friends

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much everyday for almost three years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?” Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.
I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. You guys, I can barely remember to wear pants!

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel unending, immense gratitude for all of you.
So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper.
Even in the car. Like I’m wearing a wire.
Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Washington Post or something. It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a friend—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride; and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself! Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.

Well it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”
I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

“Suddenly at the next corner, came the craziest thing. About thirty women, all in golden crowns, were crossing Market Street. No, I wasn’t hallucinating, maybe they were heading to some trippy bridesmaid’s party. And there I was, utterly surrounded, crying and laughing in the midst of it all, as they passed by.”
~Tosha Silver — “On Crowns and Mars/Venus”

Yesterday morning Tosha Silver (whom I love), posted this and it prompted one of those out-of-body synchronistic moments; you know the ones where you shiver with goosebumps and break into a cold sweat all at the same time.

Or is that menopause? Nope. Sorry menopause you have never given me goosebumps. Not once, not EVER.

Besides, the serendipity lies in the fact that I had two really heartfelt and deeply intimate conversations with two completely different friends, at two separate times, in the past three days.

About friendship and CROWNS and feeling special.

“I’ve known I was special my whole life” we each confessed in a hushed whisper, as if admitting to a secret affair with Benedict Cumberbatch, or a third nipple.

One of my friends stands on the precipice of great success. Like change your life, slap your mama, kind of success. She confided that the other night she dreamt she was wearing a gold crown, or perhaps it was even (gasp) a halo…and the brightness of it made her so uncomfortable that she pulled up the hoodie she was so conveniently wearing—and covered it up.

Why? Why isn’t that a good thing? To feel special I mean.

Maybe the more important question we have to ask is this: Who killed this in us and why?

What is it with crowns anyway?
I suppose we’ve all agreed that they’re just a physical validation of how special someone is.
Gold and preferably jewel encrusted would suit me just fine, thank you very much.

Then we all laugh, hahaha, that’s so funny—wait, you know you’re not special—right? And just like the soup nazi in Seinfeld, someone shows up and yanks the crown right off of your head, bobby pins and all.

“NO crown for you!” He announces and the crowd applauds,”Who do you think you are? Show some humility!” they all chant.

Here’s the thing: I don’t think the three of us can stay covered very much longer. We seem to have all reached a place in our lives where we are being asked to remove the hoodie and shine!

To spit polish the crown and wear it.
Everyday.
Even with yoga pants. Especially with yoga pants!

We’re called to OWN OUR HALO.

And I know in my kishkis we are not alone.
I’ve seen you in your hoodies, walkin’ around thinkin’ I can’t see the glow underneath. But I can.

We’ll lose friends over it, sure. Family too. Maybe even mates. But that’s old news, it’s already happening.

And just like Tosha asks in the rest of her essay, are you ready to “Own your OWN worthiness, own your own divinity, crown YOURSELF. No one else can do it, no partner, no friend, no teacher. NO one.” Well…are you?

I love that there are a group of us women (& men), at this time in history, that are coming into our own. I love that we are pulling down our hoodies, and shining brightly for all to behold.

You are special too—make no mistake about that! So…are you ready to crown yourselves?

Much love and carry on,
xox

http://toshasilver.com

*Recently, a couple of you emailed me about this video. Yes, I did post it—over a year and a half ago—and yes it is derived from the work of the wonderful Brene Brown.

And yes, I’m so happy to do it again!

Here it is, using the voice of the brilliant Brene Brown. It’s short, sweet and insightful.
Enjoy!

Carry on,
xox

This is a throwback from last year’s amazing, life changing retreat with Linda and the gang. It was mystical and magical and I cannot believe it has been a year! We shared so much, and holy shit did we laugh! I hadn’t laughed like that in years! My take-away? I AM a writer, I made dear, dear friends for life and I just love ALL these guys so much!
So this Throwback Thursday think back to the friends you made a year ago and marinate in gratitude like I am right now!
xox

I just went away for five days and had the best time a fifty-six year old woman can have without getting arrested.

I’m serious.

