Imagination

Loves,

I came across this post today while searching for…don’t ask…and it’s become more relevant than ever as I traverse aging and what that even means for women over fifty in a program I co-lead with the intrepid Geraldine called Croneology. http://croneology.net

Middle age is a crossroads y’all.
You’ve either laid the track for where you’re headed in advance, or you’re about to——and there’s no alternative, because, as Brene Brown so eloquently puts it, “Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear: I’m not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms that you’ve developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt—has to go.”

So, what tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

xox

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering. … They built a train track over these Alps to connect Vienna and Venice. They built these tracks even before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew someday, the train would come.”

When you read that story, about the train and the Alps, how does it make you feel?

Are you thinking, Why do I care about a train in Europe? I have three job interviews this week!

Or, are you more practical, like, How fiscally irresponsible is that to build something that no one can use?

Or… are you more like me?

As you’ve probably already guessed, that little anecdote gives ME goosebumps the size of Montana hail, a lump in my throat, and every time I read it my boobies tingle a little—because that’s just the kind of inspiring, real-life, stranger-than-fiction, magical nonsense that makes me excited to get up in the morning.

That passage is from a favorite movie of mine, Under the Tuscan Sun, which if you haven’t seen it or have read the book (which is marvelous) is about a woman going through a profound life change whose purpose, timeframe, and final destination are completely unknown to her. And yet, day after day, terrified and miserable as fuck, she just keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Like we all do.
Even people who aren’t steeped in faith find a way to carry on.
Maybe they get it from stories about trains? Dunno.

Anyway, if you think about it from my very Pollyanna Perspective, every great work of art, creative endeavor, and scientific accomplishment started with some track building. I’ll take it a step further and insist that we all lay down tracks we can’t use until we flesh out our ideas from start to finish.

I do it every freaking day and so do you!

A dear friend of mine has gone back to school to get her degree. There’s no job lined up yet, no clientele or guarantee of employment waiting for her at the finish line. Nevertheless, I see her working her tail off—laying the tracks.

From the age of thirteen, Misty Copeland would practice up to eight hours a day, barely listening to the naysayers who insisted that her skin was too dark, her body too curvy, and she’d started dancing too late to have a real career in ballet. But Misty wasn’t screwing around, she was too busy laying tracks for a position that did not exist before her—the first African-American principal ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.

She gave us something we never knew we needed—that now we can never imagine living without.

Like a train across the Alps.

What tracks are you laying right this minute for that thing you know will show up one day?

Carry on,
xox JB

https://youtu.be/IIxaVNs6c6U

I love this so much I can’t breathe! So, of course, I had to share it with you.

It’s not that long! I can hear you. Quit complaining! Besides, it’s the weekend.

Enjoy!
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking slowly through the canyon on my way to the hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how streets with cars lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Singles mothers can never catch a break.

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that it’s luck had run out. Splat!

There it is. I can see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering was over.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. But it was true. No one was swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing. I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve a little!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was. This roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It was a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

I can say in all honesty, with a straight face, that I don’t need a beach house to be happy.

I’ve made it this far in life without one and things have been pretty terrific so far.

That being said, when one is offered to me for a night I don’t hesitate to say yes. I’m not daft.

The house in question belongs to one of my husband’s clients. It is an architectural marvel that sits on the sand in a private cove of only six other homes. It cost in excess of fifteen million bucks and a famous rapper/music producer is living next door for the summer.

All of that makes your butt pucker, right? Me too!
Like how can I relax and enjoy the experience? I can’t handle the grandiosity, the smell of money in the air. I won’t be able to touch anything for fear of destroying something it would take me ten years to pay-off. Like red wine on a white chair. Or sand…anywhere.

This house and this couple are not like that AT ALL. They are gregarious and tons of fun. They have kids and dogs and everything in that house says, ‘Come on in! Relax! Have fun! Make a mess! Enjoy! Feel rich!’

