self awareness

There once was a man, running for the highest elected office in the land, who considered himself to be perfect in every way.

We can all agree, that’s absurd, right?

I mean a certain amount of self-esteem is terrific, don’t get me wrong. But I also think it’s a helpful practice to be somewhat self-aware. To know your strengths and your weaknesses. That way you can surround yourself with people who compliment you.

Folks who are great at ALL the things that you suck at—and vice-versa.
So, that got me to thinking…here’s the short list of what I totally suck at:

1. Sports. I am athletically challenged. I do, however, have amazing eye-hand coordination that I have yet to capitalize on.

2. Staying on my side of the bed at night. I possess an unconscious desire to spread out. My husband’s nickname for me is starfish.

3. Backing up. In the car. I had a series of unfortunate metal-on-metal incidents while in reverse a few years back and so now I suffer from a form of Reverse PTSD.

4. Returning phone calls. I’m the worst. I remind myself so often to call someone back that after a while I mistakenly think I already have. That’s crazy, I know.

5. Wearing shoes. I have a passion for shoes and I own way too many pairs. Especially for someone who spends 99.9% of her time barefoot. I have driven all the way to the gym or worse yet, up the mountain to my hike only to discover once I’m there that I’m barefoot!

6. Making a soft-boiled (runny) egg. I am the world’s leading over-cooker of eggs. Sorry. Can’t do it. The end.

7. Reading. I know that doesn’t make sense. I read a lot. But a book has to really catch me by the end of the first page or I’ll put to down—and forget about it. I currently have, no lie, seven or eight partially read books lying around the house. Shame on me.

8. Making a decent vinaigrette. My husbands are to die for. Mine? Meh. It always tastes how I imagine motor oil does. Motor oil with a splash of lemon and too much pepper.

9. Sneezing quietly. You know those people who can silence their sneeze? I am not one of them. Mine is so loud—like a gunshot. I can’t help it. They sneak up on me and startle those around me. They can actually scare my husband to the point anger.

10. Tolerating lying. I simply cannot. I can smell a lie. I should work for the FBI. So… this Presidential campaign?  You cannot even imagine how many times my head has spun around in the eighteen months since this madness started.

11. I know I said ten but I suck at spelling and it needs to be mentioned. I used to excel at it. I won spelling contests in grade school. I used to correct other people’s spelling mistakes for shit’s sake! Now, I absolutely SUCK at it! I misspell my own name. I blame technology. Spellcheck. Auto correct. And laziness.

12. I suck at gambling and dancing and I don’t follow directions either. so…twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

Care to share a few of yours?

Carry on,
xox

Okay…these are good!

Christmas toes in Mexico!

I’m in a bathing suit—in December.
The only thing worse for me is being in a bathing suit January-June, July-November.

Remind me again. Why was this a good idea?

Because cellulite looks better tanned. Everybody knows that. Right? I mean, we can all just agree to that, can’t we?

Jiggly, white, bumpy chicken skin OR delicious, golden brown with crispy edges.

I can break everything down to a food analogy. It’s a gift.
And it helps you to understand how I think.

Remember that trip we cancelled back in September?
Well, we decided instead to run to Mexico and as luck would have it we have the resort to ourselves this week-before-the-week-before Christmas. The over-attentive staff are enjoying their calm before the storm (the place is sold out the rest of the year and into January), following us around with cold beers and guacamole, scented oils and homemade warm tortillas.

It makes me smile and squirm all at the same time.

Oh yeah, I could get used to this. And a bit of deja vu.

Ancient memory: For one week in my late twenties I had the good fortune to be taken to one of the all-time grand luxury hotels in the South of France, The Hotel Du-Cap-Eden-Roc, where besides exquisite food, surroundings and people watching, each guest is assigned a maid or valet depending on your gender.
I’m serious.

Immediately upon arrival, my assigned young woman unpacked my suitcase (while I stood there dumbfounded), and hung everything on quilted satin hangers. Then she matched each pair of shoes to the outfit (A talent even I don’t possess).

