spiritual

STORY OF THE TAOIST FARMER

“There was once a farmer in ancient China who owned a horse. “You are so lucky!” his neighbors told him, “to have a horse to pull the cart for you.” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

One day he didn’t latch the gate properly and the horse ran away. “Oh no! That is terrible news!” his neighbors cried. “Such bad luck!” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

A few days later the horse returned, bringing with it six wild horses. “How fantastic! You are so lucky,” his neighbors told him. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The following week the farmer’s son was breaking-in one of the wild horses when it threw him to the ground, breaking his leg. “Oh no!” the neighbors cried. “Such bad luck, all over again!” “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next day soldiers came and took away all the young men to fight in the army. The farmer’s son was left behind. “You are so lucky!” his neighbors cried. “Maybe,” the farmer replied.

When we interpret a situation as an ‘opportunity’ or a ‘disaster’ it shapes the way that we respond.

But the Taoist Farmer shows that we can never truly know how a situation is going to turn out. There are no intrinsic ‘opportunities’ or ‘threats’ — there is only what happens and how we choose to respond.

In which case, doesn’t it make sense to look for the opportunities in every situation?

Are you facing a crisis at the moment? How might you turn it into an opportunity?

SO much has happened in the past year.

Some good, some just so-so, and a lot of it bad. Life had been a veritable roller coaster of disappointments.

“So much fuckery!” I am fond of saying. But,(and I’m asking you to bear with me here) what if there’s magic in the mess?

Inspirational speaker Rob Bell cautions us against judging a situation before we let it “play out”.
“Disappointment is taking score too soon,” he warns.

THAT has become my North Star and THAT is what has been playing out around me over and over and over again recently, so much so that I just had to write about it!

Imagine if you will, a non-believer in all of this hooey. We will call him, Husband.

A lovely curmudgeon of a man who, when confronted, refers to himself as a “realist”. Now imagine that as a cosmic joke perpetrated by the universe’s wicked sense of irony, this man lives with yours truly!

Now, take another leap and imagine that some of my woo, through acts of osmosis over twenty years together, has rubbed off on him.

Case in point: In the middle of the 2020 lockdown, he got kicked out of his “man cave” a place that smells of gasoline and beer, where he and his friends have hung out, tinkering with their various internal combustion gizmos while scratching their balls and watching car porn for over seven years.

“It’s the end of the world!” he howled into the wind.
“Maybe,” I responded from a safe distance away.

“I guess I could call my friend and see if he wants to split a place,” he posed one day after the crying had ceased.
“Sounds good,” I said, exercising a surprising economy with words.

“OMG! We found the PERFECT place but the landlord is a dick!” Husband complained one morning. “He wants to see every bank statement, five years of tax returns, social security, baptismal, confirmation, divorce and marriage certificates, AND a fifty-bajillion dollar deposit!”

“Feels to me like there might be a better place. I’d keep looking.”

“Noooooooooooo!!!!”

But there was. A better place.
The perfect place. Closer, cheaper, with a terrific landlord who basically agreed to the deal the day he met them—with a handshake.

And this has led to the man cave of all man caves and a side business that puts a sustained smile on that curmudgeon’s face the likes of which I’ve rarely (if ever) seen.

“What we need is an orange, rolling metal ladder!” Husband announced one day after breaking and building shit at the new lair.

And that is why god in her infinite wisdom invented the internet.

A couple of days later he received an email alerting him of the delivery time. You must be there tomorrow at 9am to unlock the gate to the parking lot and take delivery, it read.
“Yippee!” Husband exclaimed because this new 2.0 version of the curmudgeon is given to sudden outbursts of joy (but that’s a story for another day). He was about to receive the ladder of his dreams—only it wasn’t orange. “No worries, that’s just paint,” he assured me when I asked. This new guy was starting to freak me out 

Later the next day he returned home deflated, pissed, and ready to rumble—in other words, his old self.

As he tells it, he arrived for the delivery fifteen minutes early only to find the giant metal ladder crumpled into an origami swan inside the locked gate. Not only that, their brand new fence had been damaged in the process. Later, according to the footage from their security cameras, he watched the two delivery guys arrive really early, back their truck up to the fence, and after several failed attempts (and lots of fence bashing) they chucked the ladder in its box (which exploded) up over their heads and into the parking lot.

“This really sucks!” Husband hollered as he navigated the Amazon third-party refund labyrinth.
“Maybe,” I texted from the bedroom.

It turns out that damning security footage is just the evidence you need to get a full refund AND money for gate repair.
And in the meantime, he found an even more perfect ladder (if you can imagine that).

Taller, wheelier, cheaper…and orange.

“Wow! You’re so lucky!” I exclaimed.
“Maybe,” he replied with a wink.

If Husband can change his tune—we all can. Who’s still taking score? Not me!

Carry on,
xoxJ

Hello friends,

Pardon the interruption, but I couldn’t help but share this. If you’re one of my tens of Instagram followers you can go make yourself a sandwich because this is a repost from today, but if you don’t social media (good for you by-the-way) and you want to feel lucky take a look at this!

