letting go

“Can you just stop with the damn smoke blowing thing?”
Me ~ to my Shaman.

I had a shaman once. I highly recommend it. 

Mine appeared out of nowhere, like a questionable smell, and actually moved in with me back in the winter of 1993.
With his bald head, Australian accent, and wild, Rasputian eyes, I called him my “pocket shaman” since he was barely shoulder height — and for about seven months he literally went everywhere with me. 

I never think about that time of my life anymore…unless I do. It is dark, and murky, and mysterious. Definitely NOT a place that’s safe to go without a bodyguard…or a guide…or a shaman. 

My friend Mel posted this “Promise of a Shaman” on her Facebook page the other day. I wish I knew who wrote it because I can tell they’ve lived it. Their words bringing every detail of our little dance alllll back to me…

The rituals. 
My fear.
His refusal to meet me in my fear.
My rage at that.
His indifference to my rage.
The energy work that I initially scoffed at, and later counted on to save me.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say he saved me, my pocket shaman. He saved my sanity—and in turn he saved my life.

“Be careful what you wish for,” they say. Up until that point I’d never listened to “them” anyway—and I wasn’t about to start.
I was a thirty-fucking-five-year-old seeker and I wished for enlightenment already! 
I had wished to know all the secrets of the universe. To have them revealed to me so that I alone could understand them.

“Be careful what you wish for,” my pocket shaman admonished. He questioned the direct, solo route I’d chosen to take. He was in favor of a more circuitous path; one that came with a lot of help along the way.

“Fuck that shit!” I want fast! I’m in a hurry! I argued.

Then I lost my mind.

Sacred texts suggest that when undertaking the path to enlightenment, it would be wise to follow the advice of a guide.  They say that for a reason. Because the edges of the path are littered with the bones of those who’ve tried to “go it alone”.  And if you don’t die, you are doomed to wander the streets of LA or some other place you no longer recognize, barefoot and afraid, mumbling incoherently about going fast, going solo. 

Trust me. I was almost there. Luckily for me, a shaman showed up. 

I say thank you to whomever sent him to me. He was exactly what I never knew I needed. 

I say thank you to the experience we went through together. It was most definitely a battle, and he will forever be my foxhole buddy.

And I say thank you to the universe for scaring the living daylights out of me, beating me up every which way imaginable—and some you cannot; for scrambling my brain, rewiring my nervous system, and then spitting me out on the other side with “lovely parting gifts”—that took me two decades to discover. 

And I say thank you to myself, for being brave enough back then to even make the wish. 

So, what is the moral of this story you ask? That in some instances, good things come in small packages and everybody loves a shaman? That, in the case of chasing spiritual enlightenment, you’d better put a team together because you are LITERALLY playing with fire? That “they” are right when they say, “be careful what you wish for because you just may get it”—and then not know what the hell to do with “it”? OR, that we don’t say “thank you” nearly enough to that part of ourselves that offers acts of audacious self-care, like conjuring shamans out of thin air at times when we barely have the wherewithal to say our own name—and that it should be required by law?

Hmmmmmm….That’s a hard one. I’ll let you guys decide.

Carry on,
xox

The promise of a shaman

If you come to me as a victim I will not support you.

But I will have the courage to walk with you through the pain that you are suffering.

I will put you in the fire, I will undress you, and I will sit you on the earth.
I will bathe you with herbs, I will purge you, and you will vomit the rage and the darkness inside you.
I’ll bang your body with good herbs, and I’ll put you to lay in the grass, face up to the sky.
Then I will blow your crown to clean the old memories that make you repeat the same behavior.

