relationships

This is from last summer but I like it — which is rare.
Happy Friday!
xox

At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are, and what you want
~ Lao Tzu

I can remember doing this exercise in one of Diana’s meditation workshops years ago after I had read about it in a book from my long distant past (please don’t ask me which one, that I can’t remember) I just remember being gobsmacked over the realization that the cells of my body may collectively know more than my brain, how I actually feel about things – so we tried it.

We being the women in the Wednesday group, and no men, you don’t need a uterus to try this exercise although it IS about observing the reaction your body has to certain words.

As a matter of fact one of my male friends says his butt puckers up.
Ha! I’ve got ya now…….keep reading, you’ll understand in a minute.

Words carry energy, on that we all agree, correcto?

Certain words can either feel expansive or contracting.

Expansive words/energy have to do with keeping your heart open, being receptive, being vulnerable.
Arms uncrossed, face and upper body open.

Contracting words/energy are all about fear, suppression, closing the gate, hoisting up the drawbridge and filling the moat with water – and a dragon.
Gathering in, armoring up and closing down.

Try this out, it’s visceral, the change may be subtle, but you will feel SOMETHING,
And that feeling is what you want to be on the lookout for.
Here goes. Say the word aloud:

Cancer
Money
Vacation
Commitment
Puppy
Deadline
Hospital
I Love you
Snake
Failure
Hate
I’m proud of you
Idiot

Did you feel it, that very subtle, or not so subtle opening and closing reaction as your body feeeeeeeels the energy of each word?

If you’re a doctor the word hospital probably won’t trigger you negatively, although, if someone says to you: They had to rush Timmy to the hospital!
I doubt you’ll feel nothing.

The same thing with money. It can have a very expansive feeling for some, and make others want to jump off a bridge.
That word has felt different ways to me at different times in my life, same word, just different energy.

Puppy is a mixed word for me nowadays also. 😉

Snakes? Snakes make me shiver. ‘Nuf said.

Remember: Language is a powerful thing, it can harm people as efficiently as a weapon, or raise someone’s soul to new heights, so be careful – really.

It can also give you the insight you need when your mind is chewing on a problem like a dog with a bone.

Say the word or words that coincide with what you’re thinking about out loud, and see how it feels in your body. Voila! There’s your answer.

I quit
I’m pregnant
Marry me
Let’s move
I’m leaving
I’m sorry

It’s a good one, I know!
Keep practicing and you’ll get better and better at figuring out how you REALLY feel about things.

If you feel inclined to comment, please do below. Remember the tribe learns a lot when you share from the heart.

Much love,
xox

I remember a photo shoot back in my acting days. I had saved enough money, and I was lucky enough to book the guy for commercial head shots.

You know head shots – they are close-up photos of your face taken from the shoulders up. Big smile, sad frown, head tilted, hand to chin for a curious expression—you get the idea. It gives all the powers-that-be an idea of your “range”.

“Oh look, she can smile AND be sad, what a range! She’s amaaaazing, bring her to me!”

This guy was only about five years older than I was at the time so, under thirty, and was probably born in Toledo Ohio, but he thought he was Francesco Scavullo (look him up), with the faux accent and orange tan.

“Gorgeous dahling…head up…beautiful…chin down…stunning!”

His approval washed over me like a warm wave of maple syrupy love.
I felt beautiful. Like a high-fashion glamazon at the top of her game, that is until…(screech of a needle across a vinyl record. What? You’re too young to know what that sounds like? Get off my blog!)

“Dahling” he was now eyeballing me up and down, no more camera, with one hand on his hip, another lifted to his chin, eyes squinted. I was still blinded by the flash so I’m sure I looked daft.

“Oh you know what I wish more than anything?” he asked, never waiting for me to answer.

“Oh, how I wish your legs were just four inches longer.”

What? You wish that more than anything? Really? More than world peace or a penis that was four inches longer? Are you sure? Do you want to rethink that statement? I think you misspoke.

And you do remember this is a head shot? At least that’s what I thought silently in my head.

“Um, you know that’s impossible, right?” I stammered, tears welling in my eyes, the blind and daffy smile now wiped completely from my face.

I started to feel like a troll. A two foot tall, horrendously ugly troll. One minute I’m Cindy Crawford,the next I’m looking for a bridge to guard.

