advice

Snarky Sam.
He doesn’t have a kind word to say, well, ever.
You can count on him to complain about the weather, the slow waiter, the quality of the vegetables at the local Framers Market “their celery is flaccid” and most certainly your clothes “your closet is where 1985 went to die”, so why in God’s name would you ask his advice — about anything?

Debbie Downer (that character was invented by SNL, but it is applicable here) sees only the worst aspects of things.
In dogs, hats, and especially people.
“that hat is wearing that woman” she’ll whisper just loud enough so that the entire room, including that poor woman, can hear her.

She had one good day back in the early nineties that had an unfortunate ending – something about her foot and some dog shit, so every canine is the target of her vitriol. “You know I love Thailand, they don’t have a stray dog problem there because they eat them.”

If you share any of your good news with her she is the first one to rain on your parade, interrupting you to let you know she ran into your ex at Target and he said you looked old…and fat; or to remind you of the fact that your student loans will only take you another thirty-seven years to pay off.

Debbie’s a bitch, so you can expect that her advice will be…horrible.

Barracuda Betty.
Now she really appears as if she’s got her shit together. High functioning, top performer at her company, food connoisseur, and loyal friend.
But if you read the small print on her Friendship Resume you’ll find she is also a backstabbing secret spiller and wealthy ex-husband collector.

Her loose lips possess some of the juiciest gossip that exists on. the. planet. She has dirt on everyone (it’s rumored she even has some stink on Oprah) which makes the seat next to her at dinner parties the most highly coveted ticket in town.

Betty has the most amazing trainer, maitre ‘d at a five-star restaurant, not-so-discreet plastic surgeon, and the most cut throat divorce attorney in the country all on speed dial; and in a crisis she will tenderly pat your back and dry your tears, just don’t ask her for advice.

Betty gets and gives Bad Barracuda Advice, and if you follow it you’d better have a couple packs of cigarettes to bribe the other prison inmates, some bail money set aside, and an airtight alibi — because there will be a trail of bad decisions from here to Kingdom Come, huge invoices from a private detective to pay, and an open can of  whoop ass to clean up.

What I’m getting at you guys is this: When the going gets tough and the fan is hitting the shit, who do you go to for advice?

The person that will commiserate with you, fill your head with devious ideas and fuel your fire; or someone who will listen calmly and only agree with roughly fifty percent of everything you say? I know, hard choice.

I’m horrified by some of the stories I’ve been hearing lately about friends that are on the receiving end of some crazy ass, mean-spirited, highly questionable deeds that have been perpetrated on them after the other party sought and followed Bad Barracuda Advice. When that happens, consider the source and by all means don’t take the bait.

There’s no winner in a one man bar fight, and that’s what they want — they want a brawl — and they want to win. At all costs.

Nobody wants to hear “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” You wanna know why? Because it’s true! You’re the good guy, the white hat; you’re just an unwilling participant in a fucked up situation. Sit tight and let the other party spin their wheels, taking all the bad advice that these shifty characters have to offer, knowing that in the end, when the dust settles, you will prevail.

You may not be able to see that for years but it WILL become clear to you if you can manage to stay out of the gutter.

I promise.

And when you are seeking advice what should you listen to?
Well, you may want to punch the person in the throat that offers up this pearl of wisdom: “There are two sides to every story”. That implies that YOUR side may not stand up to the scrutiny of a friendly kitchen table cross-examination.

None of us are right one hundred percent of the time and a good friend will call bullshit, and then immediately fill your glass with more wine.

Run from the friend that thinks “You’re not being hard enough on him” or says, “Lets make her pay”.

That reeks of Bad Barracuda Advice and you, (we) are all better than that.

Carry on & try to stay out of prison,
xox

“One of the benefits of being a mature well-educated woman is that you’re not afraid of expletives and you have no fear of putting a fool in his place”
Dame Judi Dench

I fucking love her.

Aging; getting older; lemme guess, you don’t want to talk about it.

