spiritual

I don’t know if you guys saw this essay by Liz Gilbert on Facebook yesterday, it’s an important topic and if you’ve already read it — go make yourself a sandwich and then read it again because you probably missed something.

It is my belief that our tolerance for someone being less than kind to us starts in childhood when we are powerless to stand up to authority or “sass” back a teacher or family member who lobs something unkind our way.

But there’s no excuse for putting up with that shit once you’re an adult — no excuse whatsoever!

The unkind words of others can cut you to the core (because really, isn’t that their intention?)

Other people grow a callus, a hard surface that the unkind words just sort of roll off of, I’m probably one of those people; but don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t hurt — because it does.

Please take a minute to read this, it’s really good.

Here is the takeaway in a one sentence:
“Generally speaking, people are pretty much what they show you they are — not what you wish they were.”

May I also say right here, right now, that you guys, my readers, my tribe, are SO freakin’ kind and thoughtful, and…nice! It’s a rare commodity on the Internet and greatly appreciated. Love you guys!

Take it away Liz—
xox

“Dear Ones-
So I saw it happen again the other day.

Last week I watched as a friend of mine got (quite savagely) verbally attacked by a friend of hers. As I was comforting her later, she said, while brushing away tears of pain, “It’s OK. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that deep down she’s a really nice person.”
To which my question was: “HOW deep?”

I mean, if you dig down deep enough into ANYONE, you’ll find some traces of decency and humanity buried in there, right? (As they say, Hitler loved his dogs.) But how deep do you have to dig, in order to find that goodness?

How much toxic waste do you have to claw through with your bare hands, before you reach any evidence of hidden kindness?

How many layers of concrete do you have to blast through, before that person will let you see their one deeply hidden molecule of niceness?

And how much abuse do you have to take, in the meanwhile?

And is that really how you want to spend your life? Exhaustively trying to excavate scraps of decency from someone who has basically buried their goodness beneath a rubble of darkness?

I have the same reaction whenever I hear someone make these kinds of statements:
“I know she seems rude, but deep down she’s actually really kind.”
“I know he acts stingy, but deep down, he’s truly generous.”
“I know he lied to me and cheated on me, but deep down he still loves me.”
“I know she has a horrible temper and says awful things to her children, but deep down she’s a sweetheart.”

I don’t know, you guys. I don’t like it.

I’m not saying that you should throw people away or condemn them. Every major religion in the world asks us to search for the common light of humanity that is hidden within everyone. Of course you should always look for the best within people. Of course it’s enlightened to give people the benefit of the doubt. Of course it’s the highest virtue to forgive others for their shortcomings, as we would be forgiven for ours. Of course it’s compassionate to look at the difficult circumstances of a person’s life, in order to better understand why they may have turned out so broken, bitter, and mean. (Remember, though: Lots of other people had equally difficult destinies — or worse — and still find ways to be kind and generous to others.)

But it doesn’t mean you have to voluntarily expose yourself to abuse and cruelty.

Without denying the possibility that every thorn has its rose, I think it’s wise to keep your distance from people who repeatedly and consistently demonstrate injurious, neglectful, or flat-out cruel behavior. You can pray for them and wish the best for them, but you might want to cross the street when you see them coming, just to be on the safe side.

I don’t think it makes you extra spiritual to keep putting yourself in the pathway of degradation and suffering just because you have decided that — against all available evidence — this cruel person is actually a sweet person.

Generally speaking, people are pretty much what they show you they are — not what you wish they were.

People who behave cruelly toward you are more or less cruel people.

People who behave nicely toward you are generally nice people.
(Unless they are full-on sociopaths, of course, which most people are not.)
You can almost always count on that.

That being the case, I think you’re allowed to choose what sort of people with whom you wish to spend the precious waking hours of your one rare and beautiful life.

I choose to spend my life with people who are not afraid to wear their goodness and their niceness on the OUTSIDE.

I choose to spend my time with people who aren’t afraid to show love, or to receive love.

I choose to share my life with the nice humans.

I don’t find nice humans to be boring; I find them to be an oasis.
Keep it simple: Be nice to others, be nice to yourself.
ONWARD,
LG”

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”
~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Hey you guys, how do you handle it when a project goes south, a relationship doesn’t work out or you lose your iPhone?

Processing loss.
What does that feel like to you? Kinda like you wasted your time and it,(the love, the attention, the years spent) was all for nothing?

Like a failure?
Do you go over and over the reasons in your head? All the coulda, shoulda, woulda’s?
Are you your own judge and jury, sentencing yourself to twenty years of sit ups and lunges for bad choices and various other transgressions?

