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Tap Dancing in the Minefield of the Heart

It’s a conversation that’s been a long time coming.  On the outside things look fine; on the inside something is missing, feels off, irritates or just plain hurts. For years, explaining things away, rationalizing that things are great, good enough, okay, as much as we deserve since others have it a lot worse. Until either the body gives out or refuses to carry the lies any more. We have been taught to tell the truth, that the truth will set you free. We have also been taught that the truth can topple carefully-constructed lives and cause pain and chaos, that some truths are better kept as secrets. How others feel, keeping their secrets and lies, is more important than our own health and well-being.  That betrayal of self is okay, celebrated, even, in the preservation of a system, institution, or life crafted to maintain or control rather than evolve and grow.

Well, in plain language, time to call bullshit on all of that.

Be yourself and tell the truth. How simple and rich an existence would we each have, how powerful and awesome the lives we would create,  adhering to that clear and natural law of engagement.  Never has this been more obvious and more unsettling. Knowing clearly who we are, owning clearly our truth, enables us to weather storms of confusion and create our path to the life we want for us and for the people we love. It begins with honouring our own knowledge and instincts, listening and learning when something feels off or catches our attention. It begins with choosing different for yourself, choosing authenticity every time, even when it hurts.

It means examining what we consider healthy relationships, and owning how we may sell ourselves – and by extension those we care about – short, claiming to be honest when we are hiding secrets and spinning stories to ‘keep the peace’ or to remain okay with ‘good enough.’

It means having that conversation that’s been a long time coming.

Many people will refuse to believe in their own power to transform the world because their own created world is ‘okay the way it is.’ Everything is a choice, and I get this one. I lived this way for years, until it was time that I couldn’t any more. Years after I awakened to new possibilities, I fought like hell to keep everything balanced and smooth, the world I had created based on what I learned as a child and young adult, and the new emerging world that I knew in my cells was my present and future. The thing is, the two worlds were in direct opposition. What I created I based on what I knew, my history, my need to be productive according to the standards of others and protected from the outside, a protection that manifested as isolation and that really never works. My emerging world is based on who I am, the divine signal here on Earth with a purpose, emerging choice by choice and moment by moment, safety  and referencing internal, being and living my authentic self and giving space for that to change as I learn more and choose differently, a constant flow of energy within and without, creating rather than replicating, evolving rather than protecting. Running both scenarios is akin to driving while stomping the gas and the brake at the same time. It’s a choice that seems safe in the moment, but will kill you over time, and it very nearly did, a couple of times. If disease or body wear doesn’t get you, the suppressed rage does.

The more I awaken the more I know that an inauthentic life will kill me, that spinning stories based on beliefs of others that hold little meaning or sense for me will only keep me churning in circles and detached from my life, and from those in it. Keeping secrets and telling lies, especially to myself, keeps no peace – it creates a barrier to a deeper more fulfilling relationship, creates an illusion that can never grow or be enjoyed. When is the last time an illusion hugged you warmly, wrapping you in scent and heartbeats and the soft warmness of someone you love? Those choosing illusion may not know what they choose, or that there is another way, but the body knows when the warmth it feels is authentic and when it is a story spun by a mind too invested in control to allow the truth.

Then there is the R word: risk. Better to have an illusion than nothing at all. Better to have ‘okay’ than zero. How long, though, can an awakening evolving infinite spirit survive on ‘okay’? When you love someone, feel the depth of connection, know there is so much more to experience and create and live, how long can ‘okay’ sustain the excitement, the promise, the joy?

Exactly. Which is why I chose to have a conversation, the toughest I have had to date, to look into those trusting blue eyes and speak my truth, which was to own that I was  being lied to because he was lying to himself, and that was no longer okay with me. I know his stories, I know they lie in wait as his source of protection against a world that has demonstrated over and over his heart and feelings are not safe unless he hides and controls the arena where they are revealed in tiny glimpses. For years I skirted the mines as my way of loving him, protecting him, conveniently protecting my stories and strategies as well. Getting close but not too close. Controlling access through clever wordplay. But skirting the mines gradually reduced my playing field to a space too small, no room for words or imagination or hope. I was lying to myself and my world of expansion was in limbo. I had to stand up for me, stop playing the victim in my own story and the peacemaker in his. It hurt. It was frustrating to feel him in the moment choosing strategy over truth. It felt, well, shitty, which makes sense. I was calling bullshit on stories that have run for decades, his and mine. Of course there is pushback, denial, defence. From both of us.

