This Moment Here

It's halloween. The little kidlets have come and gone. The entire month has come and gone in a blur. Tonight is daylight savings time. I've never been very good at saving.
The kitties are in the other room. Jose is playing music at Serafina. Alone and wrapped in a soft blanket and the intense events of the week, I marvel at it all.

Resilience

The dictionary defines resilience as the ability to return to the original form, position etc. after being bent or stretched.


Resilience also means the ability to recover readily from illness, depression, adversity or the like; buoyancy.








Consider what you have experience thus far in life. consider those around you. Amazing to see how each of us responds to being bent or stretched; adversity or depression.

Some of us hold on tight to those things, defining ourselves by this pain or that difficulty.









Others seem to transcend them, taking what they can as insight for the future, and not being overly impressed with the rest.

They move forward.





That is resilience.



A while back at a party, I spoke with a woman I hadn't seen in 10 years. When I asked her about herself, she said "there is a black cloud hanging over our family".








Throughout the evening, I over heard her talking with other friends nearby and I heard her say it 3 more times to 3 different people. It's her story, her truth.

I'm not saying, pretend we're happy when we're not. But I believe there is something to this idea of not crafting a story out of our pain, that we then have to stick to.

I don't have the answer, just the question: Why create storylines for our lives that box us in? Why tell and retell our pain stories that keep us looped into the past? Why not speak in such a way that is perhaps more groundless (saying that I've been going through a rough patch is not the same as committing to the story that there is a black cloud over me) I'm saying speak with an open-ness to the possibility of good, of relief, of peace, or abundance knocking on the door of our body/soul/life.

Things change. But if your story is set in stone, you might not notice.

Color Me Happy!

Have you ever stopped to consider the color beige? Beige is the color of billions of walls across the nation. It is the color of a kajillion rugs in north America and an un-nameable sum of pants, skirts and shoes on well meaning souls across the planet. If you're up on what's healthy or have been to the doctor in the last few years, you have already realized that beige is the color of most of the foods on the 'bad for you' list.

Face it. Beige is color's version of middle of the road. Beige represents the no-risk choice. The okay option.

But why oh why would we want to settle for okay?

Imagine your daily interactions like this:

A: How's your day? B: Beige.
A: How's your dinner? B: Beige.
A:How's your life? A: Beige.

Come on people...let's do the unthinkable. Let's consider just for a moment, a wee bit of mauve. (gasp!) Let's leap into a vat of juicy orange. (whaaa?!!)
Let's risk freaking ourselves out with exuberant, with incredible, with delicious.

Yes indeed...just what the doctor ordered.

Slow Train to Weird Town

There are times when you look up from the flurry of activity that is your life and you think 'Wow...time sure flies by!' or ' I can't believe 2009 is half over already!' or, How did I get to be this age? I was just 12!'

Right? you have times like that, right?

Me too. But not lately.

Lately, I feel like I've been on the Slow Train to Weird Town for a bit longer than I bargained for.







I've been having thoughts like 'Can't I skip by this part?' or 'dear god, is it still 2009? You've got to be fucking kidding me!' or 'please lord, can't somebody make a few really good movies this summer that i could lose myself in? Please?!'
Honestly. somebody give me a hall pass already....or a get out of jail free card.





Here's the thing - I find life interesting. I'm not looking for an out. I just...you know...wouldn't mind a faster train through this here terrain.

You dig?

A day in the life

Today is my birthday.







Last night my sweet friend Annie Ready died.
















Tomorrow has its own mysterious offering.

Obsessed

I’m obsessed....

....with TV.








Seriously.

And I’m in a total uproar about this whole digital transition thing. We have the old fashioned rabbit ears antenna









So now we have to buy one of those digital boxes or else we won’t get any channels. None! And it messes with my Tivo…so rude and sad!









And even though this is a very real concern, I can’t help but acknowledge that there are lots of people on the planet with real problems.









