spiritual

• I love the lengths that the dearly departed go to in order to communicate with us!

“Oh, I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me
Oh, I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me”

This week has been …interesting.

You see, I talk to a dead person, a woman who happens to be my muse, all the time. This week it turned from singular to plural.

I officially talk to dead people.

It started innocently enough at a lunch on Tuesday with my bad-ass, no-taker-of-shit friend, Kim. Since becoming friends we found out that at the same time I was managing a jewelry store in Beverly Hills she was at William Morris agenting a Diva who was at the height of her career.

I like to think it’s the same thing.
What?
Is it not even remotely the same?

Listen, it’s my blog and I can dream.

Anyway, we were getting caught up, sharing a Chinese chicken salad at Joan’s, and right in the middle of her recounting a story about the screenplay she is collaborating on about her life working for the Diva, I interrupted her.

Me: (Salad spilling out of my mouth) Oh, oh, remind me to tell you about my dream. Whitney was in it.

Kim: And you’re just getting around to telling me this now?

Me: I know! I forgot, but your story reminded me.

Kim: Go on. I yield the floor.

The dream went like this: I was in a theater at the invitation of my good friend Tom Hanks ;-).
It was some kind of talk he was giving and although we were likethis I was not special enough to be seated close enough to him to breathe his air. While I was busy trying unsuccessfully to convince people “I’m with Tom” from my seat in the nosebleed section, a woman in a white evening gown stood up about ten rows in front of me. Besides thinking she was a tad overdressed, I recognized her.

“That’s Whitney Houston”, I said to no one in particular.
“It can’t be…she’s dead” they responded.

At that moment our eyes met and she started her way up the aisle toward me. When she got to my row I stood up because, Yo! It was freaking Whitney Houston!

“I think it’s high time we met”, she said handing me an autographed 8 x 10 picture of herself.

“Oh shit. you too?” was all I could say.

Back at Joan’s, Kim sat across from me dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you’re just telling me this! I have felt Whitney around so much lately and now she’s getting in touch with you!”

She went back to her story about hearing the song I Wanna Dance With Somebody, one of Whitney’s greatest hits, playing in her head day and night. “She wants it at the end of the screenplay”,  she announced with conviction. “It took some convincing of my collaborator but just last night, at my (and Whitney’s) insistance—we wrote it in.”

Whitney had a few more things to say to Kim at lunch. It wasn’t creepy at all. It was cool. She was…cool.

The next day, this bright orange sweater (in the picture above) caught my attention as I was perusing the racks of a second-hand store I’m currently obsessed with. When I read the large white lettering I gasped! I mean, what are the odds? Then I texted Kim a picture as fast as my fingers could type. Excited, I walked in a twenty-foot circle waiting for her to respond. About five minutes later she did.

Kim: wtf?
Me: Right?
Kim: She’s stalking you.
Me: I think that was for you!

That gave me a genius idea. I walked back over to the rack to grab the sweater to buy it for Kim. She could wear it to the movie screening! (With a designer skirt and wildly expensive shoes, of course.) Except…

Me: Kim, the sweater isn’t there!
Kim: Where is it?
Me: I have no idea! I went back and it’s gone! I’ve looked everywhere and there are only three other people in here and they’re nowhere around me. Wtf?
Kim: Corkie, solve the mystery.
Me: I can’t! It’s gone.

You guys, did it really exist at all?

I have a picture…

Carry on,
xox

This fascinates me!
We all know how different the tears we cry when we step on a Lego feel from the ones we shed at the end of a relationship.

But who knew that they actually looked so dramatically different. Like little salt snowflakes.

Clearly, this is more proof of the mind/body connection. Obviously, the body rearranges the salts, antibodies, and lysozymes according to how we feel.

We live in amazing times. Don’t you love science?

PS. Can anyone explain “tears of change” to me? Are those the same as frustration, fear, a bad haircut?

Carry on,
xox

This photo series by Rose-Lynn Fisher captures tears of grief, joy, laughter and irritation under the microscope.