What? Feel rich?

As you know, I’ve been trying that “rich” thing on lately.
I’ve told you of the hours I’ve spent on Zillow looking at homes for sale in Santa Barbara. Montecito to be exact. The hometown of Oprah. And to clarify even further—five to ten million dollar homes. With land. And nifty views.

So, the house this weekend could have felt intimidating, but it didn’t.

Not at all.

It felt like the next logical step in my search for a dream house.

And that’s when the magic started to happen.
Duh.

Hubby, Ruby dog, and I, spent Friday night enjoying stinky cheese and a bottle of my favorite red wine as we listened to Adele sing her sad songs of love gone wrong while the waves crashed and the negative ions had their way with us.

I could not have been happier. I felt rich in so many ways.

The next morning I went out to my car for something important (poop bag) and found a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill on the ground just behind the tailgate.

“You must have dropped this”, I said as I handed it back to Raphael knowing full well that Ruby only travels with hundreds and I had all of eight dollars left in my wallet after buying the cheese. (The stinkier the cheese the more it costs. Why is that?)

“It’s not mine”, he argued. “The only time I walked over there was at 5 am when I took Ruby to pee and contrary to stories you’ve heard, I don’t carry a wallet when I’m not wearing pants. It looks like it’s yours”, then he smirked in response to the look on my face as I pictured him balls to the wind, and went to make himself another espresso on the F-you espresso machine that lives in the kitchen.

“I’m rich!” I yelled, like Leonardo DeCaprio on the bow of the Titanic. (I know, he said I’m King of the World—just go with me here.)

Now I had twenty-eight smackers! Time to go buy some more cheese. Instead, we sat around all morning covered in dog hair, as a low, gray ceiling of clouds hung overhead making the view outstanding and the house impossibly cozy.

“I’m not leaving!”, I announced after he had laid out his plan for the rest of our day. Shower, lunch, drive home—and then what? He had plans that afternoon and all day Sunday.

I did not. I had no obligations. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

“I’m not leaving”, I said again out loud, just to hear the words a second time. Sometimes I just say stuff for dramatic effect. Like ‘I’m not leaving’ means ‘I’m having a good time’. Like that.

Was I serious?

“Fine. I love that”, he said looking at me kinda funny. “You’re keeping the dog—and what about your computer? Remember? You didn’t bring it. You can drive back in your car and get it. It’ll only be a three-hour round trip because it’s Saturday.”

I thought about it for a minute. I needed to post Sunday’s blog…but the internet sucked.

“Fuck that!” I exclaimed. Why would I kill my beach buzz?”

Sorry, but I shirked. I shirked all responsibility and sense of obligation and, and, and.
I was so relaxed at that point I was literally drooling.
I blame the ions. The ions made me do it.

“Exactly!”, he agreed, and he meant it.

In a spontaneous act of whatthefuckery, I called my friend Sally to come after work and partake in some of my stinky cheese, wine and mind altering ions. In an uncharacteristic act of selfishness—she said YES!

Sunday morning as I sat bathed in the wealth of my weekend, looking around at the house on the beach, the one with dog slobber on almost every wall and knee high handprints on the bank of windows that looks out over the endless expanse of Pacific Ocean, I received a text from a dear friend. That alone was a mini-miracle due to the shitty WiFi.

You see, a mystical, magical project I’m working on has to be delivered to just the right people.
Or I’m fucked.
Until I could guarantee that, I’ve been sitting on it. Praying. Trusting the powers that be to pull a rabbit out of someone’s ass. That text, that Miracle in Malibu text, held the answer to my prayers and it was so implausible that if I told you—you wouldn’t believe me—and you’d have me arrested for public drunkenness.

I’m tellin’ ya. Being irresponsible, selfish, and acting rich has gotten a bad rap. It really worked magic for me this weekend.
You should try it.