There is also promise and space that didn’t exist before. When the stench of manure drifted away, we were still standing, still talking, his eyes still held mine and were still that gorgeous shade of blue which told me I was seeing him – not his stories or that arrogant veneer of a soldier that runs the minefield – but his authentic self. A separate and equally powerful godforce that deserves space and time to own and make his choices, the space and time granted to me over the years by my awesome tribe of enlightened women who ensure I don’t have to navigate my minefield alone. It is time for me to be that presence for another, without expectation or demand. A few of my mines have just disappeared.

Conversations are like potato chips – you can’t have just one.  Reclamation is in layers, evolution is ongoing. My conversation was like removing the topsoil from the minefield.  We see the stories now. We can avoid them. We can take agonizing painstaking hours to diffuse them. Or we can simply choose in the moment to let go of the story and the mine disappears. Choice by choice. Conversation by conversation. Each authentic to self, creating something authentic and awesome when combined. That’s the life that creates, that we were born to lead. In my world, anyway.

—

The unique and comprehensive WEL-Systems® body of knowledge offers a powerful new context for personal evolution and change, including articles and audio clips available free of charge to pique your curiosity and invite your exploration of self.

Decloaking and Living Authentically is a conversation that will take you into the much deeper dive of who you are, as the thinker behind it all.
Listen to a free sample here.

As a CODE Model Coach™ I welcome your comments, inquiries and conversations: contact me for an introductory chat

Thanks for reading,

Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is an author, communications consultant, story doula and CODE Model Coach™ .
ownyourstorynow.com

 

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Decloaking the Emperor

Decloaking The Emperor

The Emperor’s New Clothes: you know the fable … an emperor in a far-off land pays a handsome sum to a travelling tailor promising to make the monarch the most beautiful clothing in the world. After much anticipation the emperor dons his new duds and parades through his kingdom, dressed in what he is told by the gleeful (and now rich) tailor that he looks wonderful. He also looks naked, because he is naked.His ‘new clothes’ are in fact non-existent but deep in his story that wealth can buy anything and no one would dare con an emperor, he sees nothing but his own imagination and the adoring faces of his subjects who not wanting to upset the Emperor buy into his narrative, push down their own truth for the sake of external safety, yes, sir, beautiful clothing, sir …

Ridiculous, eh? And just a fairy tale from long ago.
Or is it?

How many times have we nodded and smiled as someone parades in front of us in the most hideous outfit/haircut/makeup job and we say you go, girl, you look great even though we see a woman pretending to be something she’s not. How many times have we looked in the mirror and refused to see what is really looking back at us, focusing on things we deem ugly, not seeing the beauty of our existence. How many times have we watched friends move in together or get married knowing the relationship is a disaster waiting to happen, yet saying nothing because you don’t want to upset them or ‘be a downer.’ How many times have you watched an employee consistently muddle through their tasks and then in their performance evaluation give a smile and thumbs up to avoid hard feelings and potential action from human resources? How many times have you stalked away or unfriended a person who told you what they believed you needed to hear, and they were right, you just don’t want to go there?

To lie to yourself is the greatest inauthenticity there is, the deepest betrayal.
When we feel betrayed by the words or actions of another, often it is our own betrayal of self that is at the root of our rage, and at the root of that, shame at having created or at least allowed the betrayal to happen.

What did the emperor’s subjects do?

They agreed to not disagree. Keep the peace. Protecting the emperor’s ridiculous hold on his version of reality while his very essence swung unprotected in the breeze, while protecting themselves from his wrath at hearing what he didn’t want to know. Not a healthy environment for anyone, on any level.  Everyone asleep while life drifted toward an inevitable crash when the emperor eventually realized he had been, well, had and everyone around him allowed it to continue.

It took a child to speak the truth: the emperor hadn’t a stitch on. The tailor robbed him, literally bamboozled him out of the shirt on his back.

We are each that child. We as our authentic selves know the truth and are not afraid of speaking it. We know inherently that we need that authenticity, we deserve it … it is life.

Dr. Gabor Mate has said science proves humans need two fundamental things to survive: attachment and authenticity. Attachment is something most of us struggled with to some degree: even the most caring of parents ‘back in the day’ were taught to train their children rather than heed their cues, to not cuddle or console their crying child to avoid spoiling them, to work hard for money to give them all they need and want rather than simply spend time with them ….  And that’s not counting those of us who grow up without one or either of our parents, or cared for by institutions, or exposed to horrific emotional and physical abuse. The result we have attached to our ideals, to people who mirror what we wanted as children … people who remind us of our parents, who promise to care for and protect us. The thing is, a mirror reflects all and inevitably as we are drawn to what we want we attract what we know, and that is someone who promises what we want then falls short. We feel their betrayal of us when in fact what hurts is the awareness that we have already betrayed ourselves.

To that we should say NO … no more betrayal, no more ‘agreeing to not disagreeing’, no more keeping the peace and maintaining a lie for the benefit of others staying asleep in their lives.

