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*This is a post from last spring but it still applies. Happy Sunday!
xox

“I had tended to view waiting as mere passivity. When I looked it up in my dictionary, however, I found that the words passive and passion come from the same Latin root, pati, which means “to endure.” Waiting is thus both passive and passionate. It’s a vibrant, contemplative work. It means descending into self, into God, into the deeper labyrinths of prayer. It involves listening to disinherited voices within, facing the wounded holes in the soul, the denied and undiscovered, the places one lives false. It means struggling with the vision of who we really are in God and molding the courage to live that vision.”
~Sue Monk Kidd~

Sue Monk Kidd was on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday a couple of weeks ago. I’ve loved her for almost 25 years.

Her most famous book is “The Secret Life of Bees”, but I became familiar with her after reading her spiritual memoir “When The Heart Waits” in 1990. That was a time when not too many people were brave enough to write about their spiritual journey of transformation. My copy is water stained from reading in the bath, highlighted with a yellow marker, has my insights written in the margins and is dog-eared almost beyond recognition. I ate it up with a spoon when she wrote that waiting for your purpose is a sacred endeavor.

Waiting is not always passive. It can be a passageway from one way of being to another. She gave me permission to wait for the reveal.

These days, even more so than 25 years ago, waiting, being still, has gotten a bad rap. Inactivity is THE cardinal sin of the 21st century.

She used the analogy of the caterpillar in the chrysalis. If you poke a hole to check on its progress, the butterfly’s wings will be underdeveloped, and it will be unable to fly. The same thing happens if you try to help it break through. Every second, every step of the process is critically important to the transformation…and the survival of the butterfly.

Just let that one sink in……All the way down to your toes.

This quote from “When The Heart Waits” is one of my favorites.
I need to add it to the list.

“When the heart weeps for what it has lost, the Spirit laughs for what it has found” 

That makes my heart stop every time.

When Sue had her chat with O, she relayed an insight she had around 50.
She realized she had been a seeker all of her 20’s, 30’s and 40’s. In that respect we are kindred souls. But recently she’d admonished herself.

Enough seeking, she needed to “find” something.

It was time to become A Finder.

That just about made my head explode. Now I get it.
That’s what happens in your 50’s. The energy you expended as a seeker is replaced with the energy of “finding” and sharing. You’ve sought, delved and explored. You’ve attend countless retreats, seminars, conferences and sweat lodges. You’ve discovered along the way you DID get some answers. You have found nuggets of truth. Things you KNOW FOR SURE. All your seeking has borne fruit. That fruit is deliciously ripe and ready to share.

It’s the reason I write this blog.
I used to spend hour upon hour, day after day reading everything spiritual I could get my hands on. At one time I had over three hundred spiritual and self-help books. I have given half of them away.
Now I spend hours writing what I’ve learned.

I will always be on a journey of asking WHY? I’m hard-wired for it. But I’m also hard-wired to share anything and everything I know.
THAT is the payoff, the pay-it-forward of the seeker. We get to say: Hey, you wanna know what helped me? Have you read this or seen that?

I feel like in our second acts we are now Finders.
Things start to make some sense. Not everything, I still can’t wrap my brain around vows of chastity and silence.
What I HAVE found is that I am much more willing to wait and see how things work out.
I’m not perfect, some days I still want to see the progress inside the chrysalis.
I am forever a work in progress. I will always be asking questions. But I’m embracing my inner Finder.

I feel like she has a lot to share.

Tell me what you know about waiting. How comfortable are you with being passively passionate or passionately passive? Lol.

Xox

Happy Independence Day to all Americans who are reading this far and wide.

Carry on you independent ones,
xox

I was at a meditation the other day at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine Temple.
They hold them at noon on Wednesdays and I happen to think they’re lovely. They are led by a different delightful monk who obviously drew the short straw at breakfast that morning. I say that because even though on any given Wednesday there are only between fifteen to thirty people, that is still a room full of men and women looking and listening to you, and that constitutes public speaking.

Public speaking is terrifying. It is the subject of most people’s nightmares. But when it is done well it is an art, and sadly, not one that these monks possess.

That’s okay, they’re monks for god sakes. Trying to teach an ancient form of focused concentration to twenty-first-century human beings is no picnic. There’s no slide presentation or inspirational music. There is not a lick of wit or charisma.

My guess is that if they had wit or charisma — they may have chosen a different career path.

