signs

Friends, 
Angels? Do you believe they walk among us? I sure do!
Read this and see what you think.
xox

As we rushed out through the smokey maze of the Casino at the old Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, it suddenly hit me that he had once again forgotten to give me my show bonus. The monetary incentive he used to physically wring me dry.  

The realization stopped me in my tracks.
F*#&!

We had just finished a week-long, Estate Jewelry Show.
I was bone tired from being on my feet for over twelve hours a day—in heels, and to add insult to injury, our plane reservation left us no time to eat before the flight home, so to top it all off—I was hangry.
In other words—I was in NO mood for any fuckery!

We had grossed over one million dollars—in a week. The two of us. And I was about to fly home empty-handed, once again.

You see, I had a boss who hated to pay me. He just did.
And no carefully scripted notes or heartfelt talks, or angry outbursts on my part had done anything to change that.

I had coached him repeatedly on the merits of showing respect. It wasn’t difficult, all he had to do was pay me. And not make me ask for my money, which I HATED.

What would this be, the third time that day I’d had to ask him for my money? I was quite familiar with this humiliating power play, and I was sick of it! Listen, I had done everything I could think of to sidestep this idiocy! Even after years of his bonus structure consisting of whatever loose cash he had in his pocket, not his fat, overstuffed money clip mind you—but his pocket change, I had won one hard-fought battle by finally getting him to agree to a pre-set bonus amount.

“Why are you stopping?” he bellowed back at me impatiently. His aluminum wheelie suitcase, a rectangular R2D2, skipped from wheel to wheel, trying to keep its balance. I could’ve sworn it looked in my direction with a help me face.

He continued his frantic march through the casino toward the door.

“I’d love to get my bonus before we leave?” I asked for the third time, running to keep up. I knew that if I let it slide, even for a day or two, the odds of getting it would become so slim even a Vegas bookie would pass on that bet.

I wasn’t sure he’d heard me until in one fluid motion, he swung to the right, deftly executing a wide, sweeping, u-turn back in my direction. Still in motion, he reached into his murse (man purse) and dumped a handful of gambling chips in my direction. Surprised, I reached out with both hands in time to catch most of them. Several of them did make a break for it, the slippery little buggers rolling on their sides underneath the dollar slots nearby.

“That should cover it,” He insisted. “Now hurry up, we don’t want to miss our plane.”

I stood there red-faced and flabbergasted, knowing that he’d left me no time to cash them in. Quickly, I shoved the chips in my purse and proceeded to get down on my hands and knees to see if I could retrieve the ones that had made their escape.

A pot-bellied, middle-aged woman, with a cigarette with two inches of ash precariously dangling from her lipstick-stained lips, was straddling two stools in front of three slot machines. Without ever looking away from the rapidly rotating numbers she was counting on to change her life, her foot kicked the chips my way, like a bedroom-slippered hockey stick.
“Uh, thanks” I mumbled, crawling around on the ground in my skirt and heels, totally in awe of her unbroken focus.

“Janet, let’s go!” He chided from inside the automatic revolving glass exit doors before turning right to join the cab line.

I could hear the damn plastic chip clattering together in my bag as I ran to catch my flight back to LA.

In the hour it took to get from Vegas to Los Angeles, I began to seethe with rage.
Not only had he made me repeatedly beg him for money he had literally thrown poker chips at me in lieu of my bonus! I had never felt so disrespected. In. My. Life.

I don’t know about you, but when I get in touch with that level of anger, I have a tendency to burst into flames tears.
Hunched down in my middle seat toward the back of the plane, I cried and cried and cried. Big, wet, sloppy tears.

I decided I would rather die, covered in honey and tied on an anthill than take the prearranged ride home to Park La Brea with him and his wife. What I knew for sure was that someone was going to die if I got in that car with him. And I was way too overdressed to spend a night in jail.

As we exited the terminal, the crowd spitting us out onto the curb, I spotted his wife’s car to the left. Without making a sound, (or so much as an indecent hand gesture) I made a beeline to the right, jumping into a single cab that just happened to be waiting there for me.

The moment the door shut and we pulled away—I freaking lost it.

I began to ugly cry, complete with gasping for breath and rivers of snot running down my face.
There I was, trapped in a horrible working situation with no solution in sight. What do you do when you ask someone repeatedly to treat you with respect and they blatantly disregard that request?