There needs to also be YES … learning to say YES to our authentic voice, to our truth, to the moment as it presents, to the next moment we create, to being awake, to staying awake, to keeping our child self close and trusted, to remind us when we are drifting off into habitual programming rather than engaging fully awake and aware.

It may be as simple as ‘you know what, you’re naked.’

It may be as layered as ‘I feel our relationship is shrinking our world rather than expanding it … could we have a conversation about that?’ Either way, say YES to speaking up, and NO to keeping the peace. The Emperor may sputter and swear but in the end, if he’s human at all, he’ll be grateful for the heads up about his bare behind. I know I would.

Be yourself and tell the truth. How many bare butts and embarrassing moments and illnesses and agonies would be we spared as a result? That’s the world I want to live in and am choosing to create. You can, too. Be awake, be aware, and be honest and if you struggle with that, reach out to someone who mirrors your struggle unapologetically and listen, even if it makes you squirm. Relax into the chaos and allow yourself to learn what you’ve been carrying deeply for years, generations. Reach inward and invite forward the child you, when you knew what you knew and didn’t care who heard it. These are your allies. It takes a community to build a world.

Choose your community mindfully, authentically, honestly, and a new world will emerge as you emerge more fully yourself. Once you have made this choice, know there are people and resources to support you on your journey.

The unique and comprehensive WEL-Systems® body of knowledge offers a powerful new context for personal evolution and change, including articles and audio clips available free of charge to pique your curiosity and invite your exploration of self.

Decloaking and Living Authentically is a conversation that will take you into the much deeper dive of who you are, as the thinker behind it all.
Listen to a free sample here.

As a CODE Model Coach™ I welcome your comments, inquiries and conversations: contact me for an introductory chat

Thanks for reading,

Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is an author, communications consultant, publishing doula and CODE Model Coach™ .
ownyourstorynow.com

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A Tale of Two Mondays

Monday mornings are infamous in a culture conditioned to have fun on weekends and go back to the ‘grind’ of work/school/paying bills/paying dues. Off we trudge, lunch bags in hand, grieving the past days of sunshine and steeling ourselves for the days ahead, just like our ancestors did. No wonder I woke up feeling achy and sore like an aged labourer. I was repeating a pattern set long before I was born. However, I have something my ancestors did not: knowledge of myself as Signal in a body for the human experience, offering a new way to move through the world, and ownership of my choice to do it or not.

Sounds easy, yes? Know different, choose different. Part of the knowing different is listening to body cues – pressure, pain, or stiffness, for example – then breathing and relaxing into those sensations, inviting energy to move and information to present itself. Often this looks like prolonged periods of mindful breathing, relaxation, and quiet as the brain calms to let the body do its thing. However, silence is uncomfortable for most of us, particularly those of us with Signals pushing to be heard through the droning demands of the outside world. Writers are especially adept at filling the inner void with constant chatter of stories, often developing elaborate explanations for why this hurts or that annoys or this other thing just isn’t working.

So this particular Monday I awoke to a rainy day with head swimming, lower back aching, and the desire to do little except burrow under my quilt and wish the world away. My choices were many. I could claim that I had a virus, pop some Tylenol, go back to bed and wish for Tuesday to come as soon as possible. I could yawn and stretch and make breakfast, because of course everything can be fixed with a good meal. I could suck it up and push through, go to my desk and plunge into my do-list.

Instead, I chose ME. I did go back to bed but mindfully, stretched under the covers and breathed. I breathed into my lower back and relaxed. Breath gentle and steady, owning the wisdom of what my body was locking down and inviting it to move. And there it came, a memory in my awareness of frustration with another’s choice and actions spun into a story that kept a ball of righteous rage spinning deep in my lower back: fire energy that I could choose to use for creation, instead choosing to lock it away, keeping me achy and in place rather than energized and in flow.  So easy to stay stuck in the feeling, to keep the frustration going when it is about another person. Why don’t they know better? Why do they keep doing that to themselves?  Meanwhile, my energy stays diverted and my intellect insists I push on and not let it bother me. Sheer genius.

Genius that no longer serves if I choose to evolve and live fully in the life I am creating, moment by moment.

The thing is, once one story emerges, others will follow. More ownership of creation required … in this case my knowledge that I had started my Monday morning lockdown on Sunday, binge-watching Succession past when my body wanted to go to bed. A two-pronged genius approach here. Lack of sleep guaranteed I would wake up feeling like I was hit by a train. And hours immersed in a streaming service meant I was not present to my internal stream of consciousness, the flow of energy into words into my expressions to the world. Stay silent, stay safe. That may be true in some circumstances, for some people. It is not true for me. How to alert me to my misguided choices? The body never lies.

