Life

Apropos to what’s been written about this week.

Big love,
Xox

“Everything about me is a contradiction, and so is everything about everybody else.
We are made out of oppositions; we live between two poles. There’s a philistine and an aesthete in all of us, and a murderer and a saint.
You don’t reconcile the poles. You just recognize them.”
~Orson Wells

I used to LOVE loligaging around, reading and listening to music – simultaneously.

It was a habit I got into during school. I could only study with music playing or the TV on in the background. Nothing too heady, The Price Is Right or The Sonny And Cher Comedy Hour would drone on in the background, helping my brain process information.

Studies confirmed that there were others like me.
At least that was the lame excuse I would give my parents. I would sneeeeeer it out of my sideways, teenage mouth, like a hoodlum with the stub of a cigarette; when they’d yell for me to “turn that shit down!”
I lied about it so much, it became…true.

So what the hell has happened to me?
Now, as a writer, I need complete and utter silence when I sit down at the computer.
Is it age? Is my brain so busy just trying to conjugate a verb, that I can’t handle the distraction?
And forget about reading. I have six books open right now, all of them half read and only partially understood.

Suddenly, I’m a writer who doesn’t read, a singer that doesn’t listen to music.

I guess I can just add that to the list:

I’m also a woman that never lactated, or used her uterus for the good of the world in ANY WAY.

I’m a ex Jeweler who does’t wear or look at jewelry.

I’m a former Nationally Rated (fibbing here, but I could have been) professional shopper who hasn’t bought ANYTHING that wasn’t for someone else, since the inception of the boyfriend jean.

I’m a foodie who consumes steamed veggies and green drinks everyday and just to be cruel, I force my husband to do the same; utilizing his Catholic guilt.

I’m the biggest slug. The most ginormous lazy bones Jones, exercise loathing, couch potato, that God ever had the imagination to create; yet, I go to the gym – everyday.

WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH ME?

I’ve become a walking contradiction. But what I’m starting to realize is that we ALL are…in our own ways.

I know certain individuals that are vegan, gluten free, alkaline water junkies…who smoke and eat bacon; hoity-toity fashionista’s who wear Target with their designer duds, Yogi’s who teach meditation that are high strung and judgmental, financial advisors that are millions of dollars in debt, Prius drivers who waste every resource imaginable, and drive like bats out of hell; and intellectual giants – who can’t tell time.

So I figure, seeing that it’s part of the human condition, living a contradicted life, that it would be unfair, almost cruel, to hold ourselves or anyone else for that matter, up to too much scrutiny.

I promise to look the other way, if you promise to do the same. (As far as I know, I’m still someone who can keep a promise.)
Deal?

You KNOW you’re contradicted, think about it and tell me how!

Loving you all…today.
xox

If you want to listen instead:
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/youre-a-walking-contradiction

It is ridiculously dark in a hotel room with the black-out drapes closed.

It is trip over stuff because it’s a strange room; blink, blink, blink for your eyes to adjust; bang your shin and stub your toe, dark.

I experienced all of those things on the way to answer my phone which was shoved in my purse, somewhere under piles of room service napkins, magazines and assorted other crap.

La la la la la la, my phone chimed its little heart out.

Who is calling me? Everyone knows I’m on my honeymoon and judging from how dark it is, (forgetting the drapes) it MUST be three am.

Five minutes earlier the ringing had woken me up, and I had stumbled like a drunken sailor, half asleep in the pitch blackness, to the bathroom. ‘Wrong number‘ I thought, still half asleep as I felt my way like a blindfolded mime, back to bed.
I heard it go to message. Now I was awake.
Hmmmmmmmm…that’s weird.

It started to ring again; this time I could swear it sounded more insistent.
LA LA LA LAAAAAA!
Curious, I quietly slid out of bed and started moving heaven and earth to find it, only to hear it go to message a second time.

Not even a moment later, as I was finally holding it in my hand, it started ringing again.

So did my husband’s phone, next to him on the nightstand, and so did the hotel room phone on my side of the bed. All at the same time it became a cacophony of three different rings, each one of them trying desperately at that point to get our attention.