Nevertheless, this past Wednesday did not disappoint. Our monk was a perfectly nice fellow, and from the sound of his accent, he was born in Germany or somewhere else in Bavaria. At one point in the meditation, just before entering the silent part, he instructed us in the droning tone of his motherland: “Jus bahsk in da peasful praysence of Scott.”

What? Who’s Scott?

My eyes shot open and darted around the room to see if anyone else had heard what I had?

Scott?

His low-toned, semi-melodic droning continued and I heard it again. “Comb baaack to Scott”

Ohhhhhh… God. He’s saying God! It’s his accent that makes it sound like Scott.

Wait, I kinda like that name for God.
I shut my eyes and tried to join the flow, but my mind was reeling.

That name could really work nowadays, you know, from a PR standpoint, and here’s why:

My Three Reasons To Call God Scott—

1) There are so many frickin’ names for the Divine One.
It can be so confusing and extremely politically incorrect. Choose a religion, take your pick. Adonai, Yahweh, Jehovah, The Almighty, the Universe. Scott would tidy things up, unite everybody and keep the zealots from getting all hot under the turban.

2) Scott feels so…current. So…mid 2015. It makes God sound kinda hip; grown-up but accessible. It’s less polarizing than say, Piper, Keanu or River and friendlier than Zoltar.

3) In the Bible, God instructed the Israelites to avoid using his name (kind of like The Artist Formally Known as Prince), in a useless, disrespectful way. Instead, the Israelites were supposed to revere the name of God and use it in a serious, considerate way. Many of the ancient Israelites were so respectful of the name of God that they would not even pronounce it or write it for fear of using it in vain.

(My first name ain’t baby, It’s Janet, Miss Jackson if your nasty). Those who did write it would often throw away the quill they had used, because they thought that any quill that had written God’s name was holy and should not be used for regular words.

Taking this to the most absurdly literal place imaginable, Dr. John Hagee, the founder and senior pastor of the Cornerstone Church in San Antonio, Texas, not only agrees with what the Good Book says, but also takes the faith to a level of fanaticism.

Asked how the situation could be bettered, Hagee replied: “Well, we’d have to start with ourselves, as with everything in life. If you’re asking about my personal opinion, there is no greater sin in terms of wrongly using God’s name than women who use it during sex. That is one of the filthiest, most derogatory and sinful uses of the Lord’s name I can think of. If it were up to me, I would put every single woman or girl (wtf?) who does that in jail.”

I would bet my house on the fact that Reverend Hagee himself has never heard that word used during sex–but he’s heard that it happens and he wants it stopped!

Oh, and by the way, jail is not the place to end that practice. Just sayin’.

So you see, Scott would work beautifully here. All parties would be up to speed when the woman yelled “Oh Scott; go Scott; give it to me Scott!” just before reaching ecstasy. No harm, no foul, nobody’s offended, nobody has to be incarcerated.

Hey, and if the guy’s name was Scott, well, that’s just a synchronistic bonus.

I think you can agree with me, now that I’ve made such a convincing and compelling argument, that we should change God’s name to Scott. So how do we start? Does anyone know who we talk to first?

Carry on,
xox

<This is a recent post from the blog of Seth Godin. I love him for a myriad of reasons, one of them being that he is a fellow daily blogger. We are a rare breed. We need to stick together.
Plus I love the fact that his classmates kicked him off the high school quiz team HE created; and that he didn’t get all pissy about it and TP their lockers…he became the coach.

I know, it’s a motherfucker to put into practice and that it just made your butts pucker, but read on and you’ll see what he means.
Carry on,
xox

Buzzer management

I started the quiz team at my high school. Alas, I didn’t do so well at the tryouts, so I ended up as the coach, but we still made it to the finals.

It took me thirty years to figure out the secret of getting in ahead of the others who also knew the answer (because the right answer is no good if someone else gets the buzz):

You need to press the buzzer before you know the answer.

As soon as you realize that you probably will be able to identify the answer by the time you’re asked, buzz. Between the time you buzz and the time you’re supposed to speak, the answer will come to you. And if it doesn’t, the penalty for being wrong is small compared to the opportunity to get it right.

This feels wrong in so many ways. It feels reckless, careless and selfish. Of course we’re supposed to wait until we’re sure before we buzz. But the waiting leads to a pattern of not buzzing.

