procrastination

I was practicing resistance on Saturday morning, like the kid at the piano who is twisted sideways on the bench, one hand practicing their scales while the rest of their body searches for something better to do.

Procrastinating.
Dragging my feet.
Lolly gagging.
Diddly doinking as it’s known in our family.

I should have been tweaking a song that’s been giving me shit in our musical, downloading my screenplay onto a flash drive and then making my way to FedEx to print up the masterpiece, or unloading the dishwasher—but instead, I got sucked into my phone.

Not by Instagram; not even by Facebook.
This day I was swallowed up by the contacts in my cell phone to be exact.

I could say I was purging.
Yeah, that’s it—I was doing a little bit of purging. Except purging a little bit is an oxymoron.

Truth be told, I was looking around. Wasting time. Searching for one thing when I noticed another.

What is this?  I have over seven hundred contacts and I can’t for the life of me remember who the hell many, many of these people are!

For one split second on a random Tuesday, they must have meant something to me because there they are—living in my phone. But honestly, even with the hints I left myself (because I know how lame I can be), like Aaron—Washer Repair in the W’s, or Clifford and for his last name—Sandy’s deadbeat boyfriend. You guys, I haven’t the foggiest idea who Sandy is and for the past fifteen years a man named Raphael has fixed my washing machine.

He also sleeps in my bed, rubs my feet, and makes me coffee in the mornings so I figure he trumps Aaron in more ways than one.

Delete! Delete! Goodbye, Clifford! Adios Aaron!

That was fun!

And it was then that a tangent was born and I got on it and rode that sucker for over an hour!

One of the things that surprised me the most was the fact that there were so many dead people haunting my phone.
Is that a side effect of aging? Please tell me it’s not. I’d rather think that I have a group of extremely unlucky individuals as friends. Careless people who overindulge in the hedonistic pleasures of life or forget to look for falling pianos and such.

Nope. There were actual friends who I’ve known and loved who are gone too soon. Like Vinnie, whose list of emails and six different telephone numbers was like a sucker-punch to the gut.

And then some I just wish were dead. Like the two dozen lawyers and legal firms from back in the days when if you weren’t suing me—you were on the short list.

Because of the “cloud” and the fact that it never forgets a thing, I also had the contact info for a bunch of celebrities who used to shop in my store. The store that’s been closed for seven years. I hesitated in deleting these, you know because celebrities living in my phone made me cool and all, but the fact that most of that information had probably been changed a thousand times by now convinced me of its diminished cool factor—so out it went.

Delete, delete, delete.

Oh, sorry Gayle Zappa, you were an amazing woman and a great customer, but you’re the most useless of contacts: the dead celebrity.

There were five Patty’s.
Patty—with the neck. I suppose I wrote that to distinguish her from the other four Patty’s whose heads sit directly on their shoulders.

Patty S.—Oh, good, that clears THAT up.

Patty, Antique Mall—Which is a place I worked back in 1988.

Patty with a 310 number.

Patty with an 818 number.

I wracked my brain, I did. I actually sat for many minutes and I could not for the life of me remember ANY of these Patty’s. Not a one.
I suppose I could have called each one and asked them if we were close—but I didn’t. I was busy purging.

Delete, delete, delete.

Here is more useless information that was chewing up all of my storage capacity (and my Saturday):

The name, address and phone numbers of every landlord I’ve had since I was twenty.

Bandmates from the days when I was in “New Age” bands around LA. When “New Age” was a thing. This was the early 80’s, people.

Guys I went to acting class with, (I only know this because it says ACTING CLASS after their names), whose numbers I had so we could “run scenes” together. My guess is that most of them live in Orange County and are pretty close to retiring from some big corporate job right about now.

The numbers of every doctor, Gynecologist, dentist, acupuncturist, masseuse, Vet, chiropractor, and nail salon I’ve ever used.

The number for One Hour Photo. Yes, the magical place where you could get your film developed at the lightning speed of one hour! What?
Can you imagine?

All of my favorite restaurants, many of which have been closed for decades. (Rita Flora).

Jewelry contacts. You guessed it. Many who are retired… or dead.

Lessons learned? Were there any? Hell yeah!
1) The first one being, sometimes procrastinating (and purging), can be a good thing! And woman, for the love of God, you need to go through your contacts at least once a decade! (I’m now down to 238!).

2) Celebrities will give you their contact information ONLY if they want something from you. BUT… there is a small window of time where it is accurate. After that it self-destructs or you have to print it—and eat it.

3) Some people’s info NEVER changes. Forty-years later EVERYTHING is the same, and other folks info is obsolete by the time you finish entering it.

