responsibility

Divide and Covfefe ~ A Twitter Strategy

 

I don’t know if you saw the movie Arrival earlier this year. But I did. Four times.

That’s because it had so many of the elements that interest the super geek in me. Science fiction, time anomalies, aliens, language and Jeremy Renner.

The premise is this: 12 alien vessels simultaneously land at various points on the globe. They are still and silent which of course scares the bejesus out of all of the military types in charge of figuring out what they want. America decides to send a scientist and a world-class linguist along with several CIA goons into the ship in Montana (at the invitation of the aliens), to figure out how to communicate.

Hilarity ensues.
Not really. But needless to say, this is when the movie really gets interesting.

Language is a sophisticated skill-set developed over time by a species in order to communicate complex thoughts, emotions, and ideas. One wrong word can start a war—wiping out mankind. Such a calamity takes place in the movie when the linguist mistakenly translates weapon instead of tool. As you can imagine, the guy from the CIA blows a gasket and the entire project goes off the rails.

(Cue the dire music.)

That’s a HUGE oversimplification of a very complicated plot and I won’t blow the ending for you but let’s just say the whip-smart woman with all the right words keeps a cool head and saves a planet (or two).
Again.

All of this to say, I believe words have energy. A power beyond their meaning in the dictionary. They should be chosen carefully especially if you’re, I don’t know, someone whose words can influence worldwide financial markets—and launch missiles.

Saying that a ridiculous, nonsensical word has hidden meaning to a chosen few instead of admitting the fact that you were tantrum-texting in the middle of the night is an insult to those of us who possess a working brain, treasure words, and to those people who take the time to pick just the right ones. Like journalists and diplomats to name a few.

It is also terrifying for all the reasons that need no explanation. I know how this movie can end.

Let’s not get distracted by the absurdity that surrounds us these days. It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

Well, I’m hurting. Are you? 

Carry on,
xox

You’re Human, It’s Okay.

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“When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.”

My hike-nazi friend and I talk about this ALL. THE. TIME.

Taking responsibility for your own shit.

It is a fucking Jedi-Yoda-Mother Theresa-Dalai Lama type of acquired skill that makes finger pointing, blame and victimhood obsolete.

Sound hard?
As hard as you think it is—it’s harder.

Sometimes the problem is YOU. Ouch.

Imagine how our legal system would shift, not to mention our politics!

When you begin to practice looking at yourself through this unfiltered lens, I can’t tell you how incredibly good you get at apologising—I can’t even! And mostly to yourself—in the mirror.

“I’m sorry you’re a dick today” I’ll say. Then the reflection answers back “You’re human, it’s okay. Try to do better.

Then I open some Nutella and spread it all over anything I can find and lament how my mom made me this way.  Bahahaha! Snort-laugh! Just kidding mom!

Carry on,
xox

Make Your Case – Reprise OR “They Say It’s Your Birthday!”

Make Your Case

*Hey peeps,
Same day, different year!
I wrote this essay last year and well, it’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it!
Love ya!

It’s my birthday today.
Yep, another year older, I’m game for that; it is better than the alternative.

Once upon a long time ago, a wise man told me that it’s very important to meditate on the day of your birth and to set an intention for the year to follow.

He also told me a story that I swallowed hook, line and sinker, and it went something like: Either the night before, or the night of your birth, you go before a council, in your dreams. You then state your case as to the reasons why you should be allowed to remain on the planet for another year.

What will you add?

What mark will you leave?

Who will you effect?

Will you move further toward your purpose, or stay asleep?

When he explained that to me over coffee and a huge dose of conviction –– I took it very seriously…and I still do.

I used to look around at the people who appeared to just be marking time, figuring their council session probably didn’t go so well. Until I realized, someone could be wondering that about me. Everyone’s entitled to have an off-year, right?

The older I get, the more I understand that this is not a dry run. This is the real deal.

You’ve gotta try your damnedest to find out why you’re here, and then get on with it.

What do you think you last told the council?

That you’re going to spend another year at that dead-end job, or in that abusive, loveless marriage?

That you’re not going to take that trip you’ve always dreamed about…again?

That you’re not going to take any chances…you’ll be sitting on the sidelines, playing it safe again this year?

How would that go over with them? I’m thinkin’ not so good.

We may be given some slack in our twenties, ’cause we’re newbies, but by now, we had better make a hell of a case for walking the planet for another 365 days.

I only get the privilege of being me this one time around. I’m not looking at blowing it.

Maybe I stood before the council last night, or maybe it will be tonight. Doesn’t matter. I’m prepared, notes in hand, maybe even a PowerPoint presentation, my intention set.

I plan on kicking some serious butt this year.
Wish me luck.