Too bad. Fool.
Spoiler alert — we’re all going to grow older, but we don’t have to AGE.

A couple of years ago hubby and I sent a giant bouquet of black flowers, like something stolen off of Lincoln’s funeral pyre, to a friend for her (wait for it)… FORTIETH birthday.

If I remember correctly it even had a sash running across the middle with the word CONDOLENCES in silver letters.

She was in full denial, not embracing her inner forty-year old AT ALL and since both of us were well into our fifties at the time, well, I know, it was the epitome of jackassery — but it was also damn funny.

I got the general idea from the FIFTIETH birthday party of a friend that I attended over a decade ago. The theme was an Irish Wake.
The flowers were different shades of black, everyone was urged to wear black clothes (which in LA is not a stretch), the guys were given black armbands, there was a coffin filled with Guinness, even the cake was draped in swags of black.

The invitation looked like a death certificate. The demise of her youth. “All your good years are behind you, consider the next couple of decades God’s waiting room” was the joke in the toast that was structured like a eulogy — it was funny as hell at the time — now I’m not so sure. What message were we sending her? What were we telling ourselves? Did we all really believe that fifty was the end of life as we knew it?

More and more studies have come out recently about aging and how our beliefs can effect our bodies along with our spirits. You are as old as you feel the studies say, which has nothing to do with our chronological age.

My husband lies and says he’s seventy just for the compliments that follow.

We are growing older there’s no denying that, but a huge section of the population, us baby boomers, are not aging anything like our grandparents or even our parents for that matter.

Fifty is the new thirty, sixty is the new forty.

Diet, exercise, yoga, meditation, Botox, Spanx and the moderate love of the dark arts: coffee, alcohol and chocolate, have allowed many of us to sidestep some of the ravages of time.

My only regret is the fact that sunscreen wasn’t invented until after I had already fried myself, like a piece of crispy bacon, in baby oil for a decade. All things considered my skin isn’t THAT bad, I can only thank genetics for the fact that I don’t look like the wizened overly tanned woman in “There’s Something About Mary”.

As I approach sixty (just writing that seems surreal) I find myself hanging around with forty-somethings  more often because I have no intention of acting my age — to start winding down – I’m just getting started with life.

A couple of years ago, on a random Sunday, as an act of wanton what-the-fuckery, I decided to get my nose pierced. Here was my thought process: Damn, I just saw three women in a row with a little tiny diamond in their nose. I wish I’d done that…heywaitaminute… What am I talking about? I CAN do that.

So I did.
That very day.

As I walked out the door with a friend on my arm for moral support, I informed my husband where I was going “Do I have anything to say about that?” he inquired, a little taken aback.

Nope.

Most of my friends never even noticed. A couple said they were happy I was wearing the diamond again (like I’d had the piercing all along).

After seeing Christiane Northrup talk about aging, our beliefs and attitude (she’s all over the media lately with her new book “Goddesses Never Age”) I could feel the sass start to bubble up inside. What would it be this time? Tattoo? Pole dancing? Another piercing?

With all of my accumulated fifty-seven years of conviction I strode in to see my hairdresser/friend Reny on Tuesday, (in our thirty year relationship he has probably dyed my hair almost every color imaginable — except for green – I hate green) and together we decided that yes, Royal Purple would look the best with my skin tone and my burgeoning grey. It’s subtle really, and just underneath… waiting to surprise the people that pay attention.
Watcha think?

Okay you guys, what little thing (dying your hair is a little thing, you can always dye it back) can YOU do to halt your aging process and help yourself look more like you feel inside?

A wrist tattoo? (that could be next for me), stop dressing your age? Grow your hair long? Eat dinner after 7 p.m.? Take a dance class? Join a book club with women in their thirties? Go see live music?

You tell me.

Carry on you crazy fools,
Xox

“As long as you are breathing, there is more right with you than wrong with you”
-Jon Kabat-Zinn

How did you feel when you read that?
Did you want to reach through the computer and strangle me…or give me a hug?