I will blow your forehead to scare away the thoughts that cloud your vision.
I will blow your throat to release the knot that won’t let you talk.
I will blow your heart to scare fear, so that it goes far away where it cannot find you.
I will blow your solar plexus to extinguish the fire of the hell you carry inside, and you will know peace.
I will blow with fire your belly to burn the attachments, and the love that was not.
I will blow away the lovers that left you, the children that never came.
I will blow your heart to make you warm, to rekindle your desire to feel, create and start again.
I will blow with force your vagina or your penis, to clean the sexual door to your soul.
I will blow away the garbage that you collected trying to love what did not want to be loved.
I will use the broom, and the sponge, and the rag, and safely clean all the bitterness inside you.
I will blow your hands to destroy the ties that prevent you from creating.
I will blow your feet to dust and erase the footprints memories, so you can never return to that bad place.
I will turn your body, so your face will kiss the earth.
I’ll blow your spine from the root to the neck to increase your strength and help you walk upright.

And I will let you rest.

After this you will cry, and after crying you will sleep, 

And you will dream beautiful and meaningful dreams, 

and when you wake up I’ll be waiting for you.

I will smile at you, and you will smile back

I will offer you food that you will eat with pleasure, tasting life, and I will thank you.

Because what I’m offering today, was offered to me before when darkness lived within me.

And after I was healed, I felt the darkness leaving, and I cried.

Then we will walk together, and I will show you my garden, and my plants, and I will take you to the fire again.

And will talk together in a single voice with the blessing of the earth.

And we will shout to the forest the desires of your heart.

And the fire will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the mountains will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the rivers will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the wind will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And then we will bow before the fire, and we will call upon all the visible and invisible guardians.

And you will say thank you to all of them.

And you will say thank you to yourself.

And you will say thank you to yourself. 

And you will say thank you to yourself.

~Author unknown

For one brief and shining moment in the mid-nineties, I had a live-in boyfriend.

And as I came to find out, live-in anythings tend to ruin most of your possessions, especially the ones that they do not have a dollar invested in—which is pretty much EVERYTHING.

That goes for all significant others, dog, cats, pygmy pigs, and children. They systematically destroy all the material things you love the most.

Case in point, I had an expensive bespoke coverlet made to match the fabric of a very cool bed that had an upholstered headboard that resembled a couch. I know! right?
It was the color of  buttercream frosting, it cost me a fortune, and I loved it more than coffee.

Okay, I mention coffee here because it plays an important role.

One glorious Sunday morning, in a lapse of better judgment, I overlooked the fact that said boyfriend had broken a cardinal rule, the one which stated NO COFFEE IN BED.

He had frothed us each a cup of particularly delicious cappuccino and in a show of my appreciation, well, things got a little out of hand. I’m not going to get into it lest you think poorly of me or worse yet, ask me for details. But let’s just suffice it to say…
A foot (or some other body part, this memory is a bit fuzzy for me), met with two, 3/4 full cups of coffee on the nightstand, which caused one to fly up and into the ceiling fan spraying coffee and frothy milk EVERYWHERE, while the other landed face down in the center of my priceless duvet cover.

It would have been funny if there hadn’t been so much brown on the buttercream and if I’d had a sense of humor at the time.

While we cleaned the floor, walls, and the ceiling, the coffee/milk stain caused our Siamese cat to pee on the bed. Numerous times. I get it. Coffee does that to me too. It was a phenomenon that had never occurred before and never happened again—but it added insult to the injury.

To stop the madness, the brown and smelly bedspread took up residence in my car until I could figure out what to do. Apparently, the giant coffee stain was the least of its problems.

After I got the coffee out of places where coffee should never be, I went to search the cat pee drenched coverlet thingy for a care tag. You know, those tags that have all the symbols telling you how to clean it, but since it was custom-made, no tag.

I was just about to wash it in one of our giant apartment laundry room washers when I remembered that they had teeth and preferred to dine on expensive fabric. Never the stuff from Target. Explain that to me.

So, I decided to accompany a friend to the laundromat, but when she saw the velvet brocade type of fabric on that thing she advised that I get it dry cleaned. That made sense. The fear of this prize possession getting ruined was ratcheting up. Can you feel it?

