guidance

Words to live by. Happy Sunday!

Xox

When Was The Last Time You Felt Proud of Yourself?

“If I weren’t too proud, I’d boast of my exaggerated opinion of myself.”
― Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic

Sounds narcissistic right? I can remember in my early 30’s a spiritual teacher advised me to do something wayyyyy out of my comfort zone.
“The accomplishment of this task will make you feel proud of yourself, and you haven’t felt that since you were a child. It will do you some good.”
Afterword; I did feel proud. It did do me some good and I liked the feeling.
We do feel it as children until it’s ridiculed out of us. That’s a freaking shame.
I get it. It is a tightrope act and it’s not supported AT ALL by society. On the contrary, we are pushed to accomplish Herculean feats in our lives. Balancing the demands of family, career and the feeding of our souls, all without displaying one iota of self satisfaction.

Pride in yourself, or a sense of satisfaction, goes hand in hand with having self esteem. You should pat yourselves on the back if you get something right.
It’s a f#* king miracle that we get any of it right. But be warned: If you go too far, then you are acting proud or arrogant. I’m sorry, but that is a load of old, outdated, stinky BS.

The old maxim “Pride comes before a fall” plays on the fact that when you are proud of what you have, you are also at risk: having something means you have something to lose.
I guess they meant friends.

It’s totally acceptable to be “proud parents”or “proud of the graduate.”
That’s sad, because it just reinforces getting validation of yourself….from the outside.
God forbid you feel some pride on the inside. I like that. It rhymes.
I think we should tweet that: Feel some pride on the inside!

I’m a big proponent of feeling proud of yourself. I highly recommend it.
I give you all permission, just like that teacher gave me.
Just be quiet about it lest someone turn you in to the “Who do you think you are” police.
You can tell me….. I’ll give you props.
Here, I’ll share some of mine first, to walk the talk. Try not to judge.

I’m often the proudest of myself when I do something I don’t want to do, or complete a task that I couldn’t even pay somebody to do, it’s so hellacious.
I whooped and hollered with pride, while dancing and giving myself a high five after navigating the labyrinth of automated prompts and reaching a human being, during my tech problems last week. I also took pride in that fact that there had been minimal cursing……..on my part.

I feel proud after I get my ass to the gym most days. That’s epic for me.

I just helped someone anonymously. Not just me, there were a bunch of us. That person will never know who came to her aid and it still feels good. So, that good feeling, that warmth you feel; it’s some of the liquid love that your heart releases AND I’m gonna go out on a limb and name the other part of it.
Pride. There. I said it.

I was recently typecast as that drunken bitch, Miss Hannigan in a small production of Annie and I’m proud. I’m proud that at 56 I can still tackle all the physicality, singing, dancing and rehearsals required. I’m also proud of my complete lack of vanity displayed in this role (see above).
It’s okay to feel proud when you’re courageously unselfconscious. 
I give us all permission.

I feel some pride every day when I hit “post” for this blog. Writing something daily is a huge commitment and one I do not take lightly. Consistency breeds familiarity, and it’s important to me that you know who I am. Warts, boa and all. Authenticity is the new currency in my life.
I have pride in this work, and the fact that it touches people.
I do do a daily, sometimes hourly Ego check. I make sure my hats still fit and that my maniacal laugh is under control.

There’s other stuff, I’m sure, but I don’t want to get pushed off the tightrope into the rocks below. God forbid.

Let’s start a new movement, shall we? Where we foster good healthy self esteem and support self pride. Where we don’t sneer at the occasional “pat yourself on the back” or the “self five”, as I like to refer to it. Let’s all Feel some pride on the inside!
Don’t panic, we will continue to remain ever vigilant in our efforts to not go overboard and ruin it for everybody.
…Donald Trump.