In the midst of this pandemic, I realize it’s easy to be infected with fear & fuckery.

But one thing I know for sure is that it’s just as easy to catch the good stuff and I truly believe magic is contagious. I believe that sharing it, talking and writing about it transmits it like a goddamn super-spreader!

So consider yourselves infected! Happy Friday you beautiful humans.

Sent with an embarrassing amount of giddy love,
Carry on,
xox

“0h look, a dollar!”

I shrieked inside my head so as not to scare the dog. 

I’d gotten the “hit” to walk an hour earlier than normal. And since it had been drizzling all night I also received the idea to take the road less traveled. 

A paved path with only a slight chance of mud, it was a bit more out of our way, but I listened just the same. 

Let me admit this right upfront—I’m someone who LOVES to find money. In coat pockets, crumpled up inside the car, but most especially—out in the wild. 

That’s why I’ve maintained the practice of leaving wads of dollar bills on neighborhood sidewalks, next to the trash can at my local car wash, and on the floor of the produce department at Trader Joe’s. 

I do it when I’m feeling “broke”. 

It may not make sense to you but it shifts my perspective. 

A lot. 

I mean, you must have an unending supply of money if you can just throw it away like that! Right?

Besides that, I love how it feels to find money. It makes me feel lucky, like someone’s looking out for me. 

Like I’m a magnet for blessings. 

So you can imagine my glee when, after I took this picture, I realized it wasn’t a dollar bill after all, but a FIFTY!!

Y’all, all I can say is Follow your “hits”.

No matter how counterintuitive. 

No matter how out of the way they seem to be taking you. 

And feel lucky as often as you can. I swear this shit is magic. 💫✨💫✨💫

Carry on,
xox Janet

“Our rituals demand that we give what we hope to receive.” ~ Oprah

Here we are, the day before the BIG DAY.

I’ve been wanting to write to you guys for days. Every morning I’d wake up and take the emotional temperature of the world, and every morning the answer was, not today.  But me being me, I’d still sit down and start a draft, you know, for later, and when the words wouldn’t come I’d finally give up, only to start another day.

I wanted to make you laugh, but nothing seemed funny.

I wanted to make you think, but then I remembered that your brain is probably as exhausted as mine so…no.

I wanted to vent, and rail, and do all of the things but we have cable news and the Twitter for that.

Most of all I wanted to give you some comfort because lord knows that’s what I need.

The list is short of the people I trust to have the steadiness and personal integrity for me to just hand over my anxiety-ridden self over to them for comfort. Oprah has proven herself to be one of those people. We are about the same age and I feel like we kinda grew up together. We read all the same books, loved all the same movies, and started talking about our spirituality at about the same time.

Oprah is my boo, she just doesn’t know it. 

That being said, of course she’s doing the exact thing I need her to do to comfort me (second only to a foot massage) a FREE prayer/meditation call later today for the soul of our country. It starts at 8PM Eastern — 5PM Pacific, and I knew right when I saw the invite on Instagram that THIS was exactly what I was waiting to send out today. Hope. 

The link to register is here:

zoomwithoprah.com

A short conversation with her good friend Glennon about her objectives for the call is here:

Glennon Doyle on Instagram: “Tomorrow is one of the most important days in our nation’s history. Anxiety and tension are at an all-time high.   People of conscience,…”

You guys, all weekend I participated in global meditations and when I went to bed last night the one thing I knew for sure was that LOVE conquers fear—and that the entire world has our back. YOU are rooting for us to not only succeed, but to triumph. 

And so I’m asking you, my readers from all over the globe, in the most humbled and grateful way I know how, to hold us in your hearts tomorrow. We need you.

Thank you and carry on,

xoxJB

“How we go into that day (election day) will determine how we come out of that day.” ~Glennon Doyle

Good Morning!

• Bronwyn’s Bio: For over fifteen years, Bronwyn has helped high-profile clients prepare for big moments on camera (American Idol, Real Time with Bill Maher, Bloomberg TV, CNBC’s Power Lunch, The Oprah Winfrey Show, the Home Shopping Network), and has midwifed over 120 TEDx, TED Global, and TED talks. Bronwyn’s superpower is helping people communicate in a way that breaks through the static of our everyday lives. In 20 Minutes with Bronwyn, you will get a steady dose of high voltage, practical (and highly irreverent) advice to help you dismantle the communication habits that are holding you back while giving you the skills you need to shine.

                 “You get to choose what you focus on, so choose wisely because what you focus on gets stronger.”

The above is a quote I have hanging in my office. Since it’s located right in front of my face, I read it every day. I’m not sure of the origin except to say it was probably said by someone who had regular, heated debates with God.

Ruby and I were both in good spirits yesterday morning, which I must mention here is an anomaly (one of us named Ruby is frequently foul, full of unspecific discontent and pandemic-driven angst) as we set off on our daily walk. The pace was just this side of a trot, much brisker than normal since she had a hard deadline—if she wanted to go to work with her dad (and who doesn’t?) she had to be back at the house by 8:30 SHARP.

It was gonna be tight.

