spiritual

More from Jason Silva, as he gets excited (so what else is new) about the growing acceptance of virtual reality devices.
Sounds cool right?

And that last sentence, where he goes on a riff and then says “think about it”, I watched it three times, I still don’t understand it.
Anyone?!

Love ya! Enjoy your Sunday!
Xox

“There’s been a fire in a radar facility causing the shutdown of O’Hare and Midway airports” the newscaster reported on the news early Friday morning.

“Raphael!” I yelled down the hall, smelling the coffee he was busy brewing to give us the morning jolt we needed, “you’ve gotta see this.”

I was soaking wet after just getting out of the shower, it was 5am and we were scheduled for a 9am flight to Chicago.

The weatherman was making a stupid joke with the helicopter reporter.
‘Get back to that O’Hare fire’ I said aloud to the TV, but they ignored me and cut to traffic.

We checked our flight status online and made sure we’d get the texts of any updates, and continued to get ready.
Since everything with United Airlines looked okay, we braved the 405 freeway and headed toward the airport. It would take us a fat hour with traffic.
Can I just take a minute to marvel with you, at the amount of traffic that’s already on the road at 6:30am?
Gridlock.

I gotta say, Carmagedddon was totally worth it – God bless the diamond lane.

We left the car in Lot C, took the shuttle to the terminal and the morning was going so smoothly at that point, I’d forgotten about the Chicago debacle.

As we entered Terminal 7, a smiling United Airlines representative met us at the door.
“Good morning, can I direct you anywhere? Where are you headed?”

“Chicago” we both said at the same time. (Jinx, he owes me a coke)

She dropped her smile, “Oh, those flights are all cancelled, you might as well go home.”

Raphael took out his phone “but I haven’t gotten any texts about that, I’ve been checking the status.”
Just then, on cue, a text came in: Delayed until ten, it said.

That was news to the rep. “The board has all flights to the Midwest cancelled…”
The three of us were now all looking at the Departure board, Cancelled had turned to Delayed – it was news to her.
“The situation is obviously very fluid” she sputtered, getting on her walkie talkie looking thing.
As we went around her, toward security, I suggested she might want to stop telling people to go home, yet, that’s what I heard her doing as we wheeled away.

Observation #1
Some people just can’t operate “off book” and highly fluid situations throw them for a loop. Even though the board had changed, no one had verbally informed her yet, so she was sticking to her story.

I wonder how many people turned around and went home when she met them at the door?

Which brings me to Observation #2.
Don’t be a lemming.
Lemmings don’t think for themselves, they will literally follow the leader off a cliff. Assess a situation, ask around, determine the best course of action – FOR YOU. When people meet you at the door and tell you to go home…
Just don’t be a lemming.

We breezed through security, (although they did pull me aside to be swiped down and frisked; as the clear security threat that I am) and went to our gate.
DELAYED – 10 am DEPARTURE.
People were milling around in various stages of discombobulation.

Observation # 3
People don’t like change. In general and especially while traveling. I’ve always found change inevitable while traveling, and some of the biggest detours have provided the best experiences.

We left all the screaming and crying and gnashing of teeth behind, and went to sit and eat a civilized breakfast since we had an additional hour to kill.

As we ate, I could see the the BREAKING NEWS ticker on CNN talking about the fire in Chicago. Over seven hundred flights had been cancelled.
We were in good spirits. The trip to Chicago was for a big party. It wasn’t the end of the world if we didn’t get there.

Right then and there we decided to take it out of United Airline’s hands and leave it up to the Universe.
We high five’d it. It felt like a relief.

We received a text as we finished our coffee, it read: your flight has been cancelled, we have re-booked you on a flight to Houston and then a transfer to Chicago. You will arrive at 10 am TOMORROW.

Yeah, no way.

The customer service line was three hundred people long. I’m not kidding.

Again, it was NOT a happy place.
Another frazzled United rep with a computer thingy was going down the line, asking people where they were headed and apparently trying to re-route them.

