spiritual

Recently, a very wise woman after careful consideration, said this to my husband: What if you viewed life as a series of green lights and open doors?

My husband is a serial problem solver. No puzzle is too complex to solve. No obstacle insurmountable.

If you need any problem worked over by a pro—he’s your man.

Great quality, right? It is, with one exception: He’s never out of work! He attracts problems. He sees flaws a mile away. Puzzles with missing pieces find him.

He is the “Obstacle Whisperer.”

Since that wise woman wasn’t me, the suggestion was well received. Profound. All of you wives know how that works.

Actually, it’s better than that. He didn’t hear her say it—It went right by him!

But I did.

That’s because our intrepid trouble-shooter was in full on sniper mode, getting in position on some rooftop somehwhere—in his head—because that’s what happens when you’re awesome at something—the Universe provides, and there is always more than enough trouble to shoot. Problems to kill. Mayhem to murder.

Right?

I mean, there’s so much trouble to shoot out there that in his field, design and building—people pay him to take some off their plate.

This is also the way he looks at everything in life. Show me the problem and I’ll solve it.

That wise woman talked to him for about ten minutes and had him pegged. She totally admired that about him but thought maybe it had begun to wear on him a little. Everything had begun to feel like too much of a burden. Pretty much like it has for all of us, myself included.

Some of us are addicted to the struggle. We’re always trying to get to the “bottom of something.” Well, guess what you guys?

THERE IS NO BOTTOM.

That’s why I loved her suggestion so much I had to share it.

These days I like smooth sailing. Less complicated living. Less fucks given. Minimum drama. And it’s just a simple tweak away.

What if you viewed life as a series of green lights and open doors?

Just writing that makes my shoulders go back where they belong instead of wearing them as earrings.

My husband and I have invented a shorthand to remind each other—Green Doors.

That’s all.
Carry on,
xox

This was written waaaaay back in the fifteen minutes when I was eating healthy. But the questions are more useful than ever!
Carry on,
xox

The house is still. It’s the middle of the night, so that’s appropriate.

The only sound I can hear is the whrrrrr of the refrigerator motor, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients fresh.
Damn you stainless steel box of cold air (yelled dramatically while waving a fist).

Rant Alert:
Why can’t my protein, vegetable laden juices taste like a chocolate malt?
Is that too much to ask?
I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. This healthy shit has GOT to start tasting better…or else…

Anyway…
My refrigerator has undergone a recent renaissance.
It seems to follow my life’s trajectory. It’s all cleanses, and bitter greens and shit.
I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few choices so I won’t cheat on fat infused deliciousness. As a matter of fact, there is nothing delicious within a three-mile radius. I’d have to get in my car and drive to get it, and my laziness overrules any craving for carbs, so I think technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is a clear channel…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

Back in the day, for about two decades, the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just the casual smoker, keeping cigs in the freezer keeps them fresh) not even an ice cube dared show its face. Later ground coffee replaced the cigarettes.

Quick story about how THAT happened.

Back in ’93 when I had my first “energy work” done, a friend came by the apartment to get the skinny. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.
She was a regular, so she knew about the cigscicles and since she could tell my story was going be juicy, and warrant a smoke, she walked over to the kitchen, which was just to the left of where I was sitting, on the couch, and opened the freezer. Suddenly, she stepped back like she saw a ghost – and slammed the thing shut.
I watched it all happen, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her with my head tilted sideways like a dog hearing a high pitched whistle.

My friend still standing in front of the closed freezer door says, “A voice just told me: DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“I’d better go.”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy! (PS. Nothing’s changed.)

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked from the other room.
And THAT was the end of my casual smoking. I tried one occasionally in the years that followed but they made me feel awful, and when something stops being fun, I quit doing it.

Think Jane Fonda Workouts and hot yoga.

So, back to the middle of the night as I tossed and turned and awfulized; mulling over this decision or that.
I finally made the first decision and that was to switch my brain from FU mode to productive mode, remembering all the recent things I’ve heard and read on making life altering choices and decisions.

So, to save you the obsessing, the time, and trouble, here is a list of the things you should ask yourself:

1) Will I regret not making this change? (Regrets are like walking around with a wet coat on. They are killjoys.)

2) Why exactly am I hesitant/ indecisive? Make a list. (The list that you make in light of day will always be shorter than the phone book sized one you make at three AM…just sayin’).