I was a pleaser back then, and I wanted nothing more than to make him happy, AND I wanted the warm and gooey love wash to continue into perpetuity.

“Maybe I can stand differently, or put on a higher pair of heels?” I inquired awkwardly. Desperation was seeping in.

He kind of huffed a disappointed sigh, “No dahling” he cooed in his make-believe accent, “you’ll always be too short.”

For what? Too short for what? I’m 5’5”…
Professional basketball?
Picking fruit off the tops of trees?
Thigh-high boot modeling?

I knew right then that the fake little fucker was full of shit—but it still stung.

Not always the most well-intentioned people wanting the impossible from us.

I recently helped some extended family with a home design job.
I thought those days were over for me but they needed some help preparing a rental from scratch, I can do that sort of thing in my sleep, and I welcomed the distraction.

The thing was, the budget took a hit almost immediately. Cut by half. And it was…frugal to begin with.

An entire three bedroom house, from beds and mattresses, to the utensils, toothbrush holders, towels, sheets and all the kitchen stuff for ten thousand dollars.

You can cut corners when it’s your own home, but if you want to ask top dollar for a home in a high-end neighborhood, it requires certain things.

Like a decent coffee maker and a nice bar-b-que, comfortable patio furniture and three high-definition T.V.’s

I practically slept at Ikea, Target, and Homegoods. Sourcing and searching, driving, shopping, and returning.

My people are academics (which is why they needed help), and I could see the toll the stress of a home make-over was taking on them.

They hadn’t put together a house from scratch, well…ever. Just like most of us, when they started out they had a mix and match combination of wedding presents and hand-me-downs.

Here’s what I knew: I knew the task was impossible.
I knew we could get close, but in the end I knew we’d have to ask the purse string holders for more money.
I also knew that at that point we’d be in so deep — they couldn’t refuse. We’d have to finish.

Oh, did I fail to mention we had a deadline. Three weeks.
So everything had to be cash and carry. No special orders, no four-week turn arounds for the size or color we needed. Like I said IMPOSSIBLE task.

But you know what? They didn’t know that. At least not until I told them.
They had been feeling so incompetent, so shitty about their ability to stay in the budget—it was as if they had been asked to become four inches taller.

“Um, you guys know what we’ve been asked to do is an impossible task, right?” I interrupted another extremely tense phone conversation, grabbing the telephone and holding it close so the three of us could talk.

“Guys, you haven’t done this as much as I have.” I was trying to sound reassuring.“They gave us a completely unrealistic budget, which we will exceed…but not by much, and we should all be very proud of ourselves.”

Then I walked away with the phone in order to get through to the rocket scientist of the trio — the one who’s head was ready to explode from having to deal with family money, design by committee dynamics, and too many white paint color choices, (it really is absurd —there are over five hundred different shades of white).

“Listen,” I said in the calmest tone of voice I could muster. “Imagine being given an unsolvable math equation.”

“There are no unsolvable equations, Einstein said…”

I interrupted. “Humor me goddammit.” he went silent.

“The reason we can’t make this work isn’t because we’re stupid, or we suck — it’s because the problem is unsolvable — you absolutely cannot do what is required by the rental agency for that amount of money.
The. End.”

He was still quiet, I kept talking, hoping he hadn’t succumbed to a brain hemorrhage.

“We all have to chill out and keep going. We’re almost at the finish line. Besides, we can’t grow taller than we already are.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. Don’t you like knowing that? That the request is flawed — not you?”


“Sure, I guess… I mean, I figured if they told us ten thousand, it must be doable.”

“They might as well have said ten dollars.” I could hear him get that.

“Ohhhhhh, so you mean…”

“YES!” I screamed excitedly into the phone, “Exactly! So stop stressing!”

Not always the most well-intentioned people wanting the impossible from us = Stress, despair, unhappiness.

Figuring out they’re full of shit = PRICELESS.

Carry on my loves,
xox

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?
WHHHYYYYYY??
Is that too much to ask?

I’m submitting a formal complaint right here and now. Things that are good for you have 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 like that.

I’m home most days writing, so I give myself very few options. It keeps me from cheating with fat infused deliciousness.

Like a fat deli sandwich. Or a patty melt.

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 go get it, and my laziness overrules my cravings for gooey goodness every time.

