motivational

“The only currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.”
~from the movie Almost Famous~

I love that line. It’s delivered by the disheveled, “uncool” underground DJ played by the late, great Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He drops that little truth bomb on William, the 15 year old who is touring with an up and coming band, trying to capture their story for Rolling Stone magazine.

I can relate to that…now more than ever.
I am the un-coolest blogger in the blogosphere, THAT I know for sure.
I’m not really sure why I got the “hit” to blog, I’d never even read a blog before I 
started my own a year and a half ago. I just got the urge to go public.

Confession: When I look at the other blogger’s sites, I just want-to-die…of un-coolness.

When a blogger “likes” something you write, it is only polite to go check out their site. Even more so if they start to “follow” you. 

Some of these people are kids! But they have got it more together than I EVER will!
15 year old girls have blogs that link to their websites. These websites have so much content, it looks like they cost $30,000! They have paid advertising and products for sale, some have books.
WTF? At 15, I had pimples…end of story.

There are incredible 20 something fashion bloggers with tens of thousands of followers, one Italian street fashionista has over 10 million!
There are all these badass photographers who take amazing photos from exotic locals all over the world.
There are ridiculously talented writers and poets. I mean seriously good.

Then there’s me.
Almost 56 year old me, who lives in the burbs, sings musical theater (gleek), rides on the back of a motorcycle and writes about spirituality, life, and and
occasionally I throw in a poem.
I send these musings out into the world every morning. I post them, I tweet them and Facebook them, ( which I’m sure is SO last Tuesday) wondering if anyone reads them.

But every now and then, something will resonate with one of the “cool kids”
and they’ll email me, (They never leave a comment; too un-cool) to tell me it touched them or made them laugh.
They encourage and push me. They tell me I should vlog (video blog) and suggest I self publish.

Whoa, cool kids, let’s take it slow here, I’m just getting the hang of this stuff.

I do have to say, the spiritual blogosphere in general, has such a generosity of spirit. They are a community that embraces everyone. It’s where the cool kids dane to talk to the uncool, and give great advice. They are big hearted smarty pants’ who talk the talk and walk the walk.
I’m starting B-school with Marie Forleo in March. It’s an online business school that all the cool kids suggested, and which I’ve been stalking for a couple months.

I can’t even imagine it now, but I’m cautiously optimistic that I will be just a smidgen cooler come May.

By then I’ll be privy to what all the cool kids know. 

Note to self: stop using words like “smidgen”. 

I’m afraid I’m just terminally un-cool.

XoxJanet 

There are other professions in the world, besides therapist and psychologist, that lend themselves to hearing other people’s problems, and maybe or maybe not, dispensing council or giving advise.

Priests comes to mind. They’re lucky. In their confessional, they are provided anonymity, although I could always recognize their voices, and I’m sure they knew mine. They could pretend to sit, void of judgement, as I confessed to hitting my brother, their smirks hidden behind a dark screen. When they asked me why, I always answered: because he’s incorrigible, which is a word I heard used at home to describe him.
I do think the darkness, their half hidden faces, and lack of eye contact, did help the ladies who went into the box before me. They stayed for what felt like hours! They must have had much juicer sins than mine, and truly sought his council and forgiveness.
I was ten, I was just going throughout the motions.

My friends who have tended bar, got their ears bent nightly, big time! They may not have had a diploma on the wall, but by golly, they have HEARD IT ALL!
Since they were not sworn to any oath of confidence, and often copious amounts of alcohol were involved, they had the BEST stories!
Tales of love, betrayal, treachery, cheating, twins with amnesia, men as women, women as men. If it’s been a plot on a soap opera, they’ve heard it, ’cause that shit is REAL!

I on the other hand, have been in some form of retail most of my life. This has made it very easy for “those that seek advice” to find me. I was captive behind a supermarket check out counter in my teens and early twenties, where the inventive, provocative and hilarious confessions I heard when guys purchased condoms or tampons, or both, could fill a book. Believe me, I never asked, they just volunteered the information.

Later, I was behind a jewelry showcase, and most recently the desk at my own store. Over the years I’ve had many regular patients…I mean customers, who would come by to seek an opinion or get some advise. Some just wanted to vent….I guess I just have that kind of face.

Here is what I know for sure: Everyone’s got a story. Most are interesting, many are funny, some are heartbreaking.

When I was working in Estate Jewelry, the store was in West Hollywood, Beverly Hills adjacent. When those stories walked in, they were no different than everyone else’s, just dressed up with better shoes and handbags.

