sadness

“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

Friends,
Around this time of year, missing those who are dearly departed can be absolutely heart-wrenching. A while back I read this little story and even if it proves to be some sort of made-up myth, I don’t care!—it warmed my heart. It’s about things changing, about looking for our loved ones “where they are”, not where they used to be. As energy transformed. Energy that’s on an epic adventure.

You may not recognize them at first.

Maybe they’ll show up as the delicate snowflake that gently touches your cheek with the first snow. Or dog kisses.

They can even show up as the kind act of a stranger.

Rest assured they are everywhere, all you have to do is look for them where they are. Everywhere.
With so much love,
xox Janet

When he was 40, the renowned Bohemian novelist and short story writer FRANZ KAFKA (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Steglitz Park in Berlin, when he chanced upon a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. She and Kafka looked for the doll without success. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would look again.

The next day, when they still had not found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll that said, “Please do not cry. I have gone on a trip to see the world. I’m going to write to you about my adventures.”  

Thus began a story that continued to the end of Kafka’s life. 

When they would meet, Kafka read aloud his carefully composed letters of adventures and conversations about the beloved doll, which the girl found enchanting. Finally, Kafka read her a letter of the story that brought the doll back to Berlin, and he then gave her a doll he had purchased. “This does not look at all like my doll,” she said. Kafka handed her another letter that explained, “My trips, they have changed me.” The girl hugged the new doll and took it home with her.  

A year later, Kafka died.

Many years later, the now grown-up girl found a letter tucked into an unnoticed crevice in the doll. The tiny letter, signed by Kafka, said, “Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.”

I❤️this.

The holidays can be haaaaard you guys. And as much as I’d love to sugar coat it—I can’t.

I know, they can also be full of joy and wonder.

But when they’re not—when you’re just struggling to keep your head above water because of a health crisis, or a death, divorce, or something else unimaginable has you down for the count—it is helpful to remember (at least it is for me) that no matter how famous you are, how much money you have, or influence you peddle, or how many self-help processes you keep in your back pocket, at some point, THEY WILL GET YOU DOWN.

Here in California, the wildfires that raged a mere two weeks ago have left a literal shroud hanging over the state. So many people have lost so much it’s hard to fathom feeling much Ho, Ho, Ho.

My BFF is navigating a mother who is deep into her Alzheimer’s long goodbye, and although she’s maintaining a stiff lip and a brave face, I can feel her sadness all the way from the Great Northwest. 

I’ve felt wonky for the past few months which led to me seeing a cardiologist about an arrhythmia caused by a jacked-up thyroid. As somebody who usually runs circles around the holidays, this “health situation” had made me feel anxious, vulnerable, and introspective. The old adage, “If you don’t have your health, you have nothing”, has turned from a blah, blah, blah thing that old people say—to the god’s honest truth.

So, in a nutshell, I’ve really had nothing funny or uplifting to say. (As a sidenote it must be said that if I lose my sense of humor, it’s time to take me to the doctor.)

Then, the other day, I came across this picture on Liz Gilbert’s social media and it gutted me. This is her first holiday season without her beloved Raya, and it shows her seeking solace in the lap of her friend Martha Beck.  I stared at it for a long time, crying the ugly cry because, number one—I’d been holding onto a lot of fear around my health and it felt good to let it all out, and number two—when I saw it, it reminded me of pretty much everyone I know right now, including, perhaps, The Statue of Liberty. It reminds me of exhausted surrender. A place I initially have a hard time finding–but know well.

Then, on Wednesday, Liz wrote this and I wanted to share it with you.

THIS I can do. I can hold the hearts who are hurting in my heart ( just as long as y’all don’t mind a bumpy ride!) You are not alone. You are not misunderstood. We can do this.

Let’s all hold each other hearts. We’ll know when it’s safe to let go. We’re gonna be alright.

I love you.
Carry on,
xox

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after the death of a loved one.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving after a divorce.

Holding your heart in my heart if you can’t be with your family this year.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are estranged from your family.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have a family member serving in the military, or if you yourself are serving.

Holding your heart in my heart if you have to work today.

Holding your heart in my heart if you a missing a loved one at your table today because of addiction or mental illness or sickness or anger.

Holding your heart in my heart if this is your first Thanksgiving in sobriety.

Holding your heart in my heart if you struggle with food, and you feel like nobody understands.