Tears aren’t just water. They’re primarily made up of water, salts, antibodies and lysozymes, but the composition depends on the type of tear. There are three main types – basal tears, reflex tears, and weeping tears.

As you can see, they can look incredibly different when evaporated and placed under a microscope.

More info: http://bit.ly/RJqvK7

Images by Rose-Lynn Fisher, via the Smithsonian Magazine and ScienceAlert.

If I can say one thing with conviction it is that ink cartridges for your printer ALWAYS run out when you need them the most.

Case in point: The other morning while I was at the gym (trying to find my abs), my husband was in his office busily preparing invoices on his computer for the five or six different jobs he’s working on right now.

We like invoices. Invoices are check magnets. Checks allow us to eat. And we love to eat, so there you go.

Anyhow, when I returned he was circling the printer, cursing a blue streak. It seems his printer had run out of black ink and subsequently had refused to print the invoices. “I thought I had another black cartridge in here”, he grumbled through grit teeth while rummaging through a cabinet. He slammed the door shut and slumped in his chair. “Great. Now I can’t print these today.”

I could barely hear him over the growling of my stomach.

My husband is old school. He not only emails his invoices, he prints up hard copies for his files along with copies for his clients to hold in their hot little hands. He has found that these same hands are much more likely to write checks when they’ve just held one of his carefully prepared, itemized invoices. Nobody gives a shit when you email them a bill so basically, paper wins over technology every time.

This stopped me in my tracks. “What? I mean what about the color cartridge? You could print them in blue or purple?”

He shot me a look that straightened even my pubic hair.

“Listen”, I said, remaining calm. “You aren’t dressed yet, but I am, I’ll make a quick run to Staples and get you a black cartridge. I’ll be back before you’re out of the shower.”

After presenting a few lame protests, he agreed and off I went.

As I closed the door I heard him offer to give me some cash. “I’ve got it!” I replied, sprinting to the car. I remembered having about $50 in my wallet, I mean, how much could it be?

Not fifty dollars I can tell you that! Not sixty-dollars either. That fucker was SEVENTY-DOLLARS!
PLUS TAX!

“Whyyyyy?” I yelled waving the cartridge at the boy stocking the printer paper. He just shook his head and looked away.
“Why is this so expensive?” I hissed, interrogating the check out girl. “It’s a tablespoon of ink in three dollars of plastic!” She offered me a rebate without looking at me. A $2 rebate that takes eight weeks to take the two dollars off my SEVENTY DOLLAR printer ink purchase.

“People pay this? This is extortion!” I yelled as the manager walked up. He seemed hardened to this argument. He had talking points. “You save when you order in bulk”, he said, motioning to alert the three-hundred-pound security guard. I knew that guy would understand my plight. We needed to invoice! We needed to eat!

“Ha!” I guffawed loudly, a little bit of spit landing on my chin.

Embarrassed, I mumbled under my breath while handing the cashier my debit card “Bulk? You’ve gotta be kidding me. A bulk order of this ink is equal to a car payment.” I grabbed my cartridge made of gold—and the receipt with the fucking rebate to fill out and mail in. I wasn’t giving them that extra $2 godammit!

“What a racket.” Were my parting words as I passed the bemused security guard. He nodded in agreement even though I’m relatively sure he had no idea what I was talking about.

This whole thing really pissed me off. Our immediate need for an overpriced product stripped away all of my power leaving me with no options. He needed to print invoices. Today.

I opened all the cars windows on the way home, attempting to change my mood. It was a beautiful morning. I had already accrued my ten thousand steps. The invoices would be printed and we would live to eat another day.

“Let it go, Janet,” I said to myself. “This is how they can sell printers so cheap.” 

Then I started to think about the other NECESSITIES in our lives where they have us over a barrel.

Epipens came to mind. That’s just a crime. Plain and simple.

And Razor blades. Have you purchased a pack of razor blades lately? They’re so valuable people steal them. (Like saffron at the supermarket and Sudafed at the drug store.) You have to ask for them up at the register at Target.