If you can imagine dogs and sixty-plus-year-old women skipping, then imagine us smiling broadly as we skipped away. Buoyed by all of the morning cheer, I decided to forgo my recent commitment to listen to only uplifting podcasts in the morning, one I’d made to myself in the past several weeks in order to save my sanity. The polarization, civil unrest and police shootings had me on edge.

But yesterday I felt strong, like my psyche could handle it. I was sure nothing could rattle me. 

I was well-rested, fully oxygenated by the cardio, and what the hell, one little podcast on the imminent fall of our democracy wasn’t going to kill me. So I hit ‘play’ on something political.

The thing is, in all of my giddiness I forgot about my energy. About attraction. I forgot about all of that and…the full moon.

A large section of one of the towering eucalyptus trees that line the dirt path we walk everyday, broke free last week, thundering to the ground and partially blocking all of us dog parents and our canine kids who are happily running around off-leash. With just a hint of dew and a tinge of early-fall chilliness in the air, the smell of eucalyptus (which I LOVE) was particularly intoxicating. Inhaling deeply, I was filled with gratitude. An elusive emotion as of late, deep gratitude has been playing hide-n-seek with me for months.

I’m sure you can relate. 

These early morning walks in nature with Ruby have always been one of the bright spots of my day, but now, more than ever, I make an effort to really sink into appreciating every little thing. Every smell, every random heart-shaped stone that appears, the graceful way the white egrets saunter like runway models at the water’s edge, and the ever-present wooden wishbones the universe leaves scattered in the dirt for me as a sign to believe that—although it seems like proof to the contrary abounds—all is well. 

For some unknown reason the path, which is usually packed with Ruby’s friends, was uncharacteristically dog-free yesterday. Alone on the fallen eucalyptus section and lost in my podcast, I was startled to come upon a young woman nearly hidden by the fallen leaves and branches. Ruby hadn’t paid her one iota of attention, running past her, squeaking her ball the entire time, and I would have missed her too, except for the fact that she was wearing a stunning red dress and holding an enormous mirror just inches from her face, staring intently at her own reflection. 

“Good morning!” I chirped cheerily, stepping over the eucalyptus debris, trying to act like it was the most natural thing in the world to happen upon a woman in the wild with a mirror.  

She was oblivious. I moved on. 

Sometimes, the homeless spend the night surrounded by soft dirt, wild flowers and eucalyptus giants, but they don’t tend to appreciate nosey, free-range pooches getting into their business (and who can blame them) so they’re usually gone by the time the sun comes up. Besides, she looked to me to be more like a full-moon-inspired performance artist than a homeless woman. 

                                                                                     Oh, right, it’s a full moon…

“Trump is inciting violence. He wants a civil war!” the voice in my ear warned. The thought of that made me shiver. How had things gotten so bad? Everyone’s chosen a side and is dug in so deep it’s hard for me to imagine a way out. I felt my jaw tighten and I should have taken that as a sign to switch to music—but I didn’t. I inhaled more of the eucalyptus and went on my way. Ruby, now a good thirty feet ahead of me, was taking time to investigate particularly interesting scents left by the wild animals who traverse this dirt freeway every night. Since we didn’t have a lot of time I let her run farther ahead than usual. Besides, with the exception of red-dress-mirror-lady and one lone figure walking toward us—we were alone. The figure was too far in the distance to see their face so I looked for their dog. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know many of the owners by name—but I can recognize Elvis, Cowboy, Paco, Trudie, Ollie, and Hank a mile away. 

Not a dog in sight.

The man, middle-aged, in shorts and a black t-shirt, looked to be hugging the chain-link fence that runs from east to west above the water. I’ve seen that body language before. It’s never a good sign. It means they’re scared of dogs.

“Ruby!” I yelled. She stopped and turned around, her jaw locking down on the ball, causing it to scream bloody murder. I was determined to get the leash on her before the man got any closer but I was too late. He reached her first. Bending down he picked up a large stick. Instantly delighted and figuring he was up for a game of fetch, she dropped her ball and trotted toward him. Not sure if fetch was his intention, I picked up my pace, just shy of a run.

“Ruby, come!” I called. That’s when I got a clear glimpse of him. If fear had a face it was his. And I’ve witnessed that when some men feel fear it shows up disguised as rage. He doesn’t want to play fetch, I thought, nearly peeing my pants. 

“They want to divide us! Make Americans who disagree with them the enemy!” I yanked the single earbud spewing the hateful rhetoric out of my ear and smiled at the man, only I was wearing a mask so he couldn’t read my face. I would like to complain about, this but now is not the time.

He lunged at Ruby with the stick. “Keep your fucking dog away from me!” he screamed. “I’ll beat her in the head with this if she gets any closer!” He was militant, enraged. I believed him.

“No worries,” I said, summoning every ounce of calm I had in reserve. “She won’t hurt you, she’s just curious.” Clumsily, with shaking hands, I clipped on her leash and pulled her close. While I was bent down, he took that opportunity to hit me on the arm with his stick. Not hard. Just enough to get my attention.

“Hey!” I shouted reflexively, my own rage bubbling just below the surface. But I knew better than to escalate things with a crazed man holding a weapon so I backed away. 