So, to the dry cleaners I went. The expensive one. The one that had a guarantee and specialized in decorator fabrics. Only the best for this investment of mine.

What could go wrong?

They called in their resident “fabric expert”, a stern woman with black fuzzy caterpillars as eyebrows and huge, magnifying lensed glasses on a chain around her neck. She did a thorough inspection of the coverlet, rolling the thick fabric between her thumb and forefinger, then she paused, skewed her mouth which in turn crinkled her entire face, causing the two caterpillars to kiss just above her nose and form a spooky looking unibrow. She then grabbed a nearby pencil which looked as if it had been chewed to a nub and wrote something on a piece of paper, slide it across the counter to me—face down, and looked at me with her over magnified eyes and the two judgmental caterpillars—waiting for a response.

I turned it over and the dollar amount made me gasp. Her lip turned up slightly at the corner into a smile..or a sneer…I couldn’t tell which.

“Zhah chat urineeen schemel meh nahver comb out, oot zhat meehlk meh churrdle”, she said attempting English in an accent that sounded like a combination of Dutch and Chinese.

I nodded, pretending to understand. “Fine, that’s fine”, I replied signing that scrap of paper as verification that the equivalent of a monthly car payment would be the price paid to save my beautiful coverlet.

About two weeks later I received a call from the cleaners. There had been a “problem” and I needed to come and talk to the manager Mr. SomethingorOther. The trouble was that every time I showed up for the chat…he was out to lunch, off the premises, or had just gone home. Black caterpillar lady was nowhere to be found, and when I asked to talk to her they acted like I wanted to have an audience with the Pope.

I’m going to cut to the chase—here’s the good news: The bedspread that had committed suicide by cat pee wasn’t brown anymore. But it wasn’t a bedspread anymore either. Now for the bad news: It looked like it had run with scissors—or fallen into a wood chipper.

It resembled a shredded mass of buttercream velvet held together by cat hair.

Well, you have to fix this!” I screamed.
“It’s no charge”, said the tiny Hispanic woman who had obviously drawn the short straw in the back room. She crumpled our paper agreement and threw it away as she pushed the buttercream mess my way.
I pushed it back in her direction.
“Fix it.” I hissed, knowing full well that unless they had a loom in the back that was pretty much going to be impossible.

That night, as I plotted my revenge, I splashed wine with abandon all over the cheap cotton duvet cover that was acting as understudy until the Star returned. Should I sue them? Should I make them pay to have it replaced? By midnight, I knew what had to be done.

But days turned to weeks and I never went back to deliver my ultimatum.

One morning when my boyfriend got back from a bagel run, he was acting weird, clearing his throat, mustering his courage.
“Did you ever solve that comforter cover debacle?” he croaked.

I felt my face instantly catch fire. “No! I need to go back there…”

“You’d better wear your asbestos underwear”, he murmured, walking into the kitchen.

“What are you talking about?”

“The place burned down last night. It’s still smoldering.”

We immediately jumped in the car and went to join all the other patrons around the caution tape, ready for a fight. But when I saw the utter destruction and the people crying over their burnt up wedding dress or the loss of their daughter’s baptismal gown, I realized what an idiot I was.

I saw the part my fear of losing a material possession (albeit a beautiful one), had played in this entire fiasco, how I continued to make one bad decision after another, how I couldn’t see how much the freakin’ bedspread just wanted to die…and that’s when I finally laughed.

Carry on,
xox

It’s noon on Monday the 21st and I should be on my way to the airport as I write this. Instead, I’m eating a peach (which looks and tastes suspiciously like a cookie), and pondering the fact that we postponed, (a much more accurate and less sad-sacky word than cancelled) our motorcycle trip to Italy last week.

As I think back on the last seven days, it’s hard to deny—many, many miracles have occurred.

By Wed—Thurs of last week, almost as if by magic, reports came back from various friends and family members; “I’m feeling SO much better!” they all enthused with great…enthusiasm.

