Life

Prayer To The Muse
Give the act to me.
Purged of hope and ego,
Fix your attention on the soul.
Act and do for me.”

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012.

The Muse and I were sitting around the other day chatting, as we do. She with an air of gin, tonic and attitude; and me, always in awe of her beauty and general badassery.

I was questioning her about all aspects of the writing process, publishing in particular, of which she is extremely knowledgeable.

She is the Muse, after all.

As the conversation zig and zagged over the various ways to get published, she shook her head. “There’s no excuse these days, for an author not to get their work out in the world to be read.”

“So all of us, the writers of the world, together with our Muses, we just write what we love, and send it, like our precious baby, out into the world? I asked “What intention should we give it as we send it on its way? To touch people? To help people? To make money? To be a best seller?”

I couldn’t tell by the way she slowly turned to face me, with a kind of half smirk, whether her answer was going to be kind, or I was gonna get a smack down.

She started to laugh.
The Muse has a laugh like the throaty purr of a Maserati. Deep and sexy.
The result of age, too many late nights, strong drinks and cigarettes.

“I only write best sellers, my darling” she purred with her usual lack of humility.

“That’s all I’m capable of. I only paint masterpieces. I only write musical compositions that bring grown men to tears. It’s all I know how to do.”

Now I was shaking my head, but she continued.

“As the Muse, I am Divine Inspiration at the highest level, sending my masterpiece through you, the vessel.”

Now I was leaning in; listening intently, she could sense my interest, so she took a long drag on her cigarette to keep me in suspense.

“I’m incapable of writing a boring book or a piece of shit movie.” She threw her head back, smoke billowing from her nostrils.
“That’s YOUR contribution.” She was laughing again.

“The clearer the vessel, the clearer the translation of my work. If you start to question it, or edit it, or doubt it, well, darling, you’re being an idiot.”
I laughed.

“If you can’t recognize a masterpiece when you see it or read it, or you somehow think you can do it better,” she shifted in her chair, “you’ll compromise the material.
It will become mediocre….or suck altogether.”

That was a big AhHa for me.

What she was saying was this: that no matter what your talent is, no matter what ideas you have, we are ALL capable of greatness; it’s wholly dependent on the clarity of our connection to the Muse. No one is more talented, they are just better connected.
Steve Jobs, I’m going to venture to guess, kept his nose out of her business.

He just let it flow.

I get it. I get it!

“Our relationship is very complicated, my darling. Everyday I’m taking a chance that you will trust me enough to write my words the way I say them or paint my vision, using the colors I choose. I hear your prayer and I get ready to work. All you have to do is trust and stay clear of fear, doubt, and judgement.”

“Oh is THAT all.” I replied, sarcastically.

“My job as the Muse is to pick the correct vessel.”
She got to her feet for emphasis, turned and winked.
“It is how all the great works of humanity; of architecture, and the arts have been created. I believe it to be a good system.”

So do I.
I’d be an idiot to disagree with the Muse.

Xox

Sometimes, in this wonderfully bumpy journey called life; it isn’t enough to inhabit our own skin.
Or rather, it’s too much.

We need some help.

Help keeping our faith. Help pushing our worn out, sad, beat up butts back on the playing field. What we need is assistance from the greats that came before us, whose battle weary eyes have seen everything.

They know stuff. They be wise.

Maybe it was a favorite teacher that you admired or perhaps it was your grandfather, who took you under his wing. Firm but fair.

If they were in a jam- what would they do?

You could turn to them for guidance, perhaps, even for a brief moment, inhabit their skin, standing taller and looking at the situation with their accrued strength, wisdom and grace.

At the Wednesday women’s group, our conversation led to the passing, that day, of Maya Angelou. We were all deeply affected. More than we would have expected. It just felt to us, that Maya Angelou would always share the planet with us….breathe the same air.

It’s been a weepy kind of week, so with her loss, the tears that welled up felt justified in their appearance. Much more so than all the other mundane shit we’d all been crying about. 

Some of us had read her books, others were just familiar with her poetry.
What we all agreed on, was her stature as she walked through this amazing life.
Not only the fact that she was six feet tall; but her grace and dignity, her sense of humor, her courage and most of all; her God-damn gravitas.

I’m sure her BS detector was especially fine tuned.
She didn’t suffer fools and I bet she didn’t take ANY shit….from ANYBODY.

I’m talkin’ to you, Oprah.

Sure, she made mistakes, but she learned, wrote about them, and was the better for it.

We all decided that when life threw us a curveball, or when we were in an emotional tornado, and needed to feel empowered; we’d ask ourselves: 
What Would Maya Do?