3) What doors will close if I make this change? Do I care? (That one makes my butt cheeks clench)

4) Which choice will make the better story? (Kinda like the movie viewing analogy from Saturday’s post.)

5) How does the choice or change FEEL? (That really should be number one. Check your kishke.)

6) What’s the worst thing that can happen? (Rewind your three AM worries, they’re ALL there).

7) What’s the BEST thing that can happen? (Tiny little list, usually written on a Post-It with a question mark at the end. )

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (Sans all jealousy, competitiveness, and ego).

9) What’s the “next right thing” to do to stay free of ego? (In other words, check your motivation. Is it pure? Not really? THERE’S your answer.)

10) What choice or change would make me the proudest in five years? (That’s often the clincher for me. Can’t say I’m too proud of myself when I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hope this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.

Love you all,
Xox

Dear Brave Ones,
Give it to m straight—Have you guys ever done this? Please tell me you have!
Carry on,
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking my way slowly down the hill through the canyon to my hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

I craned my neck like Gumby or someone equally bendy to get a better look. From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how paved roads known as streets—filled with cars—lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the other cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my monkey mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Single mothers can never catch a break!

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement, it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that its luck had run out. Splat!

There it is! I could see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was quickly working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering had ended.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. Because it was true.! Forget stopping, no one was even swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing.

I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve around it all of you accomplices to murder!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time of reckoning had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I turn my head and look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was, this roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It turned out to be a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

On my recent trip to Canada, I was asked repeatedly if I felt any difference between the States and Canada.
You know, energetically. In other words a not so thinly veiled attempt to get me gabbing about the texting habits of our Cheeto-N-Chief.

Now I don’t know about you, but the butt cheeks in MY inner circle have been clenched so tightly since November that I for one could press a quarter into two dimes and nickel. Needless to say (so I will anyway), the discomfort caused by this collective gluteus charley horse has set everyone on edge.

And that was never more evident than when I spent a few days in Vancouver – or “America Lite” as I like to call it.

When I landed, there was a rare powdered sugar snow event happening which made the serene calm even calmer and the whole city eerily quiet. As if a benevolent snow angel was whispering a sweet little lullaby. That had the same effect on me as sucking on a chocolate covered Xanax.

Deep… exhale.

This Canadian silent night effect just exaggerated the fact that we, as a nation, are jittery, jumpy and wound tighter than a Real House Wife of Beverly Hills’ face (because we all live inside of reality show now, right?).

Right?

I mean, the past three weeks, in particular, have been a sucker punch an hour.
My guard is up.
My loins are girded.

Last week found me traveling in and out of the country during this cluster fuck immigration BAN—which I’m told isn’t a BAN—but let’s call it a BAN…because it is.

It may be on the legal ropes for the time-being.
But what time is it now?
That could change in the next ten minutes.

Listen, as you know, I’m a middle-aged white woman who lives in a blue state, one of the “coastal elites” and I was going to freakin’ Canada. Yet, I felt a bit anxious. I couldn’t help but clutch my “papers” to my chest like an early 1900’s, babushka wearing, Irish potato farmer – or a Syrian refugee. It made me distinctly aware that the only difference between them and me is the fact that through no effort on my part, I won the “uterine lottery” by having the good fortune of being born in Los Angles California, USA.

That being said Canada is looking pretty darn good to me right now.

I think Canada looks at us US citizens these days like I’ve always looked at Italians. With a mixture of admiration and pity. “What great people! They have so much going for them” I’d say. “The food, the wine, the shoes! Such a shame their “elected” officials are bat-shit crazy and their government is corrupt as fuck.”

Because I believe that a country’s moral aptitude trickles from the top down, many citizens in this new America are quite mouthy.
They have a newfound brazenness.
Sharp tongues.
Permission to carry a harsh political incorrectness disguised as “telling it like it is” as a weapon.

Perfect example:
I’ve NEVER heard the word “Fuck” YELLED in all of its many forms as much as it was on our American carrier as we sat on the tarmac for an hour waiting to take-off. Men, women, even babies. (It was so outrageous that a baby across the aisle yelled fuck, you know because they’re parrots, and even though her mother was mortified—we all laughed because a baby saying fuck in their cartoon voice is hilarious—and the tension inside that plane was absurd.)