Whew, that came as such a relief.

Because they had no idea how much their health and wellbeing had been weighing on me, and the fact that I was about to go off the grid for two glorious weeks (oh, did I write that? I meant to just think it), had tied me up in knots.

So of course when we canceled, postponed the trip—everyone miraculously recovered.

Emotional shitshow on Friday—postpone trip on Saturday—Wednesday—Miraculous recoveries all around! Yeah.

By golly, isn’t that just so..so..

The same was true on hubby’s job front.
Inspectors who swore on their mother’s grave that they could not possibly show up before he left—did. These same stone-hearted men who were impervious to bribes and copious amounts of tears and shameless begging; called out of the blue—all chipper and accommodating—showed up on time the next day (gasp) and passed not only the rough electrical—but the framing as well. (You have no idea what a big, hairy deal this is. I called the Vatican to have this miracle sanctioned, only to be told the Pope is really busy right now—something about Cuba).

Anyhow, refunded vacation money started to show up in our accounts.
Wait.
What?
Refunded money you say?
I know! We even got $1000 of our motorcycle deposit back. From Italians. All the way in Italy.
Miracles #2, 3 & 4.

Long suffering lumber showed up. Drywalling commenced. Lions and lambs lay down together and I lost three pounds!
Tuesday it even rained a big, sloppy, tropical rain—in California.
Well, now you’re just showing off.
More miracles?
Will it never end?

Laughter even made a brief appearance in our home over the weekend. (Don’t get excited, it was a guffaw really—we’re not out of the woods yet).

But it sure started to feel like it.
How about this unexpected side effect? So many things started to right themselves that it made it hard for disappointment to enter the picture.

Here’s the thing you guys, we made one really hard decision.
We stopped the bleeding that was killing the lead-up to our trip.

We called it. (I’m big on doing this now when something ends because I think attention must be paid)

Our Splendid Italian Vacation. Time of Death: 8 a.m. Saturday September 12, 2015.

Another miracle? Did it resurrect in three days? Nope—The vacation will have to wait—But our life did.

It turned its badass self around and starting behaving more like our wondrous, well oiled, things-always-work-out-for-us life again.

“Things are going so well, maybe we shouldn’t have cancelled”, hubby announced over lunch on Saturday.

Is he fucking kidding?

If we hadn’t called it quits I’m convinced the shitshow would still be in town.
And if we were still flying out today—I can guarantee you that the wings would fall off the plane.

Carry on,
xox

Hey Guys,
With the current, crazy, clean out the fridge of the smelly stuff in the waaaaay back energy out there; there is some residual pain coming up.
Or is it new pain?
Doesn’t matter. Pain is pain and it hurts like hell.

This is a great essay by Danielle LaPorte (she’s the boss) about this very subject. It is direct and to the point (just like we count on Danielle to be) no butterflies or rainbows — just truth.
I think you guys can handle that.
Love you BIG,
xox

Take it away Danielle:

Current Pain or Departing Pain? How to access your agony.

There is the pain you feel because it’s deep in your being, in real-time, working on you.

Current Pain and Departing Pain.

Current pain is the hurt you’re carrying with you today. It’s in the vicinity of your core. It doesn’t matter when the pain was inflicted — a few days ago in a meeting, or ongoingly in the way your partner withholds, or by a past childhood trauma. Lingering or acute, if it’s affecting you now — if you’re still healing, it’s real time pain.

Departing pain is, as it suggests, on it’s way out. It’s your current pain transforming, loosening, lifting. And Lord have mercy, this is just what you want to have happen — for the pain to leave you.

Except… departing pain isn’t any lighter or easier as it leaves your system. In fact, on it’s way out, departing pain can be wretched. It’s like the last few heaves of getting poison out of your system. Just when you thought you’d purged it all, your body lurches with one more hurl to make sure the toxins are good an’ gone. That last lurch can catch you off guard. Where did that come from? And it’s … extra painful.

