*I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done—This is for everybody who draws a breath, who has loved and been loved; who has tried and failed…and it makes me want to cry!
xox
MANIFESTO OF THE BRAVE AND BROKENHEARTED
There is no greater threat to the critics and cynics and fearmongers Than those of us who are willing to fall Because we have learned how to rise.
With skinned knees and bruised hearts; We choose owning our stories of struggle, Over hiding, over hustling, over pretending.
When we deny our stories, they define us.
When we run from struggle, we are never free. So we turn toward truth and look it in the eye.
We will not be characters in our stories. Not villains, not victims, not even heroes.
We are the authors of our lives. We write our own daring endings.
We craft love from heartbreak, Compassion from shame, Grace from disappointment, Courage from failure.
Showing up is our power.
Story is our way home. Truth is our song. We are the brave and brokenhearted.
“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra
Having written this blog pretty much everyday for almost three years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.
I’m being quoted back to myself. “You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?” Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.
I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. You guys, I can barely remember to wear pants!
Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.
Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel unending, immense gratitude for all of you.
So there’s that.
Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.
“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper.
Even in the car. Like I’m wearing a wire.
Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Washington Post or something. It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.
The funny part is that when I do mention a friend—everyone thinks it’s them.
“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride; and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.
Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself! Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.
Well it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.
Like I said, uncensored.
The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.
Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.
Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.
“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”
I just smile.
Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.
Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox
If you know anyone going through a hard time right now who could use this, I’d love it if you’d share.
Carry on, xox
My dearest, darling Failure,
You don’t mind if I call you by that name, do you?
I’m well aware that it’s much more politically correct to refer to you on your visits as re-direction, contrast, disappointment and, of course, correction, blah, blah, blah.
But when shit hits the fan, when careers crash and burn, when marriages end badly; when we get fired, sued, or otherwise fucked over — when the things we hold dearest in our lives fracture and give way under the stress — sweetheart, it’s YOUR face we all see at the scene of the crime.
I know, I hear you when you complain that you are greatly under-appreciated but let me be clear — no one wants you around!
That being said, as I’ve come to know you better over the past few years, well, I have to admit– I’ve fallen for you…hard.
I don’t mean to sugar coat things, but you came into my life with the face of my foe and you have become my friend.
You shook things up for me BIG TIME. You took my tiny Etch-A-Sketch of a life, with all of its perfectly drawn straight lines, and you hurled it into an F5 tornado.
But I love you for that, ya big lug.
Just uttering your name, Failure, can set a person’s teeth on edge, but please don’t take it personally. I’ll give it to you straight. The reason you’re not welcome in our lives is because we’re all terrified that when you show up you’ll get comfortable, and never leave.
But truth be told, you are just as fleeting as success, THAT you’ve taught me.
When you are standing next to me knee-deep in the rubble of my life, you know what I do the next day? I get up and put one foot in front of the other, each step moving me forward.
You know what I do the days Success holds my hand? I get up, put one foot in front of the other and move forward with my life.
Success has its value — don’t get me wrong — but you Failure, your lessons have marked me more deeply and profoundly than I could have ever imagined and I love you for that.
Success never caused me to grow, gave me depth nor made me an internally richer person.
But by God, you have Failure.
Success made me lazy, afraid to try new things and take chances.
You gave me a glimpse of my true nature.
You have delivered to me some of my most agonizing moments but they have transformed me.
You made me better. Better in business; better in life. A better friend, sister and wife.
Damn it, I love you man.
We all go to extraordinary lengths to avoid you–I know I did–but I realize now that was a mistake.
It’s like trying to avoid aging, which is a similar double-edged sword and just as futile.
There are as many benefits to be gained from failure as there are from growing old, and BOTH are a privilege.
I truly love you Failure.
If you had not come into my life when you did, I would not be the person I am today.
That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.
I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.
Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly. A new idea about the transition of death. How you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas), or sitting at a stoplight (at the end of an amazing road trip). Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!
And that’s exactly what he did.
Transition. Why is it so fucking hard, so goddamn always?
September is a big month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.
School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.
I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.
I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.
When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.
It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.
Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?
How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!
Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.
I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?
*This is an essay from last summer that a reader reminded me of recently. I agree with her wholeheartedly. We need more of this humility thing and not the fakity-fake kind, but the real, heartfelt, makes-me-weak-in-the-knees kind. Here’s to you Kylie; The Lost Art of Humility.
Carry On,
xox
I saw an interview recently of a young, huge hit maker, music industry mega star.
I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. For the sake of this post I will call that malady: menopause brain. It is similar to pregnancy brain, or so I’m told. I used to have total recall, but since 50 that has gone the way of perky boobs and flat abs.
Here’s a funny or sad story, you decide. I was talking to my sister the other day, on my cell phone, while rifling frantically through my purse, looking for my cell phone. I told her I had to hang up and try to find my phone, so could she please just call it so I see if I could hear it ring? There was just silence on the other end. I’m sure she was dialing the looney bin on her land line, to come and take me away. When I realized what was happening, I laughed so hard I almost pee’d my pants. Ugh… I’m turning into my mother.
Anyway….this young guy displayed a trait you don’t see much of these days in the mega famous. Humility.
It was so refreshing, it was like a glass of ice water in hell.
When asked how he felt about all his success he said, “I would not be here if it weren’t for the people around me.”
What?!
The interviewer pressed on: Well, what about this great thing, or that great hit? That’s just talent, right?
The very humble star continued,“I had a music teacher in middle school that saw something in me, if he hadn’t, who knows where I’d be. I wasn’t good in school, I would have fallen through the cracks.