I heard my husband’s voice behind me in the bed, “Shit, this CAN’T be good”.  He was suddenly wide awake as he grabbed both the room phone and his cell, putting one to each ear.
“Hello!” he announced tersely into both.

I had just flipped mine open to hear someone mumbling and weeping, and at the same exact moment we both lunged for the remote as three different people screamed into our ears “TURN ON THE TV!”

We were two days into enjoying our post wedding coma. Ensconced in a room overlooking the Pacific at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, still feeling giddy from the excitement of such a magical night.
Exhausted, we had given ourselves a couple of days to decompress before we were to fly to a friend’s party in Chicago and then on to Italy to have a motorcycle honeymoon.
None of those plans would come to pass.

My brand new husband pulled open the drapes with one swipe to reveal bright sunshine; it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was after six in the morning. It must be a movie, I thought, as we both slowly sat on the edge of the bed; watching in stunned silence; as the second plane hit the tower.

I think I screamed.

Friends and family were calling; apologizing for bothering us, but wanting us to know.
That’s what family does. They share bad news.

Just thirty-six hours before, they had all been loopy from too much champagne and wine, toasting and celebrating love—now they were crying and asking me Why?

I couldn’t wrap my brain around what was happening. Everything felt surreal, like a slow motion movie.
I certainly didn’t have any answers.

My husband is an architect/builder. He knows about steel and fire and in his most serious Bob The Builder voice he didn’t pose a question or wonder aloud—he made a statement: “I hope everyone’s out of there, that building’s coming down.”

And right on cue, as he finished that sentence…the first tower fell.

“Shit, shit, shit” he yelled, jumping to his feet.
I was screaming and shaking uncontrollably, “No, No, No…Oh MY GOD!”
Was this really happening?

Peter Jennings’ solemn voice said something to the effect of, “This has turned from an act of terrorism to an act of war.”

It was impossible to look away from the TV and I could not stop crying.

My mom called to tell me Pam, who is like a big sister to me, and had flown in from San Francisco for the wedding, had to deplane on the tarmac at LAX and run for her life; as fast as she could, away from the terminals and the airport, as directed by the pilot.

Really. He told everyone to RUN!
No one knew what was going on, and where the next attack, if there were to be others, was going to take place. Lee and my mom picked her up as she ran east on Century Boulevard with a whole crowd of other panicky, thwarted travelers.

Many of the woman had ditched their heels along the way, running in bare feet and business attire.

They had no idea where they were going.
How far would they run?
How far was far enough?
Where could you go that day to feel safe? I sure as hell didn’t know.
If you’d told me a place, I would have run there with you.

After the second tower collapsed and the news went into perpetual recap mode, I couldn’t watch another second; so I pulled on some sweats and sunglasses to hide my red swollen eyes, and walked like a zombie downstairs to the lobby.

My inner historian/collector had kicked in and I wanted to see if they had the newspapers in the gift shop without the headline of the event and also a later edition, with it.

The adrenaline of the past few hours had subsided, which had dropped us into a kind of numb stupor, so we also needed coffee. Bad.

The lobby was deserted. Everything was closed. No gift shop, no Starbucks, nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight…this huge hotel felt deserted.

Back upstairs, I called room service.
It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then the voice that finally answered sounded out of breath and off of hotel protocol. She didn’t say Hello, Mrs Bertolus, (which I was loving by the way), like they had been doing for the past couple of days.

“Yes? Hello, I mean, room service” she said.

“Um, are you guys open? Is it possible to get a pot of coffee?”

“I’ll try my best, I’m sorry ma’am, but no one has shown up for work this morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I completely understand—it’s just so terrible…”

“Yes ma’am” she said, “it’s so sad.”
She started to cry, which set me off.

“Don’t worry about the coffee” I sobbed, feeling like an ass. “Just forget it, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No ma’am, don’t be silly” she had composed herself, now the epitome of professionalism, “Your coffee will be right up Mrs. Bertolus.”

Ten minutes later a young man brought up a pot of coffee and some croissants, and after some caffeine and food, the shaking stopped and I felt a little better.

The government had halted all air travel until further notice. Planes were finding a safe place to land and staying put. It was unprecedented and I was relieved.

The absolute LAST thing I wanted to do was get on a plane.
We had a lot of phone calls to make and rescheduling to do.