                                                                                    What you focus on gets stronger.

“No one wants to hurt you,” I said, attempting to move slowly in the opposite direction. 

“I’m gonna hurt YOU!” he screamed, suddenly inches from my face. “Get your fucking dog away from me!” Before I could blink he raised the stick over his head and brought it down to hit me, stopping just short of making contact. I stood still, shooting daggers at him from behind my mirrored sunglasses. My feet grew roots. I knew what to do in the presence of a wild animal, especially one you’ve inadvertently pissed off by breathing the same air. You defuse the threat. You play dead.

Ruby just sat there squeaking her damn ball, she was reading MY energy so I stayed calm because I’ve seen her when she thinks I’m being threatened—it’s all bark but not a lot of bite. And this guy wasn’t above hurting her. As a matter of fact, he was angling for it. 

I counted in my head, One Mississippi… two Mississippi… three Mississippi.  

“Sorry about that,” I said and took off toward the silhouettes of three dogs and their owners in the distance.

Yelling a string of obscenities, he walked away, still hugging the fence. Right about the time my pulse was returning to something survivable we passed the woman with the mirror. Figuring she must have witnessed the tirade I decided to make light of it.

“Crazy full moon energy,” I said to her as we passed.

She was oblivious. Lost in her own reflection. So…far…through…the looking glass.

And for a quick second, I envied her. What a luxury that must be.

Stay safe out there & Carry on,

xox

https://youtu.be/WA4dDs0T7sM

“You’re an interesting species, an interesting mix. You’re capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone—only you’re not. See, in all our searching the only thing that we’ve found that makes the emptiness bearable is each other.”
~ From the movie Contact

When I watched this video last week I wept. Like it was the ugly cry, you guys. Because, after six months of watching the planet battle this pandemic, I’d forgotten.

I’d forgotten our greatness.
I’d forgotten our humanness, our drive and indomitable spirit.
I’d forgotten what hope feels like.
I could only see the horrible nightmare, becoming completely oblivious to the beautiful dream.

This minute and a half helped me to remember. To revel in the time before which seems so distant now, and to know for certain that because of WHO WE ARE— this incredible collective of diverse and remarkable human beings, that there are better days ahead for ALL of us.

And I figured that maybe like me, you might need a little reminder of what’s ahead.

Moments of time strung together minute by minute that will be so incredible they seem impossible to imagine.

Just like the ones in this stunning video

We ARE an interesting species, Capable of SO much.
Because nothing can stop what we can do together!

Carry on,
xox JB

This is from back in 2015 when all we had to worry about was the threat of a nuclear holocaust. Awwwww…the good old days! But it’s still really good advice.
Stay well my dear friends.
xox

It never occurred to me that I might die in a thermal-nuclear holocaust. 

A motorcycle accident, sure. Choking on my gum or a large mouthful of  Raisinettes, huge possibility. But turned into toast at the hands of two man-babies with weird hair? Not so much.

I grew up during the Cuban missile crisis, we had “duck and cover”  drills twice a week in an effort to convince us we’d be safe under our desks. Like radiation and fire would skip over our grade school. Or Catholic kids dressed in their Gawd-awful uniforms with their hands clasped tightly together in prayer wouldn’t die. I knew even then that the whole thing was bullshit. I also knew that if the bomb dropped I’d die without ever kissing a boy, getting boobs or being allowed to order Coca Cola at a restaurant. 

You wanna know what really scared me as a kid? Nuns, clowns and math tests. The end.

So, now what? What if Kim Jong What-the Fuck picks California to nuke? Will the world even care? Will it miss Kombucha, man buns, and hot yoga? I tend to think not. My guess is that us whiny, liberal, coastal elites will not be missed.
At first.
I can only imagine how the political pundits will spin it once the radioactive dust has settled. “Good riddance giant blue state.” the headlines will read.  “One less thing to worry about in the 2020 election.” 

I bring all of this up because I read this recent Facebook post by one of my favs, Anne Lamott, who wrote about her concerns starting off with “We are so doomed.”

Are we?

My immediate thought: “Well, if that’s the case I’m done shaving my legs.” 

Then I remembered being a kid and watching all of the grown-ups wringing their hands with worry and how I knew, even five decades ago, that worrying wasn’t going to make anything better. So, instead of joining the hand wringing circle,  I grabbed my “bug jar”, ran outside to the field on the corner, and looked for more ladybugs. Because ladybugs are good luck (especially the rare ones without any spots) and being a kid gave me permission not to worry. To not know how to fix things. To just be in the moment, enjoying life.

That’s what Anne is saying below, and seriously, you guys, I know it sounds trite and you probably want to pummel my face—but that’s all we can do. 

Well, that and bury ourselves in a giant puppy pile while wearing that expensive dress we were saving for a special occasion and eating any carb that isn’t nailed down.

I give us all permission to be childlike.  Innocently oblivious. Also, it feels like the right time to tell anyone and everyone that you love them.

Now. Don’t wait. 

xox Love you guys. Who’s with me?

