awakening

This is one of my favorite places to meditate.

The back of the chair hits me just right, the leather is nice and worn in, it is wide enough for me to sit cross-legged and the arms are the perfect height for me to rest my hands on my knees. AND…I can make that room pitch dark if I want.

That chair’s intended purpose was to be the masculine, super groovy throne from which my husband can watch his uber-violent, spy/assassin/bad-guy-who-is-really-a-good-guy movies in our TV room.

The same chair—living a COMPLETELY different life of duality. *Note the crumbs on the floor from the crackers and cheese he enjoyed last night 😉

“I can’t meditate, I don’t have any quiet place in my house.”  That makes me crazy and I call bullshit!

Use your shower or bathtub‚ I do! (if yours is loud and crowded you have bigger issues than I can even imagine!), and in LA often the only place we can grab a silent second is in our cars.

I have incredible insights delivered to me while I sit in traffic. (My fantasy is that the majority of LA drivers on the freeway are secretly meditating, but sadly reality continues to prove otherwise).

How about sitting on the grass in your backyard or in a chair on your patio?

How about your bed? I tend to linger in that in-between sleep and awake state as long as humanly possible. Until the dog licks my face with her morning dog food breath or the mind chatter turns up the volume and gets all dark and snarky—That’s when  I know it’s time to get up!

What I’m trying to say here is: Don’t be precious about your meditation practice. It’s better to fit in a few minutes of quiet contemplation here and there than nothing at all.

I know for me when I say I don’t have time for meditation—is exactly when I need it the most.

Love you guys to bits,
Carry on with your Saturday,
xox

* This is a flashback from a couple of years ago when my inner poet ran the show. It seems apropos to end this week of tested faith with a poem.
A rhyme about faith and luck and his friend chance; perseverance and truth.
Enjoy your Friday you guys
xox

Some days my faith is huge and bold,
So large an ocean cannot hold.

Then other days, it’s all dried up,
just a drop in the bottom of a paper cup.

I vacillate between the two.
Fate waits to drop the other shoe.

Then luck comes by with his friend chance,
this is my lifetime’s little dance.

Some days an ocean, some days a cup,
I stay the course, I won’t give up.

I play the game, my heart is true,
with faith as my partner, how about you?

Carry on
Xox

*Hey you guys,
You know I share everything with you, well, whatever I can get away with without getting arrested!
Anyhow, last Friday I had a huge existential crisis—a colossal crisis of faith.

Yeah, I know, I’m the only one, boo hoo, poor me.

I have a project that means a lot to me that is requiring humongous amounts of courage, and it is being highly uncooperative and testing my patience to no end.

It’s been a long while since I’ve felt so, so, low-down-gutter-shitty.
Friday I just woke up that way.

Being that I’m a writer, I wrote a long, rambling, gutter-shitty manifesto. (If I’d been an artist I’d have painted an all black canvas with the word FUCK or HACK on it).
You get the picture.

Then I sent it to my husband and four of my besties. And I waited…

During all of this emotional flailing around the voice in my head said: You are overreacting. You don’t need sympathy—you need trust and faith. (GOD! when will you quit being so goddamn right, so goddamn all the time! That is SO annoying!).

Anyway, I waited for something from my tribe…I suppose it was sympathy, okay I’ll just say it, I was waiting for sympathy with a layer of compassion and a dash of empathy and love.

You wanna know what I got?
Crickets. I got crickets—nothing.

My computer showed that the manifesto had sent. My husband’s computer showed he did not receive it.

When I tried to re-send it later that night to my one poor friend who happened to text—nothing. Again it said it was sent when it was not.

I had asked for a sign and apparently my computer was hacked by that part of me that knows better. It wasn’t having any of my sad-suckiness. It showed me no sympathy on Friday. NONE!
It let me squirm in the uncomfortableness of doubt and ride the emotions until they passed. (Two days).

So there you have it. I feel better, but I still can’t STAND doubt! How about you?
Have you had a crisis of faith? How were you able overcome it? How long were you in it?

Here is the part of the manifesto that I feel you guys could relate to and doesn’t have the f-bomb as every other word!

Carry on,
xox

Ugh.
I feel like I’ve been left hanging.

Like I got up the courage to say “I love you” to someone and the other person just smiled.