Carry on,
xox

*Sally and Ruby-do in the ‘Bu

In case you want to try this yourself:

http://www.zillow.com/santa-barbara-ca/

“The world is but a canvas to the imagination.”
~ Henry David Thoreau

“Is that my imagination?… Can I believe in that?… Because I don’t want to create something in my life that’s not real.”
~Me

What is “real” anyway? And what is…not real? Fantasy? Make believe. Hokey pokey? Flim-flam, paddy-wack, and Cracker Jack?

Remember me? Let me introduce myself. I’m the woman with the wild-ass imagination.

“Is that just my imagination?” I used to say that to myself at least twenty times a day. Now it’s down to maybe twice a week, and it makes me laugh every time I think it.

Where the hell do I think the things in my life are first created? Uh, somebody’s imagination…hello?…

My iPhone was the brainchild of Mr. Jobs.

My relationship with my husband started in my imagination and then became more tangible with a list I made of suitable qualities for the man of my dreams.

My house was the bright idea of some developer way back in 1936 when the nearby studios decided they needed housing for all of the workers in the growing movie industry.

The design of my car probably woke some German guy up in the middle of the night who was tasked with thinking up an elegant station wagon design. Well done, Gunnar!

Germs were an unfathomable idea just before the turn of the 20th century. Imagine. Invisible living organisms that can invade your body and make you sick. Well, that’s right out of science fiction!
Who’s sick and twisted imagination thought of THAT?

And what about science fiction? Our present existence would look like something out of science fiction to someone from a century ago. Bluetooth? WiFi? Electric cars? Microwave ovens? Smart phones and personal computers! Oh my!

All of those started in some smart person’s imagination. Because that’s what smart people daydream about. Life changing smart stuff.

Me? I use my imagination to scare myself to death on a regular basis.
Most always at three in the morning. I can vividly imagine and talk my rattled, sleep deprived little mind into a myriad of catastrophes that make me sweaty and weepy. My hall-of-famers are; a motorcycle crash either with me on the back or without, an Armageddon type unavoidable meteor strike, a Trump presidency, or publically failing at something that means the world to me…while naked.

Those become so real in my imagination that I never even bother to step back and question them. They become my virtual reality. Because here comes the science: Your body doesn’t know if it’s real or imagined. What?

But what about all the good stuff? Writing a script? Big money? Wild success? A movie??
Oh, don’t tease me you rascally imagination! Could those things really happen? Are those real?

What a ding-dong I can be! Honestly! If I played you guys the dialogue in my head you’d laugh your asses off it’s so ridiculous…but…wait a minute…I’d venture to guess, so is yours!

What are you unwilling to believe because it seems too good to be true? Why can’t the really good stuff, the far-reaching stirrings that lie deep inside our hearts come true? Why do we poo-poo those? Why aren’t those REAL?

They can be. All we have to do is believe in them as much as we do those awful scenarios that keep us awake at night.

Someone once said: If you can imagine it—you’re most of the way there.

You’ll be happy to know—I’m on this! I’m working on it day and night. I’ve decided to unleash my imagination and let it run rampant (only in a good way) with my life. I’m thinking of keeping a journal about my journey into this new radical reality because I have it on good authority that this next stretch is about to get super juicy!

Wanna come with me?

Carry on,
xox

I overheard a woman in Trader Joe’s today and I had to stop and pretend I was looking with great interest at the ingredients on the side of the microwave macaroni and cheese.

Trader Joe’s is an eavesdropper’s paradise. Especially after school gets out and always around the microwave comfort food.

She had a seven-year-old girl with her, Sophie, (presumably her daughter), and she was on her cellphone with someone who, after listening for several minutes to her conversation, is a saint.
Literally.
The Vatican has spoken. This person earned it!
I’m guessing a sister, best friend, or telemarketer.

Anyhow, I was riveted to her rant because the nature of it was well, so absurd — and I could totally relate.

She was going on and on about the dangers of camping. Like her kids were Tributes in the Hunger Games.

