazies; but this seminar was nothing like that.

This one really hooked me in and everything I suspected about life was confirmed.

And here it is in a nutshell: Human DNA sequences are over 95% identical to chimpanzee sequences and around 50% identical to a banana.
AND
We are so much more alike than we are different.

We all ache with loneliness;

None of us can answer the question of why we are here;

We all spit fire when you fuck with our kids, our loved ones or our core beliefs;

Everyone fears death;

Nobody likes their boat rocked;

Most everyone is afraid of failure;

Mullets are universally abhorred;

and no one has yet to explain God or get his direct mailing address and phone number.

I love knowing that — don’t you?

I sleep better at night knowing there are others like me; curious pain in the asses, who are looking for answers, but more importantly wonder.

Bottom line: Freedom and wonder.
Seems most of us want to be free enough of fear to find the wonder in life.

We all want wonder. A life filled with WONDER.

We want to feel ALIVE and laugh and gasp…a lot… to have miracles and mystical, magical experiences mixed in with paying our taxes and driving carpool.

Is that too much to ask?
Apparently not so much after these last few days.

Don’t you guys also love knowing that at any given time there are hundreds of people just like you gathered together trying to figure out how to make that happen – for everyone?
I do.

Carry on and peace OUT!
xox

Photobomb of Rob Bell with Me, Sue and Patti:

*Below is a recent essay by Anne Lamont. I love her writing. A lot.  And I think this piece is one of her best, or at least it pierced the hard candy shell that sometimes surrounds my heart and got into the chewy, caramel center.

I love that she reminds us that words can be dangerous, they can gut someone faster and more efficiently than the sharpest Ginsu knife. Let’s all be careful with that.

And Horrible Bonnie.  God I love that!

Can I be your Horrible Janet you guys?  Reminding us ALL that everybody gets to be free?

Anyway…I though this would be a great piece to start your week.  ‘Cause I love ya!

Carry On,

xoxJ

“Nearly twenty years ago, I arrived at a fancy writer’s conference, in what were some of America’s most majestic mountains, where I was looking forward to meeting a great (and sexy) American director, who’d given a lecture the day before. But he had already left.

There was, however, a letter from him, to me: to not-all-that-well-known me. It began well enough, with praise for Bird by Bird, and gratitude for how many times it had inspired him when he got stuck while writing screenplays. He singled out my insistence on trying to seek and tell the truth, whether in memoir or fiction, and my belief that experiencing grief and fear were the way home. The way to an awakening. That God is the Really Real, as the ancient Greeks believed. And God is Love. That tears were not to be suppressed, but would, if expressed, heal us, cleanse up, baptize us, help us water the seeds of new life that were in the ground at our feet.
Coming from a world-famous director, it felt like the New York Glitterati was stamping its FDA seal of approval on me, and my work.

Unfortunately, the letter continued.

He wrote that while he had looked forward to meeting me, he’d gathered from reading my work that many of my closest friends and family members seemed to have met with traumatic life situations, and sometimes early deaths. So basically, he was getting out of Dodge before I got my tragedy juju all over him, too.

I felt mortified, exposed. He made it seem like I was a sorrow-mongerer, that instead of being present for family and friends who had cancer or sick kids or great losses, I was chasing them down.
And I flushed in that full body Niacin-flush way of toxic shame, at being put down by a man of power, that had been both the earliest, and now most recent, experiences of soul-death throughout my life.
My clingy child was drawing beside me, What did I do? You can’t use your child as a fix, like a junkie. That’s abuse; plus it won’t work.

Well, duh–I fell apart, on the inside, like a two dollar watch.

I had stopped drinking nearly 15 years before, stopped the bulimia 14 years earlier, and so did not have many reliable ways to stuff feelings back down. Also, horribly, my young child, two thousand miles from home, upon noticing my pain, clung even more tightly. I wanted to shout at him, “Don’t you have any other friends?”

