Grief

This post has been languishing in my drafts folder for over a week. It felt too negative to press send. Too raw and ragged. Not so much like me. I live to laugh, and this wasn’t funny. 

You see, we ignored all the stories, signs, and butt clenches that should have warned us away from foreign travel this summer—so I’m here to reinforce any trepidation you may be feeling about going abroad. Listen to it. And if you must travel, temper your expectations, pack your patience (in your carry on with an air tag) and steal yourself against disappointment, because if you’re at all like me—it will be your constant companion. XOX

In her novel Eat, Pray, Love, Liz Gilbert immerses us in her love of all things Italian, including the language and how gorgeous the words are in their full expression. At the end of her year-long journey of self-discovery, Liz chooses her favorite Italian word, attraversiamo—at that point a word dripping with nuance, (the literal definition being, to cross over)—as the word that best defines her. 

That being said, while I’d love nothing more than to brag to y’all that we are one millimeter as deep, insightful, and self-realized as Liz—we are not. Still, there are a couple of more pedestrian things my husband and I do share with Liz— her love of Italy, and the act of defining ourselves with a single Italian word. Ours is scarpetta. 

Now, by no stretch of the imagination is scarpetta as gorgeous, sexy, or fraught with hidden meaning as attraversiamo.

Nope, the Urban dictionary considers scarpetta Italian ‘street slang’.  In Italian, it means sopping up all the sauce left on your plate (or in the pot) with bread. Italian waiters love the word. Basically, anyone who feeds us in Italy (oh, who are we kidding, anywhere in the world), takes one look at us, hand us a basket of freshly baked bread, and whispers, “scarpetta” to us like a prayer. They identify us as kindred spirits. People who love to eat. Foodies. We are their kind of people—and believe me when I say—we do not disappoint. And while I am simultaneously humiliated and proud to admit that no plate has ever left our table that we haven’t scarpetta’d so clean they didn’t have to wash it—upon refection I like to think it says more about us and our quest to savor “everything good in life”, than gluttony, so please humor me.

Normally I would just leave us here, fat and happy, reminiscing about savory sauces, clean plates, warm bread, and everything wonderful about Italy. 

But we just returned from a short visit, and while we happily scarpetta’d our faces off all through Tuscany, I could not help but notice that just like the rest of the world, post-pandemic Italy is different. Travel sucks. Service sucks. The infrastructure is a gazillion times more broken than it normally is. Covid is everywhere, our luggage was missing for three days, and the locals, who are normally delightful, were all out of shits to give. Oh, and it was hotter than the any place without air conditioning has any right being.

I honestly don’t know what I was expecting, but I gotta tell ya, it hit me hard. 

Hidden just below the surface was so. much. shit. 

Chaos, turmoil, anger, and grief. 

And Italy reflected mine back to me in spades. 

I have a bestie, Steph, who is obsessed with the etymology of words, their origin, and how their meanings have changed throughout the years. Normally I leave that up to her, but she’s rubbed off on me enough that I remembered that the literal meaning of scarpetta is, “little shoe, or child’s shoe” which comes from thinking that just like dragging bread across a plate will sop up every scrap, a shoe will pick up whatever is on the ground. 

You know, the dregs, garbage…dirt…shit. And since that sounds awful, I’d always ignored that definition.

That, and the one that says, ‘scarpetta was born from scarcity. That the poor were only allowed the scraps’. Gahhhhhhh! 

Those just didn’t jive with the “savoring the good” parts of my narrative—until last week. And now, in this year of our Lord 2022, I regret to inform you that I must add the word scarpetta to my list of things that have turned more bitter than sweet.

The world is nothing like it was in the before-times. Not yet. And maybe,(gasp) it never will be. Don’t get me wrong, everybody’s pretending it is, they’re wearing their best Mona Lisa smiles,(possibly obscured by a mask) but it’s all smoke and mirrors with a cauldron of I’m-not-sure-what-the-fuck-is-happening roiling just below the surface.

Sometimes it smells like fear, other times rage, mostly it reeks of disappointment. 

But you know me, I’m the eternal optimist, the perennial Pollyanna, so I’ll be giving the world like, a hundred more tries to get it right. And I suppose that after a shit-ton of trials and errors, I’ll know right when I feel it. Until then, I’m determined to stay closer to home, manage my expectations, and hold out hope for the best.