TAKE IT AWAY ANNE…

“We are so doomed. There is nothing we can do. We are at the mercy of two evil ignorant syphilitic madmen, the two worst people on earth. I mean that nicely.

Where do we even start?

We stop trying to figure things out. “Figure it out” is not a good slogan. We practice trust and surrender, and attention to what we know is beautiful: dogs, art, the Beatles, each other’s eyes. And we don’t give up hope. Emily Dickinson said that hope encourages the Good to reveal itself. We need all the Good we can summon in these Locked and Loaded days.

So what do we hope for?

Pivot! A perfect time for the Pivot.

Just kidding.

We hope and pray for the return of sanity, or even sanity-ish. I do not hope for a successful Trump presidency or failed Trump presidency. I hope that he does not blow up the whole world.

Is that so much to ask?

What if he accidentally blows up a little bit of the world?

Well, these things happen. We’ll stick together. What has always lifted my spirits is a promise that I made to myself, that if it looks like the end of the world, I get to eat every single thing on earth that can’t outrun me: the last few days, I will only eat nachos and creme brûlée and Safeway carrot cake. Oatbags of M&M’s. No vegetable matter!

That’s something to look forward to!

One more question: how do we get to hope in these dark ratty days?

We don’t think our way to hope. We take the actions, and then the insight follows. The insight is that hope springs from awareness of love, immersion in love, commitment to love. This begins with radical self love: to save the world, make yourself a lovely cup of tea. Put lotion on your jiggly thighs, clean sheets on the bed, the most forgiving pants you own. On the possibly last day on earth, you do not want to be wearing pants that pinch or tug, or ride up your crack.

Trust me on this.

Radical self-love means you treat yourself the same way you would treat your favorite cousin, or even cranky old mealy-mouthed me. Watch the self-talk. You would probably use a sweeter tone of voice with the cousin or me, that you would with yourself. This will change the world.

Get outside, even just to the front porch, and look up into the sky and into the tree tops, and say the great praise- prayer: WOW. Listen for the sound of birds–or bird. Surely there is one lousy bird somewhere in the vicinity. Close your eyes and really listen. If birdsong was the ONLY proof we have that there is a bigger deeper reality than what transcends what we are seeing on the news, it would be enough for me. Eyes closed, breathe, listen: secret of life.

And lastly, take care of the poor–right now. In Hallelujah Anyway, I wrote that when I got sober, I was taught that happiness lay in going from big shot, to servant. If you want to feel loving feelings, which is hope, do loving things. Send a donation to a group that feeds and shelters and clothes people, in your neighborhood, or Syria. Don’t tell yourself you have no money–pack up clothes and shoes to take to a shelter. Or cash in the money in your laundry room change cup, and give it to people on the street. Give away three dollars to moms on the street with kids, and give the kids colored pencils and journals, or index cards, and say,”It is good to see you,” even if you have tiny tiny judgment issues involving bootstraps and combed hair.

If you have time, register a few voters. Also, maybe a ten-minute nap–the writer Robyn Posin says rest is a spiritual act. Father Tom Weston urges, “Left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe.” Ram Dass tells us that ultimately, we are all just walking each other home. Let’s get started.

Am sending you love, whoever you are, and as pastor Veronica says, God bless you good.”

Hello Tribe,

If you take this post from a few years ago and substitute Corona virus for Jihad, the message is the same! My god, unless you’re living under a rock, the media has us going!

“The world is such a dangerous place!” they’d have us think. Uh, no. To put this in perspective, there have been around 3000 deaths worldwide, and with a population of over 7.5 BILLION—the odds of you dying from this is pretty darn low.

I mean, be smart, be diligent, wash your hands for 30 seconds and try not to touch your face but otherwise, don’t sacrifice yourself to the side effects of mass hysteria. Live that wild life of yours as best you can while this plays itself out and please, try not to catch the fear.

xox

Hello, fear. (Said with sneering disdain, like “Hello Newman” on Seinfeld).

Fear reared his ugly head again on Tuesday.
Like me, you probably woke up to the report of yet another terrorist attack on innocent civilians in Brussels. And again if you’re like me your first response was to gird your loins.

To hunker down, plant your feet, cross your arms, and label the world a dangerous place.

And along with me you probably felt a nauseous gut pit, which turned into sadness, then empathy and finally anger. Oh, yeah, and all of that with a fear chaser.

But you guys, it reminds me of those pharmaceutical ads on TV and their heinous side effects. You know the ones I mean. They’re laughable.

“For chronic chapped lips try *Chaplipocine. Taken regularly, it reduces the symptoms of chapped lips in only three days!
Side effects may include (and this is said at the speed of a professional auctioneer), flatulence, headaches, amnesia, seizures, constipation, swelling of the tongue and testicles, facial hair in women and babies, eventual loss of consciousness — and death.”

And it’s making billions because people are willing to suffer those consequences to get chapped lip relief!
Wtf?

But just as ridiculous and shoved down our throats even more aggressively, are the side effects of fear. They consist of paranoia, anxiety, uncontrollable security cravings, unwillingness to travel, suspicion, inability to turn off CNN, intolerance, giving away your privacy, dis-empowerment, not living your life — and death.