What have you done lately that made you proud of yourself? It’s okay, you can tell me, no one will know. It’ll be our secret. Then I can give you a “virtual five.” I’d love to hear about in the comments 😉

Xox

As I write this, I can feel the soft, cool underbelly of the big, older dog snoozing on my feet.
The puppy appears to be asleep except her eyebrows give her away. They signal that she is following my every move. She is plotting another caper and is patiently waiting for me to quit writing, get up, and leave.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”

That is their credo, their theme song, and the canine unspoken agreement.
If I’d let them get tattoos, that’s what they’d say.
But that statement gives ME a pit in my stomach. It sparks a crusty, old, unkind memory that hits me like a sucker punch.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”, is a quote is from the cover of a book about dogs.
It’s kinda funny, but it got me to feeling and thinking, which makes me run to start writing. Isn’t it weird how something as innocuous as the title of a dog book can trigger an emotion?

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is a declaration of ownership of…the scraps.
The stuff that is tainted enough that it isn’t fit for public consumption.
It can’t even pass the five-second rule.
Most likely the crap on the floor came off the bottom of someone’s shoe — literally.

“I call it! It’s mine!” That’s fine for Fido, but not for us.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
It is the cover page and the first rule in the Dog’s Life Handbook.
Not ours. Our first rule is “Call Your Mother.”

But what about us? How many times have you and I settled for the scraps in life?
From the blouse at Target that is marked down to 99 cents but is missing a button, (which as much as we say we’re going to—we never replace), to accepting pity sex from your ex-boyfriend?

That shitty “bridge” job that was just supposed to get you through the summer?
What happened? It’s five years later, why are you still there?

I’ve been so broke I have lived off scraps. Specifically, days of leftovers salvaged from one meal or my sister’s “doggie bag” from El Toritos. The irony of the name does not escape me.

I drove a piece of shit car that wanted nothing more in its life than to shimmy sideways.

I’ve also settled for the scraps of affection thrown to me in a dying relationship.
I’ve been seated at the table. I’ve enjoyed the love feast. But when I sensed the end, I did not push away and say my goodbyes with dignity. I dove for the scraps.
Ouch. Oh, hi Fido, funny to see you down here.

I have pretty healthy self-esteem, but there have been some glaring lapses.
I wasn’t alone. Gwen Stefani of the band No Doubt had a hit song “Bath Water” during that time.
Part of the chorus being: ‘Cause I still love to wash in your old bath water, Love to think that you couldn’t love another, Share a toothbrush….you’re my kind of man.’  UGH.

At a certain point, I’m gonna say around my mid thirties, I said: no more scraps.
And I meant it.

No more second-hand clothes, no more beat up chairs-full-of-promise fished out of dumpsters. Enough of the stuff left on the curb because it didn’t make the cut at the neighborhood yard sale. Enough of the sloppy seconds from lovers. I was finished being broke, I was done with settling.
I deserved better than that. I deserved the best.
The best love.
The best life.
The best-made plans.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is my dog’s credo, I’m clear about that now and they can have it.

Tell me, have you ever settled for the scraps?

Carry on,

Xox

The Vessel Of Divine Mischief
This was on Caroline Myss’ Facebook page yesterday morning. She posts a prayer daily. I follow her because; well; because she rocks. I’ve read all her books and I’ve seen her speak many times. Her writings and lectures prompt profoundly deep and thoughtful soul work. It is neither frivolous nor trite. It is not for the dabbler. I know her to be easy to laugh in person, but not a cut up….AT ALL. There is no inner stand up comedian seeking an audience in Caroline. That’s why I loved this Soooooooo much.

Caroline’s Daily Prayer:
Today I ask for the courage to be a holy troublemaker, a vessel of divine mischief. People far too often assume that there is no humor in spiritual guidance, no “lightness in Light” but the truth is, it is we who are heavy, serious, and burdened by the fears that drape human existence. Let me be a vessel for divine mischief today.

Yes! SHAZAM! That is my mission statement. I am the vessel of divine mischief. My patron saints are:
Our Lady of Perpetual Naughtiness
Our Lady of Divine Irreverence
Our Lady of the Perpetual Potty Mouths
And finally: Our Ladies of General Bitchiness, Brattiness and Snarkiness
My divine mission is to deliver spiritual humor, because this shit can be mind numbingly serious. Don’t get me wrong, I have a deep respect for the material, I just think the delivery system can be lightened up a bit.
Yesterday, I went on WordPress Reader to look up the category of Spiritual Humor.
That is how I tag my blog. I wanted to see what the other vessels of divine mischief were up to. Guess what? I’m the only one.
What?
How can that be?
No other Holy Troublemakers?
That’s all at once awesome……and a crime.

