guidance

Steve from Akron saw this hashtag on social media the other day, #firstsevenjobs, and sent me an email wondering if I could remember (yes, I can totally remember my first jobs, STEVE. Geesh!…just don’t ask me what I had for dinner last night), and he wanted to know if I would be willing to share.

I was a bit curious at first as to why Steve was asking?
Did I owe him money?
Has he seen me naked?
Did we belong to the same circus as teens?

But since I pretty much share everything with y’all, I have no qualms about this in the least. Maybe it will prompt you guys to share your first seven jobs with me. (Notice I said ME, not US. When I say US everybody suddenly becomes pathologically shy.)

1. Babysitting— Yep. People let me near their small children. They obviously had a lapse in judgment. They needed their mommy-daddy time. I earned a few bucks doing this as a teenager and I did it all the time for my parents—for FREE. Let me be clear, I was NOT the baby-whisperer. It was very much like herding cats for me and I’m sure, looking back, that it cemented my decision to remain childless.

2. Box girl/supermarket checker — Since my dad, uncle, cousins, and everyone else who shared my DNA worked in some way, shape, or form for the VONS grocery chain, it was considered our family business. The day you turned sixteen you got a job bagging groceries after school which I have to say instilled a great work ethic in myself and my siblings. When you turned eighteen, you could ditch the stupid apron and man the cash register which felt like a very big deal at the time. I learned to check on one of those registers that looks like a toy and goes Cha-ching! every time you push the buttons. A few years later, after electricity was invented, they installed scanners and barcodes, and since those of us who actually knew math became obsolete, I started to look for a “career” where my other skills besides a fluid arm motion, were not only appreciated but rewarded.

3. Buying and selling vintage clothes at the flea market— I had an eye for one-of-a-kind stuff and the skills for buying and selling, oh yeah, and math. These all came in handy for my part-timey, only on Sundays stint at the flea markets in my early twenties and kinda paved the way for what would follow. I was ripe to leave my job standing behind a cash register like some kind of she-bot with mall bangs and ONE giant earring. (Old ladies, who were probably my age now, would lean across the counter and express their concern, “Oh, sweetie, you lost and earring” to which I would reply “It’s fashion, grandma!”

I know. It was time for me to go.

4. TV commercials— I did plays and musical theater on the side too. It was LA, who didn’t? I was in school majoring in Theatre Arts and commercials paid the bills. Oh! I was also a part of the burgeoning 80’s punk music scene that was lighting up LA and was in three bands at the same time. Until I got divorced. Then I quit everything to work full-time.
Fun Fact: I was actually approached by an agent from William Morris while plowing head-first into a giant ice-cream Sunday with my sister to celebrate my divorce at twenty-six. True story. Ask my sister.
The agent’s opening line? “I like your look” I swear to God. It was so Woody Allen/Annie Hall.

5. Melrose Antique Mall— This was my transition job out of the market and into the antique business although I never in a million years thought I’d end up in fine jewelry! Since I wasn’t sure I should totally give up my highly lucrative ($300 a week), job at the market, I did both for a year. I worked 10-6 at the Antique Mall and 7-midnight at the market. For three months that summer, I did a play two nights a week.
I should have been exhausted but instead, I felt exhilarated! So much going on! So many choices! Ah, youth.

6. Estate Jeweler— The year I turned thirty I got a real grown-up job. Excalibur Estate Jewelry at the Antiquarius. It was fashioned after it’s counterpart in London with at that time, about twenty of the cities finest estate jewelry dealers all under one roof. One of the dealers at the antique mall was looking for someone to run his store—I was his second choice. FATE intervened. I quit VONS and the Antique Mall and even shot my last TV commercial to show them how serious I was about this “career” I had stumbled into. The owner, myself, and the employees that were added as the years went by built it into a multimillion-dollar family owned business. I’m really proud of that.

I stayed eighteen years, left on good terms and opened my own store, ATIK and well, we all know how that turned out.

Now I write.
Nothing up until now has lead to the writing.
Do you see anything in all of this that says, in your fifties, you will write? Yeah, me neither.
Isn’t it curious where life leads you? I always had fun when I just went with the flow. As you age you get stuck and the flow feels… scary, out of control. So it stops. Or you build a dam.