Tell me why? They’re three one-inch blades of steel encased in fifty cents of plastic!

That got me thinking, maybe the razor blade price gouging started this beard phenomenon we’re experiencing. Men just threw up their hands and said: “Fuck it!” I can eat or I can shave. (Everything comes down to eating with me.)

BTW: I was wondering who to blame. Not every man looks good in a beard you know.

So the moral of this story is: It’s the principal of the thing. Even if I can afford it, I don’t like being taken advantage of for no good reason.

I know I’m not alone here. Tell me what gets your blood boiling.

Carry on,
xox

I sat in traffic on a crowded tree-lined boulevard today trying to figure out how I could get to the Starbucks drive-thru on the other side of the street without going to jail.

I don’t mean to sound mellow dramatic, but the city planners had placed this caffeine savior on a corner that is almost impossible to get to without repelling from an aircraft. Seeing that I was not in my helicopter, or driving Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang today (if you have no idea what that is–shame on you—and look it up), I had the bright idea to go down a block, get in the left-hand turn lane and swing an illegal u-turn.

Great minds think alike.
The left turn lane had sixteen cars in it blocking the flow of traffic. There, clearly posted, was a black arrow swinging back at itself inside of a bright red circle with a slash through the middle. In other words, the universal sign for no u-turn. Unfortunately, caffeine deprived human beings don’t give a shit about signs. Signs are just suggestions. We want our lattes and we want them NOW!

Besides, there’s safety in numbers, right? 

As I waited for my turn to break the law, out of the corner of my eye my attention was drawn to the bus stop at the corner. There stood a young woman dressed like she was catching the shuttle to Coachella. Let me explain why that matters. We had London weather today. Cool, gray and drizzly. I wore a sweater although most people in LA who are under thirty dress like it’s one-hundred degrees all year ‘round.

In her daisy dukes, crop top, muffin top, and flip-flops, she was flailing around like my aunt doing the chicken dance at a family wedding. At first, I thought she might be having a seizure, but I quickly realized she was being chased by a bee.

I recognized that level of apiphobia.
Once, at a bar-b-que, the cousin of a friend ran straight through a sliding glass door trying to escape a bee. We all assumed she was allergic, fleeing for her life. She was not. She did, however, knock herself unconscious, require seventeen stitches and a splint for a severely broken nose.

Everyone uses anaphylactic shock as an excuse to act like a headless chicken but it’s actually pretty rare to die from a bee sting. Trust me, I looked it up. 

I’ve been stung by a bee half a dozen times in my life and while it hurts like a MoFo, in my opinion what she suffered was way worse than a bee sting. I never saw her again but I always wondered if her overreaction that day cured her of her bee phobia.

Back at the bus stop, I could understand this girls panic given all the prime real estate she displayed.
The amount of skin to clothing ratio must have summoned the bee to come and check her out. Don’t they always show up when you’re in a bikini drinking an orange soda? I suppose it could be the soda that attracts the bees, but they never sting the soda can, aiming their sites strictly on a bikini exposed stomach or the back of a lily-white thigh.

Think about that.

Speaking of soda, my little brother was drinking a soda once when a bee landed on his mouth, deftly placing its front legs on his upper lip and its back legs on his lower lip. Of course, he froze. I think he mumbled “help me” but being the highly dysfunctional family we were, we showed little concern for his well-being. This was funny and we love funny, so instead, we laughed our asses off, my mom took a Polaroid, and someone eventually snicked it off his lips with their thumb and forefinger leaving him shaken, but un-stung.

 Bus stop bee hysteria prevailed. The girl was spinning around frantically, arms in the air, wildly shooing the invisible bee from her hair and swatting at her face. It was the best free street theatre no money could buy. I’m ashamed to say I was riveted. I couldn’t look away. When she narrowly missed running into one of the bus stop poles, I nearly lost it. I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. Tears were streaming down my face. I think I peed a little.