When I first started writing, a year and change ago, it was very different. You can go way back and look. The writing was straightforward, clear and succinct. It wasn’t the least bit funny. The muse trolled my brain for wisdom accrued and then delivered it in the written word, without any trace of my personality whatsoever.
On a motorcycle ride in September of last year, we had a very close call.
(look up Total Loss of Control, the links are not working)
I was still posting every day, so I told the muse to write about the experience. She put out her cigarette in her gin and tonic, gave me the once over and told ME to write it: In my own words. People dig that shit.
Gulp

As I’ve continued to use more of my own life experiences and continue to write in my own voice, that naughty, sassy, funny part of me has shown up.
I’ve become the vessel of divine mischief.
What I write may sometimes be inappropriate and I might not appeal to everyone. Do I want to appeal to everyone? Most certainly not.
I’ve gotten the courage to be the Holy Troublemaker for all the world to read.

When I tell people at dinner parties that I write a Spiritual Humor blog, they look……relieved.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Deepak, Eckart and Marianne, but man, they can be intense.” they’ll lean in and whisper, while chewing in my ear.
I agree. This was the blog I wanted to read, so I had to write it.
People DO dig this shit, and I dig you people.

I worship at the altar of several other writers who I think should be in the Spiritual Humor category, even the Hall Of Fame.
Anne Lamott, Tosha Siver, and Liz Gilbert. I also love anything the late Nora Ephron ever wrote. She would have killed it in this category. But at least on WordPress for right now, I have it to myself.

Tell me, do you love yourselves some spiritual humor? Since you’re here, I’m guessing you do. Does it make it easier to digest? What’s off limits? Anything?
I’d love to hear about it in the comments below.

Xox

“I had tended to view waiting as mere passivity. When I looked it up in my dictionary, however, I found that the words passive and passion come from the same Latin root, pati, which means “to endure.” Waiting is thus both passive and passionate. It’s a vibrant, contemplative work. It means descending into self, into God, into the deeper labyrinths of prayer. It involves listening to disinherited voices within, facing the wounded holes in the soul, the denied and undiscovered, the places one lives false. It means struggling with the vision of who we really are in God and molding the courage to live that vision.”
~Sue Monk Kidd~

Sue Monk Kidd was on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday a couple of weeks ago. I’ve loved her for almost 25 years.

Her most famous book is “The Secret Life of Bees”, but I became familiar with her after reading her spiritual memoir “When The Heart Waits” in 1990. That was a time when not too many people were brave enough to write about their spiritual journey of transformation. My copy is water stained from reading in the bath, highlighted with a yellow marker, has my insights written in the margins and is dog-eared almost beyond recognition. I ate it up with a spoon when she wrote that waiting for your purpose is a sacred endeavor.

Waiting is not always passive. It can be a passageway from one way of being to another. She gave me permission to wait for the reveal.

These days, even more so than 25 years ago, waiting, being still, has gotten a bad rap. Inactivity is THE cardinal sin of the 21st century.

She used the analogy of the caterpillar in the chrysalis. If you poke a hole to check on its progress, the butterfly’s wings will be underdeveloped, and it will be unable to fly. The same thing happens if you try to help it break through. Every second, every step of the process is critically important to the transformation…and the survival of the butterfly.

Just let that one sink in……All the way down to your toes.

This quote from “When The Heart Waits” is one of my favorites.
I need to add it to the list.

“When the heart weeps for what it has lost, the Spirit laughs for what it has found” 

That makes my heart stop every time.

When Sue had her chat with O, she relayed an insight she had around 50.
She realized she had been a seeker all of her 20’s, 30’s and 40’s. In that respect we are kindred souls. But recently she’d admonished herself.

Enough seeking, she needed to “find” something.

It was time to become A Finder.