After I owned my binge-watching hangover as part of this intelligent yet misguided creation to keep my fire energy locked down, I could touch yet another story churning beneath. Write a blog today? No, don’t have time.

Hmmmm. I have an entire day spread ahead of me. As a contract worker I have more control than most over my external demands of time. No room to write my own blog? Of course I have room. Space is infinite.

And here I am. Back pain is gone. Head is still a little swimmy, but I’m only one coffee in. Body is relaxed as words flow, not squeezed under external pressure, invited to flow from within.

How many Monday morning agonies are tied to the stories found in workplaces and schedules, the lack of room for change or adaptation, the ‘we’ve always done it this way‘, or ‘too late or too old to change now‘ or the myriad of other ways we as humans convince ourselves that change is scary, habit is productive, routine is the grease to the human wheel of survival.  Well, habits can be reframed and reformed and patterns can be interrupted, and if we as a world want things to be different, we as individuals need to be honest with ourselves about where we choose habits and patterns of others, take ownership of all we create and choose mindfully for ourselves.

This blog is proof of what happens with ownership, choice and mindful breath. For you it might look like something else … a chapter outline, a pitch to a publisher, cleaning out the closet, whatever you hold as something you want to do yet to this point have avoided doing it. There is a reason why you haven’t done it. Honour that in the moment, and open to learn from it. Then the stigma of Monday morning may fade into the infinity that is a quantum existence, where, as the beloved Lady Violet from Downton Abbey, we ask, puzzled, “What is a weekend?”

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The Longest Day of the Year

I love lilacs. The scent, their simple elegance, their tenacity … every May and June, they brighten my world and remind me to stop, smell, and just BE.

The longest day of the year, the summer solstice … that’s a powerful invitation too and this year the lilacs were a bit late, leaving a few hardy blooms around in time for this special transition that only recently I am coming to fully appreciate.

It was on the longest day of the year that someone I care about became a widower, and it was on the longest day of the year five years later that I awoke with a story too vivid to ignore, a story so urgent in my body that I sat and wrote for a day until it was finished. It was a story of how they met, this man and his wife, the story of the longest day decades before. It was a tale of shy attractions and veiled hopes, of a watch that suddenly stopped telling time and a moonlight dash for forbidden lilacs from a cranky neighbour’s yard, shared with me in wisps and phrases. I wrote a story and created something new. At the time, it was something I couldn’t NOT do. After I worked up the courage to share it with him, it became a story we both were called to tell.

It was on that longest day that the Finding Maria series was born.  His story in four books. I knew not then the power of what I was writing, just that I could feel an expansion, a light, with every new chapter and I could see in him the courageous evolution he invited in sharing his story to process life choices and heal the grief. What has taken considerably longer is for me to sit with what writing the series did, and continues to do for me.

I offered him a powerful creation and wanted nothing in return. He stood firm and offered me an invitation – to step into the creator that I am, the writer that I am, the I AM that I am. And that is an invitation for which I have not always been grateful. After years of allowing my intellect to form my tiny controlled world, it became difficult to separate fact from fiction, the who I AM compared to the who I was trained to be.  After four books of another’s story, the fifth book rests squarely with me and I know in my body, as I did with that short story so many years ago, that this next book is mine: no fiction, no hiding. What has been buried in the fog of battle between ME as signal and the world my intellect is protecting are the words I choose to share, the story I want to tell. For years, what has percolated through the various shoulds and can’ts and musts and don’ts has been prose that to me feels wilted, crushed, unrecognizable. I have had to relearn how to write: not on demand and without thinking, as I have always done, not plucking the words and setting them down but releasing into the flow of energy that I am and allowing the words to surface. Sounds easy. Too easy, my brain hisses. And so I make it difficult, distracting myself, becoming insanely busy so I don’t have time to know I’m distracting myself … and all the while, my words, like the lilacs, fragrant and tenacious, wait for me to BE and notice.

I did that today. On this longest day of the year, and what has turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year so far, I spent the afternoon relaxing, listening inward, waiting for the physical cue saying Yes, it’s time, let’s write this. It may not read differently than anything else I’ve written. It may read worse. It felt good to write, and in all honesty, it has been a long time since I could say that. Writing had been at best a means to survival. I had never allowed myself to want it, to love it, to grow with and because of it. Just like with the man who inspired this writing journey, the man I call my Muse. I never allowed myself to own the power of our co-creations, the power of our interactions, the power of us just being in each other’s presence. It seemed too much, too unattainable, too good to be true. As I backed away, my words backed up and the book I meant to release five years ago remains raw, in pieces, and parts unwritten.

