advice

Training starts this week, triggering epic levels of FFT, and I gotta tell ya, it has surprised me. 

I may be the queen of improvising, of high-wire walking, of seat-of-the-pants flight, but y’all—I don’t love being new at things. I don’t love being clunky and awkward and shitty at new skills. And don’t tell me to appreciate the vulnerability, because I don’t.

Case in point, the navigation video. Let’s just talk about the damn pre-training navigation video, shall we?  With all of its compass calculations and longitude and latituding. It was so mathy (my kryptonite) that I literally got nauseous—stopped it halfway through—and took a nap. 

4 times, people. I watched it (and walked out on it) FOUR incomprehensible, I just don’t get it and they will need a search party to find our sad, dead bodies, me, with my map in my cold, dead, hand because I may suck but I’m tenacious—times!

Fucking

First

Time

This training has me all effed up and I’ve ridden the world for weeks at a time on a motorcycle!

https://www.rebellerally.com

Like Brene says: Embrace the suck. And in case you’re wondering, here are her three tips for doing that:

Name it — The abject terror of sucking. Like becoming the face of gold-medal-level-suck. 

Normalize it — This is temporary, it’s how new feels and I don’t suck at everything, I make reservations really well.

Get Realistic Expectations — Lower the bar, it’s all new. All of it. The map navigation, racing a Jeep through the desert. Sleeping in a tent on top of our rig (gulp).

“Embracing our cringyness, is the secret sauce to leading a brave life.” — Also Brene and now I want to hurt her. So, here I go, into the abyss of suck. Wish me luck as I recite my new mantra.

I WILL suck. 

At ALL of it!

Until I don’t. 

Please pray for my partner.

Stay tuned. 

XOX Carry on, J

@rebellerally #wecandohardthings

The before picture — Lindsey, all smiles on top of our rig.

“I’m not falling apart, but I’m perpetually not okay.” —Brene Brown

Hello Observers,

Soooooo great to be back, it’s been too long.

If you’ve been inhabiting the planet for the past two years, you’ve probably uttered that phrase. Me? I’ve mumbled it into my pillow, the hood of my sweatshirt, and the empty vat of raw cookie dough at least a dozen times.

This month.

Besides all the global fuckery, (and oh, for the love God, please, please make it stop) many of us have been grappling with intense, personal issues. And while ‘getting a grip’ has previously been our super-power, I can’t help but notice friends (mostly women) experiencing an emotional unraveling.

And who can blame us?

IT’S 2022 = The Year That Broke The Camel’s Back.

I think I speak for all of us when I scream into the void:

I CANNOT HANDLE ANOTHER VARIANT. THIS WHOLE TWO-YEAR, HYPER-VIGILANT-PANDEMIC STORYLINE HAS FRAYED MY VERY LAST NERVE!

I CANNOT HANDLE ANOTHER EMERGENCY SURGERY HEALTH SCARE!  SO, HUSBANDS, KIDS, PARENTS, DOGS, CATS & FRIENDS—CHEW YOUR FOOD THOROUGHLY, WATCH YOUR STEP, STAY OFF YOUR MOTORCYCLE—AND CONSIDER YOURSELVES FOREWARNED. SERIOUSLY.

I CANNOT WATCH THE CARNAGE IN UKRAINE. IT GUTS ME AND RENDERS ME USELESS. I WILL CONTINUE TO PRAY, JOIN GLOBAL MEDITATIONS, AND DONATE MY ASS OFF—BUT I MUST UNPLUG. I MUST.

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” ~ Anne Lamott

If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you know that when I unravel emotionally, it’s usually because being a Pollyanna is freaking exhausting and like you, my adrenals are shot from holding up the sky. You also know the priority I place on finding balance—and that includes hormones because stress burns them away like a goddamn fiery Super Nova.
Everyone I know is depleted.
Misfiring.
Out of whack.
So, I partnered with a friend and got to work.

The other day I got busted—

“Are you sending this to the entire world?” a friend asked.
“Uh, no.”
“Why not? The women of the world are FRIED! They’re asking for this!”
“Mmmmmkay, but how do I do that?”
“Your blog, duh!”

OMG.
Women, in over 100 countries.
Of course, The blog!

*If you’re a woman who’s feeling FRIED —or, you know and love someone who is—check this out.



WE’RE HAVING A HOT FLASH -
AND THIS IS THE KIND YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS!