Or is it more like a bump in the road?
“Okay, I gave it a shot. A ton of my time, energy and devotion went into this thing but the time has come to give up the good fight. I’ve been here before and I know how this works. It’s gonna hurt for a while, I’ll spend some time alone, licking my wounds; I will cry and scream and kick my dog until I rally, getting back on my feet…and then I will transfer all my contacts and info into a new phone and try to get on with my life.

I’m thinking it depends on the clarity of the ending. Some are clear-cut, easy to see; while others are ambiguous, shrouded in doubt.

Maybe you’re more like me — somewhere in the middle? Even occasionally ambivalent?

Don’t get me wrong, I can come unhinged, feeling completely abandoned when the book that I love or the TV series that makes me laugh out loud ends. When I see one lost glove I actively mourn their mate. So there’s that…

It gets worse.

I had a pair of huge, overstuffed down pillows that cost me more than I made in a month — for twenty years! I purchased them in Austria on vacation (naturally, I would have NEVER spent that on pillows at home — I didn’t even need pillows, I was pillow shamed by the rosy-cheeked Austrian goose down pillow lady in Salzburg) and then I lugged them all over Europe with me like a high-end, dough-boy gypsy — for three weeks.

Train stations, airplanes, restaurants, if I was on the move, they were with me. Why I didn’t ship them home I’ll never know.

Dammit I loved those guys.
Recently I made the long overdue decision to toss them. They were stained, lumpy and I’m sure mite infested. It took me FOREVER to make the decision, after all, we had been through so much together. I could only part with one at a time. It took me fifteen minutes to get up the strength to lower it into the disgusting black trash can on the morning of pick-up. Tears filled my eyes when it came time to do the same with the second one. I told my husband, late that night that I felt bad because it was so cold outside.

He just snarfed, he doesn’t understand when I give emotions to inanimate objects.

Remember when I couldn’t part with our ridiculously expensive sheets? (which I’ll have you know were also a vacation purchase).
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=4471&action=edit

Yet I’ve been known to walk away from commitments and projects, friendships that I deemed toxic, and even some romantic relationships — and never look back.

Ice queen or pragmatist?

I’m not sure which response is better so therefore I’ve come to the obvious realization that I suck at processing loss.

I am the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of endings.

Some things I am able to love and lose without much heartache at all, others gut me. I walked around in a marshmallow head stupor for five years after a bad break-up.

I’m either in tears about parting with a favorite sweater that is riddled with moth holes; unable to cope with decisions regarding my long dead business; or on the other hand throwing away mementos and keepsakes, photos, art projects and drawings from times gone by like a cold-hearted pirate separating his booty.

All this to say, I may not know shit from shinola but I do know this:
Death is sad;
friends come and go;
break-ups hurt;
gloves are made to be in pairs;
failure is inevitable;
And all loses are not created equal.

So, I’m in a quandary you guys and I’d love to know…

Which one are you? The sentimental saver, big-hearted devotee of all things you’ve loved? Or the cold, hard, rational pragmatist who understands loss and is able to move on unencumbered.

Or are you both and it depends on the loss?

Carry on,
xox

(This was taken during my five,eleven, fifteen-year “awkward phase” —you can see she had her work cut out for her).

I was reminded recently, as I continue my snarky, sweaty slog through my fifties, that I’ve done so without the guidance or fair warning of my mother. In all fairness she was too busy; engaged in the parental heavy-lifting of getting the three of us into adulthood, that it never occurred to her to share these pearls of wisdom.

So I’ll do you all the favor of pulling back the curtain, exposing all the hidden truths (in no particular order), of life in middle age.

1.) Invest in a good bra, and for godssakes if you have anything over a D cup, don’t jog. It is for that reason alone that I have to tell the girl at Nordstrom that I wear a 36 long.

2.) Carry an across-the-shoulder messenger bag and keep the weight below thirty-five pounds. Yes, you heard me. I have a divot in my shoulder and the posture of a Sherpa from carrying a bag that has been way too heavy for over forty years.

Oh, and ladies—after you stop menstruating, you can toss all the tampons. I’m giving you the all clear. I put them in my time capsule along with my Midol, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

It’s okay—give up the fight.

3.) If someone says they’re sorry — forgive them. You may never talk to them again, or wish them well, but the forgiveness will set you free.

4.) Make eye contact and remember people’s names, My trick? I repeat it back to them and use a rhyming game (in my head, not to their face).
Along those lines—Listen without interrupting, ask people questions about themselves and always introduce yourself and anyone standing with you.

These are the Golden Rules of any dinner party, staff meeting, black tie event or ladies restroom line — really, any social situation you may find yourself in.

