spiritual

I have a confession to make. I have a hard time letting go of the things I love. Not in a hoarding kind of way; I’ve come to discover it’s more of a tactile dysfunction.

Like a toddler and her woobie (torn and tattered blanket) there are certain things you will have to pry out of my hands while I’m asleep, for that is the only way I will be able to release my grip.

I had a small blanket as a child; it was a warm, buttery, yellowish cream color, with a satin trim. It felt delicious. I would carry it everywhere, folding the corner into a perfect point, and obsessively running my fingers over that satin triangle. It soothed my soul, making me feel secure; it was my tactile toddler Valium and it could only be mended and washed while I slept – otherwise there would be hell to pay. Even now, during my darkest hours, I pine for the calming effect that blanket had on that fast walking, fast talking toddler – me.

Here’s where the confession gets embarrassing. Like red-faced, hide under the couch embarrassing.
I have replaced that sainted blanket with an adult woobie – My $750 set of Italian sheets.

You scoff, well, let me take you back to that day I first fell in love, and I KNOW you’ll understand.

It was a perfect September afternoon, the year was 2002, and the city was Rome.

The big handsome and I were finally enjoying our postponed Italian honeymoon (detoured by the events of 9/11).
Imagine, if you will, the two of us gleefully descending the Spanish Steps, gelato in hand; careful to navigate ourselves around the cool kids passing a joint and the numerous couples that were practically having sex in broad daylight.

We were strolling into the Piazza di Spagna, enjoying the colorful characters that surround the Barcaccia Fountain (the people watching in that particular piazza is off-the-hook ridiculous), when it caught my eye. It is to the right of the steps, across from where we’re standing; the facade is a sun bleached salmon color, and the smell is intoxicating, even thirty feet away – old Italian cotton, class, and money. I try to look away but there are SALDI (SALE) signs in the windows, making its siren song that much sweeter and more seductive.

The Frette Store – in Rome – a veritable wonderland of linens, towels and all forms of hedonistic goodness.

“Oh, sale, let’s go in” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, pulling my poor, unsuspecting husband into the cool, dark, recesses of Italian Heaven.
I call it that because if you’ve ever had the good fortune to touch their sheets, the sensation, especially to this tactile whore, sends you straight into ecstasy.

It was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. Forget the thread count. These are woven from the soft, down, hair of a cherub; marshmallow, and cloud.

They would never have the bad taste to be stiff and starchy, they are impossibly soft and worn in from day one – and they just get BETTER and BETTER.

We had been talking about getting a King size bed, so we were brazen enough to purchase two sets of the Italian equivalent of California King sheets with pillow shams. They were to be shipped in four weeks, after the bottom sheet had been Americanized (elasticized). $750 was the sale price, half off, which is how I talked him into two sets. “Two for the price of one.”
It was easy since he still had on his rose-colored glasses where finances were concerned. He was on his honeymoon, in Italy, high on pasta, red wine and gelato; well before he started to “hemorrhage” money on the remodel to accommodate the King sized bed.

For two and a half years; the time it took us to build the room to fit the bed; I looked at those boxes covered in FRETTE tape high on the closet shelf everyday, imagining ripping them open to reveal their magical contents, and then enjoying our first night sleeping on cherub’s hair.

At last, in February 2005, it was time. I slowly opened the boxes, the smell of Rome filling the room. I was never so happy to make a bed in. my. life. and I can tell you emphatically, – they did not disappoint. Amazingly, through the years, they have gotten softer and cozier – more than you could ever imagine.

They are my wildly expensive Italian woobies, and I love them.

We are now almost ten years in, and even though they are in rotation with sadly inferior Pima cotton sheets, the last year and a half has been hard on them (me).

My beloved Frette sheets have become threadbare.

I’m ashamed to admit, I even called Frette to complain that they had started to tear and develop holes, “oh my, well, how long have you had them?” her thickly accented voice inquired, “um, ten years” I answered, hearing myself say it out loud for the first time… crickets. They sent me a catalogue out of pity.

We have become the Clampetts, those hillbillies that hit it rich and moved to Beverly – Hills that is. Because inside the facade of a life of put together beauty, lies my tattered, patched up, little secret.

My cleaning lady, carefully patches them when I’m not looking, bless her heart; just like my mom did with my wobbie.
Sadly, with one set, the patch to sheet ratio finally became unacceptable, forcing my husband into an intervention. That night I took the long walk of shame, head hanging, eyes tearing up, to the trash to throw them away. Then I fished them out. It took me three tries.
I still think about them, late at night, sleeping in a dump somewhere.
They deserved a better fate.

