The Power of Suffering, The Power of Healing

Carol Woodliff is a very powerful shaman here in Los Angeles.  She posted casually on Facebook earlier today that she was going to do a meditation for a half hour to "pray for courage and strength for all who suffer..."  She was inspired to meditate for those wounded at Standing Rock, and that led to her seeing images of Syrian suffering, and she realized she would be meditating for all those who suffer on the planet, not just those wounded by the conflicts in Standing Rock or Syria.

I joined her and listened over and over to the 16 minute meditation by Master John Douglas (spirit-repair.com) called "Karmic Repair" which leads you through an exquisite prayer on behalf of those suffering -- from the micro to the macro level.  First I did it for those in war torn areas, then again for people of color all over the planet who has suffered from abuse based on the color of their skin, then for all indigenous peoples on the planet fighting for their lands and cultures, then for all who suffer in any way.

I saw vivid images throughout this hour, each time being shown the abused and the abuser, and each time seeing that we have all played both roles at some point, whether intentionally or not.  We all suffer in our own way.  We abuse when our hearts are profoundly wounded, and we can't find the answers to end our own suffering.  One image I saw of a man beating another was that both of their hearts were in extreme pain, mirror images surpassing this snapshot in time where one would be perceived as in more pain than the other.

We all suffer.  And we all have the power to heal.  Ourselves and others.  We all have it in us to abuse and be abused, and we all have it in us to heal ourselves and others.

A very wise friend, another master healer here in Los Angeles, Master Bruce Sun, visited me the other day and pointed out my own suffering that I had not seen, which was the source of a physical pain I was having.  He saw a vision of a past life of mine where I tried very hard to save a group of people and I failed. Since that life I have felt the burden of that failure, feeling as if everything that goes wrong is my fault.  I created experiences and relationships in this life to confirm that.  In this meditation (which clearly appealed to my "everything is my fault" wound! LOL!), I asked that my own suffering born in that past life also be healed.  I think this may be the end of recreating experiences to make me feel this burden and suffering.

We can all make a difference.  We can all heal ourselves and heal others, and from this meditation I saw that they feed each other.  Healing begets being healed.  Being healed begets more healing, and so on.  

Most important, never underestimate your own healing power -- no matter how short the amount of time spent giving a smile, a love-filled intention or prayer.  You've got this. We've got this.  

Here's to each of us making a difference for the suffering of all on this jewel of a planet. 

Love Army

Miraculously, I just recently changed one of the major concepts in my book from "Love Army" to "Love League."  I did it, profoundly reluctantly on the advice of my book guru, Pat Verducci.  It turns out she was a genius, yet again, for so many reasons! 

Van Jones has just stepped into his superhero suit to stop the freight train of ignorance, and leap into healing the heart of America with his #LoveArmy!  Go Van

The movement will officially launch in March apparently, but why not get in on the Love Army now?  

You will sign the most beautiful pledge ever when you Click here to Join the #LoveArmy!

Do it now. It'll feel good.

Here's to love love love and more love!  

Trumpland Dreams: The Art of Acting v. Reacting

Ever since election night almost two weeks ago, I have been having nightly Trump related dreams, each so startling and vivid that I got up and spoke the details of them into a recording. I hope I'm ending the cycle by getting at least one of the lessons today.

One of the first dreams had me living in my dream home, a beautiful modern house, , not unlike the one Tom Marble and his wife Pae White built for themselves, with a courtyard in the center of the design, all rooms surrounding that open courtyard: Paige Street House by Marbletecture . I fell in love with this design when I first saw it in Sri Lanka when I was 20, and it's been my dream house ever since. Apparently my soul took that quite literally. In my dream, I had a ginormous rendering of the design.

The center courtyard in this version of my house was a zen garden. In the dream I woke up hearing people bustling around, and walked out of my bedroom to find FBI agents swarming all the rooms Most of the agents were inspecting the courtyard which was now far from zen, as it was full of huge anti-semitic sculptures. The sculptures were all several feet tall and wide, heavy cement, all different modern designs, but not beautiful because they were covered with swastikas and other hate-filled graffiti. They were so large the only way I could figure out they had been placed there was via a crane. They were all far too large to come in a door or window. I was baffled by the efforts made to make their point.

 I sat quietly on a chair contemplating that point, as the law enforcement teams roamed noisily around me. I thought "I'm not Jewish," and thought this must be happening far and wide, if it had happened to me. Then it dawned on me. Technically, I am Jewish! My mom was not raised Jewish and has been Catholic most of my life. Her mom was Jewish, though, and therefore I am technically Jewish, as it passed through the mother's lineage. Then I realized that in this horrid Trumpian dreamworld, someone had ferreted out this info, which I barely remember myself, and attacked me because of it.

I sat paralyzed, watching the mouths move of the well-meaning agents as they confessed to me that it would be hard to find who did this, but they would work very hard to do so. They were angry and a few of them wanted me to be too. They looked at me as if waiting with baited breath for me to raise the cry for retaliation, and were dumbfounded when I just sat there. I wasn't "with" them in any way. I thought of those who had far worse done to them. Maybe neighbors? People down the road?

The nightly Trump lessons all have the same struggle: how can I make a difference? And the dreams always say the same thing: Act, don't react. Let them do their thing, the dreams say. Don't react with matching energy. Simply act. Matching their energy never works in the dreams.

 Last night I woke up three times and each time the message that Trump's attacks are only revealing his fear -- to millions around the globe. His Twitter feed is like a long confessional of that which scares or intimidates him, that his Twitter attacks don't make him look tough, they make him look weak. I repeatedly got the instruction to tweet to him that great leaders manage their fears behind the scenes and he should try to follow suit. They can even admit their fears to those they lead -- which is healing for everyone -- IF they work through the fears, so the fear isn't dictating their actions. But that is mighty work that those leaders do behind the scenes. It used to be that bullies were feared far more.

