spiritual

I find myself, at the ripe old age of sixty in possession of a life I love, an extra ten, fifteen, twenty pounds, and a finely tuned bullshit detector.

It has been honed and calibrated through the years, no, make that decades, mostly by paying attention to how it feels when something or someone is serving me some “shit of the bull.”

It has become a visceral thing and by that I mean I can smell it—because it stinks.

And it feels really, really bad.

Like fall down the stairs bad.
Like hit by a meteor bad.
Like thirty car pile up on the Interstate caused by a jackknifed big-rig full of dildos (I swear that really happened to me) bad.

You get the picture.

With regard to the meme above, I’m terrible at hiding, well anything, most especially the bullshit—so I don’t.

Neither will I defend it. I may try, but the minute you look at me cross-eyed or call “bullshit!” I cave because
I ALREADY KNEW IT!
I had the t-shirt and the all-day VIP pass.

But throughout my life, the one that continually trips me up is that rascal— rationalization, and it looks like this: me getting out my old Weight Watchers scale and weighing up the pluses and the minuses. The good and the bad.
Tracking columns, keeping score, making lists.

All the while knowing full well that the bad feelings far outweigh the good, that the minus column is as long as the neck of a giraffe, but still, there is that nagging, underlying sense of…what?

What has caused me through the years (although with much less frequency) to override my bullshit detector TO. MY. DETRIMENT?

Obligation. Obli-fucking-gation!

And what is obligation anyway? It’s the “shoulds”. The unspoken agreements. The implied senses of commitment and duty. In other words, things we feel we can’t get out of…alive.

I refer to it as the dreaded seventh sense, and in most people (myself included) it is the most powerful sense of all. If you ask any Catholic, Jew or basically anybody with a mother, they will tell you that their sense of obligation can take over their common sense, their good sense, their sense of self and most importantly it rides roughshod over their sense of what is really important in life—and what is BULLSHIT.

I know I don’t have to plead with you to understand (the last mention in the meme) because, well, you’re here and you’ve read this far so I feel confident that you can relate.

After this most recent, calamity ridden trip down bullshit lane, a route freshly paved by an irrational sense of obligation, I am bruised, battered, beleagured—and smelly, but now my eyes are wide open and I’m hopeful that it will be my last.

How about you?

Carry on,
xox

I believe with every fiber of my being that we ALL have a superpower. The thing or things that we are better at than almost ANYONE else.

Mine is my memory. I remember every word you said, the shoes you wore, and the song that was playing on the radio when you dumped me.
And then there’s my ability to weave that into a story.
Ouch. Oh relax, I’m only joking…sort of.

I have a friend who can make a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies last for more than three days — I know — UNBELIEVABLE. Yet, I have seen it with my own eyes.

Most mothers, including my own, are able to hear the spoken and often un-spoken mischievous musings, whispered plans and naughty plots of their children clear across the house, sometimes from out in the backyard with a cocktail while listening to the Dodger game; or even from the neighbor kid’s treehouse,

“No, you most certainly are NOT going to rig that old clothesline and beat up beach chair into a neighborhood zip line!”

Is she kidding? Could she have cracked our code? How did she know that was our plan? She’s making baloney sandwiches — in a house —down the block.

I was convinced as a child that her pink plastic hair rollers were some kind of sound enhancing devices.

Or how about this other widely demonstrated talent — the eyes in the back of her head trick.

“I see you…give your baby sister her cookie back. NOW!”

How is that possible…she’s driving?

Maternal Superpowers — used mostly in the service of good rather than evil; although as a child, that point was debatable.

My little sister is a kind of Culinary Wonder Woman. She can put together an event or party at the drop of a hint and I can guarantee you — it will be SPECTACULAR.

If you want to feed 6 or 60, it doesn’t matter, call Sue.

She’ll cater it herself with eight to fifteen different appetizers, each more delicious than the next. Then she’ll serve a roast turkey AND a Prime rib, AND a smoked ham AND a goat; all lovingly prepared and garnished to perfection — with thirty-five gourmet side dishes — half of them using kale. That’s a talent.