I felt like such an ass (for a minute) laughing at her that way until I saw her laughing too. Oh, thank god she could see the humor! I guarantee you couldn’t have kept a straight face. The whole thing was hilarious!

Finally, the not so friendly, aggresive, honking from the long line of cars behind shook me from my trance. It was my turn to break the law and I was holding things up. In case you were wondering, when I left the Starbucks, I checked to see how our bee slayer had fared but she was gone. I can only assume she made it safely onto the bus or knocked herself unconscious with her shoulder bag and was in an abulance headed to the hospital.

So, thank you, girl at the bus stop being chased by a bee. I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.

Carry on,
xox

My dead friend at 9:18 am this morning: “How disappointed are you to find out that we came here to be happy?”

Me (With a mouth full of toothpaste): Whaaa…disappointed? What?

DF: Just be quiet and listen.

“LIFE.”

It’s not a business trip where all you do is work, work, work.

It’s not a prison for idiots and bad people.

It’s not a series of problems that need to be fixed.

It’s not a tourist destination where all you do is take pictures and leave.

It’s not a planet in peril that needs to be saved.

Contrary to some beliefs it’s not a schoolroom with a huge test at the end.

This beautiful blue planet was created for our enjoyment. Every animal, plant, rock and grain of sand is here to add to the fun.

Quit taking it all so damn seriously! Live life. Have fun. Be happy.

Me: That’s it?  Are you going without wishing me a happy weekend?

DF: Jeez. I think that goes without saying.

Carry on,
xox

Hi All,
This is for several people I love. Their bones are broken. Their ribs are cracked. And even though it’s over for a few of them— it still gets hard to breathe sometimes. I love you.
Carry on,
xox

ARE YOU READY TO FORGIVE? The complicated, gritty path to grace.

It’s complex. It’s confusing. It’s deeply particular. It’s the through-line of most mystical teachings:

Forgiveness.

I’m a “Forgiveness Aspirant.” I’m just as good at holding a grudge as I am at letting it go, but for the most part, I want to be as gracious as possible, and I really do believe that forgiveness is the primary Light source of an illumined existence.

That said, choosing—at a critical moment—not to forgive was one of the most spiritual, Soul-affirming acts of my life.

For me, divorce was like having my bones broken very, very slowly, one limb after the next, and then each rib—which made it difficult to breathe for a long time. It was brutal. It didn’t matter that I was the one walking away. I had to crawl my way back into the Light. The dismantling of the marriage agreement itself was very civilized and straightforward. But I had no idea that the real work had just begun. You can’t move on to a new life until you unpack the old one—or burn it down to the ground.

So, I unpacked. I also torched, and past-life-regressed, and journaled, and therapized, and danced, and raged, and grieved, and owned my way through every inch of the journey. I had to go back and do some of it over again, just to make sure it was out of my system. I was not going to take the past into my future. I held up each memory and emotion to surmise: is this a Truth or is this a lie? I was extremely thorough. And when my work was done, which took way longer than I would have preferred, I had become one of those rebirthed, empowered woman clichés. All I could say when asked was, “I’m better than ever. Like, better than ever.”

Toward the end of that long trip, I was working with an exquisite healer—she’s a total energy ninja. We were working on getting my adrenals back in shape. Cutting some energy cords, putting some astral protection into place…you know, the usual. I’d had a series of disturbing dreams that week, indicators of “intrusions,” you could say. I was ready to analyze them, up my frankincense oil intake, chant some Durga mantras, and keep on keeping on.

At the end of a text exchange we were having about the effects of Light meditation on the nervous system, this Lady Ninja of the Light wrote, “D, you have to forgive him.” My face flushed with heat and my stomach sank. It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. I’d come so far. My life was beginning to shimmer. My money was mine, I was back in my body, my heart was lush with Love and gratitude. So much of my reinvention had been about reckoning and validating my sanity for all the times that I’d thought I was crazy. I was finally seeing clearly. I had boundaries in place. I was over it.