5.) Use those dental-pick-thingies every night. I brush and floss like a maniac and yet I still manage to pull an entire steak dinner out from between my teeth with those things!

6.) Listen to advice but only from the smart people — Never the stupid ones. Pay attention. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

7.) Word to the wise. You can forget about those mustache and chin hairs.
After forty, pubic hair will lose its genetic coding and start migrating around your body.
It will crawl up your stomach and onto the back of your legs if you let it. I tried to wrangle mine, to fill in my over-tweezed eyebrows (a seventies fad that went horribly wrong), but to no avail.
I did find one on my arm last week. Consider yourselves warned.

8.) Men stay boys all their lives. This needs no explanation.

9.) Stay curious. About people, life and the planet. It will help to demystify every seemingly mundane, stupid thing that surrounds you.

10.) Beach hair only looks good on twenty-three year old models named Tia. The same goes for a navel piercing. Trust me on this.

11.) This is a big one. A lie is someone’s imagination working against them. Remember that.

12.) Always carry matches or a lighter. And lipstick. Always carry lipstick.

13.) You will never use calculus beyond college—but good table manners, clean fingernails and comfortable shoes will carry you far in life.

14.) Carrying (and reading) an interesting book will be an amazingly effective airplane conversation starter—and the perfect companion when dining alone.

15.) Be polite and try every food that is offered to you, (which means eat a bull testicle even if you’re a vegetarian). It will broaden your horizons in unimaginable ways and make you a sought after dinner guest.

16.) Self-tanner is a catastrophe-in-a-can waiting to happen. Make peace with your paleness. End of story.

17.) Know that your looks will fade and reconcile yourself with that. Your neck will waddle, the hair on your head will thin, and your breasts will sag. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, make sure your surgeon has a light touch.

You still want to look like you — only rested.

19.) Pay attention to your feet. They will start to fight back after fifty. All the years of squeezing them into severely pointed, one size too small, five-inch heels have made them…cranky.
Can you blame them?

20.) Take the effort to make a good first impression — you may never get a second chance.

And last but not least—reinvent. Don’t rest on you laurels, don’t question your intuition, and don’t tell yourself you’re too old, too fat, or too busy to reassess your situation and reinvent yourself.

Now pay this forward and don’t say I never gave you anything.

Carry on,
xox

This is an essay by my friend and fellow Carmel Writing Retreat attendee Denise Damron. Let me just tell you a little bit about her. First of all she missed the first night of introductions at the retreat because she was at a ROCK CONCERT. Don’t you love that!

This woman has her priorities straight.

She is quiet,(meaning she couldn’t get a word in edgewise)but when she did interject something into the conversation it was genuine, wry, dry…and smart. She is wicked smart.

So once I realized she was totally out of my league, I fell in love, like I do, with her and her writing.

Denise is finishing a fiction book about a young girl who realizes she’s descended from a long line of extremely unusual woman with very special magical powers. As I sat that week listening to her read various excerpts from the story, I was amazed at how well she captured a teenage girl’s hopes, dreams and oftentimes snarky personality. After reading this I am almost certain she patterned her heroine after her niece Penelope.

Geesh, these young girls are so much more self-aware and dialed in that I ever was then…or am now for that matter!

I know a lot of you guys have kids and the rest of us are going through huge transitions so I think you’ll be able to relate and even smile.

Take it away Denise:

“In my family we are birthday list-makers. I got the list below from my now nine-year-old soon-to-be ten-year-old niece last night. A sign she is growing up – NO DRESSES PLEASE!!!

It made me think back to when I was 10.

Was I so well-evolved at that age? I mean, look at this list.
This is the list of a girl who knows who she is and is not afraid to list it. She is girly and tough at the same time – note the warrior in her with her Minecraft sword and axe and the feminine in her with the vanilla perfume scent and O-P-I nail polish. She is Xena Warrior Princess in a pair of Louboutins.

I like to think the dark red lipstick is a nod to me, her aunt, since I will not take out the trash without wearing my red lipstick.

At that age I was just beginning to dream of being a famous writer-singer-actress-world traveler. I felt invincible. I was going to break the glass ceiling. I was going to be President of the United States or make sure a woman became president (I was an early feminist).

So what happened to me in the years that transpired since I was 10? Middle school nasty girls, too-much-partying high school, sorority girl Pappagallo shoes and pink Izods in college , first job-first apartment independence, bloom-off-the-rose second, third, fourth, and more, until finally my last job as a director in a Fortune 100 company. Throughout many of those years I wish I would have had a Haters Back Off Miranda Sings shirt to warn away the soul sucking crazies I ran across in my work.