“Chicago? Yeah, you’re not going to get there today” she gingerly informed the couple ahead of us.
They were upset. Chicago was home, and they just wanted to get home.
“We got a text that we’ve been re-booked through Houston” my husband interjected while the rep was looking at her shoes, feeling helpless.

“Oh, well, I guess just go to the kiosk and enter your confirmation number and you should be able to check on that.”
So we did.

Observation #4

Sometimes the Universe sends angels. They can appear as a harried Airline representative – and a kiosk.

At the kiosk, after entering the thirteen letters and numbers that had confirmed our now cancelled flight, up popped our names and the Houston/Chicago re-route.
It appeared in that moment that it was going to take us over 24 hrs to get to the Windy City.

Then it appeared; down on the bottom left hand side of the screen, an unobtrusive little button: OTHER OPTIONS

I pressed it and a miracle occurred.
LAX – CHICAGO O’HARE – 11am – arrival – 4:45pm

We looked at each other; I pressed CONTINUE

PICK SEATS 
What?! There were seats on a flight that left today? In an hour and a half?

Everyone was telling us to go home, or circumnavigate the globe to end up in Chi-town.
It looked like there were about twelve seats available. Really? That didn’t seem feasible.
We picked two in the exit row (with the extra leg room for my six foot three big handsome) crossed our fingers, toes and eyes and hit CONTINUE

The kiosk did a little dance and then spit out two perfectly miraculous boarding passes – just like that.

We were literally right next to three hundred really aggravated people, in line being told they had no options.

We couldn’t believe our good fortune until we were sitting in our seats, taxiing down the runway. Then we toasted with Ginger Ale.

Observation #5
You can jump on the bad news, why me, aggravation bandwagon, take NO for an answer, and go home; OR you can give the F’d up situation to something more powerful than the airlines, not even break a sweat, and wait for the miracles to occur. We choose the latter.

I’m writing this in my seat on a very full flight (so other people obviously got the Universal memo) and I’m feeling very blessed and NOT *overclamoured.

*one of my new friends from our flight, Derek, made up this word about the mood in the airport today; we loved it so much he’s entering into the Urban Dictionary. Look for it 😉

When have you felt overclamoured and turned it around? Did you get a miracle?

Sending Chicago Love,
Xox

That evening’s Chicago sunset

(Rare photo of my Muse)

Prayer To The Muse
Give the act to me.
Purged of hope and ego,
Fix your attention on the soul.
Act and do for me.”

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012.

The Muse and I were sitting around the other day chatting, as we do. She with an air of gin, tonic and attitude; and me, always in awe of her beauty and general badassery.

I was questioning her about all aspects of the writing process, publishing in particular. She is VERY knowledgable.

She is the Muse, after all.

As the conversation zig and zagged over the various ways to get published, she shook her head. “There’s no excuse these days, for an author not to get their work out in the world to be read.”

“So all of us, the writers of the world, together with our Muses, we just write what we love, and send it, like our precious baby, out into the world?” I asked.
“What intention should we give it as we send it on its way? To touch people? To help people? To make money? To be a best seller?”

I couldn’t tell by the way she slowly turned to face me, with a kind of half smirk, whether her answer was going to be kind, or I was gonna get a smack down.

She started to laugh.
The Muse has a laugh like the throaty purr of a Maserati. Deep and sexy.
I’m guessing it’s the result of age, too many late nights, strong drinks and cigarettes; but if she asks – you didn’t hear that from me.

“I only write best sellers, my darling” she purred with her usual lack of humility.

“That’s all I’m capable of. I only paint masterpieces. I only write musical compositions that bring grown men to tears. It’s all I know how to do.”

Now I was shaking my head, but she continued.

“As the Muse, I am Divine Inspiration at the highest level, sending my masterpiece through you, the vessel.”

Now I was leaning in; listening intently, she could sense my interest, so she took a long drag on her cigarette to keep me in suspense.

“I’m incapable of writing a boring book or a piece of shit movie.”
She threw her head back, smoke billowing from her nostrils.
“That’s YOUR contribution.” She was laughing again.