It made us laugh-and then we got quiet.
I think it’s now our secret password.
Shhhhhhhhhh. Don’t tell anyone.

I have a small collection of rose quartz hearts from our winter solstice meditations, so this morning, I decided to write What Would Maya Do? on one side and her quote “I Am Enough” on the other.
I’m going to give them to my women to carry around as a reminder, you know, in case they forget the password. It looks like the marker is going to wear off immediately. Maybe reaching into a pocket and feeling that little heart shaped stone will be enough to remember.

Nope.

She wouldn’t fuck around.

I have to find a more permanent marker that stays on stone.
I know that’s what Maya would do.

Who do you have as your “go to” person? Who would you ask?

Xox

Show of hands, How many of you are doing something else while you’re trying to read this?

The operative word being: TRYING.

Are you talking on the phone? Eating? Tying Timmy’s shoe? Texting? I only ask, because I’m one of you. We are the chronically overextended. The magicians of mult-tasking. We haven’t met a list, task or scheduling challenge whose ass we couldn’t kick.

If you want something done ask a busy person to do it.
~Lucille Ball~

Oh, Lucy, I do love you, and I’ve quoted this MANY times. It may be how I’ve lived most of my life, but it’s an old, dying paradigm.

It is true, that busy people like you and me, we can take on what others have shrugged off, no problemo.

We’ll write that email, while texting, syncing our calendars, peeing and getting dressed, but something will have to give. It may not be accuracy, although studies have shown that it does tend to be a casualty. Case in point: my shirt will be buttoned all wrong, and I’ll send a flirty text, in error, to the last person I texted…..my brother. Inaccurate And inappropriate.

What WILL be lost is: Depth of Connection.

Do you even care? I think you do. I sure as hell do.

We are partially tuned into everything while never being completely tuned into anything.

Not only are we looking down at our devices instead of making eye contact during a conversation, our communication can be so freaking dry.

We aren’t moved by a friend’s loss because it never travels from our ears to our hearts.

We write a quick Happy Birthday on a friend’s Facebook wall, often forgetting to send the card or call. Shame on us.

The quick email or text answer we shoot off after only half reading the question, can come across as impersonal and detached, because we didn’t take the time to write mindfully and thoughtfully. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve misconstrued a text ( meaning got my feelings hurt, or got pissed) for lack of a tone of voice. 

Oh hey, I have an idea. Maybe a phone call would have been better, but…shit. We don’t have the time, and we would have to actually engage emotionally.

It is so much easier to send a sad face emoticon 🙁

My husband has this nifty trick. When the doorbell rings at dinner time, which is the bewitching hour for solicitors, he answers the door with his phone to his ear, pretending to be deep in conversation. That sends the universal, non-verbal signal: “Can’t you see I’m busy? Fuck off!”
It works every time. He’s back at the table in two seconds flat.

I know people that enter EVERY room like that. Cellphone up to the ear, chatting away, while shaking hands and air kissing their way through the party, meeting or lunch date. Meanwhile, all of us on the receiving end are wading in the shallows of their connection. To me it always feels like that same F-You message my husband so brilliantly employs.

I, for one pledge to try harder, to be smarter about making that deeper connection. Strive for some substance over fluff. Who’s with me?

And every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling “This is important! And This is important! And This is important!
And each day it’s up to you to yank your hand back, put it on your heart and say, “NO. This is what’s important.”
~Iain Thomas~ Excerpt from Thrive by Arianna Huffington

Do you catch yourself walking and texting or entering a shop while you’re on the phone?
Have you been caught on the receiving end of the shallow connection?
I’d love some feedback on this. Tell me in the comments below!

Xox

* I’ve always loved this quote…Happy Sunday!

“An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. ‘A fight is going on inside me,’ he said to the boy. It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil — he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”
He continued, “The other is good — he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you — and inside every other person, too.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
~ Cherokee legend
Excerpt from the book Thrive by Arianna Huffington

Intimacy
I invite you to read the word “intimacy” as “into-me-see.” We create intimacy with others when we allow ourselves to be seen.
~Christine Hassler~

Who sees you clearer than your friends?
Not the acquaintance at the office, or the barista who makes your coffee every morning.
No.
Your REAL friends. The ones that you can’t even remember not knowing.
The ones that GET you. I mean get you, in the deepest, most soul stirring, tear jerking way.
They know every hair style you’ve ever had, and they told you you rocked it.
But, they wouldn’t let you leave the house in those God awful green pants.
They are brave enough to tell you he’s not good enough for you, and almost more thrilled than you are, when you find someone who is.
You’ve had dinners where you’ve talked until the candles burned down, and New Years Eve’s that were hilarious disasters and days on vacation that were magical. Those experiences are etched with a permanent groove in your brain and make you weepy when you replay them.

Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone – and finding that that’s ok with them.
~anonymous~

They are on your speed dial (now speed text) for those three in the morning, pillow punching, holy shit, “will you just talk to me until I fall asleep” nights.
You’ve shared clothes, bathing suits, a toothbrush in a pinch, recipes, even candid details of the fight you had with your mom on her birthday, or the bad sex you had with that someone who you thought was “the one.”
You hold hands at funerals, weddings, baby showers and the Sunday farmers market.
When they lost the baby, you were there, to hold their hand. When they had the baby, you were in the room, to hold their legs.
When you’re an ass, they feed you, because they know how you get when you’re hungry.
When they hurt, you hurt.
When you laugh, they laugh louder, and longer, which makes wine come out your nose.

In-to-me-see is earned.
It is doled out judiciously. We are not transparent to the casual observer. Not to the blabber mouth or the revealer of secrets.
This kind of friendship, this kind of bond feels ancient and epic, almost older than time.
We carry it wherever we go, even into death.

Cherish these people. Hold them close to your heart, no matter how far away they may be. They’ll feel it. Then consider yourselves lucky to be accepted and loved that way.

Xox

Live life as if everything is rigged in your favor.
~Rumi~

OMG. THAT is my new mantra. What if we all did that?
We’d walk differently in the world. I know I would.

Like a card shark at the Blackjack table. If he knew the game, the deck, was rigged in his favor, he could just sit back, and relax. No more counting cards, no more strategy running though his mind……..no more fear of losing. He’d know, that no matter how it seemed, as the cards were dealt, that the game was rigged in his favor, and he’d bet…….BIG.

There would be an ease, a facility to things. Life would have a lovely flow.
We wouldn’t worry about each day so much, or how shitty things may appear in the moment. “It’ll all figure itself out”. We’d say “you know, it’s rigged in my favor.”
“Well, that’s funny, because life is rigged in my favor too” the person next to us would reply. And that would be okay. Because there’s enough good, enough money, enough love to go around. No one else has to lose when we win.

Using the Blackjack analogy, the player would win big, but the house could cover the bet. It makes money on food and shows and liquor and such.
There’s enough. There’s always enough.

So live life like its rigged in your favor. Bet BIG on your success.

Question: Would that take the fun out of the game (life) if you knew it was rigged for you to win? Interesting huh? Maybe the challenge isn’t so bad. I’d really love to know what you think, tell me!

Xox

When I was a kid, I walked a mile straight up our street, to my little Catholic Grammar school, St John The Baptist De La Salle. When I wasn’t struggling with my overstuffed, fifty pound ( my mom weighed it) book bag, the one that was covered in the same blue plaid as my skirt (groovy, I know, don’t be jealous) I was looking at all the houses that lined my path.

It was one of the residential neighborhoods deep in the recently developed, middle class, suburban sprawl of the northern San Fernando Valley in the early 1960’s. Where once there were only orange and lemon groves, now stood, one to ten year old tract homes. I remind you it was the sixties, very cookie cutter; they lacked imagination and color. Some were ranch style with big lawns in the front, the garages in an alley around the back. Others had driveways with some generic plants in the front. They alternated, with the floor plan switching up every so often. Every few blocks the pattern would repeat itself.
It was new families, new sidewalks, sprinklers and the hum of “central air conditioning.” 

As an eight or nine year old I was already full of opinions. I knew which of the houses on my walk, I liked the best. Being the anal, Type A, control freak that I was, I preferred the ones that were well maintained, and I actually felt sorry for the ones that weren’t.
If the lawns were perfectly manicured, mowed and edged, the bushes clipped and the roses in bloom, I figured all must be well on the inside too. If the paint was peeling, the lawn needed weeding, and the place was a wreak, well, I thought maybe life wasn’t being so kind to those occupants. I noticed the screens that were brown with nicotine at the corner house, where the man smoked like a chimney, and I actually got frustrated when people chose bad window treatments, like beads, which were all the rage, or kept foil or sheets pulled up over their windows.
Couldn’t they see how that screwed up their curb appeal? Didn’t they care?

That was when I learned two very important life lessons: Things are not always as they appear, AND, some people pay more attention to what’s going on on the outside, than on the inside.