You know that says a lot about you…but no judgement here, I’ve been there and I totally get it.

If you’re in the thick of it you want to kill me. If you’ve survived you’re more inclined to hug a fellow survivor.

Believe it or not I hate clichés and saccharin sayings that leave that bitter/sweet taste in your mouth.

But you’ve got to agree — if you’re still breathing, well, that’s half the battle… that is unless you have a migraine, then even breathing hurts.

Or unless you’re grieving, in which case you keep sighing not really breathing per say — long mournful sighs, at least that’s what I did.

Or you’re struggling with a broken heart, mind numbing stress, chronic pain, or Spanx that are one size too small. All of those things facilitate short, shallow breathing which doesn’t really count because little or no oxygen gets to your brain and you walk around in a kind of half conscious stupor.

A bit of advice because I’ve experienced all of these: You will regret any decisions you make at this time – so don’t.

Are there more things right with you than wrong in that moment?… that’s debatable.

I could argue this ad nauseam because I’ve had years days where I felt as if breathing wasn’t such a gift, and if you had asked me to compile my lists of things going wrong and the ones going right, — the former would be a mile long and the latter would have one word…breathing…I’m fucking breathing.

But you guys, if you are breathing, which I’m presuming you are, then there’s always tomorrow.

Not to sound too callous here, but if breathing is annoying you go make yourself a sandwich and take a nap — otherwise known as the Universal Reboot.

“Despair — The belief that tomorrow will be just like today.”
~Rob Bell

Ask anyone who’s having their best-day-ever if tomorrow will be exactly the same.

Hell no, I wish, will most likely be their answer.

It’s just the way the world works — so keep breathing, there’s more right with you than wrong.
I swear.

Hey, hands off the neck…

Deep breath…and Carry on,
xox

I believe with every fiber of my being that we ALL have a superpower. The thing or things that we are better at than almost ANYONE else.

Mine is my memory. I remember every word you said, the shoes you wore, and the song that was playing on the radio when you dumped me.
And then there’s my ability to weave that into a story.
Ouch. Oh relax, I’m only joking…sort of.

I have a friend that can make a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies last for more than three days — I know — UNBELIEVABLE. Yet, I have seen it with my own eyes.

My mom, and for that matter most mothers, are able to hear the spoken and often un-spoken mischievous musings, whispered plans and naughty plots of their children clear across the house; sometimes from out in the backyard with a cocktail while listening to the Dodger game; or even from the neighbor kid’s treehouse.

“No, you most certainly are NOT going to rig that old clothesline and beat up beach chair into a neighborhood zip line!”

Is she kidding? Could she have cracked our code? How did she know that was our plan? She’s making baloney sandwiches — in a house —down the block.

I was convinced as a child that her pink plastic hair rollers were some kind of sound enhancing devices.

Or how about this other widely demonstrated talent — the eyes in the back of her head trick.

“I see you…give your baby sister her cookie back. NOW!”

How is that possible…she’s driving?

Maternal Superpowers — used mostly in the service of good rather than evil; although as a child, that point was debatable.

My little sister is a kind of Culinary Wonder Woman. She can put together an event or party at the drop of a hint and I can guarantee you — it will be SPECTACULAR.

If you want to feed 6 or 60, it doesn’t matter call Sue.

She’ll cater it herself with eight to fifteen different appetizers, each more delicious than the next. Then she’ll serve a roast turkey AND a Prime rib, AND a smoked ham AND a goat; all lovingly prepared and garnished to perfection — with thirty-five gourmet side dishes — half of them using kale. That’s a talent.

Oh, and you’d better leave room for dessert. They’ll be seventeen pies, ten cakes, donuts, pastries and fountains of chocolate, both dark and white.

All of them homemade. In her spare time.