I sold antique engagement rings, or rather, because of their beauty, they sold themselves, but I stood and told their story. Fifty percent of the time, it was just the man looking. He wanted it to be a surprise. Because of his nerves and the unusual circumstance of buying an engagement ring, I heard their love stories, their hopes, their fears, and often way too much information! Over twenty years, I have literally held their hands to calm them down, explained women and what we want, and I have even told half a dozen men: Honey, you’re not ready to do this.
One sweet guy brought his beloved with him on the third visit, she was acting so ungrateful, spoiled and awful that as he left, I passed him a piece of paper that advised him to “run for the hills”!

Another situation I’ll never forget.
A woman came in to pick up her husband’s watch repair.
Now, it had been repaired twice before, and this third time was NOT the charm. 
We sold vintage watches, so they had to be wound and I couldn’t get the thing to tick!
Unfortunately, the woman was wound so tight she flew into a rage. She threw the watch against the wall, where it exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces, some even hitting her in the face. She called me and the store every curse word known to man…and then some.
Since our store was in an open mall sort of setting, the whole place could hear her, and everyone froze. So did I.
She stood there in her rage, her face red, her body trembling.
On life’s 1-10 scale of “How upset do I get about this”, the actual situation was a 3, maybe a 4. She was having a 25 reaction. THAT is always a clue for me. From working with the public for so many years, I can recognize that when the response doesn’t match the situation, there’s a backstory, something else is going on.
I slowly and silently walked around from behind the counter, and touched her arm.
I was shaking now too.
I gently pulled her out of view of the peanut gallery, and softly whispered, “what’s really going on here?”
She started to wail. That deep, low, wailing-crying that people usually do in private. “My husband is dying across the street at Cedars” she sobbed. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just hugged her…for a long time. Then we got on our hands and knees and started to pick up the pieces of the watch, just like she was grasping at the pieces of her disintegrating life.

I may not have been a professional, but this retail therapist knew better than to yell back or poke someone who was clearly on the edge. Thank God!

I know I’m not alone in this. If we deal daily with a large cross section of the public, 
we really do get the opportunity, no, the the privilege to get a glimpse inside people’s lives. Hopefully we have the sensitivity to respond not react.

Everyone’s got a story. What’s yours?
XoxJanet 
.

• This was written by Martha Beck, whom I love! It is about our drought here in the West, but her advice is applicable to pretty much anything in life.
  Happy Sunday!
  XoxJanet

Don’t Worry About the Rain
By: Martha Beck
Last year was the first I spent in California. Having come from the desert, I was all excited about the winter greenness, the rains that always come in October…okay, November…well, FOR SURE in December…or absolutely in…January?
Or not.
This is the first time in recorded history that the rain has not come at all. The forest I love is gray and stark. I swear I can feel things dying.
I was getting rather testy with God about this when a thing happened.
Jeanette Trompeter, a journalist and pal of Master Coach Jill Farmer, asked to interview me for the local news. We did the interview, then I forgot all about it. Several weeks later, I happened to flip on the TV exactly in time to catch the segment about me. Jeanette then told the weatherman how worried I was about the drought. The man in the magic box faced me and said, “Martha, stop worrying about the drought.”
I know! Right?
It still hasn’t rained. That’s how these things work. When I was deep in debt, I got winks that said “Stop worrying about money.” It arrived…eventually. When I was “incurably” ill, I got winks that said “You’ll get well.” I did…eventually. The good stuff didn’t happen when I wanted it to, but it happened. And in the meantime, these loving messages from the universe helped me drop useless anxiety.
Try this: Think of a current “drought” in your life. For 10 minutes, just trust that it will all be okay. Trust that you’re being guided. Trust, against all odds and evidence, that you are safe.
When I use this exercise on my drought fears, the strangest thing happens: I feel it raining inside myself. I become a microcosm of the life-giving rain that, someday, will bring California back to life. Or so I trust.
EDITOR’S NOTE: A week after Martha wrote this, it started raining in California.

There’s a place under the stairs,
where every kid stashes their woes and cares.
In the hours late at night, when the house is quiet, you can hear them fight.
They want your attention, they want your ear,
so they can remind you of your fears.

Now, as everyone knows, you can set them free,
those fears and woes. Oh, woe is me!
You can pick them up as you leave the house,
with your backpack, your purse, your lunch and your spouse.

Our suggestion is to leave them there, 
where they can’t fill you with despair.
Time’s not a factor, oh, they can wait,
but if you let them out, they will change your fate.

