writer

Hi Loves,

I was lucky enough to be in San Jose this weekend for the last stop of the Life You Want Tour and I gotta say; it was a privilege to breathe the same air as Oprah and all the great teachers that spoke, told stories and brought us to tears…every time.
I’m still processing. I’m sure I’ll write some take-aways soon.

Below is what Elizabeth Gilbert (my new BFF) wrote about her incredible journey. I’m sure if you’d have told this author a few years ago that she would be giving 45 minute inspirational talks to auditoriums of over 10,000 people in 8 different cites across the US she would have thought you were crazy!
Yet, that’s become her latest accomplishment – touring with Oprah.

Dream big, then surrender, because the Universe has even bigger dreams for you than you could ever imagine.
xoxJ

*Thank you to my beloved sister Susan for making this weekend happen and keeping me laughing the ENTIRE time…even through tears. I love you.

Take it away Liz-

DON’T WASTE THE TEACHINGS…

ONWARD!
LG

Another God wink
My sister took this picture of Liz and me in the lobby of our hotel on Friday afternoon while everyone was milling around waiting for the event to start. I, as usual, was foraging for food…and then there she was. We hugged – a lot (she’s a hugger) and talked, and I must say, she is as incredibly kind and down to earth a person as you will EVER meet.

xox

The hubby just returned a couple of weeks ago from an arduous off road motorcycle journey through the back country of British Columbia. It was brutal. He returned with a banged up bike, a couple of cracked ribs – and some great stories.

As he sat in a much needed bath, soaking in Epsom salt, he regaled me with tales of breathtaking scenery, ferry adventures, muddy, rutted roads, his epic falls (this is the guy who doesn’t fall) and all the laughs shared around the campfire at the end of each day with wine and great grub. I know most of this tribe, they are smart and funny and major badasses.
Unfortunately, no one was able to avoid dropping their big, heavy, overloaded bike.

But here’s the first rule of off road adventure riding: you just don’t talk about falling, about going down. And you NEVER name names.

Zip it.

A couple of motorcycle journalists went along, to chronicle the ride for their various publications.

When the first article came out, as I read it, I couldn’t text my husband fast enough:
How much does it cost to have someone killed? This guy has broken the first rule!

I was joking, of course (sort of) but there it was, in print, the jerk mentioned the rough terrain, and my husband BY NAME, saying he had fallen twice.

“Of course he did” hubster replied over dinner that night.
“We got into it a couple of times. He’s a young, insecure know-it-all, and after awhile, when I heard him throwing inaccurate stories around about people I know, places I’ve been and courses I’ve taken, well, I corrected his facts and he didn’t like it. Hence,(he says hence in conversations – I swear) he felt the need to try to embarrass me. No biggie, we all know what went down. The fact is EVERYONE fell – parts of it were reduced to a mud pit.”
He was laughing and cringing; holding his left side.

Another journalist’s article came out last week and it was well written and more importantly, humorous and accurate.

Then, a couple of days ago, the first guy published a second piece. 

It has now become his Hero’s Journey, with his bike the heaviest, (it wasn’t) his struggle the hardest, due to riding on street tires (they weren’t) and his proud claim that he was the only one who had the skills and wherewithal not to fall (WTF?)

Dude, it was already a really good story, you didn’t have to lie about it.

All the guys from the trip are emailing each other privately to vent, they’re too gentlemanly to publicly humiliate him by leaving comments on his website.

We all know why he did it. Insecurity, inferiority, blah, blah, blah…I don’t care.

Why do people lie? Especially when you have twelve other people out there that know the truth?
Now he’s just writing fiction. It’s the tale of “The Boy That Cried Hey, Have You Heard How Awesome I Am?”

Somebody really smart (I can’t remember who) said that most non-fiction is really fiction, because it come from the writer’s perspective. Hmmm…

I can’t stand lying.
When I write I do not lie. I may embellish (I didn’t really kick my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy, I stopped when it asked me politely the first time). But I write humor. Although, when I write about real people and real situations, I’m SO careful to depict them truthfully.