I just had my 54th birthday in April and one year after leaving my corporate job to start my own business and write my novel (both of which I accomplished) I feel like I’ve come full circle back to the girl I once was. Older, yes. Wiser, hope so. But still full of dreams and hopes and wishes for the future. Now, instead of making a list of stuff I want (although I can always use more red lip stick) I take the opportunity to list the things I want to accomplish in the next year.

Here’s my list in no particular order:
• Find an agent to publish my young adult novel
• Finish my PhD dissertation
• Stay close to nature and take more walks with my Siberian Husky Gracie
• Keep my life filled with music by going to more concerts
• Let the voices and pictures in my head out by starting my next novel
• Channel Miranda Sings’ Haters Back Off mantra by being true to myself
• Connect more with positive friends
• Meditate and keep my chakras cleared
• Generate positive, productive, awe-inspiring energy
• Political comment alert: Work on getting Hilary elected
• Stay tuned in/check in on a regular basis with my body, mind, and spirit

Here is my niece’s birthday list:

PENELOPE’S 10TH BIRTHDAY WISHLIST BY:PENELOPE GRACE

• T-Mobile Sim Card
• Justice Dance Bow Graphic Tee
• Justice Zebra Cross Back Leotard
• Nerf Rebelle Agent Bow
• Haters Back Off Miranda Sings Pants
• Haters Back Off Miranda Sings Shirt
• Emoji Pillows
• Bright Red Lipstick
• NO DRESSES PLEASE!!!
• Minecraft Sword
• Minecraft Axe
• Justice Gift Card
• Coconut Perfume Scent
• Vanilla Perfume Scent
• O-P-I Nail Polish
• Crackle Nail Polish
• Dark Red Lipstick”

Carry on my friends,
xox

Here is the link for Denise’s new company:
themarketingimagination.com

Here is the link for the Carmel Retreats:
bookmama.com

I’m certain my face looked identical to this! LOl!

I was startled Wednesday; on my walk; by a bird…who flew at full speed into my left shoulder and then kept going. Apparently it had a full morning and no manners.

I walk with earphones, traversing the neighborhood in a kind of meditation stupor so you can imagine my surprise when something hit me from behind.

I would have LUUUUVED to have seen my face. I’m certain it was an attractive mixture of what-the-hell surprise and indignation.
I think I may have even yelped…and done a skip-kick.

Some would have called it a scream-cry, although it wasn’t; it was the WTF yulp of a middle-aged woman in yoga pants, with arms weights and boob sweat, chugging along at eight thirty in the morning, minding her own business and smiling at dogs.

In other words, just another fitness failure trying to get some cardio in by walking ten thousand steps in order to stave off writer’s ass.

I gotta tell ya it stopped me in my tracks, (I kept my feet moving while I looked around, in order to keep my heart rate up, YO!) but there were no witnesses to my hit and fly, so I just shrugged and kept on movin’.

Since you know me by now and the fact that I can’t take ANYTHING at face value, I made a metal note to look up “personal bird strike” when I got home. But since my brain is currently made of swiss cheese…I promptly forgot.

Upon returning home I got sidetracked into bringing in the trash bins, sweeping the patio, looking at old recipes, and trimming dead fronds off of the ferns that frame the fountain by the back deck off of our bathroom. That fountain then reminded me in a not-so-friendly-way that it needed to be cleaned. Badly. It gurgled my name, taunting me: Janet…come on…don’t keep ignoring me…stop being an ass…please…clean me…

What was once a lovely, melodic stream of water is now an anemic, name calling trickle, due to a filter that looks like the lungs of a three pack a day smoker. Clogged, black and ineffective.

Three weeks ago I had laid out the rubber gloves and bucket and then lost my enthusiasm for the project and left them there to remind me. So, the supplies were there and I had the time, which meant I got to work emptying the water one bucketful at a time in order to get to the leaves at the bottom and give the filter a fighting chance.

The reason I’m telling you this is: Midway through the scooping of the water — out comes a dead bird. A small, (not a baby) obviously not so bright, brown bird. I’ve observed them bathing and drinking in that fountain for years, so, unless this was a suicide, or a contract hit, this guy had not been the sharpest tool in the shed.

And it made me wonder: What the fuck is the thing with birds today? I can go years, no make that decades, without a bird incident; so I immediately ran inside to look it up lest I see something shiny and forget once again.

There is a ton written on birds hitting widows, planes, and cars, but people — not so much. And when they do, they usually hit them in the head, often to weigh in on a morning of bad bed-head by grabbing a few stands and some scalp for their nest or to warn them away from their hatchlings.