I read that sentence over three times. “D, you have to forgive him.” Then I burst into hot, panicked tears. I’d been calm just moments before. Now I was frantic. Because here’s what I heard echoing inside of the words “forgive him”:

“Dismantle your boundaries, make yourself wrong, admit to things you never did so everyone thinks you’re nicer and saner than you may appear, let him back into your heart, and effectively dissolve your last few years of intense self-scrutiny and resurrection. And while you’re at it, let him into your house, be friendly, be a progressive family unit, and for God’s sake, smile more—because that is what it means to be a truly spiritual person, Danielle.”

At least that’s how I interpreted it.

My phone rang. (Lady Ninja of the Light is so tuned in that she could feel my panic across the country.) I didn’t bother to compose myself before I answered. I just received the call and wept into the phone.

Let me pause here and say that this ninja healer is one of the most cherished beings in my life. When I figure out one of the esoteric riddles she gives me, I feel accomplished. I want to continue learning from her as long as I can. Her respect matters to me—a lot.

She listened gently on the other end of the line as I cried and cried.

After a minute or so, she said, “D?”

I felt like I was in a movie version of an ancient Greek myth. I was the sweaty protagonist, sword in hand, tired as hell, trying to stay alive in a succession of tests. Do I go left down the maze, or right? Do I scale the wall, or do I accept defeat?

I took a stuttered but full inhale because, in that moment, I knew which way I was going to go. I also knew that my beloved mentor would see me as an unfit spiritual student, and our time together would come to an end.

“I’m sorry,” I broke the silence. “But I just can’t do it.” Long pause. “I can’t forgive if it means letting him back into my heart. I’ve come too far.” Silence. What I was thinking was, I know you think I’m a loser, but I really have no choice. Thank you for working with me; you can break up with me now.

I wanted to be spiritually respectable, but I just couldn’t care about “evolving” anymore. For once, I was only exactly where I was. No aspiration, all acceptance. My knowing was coursing through my body; it felt impossibly wrong to abandon it. So there I stood, with my inconvenient Truth. I don’t think I’ve ever been as human as I was in that moment.

And then Lady Light burst out laughing her oh, honey-child kind of laugh. “Oh, God no! You do not have to give him the time of day. Ever again. Noooo. Just forgive his SOUL!” She laughed some more. “It’s actually the hardest work to do—because that’s what’s real.”

“So don’t let down my guard?” I said, all snuffly and hopeful.

“Nope. Please don’t.”

“Forgive his Soul?” I confirmed.

“Yep. The biggest thing there is.”

“Oh! Well I can do THAT! I’m halfway there!”

“You’re way more than halfway there. This is the finish line,” she affirmed.

“Well, that’s all you needed to say!” Then we laughed that awesome post-sobbing, post-skill-testing-question, full-bodied woman laugh. Sweet relief! I was going to stay the course:

Keep it real, aim high, do the divine work.

Of course, it wasn’t quite that easy—the actual forgiveness practice of my Soul addressing his was profoundly painful at times. But it didn’t last long. At that stage, it was like removing slivers instead of cracking bones.

I sat in meditation, and over the course of many months, I streamed Light and Love to his Higher Self. I pictured him standing directly in front of me and I gazed at him with total kindness. If that felt too close for comfort on that day, then I’d just imagine him as a Light form of pure energy. I allowed his Soul to come near to mine again. I let myself adore who he truly is. And I thanked him, over and over again, for participating in our agreement to play out what we did in this lifetime. I took it a step further and extended the same gratitude to all of the people in his life. I prayed for their well-being. I cherished his very Soul. Completely.

By honoring my humanity, I got fuller access to my divine power. On Earth, in the day-to-day, my boundaries stayed very much intact. And I moved forward much more freely, navigating with a lighter heart.

PS: Most of us have a forgiveness story we’re in the midst of unraveling. Send this to someone who needs to give themselves a break, or give up their grudge. xo.

DANIELLELAPORTE.COM

“If you build the guts to do something, anything, then you better save enough to face the consequences.”
― Criss Jami

Things that never happened because I didn’t have the guts.
The list is long. Like longer than Taylor Swift’s legs long.