“The clearer the vessel, the clearer the translation of my work. If you start to question it, or edit it, or doubt it, well, darling, you’re being an idiot.”
I laughed.

“If you can’t recognize a masterpiece when you see it or read it, or you somehow think you can do it better,” she shifted in her chair, “you’ll compromise the material.
It will become mediocre….or suck altogether.”

That was a big AhHa for me.

What she was saying was this: that no matter what your talent, no matter what ideas you have, we are ALL, every one of us, capable of greatness; it’s wholly dependent on the clarity of our connection to the Muse. No one is more talented, they are just better connected.
Steve Jobs, I’m going to venture to guess, kept his nose out of her business.

He just let it flow.

I get it. I get it!

“Our relationship is very complicated, my darling. Everyday I’m taking a chance that you will trust me enough to write my words the way I say them or paint my vision, using the colors I choose. I hear your prayer and I get ready to work. All you have to do is trust and stay clear of fear, doubt, and judgement.”

“Oh is THAT all.” I replied, sarcastically.

“My job as the Muse is to pick the correct vessel.”
She got to her feet for emphasis, turned and winked.
“It is how all the great works of humanity; of architecture, and the arts have been created. I believe it to be a good system.”

So do I.
I’d be an idiot to disagree with the Muse.

Xox

(Photo of Picasso and his Muse. “THE MUSE AND THE MASTER”)

You can always tell what your friends think of you, by the people they set you up with.
~J Bertolus

“Oh, and he’s sooooo good with ALL of my dogs, even my crazy new rescue…”
She leaned across the jewelry counter, handing me his card, her giant diamond ring blinding me.

At that point she’d been waxing poetic about this guy for a good fifteen minutes.

Tina was the young, hot wife of a regular watch client of ours. He was a significantly older businessman, she was an attorney, (which never ceased to amaze me, because she looked like Malibu Barbie…seriously) he was richer than Trump – she was Georgia Peach sweet – and they seemed genuinely crazy about each other.

I was turning over every rock in my search for a husband at that stage of my life, and I’d decided, in a flash of desperate spontaneity, to ask her if she knew anyone.

Looking at her, I was sure men threw themselves her way on an hourly basis, and I was right.
She had a stack of cards that could choke a horse in the secret pocket of her bright blue Birkin bag, and when she pulled this guy’s out of the pile, it had his personal cell phone number handwritten on the back.

“He’s an excellent vet, he really is, and a beautiful human being. Honey, call that number” she said, tapping the back of the card with a long crimson fingernail, “that’s where he can be most easily reached.”

“Oh…I’m sure of THAT.” I snarkily replied, turning the card over in my hand. “For a dog emergency, right?”

“Of course. He said anytime, day or night. Isn’t that darling? He’s so devoted…”

I searched her face for any trace of…well, I don’t know; was she for real?
Could she really be THAT naive?
Yes – yes she could.

A handsome, single, forty year old veterinarian; in my neighborhood; that didn’t suck, right?

I gave her MY card, I wanted him to call ME.
I was getting good at blind dating – blind calling? Not so much.

After another five minutes of extolling his virtues, I stopped her by fibbing; telling her I had an appointment coming in, and immediately called the Vatican to petition for his sainthood.

Then I promptly forgot about this Saint Francis of Assisi – and Studio City.

As I remember it, he called, and we set up a time to meet the following Friday night, at the bar of a local Mexican restaurant.

I was usually dressed nice enough for work to be able to go straight out for drinks or a blind date. Nothing too fancy, but waaaay nicer than what I wear now.
If I was dating now – forget about it. I’d have to spackle, and put on pants.
Have I said too much?

The bar was LOUD and filled with every assorted type on a Friday night in the middle of summer.
There were tourists, with their Universal Studios t-shirts, young businessmen in suits, and sports guys, glued to the game on the TV above the bar.
She’d said he was dark haired and handsome, so I just looked past the ferret faced blonde guys.

