awareness

This is an essay by my bad-ass, snort-laugh inducing friend Mel Maure. She can be funny right now because well, she’s Canadian.

I figured it would be perfect for today because maybe, if you’re like me, you’ve just emerged from your own twenty-four hour tantrum, you’re suffering from a terrible case of post-election tight-assery and you need to lighten up and just fucking say “thank you.”

Thank you Mel! Just like chocolate lava cake—you are deliciously gooey on the inside and always hit the spot.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be:
1) Searching for my sense of humor.
2) Taking back all of the power I gave away to this election.

Carry on,
xox

I throw spiritual tantrums. There. I said it.

What does said tantrum look like? Think of the ugly cry steeped in performance enhancing drugs. There is gnashing of teeth, snot runners and long bouts of standing in the corner of my stylish bedroom banging my forehead against the wall. And let’s not forget the weird keening sound that rises from my clogged throat.

When I throw down like this it’s not that I have been diagnosed with some raging incurable case of gout or have suddenly been forced to live in a cardboard box.

These beatific blowouts arise when I have not received exactly what I have prayed, asked, pleaded, lamented for, forgetting that my squirrelesque brain may not be the most reliable source of knowing what I need when I need it. I have a history of embarrassing romantic relationships to prove that.

In this unnerving place of wait and trust, I convince myself that my disconnection from the divine engine is terminal and there isn’t even a Kenny G tune to lull me while I sit on hold. I’ve been known to patiently wait at least three hours and fifteen minutes in this interminable holding pattern. But who’s counting?

In an attempt to ease this unsightly spoiled behaviour, I made a pact with the Cosmic Smoothie — what I think of as Universal Superfood, or God if you prefer. My somewhat anemic pact went something like this:
“I will refrain from pitching fits when the rate of jaw-dropping blessings coming into my granular existence is slow,” I vowed.

“When I meditate and don’t feel the rash of exhilarated connection to the Universe I jones for like a kismet junkie, I will be patient,” I promised.

“When the beasts of the forest are not swooping, roaming or stepping gingerly onto my path as unabashed signs that the Universe is there to soothe my drama du jour, I will be a quiet little angel of contentment,” I assured.
This sacred accord lasted three hours and twenty-seven minutes.

So why am I so quick to stop, drop and bang my head on the ground like a spoiled kid in Walmart’s toy section?
Simple. My memory sucks.

I am a dementiated, addled, lucky-if-I’m-wearing-pants kind of spiritual adventurer. And I don’t believe I am alone in this tendency of being lackadaisical. I refuse to believe I am the only one whose heart is akin to a sieve on good days, unable to retain the fullness. And on bad days is more like a defunct smelly well — the Stephen King kind with a creepy clown hunched and waiting at the bottom.

Being an impatient sort of soul does nothing to further the cause.

Once again, I am fairly certain I am not the only one who plugs her ears and hums a tune to drown out a greater knowing. A wisdom that says it’s not the best idea for us, in our limited fallible skin-suit, to drink from the cosmic fire hose.
So what is a petulant, forgetful, impatient spiritual sojourner to do?

First step: get up and stop thrashing about in the dirt. It’s contaminated with all kinds of bullshit. And by bullshit, I mean that potent noxious blend of fear and doubt. The only thing that brand of dirt grows is mould and poisonous fungi.

Second step: Record, write, make cave drawings if you have to, of all the times when you were doused with magic and thrumming with exhilaration. And if you are one of the more efficient spiritual travellers who keeps a log of every step and has a slide show to prove it, be nostalgic. Remember. Pour over every detail like an old high school football QB reliving the glory days. Caress every stitch across the pigskin of your divine moments.

Third step: Enjoy the reprieve and say thank you. It’s quite simple if we think of it like food. We cannot eat nonstop…God knows I’ve tried…at some point we all need to stop and digest what we’ve swallowed. Assimilate the sacred nutrients. When I skip this rest and digest place, I often mistake a wicked case of gas for the energy of the universe moving through me. It’s not a pleasant affair.

Fourth and final step: Have fun. For the love of God; quite literally, unclench.
Tight-assery is not a divine construct and no one wants to hang out with a downer or tight-ass, except for other tight-ass downers. Why would the Cosmic Smoothie be any different? There is no room for amazing things and mind-numbing blessings in the realm of the anal-retentive.

The final caveat to all of this: we are bound to find ourselves in the throws of petulance again and again. Our greatness cannot help but thrash inside the constraints of our humanness.