That means 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, dramatically 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 replied, “A voice just said DONT SMOKE AROUND HER!”
“What?”
“Shit, 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 all of life’s ginormous decisions.

I finally made the first one and that was to switch my brain from F*U 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

The feeling in the air lately.

You too?

That feels exciting!

Have a mystical, magical weekend you guys,
xox

“People in France have a phrase: “Spirit of the Stairway.” In French: esprit d’Escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer but it’s too late.
So you’re at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So, under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party . . .
As you start down the stairway, then – magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put down. That’s the Spirit of the Stairway.”
― Chuck Palahniuk

I love this quote. I’ve lived this exact scenario.

My husband and his family are French and a French insult is like no other in the world. Much like fashion and food, they have elevated it to an art form.

What other culture has an entire phrase dedicated to it?

A French insult is subtle, cloaked in a back-handed compliment, and always accompanied by a smile. Well, a smirk really.
“That dress is very pretty…so much better than the one you wore the other night.”
Smirk, double cheek kiss and…scene.

Ouch.
It’s just that my take on this is a little bit different.
Although I’m the first person to utter bitch under my breath, I don’t waste my time searching for the crippling put down.
Listen, don’t get me wrong, I can eviscerate you verbally, I’m a writer.

It’s just that a put down or a jab seem… pedestrian—like the easy choice.

I’d rather be ironic and humorous.
It defuses the situation immediately. Magic comes to those that are funny, not insulted.

Besides, the French don’t know what to make of humor. Let’s face it— they wouldn’t recognize it if it bit them in the ass (now that’s funny)—they laugh at Jerry Lewis for godsakes!

If I get pissed, I get stupid. End of story.

You have to stay smart to be funny, and when the whole room laughs…no one remembers the insult. That’s magic!

“Thank you” leaning in, “I’m so comfortable—I’m not wearing any underwear.” Wink, double cheek kiss…and out.

You get the idea.

And don’t leave the party until you say your piece.

You can double back, there’s no statute of limitations on a party insult.

It doesn’t have to be “spirit of the stairway”. It can be “spirit of the driveway” or “spirit of the hallway.” “Spirit of the back patio” and “spirit of the powder room” work too.

Doesn’t matter. Let ‘em it have it.
With humor.

Carry on my crazy tribe,
xox

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

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

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

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

It also is a master in the art of persuasion.

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

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

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

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

I’m a mother. Twin boys and a girl.

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

I’m a seasoned lecturer and public speaker.

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

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

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

I am resting on my laurels.

~OR HOW ABOUT~

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

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

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

I’m busking on the corners of Santa Cruz.

I’m the ex-wife of seven men.

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

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

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

I’ve changed my name to Solange.

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

Instead I had an epiphany.

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

Ha! Take that regret!

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

Got any regrets?

Carry On,
xox

A famous photo of Picasso and his Muse

SUPERFLUOUS
su·per·flu·ous
so͞oˈpərflo͞oəs/
adjective
unnecessary, especially through being more than enough.

synonyms: surplus, nonessential, redundant, unneeded, excess, extra,

As you all may or may not know, I am an intuitive writer, meaning: I sit in stillness and basically say to the great cosmic soup of writers that reside in the ethers, “What do you want to write today?”

After almost three years of supplying content for this blog just about EVERYDAY—I—the me that thinks she’s a writer, would have run dry of ideas a LONG time ago!

So I’m smart. I outsource my material to those that are wiser, braver and funnier than I could ever hope to be.

My Muses.

These experts literally mine my brain for life experiences and then craft a story around them utilizing my language skills, which as you know, means raw and real with plenty of f-bombs.

I don’t flatter myself to think that this is a new story specific to me.

Muses have been around since time immemorial, and I know that all of the great art and music, literature and any role that Meryl Streep has inhabited, has come into the world this way. Some of us middle-men (receivers) are just more aware of the process than others.

So that being said, I have been told lately by one Muse in particular, that my blog is superfluous. Okay…

By not knowing the exact meaning of the word I took it to mean insignificant, and THAT hurt my feelings.

How could that be so if they are the ones writing everyday?

Well, because they have moved me to explore other intuitive pursuits. I’ll get to those in a minute.

It means unnecessary because it’s more than enough, redundant, extra—NOT insignificant at all.
Note to self: Janet, next time grab a dictionary before you get upset, and remember—muses always pick the perfect word. Every single time. It’s uncanny.

