illusion

Hello, fear. (Said with sneering disdain, like “Hello Newman” on Seinfeld).

Fear reared his ugly head again on Tuesday.
Like me, you probably woke up to the report of yet another terrorist attack on innocent civilians in Brussels. And again if you’re like me your first response was to gird your loins.
To hunker down, plant your feet, cross your arms and close your mind.

In your body you probably felt, along with me, a nauseous gut pit, turning to sadness, then empathy and finally anger. Oh, yeah, and all of that with a fear chaser.

You know you guys, it reminds me of those pharmaceutical ads on TV and their heinous side effects. You know the ones I mean. They’re laughable.

“For chronic chapped lips try *Chaplipocine. Taken regularly, it reduces the symptoms of chapped lips in only three days!
Side effects may include (and this is said at the speed of a professional auctioneer), flatulence, headaches, amnesia, seizures, constipation, swelling of the tongue and testicles, facial hair in men, women, and babies, eventual loss of consciousness — and death.”

And it’s making billions because people are willing to suffer those consequences to get chapped lip relief!
Wtf?

But just as ridiculous and shoved down our throats even more aggressively, are the side effects of fear. They consist of paranoia, anxiety, uncontrollable security cravings, unwillingness to travel, suspicion, inability to turn off CNN, intolerance, giving away your privacy, dis-empowerment, not living your life — and death.

Seriously?

I for one, feel that’s unacceptable.

We all have a choice of how to respond.
I can eyeball the hipster next to me suspiciously while he sits there on his computer with his luxurious man-beard and wonder if he’s crafting his jihadist manifesto. And I can cancel my trip to Europe that I saved years for.
Because I could die. We all could die.
Because it’s too dangerous. The airports. Subways. Cafes. Sidewalks. Everything.

These are some of the side effects I’m not willing to suffer. How about you?

Listen, we have to be aware. We can’t and we shouldn’t walk with our faces buried in our phones or our head in the clouds. But there’s a difference between awareness and suspicion.

Don’t shake hands with fear. Please.

Girded loins never did anyone any good,

And chapped lips go away in three days regardless of the medicine you take.

So don’t endure the heinous side effects just for the illusion of being saved.

Anyhow, carry on,

xox

*you know this product doesn’t really exist, right?

I forgot about this amazing chant. A couple of my soul sisters (you know who you are) posted it on Facebook this weekend reminding me of it, and I listened over and over,(I recommend earphones) breathing deep; relaxing into peace; releasing stress; and remembering that this is really all just an illusion…

For your Monday Mindfulness I give you: The Great Bell Chant.

Be well and carry on my loves,
xox

I’d like to say a few words about…double stick tape.

I went through a period in the mid nineties of dressing, well, like a tramp. All thigh-high slits and escaping tits.

Hence, double stick tape became my indispensable wingman.

You see, the pendulum had swung ALLLLLL the way to the other extreme.

It had followed my monk phase. The five years or so where I denied my ample bosom. Previous to that I was somehow blissfully oblivious.

During this phase my boobs, seeming as big as my head, felt too large for my frame, getting in the way of my arms, hiding my feet, changing the channel on the remote if I sneezed — so I basically bound them.

Figures, right?

Everyone wants tits except the ones who have them. Let me just say right here, they are a huge responsibility and most people don’t realize the implications.

Mine were “real and they were spectacular” to quote the famous Seinfeld episode. Unlike me, my breasts actually received a thank you note in the mail for their spectacularness. No kidding.

But they were wasted on me. Until I learned to embrace my bussomy-ness. Hey listen, when your boobs get mail it makes you pay attention.

So this could either be a “the grass is always greener” story or “appreciate the gifts you’re given” tome.

Instead it’s an homage to double stick tape. The disasters it keeps from happening and the secrets it keeps hidden.

But what exactly IS the deal with double stick tape?
The application is tricky at best and an amateur hour shit-fest at worst.

Kind of like false eyelashes, which I have also mastered.

Here’s the thing: it’s all an illusion.
Kind of like Spanx.

Double stick tape;
false eyelashes;
and Spanx.

Ladies and Gentleman, it’s astounding! It’s confounding! Watch and see if you can figure out just how she does it!

My waaaay-too-short skirt and cleavage down-to-there are masterfully taped so as to only imply indecency; they keep all my bits in place yet they tease and taunt you into thinking you just may see…something…

The eyelashes; if you take the time to learn how to apply them (it took me weeks — everyday) look like you have a lifetime supply of Latisse and you spend an hour and a half in a magnifying mirror getting your fifteen coats of mascara just right. Who’s got that kind of time?

VPL? Visible pantie lines? Not his girl.
No thigh jiggle, no belly wiggle, and no deep breaths. Oxygen deprived. For a decade. Ahhhhh…how I hate you — fucking Spanx.

It looks from the outside like it’s all a walking work of perfection. And there’s the story.

Nothing ever is. Perfect that is.

If the tape lifts, the lashes peel or the Spanx fail — the jig is up.

Just know that the next time you observe “perfection”. It’s a labor intensive magic trick.

Post Script: The other day I used the last of my double stick tape to anchor the corner of a rug. My how times have changed.

Carry on,
xox

Oh don’t you get all high and mighty on me.

Like you’ve never thought this…or something worse!

Listen, I got an email from a reader, Lisa, who commented on my swearing (she liked the fact that I talked, and these are her words: like a real person), and asked me as someone with a spiritual blog, if I ever lost my temper with people and flipped them off or cursed at them.

Uh…yeah.

Lisa, first of all I think its darling that you aren’t sure about that. Have you met me?
I’m human, with all the faults, flaws and bird-flipping that guarantees.
Lisa, still in doubt, check this out:
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2014/12/no-amount-of-shitty-is-worth-sacrificing-a-whole-day/

As this blog  has progressed over the years, I starting asking myself: Self, why are you writing this?  And the answer was simple. Because most of the spiritual wisdom that had been around for years has been pretty damn dry and the people who write it sound like living saints; tempers in check, always making the right choices, with no mis-steps or mistakes to speak of.

Well, I don’t know about you all, but that’s not me.

When I talk I use the word fuck –– often. So when I write, it sneaks in. Also shit and assbite and all the other splendid, wildly descriptive words that spellcheck attempts to change to something more docile.

I’m not making excuses, I can’t stand excuses, but if I were –– It’s probably from working around men all my life, I’ve written about living my thirties as a man, and one of side effects is a mouth like a sailor.
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2014/06/the-gender-of-champions/

It is never my intent to offend anyone, but I write what I know and I’ve gotta be who I am.
I figure if someone logs on and is horrified by my language, or the content or even a graphic about a chair in the face –– they’re not my people and they’ll just move along.

The bottom line is this you guys: You can have a forty-year (gulp –– fuck I’m old) meditation practice, read every spiritual book you can get your hands on, Om and chant and stand on your head, and still have a bad day inside this glorious human life we all have the privilege of living.

And as for the F-bombs? Well, I think I’m okay –– unless God has one of those cursing jars that require you to contribute a dollar for every swear word. If that’s the case –– I’m screwed.

I hope that answers your question Lisa, and thanks for reading!

Carry on you salty dogs,
xox