“Janet?” a man’s voice asked from behind me, so I spun around.
There was my vet – in board shorts, flip flops and a faded surf shop t-shirt.
I had seen him in my preliminary scan of the bar and mistaken him for…something – not a guy meeting a blind date.
Had I made a mistake? Were we meeting to go grunion hunting?

“Oh hi.” I tried not to look as disappointed as I felt. I don’t think I succeeded.

“This place was a terrible idea (mine) it’s too loud and crowded, let’s go someplace else.” He said walking several steps in front of me toward the door.

Maybe he was disappointed as well.
I wasn’t Tina, not even on a good day.
Maybe he thought all her friends looked like they hung out in her Barbie Dreamhouse.
Yet, he certainly hadn’t dressed to impress.
I was hungry, disappointed and stumped. And I wanted to run.

“Were do you think we should go?” he was asking me as we stood outside on the sidewalk.
I wasn’t exactly batting a thousand, since I’d picked the loud, crowded place, and he wasn’t really dressed for anything nicer than Denny’s.

We walked for a few awkward blocks on Ventura Boulevard and settled on CPK – for a blind date – in LA. This was NOT going well.

Just as I’d suspected, it was filled with families and screaming kids at that hour, but I was done giving this date one more minute of thought, since it appeared HE was already phoning it in.

Wine!! I need wine!, was all that was going through my head as we sat down at a booth that was so dirty it sticky/slimed my silk blouse.

After the booze came, we started to make small talk, mostly him, (and if you know me at all, you know it’s rare when I’m quiet) as I chug-a-lugged my merlot.

He loved the animals and being a vet, and he lived up the hill – Nice.
Then suddenly, like a brick to the forehead, “I went to veterinary school in the Philippines, I really LOVE Philippine woman, they’re my type” he said to the curly-haired blonde, stuck to the table across from him.
He had a lascivious look on his face.

How rude was he going to get? His lack of blind date decorum was shocking. Didn’t he know the rules? Didn’t he know he was blowing it? Did he even care?

“Well, of course you do” – I’d had it.
“Isn’t that where the people who can’t get into veterinary school in the states go?”
I sniped.

Okay I know, low blow.

I grabbed a passing waiter’s sleeve as he walked by, “Check” I hissed, almost yanking his arm off.
Board short guy barely noticed; he was still staring off into space, grinning, dreaming of the women in the Philippines.

He grabbed the check and insisted on paying, even though I had my $20 out and ready.
What a gentleman.
He pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and snapped-snapped it in my face, to pay the $18 tab, like the flip-flop wearing, high rolling, big shot that he was.

I couldn’t have been more UNDERWHELMED.
I’m sorry to sound like an ass, but I was a jeweler, I counted hundred-dollar bills all day long, so much so, that they’d begun to resemble Monopoly money to me. (But that’s a whole other story.)

He then took several minutes to arrange the change in his wallet according to the bill denomination. I bolted.

“Uh, thanks so much, I’ve really got a run, I have an early….thing” I was literally speed walking to my car, with the vet trying to keep up, flying out of his flip-flops.

“Let’s do this again” he was behind me, out of breath.

That stopped me in my tracks.
“Your kidding right? This did not go well, we have nothing in common and we have absolutely NO chemistry.”
I let him down easy. Hey! That was easy, believe me.

“Oh, okay.” I heard in the distance. I was running now, with the safe haven of my car in sight.

I felt like I was going to need a Silkwood shower to wash off the yuck of that night and what the hell was Tina thinking?

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear the person beside me honking and trying to get my attention.
It was the vet. In a brand spanking new, red Corvette, giving me that same hundred-dollar smile and a thumbs up.

So, the moral of this story is: be really careful when putting out the blind dating feelers. You should ONLY ask the people who know you and love you. And you’ll be able to tell who they are by the people they fix you up with.

PS: Tina was shocked when I told her the vet and I were not a match. He told her I was “out of his league.” What?!