Against my better judgement we kept our reservations that night for a seaside dinner. The place was beautiful… and depressing as hell. Everyone seemed to just be going through the motions. I sobbed like a three-year old through the entire dinner, having a hard time forgetting those faces we’d seen all day of the people who were missing.

“How can I enjoy any of this? People lost husbands and fathers, brothers and wives and sisters. So many people died today!” I put my head in my hands, I couldn’t eat.

“How can you not?” my husband whispered, resting his hand on mine.

“Those people would give anything to be here, where we are right now, enjoying life. We don’t join them in death, that’s an even greater waste. We enjoy our lives. Every minute. Every day to the fullest. I think that’s what they would want. That’s what I would want.”

Damn, he’s good.

Just writing these memories makes me cry. It instantly brings me right back.

I think it’s important to tell the story. To never forget what happened.
Everything before 911 feels different, simpler, like we lost our innocence.

It just happens to coincide with my wedding. I can never think of one without the other. I celebrate the ninth of September, and I light a candle on the eleventh.
In my life they are forever intertwined.

Just like our parents had the Kennedy assassination, this is our generation’s “where were you?” moment.

Do you have a 911 story? Tell us.

much love,
xox

COM.PRO.MISE

ˈkämprəˌmīz/
noun
1) Settle a dispute by mutual concession. (In my opinion this is ABSOLUTELY the cornerstone of a happy relationship. Pick your battles, people)

synonyms: meet each other halfway, come to an understanding, make a deal, make concessions, find a happy medium, strike a balance; give and take.
“we compromised” (yes, yes, yes, yes and yes!)
(And my personal favorite, agree to disagree, Relax! we’re not attached at the hip)

2) Accept standards that are lower than is desired.
(What? No! ABSOLUTELY NOT That is NOT what it means to compromise. No wonder people are still single. Jeez)

My sweet darling, husband and I are celebrating our thirteenth wedding anniversary today.

We met and fell in love late in life. I was 42. He was 47.

He is a wonderful man, but he is curmudgeon.
He has a giant heart, surrounded by a hard, opinionated, veneer …wrapped in bacon.

When a friend asked me today what the difference was between people who marry late and the people who never marry at all…I said:compromise.

Don’t get all pissed off, sit down and hear me out.

I think the people who wait and wait and then never find the “right person”, believe that the second definition is true.

I did for a while. I thought compromise meant I had to lower my standards.

“No way! I will not! I want what I want, and I will not rest until I have dated every guy in LA (it just felt like it) to find the man of my dreams. He must be perfect in EVERY way.”

Good luck with that Janet.

And like the amazingly flexible person that I was; I wanted my life to stay exactly the same…except exponentially better.
More love, more travel, more money, definitely more sex, more friends, more, more, more, more, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I was willing to give up…nothing.

“GIVE UP something to be with a man? Nope, if that’s the case, then he’s just not the right guy for me.”

My husband is a contractor, and he espouses his Triangle Theory and assures all his clients that THIS is the way things work in the world. It goes like this:

Money + Time + Quality
When building something, you can only have two out of the three.
Quality is not cheap.
Fast is not cheap.
Quality takes time and costs money.

Cutting corners either in cost or time spent, sacrifices quality.
It is impossible to get all three.

Along the way I slowly and clumsily learned this lesson.
Compromise became my co-pilot.
Was everything on my list REALLY non-negotiable?

Here’s my triangle from back in the day.

Gorgeous, and artsy = unemployed.
Rich and smart = hooker fucker
Rat faced but kind = the guy you date in between rich and smart; gorgeous and artsy.

You just can’t get the Prince Charming trifecta.
You can get damn close, and that’s okay.
It’s NOT settling. It’s being a grown up and realistic.
Just like I’m realistic, acknowledging that I’m no prize.
I’m only two out of three, and that’s okay (can you guess which?)

Is it a compromise if your two out of three match your beloveds?
I think not.

Carry on, know that there is someone out there for you.
Do you want to be right…or happy?
Stop looking for perfect.
It’s highly over rated.
And expensive.

Love, love,
Xox

A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson

I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7. 

It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general goof-offiness.

When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.