Hypothermia. “What if it gets below fifty? We don’t have the arctic down bags, only the light down summer bags. I mean, I could bundle the kids up with hoods, socks, and gloves in their bags…oh, yes, they’ll be in a tent…”

Sand fleas, (so, like the Mensa member that I am (not) I surmised a beach campout. “Sam had bites all over his privates last summer.” Ouch. And TMI.

Fire. “Josh is gonna have his hands full. What if Lizzie runs into the fire.”
I’m no expert here, but I think both Josh AND Lizzie have a bigger problem on their hands if she’s running into fire. And yes, camping could turn poor Lizzie into a human s’more. So, I’m with the worried lady, no camping for Lizzie.

Wait. Maybe Lizzy is a dog. Oh, that’s even worse.

Ocean. “I heard there’s gonna be high surf. What happens if the waves are so big the kids can’t go in the water? Then what’ll we do?”

Oh, I don’t know, play cards or board games, build sand castles, run into fire, you know, the normal kid stuff.

OMG Lady, seriously? You are a piece of work! Oh, and can you talk louder? I don’t want to miss a minute!

But by this time, I’d lingered too long. I was skirting the edges of stalker-ville so I moved on. But grudgingly. I was worried about Asbestos Lizzie the fire-walker.

The woman did leave me with a parting worry as I scurried into the cookie aisle.
“Sophie, don’t run with the pretzels in your mouth. What if you fall and choke to death.”

And…scene.

I’m not a worrier by nature but if I do go there if I start with the “what if’s” then I’m on the train, miles down the track before I even realize it.

And it gets even more ridiculous as it goes along. You know what I’m talking about!

After the 1993 Northridge earthquake, I was terrified to be anywhere besides home (preferably under my bed), in the event of an aftershock.
I could “what if” myself into a full-blown panic attack.

What if I’m at the movies? Dark, crowded, scary as shit.
What if I’m in the shower? Naked, wet, embarrassing as shit.

The one that could send me over the edge was:
What if I’m sitting at this light, caught in bumper to bumper traffic, STUCK UNDER A FREEWAY OVERPASS!
Trapped, crushed, flat as shit.

I would go out of my way to avoid an overpass. If it looked like I was going to be stuck underneath I’d gun it and jump over cars like fucking Vin Diesel. I’d lay on my horn and make people move out-of-the-way. I came thisclose to causing accidents and hurting myself. I was Lizzie looking for fire.

Eventually, (like three years later), I realized that all those “what if’s” never happened and I started to lighten up. But even now, if I think about it when I’m sitting there, it makes my butt cheeks clench.

“What if” is imagination gone awry and once you board that train you may as well find the bar-car and liquor up because it’s nearly impossible to slow down a speeding train.

Well, maybe Vin Diesel can, or The Rock, or that little firecracker, Lizzie. Apparently NOTHING scares her!

Are you a “what if” worrier?  What are some of your best “what if”s”?

Carry on,
xox

What do you think waits for us in the afterlife?

Being that I was jeweler for over eighteen years, I imagined the afterlife, or heaven, to be the stunningly gorgeous and meticulously curated Jewelry Salon on the ground floor of Bergdorf Goodman in NYC, where all by my lonesome I could wander the aisles, open the cases, and wear whatever the hell I wanted — while wearing sweatpants.

I’ve raised the bar since then.
Now I envision my ass on a motorcycle, riding through some green, hilly countryside on my way to lunch where I will consume copious amounts of warm, freshly baked bread, and cheese stuffed deep-fried zucchini flowers. Oh, and wine. Lots and lots of room temperature Montepulciano D’Abruzzo.

What do you think about this?
In the screenplay I’m writing, one of the heroines of the story (the dead one), paints a picture of a place not too dissimilar to where we are now.

One of the really cool attributes of her heaven, or afterlife, is the fact that you carry around in your pockets some of your favorite snacks. For example, she has a never-ending supply of Fritos corn chips in her jacket pocket, her friend carries with him at all times — a bottle of Sriracha sauce.