The woes you had stashed as a boy, you see,
will happily wait for the man-to-be.
And the cares of a girl, of her looks and such,
are patiently waiting for that woman’s touch.
Oh, those rascals! Those cares and woes,
They feel the same, they just wear better clothes!

So, just throw caution to the wind, 
don’t be concerned, don’t let them win.
If you don’t care, if you don’t cry, 
they cease to matter, they wither and die.
They cannot cause you pain and strife, if you live an adult’s life.

So late at night, when you hear them yell, 
You may tell them to go straight to hell!
Just know it’s them and let them be,
and go to bed, with your cup of tea.
They can’t really hurt you now…. Unless you go near the stairs.

There’s a lot in the media lately around the subject of loneliness, and it got me to thinking: When in my life have I felt real loneliness?

Not to be confused with spending Saturday night without a date.
That is an appointment with Ben and Jerry’s and “The Way We Were.”

Loneliness is so much bigger, darker and deeper than that.

By definition loneliness is a feeling of isolation, of feeling alone and separate.

I’ll talk about my friend’s loneliness first…because I felt such empathy for her, I can still feel it today.

I’ve known TT since high school. We became fast friends the first day of ninth grade, when I told her I thought she was beautiful. I know, great opening line! Right?
But she is and I really meant it.

In the late 80’s, she married Andy ( I love him too, truly; I used him as my husband template for years, but that’s another story).

They moved to Santa Barbara to do their post grad studies, and since I live in LA, I drove up every other weekend. We nicknamed it a JJ (Janet jaunt).
They lived on campus, had a huge circle of friends, and since everyone was financing their tuition cooking in restaurants, we ate incredibly well, and since they were all so smart, the conversation wasn’t bad either. A few years in, TT had a baby. I was in the room, again, another story for another day.

Let me just say…A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!

Three months later they moved lock, stock and baby to Italy.

To Trento, for an actual paying research gig at the University there, were Andy could move further toward his doctorate.
Neither spoke Italian, so communication was…interesting, and after they got there, it was revealed that the money would be paid at the end of their 9 month stay. So, in about a month, they were stone broke.

Since Andy was at the University all day, TT was left at their small apartment, or to her own devices. The first few weeks of enthusiastic exploring, turned into aimless walks around a foreign town, where, even when she eavesdropped on other people’s conversations, she could only make out a couple of words.

I’ve been there, it’s like you’re invisible, and she really was!
All the Italian women saw was “Bambina”! Except, they couldn’t tell her what to get for the diaper rash, or the teething, or share her frustration about the fact that the hot water literally shut off at 9pm…in the whole town!

I could feel her deep isolation and sadness come right through the paper of her letters and faxes. I swear, there were tear stains. My vibrant, beautiful, friend was dying of loneliness, and it made my heart actually HURT.
So…I gathered the troupes, and one by one, we staggered our JJ’s throughout that summer and fall, so she wasn’t alone as she learned how to be a mom in a small medieval town in northern Italy.

I have felt the MOST profound loneliness on two separate occasions in my life, and they both caused me great sadness, even despair. I’m sure there were more, I’m 55 for God’s sake, but these two have burned their memory into my brain, so as not to be forgotten.

One was in my first marriage.
I was about 23, way too young to be married, and I remember lying next to my husband and trying to identify this deep pit in my stomach. It was like a dull ache. I can remember the night it finally hit me: Shit. I married the wrong person, because he’s right here and I’m lonely as hell.
Great! Now what? I smoked a joint, ate a box of cookies and suffered months of anxiety attacks. Then I filed for divorce.

The second one that just about killed me, was when my store was dying.

Many a day toward the end it was “crickets”. By that I mean, days of no phone calls, no deliveries, no people coming in at all! I am WAY too social for that kind of day-to-day isolation. I NEED to talk to people to live, it’s like breathing to me!
Often when I got home at night, I realized I hadn’t spoken a single word THE ENTIRE DAY!
I had never felt loneliness so deep. I would watch people walking to their cars and I wanted to yell out, “Hello, I’m in here, come talk to me!”

I just knew somehow, in my gut, that if something didn’t happen fast, the loneliness would start to affect my health. There have been recent studies that back that up.
Luckily, the flood came, and saved my life!

Oprah has recently started a new campaign to help alleviate social isolation, and potentially some loneliness. “Just say Hello” It’s a simple greeting, but it’s power is profound.
What it is, is a connection, and that connection can help someone feel less isolated, not as solitary in the world.

Let’s smile and say Hello to everyone, to strangers, we could make someone’s day.
It would have made mine!