Who knows, we have a wedding to attend next year in Positano. Maybe by that time, Italy, and the world, will be more warm bread than shit-shoe to me again.

Carry on, 
Xox Janet

“WOMEN WILL NOT THRIVE IF THE COST OF OUR BELONGING IS OUR SILENCE” ~ Jen Hatmaker

“MY dream would be if it felt like we’re all sittin’ around the kitchen table.”

If you ever come to my house and sit around my table, just know that there will be more food laid out than anybody has any business eating, there will be adult beverages for those who imbibe, and other means of hydration for those who do not, and there will be hours and hours of conversation punctuated frequently by cursing, snort laughs, various forms of hijinks—and maybe even some tears. 

All my favorite songs play in the background.

Taboo subjects are be broached.

Dogs fart indiscriminately.

Truths are told, maybe for the first time ever.

There are twinkle lights and candles.

Bullshit written on paper will get thrown into the fire.

Someone will quote poetry, another will sing a song they wrote, and dancing has been known to break out, mostly around the fun moon.

Chocolate becomes its own closing ceremony.

And time will cease to exist.

That’s the feeling I wanted for Croneology, the program for women over 50 that Geraldine and I cooked up this year of our Lord of Perpetual Isolation—and she could not have been more enthusiastic. 

“Women are dying for REAL connection!” she said, only without the exclamation point because she’s Canadian and they aren’t prone to such outbursts. But I am.

And THAT is why we compliment each other so beautifully. Reverently irreverent, we tackle ALL the subjects:

Transitions. Career, relationship, bikini to one piece, blonde to gray, all of them. 

Empty nests (grieve, celebrate, or both).

Adult kids who leave and come back (celebrate, grieve, or move).

Aging parents.

Eldership (What does that even mean?)

Our changing bodies (To HRT—OR—to not to HRT)

Sex after 50. (So much to discuss, SO MUCH!)

Knowing your worth, using your voice, living your largeness.

Don’t feel like a Crone yet? There are other names for women on their way to Crone. Is Autumn Queen a better fit? (Yeah, I figured)

What to do with unexpressed rage.

Menopause is not the end of your life as a woman AKA How to hot flash your way to an orgasm. Swear to god, one of our Crones does this!

And SO many other topics you’ve been dying to chew on with super cool women your age — and didn’t know where to find them.

Shameless Endorsement Alert:

“Picture a round table of women desiring to ripen into their full expression to the point of falling from the vine and becoming seeds for the next generation…such is the energy during Croneology.” — Joanie

Well, as you can imagine, when I read this I died. We both did. Here it was, our dream come true and written with all the best words in a way I could have never imagined. Needless to say, I could not, in a gazillion years, explain Croneology any better so I’m going to stop right here. If you want more details, dates for the next session, and answers to all your questions about me and Geraldine, head to Croneology.net

Just one more thing. If you’re a dude and you’ve made it this far, WOW and congratulations! AND, you may want to share this with the women in your life. To quote a previous Crone’s husband, “Whatever you’re doing Thursday nights in the Crone group, keep doing that.”

Need I say more?

Carry on,
xox

“Is it brave to try something new? Really? What if you succeed and that sucks. Maybe it’s all colossally stupid & horrendously painful.”
~My brain, the mean part.

Now, many of you know that I suck at so many things that the list, written front and back if unfurled, would reach to the moon and back—a couple of times.

Things like transitioning from sitting on the floor to standing. It is not a one-step process for me anymore. No longer can I just jump to my feet like I used to, now I have to approach it pretty much like parallel-parking. On a good day, it takes me three tries. Other days five. 

In other words—I’m not afraid to suck.

But over the past month, I’ve found out that I suck at something I had no idea you could suck at. 

I suck at succeeding at something new.

Now before you take a hammer to my face, let me explain. Last year, my Bff, and partner in all manner of spiritual thuggery and I had the audacity to throw some energetic spaghetti on the wall to see if it would stick. We’d come up with a Master Class we thought would remind women of the “cheat codes” they could use to navigate life. Namely, ignore what you’ve been taught—line up your energy first—then go. 

Inspired action. 