That just about made my head explode. Now I get it.
That’s what happens in your 50’s. The energy you expended as a seeker is replaced with the energy of “finding” and sharing. You’ve sought, delved and explored. You’ve attend countless retreats, seminars, conferences and sweat lodges. You’ve discovered along the way you DID get some answers. You have found nuggets of truth. Things you KNOW FOR SURE. All your seeking has borne fruit. That fruit is deliciously ripe and ready to share.

It’s the reason I write this blog.
I used to spend hour upon hour, day after day reading everything spiritual I could get my hands on. At one time I had over three hundred spiritual and self-help books. I have given half of them away.
Now I spend hours writing what I’ve learned.

I will always be on a journey of asking WHY? I’m hard-wired for it. But I’m also hard-wired to share anything and everything I know.
THAT is the payoff, the pay-it-forward of the seeker. We get to say: Hey, you wanna know what helped me? Have you read this or seen that?

I feel like in our second acts we are now Finders.
Things start to make some sense. Not everything, I still can’t wrap my brain around vows of chastity and silence.
What I HAVE found is that I am much more willing to wait and see how things work out.
I’m not perfect, some days I still want to see the progress inside the chrysalis.
I am forever a work in progress. I will always be asking questions. But I’m embracing my inner Finder.

I feel like she has a lot to share.

Tell me what you know about waiting. How comfortable are you with being passively passionate or passionately passive? Lol.

Xox

We first met on December 18, 2000. Then he died. On this, the nineteenth anniversary of our first blind date here’s a recounting of just what happened from back in 2014. This is our very personal Christmas miracle.

“Life is a dream walking. Death is going home.” – Chinese proverb

He died for a minute and 56 seconds. His heart stopped and his breathing ceased. I’d just say 2 minutes, but hospitals and doctors are exact. They are to-the-second precise. So, when he tells the tale; he died for a minute and 56 seconds, because four seconds more would be way too long.
Just writing this makes my eyes well up.

He…is my husband.

In December of 2000 he contracted bacterial spinal meningitis on an airplane. Or as I now call them, flying, metallic, germ delivery systems.
He’s a car guy, often referred to as a gear head. That second week of December he took a one-way flight from LA to Houston to look at a car, which he then purchased and drove back with a buddy. Trouble was, he boarded that flight with a bad head cold. It was mid-December, everyone’s sick with something around the holidays. Right?
As luck would have it, that was just the route an opportunistic virus used to infect him. The meningitis rode in, like a sinister villain in a spaghetti western, on the back of streptococcus pneumonia. Once the pneumonia had chewed up his lungs, to the point where they resembled snowflakes, all the meningitis had to do was dismount, and stroll on in.

Meningitis is a jerk.

He’s a fragile, lazy, coward of a virus. If everything isn’t just so, he takes his badass self and leaves town. But pneumonia is efficient and the path had been prepared, so he set up camp in my husband’s lungs.

Three days after he got back to LA, as pneumonia went about doing its dirty work, he felt pretty lousy. Meanwhile, meningitis was still lurking in the shadows. He felt lethargic. By then he was probably running a fever, but men don’t check that stuff. He just got out of bed, showered and dressed. He had plans that night.
He had arranged a blind date with someone who was recommended by a friend’s girlfriend. She sounded…intriguing. And she had big boobs. Yep, he was just that shallow.

That someone was me.

The blind date story is epic and meant for another day. We got married nine months later, so I’m gonna say it went pretty well.

I’ve always been fascinated by near-death experiences (NDE’s.) Now I live with someone who’s had one and he’d be the first to tell you, it profoundly changed him, it set him free.

Two days after our first date, he drove the new car up to San Jose, with his dog, to celebrate the Christmas holidays with his younger brother, his wife and their two young kids.
He was driving five hours to cook the Christmas bird.

If a turkey is involved you drop everything and call my husband. He is the turkey Whisperer. THE turkey cooker extraordinaire. The next morning he did all the prep, in between long stints in bed. He was trashed, feeling sicker with each passing hour and had developed the headache from hell. Now, he figured, he had a hell of a bad flu bug.