I have found that all of my pain in life has come from the struggle to be somewhere other than where I was standing. Fuck that! Not anymore!

Thanks Steve for this little trip down memory lane. I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t asked. I haven’t thought about this in ages and it was fun for me!

Carry on,
xox

A few months back I was wondering why things felt like a ton of effort. Mis-communication was rampant. Things were sticky and sucky all at the same time. Since my wise dead friend pretty much knows what I’m thinking about all the time, she offered this nugget one day, “Don’t answer an unasked question” she said, “It never goes well.”

Well duh, I thought to myself. Who does that anyway?

At first, what she meant was lost on me, too opaque, it’s true meaning hidden among the words.

After I thought about it for a minute—or fifteen—I began to get the gist.

Who answers questions no one has asked? Uh, Me! Turns out I do it all the time! And as I shared this little saying with a few of my friends it seems that they do too!

We’re all familiar with unsolicited advice. You can find it here, from me, every day. Ha!

But the truth of it is, if you’re here, chances are you wanna know what I have to say. Unlike my husband. The poor guy, he’s just venting and I’m bent on solving all of his problems in the kitchen every night while we make dinner. It starts with “Here’s what you need to do” and ends with “I know, I’m sorry, I should just keep my mouth shut”.

Every freakin’ night. The man’s a saint.
But seriously!

What about when you meet a friend for coffee and the first thing they say to you is, “You look tired” (translation: you look like shit warmed over). Aren’t you tempted to reply “No one asked you”?
I am. But I never say it. Too jackassy.
But seriously!

Just to clarify, here is what she meant.

Don’t talk to people about their kids—unless they ask you and even then it’s dicey. NEVER, EVER do it if you are childless. It could be hazardous to your health.

Don’t go on and on about your fabulous vacation, love life, doggie day care, kitchen remodel, new handbag or stories about your boss if you haven’t been specifically asked. There’s no faster way to clear a room.

The same holds true about voicing your feelings about politics, religion, race relations, the Olympics, mental illness, ADHD, OCD, or any other acronym that ends with a D.

Wait to be asked.

Don’t offer the steamy details of past romances with your current mate. Even if they ask. Change the subject.

Giving other writers feedback on things they’ve written? Oh, hell no! Don’t do it unless you’re asked.

Along those lines, don’t send out unsolicited manuscripts—they get thrown in the trash or people feel obligated to give you their “feedback” which are often not-so-thinly-veiled insults.

The same goes for flash drives filled with songs you wrote or pictures you took. Wait to be asked or suffer the consequences.

Recently, a friend making conversation told her sister, whom I had just met, about my screenplay. “You need to read it”, she enthused. “You’d love it!” I cringed. “Uh, sure”, her sister replied uncomfortably. “Here, let me give you her email”, my friend continued. I could tell her sister would rather have dental surgery. It was beyond awkward. I wanted to die.

There is a larger force at work here and it is what my deceased friend was referring to. It’s Energy. It’s so much better if you stop and read a room, the collective asking so to speak. It’s easy to tell what they’re asking for but you have to take a minute, be quiet and tune in.

That’s also true for the world at large. Even though nobody was specifically asking for a movie about large highly evolved blue aliens on a distant world endangered by humans, James Cameron hit the collective nerve/jackpot with Avatar.

He answered a question buried so deep we didn’t even know we were asking. He tuned in.

That’s turning out to be the answer to everything in life these days!

Carry on,
xox

~AN ALL AROUND FAN FAVORITE~(Notice how I’m not saying REPRISE)

Hi you guys,
I’m reprising this for Tracee, a reader from the Netherlands who has been looking for a way to explain death to her son. She remembered this post but couldn’t recall the name or who wrote it.

The Egg is an all around fan favorite and since I was also talking about death, and the fear of death yesterday with a couple of my girls, and since we have many new readers—I’m happy to reprise this for the third time!

Interesting tidbit about the short film: I haven’t seen if for a couple of years and I just watched it for the first time since finishing my screenplay. In my story, as dictated to me, the dead heroine in Heaven is perpetually munching on the snacks she keeps in her pockets, so I was surprised to see “god” pull an ice-cream cone out of his jacket in the video.