To my amazement, I watched as she meticulously laid out my beat up old Keds on a fancy, monogrammed white hand-towel.
What?
Had it been today I would have posted it on Instagram, the juxtaposition was just that good!

The whole experience of having a servant at your beck and call was surreal.
I had my very own beck and call girl you guys!
At first, I felt uncomfortable. Undeserving. Embarrassed. I was no better than her.

Quickly I became appalled.

This young woman was around my age at the time and it felt odd to have her waiting on me hand and foot.

After she laid out all of my mismatched, shabbily cared for make-up on the vanity and practically brushed my hair for me, I became indignant with my then boyfriend. The one who was picking up the enormous tab.

It was then that he set me straight.

“This is a career for her and a damn good one,” his tone suggested he was getting annoyed with me. “It’s not like in the States, she’s not waiting to sell a screenplay. She chose to work here. There is a waiting list to work here. They are heavy vetted and they only accept the cream of the crop. The best of the best.”

Now he was on a roll. “You’re the one with the attitude. You’re the one looking down on HER.”
Ouch.

As it turns out her entire family worked at the hotel. Her father poured drinks at the giant mahogany bar downstairs, her mother assisted the chef in the kitchen. It was their family business so to speak and she was very proud of that.

So I got into it, appreciating every tiny gesture. Reveling in her joy. Becoming friends.
She thought my American accent was really cool. I loved the way she called me Mademoiselle Janet.

She ran my bath. She brought me earl grey tea at 5 p.m. She laid out my clothes every morning.

Late one night she found me extra tampons which she delivered to me ever so discreetly, knocking softly on the door, averting her eyes and pulling them out of her pale pink uniform pocket tied with a blue satin ribbon. I kid you not.

When we left and I went back to real life—I missed her.
I missed her sweet smile, her heavily accented English, and how much she enjoyed her job. Oh, and the tampons with the blue stain ribbon. I desperately missed those.

So now back to Mexico and the same lesson was repeating itself all over again. I get squirmy when people are over-attentive. I shoo them away. I reek of embarrassment.

Raphael told me this story once about a riding trip he took to South Africa and how indignant he became after witnessing all the locals throw their trash on the ground.
Just like that. Drink water, throw the bottle on the ground. Eat a…something South African, throw the wrapper on the sidewalk.
After awhile his entire party started to do it. He was appalled, doling out the dirty looks like Tic-Tacs, running around picking up all the yucky shit off the ground until one of their guides informed him that the local government pays someone VERY WELL to do that very thing. So as it turns out, what appeared to be jerkishly-selfish littering was just the townspeople keeping some guy gainfully employeed—or he was being punked—I’m still not sure.

This same husband is fluent in “Mexican”, (he balks when I say Spanish so I’ll indulge him here and go along with the charade).
Anyhow, he was chatting it up with Pearla in the gift shop as he browsed for a better hat with a wider brim to protect his delicate French skin from the sun.

“She LOVES it here,” he informed me, translating their lively conversation. “She braved three interviews and waited several years to work here and when she left the other resort–they congratulated her! You know, they give her health insurance and many other benefits she can’t get anywhere else. She’s thrilled to be here. They all are.”

And you can tell.

For cryin’ out loud!
It is still and always will be MY attitude and misperceptions that get me in trouble.
They aren’t pretending I’m better than them—it’s their job to be nice!

Forever a work in progress y’all.

What do you think?

Carry on,
xox

This is an essay by my friend and fellow Carmel Writing Retreat attendee Denise Damron. Let me just tell you a little bit about her. First of all she missed the first night of introductions at the retreat because she was at a ROCK CONCERT. Don’t you love that!

This woman has her priorities straight.

She is quiet,(meaning she couldn’t get a word in edgewise)but when she did interject something into the conversation it was genuine, wry, dry…and smart. She is wicked smart.