Still I was confused.

You see, I thought my future would revolve around this blog.
A book, maybe three. Spoken word events with me telling the stories found here.
I have become so intertwined with this blog that I don’t know where it ends and my true self begins. The essence of my Muses has integrated to the point that they are me—and I am them.

What that means is that I am either mentally ill, (the jury is still out) or just a fucking great conduit (I vote for the latter).

“We bamboozled you” chortled the most prominent Muse recently while I was out on my walk. She is a recent addition. An overachieving, comedic, bossy pants who has hijacked…well, everything.

As you know, my walks often prompt conversations and ideas, even arguments between my Muses and me. “Oh you did, did you?” I responded, silently of course.

“We got to you through the writing, you were open and eager enough to accept us coming through that way”.

She was right. I had been fighting the process of accepting the involvement of disembodied, outside forces since the early nineties when they had first made themselves known to me.
Back then it scared the shit out of me.
Me? A channel? No fucking way!

Twenty years later they got smart. “We’ll tell her we’re Muses,” they conspired.

A writer with a Muse? Sure! okay! I can do that. And off I went, full speed ahead into the blogosphere.

Bamboozelment achieved.

That was 2012 and ever since then I have sat my ass in the chair every day and waited for them. And they always show up.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

Once you become an open conduit like that, it gets easier and easier for their thoughts to come through.
And not just when I’m in the chair. No, they chat away while I’m driving, in the shower, on my walks, going to sleep, waking up, even while I’m cooking.

There is a cacophony of—not really voices—but thoughts and opinions going through my head that I know are not my own. The difference is subtle, but I have been doing it long enough that I can differentiate who is who.

Sorry, I promised interesting and I can feel myself beating around the bush so here goes: People that have passed on, dead people, now talk to their loved ones (usually someone I know) through me. It’s really quite beautiful, not creepy in the least. The conversations, and they ARE conversations, are so filled with love and interesting, private information that they’ve even made the most skeptical among us—ME—a believer!

Also, in the last six months I have been introduced to the most brilliant, witty and profoundly deceased famous writer, who has captivated my imagination and bamboozled me into believing that my blog is superfluous and that our story, the story of the collaboration between she and I, which is mystical, and magical and hysterical—is my future.

That will be my book. That is the life that has chosen me.

She has been gracious enough to help write the dialogue for my musical, (that’s how she sucked up and gained my trust), she writes the best of my blog posts, and most recently she has been teaching me to write the screenplay of our relationship.

I don’t feel comfortable disclosing who it is yet. I’m sure I will sooner or later…Baby steps.

All this to say: The greatest impression she has made on me so far has been her sheer exuberance at being dead. She had NO idea it was so…interesting…and full of potential.

The fact that she continues to remain bossy, funny and highly opinionated; that she still gets to write via our collaboration, that she is able to focus on her loved ones, and reach out to people—has blown her mind—and subsequently, my own.

“Death has gotten such a bad rap” she reiterates over and over again laughing her wonderful laugh.

Don’t you love knowing that?

What a wild journey this life is, and I’m just beginning to see the purpose of it all.

Hope I didn’t freak you out too much, Carry on,
xox

“What we regard as normality is our collective, protective madness, in which we repress the grim truth about the human condition.” – Ernest Becker

Why do I love thee Jason Silva? Huh? Explain…
xox

I wrote this back in February, but with all the changes afoot and mercury retrograde, and the fact that change is MESSY, I decided hat we all needed a little reminder that things often look awful just before they get good, so let’s celebrate that, okay?
On the private Facebook page of that kick-ass online business school I took last year, a post caught my eye.

I try not to read them.  I barely understand them.  I’m neither “cool” enough nor smart enough to be a part of this group.  I slid in through the side door, the “blogger” who created her own website and then limped off to throw up. I just barely recovered, my brain hurting from the overexertion.

Anyhow..
It was written by a young man, an aspiring entrepreneur, whose boyfriend had booked a fancy, shmancy weekend away.
They were headed to a beautiful warm weather resort, with massages, fine dining – the whole shebang.

The intention behind the trip, his boyfriend told him, was to celebrate his best year EVER.