4) Be on the lookout for those neck-less Patty’s and if you see them—ask them to call me.

Carry on,
xox

What’s the oldest contact you have in your phone right now?

“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us.  Between the two stands Resistance”
~Steven Pressfield “The War of Art.” 

“The War of Art” is one of my all-time favorite books on creation, life, love and well… what else is there?

In my humble opinion, it should be a textbook in every school, on every hotel nightstand, next to the Bible, and reduced to liquid form and added to the water supply.

Beyond what the title implies, this book is not strictly written for artists and writers.

As you’ll glean from the list below, Resistance isn’t particular about which endeavors it sabotages. The only thing they have in common is our desire to become fully realized. Whether that be through artistic pursuits, the Paleo diet, Fab Ab Boot camp, that non-profit you want to start or marrying Skipper.

Up until Steven set us straight, we thought we were all just dumbass, procrastinating losers.

Nope, that’s just Resistance talking smack and taking the wheel, leaving us eating its dust and only dreaming about our unlived lives.
It will always stand in the way of our growth.
It’s a law; like gravity. That explains sooooooooooo much.

Assbite.

But…what I know for SURE….Resistance only has the power WE give it. 

“The following is a list, in no particular order, of those activities that most commonly elicit Resistance:

1) The pursuit of any calling in writing, painting, music, film, dance, or any creative art, however marginal or unconventional.

2) The launching of any entrepreneurial venture or enterprise, for profit or otherwise.

3) Any diet or health regimen.

4) Any program of spiritual advancement.

5) Any activity whose aim is tighter abdominals.

6) Any course or program designed to overcome an unwholesome habit or addiction.

7) Education of every kind.

8) Any act of political, moral, or ethical courage, including the decision to change for the better some unworthy pattern of thought or conduct in ourselves.

9) The undertaking of any enterprise or endeavor whose aim is to help others.

10) Any act that entails commitment of the heart. The decision to get married, to have a child, to weather a rocky patch in a relationship.

11) The taking of any principled stand in the face of adversity.

In other words, any act that rejects immediate gratification in favor of long-term growth, health, or integrity. Or, expressed another way, any act that derives from our higher nature instead of our lower.

Any of these will elicit Resistance.

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012. iBooks.
This material may be protected by copyright.

I’d LOVE it if you’d tell me:
What beautiful thing has Resistance been talking you out of doing?
Do you agree that we have two lives, the one we live and the unlived life?

MuchO loveO
Xox

My husband is a gem. He is a prince of a man. A tender-hearted soul who adores dogs, good food and anything with an internal combustion engine.
Okay, now that I’ve made that clear let’s get real.
He can also be an asshole.

But, hey, show me the short list of who isn’t.
Plus, I said ‘can be’ —not ‘IS an asshole’.
That’s a VERY big distinction and one that will probably save my marriage.
He has his moments, but then again, don’t we all.

He is also a procrastinator.
Big time. A professional. It is such a finely honed skill of his, refined and practiced all these many years, that he is a MASTER Procrastinator.
He could teach it at the college level.
At Harvard.
Sir Raphael of the Bertolus, Professor of Procrastination.

Now you may be worried that he’ll read this and get angry. He will, and he will — in about a month. That leaves me plenty of time to practice my apology and cook him a nice dinner.

So, am I writing just to bag on my adorable hubster? Yes. And NO.

You see, this is all relevant because he’s surprised me lately. He’s taken on a new “ator”.
He has become The Validator.
Validation is just this side of a compliment, so I think he’ll get to keep his *“I’m a Frenchman, The French don’t give compliments” card.

Just the same, he’s been showering me and everybody around him with the gift of validation and it sounds something like this:

HUB: “I told Matt that I was very happy with the fact that he’s treating himself to a nice, new motorcycle, you know he works really hard AND he takes care of his brother.”

ME: “Wow. That was nice of you.”

The following week,
HUB: “When I had lunch with Peter the other day I mentioned how impressed I am with him. He always seems to make the best, most measured and uncompromising business decisions. He’s a pleasure to observe.”

ME: “Wait, What? You said that to his face? Did he choke on his steak sandwich?”

So, Today…
ME: “Thank GAWD we didn’t run into anybody at lunch. It’s a miracle. I look like a fart smells. I have this cold so my entire face is a chapped disaster, my hair is filthy and I smell like sour feet.

HUB: “I really like that you can go out in public and not care if you’re all dolled up. You’re like Janet—Unplugged. That’s really great because when you DO get fixed up, it’s such a startling contrast that everybody realizes how good you clean up.” (OUCH. And Yeah! Okay, it’s not perfect but I got the gist.) *SEE HE GETS TO KEEP HIS CARD.