It’s like finding blue sea glass. It’s like a gem, out of the blue, completely unexpected.

My point is this: out in the world, right now, someone thinks you’re awesome. 
I swear to God.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it; you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.

I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere, and if they were alive…they would be surprised.

The same friend that wrote that email, is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome – and she doesn’t even know it.

I was just lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and wise woman who lives in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and is so impossibly chic that French woman must ask her for fashion advise. I’m sure of it. I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome behind her.
And she is blissfully unaware.

Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields, that I can feel equally stupid about music, computers and food around him. THAT my friends is a talent. 
My husband marvels at Clay’s humble manner and down lowness.
He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
We think he’s covered in awesome sauce, and he has NO IDEA.

It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, being you, and someone noticed your sparkle.

Telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted us is wonderful, please, do it.

But it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.

People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?

There are people breathing air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.

I do.

You’re all amazing!
Xox

*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.

The house is still. It’s the middle of the night so…that’s appropriate.

The only sound I can hear is the soft whrrrrr of the refrigerator, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients cool and fresh.

Damn you stainless steel box of cold air! (yelled dramatically while waving a fist).

Rant Alert:
Why can’t my protein, vegetable laden juices taste like a chocolate malt?
Is that too much to ask?
I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. This healthy shit has GOT to start tasting better…or else…

Anyway…
My refrigerator has undergone a recent renaissance.
It seems to follow my life’s trajectory. Right now it’s all cleanses, bitter greens and shit.

I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few options so I won’t cheat with fat infused deliciousness. As a matter of fact there is nothing delicious within a three-mile radius. I’d have to get in my car and drive to get it, and my laziness overrules my craving for gooey goodness, so I think technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is: a vessel seeking clarity…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

For about two decades the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just a casual smoker, keeping cigs in the freezer keeps them fresh) not even an ice-cube dared show its face. Later, ground coffee replaced the cigarettes.

Quick story about how THAT happened.
Back in ’93 when I had my first “energy work” done, a friend came by the apartment to get the dirt. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.

She was one of my gossip girls, so she knew about the cigcicles, and since she could tell my story was going be juicy and warrant a smoke, she walked over to the kitchen, which was just to the left of where I was sitting, and opened the freezer.

Suddenly, she jumped back, as if she’d seen a ghost, slamming the thing shut.
I watched it all happen, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her, with my head tilted sideways like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle.

My friend still standing in front of the closed freezer door says, “A voice just said DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“I’d better go”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy!

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked, taking a page out of their book.

And THAT was the end of my casual smoking.
I tried one occasionally in the years that followed but they made me feel awful, and when something stops being fun, I quit doing it. Think Jane Fonda Workouts.

So, back to the middle of the night as I tossed and turned and awfulized; mulling over this decision or that.
I finally made the first decision and that was to switch my brain from FU mode to productive mode, remembering all the recent things I’ve heard and read on making life altering choices when you’re at a crossroads.

So, to save you the obsessing and the time and trouble, here is a list of the things you should ask yourself:

1) Will I regret not making this change? (Regrets are like walking around with a wet coat on. They are killjoys.)

2) Why exactly am I hesitant/ indecisive? Make a list. (The list that you make in the light of day will always be shorter than the phone book sized one you make at three AM…just sayin’).

3) What doors will close if I make this change? Do I care? (That one makes my butt clench. Here’s a great quote from Mark Nepo for the people pleasers among us: “I tried so hard to please that I never realized; No one was watching.”
Right!? Did the top of your head just blow off? Mine too)

4) Which choice will make the better story? (kinda like the movie viewing analogy from Saturday’s post.)

5) How does the choice or change FEEL? (that really should be number one. Check your kishke).

6) What’s the worst thing that can happen? (consult your three AM list, believe me, they’re ALL there).

7) Whats the BEST thing that can happen? (usually written on a Post It)

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (sans snarkiness, jealousy, competitiveness and ego).

9) What’s the “next right thing” to do to stay free of ego? (In other words, check your motivation. Is it pure? Not really? THERE’S your answer.)