As for exhibit B: On the Canadian carrier, it felt like I was inside of a time machine. Everyone was kind and courteous, like a flashback to 2014 before all of this mishegas started. So much so that we taxied away from the gate—then back again—to let a sick passenger get off (and her sisters and aunts and a couple of other random passengers) without any cursing. Next, the flight attendant announced that since our flight was going to be about an hour late on arrival, and since several passengers had tight connections to make, that while the cabin door was open and we were parked at the gate…anybody else who felt compelled to leave was welcome to do so!

Wait.
What?

I ducked.

I waited for the “fucks” to fly.

Nothing.
Silence.

As a matter of fact, good-natured silence.

That pretty much sums up the difference these days between sanity and the Twilight Zone in which we find ourselves these days.

What are you noticing?

Carry on,
xox

Since I posted it last year this essay is the most popular of any other BY FAR so why try to write something mushy about love?
I’d like to think it’s because of the story or the writing but I know it’s because it has the word “poop” in the title.
Enjoy!

“Bird poop brings good luck!
There is a belief that if a bird poops on you, your car or your property, you may receive good luck and riches. The more birds involved, the richer you’ll be! So next time a bird poops on you, remember that it’s a good thing.”
~Bird Poop Expert

What about if a single bird poops on your head while you’re driving in your car? You know, moving target and all. That feels like a whole lotta good luck coming your way—along with super silky hair, right?

I’m about to talk about poop, a lot!
Bird poop to be exact, so if you’re eating your eggs, best to put down your fork right about now. Or oatmeal or yogurt for that matter. Just stop eating until you’re finished reading, okay? Studies have shown that reading while eating can lead to something serious and most likely deadly, like choking while laughing, so in essence, I just saved your life.
You’re welcome.

And now, back to the bird poop.

Many people the world over believe that if a bird lets loose on you, then good things are coming your way. One idea is that it’s a sign of major wealth coming from Heaven (the place where ALL real wealth resides), based on the belief that when you suffer an inconvenience (like a head full of bird shit), you’ll have good fortune in return.

The most popularly held belief is that if a bird hits your noggin, it is so lucky, so random and rare (statistically speaking it is rarer than being hit by lightning), how can a lottery win be far behind?

A Case in point — and true story:

Can a head full of bird poop be lucky, you ask?
A Bay of Islands man swears it is, after winning $100,000 on an Instant Kiwi ticket. The man said a bird recently pooped on his head, and his friends told him it was a sign of luck coming his way.

“I thought it was a load of rubbish, but when I was in a Lotto shop I had $5 left in my wallet so thought I would buy a scratch-off and test my luck.

“I could not believe it when I scratched the right numbers and realized I had won $100,000,” the man told NZ Lotteries.

“It is such a great feeling. I plan to start a new life with this win. I want to wipe my debts and just enjoy life.”

The man is originally from Christchurch and plans to move back down there, undeterred by the recent earthquake.

“This win gives me the funds to be able to get down there and be able to help out in any way I can in the city’s rebuild,” he said.

Let me just start by saying that the man in the story is WAY more altruistic than I’ll EVER be. Or maybe not. After he pays off his debt and relocates, how much city rebuilding can he do? I’m worried about him and his financial planning abilities. He has to make that money last and $100,000 doesn’t go as far as it used to. Maybe he’ll have the free time to volunteer. Okay. I feel much better now.

Anyhow, on Saturday the hubster and I decided to get a jump-start on Valentine’s Day being that we had flaked, waiting until the last-minute and all the good ideas for Sunday were taken. Left to our own devices, we hopped into the car, put down the top, and decided to drive really fast out of the beautiful, summer-like temperatures and head into opaque whiteness of a foggy purgatory, the beach. Faced with the choice of putting the top back up or leaving fog-ville altogether and going for a big lunch, you guessed it, THE BIG LUNCH WON! (No surprise there).

Winding our way through the tree-lined upscale neighborhoods at a brisk 40 mph (oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch, it wasn’t a school zone and besides, it was Saturday. Nobody drives below 40 mph. on Saturdays), on our way back into town and our search for the perfect kabob, I felt something clobber my cranium.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, hands on my head looking around like a freak. You have to admire my economy with words. Don’t feel bad. I’m a writer.

Anyway…

At first, I suspected it might be space debris or a tiny piece of meteorite, and it was only when hubby, with his two bare man-hands, picked a rather large and thankfully solid piece of avian excrement out of my hair—that I realized my good fortune. Lottery WINNER!