So if you see a fellow traveller rolling around in the dirt, producing bizarre mewling noises, please kneel down and whisper in her ear that she needs to stand up now. It would do her well to say thank you. It will restore her to remember all the jaw-dropping moments. For this invites more of the same.

For more flawed thoughts and very human fumblings from Melanie
https://medium.com/@melmaure/the-spiritual-tantrum-of-a-kismet-junkie-5f6cc779df07#.ugt3ruknx

That’s it! I’ve had it! I’m breaking up with you, politics.

I simply cannot handle the disappointment.

I feel mislead and bamboozled and I can no longer participate in your dysfunctional behavior.

Even though you told me who you were, in every moment, I held out hope that your higher nature would prevail.

I’m embarrassed to admit that instead of making me a better person, you often unleashed my inner she-devil, scum-bag asshole. You never wanted to spend time with my friends and I up on the high ground, so, in order to spend time with you, I went down into the swamp.

I had trouble Ommmm-ing my way out of the muck—and the toxic yuck you surround yourself with got harder and harder to wash off.

So consider this the end, politics.

Stop calling.

Loose my number.

I need my space.

I’ve deleted your emails, unfriended you, and changed my status to disillusioned.

I know you won’t miss me one little bit. That’s okay, I have my own happiness to focus on right now.

My wits are scattered and badly need to be gathered.

So, it is with a broken heart that I say…

Carry on,
xox

Suffragette Susan B. Anthony’s Headstone covered with women’s “I voted” stickers.

“In the midst of the chaos
When the wind is howling I hear
The ancient song
Of the ones who went before
And know that peace will come.”
~Susan Stauter

I woke up this morning and opened my eyes. Peace.
That is until my neurons started firing, thoughts flooding in, reminding me what day it is.

Election day here in the U.S.

No peace today, right?

I voted early so I have plenty of time to go bite my nails down to the nub, watch the election results with my eighty-year-old mom.

Just that I can do that makes today a victory in my book.

As far back as I can remember my mom has followed politics. More than followed.  If you look up the phrase “political junkie” online my mom’s picture will pop up. She could give Tom Brokaw a run for his money. Seriously. She has lived and breathed every aspect of this game called politics going all the way back to waiting breathlessly as a young girl for election results to be announced on the radio. A child of the thirties, she was among the first generation of women born with the right to vote.

That was huge and she taught me never to take that lightly. The common thread throughout my life has been this single phrase: This is history, Janet.

I’d like to say I’ve always shared her passion and respect for politics but I have to admit there have been many elections through the years where I just didn’t give a shit. When Reagan ran against Mondale I was in my twenties. They were two boring old white guys and I can say in all honesty—I gave less than a shit.

Not my mom.

There have been decades where I would have to change the subject immediately (usually to football, another passion of hers), so as not to get caught in a political discussion because let me tell you—she will not suffer the fool who can’t name the candidates, their platform, and where they stand in the polls.

Eight years ago I got lured back in by Obama. I cared about hope and change. So did my mom. I hadn’t seen her that fired up for a candidate since Bobby Kennedy all the way back in 1968.

God, she loved Bobby Kennedy; well, all the Kennedy’s really. Camelot had been the real deal to her. Jack and Jackie were just like her (except for the rich and movie star gorgeous part) and their children were even the same age as hers!
Then, when it ended so tragically, we all sat in front of our little black and white TV for three days so my mom could try to process her grief and mourn with the rest of the country. Watch this. This is history, Janet, she said to someone too young to understand fully what she was seeing.

She wanted Bobby in the White House so badly that when he won the Primary in our state of California that warm June night in 1968 she went to bed jubilant, only to be woken up early the next morning by my dad. “Bobby Kennedy was shot last night. He’s dead.”

God. What a brave man, my dad. I can’t imagine giving her that news.

By the time my ten-year old self stumbled out of bed that morning, my thirty-year-old, optimistic, resident of Camelot, political junkie of a mom had been transformed into a somber, red-eyed cynic. “This country has gone to hell.” she sobbed. Pay attention, this is history, Janet.  This time I understood. But something in her had changed. She stayed in the game but the light went out of her eyes where politics was concerned.

And yet she still had her opinions.

She thought the whole Nixon/Watergate thing was deplorable (sorry Hillary, she said it first.)

She liked Clinton, she just couldn’t stomach his self-sabatoge—and she wished he’d just keep his dick in his pants.

She could hardly believe the shenanigans involved with the hanging chads, Supreme Court decision of 2000.