Seriously?

I for one, feel that’s unacceptable.

We all have a choice of how to respond.
I can eyeball the hipster next to me suspiciously while he sits there on his computer with his luxurious man-beard, and wonder if he’s crafting his jihadist manifesto (or if he coughed).  And I can cancel my trip to Europe that I saved years for.
Because I could die. We could ALL die.
Because it’s all too dangerous. The airports. Subways. Cafes. Sidewalks. Everything.

These are some of the side effects I’m not willing to suffer. How about you?

Listen, we have to be aware. We can’t and we shouldn’t walk with our faces buried in our phones or our head in the clouds. But there’s a difference between awareness and suspicion.

Don’t shake hands with fear. Please.(Or anybody right now for that matter.)

Girded loins never did anyone any good,

And chapped lips go away in three days regardless of the medicine you take.

So don’t endure the heinous side effects just for the illusion of being saved.

Anyhow, carry on,

xox

*you know this product doesn’t really exist, right?

When you’re touched by magic, nothing’s ever quite the same again. What really makes me sad is all those people who never have the chance to know that touch. They’re too busy, or they just don’t hold with make-believe, so they shut the door without really knowing it was there to be opened in the first place.

~CHARLES DE LINT, What the Mouse Found and Other 

I don’t think it’s a secret to anyone that I believe in magic. 

That I have a facility for “holding the make-believe”.

That I live most days steeped in my overly vivid imagination. Now, that being said, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to test magic which I do with nauseating frequency. It’s called discernment, and if you are a friend of mine or you live with me—you frequently have to fasten your seatbelt because, when you goad magic? 

MAGIC SHOWS UP!

Case in point:

I’ve recently become obsessed with manifesting, which, if you think about it is just magic we’ve all agreed is real. 

You know, first, there’s the desire—then there’s the waiting period—and then, as if out of thin air—it shows up—Magic! 

Anyway, I’m interested in the in-between part. The waiting. The span of time where the money isn’t quite in the bank yet. The days, weeks or months between wanting a new lover—and seeing him lying naked and unashamed—in your bed. 

In my quest, I’ve been taunting magic to show me more of the process. “Show me the energy dynamics behind getting an idea—and making to real!” I yell into the void…

Often, on the free-range, off-leash hike with Ruby, we meet up with a woman I will call writer lady (because we only know the names of the dogs) and her dog Betty. Betty is a scruffy faced mutt who thinks she’s a show dog, finicky, ill-tempered and not at all interested in being seen with the likes of Ruby. 

Yesterday, when we walked with Betty and writer lady, Betty yapped incessantly and nipped at Ruby’s Achilles while writer lady wove a tale of terror about her experiences as an actor and writer in Hollywood. 

Gee, I’ve never heard that one…

Just at the point where I thought my ears might bleed, writer lady suddenly became exuberant, pointing to a knee-high, scraggly looking plant to our left.  

“Look, a sunflower!” she managed to fit in-between complaints. 

“Really?” I asked. “Are you sure?” I didn’t mean to be a Doubting Debbie but I’d never seen a sunflower on the hike before and I think I would have remembered because I’m unusually observant and I have a thing for wildflowers.  

“Yeah, I usually see one or two, a result of the birds you know.” 

Still unconvinced, I played along. 

“Will it live?” I asked, looking at the dry soil. 

“Oh, yeah! Sure!” she replied with a sense of optimism I wished she could transfer to an IV drip and infuse straight into her career. “It will get a lot taller and then, in about a month, it should bloom.” 

She was a horticulturist at heart—obviously.

“Huh.” was my profound response. 

Today as we were walking, I blocked out her depressing stories and went to my magic place. Literally.

I started thinking about the manifesting experiments I’d been doing while my hubby and I played cards on the weekends. Cards are easy for me since I literally give no fucks about winning. The object of the game, in a nutshell, is to collect three of a kind or a straight—and on Sunday I had two magical experiences that blew my mind!

I’ve always been told the key to manifesting is ”Keep it light.”

No striving. No begging. No bargaining. No kidding. 

Just ask for something with words like ”Wouldn’t it be great if I picked an Ace,” or “A three of clubs would be delicious right about now.”  You know, easy, peasy, Parcheesi. 

“Oh! Ruby’s pooping!” writer lady exclaimed with the same enthusiasm I reserve for animals shitting on the toilet. That pulled me out of my day dream and it also meant I had to carry a bag of dog shit for the rest of the hike, about 2.5 miles. 

I hate that. I make a point of carrying NOTHING of my own so that I can walk, free and unencumbered and then she poops and I’m Queen Elizabeth with the ever present blue plastic “purse” on a hike.

Ruby, feeling instantly free, unencumbered, and ten pounds lighter took off running toward the silhouette of a woman walking toward us, apparently without a dog. 

Ruby finds that suspect. She always has. 

People on hikes without dogs is an abomination as far as she’s concerned. Assuming they must be lost, she’s only too happy to find them by frantically searching in the bushes and under large rocks.   

“God, wouldn’t it be great if someone came along and collected our poop bags?”  I said to writer lady, not kidding at all.