I’ve been nervous to make the seemingly Grand Canyon size leap from blog writer to author, and I desperately needed a writing “tribe” …and a net.
Real writers to give me honest, constructive critique, yet not break my heart.
I found them there, in Carmel By The Sea.

As far as acquiring a tribe goes, I am thrilled to report that they are mine, and I am theirs.

The people, the writing, the instruction and feedback were of such high-caliber, I described it one afternoon as the Harvard of Writing Workshops.

SEX IN SPACE

This wildly talented crew kept me on my toes, in the game, and laughing every minute of every day.
I LOVE to laugh, but I never imagined I would be laughing until my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. These people were wicked smart; and smart people are FUNNY…and to my surprise and delight… they’re silly.
Like I said, I found my people, so I joined in.

I talked to my finger as if it were giving me sage advise, smeared gravy on my face as a parody of a fellow table mate who was enthusiastically enjoying her bread with gravy, mimicked a fellow writer’s teenage character from her brilliant novel, with a Valley Girl voiceover, and gleefully joined in, every time we would all put our hands up to cover our mouths, moving them rapidly for an echo chamber special effect, shouting,
SEX IN SPAAAAAACE.

I’m not exactly sure how SEX IN SPACE came to be. It became the “working title” for *New York Times Best Selling Author D’s science fiction thriller, even though he had a perfectly good title, it doesn’t take place in space, and the only sex he read to us, was implied.

He did write about scrotums a lot, I’ll grant you that. He is a doctor after all – and a man.

What’s for lunch? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.
Stumped on a particular section of your book? SEX IN SPAAAACE.
Just heard someone read something so incredible from their book that you want to slap their mama? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.

You get the picture……Guess you had to be there.

*by the end of day one, we all insisted that when our name was said, it had to be preceded by the title, New York Times Best Selling Author… I know.

WHALE ENERGY
“Examine your own use of creativity and apply your own creative intuition to formulas as this is what imbues them with power and magic. Creativity for the sake of creativity is not what the Whale teaches. It awakens great depth of creative inspiration, but you must add your own color and light to your outer life to make it wonderful. The sound of the Whale teaches us how to create with song.
You are being asked to embrace the unknown.”

In between group mastermind sessions and binge eating, fueled by exhaustion and the close proximity of delicious food; we would each, the six of us, ascend the stairs to Mount Olympus (Linda’s room) for a forty-five minute one-on-one intuitive, brainstorming session with the ‘Master’, as I now refer to her.

After each one, I would gather the contents of my brain, which after failing to contain all the mind expanding concepts discussed, had exploded in an embarrassing mess all over the room; descend the stairs…and take a nap.
It was THAT intense.

The house, like a silent sentinel sitting high above Highway One, overlooked one particularly beautiful stretch of the Carmel coast, with its giant picture windows.
Mount Olympus, being on the third floor, has a staggeringly beautiful, breathtakingly uninterrupted view of the ocean.
One afternoon, during my session, as we were working to steer my writing ship off the rocks, the sea came alive.

I’d just had an idea: “I think I’ll call it One Ride Away From…”
“OH MY GOD JANET!” Linda squealed, “A whale just breached as you said that!”
I turned my attention to the roiling waters below.
“LOOK! There’s another one over there!”

We were both on our feet now, running toward the window, screaming screams that only dogs—and whales, can hear.

Below us the ocean had become Whale Soup.
Everywhere we looked, tails were breaking the surface, slapping the water, producing torrents of white foam. Noses were poking through the froth. Water was shooting into the air from their blow holes, giant saltwater geysers reaching toward the sky in every direction.

We went insane with excitement. We had to share it with our tribe!

Knowing that on the floors below us, everyone had their noses buried in their computers, diligently typing away at their respective masterpieces, we bound down the stairs, screaming the whole way.

“Are you guys seeing this?! Oh My God, come up here, the whales are going crazy!”
Seven of us were now running excitedly, back up the two flights of stairs, to the Mount.

