new things

“Is it brave to try something new? Really? What if you succeed and that sucks. Maybe it’s all colossally stupid & horrendously painful.”
~My brain, the mean part.

Now, many of you know that I suck at so many things that the list, written front and back if unfurled, would reach to the moon and back—a couple of times.

Things like transitioning from sitting on the floor to standing. It is not a one-step process for me anymore. No longer can I just jump to my feet like I used to, now I have to approach it pretty much like parallel-parking. On a good day, it takes me three tries. Other days five. 

In other words—I’m not afraid to suck.

But over the past month, I’ve found out that I suck at something I had no idea you could suck at. 

I suck at succeeding at something new.

Now before you take a hammer to my face, let me explain. Last year, my Bff, and partner in all manner of spiritual thuggery and I had the audacity to throw some energetic spaghetti on the wall to see if it would stick. We’d come up with a Master Class we thought would remind women of the “cheat codes” they could use to navigate life. Namely, ignore what you’ve been taught—line up your energy first—then go. 

Inspired action. 

It felt rebellious in the best way. You know, the second definition. So hence the name—Sacred Rebellion. 

The program was loosely based on a spiritual initiation or rebirth I’d gone through back before Jesus could grow a beard, so it lasted nine months or the length of a pregnancy.

And it went well. Like really well.

I’ve been told that groups can be tricky. Women can be bitches.

There was none of that.

All of the women were trusting and incredibly open-hearted. And they ran with to—all of it—as Steph and I watched in awe while their lives changed in what can only be described as “miraculous” ways. 

They formed a community. They bonded. 

We all bonded. 

Then when we finally met in the physical in Tofino, in November—we fell madly in love.

                                                                          **********************************

At the end of the nine months, the day to say goodbye had the nerve to dawn bright and sunny while my mood was more of a match for a nuclear winter. Saying goodbye at that point was merely a ritual because these amazing women had already left the nest. 

They were ready to fly!

“We did it!’ Steph said in a call, “It’s time to turn over the reins.” I expected to feel jubilant. Wasn’t that what we’d designed? A program that launches them into the stratosphere where we’re just a distant memory? 

But apparently, success sucks. Almost as much as goodbye which I thought would be super easy. 

Sometimes I can be such an idiot.

So this feeling of Yeah! Hurrah Fuck! has followed me around for most of January, messing up my mojo and muddying up my mood—just like I would warn you it could do—you know, energetically.

I have the keys to the cage I’m in. I know this shit! I have all the spiritual tools I need to get out of this. It’s just that the other day when I was particularly vile—I sold them on EBay. 

One thing I know for sure is that “this too shall pass” but if you say that to me right now—I will hurt you.

We did it! Yeah, Hurrah! Fuck! 

And in one in a month we start again. I will bond and fall in love—and suck.

Pray for me.

Carry on,
xox

I never thought of myself as a late bloomer until recently.
But I most certainly am.

And I don’t just mean someone who found a new life’s passion in their fifties, which by-the-way, has been a big surprise.

No, when I think about it, I was alway one. I didn’t get it right in the relationship department until I hit forty-two, and I didn’t start a real profession until after I turned thirty.

It didn’t even occur to me to channel my focus and dive into antiques and jewelry until after that pivotal birthday.

Turning thirty was the proverbial line in the sand that I had drawn for myself. I was the  deadline to get my shit together and measure how close I was to my desired goal, which back then was a paying acting gig.

I had some income trickling in from TV commercials, but I was always in debt, living a deficit life.

I worked two jobs to make ends meet and that was all right –– until it wasn’t.

Most of my friends were still in school, working at real jobs or having kids. It didn’t look like it but I was seeking fertile soil with my face to the sun, trying to bloom.

Not too much later, I had a real career, making real money. By the time I was forty I bought my own home.

Then in my fifties I started writing, or rather, the writing began to pour through me, and this little seedling has not only broken ground, it has started to blossom.

Some days I wish I’d started writing in my twenties, I can only imagine how much further along I’d be. Then I remind myself that everything happens at the exact right time –– Divine Timing –– and I stop my daydreaming and get back to work.

Late bloomers; blooming later in life;  it’s a subject I’m starting to embrace.

Read the New York Times article below if this subject interests you, and you will feel in such good company, I assure you.

They say the key is the ability and willingness to try new things.
I can sum it up in one word: CURIOSITY.

Remaining perpetually curious will facilitate a bloom later in life, and aren’t the flowers that show up after it snows the most beautiful?

Carry on my late blooming loves,
xox

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/03/21/your-money/finding-success-well-past-the-age-of-wunderkind.html?emc=eta1&_r=1