And don’t get her started on Bush. Or Cheney. “These two are ridiculous (words I can’t write here). Someone needs to reign them in. For godsakes, where are their wives?”

But my mom was ecstatic when Obama won in 2008. The fire was back. “ I can’t believe we have a black man in office. I never thought I’d see that.” she kept repeating as we both cried our way through his acceptance speech in Grant Park with his gorgeous, beaming wife and two young daughters by his side.  “I hope nothing bad happens to him”, she worried.

Pay attention. This is history, Janet.

“But I called it, remember?” she reminded me proudly, like she’d picked the winning horse while he was still a foal. “When he spoke at the Democratic Convention back in 2004? Remember? I said he could be President some day!”

I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning but I do remember her saying that. A lot.

So.. this election. This election has been…unprecedented. I think that’s the word that’s been used most often these past eighteen months. Can you believe that? This spectacle has been going on for almost 600 days!

But my mom will scoff if I throw that word around lightly. “What this guy is spewing is unprecedented!” I’ll lament into the phone. I can hear her take a deep breath, her political science professor of a brain quickly gathering the facts.

“That’s not true.” She reminds me. “People need to remember George Wallace. He ran for president in 1964, 1972, and 1976, as a Democratic if you can believe that!” she spits out the word Democrat like a nasty word. “And in 1968 as an Independent. Oh, 1968. The Vietnam war. The assassinations of Bobby and Martin. The Chicago seven. They had riots that year at the Democratic Convention.”

They say if you can remember the sixties—you weren’t there.  Oh, she was there and she remembers EVERYTHING.

“George Wallace was a bigot, and a segregationist, populist who used the Ku Klux Clan as his security. He was a man filled with anger and hate, so this guys not the first…but at least our party had the good sense not to nominate him.”

So, things have been just as bad… or worse. I should have paid more attention to history.

So, yeah. I’ll be watching the results with that woman. The woman who reminded me a while back that what was unprecedented was having the first female nominee of a major political party and potentially the first woman President of the United States.

History is being made and its gotten completely overshadowed.

But not in her eyes. I really hope and pray I get to see the glass ceiling shatter tonight, sitting with my mom the life-long political wonk as she reassures me that she’s seen it all— assassinations, hate mongering and undecided elections and that in the end—our democracy will endure.

Pay attention, Janet. This is history.

Carry on,
xox

My mom and me sometime during the Reagan administration.

“On every fourth step, you are meant to fall down. Not occasionally, not once, not twice, but on every fourth step.

The ground opens up, the wind blows, a branch hits you in the head, you trip on stones, your heart breaks, you’ve got to fold the laundry, and they’ve closed the two left lanes.

Here on the fourth step, all the forces gather together to stop you. And some people, when they fall down, they lie there for the rest of their lives.

And some people learn how to fall-down-get-up. That is one move. Fall-down-get-up.”
~ Naomi Newman

Hey loves,
You know how when a little kid falls down before they even get up they look for their mom?

As a parent you are certain of two things and possibly ONLY two things.
1. Kids fall down. A lot.

1. Avoid eye contact after a fall (unless there is blood or the “silent cry”), because the minute they see your face—they’ll burst into tears. We’ve all seen it.  It’s uncanny.

They gage their response on yours. If you get hysterical, you’re gonna have a mess on your hands.

When we were kids parenting was different. Moms weren’t helicopters. They were Uber drivers who only came when called…after you told them your location…and waited five minutes.

I was born clumsy. Still am. I can fall over while seated.
I took my first steps at nine months and spent the rest of my childhood on roller skates. As a kid I was impossibly lanky with round feet, absolutely no sense of coordination, and a jinky center of gravity—and I fell. Not every fourth step. More like every other step. I was on the ground more than I was upright. That being said, one of my first memories is my mom’s response to what seemed to me to be a life threatening fall (kids are horrible judges of the severity of their mishaps.)

“Oops”, she said in a sing-song voice “You dropped yourself!”

Oh, right…I dropped myself. Well…she doesn’t seemed too concerned…and any sentence that starts with “oops” can’t be bad…huh…I dropped myself so I guess I’ll just…pick myself up.

Throughout my life, whenever I fall, (literally or figuratively), I can hear her calm, unwavering voice, “Oops, you dropped yourself” and it puts it all back into perspective.

Then I jump back up!

Oh, who am I kidding? I at least start thinking about getting my ass back up.

Resilience. And underreacting. Definitely two of the best lessons she ever taught me.

Carry on,
xox

How do you handle a fall? Share your secrets. I know you have ’em.