Oh, and you’d better leave room for dessert. They’ll be seventeen pies, ten cakes, donuts, pastries and fountains of chocolate, both dark and white.

All of them homemade. In her spare time.

Every inch of her home will be decorated for the affair. Gorgeous fresh flowers (grown, picked and arranged by her own loving hands), tablecloths and centerpieces with white twinkle lights hung by Tinkerbelle herself.

You’ll receive a keepsake memento as you enter, and another as you leave (after she gets to know you better). They will be thoughtful and touching things that are personally selected for you and you alone. Things that will make you cry; items you will treasure for years to come. (We haven’t yet figured out how she does that; as far as we can guess she has a team of people who go through your drawers while you’re at the party, then shop, gift wrap and return before you’re ever the wiser.)

If you’re one of the lucky ones she may have put together a slideshow of long forgotten but favorite photographs which will play on an endless loop — with a tear-jerking soundtrack.

Her parties are so inventive and fabulous that Martha Stewart has installed a top-secret party cam just to swipe ideas.

At Christmas, the elves at the North Pole have a Pinterest page of several years of her winter wonderland home and decoration ideas, which they present to Santa as their own — tiny lying slackers.

Susan’s undeniable superpower? — Making people happy with delicious food, beautiful ambiance and her over-the-top thoughtfulness.

My husband has the good fortune to have been blessed, as many of you have, with two superpowers.

He has his MacGyver Superpower and his Sparkle*.
Our friends and I tease him about it…but if you’ve ever been on the receiving end, they are both equally indispensable.

He can build you a house out of eleven Popsicle sticks, a random shard of glass, nine paperclips, one stick of Black Jack gum, and a sweat sock.
With those exact items, he can also fabricate a life raft, patch a blown tire, signal a rescue helicopter, fix a motorcycle, design a prom dress, start a signal fire, and end world hunger.

You want him on your team when the Zombie’s attack.

As for the Sparkle*(ting)…well, those that have been caught in its spell have given us the best table at a packed restaurant, upgraded us to First Class at no charge, overlooking the fact that our three bags each were over the weight limit, and found us front row tickets to a sold out concert.

Men, women, it doesn’t matter, his superpowers don’t discriminate.

Does it only work for he and I? Nope, whole groups of friends have benefited from his equal opportunity Sparkle*.

If he switched to the dark side…the man could rule the world. Seriously.

We all have ‘em these Superpowers— have you figured out what yours is?

Carry on,
xox

Oh, man. Let’s talk boundaries…again.
Because let’s be real here, half of us never set them and get steamrolled and the other half have learned to set them and risk looking like heartless turds. So…
Boundaries — Find them — set them — enforce them.

Sounds easy, right? Yeah, not so much.

“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.”
– Brene Brown

Boundaries with family? Look up “complicated, messy, clown car” in the dictionary and it’s a picture of a family without any boundaries.

I cannot tell you that setting boundaries always has a happy ending. It does not. One player always walks away disappointed and resentful so I suppose the only question we have to ask ourselves is this: Why is okay for me to be that person?

(I’m asking for a friend…)

Carry on,
xox

It’s uncanny. The way certain people in your life, even celebrities, can say or do or post just the right thing at the right time. Like they’re living a life parallel to your own. Liz Gilbert does that a lot. We have some kind of cosmic bond that was anchored by a hug way back in San Jose at an Oprah event.

Anyway, I too woke up this morning in a tangle. I’ve been tangled for a while now. Nothing as devastating as losing a partner like Liz, mine has to do with family and dysfunction, obligation, boundaries, and playing the role of the heartless turd, which is a nickname I gave myself last week before they all could.

When my mind is in distress it makes meditation a Herculean task. Like jumping rope without a bra, all my negative thoughts slap me around. I forget about my heart. I don’t know how I can because it hurts so much, but I do. And I know better.