I will remind you, my husband is a BIG guy. He’s 6’3″ 230 lbs of big handsome, and that helped save his life.
When he makes a promise, he keeps it. It’s one of the things I admire about him, and damn it, he cooked that turkey. From his sickbed, even though he never had a bite.

The next day he got out of bed once and collapsed. The paramedics were called and he was rushed to a local teaching hospital that was affiliated with Stanford.

During transport, the paramedics called him Ralph. “Stay with us Ralph. Any pain Ralph?” My husband’s name is Raphael. I’ve been told they do that to piss you off and keep you conscious and talking. It worked. “My name is Raphael” he kept correcting them.
Genius.
But it was short-lived.
His brother told the doctor all he knew, that Raphael had complained of a terrible headache and the flu. He used to have migraines but this was different. The ER was about to send him home with migraine meds, but his brother refused. He’d never seen Raphael that ill. HE really saved his brother’s life.

Just about that time, it ceased to matter. His blood test came back with an astronomical white cell count, and he had gone into a coma. Now suspecting meningitis, they did a spinal tap. So normally our spinal fluid is clear and under pressure. Normal is: 70 – 180 mm H20, his reading was over 400 and the fluid was thick and black, like oil. As the story goes, it was right about this point in the evening where he flat-lined. After they brought him back, they wrote TERMINAL on his chart, pumped him full of morphine and wheeled him into a room to die.

It was during this time that Raphael remembers a foggy, all-white environment, no walls, ceiling or floor. He could see all sides at once. The best thing was, he was out of pain, his head no longer hurt.

He was looking at three beds which contained three Raphael’s.

The Raphael on the right was saying: I am suffering, why would I stay in this bed, I want to go where it’s peaceful. Where there’s no pain. Pointing at a bright white tunnel.
He represented the physical self.

The Raphael in the bed on the left said: Go ahead and go! Quit complaining. That’s fine, it really affects no one except those that are left behind. He represented the intellectual self.

The Raphael in the middle was the observer. He just listened to the two others arguing. He just WAS. No attachment. He represented the soul.

That white tunnel was the path home. It was a silent, pain-free, deliciously peaceful place where he wanted to stay forever.
But they started his heart and he came back.

That night a female doctor very much like Dr. House from TV, took a look at his chart. She specialized in ONLY terminal cases. Since it was a teaching hospital, she was allowed to literally throw everything in her extensive medical arsenal at these patients, searching for a cure. It was equal parts medicine, alchemy, and wishful thinking. She did everything she could, then she just handed it over to a higher power. Her success rate was 3%. I know, calm down, they were terminal after all.

It was the fight of his life and he was on the ropes. At that point, his size was the only thing saving him.

By that time the hospital had reported their diagnosis of bacterial meningitis to the CDC. Thirteen people from his flight to Houston had come down with it, four had died. Raphael’s brother was told to get his whole young family tested. It was a stressful, scary time.

I remember hearing it on the news. It struck me because one of the women who died was my age at the time, 43. Shit. I have to get on a plane in five days, I worried.

Since he was away, I had no idea he was even sick. We only had our one blind date, with a promise of a second on December 28th. He never showed. I called twice, which was only mildly desperate, and both times his cellphone went right to message. So I left for New Year’s Eve in Miami. When I didn’t hear from him by the end of the first week of January I told my friends, “He better be abducted by aliens or dead by the side of the road, because those are the only two excuses I’ll accept.”

Yikes! We still laugh about that.

His medical file is as thick as a phone book with the lists of drugs and scans his doctor administered that first night. There is even a straight jacket included. She did say he put up a hell of a fight to live. Apparently so.
By the middle of the second day of her treatment, he was slightly improved. She determined he would live, but he’d be a vegetable from the cerebral fluid pressure and its horrible condition.
No brain could never recover from that.

His family, his siblings, who were all now at the hospital, looked at each other to determine who would care for him and for how many months.

A couple of days later, with the determined doctor holding one hand, one of his sisters holding the other, he woke up. Just like that.

Startled, the doctor shooed everyone out of the room and started asking him questions, which he answered…perfectly…in detail. Not just, What’s your name? But since he’s an architect, and French, she quizzed him on the architectural intricacies of the Pompidou Centre, even speaking French with him. It was evident he could see her, he could hear her, and he was still his whip-smart self. THAT she could never explain. She considered him a miracle. Everyone at the hospital did. Honestly.