Assessing your pain

So here’s what to do when you’re in pain: Identify if you’re in Current Pain or Departing Pain. Current pain says: I’m dealing with the pain. This pain needs my attention. Departing pain says: I’ve learned all I can from this pain. I’m letting go. This pain is leaving me.

Do you need more healing time?

Current pain needs time — a few weeks… a few decades, such is life. It requires tears and therapeutic conversations, pilgrimages and fires. It’s the spirit’s creative tension. It’s the recovery process we’re in. It’s what we’re managing to varying degrees of stifling darkness to occasionally triggered sadness.

Departing pain comes after you’ve fully felt the current pain. Let me say that another way: The pain starts to lift after you’ve gone through it. Let me put that differently: Once you’ve gone down with the pain, examined it, smelled it, talked to it, squeezed it, then it’s done it’s job and it’s ready to fully transform. One more time: Feel it to free it.

Are you ready? (Get ready because it’s going to hurt more. But it’s good.)

Let’s say you’ve done the work. You’ve felt that pain (you’re amazing and courageous). You learned so much from that pain. You’re so damn DONE with that pain. You’re feeling so free, so present, so moved on and then…WHAM. More of the SAME pain. What the hell?! Didn’t you work through this already? You were doing so well and then you want to curl up in a ball or break something. Isn’t this over with yet? (Yes, almost.)

Departing pain tends to catch you off guard. Which makes you get all judgey with yourself because you’ve come so far. Expansion/contraction. Expansion/contraction.

If you’re in Current pain over something, you’re going to keep doing your healing work. Keep calm and call your shaman. You can do this.

Or if you’re in Departing Pain, here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to not judge yourself for being pathetic. You’re going to feel the pain like a champ. And you’re going to start making celebration plans because you are crossing the finish line. The pain is leaving! It’s never going to be this bad again!

When you’re in pain, you have to feel it to free it.

Take heart! The final round of agony is a purification process.tweet It’s not wounding you deeper, it’s cleaning you as it says goodbye. You’re not stuck, you’re about to fly — higher than ever.
Please be encouraging. We all need more of it. Forward this piece to someone who is in the throes.

All Love,
Danielle

www.daniellelaporte.com

A message straight from my childhood — It’s all about letting things happen, about getting out of our own way.

It’s about believing…in mystery and magic, and nannies that fly.

It’s about Allowing.

Thanks Mary Poppins, I needed this reminder today.

Carry on, spit spot,
xox

This is a sculpture I own which I call LETTING GO.
I had to show you the entire piece, but if you zoom in on her face –– it’s eerily peaceful…in her free-fall into the abyss. Hauntingly so.
I learn from her every day.

This poem by Safire Rose is the perfect reminder for this BIG energy of NEW BEGINNINGS that is currently pouring in. FIRST you have to Let Go. BTW –– it is in no way gender specific…men too!
Carry On,
xox

She let go.

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear.

She let go of the judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She didn’t search the scriptures.

She just let go.

She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.

She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort.

There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

~ Rev. Safire Rose

Hi Loves,
Have you been feeling held back lately? – dragged back down by the ankles?
Or… are you holding somebody back?
Read this short essay by Liz Gilbert about her insights, and those of Rob Bell. This is by far the best explanation of the crab bucket analogy that I’ve read.
xox

Take it away guys!

ONWARD,
LG

I have a confession to make. I have a hard time letting go of the things I love. Not in a hoarding kind of way; I’ve come to discover it’s more of a tactile dysfunction.

Like a toddler and her woobie (torn and tattered blanket) there are certain things you will have to pry out of my hands while I’m asleep, for that is the only way I will be able to release my grip.

I had a small blanket as a child; it was a warm, buttery, yellowish cream color, with a satin trim. It felt delicious. I would carry it everywhere, folding the corner into a perfect point, and obsessively running my fingers over that satin triangle. It soothed my soul, making me feel secure; it was my tactile toddler Valium and it could only be mended and washed while I slept – otherwise there would be hell to pay. Even now, during my darkest hours, I pine for the calming effect that blanket had on that fast walking, fast talking toddler – me.

