talent

11.) Starring in a reality show.

12.) Having a blog. 😉

Happy weekend you guys,
xox

A few years back I was described by someone, a dancer in a production I was involved in, I can’t remember exactly who it was because professional dancers have a tendency to become a blur of spinning fabulousness when you’re around them—as “elegantly clumsy.’

I almost wept with joy. I felt it was one of the highest compliments I had ever been paid. Besides, I only heard the word elegant. After that entered my ears—they stopped listening.
I never heard the clumsy part.
Well, maybe I did.
I just have to say that considering the circumstances—clumsy was still a compliment.

Back as a young girl in the midst of tween-dom, I was stick figure thin; a gangly compilation of arms and legs, with giant blue eyes, braces, and a tiny tween brain. What I loved more than anything else was to put on shows. God, how I loved that! Dancing or roller-skating and lip-syncing to the latest movie soundtrack on our long, smooth concrete patio. Funny Girl with Barbra Streisand was my favorite.

I could sing. Sort of. At the time it was a volume over substance sort of thing.
The trouble was, I also fancied myself a graceful dancer. Not a ballerina exactly, I wasn’t quite that audacious. But thinking I was a dancer was still a reach considering the fact that when faced with choreography, even the most elementary dance steps, my left leg traveled right, and my right leg, which has always had a mind of its own, did its very own version of Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.

While all of that was happening below my waist; my arms, hands, fingers, neck and head appeared disjointed, like a marionette, unattached from each other in any kind of biological way. They twisted and turned, undulating rhythmically, part Hawaiian Hula, part Aboriginal Fire Dance with a touch of Tai Chi and a sprinkling of Bob Fosse.

They moved to some internal melody that was completely unrelated to the music that was playing out loud.

Eyes closed, I can remember feeling at one with every note of every song. I had no idea how I appeared to those who were lucky enough to witness my spectacular moves. All I knew was that I was a dancer…until I heard the laughter.

I remember opening my eyes and thinking—actually consciously deciding—I can play up the funny—or I can be self-conscious—I chose to do both.

For the rest of my tweens, I played up the funny, because if you act like you’re IN on the joke, then they’re not laughing AT you—they’re laughing WITH you.

Once I reached high school and starting participating in Musical Theatre, not getting the dance steps wasn’t funny anymore. I became almost paralyzed with self-consciousness. Almost. As luck would have it, God giveth whilst He taketh away. That singing thing had gotten a lot better which allowed them to overlook my awkward dance free-stylings.

While the cast would dance their amazing Broadway-esq ensemble numbers, I was moved to a stationary platform where I was asked, told, to stand still and sing, or to move ONLY my hands in unison with the others. After numerous failed attempts to do exactly that, we all decided, for the sake of the show, that standing perfectly still or sitting on the side of the stage was preferable.

When I decided to re-join musical theater in my fifties, I discovered menopause had helped me to forget how much I sucked at dancing. It was only my feet, those two things below my knees with painted toes, that jogged my memory and saved that tiny shred of self-respect that had persevered since High School.

They did that by completely refusing to cooperate.

I could barely point my toes, and pointed toes are to dancers what lips are to singers.

After only an hour of dance rehearsal, my arches screamed in agony. Every toe was distorted into an arthritic looking charlie-horse. I hobbled around trying to walk off the pain, but my feet knew better. They were saving me from dance humiliation.

Blame it on us, they said.
So I did.
What choice did I have?

The powers-that-be lowered their expectations of my ability to “move”. ‘The old broad has shitty feet”, they muttered as they choreographed around me.

I’m okay with that, I thought, even though the moment I left the theatre—my feet behaved normally. It felt better than the fear of them get wind of the fact that I didn’t possess one lick of dance talent.

I had one of the leads in A Chorus Line, a show about dancers and their passion for dancing, where I was begged not to dance. “God, I’m a dancer, a dancer dances!”, I sang into the spotlight with all of the sincerity I could muster, as I stood nailed to the ground.

It’s called acting.

Eventually, I was cast as Velma in Chicago where they made me dance with a chair. I mean, how hard could THAT be?
It was Bob Fosse style, which means you’re actually making love to a chair.
On stage.
In public.