I went to the Republic of Georgia last summer







to do research for a screenplay I was hired to write,









and returned home three days before the Russian invasion.







While there I had some amazing experiences – I spoke with ex-president Shevardnadze, who helped them through their last civil war.















I spent time with a high priest of the Armenian church.










I also spent time in an Orphanage.





While I was in Georgia, I got one of those nesting doll things…you know what I’m talking about. You open it up and inside the woman is a smaller woman and a smaller woman…








Well that’s the exact opposite of what happened to me when I walked into that orphanage, my heart broke open. And to surprise, the heart inside was bigger than the one I thought I had. I met hundreds of very real children in need in a very real place, called Georgia. I fell in love with one of them and have been trying to adopt her, but the government makes it more than difficult and we lack the funds to take the case to court.




















Yes, this would be a perfect time to give in to world cynicism, or to be obsessed with how scary things are. Or how difficult. But I’d rather not.








I’d rather be obsessed with learning how to open my heart even wider. With learning how to handle painful challenges in a new, more healthy, more supported way. Because while I know challenges will not stop coming throughout life, I know that I have a choice about how I respond to them.

Obsess on staying open....what do you say?

Done

I am celebrating.









If you were looking at me right now, sitting here on the couch, you would not be able to tell that I am celebrating...







but I am.

I just finished the first draft of a screenplay that I've been working on for 7 months. This is the one I was hired to write that took me to the Republic of Georgia last summer for research. That is where I fell in love with the orphan that Jose and I are trying to adopt.




















This project been a very challenging process because it is based on a true story and truth, while stranger than fiction, is not in any was as easy to write or make compelling.

So I breathe in right now and sigh.



I am done.





For this moment, before the dude who hired me reads it, before I am required to dive back in and re-write based on his feelings about it(it's his life, after all) before the ticking time bomb of all that.....








I can relax into the done-ness of it all.



Done. Done. Done.

Halle-fucking-lujah!


This is today's happiness.

Scaling Down

It's a given that many of us are plagued with self-image issues. weight issues.






It doesn't seem to matter how lean or curvy, almost everyone I know has or has had in the past some kind of judgment about their body.



For me, historically it goes like this: I'm certain I am beyond overweight. I look at pictures from last year or years before that and think: if only I was as slim as I was then. Of course, back then, I was certain that I was beyond overweight and was romanticizing pictures from previous incarnations. And so it goes. In the moment I have had a low success rate of accepting my physical self. However I have been practicing. I have been re-training towards becoming as accepting of myself as I am of others. Seeing myself rather than as not good enough, as pure potential.








And then, a month ago something surprising happened. A friend told me to throw away my scale. MY SCALE. Without a scale, how do I prove to my inner critic that I am succeeding or failing? Without the scale, how can I sabotage a perfectly delightful day?

The thing is, I had been visiting this wise friend and did not have access to a scale. (she threw hers out 26 years ago) And....I felt fabulous.




All week. Every day.

And it became clear to me in a way that I had never fully understood before...that when I was 'trying to lose weight' I'd check myself on the scale to see if it was 'working'. if it was, my crafty inner critic would say ( in the sweetest voice ever) you deserve to celebrate! Dessert! Pasta! Wahoooo! Or conversely, if i stepped up and the scale told me nothing had changed or worse, I'd gained a pound, My nasty inner critic would drag me into the dark abyss of 'what good does it do to try and work out and eat healthy?' This sucks! You deserve some comfort. Dessert! Pasta! Boohooo!

After a week of feeling fabulous and not hearing that stanky-ass critic voice AT ALL, I got home and promptly threw my scale away. A satisfying action in and of itself. But what's more astonishing is that it's been a month now, and I haven't heard that cranky voice AT ALL. A successful eviction, it seems.

I can't prove that anything has changed physically...but everything has changed. You know?

Analyze this

There are two types of people that I’d like you to consider; those who analyze






and those who don’t.







Yes, I’m an analyzer. I prefer the term investigator. Either way, I enjoy thinking about why people do what they do, and why I do what I do.