Like little kids we danced and squealed and jumped up and down, arms around each other, hugging and laughing, for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, sharing the magical whale show that the Universe was providing just outside our windows.

“Look over there! No! Over there, shit! I don’t know where to look!”
“Wow…”
“It’s a bathtub full of whales!” Someone said in a sing-song voice.

“I’ve NEVER seen this before, EVER; and I’ve been coming to this house six to nine times a year, for over five years” murmured Linda with reverent awe; never breaking her gaze, entranced in the spectacle below.

The logical explanation was the unprecedented anchovy bloom off the Central California Coast.

Our tribe, the mystical creatives upstairs, writing our heads off?
We knew in a moment, that those majestic creatures had arranged that show. Just. For. Us.

BOB

On our final full day of the retreat, Linda took us on an early hike through the rocky outcroppings and tidal pools of Point Lobos State Park. It felt amazing to breathe the fresh, ocean air and move my ass, which had been in the seated position for days on end.

We walked along the dirt paths that weave in and out of the cypress trees, with the spectacular Pacific Ocean to our left; pairing up with one of the tribe, or hanging back, alone, lost in thought. Was it technically a “hike”? Maybe not, but it was delicious just the same.

When we came to a particularly beautiful viewpoint, we all gathered for a photo-op, steadying ourselves on the rocks, the calm blue ocean as our backdrop, Linda as the photographer.

“Are you all from here or are you visiting? Do you want me to take a picture of ALL of you?” he asked with a slight hint of a Detroit accent.

Suddenly, there before us stood a big bear of a man, with his affable manner, and giant smile. Bob, the accountant from Michigan.

“Sure” said Linda, handing Bob her phone and quickly getting into the shot.
“Now take one with my phone, I want one of all of you” he said, and even though I’m happily married and so is he, I fell a little in love.
I think we all did, as Bob unobtrusively joined our hike and inadvertently, our tribe.

I believe in the magnetism of energy. In our days, sequestered together, the seven of us had congealed into a kind of containable Super Nova. I think Bob was drawn to us, to our collective glow.

Bob was in Carmel to golf. It is the golfer’s Mecca with Pebble Beach just a stone’s throw away.
“Wow, you all are writers, I could never do that, I wouldn’t know how” he said as he took turns walking and chatting with each one of us along the trail. “Well, I can’t balance my checkbook” I said, joking around, searching for common ground.

We arrived at the spot Linda was leading us to; the branches of a long dead cypress, splayed open like a throne, wood worn as smooth as marble. It faced north, looking out over a small, placid, kelp filled cove.
“The Indians would sit here and meditate” Linda said.
“Look how worn it is, people have been sitting in that spot for hundreds of years.”

We all took turns, this group of mystics and shamans, healers….and Bob.
Bless his heart, he took a turn too, sitting inside the open arms of that magical cypress tree.

As we were gathered, waiting for everyone to take their turn, deer appeared, so we all quieted down and Bob became introspective, talking to me in hushed tones about some experiences he was having, and his revelations about love. “Now THAT’S what you can write about, everyone can relate to matters of the heart.” I whispered.
He nodded his head looking out at the sea. I could FEEL him opening in the silence between the words and even though I didn’t think it possible, I fell in love with Bob, the accountant from Michigan, even a little bit more.

I gave him this blog address as we all hugged goodbye about ten minutes later in the parking lot. He had a tee time to make and I had an appointment with my iPad.

I hope you read this Bob. You, along with this transformational time in Carmel, left a mark on us all, and THIS – from the heart; this is how you write about amazing stuff when it happens to you.

Love to all,
especially NYTBSA Dave,Murphy,Orna,Matthew,Jeannie,Denise,Master Linda and Bob
**Bob took the picture above.