Ladies? Weigh in pretty please.
Xox

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me.
I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons.
I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities.
In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement.
Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals.
And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

This quote has been making the rounds recently, attributed to Meryl Streep.
The problem is, this quote is actually from the pen of Portuguese self-help author/life coach José Micard Teixeira – not a woman, and not an elder, but a younger man who is suddenly becoming the “not Streep” Internet celebrity of the month.

It makes no difference to me, I’ve got no patience for that stuff.
I just love the quote.
Happy Wisdom Wednesday!

Xox

You must never allow something that happened to you to become a morbidly treasured heirloom that you carry, show people, put back in its black velvet pouch and then tuck back into your jacket where you can keep it close to your heart.”
~Augusten Burroughs

Same topic. Wounded-ness. Forgiveness. Healing.
Seems to be in the air these days.
Everyone’s got an axe to grind.

What if one day you took that pouch out of your jacket pocket and diamonds spilled out instead?

How could you tell your sad little story when all you held in your hands were…diamonds? Not your morbid heirlooms, just beautiful crystals forged under pressure from the blackest of coal.

What if your heart had transmuted your sad stories into diamonds through the alchemy of forgiveness?

What if we all refused to enable each other’s wounds?
Because we were so dazzled by the diamonds we found there, in our pockets. We could finally see our stories transformed into the gems they really are.

THAT is the power of forgiveness my loves.
Let’s all make diamonds…

Xox

What are you going to take out of the black velvet pouch and turn into a diamond today? Tell me about it?

The marvelous Elizabeth Gilbert is on tour around the country with Oprah and assorted other speakers, all with a spiritual bend, and yesterday she listened to Mark Nepo who I’ve quoted a ALOT on this blog.
His answer to a question was profound and transformative.
To me it was another forehead smacker (if you know what I mean).
Here it is, according to Liz, in case you missed it. SO GOOD.

The question was about how to make peace with your own past. How to forgive, how to move on.

With that understanding, the healing began at last.

That’s genius!

I can’t tell you how many imaginary depositions I’ve compiled to prove the abandonment, injustice, rudeness, selfishness and hurt, visited on me by someone in my life.
Evidence for a trial that would never happen. A verdict never rendered. Shit.
And it never even occurred to me until I read this, that that’s what I was doing.

Haven’t you?

What a colossal waste of time. And energy.

Maybe even years wasted.

Hey, we’ve gotta let this shit GO. Agreed?

Case dismissed, not on account of the lack of evidence (oh, there’s plenty) but on lack of interest.

Let the healing begin…Amen!

xox

Are you ready to put down the gavel and dismiss the accused? Are you ready to heal?
Tell me why.

We need to carry this chart around with us at all times, because
most of us have a hard time articulating our level of pain.

My husband goes to the head of the class.
Classic story.

It was back a few years ago, when he discovered (on Web MD in the middle of the night) that he had appendicitis.
I scoffed at his self diagnosis, of course, suggested he had gas; and told him to buck up and take a couple of Motrin.
Wife of the Year, I know.

Since he was due to leave on a motorcycle trip to the Sierra’s the next day, unbeknownst to me, he went to the doctor.
THAT should have told me something right there, because he’s someone who can have a chainsaw stuck in his neck and he will sidestep a visit to the doctor.
“Oh that? Nah, I don’t need a doctor, I’m just going to observe it.”

He called me at work from St John’s, where he had been sent immediately by his doctor for an MRI.

He got the results while I was on the phone. He was told to go directly to Emergency, where they would admit him for surgery; seems his appendix had a slow leak and I was going to have to give back my medical diploma.
Gas it was not.

I drove like a maniac, in a thunderstorm, to make it across town at rush hour, to see him before they took him in to operate.
When I got there (late) he was in Emergency, hooked up to antibiotics and pain meds, waiting for his turn in surgery; doing his Sudoku and entertaining the nurses.

“What’s your pain level, one to ten?” the friendly nurse asked while I was hugging him hello.

“Three or four” he said, without even a cringe.

“Really? What’s a ten to you?” The nurse was curious, since appendicitis is up there on the pain scale – for most mere mortals.