The world seems very raw to me these days. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think so. Perhaps these words from Liz will remind you, as they did with me—to rest in the heart. Doesn’t that sound better than a boob slap?
I Love you, Liz.

Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones:
I woke up this morning with my mind in a tangle, and my emotions in a storm.

I lay there in bed for a long time, wrestling with my thoughts and fighting hard against my feelings. But I was losing ground. No matter how hard I used my powerful THOUGHTS to try to extract myself from my other powerful THOUGHTS, it didn’t work. My THOUGHTS just got darker, and then my THOUGHTS about my THOUGHTS got more panicked and distressed until new and worse THOUGHTS arose, and now we have a tornado, folks.
(This has happened to me before. But only once or twice.)

My mind thought: I NEED MORE THOUGHTS, TO FIX THESE THOUGHTS! THINK HARDER! FIND A SOLUTION TO EVERYTHING! STOP THIS! GET CONTROL! DIFFERENT THOUGHTS! BETTER THOUGHTS!

Then I remembered: I cannot use my mind to help my mind when my mind is in distress.
At these moments, only the heart can help.

So.
My heart stepped in quietly and said to my tired mind: “Come and rest your tangle here with me. I’ll take care of you, just the way you are.”

My mind said, “But, but, BUT —“

My heart said, “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

Then we all rested together — me, mind, heart.

No solving happened this morning.
Solving doesn’t always have to happen. Sometimes it can’t. Sometimes all you need is a safe place to rest.

HEART.

Then I got up and drew this picture, for the next time I forget.
Onward.
LG

Hey all,
This week, after waiting nine years, my step-father finally, finally, received​ a long overdue and very much-needed​ kidney transplant. This took any plans I may have had about writing anything other than medical information and threw them into the wood chipper.

So, while flipping through Facebook this morning on the toilet at the hospital, I caught this post by Danielle LaPorte and I agreed with every single point—and I think you will too.

I know you’ll cut me a break on displaying anything resembling regular posting while we go through this life-changing​ transition (I’m talking to myself here).

Mucho love-o and carry on,
xox

There are still some basic good manners that should prevail no matter our generation, station, or affiliation. Here’s what it might mean to be classy, kind, and considerate whenever you are able (and we are almost always able):

1. Big Moments deserve a call. When someone texts to tell you they are pregnant, not pregnant, breaking up, getting engaged, got the job, lost the job, saw aliens in the sky… CALL THEM—even if you know they’re going to let it go to voicemail.

2. Bring something when you show up. A small bar of dark chocolate. A few sticks of incense rolled in a piece of paper with a message written on it. A book you read that you’re willing to loan or give. A postcard you had pinned up forever. Small beauty is a big gift.

3. Re: Customer service. It’s often well-meaning, but saying “No problem” when the customer thanks you is not a terrific response. Because it shouldn’t ever be a problem, you’re in the position of service. Powerful replies: You’re very welcome. My pleasure. I’m happy I could help.

4. I’ve heard that spitting on the sidewalk is illegal in the Netherlands. They’re on to something.

5. If you REALLY want to meet up with someone, don’t just say, “Let’s get together soon” and pause, waiting for them to bite or blow you off. If you REALLY want to get together (in person or on the phone) then just make it happen: Suggest a date, commit to calling them in a few weeks to arrange, make it happen. Otherwise… you probably don’t REALLY want to get together.

6. How can I say this lovingly? Please shut the fuck up on your cell phone. We can hear your conversation. And we don’t want to, and you probably don’t want us to either. You may think it’s OK because you think you’re talking at the same volume as you would be if you had your conversation person sitting right there with you. But you’re louder and it’s weird. Take the call when you’re not surrounded by other people, hide under your coat, find a corner, or just… don’t.

7. On a related note: Your earbuds. We can hear your really loud music and podcasts. And we don’t want to. (Also, ear cells that get fried by excessively loud noise do not regenerate. You could go deaf. Might be karma.)