Or, like we agreed to jump off the cliff together, and as my foot leaves the edge, I am able to turn just enough as I hurtle toward the abyss—to see the other person still standing at the edge.

I feel bamboozled.

It has made me profoundly uncomfortable and has opened the door to doubt.

I fucking hate doubt.
I like forward motion, Courage and momentum. Not all of this start and stop shit.

wtf am I doing?
wtf am I saying?

Am I a fraud or some delusional hack?

I can’t shake it so I’m going to have to ride this wave and then wait for it to pass.
Give me a sign Universe—anything!

Yeah…I was going to write something high-minded and profound on the subject of forgiveness, but after today—sometimes it really is just this simple.
You’re an asshole —and I forgive you.

It doesn’t mean that you need to overlook what that person did wrong.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t a shitfest.

It doesn’t even mean they were completely wrong and you were completely right.

I’m pretty sure it takes a party of two to get a table at the shitfest—right?

Here’s what I do know for sure:

The object of our forgiveness may never change—but we can!

Carry on,
xox

Did you like the game hide-n-seek as a kid? What about the 2.0 birthday party version, warmer/colder where someone guided you to your destination, to your prize, by yelling warmer! (closing in) or colder! (moving away)?

“Warmer…warmer…you are hot—you are on fire!” I’d hear those words over the pounding of my heart as my skinny little arms flailed around excitedly, knowing I was literally on top of the candy bar, box of crayons or whatever incredibly desirable prize lay just out of my reach.

Goddammit! I loved that game! I still play it regarding the things I want now in my adult life.

If I talk about a certain thing that I want or fixate on it like a dog with a bone, I’ll start to notice things just like it materializing all around me.

I’ll see the same scarf I love on three people in a week. Warmer!

When I was deciding whether or not to continue dying my hair, everywhere I looked were these chic women absolutely rockin’ their gray hair! Warmer!

If your neighbor suddenly shows up with your dream car in their driveway? Warmer!

All of your friends married to great guys? Warmer!

Once upon a time I fell madly in love with a very specific pair of brown boots but they were way more than I could justify so I convinced myself that I would just have to admire them from afar (which by-the-way felt completely unacceptable).

Several days later, in an act of Universal cruelty, a customer came in wearing the objects of my affection—those super-hipster brown boots. I wanted to jump over the desk and murder her for her shoes. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom.

The next night I went to dinner with a friend in Malibu and as we walked from the parking lot to the cafe, there was a high-end shoe store along the way. In the window: those fuckingly awesome brown boots!

You’ve got to be kidding me! I anguished, then I remembered the warmer/colder game.
Warmer! I yelled, clawing at the glass like the ginger-haired, shoe-hoarding madwoman I was, listening to it echo into the cool night air. Warmer…warmer…warmer.
My friend kept on walking.
I drank too much at dinner and I remember leaving a big, red lipstick kiss mark on the store window as I whimpered over and over again, warmer…warmer…warmer…
My friend promptly drove me to boot rehab.

About a day, two weeks, maybe month later, one of my other friends witnessed my obsession with said boots as I screamed, Warmer! through the entire Century City mall after seeing them on a shopper.

“What’s the big deal?” she asked, a little afraid to get too close to me.

“It’s those wildly expensive brown boots! I would die for them!” I was panting, out-of-breath.

“They’re half-off at…”
I didn’t even wait for her to finish. I ran so fast through that maze of shops to get those boots, I set a land-speed record.
When she caught up with me I was holding the box close to my chest, “You are hot—you are on fire.” was all I could manage to say.

More recently, like a little over a month ago, I noticed a friend got published on The Huffington Post a few days after I submitted a story. Then another.
I was thrilled for them. Instead of feeling envy I knew my prize was literally burning under my feet, ( as a matter of fact, my own Huffington Post notification was sitting in my junk mail waiting to be discovered later that afternoon!).

And that’s the point you guys. You can see other people around you achieving the things you’re striving for and you can feel competitive, consumed with anger and jealousy (which feels cold. Colder!) —or you can yell Warmer! and realize that the reason it is all around you is that it is about to burst into your own reality!

Warmer! & carry on,
xox

In case you struggle with this the way I do.

It’s almost NEVER about you. 99.9% of the time. I promise.