Anti-bullying groups, teachers, schools, Lady Gaga and other artists have all done so much for this conversation. Natalie Hampton's new Sit With Us App is doing even more. The curtain is being pulled away to reveal the bully as the fearful powerless one he or she really is behind the bravado.

We don't need to cut down the bully. The bully is cut down, hence the bullying. The bully has forgotten his true power. We just need to reach out and share the real power -- love -- with those who need support, bullied or otherwise. They've got it already, but sharing ours allows them to remember their own.

When we re-act with in-kind energy, we are falling into the volcano of fear too. If we stay in the fear of how we can possibly protect our brothers and sisters who are being currently verbally threatened, we are far less powerful ourselves. If we stay in the love that inspires us to protect them, and we take positive actions to buoy them up, give them what they need to feel safe and to stay out of fear, we all get to become more and more powerful.

 React. Re. Act. Re. It's been done. Over and out, good buddy. Re is the past.

 Just act. Acting out of love, all the more powerful.

I have a long way to go myself.  Anger is definitely an enticing drink to sip. So is paralysis.  Yummy, intoxicating, seemingly-relaxing-but-oh-so-not paralysis.

I'm trying to take a positive loving action every day. Calling lawmakers to take a stand for our brothers and sisters. Reaching out to those I know are in fear. I'm smiling more at strangers. Anything to calm the fear fires with love. I have a long, long way to go in my own heart, but every day an action helps.

Seeking Beauty

[ORIGINALLY POSTED 10/10/16]

is the day my dad passed away.  Ten. Ten. 

It’s so strange that people automatically gain another birthday when they die - one for entering this adventure, the other for going on to the next.   I’m just thankful my dad’s “birthdays” are several months apart.

He’s been gone 7 years now and on Saturday morning I thought "Oh I have to tell my dad that..."  Seven. Years.  Later.  Jesus.  That afternoon the appliance repair guy informed me that I needed to buy a new dishwasher.  My 19 month old Kenmore that came with this house was more expensive to fix than replace.

My dad would have told me to go get another Kenmore. He loved Sears. Every time he came to LA he would insist on buying something for my house, and it would either come from Sears or his second love, Sam's Club.  Sturdy.  Dependable. Affordable.  Make life better.

I wasn't so keen on acquiring another Kenmore, given this one's early demise.  Hours after receiving this news I went to dinner at a friend's house and was loading her super cool dishwasher and started coveting its beauty and design.  She suggested that since I own my house that I should not scrimp on appliances.  I thought she was right, but my dad was fairly loudly protesting in my other ear: "What's wrong with another Kenmore?" 

The first night I spent in this house I met my new dishwasher that the flipper had installed. Right before I went to bed, I opened it, removed all the manuals still sitting inside, and loaded it up with freshly-freed-from-their-boxes dishes and utensils.  Moments later, Lucy, Tallulah and I could be found collapsed on the bed. 

We felt at home immediately in our new house, and were beyond exhausted from a full day of zipping back and forth between houses, top down, piled high like Beverly Hillbillies.  The movers were so horrid that what should have been a 7 hour job at most, became a two day 14 hour job. If I wanted things with me that first night it was going to be up to me...and the girls, who I didn't feel comfortable leaving either place given the level of chaos in both.  So, they didn't get any of their normal nearly continuous nap time. 

Seconds after passing out we were all startled awake by a loud strange sound. I think we all thought "This must be what an intruder sounds like here!"  The girls started barking ferociously as if a fleet of intruders had come through the front door.  I jumped to my feet, gathering my wits about me as I did.  Then I heard the water flowing and knew immediately it was the new and mighty dishwasher working its magic.  But, damn was it loud!

So noise played into my choice for a new one. I decided on a Bosch, a notoriously quiet brand. My dad would have just replied "Uh-huh" in response to the declaration of my choice, and there would have been the tiniest bit of silence that I would have nervously filled with the list of its many wonderful traits.

My dad had Midwestern common sense, was fiscally conservative, and thought purchases like this were frivolous and sometimes irresponsible.  He wouldn't have cared about the noise, and he definitely didn't give a hoot about the beauty factor. I care pretty deeply about the beauty factor -- yes, even with a dishwasher – and yes, inside and out.  The inside of this dishwasher is beauteous, stainless steel, brilliantly designed racks, more space than the earlier one by far.  It was gorgeous.  And, I watched videos where people equally enamored showed how quiet and clever it was. 

The beauty factor mattered to the YouTube strangers too!

This is where my dad and I parted ways.  I have been seeking beauty since I can remember.  The mud pies I made as a tiny tot were even an opportunity to create beauty. My dad bought houses because they were the right choice, not because they were beautiful.  He bought American cars because they were made in America.  I bought European cars because I found them beautiful and fun to drive.  My dad bought things that worked and were dependable.  I bought things that were sexy and made my heart sing.

I will never forget the  summer I went to Alaska one summer to work for my dad's business.  I had just learned to drive and he gave me the company van to use while I was there for the summer.  A company van?!  The horror! 

My dad helped me start my own small business in the early 90's, an angel store, and when he saw what I created, he lit up.  Shining like a klieg light, fueled by pride but touched by the beauty, he was moved to tears. Had he seen the same beauty - or better -  elsewhere he likely wouldn't have noticed.  He saw my heart in the creation and knew how much it meant to me.  

In contemplating this dishwasher conversation with my dad these last few days I realize it wasn't that he didn't appreciate beauty.  He just sought it in its purest forms.  He moved to Alaska for its beauty.  Most important, though, he sought beauty on a daily basis in people's hearts -- even those for whom it might be more obscured, covered with dust or seemingly absent to the rest of us.  He would light up when people he loved walked into a room.  