8. If you’re meeting someone at their house or office, especially if it’s one-on-one, do not be early.

9. Don’t film people without their permission to be filmed.

10. Pregnant women don’t want to have their bellies touched, unless they say so. Also, most moms of babies don’t want you to touch their baby. They act nice about it, but they’re cringing inside re: your germs and vibes.

11. When someone is getting divorced and has children, they very likely do not need to be reminded that, “the children are what’s most important”. They are aware. It’s probably why they stayed longer than they should in the marriage. It’s probably one of the most heartbreaking factors of the divorce. They know. No need to mention it.

12. Push your chair back in when you leave.

13. Leave your phone off the restaurant table. I’m really over people who check their phone in between every micro pause. Like, the forty-five​ seconds that I’m “distracted” by giving the waiter my order should not be treated as my absence and your text time. I’m with you. Right there. You asked me for dinner. Because we adore each other. So let’s be adoring.

14. Thank people for the great service. Love on them. I’m so grateful. Thank you for your good care. Thanks for making this easy. Thanks for understanding.

15. Always help people with small kids. They are superheroes.

16. Never be too busy to bring food to a sick friend.

~Danielle LaPorte

Do you care to add any?  Head over to the comments.

 http://www.daniellelaporte.com/good-manners-and-some-wuv-we-could-all-use-more-of-them/

Do you believe in energy?
I do.
Do you believe it can gather momentum?
You don’t? Oh, boy, I do!
What about those days when you wake up on the wrong side of the bed and before you can say crap sandwich​, you stub your toe, the cat pukes on every flat surface in your apartment, the zipper breaks on your favorite pair of pants and you get a parking ticket in front of Starbucks?

THAT is what I mean by momentum.

Thankfully, not all days are bad and neither is momentum.

Energy is an equal opportunity force that can kick up the volume on positive stuff too. Don’t shake your head like that! What about those mornings when your hair decides to obey all the laws of physics​ and arranges itself on your head in a not-so-shitty way, you find ten bucks in an old pair of jeans, and just when it seems like things can’t get any better—you get a primo parking spot at Trader Joes (which practically takes an act of Congress) in the ten minute window you left yourself to shop.

But I’m no different than anyone else. I forget about momentum. That would mean I have to pay attention to my energy and steer it in the direction that feels better. Fuck, that sounds exhausting!

It’s so much easier to play the victim.
Ouch.

The other day I got a front row seat to some wicked energy momentum and it was so blatantly apparent it stopped me in my tracks. You expect it to be stealthy, sneaky, but sometimes it is so in-your-face you have no choice but to pay attention and try and take control of the wheel before your day or week goes completely off the rails.

Case in point:
STANDING IN THE BATHROOM.

He: I saw on Facebook that my buddy’s business is sponsoring a race car.

Me: You were on Facebook? Are pigs flying?

He: Ha, ha, very funny. I know, I’m anti-social media. Anyway, they’re sponsoring a race car and I never heard anything about it.

Me: Why would you?

He: (aghast) Because! I’m the car and motorcycle guru. I’m their go-to guy for anything with an internal combustion engine.

Me: (Yawn) Right. Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure it was just an oversight.

He: (unintelligible) Grumble, grumble, grumble.

LATER THAT NIGHT…

Me: What’s the matter?

He: Nothing.

REPEAT THAT INTERACTION AT LEAST TEN TIMES.

Me: Okay.

He: I went to see my buddies at their headquarters to ask them about the race car, and when I pulled up I saw my electrician’s truck in the parking lot, and lo and behold his guys were there doing a bunch of electrical work without my knowledge.

Me: Well…Did you ask…?

He: No.

Me: Why not?

He: Because…it was weird.

Me: I know, but I’m sure there was some kind of mistake. A new guy maybe?

He: How could there be? They all know I’m the one who arranges any work that’s done there.

Me: Hmmm…

He: And when I walked into their office they were talking to another pal of ours and they all stopped talking, like I was intruding. It felt weird.

Me: (Thinking ) Then did they all flip their hair, laugh diabolically, and walk off together to homeroom? (Said out loud) Maybe it was just your imagination? What could they be saying that they wouldn’t want you to hear?