How do I know for sure what could have happened?
I don’t. But my regret does.
I’m sure you know what I mean.

My regret is an artist who paints with broad strokes. Large, majestic scenery, filled with full-color landscapes of stories that never happened.

It also is a master in the art of persuasion.

Those stories look spectacular.
They seem amazing.
They are fucking fairy tales.

In these scenarios, my gutless self is replaced by another person. Someone who is risk averse; the acrobatic chance taker/failure dodger. For instance:

I’m a Broadway actress with a shelf crowded with Tony awards.

I’m a rock star, or the wife of a rock star (take your pick), who continues to tour and performs to sold-out crowds.

I’m a mother. Twin boys and a girl.

I’m an entrepreneur who shattered the glass ceiling and owns six companies that are all publicly traded.

I’m a seasoned lecturer and public speaker.

I’m someone who looks refreshed and rested, at least ten years younger (but whose wallet is twenty-five thousand dollars lighter.)

I’m the winner of Dancing With The Stars, The Voice, the Apprentice, and Jeopardy (the celebrity edition).

I’m a mentor on America’s Top Model after having my face grace more magazine covers than any other living human being.

I am resting on my laurels.

~OR HOW ABOUT~

I’m an aging hippie who lives off the land up in Oregon.

I’m an aging New Ager who lives off tips in Hawaii.

I’m the aging owner of a brothel somewhere tolerant of that sort of thing.

I’m busking on the corners of Santa Cruz.

I’m the ex-wife of seven men.

I’m someone who never married, looks thirty-five and owns dozens of Siamese cats.

I’m living in a Villa in Italy after cashing out, buying a one-way ticket, and hooking up with a guy named Paulo.

I have photo albums filled with pictures of me bungee jumping, sky diving and formula one racing, climbing Mt. Everest, Deep sea diving and waving my certificate that states I am the top of my class in NASA astronaut training school.

I’ve changed my name to Solange.

After surveying this list. The list that was supposed to summon that pit in my stomach. You know, the one that makes you feel bad about yourself and feeds regret?

Instead I had an epiphany.

What if those things didn’t happen not so much because of a guts deficit — but due to a keen sense of the obvious as far as knowing what I was capable of — an inkling of my life’s trajectory — a ginormous helping of common sense?

Ha! Take that regret!

P.S. I HAVE done many things in my life that required a shit-ton of guts, and so have YOU—but THAT my friends, is a list for another day.

Got any regrets?

Carry On,
xox

Hi Y’all,
This is a beautiful short film which I encourage you to take a moment to watch.

If you’re at work, gather your pals around at lunch.
If you want to have a better day, watch it before you leave the house.
If you had a crap day, lose yourself in it before you go to bed.

We all forget to practice gratitude. I’m the worst!

Even though I’d classify myself as an optimist, I can pick a nit from here to eternity!
You want to know what’s wrong wth something? Ask me. I’ll tell ya.

THAT ladies and gentleman is NOT gratitude. Far from it. That is what I’m calling: Mind flatulence—A lot of hot air with no substance!

Whenever I remember how lucky I am to have been born on this planet at this time in history, it makes me weep.

Let this short film do that for you. Let it help you remember. Let it fill you with gratitude.

I love you all,
Carry on,
xox

(This photo —I can’t even!)

For about six months back in the 1970’s I left my armpits unshaved.

For me, it was a bold and calculated act.

I wanted to fit in with the California hippy subculture whom I held up as the greatest examples of what was current in the world around me. They were the touchstone for all things necessary to fit in as a young, budding feminist in the post-patriarchal zeitgeist at the time.

Plus I saw pictures of Joan Baez and Grace Slick with long black hairy armpits. And besides that, the twin’s older sister Martha, who listened to Frank Zappa, and was so naturally organic and liberated, made it look pretty. Almost sexy.