I know there are lots of people on the planet who don’t analyze things. Maybe they don’t know how. Maybe they just don’t see the point. And I get that, I really do.
I mean, why try to figure out why somebody does something or doesn’t do something?
Or what statistics prove? No matter how much we analyze, in the end we do what we do, period. End of story. Or... maybe beginning of story.






People spend a lot of time trying to figure out 'what it all means'.









And as much as I like me some analyzin', it seems like a waste of time when you could be out there living. Being.
The thing is, people can get stuck in the figuring out, and never actually get out and try.






So, when it comes down to it, even though I enjoy the detective work of analyzing, when all is said and done I prefer to fly by the seat of my pants.





And I practice not caring what other people think about that.







Those people (whoever they are) should be busy living their lives, not analyzing mine, right?

Deep breath while we take a left turn on the subject to:

Flying. Falling.







These are similar yet deeply different experiences.
Falling is such a strange sensation.
It’s something we seek or avoid at all costs.
So many ways to fall:
You fall out of a tree.
You fall in love.
You fall out of favor with someone.
You fall asleep.

When you fall, there is always a landing of some sort.








But when you take a leap of faith, there’s always a chance you won’t make it to your destination.








That you’ll fall and fall into an abyss that you may never recover from.









But the thrill and promise of a true leap of faith can fill you with the kind of adrenaline that emerges only in the extreme moments of your life like when you fall out of a tree or when you fall in love.

Some people never leap. Perhaps the safety or comfort of the life they have with all its disappointments,








is a better bet than what might happen when they push off with their feet into the unknown.







For me, leaping is the only choice.




Even if I land on my ass.

Goldfish Man

Last night in the middle of a dream about something else, I noticed a bright orange, goldfish circling a drain. (bathtub? Sink? not sure.)

I caught it in my hands and put it in a tall glass of water.






It was so beautiful.

And suddenly it transformed into a man. He began talking to me through the glass and we began an amazing conversation.

He said I was the first person he was able to talk with...



Then we went for a walk.

It Is What It Is (Isn't It?)

Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker on a ukulele that read:

Don't believe everything you think.







Let's add to that, the lesser known gem:

Don't believe everything you feel.









WHAT THE?!

Oh, it's a pisser alright.

It turns out that just because we think or feel it doesn't mean it's fact.
How can that be? Aren't thoughts and feelings legitimate?
YES.
But legitimate doesn't make them facts.





I think to myself: 'Things aren't going the way I need them to. I'm scared.' Instantly it's as if my inner little girl starts to cry...and scream.






I've got to soothe and quiet that little girl, right? It would be horribly mean to let her be in such misery. She says she wants a cookie. better yet, 10 cookies. (Let's use cookies as a metaphor for whatever escape hatch we use, okay?)






Over the years I've learned which foods will put me in that instant coma I desperately seek. the coma where I can't hear the little girl and I'm not overwhelmed by today's circumstance. The thing is, the cookie sedative only lasts about 15 minutes. then self-loathing sets in. 'You ate 10 cookies, you loser!'







Nothing quiets self-loathing better than 10 more cookies. or some other mind-number of some sort.

And so it goes.

While digging around in my emotional basement today

I came across a shocking discover:

That crying,screaming voice doesn't belong to my inner little girl!

Nope.

It's my super smart, super tricky inner critic.






My inner critic really hates when I discover things that make me more whole and more able, so it takes any chance it can get to slip in through the cracks to derail me. Any moment that I am over stimulated with the stuff of life, it pretends to be the voice of my inner little girl, and it says 'I am in pain! Only a cookie will help me!'

Well I call bullshit, Mr. Critic. Bull. Shit.

So I am now on an adventure of trying to catch him in the act. When I walked in to the grocery store and found myself inexplicably drawn to this huge hunk of chocolate, I picked it up and considered who was asking for it. it was not painful to set that hunk back down and move along.