I can’t decide what my pockets would hold. One day I’m sure it would be dark chocolate covered… anything, the next day, lemon cake from this little cafe in Italy.

I’m hoping that the afterlife is a place where changing your mind is not only accepted but revered.

THAT would be HEAVEN to me!

So I’m asking YOU, my tribe, because I want more insight into you and what YOU believe,
What does the afterlife look like to you? Or what do you imagine it to be like?
AND, OR, because I know you are not a group that likes to comment,

What snacks would be in YOUR pockets in Heaven?

Thanks, and Love you guys,
xox

I’m doing it you guys. Every minute of every day so far. I can’t help myself. I am completely and unabashedly obsessed with the property NEXT DOOR to our resort.

When we arrived earlier this week all of the shutters were down.
It was closed up tight. Like the legs of a Catholic school girl, tight. Well, being that I was a Catholic school girl once maybe that’s a bad example—but you know what I mean. Shuttered up. Closed.
“Nothing going on here, move along”, kind of closed.

While the lovely young man was giving my husband the tour of our room I was craning my neck to the left, hanging precariously off the balcony to get a better look.

“So…what’s the story over there?” I asked our sweet guy trying to sound nonchalant, less like a creeper.

“Those are private condos”, he replied, kind of annoyed that I had interrupted his prepared spiel and he’d lost his place and was going to have to start all over.

Private condos. With their own infinity pools. And a sandy private beach. Me likey.

Now, our resort is nothing to sneeze at. It is gorgeous squared. But I can’t help it—I’m intrigued.

I hear you. Mind your own business. Isn’t that what you’re saying? Well, cut it out.

The next morning I asked the woman who was dropping off towels, “Why do you think no one is at those private condos over there, why are they all closed up at this time of year?” So I at least sounded like I knew what I was talking about and less like a curious paparazzi, I added, “After all, it’s the height of the season.”

She shrugged (in the nicest possible way), then as she closed the door she dropped this cryptic little grenade with a thud right at my feet: “They will come.”

My, how Field of Dreams of her.

Now, the second thing I do in the mornings is to check on the shutter status of those condos.

The first thing I do is pee. The third thing I do is wish I had a pair of binoculars. I’m just too embarrassed to answer the expected probing questions: “Why? What are you going to look at?”, or I’d ask for them.
The staff here is so solicitous they would print some on a 3d printer for me if I wanted them to.
But I can’t stand the preliminary scrutiny.

I want to stare at those condos over there! Are the shutters open? Are there signs of life? What are they up to over there? You know, stuff like that!

Mind your own business lady.
Fail.
Here come the Federales to take me away. At least I have a nice, new pair of binocu…

Well, while I was looking away, you know, living my life, sure enough sometime during the day yesterday, “they come”.

Not only were the shutters pulled aside, several of the large sliding glass doors were thrown open so I could see inside!!! I got so excited I almost dropped my mojito.

It was a vision right out of a magazine. All white interior with large modern art and white furnishings just as I had imagined.
You see, I had imagined an entire scenario over there. Hey, I’d had three whole days!
Three days inside this head is more than a lifetime to most people.

I had manufactured the craziest shit going on over in the private condos.

In my imagination George Clooney and his uber-skinny wife Amal inhabit the entire top floor, which totally makes sense since I haven’t seen a soul. Not one sign of life besides open shutters. They are stealth those two. They. Are. Pros.
Amal is probably standing right there, turned sideways so I can’t see her.
Smart girl.

On the second story are Cindy Crawford and Randy Gerber…oh yeah and their kids I suppose. But who cares? You guys! Cindy fucking Crawford! Yucking it up at MY private condos! On MY private beach!
I know those two couples vacation together in Mexico. I have it from the most reliable of sources. Instagram.

THAT is the truth. The rest of this is a pack of lies…or is it?