MY bird was nowhere near my head.
Maybe he was trying to grab me under the arm and carry me to his nest; or in order to fashion a cape for me like the birds in Snow White, he was trying to get my arm length measurements.
The jury is still out.

The inter-web also mentions the fact that sometimes birds just don’t see the things they fly into — like I’m invisible. Not a real boost to my self-esteem.

I posted on Facebook: On my walk this morning a small bird flew into the back of my left shoulder and then kept going without so much as a “Pardon Me”. What do you think, texting while flying or an Omen?

When I looked it up here’s what THEY say about Omens:
“Everything is an omen, really.(We knew that) There is a reason for everything, nothing happens by accident. We just need to learn to realize these omens and how to interpret them easily. The more “wild” the omen, the more “dramatic” the outcome, or so it would seem.

Many people feel that birds represent freedom, as they can soar up into the sky where there are no obstacles and go wherever they wish, and then return to the Earth once more. Also because of this I suppose you could view them as almost having two aspects: one that departs and one that returns. What that means to you is up to you. Also, one could consider birds as messengers. Some view them as messengers to the gods. There is a phrase that begins, “a little bird told me…” (I thought that started with my seventh grade teacher Miss Law who was sneakily trying to get to the truth of a math quiz scandal)
To me, birds also represent awareness, since they can soar above almost anything on this planet and can witness everything–taking place outside, at least. They are like the wind. They start out one place and end up in another, carrying stories and memories with them.”

Okay…Kind of a stretch, but I get that everything is an omen, so I looked up dead bird and here’s the message there:

These beautiful animals are actually messengers from the Divine, Spirit, Universe, God, whatever name you choose. The message is not one of doom and gloom, you are not going to die in the next three days, it is not a “forerunner” of death and destruction. (Well, THAT’S a relief.)
Dead birds are actually very similar to the “Death” card in a tarot deck. It represents a death, but it is a death of something you have been focused on. It could be the death or “end” of a bad relationship, or a bad financial situation, or a behaviour pattern you have been wanting to break, etc. And with all things that end, the way is then clear for new opportunities to come into your life. (Yippee)
For instance, if you are in an unhealthy relationship, it is unlikely that a new healthy relationship is going to come into your life if you are still involved or healing from the unhealthy one. Once you have dealt with it and are ready to move on, the universe will send you a message to let you know that it is now time to move forward with your life.
That is what these dead birds are, a message that whatever you were dealing with is now “dead” and behind you and you are now ready to move forward with the new opportunity that has been presenting itself to you but that you have been ignoring for some reason. So, see the sign, and determine what message it is sending you and be grateful that you have now received the message and start looking for the new opportunity.
http://pathwayconnection.com/what-does-seeing-dead-birds-mean/

As I’ve written about lately, there are SO MANY endings and beginnings for me right now that this makes perfect sense — and I know that a bunch of you guys are going through the same thing, so take my bird omen and run (fly) with it.

What is mine is yours, as always — you’re welcome!

Do you believe in omens or animal totems? Got a story you’d like to share? Think this is all a big bag of bullshit?

Carry on,
xox

SERIOUS F-BOMB ALERT!

On Sunday my friend Kim and I were sharing a Nutella sundae in a beautiful park in Beverly Hills and at one point she looked over at the obvious joy on my face (which went well with my vanilla gelato mustache) and asked me “If you could be any place in the world right now, where, and with whom would that be?“

“Right here, right now” was my answer and I was serious.

My go to happiness answer is always Italy — anywhere in Italy. A basement in the Vatican, some dark alley, it doesn’t matter — Italy always wins. But that day it kinda felt like Italy, what with the good company, the great weather, and the perfect Nutella gelato and all.

“Your joy ceiling is set pretty high” she said with a smile full of conviction.

I nodded emphatically, not sure what the fuck she was talking about as I scarfed all the pools of Nutella while she explained.

She proceeded to tell me about this video which explained the joy ceiling, and the fact that Jesus wept his was so low. (Don’t get your panties in a bunch, it’s a joke…or is it?)

Then she sent it to me. Thanks Kim!

Take a look — its short, its hilarious, and that broad of all broads Ellen Barkin says fuck a lot. What could be better?

Now lemme know what you think about the concept of a personal joy ceiling. I think its genius…and accurate.

Okay you guys, where’s your personal joy ceiling? (BTW mine is not always set high, it is VERY conditional, there has to be hazelnut and chocolate and gelato involved).  

Enjoy and carry on,
xox

The other day in the comments section of my blog about aging, my blogger/friend over at Gemini Ascending answered the question I so brazenly posed at the end:
“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?”