Last night I put my foot through a hole in the bottom sheet of the remaining set. They have become impossibly delicate, like some ancient parchment from the Vatican archives; I need to wear white gloves and socks in order not to snag them. These sheets are so heavily mended and patched I’m completely mortified even though I’m alone in the room making the bed.

The writing is on the wall – they’re about to join their compadre in the city dump – or I can cut them up and have $750 rags.

Time passes, things move on. They let go a looooong time ago. Every marshmallow thread, every fiber of cloud – and I just need to do the same.

Wish me luck.

The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude towards the problem.”—Captain Jack Sparrow

My dysfunction of choice has always been guilt. Maybe you’ve been on the same hamster wheel? The one where you obsessively worry about all the things you could have, should have, why didn’t I? do better.

I wrongly believed that if I beat myself up enough I would become a better person. If I listed all my faults and came up with a plan to improve upon each of them, I would finally get the guy, the financial situation, the (fill in the blank) I so desired.

What I finally came to realize is that guilt (and all its mean girl cousins) is a deterrent to miracles. Each “why didn’t I?” only made the wall between me and my highest good more impenetrable.

As I began to dismantle each shaming thought, to take my focus off the “facts” of my pitiful existence, a higher Truth began trickling in. I am okay just the way I am.

Every wrinkle on my 58-year-old face, every age spot, every time I felt wronged or angry and acted less than the perfect human I aspired to be is okay.

Self-love isn’t about getting a massage every other week or treating myself to a bubble bath–although they’re nice gifts and never discouraged. Self-love is about accepting myself exactly as I am. Warts and all.

It’s about the two magic words I mentioned a couple weeks ago: It’s okay. Whatever I think, whatever I feel, it’s all okay. And I am lovable and loved despite my perceived flaws and alleged past “failings.”

Guilt, it turns out, is as foolhardy as any military Strategic Defense Initiative. The only thing it can ever deter is the always-flowing stream of universal good.

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 just-released sequel, E-Cubed, 9 More Experiments that Prove Mirth, Magic and Merriment is your Full-time Gig.

I rue the day I decided to become a business owner. The location was flawed, the timing was wrong, and ultimately it crashed and burned.

Well, not really, it drowned in a flood; but it died just the same, and it took a piece of me with it.

Being that it had been such a huge desire of mine to open that store; giving into that desire and making it happen just seemed like the natural course of events. But as I surveyed the aftermath and the giant face plant that my ego had barely survived; I started to have desire’s remorse. And not just about the store – I had it about a LOT of things.

Why had I married David at such a young age? We fucked up a perfectly good friendship taking it to that level. Divorce was inevitable.

Why had I pursued acting until thirty?
I’d be SO much farther along in life if I’d only just been quicker to read the writing on the wall.
Shit, I’d probably be Secretary of State right now.

Why had I died my hair red for the best ten years of my life?
Best years physically speaking being my thirties.
My body was bangin’, my boob were perky, the pimples were waning and the wrinkles hadn’t shown up yet.
We all know that all the smart, rich guys marry thirty something blondes in LA. The artsy, fartsy, unemployed, musicians and bohemians are the ones that go for the red heads.
I rest my case. 
Shit, I’d probably be Mark Cuban’s first ex wife by now. 

These were a few of the many desires that had lead me astray – or so I thought.

Now, looking back, I have the benefit of time. I’ve matured (somewhat) which helps me to come from a different perspective.
I agree with Steve. (married to a blonde)
I feel I can call him Steve; given that I know someone that works at Apple, I’ve spent a small fortune on his products, and the only book he had on his iPad, “The Autobiography of A Yogi,” currently lives on my nightstand.

This has been my enlightened conclusion:
I cannot recommend Desire’s regret. It no longer makes any sense. All of those desires have carried me to exactly where I stand today, and YOU too.

I tried marriage; I was able to commit, for a whole seven years and that says something about me, AND it didn’t suck enough to discourage me from trying again, this time with the right guy, for the right reasons.

I quit acting when I was good and ready. No one could have persuaded me to throw in the towel until I was good and God damn ready, and when I was, I worked just as hard on my new career, as a jeweler, and it actually made for a nice life.

I look back on the ten years of red hair as a blessing. I met some incredibly interesting men, not settling on the usual suspects; and when I was ready to finally settle down, I went back to blonde and naturally attracted the man of my dreams.

So there you have it. As I look back and connect my numerous desire filled dots, my remorse ebbs, and I can actually thank each and every one of them.