Every inch of her home will be decorated for the affair. Gorgeous fresh flowers (grown, picked and arranged by her own loving hands), tablecloths and centerpieces with white twinkle lights hung by Tinkerbelle herself.

You’ll receive a keepsake memento as you enter, and another as you leave (after she gets to know you better). They will be thoughtful and touching things that are personally selected for you and you alone. Things that will make you cry; items you will treasure for years to come. (We haven’t yet figured out how she does that; as far as we can guess she has a team of people who go through your drawers while you’re at the party, then shop, gift wrap and return before you’re ever the wiser.)

If you’re one of the lucky ones she may have put together a slide show of long forgotten but favorite photographs which will play on an endless loop — with a tear-jerking soundtrack.

Her parties are so inventive and fabulous that Martha Stewart has installed a top-secret party cam just to swipe ideas.

At Christmas, the elves at the North Pole have a Pinterest page of several years of her winter wonderland home and decoration ideas, which they present to Santa as their own — tiny lying slackers.

Susan’s undeniable superpower? — Making people happy with delicious food, beautiful ambiance and her over-the-top thoughtfulness.

My husband has the good fortune to have been blessed, as many of you have, with two superpowers.

He has his MacGyver Superpower and his Sparkle*.
Our friends and I tease him about it…but if you’ve ever been on the receiving end, they are both equally indispensable.

He can build you a house out of eleven Popsicle sticks, a random shard of glass, nine paperclips, one stick of Black Jack gum, and a sweat sock.
With those same exact items he can also fabricate a life raft, patch a blown tire, signal a rescue helicopter, fix a motorcycle, design a prom dress, start a signal fire, and end world hunger.

You want him on your team when the Zombie’s attack.

As for the Sparkle*(ting)…well, those that have been caught in its spell have given us the best table at a packed restaurant, upgraded us to First Class at no charge, overlooking the fact that our three bags each were over the weight limit, and found us front row tickets to a sold out concert.

Men, women, it doesn’t matter, his superpowers don’t discriminate.

Does it only work for he and I? Nope, whole groups of friends have benefited from his equal opportunity Sparkle*.

If he switched to the darkside…the man could rule the world. Seriously.

We all have ‘em these Superpowers; have you figured out what yours is?

Carry on,
xox

I’m writing this as a self reminder, although I’m sure you guys could use one too.
Let this salvage your week or at least your Sunday.

I cannot control the traffic or the way other people (idiots) drive.

I cannot control the cable guy, the electrician, the handyman, the trash picker-uppers, the tree trimmers, the guy who’s making my latte, or the air conditioning repair guy. I cannot control the time they will arrive (which is NEVER inside the promised window) how well they will perform their task, or what personality traits they posses, (too chatty, too pissy, too flirty, too…)


I cannot control anyone, or anything about the DMV. Period. End of story.

I cannot control the weather. I can have every app, and alert, but it will seldom cooperate when I hold an event outdoors; and I NEVER have an umbrella or sweater when I need one.

I cannot control my dogs or any animal for that matter. I can guide them and train them, and make suggestions, but they all have minds of their own and there will be slobber on my white walls, water and/or muddy footprints all over my white slipcovers and wood floors, and fossilized vomit under the bed. It’s inevitable despite my best intentions. This goes for children as well.

I cannot control my spouse, or my family. (See above).

I cannot control the government, the postal system, the medical system or the educational system. But I can vote.

I cannot control bad grammar. Their-there-they’re. Its-it’s. I could care less, It’s a mute point, ugh
Dear God, make it stop.

I cannot control the speed or dependability of my WiFi connection, although I still think if I yell obscenities loud enough, it will be shamed into complying.

I cannot control my hair. Where on my body it grows, what color it wants to be, and its texture. It’s time to give up the good fight.
While I’m at it, I cannot control eye wrinkles, cellulite, lip lines or dark under eye circles, so I’m done letting Madison Avenue sell me the snake oil.

I cannot control how my garden grows. I can fertilize, weed and trim, but it has plans of its own to which I am not privy.