She said she was the same age that I am and that she was going to get the tattoo she’d been wanting.

Now me, being the ever curious nosey-pants that I am, I couldn’t just say great or good for you, I had to ask what and where?

“The tree of life on my shoulder” was her reply. I thought that sounded like a fantastic idea but again, I just couldn’t leave well enough alone.

The thing is you guys, I feel like I know all of you — like you’re my friends, especially when we converse via the comments, then we’re like BFF’s (said in a Valley girl voice while flipping my hair and loudly chewing gum). So I reacted like I would to any of my friends, like we do to each other, “I double-dog-dare you to do it, and share the picture. You have until the last day of your 57th year…game on!”

I know, it’s a bit confrontational, especially directed toward an absolute stranger, but hey, what the hell, I tell you guys EVERYTHING and I showed you a picture of my purple fringe.

Here’s the thing: A Double Dog Dare is a relic from my tween days, so that being said it is petty harmless.

Still, it is the ultimate, last word in dares. It means that I just did something a little dangerous and often utterly terrifying and now I want you to join me. There is no going back after a double dog dare. You either do it; or you walk the walk of shame.

Then yesterday, in my inbox was the most recent blog post from Gemini Ascending with the title I Double Dog Dare You.

Gulp. Shit. Had I gone too far? I didn’t mean anything by it except to nudge her toward her perfect tattoo. I’m not gonna lie, I was afraid to open it. Take a look:

https://geminiascending.wordpress.com/2015/05/03/i-double-dog-dare-you/comment-page-1/#comment-209

Whew! Crisis averted. She was up to the challenge. I knew she would be, I had just underestimated the persuasive power behind The Double Dog Dare. It has an alchemy all it’s own and I have to be more careful when I throw it down. Things will change, people will dig deep and find their courage and shit. will. go. down.

So I learned my lesson; for about twelve hours.

Today (Monday) at the dentist, my beloved hygienist, during our one hour, mostly one-sided gab-fest, mentioned aging and her girlfriends and how happy she was that she hadn’t jumped on the retirement bandwagon. Several of her close friends had retired and then gone right back to work out of sheer boredom. One retired couple she knows eats breakfast, takes a walk, eats lunch, takes a nap (yawn — kill me now)…you get the picture.

“Why aren’t they traveling, being philanthropic or taking classes?” I inquired, amazed. “I know” she replied, “I would keep so busy!”

“What would you do, maybe take a dance class?” Uh oh…here I go, even with five of her fingers inside, my mouth starts asking questions.

“Yes!”  she exclaimed, and then told me to rinse.

She went on to explain, “When I was twelve to fifteen I used to take tap, I even took it when my girls were small. One of my patients is a choreographer and when she was here six months ago it came up somehow; anyway she told me about a tap class for people over fifty.”

Since her hands were otherwise occupied my mouth took the opportunity to cross-examine ask her about this class.

“Well, why aren’t you taking it? Did you call? You’ve GOT to do this!”

The conversation had struck a cord with her I could see it in her eyes, “I know! I just never got the info from her, we were supposed to exchange emails…”

I could feel the words start to bubble up. They began in my big toe, rose up into my belly; moving again to my throat; then my lips started forming the words…

“I double dog dare you to take the tap class Jeanette!” Now I’d gone and done it again — thrown down the gauntlet; pulled out the big guns.

The Double Dog Dare hung in the air overpowering even the sound of the drill in the next room. Now, you have to be careful with what you say to your dental hygienist lest she get all Marathon Man on your ass. Luckily she seemed open to the idea so I was safe for the time being, I just needed to keep my mouth shut; well open, but just nodding; no talking.

“You know” she said, all excited, “She’s due back in here for a cleaning this month, I’ll ask her for the details then.”

Her face lit up and she looked more like her fifteen year old self with every passing minute.

“I bet the girls at the desk have her contact information, why wait?  Email her today, in the subject say, “I feel like tap dancing” and give her your personal email address. She’ll be cool with it — after all, she offered the info.”

My teeth cleaning was over so I could safely say that and then make a run for it.

You’re right, she will, I’m going to look up her info right now.” She was practically skipping.

“Hey Jeanette…do the recitals at the end of every session. They’ll scare the shit out of you and when you’re waiting backstage with your family in the audience you’ll think to yourself: What the fuck have I done? and then you’ll go on that stage and you’ll be fifteen again…it’s intoxicating…and the adrenalin is good for your skin.”

That stopped her in her tracks, she spun around and her eyes were like a deer’s in the headlights. “Oh well, I don’t know about that…” she stammered, feeling the fear.