I couldn’t do it straight. So I made it funny. Sexy-funny if there’s such a thing. I may have just invented it.

Anyhow, they left it in the show, and it was after a run thru of that particular number that one of the dancers came up to me and whispered, “I like your style”.

“Oh, really? What style is that?”, I replied between gasps of air, as I poured buckets of sweat onto the stage.

“You’re elegantly clumsy”, he said with conviction, like he had just told Baryshnikov “Nice Jete”.

I will live off the fumes of that compliment until the day I die.

Carry on,
xox

This is a throwback from last year’s amazing, life changing retreat with Linda and the gang. It was mystical and magical and I cannot believe it has been a year! We shared so much, and holy shit did we laugh! I hadn’t laughed like that in years! My take-away? I AM a writer, I made dear, dear friends for life and I just love ALL these guys so much!
So this Throwback Thursday think back to the friends you made a year ago and marinate in gratitude like I am right now!
xox

I just went away for five days and had the best time a fifty-six year old woman can have without getting arrested.

I’m serious.

I’ve been nervous to make the seemingly Grand Canyon size leap from blog writer to author, and I desperately needed a writing “tribe” …and a net.
Real writers to give me honest, constructive critique, yet not break my heart.
I found them there, in Carmel By The Sea.

As far as acquiring a tribe goes, I am thrilled to report that they are mine, and I am theirs.

The people, the writing, the instruction and feedback were of such high-caliber, I described it one afternoon as the Harvard of Writing Workshops.

SEX IN SPACE

This wildly talented crew kept me on my toes, in the game, and laughing every minute of every day.
I LOVE to laugh, but I never imagined I would be laughing until my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. These people were wicked smart; and smart people are FUNNY…and to my surprise and delight… they’re silly.
Like I said, I found my people, so I joined in.

I talked to my finger as if it were giving me sage advise, smeared gravy on my face as a parody of a fellow table mate who was enthusiastically enjoying her bread with gravy, mimicked a fellow writer’s teenage character from her brilliant novel, with a Valley Girl voiceover, and gleefully joined in, every time we would all put our hands up to cover our mouths, moving them rapidly for an echo chamber special effect, shouting,
SEX IN SPAAAAAACE.

I’m not exactly sure how SEX IN SPACE came to be. It became the “working title” for *New York Times Best Selling Author D’s science fiction thriller, even though he had a perfectly good title, it doesn’t take place in space, and the only sex he read to us, was implied.

He did write about scrotums a lot, I’ll grant you that. He is a doctor after all – and a man.

What’s for lunch? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.
Stumped on a particular section of your book? SEX IN SPAAAACE.
Just heard someone read something so incredible from their book that you want to slap their mama? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.

You get the picture……Guess you had to be there.

*by the end of day one, we all insisted that when our name was said, it had to be preceded by the title, New York Times Best Selling Author… I know.

WHALE ENERGY
“Examine your own use of creativity and apply your own creative intuition to formulas as this is what imbues them with power and magic. Creativity for the sake of creativity is not what the Whale teaches. It awakens great depth of creative inspiration, but you must add your own color and light to your outer life to make it wonderful. The sound of the Whale teaches us how to create with song.
You are being asked to embrace the unknown.”

In between group mastermind sessions and binge eating, fueled by exhaustion and the close proximity of delicious food; we would each, the six of us, ascend the stairs to Mount Olympus (Linda’s room) for a forty-five minute one-on-one intuitive, brainstorming session with the ‘Master’, as I now refer to her.

After each one, I would gather the contents of my brain, which after failing to contain all the mind expanding concepts discussed, had exploded in an embarrassing mess all over the room; descend the stairs…and take a nap.
It was THAT intense.

The house, like a silent sentinel sitting high above Highway One, overlooked one particularly beautiful stretch of the Carmel coast, with its giant picture windows.
Mount Olympus, being on the third floor, has a staggeringly beautiful, breathtakingly uninterrupted view of the ocean.
One afternoon, during my session, as we were working to steer my writing ship off the rocks, the sea came alive.