My stories aren’t written as vanity pieces, to make me sound good; on the contrary, most are cautionary tales of all my fuck-ups.

As I sat and stewed about this guy, I remembered some words of wisdom from my therapist, back in the day. She was a very beautiful and wise woman. Imagine Yoda and Oprah in the body of Candice Bergen.

1) “Janet, the biggest mistake you make in life, is thinking everyone feels and thinks JUST – LIKE – YOU. I can assure you, THEY DO NOT.”
That little nugget has saved me a lifetime of misery. My internal rules, dialogues, morals, and views on life are mine and mine alone. If I want others to know them, I have to communicate them.

Which brings me to:
2) “Janet, you’ve gotta cut people some slack, they’re not mind readers.”
This one needs no explanation.
Although, the guys do have a kind of Jedi mind meld about their rules of the road. They are un-discussed, yet understood – apparently with the exception of a certain Pinocchio.

3) I truly believe – with all my heart – that liar’s pants – should actually CATCH ON FIRE. 

There. I vented. I feel so much better.

Have you heard or caught someone in an epic lie? Something that made them sound awesome, while trashing everyone else? Share please.

Big, group hug,
Xox

(Rare photo of my Muse)

Prayer To The Muse
Give the act to me.
Purged of hope and ego,
Fix your attention on the soul.
Act and do for me.”

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012.

The Muse and I were sitting around the other day chatting, as we do. She with an air of gin, tonic and attitude; and me, always in awe of her beauty and general badassery.

I was questioning her about all aspects of the writing process, publishing in particular. She is VERY knowledgable.

She is the Muse, after all.

As the conversation zig and zagged over the various ways to get published, she shook her head. “There’s no excuse these days, for an author not to get their work out in the world to be read.”

“So all of us, the writers of the world, together with our Muses, we just write what we love, and send it, like our precious baby, out into the world?” I asked.
“What intention should we give it as we send it on its way? To touch people? To help people? To make money? To be a best seller?”

I couldn’t tell by the way she slowly turned to face me, with a kind of half smirk, whether her answer was going to be kind, or I was gonna get a smack down.

She started to laugh.
The Muse has a laugh like the throaty purr of a Maserati. Deep and sexy.
I’m guessing it’s the result of age, too many late nights, strong drinks and cigarettes; but if she asks – you didn’t hear that from me.

“I only write best sellers, my darling” she purred with her usual lack of humility.

“That’s all I’m capable of. I only paint masterpieces. I only write musical compositions that bring grown men to tears. It’s all I know how to do.”

Now I was shaking my head, but she continued.

“As the Muse, I am Divine Inspiration at the highest level, sending my masterpiece through you, the vessel.”

Now I was leaning in; listening intently, she could sense my interest, so she took a long drag on her cigarette to keep me in suspense.

“I’m incapable of writing a boring book or a piece of shit movie.”
She threw her head back, smoke billowing from her nostrils.
“That’s YOUR contribution.” She was laughing again.

“The clearer the vessel, the clearer the translation of my work. If you start to question it, or edit it, or doubt it, well, darling, you’re being an idiot.”
I laughed.

“If you can’t recognize a masterpiece when you see it or read it, or you somehow think you can do it better,” she shifted in her chair, “you’ll compromise the material.
It will become mediocre….or suck altogether.”

That was a big AhHa for me.

What she was saying was this: that no matter what your talent, no matter what ideas you have, we are ALL, every one of us, capable of greatness; it’s wholly dependent on the clarity of our connection to the Muse. No one is more talented, they are just better connected.
Steve Jobs, I’m going to venture to guess, kept his nose out of her business.

He just let it flow.

I get it. I get it!

