Superpower Booster: Another Arrow for Your Superhero Quiver

I just saw Wonder Woman finally.  A mighty Superhero of Love she is.  Spoiler alert: Love wins. 

Made me remember how the more superpowers we have the better.  The more superhero tools the better.  The more areas where we are powerful, the more love we are able to give.

If you are looking for another arrow for that mighty quiver of yours, click this:

My latest HuffPo article

 

 

If it works for you, or inspires you, then pass it on.  Empower yourself, empower others and we all benefit from the generosity.

 

With love to all your kick ass superheroes out there!

 



Pi Love

Someone I knew who always brightened my path -- and that of everyone he met -- passed away a couple months ago.  His name was Jon.  He was sunshine.  It made sense then when I found out after he died that one of his favorite flowers was the sunflower.  I'm pretty sure they bowed to him whenever he passed them in his travels.

The person for whom his soul shined the brightest was his wife, Mo.  So when he died unexpectedly, suddenly, at far too young an age, it was most jarring for those of us who loved how they loved each other.  The solar system was thrown off its axis.  All hell broke loose in all of our hearts for her enormous loss.

A gathering was set for just several days after he died, so that everyone could somehow join hearts and heads together to try to rearrange the solar system in order to move forward. 

It rained all through the night and day leading up to the event. And then, just before the memorial began, the clouds parted and His Sunshineness came out to make his presence known. Many of us took it as a clear sign of Jon tapping us all on the shoulder in his elf-ish way: I. Am. Here.

Jon was famous for something other than his sunshine spirit, something tangible, edible.   People begged him to make his famous cheesecake.  So I asked Mo if I could make several for the gathering.  She led me to the fridge where she revealed all the main ingredients sitting waiting for me.  Jon had been scheduled to make one for a friend the day he died. 

Mo gave me his recipe with the warning "I'm sorry but they just won't be as good as Jon's because he made them with so much love."  So I mustered all the love in my heart to do his cheesecake recipe justice.  But my heart was less full of love than angst. I was not only worried that they wouldn't be as tasty as his but I was also concerned they might make people miss him even more. I was getting far too serious about the whole process.  Jon would have jumped up and down in the kitchen waving his hands encouraging me to lighten up about the whole thing in a playful sing-song: "Let's have fun baking!" he would have screamed. 

And "scream" he did -- with the symbol you see in the photograph above that I took just after I pulled the third cheesecake from the oven.

Why the Pi symbol, you ask? A few days before I baked the cheesecakes, I saw a cartoon on Instagram:

Setting: a couple's therapist's office.

The patient couple: the number 4 and the symbol Pi. 

The complaint: 4 is bitching that Pi "goes on an on..."

The cartoon stayed with me for days and I remembered the punchline as "He goes on and on FOREVER."

So when I pulled the third cheesecake out of the oven (with a witness at my side who can attest to my not having manipulated it in any way) and saw the above perfectly etched Pi symbol, I had to bow like every loyal sunflower to the Mighty Sunshine Jon.  "Yep," he would have said "I will go on and on forever, so stop your fretting and get back to the fun part!"

If you have lost someone you loved dearly, take a moment this Pi Day to give yourself the gift of make believe: pretend you pulled this cheesecake out of the oven yourself and got this reminder from them. 

Happy Pi Love Day, Superheroes! 

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.