Finally, he asked what day it was. When he found out it was January, he said: I have to call Janet. For those standing around him, some doubt set in, because no one had heard of any Janet. They thought he had an imaginary friend. Uh oh, brain damage.

Nope, apparently, infatuation survives near death. I love that part of the story. It’s like a movie.

He remembers dying as easy, with nothing to fear.
He recalls that he had a decision to make, and either way everything was going to be okay.
Afterword, all the outpouring of love, together with the morphine, broke open his heart—and he was a changed man.

Luckily, he decided to stay and give me a second date, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Happy nineteen years baby! I love you.

Carry on,
Xox

Last week I wrote about revisiting past traumas for healing.
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/?p=2345
That’s been working out well. The puppy is her demon self again.

This week has been about revisiting chaos…and finding, or better yet, restoring order.
At least I’m trying. And to be fair I’ve succeeded in several endeavors.
One of them has NOT been this blog.
Holy shit on a cracker; the transfer of this blog to a different host, and the cosmetic changes were supposed to appear overnight, while most of us slept; like the Easter bunny. Sorry Thailand.
But they have not and for that I’m sorry. One email read: it was like my parents moved and forgot to tell me! Ouch. I am so sorry…….cupcake?
In hindsight, this was probably not the week to try this. Lesson learned.
Remember the post about just accepting “what is”?
Yeah…trying to practice what I preach.
Just bear with me, don’t jump ship and be a fair weather follower.

Nevertheless…
I am known for being pretty darn organized. Not like my sister organized, but close.
Martha Stewart kneels at my sister’s feet in deference.
There is a black file cabinet, in the back office that is in a perpetual state of organized chaos. You know, like that drawer in the kitchen.
There has been some denial disguised as paperwork, that has been screaming for my attention, and it finally received it this week. You know that sinking feeling as you walk by that shit? I’m determined to un-sink my life right now.
I blame this freaky energy.
Hot pink Post It’s are like 911, top priority, PAY ATTENTION TO ME NOW, don’t keep walking; in my system.
One folder that has a big hot pink Post It on it, is labeled Domaine Names.
That folder is filthy dirty and all curled in on itself, like a dead spider, after being salvaged from the water of my store’s flood. On the outside of the folder, barely legible, are all the account passwords and the nuclear codes.
I have been receiving emails from Go Daddy about the domaine names expiring for weeks. Each one escalates its urgency. Large fees are mentioned, automatic renewal, blah, blah. I don’t want to renew. Go online, right? Trouble is; I can hardly read the passwords, and they don’t work.
Chaos.
This is going to require phone time. With an automated system. I’d rather have needles stuck in my eye, so I’ve just walked by it…for a looooong time. Today I called and after giving my social, my tax ID number, my SAT scores and my bra size, I was transferred directly to Tad. His condescension was only exceed by Jeffrey’s this morning at my Web hosting provider, so I’m used to it. It’s like breathing air to me now, just part of life. The painful experience was over in half a second, like eyebrow waxing; aided by the fact that the credit card on account had expired. Why didn’t they just say that in an email?
Another end to THAT story.
I’m going to make a ceremony out of shredding that file.
I do that in life with things that annoy me. When I no longer required birth control, I took my diaphram out in the backyard, poked tens of holes in it with a sparkler, and lit it on fire. We have pictures.