My dad was as much a beauty seeker as I was, he just found it in the places that didn't cost time or money.  And he saw it everywhere, in just about everyone he met.

I wish I hadn't been so hard on my dad for not caring about my kind of beauty.  I wish I had acknowledged him more for the beauty he did seek.

We are all seeking beauty in our own special way.  It's all about what makes our heart sing. 

My dad still makes my heart sing.

The Nerve He Touched

It's almost a week since "the grab" Trump video aired.  It's been a rough and tumble one for many women, including me.  I have been the victim of many -- yep, the word many is not hyperbole here -- sexual assaults.  Most of them happened in my 20's and 30's, which also happens to be when I first started working on all the goings on inside my heart and head (therapy, meditation and self-help recipes of the day). So I came out the other side of these events relatively unscathed.  

I also had wonderful male friends around me at every point to remind me that the perpetrators were not the norm, they were an aberration.

It's been a long time, though, since the majority of these things happened. That's why I'm always shocked when the nerve is touched.  When I heard Trump's words I felt like I put my finger in an electric socket.  Every single nerve previously touched by any male trespass buzzed back to life.

I thought I handled that.  

I thought that scab had been long healed. 

Wow, that was so long ago, I had forgotten about it until...

Trump touched that nerve.  He spoke for every man who felt like they had a right to my body.

Several hours before the video aired, I was asked out on a date by a man that I had been introduced to by an old friend's mom.  My friend's mom has always wanted to set me up and she met this man, didn't know a lot about him but thought the was adorable and would be a good match for me.  He had gone to high school with the son of her best friend so he wasn't a complete stranger in her circle.

I had spoken to him on the phone the previous night.  Before we spoke I had assumed it would just be the final "all clear to meet" after a few days of texting (I had a deadline and couldn't talk before that) and that we would likely be sipping wine together the following night.  

It became clear very quickly, thought, that it wasn't a match, that our basic priorities in life were not even similar.  We spoke for over two hours but he learned very little about me.   He had a lot he wanted me to know about him. So when he invited me out I told him it probably was not a great idea, we were likely not a great match.  I suggested he google me and read for about 4 minutes, and that he would very likely agree with me, that I would drive him bat shit crazy.  I also told him I had someone in mind to set him up with possibly, a friend I knew would also find him quite attractive and whose priorities in life were a bit more on par with his.

He was immediately incensed.  How dare I?  I "promised" I would meet him. He shamed me for not giving him a chance, and lashed out further at the idea of setting him up.  A few hours later he butt-dialed me and attacked me for calling him.  

When I saw Trump video soon after this, I was still stinging from his attacks. I realized that I have not only been the victim of many sexual assaults, but I have also been the victim of many domination assaults.  It's not just that my body was theirs if they wished it, it was all of me.

I like you, so I get to meet you.  I don't care what you think.  

I like you, and if you had your head on straight you would like me too. So get it together.

You are mine if I stake my claim on you.  This claim is invisible and in my head but it's as mighty as any pillar of steel or bronze plaque.  I. Own. This. You. That. It.

I started imagining my body with little bronze plaques all over it, imagined the myriad men hammering the plaques onto my body.   Then I imagined letting them all fall and clank to the floor.  That felt good.  

A few days later as more levels of healing took place as a result of that infamous video, I had a bit of a dark night of the soul for a few hours.  I yelled out to the universe that I don't want to draw men like that anymore into my life.  I added that I also don't want the super critical guys I have been attracting, unhappy with everything in their lives, taking responsibility for none of it.

Most important, because i know we draw in what is not healed in our own hearts I yelled that I wanted to stop the self-criticism. I am dealing with being very critical of the extra weight I have on me now, hating myself for it.  At the same time I also bumped up against the realization that all the sexual assaults that have taken place over the course of my life were when I was thin and felt my prettiest.  "It's not safe to be thin," said life.

• 14 or 15 years old -- My dad's best friend in his late 30's, very drunk, drives me home far too fast from a party in his Porsche. I had wanted to stay at the event longer than my dad, and I thought the friend innocently offered a ride. I got out of the car to run inside to safety as while he sped he rarely watched the road as he was busy leering.  He followed me inside, pushed me against the wall and kissed me.  Only his fear of being caught by my dad made him stop.
• 21 years old -- In Paris, a quintessential old Parisian man with requisite wool vest and beret, puts his tongue down my throat.
• 23 years old -- Man comes in my NY window in the dark of night. I talk him out of raping me, but not before he has extensively touched my body with hands and knife.
• 24 years old -- Two different men on two different occasions -- both of whom are now renowned TV and film producers respectively -- trapped me in their apartments, shoving me against a wall and kissing me.  I tried talking to both of them.  In both cases, I thought we were casual friends. We had many mutual friends.  In both cases, these meetings were not dates.  I fought my way out of both.
• 35 years old -- Dear friend's husband grabs me and pushes me against kitchen counter leaning into kiss me and I somehow (he was a big guy) get myself out of his clutches. His wife is in the next room.  I lost that friend when I had to tell her why I was being so distant.

There are many more in between, including many colorful public lewd acts done for my benefit specifically.  Jesus. 

I had to go dark and deep to deal with the parts of me I had assumed were long healed, and come to a place where I could declare I don't want to draw this domination, assault, entitlement into my orbit anymore.  I had to look at where I push it down in myself, how I am that myself.  I worked through a lot of it, but I'm sure more is to come. But now I shout from the rooftops in my mind: You don't own us because you are drawn to us. You don't get to touch or be with us because you want to.  Don't make us encase ourselves in bullet proof glass to protect the treasures we are!   

The good news is that almost every girlfriend I have spoken to this week is coming to another level of healing about her own history of assaults.  As Michelle Obama said today "This is not something that we can ignore." That's the good news. We can't ignore it anymore.  