I’d just had an idea: “I think I’ll call it One Ride Away From…”
“OH MY GOD JANET!” Linda squealed, “A whale just breached as you said that!”
I turned my attention to the roiling waters below.
“LOOK! There’s another one over there!”

We were both on our feet now, running toward the window, screaming screams that only dogs—and whales, can hear.

Below us the ocean had become Whale Soup.
Everywhere we looked, tails were breaking the surface, slapping the water, producing torrents of white foam. Noses were poking through the froth. Water was shooting into the air from their blow holes, giant saltwater geysers reaching toward the sky in every direction.

We went insane with excitement. We had to share it with our tribe!

Knowing that on the floors below us, everyone had their noses buried in their computers, diligently typing away at their respective masterpieces, we bound down the stairs, screaming the whole way.

“Are you guys seeing this?! Oh My God, come up here, the whales are going crazy!”
Seven of us were now running excitedly, back up the two flights of stairs, to the Mount.

Like little kids we danced and squealed and jumped up and down, arms around each other, hugging and laughing, for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, sharing the magical whale show that the Universe was providing just outside our windows.

“Look over there! No! Over there, shit! I don’t know where to look!”
“Wow…”
“It’s a bathtub full of whales!” Someone said in a sing-song voice.

“I’ve NEVER seen this before, EVER; and I’ve been coming to this house six to nine times a year, for over five years” murmured Linda with reverent awe; never breaking her gaze, entranced in the spectacle below.

The logical explanation was the unprecedented anchovy bloom off the Central California Coast.

Our tribe, the mystical creatives upstairs, writing our heads off?
We knew in a moment, that those majestic creatures had arranged that show. Just. For. Us.

BOB

On our final full day of the retreat, Linda took us on an early hike through the rocky outcroppings and tidal pools of Point Lobos State Park. It felt amazing to breathe the fresh, ocean air and move my ass, which had been in the seated position for days on end.

We walked along the dirt paths that weave in and out of the cypress trees, with the spectacular Pacific Ocean to our left; pairing up with one of the tribe, or hanging back, alone, lost in thought. Was it technically a “hike”? Maybe not, but it was delicious just the same.

When we came to a particularly beautiful viewpoint, we all gathered for a photo-op, steadying ourselves on the rocks, the calm blue ocean as our backdrop, Linda as the photographer.

“Are you all from here or are you visiting? Do you want me to take a picture of ALL of you?” he asked with a slight hint of a Detroit accent.

Suddenly, there before us stood a big bear of a man, with his affable manner, and giant smile. Bob, the accountant from Michigan.

“Sure” said Linda, handing Bob her phone and quickly getting into the shot.
“Now take one with my phone, I want one of all of you” he said, and even though I’m happily married and so is he, I fell a little in love.
I think we all did, as Bob unobtrusively joined our hike and inadvertently, our tribe.

I believe in the magnetism of energy. In our days, sequestered together, the seven of us had congealed into a kind of containable Super Nova. I think Bob was drawn to us, to our collective glow.

Bob was in Carmel to golf. It is the golfer’s Mecca with Pebble Beach just a stone’s throw away.
“Wow, you all are writers, I could never do that, I wouldn’t know how” he said as he took turns walking and chatting with each one of us along the trail. “Well, I can’t balance my checkbook” I said, joking around, searching for common ground.

We arrived at the spot Linda was leading us to; the branches of a long dead cypress, splayed open like a throne, wood worn as smooth as marble. It faced north, looking out over a small, placid, kelp filled cove.
“The Indians would sit here and meditate” Linda said.
“Look how worn it is, people have been sitting in that spot for hundreds of years.”

We all took turns, this group of mystics and shamans, healers….and Bob.
Bless his heart, he took a turn too, sitting inside the open arms of that magical cypress tree.

As we were gathered, waiting for everyone to take their turn, deer appeared, so we all quieted down and Bob became introspective, talking to me in hushed tones about some experiences he was having, and his revelations about love. “Now THAT’S what you can write about, everyone can relate to matters of the heart.” I whispered.
He nodded his head looking out at the sea. I could FEEL him opening in the silence between the words and even though I didn’t think it possible, I fell in love with Bob, the accountant from Michigan, even a little bit more.