We’re positively on fire about this new way to experience Croneology! It will have the same Croneology snap and crackle, with one interesting difference—these recorded calls will be stand-alone Q & A’s—with a guest expert—open to women of all ages.
Experience Our First Flash!
Thursday, March 24 at 5pm PT / 7pm CT, with Dr. Christine Farrell—A renowned hormone and wellness expert, and Croneology round table favorite, Christine has a talent for making the complicated not only easy to understand but relatable. She blew our freaking minds with her knowledge of all the latest data, recent hormone advances, and the sage wisdom she delivered with empathy and compassion. Christine is a fierce advocate for women’s health and the education of women (and their doctors) about everything hormone-related. You can find her at www.bioidenticalwellness.com

Who can join? 
Women. Of any age.

How much? 
$55 per flash.

Do I have to ask a question?
Nope. While we’d love to see your face, camera-on is not required, and mics will be muted. You’re welcome to ask a question and share with the group or simply be there to listen and take notes. You’ll also have the option to email your questions to us in advance or type them in the chat during the call.

How do I sign up for a Hot Flash?
Respond to this email with “hell yes!” and we’ll send you the payment options.

Can I share this with my friends?
YES! Please! Spread the word!

With love from your Croneology guides,
Janet Bertolus + Geraldine De Braune

P.S. head over to www.croneology.net to learn more about us and give us a follow https://www.instagram.com@croneology444 on Instagram.

This podcast is for anyone of any age who is having trouble finding joy right now:

Brené with Karen Walrond on Accessing Joy and Finding Connection in the Midst of Struggle

Okay, I know this was a lot and I apologize for being so long-winded, but it’s been a while and I had so much to say!

I love you.

Carry on,
xoxJanet

“These are the times that try men’s souls.” ~ Thomas Paine

The sun is hot, water is wet, and my husband brought home Covid. For the past two years, I knew it was inevitable, and yet, at the moment he announced his test was positive—I was shocked, appalled, and I wanted to slap him into next year!

“Don’t feel bad,” our friend, who also happens to be a doctor of infectious diseases told me that night, “Everyone who gets Omicron feels like the last kid left on the dodge ball court.” He was employing his best bedside manner.

“That’s exactly how I feel! “

“Listen, it’s insidious and it’s everywhere,” he said, “lingering like cigarette smoke in an empty room. (insert uncomfortable pause here) “And eventually, we’re all gonna get it.”

DUH DUN DAHHHHHHH (cue ominous music).

“I know, you’re right, but what do I do now?”

“Watch his symptoms (he’s asymptomatic) and mind yourself.”

“Mind myself?” I tried my best not to screech in his ear.

“Don’t get scared. Stay positive, don’t Covid-shame him (too late), isolate, wear your mask at Trader Joe’s, don’t let him lick people’s faces while he’s testing positive—and test yourself in five days, even if you’re without symptoms.”

In other words, pivot, stay fluid, adapt, adapt, adapt

Now, I can feel many of you rolling your eyes, but we live in Los Angeles, in the state of California, a state where restrictions have been stricter than most, and as much as “I am so over this”, I witnessed, first-hand, the effects of hospital overwhelm when I wasn’t permitted to visit this same husband in the hospital three weeks ago.
After emergency surgery.
Where he was given a bed—but no room.
Seriously.

A huge medical facility, in the largest city in the state, and THEY HAD RUN OUT OF ROOMS.

Of course, I’d heard about this, but I guess I figured it was happening somewhere else—to someone else. Sheesh.

So now, like millions of you, I have Covid in the house. The monster is out from under the bed and his cigarette smoke is lingering all over my happy place.

You’ll also be surprised, shocked, delighted to know that five days in, I’m staying positive and testing negative.

PS: I also love sleeping in my (according to my BFF) “Dark chocolate Hershey’s kiss” of a guest room. Maybe too much.

PPS: Still minding myself.

Carry on,
xox Janet

I prefer to live in a “drama-free” zone. So does my husband. Even our dog hides when a voice is raised at our house.

Now, that doesn’t mean our life is 24/7 Kumbaya or completely void of passion. It’s just that, after the past two years, I can hardly imagine what could be more dramatic than a persistent pandemic actively seeking to infect us all the goddamn time. One that gleefully throws a curve-ball into, well, every plan, every chance it gets. Self-certified experts at rolling with punches, the two of us are officially all out of shits to give, making it nearly impossible to be, “emotionally surprised by events or circumstance— which is how Miriam Webster defines drama.