Please don't discount this concept just because I'm using food as an example. I am not on a diet nor trying to be on one. It's not about cutting out certain things that are 'bad'...it's about challenging the inner voice that is shouting.

Deal with it, Mr. Critic, I am NOT broken beyond repair, as you'd like me to think.
I am NOT frozen by fear, as you sometimes try to convince me.
I am NOT doomed to be stuck in old patterns and beliefs.

I AM in the process of dusting off those old, worn out thoughts and feelings and trading them in for fresh new ones that fit me.

This IS my truth.

okay...enough for now...consider it food for thought.

Turn it Upside Down

A wise women recently told me that fear is just an emotion.
I roll that around my tongue a few times...it tastes funny.

Intellectually, I know that fear is just an emotion, but my brain and my belly are in serious disagreement on this one.

This fabulous wise woman told me you can dismantle fear by laughing at it. Ha!


On some level that makes perfect sense...I want to believe her. Dissolve fear with a sense of humor...that seems just dopey enough to be true, doesn't it? At the same time I scoff - it couldn't possibly be that simple. If it was that simple why do I cower at the very idea of facing it?
As I work at untangling the knots in my soul, made of a lifetime of trying to survive the slings and arrows, I discover something useful: I have gotten so used to being 'an intelligent adult' that if I sit across from this wise woman or anyone else, and discuss matters of the mind/heart/soul, my insights into self and the world are as wise as the best of them.

HOWEVER

That is not the same thing as actually TAKING IN MY TRUTH in such a way as to create a better way of living with myself.

What the hell am I talking about? bear with me here...

When embarking on investigations of those layered, historical 'issues' I realize that I am able to be more honest and more open if I don't just sit there like an adult. Lying on the ground with my feet in the air is sure to spill my intellectual armor out of my ear, leaving room for something new. Yes, feet in the air.Sure, there are other positions that will do the trick...sitting cross legged, scribbling with colored pens with my non-dominant hand while talking; lying on my belly, chin in hands -these are just a few positions that somehow help me bypass my intellect just enough to let a pleasant surprise invite itself over for tea.
So...next time you feel the need to work through something, try it upside down.
Shake it up a little. Do a dance and sing what's bugging you. You may find it oddly useful. Sure it sounds stupid. You may even laugh and accidentally scare the fear away.

The Nearness

in⋅flu⋅ence
   /ˈɪnfluəns/ Pronunciation [in-floo-uhns]
noun & verb
1. the capacity or power of persons or things to be a compelling force on or produce effects on the actions, behavior or opinions of others.

By the time we reached elementary school some of us
(Me. You?)
began experimenting with saying things, agreeing to things, or pretending to know things that were not essentially true to ourselves.

Perhaps part of the reason was that we felt an energetic pull to do so along with an unspoken suspicion that things would go better if we just said YES.
Of course YES is a magical thing when used wisely.

But even now we fall prey to than silent director that inspires us to say yes when we mean no. Someone near us likes something or says something, and rather than tell the truth 'I've never heard of the band Visqueen, or 'I hate sushi' we say - 'Oh yeah, that band is totally edgy. Or 'Yeah, sushi is so good for you!

Nearness provides truly extraordinary energetic experiences. For example, when I am near my brother I laugh a lot. It's not even what he says...it's how he says it. This has always been true. Sometimes I start laughing as soon as I see him, before he's even said anything.


The ocean also provides a magical influence for me. When I am near the ocean, the incessant mental chatter of my city concerns fall away and i am left feeling like my essential self -the self that was its truest between the ages of nine and twelve or thereabouts.

One way or another, it's all about the Nearness. the closer you get to something or someone the more you can feel their energy, right? So there it is.

The question is:

What influences YOU for better or worse?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Hearts Desire

Everybody had one.

Some people had two.

I had even seen a lady walking across the street who had five.