“At our age what do we do that scares us? Think about it. We stick with all the stuff we’re good at. I Double Dog Dared myself into doing musical theatre a couple of years ago and it was the most terrifying yet exhilarating thing I’d done in decades. Just do it!”

“You’re right” she said like someone who has just been told they have to do something excruciating, like give up sugar for a year.

“Janette; call her, take the tap class and dance in the recital…I Double Dog Dare you.”

Damn I’m pushy.

And sometimes, I swear to God my mouth says stuff my ears can’t believe; but as I left she gave me a big, long hug and thanked me. For reminding her about dancing and feeling alive and aging and feeling fifteen again.

Whew, another disaster averted and not a bad day at the dentist.

Ok you guys..I double dog dare you to take a least ONE action. Something you’ve been putting off, waiting for the perfect time. We’ve been focused on age related activities but it can be anything!

Come on — what’s it gonna be?

Carry On, and on, and on,

xox

(No that is not a picture from the 1930’s Grapes of Wrath, that’s my brother and me, post Camp Fun Time one summer in the 1960’s)

It felt like summer here in LA last week.
With temps in the nineties and clear crisp blue skies, we’ve seemed to have skipped spring and jumped straight into July.

I’ve noticed that summer or anything resembling summer, does something to my molecules.
It makes them…dance. The longer days, the warm nights, all conspire to make me…restless.
And …happy.

Why? What does summer mean to me?

The feelings run deep, stemming all the way back to my childhood, which got me to thinking…

Summer is visceral, it’s cellular memory, and as a kid in the San Fernando Valley in the sixties summer meant:

Lemonade stands;

Sleepovers;

Looking for lady bugs armed with my bug jar and figuring out just the right leaf to ladybug ratio for their survival;

Walking all the way to the dime store for an Abba Zabba;

Bare feet so dirty we had to wash them before bed;

Flip flops (always blue) and ice cream cones (rocky road) from Thrifty’s;

Zinc Oxide on my pug nose (sunscreen hadn’t been invented);

Watermelon;

The street lights coming on after seven;

Hosing down the cement walkway to make it slick enough for our own homemade Slip N Slide;

Running thru the sprinklers and the smell of wet grass;

Collecting and then spending hours wetting and pasting green stamps in book after book in order to get ourselves a kiddy pool;

Short pink cotton pjs;

Root beer floats at the Drive In;

Red Vines at the weekly kids matinees at the band new multiplex in Panorama City where I saw my first movie made from a book I had read and LOVED, Islands of the Blue Dolphins
(totally radical concept for me at the time);

Staying up late,(sneak eating Red Vines) and reading the latest Nancy Drew by the dim light of my little desk lamp so my sister with whom I shared a room, could sleep. (I just saw some of the same old editions I used to read at a little neighborhood second-hand store and I teared up. Those are some gooooood memories.)

Charcoal and lighter fluid barbecues;

How different the classrooms and the entire school for that matter felt during summer school;

Culottes and tanned legs so skinny they look like pipe cleaners;

Camp Funtime (war-paint, beaded necklaces, and lanyard see the picture above);

Frozen grape Kool Aid Popsicles;

Selma’s (our neighbor’s aunt) beautiful built-in swimming pool;

The long drive to the beach with a car full of kids and then shlepping all our shit down to the water’s edge.

Egg salad sandwiches at the beach;

The hum of air conditioners;

Dodger baseball games on the radio At ALL TIMES (the voice of Vin Scully);

So when the weather gets into the nineties like it did last week and it releases all these great childhood cellular memories, I’m suddenly reminded that summer is my favorite season.

Until I think of Christmastime…

What triggers your spring or summer fever? What’s your favorite season and why?

Carry on’
xox

In a mother’s womb were two babies. One asked the other:
“Do you believe in life after delivery?” The other replied, “Why, of course. There has to be something after delivery. Maybe we are here to prepare ourselves for what we will be later.”

“Nonsense” said the first. “There is no life after delivery. What kind of life would that be?”

The second said, “I don’t know, but there will be more light than here. Maybe we will walk with our legs and eat from our mouths. Maybe we will have other senses that we can’t understand now.”

The first replied, “That is absurd. Walking is impossible. And eating with our mouths? Ridiculous! The umbilical cord supplies nutrition and everything we need. But the umbilical cord is so short. Life after delivery is to be logically excluded.”

The second insisted, “Well I think there is something and maybe it’s different than it is here. Maybe we won’t need this physical cord anymore.”

The first replied, “Nonsense. And moreover if there is life, then why has no one has ever come back from there? Delivery is the end of life, and in the after-delivery there is nothing but darkness and silence and oblivion. It takes us nowhere.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the second, “but certainly we will meet Mother and she will take care of us.”