10) What choice or change would make me the proudest in five years? (That’s often the clincher for me. Can’t say I’m too proud of myself when I can’t be brave and I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hopes this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.
Love you all,

Xox

All the world’s a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players; 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
And one man in his time plays many parts.
~William Shakespeare 

On top of writing this blog, putting together my book, my women’s group and modeling for Victoria’s Secret, I’m also birthing,(with my composer friend Les) a Broadway musical. (Only four of those are true – can you guess which ones?)

It’s been such an interesting process and I’ll tell you why.
We have the whole story in our minds, we just have to get the characters to say, sing and do all right things to make that story come alive.
We’ve spent the last nine months letting the characters tell us who they are (their backstory) so we can write the dialogue and songs that will suit them.
We HAVE to know their motivation before one word is spoken.

A favorite saying of mine is: even the villain has total conviction and thinks he’s doing the right thing.

When you think like that, it brings compassion, and the words that appear on the page never have a false note; they always ring true. (That, and a chocolate chip cookie sacrifice to my Muse every Friday as we brainstorm really helps.)

Imagine if we did that with our lives.
If we questioned our motivation with compassion, making sure to say and do the things that will move us forward in life. 
If we could reverse engineer our paths and never make a false move. 
Impossible right? And we really wouldn’t want to bypass some of those mistakes because they did lead us here, but…

You know when you’re engrossed in a movie and the main character, who you’ve fallen for, big time, does something stupid? 
They cuss out a co-worker and get fired, they choose the dangerous, douchy guy over the boring sweet guy, they sleep with a married man, they spend all their money on shoes, they drink and dial their ex, or they stand in front of the fridge at midnight finishing their kid’s birthday cake?

Don’t you just want to yell at the screen and throw popcorn? “NO! Don’t go there! Stop it! That is SO CLEARLY the wrong move! Ugh, now you’ve done it. How are you going to get out of that?”

Think Liz Gilbert (Julia Roberts) in Eat, Pray, Love, when she meets the young, boy toy actor (James Franco) and starts a fling, right on the heels of her divorce.
“No Liz, Don’t do it! Take some time alone. Don’t go there. He’s not right for you… Shit.”

You just know how that’s gonna end. We can all understand, we’ve been there.
It’s the sex – the blood leaves your brain, and it’s always phenomenal with completely inappropriate people.
It’s one of life’s great mysteries.

I have an exercise that I use in the woman’s group, to try to see the wrong moves before you make them, and I think it’ll help you with your future choices.
It’s a trick to get you to live more consciously.

Imagine your life as a movie. Right now.
In full HD color, on the big screen and YOU, are the star! (played by Kate Winslet or Reese Witherspoon, George Clooney or Hugh Jackman).
You can view, from afar, in your seat in the theater, all the options in front of you and watch as the character (you) makes their choices.
Are you watching YOU take some chances, have adventures, fall in love, laugh and have fun? Or are YOU miserable, on unemployment, being a sad sack, staying in bed, eating cheesecake?

Are you yelling “yes! Great decision!” or “No! Turn around and walk away!”

Remember, You are extremely fond of YOU (hopefully) and you only want the best.

If viewed on the big screen, how are YOU doing?
Are you avoiding the pitfalls and dick-heads, or are you going for the instant gratification? (the great sex with the wrong people)

Pulling back and watching the movie of my life has helped me immeasurably in my decision making. Sometimes I just shake my head, and other times I smile. 

I’m really rooting for me.

One of my friends imagines herself atop an impossibly high mountain and looks down at the overview of her life. She’s done it for years and it helps her so much to gain a better perspective.
I love that.

Think about this the next time you come to a crossroads.
We all know deep down what’s right for us. What would you want the YOU in the movie to do?

I’m rooting for YOU.
Much Love,
Xox

“You did not come to this Earth now to just pay bills, follow rules, watch your body age, and live a random life. You came here to fulfill a purpose, to live your life alive, to view all your changes as sacred meaningful soul passages.”
~Leo at “Perspectives From the Sky”

Walking semi-concious through those same glass double doors every morning, I would say “hey” to the guard, glance at the fading green paint and take in the general shabby condition of the place. “Long in the tooth” is how my husband describes buildings that are past their prime.
Except for the small missing pieces of the parquet wood floor and the dilapidated condition of the grey, two stall bathroom; if you entered from the front – you could be dazzled.