Holding your heart in my heart if family holidays bring up nothing but memories of suffering for you.

Holding your heart in my heart if you are alone, or if you are just feeling alone in the crowd.

Holding your heart in my heart today, all day long. Holidays aren’t always easy. But you are loved. Please know that you are loved.

Unclench your fist and lay your hand on your heart. It’s all gonna be alright.

We love you.
❤️LG

Oldie but goodie…and it feels even more apropos in these crazy-ass times. Maybe because the antics we are seeing played out daily in our political discourse are extremely familiar if you grew up with a family or you know, interacted with anybody who didn’t necessarily have your best interests at heart. 

Stay strong out there!

xox

Judgment alert! There may be some judgment leveled here. Hey, I’m no saint.

How come the crazy ones never lose any sleep?
Is it their complete lack of a conscience that causes them to appear so slick, smug and impossibly fresh?

Not a hair out-of-place.
Barely a hint of the devil that lies within.

While those of us that have the misfortune to find ourselves in their orbit are sleep deprived, disheveled, walking disasters.

The fact that people who operate outside the constructs of polite society can close their eyes at night and sleep the uninterrupted, peaceful sleep of the just.

That will always bother me.

Why is that?
How can it be?

Case in point: The night before an arbitration with the attorneys for DWP to discuss the fact that their one-hundred-year-old water main had burst and turned my store into an aquarium, I tossed and turned until the sheets were knotted up around my head and neck, fashioned into some kind of an unattractive turban/noose—and I ground my teeth down to tiny, baby, Chicklets. This left me the next morning gumming my toast, with a foggy brain and pronounced sheet marks on my face that didn’t fade until after lunch.

Once at the courthouse, the team of He, She and It, who represented the water company, entered the room laughing. Uproariously.
Like Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon had driven carpool.

I felt at a distinct disadvantage. Out of the loop, like the funniest joke ever told was completely lost on me. Was that their plan?

Upon closer inspection, they were meticulously coiffed and groomed, cool as the proverbial cucumbers, while I was permanently wrinkled, drenched in flop sweat, and frantically struggling to remove a poppy-seed from between my two front teeth with my tongue.

Note to self: Don’t accept half a poppy-seed bagel when you’re out of coffee. And you forgot your water.
You’re going to need something to rinse your mouth with when the Big Guns enter the room.

If I’d had more sleep I would have remembered that.

They all seemed so nice, so genuinely happy to meet me; that is until the bell rang and we went to our respective corners. Then the gloves came off and the crazy started to show.

They gaslighted. They made shit up. Their entire alibi was jack-crap.
With graphs, documents and flow charts they made a pretty compelling case. Listen, if you show me a flow chart, I’ll believe almost anything. Somehow they double teamed my attorney and me, and in the most well crafted, legal babbley, thinly veiled insulting way, they pinned the whole thing on me! They made the accidental, midnight break of their water main seem like MY fault!

It was 2009. Business was slow, debt was high, banks were failing left and right and I needed out—only I was too stupid to commit arson.

I know, crazy, right? But when we broke for lunch even I wanted to throw the book at me.

The picture they painted of me was that of a sad-sack, loser of a businesswoman, which was exactly how I felt at the time.
I think my lawyer drank the Kool-Aid too—they were that convincing. She wouldn’t make eye contact, skulking into the corner on her phone, and then disappearing for the entire lunch break.

But you wanna know what trumps sleep deprivation? Rage. That’s what.
It also instantly removes sheet marks from your face.

It also over-rides all victim-hood.

Crazy and Rage are curious dance partners and they should never be left alone in a room together.
Let me tell you why. Crazy is so put together, so charming and unflappable that she never breaks a sweat. And that bitch looooooves a victim, she gets off on them—they get her panties wet.

Rage is no victim, he’s a gangster. He’s raw, he’s greasy and he talks real dirty. He wears a wife beater t-shirt and too much Aramis; and he has only one thing in his crosshairs—Crazy.

Crazy gets high on Rage and it quickly becomes a street-brawl.

But let me tell you something, Rage is better than Sad, which is where I’d pitched my tent for eighteen months. Some say you can get caught in anger and never feel despair. The opposite had been true for me.
And sad victimhood? Well, that’s like chum in the water to Crazy.

So Rage felt better. It felt…empowering. If sadness felt like quick-sand, Rage, like solid ground.

It got my attention and cleared my vision, so I could finally see the truth and it kicked Sad’s ass to the curb.