“Being skinned alive or boiled in oil” he responded, completely serious.

“Huh… okay Braveheart, have you felt that? How would you know? I’m asking you as a point of reference.”

But that’s a great question.
What is a five or an eight or even a ten?

I wondered, have I felt a ten? 

We all know those individuals to whom a paper cut is a ten. Are most of us even aware of our pain tolerance scale?

Minutes later his appendix burst.
If he’d been riding the back country of the Sierra’s—he’d have died.
He hadn’t been accurately portraying his pain, because he didn’t know how.
“It’s a ten, it’s a ten, maybe even eleven!” he yelled as she injected morphine straight into his IV, his whole body relaxing, his eyes rolling back into his head.

They rushed him into surgery and he is now happily appendix free.

It appears to me that this list could apply to emotional pain as well.
Will we tolerate three’s and four’s as we “observe” the situation?
What constitutes a ten? The equivalent of emotional stigmata or boiling oil?

Food for thought.

Copy this list and keep it with you – in case someone asks.
I especially love the faces.

Love,
Xox

Here he is again. My man, Jason Silva.
Three of my greatest unspoken wishes are to have just one tenth of his enthusiasm, one quarter of his ability to speak extemporaneously, with great passion, about pretty much any subject, and one third of his curiosity and wonder for life.
Do yourself a favor, take a look.

Happy Saturday Everyone!
(My favorite day of the week)

xox

“I don’t trust people who don’t love themselves and tell me, ‘I love you.’ … There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.” 
― Maya Angelou

And here I thought you’d all run me out of town with pitchforks and torches.

Whoa and Wowza you guys!
The post about “becoming the other woman” went viral! 

Once again it just proves my theory (which over a lifetime of study SO extensive, that I’m going to seek Government funding) is this:
There are more of you tramps out there than I ever imagined.
NO! NOT THAT ONE!

Whatever we’ve all done in our lives, the good, the bad and the ugly; there are others out there that have been gooder, badder and uglier. (Tweetable – oh maybe not)

In other words, it’s human nature.

Some of you were brave enough to share your stories with me by commenting on Facebook and the blog, while others of you are still in the Dating Married Men Witness Protection Program, so you just emailed me, using an alias, or wrote something in lipstick on the inside of a matchbook and left it on the windshield of my car. 

Hey, no judgement here.

I think the take away is that no matter at which stage you realize something is wrong; it may be being confronted by the wife, or temporary incarceration (what?) you can turn the ship around and do the right thing.

Sorry, I don’t care WHO you are. If you’ve had the privilege to live into middle age, this I know FOR SURE:
We ALL have rips in our moral fiber.

We’ve ALL made some questionable decisions that lead to some really shitty mistakes.

We’ve hurt people. Innocent, decent people; and maybe we didn’t even know it – or perhaps we did.

We’ve spent money that wasn’t ours, or pretended to be something we weren’t; we told lies.

That’s one of the biggest things about cheating and betrayal – the breech of trust.
It leads us to always wonder; ‘If they lied about THAT, what else are they lying about?’

I’m actually glad I had that experience with lying and sneaking around, so young.
After the fact, even though I could justify it to myself by thinking, ‘Oh, my husband ignores me, and I’m in an unhappy marriage’, it required me to do some heavy soul searching.

I wondered, ‘Am I someone who cheats? Am I someone to whom lying comes easy?’ and the answer was…NO.
A resounding NO. I had tried it and I sucked at it. It made me sick and a nervous wreak, THANK GOD.

I knew if I ever got married again, I would be faithful AND I could never get a job with the CIA.

I’ve met, numerous times in my life at this point, the people to whom this is a piece of cake.
It is effortless, smooth as silk.
Holy shit they scare me.

You are not them and neither am I. They don’t read or write blogs like this.
Blogs like this cause them to spontaneously combust.
So does introspection of any kind.

When you come across these people from now on…cross the street.
Save yourself the trouble.

And hey, don’t make a career out of feeling bad about the times you didn’t.

“Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.” 
― Maya Angelou

Xox