“Our relationship is very complicated, my darling. Everyday I’m taking a chance that you will trust me enough to write my words the way I say them or paint my vision, using the colors I choose. I hear your prayer and I get ready to work. All you have to do is trust and stay clear of fear, doubt, and judgement.”

“Oh is THAT all.” I replied, sarcastically.

“My job as the Muse is to pick the correct vessel.”
She got to her feet for emphasis, turned and winked.
“It is how all the great works of humanity; of architecture, and the arts have been created. I believe it to be a good system.”

So do I.
I’d be an idiot to disagree with the Muse.

Xox

(Photo of Picasso and his Muse. “THE MUSE AND THE MASTER”)

We need to carry this chart around with us at all times, because
most of us have a hard time articulating our level of pain.

My husband goes to the head of the class.
Classic story.

It was back a few years ago, when he discovered (on Web MD in the middle of the night) that he had appendicitis.
I scoffed at his self diagnosis, of course, suggested he had gas; and told him to buck up and take a couple of Motrin.
Wife of the Year, I know.

Since he was due to leave on a motorcycle trip to the Sierra’s the next day, unbeknownst to me, he went to the doctor.
THAT should have told me something right there, because he’s someone who can have a chainsaw stuck in his neck and he will sidestep a visit to the doctor.
“Oh that? Nah, I don’t need a doctor, I’m just going to observe it.”

He called me at work from St John’s, where he had been sent immediately by his doctor for an MRI.

He got the results while I was on the phone. He was told to go directly to Emergency, where they would admit him for surgery; seems his appendix had a slow leak and I was going to have to give back my medical diploma.
Gas it was not.

I drove like a maniac, in a thunderstorm, to make it across town at rush hour, to see him before they took him in to operate.
When I got there (late) he was in Emergency, hooked up to antibiotics and pain meds, waiting for his turn in surgery; doing his Sudoku and entertaining the nurses.

“What’s your pain level, one to ten?” the friendly nurse asked while I was hugging him hello.

“Three or four” he said, without even a cringe.

“Really? What’s a ten to you?” The nurse was curious, since appendicitis is up there on the pain scale – for most mere mortals.

“Being skinned alive or boiled in oil” he responded, completely serious.

“Huh… okay Braveheart, have you felt that? How would you know? I’m asking you as a point of reference.”

But that’s a great question.
What is a five or an eight or even a ten?

I wondered, have I felt a ten? 

We all know those individuals to whom a paper cut is a ten. Are most of us even aware of our pain tolerance scale?

Minutes later his appendix burst.
If he’d been riding the back country of the Sierra’s—he’d have died.
He hadn’t been accurately portraying his pain, because he didn’t know how.
“It’s a ten, it’s a ten, maybe even eleven!” he yelled as she injected morphine straight into his IV, his whole body relaxing, his eyes rolling back into his head.

They rushed him into surgery and he is now happily appendix free.

It appears to me that this list could apply to emotional pain as well.
Will we tolerate three’s and four’s as we “observe” the situation?
What constitutes a ten? The equivalent of emotional stigmata or boiling oil?

Food for thought.

Copy this list and keep it with you – in case someone asks.
I especially love the faces.

Love,
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” said 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 writer is a professional observer.
~Susan Sontag

When you get groups of people together, even writers, you get the talkers, and the listeners.
The talkers tend to gab, I think, to dissipate some of their nervous energy, from being with a group of people they don’t know – instead of chain smoking or stuffing their faces with donuts.

They want to appear engaged and engaging, which can only be accomplished on a full moon, at low tide, on a Thursday in November.

In other words…NEVER.

I do that, except I ramble on while smoking AND eating sweets.
It is my default setting.

Lately, like maybe the last couple of years, I’ve tried to override my hard wiring, and let someone else talk for a change.

Life is funny that way, it’s a bit like musical chairs.
When you get up from your assigned seat, others will rush in to sit there and take your space. There seems to be no shortage of nervous talkers.