So once I realized she was totally out of my league, I fell in love, like I do, with her and her writing.

Denise is finishing a fiction book about a young girl who realizes she’s descended from a long line of extremely unusual woman with very special magical powers. As I sat that week listening to her read various excerpts from the story, I was amazed at how well she captured a teenage girl’s hopes, dreams and oftentimes snarky personality. After reading this I am almost certain she patterned her heroine after her niece Penelope.

Geesh, these young girls are so much more self-aware and dialed in that I ever was then…or am now for that matter!

I know a lot of you guys have kids and the rest of us are going through huge transitions so I think you’ll be able to relate and even smile.

Take it away Denise:

“In my family we are birthday list-makers. I got the list below from my now nine-year-old soon-to-be ten-year-old niece last night. A sign she is growing up – NO DRESSES PLEASE!!!

It made me think back to when I was 10.

Was I so well-evolved at that age? I mean, look at this list.
This is the list of a girl who knows who she is and is not afraid to list it. She is girly and tough at the same time – note the warrior in her with her Minecraft sword and axe and the feminine in her with the vanilla perfume scent and O-P-I nail polish. She is Xena Warrior Princess in a pair of Louboutins.

I like to think the dark red lipstick is a nod to me, her aunt, since I will not take out the trash without wearing my red lipstick.

At that age I was just beginning to dream of being a famous writer-singer-actress-world traveler. I felt invincible. I was going to break the glass ceiling. I was going to be President of the United States or make sure a woman became president (I was an early feminist).

So what happened to me in the years that transpired since I was 10? Middle school nasty girls, too-much-partying high school, sorority girl Pappagallo shoes and pink Izods in college , first job-first apartment independence, bloom-off-the-rose second, third, fourth, and more, until finally my last job as a director in a Fortune 100 company. Throughout many of those years I wish I would have had a Haters Back Off Miranda Sings shirt to warn away the soul sucking crazies I ran across in my work.

I just had my 54th birthday in April and one year after leaving my corporate job to start my own business and write my novel (both of which I accomplished) I feel like I’ve come full circle back to the girl I once was. Older, yes. Wiser, hope so. But still full of dreams and hopes and wishes for the future. Now, instead of making a list of stuff I want (although I can always use more red lip stick) I take the opportunity to list the things I want to accomplish in the next year.

Here’s my list in no particular order:
• Find an agent to publish my young adult novel
• Finish my PhD dissertation
• Stay close to nature and take more walks with my Siberian Husky Gracie
• Keep my life filled with music by going to more concerts
• Let the voices and pictures in my head out by starting my next novel
• Channel Miranda Sings’ Haters Back Off mantra by being true to myself
• Connect more with positive friends
• Meditate and keep my chakras cleared
• Generate positive, productive, awe-inspiring energy
• Political comment alert: Work on getting Hilary elected
• Stay tuned in/check in on a regular basis with my body, mind, and spirit

Here is my niece’s birthday list:

PENELOPE’S 10TH BIRTHDAY WISHLIST BY:PENELOPE GRACE

• T-Mobile Sim Card
• Justice Dance Bow Graphic Tee
• Justice Zebra Cross Back Leotard
• Nerf Rebelle Agent Bow
• Haters Back Off Miranda Sings Pants
• Haters Back Off Miranda Sings Shirt
• Emoji Pillows
• Bright Red Lipstick
• NO DRESSES PLEASE!!!
• Minecraft Sword
• Minecraft Axe
• Justice Gift Card
• Coconut Perfume Scent
• Vanilla Perfume Scent
• O-P-I Nail Polish
• Crackle Nail Polish
• Dark Red Lipstick”

Carry on my friends,
xox

Here is the link for Denise’s new company:
themarketingimagination.com

Here is the link for the Carmel Retreats:
bookmama.com

“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 Bootcamp, that non-profit you want to start or marrying Scooter.

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. (Pam, wink)

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?
Much O love O
Xox

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.

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