I love when that happens.

Carry on,
xox

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me.

“What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God.
I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe.
More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders.
“Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had. You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh, lots. Lots and lots. And into lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life, you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

A short film Adaptation: The takeaway…be nice, and have fun.

So…yesterday’s blog on family touched a nerve, a nerve so sensitive that the dialogue happened behind the scenes exclusively through text and email for privacy’s sake. No one wanted to offend anyone or open up a giant can of whoop-ass. I love that I have such a troll-free readership.
 

But believe me, I get it.

Many of you felt that I let family “off the hook” so to speak, and you felt obligated to weigh in.
Thank you. There is always another side to a coin. A different story to tell.

Some family members can behave hatefully and do real damage, and they absolutely, positively, do NOT have your best interest at heart. Since that has not been the case for me recently with my immediate blood family (I did have a wicked step-mother once-upon-a-time), I can’t speak to that—but you can.

After going back and forth on email, I asked this reader if I could please, please, pretty please, share their initial comment with the rest of you because it sort of summed up what everyone else was saying with a minimum of profanity and exclamation points!  And they agreed—just as long as they could maintain their anonymity.

So, here you go. Another, (and seemingly more common) view on family, bullshit-busting, motives, and friends.

Let me know what you think.
Carry on,
xox

I agree with you on many things and always respect your opinion, but I am not with you on this one.

I have found that very rarely are family members good arbiters of “bullshit”. Most of the time they act like wackos and their past experiences with you are tainted (and tinted by a filter) due to years of interlocking neurosis.

Oh, they will take you down a notch (or twelve) but do they have a better grasp of what is reality or the real you?

Do they really know you now? How much have they grown themselves and kept up with you? Do they have common sense (which is not common anymore!) or even your best interest at heart?
Not in my “reality”!

For this conversation, we’ll agree that we didn’t choose our family and that we’ve learned to live with what we got, so I feel very blessed that I have one family member who I would choose as a friend. And that’s where I rejoin you with the real “bullshit busters”: Your friends.
The friends that you pick (the good one at least) will call you on stuff because they grow with you and support your well-being. They will also support you in your dreams, aspirations, and growth without an agenda or baggage from your common past.

And if or when they stop doing that, they slowly dwindle away, to be replaced by new ones.

Family.

I’ve been around family all week and if you want to get a sense of your standing in the larger scheme of things…go sit with your family.

They are the great equalizers.

They are the anti-bullshit brigade.

However accomplished I may think I am, however big I am for my britches; I can count on them to take me down a notch, reminding me of who I really am —the fact that they’ve known me all of my life—and that I’m not all that.

You know what I’m talking about. Who’s with me?

Don’t get me wrong. They are quick with their heartfelt congratulations and words of encouragement, but make no mistake, they will be there to yank the string of my balloon and bring me back down to reality where I belong.

And as much as I may hate it—it’s invaluable.

If you’re like me, you may have the good fortune of being surrounded by people who think you hung the moon and the feeling is mutual. I marinate in a kind of mutual admiration stew. But before you get all twitchy, thinking I’ve aced out all of the truth tellers; every week I schedule regular visits with two of my pals who keep me honest and grounded, Kim and Sally.

They ask the hard questions. They get in my face when I need it—and even when I don’t, but truth be told, we all need that. People around us who call “bullshit!” The bullshit-busters as I like to call them.

Family.

Because they know us SO well, it can be direct, filterless, even blunt, because hey, family doesn’t pussy-foot around. They give it to you straight. It may hurt your feelings, but after the dust settles you know that everyone meant well in the end.

That’s family.

Throughout history, family has been counted on to hold each other accountable. It’s their JOB. Even the famous, highly accomplished folks have a family.

I have it on good authority that Albert Einstein’s mother was horrified by the way he wore his hair. Sure, he was good at math, but for god sakes son, get a haircut!

Bill Gates’s dad was NOT happy that his son dropped out of college. Although, once he convinced his parents how serious he was about starting a company, they became supportive. But still, I can just imagine the uncomfortable Sunday night conversations around the Gate’s family dinner table where they tried to convince him to keep this computer thing a “hobby”, stay in Harvard, graduate, and get a real job.