There were two houses that I can still remember loving. One was a light yellow, with white and yellow roses in the front. I approved of their window treatments and I even thought the decorative screen door was charming. It also allowed me to catch snippets of music, TV or conversation as I walked by. A nosey eight year old’s dream. I still love to catch a candid glimpse of how other people live. Although…..
One morning as I walked by, I heard an augment. It sounded bad. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but a man and woman were definitely yelling at each other. It stared happening on a regular basis, and went on for years. It was like, “okay, it’s 8:15, and in this corner, wearing the pink housecoat and slippers and weighing in at one hundred and forty pounds, the middle class champion…..” 
I began to pick up my pace, speed walking, just to get past without getting any of that vitriol on me.

Interesting observation number one: Life on the inside seemed to be a hot mess, while outside from the street, there didn’t appear to be a leaf out of place.

The second house was white with blue trim. It had the driveway in front, with two cars parked side by side. I watched the slow steady climb to prosperity that the house revealed on the exterior. It had a very fancy dichondra lawn, which required ridiculous maintenance. My mom tried one once. She was out there every afternoon with cuticle scissors and tweezers. I’m not kidding. It makes maintaining a bonsai tree look like a walk in the park. Anyway……beautiful house, stunning, professionally landscaped yard, a gardener and two cars that got nicer and more expensive every couple of years. I never heard any yelling. I really never heard or saw any people or signs of life. It was the perfect picture of suburban utopia, and I LOVED it.
One day, miss nosey pants here, noticed there had only been one Cadillac in the driveway for a couple of weeks. After that, the lawn started to get overrun with dandelions, and the flowers that seemed to magically appear in full bloom every couple of weeks were dried up and dead. Signs of human occupation appeared now on the crispy brown front lawn. A bicycle haphazardly discarded, like the rider had just flown off in a full sideways skid and disappeared. Trash and old papers collected on the porch. One afternoon I noticed a reddish curtain hanging, like a velvet tongue, out through a newly broken front window.
Not long after, a For Sale sign appeared. Divorce had beaten the shit out of my favorite house and apparently the family inside. That was shocking to me. Everything looked like it was going so well for them. I never saw any signs, there were no arguments for public consumption.

Interesting observation number two: Sometimes the exterior circumstances can reflect SO perfectly what’s happening on the inside. Mimic the slow decline. It can be unexpected, no yelling, no shot across the bow, and it’s heartbreaking.

Which one am I? Do I put up a good front when the walls are crumbling down?
I used to. It was exhausting. When I divorced my first husband, people were SHOCKED. No one saw it coming. Not even him.
But I’ve changed. I’ve become pretty transparent.
Ms. Cellophane.
I’d like to say I hide things. Save face. Maybe for a day or two, but I’m more like the second house. When my shit hits the fan, I don’t think anyone around me, who sees me, is surprised. If I were a house, MY big red velvet tongue would be hanging out a broken front window.

Which one are you? Have you encountered both? Were you surprised?
Tell me, I’d love to hear about it.

Xox

Pain can only feed on pain. Pain cannot feed on joy. It finds it quite indigestible.
~Eckhart Tolle~

You will touch joy and suddenly realize that you have never felt joy because it requires abandon. It grows from gratitude and cannot exist where there is mad cynicism or distrust.
You will touch this joy and you will suddenly know it is what you were looking for your whole life, but you were afraid to even acknowledge the absence because the hunger for it was so encompassing. 

—Eve Ensler, In the Body of the World

Loose your fear and touch joy today…..Happy Sunday!
Xox

Sometimes, no, often, nope, daily, I get overwhelmed inside my wonderful life.
It’s wonderful on paper, and I juggle as fast as I can to keep up the charade.
It’s nothing that is overtly obvious, but I know that this house of cards could come crashing down at any minute. That, or my head will explode. I’m not certain which will come first, so I think I’ll just out myself, with the knowledge that I’m probably not alone.

Are you waiting for some epic admission? Too bad.
It’s nothing major, just SO MANY little things that add up. Like dripping water on my forehead.

I have many addictions. Thankfully, they will NOT be the death of me……unless I slip and fall on melted chocolate.
But some of them frustrate the hell out of me.

I have a coffee table book addiction. I have since before I owned a coffee table.
Between those and all the novels and best sellers, it looks like a freaking library in here. Here’s the thing. If I divide how many hours I’ve been alive by the hours it would take to read all these books….it’s never gonna happen. Most are partially read. I can see scraps of paper sticking out that I grabbed and used as a bookmark, half or three quarters of the way through.
I will need to reincarnate to get caught up.