Yesterday I was in the men’s section of the spa (you don’t want to know), where they have the most incredible birds eye view of MY private condos from their window seats, so I ran like the wind back to my locker on the ladies side to get my phone in order to take this picture. I was desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to explain to any indignanat man with his penis at eye level (remember, I’m in the men’s section) why I’m sitting with my face pressed against the glass, taking pictures IN A SPA—and lucky for me, (and him), I did not.

Never mind.
From that vantage point, I had such a great view of their perfect little sandy beach.
It made me want to brave the jagged rocks and pounding surf that surround our resort and Diana Nyad my way over there. But if you remember from the 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me, I’m a weak swimmer and I didn’t want to wash up all waterlogged and choking up seaweed— Hell no! I wanted to walk out of the surf impossibly hot, like fucking Haley Barry in that James Bond film I can’t remember the name of.

So I axed that plan.

This evening there were many open shutters. “They HAD come.”
Still no sign of any human life. Maybe people THAT fantastic are invisible to us mere mortals. I’ll have to Google that when I get a chance.

I’m currently imagining one hell of a New Year’s Eve bash over there after I’m gone.
Fireworks, Casa Amigos Tequila flowing like…Tequila flows in Mexico. The whole shebang. George, Cindy, sideways Amal and Randy…and the kids I guess. In MY beautiful, hillside private condos.

So…are you at least a little like me?
Do you LOVE to look in other people’s windows?
Do you spend hours imaging the going’s on over at your resort-adjacent neighbors fabulous condos?
Do you make up entire lives just-over-there in order to amuse yourself?

You do? Me too! Let’s all fly our freak-flags together!

Or are you thinking this girl’s got too much time on her hands! Mind your own business, Janet! You’re being just plain nosey?
Perhaps.

Am I missing the moment? Probably. Or maybe I’m creating my own. I would be advising you all to be in the moment, wouldn’t I?

Fuck that. I’m having a ball.
Almost as good of a time as the Clooney’s.

Carry on,
xox

*Hi you guys,
I like what Danielle has to say here, especially numbers 3,4 & 5.
Oh, and number 2 and number 9 are good also!
Okay, I like them all—read on!
xox

The problem with manifestation techniques and what that psychic told you. (Plus 9 principles for predicting and manifesting.)

The problem with a lot of prediction & manifestation techniques is that we tend to forget that other humans are involved in our manifesting. And we can’t control other humans — as much as we’d LOVVVE to. Other humans = variables and complications and heaps of crazy free will.
For instance, that Soul Mate you have your eye on, they actually have their own life plans. (I know babe, their life would be SO much better if you were in it. I know.) And that big gig you’re gunning for, well there’s a cadre of players and circumstances involved — circumstances that are so out of your control.

But, alongside the realities that you can’t sway, is the very powerful force of magical, miracle thinking. Material and ethereal.

Realism + magic = manifestation power. Predictions + openness = even MORE manifestation power.

A FEW PRINCIPLES FOR PREDICTING & MANIFESTING. (And yes, they are paradoxical.)

Manifesting Principle #1: Free will.
You can’t control much outside of yourself. And it doesn’t matter if three psychics said that you and So n’ So were SO going to get it ON this summer. You can’t out-will someone’s free will. (Unless you’re an evil dictator, but we’re talking about ethical dream-realization.)

Manifesting Principle #2: Anything is possible.
Anything. You could get discovered in an elevator. Your twin flame could find you in a cabin in the middle of Alaska during a snowstorm. The admissions officer could play golf with your dad. Miracles happen ALL the time — crazy intersections and cosmic conspirations that bring it all together just for you and right on time. Believe.

Manifesting Principle #3: The future can be seen and felt.
External psychic input can be extremely valuable for navigating — I have oracles and mediums I call on often. Just like the lady empath Troy on Startrek, I think organizations should have a refined clairvoyant on their staff.