Enter 2022.

Last Monday night, as we engaged in some not at all sexy tandem teeth-brushing, my husband informed me that he might have to visit Urgent Care at 3am.

“Why don’t we go now and save ourselves some drama?” I asked, with a mouth full of paste.
“Because right now I’m fine. I want to observe.”

Let me just say, we observed the shit out of his condition——if observing is snoring with your eyes closed for seven hours.

The next morning, everything appeared under control. I even got my new dryer delivered six weeks late, a day early.
All was right with the world.

“Why don’t you pay urgent care a preemptive visit today?” I suggested, while loading perfectly clean clothes into the washer so I could give my new dryer a test spin.

“Good idea!” he replied.
So he did.
That’s when things went sideways.

“Urgent Care can’t fix the problem so they’re sending me to my doctor,” he said, from his car speaker-phone.
“Mmmmmkay,” I shouted over the loud kerplunk of jeans in the dryer, “lemme know how it goes.”

“I’m getting worried.” I texted two hours later. A short time after that, he called me. “I need emergency surgery,” he said. He sounded like shit.
“I’m coming!”
“You can’t. No outside visitors allowed. Covid.”
“Fuck.”
“I know.”

The surgery went well. I know that because the doctor told me so. My husband, on the other hand, texted me from recovery which was…well, if you ask me, I think they give them their phones too soon, you know, because they can’t have visitors and let’s just say—— I don’t recommend it.

Alone in bed that night, I petitioned god for a referendum on any further drama. We’d had an agreement and she’d broken it. “That’s it!” I declared. “You get one thing. And you blew it all in January so, that’s it for 2022. No more drama.”

Did you know you get to do that?

I learned this trick from my shaman after the California earthquake of 1994.

Terrified of aftershocks, I’d feel every damn one while he felt NONE OF THEM.
NADA.
Zip.
Zero.
It was beyond infuriating!
“I didn’t feel a thing,” he remarked after one particularly strong tremor that sent me diving under the dining room table. Apparently, the kitchen, a mere ten feet away, was not prone to aftershocks. “Remove yourself from the drama,” he advised, “you lived the initial trauma, you don’t have to keep re-living it. Ask to sleep through them.”

So I asked. And from that day forward, I was impervious to aftershocks. I slept, or drove, or simply ladeedah’d my way through them. Seriously.

At 9:30 Friday night, there was a fire across the street. Another one! Except this one was inside the house and it was enormous. Five fire trucks. The home fully engulfed, with flames shooting ten feet in the air. Thick, black smoke. I saw the pictures and I’d have to say it was the highest drama possible without anyone being hurt.

And we had no idea. None.

Our neighbors knocked for us, but when we didn’t answer, they assumed we were out of town.

Stranger yet, you know who hears and smells all of that? All the sirens, smoke, raised voices, and door knocking——Our dog.
Did she hear a thing that night? Nope.

The three of us were blissfully ignorant inside a drama-free bubble in the back of our house. Indulging in comfort food, watching The Prisoner of Azkaban. Spells are magic. Agreements are nonbreakable. God is a mensch.

Abracadabra, y’all,
xox J

This arrived as a blob.

A moss-covered blob tucked into a gift box with a card attached exclaiming: 

Merry Christmas! 
Love, Mom

Accompanying the mysterious, moss-covered blob were instructions:

Do Nothing. 
No water. 
No care. 
Just sunlight.
And in several weeks you will have two gorgeous, blooming Amaryllis flowers.

Mmmmmkay…I chortled, as I am known to do when sent weird shit with questionable instructions from the land of Abracadabria. 

I called my mother to interrogate, thank her for her thoughtful gift. 
“What did you send me?” I asked in the nicest way possible.
“Oh, do you like it?”
“I, I, I don’t know yet.”
“Just give it some time.”
“Okay. Question…”
“Yes?”
“Is it supposed to look dead?”
She laughed, “That’s crazy, isn’t it? But in a few weeks, it will be beautiful!”
“Yes, crazy.”
“Gotta go, The View is starting and Whoopi is ranting about—”

I let her go. Because after decades of experience—my life works out so much better when I do.

During the winter months, the sunniest spot in my house is the dining room table, so instead of the usual poinsettia extravaganza, I sat the blob on a plate in between two candles and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“That’s…interesting.” One of my friends commented, pointing at the blob.
“It’s a Christmas blob… from my mother.”
“Pretty.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Festive.”
“Right? I mean, it’s got green moss.”