It felt rebellious in the best way. You know, the second definition. So hence the name—Sacred Rebellion. 

The program was loosely based on a spiritual initiation or rebirth I’d gone through back before Jesus could grow a beard, so it lasted nine months or the length of a pregnancy.

And it went well. Like really well.

I’ve been told that groups can be tricky. Women can be bitches.

There was none of that.

All of the women were trusting and incredibly open-hearted. And they ran with to—all of it—as Steph and I watched in awe while their lives changed in what can only be described as “miraculous” ways. 

They formed a community. They bonded. 

We all bonded. 

Then when we finally met in the physical in Tofino, in November—we fell madly in love.

                                                                          **********************************

At the end of the nine months, the day to say goodbye had the nerve to dawn bright and sunny while my mood was more of a match for a nuclear winter. Saying goodbye at that point was merely a ritual because these amazing women had already left the nest. 

They were ready to fly!

“We did it!’ Steph said in a call, “It’s time to turn over the reins.” I expected to feel jubilant. Wasn’t that what we’d designed? A program that launches them into the stratosphere where we’re just a distant memory? 

But apparently, success sucks. Almost as much as goodbye which I thought would be super easy. 

Sometimes I can be such an idiot.

So this feeling of Yeah! Hurrah Fuck! has followed me around for most of January, messing up my mojo and muddying up my mood—just like I would warn you it could do—you know, energetically.

I have the keys to the cage I’m in. I know this shit! I have all the spiritual tools I need to get out of this. It’s just that the other day when I was particularly vile—I sold them on EBay. 

One thing I know for sure is that “this too shall pass” but if you say that to me right now—I will hurt you.

We did it! Yeah, Hurrah! Fuck! 

And in one in a month we start again. I will bond and fall in love—and suck.

Pray for me.

Carry on,
xox

Friends,
Around this time of year, missing those who are dearly departed can be absolutely heart-wrenching. A while back I read this little story and even if it proves to be some sort of made-up myth, I don’t care!—it warmed my heart. It’s about things changing, about looking for our loved ones “where they are”, not where they used to be. As energy transformed. Energy that’s on an epic adventure.

You may not recognize them at first.

Maybe they’ll show up as the delicate snowflake that gently touches your cheek with the first snow. Or dog kisses.

They can even show up as the kind act of a stranger.

Rest assured they are everywhere, all you have to do is look for them where they are. Everywhere.
With so much love,
xox Janet

When he was 40, the renowned Bohemian novelist and short story writer FRANZ KAFKA (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Steglitz Park in Berlin, when he chanced upon a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. She and Kafka looked for the doll without success. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would look again.

The next day, when they still had not found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll that said, “Please do not cry. I have gone on a trip to see the world. I’m going to write to you about my adventures.”  

Thus began a story that continued to the end of Kafka’s life. 

When they would meet, Kafka read aloud his carefully composed letters of adventures and conversations about the beloved doll, which the girl found enchanting. Finally, Kafka read her a letter of the story that brought the doll back to Berlin, and he then gave her a doll he had purchased. “This does not look at all like my doll,” she said. Kafka handed her another letter that explained, “My trips, they have changed me.” The girl hugged the new doll and took it home with her.  

A year later, Kafka died.

Many years later, the now grown-up girl found a letter tucked into an unnoticed crevice in the doll. The tiny letter, signed by Kafka, said, “Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.”

I❤️this.

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

It’s uncanny. The way certain people in your life, even celebrities, can say or do or post just the right thing at the right time. Like they’re living a life parallel to your own. Liz Gilbert does that a lot. We have some kind of cosmic bond that was anchored by a hug way back in San Jose at an Oprah event.

Anyway, I too woke up this morning in a tangle. I’ve been tangled for a while now. Nothing as devastating as losing a partner like Liz, mine has to do with family and dysfunction, obligation, boundaries, and playing the role of the heartless turd, which is a nickname I gave myself last week before they all could.

When my mind is in distress it makes meditation a Herculean task. Like jumping rope without a bra, all my negative thoughts slap me around. I forget about my heart. I don’t know how I can because it hurts so much, but I do. And I know better.

The world seems very raw to me these days. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think so. Perhaps these words from Liz will remind you, as they did with me—to rest in the heart. Doesn’t that sound better than a boob slap?
I Love you, Liz.

Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones:
I woke up this morning with my mind in a tangle, and my emotions in a storm.

I lay there in bed for a long time, wrestling with my thoughts and fighting hard against my feelings. But I was losing ground. No matter how hard I used my powerful THOUGHTS to try to extract myself from my other powerful THOUGHTS, it didn’t work. My THOUGHTS just got darker, and then my THOUGHTS about my THOUGHTS got more panicked and distressed until new and worse THOUGHTS arose, and now we have a tornado, folks.
(This has happened to me before. But only once or twice.)

My mind thought: I NEED MORE THOUGHTS, TO FIX THESE THOUGHTS! THINK HARDER! FIND A SOLUTION TO EVERYTHING! STOP THIS! GET CONTROL! DIFFERENT THOUGHTS! BETTER THOUGHTS!

Then I remembered: I cannot use my mind to help my mind when my mind is in distress.
At these moments, only the heart can help.

So.
My heart stepped in quietly and said to my tired mind: “Come and rest your tangle here with me. I’ll take care of you, just the way you are.”

My mind said, “But, but, BUT —“

My heart said, “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

Then we all rested together — me, mind, heart.

No solving happened this morning.
Solving doesn’t always have to happen. Sometimes it can’t. Sometimes all you need is a safe place to rest.

HEART.

Then I got up and drew this picture, for the next time I forget.
Onward.
LG

We are up in B.C this week. At an idyllic place called Tofino where the scenery is so splendid, it leaves me speechless (and that is not easy!). Our intention was to uplug, stroll the beach, nap & read, experience any kind of weather other than the African savannah heat that has plagued LA recently—and celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary.

But today is September 11th.

It’s two days after our wedding day. Just like it always was and always will be.
Just like it was back in 2001 when, as a country, we lost our innocence.
I remember that day as a collective gut punch.
Sorrow on a level I will not soon forget.

And so, no matter where we travel to celebrate love, this day will follow us; our narrative as a couple forever woven into the fabric of the heavy wet coat I put on every year around this time.

Back in 2001, I found it viscerally impossible to be happy after the morning of Sept. 11th. I went from being blissed out—to feeling sad, vulnerable and scared. It changed everything. The viscosity of the air—my understanding of life—and what if means to feel “safe”. It cast a pall over what should have been the happiest time of my life. Even today, all of these years later it tugs at me, trying to recreate that same level of loss.

I was walking on the beach this morning thinking, “It’s September eleventh. Who am I to be so happy?”

Then the voice in my head answered back, “Who are you NOT to? Life is short. Carpe Diem, Seize the day.” And I’m reminded of sixteen years ago, and my sweet, brand new husband of two days, consoling my inconsolable self. “All of those people would want us to be happy and enjoy life”, he said, trying to pull me out of the abyss. “They would if they could.”

And eventually, I believed him.

So the years have worn all of the sharp edges of sadness smooth like time has a tendency to do, turning it over and over like a pebble in a stream—transforming it into a quiet melancholy. But even that is fleeting these days. It visits only for a moment. Then, I see a dog running and smiling on the beach and happiness bubbles up from my feet and rushes to my face and I start to smile—and just at the point where in the past I would start to feel fragile, I ask myself, “Who am I to be so happy? And now myself answers loud and clear—”Who am I NOT to.”

And the circle of life continues…

Carry on,
xox

This fascinates me!
We all know how different the tears we cry when we step on a Lego feel from the ones we shed at the end of a relationship.

But who knew that they actually looked so dramatically different. Like little salt snowflakes.

Clearly, this is more proof of the mind/body connection. Obviously, the body rearranges the salts, antibodies, and lysozymes according to how we feel.

We live in amazing times. Don’t you love science?

PS. Can anyone explain “tears of change” to me? Are those the same as frustration, fear, a bad haircut?

Carry on,
xox

This photo series by Rose-Lynn Fisher captures tears of grief, joy, laughter and irritation under the microscope.

Tears aren’t just water. They’re primarily made up of water, salts, antibodies and lysozymes, but the composition depends on the type of tear. There are three main types – basal tears, reflex tears, and weeping tears.

As you can see, they can look incredibly different when evaporated and placed under a microscope.