I know what you’re thinking, quit! But I couldn’t. I had the kind of career everyone wanted. Travel, great pay, jewelry, prestige. Which led to a lot of financial obligations, AND I was thirty-seven and single. Wahhhhhhhhhhhh. That sad truth made me cry even harder.

As we wound our way through the late-night traffic on LaCienega, I spotted the dark, soulful eyes of the cab driver, staring at me in the rearview mirror. His deep brown skin, white turban, and singsongy accent gave away his country of origin. India.

“Beautiful lady, why you cry?” He cooed.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, I’m just feeling so sad,” I boo-hooed. “I don’t know what to do.”

I watched his eyes search my face in the mirror as I inadvertently wiped snot into my hair with the back of my hand.
“Beautiful lady, don’t be sad, it can’t be that bad,” he murmured in his soothing, heavily accented voice.

“Ohhhhhhh it is, I think I hate my boss…he doesn’t show me any respect…he paid me with…”

I started to wail. Loudly. “With, with, poker chiiiiiiiiiiiiips!”

I grabbed a couple out of my bag and tossed them onto the front seat for dramatic effect.

“Beautiful lady, you have God’s respect and that’s all that matters.”
“Really? I  mean, I guess…”

At that moment, the cab came to a slow, rolling stop in front of my high-rise apartment building.

Since I had cried the entire ride home, he had to wait as I scavenged around in my bag for cab fare. In the meantime, the lovely man retrieved my suitcase from where I had launched it, the driver’s side backseat, opened my door, and wheeled my bag inside the lobby, depositing it in front of the elevator doors. When he returned to the cab, I had composed myself enough to hand him his fare, including a generous tip for being such a good listener.

“Here you go, thank you for being so kind to me,” I said sheepishly through the tissue that was attempting to wrangle my false eyelashes back into place.

“Oh no beautiful lady, you keep that. This ride is on me.”
And before I could even argue with him, he pulled away into the dark Los Angeles night. As I watched his tail lights fade into the distance, I realized a couple of things that were not normal. And they gave me goosebumps.
They still do.

Number one: I never told him where I lived!

I just got in the cab and fell apart while he drove me home — to Park La Brea, a literal labyrinth of apartments, turnabouts, and one-way streets. My friends refuse to pick me up lest they never find their way out. Even with my best directions, many a cab driver has made a wrong turn and been spit back out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

Number two: There are ten high rises inside that complex. How is it that he had managed to navigate all the twists and turns and one-way streets and deposit me right at my door?
I’ll answer that. He was an angel. My angel. Plain and simple.

When I finally managed to come out of my stupor, slowly walking inside the lobby, I noticed he had propped the elevator doors open with my bag. Getting inside I was stunned to discover he’d also pushed the button to the ninth floor!

My floor! How did he know?

I really, truly believe that angels are everywhere and only show themselves when we need them.

THAT is the story of my Angel in a Turban.

Carry on,
Xox

I have a tribe. A writing tribe of women.
Mel is a part of that tribe.

Mel writes in a way that her words paint pictures inside your imagination.
Mel’s writing transports you to the very place she intends to take you.
And while you’re there…she steals your heart.
She does it to me every fucking time.

My editor says I make her snort laugh coffee out her nose.
Mel made her editor cry.
She wins. Because everyone knows editors have their tear ducts removed. They never cry.

Her editor at Elephant Journal also told her “This is, hands down, one of my favorite elephant articles to date.”

Well…That…a compliment…That is an occurrence so rare it’s up there with editor tears and portraits of Jesus on burnt pieces of toast.

Now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed her with all the gushing I’ll let you see for yourself. I’m posting the link only so you will go over and tweet and comment.

Ladies and gentleman, my friend, Mel Maure:

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2016/10/stop-ignoring-these-connections-they-can-turn-your-day-or-life-around/

*Melanie Maure is a forest-dwelling kind of gal who splits her time between writing and private practice as a psychotherapist and she teaches a little yoga on the side. One of the strongest influences on her writing is the twenty years experience she possesses helping people navigate PTSD, injuries and the effects of physical, mental and emotional trauma.

As a woman, therapist and writer Melanie believes humor is a key ingredient for recovery and growth, and her writing often reflects this belief. She is currently in the third round of revisions on her debut novel, which recently received agency representation with RO Literary. Mel did an extremely awkward happy dance on that day.

Melanie lives works and plays in Peachland, British Columbia with her husband Jason and her fur-child Slim Jim.