I had a mom that believed I was special. If she hadn’t, I might still be back in Virginia, doing who knows what. I had a mentor, a producer that took a chance on my first CD. It wasn’t successful, but it allowed me to learn. If I hadn’t had that experience, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
Those people changed the trajectory of his life and he is forever grateful.
I fucking love that.
There are too many stars, too many successful people, that buy into their own hype. They start to forget how things began, how they evolved, and all the people and the steps it took to get to the top.
They have no desire to pay it forward. They pay tribute to no one. They are legends in their own minds, because everyone tells them they are. They are surrounded by “yes” men and women who are all on the payroll.
They can’t find the time to mentor; they’re too busy looking in the mirror.
None of us are ANYTHING without the people around us.
I’ll take it a step further. We are all CONNECTED.
As one person is raised up, we are all raised up.
Come on people, let’s all remember to look back and lend a hand.
To pay tribute to those that saw our potential, even when we couldn’t.
To affirm humility above bravado.
Don’t get me wrong, I love me some bravado when it’s earned, but for God’s sake, if you had a mentor; and you probably did; mentor someone in whom you see potential.
Pay it forward.
Success is tenuous and delicate. Don’t take it for granted.
I’ll say it again. We all are NOTHING without the people around us.
You know who they are. They give you the support, the confidence, the love, the big breaks.
Give them some props man!
I had a music teacher, Ed Archer, who saw vocal potential. I had a sixth grade nun, Sister Mary Gabrielle, who instilled the love of learning and books. My mom said I could do anything, she was my mom so I believed her. My husband thinks I’m funny. He’s French and they think Jerry Lewis and the Three Stooges are funny and I don’t; but I’ll include him anyway. These are the ones that immediately come to mind, I know there are more. Stay tuned…
Tell me whatcha think. Who changed the trajectory of your life?
Who has been your biggest champion, believer, mentor?
Who saw/sees your potential?
Tell me about it.
This has been a week, and not one that I will look back on fondly.
Not to get all doom and gloomy on ya, but last week sucked. Big time.
There were so many things thwarted, such despicable levels of mis-communication,
so. many. clusterfucks. that I suspect they were being trucked in from the mouth of hell.
And I don’t even believe in hell!
Undiagnosable illnesses, lab results………………………………………………pending.
Crazy unexplainable accidents and money missing. Gone!
Appointments missed with no explanation and traffic for no reason. At seven-thirty in the morning; noon; three-fifteen; and midnight. Traffic! For no good reason!
Fights.
Texts gone bad. I want to write a book someday on the dangers of texting. DO NOT TEXT IMPORTANT SHIT. Pick up the phone and make the two-minute call. I can’t garner the nuance, your tone of voice or your sarcasm, FROM A TEXT!
No emoticon is sufficient.
Just so you know, everything you texted made you sound like a douche last week.
As much as I tried to OMMMM my way above the fray, I got dragged down into it where it bloodied my nose and ruined my favorite shoes.
At three o’clock on Friday morning I found myself violently ill. (It’s not what you’re thinking.)
There I lay, alternating between sweating and chills, nausea and diarrhea, lunacy and sanity. I actually watched myself from a much more comfortable vantage point somewhere outside my body, Lamaze breathing my way through wave after wave of energy the strength of which I’ve seldom felt before. (See, I told you.)
“Full Moon” were the only two words I was able to croak to my husband who was in the midst of his own dark energy, awefulizing, 3 a.m. marathon. It wasn’t that the energy was actually dark. It just felt relentless and oppressive as it built all week (Who am I kidding? It was all month and most likely all year), and the release looked a lot like a Mento wafer in a bottle of Coke.
It felt like the mother of all detoxes. Because it was you guys!
It was that kind of Blue Moon. Purging, letting go of the past and all of its pent-up anger, frustration, resentment, fear, lack of sleep and just the general angst and malaise that’s been building up.
Oh shit, I thought, I just wrote about this. You can’t run clear water through gucked up pipes. You want to be a clear channel for clarity, creativity, intuition, inspiration, ideas, luck, fun and love—you’ve gotta clean out the pipes occasionally.
Fuck. Sometimes I hate being right. I make ME mad.
As I sat on the bathroom floor the next morning still in the throes of it all, waiting to see if my body could actually produce more vomit, I began to see the pattern, or I became delusional, your call. I can admit to getting philosophical with no sleep on bathroom floors.
Oh…I’m finally getting how this works now. Clean the pipes (literally). One step (day) backward, before I lunge forward. Get rid of the accumulated gunk, so the energy can flow clearer and faster.
UGH.
I had a brief glimmer of insight, which, for a moment had me feeling better and then I was back to hurling. So much for knowing what’s going on—you still have to get through it.
Eventually it passed, just like it always does, and I was able to salvage the remainder of my Friday, and fit into my skinny jeans (yeah).
When I mentioned what happened to a couple of my friends, they told me that they too had been clearing up their gunk. Not necessarily in the same way as I had, but effective for them just the same, and we all agreed to chalk this week up as a sucking vortex of everything that could go wrong.In other words—a Universal shitastrophe.
One of them admitted to coming home feeling like a jacked-up pressure cooker; so he buried his face in a pillow and banchee-screamed—something he hasn’t done in decades. He was so hoarse afterwards he had a hard time speaking. But he felt much better.
Oh, that’s good. I like that. I’m gonna steal that one.
I’d be curious to know, what’s your process?
I for one, after all my…purging, feel cleaner (duh) clearer and lighter and I’m looking forward with great anticipation to the lunge forward. How about you?