Here’s where the confession gets embarrassing. Like red-faced, hide under the couch embarrassing.
I have replaced that sainted blanket with an adult woobie – My $750 set of Italian sheets.

You scoff, well, let me take you back to that day I first fell in love, and I KNOW you’ll understand.

It was a perfect September afternoon, the year was 2002, and the city was Rome.

The big handsome and I were finally enjoying our postponed Italian honeymoon (detoured by the events of 9/11).
Imagine, if you will, the two of us gleefully descending the Spanish Steps, gelato in hand; careful to navigate ourselves around the cool kids passing a joint and the numerous couples that were practically having sex in broad daylight.

We were strolling into the Piazza di Spagna, enjoying the colorful characters that surround the Barcaccia Fountain (the people watching in that particular piazza is off-the-hook ridiculous), when it caught my eye. It is to the right of the steps, across from where we’re standing; the facade is a sun bleached salmon color, and the smell is intoxicating, even thirty feet away – old Italian cotton, class, and money. I try to look away but there are SALDI (SALE) signs in the windows, making its siren song that much sweeter and more seductive.

The Frette Store – in Rome – a veritable wonderland of linens, towels and all forms of hedonistic goodness.

“Oh, sale, let’s go in” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, pulling my poor, unsuspecting husband into the cool, dark, recesses of Italian Heaven.
I call it that because if you’ve ever had the good fortune to touch their sheets, the sensation, especially to this tactile whore, sends you straight into ecstasy.

It was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. Forget the thread count. These are woven from the soft, down, hair of a cherub; marshmallow, and cloud.

They would never have the bad taste to be stiff and starchy, they are impossibly soft and worn in from day one – and they just get BETTER and BETTER.

We had been talking about getting a King size bed, so we were brazen enough to purchase two sets of the Italian equivalent of California King sheets with pillow shams. They were to be shipped in four weeks, after the bottom sheet had been Americanized (elasticized). $750 was the sale price, half off, which is how I talked him into two sets. “Two for the price of one.”
It was easy since he still had on his rose-colored glasses where finances were concerned. He was on his honeymoon, in Italy, high on pasta, red wine and gelato; well before he started to “hemorrhage” money on the remodel to accommodate the King sized bed.

For two and a half years; the time it took us to build the room to fit the bed; I looked at those boxes covered in FRETTE tape high on the closet shelf everyday, imagining ripping them open to reveal their magical contents, and then enjoying our first night sleeping on cherub’s hair.

At last, in February 2005, it was time. I slowly opened the boxes, the smell of Rome filling the room. I was never so happy to make a bed in. my. life. and I can tell you emphatically, – they did not disappoint. Amazingly, through the years, they have gotten softer and cozier – more than you could ever imagine.

They are my wildly expensive Italian woobies, and I love them.

We are now almost ten years in, and even though they are in rotation with sadly inferior Pima cotton sheets, the last year and a half has been hard on them (me).

My beloved Frette sheets have become threadbare.

I’m ashamed to admit, I even called Frette to complain that they had started to tear and develop holes, “oh my, well, how long have you had them?” her thickly accented voice inquired, “um, ten years” I answered, hearing myself say it out loud for the first time… crickets. They sent me a catalogue out of pity.

We have become the Clampetts, those hillbillies that hit it rich and moved to Beverly – Hills that is. Because inside the facade of a life of put together beauty, lies my tattered, patched up, little secret.

My cleaning lady, carefully patches them when I’m not looking, bless her heart; just like my mom did with my wobbie.
Sadly, with one set, the patch to sheet ratio finally became unacceptable, forcing my husband into an intervention. That night I took the long walk of shame, head hanging, eyes tearing up, to the trash to throw them away. Then I fished them out. It took me three tries.
I still think about them, late at night, sleeping in a dump somewhere.
They deserved a better fate.