Melanie can be found in the woods or at these more convenient locations: email, Instagram, Facebook.

In the beginning of her book “Eat Pray Love”, Liz Gilbert finds herself in the middle of something she has no control over which is causing her a great deal of angst, worry, anxiety, and despair. In her case, a contested divorce. It has come to the place where it has the potential to consume yet another year of her life by tying her up in court, not to mention wasting every dime of their money on legal fees.

Are you guys with me? Anxiety? Despair? Loss of control? Can you relate?

She feels hopeless and out of control and while on a drive through Kansas with a friend, she expresses her desire to write a Petition to God, you know, to inject some Divine Intervention into a situation which seems beyond repair.

Once she drafts a copy in the car, she and her amazing and very willing friend, add imaginary (energetic), signatures at the bottom. “My parents both signed it!” her friend exclaims. “So did mine! And so did my grandparents!” Liz replies. “St Francis of Assisi just signed it!” her friend yells excitedly, pounding the steering wheel for emphasis; and the exercise continues for well over an hour raising Liz’s spirits and bolstering her resolve.

Later, still in the passenger seat of the car, she grabs a quick nap and is awakened by her ringing phone. “You’ll never guess”, her attorney from New York exclaims without even saying hello, “He just signed the papers!”

God, I love that scene! Because I love magic, and I believe in the Physics of Quests, clues, and signs, and our right to Petition God or the Universe to take the wheel on our behalf, and so it dawned on me that I should write my own Petition, regarding my own crazy brave,crazy, brave, batshit crazy endeavour, and send it to my tiny inner circle—my tribe—so I did last night.

“Just like in the book I’d love it if you could sign it energetically (or literally) and send it out to others in the aether, living or dead, and let me know who we’ve got working on this.
I’ll put mine at the bottom.

I love you all more than words can express.
xoxJ”

And all day the names of the signatories have been pouring in!
Lucille Ball, Charlie Chaplin, Jackie Kennedy, The Obama’s…
Even the Pope signed it! What??!!

I wasn’t going to share it but then I realised that you guys are my tribe too! Below is what I wrote so you can use it as a template for your own Petition.

Then, I had what I thought was a great idea! I wanted to offer YOU this: If you want to write a short sentence in the comments about something that needs some energetic surrendering—start your own Pettition—I (we) will add our names and the names of others to it and up that juju factor.

How about it? Wanna try it? What do you have to lose?

I love you all more than words can express!
Carry on,
xox

Dear God, Universe, Nora, Nixon and All,
It is now time for you to intervene and facilitate the making of this “darling” screenplay into a movie. I humbly and respectfully acknowledge that I haven’t the faintest idea of what comes next or how to make this happen, and I am well aware of the fact that if I attempt to meddle in matters this far outside my paygrade, well, let’s just say ‘I’ll fuck it up’.

I realize that you may have more pressing things on your agendas like Chinese and North Korean diplomacy, Syria, finding a great karaoke song and looking for other ways to demystify death, and that helping me to ‘mind my own business’ seems like an insurmountable challenge, but we’ve come this far and worked so well together—that I beseech you to try.

Please attract only those to this project who are lifted by its message. Let it easily find its way to the best and the brightest. May the making of the movie be surrounded by as much love, light, fun and magic as the writing of the screenplay has been and may those that lay eyes on it see beyond what was written on the page. May it live to touch hearts and soothe souls.

Thank you for your kind consideration,
Respectfully,
Janet Bertolus

Picasso
Diane Sawyer
Mike Nicols
James Cameron
Elizabeth Gilbert
Oprah
Gayle King
My dad
Tom Hanks
Rob Bell
Erma Bombeck
Dear Abby
Clark Gable
Eva Gardner
Frank Sinatra
Andy Williams
Bob Fosse
Hemingway
Mark Twain
Martha Stewart
Mama Cass
Stevie Nicks
Joni Mitchell
Cameron Crowe
Ron Howard
Bryan Lorde
Rob Lowe
Prince

Two weeks ago I mailed my brother in Arkansas a birthday card.
That is unremarkable except for the fact that I may have forgotten to address it. Which these days is not that surprising. Recently, I have gargled with body wash, left my purse in my unlocked car overnight and put my phone in the fridge.

I got a text of the picture above on Tuesday, so two weeks after mailing it, with the caption: WTF?