In his endearing, aw shucks way, he admitted to us, his tribe of up and coming internet movers and shakers, that this had been less than a stellar year for him.

“I didn’t hob knob with the rich and famous this year” he said. “No high level meetings, no mastermind groups, no Ted talk or speaking engagements at all. Instead of multiple six figures, I lived off savings.”

He went on to explain that 2014 had been a year of reinvention for him.

He took what appeared to be a thriving business and changed it up, downsizing some things, while reinvesting in others. He went on to explain that he’d spent the whole year at his desk with his hands in the clay. “If anyone wanted to find me I wasn’t on the road as usual, running from event to event, I was at my desk, from dawn to dusk, and I have never grown and changed, and worked harder in all my fucking life.”

Would he have labeled it his best year EVER? Probably not. Because the yardstick we all use for that doesn’t take into account anything besides the money and fame.
The outside trappings of success.

But his boyfriend could see it. He understood. And he knew it needed to be celebrated. Don’t you just love that?

I could SOOOO relate!
I too have had the best/worst year of my life. By the standards set by society at large – it sucked.
But in laying the foundation, the hard work, the networking, perseverance, personal growth and general all around richness – it was my best year EVER!

My husband has witnessed the changes and repeatedly suggested that we celebrate them.

How lucky am I?

Wouldn’t it be great to pay homage to those years that don’t look so great from the outside but change us forever on the inside?
Because isn’t that what makes a person a true success?

Thoughts please?

Carry on,
xox

GRACE
ɡrās/
noun

1. Simple elegance or refinement of movement.
“she moved through the water with effortless grace”
synonyms: elegance, poise, gracefulness, finesse

2. (In Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

verb
3. Do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one’s presence.
“she bowed out from the sport she has graced for two decades”
synonyms: dignify, distinguish, honor, favor

“Go out into the world and be a source of Grace for people.”
~ Caroline Myss

Shit. That’s a tall order, right? I can’t do that. Be a source of Grace? What does that even mean? I read the definition and I’m still not sure.

You guys, are we out in the world being a source of grace — or are we a part of the problem?

The first definition made me blanche. It does not apply to me AT ALL.
My movements are as far from refined as I can be without calling too much attention to myself. Remember how Elaine danced on Seinfeld? That’s how I move through the world. Every step is void of poise, there is not a drop of elegance to be found, and as far as finesse goes? — forgetaboutit.

So…Am I the source of grace in that respect? No, no I am not. I am definitely part of the problem.

As far as definition three goes, well, I feel like when we can, when the stars align and we have some free time — we show up for people. We do our best.
Actually some of us drop everything and Grace certain people or places with our presence TO OUR DETRIMENT, or at least I used to. Now a days I’m super picky about to whom and where my Grace gets distributed.

So again I suppose I’m part of the problem, except…Just like fucks given, Grace can be depleted (in my opinion, the studies are inconclusive) — you can over extend, you can run out, and you only get what you get.

But unlike fucks, Grace CAN be replenished by other people bestowing their Grace upon YOU.

So there you have it, there’s what I think Caroline Myss meant by being a source of Grace for people.

Sprinkle it around, like fairy dust, like a tall drink of water to the parched masses.

Replenish each other.

You know the people in your life that need a re-fill.

And you can recognize them on the street.

They look pale and hollow eyed, over tired, over wrought, over stressed and more than likely over weight. In other words they are just plain over it.

Wait. I’m so confused. Blah, blah, Grace. Blah, blah, replenish each other. So how do we do that?

And there’s where definition number two comes into play.
Bestow your blessings.
Being a source of Grace is about bestowing your blessings, and blessings, unlike fucks and Grace, come in an unlimited supply.

Blessings look like volunteering yourself for babysitting or dog walking.

Blessings look like filling the refrigerator of a workaholic.

Blessings are about picking up the check or leaving a thirty percent tip.

Blessings can hold open a door, clean up a mess, fold laundry, hold a hand, drive carpool, give a foot message and bring the wine (two bottles please).

Blessing are bountiful.
Blessings are bottomless, and in my humble opinion, blessings and the bestowal of them is what being a source of Grace is all about.

So easy peasy, right? Not such a tall order after all.
Whew! Sometimes this spiritual shit sounds SO undoable.

Whatcha think? Any more ideas for being source of Grace for people? I’d love to hear from you guys!

Carry on,
xox