How about you?
Xox

Whatcha think? Exhilarating or terrifying?

xox

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”
~ My Mom~

She’d usually lob that nugget of wisdom behind her, into the backseat of the car, where my brother and sister and I were calling each other “doodie heads” or something worse.

That directive felt like a HUGE challenge to me, since everything bugged me and I could never keep my mouth shut. It may as well have been a vow of silence, which I tried once – and thought I would rather die.

We weren’t allowed to “tattle” either, and it was our “go to” pastime as children.
She just would not have any of it.
“I don’t care – work it out.” She’d snort, exasperated, after hearing hours of “he did this” and “she said that.”

If we weren’t bleeding and could still walk upright, her complaint department was closed.

“Tell your troubles to Jesus” was an old favorite.
It would leave her mouth the minute she sensed a sour face walking in her direction. She wouldn’t even turn her head your way.
That one was Kryptonite; nothing could turn a disgruntled Catholic kid around faster than a suggestion of a bitch session with the Almighty. Too much like confession.
Plus, I knew even then, that Jesus would just laugh.

“Methinks thou doth protest too much” Is from William Shakespeare’s Hamlet – and my mom.

Us kids could get very dramatic, and I was, by far, the worst of the bunch.
My mom nicknamed me Desdemona, who is a character from Othello, ( yeah she’s clearly THAT mom) because of my histrionics. I could bring the crowd to its feet over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich, or tangled hair.

“Children are to be seen and not heard.” 
That was saved for those occasions when we had adult company at the house. It was the sixties and everyone said that to their kids, so I’ll give her a pass.
Of course it never applied to me.
I’d politely meet a complete stranger, and then ask them if they’d like to hear a special song I’d prepared for that evening.
Precocious? Ya think?!

But her best words of wisdom, the ones I’ve taken with me into adulthood, into the world of internet haters, are these:
“Consider the source (honey).”

She’d just calmly shake her head and tisk a few tisks, clearly signifying the completely misguided nature of the comment that had made me cry, by someone who had NO business ruining my day.

“Well that just doesn’t sound like a smart boy” or “their mother lets them stay up past midnight” or “they don’t wear shoes.”
I’d weigh that against the insult – and immediately feel better.

I still do to this day.

Well played mom.

Dog kisses,
Worn thin and soft t-shirts
Hot tea
Birthday cards
Foot massages

Xox

How did it get so late so soon? 
It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?
~ Dr Suess

I could smell the pan burning, but it didn’t make any sense, I’d only put the veggies in the steamer five minutes before.
Must be something burning on the bottom of the pan was the conclusion my brilliant critical thinking had brought me to.

I was in the middle of writing a fiction piece that’s been keeping me glued to my seat, basically taking dictation, curious to find out what happens next.

The smell got stronger, to the point that I was forced to check it out, and not a moment too soon. The bottom of the pan was about to burn through! That’s impossible I thought, but much to my surprise it had not been the five minutes I was sure had passed (and I’m really good at estimating time – ask anyone) – it had been forty.
Oops.

That was the second time this week that I’d lost time while writing.

On Tuesday I’d actually lost a huge chunk – an hour and a half – I’d actually missed an appointment.
If you’d have asked me right then, under oath, how long I’d been writing I would have sworn “fifteen minutes.”

So the time warp phenomena has decided to pay me a return visit. I love that. You know I love me some good phenomena.
It’s been over twenty years since I’ve lost time.
I started to loose forty five minutes of time when I’d meditate, on a regular basis. Back then it used to freak me out, now, besides having to make excuses and put out fires, I think it’s cool.

Note to self: Don’t cook when you write.
I’ll have to show this to my husband, since I write all the time – it’s a virtual get out of jail free card.

Isn’t time fascinating? It really is just an illusion.
You get a glimpse of that when we change the clocks backwards in the fall and forward in the spring.
Time is so completely malleable, it morphs according to our state of mind.
 
Doesn’t time draaaaag on when it’s the day before you leave for vacation?
How about when you’re doing something you despise, like taxes or waiting in line at the DMV?

Doesn’t it seem to move at light speed when you’re having fun? The perfect meal? Falling in love? Moments spent when you’re in bliss? “Oh, it’s over already?”

Then there’s the flow or the zone – a place of no time.

Elite athletes report a loss of time during peak performance, when they’re in the flow. So do artists and musicians – even writers. It’s also called being in the zone.

This zone has been described as a state of timelessness; a distorted sense of time; feeling so focused on the present that you lose track of time passing.