The first replied “Mother? You actually believe in Mother? That’s laughable. If Mother exists then where is She now?”

The second said, “She is all around us. We are surrounded by her. We are of Her. It is in Her that we live. Without Her this world would not and could not exist.”

Said the first: “Well I don’t see Her, so it is only logical that She doesn’t exist.”

To which the second replied, “Sometimes, when you’re in silence and you focus and you really listen, you can perceive Her presence, and you can hear Her loving voice, calling down from above.”
– Útmutató a Léleknek

Its come to my attention lately that many of you are re-reading books from your childhood either with your kids or late at night with a flashlight under the covers, only to discover their deep, hidden meaning.

They may have marked us as children but they deliver a whole NEW meaning to us as adults.

Mary Poppins – Believing in Magic– Ditto Harry Potter

The Little Prince — So many people I know were marked as children by this book including my husband.

A Christmas Carol — which is the story behind one of my all time favorite movies, It’s A Wonderful Life

The Velveteen Rabbit — Great lessons in self acceptance.

All the Cat In The Hat books, really anything written by Dr. Seuss is genius and ripe with life lessons.

Just to name a few…

Kinda makes me wonder, was it always the intention behind these books to deliver a sort of one-two punch, by subtlety seeding our dreams with their hidden wisdom as we listened as children at bedtime, only to bestow an even greater, better understood message upon us as we read them to our kids?

Wouldn’t that be something?

Here is a great example of what I’m talking about in a short essay by Pam Grout. Harold And The Purple Crayon.
Take it away Pam!

“World’s best “how-to” book not found in the self-help section

“Your opinion of yourself becomes your reality. If you have all these doubts, no one will believe in you and everything will go wrong. If you think the opposite, the opposite will happen. It’s that simple.”
–50 Cent

“My favorite how-to book will never be found in the self-help section of the bookstore. It was written long before the term self-help was even coined.

It’s a children’s book called Harold and the Purple Crayon and it rivals Oprah when it comes to addressing the possibilities of the human condition.

Written by Crockett Johnson in 1955, this little 65-page masterpiece tells the story of a little boy named Harold who decides to go out for a walk one evening. When there isn’t any moonlight (and, of course, everyone knows a good walk requires moonlight), Harold just takes out his purple crayon and draws the moon.

He also needs a sidewalk (which he draws) that leads to a forest (he only draws one tree because he doesn’t want to get lost) that turns out to be an apple tree (or at least it is after Harold’s crayon gets ahold of it). Unfortunately, the apples aren’t ripe yet, so Harold draws a frightening dragon to guard the tree.

When he falls into the ocean, Harold is able to grab his wits and his purple crayon to draw a boat and set sail for a beach, where he draws a picnic lunch with nine kinds of pie.

The whole book is about Harold’s great adventures scaling a mountain, soaring in a hot-air balloon and touring a city, all created by his ever-faithful purple crayon.

It’s a powerful book because it demonstrates a great spiritual truth—we are the authors of our own lives. We draw every detail—even the dragons and the oceans we “accidentally” fall into.

Harold could have gone on his walk, noticed there was no moon and sat down and pouted. Isn’t that what most of us do? “Damn, no moon. Better call my therapist, hit some pillows.” Or he could have drawn his moon, compared it to El Greco, and said, “I’m a hopeless sham. What was I thinking? Me? An artist?”

Instead, he kept reaching for his purple crayon and drawing every event, every answer, every friend he needed. We all have that power.
Harold was only a kid. He hadn’t yet lost his imagination, his sense of wonder and awe. No one had explained yet that he couldn’t have whatever he wanted. As long as he had his purple crayon, he could ride the universe.

Remember that big box of Crayolas with the 64 awesome colors? With that one small gold and green box you could have absolutely anything-—navy blue carousels with peach prancing ponies, magenta castles with yellow-green drawbridges, puffy white clouds and purple grass although your teacher might have frowned on that kind of thing. “Grass is green, don’t you know.”

Each year of school, the Crayola stash gets smaller. By the time we graduate from high school, we’re wielding nothing but a blue Bic for figuring our checking account.

Let’s go out this week and get some crayons. Let’s create our world the way we want it. And if we happen to fall into an ocean or run into a dragon, we’ll just draw ourselves a lifeboat and head for the beach, where at least one kind of pie will be waiting.”

Pam Grout is the author of 17 books including E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality and the recently released sequel, E-Cubed, 9 More Experiments that Prove Mirth, Magic and Merriment is your Full-time Gig.
Pamgrout.com