Along the way, it sprouted horns. Or, buds. I wasn’t sure having never raised a blob before.

Then, sometime around the end of December, like a goddamn Christmas miracle, the blob bloomed. Except it happened when we were in Sedona so I wasn’t there for it. 

But you can imagine my surprise when I returned from my holiday to a blob that had morphed into a real-life Amaryllis!

I mean, it’s gorgeous! And I did NOTHING! Less than nothing. I mocked it every chance I got and it still bloomed!

As usual, there’s a lesson or five in here for me.

1. Beautiful things can have very humble beginnings.
2. Even when it looks like nothing is happening—SO MUCH is happening behind scenes.
3. A watched flower never blooms. In other words, look away and let the magic happen.
4. Do NOTHING more often. Trust the process.
5. My mother is the Yoda of badass gift givers and if I ever forget that, I’ll need y’all to remind me.
6. Mother Nature’s naturey game is strong!

Carry on,
Xox

It was 8 pm. We had just settled in after a long day.

I was on the couch, wrapped up in a fur blanket, living off the fumes of a recently completed, particularly fabulous zoom call.  He’d just completed a day running around, “putting out fires”, (the irony of this will be evident shortly. Wait for it) which is the way he’s always described his life as a contractor.

“I’m so ready to have this beer and chill,” he said, his flannel jammie-pants signaling his surrender.

That’s when the power went out, throwing our den into a darkness so complete I never saw him leave the room.
For a brief moment, it went back on.
Then blackness.
Three times the power tried to return, each attempt producing a mournful groan. “What is that?” I asked no one in particular. It was a sound so weird I can hardly describe it, residing somewhere between a whale fart and elephants singing the blues, it triggered an anal kegel.
“I have no idea but it doesn’t sound good.” He’d found a working flashlight the size of a light-saber and was headed outside.

The Santa Ana winds had picked up at sunset, but they were nowhere near as ferocious as it takes to knock out the power. But apparently, ferocity isn’t necessary when you have bamboo branches to do the job for you.

“Siri, turn on the flashlight!” I ordered, following a loud popping sound as I traversed the pitch-black obstacle course previously known as our living room. He’d left the door to the driveway wide open, the wind whipping a frenzy of leaves into the garage.
The minute I looked outside I could see why.
I froze in my tracks. Ruby, who’d been hot on my heels, recoiled, the bejesus scared out of her by the roman candle of fire roaring and popping like gunfire directly across the street.

Holy shit, I whispered under my breath.

All the neighbors who hadn’t left for the holiday poured into the street. “Has anyone seen Raphael?” I yelled, the wind carrying my query up and down the block. Half a dozen people pointed toward the fire.
“He’s back there with Marty, they’re putting out the fire!”
Of course he is.
Across the street was total chaos. People were either yelling and running like headless chickens, or standing like zombies their faces frozen in fear as the wind whipped hot embers over the rooftops. Two large cables had fallen from a transformer igniting a wall of bamboo behind a gray two-story with a white picket fence, and then, in an act of contrition, the bamboo promptly lit itself on fire.

Before I could get my bearings, a hysterical woman handed me a terrified, shivering toddler who’d had the misfortune of being in the bathtub of the bamboo house when the power went out.
“Take him!” she screamed at me. “I have to go back for the baby!”

Wait. There’s a baby inside?

NOOOOO! the gathering crowd screamed in unison, reading my mind. I couldn’t help but notice, as I ran him across the street into the waiting arms of his grandmother, that the naked little boy was wrapped in one of Ruby’s dog blankets.

That explained why the door to Raphael’s van was open.

Within minutes, five fire trucks showed up. Checking for smoking rafters and smoldering bushes, it was their job to make sure all the fire fighting the brave men of our neighborhood had kept the fire from spreading. Soon, the crowds broke up and we all returned, safe and sound, to our eerily dark and silent homes. Y’all, there is no silence like the absence of technology. No humming in the background. No beeping, whirring, or clicking. Just quiet. And total, dark-side of the moon, blackness.

Full. Stop.

Things I’m grateful for this Thanksgiving:

Our wonderful neighbors, who really showed up for each other and restored my faith in humanity.

Raphael, the de facto mayor of Bakman Avenue, and a man who runs towards fire while wrapping wet babies in freshly washed dog blankets. And did I mention he makes a mean turkey and his gravy is sublime?