I’m certain Meryl Streep’s family is so proud of her, but I bet they are the first to dial her down, keep her feet on the ground and remind her of her true place in the world. Mother, daughter, sister, and friend.

Which leads me to ask because I just can’t help myself, where is Donald Trump’s family? Do they ask him the hard questions? Do they call bullshit? He is a perfect example of why this kind of equalizing is so important.

We have our “yes men”, and then we have our family and if yours is anything like mine—they don’t let you get away with jack-shit.

And that is as it should be.

Carry on,
xox

Family is visiting, and I’m left with very little time to write. So, there may be some reprises this week…and they may start today.

Carry on with your summer,
xox

Man! That’s a hard lesson for me.
And lately, revisiting a situation in the same old manner I’ve done in the past just. Isn’t. working.

It’s insanity. Truly. Or in plain speak, it’s crazy making.

Thursday, I tried something different, something new, and I found my way out of crazy town. I know I’m not alone with my over-stamped passport and resident’s visa to crazy town so I thought I’d share what happened.

Things in my life have been going really well. Better than well. They’ve been magorific!
The writing is fun as hell, the possibilities on the horizon — endless. I have found myself happier than I can ever remember being.

I know that saying that out loud is deemed a subversive act, but it comes into play here—I just can’t help it—and besides, wtf’s with THAT?

Anyway…I’ve begun to realize inside this massive reinvention of my life, that my past comes into play pretty much…NEVER.
Nothing I’ve done in my life up to this point, besides learning to read and write, has made a rat’s ass of difference in what is transpiring these days.
That at once feels daunting — making me feel like a complete novice in my mid-fifties, a time where you’re supposed to know shit — and liberating — like I want to take off my bra and run topless down the beach just as I may have done as a girl.

The very day I was reveling in this realization, my past came to visit me. To test my resolve.

The City of Los Angeles wanted more tax money from my long since dissolved corporation. I’ve been sending e-mails and faxing paperwork to them for a couple of years. My corporation ceases to exist which means… I owe them nada.

This is the perfect time to say: I have little tolerance of bureaucracy, even less for bureaucracy when they bug you for money, and none at all when they aren’t entitled to the money they’re chasing.

Meanwhile, they’ve gotten creative with their estimations of my imagined sales and have compounded the penalty interest daily. I’m sure you know what that feels like.

It’s like arguing with an elderly, obstinant, and profoundly deaf, assholish uncle — who hates you.

When I saw the envelope my stomach sank. It sank so deep they were going to have to send James Cameron back into the inky blackness of the bottomless Marianas Trench in search of my poor stomach. Then the pit turned to venomous victimhood, which is the thug cousin of regular, generic victimhood.

It took me down the dark allies of shame and lack, places I am VERY familiar with.

My knee-jerk reaction was to rip it up or light it on fire, which is pretty much my knee-jerk reaction to everything.

Instead, I called my accountant and basically said, “Make this go away.” She barked back “It is tax season, I don’t have time for this!”, I think I heard her take a sip of beer or a hit off a crack pipe. “You’re going to have to do this yourself. Go to their Van Nuys office in person and take care of it.”

She may as well have suggested I jump into a pen of wild tigers while wearing Lady Gaga’s meat suit.

I hung up, ready to have a cigarette with the thugs in the alley of “this is not fair”.

“Damn. I’ve been so happy”, I lamented. And that’s when it hit me.
I’d rather stay happy than go back into those OLD feelings of victimhood and shame.
My past has NOTHING to do with what my life looks like now. This is NOT going to take me down! I will gather up my own stomach out of the pit of despair, go deal with the bureaucrats myself, and take care of this thing once and for all.

Are you with me?! Can I get an AMEN?!

But first I’ll eat a chocolate chip cookie, look at the paperwork with fresh eyes, see a phone number I’ve never seen before hidden on the back — and make a call.

Due to extremely high caller volume, (from people who were obviously much smarter than I was with much fresher eyes), I was asked to leave my number and they would call me back. “Bullshit!” I sneered and started to hang up. But that was the old way I always dealt with The City of Los Angeles. This new me left my cell phone number cheerfully on the recording.