There were more millions of dollars of jewelry in that one thousand square foot foyer, than any showroom on Rodeo Drive.
Maybe all of them combined.
While those shops are sparsely merchandised, a large diamond ring with a spotlight on it for instance, the showcases in the foyer of Antiquarius, were literally crammed with goods.
New people often asked if the jewelry was costume. They couldn’t comprehend that all the emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds were real.

Rooms filled with antiques have a very distinctive smell. A dash of Aunt Barbara’s sickening sweet perfume, mixed with Pledge and silver polish. Add the smell of coffee from the restaurant upstairs and some random cinnamon potpourri and you get the picture. When I walk into an antique mall…it takes me right back.

I loved working there. 
I worked inside the Antiquarius building almost every day without fail, except when we were out of town at jewelry shows; for eighteen years. 1988-2006.
About five years in, the diamond dust had cleared from my eyes and I started to ask myself,
‘Is this all there is?‘ Even the “glamour” of the travel had worn thin.

I would feel it the most profoundly walking in those back doors from the parking lot every morning.
‘There’s the guard, say “hi”, don’t get your high heel stuck in the missing pieces of the wood floor, smell the coffee – there MUST be more.’

Even diamonds and being surrounded by beauty can become mundane and mediocre, if there’s no Zah,Zah,Zoo.

As I’ve stated before in this blog: I despise mediocrity, I think I’m allergic to it; and I’m a firm believer that life is too short and we must live with a sense of urgency.
For me that means adventure, life with a bit of an edge.
I tried all those exercises where you drive a different way to work, or order something new for lunch, in order to break out of the rut – that’s all bullshit.

I’m one of those people that needs a quest. What’s a quest you ask?
To me, it’s a challenge or long term pursuit to which you are devoted, and it changes you along the way. I adore travel, so I knew that would play a part in my quest.

I just watched an interview with Chris Guillebeau about his new book “The Happiness of Pursuit” and it very much reminded me of the dissatisfaction I felt all those years ago. The book is a collection of stories about people that are wired like me. People that are compelled to pursue a quest.

A quest can be anything from wanting to complete a triathlon, to, like his story and another in the book, travel to every country in the world or to knit ten thousand hats.

Mine is seeing as many places around the world as I can, on the back of a motorcycle.

“It is more about the emotional awareness of mortality, rather than the intellectual understanding. Life is short.”
~Chris Guillebeau

In his book Chris talks about the characteristics of a quest: a clear goal, a real challenge and a series of milestones along the way. It should be something you’re REALLY excited about. Check, check, check and big fat check.

Your quest will have stops and starts, born out of practicality; like running out of money, time or steam, and I think the most important component is to chronicle the journey. To me, this is non-negotiable.
It keeps the momentum going when you can’t see the end. You’re able to see how far you’ve come, AND, you can keep track, in writing, of all the changes you’ve gone through along the way.

That was what happened on our Continental Divide Quest last summer. 5000 miles in seventeen days.
I took you with me. I wrote about how I wanted to stop about half way through, how much I cried and how certain circumstances scared me shitless.

“We’re not in the Antiquarius anymore, Toto” 
~J Bertolus

I can’t tell you how many times I have looked up at the sky on the back of that bike and thought to myself ‘I am NOT at a desk, I am NOT sitting in traffic on the 101, I am NOT bored, and I am certainly NOT asking ‘is that all here is?‘
I Am living Life.

Find your quest. It will be the best obsession you’ve ever had.

With lots of love,
Xox

Marie Forleo interview with Chris Guillebeau
http://www.marieforleo.com/2014/09/happiness-of-pursuit/

I wish I could explain this life, this crazy world; to us all.

If I could, I would be the opening speaker at Stephen Hawking lectures, with an intellectually rich, but exasperatingly hard to follow Ted Talk. I would be rocking a tan corduroy jacket with elbow patches, an impossibly dated comb over…and I wouldn’t have time to write this blog. 

I wish I could schedule a breakout, breakthrough, or break up like I schedule my appointments to get my hair this incredibly natural shade of bley (blondish-grey).