Xox

Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear – By Laura Munson

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This essay was embedded into an interview that my beloved Book Mama,www.bookmama.com Linda Sivertsen, did with the author Laura Munson, deep inside a template for writers to use to craft their book proposals.
http://yourbigbeautifulbookplan.com

I’ve been buried up to my neck in this thing for weeks, writing away, but when I took a minute to check this out – I cried. It was first published in the New York Times Modern Love column where it went viral – and got Laura a book deal!
It isTHAT beautiful. And touching, and moving and courageous…and, What the Hell, just take a look, I promise you won’t regret it.
xox

MODERN LOVE
Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear

By LAURA A. MUNSON
Published: July 31, 2009

LET’S say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. You’re still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s — gazing into each other’s eyes in candlelit city bistros when you were single and skinny — have for the most part come true.

Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses. You’re the parents you said you would be, full of love and guidance. You’ve done it all: Disneyland, camping, Hawaii, Mexico, city living, stargazing.

Sure, you have your marital issues, but on the whole you feel so self-satisfied about how things have worked out that you would never, in your wildest nightmares, think you would hear these words from your husband one fine summer day: “I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. I’m moving out. The kids will understand. They’ll want me to be happy.”

But wait. This isn’t the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. It’s a story about hearing your husband say “I don’t love you anymore” and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result.

Here’s a visual: Child throws a temper tantrum. Tries to hit his mother. But the mother doesn’t hit back, lecture or punish. Instead, she ducks. Then she tries to go about her business as if the tantrum isn’t happening. She doesn’t “reward” the tantrum. She simply doesn’t take the tantrum personally because, after all, it’s not about her.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying my husband was throwing a child’s tantrum. No. He was in the grip of something else — a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way I’d responded to my children’s tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.

“I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.”

His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, “I don’t buy it.” Because I didn’t.

He drew back in surprise. Apparently he’d expected me to burst into tears, to rage at him, to threaten him with a custody battle. Or beg him to change his mind.

So he turned mean. “I don’t like what you’ve become.”

Gut-wrenching pause. How could he say such a thing? That’s when I really wanted to fight. To rage. To cry. But I didn’t.

Instead, a shroud of calm enveloped me, and I repeated those words: “I don’t buy it.”

You see, I’d recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I’d committed to “The End of Suffering.” I’d finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I’d seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.

My husband hadn’t yet come to this understanding with himself. He had enjoyed many years of hard work, and its rewards had supported our family of four all along. But his new endeavor hadn’t been going so well, and his ability to be the breadwinner was in rapid decline. He’d been miserable about this, felt useless, was losing himself emotionally and letting himself go physically. And now he wanted out of our marriage; to be done with our family.

But I wasn’t buying it.

I said: “It’s not age-appropriate to expect children to be concerned with their parents’ happiness. Not unless you want to create co-dependents who’ll spend their lives in bad relationships and therapy. There are times in every relationship when the parties involved need a break. What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”

“Huh?” he said.

“Go trekking in Nepal. Build a yurt in the back meadow. Turn the garage studio into a man-cave. Get that drum set you’ve always wanted. Anything but hurting the children and me with a reckless move like the one you’re talking about.”

Then I repeated my line, “What can we do to give you the distance you need, without hurting the family?”

“Huh?”

“How can we have a responsible distance?”

“I don’t want distance,” he said. “I want to move out.”

My mind raced. Was it another woman? Drugs? Unconscionable secrets? But I stopped myself. I would not suffer.

Instead, I went to my desk, Googled “responsible separation” and came up with a list. It included things like: Who’s allowed to use what credit cards? Who are the children allowed to see you with in town? Who’s allowed keys to what?

I looked through the list and passed it on to him.

His response: “Keys? We don’t even have keys to our house.”

I remained stoic. I could see pain in his eyes. Pain I recognized.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re going to make me go into therapy. You’re not going to let me move out. You’re going to use the kids against me.”

“I never said that. I just asked: What can we do to give you the distance you need … ”

“Stop saying that!”

Well, he didn’t move out.

Instead, he spent the summer being unreliable. He stopped coming home at his usual six o’clock. He would stay out late and not call. He blew off our entire Fourth of July — the parade, the barbecue, the fireworks — to go to someone else’s party. When he was at home, he was distant. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He didn’t even wish me “Happy Birthday.”

But I didn’t play into it. I walked my line. I told the kids: “Daddy’s having a hard time as adults often do. But we’re a family, no matter what.” I was not going to suffer. And neither were they.

MY trusted friends were irate on my behalf. “How can you just stand by and accept this behavior? Kick him out! Get a lawyer!”