From my brother, the most sceptical of sceptics. Here was this brainiac, computer nerd, prove-it-to-me kinda guy holding a blank envelope in his hand, asking me to explain how in the holy hell it had made its way to not only the state of Arkansas — but to his office?

Remember that thing I said about magic? How if you have it in one aspect of your life it bleeds into the other places. Magic doesn’t know boundaries. I love that about magic. It starts showing its face EVERYWHERE.

So, you think that’s pretty cool right? It looks like the card got wet and no trace of the address was left, OR a distracted sister forgot to address the thing and it still got to its intended destination.

Harry Potter’s owl dropped it off. That’s clearly the only plausible explanation.

Wait. Here’s more magic.

When the text arrived I was at lunch with my friend Kim. Kim is the Janet whisperer.
When I get wobbly — she sets me straight. She doesn’t take any of my shit. She quotes all of my insights back to me. Bitch.

Anyhow, at the very moment the text came through, Kim had just finished saying “Quit worrying! Your screenplay will get where it needs to go — NO MATTER WHAT.”

Just like the little yellow birthday card.
Magic.

So right now you’re asking yourself what is that? Is that an easily explainable mistake or the result of a clairvoyant postal clerk?  Nope. That’s just some damn good magic right there ladies and gentleman!

I’m sharing this because I’m sure I’m not the only one who worries about the how’s and why’s of life.

We gotta cut that shit out! Let the magic bleed all over the place!

Carry on,
xox

The other day when I was feeling emotionally pushed and pulled every which way, subject to the whims of every jackass on the planet, it was then that I took a moment to find solace by having a chat with my dog.

Ruby, our boxer-shark puppy is now two years old which is the equivalent of fourteen in dog years and in that respect, she does not disappoint.

Every bit the bitchy, whining, sassy teenager, she is a walking contradiction: clingy yet distant, anxious but chill, a confusing mix of stupidly goofy and wise. She is utterly and completely dissatisfied in every moment—and she has no problem letting you know. She has a way of looking at you as if you just asked her for a ride to the airport. Perpetually disgusted.

If she’s at home, she’d rather be out. If she’s in the car she’d prefer to walk on some grass. If there are two dogs to play with, she’d hoped there would be three—and all boys. She searches frantically for food the minute she finishes eating. Being that I, her mother, am the model of moderation (and obviously, a master of bullshit), I have NO IDEA where she picked up this behavior. I’m thinking she’s modeling her dad.
Anyhow…

You can imagine my state of mind if I was seeking comfort and advice from this spoiled, over-indulged, canine equivalent of Kylie Jenner—big lips and all.

I sat down next to the sleeping princess and heaved a giant sigh, you know, the universal signal for I need to talk.

She barely stirred.

In order to get her attention I did what always works with my husband— I started petting her.
I rubbed her floppy velvet ears and moved down to her belly which caused her to roll on her back, legs languishing in the air (okay, what’s wrong with this picture? I was the one in dire need of a belly rub!).

She seemed open to dialogue so I started the conversation: “It must be so great to be you. Not a care in the world, no worries, just play and sleep, sleep and play. What does it feel like to always be in an attitude of trust? Trust in your wellbeing and that fact that all of your needs will be met? Huh? Tell me, what’s it like being you? YOU,  little dog, you are so lucky”.

With that, she opened her eyes just enough to make out who the fuck was interrupting her nap, tilted her head back, streeeeeeeetched her legs further into the air, yawned and farted.

And in that moment, the clarity I received was as overwhelming as the stench that filled the room.

I knew she was right. About EVERYTHING.

Yep. I told you she was wise.

Carry on,
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-was-a-twentysix-year-ol_b_8086040.html

So I finally did it. I reached a milestone, the bloggers Holy Grail. I got a piece published in the Huffington Post!

But it was the journey there that made an even, dare I say, larger impression on me!

After receiving the nicest email a year ago from Arianna herself (on a Sunday for chrissakes), hooking me up with a blog editor, I have spent the past year submitting posts like a fucking headless chicken, with no luck.

Finally, around June-ish, my poor harried Muse suggested I give it a rest—just for the summer.

But, but, how will I know when to start again? I whined in protest.

You’ll just know, she replied in an exhausted tone; drink in hand, the nub of a cigarette dangling from her lips.

goddamnit! I hate when she does that.

Anyhow, I did as I was told. I immediately stopped submitting.
But I kept a keen eye open, looking for a signal; a sign; a flare;  SOMETHING; ANYTHING; to let me know when it was time to start submitting again. And… I never stopped writing.