I like to be polite and introduce myself, but I don’t speak until spoken to for awhile, I let other people come to me. That is unless several of us are just standing around in uncomfortable silence, then I will start the conversation.

Someone like me cannot tolerate a looooooooong silence. It hurts our ears.

I once burped to cut the tension. Everyone laughed and then we started a conversation about food that makes us burp.
It was riveting.

Listening isn’t passive, the best listeners aren’t thinking ahead to their response, they’re using their observation skills, like a reporter, taking mental notes about their conversation partner.
Who is this person? Why are they here? How can I find out more about THEM? All the while listening, because what the other person is saying will lead to the next question, and the next, and the next, so…you can throw away your notes.

Are you the talker in a group or the listener? When someone is talking, are you thinking ahead to what you’re going to say? (That’s a hard one to break)

Much love,
Xox

I’ve run across a few articles lately, by some authors whom I admire; about their reservations with the validity of blogs and social media in general.

What they expressed, was that they were glad blogging and Facebook weren’t around when they started out, because it would have diluted their process. 
They felt they would have just spewed or posted some observational quips, and not taken the time or effort to dredge the murky waters of their deepest feelings.

I disagree. AND. Who the hell do I think I am?

These guys are the real deal. These people are WRITERS. They’ve known they were writers since grade school.
They sat writing while I sang and danced. I saw them.
They’ve kept little blue journals with locks you can pick with a bobby pin (don’t ask me how I know that). These people edited the school newspaper, majored in journalism and communication (again, while I sang and danced) and have published magazine articles and books. 

Writing is what they do. A writer is who they are.

I JUST started calling myself a writer like five minutes ago, it’s easily my third incarnation in this incredible life I’m living.

Here’s where I part company with these guys.
Being new to this creative outlet, I have to say, I am SO freaking grateful for the internet.
I can’t help it, I guess because I don’t know any differently.
When I started writing two years ago, I had no idea where it would lead me.
All I knew was: I HAD to write.
I get headaches when I don’t. I get sullen and sad.
Let’s face it, I get itchy and bitchy.

I had heard about blogs, but I’d never read one.
Ever.

All I knew was, I had suddenly joined the ranks of these brainy creatives that had paid attention in creative writing class (while I sang and danced) and hence are able capture their inner most thoughts and feelings, and put them down on paper (or computer).

Being the extrovert and exhibitionist that I am, I had the audacity to start a blog (I was actually guided) and post something EVERY DAY. I didn’t know that was unusual, but hey, when have I EVER done things the usual way?

Like the authors I mentioned, I could have been silently, and anonymously honing my craft, letting all my memories and experiences marinate until they were ripe and ready for mass consumption.

Nah.

All of these months of writing coulda/ shoulda been tucked safely away, in a notebook, on a napkin, or on my iPad, with a lock and a password that made sure they were for my eyes only.
It’s a funny thing, the posts that make me squirm, the ones in which I rat myself out or discuss things that still cause me to cringe with shame, those are the ones that get the most traction. I think it’s because you guys can relate, just like I know I can, to someone telling the truth. It may be raw and not perfectly punctuated; but I think you can feel it anyhow.

If I self edited, waited, even hesitated for half a second….I’d never hit POST.

There’s my point. When I realized I wasn’t alone in my pain, embarrassment, failure and fear, I wanted to let other people know my truth, so I let my fingers do the talking.

I can appreciate the other writer’s process, I really can, but I would like them to appreciate mine.
It would feel out of body odd and uncomfortable for them to hit the POST button everyday, because when you do that, everything may not be just right, and that’s….okay.

The internet was made for someone like me. I’m not a solitary person At. All. I need feedback.

I know some days my thoughts ramble, or there’s a period where a comma belongs, or auto correct fucking goes insane, but that’s the spontaneity I think you get from blogging.
It’s real.
AND….

My blog is free. You didn’t have to purchase it, and if you don’t like it, or agree with what I write, you can hit delete. Simple as that.