By dinner time, I realized they hadn’t called me back but instead of fuming I just went back to Plan A.
I will go to Van Nuys and speak face to face with a human being, something I probably should have done years ago. There was no stomach pit, no malice, just anticipation of releasing an energetic albatross that’s been around my neck for years.

I woke up this morning waiting for the sinking feeling I’m so used to. Even as I was reminded of my impending visit to the exitless labyrinth of bureaucracy, I felt only relief. That was HUGE for me.

At 9 AM, on my way out the door to the gym, I glimpsed the pile of paperwork I would need for my visit to Van Nuys, and I remembered leaving my number for a callback. You’d better take that with you, what if they call you while you’re at the gym?, I reminded myself. Before I could start laughing at the absurdity of that thought, the phone in my pocket started ringing.

It was The City Of Los Angeles.

I’m not kidding. I can’t make this shit up. No one would believe me.

It was Mrs. Garcia (I love how when I asked her for her name she told me, Mrs. Garcia. I was in middle school all over again), and she was all business. She asked me a couple of unanswerable questions before we found some middle ground, I stayed light and shameless, and in the space of ten minutes, a chain of pain that has been severely knotted up for several years — fell away.

Turns out I owed them nada. (Here’s where I want to scream I told you so!!!)
Thank you, Mrs. Garcia!

And thank you happiness for the giant attitude adjustment.
And thank you past, for teaching me this valuable lesson.
And thank you chocolate chip cookie for just being delicious.
And thank You Guys for reading.

Carry on,
xox

In case you didn’t see the latest from Liz Gilbert. It’s SOOOO good!
xoxJ

Dear Ones –

I’ve been going through a lot of big life transformations lately — moving through divorce, and loss, and the terrifying illnesses of loved ones, and outrageous upheavals of emotion — and none of it is easy.

Sometimes our transformations bring out the best in us, and sometimes they do not. When the ground breaks open because of an earthquake, you can be certain that everything — absolutely EVERYTHING — will be upturned, unearthed, or cracked open.

When you get cracked open, you will not always love what you discover about yourself. You wish you were a better person (whatever that means.) You wish you had handled this or that crisis with more grace. You wish you were stronger. You wish you were more certain about things. You wish you could go back and have that conversation all over again, and do it more wisely. You wish you were more forgiving. You wish you were more honest. You wish you were less judgmental. You wish you were less emotional. You wish you had figured things out sooner, or better, or smarter. Sometimes, you must face the truth that you have caused pain to yourself. Sometimes you have caused pain to others.

In short: You wish you were different. And wishing that you were different always, always, always hurts.

This is all very natural.

But we can choose in these difficult moments of self-doubt and regret and confusion whether or not we are going to hate ourselves for any of it…or whether we are going to practice self-love.
This is important.

The parts of yourself that you do not love are terribly vital, because they demand that you dig deep — deeper than you ever thought you would have to dig — in order to summon compassion and forgiveness for the struggling human being whom you are.

And until you learn to treat the struggling human being whom you are with a modicum of empathy, tenderness, and love, you will never be able to love anyone or anything with the fullness of your heart…and that would be a great shame. Because this is what we all want, isn’t it? This is what we came here for, right? To learn how to love each other with the fullness of our hearts?

Please know this: Whenever you withhold love from yourself, you are withholding love from the world…period.
We really need you to stop doing that.

The world has enough problems, without you withholding any more love.

Please understand that these difficult parts of yourself (the shameful parts, the regretful parts, and those episodes of your biography that are so spiky and troublesome and contradictory and embarrassing that you simply don’t know what to do with them)…please understand that these difficult parts of yourself are your ultimate teachers in compassion. Those parts of yourself are where you must begin learning how to love.

You guys? This is not a simple or straightforward moment in my life right now. There is a lot to sort through. There are a lot of parts of myself that I must examine now with unflinching honesty, if I am to grow.

I am willing to practice self-honesty. I believe in it, fully.
BUT SELF-HONESTY WITHOUT SELF-LOVE IS NOTHING BUT SELF-ABUSE.