Then I decided to let the hair on my legs grow out.
Mostly because no one noticed my radical armpit statement on account of the fact that the hair was blonde…and relatively sparse… and also because I wore a short-sleeved white cotton blouse as part of my uniform in Catholic High School so my pits were perpetually covered.

So, just as a watched pot never boils, my leg-hair took forever to grow long. But when it did, it shone in the sun like a pair of corn silk knee socks beneath my minuscule pleated plaid skirt.
I loved it.
Everyone loved it.
Even Martha, whose opinion meant the world to me, thought it was “rad.”

There was about a year or so in 1974-75 that the hair on my legs was longer than the hair on my head.
My dad actually pointed that out at Thanksgiving dinner with all of our relatives present—and not in a “proud father” kind of way.

Everyone I knew had long, straight hair, parted in the middle that fell to the middle of their backs. I wanted to be different so I cut mine to barely 1/4 inch all around. Think Jean Sebring or Twiggy.

This rendered Martha speechless the first time she saw me. She actually dropped her cigarette and missed a few lyrics to Ziggy Stardust. I had not received a higher compliment before—or since.

When Martha daned to drive the gaggle of her twin sister’s young friends to the movies or the mall or somewhere else fabulous, I caught her, several times from the back seat, staring at my hair in the rearview mirror.

If we had all perished that night in a fiery crash I would have died happy, completely satisfied—with a smile on my face.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it has to do with finding my way in the world. Maybe you’ve had similar experiences. Figuring out who you are is hard. And hairy. There are a lot of options out there to embrace.

Perhaps you’re like me and others of a “certain age” who are in the process of a mid-life re-invention.

Standing here at fifty-nine, there is not a single thing about me that is the same as when I was sixteen.
My hair blonde hair is course and gray, my stomach, once taught and tight is now soft and squishy, and black hair grows in places I’d rather not discuss.

But I can feel those teenage emotions like it was yesterday. How new and invigorating each act felt. Like I was both the sculpture and the sculptor with my hands the clay. Creating myself as I went along.

I want to feel that again, don’t you?

Without apology, I am a culmination of all of those decisions. Good, bad and ugly. And so are you!

You can’t tell me you didn’t absolutely LOVE your mullet when you first got it.

Or that ghastly tattoo on your ankle that you had removed on your thirtieth birthday.

What about the multiple self-inflicted ear piercings?

Or the bust developer you ordered from the back of The Enquirer.

Mohawk? Nice.
Purple eyebrows? Even better.
Lambchop sideburns for the guys? Meow.
Pierced tongue? Ouch, but okay.

What we did to define ourselves along the way helped make us who we are today you guys. Some are mic-drops. Most are not. I can only hope I do as well this time around.

When I look back I really have no regrets. Except…

I will have to live with my disco era over-plucked eyebrows until the day I die.

What are the best fads you followed from the past? And what would you rather not remember?

Carry on,
xox

Hey there fellow seekers,
Listen, we’re all seeking enlightenment in our own way. Right? Whether through meditation, tantric sex, or the most transcendent piece of salted dark chocolate. But what about mystical experiences? Do they count?

My answer to that is a big, fat, YES!
And they’re easier to come by. 😉

Witnessing the birth of a baby.
Holding a loved one’s hand as they die.
Completing a triathlon.
Listening to opera music.

For me, it happened while I was listening to the perfect piece of music while riding a perfect road, on a cloudless day that was the perfect temperature, on the back of our motorcycle—on the way to a sumptuous lunch—in Lucca, Italy. I have to admit, I cried a little.

According to Jason, “A Mystical experience is an encounter with transcendence.”
It includes but is not limited to:

Feelings of cosmic unity. Interconnectedness.

A mind free of all boundaries.

A feeling of ecstasy.

Feelings of being in the presence of something sacred.

An experience beyond language.

Multiple paradoxes. Understanding the unexplainable.

Feelings of being forever changed by a finite experience.

It holds the understanding of a deeper meaning.

So pay attention this weekend, because a mystical experience can happen to you when you least expect it.
Carry on,
xox