I locked myself in a public bathroom stall and kick-boxed the toilet-tissue dispenser for nearly an hour before taking a walk around the building, coming to my senses, and finding my courage.

I knew my opponent. I was very familiar with Crazy.
You see, I had met her as a teenager in the form of my father’s second wife. I had witnessed her devour her victims whole and I was smart enough to remember that Rage threw her into a sort of drunken frenzy.

I also remembered that there is no reasoning with Crazy, and nothing can get to her.  Nothing touches her heart. There is no sympathy, empathy or compassion and absolutely nothing is open for discussion.

She acts as your judge, jury, and executioner.

And the more they sense is at stake, the faster and louder the accusations come. Their aim is to keep you off-balance, on the ropes.

Remember, Crazy is rested, ready and strong after her peaceful night’s sleep. How is that fair?
Because Crazy get a buzz off this shit and she doesn’t care about anything other than winning.

I sure wasn’t feeling sad anymore, Rage had taken over and hatched a plan but I knew better than to let it enter that arbitration room. I could hear the team of Crazy, Crazier, and Craziest, whopping it up inside so I waited outside until I saw my attorney exit the elevator.

“You handle this, I’m leaving” I announced. I had her by the arm and was walking her back down a long hallway of endless doors, out of earshot of the hyenas.

“What?” she looked surprised.

“You don’t need me here. They can smell my fear and sadness, and well, their offer is beyond ridiculous. See what happens when they can’t focus on me. When they have to deal with you and only the facts.” We had walked in a circle making our way back toward the bank of elevators.

She reached into her bag for paper and a pen. “Give me the number you’ll you settle at,” she asked. She seemed relieved like the day could be salvaged. Like it could go back to a language she understood—the law.

I wrote a figure down. She looked and nodded in agreement, folding the paper into a small square and tucking into her suit-jacket pocket. Just then the elevator chimed, opening right on cue. People were packed in like sardines, but as I stepped inside she grabbed my purse strap, turning me around. “This could end today,” she said with a hint of a smile, letting go of my purse as the doors closed.

A hairy mystery hand reached around me and pushed the button for LOBBY, getting me the hell out of that DWP building. I know it was Rage. I could smell his Aramis. But I made sure I left him behind, losing him in the crowd.

*I got the call a couple of hours later that they’d settled on the figure I’d written down. “Piece of cake” I remember her saying in a distracted voice, she was already on to her next case.

I feel safe in saying that we all slept well that night.

Maybe some of you guys needed to hear this,
Carry on,
xox

*And don’t get your panties in a bunch if I anthropomorphize emotions. We all know crazy is not female and rage is not male, so calm the fuck down. 

This is a shit story. It broke me. It shattered me into a thousand little pieces. But it was the catalyst for my complete reinvention—so… thank you.

This is the best part of the story. The part I love to tell. The “miracle in the mess” so to speak. And it happened seven years ago today!

I’d love to say I stayed in the energy of that miracle and was able to ride the wave of hope, but I didn’t. I fell apart. It was ugly.
This was a sign. But I couldn’t see my way clear of the disaster.
Oh, well, lesson learned. Lessons learned. Many, many, lessons and I’m so much the better for them. Actually, I’m a completely different person. Ask my husband.
Anyhow, enjoy this flashback and appreciate all of the miracles that show up in your darkest hours. I do. Now.
Carry on,
xox

The second miracle occurred during cleanup.
We were about four days in.
The mud had been cleaned up, but the floors, walls, windows and merchandise were still covered with a layer of toxic, smelly slime.

We covered our faces with those cloth masks and plugged on.
Oh yeah, did I mention it was over 100 degrees!

This was the day I was told that the walls of the building had to be cut open up to 5 feet in order to air them out and avoid the dreaded black mold. I don’t know why that hit me so hard, but it did. I walked outside, sat on some steps across the parking lot, and cried while a Sawzall proceeded to systematically carve up my beautiful little store.

This felt serious…and profoundly sad.

Gary (my insurance advocate), came outside and put his arm around me as we sat silently watching the carnage. When he finally spoke, he asked me if I wanted to go in and box things up, the things that hadn’t gotten wet in the bathroom storage closets. Since the walls would be wide open, someone could potentially get inside and help themselves to whatever was left behind, so he gently suggested I go take a look.