I also confess to a magazine addiction and I have the good fortune to have numerous subscriptions. I’ve even culled the lot, trying to be realistic about what feels relevant enough to take the time to read. No more Allure or People for me. Alas, the stack still grows larger and more daunting by the day. It’s like they posses the ability to reproduce. One Elle Decor turns into three, and when I look again; there are five. Same with my O magazines. I have every unread issue back to January, which I briefly scanned and became aware of the fact that I hadn’t lost that “pesky ten pounds of holiday weight,” because I hadn’t yet read the article.

Why do I even continue to get the decorating or “shelter” magazines? My lifestyle store closed, and my house is decorated within an inch of its life. It is not realistic for me to lust after a house in Marrakech or to muse over a $4000 toilet. My favorite shelter mags were Domino and Better Homes And Gardens, and they went out of business. So now I’m left with House Beautiful and Elle Decor. House Beautiful still has too much chintz for my taste, and Elle Decor can be annoying. Like a super model telling me she can eat whatever she wants and never work out or diet. They make fabulous look too easy.

To further prove my inadequacy, there is a stack of unread books on my night stand.
It includes Fifty Shades of Grey. Sadly, I can’t even find time for the lady porn.
All I’m going to say is: I start out with the best of intentions. I want to stay current, and sound smart at parties. I can’t remember the last time I read the book BEFORE I saw the movie. Sometimes I lie.
There must be 25-30 partially read books on my iPad. If I start reading one of those before bed, the others, on the nightstand, stage a mutiny. There must be some kind of seniority or Union I’m not aware of. 

When I really want to rub salt in my wounds, I glance over at the pile of unopened mail. Nothing important, really; no checks or anything. I have a way of sniffing those out.
Nope, the pile consists mostly of health insurance notifications. If Anthem doesn’t have a check in its hot little hands on the first of every month, they send me a notification that I’ve entered a 30 day grace period. It’s my little game.
I have an automatic payment set to pay them on the third.
Fuck em. I like living in a state of perpetual grace.

The rest of the pile is just stuff that needs to get filed…….when I’m good and ready.

I realize these are “white people problems”. I’m too busy writing to read.
Oh, Boo Hoo.
It makes me laugh when I get plugged up about this stuff because I realize how fortunate I am to not have to worry about clean water or my immediate survival. That is, until the nightstand books, that unsavory bunch, figure out how to kill me while I sleep.

What are the things that pile up around you and drive you crazy? Do YOU have stacks of unread books ,magazines and mail? Any suggestions to quell my addiction? I’d LOVE some suggestions!

Xox

You want to make ten million bucks? Have at it.
You want to be the next Mother Theresa? Cool.
You want to live at the top of Kilimanjaro in seclusion? That’s fine too.

We get down on ourselves for the life we want. WTH?!
It’s okay to want what you want.

Some of us feel bad for not wanting the white picket fence and 2.5 children.
Those that have it, feel bad because they should want a big job and a sexier life.
We’re all afraid that what we want is too much…….or not enough.

The people that want the house on the beach in Tulum never say it out loud, for fear of getting laughed at. “Oh sure, don’t we all!” no, not everyone. But there are some that DO have the Tulum house and the first step was being ok with wanting it.

At 27 years old, Richard Branson took his girlfriend on a weekend excursion.
He wanted to impress her. He was pretending to buy an island.
It was a perfectly remote, completely deserted tropical paradise. As part of the charade, he made a ridiculously low offer, and that was that.
Well……I’m sure he got lucky that night.
A year later the real estate agent called him with this unexpected news: “All the other offers on the island have fallen through, if you can up your offer to $125,000- you can have it.” Of course he bought it. He wanted it. He eventually developed it into his private paradise, Necker Island.
He even married her there.
That man has no shame, and I love him for it.
He knows: It’s okay to want what you want.

My husband’s mother was in her fifties when she sold everything. All her worldly possessions. Every carefully curated collection, tchotchke and piece of furniture. She condensed her life into two suitcases and moved to Europe, where she traveled extensively, living with friends in Spain, Germany and Austria. She lived very simply and very happily.
I never met her, but from all accounts she was extraordinary. She lived life on HER terms.
I think because she came to the point in her life where she believed: it’s okay to want what you want.

We can get so preoccupied with second guessing ourselves. We judge what we want our life to be as silly, or extravagant.
Too simple, or overindulgent.
Instead, we live on the default setting, where we watch our list of unacknowledged wants circle the drain.

You want to quit your job and travel?
You want to quit corporate and run a non-profit?
You want to work hard and play hard?
You want lots of kids and a big family?
You want to be a full time mother?
You want to live in a flat in London for a year?
You want to speak Italian…fluently?
You want to take a luva?

It’s okay to want what you want. OWN IT.

Do you go for what you want, or judge it? Tell me in the comments, I’d love to hear about it!

Xox