XoxJanet

“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

It feels more important in these buzzy, blurry times when branches of our government and many of our larger institutions have managed to sidestep accountability regarding their actions and decisions, that we, individually, must be held accountable.

Sorry, I’ll get off my soapbox now, but…
We can’t ask it from someone or something else if we’re not willing to answer the hard questions ourselves.

Before we step off the sidelines and onto the “playing field” of life, someone should hold us accountable.
What do we hope to achieve with our action?
How can we best express our vision?
What do we think we can add to the world?

That last one is the doozie because we already have enough “takers” in the world, we need the big-hearted “givers” right now. We ALL have something special to give. That I know for sure!

Also, to clarify, this does not mean to shout, or comment or tweet mean-spirited, non-constructive criticism from the sidelines. That is not making someone accountable, that is bullying. Ask intelligent questions, engage in a dynamic conversation. Don’t be a coward. Don’t be “that guy”.

I recently got inspired to start a group for “women in transition”. I’ve been talking to people one on one for a while, but a group? Even though the thought excited me, and even though I was encouraged to do so, I hesitated for months. I wasn’t sure I was ready to come out from behind the anonymity this blog provides…to get on that “playing field” so to speak.

But you’ve got to gear up and take that first step.

I did follow my intuition long enough to start to write the email I would send out.
I tweaked it a little bit every day, adding and subtracting things to better express what I wanted to say.

Then I sent it to someone I KNEW would hold me accountable, big time!
A few days went by without a response, and believe you me, I started to sweat!
Even though she had been encouraging me all along, I knew she had the ability to read between the lines, to feel the intention inside the words, and bust me on any BS.

She’s also highly intuitive so the day I was freaking out the most, she called…from her sick bed.
Am I surprised? No! Well, maybe a little, she has NEVER called me in the four years I’ve known her.

Here’s where it gets kinda funny. I had just been wondering if I should offer wine at this group. Just a thought, but it had just crossed my mind and I have to say, I had already decided it was a bad idea.

I guess the Universe found that thought so repugnant, that it roused my poor friend from her sickbed, to call and tell me this:
I love that you’re doing this.
Be clear. You are not offering a wine and cheese bitch session. (Got it!)
You are to apply the energy you have to drive evolution forward.
You are to approach this as a $10,000 a day life coach would, and drive a dynamic conversation. 
Got it? I’m tired, I’m going back to bed.

Gulp. Now THAT is holding someone accountable, and I love her for it!

I rewrote the email accordingly and (deep breath) finally sent it out.
Her response this time?
“Welcome home”

Who holds you accountable?

XoxJanet

I can’t remember where or when I first heard this pearl of wisdom. It really resonated with me, and I continue to carry it around, in that invisible hiding place where we keep those things that get us out of our emotional “jams”.

If you’re like me, and from your emails, I know you are! I can get mired in a swirling eddy of despair, playing my “Greatest Hits” tape of worry, on an endless loop, with the best of ’em.

My mistake was always that I thought I needed to be stoic, to present a facade to the world that said, “Hey, I’ve got this handled”!
Besides, who wants to hear my bitch list? People have their own problems, I don’t want to bring anybody down.
And…I know how this stuff works. If I spend TOO much time in the energy of the problem, I’m nowhere near the solution.

Worry really is a sport best practiced alone. It does it’s finest work in the dark wee hours of the morning, or driving alone in the car. And…It cannot survive the scrutiny of someone’s else’s questioning. Remember that!

The BEST way NOT TO WORRY ALONE is to confess your worry to someone that is equipped to help, meaning, if it is regarding your health, a doctor. Don’t go on the internet!! You KNOW what I mean, enough said!
If it’s about leaving your job, then seek counsel in a friend who’s been through that.
If it’s money, speak to someone who’s financial situation you admire.
Ask questions, seek answers.

Here’s the deal, you can worry aloud to a girlfriend, I did last weekend, and it really helped. But that was a self confidence demon, and girlfriends are the best for that!
For the other stuff, you can’t find REAL relief from the worry, unless you speak it to someone that has the knowledge that can put your mind at rest.

We all spend hundreds of wasted hours worrying alone about things that can be easily worked out. So I’ve given myself a “worry window” and you can too.
I’m allowed to worry silently, stoically and alone, with only my own limited resources at my disposal, for 36 hrs. 
Then I go and ask for help.

Often, I just ask the Universe to tell me what’s next, and it takes pity on my poor sweaty, sleepless soul, and sends someone. They will mercifully call, or show up with the answers I need.

I’m working on cutting out that middle 36 hour part.
Old habits are hard to break!