Today as I sat with my manuscript in progress, I found I had written about that, a massive metaphor.  Here’s a sneek peak at what I’m working on, shared here today in gratitude for my Muse:

With him I felt that I could not just write but feel beyond places and dates to the dance of the ocean, warmth of the sky, the aroma of joy itself. In his presence I awakened to the possibilities of a creative life, a connected life, feeling for the first time the essence of another, and being felt completely in return. And it was in his presence that for the first time, words failed me. We had been given a blank page for our co-existence upon which to create whatever we wished. I wanted to fill the page with adventures, experiences, memories. I didn’t want labels or constructs or obligations. But I had no words to explain, and when he would ask What do you want? I would mumble, repeat some well-worn story of ‘whatever was needed from me’ or ‘whatever I was meant to have’ with no insight, no hint even, of the person giving the answer.  So the page remained blank. Stuck, like the book I now struggle to write.

It hasn’t been easy for either of us in this world strange yet familiar, expansive yet fitting in nowhere and I’ve allowed my fear to govern my choices and reactions. Yet like the lilacs, we remain tenacious, coming back into each other’s presence and conversations, continuing to connect amid storms and stories that draw us in different directions.

Releasing into the chaos  means there is no fear, only awareness. Writing for me is no longer a means of survival. It is a key to evolution. It is a key to the life I want. It is the key to me being ME, because until I can be my full self I cannot have what I want with others. When I am ME, words never fail. 

The Finding Maria series produced, among other things, lilacs that will never fade 🙂

My creation from that first short story, in print and in life, is still revealing itself when I pause and ask to know more.  The blank page – of my story and in my life – no longer frightens. It does irritate now and then, which is a great invitation to embrace the fire of creative energy and get to it or, as my Muse has been saying for more than a decade, ‘get ‘er done.’

The lilacs have faded and light on the longest day is dimming. A new season and a new chapter has just begun.

 

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The Art and Agony of Retreats

The body knows when it’s time to get off the crazy train of habituated life and explore a new way of being. It’s a tickle deep in the soul that cannot be scratched, medicated or pretended away and that leaves in a whoooosh! when a retreat is found for a time and place that simply clicks. If it’s a retreat of solitude, you and only you for however long, then your experience is completely your own. Choosing to be part of a group retreat unlocks a whole other dimension. When you click sign up you’re submitting your name, address and credit card information, and you’re submitting to an experience uncharted, unknown … and best served that way. There is often a stated purpose, itinerary, takeaways, etc. but it is in the moments unscheduled, the events unpredicted, and the discoveries unimagined that the real magic happens: healing, awakening, expansion, or all of the above. Whatever your intention. And there’s the tricky part. More about that in a moment.

After the initial whooosh of mind and credit card going OMG I’m Going On A Retreat!!! there is excitement counting down the days, with rings of doubt circling like mosquitos, buzzing at random: What if it’s not like the pictures? What if I don’t like it? What of they don’t like me? What do I pack? What’s the food like? And a bajillion other inventions of the mind to keep us anchored in the past as we evolve toward the future. When the chaos of transition settles, there is nothing like walking into the wide open arms of a retreat space, especially when you are the first to arrive. Breathing in the scents of flowers and incense, with a faint (and welcome) hint of laundry soap and kitchen cleaner. A fresh space, blank canvas waiting for artists to arrive and add their energy to the mosaic that will be the retreat experience. One by one, the participants arrive, parting the silence with their unique signals, voices, expressions. There is joy in hello, polite conversation, a gradual unravelling of tension as threads of commonality are revealed, engaged, rewoven into conversations that inspire, connect, pique the curiosity. There is an openness and hope about what the coming days will bring.

Then the real fun begins.

A day or two in, individual lenses are honed, sharpened, focused within.  Intentions stated are fleshed out, altered, in the growing light of awareness. We learn the concept of ‘retreat’ is not the same for everyone. Each of us called to this common space are indeed very different in journeys, beliefs, choices of self. Some want to literally retreat, escape from their lives for a few days of respite. Others want to explore new ways and ideas for living while remaining firmly entrenched in the way life is for them now. Still others are ready to dive deep, shed the cocoons of their past and leap headlong into a new way of being.  Put them all together in a house for a few days and the threads of commonality begin to fray and reweave a new tapestry. We are called to share the mundane chores of life – who is making coffee, who knows how to run the dishwasher,  is there no fresh fruit, are we doing anything today … yes, there’s yoga and talking circle, but are we going anywhere?  while navigating invitations to our evolutions that light up some, terrify others. A human cell cannot protect and grow at the same time. A cell of humans cannot expand and maintain as a unit at the same time, either. It becomes clear that while some want ‘retreat’ for the inner space, others want ‘resort’ for the escape. To sit with themselves, even for a few hours, is agony. For those seeking evolution, to be constantly on the go to beaches and restaurants and shopping and sightseeing is agony for them. It seems hopeless. Did we make a mistake signing up for this?