No musician is sure her album is going to be a hit. No entrepreneur is certain that every hire is going to be a good one. No parent can know that every decision they make is going to be correct.

What separates this approach from mere recklessness is the experience of discovering (in the right situation) that buzzing makes your work better, that buzzing helps you dig deeper, that buzzing inspires you.

The habit is simple: buzz first, buzz when you’re confident that you’ve got a shot. Buzz, buzz, buzz. If it gets out of hand, we’ll let you know.

The act of buzzing leads to leaping, and leaping leads to great work. Not the other way around.

Seth Godin

SETH GODIN is the author of 18 books that have been bestsellers around the world and have been translated into more than 35 languages. He writes about the post-industrial revolution, the way ideas spread, marketing, quitting, leadership and most of all, changing everything. You might be familiar with his books Linchpin, Tribes, The Dip and Purple Cow.

Recently, Godin once again set the book publishing industry on its ear by launching a series of four books via Kickstarter. The campaign reached its goal after three hours and ended up becoming the most successful book project ever done this way.

His newest book, What To Do When It’s Your Turn, is already a bestseller.

http://www.sethgodin.com/sg/default.asp

We are all connected.
And not just by the proximity and outreach that is available to us via our devices.

It goes way beyond that.

I believe that everything is alive and has a spirit.

There is another web active in our lives besides that World Wide one. It is a web of life, of energy that connects everything and everyone on this earth.

We are all interconnected and anything that suggests the belief that we are separate is an illusion.

Nature is the supreme example of this web of interconnection. The bees need the flowers. The flowers need the bees to bloom.

And I fucked up and cut down a tree in our front yard, apparently upsetting the delicate balance of nature throughout the world, or at least Los Angeles, California.

We are the custodians of a one hundred and fifty year old ash tree. And he is our giant, grounded guardian.

Of that I am sure.

I remember a psychic predicting that I would live in a tree house one day, (which at the time seemed absurd), but when I purchased this house a few years later my friends all remarked “I see you got a little house with your tree.”

It is massive, one of the largest trees in Studio City and we are so blessed to live under its majestic canopy, feeling its energy, enjoying its shade.

On the curb just adjacent to Ash (we’ll call him Ash) was a nondescript tree-thingy.
The arborist that came to the house ten years ago during our remodel educated us, telling us all about Ash, and when asked he informed me that the other tree wasn’t any species that he was familiar with.

“It’s just a weed that someone let grow into a tree a long time ago” he told us.

Just A Weed Tree was a lot of trouble.
His canopy was dense and…ugly, even after the annual hair cuts we gave him, not light and airy like Ash’s.
He cast too much shade for anything to flourish and the birds loved to congregate inside that dense, dark green foliage and shit all over our cars.

He had the bad attitude of an overgrown weed. He was pushy. And greedy, lifting the sidewalk, and getting into our pipes on a regular basis.

Just A Weed Tree always appeared to be crowding Ash, vying for light; and in the severe drought that we’ve found ourselves under, I feared he was chugalugging at the water table—and I knew Ash was too polite to say anything.

I LOVE trees, I do, ask anyone. I absolutely adore Ash, but I was not fond of JAWT.
He wasn’t a tree. He was a garden variety pest.

So this past Saturday our gardener cut him down. It took two guys and they were fast and thorough, even grinding the stump.

We both forgot that it was happening that day so when we got home the whole look and energy of the front yard had changed dramatically.

There was no sign that Just A Weed Tree had ever been there. But you could feel a HUGE void.
That weed had a presence.

FUCK.

We both stood at the curb, “Wow” was all we could say.

Now you could really see the front our house, there was the added sunlight in our yard that I had craved (for the plants) and with JAWT gone you could fully grasp the wonder of Ash.

“It looks like they trimmed the big tree too,” my husband remarked as I went around picking up leaves still on their branches.
It appeared as if they had been cleanly cut and they were EVERYWHERE.

Except they hadn’t been cut. They had been dropped.
I’d never seen anything like it. They covered the entire front yard, the driveway and even parts of the roof. In the fall Ash drops single, dead, brown leaves, never bright green leaves still on their small branches.
What was up?

My arms were full, carrying the leaves to piles I had made on the driveway
And it suddenly occurred to me: Ash was showing his shock and disapproval at the death of his friend Just A Weed Tree.

I walked over to him, closed my eyes and rested my hand on the rough bark of his truck—and I could feel his stress and despair.