I cannot control aging. It has a superpower called gravity, and the combination are unbeatable. I surrender…you bitches.

I cannot control what others think of me. It is impossible.
I can carefully cultivate my image; but one false move, one bad outfit, snarky comment, or piece of spinach in my teeth and all that hard work is shot to hell.

I cannot control the manners of others. When a man lets a heavy door slam in my face as I exit a building right behind him; instead of jumping on his back like a crazed spider monkey…I send him love.

I cannot control what’s happening on the planet. Too many moving parts. (Which is true for all of it – everything in life.)

What I’ve discovered is this: ALL of my suffering comes from thinking that I can control things. I (we) cannot.

But here’s the one thing I CAN control – my perception and attitude. That’s it.

I can control ONLY my own energy and what I bring to the day, to the table, to every situation I encounter – even to the mirror, and THAT can change it all.

As my mom used to say when we were fighting with each other, as kids, “You just pay attention to yourself – watch where YOU’RE going.

Anything I missed? Add to the list!

Enjoy your weekend!
Xox

“The moment we cry in a film is not when things are sad but when they turn out to be more beautiful than we expected them to be.” – Alain de Button

Ha! I love to keep you guys on your toes! Look! It’s a Saturday morning with Jason.

Have a great one!
xox

Simplifying Life

More than I wanted money, I wanted Freedom.
Money = Freedom, I wanted me some of that!

More than I wanted Love, I wanted Belonging, Adoration, Security and Value (someone who knows my worth),
Love = all those things, and oh baby, I wanted me some of that!

More than Love, Freedom, Security, Belonging, Adoration and Value, I wanted Peace of Mind,
All of those things = Peace of Mind, and Peace of Mind = Happiness.

Now I KNOW I want me some big piles of that! (covered in chocolate).

And that’s what it boils down to you guys: I want what I want — Because I  know that I will feel happier having it.

Simple as that.

That made me realize how conditional my happiness is (and how high maintenance I really am), and the fact that I’m just starting to really grasp the concept of chasing happiness all over hell and back while it sits at the kitchen table with coffee and the paper, patiently waiting for me…

What about you? I don’t think I’m alone in this?

Thoughts?

I feel a part two of this post coming soon…

Big love & carry on,

xox

Will you look at this freaking tree?

I’ve had this graphic on a poster for years; its been rolled up in drawer somewhere. It was given to us at a Jesuit retreat and my friend promptly tacked hers up on her bathroom wall. I forever after had a hard time peeing without feeling highly inadequate.

Out of all these practices I MAYBE do five…six on a good day, year.

Now I kinda like looking at it. I do.

I used to feel bad, like I had so far to go in my search for the perfect mindfulness practice. It was like Oprah’s List of Accomplishments Family Tree to which mine could never compare.

Then I started looking at each one, contemplating (wink) if I would ever have the discipline to undertake the ones I’d never even heard of. Take Lectio Divina for instance. It involves reading passages of the Scriptures and contains four separate steps: read; meditate; pray; contemplate; Blah, blah, blah.

You will never, ever find me doing that. I will seek my enlightenment elsewhere; thank you very much.

Sweatlodge: My husband swears by ’em.

Me? I tried it twice…almost dying from the sweltering heat and the overwhelming smell of body odor and cheesy feet — both times. I came close to death, (very,very slight exaggeration, infinitesimal actually) left the tent; pucked; felt like a hot and sweaty failure and a spiritual hack; shame crawled back in…only to almost die again…all in one long night. Then I tried it again (for five minutes) the next day.
Then I went for pizza.

Never, ever, again.

I have so many stories like that because I was a devoted seeker and that’s what seekers do, we see graphics on a poster, with a tree full of paths to contemplation, and like a white sock, black shoe wearing tourist fresh off the bus, we are anxious to go and see and do them ALL.

I wanted to check each one off my imaginary list (there’s a real list somewhere, who am I kidding), like some eager beaver at a cosmic scavenger hunt; in order to cull the nugget of enlightenment contained within.