What I did was the only thing that has ever worked. After finding a safe and stable person to draw with my son, I called someone and told her all my terrible fears and feelings and projections and secrets.
It was my mentor, Horrible Bonnie.

She listens.

She believes that we are here to become profoundly real, and therefore, free. But horribly–hence her name–she insists that if we want to be free, we have to let every body be free. I hate and resent this so much. It means we have to let the people in our families and galaxies be free to be asshats, if that is how they choose to live.

This however, does not mean we have to have lunch with them. Or go on vacation with them again. But we do have to let them be free.
She also knows, and said that day, that Real can be a nightmare in this world that is so false. The pain and exhaustion of becoming real can land you in the an abyss. And abysses are definitely abysmal; dark nights of the soul; the bottom an addict hits.
And this, she said, was just a new bottom, around people-pleasing, and the craving for powerful fancy people to approve of me. It was a bottom around my psycho doing-ness, my achieving-ness.
She said that because I felt traumatized, and that there had been so much trauma in my childhood, and so many losses in the ensuing years, that the future looked like trauma to me.

But it wasn’t the truth!

There was a long silence. (Again: she listens.)
Finally, I said in this tiny child’s voice, “It isn’t?”
Oh, no, she said. The future, as with every bottom I have landed at, and been walked through, would bring great spiritual increase.
She said I had as much joy and laughter and presence as anyone she knew and some of this had to do with the bottoms I’d experienced, the dark nights of the soul that god and my pit crew had accompanied me through. The alcoholism, scary men, etc.
She said that what I thought the director had revealed was that I am kind of pathetic, but actually what I was getting to see, with her, and later, when I picked up my luscious clingy child, in the most gorgeous mountains on earth, was that I was a real person of huge heart, laughter, feelings and truth. And his was the greatest gift of all.

The blessing was that again and again, over the years, we got to completely change the script. Thank God. We got to re-invent ourselves, again.

But where do we even start with such terrible days and revelations? She said I’d started when I picked up the 300-pound phone, told someone the truth, felt my terrible feelings. Now, time for radical self-care. A shower, some food, the blouse I felt prettiest in. Then I could go get my boy and we could explore the mountain streams.

Wow. We think when we finally get our ducks in a row, we’ve arrived. Now we’ll be happy! That’s what they taught us, and what we’ve sought. But the ducks are bad ducks, and do not agree to stay in a row, and they waddle off quacking, and one keels over, two males get in a fight, and babies are born. Where does that leave your nice row?

I got about five books out of the insights I gleaned from our talk. I still have a sort-of heart-shaped rock my son fished out of a stream later. Sadly, this director’s movies have not done well in the last twenty years. Not a one. And all of his hair has since fallen out. Now, as a Christian, my first response to this is, “Hah hah hah.”

But Horrible Bonnie would say, Now you get to tell it, because then it will become medicine. Tell it, girl– that we evolve; that life is stunning, wild, gorgeous, weird, brutal, hilarious and full of grace. That our parents were a bit insane, and that healing from this is taking a little bit longer than we had hoped. Tell it. Well…okay. Yes.”
-Anne Lamott

Anxiety is the “Dizziness of Freedom” – Kierkegaard

Oh Brother – This is a big one for me! I’ve struggled since birth, with the anxiety of missing out on something.

As a kid I had the nickname of Corkie. As the story goes, I could lift my head to look around soon after birth. Being that it was a tad early to be weighing my options, my neck muscles were too underdeveloped to be “working the room” so to speak, so my head was unsteady, bobbing around “like a cork on the water”.
So there you go.

I was born with the perpetual desire to see what else was out there, what other interesting things I might be missing out on. I wasn’t dissatisfied with where I was, it was just…

Curiosity squared.

It caused me enough anxiety that at 17 I started my exploration of meditation and being here now – in the moment.

That was a foreign concept and I’ve struggled with it all my life. I can report that I’ve gotten better as I’ve grown older.
Not grown up, just older.