And here is what I am finding, as I age: I simply do not have the stamina for self-abuse anymore. Just can’t do it anymore. I dip into it sometimes for a moment or two, but I can’t stay there — my heart just isn’t in it anymore. I used to be so good at self-hatred and shame! I could attack myself for YEARS — drowning in an endless wave of self-criticism. But I’m out of shape these days when it comes to self-hatred. I’ve lost that special kind of emotional endurance which is required for nonstop self-degradation and attack. I can’t do that to anyone else, and I can’t do it to myself, either. Too much practice in empathy and too many years of tenderness have ruined my chances to collapse ever again into the job of full-time shame.

I have loved all the hatred for myself out of myself.
(Well. Mostly, anyhow.)
🙂

And so now, when I suffer and struggle, I ask myself, “What part of you is hurting, Liz, and how we can love it — even as you are hurting?”

We must begin there — with the parts that we do not love.

This doesn’t mean being complacent. This doesn’t mean living in denial. This doesn’t mean that I have stopped trying to grow and transform. This doesn’t mean that I am excused from being self-accountable. This doesn’t mean burying my head in the sand, or telling myself lies. It just means: There is no part of myself anymore that I do not believe is deserving of love.
And that’s good news.

Because the only way I’m ever going to learn how to love any of you beautiful freaks — by which I mean all 7 billion of you gorgeous, unpredictable, troubled, weird, contradictory, struggling, devastatingly inspiring, broken, and perfect humans with whom I share this difficult planet — is if I can learn how to love my own freaky-ass self, too.

If I can accept me, Dear Ones, I can accept anyone.
So this is where we shall begin.
OK?

LG

This is my latest Huffington Post piece and another in my unintentional series on the way hope, gratitude and optimism have become dirty words these days. What do you think my tribe?
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/i-may-be-a-pollyanna-but-_b_11265326.html

It’s become terminally “uncool” to be hopeful and optimistic; and if anyone so much as gets a whiff of it, you are laughed at, belittled and shouted down.

That being said, I have a confession to make—I am proud to admit that I am a card-carrying “Pollyanna”.

Just to clarify, “Pollyanna” is a derogatory term for someone who remains excessively sweet-tempered and optimistic even in adversity. This may sound like it’s all fairy dust, rainbows, and unicorn balls, but I’m here to tell you, it can be difficult to maintain, especially surrounded as we are by the current apocalyptic zeitgeist.

Optimism is not for crybabies or the faint of heart.
Neither is hope. It’s an audacious act.
And fucking hard work.
It takes focus, grit, grace, a thick skin and the ability to unplug.

Hopelessness has countless outlets these days and it broadcasts its tale of woe 24/7. Like a spoiled, bratty child it yells at the top of its lungs all the while keeping its hands over its ears, lest it hear something uplifting—like the truth.

Here at the Pollyanna channel, we eat fear for breakfast—because we know the truth.

College graduation is at an all time high.
Teenage pregnancy numbers have continued to fall.
Violent crime is at an all-time low.
There has been a drop in domestic violence and drunk driving-related deaths.
Around the world, deaths from infectious diseases and child mortality are at an all time low.
Just to name a few.

I’m not blind, I still see huge room for improvement, but as an optimist, I believe the solutions come to us when we stay centered in hope.

It can be damn hard. I get it.

But like I said, optimism is not a fair weather sport for weaklings. It is for warriors. It’s so much easier to complain and blame, be furious and scared.

This pollyanna shit is not all kumbaya—it takes work!

By-the-way, if a doctor, therapist, teacher or pastor told me that the problem I was struggling with was a hopeless disaster, I would seriously run for the freakin’ hills. I expect even more from someone campaigning for the highest office in the land.

Please tell me one time that that kind of thinking has brought lasting, positive change.
One time. Tell me. I’m waiting.
NEVER.

I can guarantee you that throughout human history while some fraidy-cat fear-monger was running around like a headless chicken screaming about a falling sky, the Pollyanna’s in the bunch were calming the crowd and building a roof.

I swear to God, Noah was a Pollyanna.

“What devastating flood?” he said, over the deafening shouts of rain! Rain! Flood! Flood! Death! Disaster—and worse, no flood insurance!

“I’m building a boat” was his reply.

“What an idiot you are!” they all shouted after him as he sailed away.

Pollyanna’s unite! Be strong in the face of constant ridicule. Use your hope, use your faith, keep your optimism high and calm the crowds. Stay in the arena! We need you in the game!