As for time predictions from clairvoyants, astral time is not the same as Earth time. So at best, timing forecasts are 50/50. Also…the channeller effects the message. Every medium puts their fingerprint on what they deliver to you. That can be good, bad, or neutral. It’s just something to be aware of.

We can often sense what’s coming — we just act like we can’t. Either way, keep in mind Principles #1 and #2.

Manifesting Principle #4: You have multiple possible futures — each of which could be equally incredible.
10,000 Soul mates. 900 once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. 340 winning tickets. Infinite big breaks. Meditate on multiple pleasurable outcomes and you will loosen your grip on things being exactly how you “think” you want them to be.

Manifesting Principle #5: “Hasn’t happened yet” means just that — not YET.
Because something hasn’t occurred in our desired timeframe, doesn’t mean that it’s never going to happen.

Manifesting Principle #6: The universe has a way better imagination than you do.
My life has no resemblance to what I thought it was going to be — and I’m impressed with where failure, and courage, and the mystery have brought me. More colourful. More expanded. Way deeper. Way better than I imagined.

Manifesting Principle #7: Things change — YOU change.
What you and your astrologer predict for you today could be on target. But you could do something tomorrow to alter that course or create a wrinkle in time. Changing.

Manifesting Principle #8: Pre-determinism is total bullshit. FREE WILL REIGNS SUPREME.

Manifesting Principle #9: Life really is what you make it. Live full out today. And it’s from there that the future unfolds.

All Love,
Danielle
https://www.daniellelaporte.com

*This is from last summer but they’re baaaaaack. The magic wands are flying outta the bucket!

The most charming and interesting social experiment has been taking place
In. My. Front. Yard.

About three years ago I saw a picture on Facebook I think, of a bucket full of magic wands, made from dried flowers from the garden, which I thought was so clever, I just HAD to borrow the idea, because….

That is SOooooooooo up my alley.
I’d use a magic wand AND I’d wear a tiara every day, even on a Thursday, even with jeans, if I could get away with it.
AND
We really need some magic in the world right now.

So, I cut my Agapanthus in the summer, when they’re done flowering, and I put them in a bucket marked:

FREE
MAGIC WANDS

I live on a tree-lined residential street, where contrary to popular belief, people really do walk in LA.
Neighbors walk their dogs and young families stroll with their kids when things cool down around dusk, so I had me some high hopes about the wand reaction.

The first year…meh. Reaction was tepid.
They just sat there. My wands of magic.
I was very disappointed.
Fine, more magic for me.

Last year, the wands got a little better reaction, but if ten were in the bucket on Monday, five were still there on Friday.
I saw people look at them, AND KEEP WALKING. Can you believe that shit?

Free.

Magic wands.

There for the taking.

I was gobsmacked.

When I put the bucket out a month or so ago, I had to have a little talk with myself.
I had to remind me about the nature of people, and the too cool for school factor, and how some parents don’t want their children to believe in such a thing as magic (or carry around a spiky dead flower.) But I put it out anyhow.

To my delight, this year has been extraordinary!
I can’t keep the bucket filled.

There were eleven in the bucket yesterday morning and when I went out to run an errand at three….gone.

The other night when one of my friends came by, she sat in her car and watched a family, a mom, dad and two small kids, very deliberately and gleefully choose just the right wands.

That makes me want to cry.

I can’t keep the neighborhood stocked in wands!

Magic is rampant here in the City of Angels.

I wore everybody down, until they could resist no more.

“Magic wands for everyone!” cried no one in particular – but, I understand supply and demand, and there’s a run on wands, so I may have to cut some of the neighborhood Agapanthus late at night while they sleep.

I don’t want summer to end, because that signals the end of the wands of magic.. *sniff, *sigh….

Maybe next year I’ll paint them gold or add glitter! (that just made my heart race, seriously)

Love Janet the Good Witch,
Xox

Happy Friday Everyone!

In case you’d rather listen 😉
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/spread-your-magic