I declined. He insisted. (I think about this all the time, you’ll see why in a minute.)

I think he also just wanted to keep me busy so he didn’t have to look at my big, sad and soggy face.

Since the electricity had been turned off, the bathroom was pitch dark as I poked around in the back closets with a garbage bag, waiting for my eyes to adjust. A generator and the Sawzall wailed away.  It felt weird to me to be salvaging Windex, paper towels, and toilet cleaner.

It occurred to me I could just leave it for the salvage crew. What difference did any of this stuff make now?
I was numb, just going through the motions, trying not to feel too much.

Tucked in the back of a shelf was a box of Tampons with the top torn off. All my good customers knew it was there. Periodically, I would bring a handful from home to refill it. (All you women reading this know what I’m talking about.)
There were several left in the box, so I tucked them into my pocket tossing the empty box in the large, green garbage bag.
But as it flew on its way into the bag, I could HEAR that it wasn’t empty.

There was something heavy sliding around the bottom of the box as it hurtled toward the trash.

Blindly, I reached inside, felt something cool and smooth, and pulled out the expensive diamond watch my husband had given me for our 5th anniversary! Was this some kind of a joke?

The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I stared at my missing watch, there alone in the dark. I started to shake. Violently. Then I started to scream. Loudly!

“Myyyyyy Waaaaaatch!” I screamed as I scrambled towards daylight.  All the workers stopped and stared at the screaming woman. “Ohhhh myyyy gawwwwwd! Are you fucking kidding me?!” I was screaming at the top of my lungs, sweating profusely in the heat. My hair was flying out of its rubber band and I had a mask over my face which muffled my words. The entire get-up morphed me into some kind of crazed, incoherent germaphobe. Gary looked at me, horrified.

Here’s the thing you guys. That watch had been “missing” for over 2 years. My husband had just recently mentioned how disappointed he was that I hadn’t found it yet. I felt terrible. We both knew I wasn’t someone who lost my jewelry. In my previous life as a jeweler, I had worn the watch a lot but since opening the store, it seemed too fancy, and I only took it out of the safe for special occasions.

I NEVER wore it to the store. EVER.
One day I had gone into the safe to get it…and it was gone.

Okay. Did I mention I found the watch on September 9th?
Our anniversary is September 9th.

The missing watch had mysteriously appeared after 2 years on a sad but significant day—in the MOST impossible place imaginable.
It was a sign.
Don’t lose hope.
Miracles occur.

I finally stopped screaming long enough to dial my phone. I couldn’t call my husband fast enough.

XoxJanet

In case you didn’t see the latest from Liz Gilbert. It’s SOOOO good!
xoxJ

Dear Ones –

I’ve been going through a lot of big life transformations lately — moving through divorce, and loss, and the terrifying illnesses of loved ones, and outrageous upheavals of emotion — and none of it is easy.

Sometimes our transformations bring out the best in us, and sometimes they do not. When the ground breaks open because of an earthquake, you can be certain that everything — absolutely EVERYTHING — will be upturned, unearthed, or cracked open.

When you get cracked open, you will not always love what you discover about yourself. You wish you were a better person (whatever that means.) You wish you had handled this or that crisis with more grace. You wish you were stronger. You wish you were more certain about things. You wish you could go back and have that conversation all over again, and do it more wisely. You wish you were more forgiving. You wish you were more honest. You wish you were less judgmental. You wish you were less emotional. You wish you had figured things out sooner, or better, or smarter. Sometimes, you must face the truth that you have caused pain to yourself. Sometimes you have caused pain to others.

In short: You wish you were different. And wishing that you were different always, always, always hurts.

This is all very natural.

But we can choose in these difficult moments of self-doubt and regret and confusion whether or not we are going to hate ourselves for any of it…or whether we are going to practice self-love.
This is important.

The parts of yourself that you do not love are terribly vital, because they demand that you dig deep — deeper than you ever thought you would have to dig — in order to summon compassion and forgiveness for the struggling human being whom you are.

And until you learn to treat the struggling human being whom you are with a modicum of empathy, tenderness, and love, you will never be able to love anyone or anything with the fullness of your heart…and that would be a great shame. Because this is what we all want, isn’t it? This is what we came here for, right? To learn how to love each other with the fullness of our hearts?

Please know this: Whenever you withhold love from yourself, you are withholding love from the world…period.
We really need you to stop doing that.

The world has enough problems, without you withholding any more love.