ME: You are…that is just so…Was that a compliment? I think it was. No, wait, it was that validation thing you’ve been doing lately.
It needs some polish but I like it!

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to — The Validator!
Which makes so much sense to me because he is such a silent observer of the human condition, only I guess now he’s decided to offer us all some validation on the wanky-wonky way we’re just trying to live our lives.

I think more people could use validating. Don’t you my beautiful, smart and loyal tribe?

Carry on,
xox

PROCRASTINATE

synonyms: delay, put off doing something, postpone action, defer action, be dilatory, use delaying tactics, stall, temporize, drag one’s feet/heels, take one’s time, play for time, play a waiting game
“fear of failure often causes people to procrastinate”

For the last several years, on the date of the Winter Solstice, Darling Diana holds a meditation. It is my favorite one.

Held on the evening of the longest night of the year, it manages to be dark, moody, sacred, and festive all at the same time.
If you can imagine that.

There is always a huge turnout, hugging of old friends, crystals glistening in the candlelight, and this year a Christmas tree.

One of the traditions (and I love a good tradition) is to intuit a word during the meditation and then write it down.
This will be your defining word for the year.
No pressure.

She cautioned us not to overthink it. “Just empty your mind and let the word come to you“, she advised. “It may not even make any sense, just stay with it.”
And off we went; into that dark mid winter’s night meditation deep.

Never one to be able to just follow a simple assignment, I got TWO words that kept repeating. No matter how many times I shouted “NO!” at them.
“Hey, follow the rules you guys, besides, those words suck.” Wow, even my meditation voice is snarky.

I would write them on imaginary paper in my head and then wad it up and throw it away. Still there.
I would scratch them out with a big red circle/slash. No use, they kept coming.
Not only were there two words, one of them scared the shit out of me. It literally made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It gave me a headache.

My words: Aligned Conception. WTF?!

Conception is a loaded word for me, since I’m someone that is of the childless persuasion; and at my age, and in my circumstances, it would be a colossal fuck-up – and a medical miracle.
The act of conceiving a child is something that I have actively avoided my whole life, sooooo I’d have a lot of fast talking and explaining to do – to my body – to my husband – to our doctors – and our future.

For about three minutes, in the grips of a deep panic, I fought that word tooth and nail. I did, I bit it and clawed at it.
It was an epic battle between ME and me.

Then I just gave in. Fine. Fuck you, Conception. (pun intended). You win.

But what I’d been overlooking in my immediate and strenuous, jumping to conclusions, was the word aligned that had preceded it every time.
Aligned conception – idiot.

Aligned Conception. What a concept. Now I love my word(s)!

Aligned, meaning to line things up. BEFORE you make a move.
I tend to be impetuous, so daily, no, make that hourly, I’m attempting to think before I leap.

Well played Universe.

Waiting to be inspired, which I’m doing more and more.

Creating or conceiving ideas or concepts, as they line up, make sense, feel right.

Noticing that if you’re aligned, all the right people, places, ideas, and inspiration will beat a path to your door. Impetuous not so much. It can’t find your door because it couldn’t take a minute to write down your address.

Taking the time to align, sounds a lot like procrastination – well, yeah, it is, except it’s Divine Procrastination. With it you’ll take Inspired Action, you’ll experience Aligned Conception.

This is foreign to me. Fish out of water foreign. I’ve never been a procrastinator. Ever. Ask my husband, oh wait, he’ll tell you later. He’s a pro, and it works for him. I had to break it down to understand it. Here’s how I think it works.

I always thought procrastination was a dirty word, with a negative connotation. It was a habit of the fearful and the lazy. It can be, but it’s also a tool of the wise.

Let me explain.

How many times have you made THAT call or answered THAT email, when you weren’t lined up (aligned)?
You hadn’t taken the time to breathe, get centered, take a walk, or kick the dog. How did that go?

Light-yourself-on-fire shitty, right?

How many projects have you started when the funding was dicey, the players weren’t lined up, your ducks weren’t in a row, your i’s were not dotted, your t’s were not crossed – and your gut told you to wait?
KA BOOM! Crash and burn, right?

I may know a thing or two about this, being as impetuous as I am/was.

What if I had only procrastinated? Waited for the “gut green light”?

If it doesn’t feel right. I won’t do it. I’ll Wait. I’ll Align. Then I’ll Conceive.

Got it!

I don’t know about you, but I think Aligned Conception just kicked Impetuous’ ass.

Xox