But alas, I am only human, and a flawed one at that; so I’ve stuck with the ones that work for me; and that’s the point.

Singing;

meditation;

chanting;

walking meditation;

yoga;

labyrinth walking;

silence;

storytelling.

Those and perhaps a few more work for me; the others — not so much.

My advice?
Try the ones that sound interesting; and don’t feel bad if you hate a few.
As you do that, I promise you’ll find the practice or practices that work for you, the ones that quiet your mind long enough to listen to your heart.

Then squirrel those away in your back pocket or your tool box and use as needed.

I’m thinking Sufi dancing, I haven’t tried that one yet.

Carry on,
xox

What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
– T. S. Eliot

The End is where we start from…hmmmmmm…

Yesterday was about endings; and about calling my power back. I have to walk the talk, right?

For over two weeks I was so knotted up about it that I had knitted a virtual car cozy, a sweater the size of a car cover inside my gut.

You see, I had decided to put what was left of my dearly departed store into auction; all of it; lock, stock and vintage submarine lights.

Just like Daniele wrote about yesterday, (the timing for me was uncanny) it was time for me to call my power back to me; BUT the hang up was this: at the intersection of empowerment and the past; I kept meeting up with my old energy.

Like some goody-two-shoes a-hole who never forgets an uncomfortable incident; or an appointment; my energy would persistently meet me — right where I left it — back in Victim-Ville 2009.

But since I’ve changed so drastically since that time we were not a match anymore and it really started to feel like shit.

So I avoided going there.

I let the remaining items sit at different stores around the city on consignment, and I paid them NO MIND; because they brought back horrible memories that would instantly knock me out of whack, make me feel bad about myself, and force me to eat Fritos by the fistful.

Every fucking time. That sticky, stinky, shitty, loser energy met me there.

That is a law and the sooner we all realize that, the faster we can shift it.

Here’s how it works:
If you had a fight in a restaurant, the next time you go back there, the minute you give your car to the valet you’ll feel that gut-punch; because your energy is the guy that opens the door and greets you there “Welcome back, we’ve been waiting here for you .”

Shit.

How many times have you had a bad experience with the place that services your car, or the dry cleaners; only to have it repeat itself over and over?

I remember when I went to auditions back in the day; there was a big casting agent on Sunset who was nice as can be, but I NEVER booked a job there. After a while, my disappointment would meet me at the door with its Cheshire grin, making sure the casting session was doomed.

So if you meet your energy where you left it— how can you change that?

First, by being aware of it, recognizing that it’s your low expectations, your disappointment, or your painful past that is causing the gut-knot.

Also, time has passed and things have changed. You’ve changed. Right?

When you do that, you can rewrite the story, and while you’re at it you can make sure it’s a much better one. It’s the story of how you called your power back; how inanimate objects, buildings and even people have no power over you — and that you’ve moved on and left no forwarding address.

It’s easier said than done, it took weeks, but that’s what worked for me you guys.

I had a real Come to Jesus with myself (I’ve been doing that a lot lately) where I told myself that inertia was no longer acceptable. Neither was settling, acting like a victim, or being broke.

For Godsakes woman it’s been five years, the statute of limitations on powerless victimhood has expired! Round up all that stuff, take all your old juju off of it by remembering how good and exciting it was to purchase it in the first place, and SELL IT! Go call your power back to you and then be done with it!

Even though I seldom take my own advice, I woke up yesterday, the day everything was getting picked up, with no knot. For once…and for all.

The day could not have gone any better. It went faster, smoother and was more organized than I’d ever imagined. Obviously, my loser energy had flown to Vegas to cause some real trouble.

As I drove away feeling newly empowered, reborn, like a Phoenix from the ashes, it made me remember all the times that the energy that met me — was good. It does work both ways ya know.

So I’ve re-written that story, the story of the store and the flood, and in the new version the auction results five years later — are AMAZING!