He: I don’t know. Nothing. It was just so weird that my electricians were there…

Me: I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.

He: Right…

Me: What about the race car? Did you ask about that?

He: Oh, yeah, it just happened. They were really excited to tell me all about it.

Me: See. It was nothing.

He: Right…

Me: Somebody needs a hug.

He: Somebody needs a bottle of wine!

As he downed his first glassof wine like it was grape juice, I gingerly mentioned the fact that it looked suspiciously like his energy of they left me out of the loop from that morning had gotten a whole lot of momentum and was having its way with his emotions.

I could instantly remember doing the same thing a million times. Can’t you? It hurts. And as obvious as it is that the crappy reality we’re creating in our minds can be changed if we just take the time to see it—sadly, we are always the last to know.

“Think about it,” I said. “Out of the loop is the one thing that all of those situations have in common.” He yeah butted me for a while until he could see it too.

“I’m sure when you talk to your guys tomorrow there will be a perfectly simple explanation that will have nothing to do with being left out.

And as it turns out that’s exactly what happened.
His electrician called him first thing in the morning to ask about the billing (proving that he wasn’t going behind his back) and later that day he found out there was a new guy at the company who wasn’t read-in on the maintenance-chain-of-command.

Nothing was nefarious or personal.
It was all just a bunch of misunderstandings that were feeding on his energy.

Do you believe in energy?
I do.
Do you believe in momentum?
I most certainly do. I’ve seen it in action!

Carry on,
xox

​

Sexual Chemistry — “It’s hot. It’s groovy, it’s great! Everyone should have it!

Romantic Infatuation — “Seeing your reflection in your lover’s eye MAKES YOU TEAR UP!”

“True romantic infatuation is pregnant with melancholy.”

Oh, Jason, I don’t know…you may have a point.

I wrote about Sexual chemistry once: http://www.theobserversvoice.com/2015/01/flashback-friday-chemistry/

You guys let me know how you feel about chemistry and infatuation. It’ll just be between you and me…

Carry on,

xox

Let’s get real here. Valentines Day sucks. It just does.
Oh sure, when you’re in the beginning of a relationship it can be all hearts and flowers, but in my opinion, it is the pink-clad, chocolate covered ugly step-sister of New Year’s Eve. Neither rarely live up to our expectations.

That being said, for their own emotional survival, some single women take things into their own hands.

Amy Pohler for instance. She invented Galentine’s Day.

Galentine’s Day is a popular fictional holiday for women to celebrate with their girlfriends.  Created by Amy Poehler’s character, Leslie Knope on the NBC sitcom Parks and Recreation, the holiday takes place every year on Feb. 13 in celebration of female friendship.

I love that.

Once upon a time, I created a day too.

Except mine makes me shudder with shame. You be the judge. 

Here ya go…

I am not proud of what I’m about to reveal—but it’s the truth.

Once upon a time, I had the world by the balls. Or the tits. Both are equally painful if you think about it.

Anyhow, I had a job I loved, lots of friends and foreign travel. I ate and drank well. I had enough sex (although, do you really ever have enough sex? — Asking for a friend). Only one thing stuck in my craw and I was an A-number-one brat about it.

Thinking back on this chapter of my life, I can’t believe what a spoiled jerk I was. A serious boil on the ass of humanity.

Nevertheless, I still think the cause was a good one—I just went about it all wrong.

I was nearing my forties, terminally single, and childless by choice.

One night, tipsy on wine and inadequacy after attending yet another friend’s baby shower directly on the heels of Mother’s Day, I decided that there needed to be a National holiday to celebrate women like…well, me…who am I kidding? Just me.

I picked a day in September, because of where it sits on the calendar (I wasn’t a total asshole). I placed it directly after summer and just prior to the run-up to the holidays. I think it was September 20th.

After careful consideration, filled with equal parts entitlement and hubris, I gathered together my family and friends to decree that September 20th would heretofore be known as Spinster Auntie Day!