According to studies, what you are experiencing in that moment of flow, is a state of complete immersion in an activity.
It has been described as being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one. Your whole being is involved, and you’re using your skills to the utmost.

My husband experiences it while riding motorcycles – and surfing the web.

When do you get in the flow and lose time? What activity causes that to happen for you?
I’d love to hear your experiences in the comments below.

Xox

BRAT
noun.
a child, especially an annoying, spoiled, or impolite child (usually used in contempt or irritation).

Today I had a brat attack. It is only second in its savagery to a terrorist attack.
It’s like a five-year old terrorist has taken over my emotions, behavior and mouth.
Then I blew up; all. over. my. husband.

Do you ever do that? No, I’m sure I’m the only one…..

My brat inspired tantrum, albeit short, was ugly.
I wanted to stomp my feet, throw myself on the floor and pull at my hair……but I was driving…..and talking on the phone. My five-year old annoying, impolite child, said stuff. Stupid stuff using a five-year old’s limited language.

When she inhabits me to that degree, there’s no reasoning with her. Have you ever tried to reason with a pissed off five-year old?

Have you ever said stupid stuff like that? No…..I’m sure you haven’t.

Anyway…
I’m inclined to blame it on the “energy”, or solar flares, but I think the sun’s been pretty quiet, so I suppose I have to take responsibility.

I have no excuse except frustration at a situation and my own bad behavior in handling it.

Do you do that? No? Hmmmmmmm…guess it’s just me…

My inner brat doesn’t rear her wild haired little head too often in my life. I do try to embrace her ( like a human straightjacket ) when she does and I’d never want her to go away for good.

She lets me know when I’ve exceeded my limit. When things have gone too far.

She is the barometer of how high my stress, shame or frustration level has gotten.

When she howls; I listen. If I resort to her terrorist tactics…there’s a problem. Either it’s something real and I’m too tired or cranky to deal.
Or, my perception has been hijacked by my ego, and I need to just get over myself.
Then other times; she’s just plain being a bitch.

Can you relate? No? Really??

I texted my husband a mea culpa as soon as I parked. Then I laughed at the absurdity of the attack.

He’s met my brat; she doesn’t scare him. Once, when they scuffled, he threatened to call my mother and rat her out.

Today’s visit was short-lived and I got the message.

Note to self: Don’t save important things until the last-minute and learn to accept help, otherwise it’s a set up for frustration. And don’t nosedive and dial.

The call was unnecessary and self indulgent…oh, that is sooooo her.

You ever nosedive and dial? Don’t lie. Tell me about your last brat attack!

Xox

This is from the blog of Pam Grout – and it’s a great weekend reminder, we’ve ALL had the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day! Read about her experience. Take it away Pam!

“Refuse to accept apparent delay and detour as anything other than the perfect path.” —U.S. Andersen

“Despite rumors to the contrary, I still feel like unflavored gelatin from time to time. I had one of those days this Tuesday. I was in Grand Haven, Michigan recording the audio version of my book, Living Big, at a fancy-schmancy studio owned by Amazon.com.

My flight had been delayed so I got in late the night before, I had to show up bright and early, I had a headache and the producer was quick to point out my glaring inability to pronounce such words as Dostoyevsky and joie de vivre.

Now, I know good and well that the only thing wrong in this situation was my attitude and my grumpy thoughts, but like a squid, I kept squirting out that woe-is-me ink that puts up a smoke screen between me and my highest intention, which is unceasing joy.

Finally, after leaving the studio and being unable to even muster the energy to walk very far along the gorgeous Lake Michigan beaches (I didn’t even leave my normal beach affirmation.), I returned to my hotel room and went to bed.

I woke up the next day feeling bright and sunny and was even grateful for the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day.

Here’s why it was the best thing to ever happen to me:

1. It made me achingly aware of how far I’ve come. Being disgruntled used to be way of life for me. Going back there for a little peek confirmed to me that it’s not much fun. And it made me appreciate even more that my life is now heading in a new direction.

2. I was able to be kind to myself in spite of it all. Okay, so I had a less than stellar day. So what? I used my magic words (“It’s okay!”) and shrugged it off as the perfect unfoldment and realization (see point 1) that I’m on the right path.

3.Lastly, I finally learned how to pronounce my favorite word: Joie de vivre, a French word that pretty much describes my life now that I’ve officially broken up with discontent and grumpiness.”

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 just-released sequel, E-Cubed, 9 More Experiments that Prove Mirth, Magic and Merriment is your Full-Time Gig.

Happy Saturday!
xox