Oh Fuck.

First of all, I had always felt Ash was a female. Wrong. He has a very pronounced masculine energy.
And he was pissed. And under extreme stress.
Apparently the high pitched whine of a chain-saw has the same visceral effect on trees as a dental drill has on humans (yeah, okay, got it) plus he had known JAWT for over sixty years, since he was just a tiny little weed that had somehow been spared. They were buddies.

I could feel his despair and it felt awful. I should have known better. Trees do have feelings and I had callously overlooked that fact.

We had basically murdered his friend right in front of him.

FUCK.

We are all interconnected, residents of this web of life and I needed Ash to know that I could feel his anguish, so I stood with both hands and my forehead on his trunk, apologizing and conveying our sincerest condolences for the loss of JAWT. I also explained the water situation and the fact that his health and stability were of the utmost importance to us. Then I played to his vanity telling him over and over how gorgeous (handsome) we think he is.
“You Mister, are the star of this neighborhood.” I think he was flattered.

Raphael watched from a distance, he could sense what was going on, and he added his sympathies from there. “I hope he’ll be okay,” he said with genuine concern, gazing at the piles of leaves.

“Now that he understands and knows how sorry we are—he’ll be fine.” I replied.

And he is. After our little talk he never dropped another leaf.

Carry on,
xox

Judgement alert! There may be some judgment leveled here. Hey, I’m no saint.

How come the crazy one’s never loose any sleep?
Is it their complete lack of a conscience that causes them to appear so slick, smug and impossibly fresh?

Not a hair out of place.
Barely a hint of the devil that lies within.

While those of us that have the misfortune to find ourselves in their orbit are sleep deprived, disheveled, walking disasters.

That will always bother me.

The fact that people who operate outside the constructs of polite society close their eyes at night and sleep the uninterrupted, peaceful sleep of the just.

Why is that?
How can it be?

The night before an arbitration with the attorneys for DWP to discuss the fact that their one hundred year old water main had burst and turned my store into an aquarium; I tossed and turned until the sheets were knotted up around my head and neck, fashioned into an unattractive turban/noose—and I ground my teeth down to nubs. Which left me the next morning gumming my toast, with a foggy brain and pronounced sheet marks on my face that didn’t fade until after lunch.

The team of He, She and It, that represented the water company, entered the room that morning laughing. Uproariously.
Like Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon had driven carpool. I felt at a distinct disadvantage. Out of the loop, like the funniest joke ever told was lost on me. Was that their plan?

They were meticulously coiffed and groomed, cool as the proverbial cucumbers, while I was drenched in flop sweat, permanently wrinkled and frantically struggling to remove a poppy-seed from between my two front teeth with my tongue.

Note to self: Don’t accept half a poppy-seed bagel when you’re out of coffee. And you forgot your water.
You’re going to need something to rinse your mouth with when the big guns enter the room.

If I’d had more sleep I would have remembered that.

They all seemed so nice, so genuinely happy to meet me; that is until the bell rang and we went to our respective corners. Then the gloves came off and the crazy started to show.

They made shit up. Their entire alibi was jack-crap.
With graphs, documents and flow charts. Listen, if you show me a flow chart, I’ll believe anything…almost.
Somehow they double teamed my attorney and me. In the most well crafted, legal babbly, thinly veiled insulting way, they pinned the whole thing on me. They made the accidental, midnight break of their trunk line water main seem like MY fault.

Business was slow, debt was high, it was 2009, and I need out—only I was too stupid to commit arson.

I know, crazy, right?

When we broke for lunch even I wanted to throw the book at me.
The picture they painted of me was that of a sad-sack, loser of a business woman. Which was exactly how I felt at the time.
I think my lawyer drank the Kool-Aid too—they were that convincing. She wouldn’t make eye contact, skulking in the corner on her phone, and then disappearing for the entire lunch break.

But you wanna know what trumps sleep deprivation? Rage. That’s what.
It also instantly removes sheet marks from your face.

It also over-rides all victim-hood.

Crazy and Rage are curious dance partners and they should never be left alone in a room together.
Let me tell you why. Crazy is so put together, so charming, pretty, and unflappable. Crazy looooooves a victim, she gets off on them, they get her panties wet.

Rage is no victim, he’s a gangster. He’s raw, he’s greasy and he talks real dirty. He wears a wife beater t-shirt and too much Aramis; and he has only one thing in his crosshairs—Crazy.

Crazy gets high on Rage and it quickly becomes a street-brawl.

But Rage is better than Sad, which is where I’d pitched my tent for eighteen months. Some say you can get caught in anger and never feel despair. The opposite had been true for me.
Sad victimhood. It’s like chum in the water to Crazy.

So Rage felt better. It felt…empowering. Sadness felt like quick-sand, Rage, like solid ground.

It got my attention and cleared my vision, so I could finally see the truth and it kicked Sad’s ass to the curb.

I locked myself in a public bathroom stall and raged for an hour before taking a walk around the building, coming to my senses, and finding my courage.

I knew my opponent. I was very familiar with Crazy.
You see, I had met her as a teenager in the form of my father’s second wife. I had witnessed her devour her victims and I was smart enough to remember that Rage threw her into a sort of drunken frenzy.

I also remembered that nothing can get to Crazy. Nothing touches their heart. There is no reasoning with Crazy. There is no sympathy, empathy or compassion and absolutely nothing is open for discussion.

They act as your judge, jury and executioner.

And the more they sense is at stake, the faster and louder the accusations come. Their aim is to keep you off-balance, on the ropes.

Remember they are rested, ready and strong after their peaceful nights sleep. How is that fair?
Because they get a buzz off this shit and they don’t care about anything other than winning.

I sure wasn’t feeling sad anymore, Rage had hatched a plan but I knew better than to let it enter that room. I waited outside the double doors of the conference room until I saw my attorney exit the elevator. I could hear the team of Crazy, Crazier and Craziest, whopping it up inside.

“You handle this, I’m leaving” I announced. I had her by the arm and was walking her back down a long hallway of endless doors, out of earshot of the hyenas.

“What?” she looked surprised.

“You don’t need me here. They can smell my fear and sadness, and well, their offer is beyond ridiculous. See what happens when they can’t focus on me. When they have to deal with you and only the facts.” We had walked in a circle making our way back toward the bank of elevators.

“Give me a number you’ll you settle at” she asked as she reached into her bag for paper and a pen. She seemed relieved, like the day could be salvaged. Like it could go back to a language she understood—the law.

I wrote a figure down. She looked and nodded in agreement, folding the paper into a small square and tucking into her suit-jacket pocket.

The elevator chimed, opening right on cue. People were packed like sardines, but as I stepped inside she grabbed my purse strap, making me turn around. “This could end today” she said with a hint of a smile, letting go as the doors closed.

A hairy mystery hand reached around me and pushed the button for LOBBY, getting me the hell out of that DWP building. I know it was Rage. I could smell his Aramis. But I made sure I left him behind, losing him in the crowd.

*I got the call a couple of hours later that they’d settled on the figure I’d written down. “Piece of cake” I remember her saying in a distracted voice, (yeah, once the chum had left the building), she was already on to her next case.

We all slept well that night.

I know some of you guys needed to hear this,
Carry on,
xox

Faces always talk too much. One line and all their plans are revealed.”
― Floriano Martins

When I look at this face of mine, it appears hopeful, tired, lovely and worn — all at once.
Like my puppy gazing into a mirrored surface, I tend to get skittish and look past it.

I often don’t recognize it as my own.

I’ve been attempting an exercise that Louise Hay wrote about recently.
Oh….that rascal—that pusher of buttons.

It has been darting in and out of my experience for a while, like children playing tag.  I’d hear or read about it and I would think: oh, I’ll have to try that.

Then day turns to night, weeks to months, years pass and my life cycles around in that magical way, weaving in and out of different jobs, friends, laughter and tears, and….Here it is again.

TAG. YOUR’E IT.

This time when I read it, I immediately walked into the bathroom and stood before the large mirror that hangs over my sink. No waffling, getting distracted or waiting for a better time.
Luckily I was at home.
That sort of determined resolve could have become uncomfortably embarrassing had I marched into a public restroom at a swanky bistro; or taken a dangerous turn if I had been compelled to stare into my car’s rearview mirror.

So there I stood, on my tiptoes.

My husband is 6’3″ and he built our bathroom to accommodate his height.
I get it.
In most mirrors he can only get a gander of some of his chin and neck. Extremely annoying, SO not helpful, and at our age your neck can be demoralizing.

I am 5’4″ on a day that gravity and my self-esteem are being kind enough to let me hit that mark. So unless I’m on my tiptoes, which, after ten years at that sink, like a ballerina on point, has become my natural stance, I see only my eyes and forehead.

We really are a circus freak show of a couple.

Standing together, side by side, I fit neatly right under his armpit.
He is Paul Bunyan.
I am wee.

Sorry, I digress.

Okay…

Here is the exercise: you stand at a mirror, gazing deeply into your own eyes.

I know. I can feel your resistance. I recognize it because I felt it for years.

Get back to the mirror!
Don’t look away, which will be your first natural reaction because our mothers taught us not to stare.
For women, this is like putting a blank canvas in front of us, we want to get to work.
Just as we’ve done every morning since the first day we were allowed to wear make up, we pluck, shuck, spackle and rouge.

Don’t. Put down the mascara. And those tweezers. Stare only into your eyes.

Now repeat three times: I love you, I love you, I love you.
Without laughing.

I broke into a huge smile and burst into a giant belly laugh during my first attempt.
I’m not sure why.
It just felt like Ashton Kutcher was going to come peeking around the corner with a camera crew and deliver the horrific news that I’d just been “punked”.

But let me tell you what has happened instead. Over the last several weeks I’ve been brought to tears, watched my face morph in front of me, felt gratitude and finally love.

I’m falling in love with my own face The same, unaltered one I’ve worn for fifty-seven years.

In love with each line and imperfection of which I am exceedingly familiar. Tiny scars, thinning lips, the flecks of green, blue and brown that inhabit my irises.

The biggest surprise has been the way those eyes are starting to look back at me.

Full of pain and joy, empathy and understanding.
I’m becoming acquainted with what inhabits the space behind those eyes, to something deeper still.
The observer — my soul.

I suggest you give it a try, but like with me, if it takes a few years, your soul will understand, it’ll wait. It’s not going anywhere.

I love when you talk to me, tell me how this goes. Try it for a couple of weeks and write your results in the comments below.
When you share you really help other people.

Sending love,
Xox

I found this a while ago…somewhere I can’t remember. I think I was bleary eyed, in need of sleep, and I only had the presence of mind to copy/paste.
I wanted to show this to you guys. It’s by Katy Bourne and it’s so good I can’t…there are no words.

This is for the ones going through hell right now. You know who you are. And for those of us that have been there and back. Katy obviously has, and her words are here to soothe your souls.
Enjoy your weekend,
xox

“You’re dangling precariously.
You’re frozen and trembling. You’re gripped with uncertainty and the ominous unknown. The wolf is at the door.

The bills are piling up, but no money is coming in. Or maybe your baby left you, walked right out. Perhaps you’ve made an epic mistake, with disastrous and irrevocable consequences. You can barely breathe, suffocated by the unwieldy weight of your own broken heart.

You frantically scan the landscape, looking for clues or any kind of lifeline. But the vista is barren. You’re shredded into a million bewildering pieces. You’re hanging on for sweet life. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re hanging on to anymore, or if you even can.

This is survival mode. And it will be okay.

Raw vulnerability is the midwife to grace.
Stripped of your old safety nets and certainties, you have nothing but openness and new eyes. There is a pouring in of all the things you never noticed before. Even a dew-soaked leaf takes on a fresh poignancy and buys you a nanosecond of peace and beauty.

The very light of day changes. It softens and clarifies. Your pain is not here to batter you. It’s just making passage for perspective, transcendence and rebirth.

No matter the mayhem of the present moment, your heart is still steadily pounding. Your lungs are still expanding and contracting. Oxygen is still coursing through your body. And as you flail around in your anguish, your inner warrior is hard at work behind the scenes: rendering first-aid, holding your broken soul and keeping you alive.

He or she is fighting for you, more ferociously and diligently than you can imagine.

Your mind is your best weapon and your biggest obstacle.
It can spin you into infinite madness or ground you in brave resolve. Panic can make it chatter relentlessly, but you can bring it back to earth again.

Step outside. Turn your precious face upward. Breathe. The air and the sky and the sun will calm the clamor. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.

Grief is the natural and real response to loss and hardship.

Despair, however, is grief on steroids. Grief holds its own gentle resolution. Despair is resignation, a long-term forecast for gloom. Fear has an ugly snarl but limited power. Still, it rages like a lunatic, leaving you disoriented.

Courage moves through the chaos, one steady step at a time. Your heartache is like a free fall. You can scramble to fill the void, grabbing for whatever fix you can to numb the jagged edges. You can also persevere with quiet dignity. In every moment there are choices, even in survival mode.

The hardest part of survival mode is the ambiguity.

It will not budge. There is no clear pathway to relief, or even a guarantee that you’ll find it. You are at the mercy of time and forces beyond your control. Such is the nature of ambiguity. Your present circumstances merely accentuate the point.

But even within the ambiguity there is possibility.

Although you’re shaking on the edge, there is a larger view available. This current difficulty, with all its sorrow, dread and anger, is just a blip on a much greater narrative. There is spaciousness, wonder and the divine gift of impermanence.

All are there for you. There is elegant liberation in releasing your weary clutch. You have already traveled for eons. Grace is the tender seraph pulling you home, wherever that may be.
And you will be okay.”

Katy Bourne is a self-described ‘basic goober making her way in the world’. A child of the Southern plains, she spent her Oklahoma childhood throwing rocks, blowing saxophone in the school band and riding horses. The youngest of four, she was often left to her own devices and entertained herself by making faces in the bathroom mirror and dressing up the family pets. Having navigated numerous life challenges over the years — addiction & recovery, the death of a child, divorce, the ups & downs of parenthood, the music business — she is particularly interested in exploring themes of survival, grit and grace in the face of ambiguity. Katy makes her home in Seattle, WA. By day, she writes promotional copy for musicians and bands. By night, she sings jazz at nightspots, festivals and private events throughout the Northwest.
{You’ll Be Okay}

You could contact her via her website.http://katy-bourne.com

Dear Woo Woo Crew,

My brother has found himself in the midst of a personal shitastropy. You know, just like we all do from time to time.

And even though it’s winding down — it’s winding up (isn’t it weird how that happens? It gets really bad before it goes away. Like that stubborn boil on your ass). So the fan is blowing shit all over the fucking place. You know, like it does.

Anyhow, he’s had your help. I call you his Woo Woo Crew because of the alchemy you have performed through your love, loyalty and laughter. You have helped my brother weather his dark night of the soul with your special brand of magic.

Now, before you get all weepy on me (Billy).
Can we just talk for a minute about the medicinal properties of laughter? Guffawing your way through tears is highly underrated. It has a Merlin-esq magical quality to it. Laughter is the best medicine is no joke. Doctors should prescribe a visit to a comedy club (or humor blog) for depression. Seriously.

And as I see it, that’s been an indispensable part of his cure. You, his WWC make him laugh.
A lot.
Everyday.
The joke is often at his own expense—but that’s okay—he’s freakin’ funny.
You aren’t walking on eggshells. You aren’t worried about what YOUR future holds. You show up to his business with smiles and hugs and donuts. (I took artistic liberties in assuming there are donuts. It just seems like you would have something deep-fried and I like icing, so….)

Hey, don’t get me wrong, you work as hard as you play. You are so smart, so good at what you do, that I want to buy you all ponies. Well, Billy already has a pony, so maybe cars for the rest of you.

You are loyal, you are loving, you cut him slack when it’s needed and pick it up for him when he’s down.


I could not send bigger love to Y’all. I mean it.

My hope is that all you guys out there have your very own Woo Woo Crews. If you don’t — find one fast.
They will save you.

Better yet, maybe you are a card-carrying member of one.

My friend Kim is also walking the temporary tightrope of terrible. Again, like we all have; and I see or speak to her almost every day.

Seems my life makes her laugh.
My triumphs, my tragedies are…funny to her. I suppose it’s in the delivery, but still, we laugh A LOT!
The thing is, when I see her walk up the driveway with a sad face and then later, I watch her walk back to her car and she’s still laughing about that thing I said. That makes me feel good.

Listen I’m no Mother Theresa.
The other day I yelled at her mid-cry, right to her sad, soggy face: “Stop crying! Stop being sad!”…and instead of punching me in the face — we both burst out laughing. Like doubled over, can’t speak laughing.

Dammit, it was time. Time for her sadness to turn the corner, lose its grip and get the hell out of her life!
Just writing this make me giggle because I can still see the shock that washed over her before she started laughing. I’m sure my face looked the same.

It was priceless. Like a two-year-old. Tears one minute, laughter the next.

Why can’t we do that? When did we lose that talent? Why does the laughter dissipate so quickly but the tears stay for…weeks?

Woo Woo Crews Unite! Be funny! Be kind! Be goofy! Bring donuts! Buy ponies!
Turns some frowns upside down (yes I did say that).

Write love letters to people who are making a difference, so they can become aware that they are.

Enough rambling.

So incredibly grateful for you guys,
Carry on,
xox

Here’s some medicine for you — Happy Friday!

What in this moment is lacking?

You guys know how I love to collect quotes. I’m obsessed. Seriously. I’m a quote hoarder. Like I need to go to quote rehab. It’s all the stuff I wished I’d said. I guess it stems from quote envy…

Anyhow…Here are a few from that Rob Bell seminar last week that I thought could get you thinking.
They certainly did that for me. Some are so good you’re going to want to embroider them on a pillow or tattoo them on your face.

There are several from Rob, and the rest come from his invited speakers, who by the way were all brilliant.

So. “What in this moment is lacking?” Let’s start with that one by Rob Bell, shall we?

Nothing.
And that’s the problem. Our brains are constantly in search mode, looking, determined to find it. That thing that each moment lacks.
And you know what? Do that for long enough and you’ll have a list as long as your arm.

But in truth the answer is — nothing.
This moment lacks nothing.

It is the springboard, the jumping off place for the next and the next and the next. It is packed full of potential if you can change your perspective.
Try it.
You can always refer back to your long list.

Pete Rollins, I don’t know too much about him but he seemed like someone you’d want to share a pint or two with. Tons of hardscrabble wisdom in the body of a leather jacket wearing, truth talking Irishman.
Pete’s quotes have layers and layers of depth to them. Watch out!

“Fulfill your dreams so you can realize the abject horror of their impotence.” – Peter Rollins
(WTF?! This one could fuel the entire imaginary dinner table conversation that I have with world figures and people I admire.
What would Jon Stewart have to say about THAT?)

“Church should be like the Irish pub” – Rollins (No judgement, everyone’s welcome.)

“God is found in the midst of life, not the escape of it.” – Rollins (Talking about the argument that God can be found in hallucinatory drugs)

“We all have ghosts that become poltergeists. If you let them come out they become holy ghosts.” – Peter Rollins

If I could put my hand on your head and make you live forever but not experience the depth of life, I’m not a god. I’m a devil.  – Peter Rollins
(Here he was talking about the brevity of life and the role that the fear of death plays — See! I warned you. )

“Loneliness is the most lethal condition in existence.” – Rob Bell (talking about the lack of real connection even in this world of instant messaging, FaceTime, etc.)

“Before you can be free for life, you must be free from yourself.” – Rob Bell (you guessed it — free your demons)

“Ideas need flesh and blood.” – Bell (Regarding creativity and the reason our Muses choose us to execute their ideas.)

“Follow the joy” – Bell (the answer to someone’s question, “How do I find my path in life?”)

“It is such a letdown to rise from the dead and have your friends not recognize you.” – Rob Bell (Here he’s talking about when WE reinvent and rise from our own ashes and lose all our friends in the process because they just can’t relate to us anymore.)

“We turn graduations into divorces because we stayed too long.” – Rob Bell (Can’t we all just agree? Things just run their course?)

Speaking of creativity, this was from the Q & A with Carlton Cuse (the writer of LOST)

Q- “how much of the creative endeavor is luck and how much is hard work?”
Cuse – “almost none of it is luck.”
Ha! I love that! Almost none of it. I’m a firm believer in the saying “luck is when opportunity meets preparation.”
What about you?

These two are from Vicki Beeching who was enjoying her life as a devout Christian and writer and singer of inspirational music, but hiding a secret until it literally made her sick — the fact that she’s gay.

“When we worship certainty, we are attempting to tame the Lion.” – Vicki

“The only way to love and serve those around me is to be myself.” Vicki Beeching

I’ll leave you guys with these two to ponder, both by Rob Bell:

“Is this it?” is the existential thud of the American dream” – Bell (That thud was the sound we all heard as we grew into adulthood in the 20th century. I was wondering what that was.)

“A tribe to bless other tribes? That was a new idea. What does it look like for the U.S. to bless the world?” – paraphrased Rob Bell

What would that look like? I think it would look very much as it’s starting to look today.
One person at a time.
Being grateful.
Showering blessings.
Paying it forward.
Again and again and again.
Because this moment lacks NOTHING.

Carry on, I love you guys,
xox