Linda Sivertsen is the author, co-author, or ghostwriter of nine books–two NYT bestsellers among them. When she’s not writing her own books (Lives Charmed, Generation Green, and the most recent Your Big Beautiful Book Plan with Danielle LaPorte), Linda teaches writing retreats in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She and her work have appeared in/on CNN, E!, Extra, the NY Post, New York Times, Family Circle, Teen Vogue, the Huffington Post, and Forbes.com. She lives in Los Angeles with her man, their horses, and a couple of perfect pups.

www.bookmama.com

Xox

okay, okay, here’s the audio!
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/sex-in-space-whale-soup-and

You know how when we present our dilemma to a friend and they launch one solution, one brilliant idea after another our way and we barely even listen? And even if we do, we can find something wrong with every solution offered and argue for our dilemma.

Why do we do that?

You know what I’m talkin’ about. We argue FOR that thing that is driving us bat-shit nuts with the skill and tenacity of a fucking Supreme Court Judge.

“Well, yeah, but that takes money and I can’t afford it.”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t just leave.”

“Well, yeah, but when I walk on it, it hurts.”

Overruled! You are all overruled! I want to stay stuck and miserable; mired in my miasma of muck. (Holy alliteration!)

I think I’ll call it MY YEAH BUT HABIT.

Listen, we even use this tactic when things are going well—WTF?!

You got a promotion! “Yeah, but I didn’t get more vacation days.”

You got a raise! “Yeah, but, not as much as I wanted.”

A baby boy! Congratulations! “Yeah, but, I really thought we were having girl, and everybody says boys are tough, and he doesn’t let us sleep for a minute.”

What’s with that you guys?

Do we like to complain? (I know someone who thinks that complaining is the force that keeps us all alive. Seriously.)

Do we like to hear ourselves speak? (yes, yes I do)

Is unhappiness and dissatisfaction a habit? (yeah, but, I REALLY don’t know why).

Do our dilemmas get us attention? (Similar to publicly—there is no bad attention)

Here’s a thought.
What if we used that skill all the time? Like an equal opportunity Yeah but. Like this:

Oh, that’s a nasty dent is your fender; “Yeah, but, I’m lucky that’s all that happened.”

There are a lot of people applying for that position. “Yeah, but, my resume is stellar, I have tons of experience, and they’d be lucky to have me.”

Wow, he left you? “Yeah, but, if I’m honest with myself things have been lousy between us for a while, and now that the ball is rolling we can figure things out and move on with our lives.”

I know. That ones a streeeeeeeech. (but we could do it)

Then how about this one? Let’s all try to be more aware when we’re arguing FOR the muck we’re mired in.
It is BEYOND limiting!

Once and for all, lets all get off our Yeah butts.

Carry on,
xox

SERIOUS SCIENTIFIC DATA ABOVE^

This has been a week, and not one that I will look back on fondly.
Not to get all doom and gloomy on ya, but last week sucked. Big time.

There were so many things thwarted, such despicable levels of mis-communication,
so. many. clusterfucks. that I suspect they were being trucked in from the mouth of hell.
And I don’t even believe in hell!

Undiagnosable illnesses, lab results………………………………………………pending.
Crazy unexplainable accidents and money missing. Gone!
Appointments missed with no explanation and traffic for no reason. At seven-thirty in the morning; noon; three-fifteen; and midnight.
Traffic! For no good reason!

Fights.
Texts gone bad.
I want to write a book someday on the dangers of texting.
DO NOT TEXT IMPORTANT SHIT. Pick up the phone and make the two-minute call. I can’t garner the nuance, your tone of voice or your sarcasm, FROM A TEXT!
No emoticon is sufficient.
Just so you know, everything you texted made you sound like a douche last week.

As much as I tried to OMMMM my way above the fray, I got dragged down into it where it bloodied my nose and ruined my favorite shoes.

At three o’clock on Friday morning I found myself violently ill. (It’s not what you’re thinking.)
There I lay, alternating between sweating and chills, nausea and diarrhea, lunacy and sanity. I actually watched myself from a much more comfortable vantage point somewhere outside my body, Lamaze breathing my way through wave after wave of energy the strength of which I’ve seldom felt before. (See, I told you.)

“Full Moon” were the only two words I was able to croak to my husband who was in the midst of his own dark energy, awefulizing, 3 a.m. marathon. It wasn’t that the energy was actually dark. It just felt relentless and oppressive as it built all week (Who am I kidding? It was all month and most likely all year), and the release looked a lot like a Mento wafer in a bottle of Coke.