Last night I put my foot through a hole in the bottom sheet of the remaining set. They have become impossibly delicate, like some ancient parchment from the Vatican archives; I need to wear white gloves and socks in order not to snag them. These sheets are so heavily mended and patched I’m completely mortified even though I’m alone in the room making the bed.

The writing is on the wall – they’re about to join their compadre in the city dump – or I can cut them up and have $750 rags.

Time passes, things move on. They let go a looooong time ago. Every marshmallow thread, every fiber of cloud – and I just need to do the same.

Wish me luck.

“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”

My friend loves that saying. She laughs every time we remember together the first time I said that to her when her well-oiled life suddenly hit the skids.

But it is!! Change is messy. I wish it were tidy, but…it’s not.

Change takes its big muddy feet and leaves its tracks on your life’s clean floors.

“Every positive change–every jump to a higher level of energy and awareness–involves a rite of passage. Each time to ascend to a higher rung on the ladder of personal evolution, we must go through a period of discomfort, of initiation. I have never found an exception.”
~Dan Millman

It can feel like a ten car pile up or an out of tune piano concerto.
Your choice.
But it ain’t gonna be pretty…at least not at first.

You wanna know the Ah HA I had around change recently?

You can never be good at it— in…the…beginning.
How could you be?
By its very definition change is uncharted territory.
It’s different and it’s new and I don’t know about you, but I have a pretty steep learning curve with different and new!

“Whatever the present moment contains, accept is as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it. Make it your friend and ally, not your enemy. This will miraculously transform your whole life.”
– Eckhart Tolle

All you CAN be is compliant.
You can act like you ordered change because you know what?
You probably did, you just can’t remember.
It was on that list somewhere, on the back of a napkin, or a crumpled piece of paper in some jacket pocket.

Maybe it was disguised under the title: Finding the perfect man.

Except, he lives in Chicago and you live in San Diego.

Or, I need a better job. 3 months later, at the worst possible time, you get laid off.

Expand my business. That means thinking bigger, learning new skills, hiring and maybe even firing people.

Get to my ideal weight. That can look like getting up at 5 am to meet a friend or a trainer at the gym before work, which also means early to bed, which probably means no wine. I told you. Messy!

All of this is very do-able.
But in the beginning, it can shake up your life like a 7.0 earthquake. It feels so groundlessly uncomfortable. I literally get shaky when I’m in the midst of a big change. It’s like my body is wrestling with the new information coming in. Part of it is processing it, and the other parts want to literally break loose and run in opposite directions.

So, don’t let your body, especially your eyes deceive you.
It’s gonna look like a shit storm for a little while, especially at the start.

But you know what? You can do this! The bigger the request, the bigger the storm.
The bigger the storm, the bigger the changes.
The bigger the changes, the bigger and better the end results.

Just not right away. Sorry.

Just remember, you ordered it.
XoxJanet

Earlier this month you wrote me a note, expressing your desire to reconcile. (Dear Money)
My Darling, I never left you, you lost your faith and trust in ME.

Mistakes were made, c’est la vie!
I’m incapable of holding a grudge, yet, you doubt my devotion.
Believe me when I tell you:

I am here to help you.
I am here to support you in your endeavors.
I am trustworthy!
I can be counted on to show up in your life when needed.
There is more than enough of me to go around.
I’ll never let you down.
I want to help you, help others.
Don’t worry about me, I’m here.

• What I realized when writing this is, geez! That sounds like a script from some of the relationships I’ve had with men! I wanted them to say those exact words! I needed the same reassurance.
  I did get that…so there’s hope.
  But did I just replace my distrust of men, with a distrust of money?! It’s true!! I’m having trust issues with money right now. 
  Wow, you never know what’s going to come up when you just get out of the way and write.
  Ha! That’s some deep shit! Stay tuned!

XoxJanet