Please understand that these difficult parts of yourself (the shameful parts, the regretful parts, and those episodes of your biography that are so spiky and troublesome and contradictory and embarrassing that you simply don’t know what to do with them)…please understand that these difficult parts of yourself are your ultimate teachers in compassion. Those parts of yourself are where you must begin learning how to love.

You guys? This is not a simple or straightforward moment in my life right now. There is a lot to sort through. There are a lot of parts of myself that I must examine now with unflinching honesty, if I am to grow.

I am willing to practice self-honesty. I believe in it, fully.
BUT SELF-HONESTY WITHOUT SELF-LOVE IS NOTHING BUT SELF-ABUSE.

And here is what I am finding, as I age: I simply do not have the stamina for self-abuse anymore. Just can’t do it anymore. I dip into it sometimes for a moment or two, but I can’t stay there — my heart just isn’t in it anymore. I used to be so good at self-hatred and shame! I could attack myself for YEARS — drowning in an endless wave of self-criticism. But I’m out of shape these days when it comes to self-hatred. I’ve lost that special kind of emotional endurance which is required for nonstop self-degradation and attack. I can’t do that to anyone else, and I can’t do it to myself, either. Too much practice in empathy and too many years of tenderness have ruined my chances to collapse ever again into the job of full-time shame.

I have loved all the hatred for myself out of myself.
(Well. Mostly, anyhow.)
🙂

And so now, when I suffer and struggle, I ask myself, “What part of you is hurting, Liz, and how we can love it — even as you are hurting?”

We must begin there — with the parts that we do not love.

This doesn’t mean being complacent. This doesn’t mean living in denial. This doesn’t mean that I have stopped trying to grow and transform. This doesn’t mean that I am excused from being self-accountable. This doesn’t mean burying my head in the sand, or telling myself lies. It just means: There is no part of myself anymore that I do not believe is deserving of love.
And that’s good news.

Because the only way I’m ever going to learn how to love any of you beautiful freaks — by which I mean all 7 billion of you gorgeous, unpredictable, troubled, weird, contradictory, struggling, devastatingly inspiring, broken, and perfect humans with whom I share this difficult planet — is if I can learn how to love my own freaky-ass self, too.

If I can accept me, Dear Ones, I can accept anyone.
So this is where we shall begin.
OK?

LG

Why does “A Case of You” By Joni Mitchell still make me tear up?

Because “Music makes room for our pain.”

Yes, yes it does, Jason Silva.

…Hold me.

Carry on,
xox

I didn’t want to write this.
I sat on my hands, I bit my tongue.
I minded my own business.

Like I said on my Facebook page, I don’t usually editorialize other people’s break-ups.
But the force was strong with this one. It chewed at my insides.

And eventually…it wrote itself…in about seven minutes.
Then I hit publish.
On the Huffington Post.

It’s about love and fame and stories and potential happy endings.
It’s about a complete stranger who, through no fault of her own, feels like a friend.

Curious to see if you agree.

Carry on,
xox

I was saddened to read of the ending of Elizabeth Gilbert’s marriage on Friday.

Liz is the author of several best-selling books, the most well-known being EAT PRAY LOVE, which chronicled her global spiritual quest and search for happiness after a painful divorce. At the end of her soulful journey, almost unexpectedly, she finds love. And a happy ending.

I rooted for her, as I’m sure many of you did, which breeds familiarity and makes her feel like a friend.

She made the announcement of her separation on her Facebook page, which much to her credit is a place you can find her almost every day in the guise of a gorgeously written, unerringly kind and unflinchingly authentic essay. The line that struck me the most amid her request for privacy and gratitude for her reader’s continued kindness, was this:

“This is a story I am living — not a story that I am telling.”

Which leads me to the first reason we should care.

This is a woman who started her career as a writer. A writer is someone who sits in a chair for hours a day — alone — and writes. She could have never in her wildest dreams have known the universal appeal her story would have and the fame and fortune it would bring her. I’ve heard her say as much in interviews.

She never asked to be famous.

She never wanted to be a celebrity.

As a writer, I have watched the trajectory of her career and I’m always in awe of how generously she shares the details of her life, which is why she said she felt compelled to announce the separation.

I also suspect she wanted to “get ahead” of the story.

To break the news before anyone else had a chance to put their spin on it. Every media outlet covered her announcement, from CNN and People Magazine to the Hollywood Reporter.