Everyone is busy thinking about their own story.

BIG sigh…What a fucking relief!

Carry on with your bad selves this weekend,
xox

Hello loves,

I sat down to write about my journey lately on the short bus to trust.

Then I realized I had fifteen minutes before I had to leave. So I made a two-minute video instead—you know—like you do when you’re pressed for time!

The takeaway in case you don’t feel like watching is this: Your intuition will NEVER lead you astray.

It will never take you down the dark alley, or tell you to wear the white pantsuit.
It has NO intention whatsoever of humiliating you or leaving you standing in a steaming pile of disgrace.

So trust it you guys! I’m really trying to do it too.
And that is my nugget of advice for today.

Trust yourself.

Carry on,
xox

AND….The outtakes. First one is my standard duh moment with the video running. Have I learned nothing?

And the second one is a correction. I forgot what day it is.

brave
brāv/
adjective

Ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage.
“a brave soldier”
synonyms: courageous, valiant, valorous, intrepid, heroic, lionhearted, bold, fearless, gallant, daring, plucky, audacious;

I’ve been surprising myself lately, well, almost every day recently, by doing something brave.

For me, it looks more like plucky, or audacious, rather than true (pull someone out of a burning building), courage.

For many, many years my life was void of bravery. I ran a bravery deficit. I would have told you it was most definitely for other people! But these days my life seems to be upping the ante—giving me no choice other than to be brave…or has it?

I like what Seth Godin wrote the other day about bravery.

What do you guys think? Is it a choice?

Carry on,
xox

Bravery is for other people

Bravery is for the people who have no choice, people like Chesley Sullenberger and Audie Murphy.

Bravery is for the people who are gifted, people like Ralph Abernathy, Sarah Kay and Miles Davis.

Bravery is for other people.

When you see it that way, it’s so clearly and patently absurd that it’s pretty clear that bravery is merely a choice.

At least once in your life (maybe this week, maybe today) you did something that was brave and generous and important. The only question is one of degree… when will we care enough to be brave again?

Seth Godin

I road-tripped to San Diego this past weekend to partake of some friends, food, and fun.

It culminated on Sunday with a talk by the sublime Liz Gilbert. If you follow me at all on social media you probably have a little vomit in your mouth by now—due to my Liz addiction/affection. Too bad.

But this is not another gushy story about my Liz obsession, this is a cautionary tale about following directions.

I set off, like I always do, with the directions to my friend Sandra’s San Diego home programmed into Google maps on my iPhone, where thankfully, the voice of my imaginary wingman (or woman in this case), would guide my every turn.
Easy-Peasy-Parchesi!

May I just take a moment here to marvel with genuine wonder at the fact that I was able to get myself ANYWHERE on time and in one piece for forty-plus years without my iPhone?

My sense of direction sucks so bad that when I walk out of a door in a foreign city, (or five blocks from home), with my big, smug smile and huge sense of conviction,(always with the conviction, wtf?) and start walking to the right—my husband walks left.

He knows I will either turn around and follow him (on the correct path) or meet him at our destination…eventually.

Anyhow, most days I am the GPS ladies problem. For the remainder of this story, we shall refer to her as That Fucking Bitch or TFB.

Thing started off rather well—I immediately turned right instead of left and without a moment’s hesitation and a minimum of attitude, she course corrected.

Once I was on the freeway that she recommended, (which I just want to mention right now, to get it off my chest, was the wrong choice—just sayin’), I put in my earphones to catch-up on some podcasts.

“Stay to the left for the next forty-seven miles” she advised.

Fine, I thought, settling in for my two hour and fifteen-minute drive.

Thirty minutes later I was stuck in a gridlock so profound that the needle didn’t even register speed—because the cars were not moving! When they did it was at a bracing top speed of 20 mph.

You do the math.
I was going to arrive in San Diego in time to hear my beloved Liz thank everyone for coming—and then have to get back in the car and drive home.

“Road work ahead.” she cautioned, interrupting my podcast, more than an hour after the fact.
TFB was not on her game.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” I screamed back.

“Take exit 45B toward the detour.” she sounded smug.

“Ya think?! I told you this was the wrong freeway! I tried to take the 405! But NOOOOOOOO, Take the 5 she says!! Oh! TFB knows best!”