Carry on.

This post from two years ago makes me smile for a number of reasons.

First of all, the audio. Come on! Hilarious!

Then because the adventure I refer to DID change my life, it gave permission to call myself a writer which then unleashed the Kraken, so to speak. And finally there is the fact that I’m marinating in a delicious gumbo of anticipation this very minute regarding the most magical project EVER—and I’ve gotten so much better!

Are you camp instant gratification or camp anticipation? Which one are ya?
Carry on,
xox

Anticipation. Anticipa.a.tion
Is making me late.
Is keeping me waiting.
~Music and lyrics by Carly Simon

In a little over four weeks I will be embarking on an exciting adventure.
It feels life changing.

Hello, I don’t know if you’ve met me?
I am the “Queen of Instant Gratification” so the anticipation is KILLING me!

To some people, anticipation is delicious, something to be spread on little toast points and relished.

My husband is such a person. He will create little pockets of anticipation whenever he can.
Looking forward to weekend rides with his buddies, his Memorial trip every year with his brother.
I see him light up when he talks about it or is texting the details.

He enjoys EVERY SINGLE SECOND of the wait.
It makes me laugh and roll my eyes, but I do envy him his simple pleasures.

Me you ask? Not so much.

Anticipation is torture for me. I’m THAT girl.

Spontaneity is MY middle name.

Come on , let’s not draw this thing out, show me the surprise, or tell me the secret. Get on with it!

Byron Katie says that anticipation is where fear and terror live, not reality.
I usually don’t disagree with her, but from what I’ve observed at my house, that is not the case.

Now if you’re talking expectation – I believe that about expectations. I’ve met fear and terror there. But that’s a conversation for another day.

I think anticipation is a lost art—and that makes me sad.
It needs to make a comeback!

I’m not sure I can lead the parade on this, but from living with The Grand Marshall, I gotta tell ya, anticipation kicks instant gratification’s ass every time.

What’s wrong with us? (Notice how I’ve lumped you in with Team Janet)

Why can’t the wait be great?

We want something, we buy it. We don’t save fifty bucks a month living on the excitement of the dream for a year.
Not anymore.
Shit. Amazon now has same-day delivery; they must have read all my emails complaining about the overnight wait. Same-day was MADE for people like me.

My husband. He’ll wait. He’ll look forward ALL WEEK to the Thursday delivery.

I want to be in his camp, I’m just not wired that way.

I do remember getting VERY excited when I was about nine and the one telephone we had in the house would ring. My dad would announce: Janet, it’s for you, and my heart would start racing. Who was it? Was it a boy? Thirty seconds of excruciating anticipation. Maybe that’s the cause for me. The point of origin for this particular neurosis?

HE, on the other hand, was raised in France.

They wait to see a doctor. The entire country waits until August to go on vacation, they even wait until after work in the evening to buy bread for dinner.

As he will patiently re-explain to me at least once a month:the feeling of looking forward to something is magical and must be savored.

Like a fine wine or stinky cheese, it gets richer and more complex over time. As each detail of the anticipated event unfolds, the feeling mounts; until, as I have witnessed with him, it culminates in a night before Christmas kind of giddy, sleepless euphoria – wearing a silly grin.

It’s impossible for me to maintain such a high level of excitement.

I’ll explode. My face will get stuck grinning stupidly, and I need my sleep.

“Are we there yet?”

I DO get excited, but it’s my nature to wait until the very last minute.
I just want the event, vacation, surprise, whatever to start, I don’t make a big Magilla out of the lead-up time. I don’t mark off days on the calendar to remind me how much glorious waiting time I have left.

But I just may this time.
I see how the other half lives and it looks…….fun.

I too want to wear a silly grin and become giddy as the days draw closer.

Let’s see how this goes, reviving this lost art of anticipation, shall we?

Are you in my camp or his? Do you relish the wait?
I’d love to hear your stories of anticipation my dear ones, they’ll help me!
Thanks!

Sending love….in a minute…..wait for it.
Xox

Wanna listen instead?
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/anticipation

A gentle reminder for the times we find ourselves in these days. Ha!

You’re welcome!

Carry on,
xox