Walking toward the dog-less woman who was grinning from ear to ear because she didn’t have to carry a bag of shit for two miles, I apologized for Ruby who was fixated on her fanny pack like a bomb-sniffing dog at the Tel Aviv airport.

Ruby’s law—any human wearing a fanny pack, with or without a canine—has treats.

“Hey, no problem,” she said, petting Ruby’s ears like a bona fide dog person, “Why don’t you give me that?” she motioned toward the bright blue plastic poo-poo bag.

“You…mean…this?” I stammered, trying my best not to shit my own pants.

“Sure“ she chirped, “I collect all the dropped and discarded ones and throw ‘em in the dumpster.” She held up a large garbage bag I hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“Huh,” I responded, after realizing I’d blown one of my three magic wishes on a bag of shit. 

Then I practically genuflected and kissed her ring with gratitude.

Our enthusiasm restored, Ruby and I took off on the rest of the hike while the Poop Saint, Betty, and writer lady decided to walk back to the dumpster together.

The minute they were out of sight I yelled at magic in my outside voice, “Oh, my Gawd you’re such a show-off!” 

Then I remembered Sunday, the cards, and the time slippage. 

“A ten would be splendid,” I’d asked, after noticing a pair of tens. Remember, I needed three of a kind.
My husband picked a card and discarded a Queen. I looked back at my own hand, suddenly, out of the seven cards there were now three tens!

How could that be? 

I picked a card and looked again. Now, only a pair of tens stared back at me. What the fuck?  But the card I picked was a ten! NOW I had three tens!

My heart was running a marathon in my chest but I didn’t say anything. I’d been messing around for weeks, asking for a certain cards, very specific cards, and the results had been nothing short of remarkable (you can ask my husband) but I’d never seen the cards change in my hand! 

It was probably a fluke, so I asked magic to show me again.

The next game, I asked for an ace of spades to complete a straight. “An ace of spades would be delicious,” I said to myself as I picked a card. It was a Jack, which I discarded, but when I looked back at my hand I saw the ace of spades right there with the two and the three! 

Wait, what?

Now, I know what y’all are thinking, “Janet, you have got to stop that day drinkin’!” But I can swear to you that I was stone cold sober. 

I touched the ace with my thumb to prove to myself it was real, nevertheless, when I picked a card and looked again—it was gone, back to some other card.  My face got hot and I started to sweat but I kept it on the down-lo, watching and waiting for what would happen next and you guessed it— the next card my husband put down was the ace of spades! That’s when I almost threw up.

It was like the universe was giving me a “preview of coming attractions”.  Hey, I’m the one who wanted to see what happened in the void and you know what? MAGIC SHOWED UP!

Today, toward the end of the hike, I thought about the sunflower. Was it really a sunflower? Had we passed it? A few minutes later the bright yellow petals caught my eye. There was the sunflower standing waist high and in full bloom! How could that have happened in a day? I screamed inside my head as Ruby danced around me, happy as a clam with her chewed-up tennis ball. This was the part where I just about shit all over my Lulu Lemon.

Just to prove it to myself I took the picture above. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow and see if it’s still there. 

Below are some quotes about Magic that I love. I’m starting to believe that the more we marinate in it— the more it shows up for us.

Stay tuned & Carry on,
xox

I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith. ~R. A. SALVATORE, Streams of Silver

Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it. ~ROALD DAHL, The Missing Golden Ticket and Other Splendiferous Secrets

Scientists have calculated that the chances of something so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten. ~TERRY PRATCHETT, Mort

The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. ~EDEN PHILLPOTTS, A Shadow Passes

A little magic can take you a long way. ~ROALD DAHL, James and the Giant Peach

Books are a uniquely portable magic. ~STEPHEN KING, On Writing

If you choose magic you will never be able to return to the life you once lived. Your world may be more … exciting … but it will also be more dangerous. Less reliable. And once you begin to walk the path of magic, you can never step off of it. ~NEIL GAIMAN, The Books of Magic: The Road to Nowhere

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it. ~ROALD DAHL, The Minpins

I don’t want realism. I want magic! ~ TENNESSEE WILLIAMS, A Streetcar Named Desire

If I could wish anything for you guys, I would wish you a couple of siblings like mine. 

My younger sister is enough like me to hold my interest (what?) but shows me all the potential available to me if I suddenly get a bug up my ass and decide I want to be a better person. 

It seems our DNA, after seeing what it created the first time, with me, rearranged itself…to try again…to do better…in both my brother and sister. 

She is a much kinder and more generous being than I could ever pretend, even on my best day of pretending—to be.
So much so, that she had the two kids, a boy and a girl, that I could never be bothered to have—and then raised them better than I ever could have, all the while teaching them to love their “auntie”.  For over two decades she has freely shared them with me and my love for them is limitless. So much so that now, on my best pretending days—I pretend they’re mine.