I gave him this blog address as we all hugged goodbye about ten minutes later in the parking lot. He had a tee time to make and I had an appointment with my iPad.

I hope you read this Bob. You, along with this transformational time in Carmel, left a mark on us all, and THIS – from the heart; this is how you write about amazing stuff when it happens to you.

Love to all,
especially NYTBSA Dave,Murphy,Orna,Matthew,Jeannie,Denise,Master Linda and Bob
**Bob took the picture above.

Linda Sivertsen is the author, co-author, or ghostwriter of nine books–two NYT bestsellers among them. When she’s not writing her own books (Lives Charmed, Generation Green, and the most recent Your Big Beautiful Book Plan with Danielle LaPorte), Linda teaches writing retreats in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She and her work have appeared in/on CNN, E!, Extra, the NY Post, New York Times, Family Circle, Teen Vogue, the Huffington Post, and Forbes.com. She lives in Los Angeles with her man, their horses, and a couple of perfect pups.

www.bookmama.com

Xox

okay, okay, here’s the audio!
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/sex-in-space-whale-soup-and

A law practice.
A medical practice.
A dental practice (ugh).
All of those make me shudder.
Still practicing? Really? Or continued mastery? Getting better at it all the time?
Often it’s not clear. I think I’ll come back when you get good.

Is it me or should they should change that?
Spiritual Practice.
Nobody suffers when you haven’t mastered tolerance; forgiveness; or downward dog. Or do they?

When you talk to anyone that’s mastered…anything, all they can tell you regarding their success is that “they put in the time.”
Nothing happens overnight.

I can be a lazy slug, and I love instant gratification—so I’m pretty much screwed.

According to the excerpt from this groovy article below, even talent won’t skip you to the front of the line; which if you think about it makes sense. If you’re good at something chances are you have no resistance to a shit-ton of practice. You’ll rack up your ten thousand hours in no time!

So here it comes: I’m newly committed to this anomaly; this control freak Kryptonite—this thing called…SURRENDER.

And just like in the old days, when I used to suck at meditation; I’m willing to put in the time. But unlike meditation where you commit to sit twenty to forty minutes a couple of times a day; you guys! it is literally a minute by minute commitment!

I know that it will most likely take me the rest of my life to feel as if I have the hang of this, but I’m willing to put in the practice.

That is until I see something shiny—then all bets are off!

Ten thousand hours is a rule of thumb that gets thrown around a lot. If you practiced every hour of every day it would take you over four hundred days to reach mastery according to this theory. Which is why “an hour here, an hour there” WOULD actually take a lifetime.

“How you do anything is how you do everything.”

Falling in love with Practice. I think THAT’S the key. Repetition over repulsion (I just made that up!).

Just some Friday-Food-For-Thought. It’s where I’m at right now.
Practicing acceptance.(Wait. What? Why can’t I have what I want, when I want it?) Practicing ease and flow. (Wait. I always thought that was a legend—yet there are some that say it exists) Practicing surrender. (Wait. Did that guy just cut in front of me?)

Carry on,
xox

10,000 Hours of Practice

In the book Outliers, author Malcolm Gladwell says that it takes roughly ten thousand hours of practice to achieve mastery in a field. How does Gladwell arrive at this conclusion? And, if the conclusion is true, how can we leverage this idea to achieve greatness in our professions?

Gladwell studied the lives of extremely successful people to find out how they achieved success. This article will review a few examples from Gladwell’s research, and conclude with some thoughts for moving forward.

Violins in Berlin

In the early 1990s, a team of psychologists in Berlin, Germany studied violin students. Specifically, they studied their practice habits in childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. All of the subjects were asked this question: “Over the course of your entire career, ever since you first picked up the violin, how many hours have you practiced?”

All of the violinists had begun playing at roughly five years of age with similar practice times. However, at age eight, practice times began to diverge. By age twenty, the elite performers averaged more than 10,000 hours of practice each, while the less able performers had only 4,000 hours of practice.

The elite had more than double the practice hours of the less capable performers.