We clicked ‘submit’ for a reason: ‘submit’ not just for registration, but for the unfolding of the experience. Submit to our fears that keep us isolated and judgemental. Submit to our beliefs that may or may not serve us any more. Submit to the fact that each and every person in the group is not a random element or distraction from your deep dive, but an aspect of yourself, whether you want to own it or not. The part of you terrified to touch old stories and habits. The part of you needing to control your surroundings. The part of you needing to know what is happening every moment ahead of every moment. The part of you wanting to just lie in the sun and forget about the world. The part of you angry and not knowing why. The part of you sad and afraid to show it. The part of you convinced you have built a good life but need others to keep reminding you. Submitting to it all not as why do they … and why don’t they … but as invitations for self, mirrors of self,  is gamechanging for any experience. Seeing on the outside what festers on the inside brings light, awareness, and options for choice: keep festering or allow release and healing. That’s hard, owning that in the fire building within, amid the urges to scream, ‘For the love of God, would you just grow up!’ that the intensity is created by you for you. That screaming is at yourself. The choice of what to do next is all yours.

On the final day, threads are again rewoven, this time in shared chaos of transition again, into the wider world. For some, back to the relief of routine and familiar surroundings. For others, a return to the familiar with new insights and outlook. For me, this time, there is no going back, no desire to return to what was. There is a call to be home and I will honour that. Retreats for me have become a place to cocoon, gestate, and emerge from. Home will always be home.

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The Art of Being Invisible

Want new and different ways to disappear? Just ask a writer.

For those who admire writers and what they do, the thought of writers being invisible is bizarre, laughable even. “You’re living my dream,’ a dear friend once gushed to me. I stood in front of her feeling like she didn’t see me at all. We move through the world, we writers, committing heart-felt words to paper, giving voice to other peoples stories, speaking to the world in varied tones depending on what the world wants to hear – our words bringing comfort, amusement, fire … expanding knowledge or providing escape.

All this and invisible? Seriously?

Let me count the ways.

There is the invisibility of abundance. Writers are everywhere. Bookstores are bulging. Bookshelves are overflowing. Even those writers considered highly visible with awards and accolades and top spots on the bestseller lists are buried in the piles of books straining for audiences, grasping for buyers, languishing in the piles of ‘waiting to read’ in booklovers’ homes the world over. Words vetted and curated and published and purchased are buried, forgotten even, in plain sight. And those are the lucky ones.

There is the invisibility of familiarity. When is the last time you savoured a sunrise? The most spectacular light show in the universe, playing daily free of charge, and most of us don’t take time to enjoy it. We assume the sun has risen by the light cast on our ringing alarm and frantic pre-work/pre-school breakfast. Writers every day are weaving magic with words, fuelling the world with social media posts and SEO, news and directions, entertainment and insights. Like the sun, writers show up every day. As feeds are scrolled  or pages are flipped, it is assumed words will be where and what is needed.

There is the invisibility of dismissal. Everyone’s a writer. Everyone’s writing. You have a book? So do I. So do they. So do thousands more. Not a best seller? No agent? No book deal? No shelf space. Pitching a publisher? Join the pile and roll the dice.  Oh, here, can you whip up 10 pages of dialogue/ two chapters/ a newsletter/insert assignment here by the end of the day? How hard can it be?

There is the invisibility of concession. Do what the client wants. Follow the specs, the guidelines, the rules. Be a tool for others’ needs rather than an instrument of your own creation. Use money as a justification to give others’ work priority over your own. All combine to give a life gleaming with purpose and profit. Your words become martyrs to the cause.

Why, oh why do folks aspire to be writers or continue to be writers in such a dismissive, indifferent world? One simple answer: it’s the perfect place to hide. The realms of invisibility exist because writers are adept at creation, and they create these places of hiding in plain sight to be safe from the world, from themselves. However, as master storytellers, writers blur the line between fact and fiction in these realms of their creation. There is no safety in invisibility. There is only smallness and silence, and writers were born to live large and be heard. Why are so many writers such tortured souls? Squeeze your immenseness into a tiny box for years and see how it feels. Bind yourself with self-doubt, guilt at being successful when so many others struggle, the need to please publishers and editors and readers and the master manipulators of the best seller metrics and then try to soar as your spirit was intended. No need for a freezing writer’s garret to make writers suffer. We do it to ourselves with every breath.

So, what is a writer to do?