About two weeks ago I sat down and out poured an essay about my divorce (Yawn*. I have covered that topic from head to toe, turning over every rock, so much so that I’M even bored with it).

However, this time was different. It was written from the perspective of my twenty-six year old self and how it all felt to her.  Hmmmm… I still wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I filed it away with the ten gazillion other unfinished drafts.

A week later as I was browsing the Huffington Post Facebook page, an essay on divorce caught my eye. It said at the top that they were running a series This is Divorce at… Stories about what divorce meant at all different ages. If you had one, they were asking for submissions.

Whoa, What?
Shut Up!
Are you kidding me? I just wrote that piece.

Then it dawned on me, because it takes me a while and I have swiss cheese for a brain. (You’re all way ahead of me aren’t you?)

OMG! That was my sign to submit!

So I finished the essay, sent it in, (I had to shorten it), and the rest, as they say is history.
It was THAT easy.

What’s that word we’ve been throwing around all freaking summer?

Oh yeah, surrender.

This is my best surrender story EVER! (Well, except for the time I surrendered my poor struggling store to the Powers That Be, and it flooded and died that very night) —yeah, besides that one.

Today I’m filled with SO MUCH gratitude! That is some powerful Unicorn ju-ju!

Love you, Carry on,
xox

Hey you guys,
I would appreciate it SO MUCH if you would leave a comment on the HuffPo article and up at the top there is a tiny little heart that if you click on it makes you a fan. Would you do that for me?
Thank you so much!

xox

My husband left yesterday for France, for a refined yet testosterone filled few days of car auctions, car parties, followed by a car show.
Can you say Gear Head?

Last night, after delivering the dead weight of both sleeping dogs to their beds, I looked up and was reminded of a mystical motorcycle message that was delivered to me on another night when he was far, far away.

It was a different kind of trip, raw and rugged.
He was pretty much incommunicado, racing in a desert over ten thousand miles away, but things had taken a turn and I sensed he was in danger.

So I asked for a sign, and the Universe, with her wicked sense of humor, delivered a doozy.

It was the second year he had decided to ride with his buddies at Rawhyde, down in South America to follow this crazy-ass off-road, Mad Max style race called the Dakar.

The year before they had the time of their lives, riding in that environment, among all the other idiots, I mean racers, and being worshipped by the locals, who line the route and gather in great numbers at every gas stop, handing them food, babies and cameras to capture the moment.
They are revered, like rock stars.

The riding is treacherously fabulous.
The dirt roads through the Atacama Desert are rocky and rutted and they’re racing next to Rally cars, other motorcycles, and behemoth Russian supply trucks that decided a few years back that they too wanted a piece of the action.
It’s consistently well over one hundred degrees, and they have to cross the Andes via Paseo De San Francisco, which at over 10,000 feet requires them to do what the locals do to offset the altitude – chew raw coca leaves.
While they ride a motorcycle. Yes, you read that right.

It’s an insane cluster fuck, an accident waiting to happen. People die.

But as he’s told me, it’s the most fun he’s ever had with his clothes on.

Here’s a taste in case you’re interested:
http://youtu.be/UYFt7hrMWOg

This trip Murphy’s Law prevailed.
Everything that could go wrong did – and then some. I heard about it in my one text per day. It was often terse and exhausted sounding, sent at the end of another grueling episode of Chasing Dakar.
Let’s just say, things were not flowing, and he was not a happy camper. I felt terrible for him.

The day came to cross over the Andes and because of circumstances too complicated to get into, he and an instructor were leading the group up and over.

The idea is to do it as quickly as you can, spending as little time as possible up at that elevation. Get your paperwork stamped at the checkpoint and GO!
The previous year he’d told me stories of helping other riders back down the mountain, who were literally found laying in the road next to their bikes, sick and seriously delusional from the altitude.
Apparently they’d never received the coca leaf memo.

Knowing all that only made things worse for me when I didn’t hear from him at all that day. Nothing.
The window of time in which I’d usually receive my text had come – and gone. Man, how I would have welcomed one of his cantankerous texts.
I started to worry.

With the phone tucked under my pillow, I laid there – waiting. Once I realized it was asinine to try to sleep, I decided to text him.
Hope you made it safely. I Love you.
I knew he wouldn’t answer, But it made me feel better…for about a minute.