So for this we can be grateful to the Trump.  The boil is bursting.  Hot goo shooting everywhere, and with it the opportunity for us all to heal on yet another level. We are all waking up a little more every day since the Trump alarm clock started ringing last Friday. The snooze button won't work. It is demanding we wake up and heal.

I am a stand that the healing will lead to all of us -- men and women -- to being our most powerful selves without having to dominate another. The power isn't over there, it's right here.  It's not in the grabbing - of anything or anyone. 

Seeking Beauty

Reposting this on 10/13 because of technical difficulties with formatting on this particular post. Go there for the words that go with this adorable face!

In Praise of Paeans

  

I have been contemplating -- and yes, I admit it -- complaining about the general lack of acknowledgments being bandied about in our world today.   I don't really understand why people don't acknowledge each other more.  It's so damn fun.  Why wouldn't everyone want to do it?

I was trained very well by a series of friends and family, starting with my dad, who loved to acknowledge me and others.  I watched him do it in his business and saw that it was what made it a happy workplace.  I also knew how it worked on me, marking my evolution as a good person, to show me that someone was watching who I was becoming in the world. 

It feels great to be acknowledged as thoughtfully as my dad did it, with all his heart on deck for the ceremony of it all, but damn I am also absolutely unabashedly conscious of the fact that it makes me feel just as happy to acknowledge others as it makes them feel.  I don't do it for me.  At least I don't think I do.  But honestly how could I separate out a history of feeling better when acknowledging someone?  And does it really matter if part of my motivation is that making someone feel good also feels good to me? I think not.  

I think acknowledging people can be vulnerable work, and it's possible I'm just used to the years of vulnerability.  You have to unveil what touched or moved you to speak up.  I find that even when I am acknowledging something devoid of emotional spin, I do feel a little vulnerable still to this day.  Will they reject my acknowledgment, disagree or not like the way I say it?  I often have a hard time receiving it myself. It's even more vulnerable to receive it, but still giving it is vulnerable as well.

Several months ago I accomplished a near miracle for someone and I received no acknowledgment for it.  I was thrilled beyond belief to have been able to accomplish this not so small near miracle.  Truly, I remember feeling more alive than possibly ever before when it occurred.  I was buzzing with the thrill of it all.  So I got all the goodies that come from doing a good deed.  Yet, the lack of acknowledgment of any kind put a little dent in the post-near-miracle joy.  It's like we didn't put a period at the end of the sentence of that experience.  We wrote that sentence together. It's begging for a punctuation mark.

I didn't need a big thank you.  Sometimes the tiniest, simplest of thank you's are the most precious.  Two days ago I found this acknowledgment on my front porch.  It was sent to me by my neighbor's son.  I asked her why I had been so blessed to find this magical black handmade envelope and magical contents awaiting me.

She explained that her son had been contemplating the used -- yes USED - birdfeeders I had handed off to them, and decided that he wanted to do something nice for me.  So he made these lovely little sculptures and wrapped them lovingly, artistically and left them for me as a little love surprise.

 

 

I'm pretty sure this heals every single missed acknowledgment I have had in my entire life.  They truly are the best neighbors on the planet and his mom and I actually have a battle of acknowledgments that we have agreed is a little out of control, yet slightly hilarious. But neither of us is lying, we just truly do appreciate each other and what we do for each other.   But she wins the battle because when her kids say thank you - often in the form of artistic missives like this one - even if its the sweet little utterances of the words "Thank you Miss Bridget," my heart is beyond satiated and happy at the punctuation mark on that lovely sentence.

 

Today someone at work provided me with something truly brilliant.  I asked for some information but I got far, far more than that, all of it exquisitely written aka "stealable"!  I wrote an email to her boss and her boss's boss to mark the occasion of her going above and beyond and being a genius about it to boot.

 

Her boss forwarded my email to her and she thanked me for my paean.  I am embarrassed that I have been on this planet as long as I have and did not previously know this most glorious word.  It's now my favorite word. 

 

Who doesn't love enthusiastic praise?  It's a true gift and like every gift exchange it really is hard to figure out which end is more satisfying.  But I think paeans are the gift that keeps on giving. 

 

Acknowledgment: it's what's for dinner.   Try it, you'll like it.  Paeans will be served for dessert over a warm berry compote.  

 

 

 

 



I Found a Yoga Superhero of Love!

 

I've been wrestling a lot of octopi recently, final edits (hopefully) on my book and my hormones/weight being two of the biggies.  Slippery, many-tentacled creatures, I'd have one handled, two, three and then four in my control...and then SNAP!  Start all over again!

 

One of the messages I've been getting -- in the form of every book I open, every show I turn on, every friend I talk to -- I HEAR YOU, GOD! --  has been to get back to yoga. 

 

I haven't had a happy relationship with yoga, though, for almost two years.  About 17 months ago I hurt my hip pretty badly in a power yoga class with a less than stellar teacher.  It doesn't affect my daily life.  I just can't sit in anything near a cross-legged position, which is pretty much of a yoga deal-breaker.   At least it was one for me when I tried to go back to yoga a few times only to get curious looks from teachers and students when I was accommodating my injury with alternate postures.  I grew sick of the looks and also got advice from people I trust that I should stop stretching it, that yoga was probably the wrong thing to do for it. 

 

But then the messages started pouring in and it occurred to me I could do this in the privacy of my own home, just me and my hip, no curious judging looks, as awkward as I want to be.  I've been doing yoga since I was 18 so I know what to do but I didn't want to self-guide, I wanted someone fun to lead me through it.  So, I said to my hip, "Hey let's start gently, with a yoga video on youtube."  My hip liked that idea and googled yoga videos.  Smart hip.