Life is breath, life is choice, second by second, Breathe deep into the base of your spine, where your spirit meets tissue. Who are you? Who can you become? How does the godforce that you are choose to live today? How does writing serve your choices? Then choose you. And let the ideas, the words, the work, flow from the Signal that you are. If you see you, invisibility becomes not inevitable, but yet another tool you can choose, or not, to live your life.

What will I do? Today, I watched the sun rise. I wrote this blog. Choice by choice, it’s a day waiting for my creation.

Thanks for reading.

 

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The Brilliance of Being Sideswiped

It was over in a split second. But the memory lingered like a scratched LP, playing over and over,  chafing annoyance to indignation that could be dismissed only a moment until the replay. There was wisdom itching to be heard, if I paused and allowed it.

Would I dare let myself do that?

And so began my Saturday morning, one like so many others made revolutionary by the engagement of quantum processing.

I was leaving my mom’s place in the city, headed home as I have done hundreds of times in the 10 years she’s lived there.  A shiny silver Civic whirled past me in the roundabout and ended up ahead of me on the ramp leading to the highway away from the city.  The irritation began as a mild annoyance – as swift as it was in the roundabout,  the Civic was now taking a nap when speed was of the essence, holding at 80 clicks when at least 100 was needed to merge into the double lanes choked with weekend traffic. We weave into the lineup and I pass the Civic, gliding among the slow-movers and the serious speeders to find my own space and settle into my 90-minute commute. But there was too much traffic to find my rhythm,  and a slow-mover hogged the passing lane while each new on-ramp pumped more cars into the fray. I braked and held my space in the thru-lane, watching for the passing lane to clear. I checked my shoulder, my side mirror, and the light on my mirror that blinks to warn of cars in my blind spot.  A car approaching beside me. And another. And another. The car ahead of me brakes suddenly and I did another quick check. Finally all clear and I pulled out to get around the halting lineup ahead of me.

And there it was. A blur of silver directly beside me, out of nowhere. I did everything right, everything I always did to drive safely and I was about to sideswipe a car in the lane beside me. And not just any car. That silver Civic.

I yanked my wheel to the right, pulling me back in my lane until the car went by and I pulled out behind. It braked hard, I matched and hung behind until it completed its passing and pulled back into the slower lane and I passed, kept passing,  glancing back only to ensure the way was clear and the Civic was well behind me, before pacing my speed to the fastest cars ahead, feeling nothing but the need to get home, as fast as possible.

Then I took a breath, and felt everything. The heat of the past few seconds – or minutes, maybe? – swept over me, through me like a firestorm. The horror that I had nearly caused an accident. The surprise: I checked for cars and there weren’t any. Where did it come from? The indignation: I looked and signaled, they should have seen me coming and waited. Another breath, and it surfaced, underneath it all, churning and festering: The Shame.  A sensation I knew all too well, had felt most of my life about anything I did or said, too loudly, too quickly, against the rules or against the grain, any time I ‘stepped out of line’ or ‘crossed the line.’ according to those scolding me. And here I did it to myself. I crossed the line into a lane I thought was ready for me and did something wrong. I nearly caused an accident, could have injured or killed someone, and it was my fault. How could I.

I glance in my rearview mirror, stomach clenched at the sight of every grey and silver vehicle gliding behind me as the darkened air filled with light rain.  I had not seen the driver of the Civic, didn’t know if there were passengers, knew nothing of their reaction to my inadvertent lane change other than the braking after I pulled behind them, braking that could have been their scolding, their retribution, or a simple compensation for the steep hill we had just descended. In the vacuum of facts, my imagination spun wildly,  replaying the flash of silver beside me over and over as the driver, also imagined, shouts obscenities, calls the police, is the police, flips me the bird, grabs a gun. I contemplate not stopping for gas, for fear the Civic behind me would follow me off the highway and confront me at the pumps. But letting my body lead, as it did when I avoided the crash, I pulled off at my usual station and coasted to the pump with the yellow stripe, the one that with every use provides a donation to the children’s hospital. Giving to sick kids brought a moment’s relief from the relentless harangue in my head, the yellow strip reminding me I wasn’t that bad a person as my inner voice punished me more than any irate driver or highway patrol officer ever could.

I breathed as I turned off the car and glanced around. A few cars at the pumps, scattered pedestrians entering and exiting the restaurant, going about their Saturday, not paying any attention to me at all. I breathed again, opened the car door and prepared to face whatever awaited me outside the safety of my tiny metal cocoon. Still nothing except my beating heart and the scenario running in my head. As I stood there, nozzle in hand, filling my tank, I chose to empty my head and let the scenario take form. I imagined the Civic driver,  not in appearance but in behavior. I saw no gender or hair color or outfits; I only heard the heat of their words, words I would have said if I were them. You fucking idiot! You nearly killed me! Where did you get your licence, in a Cracker Jack box?  How dare you risk my life like that! You don’t deserve to be on the road! 