It’s amazing where your mind can go when you’re sick with worry about someone you love.
Mine writes horror movies that could never be shown because of the graphic nature of the gore. They involve motorcycles and danger, blood, guts, and death.
That night I had him lost in the Andes, with no food or water, crazy from the altitude, eyeing a fellow victim like a pork chop. Or dead, his body carried away by the Andes version of a Yeti, never to be found.

I felt completely powerless, and I was making myself sick.

By 3 a.m. I decided to pray. I prayed the tight-fisted prayer of the terrified wife.

Please let him be okay. I even forgive the fact he hasn’t checked in. Please let him be alive. Please give me a sign.

I took a Xanax and finally drifted into a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. In one, the bedroom was filled with an eerie, greenish light. I could see it through my closed eyelids.
No, really.
My eyes snapped open and the room was filled with an eerie green light I’d never seen before. I blinked, then blinked again.

WTF? Slowly I got up to see where the light was coming from, half expecting a ghostly visitation from my dearly departed in the arms of a Yeti. What I found was almost as weird.

We have a 1953 Peugeot motorcycle up on the short wall that separates our bathroom from our bedroom. Yes, you can say it. All his friends do. I’m the coolest wife EVER!
Anyway…
You’re required by law, to have a fluorescent light in a bathroom. I’ve always hated the greenish glare those bulbs give off, so we installed it behind the motorcycle to assuage the inspector – and then had it promptly disconnected.
If you flip the switch, nothing happens.

But not on this night. I came out of my worry coma to find that the motorcycle above my head was impossibly illuminated. By a light that should NOT be working.

I stood there frozen, a shiver ran around the room, looking for a spine to run up, then it found mine.

It was my sign. It had to be. Light…Motorcycle…

Now just to be clear, he’s okay, right? This means he’s alive, not dead.

The exasperated Universe told me to cut the chit-chat and go back to bed. I flipped the switch which was already in the off position, not knowing what to expect, and the light went out.

Later that day, I received a text. It was short, crabby and filled with expletives.  It was the best text of my life
They had become stuck at the top for hours, and things had gone downhill from there (pun intended). But at last they were back at sea level; sleepless, starving, but safe and sound and back in the race.
It ended with Love you, and that’s all that I could see. I burst into large, crocodile tears of relief.

PS. That light has never worked since.

Keep Calm & Carry on,
Xox

ME!

I was in the middle of writing today’s blog post, when I received an email from my friend Steph in Florida.

The subject line of her email read: Divinity or Batshit?

When that flashed across the screen of my laptop, I stopped typing (my 17 words a minute) – color me – intrigued.
As I read on, I realized that it would be perfect for another, DA,DA, DA, DA, Daaaaaaa! (Fanfare)

What-The-Hell-Wednesday

Divine Visitation or Batshit Crazy Person? Can they be the same thing?

It seems she’s been visited at work by several “interesting beings” as she put it. If you’ve spent any time in retail this comes as no surprise. The general public is…interesting at best.

Just the other day, during a jewelry repair, a woman spent the entire time talking about meditation and her spiritual journey.

You know, like you do while they’re sizing your ring.

There have been several more out of the ordinary exchanges, but the weirdest one happened just this past Saturday.
According to Steph, a modestly dressed, quiet woman, looked around her store for awhile, until she found a necklace she liked. Steph engaged her in conversation, asking her if she was buying it for a special occasion. The woman was quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time, looking down, deep in thought, then she looked up and locked eyes with her.
“Have you ever heard of the Pearl of Great Price?” She asked.
Steph started to make a joke about having much more expensive pearls in stock, (one of the many reasons I love her, quick on her feet…and funny), when the woman caught her even more off guard, “From the Bible” she said, getting intense.
“Um…no.”
Here is the rest of Steph’s email:

“Now I’m confused, but I’m listening.
She says that she IS a prophet, an angel on earth who walks with the light of the Lord. She tells the parable of the pearl and in her interpretation the pearl was faith in God and that he “sold all his earthly possessions to buy it” meaning that the man in the parable gave up all material possessions to walk with God.

Needless to say, the jury is still debating over the possibility of divine contact. My best guess as of right now is a combination of true belief and a little bit of batshit.”

Crazy right?
Yes, I really do live a life where people send me these stories, asking for clarity. Because batshit is my specialty. Well, that and Estate Jewelry, chocolate bundt cake, and divine visitations. Needless to say, they know I’m not going to laugh, I’m obsessively curious, I take nothing at face value, and I’ve probably had something similar happen to me.
It has also been my experience that the Universe uses the disenfranchised of the world as messengers (less filters, no set schedules/obligations).