Once upon a time, I was a hoe. Or least I had convinced myself that I was.

During my early twenties, I fell in and out of love—a lot! And by a lot I mean, weekly.
But there were two teeny, tiny, complications.

Number one: I mistook infatuation and lust, for love and…
Number two: I was married. So, there was that.

I’m sure the fact that I was completely and totally unhappily married lead me to look for greener pastures, but truth be told, lush green grass was EVERYWHERE I looked. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to look for it—it found me. I seemed to unconsciously wander naked into field after green and luscious field of wild, verdant, grass.

Are you getting the thinly veiled sexy grass analogy? Yeah, I thought so.

Anyhow, I know that being a dissatisfied housewife summoned the greener pastures.
How do I know that?
Because less than two years after my divorce and a subsequent short-lived roll in the hay dalliance, I remained tragically single for eighteen years, half a dozen of which were grass-less and barren. The furthest, most opposite of lush green grass as you can get. Mohave Desert brown and dry.
Swollen tongue dry.
Severely chapped lips dry.
Camel toe dry.
Dry in every sense of the word—if you get my drift.

Nary a phone call nor a sideways glance came my way. Nothing. Zilch, zero, nada.
Crickets. The complete and total lack of interest expressed in me by the opposite sex was if I do say so myself…appalling.

I found myself single…and invisible.

When the occasional fellow (and I mean occasional, three in ten years), did decide to traverse the desert and ask me out, I responded like any dried up, thirsty nomad looking for her green oasis—I drank at the well of desperation as I clung to him by my sand filled fingernails—while my toes dialed the wedding planner.

I’m serious.

I had convinced myself that I couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions where men were concerned, after all, I had listened to lust and let a good one go.
Or so I thought.
What can I say? I was hallucinating, not in my right mind.
So, if a guy showed interest, and (gulp) I slept with him, I had to MARRY him. Right? Or at the very least buy matching his and hers snuggies and put a down payment on a condo—because that’s not terrifying to a man!

I was confiding this whacked-out way of thinking to a young friend the other day as anecdotal evidence that I was once under thirty-five, made a ton of questionable decisions, and had sex with men who didn’t propose. Hell, they didn’t even spend the night. Often, they ran shirtless out of my apartment and down the street to their car. Or I jumped out of a window and ran shoeless after their car…

What a mess. What a hot, hot mess. A promiscuous monogamist.

Anyway…

Then the craziest thing happened. She admitted to feeling that way too sometimes. (And here I thought that went out with big shoulder pads and even bigger Bon Jovi hair).

“So what did you do?” she asked, “How did you get out of thinking that every time you dated a guy—it HAD to lead to the big white dress?”

“I became a hoe” I chortled, the memory of it causing a dribble of coffee to come out of my nose.
She balked.
“Seriously! My best friend, the one with the great husband, finally lost her patience with me and my dating drama and ordered me to JUST DATE!”

My young friend was intrigued, “Go on”, she said with a quizzical look on her face.

“Well, my friend advised me to just play the field—have fun—lighten up—quit overthinking it—leave your phone with the Bridal Registry on speed dial…at home—and have sex like a man!”

My young friend leaned forward “What does that MEAN?”

I leaned in too “It is pretty vague, but I got the gist of what she meant. Have sex with the damn waiter. If he’s nice and there’s chemistry, and you’re both careful…go for it. You will probably not marry him—chances are, after two or three dates you may never see him again, but that’s okay.
You’ll know the right one.”

Now, that’s the way a woman has sex like a man—but it was the virtual permission slip I needed from someone who really knew me well—and I ran with it!

Listen, I’m not saying you should do this or anything else I ever write about but I will tell you this, my young friend ran toward a pasture that she was afraid to venture into and walked in some very tall, green grass this weekend—if you know what I mean.

Carry on,
xox

I love rants. Rants by definition are wild, impassioned speeches. I rant often. It beats the alternative—apathy.

Anyhow, here is exhibit A.
A ranty little rant written by someone I greatly admire who is anything but apathetic.  We met on Skype a couple of years ago when I wasn’t so sure I was a writer (I KNEW I was a ranter), and she had just secured a humongous book deal from a giant publishing house (don’t let anyone tell you that shit doesn’t happen anymore, Steph is living proof!), for her memoir, Unbound (which comes out in January).

In each other we found a kindred spirit. Two souls tethered together.
We both have Muses, we both love our men and our dogs (maybe not always in that order), we both aspire to spend our days laughing, eating and writing (again, not always in that order), we both believe in BIG magic, and we are both YES Sayers.