 

The first hit in the list was my new yoga mecca, Yoga With Adriene.  She is a Superhero of Love, because man oh man does she have a way of encouraging us to love our bodies and where we are exactly in this moment, like no other teacher I've experienced.  Somehow, also like no other teacher before her, she takes me instantly to calm.  Seriously. Instantly.  I never get distracted or wonder how many minutes are left.  This is nothing short of a miracle for me, who listens to podcasts or books AND plays solitaire while on the elliptical!

 

But my #1 favorite thing about Adriene is she has this incredibly perfect human moments like seeing a piece of lint on the floor in front of her mat and then looking down at her yoga pants with the comment -- mid-pose -- "I seem to have a lot of fuzzies on my pants today!"  But when she says it it doesn't even slightly take you out of the moment or distract from the pose.  

 

How does she do it?!  Genius!  She is delightful and she really knows her stuff. 

 

I didn't want to put too much pressure on myself because of my complex recent relationship with yoga, so to start, I committed to doing her 30 Days of Yoga (recorded in January 2015) because it just drew me.  I'm on day 8 but yesterday I did two videos from her other series and today I did one from another in addition to my minimum, because I really wanted to.  I wanted to.  Seriously, a miracle that I wanted to do more than my commitment.  After having a love-hate relationship with yoga for the last few years leading up to my injury, I feel like I am in miracle-ville. 

 

I realize now the hate part was I can't stand being preached to by teachers.  But Adriene doesn't preach.  She sincerely, gently, suggests.  Authentically.  That's the difference. 

 

My hip is way better on this Day 8.  I look forward to it healing completely.  And Tallulah is super happy about this new yoga practice.  For the first 6 days she lay two feet away like this, very polite, just out of reach, watching, almost pretending to sleep but totally alert: "What is this new thing my human is doing on the floor?  I must make sure I stay awake as it may require my assistance."

 

 

 

Yesterday and today -- with multiple videos and more sweat -- she decided that her assistance would be to lick the sweat off me.  I put her nearby stuffed dog on her back, but that didn't deter her.

I may have to wear a head to toe rubber suit to continue my practice with Tallulah nearby but it'll be worth it because....Adriene rocks.

Love Warriors: A Call to Action!

 

The book I'm finishing is The Superhero's Guide to Break-Ups, Loss & Heartache.  Therefore when several people I trust told me to pre-order a book called Love Warrior, it was kind of a no-brainer. 

I have to admit, though, I was scared to open it when it arrived on Tuesday.  Would it make my book irrelevant?  Four years of work down the drain?  But then I heard her interviewed of author Glennon Doyle Melton on Linda Sivertsen's podcast (Linda Sivertsen & Martha Beck Interview Author Glennon Doyle Melton) I knew that her book was very different because there is no one exactly like Glennon, just like there is no one exactly like me, or you, dear reader.  We all have these juicy little unique hearts holding their very own juicy little unique stories.  That's why everyone who wants to tell their story should.

Glennon has a way with telling hers in a way that might really have a shot at opening millions of hearts.  She has wrestled bulimia (since age 10), alcoholism (since her early teens), mental illness, a cheating husband, motherhood and the circuitous and perfect journey toward her own recipe for faith.  The gift of this book is that she opens her heart so your can feel safe rummaging around in yours, looking at "what's underneath" the pain and behind the walls she has built around her heart.  We all do it.  She makes the journey to an open heart feel possible.  If she can do it, we can do it.

She can turn a phrase too.  Some of them took my breath away.

On motherhood:

"The scent of him is so comforting and soothing it has ruined regular air for me altogether."

On the trauma's life can deal us:

"Shock is a grace period.  It gives a woman time to gather what she needs around her..."

On faith:

"Fear and God together will never make sense to me again."

 
I read it in just two nights.  It's a fast read because it's authentic.  If you know of anyone looking for a heart opener, anyone looking to have a possible breakthrough with their addiction, bulimia, or with the ever-delicate balancing act of being a mother and wife, click here: Love Warrior Book.

I Spy a Shadow

I am close to finishing The Superhero's Guide to Break-ups, Loss & Heartache: Heal Your Broken Heart & Then Go Save the World.  Like with anything big I set out to accomplish - like training for a marathon, buying a house, reaching any enormous goal that requires me to step outside my normal vision of myself -- I have come to realize that writing a is just one big fat opportunity to have a series of confrontations with oneself. 

When I trained for the one marathon I ran I remember not having a clue how I would run 9 miles for the first time in my life.  Then 12 - only 3 more than the previously daunting 9, but still.  Then 20, and then on top of that a whole other 10K in addition to make 26.2 miles.  Each number was an unfathomable stretch.  "How will that get accomplished for the love of God?," I would wonder.  Each run a bit of a mind game, not being fully present, looking always to the future. Sometimes though, fully present for the sake of survival, each and every step a struggle.  "Maybe I should walk now," I would negotiate.  Negotiations: some gentle, some harsh.  And the time in between runs spent trying to not fall or twist something or get a debilitating pull, cramp or even a searing blister.  And so it is with books in a way.

I think the only difference between the people who get their books out into the world and the ones who don't is sheer stubbornness -- with oneself, and wanting to come out a winner in those damned internal battles.

A big chunk of my book is encouraging the reader to look at the shadows that are thwarting them from giving or receiving love, so in the edit that I finished last night I've been embroiled in reliving my own shadow work that I chronicle in the book.  I came to some new realizations, deepening my understanding as I revisited those pages.

So it's no surprise that today I would be blindsided by one of my previously undiscovered shadows. And I should be proud to say - though I can't muster pride in this case -- that  I completely set myself up to have this breakthrough. 