The fire department.

ELECTRICITY! Omg! We take it SO for granted—until it goes away.

The DWP, who restored the power at 3 am with the help of mayor Raphael who just happened to be awake, see their truck, and show them the way into the neighbor’s backyard. wtf?

Flashlights with working batteries.

Solar candles.

And an Honorable Mention shout-out goes to the Emotional Support Pie we stress-ate by candlelight.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the US and Thursday everywhere else.

Carry on,
xoxJ

A bit of Wednesday Wisdom from me—via the School of Hard Knocks.

When Having Something Is Better Than Nothing

A number on a scoreboard.
Dust at the bottom of a bag of potato chips.
Flip flops on hot sand.
A single match.
A piece of shit car.

Tits.

A thimble-full of milk for a bowl of cereal.
Crooked teeth.
Cankles.
A light sweater in a blizzard.
An ancient, stretched-out bikini in a hot tub full of strangers.

Common sense.

A hand towel after a shower.
Somebody’s toothbrush.
Map folding skills.
A bottle of Vodka in the freezer.

Talent.

But never, ever, under any circumstances do these apply:

Any man/woman/dog who you no longer care for—in your bed.
A crap-ass, dead-end, bridge-job.
A rat-infested, rent-controlled apartment.
An abusive partner.
A cubic zirconia.
Mean friends.
Moldy cheese.
A Toupee.

Are we clear?

Carry on,
xox

“WOMEN WILL NOT THRIVE IF THE COST OF OUR BELONGING IS OUR SILENCE” ~ Jen Hatmaker

“MY dream would be if it felt like we’re all sittin’ around the kitchen table.”

If you ever come to my house and sit around my table, just know that there will be more food laid out than anybody has any business eating, there will be adult beverages for those who imbibe, and other means of hydration for those who do not, and there will be hours and hours of conversation punctuated frequently by cursing, snort laughs, various forms of hijinks—and maybe even some tears. 

All my favorite songs play in the background.

Taboo subjects are be broached.

Dogs fart indiscriminately.

Truths are told, maybe for the first time ever.

There are twinkle lights and candles.

Bullshit written on paper will get thrown into the fire.

Someone will quote poetry, another will sing a song they wrote, and dancing has been known to break out, mostly around the fun moon.

Chocolate becomes its own closing ceremony.

And time will cease to exist.

That’s the feeling I wanted for Croneology, the program for women over 50 that Geraldine and I cooked up this year of our Lord of Perpetual Isolation—and she could not have been more enthusiastic. 

“Women are dying for REAL connection!” she said, only without the exclamation point because she’s Canadian and they aren’t prone to such outbursts. But I am.

And THAT is why we compliment each other so beautifully. Reverently irreverent, we tackle ALL the subjects:

Transitions. Career, relationship, bikini to one piece, blonde to gray, all of them. 

Empty nests (grieve, celebrate, or both).

Adult kids who leave and come back (celebrate, grieve, or move).

Aging parents.

Eldership (What does that even mean?)

Our changing bodies (To HRT—OR—to not to HRT)

Sex after 50. (So much to discuss, SO MUCH!)

Knowing your worth, using your voice, living your largeness.

Don’t feel like a Crone yet? There are other names for women on their way to Crone. Is Autumn Queen a better fit? (Yeah, I figured)

What to do with unexpressed rage.

Menopause is not the end of your life as a woman AKA How to hot flash your way to an orgasm. Swear to god, one of our Crones does this!

And SO many other topics you’ve been dying to chew on with super cool women your age — and didn’t know where to find them.

Shameless Endorsement Alert:

“Picture a round table of women desiring to ripen into their full expression to the point of falling from the vine and becoming seeds for the next generation…such is the energy during Croneology.” — Joanie

Well, as you can imagine, when I read this I died. We both did. Here it was, our dream come true and written with all the best words in a way I could have never imagined. Needless to say, I could not, in a gazillion years, explain Croneology any better so I’m going to stop right here. If you want more details, dates for the next session, and answers to all your questions about me and Geraldine, head to Croneology.net

Just one more thing. If you’re a dude and you’ve made it this far, WOW and congratulations! AND, you may want to share this with the women in your life. To quote a previous Crone’s husband, “Whatever you’re doing Thursday nights in the Crone group, keep doing that.”

Need I say more?

Carry on,
xox

This is a buck in Finland.