Literally half of the top drawer of that large file cabinet is devoted to stock accounts, or should I say PAST stock accounts. I was very active in the stock market in the 90’s and it helped me buy my house. Thankfully, I was out of the market before this latest crash. I get statements from ETrade every month, which I never open…but I file them, as I have since 1995.
What I did do in August of 2001 was to create a custodial account for my nephew, who was 5 at the time. I bought him a few shares of Disney and Krispy Kreme, kid’s stuff. A month later was 911 and I remember looking at a statement and the account had lost more than half it’s value.
The next time I opened a statement before yesterday was 2008 and it looked bleak.
So, I’d just file them away, unopened. Yesterday, walking back to the chaos of the abyss, it dawned on me that he’s about to turn 18 in two weeks. In California, at 18 he can legally take possession of that money. He’s also graduating high school, and off to college in the fall. I opened the statement and holy shit, there’s some real money in that account now. I got on the phone with Hank at ETrade (passwords were obsolete from lack of use) and they’re sending a check. I toyed with the idea of just transferring the account to him instead of a check, but….he’s 18. That’s the difference between getting a polite “Thank you” and a hug. I’m going for the hug. There was also a windfall of $15 left in one of the old stock accounts, so yipeeeee, I’m rich! Drinks all around!

The ending of both of those past experiences makes me SO freaking happy.
I can crumple up that hot pink Post It, shred that file and take great pleasure in putting another nail in the coffin of my dearly departed Atik.
And that little stock account that could? Hell, it actually produced some money and my brain cells fired to remind me, all at the perfect time.

It’s been a productive week so far.
How about you?
I’d love to hear some chaos restoring stories.
Is this energy pushing you to put things in order?
Tell me about it below.

Xox

*So..its been a very tech glitchy morning. Duh! Apparently anyone who follows this blog didn’t get the link to the meditation. After I ran around screaming and pulling my hair out, I remembered what I just wrote and made some corrections. Here”s the version I intended with the link. Listen,it’s worth it. xox

I went to the amazing Diana’s full moon meditation Monday night. The evening was warm and the wind chime’s tones were in concert with the blood moon energy.

During her lead up talk, Diana guided us: Just like when the teacher calls your name and you respond PRESENT…HERE…I AM HERE. Acknowledging in your heart that you are present now, for this, at this time.
And for some reason, that made several of us tear up. It touched my heart. It felt open and willing with a childlike innocence.
During the meditation, a soft, calming voice said to me:
My Darlings, this is the answer to a million prayers. Millions of you have prayed: What if the world could awaken overnight? This is the energy that will do it. Every plant, animal and human being on the planet will be touched and changed.
If you use the analogy of a tsunami, right now, all the water had been pulled off shore and out to sea. That is why so many are having a feeling of great anticipation. You sense something is coming. That big wave is coming in the next two weeks, and you will see a change.

Uh…holy cow, okay.
Maybe I have prayed that prayer after watching the latest endless news feed before bed. I am one of the millions.
It sometimes seems like a hopeless cause, this planet we inhabit.
After last night we all felt…hopeful.

This is a time of immense change, but change can be good. We need change right now.
We need the water to go out, and come back full of new life.
I know I do. I think you do too.
The energy the next two weeks is big. Like epic, kick some ass, change the world big. The astrological implications are ridiculous!
So…stay calm, carry on.
Don’t make any big decisions just yet.
Whatever you do, DONT RESIST ANYTHING. That will feel like shit. Just go with it.
Anger is resistance.
Fear is resistance.
Impatience is resistance.
Depression is resistance.
Separation is resistance.
Disappointment is resistance.
Loneliness is resistance.
Anxiety is resistance.
Desperation is resistance.
Resistance is not accepting WHAT IS.
Please, just accept it…for now.
And whatever you do, don’t hold your breath.

Here is a link to the Full Moon Meditation from Diana Lang (www.lifeworks.com)
If you don’t have the full half hour, the meditation starts at around 16 mins.

I’d love to hear feedback on any and all effects of this big full moon energy.
If you think someone could benefit from this post, pass it on!

XoxJanet

“Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof.” (Because I’m happy)
That’s a lyric from the mondo hit “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. Which I sing…at the top of my lungs…in…my…car. Yep that’s me next to you on the 101 fwy. Deal with it, or better yet, sing along.

XoxJanet

You might be waiting for things to settle down. For the kids to be old enough, for work to calm down, for the economy to recover, for the weather to cooperate, for your bad back to let up just a little…
The thing is, people who make a difference never wait for just the right time. They know that it will never arrive.
Instead, they make their ruckus when they are short of sleep, out of money, hungry, in the middle of a domestic mess and during a blizzard. Whenever.
As long as whenever is now.
~Seth Godin~