YES Sayers are harder to find than you may think. Most people have made a habit out of saying NO.

I just had to share her little YES rant with you so you can get an idea of who she is. Maybe it will inspire a desire to retire (wtf?!), your NO’s and say YES a little more often, just like it did to me. I’m currently searching for an ostrich to ride…

Carry on,
xox

I rode an ostrich once. I sat on it’s pillowy arse and then it ran like the wind. It happened because I said yes.

Yes, I will ride that bird.

Yes, I would like to go to the jungle. And yes, I would like to meet the shaman.

Yes…absolutely, I’ll try a bite of that giant snail.

Yes, I do want that promotion. Yes, I am worth that much.

Yes, I will. I will do that even though it’s terrifying AF and I’m not sure how.

Yes, I would like to sit at the shore of an ocean I’ve never laid eyes on just so I can listen to the rhythm it drums through the night.

Ice cream? Yes.

Love? Yes.

That dog’s tongue on my face? Yes.

Yes. Please. Thank you. Wow. Yes.

Here are some more Steph Jagger facts that I pilfered from her website:

P.S. I BET YOU WANT A FEW MORE JUICY TIDBITS DON’T YA?
I read. A lot. I love reading as much as I love laughter and when they’re combined. I can’t…I just can’t.

I’m obsessed about the good, the bad, the ugly and the drop dead freaking gorgeous involved with finding and truly owning who we are.

I have been referred to as the human embodiment of the mullet – polished professionalism up front and yee-haw laughter in the back.

I drink wine, usually it’s red but I won’t turn down white…or rosé.

The only kind of carrots I like are the ones on sticks, dangling in front of me.

I married my soul mate. The fact that he had a big, black dog sweetened the deal.

If I were a bettin’ gal, I’d put my money on pickles over cucumbers because I believe that courageous, awe-inspiring, hold-on-to-your-hat life doesn’t happen with one toe dangling in, but that we jump in and fully submerge. Get in the brine.

http://www.stephjagger.com

“Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

I am, by nature, one of the most optimist people you will ever have the good fortune, or mis-fortune to meet, depending on your mood.

After being around this long, I’ve developed the faith that things are always working out for me. (And when I say me I mean my country, my husband, my family, those I love and my dog—just to be clear.)

But, and I can say this from years of personal experience, a deep reservoir of doubt runs just under the surface of us optimists. We have a profound and abiding respect for it and unless you cohabitate with us or secretly videotape our most private moments (sicko), you will most likely never see it overtake us. We are extremely skilled at keeping it under wraps.

For many it can be a struggle. Yet, at the end of the day their cork always bobs to the top, their glass remains half-full. Pessimistic curmudgeons never fight with themselves this way. One half of them says things suck—and the other half agrees.

Sometimes…I envy them.  

Many describe their doubt as an adversary they meet on the battlefield. I was taught by a wise so-and-so along the way, I can’t remember who, that you have to face your doubt—and play the devil’s advocate.

It helps me when I stage a doubt and faith debate.

Instead of silencing my doubt or smothering it with chocolate sauce and salted peanuts and scarfing it down at midnight by the light of the refrigerator — I let it have its say.

When Doubt takes the podium he is disgusting—puffed up with hot air, bloated with confidence. He has flow-charts. He quotes statistics. You have to hand it to him, everything he points to has a basis in fact. He produces pictures and movies to remind you of past failures. When he thinks he has you on the ropes, he brings out a panel of experts who can back him up.

Don’t you fucking hate panels of experts?

If you’re like me I can only listen to his bullshit for so long before I start to argue—and that’s when the debate begins.

He can recite from memory an article he read or a study that was done which PROVES my dreams will never succeed. “I don’t believe that!” I interrupt. Then I site the exceptions, because if there are exceptions, well, then his theory sucks. I name big names, important names. names we’d all recognize.

He drinks water. He feigns ignorance.

“Look around you”, he demands, his face turning purple, “There is SO MUCH EVIDENCE. Nobody’s happy in their job, nobody likes what they do, what you hope to accomplish is impossible! Besides that, people are miserable. And they’re fat.” He stuffs half a Reuben with extra sauerkraut into his mouth between jabs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I step away from my podium for full effect. I have bare feet because, number one, it’s against the rules. And it throws Doubt for a loop. Doubt is most definitely a rule follower.  And number two, it grounds me.