I wanted cake. Cupcakes to be exact. I wanted decorations. And gifts. I think I even registered somewhere. God help me.

Why my sister didn’t, at the very least, gag and tie me up until I decided to behave myself is beyond me. Anyway…

My feeling was this: I celebrated everyone — all the time.
Weddings and their showers, babies and their showers and birthdays. So many baby birthdays… I lost count. In your thirties, celebrating matrimony and childbirth essentially takes up most of your Saturdays and many of your Sundays. Society at large celebrates mommies and motherhood. And families. As fun as that can be—and it was fun—after a decade I felt like an outsider.

It was a club of which I was not a member. Cue the violins.

There was no day for me and the many women like me. (Insert hands on hips, whining and foot stomps here.)

The unmarried, childless women that all the other women turned to in times of joy and crisis.
The Auntie. In my case, The Spinster Auntie.

The diaper changing, stroller pushing, tote lugging, binkie washing, baby wranglers.

The ones who take worried midnight phone calls, do emergency 6 am pharmacy runs, and read Goodnight Moon over and over tens of thousands of times. We sit covered in drool or some unidentified sticky substance to watch Frozen or Toy Story or Cars until we want to gouge our eyes out while the mommies grab a quick shower, run an errand, or God willing, catch a nap.

We were regularly available because we were a part of that village, you know, the one that it takes to raise a kid.
And besides that, we had no real life.

At the time I knew the parents were heroic. No question about it. But I couldn’t help feeling like at times we were the unsung heroes. No one meant to overlook us. They were sleep deprived and just so fucking busy being full-time parents.

Overlooking is never intentional.

Now before you go and totally hate me (If you don’t already), don’t get me wrong. I loved my auntie duties. My time spent with my niece and nephew and the children of all of my friends are irreplaceable. Every boo-boo kiss, hand-hold, “I wuv you”, and baby-belly-laugh was pure joy to me and I wouldn’t have missed it. I felt lucky to be a member of the inside circle.

I just wanted a day. And cake. Don’t forget about the cake.

I don’t remember if we ever celebrated Spinster Auntie Day more than once. Probably not. I’m certain I went on with my life, too ashamed to bring it up again. I think if asked my sister, with a shudder, could remember.

Come to find out I was not alone in my unadulterated shamelessness. In 2009, someone actually got a National Aunt and Uncle Day added to the calendar (I like my title better), but I never heard about it because by that time I was married and had, at long last, finally gotten over myself.

Listen, loves, the point here (if there is one), is this: Is there an unsung hero, an Auntie or Uncle either by birth or just their proximity, around you now? Please, please, will you say thank you and buy them a cupcake? From me?

Carry on,
xox

“If you sucked all the thoughts out of your head, you’d find nothing but peace.”
~ Jill Whalen

Swiping left is the new “talk to the hand”. At least it is for me.
(I know “talk to the hand” is so prehistoric that if it were a meme it would be that meme that made us all laugh our asses off last week—but now, when we see it, it only makes us cringe.)

So it’s the new “Bye, Felicia”… I know.

It’s get lost and kiss my ass all rolled up in the simple flick of the wrist. What more could you want from life?

So I’ve made it a practice to mentally “swipe left” when I’m searching for peace of mind by feeling dismissive.

Like now.

Dear 4,768th Blue Host renewal notice. I get it. You expire in March. Calm the fuck down — I’m swiping left.

Dear shitty thought in the middle of the night (which I can’t remember —but was epically terrifying). You know who you are. The one that woke me up and got me all sweaty in the pits and girly bits — I’m swiping left.

Dear sun-in-my-eyes while I write this because it’s winter and shade is nonexistent because the trees have no leaves and the sun is so low it feels like it has to try harder — I’m swiping left.

Dear Starbucks app. Sometimes I want to kiss you on the lips, but mostly you suck. Is this only in LA? — I’m swiping left.

Dear mirror, mirror on the wall. WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! — I’m swiping left.