My brother has a heart the size of an Amazon warehouse and we share the same twisted sense of humor. He’s actually made me snort-laugh coffee out both nostrils. If I had the presence of mind to record everything he says, which I don’t—because

1. My last name isn’t Parnas.
2. I’m usually choking with laughter (and swallowing my gum). But if I did I could fill stadiums full of hysterically laughing fans, hire an assistant to steal all of his material, AND chew my gum for me.

He’s also a teller of truths and “asker of the hard questions”.  

The other day, in between yucking it up, when I was complaining about my husband doing some shit that seemed to me to be detrimental to his health and well being, my brother, a card-carrying member of #teamhusband, drilled down on me with one simple sentence, “Well, don’t you have a vice?”

Gulp.

I stuttered and stammered for an uncomfortable amount of time, “Sure, I mean, no, I mean, I don’t know.”

Vice—A vice is a moral failing or a bad habit.  (Because I looked it up) 

What I think he was really saying was: Jesus, Janet, cut the guy some slack.

But I took the question to heart. A moral failing? I don’t think that’s what he meant. I think he meant more like a guilty pleasure, only on steroids. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as deeply flawed and hot messy as any of you, it’s just that at the ripe old age fifty-eleven, I’ve had enough therapy, woo woo voodoo, and spiritual interventions to leave most of that vicey behavior in the rear-view mirror— along with my delightful disposition and perky tits.

Let me also state right here, that I’m in no way trivializing addictions or vices for that matter. I’ve seen both up close and personal and I cannot express how INCREDIBLY grateful I’ve felt my entire life for being blessed with a non-addictive personality.

I don’t know who to thank for that, I only know that if the opposite were true—I’d weigh five thousand tons and be in jail. 

Anyway, he’d made his point, loud and clear, so after we hung up I crawled off my poor husband’s back and decided to go deep diving into my seemingly vice-free life and what I found there was a (wait for it) a vice. (Are you surprised?)

To make the term vice more relatable I kinda re-framed it as “a behavior that we do even though it makes us feel bad or is bad for us.”

Cut to: Last Friday night after Trump’s Impeachment acquittal.  I poured myself the rare glass of whiskey and proceeded to get shit faced. Then, I drunk texted my Bff, barfed up a really nice dinner, and ruined most of my Saturday with a wicked hangover. 

WTF?

Remember me? I’m not a big drinker, ask anyone. I am not who you call to tie one on. I’m the one who drives everybody home and cleans the bathroom.

So, back into my deep “Vice” dive, I dove, looking at exhibit A — Friday Night Drunkenness. What had prompted me to go past my limit? 

Sadness? Yes. 

Hopelessness? Yes. 

Anxiety? Yes. Yes. Yes.

And why was I feeling that way? 

Cable TV and FUCKING TWITTER!

Oh, sweet Jesus Christ on a cracker.

Cable TV—The 24/7, home-delivered, IV drip of fear and outrage. And outraged fear. 

Twitter—240 characters of pure, unadulterated, who gives a fuck what you think? 

Those two things had become my heroin and I mainlined them every day—all day. And like most addicts, I hid it well. I was high functioning. I wrote, and grocery shopped and ordered stuff I didn’t need online. But I also had news and twitter alerts going to my watch and my phone literally (Because, Trump) minute by minute. And like any good dealer they didn’t think twice about interrupting my writing, my peace of mind, or my life.

Especially, that rat fuck Twitter! I don’t say this lightly, but I think Twitter needs to shut down. I mean what is it good for besides sowing division, fear, and outrage and giving certain bullies a way to exercise their “power”? Tell me, I’d love to know how we’re better off with Twitter in our social discourse.

I can’t believe it happened to me! (I know, beyond cliche) I’m sooooo late to the Twitter party! I don’t post and I don’t really read anything but politics (NEVER the comments, the comments are the third rail of social media) that being said—that shit is TOXIC.

Twitter says we’re in a Constitutional crisis. Twitter says it’s 1933 Germany all over again. Twitter says it’s just like the fall of the Roman Empire.

It’s poison. All of it. And I’m addicted. I’m addicted to poison. (Sounds like a vice to me.)

It all started a year and a half ago (a simpler time) with the political screenplay I was writing. I needed to keep myself well abreast of current events and Trump creates those like sixty times a… Blah, blah, blah! There I am, making excuses about why my vice isn’t really a vice.

So I deleted it. I deleted Twitter on Sunday. That’s when the twitching and reaching for my phone every six seconds began. At least that’s when I noticed it.

Don’t be fooled the detox is real. But don’t worry about me. I’m taking it slow. I only look at half of my news alerts.

But then…Shit went down at the DOJ yesterday and I wasn’t sure what level of outrage to feel. Because we’re always at DefCon 5. What did Twitter have to say?

I unconsciously reached for my phone. Put it down. Did it again. And again. And again. Like those rats who push the button for a fix. After a minute, it passed. The twitching, the wondering, all of it. And I have to say, so far, day three, I feel better. Calmer. Like the world won’t end if I don’t “like” a tweet.

Hi, My name is Janet, and I’m a news junkie and a recovering Twitter addict. And I’m better when I’m not marinating in fear and outrage. I’m smarter, more strategic and able to make clearer decisions about what happens next. 

Carry on,
xox

cheers!