Clearly there was one thing sorely missing from my life. I wondered how it could be that I was one of the unlucky few who didn’t have one. Maybe it was one of those things that came with age. Maybe I was just too little to be trusted with one. Did they think that I couldn’t carry the burden or the responsibility of having one? Of course I didn’t know what it took to be worthy. Mom always said that good things come to those who wait.

So I waited. And waited. That can get pretty old pretty fast and I was almost six years old already and I still didn’t have what I most desired. A pocket.

You heard me.

And don’t pretend it’s not important because you know it is. You’ve probably forgotten how important it is because you’ve had one for as long as you can remember. In fact, you’re probably one of those people who has two.

Try to see it from my perspective. It’s almost my sixth birthday and I’m pocket-less. I guess there’s no sense talking to you about it. There’s only one place I can turn for important matters such as these. Mom. So when the day came that mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday I told her.

“A pocket.”

There. I finally said it.

And oh what a pocket she made me. It had different fabric on each side, it was reversible and it had a big safety pin so I could attach it to absolutely every piece of clothing that I owned.

And I did.

Contractions

Isn’t, can’t, won’t,
Shouldn’t, couldn’t,
Don’t
Were all invented
To kill the is
The try
The more
The might.
A maybe can be quickly murdered
By a can’t.
If all the tries are trampled on
The hoorays
Have little hope
Of being found.

STORAGE

Storage just isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.

If you store food
It either molds
Or ends up as access
Stored memories
Rehash bad feeling
Emphasize good times
Dissatisfy you with today.
Store objects take up space,
Then time when re-found
Then space when re-stored.

Whoever invented storage
Will never be invited to my house for tea.

Whale Dream

My dreams are like a circus - insanely vivid, lots of storylines and colors and action and mystery and romance...so many dreams fill each night and many of them stay with me when I wake. The whale dream is exactly as i remember it except I have given the characters names.

The boat is big and there are many people milling about.

The director of the movie is huddled at a table with his two trusted assistants, trying to choreograph the upcoming scene.

Sylvie and her boyfriend Keenan have signed up to be extras for the day. Sounded like fun although it hasn't been so far. There is a tall blonde woman herding some of the extras to one side of the room and a tense balding man herding extras to the other side. There has been a mix-up with Sylvie's costume and she is shuffled to the changing room for a quick dress swap.

Zip up; button at top, cinch belt - quick and easy.

When she returns, Keenan is sitting on the other side of the room, which is now set up to look like a wedding chapel. The tense extra's herder is blocking the aisle, so Sylvie can't even sit next to Keen.

As it turns out, it is only Keenan's side of the room that gets into the shot and all of the extras on that side of the room are told that they'll be needed for the next two to three months. Two to three months! This means Sylvie and Keen won't be seeing much of each other for a while.

Sylvie slips out of the room and wanders around the boat. Funny not to have noticed it's rhythmic rocking side to side until now. She looks out the portal window at the gray sky. The waves are gray too, like her mood. She finds the door and steps out onto the deck. The waves are big and crash suddenly on either side of her. The movie making seems far away and the side to side rocking of the boat fills her with dis-ease.

Another wave crashes and she feels a sudden pressure on her shoulder - Keenan's hand. He kisses her cheek lightly.
She doesn't turn around, peering over the railing at the murky water below.

CRASH!

A big wave tugs the boat sloppily to one side causing Sylvie to lose her footing and fall into the cold, cold water.

Under. No air - no sight for a long choking minute, then up - deep breath, really cold and fear as she catches her breath.

"Grab my hand!" Keenan offers stepping carefully tot he edge of the rail.

Swimming is clunky. The dress wraps awkwardly around her legs, the effort to kick thwarted.

"Hurry!" He urges, as if she has a choice.

There is a presence suddenly. Huge, dark...right next to her.
The whale breaches and bumps her.

"Get me the fuck-" it bumps her again, aggressive;scary.
She is no longer aware of Keenan, only the voice she seems to hear saying 'come with me, won't you?'

Quickly she undoes the belt from around her waist and slings it loosely around the whales giant neck, climbing up as if onto a horse and braces herself for submersion.