XoxJanet

This is an article by Steven Pressfield. He is the author of “The War of Art”, which is on my list above, of the books I adore! If you write, or paint, or do anything creative in your life, his book is
Invaluable! I’m not kidding. This article will give you a taste of Steven’s take on Resistance, and how it will do anything to sabotage us from bringing our gifts into the world.
Enjoy and Happy Saturday!

How Resistance Proves the Existence of God
By: Steven Pressfield | Feb 12, 2014 01:52 am
Consider James Rhodes, whose April 26, 2013 article in the Guardian UK I stole for last week’s post:

I didn’t play the piano for 10 years. A decade of slow death by greed working in the City, chasing something that never existed in the first place (security, self-worth, Don Draper albeit a few inches shorter and a few women fewer). And only when the pain of not doing it got greater than the imagined pain of doing it did I somehow find the balls to pursue what I really wanted and had been obsessed by since the age of seven—to be a concert pianist.

Concert pianist James Rhodes, back by popular demand

That’s Resistance. That’s the definition of Resistance. Mr. Rhodes at that point was mired in a shadow career. He was operating as an amateur. Suddenly some force seizes him. He turns pro:
Admittedly I went a little extreme—no income for five years, six hours a day of intense practice, monthly four-day long lessons with a brilliant and psychopathic teacher in Verona, a hunger for something that was so necessary it cost me my marriage, nine months in a mental hospital, most of my dignity and about 35lbs in weight. And the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is not perhaps the Disney ending I’d envisaged as I lay in bed aged 10 listening to Horowitz devouring Rachmaninov at Carnegie Hall.

I love Mr. Rhodes’ testament not just because he’s my kinda guy, because he’s nuts, because he laid it all on the line, etc. etc. But because his story—and yours and mine—proves there is a God.
First given:
Resistance is a universal phenomenon of the human psyche. Everyone experiences it. (Trust me, I know from the thousands of e-mails I’ve gotten on the subject.)
Second given:
Resistance’s sole object is to prevent you and me from becoming concert pianists, writing bestselling novels, founding the follow-on to Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity.
In other words, Resistance’s purpose is to prevent good from entering the world.
Ergo:
Resistance is the devil.
Ergo:
If there is a devil, there must be a God.
Was all that work at the piano worth it, Mr. Rhodes?

And yet. The indescribable reward of taking a bunch of ink on paper from the shelf at Chappell of Bond Street. Tubing it home, setting the score, pencil, coffee and ashtray on the piano and emerging a few days, weeks or months later able to perform something that some mad, genius, lunatic of a composer 300 years ago heard in his head while out of his mind with grief or love or syphilis. A piece of music that will always baffle the greatest minds in the world, that simply cannot be made sense of, that is still living and floating in the ether and will do so for yet more centuries to come. That is extraordinary. And I did that. I do it, to my continual astonishment, all the time.

James Rhodes beat the devil. There’s no other way to express it. Something kept him going, just like something kept Rachmaninov going, and something keeps you and me going.
The Muse? The superconscious?
What name would you put to it?

My life involves endless hours of repetitive and frustrating practising, lonely hotel rooms, dodgy pianos, aggressively bitchy reviews, isolation, confusing airline reward programmes, physiotherapy, stretches of nervous boredom (counting ceiling tiles backstage as the house slowly fills up) punctuated by short moments of extreme pressure (playing 120,000 notes from memory in the right order with the right fingers, the right sound, the right pedalling while chatting about the composers and pieces and knowing there are critics, recording devices, my mum, the ghosts of the past, all there watching), and perhaps most crushingly, the realisation that I will never, ever give the perfect recital. It can only ever, with luck, hard work and a hefty dose of self-forgiveness, be “good enough.”

That’s a pro. That’s a man who’s in the trenches, fighting the war every day. That is a man, an artist, whose inner and outer worlds are suffused with grace and beauty and honor and courage—and who by his music and his personal example pass those qualities on to you and me.

So please, critics, spare me the “God is dead” manifesto. Not even the guys who thought that shit up believed it. They were battling Resistance every day, and they were receiving inspiration from the goddess.
I refuse to believe that we humans are alone and bereft in a meaningless cosmos. If we were, there would be no such phenomenon as Resistance. What possible purpose could Resistance serve in a universe devoid of meaning?
Hell exists, yes. But heaven does too.

James Rhodes is my hero because he found himself between the two and he chose the loftier and the nobler.

I salute you, sir. May we all find the grace and strength to follow your example.
Copyright © 2014 Steven Pressfield Online, All rights reserved