Can I just take a moment to thank my husband for his courage, strong stomach, and lack of any real hygienic awareness? (He’s French). You are my hero and I will split the money with you AFTER I rebuild a city.

Needless to say, when the laughter subsided, (thankfully we share the same warped sense of humor that causes us to laugh at another’s misfortune), we hightailed it to the diviest Liquor Store we could find (because everybody knows THAT is where REAL wealth resides — not Heaven), and bought us some Power Ball, Super Lotto and Mega Millions tickets —and a box of Triscuits—the Rosemary and olive oil kind.

Then with big shit-eating grins on our faces (that’s an idiom, not literally, mind out of the gutter people, Ewwww), we drove to lunch.

Lottery or not, nothing says LOVE like picking bird poop out of your beloved’s hair—so I’m already a winner!

Love you my Big Handsome!

I know. You guys envy my life of glamour and romance. What can I say? I’m one lucky girl. Maybe YOU had a better Valentine’s Day than me? Huh? I don’t think soooo but I’ll listen!

Carry on,

xox

Tom Hanks posted a picture of this little reminder hanging in a grade school the other day. Leave it to Tom!

We could all use the remininder—some of us more than others!

Be kind to each other this weekend,

xox

Hello brave ones,

This is a post from ages ago. Three years to be exact but it has been a topic of constant conversation these days.

When do you take the leap to change?

I like the idea of permission, and I LOVE the concept of Grace.

So today, if you’re contemplating listening to your gut. Or you’ve already taken the leap and you feel like you’re in free-fall—maybe this will help.
That’s always my wish.

Carry on,
xox

Both feet have to leave the ground to leap.
Ohhhhhh Shiiiiiiit!

…and therein lies the rub.

When am I ready to leap you ask? Uh, just this side of NEVER!

We seldom feel like we’re ready….it just isn’t the right time…not yet.

But what the hell are we waiting for?
An illness?
Divorce?
The empty nest?
More diplomas?
Losing a job?
More zeros in our bank account (Ahhh, now I’m getting warmer) but how many are enough?

How about PERMISSION?
The WORD from God-on-high that all systems are go, and you’re ready for launch.
That’s what I want!
That’s what we all want. Right?

But you know what you guys? We’ve got that. We have our internal guidance, our intuition, our gut, to let us know when we’re getting close.

We’ve all been there. You get that restless feeling.

You start asking life WAY too many questions.

You feel as if you can’t continue to do that thing you’ve been doing for one. more. minute.

That to me, signals one foot off the ground.

Then I have to suck up every ounce of courage to trust those signals, and
Lift. The. Other. Foot.

Permission is Grace’s secret weapon.

If you give enough value to the signs; the synchronicity, that jumpy little feeling in your belly, and you turn away from the fear and doubt and really show up for yourself; you grant Permission.
Permission’s bodyguards, Faith and Courage, then clear the path for Grace to enter.

Then you know what Grace does?
She lends you her hand and helps you balance…
so you can lift your other foot to leap.

Xox

After waking up at 4 am to catch a 7 am flight back to LA, I braved a dark and frigid Vancouver morning

Once through security and my full body scan, (you can’t be too careful when it comes to us pasty, gray-haired fifty-something jihadists), I hurried up and waited.  That gave me a chance to get all caught up on the breaking news in the US (of which I have been blissfully unaware of for three days), thanks to a giant TV screen every three feet.

That’s when I saw it.

The Senate, led by the majority leader Mitch McConnell had shushed Elizabeth Warren!

Fueled by a profound lack of sleep, too much airport coffee, and a red-hot rage, I may have yelled back at the TV, “Oh, now you’ve done it! You don’t ever shush a woman!”

No crowd gathered. No one shouted their agreement (because it was before five in the morning and the only ones who heard it were a janitor cleaning the carpets…and a potted plant. Still! You guys! Seriously?

EVERY man knows that if he wants to live to see his next birthday—you don’t tell a woman she is overreacting —and you never try to shush her—in public. EVER! Most especially Senator Elizabeth Warren.

“What is wrong with you fools!” I may have sneered under my breath but still loud enough for the carpet cleaner to hear it over his machine and jerk his head in my direction. Soon there were hand gestures and some fist waving. “Don’t cite some archaic rule and twist it into a mandate fitting your agenda. Jesus on a cracker! Do you not have wives? Daughters? Someone you love who has a vagina and was born in the 20th century? I KNOW you don’t get away with this at home!”