It felt like the mother of all detoxes. Because it was you guys!
It was that kind of Blue Moon. Purging, letting go of the past and all of its pent-up anger, frustration, resentment, fear, lack of sleep and just the general angst and malaise that’s been building up.

Oh shit, I thought, I just wrote about this. You can’t run clear water through gucked up pipes.
You want to be a clear channel for clarity, creativity, intuition, inspiration, ideas, luck, fun and love—you’ve gotta clean out the pipes occasionally.

Fuck. Sometimes I hate being right. I make ME mad.

As I sat on the bathroom floor the next morning still in the throes of it all, waiting to see if my body could actually produce more vomit, I began to see the pattern, or I became delusional, your call. I can admit to getting philosophical with no sleep on bathroom floors.

Oh…I’m finally getting how this works now. Clean the pipes (literally). One step (day) backward, before I lunge forward. Get rid of the accumulated gunk, so the energy can flow clearer and faster.

UGH.

I had a brief glimmer of insight, which, for a moment had me feeling better and then I was back to hurling. So much for knowing what’s going on—you still have to get through it.

Eventually it passed, just like it always does, and I was able to salvage the remainder of my Friday, and fit into my skinny jeans (yeah).

When I mentioned what happened to a couple of my friends, they told me that they too had been clearing up their gunk. Not necessarily in the same way as I had, but effective for them just the same, and we all agreed to chalk this week up as a sucking vortex of everything that could go wrong. In other words—a Universal shitastrophe.

One of them admitted to coming home feeling like a jacked-up pressure cooker; so he buried his face in a pillow and banchee-screamed—something he hasn’t done in decades. He was so hoarse afterwards he had a hard time speaking. But he felt much better.

Oh, that’s good. I like that. I’m gonna steal that one.

I’d be curious to know, what’s your process?

I for one, after all my…purging, feel cleaner (duh) clearer and lighter and I’m looking forward with great anticipation to the lunge forward. How about you?

Carry on,
xox

Dear Woo Woo Crew,

My brother has found himself in the midst of a personal shitastropy. You know, just like we all do from time to time.

And even though it’s winding down — it’s winding up (isn’t it weird how that happens? It gets really bad before it goes away. Like that stubborn boil on your ass). So the fan is blowing shit all over the fucking place. You know, like it does.

Anyhow, he’s had your help. I call you his Woo Woo Crew because of the alchemy you have performed through your love, loyalty and laughter. You have helped my brother weather his dark night of the soul with your special brand of magic.

Now, before you get all weepy on me (Billy).
Can we just talk for a minute about the medicinal properties of laughter? Guffawing your way through tears is highly underrated. It has a Merlin-esq magical quality to it. Laughter is the best medicine is no joke. Doctors should prescribe a visit to a comedy club (or humor blog) for depression. Seriously.

And as I see it, that’s been an indispensable part of his cure. You, his WWC make him laugh.
A lot.
Everyday.
The joke is often at his own expense—but that’s okay—he’s freakin’ funny.
You aren’t walking on eggshells. You aren’t worried about what YOUR future holds. You show up to his business with smiles and hugs and donuts. (I took artistic liberties in assuming there are donuts. It just seems like you would have something deep-fried and I like icing, so….)

Hey, don’t get me wrong, you work as hard as you play. You are so smart, so good at what you do, that I want to buy you all ponies. Well, Billy already has a pony, so maybe cars for the rest of you.

You are loyal, you are loving, you cut him slack when it’s needed and pick it up for him when he’s down.


I could not send bigger love to Y’all. I mean it.

My hope is that all you guys out there have your very own Woo Woo Crews. If you don’t — find one fast.
They will save you.

Better yet, maybe you are a card-carrying member of one.

My friend Kim is also walking the temporary tightrope of terrible. Again, like we all have; and I see or speak to her almost every day.