TFB wasn’t having it.

“Take exit 45B toward the detour” she reiterated with attitude this time.

I looked at the map, it read up at the top: Exit 45B in 90 feet. “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”

I was locked in the far left lane just as TFB had advised me to do, and there was no humanly way possible way to get to my salvation—exit 45B and the detour.

“You bitch! You piece of shit, good for nothing GPS!” I ranted over and over, “You made me miss that detour on purpose!”

Let’s suffice it to say that TFB did not like my tone.

After I found my way out of the traffic, back onto the open road, I finally gathered some speed and momentum and I actually became hopeful of reaching San Diego before Liz Gilbert died of old age.

TFB paid me back by giving me the silent treatment which caused me to miss two freeway transitions and the exit for gas.

“Keep right and transition onto the 805 south”, she directed, as it whizzed by in my peripheral vision from the far left lane.

“Oh, I’m sorry, too late?” she didn’t actually say that—but I still heard it.

I turned off my podcasts. This was war.

I looked at the map and could see that the exit to my friend’s house was coming up. Exit 71A.

We were entering the third hour of our little excursion as I moved over to the right lanes to get into position.

“Keep left”, she said, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Um, no. You FB I have to exit at 71A in two and a half miles” I replied with all the conviction I could muster. I wasn’t going to let her rattle me. I tried to turn her off, but I couldn’t see the tiny “stop” button at 65, 75, 80 miles an hour.

“I said, keep left for thirty miles” I could hear the wicked smile on her lips.

My exit was imminent. 100 feet away.

Then it dawned on me—TFB was taking me to Mexico where I would die a horrible death at the hands of the some drug cartel kingpin: Chapo somebody, and TFB would be sold for parts.

The moral of this story? Gosh, there are so many!

Don’t lose yourself in podcasts when you should be paying attention. You’re not on a train.

Be discerning. Know where you’re headed. Look at the traffic site. Ask questions.

Always drive the speed limit. (I put that in here in case any law enforcement are reading this).

Sometimes devices are wrong. That’s crazy, I know! But they’re not infallible.

Shhhhhh…Don’t piss off your GPS—it could cost you your life.

Carry on,
xox

Dame Helen Mirren who turned 70 this week.

Hi, My Lovelies!
Here is my latest Huffington Post essay on rocking the years after your fifth decade, AND, there’s a cool, humiliating, humanizing, little life lesson attached.

I know there are a few over the fifties in this group and you guys will appreciate this post. So you get your glasses while I find mine…

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/turning-50_b_8282198.html

Anyway, the lesson is this: I gave this to the HuffPo over three weeks ago. Cue the crickets…

I was well aware that the divorce pieces had gotten some legs, but come on! There’s more to my story than that—WAY more! Yet the divorce pieces continued to run and my thought process went like this:

“Why didn’t they run the Over Fifty piece, it’s been a week?”

“Clearly they hated it and are rethinking their decision to make me a blogger. Shit. I’ll just lay low…”

“It’s been two weeks, I can’t continue to just lay low, maybe they never received it. Should I risk seeming desperate and re-send it?” (I sent something else instead, an essay on unsolicited advice, you know, just to check the system for bugs—no bugs detected, the piece ran the next day).

Instead of making me feel better I was now convinced they HATED the Over Fifty piece.
In my imagination, they all laughed over lunch about how stupid it was, “Can you believe that Janet Bertolus! She doesn’t know shit about being over fifty! Or writing for that matter!” Bahahahaha! (diabolical editor laughter).
Fuck.

By week three I decided that for the sake of my mental health and to maintain any shred of confidence (that was hiding somewhere in the vicinity of my big toe) —I had to just forget about it and go on with my life.
That was last week.

Yesterday they sent me the email that they were running the Over Fifty piece.
Well, that’s…unexpected…

When I pulled up the link I gasped (and you will too). There, at the end of the essay, is one beautiful photograph after another of spectacular women over fifty! What a great surprise!

Sometimes I can be such an ass.

They’ve obviously been busy the last three weeks compiling pictures to run in this section—and here I thought was all about me.

Lesson #1789–Trust the process. At a certain point, it has nothing AT ALL to do with you. I think this applies to every situation in life!

Carry on,
xox