I walked my line with them, too. This man was hurting, yet his problem wasn’t mine to solve. In fact, I needed to get out of his way so he could solve it.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m a pushover. I’m weak and scared and would put up with anything to keep the family together. I’m probably one of those women who would endure physical abuse. But I can assure you, I’m not. I load 1,500-pound horses into trailers and gallop through the high country of Montana all summer. I went through Pitocin-induced natural childbirth. And a Caesarean section without follow-up drugs. I am handy with a chain saw.

I simply had come to understand that I was not at the root of my husband’s problem. He was. If he could turn his problem into a marital fight, he could make it about us. I needed to get out of the way so that wouldn’t happen.

Privately, I decided to give him time. Six months.

I had good days, and I had bad days. On the good days, I took the high road. I ignored his lashing out, his merciless jabs. On bad days, I would fester in the August sun while the kids ran through sprinklers, raging at him in my mind. But I never wavered. Although it may sound ridiculous to say “Don’t take it personally” when your husband tells you he no longer loves you, sometimes that’s exactly what you have to do.

Instead of issuing ultimatums, yelling, crying or begging, I presented him with options. I created a summer of fun for our family and welcomed him to share in it, or not — it was up to him. If he chose not to come along, we would miss him, but we would be just fine, thank you very much. And we were.

And, yeah, you can bet I wanted to sit him down and persuade him to stay. To love me. To fight for what we’ve created. You can bet I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

I barbecued. Made lemonade. Set the table for four. Loved him from afar.

And one day, there he was, home from work early, mowing the lawn. A man doesn’t mow his lawn if he’s going to leave it. Not this man. Then he fixed a door that had been broken for eight years. He made a comment about our front porch needing paint. Our front porch. He mentioned needing wood for next winter. The future. Little by little, he started talking about the future.

It was Thanksgiving dinner that sealed it. My husband bowed his head humbly and said, “I’m thankful for my family.”

He was back.

And I saw what had been missing: pride. He’d lost pride in himself. Maybe that’s what happens when our egos take a hit in midlife and we realize we’re not as young and golden anymore.

When life’s knocked us around. And our childhood myths reveal themselves to be just that. The truth feels like the biggest sucker-punch of them all: it’s not a spouse or land or a job or money that brings us happiness. Those achievements, those relationships, can enhance our happiness, yes, but happiness has to start from within. Relying on any other equation can be lethal.

My husband had become lost in the myth. But he found his way out. We’ve since had the hard conversations. In fact, he encouraged me to write about our ordeal. To help other couples who arrive at this juncture in life. People who feel scared and stuck. Who believe their temporary feelings are permanent. Who see an easy out, and think they can escape.

My husband tried to strike a deal. Blame me for his pain. Unload his feelings of personal disgrace onto me.

But I ducked. And I waited. And it worked.
Laura A. Munson is a writer who lives in Whitefish, Mont.

Paying It Forward – Jason Silva Sunday

Hey Loves,
What are the ideas you’re putting out into the world?
What are you excited about, posting, hitting “publish” on?
As Jason explains, we are paying it forward, putting it out there and creating the future. you up for that?

I am.

Happy Sunday,
xox

Missing The Target

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I heard an interview the other day on NPR while standing in line at Trader Joe’s. I couldn’t really listen in the car, I was too busy trying to secure a highly unattainable parking space, so I came to it late. I searched for and inserted my earphones in order to avoid the impulse to go postal on the slow bagger in front of me.
I know…OMMMMMM back to a loving place.

It was about Sin. How apropos.

Anywho, the guy being interviewed had studied at a prestigious Divinity school in the UK, and he reported, with great authority, that the Aramaic meaning for the word SIN was to miss the target.
WHAT?!
That implies that you tried to hit the bullseye, you took careful aim, it was your intention…but then you missed.
You didn’t intentionally do something wrong, as I always had been taught as a child. I liked the sound of that except
As a “retired” Catholic, that stopped me in my tracks. That can’t be right; that sounds like it’s saying sin is a – mistake.
Wait.

All those years of shame and guilt. I feel so bamboozled Catholic Church.

Of course the minute I got home I looked it up because that meaning was news to me.

Below is a portion of just one of the MANY articles I found on the meanings of SIN. I love when I learn something new, so I wanted to pass it along-

The Original Hebrew word for “sin” has been wrongly translated… Its true meaning will pleasantly surprise you!

The original word sin means – to miss.
It doesn’t mean to commit something wrong; it simply means to miss, to be absent.

The Hebrew root for the word sin, means to miss the target.(!!!)

That exists in a few English words: misconduct, misbehavior.
To miss means not to be there, doing something without being present there — this is the only sin. And the only virtue: while you are doing something you are fully alert — what Gurdjieff calls selfremembering, what Buddha calls being rightly mindful, what Krishnamurti calls awareness, what Kabir has called SURATI. To be there! — that’s all that is needed, nothing more.
You need not change anything, and even if you try to change you cannot”

The original Hebrew word for sin is very beautiful. By translating it as “sin,” Christians have missed the very message of Jesus. The original Hebrew word for sin is so totally different from your idea of sin that it will be a surprise to you.
The root word means forgetfulness; it has nothing to do with what you are doing.