But you don’t. Thank God. You continue to follow and comment and email me, and I appreciate that so much, you’ll never know.

Here’s what I love MOST about social media: it reminds you you’re not alone.
Boy, does it ever!

Here are some other things I love:

I love that it reinforces the fact that mommie’s brains aren’t liquefying while they stay at home. There are some wickedly, crazy funny ladies blogging about the adventures of raising their kids.

I love that musical theatre lovers have their blogs. And science guys. And photographers, fashionistas and entrepreneurs.

I love that in the last ten days there have been so many amazing tributes to Robin Williams and blog discussions about depression that have enlightened me, and brought me to tears.

I love the blogs and articles that are being written on race relations. It’s a hot topic for sure, but it’s being discussed – in real time.

Here’s the thing about the internet, I don’t have to wait for the books that will be written about these subjects, with their pristine editing, perfect grammar and punctuation, I’m reading some really thoughtful and comprehensive writing – today.

All that being said, here’s the elephant in the room.
I’m about to go do a writing workshop with some heavy duty, REAL writers ( I KNOW! I can’t believe it either) and work on a book derived from things I’ve written in this blog.
A book? Whaaaaaaaatttttt?
Shut up!
I know! 

I’m going to take you with me on this journey, to keep me on the straight and narrow.
So My tribe, here’s a question before I go.
What are some things I’ve written about that you’d like to see in a book? What do you want to hear more about? I’m curious.

Thanks.

( I can see it in the comments now, “write more about that devilishly handsome, fascinating Husband character, he’s so very interesting.) 

Okay honey, will do 😉

Love you guys, 
Xox

http://www.theobserversvoice.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/image20.jpg”>

http://youtu.be/_waBFUg_oT8

Elizabeth Gilbert.

I love her. I devour anything she writes.

Her advise to help us navigate failure and success? You do the same thing for both. WHAT!?
Watch. It’s only 7 mins.
It applies to anyone….about any endeavor.
But now, as a writer, this has a whole new meaning for me.

Xox

“When you learn, teach. When you get, give”
~Maya Angelou

I couldn’t let the day pass without paying homage to the Mother Earth, Goddess, poet, teacher, Maya Angelou.

They are paying tribute, as well they should, on all the media outlets today.
In the car on NPR this morning, I heard a hysterical story, told in her own deep, melodic voice, about waiting in an airport bar for her mother to arrive, and it made me tear up.
You could hear in her voice that the story tickled her.
Ah……that voice. Unmistakable. A real gift to her poetry, and the world.

I remember reading I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings when I was about fifteen or sixteen. It resonated not because I was a young black girl growing up in the Deep South, because that could not have been further from the truth, but because it spoke of freedom and self expression, two things I was desperately seeking in those days.

I just went to look at my dog eared, water stained copy and alas, I must have leant it to a friend.
Damn me and my book lending!

I collect quotes, as demonstrated by the Quotes page on this
blog.
Every wise thing ever said, I tend to attribute to Maya Angelou.

I had a friend (who has since passed) who knew the source of
pretty much every quote. She would joke that if she did get stumped, she’d attribute them to either Mark Twain or Maya Angelou and people wouldn’t blink.

The quote at the top about teaching, is one that comes to mind often, and it gave me permission to start the women’s group. When you learn, teach.
Thank you Maya Angelou.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
This one gave me permission to write this blog, so you have Maya Angelou to thank….or blame.

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
One of my spiritual teachers would remind me, that when we die, we watch a movie style life review. There is no sound, just feeling. We have to re-live how we made others feel in every interaction of our life.
That’s some sobering shit, huh?

“You are enough.”
This one’s like a haiku. Enough said.