I realize that I may not be able to see ALL the options available, but it rarely makes me anxious anymore.
I’m learning that the Universe has put the ones that are the most relevant to my path; that will excite me and bring me the most joy – at my feet and in front of my face.

Whew.

Does the fear of missing out cause you anxiety? How do you handle it? Is it getting better? Or worse?

Love, love,
xox

Ah, perfectionism – you rat-bastard.

You are the behind the scenes ruin-er of every event.
You are the “I told you so” inside every mistake.
You are the “It could have been better, you should be thinner, I’m a freak, a fake and a fraud” whispered in my ear at the end of every day.

In short, you are the cause of so much grief.

Perfection, like a 22-inch waist, a man who asks for directions, and delicious vegan cheese—is literally impossible. It is a myth and an illusion.

Perfectionism starts in childhood.
The dolls lined up perfectly on the shelf, school papers stacked in neat piles, worn thin by rigorous erasing. I should know.

Perfectionism stifles creativity.
They cannot co-exist; creativity is messy, I don’t care what anyone says. When you’re in the flow, you can just throw perfect punctuation and grammar to the wind.

Have you ever seen a painter’s studio when they are creating? It is a catastrophe! There is shit everywhere – Empty coffee cups, brushes and tubes of paint in heaps, tarps, stacks of ideas, even some paint on the ceiling (?).

Perfectionism would never be caught dead in the swirling vortex of creativity – it might mess up its perfect hair!

When you take perfectionism to the office; well, yeah, good luck with that.
It is the bully in the room, taunting you with thoughts of inferiority, assuring you that you’re not good enough.
Work harder, be better, PROVE YOUR WORTH, it sneers.

Perfectionism sabotages joy.
It’s a punk. It steals its lunch money and gives it a wedgie. Perfectionism hangs out with those two thugs, anxiety and stress.
It is my belief that perfectionism is complicit in every nervous breakdown. Most especially, the ones suffered during the holidays.

I can speak to this with authority.

I am a retired perfectionist.
It started to wane when I got married again. Perfectionism doesn’t compromise, and compromise and relationships arelikethis.

The exact time of death of my perfectionism occurred when we decided to live in our house during a remodel. Any last vestiges that remained hit the road, (along with the tiny bit of modesty I possessed.)
You reside in so much chaos, dirt, and destruction; I can remember wiping 4-5 inches of plaster and drywall dust off random surfaces in order to sit and drink the coffee we made in the bathroom. The refrigerator was in the dining room and we were sleeping in the garage.

It got so bad I actually started to throw trash (gum wrappers, receipts) on the floor, fuck it, what’s the use, it’s a disaster, I’d tell myself. The upside was that I’d never in my life felt so FREE! So I ran with it, and I haven’t looked back!

Living in a construction zone is like aversion therapy for perfectionists.

It’s time to join me and retire from perfectionism. Take off the twenty-ton shield and fly.

Maybe you want to talk about how you kicked perfectionism’s ass, or how you’re still struggling? Either way, I’d love to hear about it in the comments below. Don’t be shy. It doesn’t have to be perfect. 😉

Xox

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost a pet.

He was a rascal and a renegade. He was all of seven pounds, my gorgeous seal point Siamese companion.

I named him Fraidy Cat because I gravitate toward ironic names, I called our previous cat Doggie, because he was clearly a dog in a cat suit.

When I walked into the room to pick a kitten, they all scattered, except him; he ran up to me, meowing his face off. “Well, aren’t you brave, you’re a pipsqueak but you sure aren’t a Fraidy cat” I said as I scooped him up in one hand.
He looked at me with his cornflower blue eyes and that settled it, he’d sealed the deal and stolen my heart.

I’d always had indoor cats, it was better for their physical health and MY mental health; you see I’m a worrier; so if my cats were to go outside, Tom-cating around, not being there when I needed him, getting dirty, I’d knew I’d freak.