Supposedly, forest officials coat their antlers with glow-in-the-dark paint so they’re easier to see on a dark road, the goal being to save their lives along with the poor, unsuspecting motorists they have the misfortune to encounter.

As you can imagine, so many thoughts ran through my head when I saw this:

1. Man, being lit up like they’re sporting two freaking light-sabers on their heads— that’s either a boon or a drag on their sex lives. Curious to hear about that.
2. The internet is full of big fat lying liars who lie, so if this isn’t real, bummer. (Finnish readers, let us know).
3. Where was this when we rode our motorcycle through the dark pine forests of the Great Northwest back in 2005 and I found out I could possibly meet my maker as a result of one bad decision made by one of these majestic creatures?

Anyway, here’s how that went. Warning, I did not handle it well.

Excerpt from Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi , Part I

“One day in central Oregon, if I remember correctly, we saw remnants on the road of a deer who’d met the front bumper of a logging truck at 65 mph.

Then another. Then a third. Being someone who likes their animals fully assembled, I was traumatized.

The next day we encountered the remnants of a red pickup truck at a gas station. Barely recognizable, it had been totaled on all four sides by a huge buck who’d gone up and over the front hood and windshield, its legs making contact with the side panels on its way down the back and straight to heaven.

“What happens if we hit a deer?” I asked at lunch while picking all the good bits out of my salad.

My husband looked at me with a mix of curiosity and exasperation, as if I’d just botched the punchline of a joke (which I do, always) before slowly putting down his fork. Shaking his head, he fiddled with his paper napkin (he HATES paper napkins, he’s French) before letting out a long sigh.

“Well…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “If I have the chance I will try to slow down, I won’t jam on the brakes and I won’t swerve to get out of the way because THAT will kill us for sure.”

I stopped chewing.

Now he was gathering a full head of steam, gesturing with both hands, “WHEN we hit it, the deer will die, the guts will splatter all over us, it’ll total the front of the bike, but we should live.”

Shit. I dropped my fork on the floor as he kept talking. No five-second rule. No kidding.

“If it’s an Elk or a Moose, I’ll do all the same things, I’ll slow down and go straight ahead, but that’s a huge animal.” Now he had that same glint in his eye the salty old sea captain in Jaws had right before he got eaten by the shark. “You can kiss your ass goodbye,” he hissed, “Because we’ll all die.” Then he picked up his fork and took a big bite of steak.

“Looks like rain,” somebody next to us said.
Cloudy with a chance of body parts, Is what I heard.

I began to wail, “Wait, what?! You mean…we could DIE!”

He stopped chewing. “Let me get this straight?” He asked, “It never occurred to you that you could die on a motorcycle?” Now he was laughing.

“Well… no.” I wasn’t lying, until that day it had never occurred to me. Embarrassed, I felt the need to clarify, “Certainly not at the hands of a Bambi.”

My fate suddenly uncertain, I stopped a passing waitress and ordered a hot fudge sundae.

He went on to explain that the greatest threat was at dusk and dawn when the wildlife was most active. Apparently, that is when the highest incidents of vehicle-versus-fauna accidents occur.

My husband has this theory about accidents. They are a series of random events that converge at the same time and place. If you remove ONE component, the accident cannot occur. For instance, if you forget something and run back into the house delaying your departure by five minutes, that will either place you on or remove you from the accident timeline.

It had now become my mission to remove us from that timeline. New rule: No riding before nine in the morning and kickstands down by five in the evening, otherwise known as dawn and dusk.

Suddenly my beautiful pine forests were filled with terrifying, four-legged terrorists ready to leap out at any moment and render us dead.

Why I Ride is all about the experience. “It’s about LIVING life.”

Hadn’t I just said that to the person who asked me if I was afraid of riding on the back of a bike?

Now I found myself marinating in fear for tens of hours a day, my eyes darting around wildly, searching for animals lurking in the landscape, ready to leap.

Cute became creepy.

Fuck I hate fear, it changes you. It was changing me…”

You can read the rest at Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi, Part II

Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi , Part II

STORY OF THE TAOIST FARMER

“There was once a farmer in ancient China who owned a horse. “You are so lucky!” his neighbors told him, “to have a horse to pull the cart for you.” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

One day he didn’t latch the gate properly and the horse ran away. “Oh no! That is terrible news!” his neighbors cried. “Such bad luck!” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

A few days later the horse returned, bringing with it six wild horses. “How fantastic! You are so lucky,” his neighbors told him. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The following week the farmer’s son was breaking-in one of the wild horses when it threw him to the ground, breaking his leg. “Oh no!” the neighbors cried. “Such bad luck, all over again!” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next day soldiers came and took away all the young men to fight in the army. The farmer’s son was left behind. “You are so lucky!” his neighbors cried. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

When we interpret a situation as an ‘opportunity’ or a ‘disaster’ it shapes the way that we respond.