“When someone tells you or shows you who they are; believe them the first time.”
OMG. This was my mantra in the dating world. I should have had that tattooed to my forehead. (Thank God I re-thought that.)
I was a serial benifitofthedoubt giver. But I eventually learned. When a cute guy, at a party, drink in hand, would ask me out and then quip “I’m not really the monogamous type, or I’m a bad boy, or you’re really not my type”, I learned, from this quote, to run for the hills.

“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.”
This quote is why I’m married. At forty two, love was so freakin tired from the decathlon that my hope was putting it through, it walked through a wall, and delivered to me….my husband. Whew!

Here are some of my other favorite pearls of wisdom from that greatest of life’s teachers, Maya Angelou:

“If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.”

“If you have only one smile in you, give it to the people you love.”

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”

“One isn’t necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential.
Courage is the most important of all the virtues, because without courage you can’t practice any other virtue consistently. You can practice any virtue erratically, but nothing consistently without courage.”

”I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back.”

I’ll end with this one. So wise, so profound and so true.

“My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry; to get my work done and try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return.”

God’s speed Maya (may I call you Maya?)

Xox

Show of hands, How many of you are doing something else while you’re trying to read this?

The operative word being: TRYING.

Are you talking on the phone? Eating? Tying Timmy’s shoe? Texting? I only ask, because I’m one of you. We are the chronically overextended. The magicians of mult-tasking. We haven’t met a list, task or scheduling challenge whose ass we couldn’t kick.

If you want something done ask a busy person to do it.
~Lucille Ball~

Oh, Lucy, I do love you, and I’ve quoted this MANY times. It may be how I’ve lived most of my life, but it’s an old, dying paradigm.

It is true, that busy people like you and me, we can take on what others have shrugged off, no problemo.

We’ll write that email, while texting, syncing our calendars, peeing and getting dressed, but something will have to give. It may not be accuracy, although studies have shown that it does tend to be a casualty. Case in point: my shirt will be buttoned all wrong, and I’ll send a flirty text, in error, to the last person I texted…..my brother. Inaccurate And inappropriate.

What WILL be lost is: Depth of Connection.

Do you even care? I think you do. I sure as hell do.

We are partially tuned into everything while never being completely tuned into anything.

Not only are we looking down at our devices instead of making eye contact during a conversation, our communication can be so freaking dry.

We aren’t moved by a friend’s loss because it never travels from our ears to our hearts.

We write a quick Happy Birthday on a friend’s Facebook wall, often forgetting to send the card or call. Shame on us.

The quick email or text answer we shoot off after only half reading the question, can come across as impersonal and detached, because we didn’t take the time to write mindfully and thoughtfully. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve misconstrued a text ( meaning got my feelings hurt, or got pissed) for lack of a tone of voice. 

Oh hey, I have an idea. Maybe a phone call would have been better, but…shit. We don’t have the time, and we would have to actually engage emotionally.

It is so much easier to send a sad face emoticon 🙁

My husband has this nifty trick. When the doorbell rings at dinner time, which is the bewitching hour for solicitors, he answers the door with his phone to his ear, pretending to be deep in conversation. That sends the universal, non-verbal signal: “Can’t you see I’m busy? Fuck off!”
It works every time. He’s back at the table in two seconds flat.

I know people that enter EVERY room like that. Cellphone up to the ear, chatting away, while shaking hands and air kissing their way through the party, meeting or lunch date. Meanwhile, all of us on the receiving end are wading in the shallows of their connection. To me it always feels like that same F-You message my husband so brilliantly employs.

I, for one pledge to try harder, to be smarter about making that deeper connection. Strive for some substance over fluff. Who’s with me?

And every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling “This is important! And This is important! And This is important!
And each day it’s up to you to yank your hand back, put it on your heart and say, “NO. This is what’s important.”
~Iain Thomas~ Excerpt from Thrive by Arianna Huffington

Do you catch yourself walking and texting or entering a shop while you’re on the phone?
Have you been caught on the receiving end of the shallow connection?
I’d love some feedback on this. Tell me in the comments below!

Xox