I knew I had a writing deadline. I was turning in this last round of changes at 10 p.m. Friday.   Yet when I received an Airbnb reservation request for my guest room that I knew could potentially thwart my work, I said yes.  The couple had a 10 month old baby, so I had originally said "no"as it clearly wasn't a fit given my deadline.  The man contested that they would rarely be here.  This didn't end up being true, nor were they sensitive to the baby's noises echoing loudly throughout the house starting at 6:30 in the morning after I had been up into the wee hours of the morning.  The mother even chided the cleaning lady who was here (when they had promised they would be gone), angry at her that her car alarm kept going off while the baby was napping.  I had to calm the cleaning lady when they finally left, yet another thing to yank me from my writing.

Who in their right mind has a family of 3 stay at their house when they have a writing deadline?  Someone who has a shadow rearing its head, the shadow that says "You don't deserve to be great.  You deserve to be as good as you can be in spite of a slew of icky circumstances."   Bravo shadow, you created the perfect circumstances! 

Three hours of sleep always makes me more emotional, but that's actually a good thing when processing these old conversations that have been clutched like dead bouquets by adorable little shadows.  That little girl doesn't believe I'm worthy, and she hasn't believed it for decades.

One of the concepts I have in the book that others who have read it have quickly adopted is the Love League (previously known as the Love Army but more superhero-y now, eh?) -- the friends you can enlist to be there to bring you back to our superhero self.  My friend Gina did that for me today when I called and asked if I could vent about this Airbnb debacle.  She said this brilliant line that I had long forgotten from Steel Magnolias.

Then she very kindly listened to my vent, oohing and aahing at all the right moments.  As soon as I was quite finished she paused and then asked "So do you think there might be something for you to look at about deserving to have this book be great?" 

I don't recall one of my precious shadows shooting me directly in the foot for quite some time.  "I demand attention!" that little shadow girl inside me shouted.  "Oh, and by the way, you are NOT great, so the book won't be great either and you may as well fill your house with insensitive house guests now!  And  really, who are YOU to right a book like this?!"

So, now I get to let the shadow express her emotions and calmly tell her as Gina shouted for me today with glee "I am the PERFECT person to write this book, and it's going to be great! End of story. Period."  

The adult is now taking over steering the car of my writing life, and the wee scared one gets to sit in the passenger seat.  And when she reaches over to change the radio channel to one that loudly shouts my inadequacies and encourages me to say yes to insane distractions, I get to change the station back and suggest instead a round of "I Spy": "I spy something that starts with the letter "s"...."

 

Orange You Glad It's Summer?

I've had one bijillion reasons to bake for various different friends and events and I have to say these two ingredients were the most delicious additions to all my summer culinary adventures.

You may remember me extolling the virtues of the Minced Lemon Peel from The Spice House in Chicago that my friends Dan and Kathy bestowed upon me as part of a most wonderful birthday gift.  I used it so much I had to order more and that's when I saw Minced Orange Peel. I was about to make some Orange Olive Oil Cakes and thought it would kick it up a notch.  It did!

For one of the Orange Olive Oil Cakes, the recipe for the orange syrup that is poured over the cake after it comes out of the oven called for Orange Blossom Water.  Oh My God!  A few drops of this gloriousness added to -- oh I don't know JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING -- is serious divinity to the taste bud!

So here is what I made and here are the recipes and how I changed them, etc.

• Orange Almond Pecan Chocolate Chip Cookies -- find my Best Chocolate Chip Cookie Ever Recipe (probably over on the Lazy Woman Blog) and add orange zest and minced orange peel + toasted almonds and pecans + a few tablespoons of coconut .  You will NOT be disappointed and everyone will think you are a goddess.

• Orangey Celebratory Trifle -- I actually can't bear angel food cake.  It's too sweet.  I was shopping last minute and couldn't find sponge cake so I had to use angel food cake.  Don't recommend but people still really liked it.  To offset the sweetness I took this recipe 4th of July Trifle by Sunny Anderson and did the following:
• Add to the cream mixture:
•  orange zest of two oranges
• a couple tablespoons of Minced Orange Peel
• a splash of Orange Blossom Water
• Gran Marnier
• two oranges (yep, the oranges you just zested, peel and cut up in tiny pieces, leaving most of juices on the counter)
• To the top of the whole trifle I whipped up another pint of whipped cream and put just a small amount of sugar + more orange zest, peel + blossom water
• I made the orange sauce (see the little brush man floating in it in lower right of pic above) that I loved the most from one of the olive oil cakes I made Citrus Semolina Olive Oil Cake and added zest of a second orange and only did orange juice plus a splash of orange blossom water AND Gran Marnier.
• Orange Semolina Olive Oil Cakes  -- I made SIX different recipes and honestly loved all of them for different reasons but I have to say the recipe above (link in previous paragraph) from Food52 is pretty spectacular when you add the orange blossom water and Gran Marnier to the sauce and add the Minced Orange Peel to the batter.  And the piece de resistance -- and I know this is not how it is supposed to be done but on the 6th recipe -- which was the Food52 one -- I added chocolate chips, almonds and pecans.  Oh.  My.   God.  I now that the chefs from Italy and the Middle East who are famous for this kind of cake would probably tar and feather me but I don't care.  The semolina flour with the orange and the chocolate and the nuts....swoon!     

But really you can't go wrong with any citrus semolina cake recipe and they are all pretty darned easy to make.  Most have a combo of semolina and all purpose flour.  A few recipes have semolina only and you can guess the texture is different, but still divine. Highly recommend making them because super easy to also do ahead.   I think I will make one for Christmas time and serve with orange chocolate mousse.

This was my very favorite of the six.  I swore I would remember the recipe but I don't.  All I remember is I added coconut, almond meal, almonds and of course the Orange Peel.  Look for the recipes that have yogurt in them too. I know this one had yogurt in it.  But throwing coconut in there added a wee bit of crunch. Super moist.  Super yum.  Honestly you can't go wrong with these cakes.