Natural Talent: Not Important

One fascinating point of the study: No “naturally gifted” performers emerged. If natural talent had played a role, we would expect some of the “naturals” to float to the top of the elite level with fewer practice hours than everyone else. But the data showed otherwise. The psychologists found a direct statistical relationship between hours of practice and achievement. No shortcuts. No naturals.

Sneaking Out to Write Code

You already know how Microsoft was founded. Bill Gates and Paul Allen dropped out of college to form the company in 1975. It’s that simple: Drop out of college, start a company, and become a billionaire, right? Wrong.

Further study reveals that Gates and Allen had thousands of hours of programming practice prior to founding Microsoft. First, the two co-founders met at Lakeside, an elite private school in the Seattle area. The school raised three thousand dollars to purchase a computer terminal for the school’s computer club in 1968.

A computer terminal at a university was rare in 1968. Gates had access to a terminal in eighth grade. Gates and Allen quickly became addicted to programming.

The Gates family lived near the University of Washington. As a teenager, Gates fed his programming addiction by sneaking out of his parents’ home after bedtime to use the University’s computer. Gates and Allen acquired their 10,000 hours through this and other clever teenage schemes. When the time came to launch Microsoft in 1975, the two were ready.

Practice Makes Improvement

In 1960, while they were still an unknown high school rock band, the Beatles went to Hamburg, Germany to play in the local clubs.

The group was underpaid. The acoustics were terrible. The audiences were unappreciative. So what did the Beatles get out of the Hamburg experience? Hours of playing time. Non-stop hours of playing time that forced them to get better.

As the Beatles grew in skill, audiences demanded more performances – more playing time. By 1962 they were playing eight hours per night, seven nights per week. By 1964, the year they burst on the international scene, the Beatles had played over 1,200 concerts together. By way of comparison, most bands today don’t play 1,200 times in their entire career.

Falling in Love With Practice

The elite don’t just work harder than everybody else. At some point the elites fall in love with practice to the point where they want to do little else.

The elite software developer is the programmer who spends all day pounding code at work, and after leaving work she writes open source software on her own time.

The elite football player is the guy who spends all day on the practice field with his teammates, and after practice he goes home to watch game films.

The elite physician listens to medical podcasts in the car during a long commute.

The elites are in love with what they do, and at some point it no longer feels like work.

Here’s the rest of the article and their website.
http://www.wisdomgroup.com/blog/10000-hours-of-practice/

*That is my hubs famous Thanksgiving turkey. It is a gift to our mouths every year.

We’ve all experienced it.

That special meal made from ordinary ingredients, that makes you sit back and……well let’s face it, I’ve teared up over zucchini blossoms stuffed with ricotta cheese, and a lukewarm glass of Chianti at a cafe in Tuscany.

There’s no reasonable explanation why the line of foodies forms around the block and you can’t fanagle a reservation for thirty days.
You can’t quite put your finger on why the bread is orgasmic or the pasta is to die for.

Your Grandmother, aunt Sadie or that fancy chef obviously have a secret invisible ingredient that they add all the way through the process.
Starting at chopping the garlic and ending with the perfect application of salt and pepper
With a purse of the lips, they blow a kiss, adding LOVE to everything they make.

We’ve all seen it.

Giant, shiny black, Grand Piano on stage. It is competently played by the pianist for the orchestra or band.
Then the featured performer takes to the keys and blows the roof off the joint.
Same piano, maybe even the same song, but played with such power, such passion, such….LOVE.
It may be invisible, but the difference…..is viseral.

We’ve all heard it.

The singer that steps forward for their solo and what comes out of their mouth is an aria that sends God a love note.
Their very essence transferred onto the notes of a song. Angelic tones sent from heaven and sung with LOVE.
There is no other possible explanation.

That’s what makes what you do special.

When you leave or infuse your essence, your gooey goodness, your divine deliciousness, your LOVE, into your speaking, your writing, your cooking, anything and everything you do each day,
you enhance the experience for everyone around you.

Then it will be reflected back.

It may be applause, great material success, or a simple compliment.

Even a garden can send that love back to it’s caretaker. We call it a green thumb. It’s really just LOVE reflected back.

What is that special something that carries YOUR love out into the world? Go ahead! Brag to me, I’d LOVE to hear about it!

xox