More info: http://bit.ly/RJqvK7

Images by Rose-Lynn Fisher, via the Smithsonian Magazine and ScienceAlert.

This felt apropos, don’tcha think? It may take a while. Maybe even four years, but this situation is only temporary. Let’s choose happiness in the meantime. We have the power to make that choice.
Love ya!
xox

What do you do when you get depressed?

I’ve learned through the years that the best way to talk myself down from the ledge is to remind myself This too shall pass by repeating the mantra This_________ is only temporary.

It seems my endurance of all things sucky is fueled by the fact that I’m certain that nothing lasts forever.
Even my acne finally decided to hit the road.

This weekend during Rob Bell’s inspiring talk, he reiterated that philosophy with this quote: Depression comes when you believe that tomorrow will look just like today.

Doesn’t that make sense? And lighten your load?

My shoulders come down off my ears when I say that out loud.

Depression comes when you believe that tomorrow will look just like today. I can change that, I can turn my ship around.

To me, if I want to hitch myself to any emotion, it would be hope; because inside hope is change, and if I don’t like how things are panning out right now I can have the certainty that they will change.

The best thing about this belief is that WE don’t have to figure out HOWit’s going to change, we just have to KNOW that it will.

Haven’t you ever been low on cash and then someone who owed you money paid you back unexpectedly?

When that relationship with your soul mate, love of your life crashed and burned ten years ago someone else came along, right? And they were even better for you.

When you were so sick last fall, you recovered. You may have had that hacking cough for a month, but even that eventually went away. You probably didn’t even notice when it left.

See, that’s the thing, change is sneaky – and it’s humble. It doesn’t call attention to itself. It. just. happens.

I had a job at a grocery store after my divorce when I was in my twenties. I’d actually had it since I was fifteen in one capacity or another. At the time of my divorce I was a checker. Then I worked the night crew, stocking the shelves while you all slept, for extra money and to allow me to pursue acting, running to auditions during the day. I could work as much or as little as I wanted depending on my level of greed at any given moment.

At a certain point, around my thirtieth birthday to be exact; I decided, probably over alcohol, that I’d had enough of acting – AND the grocery business. I had NO idea what would come next for me, all I knew was that if tomorrow looked the same for much longer, I was going to be forced to join the circus to shake things up.

One afternoon while I was lying around moping, eating an entire pumpkin pie; my mom (who was well acquainted with my dissatisfaction with life) called to say she’d read about an antique mall that was opening on Melrose and was looking for part-time help. I loved antiques, so I immediately called, got an interview, and was hired on the spot.

I worked at the Melrose Antique Mall (which closed in the early nineties) by day, and at the market at night for about a year, until one day as a fluke, one of the girls that worked with me at the mall happened to mention a job she’d turned down working with real jewelry, at Antiquarius. It wasn’t the direction she wanted to take her life, but it sounded amazing to me, so I called, interviewed, and the rest is history.

I managed that store for just under twenty years and it was one of the unexpected joys of my life.

If you had asked me any day along that two-year transition what was next for me, I couldn’t have told you. All I knew was that even though I’d been working at the market for fifteen years, tomorrow could look different for me, it HAD to, and it kept me from falling into a deep pit of despair.

Not that deep pits of despair are unfamiliar to me, I just know by this stage of the game that there is a bottom—a ladder—and sunshine that can shine on our faces—if we’ll just look up.

Believe a change is on the way—because it is—THAT I can guarantee.

Love you,
xox

* If you feel you are, or have been diagnosed as clinically depressed, please seek psychological treatment.

This is an essay by my bad-ass, snort-laugh inducing friend Mel Maure. She can be funny right now because well, she’s Canadian.

I figured it would be perfect for today because maybe, if you’re like me, you’ve just emerged from your own twenty-four hour tantrum, you’re suffering from a terrible case of post-election tight-assery and you need to lighten up and just fucking say “thank you.”

Thank you Mel! Just like chocolate lava cake—you are deliciously gooey on the inside and always hit the spot.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be:
1) Searching for my sense of humor.
2) Taking back all of the power I gave away to this election.

Carry on,
xox

I throw spiritual tantrums. There. I said it.