She needed to remind us of the distinction between living — and telling.

That breaks my heart.

She shouldn’t have to do that. The end of a relationship is painful enough.

Fame…

The second reason we should care is that we need a reminder. And the reminder is this: What happens to other people is NOT ALL ABOUT YOU.

Most responses to her news were filled with love and respect, but as you can imagine some were more like this, how could you do this to ME? I believed in you, in love, in happy endings. How dare you! One woman from the UK was beside herself. “Not this week! How could you do this on the same week as Brexit? I can’t take it!”

We all know that ridiculously self-involved person who makes everyone’s story about himself or herself. Let’s all try really hard not be that person.

The third and final reason and the one that matters the most to me is this:
In her Instagram bio Elizabeth_Gilbert_writer, she describes herself as an Olympic-level long-distance optimist which can only mean one thing. That she will be sad for a time. And she will mourn her loss. And eventually, the optimist part of her will kick in because she’s been down this road before and she knows — she will not die.

And she will write and write and write some more.
Some really great stuff.
Because that is who she is.

Perhaps she’ll even be able to write about another happy ending — how to salvage the love inside of an amicable split.

Because THAT is something we should care about.

Here’s the HuffPo article.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/elizabeth-gilberts-marria_b_10788398.html

This is a recent essay by Liz Gilbert and it’s just so damn good I had to share it with you guys.
xox

Take it away, Liz!

Dear Ones –
The other day, I was talking with someone on this page about how to walk through the world with “an undefended heart”.
This person was saying that she wants so much to live with an open and undefended heart, but then it always happens that people hurt her and attack her when they see that she is open. She doesn’t want to leave herself vulnerable to that sort of pain. So she shuts down. Understandably.

So what is to be done?

How do we live open-hearted lives without being victims of constant attack?

Allow me to introduce you to the Alpha Mare.
This is an idea that came to me through my beloved friend Martha Beck, who explained to me how the psychology of a herd of horses works. At the top of the hierarchy of a herd of horses, there is an alpha mare. She is the leader. (Stallions come and go, but the mare is in charge of the herd forever.) All the other horses look to her, in order to know what to do and how to feel. As long as she remains calm, the rest of the herd feels calm. And the alpha mare is always calm, because her boundaries are AIRTIGHT. She knows exactly who she is, and nobody messes with it. Nobody approaches the alpha mare without her invitation. Nobody imposes themselves upon the alpha mare against her will. The alpha mare never lets herself be influenced by another horse’s fears or anxieties or aggression. She knows what the right thing to do is, and she does it. Everyone else follows. She doesn’t need anyone’s approval for anything. She doesn’t need anyone’s permission. She lives and breathes from a place of integrity and certainty, because of her strong and appropriate boundaries. And as a result, SHE IS ALWAYS RELAXED.

And because she is relaxed, everyone around her is RELAXED.
Thus the whole herd can live safely and peacefully around her, with undefended hearts, and the alpha mare’s heart is undefended, too.
It is fear that makes you defend your heart, but once you have discovered appropriate boundaries, you do not need to live in constant fear.

Until you learn how to hold appropriate boundaries, and stand in integrity, and speak your truth, you will never have a relaxed moment in your life. You will live like a fugitive, always on the run, always hiding, always afraid of being exposed.

A heart without healthy and appropriate boundaries can only suffer in a constant state of anxiety and defense — vigilant against the next attack,helpless against other people’s will.

To live with an undefended heart does NOT mean that you walk out in the world like a helpless child, wide-open and boundary-less, and you just let anyone do anything to you that they please. That is not openness; that is weakness.

No. You can only live with an undefended heart once you know the difference between “This is OK for me,” and “This is not OK for me” — so you never need to worry or stress about what’s going to happen to you next, or somebody will say next, or who will harm you.

Once you know the difference between “This is OK”, and “This is not OK”, you can walk anywhere in this world safely — your guard down, your eyes filled with curiosity, your soul filled with simple wonder.

That is the alpha mare, and she’s hiding inside you somewhere, waiting to come out.

I know she is.

ONWARD,
LG

As I wove around the corner, snaking slowly through the canyon on my way to the hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how streets with cars lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Singles mothers can never catch a break.

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that it’s luck had run out. Splat!

There it is. I can see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering was over.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. But it was true. No one was swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing. I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve a little!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was. This roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It was a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox