A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson

I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7. 

It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general goof-offiness.

When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.

It’s like finding blue sea glass. It’s like a gem, out of the blue, completely unexpected.

My point is this: out in the world, right now, someone thinks you’re awesome. 
I swear to God.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it; you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.

I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere, and if they were alive…they would be surprised.

The same friend that wrote that email, is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome – and she doesn’t even know it.

I was just lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and wise woman who lives in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and is so impossibly chic that French woman must ask her for fashion advise. I’m sure of it. I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome behind her.
And she is blissfully unaware.

Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields, that I can feel equally stupid about music, computers and food around him. THAT my friends is a talent. 
My husband marvels at Clay’s humble manner and down lowness.
He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
We think he’s covered in awesome sauce, and he has NO IDEA.

It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, being you, and someone noticed your sparkle.

Telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted us is wonderful, please, do it.

But it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.

People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?

There are people breathing air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.

I do.

You’re all amazing!
Xox

*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.

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

The only sound I can hear is the soft whrrrrr of the refrigerator, which spends its nights keeping my kale and green drink ingredients cool and 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. Right now it’s all cleanses, bitter greens and shit.

I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few options so I won’t cheat with 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 my craving for gooey goodness, so I think technically, I’m not an addict, which gives me some solace.

What I am is: a vessel seeking clarity…with a bad attitude…in dire need of a cheeseburger.

For about two decades the freezer in my apartment contained two things: vodka and cigarettes (if you’re just a 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 dirt. Remember, I had been violently ill for three days.

She was one of my gossip girls, so she knew about the cigcicles, 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, and opened the freezer.

Suddenly, she jumped back, as if she’d seen a ghost, slamming 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 said DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“I’d better go”

Man, the disembodied voices in my apartment in those days were bossy!

“Sit your ass down, I’ve got a story to tell.” I barked, taking a page out of their book.

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.

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 when you’re at a crossroads.

So, to save you the obsessing and 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 the 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 clench. Here’s a great quote from Mark Nepo for the people pleasers among us: “I tried so hard to please that I never realized; No one was watching.”
Right!? Did the top of your head just blow off? Mine too)

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? (consult your three AM list, believe me, they’re ALL there).

7) Whats the BEST thing that can happen? (usually written on a Post It)

8) What would I tell my best friend to do? (sans snarkiness, 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 can’t be brave and I play it safe.)

There you have it. I hopes this helps. Clarity is key to making the best choices. That and chocolate.
Love you all,

Xox

This level of creativity leaves me giddy…and grateful…and hopeful. Take a look.

Xox

All the world’s a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players; 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
And one man in his time plays many parts.
~William Shakespeare 

On top of writing this blog, putting together my book, my women’s group and modeling for Victoria’s Secret, I’m also birthing,(with my composer friend Les) a Broadway musical. (Only four of those are true – can you guess which ones?)

It’s been such an interesting process and I’ll tell you why.
We have the whole story in our minds, we just have to get the characters to say, sing and do all right things to make that story come alive.
We’ve spent the last nine months letting the characters tell us who they are (their backstory) so we can write the dialogue and songs that will suit them.
We HAVE to know their motivation before one word is spoken.

A favorite saying of mine is: even the villain has total conviction and thinks he’s doing the right thing.

When you think like that, it brings compassion, and the words that appear on the page never have a false note; they always ring true. (That, and a chocolate chip cookie sacrifice to my Muse every Friday as we brainstorm really helps.)

Imagine if we did that with our lives.
If we questioned our motivation with compassion, making sure to say and do the things that will move us forward in life. 
If we could reverse engineer our paths and never make a false move. 
Impossible right? And we really wouldn’t want to bypass some of those mistakes because they did lead us here, but…

You know when you’re engrossed in a movie and the main character, who you’ve fallen for, big time, does something stupid? 
They cuss out a co-worker and get fired, they choose the dangerous, douchy guy over the boring sweet guy, they sleep with a married man, they spend all their money on shoes, they drink and dial their ex, or they stand in front of the fridge at midnight finishing their kid’s birthday cake?

Don’t you just want to yell at the screen and throw popcorn? “NO! Don’t go there! Stop it! That is SO CLEARLY the wrong move! Ugh, now you’ve done it. How are you going to get out of that?”

Think Liz Gilbert (Julia Roberts) in Eat, Pray, Love, when she meets the young, boy toy actor (James Franco) and starts a fling, right on the heels of her divorce.
“No Liz, Don’t do it! Take some time alone. Don’t go there. He’s not right for you… Shit.”

You just know how that’s gonna end. We can all understand, we’ve been there.
It’s the sex – the blood leaves your brain, and it’s always phenomenal with completely inappropriate people.
It’s one of life’s great mysteries.

I have an exercise that I use in the woman’s group, to try to see the wrong moves before you make them, and I think it’ll help you with your future choices.
It’s a trick to get you to live more consciously.

Imagine your life as a movie. Right now.
In full HD color, on the big screen and YOU, are the star! (played by Kate Winslet or Reese Witherspoon, George Clooney or Hugh Jackman).
You can view, from afar, in your seat in the theater, all the options in front of you and watch as the character (you) makes their choices.
Are you watching YOU take some chances, have adventures, fall in love, laugh and have fun? Or are YOU miserable, on unemployment, being a sad sack, staying in bed, eating cheesecake?

Are you yelling “yes! Great decision!” or “No! Turn around and walk away!”

Remember, You are extremely fond of YOU (hopefully) and you only want the best.

If viewed on the big screen, how are YOU doing?
Are you avoiding the pitfalls and dick-heads, or are you going for the instant gratification? (the great sex with the wrong people)

Pulling back and watching the movie of my life has helped me immeasurably in my decision making. Sometimes I just shake my head, and other times I smile. 

I’m really rooting for me.

One of my friends imagines herself atop an impossibly high mountain and looks down at the overview of her life. She’s done it for years and it helps her so much to gain a better perspective.
I love that.

Think about this the next time you come to a crossroads.
We all know deep down what’s right for us. What would you want the YOU in the movie to do?

I’m rooting for YOU.
Much Love,
Xox

Late the other night at the Carmel writing retreat, after three plus hours in a masterminding session listening to and giving feedback on everyone’s books, my roommate Jeannie and I had become giddy from equal parts exhaustion, exhilaration, and chocolate.

In between fits of laughter, we would tell stories from our lives, peeling back the layers to reveal a bit more about ourselves.
We’d pull something out of our sacred stash of writings that we’d never read aloud to anyone before, offering ourselves up for critique, only to have our trusted roomie leap across the room and throw her arms around us. “You have to read that to the group!” We’d exclaim. Then we’d double over in a giant fit of the giggles. It was like summer camp for adults.
Pinkie swear.

One great story that Jeannie told, had to do with a crooked tooth.
She may be in her forties, and a highly successful entrepreneur, but she has the face of a pixie, a disarmingly charming southern drawl, the eyes of an imp, and a slightly crooked incisor (which I didn’t even notice until she told this story).

This tooth is part of a big beautiful smile, it is not unsightly, it’s certainly not calling attention to itself, and it is NOT a snaggle tooth. I know a snaggle tooth when I see one because my old boxer has a wicked one.

Anyway, Jeanne is living a perfectly lovely life, slightly crooked incisor and all. As a matter of fact – she doesn’t even see it when she looks in the mirror.

So as she tells it, recently her mom asked her, quite seriously, “Honey, are you ever going to straighten that crooked tooth of yours?”
“What?! I have a ….what?!” She ran to a mirror to survey the scene.

Yep, sure enough, there before her was a slightly turned in tooth.

‘Was it THAT bad? Why hadn’t she noticed it?‘ Her mind raced. ‘Is it holding me back? Are people repelled?’
You know how the mind works. Suddenly, because it was her mom calling attention to it, she had the teeth of a troll.

Hardly!

She just had a blind spot. Something she was so used to seeing, that she didn’t even notice it anymore.

God, we laughed about that tooth. “Yeah, I was wondering about that, when ARE you going to get that fixed?” I said, wincing and making gagging sounds. We laughed until our sides ached.

Then I remembered a blind spot story of my own, so I shared.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a flesh colored bump on the tip of my nose. I guess it’s technically a mole; but it’s not black, and there’s not a hair growing out of the center, so I’m not a witch—I can hear you, stop thinking that!

Anywho, I’ve had it removed twice, once sliced off and once frozen, and both times it grew back. Seems it felt cozy on that piece of real estate on my face, and it had no intention of vacating. So I left it alone.
To be honest, I never saw it when I looked in the mirror, it was just a part of my face.
Ahhhhhh, and then there’s my shitty vision—a blessing and a curse.

Cut to: A blind date, the 1990’s. I’m dressed to the nines, hair, make up, the whole enchilada. I’m seated across the table from an attractive man, at a VERY expensive, and perfectly pretentious Beverly Hills restaurant. I am picking at the $65 salad while he orders a bottle of something red, and when he finishes, he gets a big warm smile on his face, leans in like he’s going to kiss me (so I put down my fork and stopped chewing) then he reaches up and touches my nose lightly and says “You’re a pretty girl—you should get that fixed.”

He mole shamed me.

Motherf*cker, please. I spent an hour getting ready, I shaved my legs, I’m wearing my best…everything, I’m smart and witty (and humble) and you can’t take your eyes off my mole??

I grabbed my purse, politely excused myself and drove like a bat out of hell all the way home. I literally ran to the bathroom to study my face in the mirror, and there it was, my persistent friend.
(You really did have to get in just the right light to see it…I swear).

The next morning I called the dermatologist and had it removed…this time for good.

The things that I mentioned are minor, but what if we have a blind spot to something that is actually holding us back?
What if that guy was Mr. Right? Yeah, not in a million years. BUT…what if? I really knew deep down that I had the nose wart, I was just in a state of perpetual denial, so, maybe we shouldn’t shoot the messenger.

What else am I in denial about? Thinking I’m an organizing fool when I’m really just a fool?
Am I blind to the fact that I really cannot cook? Or keep to a budget? Or stay interested in a man for more than a year?

I’m convinced we ALL have a blind spot story. What’s yours?

Love you, warts and all,
Xox

* I haven’t told many people this story for obvious reasons. Let’s just keep it between you and me.;-)

Perhaps the shortest and most powerful prayer in the human language is help.
~Father Thomas Keating

Men show up at the foot of my bed. I can’t help it, it’s a gift.

No, really.
Once, when I was living with my sister and a roommate, a “drunk as a skunk” friend of my roommate’s boyfriend got lost on his way to the bathroom, and I woke up to find him at the foot of my bed, mumbling incoherently – with no pants on.
If I’d had a gun, he’d be dead. And THAT is the end of my anti gun story.

The second time it happened was even weirder, if you can believe it.
It was during the time of my spiritual awakening, so I was living alone on the ninth floor of a high-rise, crazy, mystical shit was happening, and I felt like hell.
I had my pocket shaman, his team, and pennies in my shoes to keep me grounded.
I wasn’t sleeping much, but when I’d laid down to try, I would beg God or whoever was on duty that late at night, for peace of mind.
My prayer was always: Dear God, please help me to handle this.
Someone told me that prayer was magic, so I would whisper it softly, every night, and wait for relief.

One particularly bad night, after I finally managed to nod off, I was startled awake by some commotion at my window.
I actually had a whole wall of windows, which looked out over the Hollywood Hills and the double towers of Century City. The view at night was ridiculously stunning, (if I had been able to appreciate anything at all), and because I was up so high, nine stories, I never closed the blinds.

I heard the rattling and scraping, but in my stupor I had incorporated it into a dream.
When I finally did open my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
I blinked. And blinked. And blinked again.
Then I tried to jump up…but I was paralyzed.
There, looking me straight in the eye, as he made his way one foot, then one arm, then sloowwwwly the rest of his body – was a man.

“Am I still asleep?” I was asking myself, still blinking and trying to move.
My mind was racing and my heart was pounding.
“Was it the drugs? Oh yeah, I’m not on any.”
“This can’t be real, I must be hallucinating.”

Never once breaking eye contact, the man walked ever so deliberately to the end of my bed.
Something was wrapped around him as he crawled though the window, it looked like a cape. Once he came to a stop, facing me; with a bit of dramatic flair, I saw the glistening of snowy white feathers, and I heard a very distinctive swooooooosh as he unfurled the most massive set of… wait for it…wings!
They were enormous and majestic with their etherial,shimmery,almost iridescent feathers. I’ll never forget the sound of them. Have I mentioned how huge they were? They filled the room.
The wings definitely made an impression.

He was an angel. At the foot of my bed.

“Oh it’s an angel – well, that’s okay, um, wtf? NO it’s not! What does this mean? Shit. It can’t be good.” (Sample of my train of thought at the time).

I was scared, but I can’t say I was terrified. You have to remember, some weird shit was going down in my life at that time on a daily basis, but this? This took the cake. A visitation. Like right out of the bible. Not to be irreverent but, Holy cow!
How did I rate an angelic drop in? Surely, he had better places to be, like the Vatican, in a war zone, with the dying…’uh oh, am I dying?’

I was still paralyzed but wide, wide awake. I’d never been so awake in my life. I was almost hyper aware.

“What would help you feel less afraid?” He asked in his manly, telepathic angel voice.
“My cat” I answered in my mind. (for the love of God, why didn’t I say George Clooney?) I had given my cat to my sister because I was traveling so much back then, and I missed him desperately.

As fast as you could say abracadabra, Moomie was on my pillow, purring his trademark motorboat purr in my ear. I could move my hand up to touch and hold his furry paw – but only my hand. Believe me, I tried to make a run for it.

Then I fell asleep.

What?! I know. I couldn’t believe it either.
I hadn’t fallen asleep that fast for months…and there was an ANGEL AT THE FOOT OF MY BED.
What can I say? His presence was actually very comforting, and with that angel telepathy he was reassuring me, telling me I was safe and everything was going to be okay.

I woke up a couple of times and looked toward the end of the bed, and there he was, standing vigil, wings spread out wide, showing off. That surprised me. He must have drawn the short straw, and been relegated to pull an all-nighter.

I wished I’d asked questions. I’m sure I must have, it IS my nature, but I don’t remember any conversation between us, only his reassurance.

The next time I opened my eyes, the room was light – and he was gone, my angel intruder. So was my cat, darn it.
But I felt rested and safe and somehow…special.

It was a turning point in my awakening journey. I started to feel better. I would pray to HIM every night now. For comfort, for peace, for a return visit.

So far no such luck, but occasionally I feel him. We have a “thing“.

Sending you angel love,
Xox

PS. I went to the library (pre-computer) and looked at books about angel visits, you know what makes the biggest impression on everyone? Yep, those wings.

Listen to it:
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/angl-at-the-foot-of-my-bed

“You did not come to this Earth now to just pay bills, follow rules, watch your body age, and live a random life. You came here to fulfill a purpose, to live your life alive, to view all your changes as sacred meaningful soul passages.”
~Leo at “Perspectives From the Sky”

Walking semi-concious through those same glass double doors every morning, I would say “hey” to the guard, glance at the fading green paint and take in the general shabby condition of the place. “Long in the tooth” is how my husband describes buildings that are past their prime.
Except for the small missing pieces of the parquet wood floor and the dilapidated condition of the grey, two stall bathroom; if you entered from the front – you could be dazzled.

There were more millions of dollars of jewelry in that one thousand square foot foyer, than any showroom on Rodeo Drive.
Maybe all of them combined.
While those shops are sparsely merchandised, a large diamond ring with a spotlight on it for instance, the showcases in the foyer of Antiquarius, were literally crammed with goods.
New people often asked if the jewelry was costume. They couldn’t comprehend that all the emeralds, sapphires, rubies and diamonds were real.

Rooms filled with antiques have a very distinctive smell. A dash of Aunt Barbara’s sickening sweet perfume, mixed with Pledge and silver polish. Add the smell of coffee from the restaurant upstairs and some random cinnamon potpourri and you get the picture. When I walk into an antique mall…it takes me right back.

I loved working there. 
I worked inside the Antiquarius building almost every day without fail, except when we were out of town at jewelry shows; for eighteen years. 1988-2006.
About five years in, the diamond dust had cleared from my eyes and I started to ask myself,
‘Is this all there is?‘ Even the “glamour” of the travel had worn thin.

I would feel it the most profoundly walking in those back doors from the parking lot every morning.
‘There’s the guard, say “hi”, don’t get your high heel stuck in the missing pieces of the wood floor, smell the coffee – there MUST be more.’

Even diamonds and being surrounded by beauty can become mundane and mediocre, if there’s no Zah,Zah,Zoo.

As I’ve stated before in this blog: I despise mediocrity, I think I’m allergic to it; and I’m a firm believer that life is too short and we must live with a sense of urgency.
For me that means adventure, life with a bit of an edge.
I tried all those exercises where you drive a different way to work, or order something new for lunch, in order to break out of the rut – that’s all bullshit.

I’m one of those people that needs a quest. What’s a quest you ask?
To me, it’s a challenge or long term pursuit to which you are devoted, and it changes you along the way. I adore travel, so I knew that would play a part in my quest.

I just watched an interview with Chris Guillebeau about his new book “The Happiness of Pursuit” and it very much reminded me of the dissatisfaction I felt all those years ago. The book is a collection of stories about people that are wired like me. People that are compelled to pursue a quest.

A quest can be anything from wanting to complete a triathlon, to, like his story and another in the book, travel to every country in the world or to knit ten thousand hats.

Mine is seeing as many places around the world as I can, on the back of a motorcycle.

“It is more about the emotional awareness of mortality, rather than the intellectual understanding. Life is short.”
~Chris Guillebeau

In his book Chris talks about the characteristics of a quest: a clear goal, a real challenge and a series of milestones along the way. It should be something you’re REALLY excited about. Check, check, check and big fat check.

Your quest will have stops and starts, born out of practicality; like running out of money, time or steam, and I think the most important component is to chronicle the journey. To me, this is non-negotiable.
It keeps the momentum going when you can’t see the end. You’re able to see how far you’ve come, AND, you can keep track, in writing, of all the changes you’ve gone through along the way.

That was what happened on our Continental Divide Quest last summer. 5000 miles in seventeen days.
I took you with me. I wrote about how I wanted to stop about half way through, how much I cried and how certain circumstances scared me shitless.

“We’re not in the Antiquarius anymore, Toto” 
~J Bertolus

I can’t tell you how many times I have looked up at the sky on the back of that bike and thought to myself ‘I am NOT at a desk, I am NOT sitting in traffic on the 101, I am NOT bored, and I am certainly NOT asking ‘is that all here is?‘
I Am living Life.

Find your quest. It will be the best obsession you’ve ever had.

With lots of love,
Xox

Marie Forleo interview with Chris Guillebeau
http://www.marieforleo.com/2014/09/happiness-of-pursuit/

I wish I could explain this life, this crazy world; to us all.

If I could, I would be the opening speaker at Stephen Hawking lectures, with an intellectually rich, but exasperatingly hard to follow Ted Talk. I would be rocking a tan corduroy jacket with elbow patches, an impossibly dated comb over…and I wouldn’t have time to write this blog. 

I wish I could schedule a breakout, breakthrough, or break up like I schedule my appointments to get my hair this incredibly natural shade of bley (blondish-grey).

It would really make things so much easier to be able to count on a pimply weekend or see your bat-shit crazy attack penciled in for a week from Friday.
I appreciate dependability; like daylight savings time, or how I remember my period being – from days of yore.

I wish things made sense.
Like nice people always finishing first and prayers being answered in the order they are received. I wish that anything that tasted good or was fun, like donuts, bacon, drinking wine and smoking; were good for us.

I appreciate challenge and adversity, I really do.
I get that they lead to change and growth and general growing up. I would just like to go on record, insisting that there should be a quota per lifetime, and once that has been fulfilled, that shit,
Has. Got. To. Stop.

No recurrences of cancer, or anything heinous for that matter.
One painful divorce, miscarriage, job loss – and that is that.

My husband had menengitis. He should never have to suffer with a headache or the common cold ever again.

One almost deadly car accident, ski accident, motorcycle accident or choking on a peanut and your lifetime bullshit accident quota should be fulfilled.

I suppose we are required to pick from the “Menu of Happenstance” before we embark on this wild adventure, and are eyes are too big for what we can actually stomach; when we’re on the other side, filled with grace.

I like to think that from that vantage point all this hub bub looks easy.
Like fun even. An adventure. In the cosmic scheme of things, over in the blink of an eye.

That’s why we come.

When you think of it that way…things aren’t so bad.
Love,love,
Xox

For your listening pleasure 😉
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/thats-why-we-come

I just went away for five days and had the best time a fifty-six year old woman can have without getting arrested.

I’m serious.

I’ve been nervous to make the seemingly Grand Canyon size leap from blog writer to author, and I desperately needed a writing “tribe” …and a net.
Real writers to give me honest, constructive critique, yet not break my heart.
I found them there, in Carmel By The Sea.

As far as acquiring a tribe goes, I am thrilled to report that they are mine, and I am theirs.

The people, the writing, the instruction and feedback were of such high-caliber, I described it one afternoon as the Harvard of Writing Workshops.

SEX IN SPACE

This wildly talented crew kept me on my toes, in the game, and laughing every minute of every day.
I LOVE to laugh, but I never imagined I would be laughing until my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. These people were wicked smart; and smart people are FUNNY…and to my surprise and delight… they’re silly.
Like I said, I found my people, so I joined in.

I talked to my finger as if it were giving me sage advise, smeared gravy on my face as a parody of a fellow table mate who was enthusiastically enjoying her bread with gravy, mimicked a fellow writer’s teenage character from her brilliant novel, with a Valley Girl voiceover, and gleefully joined in, every time we would all put our hands up to cover our mouths, moving them rapidly for an echo chamber special effect, shouting,
SEX IN SPAAAAAACE.

I’m not exactly sure how SEX IN SPACE came to be. It became the “working title” for *New York Times Best Selling Author D’s science fiction thriller, even though he had a perfectly good title, it doesn’t take place in space, and the only sex he read to us, was implied.

He did write about scrotums a lot, I’ll grant you that. He is a doctor after all – and a man.

What’s for lunch? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.
Stumped on a particular section of your book? SEX IN SPAAAACE.
Just heard someone read something so incredible from their book that you want to slap their mama? SEX IN SPAAAAACE.

You get the picture……Guess you had to be there.

*by the end of day one, we all insisted that when our name was said, it had to be preceded by the title,New York Times Best Selling Author… I know.

WHALE ENERGY
“Examine your own use of creativity and apply your own creative intuition to formulas as this is what imbues them with power and magic. Creativity for the sake of creativity is not what the Whale teaches. It awakens great depth of creative inspiration, but you must add your own color and light to your outer life to make it wonderful. The sound of the Whale teaches us how to create with song.
You are being asked to embrace the unknown.”

In between group mastermind sessions and binge eating, fueled by exhaustion and the close proximity of delicious food; we would each, the six of us, ascend the stairs to Mount Olympus (Linda’s room) for a forty-five minute one-on-one intuitive, brainstorming session with the ‘Master’, as I now refer to her.

After each one, I would gather the contents of my brain, which after failing to contain all the mind expanding concepts discussed, had exploded in an embarrassing mess all over the room; descend the stairs…and take a nap.
It was THAT intense.

The house, like a silent sentinel sitting high above Highway One, overlooked one particularly beautiful stretch of the Carmel coast, with its giant picture windows.
Mount Olympus, being on the third floor, has a staggeringly beautiful, breathtakingly uninterrupted view of the ocean.
One afternoon, during my session, as we were working to steer my writing ship off the rocks, the sea came alive.

I’d just had an idea: “I think I’ll call it One Ride Away From…”
“OH MY GOD JANET!” Linda squealed, “A whale just breached as you said that!”
I turned my attention to the roiling waters below.
“LOOK! There’s another one over there!”

We were both on our feet now, running toward the window, screaming screams that only dogs – and whales, can hear.

Below us the ocean had become Whale Soup.
Everywhere we looked, tails were breaking the surface, slapping the water, producing torrents of white foam. Noses were poking through the froth. Water was shooting into the air from their blow holes, giant saltwater geysers reaching toward the sky in every direction.

We went insane with excitement. We had to share it with our tribe!

Knowing that on the floors below us, everyone had their noses buried in their computers, diligently typing away at their respective masterpieces, we bound down the stairs, screaming the whole way.

“Are you guys seeing this?! Oh My God, come up here, the whales are going crazy!”
Seven of us were now running excitedly, back up the two flights of stairs, to the Mount.

Like little kids we danced and squealed and jumped up and down, arms around each other, hugging and laughing, for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, sharing the magical whale show that the Universe was providing just outside our windows.

“Look over there! No! Over there, shit! I don’t know where to look!”
“Wow…”
“It’s a bathtub full of whales!” Someone said in a sing-song voice.

“I’ve NEVER seen this before, EVER; and I’ve been coming to this house six to nine times a year, for over five years” said Linda with reverent awe, never breaking her gaze, entranced in the spectacle below.

The logical explanation was the unprecedented anchovy bloom off the Central California Coast.

Our tribe, the mystical creatives upstairs, writing our heads off?
We knew in a moment, that those majestic creatures had arranged that show. Just. For. Us.

BOB

On our final full day of the retreat, Linda took us on an early hike through the rocky outcroppings and tidal pools of Point Lobos State Park. It felt amazing to breathe the fresh, ocean air and move my ass, which had been in the seated position for days on end.

We walked along the dirt paths that weave in and out of the cypress trees, with the spectacular Pacific Ocean to our left; pairing up with one of the tribe, or hanging back, alone, lost in thought. Was it technically a “hike”? Maybe not, but it was delicious just the same.

When we came to a particularly beautiful viewpoint, we all gathered for a photo-op, steadying ourselves on the rocks, the calm blue ocean as our backdrop, Linda as the photographer.

“Are you all from here or are you visiting? Do you want me to take a picture of ALL of you?” he asked with a slight hint of a Detroit accent.

Suddenly, there before us stood a big bear of a man, with his affable manner, and giant smile. Bob, the accountant from Michigan.

“Sure” said Linda, handing Bob her phone and quickly getting into the shot.
“Now take one with my phone, I want one of all of you” he said, and even though I’m happily married and so is he, I fell a little in love.
I think we all did, as Bob unobtrusively joined our hike and inadvertently, our tribe.

I believe in the magnetism of energy. In our days, sequestered together, the seven of us had congealed into a kind of containable Super Nova. I think Bob was drawn to us, to our collective glow.

Bob was in Carmel to golf. It is the golfer’s Mecca with Pebble Beach just a stone’s throw away.
“Wow, you all are writers, I could never do that, I wouldn’t know how” he said as he took turns walking and chatting with each one of us along the trail. “Well, I can’t balance my checkbook” I said, joking around, searching for common ground.

We arrived at the spot Linda was leading us to; the branches of a long dead cypress, splayed open like a throne, wood worn as smooth as marble. It faced north, looking out over a small, placid, kelp filled cove.
“The Indians would sit here and meditate” Linda said.
“Look how worn it is, people have been sitting in that spot for hundreds of years.”

We all took turns, this group of mystics and shamans, healers….and Bob.
Bless his heart, he took a turn too, sitting inside the open arms of that magical cypress tree.

As we were gathered, waiting for everyone to take their turn, deer appeared, so we all quieted down and Bob became introspective, talking to me in hushed tones about some experiences he was having, and his revelations about love. “Now THAT’S what you can write about, everyone can relate to matters of the heart.” I whispered.
He nodded his head looking out at the sea. I could FEEL him opening in the silence between the words and even though I didn’t think it possible, I fell in love with Bob, the accountant from Michigan, even a little bit more.

I gave him this blog address as we all hugged goodbye about ten minutes later in the parking lot. He had a tee time to make and I had an appointment with my iPad.

I hope you read this Bob. You, along with this transformational time in Carmel, left a mark on us all, and THIS – from the heart; this is how you write about amazing stuff when it happens to you.

Love to all,
especially NYTBSA Dave,Murphy,Orna,Matthew,Jeannie,Denise,Master Linda and Bob
**Bob took the picture above.

Linda Sivertsen is the author, co-author, or ghostwriter of nine books–two NYT bestsellers among them. When she’s not writing her own books (Lives Charmed, Generation Green, and the most recent Your Big Beautiful Book Plan with Danielle LaPorte), Linda teaches writing retreats in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She and her work have appeared in/on CNN, E!, Extra, the NY Post, New York Times, Family Circle, Teen Vogue, the Huffington Post, and Forbes.com. She lives in Los Angeles with her man, their horses, and a couple of perfect pups.

www.bookmama.com

Xox

okay, okay, here’s the audio!
https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/sex-in-space-whale-soup-and

Sunrise At Burning Man – Stunning – Enjoy Your Sunday!

Xox