“While I cannot argue that there are those who may feel this way, when I look beyond all the flotsam, I see hope. And possibility. There have always been people like me—like most of the people I know—who despite all of the cautionary tales still run into the arena.”

Doubt shakes his head in exasperation. There is mustard on his chin.

“It’s easier to be scared and quit. Believe me. I know. But as more and more of us poke holes in your lousy logic, it deflates… like a flaccid balloon. And everybody knows you can’t win an argument with a flaccid balloon.”

“Wrong.” he bends low and hisses air into his mic. “Wrooooong.” His eyes are squinted closed as he all but disappears behind his podium.  He knows I’m right.

Doubt had his say and the more I argued for my crazy, optimistic, why-the-hell-not way of life the more I stood flat-footed in my conviction. I started believing it.

Corks bob, glasses fill—and there’s the win.

Someone once said “Faith is to believe what you do not yet see.”
I think it was Bill Murray or some other saint who said it. It would have to be a saint because to maintain faith and optimism in this day and age, well, that would really be a miracle. But then I think about living in the middle ages with no indoor plumbing and only porridge to eat and I feel a sudden wave of gratitude.

See how that works?

Carry on,
xox

I was not one of those little girls who was afraid of her own shadow. As a matter of fact, I was pretty fearless.

I suppose I realized this at a relatively early age due to the fact that I had a friend, Lisa who was terrified of everything.
The world was a dangerous and terrifying place to poor Lisa.

She was afraid of dogs, big or small. Even hot dogs.
She was afraid of loud construction equipment.
She was afraid of heights.

Luckily, we outgrow some of our childhood fears. I heard Lisa went on to be a rocket scientist. I’m serious. At like JPL or NASA! The biggest friady cat I’ve ever known is sending people out into the dark vacuum of space.

The irony of it makes me laugh. And there’s another reason for my nervous laughter. The only fear Lisa and I shared was our fear of the dark. Of ghosts grabbing our legs as we ran to our beds, and pulling us down into hell.

Our night-lights had night-lights.

At sleep-overs we woke each other up to stand watch for the boogie man while the other trembled in her eight-year-old skin, trying to pee in the dark. Have you ever tried to pee while terrified? It’s an acquired skill.

We bonded over our shared fear. We understood it. We investigated suspicious bumps in the night together. We checked under each other’s bed with flashlights. We checked and double checked the primo ghost hideout—the closet. We even turned our dolls around so their dead eyes wouldn’t spook us in the dark.

You wanna know something else ironic?
Here you have two little girls who were deathly afraid of ghosts and the dark — one sits people on a literal bomb and sends them out where no one can hear them scream, and one has conversations about death — with dead people.

That’s right. I don’t talk about it a lot, but I hear dead people. They talk to me. And I’m not scared. Isn’t that crazy?

I used to be. I used to be unwilling, uncooperative, confused and embarrassed but over time that changed.

Listen, if a ghost reached out from under my bed and grabbed my leg I’d most certainly lose my shit (and don’t think I haven’t warned them about that), but in general—I’m okay with the talking. It’s not spooky at all. I tell myself I’m performing a public service, I’m hearing all about how great it is to be dead and I’m writing about the subject (at their insistence).

One thing I know for sure: The dead people I’ve talked to are happy and witty and “better than fine.”  They are interested in what’s happening with those they loved and for the most part they are feisty as hell. They are tired of being portrayed as spooks and ghouls—and don’t get them started on zombies!

In ancient Greece there was a name for those who were able to communicate with the ones who had passed—Walkers between the Worlds. Many cultures call them shamans. My friend Orna, who does a very advanced form of palm reading, grabbed my hand within an hour of meeting me and pronounced that I had “The mark of the shaman”  just as she’d suspected.

So there’s that.

Walkers are able to straddle the realm where the deceased reside…and do laundry and grocery shopping and sit in traffic. It can screw with you—but it’s mostly wonderful. Hey, I’m not special. I’m told that if we want to, we can all do it.

So, on this Dia de Los Muertos, this Day of the Dead, I’d like to honor all of my disembodied friends. Once I allowed them, they have added immeasurably to my life. And removed forever any fear of death. And to my childhood friend Lisa, who, it seems, overcame at least one of her fears, and to all the brave souls she sends out into space. May they return safely.

And if by chance they do not, don’t you worry about them. They are better than fine.

Carry on,
xox

Hi Guys,

I believe in stress. I just do. I try not to, but when I’m wearing my shoulders as earrings, well, it’s pretty hard to deny.