So the end is where I’ll be starting from — a new beginning,  a fresh start.

Where does your shitty energy never fail to meet you? How can you re-write your story and regain your power? Do you believe you need an ending to have a beginning?

Lets talk.

Carry on,

xox

This is so fucking good you guys that I read it three times today…and I wish I’d written it. Especially nessesary with all the changes in the air right now.
It’s by the beautiful and brilliant Daniele LaPort
Take it away Daniele!

“I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete. (Say it with me now.)

I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

I was moving out of a house recently and told a friend I was going to smudge the place. (You know, “smudge” — you burn some sage and clean the energy out. Stay with me, this is going to get more logical for some of you. Actually…it will probably get weirder.) So, Cool Friend asks me, “Why bother smudging? You’re leaving.” Fair question. Usually you want to clear out the energy of places you’re moving IN to. “Because, I want to take all of my energy with me.” I clarified.

“Huh,” nodded Cool Friend. “That’s a new one. I like it.” I skipped the sage and went for vocal incantation. More direct.

I’ve been quietly working with a particular energy worker for the last year+. Ataana. Thanks to Ataana and my cosmic crew, my energy tool kit is super-activated now. This is one of my choice instruments:

I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

At my old house, I walked through every room and repeated the magic formula. I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete. Then I dropped the keys in the mailbox and got on with my new life. Clean. Free. All my power with me.

LIFE. It’s all energy. You know this.

When we give energy away willingly, intentionally, with positivity, we get stronger. We become truer, purer, bigger. Power-full.

When we give our energy away unconsciously, under duress, as we are victimized, or taken advantage of, when we over-give out of a sense of deficiency or obligation, we … don’t get stronger. We constrict, we get depleted, we start to stiffen from fear.

You are always in relationship with your life force. Ideally, you want access to your FULL life force. Not just half it because some of your power is on obligation-loan to the needy, or stuck in a past life, or knotted up with the person who did you wrong, or tangled up in dreading the future. Painful events create fissures that your power gets trapped in. You want to empty those pockets and get your gold back.

I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

Words have incredible power. You know this.

THIS IS HOW POWER RETRIEVAL WORKS:

You don’t want to ever run into that person. The very thought turns your stomach. Get bigger than it…. I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

The love songs that make you sick. Own the beauty. Sing it for someone else. Take it back. I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

The scene of the crime, that words that broke your spirit, the time you got rejected — painful stuff … those situations all have your energy inside of them, waiting to be freed up and restored to you. I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

The places that you used to go to, but avoid now, extract your mojo out of them…I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

The years you tried to make it work, poring, praying, pleading, dancing on egg shells … take back every plea, take back every prayer — take back every time you wished for it to be different than it was — it’s over now. I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

The incident that traumatized you. The blow that caused the wounds. Call your strength home. Snap it back from the betrayer, from the abuser. Take it all back. NOW. I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

Triggered agony, symbols of defeat, waves of anxiety, emotions of disempowerment, memories that really hurt. Transmute it all into fuel. …I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

For all the times you were quiet about deception and disrespect, quiet about the life force that was being syphoned from your generous nature. Speak your power into fullness. …I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

THIS IS AN ONGOING PRACTICE

Part of your old chapter will follow you in to your new chapter. “Stop resenting that have you to deal with this,” Ataana would say to me. “Every trigger is your power wanting to be called back.” In that case, instead of resenting the shit out of recurring triggers, get excited when you trip on them. Like this: Negative feeling happens. A-ha! THERE’S where my power has been. Right where I left it.

I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.

Take your power back so you can put it to wonderful use. Because if it’s floating out there, someone else is going to plug into it and hoover on your juju. Yes, it works that way.

You have the power. Maybe you left some of it somewhere. It’s still yours and it will always be yours. Go get it.

I call all of my power back to me now. I am whole and complete.”

Thanks Daniele, genius advice.

xox