Seems my life makes her laugh.
My triumphs, my tragedies are…funny to her. I suppose it’s in the delivery, but still, we laugh A LOT!
The thing is, when I see her walk up the driveway with a sad face and then later, I watch her walk back to her car and she’s still laughing about that thing I said. That makes me feel good.

Listen I’m no Mother Theresa.
The other day I yelled at her mid-cry, right to her sad, soggy face: “Stop crying! Stop being sad!”…and instead of punching me in the face — we both burst out laughing. Like doubled over, can’t speak laughing.

Dammit, it was time. Time for her sadness to turn the corner, lose its grip and get the hell out of her life!
Just writing this make me giggle because I can still see the shock that washed over her before she started laughing. I’m sure my face looked the same.

It was priceless. Like a two-year-old. Tears one minute, laughter the next.

Why can’t we do that? When did we lose that talent? Why does the laughter dissipate so quickly but the tears stay for…weeks?

Woo Woo Crews Unite! Be funny! Be kind! Be goofy! Bring donuts! Buy ponies!
Turns some frowns upside down (yes I did say that).

Write love letters to people who are making a difference, so they can become aware that they are.

Enough rambling.

So incredibly grateful for you guys,
Carry on,
xox

Here’s some medicine for you — Happy Friday!

“People in France have a phrase: “Spirit of the Stairway.” In French: esprit d’Escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer but it’s too late.
So you’re at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So, under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party . . .
As you start down the stairway, then – magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put down. That’s the Spirit of the Stairway.”
― Chuck Palahniuk

I love this quote. I’ve lived this exact scenario.

My husband and his family are French and a French insult is like no other in the world. Much like fashion and food, they have elevated it to an art form.

What other culture has an entire phrase dedicated to it?

A French insult is subtle, cloaked in a back-handed compliment, and always accompanied by a smile. Well, a smirk really.
“That dress is very pretty…so much better than the one you wore the other night.”
Smirk, double cheek kiss and…scene.

Ouch.
It’s just that my take on this is a little bit different.
Although I’m the first person to utter bitch under my breath, I don’t waste my time searching for the crippling put down.
Listen, don’t get me wrong, I can eviscerate you verbally, I’m a writer.

It’s just that a put down or a jab seem… pedestrian—like the easy choice.

I’d rather be ironic and humorous.
It defuses the situation immediately. Magic comes to those that are funny, not insulted.

Besides, the French don’t know what to make of humor. Let’s face it— they wouldn’t recognize it if it bit them in the ass (now that’s funny)—they laugh at Jerry Lewis for godsakes!

If I get pissed, I get stupid. End of story.

You have to stay smart to be funny, and when the whole room laughs…no one remembers the insult. That’s magic!

“Thank you” leaning in, “I’m so comfortable—I’m not wearing any underwear.” Wink, double cheek kiss…and out.

You get the idea.

And don’t leave the party until you say your piece.

You can double back, there’s no statute of limitations on a party insult.

It doesn’t have to be “spirit of the stairway”. It can be “spirit of the driveway” or “spirit of the hallway.” “Spirit of the back patio” and “spirit of the powder room” work too.

Doesn’t matter. Let ‘em it have it.
With humor.

Carry on my crazy tribe,
xox

A famous photo of Picasso and his Muse

SUPERFLUOUS
su·per·flu·ous
so͞oˈpərflo͞oəs/
adjective
unnecessary, especially through being more than enough.

synonyms: surplus, nonessential, redundant, unneeded, excess, extra,

As you all may or may not know, I am an intuitive writer, meaning: I sit in stillness and basically say to the great cosmic soup of writers that reside in the ethers, “What do you want to write today?”

After almost three years of supplying content for this blog just about EVERYDAY—I—the me that thinks she’s a writer, would have run dry of ideas a LONG time ago!

So I’m smart. I outsource my material to those that are wiser, braver and funnier than I could ever hope to be.

My Muses.

These experts literally mine my brain for life experiences and then craft a story around them utilizing my language skills, which as you know, means raw and real with plenty of f-bombs.