She is surprised to discover no difficulty breathing underwater. her eyes adjust to the dim light and the underwater landscape begins to appear before her.
The feeling of fear dissipates as she senses the creatures thoughts.

'You wanted company?' She thinks to the whale.
The whale is bashful as it thinks a silly grin back to her.
'But you seemed so scary -' She thinks to the whale.
'Very pleased with self' the whale thinks back.

Days and nights pass as the ocean travelers discover kinship.
Keenan, sitting on the bow of the boat at dusk catches glimpses of her silhouette against the darkening night sky - girl, bareback on whale, hand raised in hello, then gone.

As months pass, stories are told of the girl in the sea - but most believe it to be the imagining of drunkards and poets, the only ones wild enough to go out past supper time and the only ones foolish enough to believe their own dreams.

Turbulence

The kind that shakes they sky
The kind that makes my blood shy

Not an earthquake or a belly ache
A surprise feeling behind my eyes

And the sea beckons me
The hourglass begs to be shaken
My arms are weak from holding

The Dad-ness

If the heart spoke English, what stories it could tell.

Instead, it's tucked neatly behind the walls and armor we've built up over the years. It's trapped behind the stories we tell which may or may not be the whole truth as only the heart could know it.

They tell me Dad has congestive heart failure.

Over the years I have tended to the wounds of my own heart, some of which came about from a different kind of heart failure....the failure of his heart to connect, care or listen in a meaningful way.

When I was a teenager i wrote a song about him, and his narcissism. it was a somewhat witty song, trying to express my disappointment and cover it up at the same time. Yeah, I tried to play it cool.

Over the years I braved it up and told him about the things in our past that hurt me. I always let him know I loved him, but tried to say what i needed to say to. Never easy, is it?

The heart is a funny thing.

It feels something and then we do all we can to ignore it, quiet it,or sometimes if we are very brave to listen to it.

I'm sad for my father. To see him shudder from some invisible chill, to see the confusion cloud his eyes. I'm sad.

As i left the hospital room today I kissed him on his forehead and held him for a long moment.

'I love you' he said, looking up at me.

'Know that.'

'Know that.'

Medium

I used to work at the Pike Street Market, selling stuff made by the artists. I always thought it was brave, creating art, and then setting up shop outside in the cold to sell your wares. Even after all these years, there are still a lot of the same people selling the same stuff.


Feeling nostalgic, I decided to stroll through that vibe. I started to cross the street when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A treasure of some sort, asking to be discovered.

What it was in fact, was a tag from Old Navy. The item was originally priced at $58. Now it’s on sale for 19.99 and it’s a size medium.

Medium. what a bizarre concept. The secret meaning of the word: normal.

Consider this: there is an Old Navy, a Gap and a Nordstrom’s in every town, in every city, and in foreign countries too. In the old days ( I love saying that) it used to be that every city and country had its own unique flavor... but not anymore. Now everyone everywhere strives for medium.

We all want to be medium (or small). We want to pay a medium price - and we want our personal style to be medium - not over-the-top so we look like a freak, not last years style so you look clueless, but somewhere in the approved middle. Or medium, as I will henceforth call it. And finally, these items must last a medium amount of time. not forever, or we'd have no excuse to buy something new. And as we all know, new is vital. Why? because God knows - pink definitely won’t be the it color for long, so we don’t want to invest much in the pink item du jour. As expected, it will surely fall apart before it goes out of style.

I hope that by the time I’m old and gray I’ve learned how to be brave enough to strive for a life that is in no way medium.


You know?

Entirely She

She was thinking herself in third person again
Secretly wishing she was just some friend she knew
Whose problems didn’t much interest her
And most especially didn’t concern her.
After all, was it her fault that she was just she?
“I’m glad I’m not her”, she thought, believing for a moment
That she really wasn’t her at all.
When in fact she knew she really, really was...
entirely she.