In reality, they shushed two women when they forbid her to speak. She was reading a letter penned by Coretta Scott King back in the 1980’s in which she was criticizing Jeff Sessions who was then a nominee to become a federal judge.

No big deal. Just the widow of civil-rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

It seemed apropos to read it aloud seeing that now he’s nominated to become the Attorney General. Right? I mean are we so far through the looking glass…? Let’s see…too racially biased to be a judge…perhaps not fit to…you get the picture.

Sadly, they are trying to shush us all.

Oh, brother, this gets my hackles up. This boils my blood. Big Time.
Luckily for the gathering crowd at gate 82, I was obligated to hurl through the air at five hundred miles per hour in a metal tube for three hours. It gave me a chance to cool off. I hadn’t planned on writing anything but I have two plus hours up here with no internet and I’ve finished my People magazine–so here goes.
Here is me cooled off:

Dear House and Senate,
If you think you can shush us women into submission—you have another thing coming you silly, silly men. Weren’t our marches on Washington, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Rome…just adorable? With our knitted caps and cardboard signs? Aren’t our phone campaigns that fill your inboxes to capacity just darling?
You ain’t seen nothing yet. You will hear our voices in every way imaginable.

You may have won the battle but you will not win this war.

Okay. I’m beyond tired. I’m going to bed.

Who’s with me? Not in bed…in outrage?
xox

Love. This.
Carry on
xox

A lot of us are experiencing our own personal pain AND tapping into global, collective pain at the same time.

We’re marching, or emphatically not marching.
We’re crying in the kitchen, out of the blue. We’re heavy with emotion by noon.

My loves, it’s critical that you let the pain move through you. You have to keep letting it go. And like, there’s no need to worry about being too detached from what’s going on. Because there’s new pain arriving daily. If you’re awake you will hurt. I’m with you…in profound agony over the state of the world. And, my faith and resolve are brighter than my doubt and stronger than my grief.

It’s an hourly practice to find that balance.

Feel it, fully, but don’t grip the pain and use it to bolster your position or identity. Holding on to pain is how you get bitter and brittle, and incidentally, much less effective.

It’s a feminine skill to process other people’s pain. Empathy. Whole humans feel things. Deeply. And then the heart wants to make something with the pain — to run it through its ventricles and transmute it into goodness. It’s a beautiful inclination. But we’ve got to keep our “pain processing for other people” in check or it will bring us down.

We might tell ourselves that taking on the collective pain is a form of being of service.
And it is — we’re in this together. But too much of that is martyrdom. And when you’re a martyr you become a burden on the system.
The pathway to the conscious management of psychic pain:
1. Feel your own pain. Analyze why YOU are personally affected.

1. And if you’re able, try to let it go by the end of the day if not sooner. Of course this is nearly impossible. But the intention will create a shift.

2. Observe other people’s pain. Seek to understand it. Relate or sympathize.

3. And if you’re able, let it go by the end of the day if not sooner. Very difficult to do, but NOT impossible. And then…return to your personal gratitude and power. Because… you must be in touch with your own blessings in order to be of service.

This is a daily practice because we’re all in pain. Humans, animals, Mother Earth…all hurting, badly. We have to let go of the pain on a regular basis so that it doesn’t backlog and turn into inflammation, depression, confusion. Or worse, blind rage.

Everyday, let it go. Give it up to Life, to God, to the cosmos and trust that we have the strength to heal. Speak out. Get a therapist for the sole reason of talking about world events and your rage and feelings of helplessness — and empowerment. Please, move. Get to a yoga class, or run your ass off a few times a week — for emotional reasons, not just for your ass. Dance! You’ve got to move the pain out of your body and psyche so that you can keep going. And we need to keep going.

If each of us made the effort to let go of pain and return to trust then there would be less pain in the atmosphere.
And with less pain in the atmosphere not only can we see more clearly and make more of an impact, but the low vibration stuff and fear-mongers have nothing to feed on and nowhere to hide. (Negative energies can turn a cloud of fear into a shit storm. So let’s not feed the cloud.)

Confront the pain with your unwavering trust and gratitude for being alive. This is where the limitless power is. Pain release and faith are a very effective way to serve. Every day. Over and over again… so we are free to rise.

Yessss. Press share to all the deep feelers in your life. xo

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