 

 

Check out The Spice House in Chicago for all kinds of groovy ingredients.  I also use their extra strength vanilla regularly and, of course, the lemon peel.  You can find Orange Blossom Water where ethnic foods are sold, or order on Amazon.   I highly recommend having both Rose Water and Orange Blossom Water on hand, a splash of either in whipped cream, drinks, lemonade, etc. can kick a recipe up several notches with one tiny bit.

 

So happy zesty summer to all!!!



When Doves Cry: When Pain is Left in the Cold

A beautiful man I once knew committed suicide recently.  He had been the boyfriend of a dear friend.  I used to love watching them love one another, how they were so easy and gentle with each other, how much they truly delighted in each other’s company.  He had a smile that could light up a room, and hers often lit up in reply.

Most touched by suicide are thrown into an endless round of mental acrobatics to understand it, everyone hoping to gain some tool or knowledge that might help with another loved one in the future.  But no two cases are ever the same, are they? This man was, in fact, doing all the right things to address his depression, hitting all the therapeutic marks. So, then what?  Where does the mental acrobat jump now?

Ironically, since getting this news I’ve been embroiled in researching happiness as I prepare myself to interview an expert on the subject.  I fell down the rabbit hole of TED Talks on the topic of happiness, which included presentations by many who, not surprisingly, have done extensive research on depression, including one by Dr. Nancy Etcoff (Nancy Etcoff TED Talk on Happiness) . 

The year of her talk was 2004.  She said that suicides actually outnumbered homicides in the United States at that time.  I was shocked by that statistic and thought it must be different now.  It’s not.  Suicide is the 10th top cause of death, homicide is 15th.  Our friend was most at risk to suicide. White males accounted for 7 of 10 suicides in 2014, with middle aged white men having the highest rates of all. (CDC Suicide Data)

Equally as troubling, particularly since this particular statistic’s moment of fruition is now imminent, Dr. Etcoff said that the World Health Organization claimed that depression would be the second largest cause of disability by the year 2020.   I personally know a lot of people battling depression, some also dealing with addiction that was sparked by trying to self-medicate for either emotional or chronic physical pain.

We all know someone who has an opioid addiction.  Thank you, Prince, for bringing it front and center. I wish we hadn’t lost you to have it so.

I know several people who are dealing with opioids, many of them not admitting an addiction, several fighting valiantly to face the pain.  But the allowing, acknowledging, and facing pain head on are all skills most of us don’t have.  I would rather look the other way myself.

I think we haven’t cracked the code on depression or addiction because we haven’t cracked the code on handling pain or -- as my Shaman friend, Carol Woodliff refers to it --  “holding pain” for each other in a way that allows for true healing. 

I know a few sets of parents whose kids are addicted to drugs who just want them to handle their addiction, get better and return to the way they once were.  I know other parents who are in the trenches attending Al-Anon helping their kids, husbands, siblings to hold that pain, and bravely, vulnerably delving into their own, causing transformation for their entire families.

Your pain touches the pain in me.  My pain touches yours.  If we can help each other hold and bear witness to the pain, we might be able to better meet the varying needs of people battling depression, anxiety and addiction.   There isn’t one code to crack, but there is certainly a systemic failure in our society to process, or even allow, pain. 

We want pain to be put out like a fire, quickly, expediently, with little regard for the sparks and dry kindling that gave it life.  I have to remind myself to look at what sparked the fire and make myself dive in even when I don’t want to.  I am working on shifting my judgment of pain.  I think we need a seismic societal shift around talking about pain but it has to start with me working on my own instinct to run from my own or others’ pain.

Instead of seeing a red flag I’m trying to look at the pain as a white flag as if my highest self (which wants to be fully expressed, unthwarted) is signaling, “I give up, let’s look at this pain together and heal these wounds….and I promise good stuff is ahead if we do.”

I’m not saying people who commit suicide aren’t doing their damndest, or that they don’t see the white flag themselves.  Nor am I saying that our friend’s support system wasn’t doing all they could do, or that the friends and families of addicts aren’t doing all they can do.  I’m just noticing that we aren’t giving ourselves a lot of openings for healing pain and increasing our happiness quotient, or bringing suicide off that list to top death causes, if we have an allergy to pain or people who are in pain.  In honor of those we have lost, I’m trying to deal with my own instinct to push it away, and not leave my pain or the pain of others in the cold.

How can you just leave me standing?

Alone in a world that's so cold?

When Doves Cry, Prince

Election 2016: Before We Were Trump/Bernie/Hillary Supporters We Were Someone's Child

 

"Before you were a guerrilla, you were my son."

Before you or I were a Hillary, Bernie, Trump or Cruz supporter we were someone's child.  Then we had a bunch of life experiences that brought us to this point where the RIGHT thing for ourselves and our country was to choose the candidate we are supporting.

No one I know wants to harm this country.  Everyone thinks their candidate will be the best president for them personally and for our country.  We are all the same.  We are right and we want to win.

Jose Miguel Sokoloff is an ad guy who did a series of pro bono campaigns for the Colombian government to encourage guerrilla soldiers to stop fighting, stop terrorizing their beloved country. When someone on Sokoloff's team discovered that the time of highest demobilization is Christmas, they realized they had a way into the guerilla hearts.  They rapped 75' tall jungle trees with Christmas lights with a message to go home for Christmas. (Check out Solokoff's Ted Talk "How Christmas Lights Helped Guerrillas Put Down their Guns")

In one of his final ad campaigns -- which, all told, effectively helped demobilize 1000's of guerrilla forces -- Sokoloff plastered the country with posters featuring childhood photos of the soldiers emblazoned with these words from their mothers "Before you were a guerilla, you were my son [daughter]." Beneath that, a simple call to lay down arms and go home.