I also believe in the healing power of music. It can really send me. I’m ashamed to admit that the minute I hear Enya at the spa—I start drooling the ugly drool.

Finally, I believe in science. Neuroscience in particular although I don’t like to play favorites.

I read about this song the other day and I just had to share it.

As aside: Yesterday, I played it while I got dressed. Besides being warned off of operating heavy machinery while you listen, I advise that you stay away from black liquid eyeliner as well.  Anyhow, I noticed my dog, Ruby, standing frozen on the step, next to the speaker, eyes closed—mezmerized. I watched her for a long time. She stood in a trance until I reached for my phone to video her reaction, then, refreshed and renewed she jumped up on the bed and play-killed her stuffed bunny. Just sayin’, it seems to work for animals too.

Here’s the sciencey part: Neuroscientists say they’ve discovered the most relaxing song. “Weightless.”
Their top pick reduces anxiety by 65% in study participants!

I’ve downloaded “Weightless” from iTunes, but you can find a free 10-hr version in the article here:
http://www.inc.com/melanie-curtin/neuroscience-says-listening-to-this-one-song-reduces-anxiety-by-up-to-65-percent.html

Anyhow, since the world seems to be wound a little tight these days I thought this might help. Let me know what you think.
Enjoy a relaxing, stress-free weekend!

Carry on,
xox

“Miracles are like meatballs because nobody can exactly agree on what they are made of, where they come from, or how often they should appear.”
― Lemony Snicket

Hi my loves,
Here’s another WTF Friday miracle story. And it’s a GOOD one.
It’s been in my head, writing itself for days. I haven’t thought about it for over twenty years so it’s persistence proves to me that it’s a tale that wants to be told.

It shows how the Universe will take care of us NO MATTER WHAT when we are on our path. 

That being said, I will endeavor to tell it as I remember it, without embellishment, exactly as my mini Yoda, pocket-shaman relayed it to me.

He told me the story one rainy afternoon as he was brewing a pot of something that smelled like a combination of the bottom of a cat box and the inside of my high-school gym locker. He would roll his eyes and stare at me with complete exasperation, as I literally gagged that shit, I mean tea, down every day, with the promise that it would help me feel better. Remember, I wasn’t doing so well energetically at that time, and he was the humor-free shaman that the Universe had assigned to my case.

So…here goes.
Once upon a loooooong time ago, T,  (my Yoda) traveled the world for years with the intention of soaking up knowledge from different teachers and learning ancient healing techniques that in remote parts of the world are only passed down verbally.

As weeks turned to months and months to years, he had started to run out of money and was exhausted both mentally and physically.

He couldn’t remember exactly which country he was in, Nepal, he thought, when he found himself walking many hours on a rocky dirt road, looking for a place to eat and potentially stay the night.

“On that kind of journey, you often stay in local people’s homes” he explained, “Trading something you’ve gathered along the way for a bite to eat and a place to rest your weary bones.” He had collected a couple of beautiful scarves, precious beads, dried fruit, and chocolate, things that were easy to carry and could be used in lieu of currency.
He also offered a healing when appropriate.

As he tells it, he was hiking along, in a kind of walking meditation, on a steep mountain road, when he suddenly looked up and saw a tall tree next to a wall with a huge wooden door. He swears it appeared out of nowhere.

A Monastery perhaps? he wondered.

He stood in front of the wooden door for a long time after knocking.

Nothing. No answer.

He knocked again, louder, three more times with no reply before he walked away.

Five or six steps up the path he thought he heard the creaking of heavy wood and straining metal. He turned around to see a very tall man in long robes standing at the entrance.

He tried all the local dialects in an attempt to communicate with the man, but to no avail.  It was then that he noticed the intricate embroidery on his robes—which meant he wasn’t a monk, so this wasn’t a monastery.

He acted more like a doorman, silently nodding and gesturing for T to go inside.

He was intrigued and decided to comply. As he walked past the giant, dandily dressed man, he was surprised to feel how much cooler it was inside the dark shadows thrown by thick stone walls.  It appeared to him to be an ancient and enormous labyrinth of rooms.  He could hear birds singing and the trickle of fountains and everywhere he looked were elaborately colored tile walls. The floors were covered with Persian rugs made of ceramic tiles as the silent gentleman-doorman led him down a long hallway to a large bed chamber that was set up like a spa.