What does said tantrum look like? Think of the ugly cry steeped in performance enhancing drugs. There is gnashing of teeth, snot runners and long bouts of standing in the corner of my stylish bedroom banging my forehead against the wall. And let’s not forget the weird keening sound that rises from my clogged throat.

When I throw down like this it’s not that I have been diagnosed with some raging incurable case of gout or have suddenly been forced to live in a cardboard box.

These beatific blowouts arise when I have not received exactly what I have prayed, asked, pleaded, lamented for, forgetting that my squirrelesque brain may not be the most reliable source of knowing what I need when I need it. I have a history of embarrassing romantic relationships to prove that.

In this unnerving place of wait and trust, I convince myself that my disconnection from the divine engine is terminal and there isn’t even a Kenny G tune to lull me while I sit on hold. I’ve been known to patiently wait at least three hours and fifteen minutes in this interminable holding pattern. But who’s counting?

In an attempt to ease this unsightly spoiled behaviour, I made a pact with the Cosmic Smoothie — what I think of as Universal Superfood, or God if you prefer. My somewhat anemic pact went something like this:
“I will refrain from pitching fits when the rate of jaw-dropping blessings coming into my granular existence is slow,” I vowed.

“When I meditate and don’t feel the rash of exhilarated connection to the Universe I jones for like a kismet junkie, I will be patient,” I promised.

“When the beasts of the forest are not swooping, roaming or stepping gingerly onto my path as unabashed signs that the Universe is there to soothe my drama du jour, I will be a quiet little angel of contentment,” I assured.
This sacred accord lasted three hours and twenty-seven minutes.

So why am I so quick to stop, drop and bang my head on the ground like a spoiled kid in Walmart’s toy section?
Simple. My memory sucks.

I am a dementiated, addled, lucky-if-I’m-wearing-pants kind of spiritual adventurer. And I don’t believe I am alone in this tendency of being lackadaisical. I refuse to believe I am the only one whose heart is akin to a sieve on good days, unable to retain the fullness. And on bad days is more like a defunct smelly well — the Stephen King kind with a creepy clown hunched and waiting at the bottom.

Being an impatient sort of soul does nothing to further the cause.

Once again, I am fairly certain I am not the only one who plugs her ears and hums a tune to drown out a greater knowing. A wisdom that says it’s not the best idea for us, in our limited fallible skin-suit, to drink from the cosmic fire hose.
So what is a petulant, forgetful, impatient spiritual sojourner to do?

First step: get up and stop thrashing about in the dirt. It’s contaminated with all kinds of bullshit. And by bullshit, I mean that potent noxious blend of fear and doubt. The only thing that brand of dirt grows is mould and poisonous fungi.

Second step: Record, write, make cave drawings if you have to, of all the times when you were doused with magic and thrumming with exhilaration. And if you are one of the more efficient spiritual travellers who keeps a log of every step and has a slide show to prove it, be nostalgic. Remember. Pour over every detail like an old high school football QB reliving the glory days. Caress every stitch across the pigskin of your divine moments.

Third step: Enjoy the reprieve and say thank you. It’s quite simple if we think of it like food. We cannot eat nonstop…God knows I’ve tried…at some point we all need to stop and digest what we’ve swallowed. Assimilate the sacred nutrients. When I skip this rest and digest place, I often mistake a wicked case of gas for the energy of the universe moving through me. It’s not a pleasant affair.

Fourth and final step: Have fun. For the love of God; quite literally, unclench.
Tight-assery is not a divine construct and no one wants to hang out with a downer or tight-ass, except for other tight-ass downers. Why would the Cosmic Smoothie be any different? There is no room for amazing things and mind-numbing blessings in the realm of the anal-retentive.

The final caveat to all of this: we are bound to find ourselves in the throws of petulance again and again. Our greatness cannot help but thrash inside the constraints of our humanness.

So if you see a fellow traveller rolling around in the dirt, producing bizarre mewling noises, please kneel down and whisper in her ear that she needs to stand up now. It would do her well to say thank you. It will restore her to remember all the jaw-dropping moments. For this invites more of the same.

For more flawed thoughts and very human fumblings from Melanie
https://medium.com/@melmaure/the-spiritual-tantrum-of-a-kismet-junkie-5f6cc779df07#.ugt3ruknx