Dear static electricity. You made my dress stick in my ass all day and you shocked me with such ferocity you nearly blew off the tip of my finger — I’m swiping left.

Dear Siri, you are useless and annoy me to no end — I’m swiping left.

Dear wine. Why have you forsaken me? — I’m swiping left.

Dear estrogen. Same question. — I’m swiping left.

Dear whiff of a thought of swimsuit shopping for my sixtieth birthday trip to a spa. You are one sadistic bitch — I’m swiping left.

Dear gnarly protein drink that was supposed to taste like a Frappuccino. Just so you know, false advertising is a criminal offense — I’m swiping left.

Dear everybody in Washington D.C.,  I will continue to look at you through my fingers like I do when I watch a horror movie. You are all scary as fuck — I’m swiping left.

You guys have got to try this. It really works.

Swiping left on Y’all now,
xox

I was talking by to a dear friend today about meditation and what a challenge it can be trying to fit this annoying exercise in futility invaluable tool into our busy lives.

“I’m lucky to grab five minutes!” She explained as we shared a decadent grilled cheese, tomato and ham sandwich from one of our favorite local haunts.

“That’s better than nothing” I replied with a mouth full of golden, drippy cheese.

“Yeah, well, just as I sat down to meditate yesterday, my husband barged into the room and ruined the vibe.”

Don’t you hate when that happens? I fucking hate when that happens!

It seems like just when I settle in, the gardener shows up with his bliss-shattering leaf-blower. Or my fifty-pound dog decides to jump in my lap.

I hate the interruption—but I don’t let it derail me. Let me explain.

As I’ve expressed here many times, I sucked at mediation…for decades!
I strained and struggled, I sought out the advice of gurus and I studied it endlessly.

One meditation teacher I had back in the early 80’s played loud music, usually Led Zeppelin, for an hour as we, his devoted idiots, students, sat in lotus, desperately trying not to mouth the lyrics. “Quiet the mind!” He’d yell over the voice Robert Plant.

Yeah, right.

One guy who was supposedly an Enlightened Master had us try to meditate with our feet submerged in ice water. That only made me have to pee.

Another teacher used the sounds of the city to try to sharpen our focus. She’d swing the doors and windows wide open allowing the symphony of traffic and sirens to bounce off the walls surrounding us in noise.

You guys, I sucked so bad at all of this. I mean, SO bad.

Trying to wrangle my focus long enough to settle my mind seemed as unattainable as a twenty-two inch waist.

Finally, my Shaman, yes, I had a kind of personal pocket-Shaman in the nineties, (long story) had no patience whatsoever for my endless complaining. “It’s easy to meditate in a dark and quiet room”, he’d say. “Child’s play!”

Yeah, right.

“The goal is to find stillness inside of the chaos.”

Didn’t I see that on a bumper sticker or an ad for Ambien?

“Right. Stillness inside chaos. Tell that to my monkey mind. It’s throwing its own poop right now!

Silently, (because who can argue with that compelling an image) he walked me over to a computer and pulled up a picture of a hurricane from Space.

“Look at this. Nature knows. See the eye? The eye is stillness inside of chaos. Be the eye.”

Well, shit.

But ya know what? One day all of that practice I’d had at focusing my mind in the midst of chaos paid off. I’m pretty sure I could meditate for a least five minutes next to a jack hammer—because I’ve done it!

And if you can do that, the next thing you’ll notice is that you won’t lose your mind in traffic—you won’t blow a gasket in the ten-items-or-less line at the supermarket when the guy in front of you has ten cases of different soups that have to be scanned separately—and you can sit with a group of co-workers, serenely sipping your latte while Bob, the guy in accounting, talks on and on about how Trump has made America great again.

All of this to say, practice pays off you guys. Five minutes leads to seven, seven minutes leads to ten, and the next thing you know, you’ll be so removed from the chaos you won’t know where your nose is or even if you have a face—and you won’t hear the timer go off.

I promise.

Trust me, it can happen. I’ve cleaned many a poopy wall—I know the struggle is real!

Carry on,
xox