One side of the room was dominated by a thick, cushy mattress sitting on the floor that was overtaken by tons of large pillows and surrounded by voluminous drapes of fabric.  On a round table covered in mosaic tiles was a pitcher of water with fresh limes, and bowls of figs and dates. The other side had a large step-down tub/pool with a private bathroom, which was highly unusual.  In that part of the world, the baths and toilets, which were generally holes in the ground, were most commonly shared.

The man motioned for T to put down his heavy pack and rest.

T tried to explain that he had almost no money and that even if he did he could never afford to stay in such a grand establishment, for this could never be someone’s home, it must surely be the most beautiful hotel he’d ever seen.
But before he could finish… without a sound…the man was gone.

When he sat on the bed to figure out what to do next, he realized just how bone-tired he really was. The next thing he remembered was waking up surrounded by the long shadows of dusk.
After enjoying the facilities, soaking in the deep pool of cool, clean water and putting on fresh clothes, he left the room in search of the tall quiet guy or anyone else who may be in charge so he could apologize for falling asleep and give them what little money he had left.

The place was huge, covered floor to ceiling with ornate tile which left him visually disoriented while attempting to navigate a very complicated floor plan that kept leading him back to what appeared to be a large dining room.

The long table was surrounded by many chairs and lit by the glow of numerous candelabras. It was also completely covered, end to end—with food! Steaming hot plates of saffron rice with raisins, sauteed eggplant, and different meat dishes with flat bread and fruits of every variety.

He noticed only one place setting, it was at the head of the table. This must be a feast for the owner of the establishment he thought. Good, now I can talk to someone, and maybe get a bite to eat.
The smell of all the delicious food was making his stomach churn with hunger.

Just then the silent gentleman appeared.  T took out his money and started asking if it would be possible to talk to the owner and get something to eat; but the man again motioned for him to be seated at the head of the table. Bewildered, T sat down and the man with no words started to serve him. Guessing by now that maybe the lovely man had taken a vow of silence or was profoundly deaf, he ceased talking and started eating, figuring the owner or some other guests would come along soon, (even though he hadn’t seen another soul), allowing him to clear things up.

Certainly all this incredible food wasn’t just for him.
But it was.

The way he told it, that night was some of the best food and wine he’s EVER tasted.
And it was the best bed he’s EVER slept in, and the deepest sleep he’s EVER slept.

I can’t remember exactly how he discovered it, I think he saw the date on his watch, but at some point, he realized that when he woke up at dusk that first day, he had actually slept over 24 hours and it was dusk of the next day!
“No wonder I was so hungry.” He said, laughing.

Back at the Villa, he wandered around, getting lost in its beauty, never seeing another soul. He spent his hours admiring the opulence, swimming in the pool of clear cool water, eating whatever and whenever he felt like, and resting—deeply— something he hadn’t allowed himself to do for many months.

Occasionally, he would see the quiet man whom he had stopped trying to communicate with.
They seemed to do just fine without words.

He could have stayed in this Nirvana forever, but after three days he decided to leave, lest he take advantage of his benefactor’s generosity.
As he was leaving, he wrapped all his money and some valuable red amber beads in the best scarf he had, and put it on a table by the door. It wasn’t nearly enough for all the luxury afforded him, but it was all he had.

The days of rest he’d gotten gave him a new sense of purpose and he was able to do some healings to earn money, so he continued on his journey.

He figured it was about a year later when he was passing through that part of the world again that he wanted to go back and stay at the beautiful retreat. This time he had plenty of money to pay!

He climbed the steep  and dusty road, remembering all the twists and turns until he found himself suddenly at the top.
He must have passed the place while lost deep in anticipation of the food and wine, although that seemed impossible.
He walked back down the road slowly and deliberately now, finally seeing the tree to his left….but no wall, no large wooden door, and absolutely no villa.

He stood there for a long time, doubting himself, knowing he was standing in the exact right place.

He would NEVER forget this road and that tree with the giant door and the man who never spoke.

After awhile another traveler, an old man with a skinny goat, walked into view.
As the man passed, T asked him what had happened to the grand villa that had stood right in that spot just a year ago.

“I am a very old man, and I’ve lived at the bottom of the hill all my life, and I can assure you, there has never been any building, let alone something grand on this road”.

T thanked the old man, handing him several bags of almonds, and stood there mystified for some time. Eventually, he made his way back down the hill and stayed in town with the old man and the goat.

“The Universe provides just what we need when we need it” he assured me with the conviction miracles instill in people who have been beneficiaries of just such an event.

That is just one of many, many meatball miracles that happened to him on that journey to seek wisdom. The Universe provides.

I love that story. How about you?
Xox