 

Sokoloff recounted on NPR's This American Life Episode: The Poetry of Propoganda how he was acutely aware that he too was in a war of sorts.  Before the Christmas light campaign, each "attack" from him would prompt a counter-attack by the guerrillas marketing the opposite message to their soldiers.  Sokoloff saw these counter-attacks as just and right, part of the virtual tennis game that is war, back and forth until someone wins.  

Sokoloff was playing one of those exquisite games of marketing tennis. It was literally beautiful, visually stunning and compelling like truly great tennis match.   Magical lights illuminating the dangerous jungle, Christmas lights and glowing spheres carrying messages or gifts floating down the rivers that were the guerrilla highways.   While the Election 2016 tennis game might not be as exquisite, it's still just a game between people who think they are more right than the others.

I was on a "This American Life" podcast binge this week and everything seemed to be chipping away at my own resolve about being more right, which is what I tend to think of myself as during this presidential election season.  This American Life Episode: I Thought I Knew You episode from December features the story of evangelical Christian radio host Tony Beam who was shocked to find out that many of his listeners were Trump supporters.  He was certain, though, that Trump would lose their vote after he said he would ban all Muslims coming to America.  Beam was shocked that many, including one of his most engaged listeners, Barry, remained a passionate Trump supporter in spite of the religious attack. 

The NPR reporter met with Barry and we got to see the man behind the bluster, like pulling the curtain back to reveal the Wizard of Oz.   She called him out for being a bit of a contrarian everywhere in his life.  He paused and his voice changed a bit, making him sound almost vulnerable as if he had been "seen."  I flashed on him as a little boy and wondered if perhaps something happened in one pivotal moment that made him need to fight against the world. 

Barry is a man who really loves this tennis game of Right v. Wrong, Left v. Right, etc.  As much as I disagree with him, as much as I find some of my candidate's opponents unsavory, as much as I think the guerrillas are absolutely wrong, I have to admit that where I stand is just as much right as Barry or anyone else.  I had pivotal moments as a kid that made me grow up to be my own version of right.

I can be grateful, though, that it's just a bunch of bluster, all of us fighting hard, and sometimes dirty, with words to prove we are right.  Depending on our history, the words either hit us in the heart in the right way or the wrong way, and we react emotionally.  And then we vote.

At least we have what Sokoloff longs for in his own country: people arguing passionately with words instead of bullets. 

The two words I contemplate this election season will be 1) RIGHT, and my insistence on being so ALL THE F'ING TIME and 2) GENEROUS (not a natural instinct when I am inflamed) with my also-right-opponent.  As high ranking Colombian army Captain Juan Manuel Valdez said to Sokoloff when giving support for the Christmas light project: "Being generous makes me stronger, makes my men stronger."

I am hoping to be much, much stronger by election day.  We'll see...

A Superhero Mantra to Get Through this Election: With Malice Toward None

It's not easy to be a superhero this election season, but I'm now armed with slightly more loving heart thanks to my imaginary lover, Abe Lincoln.

The picture above was taken at the Huntington Library & Gardens tonight, just before my friend Leanne and I went in to hear Lincoln scholar and historian, Ronald C. White, Jr. speak about the almighty "other" speech of Lincoln's. 

I have spent a good deal of time with the Second Inaugural Address as every time I'm in D.C., without fail, I visit my dear Abe at his Memorial (where I always, without fail, valiantly fight the urge to climb into his lap).  Now, thanks to Mr. White I understand this brilliant sermon-clothed-in-an-inaugural-address far better.  Lincoln thought it was his greatest work.  Frederick Douglas thought so too.  Now I have seen the light and recognize the fortuitous bit of timely wisdom I need to get through this election season.

Such a delicate assignment to give this address as the war came to a close.  Cheers would have erupted if he had celebrated the North's victory or shamed the South's attempt to tear apart the country.  But he did nothing of the sort.  In 701 words he did everything in his power to bring the country together in peace, mourning the gravity of everyone's losses, and praised the country for moving toward ending of "one of those offenses...that God wills to remove."

Only fifty four days after this speech was uttered, Lincoln was assassinated.  People marked their mourning status with silk badges with what is now my new mantra, these four words plucked from his final speech:

with malice toward none

I'm not saying the rest of this road to election day will be easy or judgment-free but I'm going to cling to this mantra like a vine in the jungle.

Lincoln's lovely tap on the shoulder comes synchronistically only days after having my very first conversation with a Trump supporter.  I had been wondering if anyone in my immediate orbit was a supporter.  I was hoping I could speak to someone sane about what they saw in him.  I wished it wouldn't be a stranger, but frankly didn't want it to be anyone too close either, for fear their reasons might put a wedge between us forever.

On Monday I went to dinner with a fairly new friend, and I thought he was joking when he first mentioned he was a supporter.  He keeps it tucked away delicately, like a pocket square accidentally shoved just out of sight. 

We ended up having a very long, extremely peaceful discussion.  It was hard to hear many of his points, his defense of what I consider incendiary rhetoric.  At one point I felt like crying.  It broke my heart to hear that he thought Obama was a bad president. But I also really got that just like everything in life, our life experiences give us lenses through which we see the world.  The sum total of my life experience makes me adore Obama and Hillary.  The sum total of my friend's life and his daily experiences in his profession give him a very different perspective.

Yet, in the end, as we talked through all that we each wish and hope for the country,

I realized he and I were much closer than we appeared in that teeny tiny mirror called politics.  We just have different ideas of the right way to get there.  Wounds need binding.  Things need fixing.  Peace needs nurturing. 

 

My man Abe could be calmly reading these words from the Capitol stairs today:

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

 

 

Ron White said a woman he met recently at an event said she was going to write in Abe Lincoln on the ballot.  I think if we work on living with malice toward none it might clear the way for us to all make the most perfect choice for ourselves and our country.