A poem: Life as paintbox

I know its out there

the rain

the cars

tomorrow

the moon.

all those colors

which are thoughts

which are people and possibilities

paint themselves quietly

into my heart.

Brand New

A new year, a new you.

That's what they sell in January.







Like clockwork, the new year is crammed full of advertisements telling you what you can spend your money on to achieve a brand new you. Gym memberships increase dramatically in January. People consider, facelifts, tummy tucks, and diet pills. Lawyers lean back and wait for their schedule to fill with those contemplating divorce. Some dream of affairs or new jobs, others obsess about low carb, low priced solutions to fix that sagging, dragging feeling in their body and soul.

A brand new you.

As if there was something inherently wrong with the original version.

The challenge seems to be in remembering what is juicy about ourselves and consequently our lives.
Just now you may have stopped and done just that. What is juicy about me and my life? you may have asked yourself. What followed, may have been a slightly creepy, prickly sensation crawling up your spine as your inner critic gleefully shouted ' there's nothing juicy about you! And your life sucks!'

But don't listen. Your critic is practiced at pushing your buttons.


My inner critic is a real motherfucker. for years he bullied me into thinking he was right. but then one day it hit me. If he was so smart, he'd have his own life, his own body and wouldn't have to reside in mine. this realization didn't make him evaporate, but now when he gets on his soapbox and tries to convince me that I'll never be(fill in the blank) or compared to so-and-so I'm not very(fill in the blank), i tell him that as soon as he has a life and body of his own, he can give me a call and then we'll talk. cuz get real mr. critic, being a human is a challenging thing.

But the fact that life is challenging doesn't mean we should scrap the whole kit and kaboodle every time things are disappointing, or we lose our way, or feel like crap. it seems like the real trick is carving out the time and attention needed to recharge, renew, and refresh the spirit so as to be able to invest in what is fabulous and let go of what doesn't work anymore.

It seems less about starting from scratch and more about expanding our vision, releasing our sweaty clutch on the control button of our lives so we can take a deep breath. and then another one...and eventually consider what refreshed really is and what it might feel like.

Brand new.

These are marketing words.

Brand.

Someone wants to sell us their brand of happy. Of good looking. Of successful.

I say don't buy it. Instead,let's do the quiet work of peeling off the layers of what they want us to do, and be, and get, and have. Quiet the voices from your ipod, gps, tv, radio, and the bouquet of humans populating your life, and then....listen.


Listen some more.

I love the new year.

I love January. it's when bear's and flower bulbs sleep.

So smart.

They get quiet. they replenish in the gentlest, least dramatic way possible. And no one tells them they're lazy, or that they lack drive, or that they'll never get anywhere, or be all that they can be.

Bears and flower bulbs already know what they need to know, and do what they need to do.

The thing to remembers: a fresh start is free. And available right now....or whenever your right now wants to be.

The Escape Goat

I like to blame my cats.

For everything.

I'm sorry...I can't reach the phone or my calendar or my computer because i am trapped on the couch under two warm, sleeping cats. Of course this means I can't work, or make a date with someone or any other thing that resembles any form of exertion.

God forbid i wake the sleeping giants. they will eat the golden goose or the golden egg or whatever it is the giant from Jack and the beanstalk would eat. Small children? Ones hopes and dreams? i shudder to think.

So i let them sleep. and i postpone the inevitable, which for me, most often is writing. and this here blogging thingy doesn't count. I'm referring specifically to the things i am 'supposed' to write. the things i get paid for. But somehow those things seem so unwieldy that warming up seems like a reasonable alternative. and just now my cats have left me for some unseen foe, so i consider my options:

i could re-watch the entire TV series felicity. Again. The writing is so good, and the actors are so cute and surely, this will inspire me to great heights.

I could organize my Netflix movie list by category, but calling that work is a stretch, even to me.

So here i am.

looking for an escape.

Or an escape goat, as my friend Sarah H once relayed as part of a silly story.

Here, kitty kitty.