I don’t flatter myself to think that this is a new story specific to me.

Muses have been around since time immemorial, and I know that all of the great art and music, literature and any role that Meryl Streep has inhabited, has come into the world this way. Some of us middle-men (receivers) are just more aware of the process than others.

So that being said, I have been told lately by one Muse in particular, that my blog is superfluous. Okay…

By not knowing the exact meaning of the word I took it to mean insignificant, and THAT hurt my feelings.

How could that be so if they are the ones writing everyday?

Well, because they have moved me to explore other intuitive pursuits. I’ll get to those in a minute.

It means unnecessary because it’s more than enough, redundant, extra—NOT insignificant at all.
Note to self: Janet, next time grab a dictionary before you get upset, and remember—muses always pick the perfect word. Every single time. It’s uncanny.

Still I was confused.

You see, I thought my future would revolve around this blog.
A book, maybe three. Spoken word events with me telling the stories found here.
I have become so intertwined with this blog that I don’t know where it ends and my true self begins. The essence of my Muses has integrated to the point that they are me—and I am them.

What that means is that I am either mentally ill, (the jury is still out) or just a fucking great conduit (I vote for the latter).

“We bamboozled you” chortled the most prominent Muse recently while I was out on my walk. She is a recent addition. An overachieving, comedic, bossy pants who has hijacked…well, everything.

As you know, my walks often prompt conversations and ideas, even arguments between my Muses and me. “Oh you did, did you?” I responded, silently of course.

“We got to you through the writing, you were open and eager enough to accept us coming through that way”.

She was right. I had been fighting the process of accepting the involvement of disembodied, outside forces since the early nineties when they had first made themselves known to me.
Back then it scared the shit out of me.
Me? A channel? No fucking way!

Twenty years later they got smart. “We’ll tell her we’re Muses,” they conspired.

A writer with a Muse? Sure! okay! I can do that. And off I went, full speed ahead into the blogosphere.

Bamboozelment achieved.

That was 2012 and ever since then I have sat my ass in the chair every day and waited for them. And they always show up.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Once you become an open conduit like that, it gets easier and easier for their thoughts to come through.
And not just when I’m in the chair. No, they chat away while I’m driving, in the shower, on my walks, going to sleep, waking up, even while I’m cooking.

There is a cacophony of—not really voices—but thoughts and opinions going through my head that I know are not my own. The difference is subtle, but I have been doing it long enough that I can differentiate who is who.

Sorry, I promised interesting and I can feel myself beating around the bush so here goes: People that have passed on, dead people, now talk to their loved ones (usually someone I know) through me. It’s really quite beautiful, not creepy in the least. The conversations, and they ARE conversations, are so filled with love and interesting, private information that they’ve even made the most skeptical among us—ME—a believer!

Also, in the last six months I have been introduced to the most brilliant, witty and profoundly deceased famous writer, who has captivated my imagination and bamboozled me into believing that my blog is superfluous and that our story, the story of the collaboration between she and I, which is mystical, and magical and hysterical—is my future.

That will be my book. That is the life that has chosen me.

She has been gracious enough to help write the dialogue for my musical, (that’s how she sucked up and gained my trust), she writes the best of my blog posts, and most recently she has been teaching me to write the screenplay of our relationship.

I don’t feel comfortable disclosing who it is yet. I’m sure I will sooner or later…Baby steps.

All this to say: The greatest impression she has made on me so far has been her sheer exuberance at being dead. She had NO idea it was so…interesting…and full of potential.

The fact that she continues to remain bossy, funny and highly opinionated; that she still gets to write via our collaboration, that she is able to focus on her loved ones, and reach out to people—has blown her mind—and subsequently, my own.

“Death has gotten such a bad rap” she reiterates over and over again laughing her wonderful laugh.

Don’t you love knowing that?

What a wild journey this life is, and I’m just beginning to see the purpose of it all.

Hope I didn’t freak you out too much, Carry on,
xox

I don’t think this needs any explanation.
Love you guys, Carry on,
xox

openingtothepossibiltiy.com