The whole thing is whether you are doing it with conscious being or out of unconsciousness.

Are you doing it with a self-remembering or have you completely forgotten yourself? (LOVE that)

Any action of unconsciousness is sin.

The action may look virtuous, but it cannot be. You may create a beautiful façade, a character, a certain virtuousness; you may speak the truth, you may avoid lies; you may try to be moral, and so on and so forth. But if all this is coming from unconsciousness, it is all sin.

By OSHO

Now, this is no “get out of jail free” card by any means, but it does open the conversation and it jives so much better with the way I’ve always felt about religion, and words and their meanings.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned”
xox

Um….We Have To Talk….

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As you wake up and become more conscious, you start to clean up all your messes from the past, mend fences and take responsibility for all your decisions. It’s called accountability.
It’s ALL part of the process.

Have a great Saturday my loves,
xox

Sympathy Can Be Addictive

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“If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.” 
― David Sedaris, Barrel Fever

Once upon a time, I hung out with a shaman. 
He was my own personal “pocket shaman.”
He went everywhere with me, and helped me through all the wild things that were happening back then, with his wild eyed magic, his herbs and teas and his amazing energy work.
I was NOT having a good time with my spiritual awakening. I was a sick, whining, complaining, crying, hot mess.

He did love me, so he was somewhat indulgent. But he was so much further along on the spiritual path than I was at that time, that after awhile, he wouldn’t tolerate my behavior.
He would not continue to hear my complaints, no matter how valid. He could not bring himself to listen to my stories of victim hood for one. more. second.
He would just turn and leave the room…….while I was in mid sentence.
With my head in my hands, weeping, I’d beg for his advise about a situation that was causing me intense emotional pain, and his response would be: “We’ve discussed this, you know what I think you should do, I’m not talking about this again with you.”
WTF?! “Don’t you want to help me?”
“I’m not helping you by continuing to talk about it. If you want to stay there, if you want to summon a co-complainer, someone who will join you at your pity party, go call a girlfriend.”

I started to hate him. (I don’t want to say hate….. but I’m being honest here). 
I remember screaming at him to listen to me.
“You’re NOT my friend, you DON’T love me!”
“I DO love you! but you’re right, I’m not your friend, I’m your teacher, I’m here to help you. I will not come join you in your pain. A true friend would not keep you in this misery”
I remember slugging him hard in the arm as he turned and walked away.
Not my proudest moment.

“It is terribly rude to tell people that their troubles are boring.” 
― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

My friend Wes is similar. He wouldn’t commiserate with me when both my cats were killed by coyotes within a week of each other, and it almost ended our friendship. He just wouldn’t go there. He listened with compassion, when I cried about it in the beginning; but he wouldn’t indulge my need to keep talking about it, and stay in the “why” of it. He would get quiet, make a joke, or change the subject all together.
God, that was annoying.
He did it again when my business went south. I remember being at dinner with him and feeling so hurt and angry, because he seemed bored with my plight. He listened, but he wouldn’t engage. It was so freaking frustrating; like standing at the net with my racket and my opponent won’t return my serve.
Over and over and over again.
I felt ENRAGED!
The rage inside felt familiar; very similar to what I had felt toward my shaman friend years before. I had to restrain myself from hurling my body across the table and stabbing him in the neck with a fork.
Note to self: I am a pacifist ONLY if you indulge me, by listening to endless hours of my sad, sucky stories.

Staying in wounded victimhood has it’s own special high. With all the words of encouragement and people trying to help, it keeps you from having to stand on your own two feet, move forward, and take some responsibility.
Sympathy can be addictive.

Here’s the thing. They both loved me a ton, and they reacted in the most loving way possible. They wouldn’t stand with me in the energy of my pain for any longer than necessary. It’s a kind of spiritual “tough love.” I get that now.
And they did it at their peril. I felt abandoned and betrayed, and I lashed out accordingly. I strung together tirades of four letter words that would have made a drill sergeant blush, and there were long periods of time where I didn’t see either of them. I wasn’t ready to move on. I wanted to beat the dead horse and then some.
They would not meet me there. They stood in the place of my healing, of my wholeness, not my woundedness……….and they waited for me there.
It took awhile to join them, but eventually, I did.

I want to caution you: Please, Don’t try this at home. It may not go well. People want a shoulder to cry on, and if you take that away; they may punch you.
Be advised, there will be hurt feelings. But it IS the more loving act.
Maybe someone is loving you this way right now.
Food for thought.
Carry on.

Any thoughts? I’d love to hear ’em.

Xox

Outing Myself

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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

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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