So he spent his days at the windows, howling to get out, jumping at the glass, shredding the screens.
I spent my days inside my very convenient denial, that is, until the guy I was dating at the time, a huge cat lover, took me by both shoulders, guiding me to the screen door, kicked it open and held me there while Fraidy bolted OUTSIDE and up a tree. He’d howled at the birds in that tree for two years, coveting their freedom, now he was up there, climbing among the leaves; I had to admit – he looked ecstatic.

That was the start of his outdoor life.
Being the rule setter that I am, I did instill some parameters – furry little rascals need boundaries.
When we shook the container of dried food – dinner time.
Once he was in for the night, that was it, he used the cat box and slept inside, on my pillow, or in my armpit.
I fed him and let him out when I got up. It became a routine that made us both happy. On the weekends, when I was around, he’d stick close to home, rolling on my little patio in the sun. Life was good.

The longest he ever stayed away was three days, and I lost. my. mind.
When he finally did show up, he was filthy and starving, with a far away look in his eyes – like he’d seen too much. He’d clearly lost one of his lives.
He didn’t have much to say for himself, and after twenty-four hours of my interrogation and his silent treatment – I made him promise that there would NEVER be a next time – and it was never spoken of again.

When I moved to my current house (which came with a cat door – it was a sign) he had a companion by then, Teddy, who was his polar opposite.
Teddy was a fat (I mean big-boned) Teddy bear of a cat, a grateful, gregarious, well-mannered rescue Siamese, who never went much further than the backyard or the front porch.

Fraidy, on the other hand, could barely contain his excitement every morning when I’d open the door to the pantry so he could get to the cat door and start his day. He loved all the mature trees in the neighborhood and brought me presents on a regular basis, (dead birds, mice and once a baby possum) to express his gratitude for the change of locale.
The fauna around the house submitted a petition and formed a coalition to ban Fraidy from certain sections of their territory – but he wasn’t having it. ALL of Studio City was his domain.

Seriously –– All of it.

I found that out in the most profound way, when in June of 2006, seven years after moving to this house and navigating coyotes, traffic and other cats, Fraidy broke our agreement and went missing – for a long time.

It was an unseasonably hot Memorial Weekend, and after shattering his previous three-day record, I started to really worry, putting up signs and calling his name around the neighborhood.
That’s when I got the calls, from far and wide, coming from miles around. “Your little Siamese, yeah, I see him all the time; but it’s been awhile” one caller five blocks over reported.
“That Siamese with the red collar, he was in my backyard as usual just last week, that’s the last time I saw him. I’ll call you if I see him, I hope he comes back.” That lady lived across Tujunga, a big street with fast-moving traffic, which made my stomach turn, I had NO IDEA he was wondering that far from home.

One evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a cat walking up the sidewalk toward the house.
A small, skinny Siamese.
Fraidy?
I had all but given up, it had been seventeen days.

I stopped the car in the middle of the street, jumped out and called his name, and he came running over like nothing was out of the ordinary – but it was.
I swept him into my arms and ran inside calling Raphael the whole way. I couldn’t believe he was back. “It’s him right?” I kept asking.

It was weird, he hadn’t lost any weight, he still had his red collar with all his tags on, he was clean, un traumatized and purring away.
“Smell that” Raphael was now holding him, pushing his body into my face, “he still smells like your perfume” (I wasn’t wearing any that night) and he did, he reeked of my scent.

“Someone obviously had him” everyone said, happy that he’d reappeared.
“Yeah I guess; someone who wears my perfume which is discontinued and impossible to get.”

He seemed genuinely happy to be back.
Man I wish he could have told me where he’d been over a glass of wine and a can of tuna, I’m sure it was an incredible story.

A few days later we left for a week in Palm Springs with my whole extended family, a friend was staying at the house with the cats.

I felt uneasy, I didn’t want to leave Fraidy – his return to me after such a long time was so remarkable ; it was as if he’d returned from the dead. He was my Lazarus cat. 

(To be continued)

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