But the Taoist Farmer shows that we can never truly know how a situation is going to turn out. There are no intrinsic ‘opportunities’ or ‘threats’ — there is only what happens and how we choose to respond.

In which case, doesn’t it make sense to look for the opportunities in every situation?

Are you facing a crisis at the moment? How might you turn it into an opportunity?

SO much has happened in the past year.

Some good, some just so-so, and a lot of it bad. Life had been a veritable roller coaster of disappointments.

“So much fuckery!” I am fond of saying. But,(and I’m asking you to bear with me here) what if there’s magic in the mess?

Inspirational speaker Rob Bell cautions us against judging a situation before we let it “play out”.
“Disappointment is taking score too soon,” he warns.

THAT has become my North Star and THAT is what has been playing out around me over and over and over again recently, so much so that I just had to write about it!

Imagine if you will, a non-believer in all of this hooey. We will call him, Husband.

A lovely curmudgeon of a man who, when confronted, refers to himself as a “realist”. Now imagine that as a cosmic joke perpetrated by the universe’s wicked sense of irony, this man lives with yours truly!

Now, take another leap and imagine that some of my woo, through acts of osmosis over twenty years together, has rubbed off on him.

Case in point: In the middle of the 2020 lockdown, he got kicked out of his “man cave” a place that smells of gasoline and beer, where he and his friends have hung out, tinkering with their various internal combustion gizmos while scratching their balls and watching car porn for over seven years.

“It’s the end of the world!” he howled into the wind.
“Maybe,” I responded from a safe distance away.

“I guess I could call my friend and see if he wants to split a place,” he posed one day after the crying had ceased.
“Sounds good,” I said, exercising a surprising economy with words.

“OMG! We found the PERFECT place but the landlord is a dick!” Husband complained one morning. “He wants to see every bank statement, five years of tax returns, social security, baptismal, confirmation, divorce and marriage certificates, AND a fifty-bajillion dollar deposit!”

“Feels to me like there might be a better place. I’d keep looking.”

“Noooooooooooo!!!!”

But there was. A better place.
The perfect place. Closer, cheaper, with a terrific landlord who basically agreed to the deal the day he met them—with a handshake.

And this has led to the man cave of all man caves and a side business that puts a sustained smile on that curmudgeon’s face the likes of which I’ve rarely (if ever) seen.

“What we need is an orange, rolling metal ladder!” Husband announced one day after breaking and building shit at the new lair.

And that is why god in her infinite wisdom invented the internet.

A couple of days later he received an email alerting him of the delivery time. You must be there tomorrow at 9am to unlock the gate to the parking lot and take delivery, it read.
“Yippee!” Husband exclaimed because this new 2.0 version of the curmudgeon is given to sudden outbursts of joy (but that’s a story for another day). He was about to receive the ladder of his dreams—only it wasn’t orange. “No worries, that’s just paint,” he assured me when I asked. This new guy was starting to freak me out 

Later the next day he returned home deflated, pissed, and ready to rumble—in other words, his old self.

As he tells it, he arrived for the delivery fifteen minutes early only to find the giant metal ladder crumpled into an origami swan inside the locked gate. Not only that, their brand new fence had been damaged in the process. Later, according to the footage from their security cameras, he watched the two delivery guys arrive really early, back their truck up to the fence, and after several failed attempts (and lots of fence bashing) they chucked the ladder in its box (which exploded) up over their heads and into the parking lot.

“This really sucks!” Husband hollered as he navigated the Amazon third-party refund labyrinth.
“Maybe,” I texted from the bedroom.

It turns out that damning security footage is just the evidence you need to get a full refund AND money for gate repair.
And in the meantime, he found an even more perfect ladder (if you can imagine that).

Taller, wheelier, cheaper…and orange.

“Wow! You’re so lucky!” I exclaimed.
“Maybe,” he replied with a wink.

If Husband can change his tune—we all can. Who’s still taking score? Not me!

Carry on,
xoxJ