It would really make things so much easier to be able to count on a pimply weekend or see your bat-shit crazy attack penciled in for a week from Friday.
I appreciate dependability; like daylight savings time, or how I remember my period being – from days of yore.

I wish things made sense.
Like nice people always finishing first and prayers being answered in the order they are received. I wish that anything that tasted good or was fun, like donuts, bacon, drinking wine and smoking; were good for us.

I appreciate challenge and adversity, I really do.
I get that they lead to change and growth and general growing up. I would just like to go on record, insisting that there should be a quota per lifetime, and once that has been fulfilled, that shit,
Has. Got. To. Stop.

No recurrences of cancer, or anything heinous for that matter.
One painful divorce, miscarriage, job loss – and that is that.

My husband had menengitis. He should never have to suffer with a headache or the common cold ever again.

One almost deadly car accident, ski accident, motorcycle accident or choking on a peanut and your lifetime bullshit accident quota should be fulfilled.

I suppose we are required to pick from the “Menu of Happenstance” before we embark on this wild adventure, and are eyes are too big for what we can actually stomach; when we’re on the other side, filled with grace.

I like to think that from that vantage point all this hub bub looks easy.
Like fun even. An adventure. In the cosmic scheme of things, over in the blink of an eye.

That’s why we come.

When you think of it that way…things aren’t so bad.
Love,love,
Xox

For your listening pleasure 😉
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/thats-why-we-come

We all have fault lines that run through us.
They have been acquired over time, these small cracks and fissures in our emotional facade; caused by overbearing or under caring parents, assholes that leave us, being lied to, betrayed, misunderstood, unheard and bullied; you know – life.

Just like geological fault lines, they can be triggered anytime (usually at the most inopportune) and may rupture without warning, causing an emotional earthquake.

Some fault lines we are aware of and will do everything in our power to keep them intact, and others catch us by surprise.
They catch us off guard with the fact that they even exist, triggered by something mundane, and also by the severity of the shaking that registers as fear, anxiety and dread on our emotional Richter Scales.

The after shocks can reverberate through every part of our lives, breaking mirrors (uh oh, add seven years bad luck) and making rubble of things that we have taken great pains to arrange perfectly.

So…here’s my query: are we better for them? Are our fault lines there to shake up the things that are stuck, so that rebuilding can occur? Or are they wounds that are so deep that if they were to crack, they could subsequently shake us apart? Are they our own personal Fukashima’s? Disasters waiting to happen?

It has felt to me personally at times, like one of those disaster movies, you know the ones, where the earth’s crust splinters open and swallows everything; cars, shopping malls, airplanes – swallows ‘um up whole – and then slams shut.
My friend calls those movies “Craptastic.”

I used to have massive anxiety attacks. They felt seismic.

If you’ve ever had one you understand without explanation.
If you haven’t, I can try to explain them to you, but it’s a bit like trying to explain childbirth to someone that hasn’t had children.
You get that it’s massively uncomfortable – but you really have NO idea! 

It feels like a heart attack on steroids. Like your heart will pound out of your chest.
Well, it would except there’s the weight of an elephant sitting on it, making it extremely hard to breathe.
I sat in many doctor’s offices in the early days, hooked up to EKG’s while the they’d tell me my heart was fine – it was all in my head.

For me, the sky felt like someone had lowered it to about……..ceiling height.
I felt like I had to duck all the time, keep my head down. Oppressive.

And the shaking. It is internal, and it feeds on itself if you let it.
If you tense up, it can get bad. Like uncontrollable bad.
If you go all loosey-goosey, you’re able to ride it out. I’m a master at that, systematically relaxing every muscle, due to many hours of practice in the middle of the night.

When I look back now at those fault line ruptures, I know they occurred because I let feelings build up that I didn’t want to deal with.
A marriage I no longer wanted to be a part of,
A job that had run its course,
A calling I didn’t want to follow.
The friction built up until it would break the surface…and get my attention.

The great Leonard Cohen wrote:
There is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

So…..to answer my own question, I now believe that our fault lines are the cracks that let the light in. I have seen it in my own life. Once the fault breaks open and the pressure is released, it makes room for the light – if you let it, and rebuilding can occur through grace.

How have your fault lines let the light in to precipitate change?

Love you,
Xox