Case in point. Here is my response:

“All I can say is Wow! And Holy Cow!
I’d love to see what the letter to Moses said.

David and I never spoke about the feather, and I often wondered “why me?” he didn’t go to anyone else’s booth that day, handing out white feathers – just made a beeline to me. (I don’t wonder anymore- I get it)”

When she sent me the letter to Moses, it was kinda out there.
The woman had signed it so I looked her up. She is definitely fringe.
She causes trouble, minor stuff, nothing too major. No Grand theft or anything for Steph to be concerned about. She is around forty, has kind eyes and a nice looking mugshot from two years ago, and get this; they described her as a white MALE.

Aren’t we all going to feel foolish when Moses comes in to get his mail?

So there you have it. Another What-The-Hell-Wednesday. 
Divine or Batshit? Are they the same?
I choose to suspend judgment – I’ve learned my lesson.
Your call.

Do you have any stories for me? I’d love to hear them, you can’t shock me! You can email me at atikhome@me.com 
I’m starting to figure out that ya’ll like to email rather than comment.

Stay crazy!
Xox

Hi Loves,
When I opened my email this morning I got so excited I wanted to jump up and down, but I was afraid my boobs would knock me out; so…

Okay, you read the post from yesterday, the one I was reticent to write because it was a little on the “edge”? It was about coincidence and serendipity being the signs that your future self uses to give you to signs that you’re on the right track.

A friend of mine calls them *God winks. I like that.

So I received a HUGE *God wink this morning when I opened this Note From The Universe. Check it out:

“Accidents, coincidences, and serendipities, Janet, are the disguises I use to sneak magic and miracles into your life without arousing suspicion that the game is rigged, the dragons are fake, and you’re about to hit the biggest “home run” of your life.

Now, please don’t ruin this for anyone –
The Universe”

Thoughts become things… choose the good ones! ®
© www.tut.com ®

*But there’s MORE – check this out, my future self and I are constantly talking about the book I’m writing…what?!

“I’d say it’s time to get ready to write your book and plan the world tour, Janet, on what it’s like to I will soon need to hire another person to keep up. And please remember to give a smidge of credit to these NOTES when you’re on Oprah, Ellen, or… The Discovery Channel. Well…”

So, you guys are always telling me that you never experience any of the stuff I write about, the affirmations, miracles or *God winks. well, here ya go! They are everywhere – even in your morning email. 😉 Well played Universe.

PS. Jason Silva’s video is also on Serendipity this week. Coincidence? I’ll be posting it Sunday – Lets’s just file this under WTF?!

xox

This is a recent Facebook post by Dr. Lissa Rankin (whom I Love).

xoxJ

Take it away Lissa:

About a year ago, when I was posting something about a life challenge I was experiencing, Kelly Flanagan sent me an email quoting Susan Thomas Underwood.

It was exactly the guidance I needed, and I have a hunch that YOU need this today:

“I used to think that any door could be opened.
Some stood freely open, some could be opened easily; some were harder to penetrate. Sometimes you had to knock, sometimes bang, sometimes charge; but always, a door could be opened. Goals in my life were accomplished this way. No matter what I wanted; I accomplished it because I was willing to pound and pound against its door.
But I no longer live this philosophy, because I walk the path Creator prepares for me. Maybe I am not supposed to pass through a particular door. I have quit deciding which doors I wish to pass through. I have learned to let Creator open them for me.

You see, I am a rancher and I raise cattle. I know that my cattle and I do not speak the same language, and I cannot tell them where I want them to go. The way I show them is by opening gates. If I don’t want them to go into this or that pasture; I shut the gate. If I want them in a certain place, I open a gate. If there is not gate, I get between them and the place I do not want them to be with my horse or my truck, I provide obstacles. I guide them in this way.
Because the language of this world and the spirit world is different; communication is obscure.
I have learned that Creator guides me in the way that I guide my cattle.
Now, I look for open doors, for they are open for a reason. Doors are shut for a reason.
I am not saying the path is easy; there is much work walking the path Creator places before us. However, our precious energy does not have to be spent pounding against doors. Our energy can be saved for the path beyond the door. I’m saying to look for the open doors; for they mark your special path, your purpose, your dreams.”