As my tank slowly filled with gas, I allowed the words to be real, allowed the ghostly image of the driver to pace in front of me, furiously awaiting a response. I invited myself to stand my ground, feel the heat, and let words slowly flow from my heart, authentic and sincere. I’m sorry, was my response. I honestly didn’t see you, but my actions no doubt scared you.  I am sorry for that and grateful you’re not hurt. 

I breathed, watching the numbers on the pump spin slowly upward, feeling the heat in my body inching downward to the base of my spine .  There was more to say.

I know it seems like I’m a crappy driver because I almost hit you, but it also seems it’s because I’m a good driver that I didn’t. 

The numbers on the pump stop spinning. The image of the silver car looming out of nowhere in my side window stops its replay. It’s because I’m a good driver that I had the reflexes and presence of self to pull back in my lane without hitting cars ahead and behind, safely out of the way of  your car beside me, all in a split second. 

I don’t believe I’m  a crappy driver. I’m a good driver who is human. I make mistakes. Thank you for enabling me to learn today from my mistake. 

Heat flowed downward, following tissue and nerves into the ground as the ghostly figure melted into the damp rainy air. I created the entire situation, as clearly as I created the scenario playing out in my mind. The early irritation with the silver car. The near-miss that shocked my system but caused no harm. I needed to allow that being ‘good’ does not always mean being ‘right,’ that my capacity for reaction is an equally powerful tool of creation in a world that we are not of, but in.  On the highway of life, cars will come out of nowhere. The fact that we don’t see them is neither right or wrong, it just is. How we react and move forward is our choice, our creation, our gift, whether it looks that way to others or not.

When in danger, I let my body choose and my body chose not to die, crash or break anything. My body chose to do the next thing I needed and avoid an accident, and then chose to keep reminding me to learn the lesson, all while my intellect remained frozen in the moment of near-impact,  The lesson I needed to learn took not a literal smack to the head, just a proverbial one.  I allowed that the encounter on the highway was not one of incompetence, but of brilliance.

I pulled back on the highway as the light mist intensified to heavy rain. I merged into traffic, found my spot, and felt my rhythm.  During the drive home, the flash of silver would appear on occasion in the corner of my minds’s eye and catch the breath in my throat. Then I would breathe and rerun my new  scenario. I’m a good driver who is human. Good by my standards, because the word ‘good’ in this moment still holds some lessons for me. A good driver.  Of my car, of my life. Exactly where I want to go, not always recognizable, but always what I need to follow my signal and live authentically in the moment.

 

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The surprise of old cold love

Every year it happens. I breathe deeply of the last days of Christmas, smile warmly and embrace the promise of a new year, vow to write and clean and sing and play through the dark days of winter into spring’s warming light. You know the feeling, the zing and glow of a new relationship, the ecstacy of snuggling with a love both new and familiar, the letting go into a sparkling river of hope and joy that carries you forward in a million dots of delight that nothing can touch or tame.

Until it happens. By the second week of January and the second snowstorm, irritable from lack of sunlight and frozen in the grey reality that is an east coast winter, life officially sucks. Why? Why after living my entire life in the same cycle of seasons does this take me by surprise every year, and why do I end up feeling the same way every time? It’s like being in a bad relationship, one that no longer supports or serves but its parties are too tired, too indifferent, too detached to care enough to end it.

And there was my green dot moment, a point of awareness in the gloom. It hit me the other morning as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, debating whether to get up or stay put. I rolled over and heard the words in my head as clearly as if I had said it out loud.

“Oh, you’re still here …”

You’ve been there, cozy in bed, then you roll over and eye the snoring lump beside you, slammed back to reality. “Oh, you’re still here,” you mutter, in that moment wanting them and all the baggage attached to the relationship gone, but too mired in self-doubt, self-pity, or fear of being alone to say the words, set the plan, make it real. I promise to love January then wish it was July. I promise to love me, then wish I was someone somewhere else.

That morning, I said it, but the only snoring lump in bed was me. I was still here. I was promising for months to love myself but in reality, there were times when I really couldn’t stand myself. I wanted me and all my baggage gone, but then again, I wanted to be healthy and whole. Deep down I do love myself, but rarely do I let myself feel it like I feel the love I have for others. I simply don’t allow it. And when I don’t allow my love for myself, the love I have for others comes out filtered through my own loathing, feeling to them strained, arduous, inauthentic, not always identified, but sensed in a way that can be uncomfortable, unsettling. There can be no intimacy with that sort of chill underlying every breath and action, perpetuating the loneliness, inviting the frustration and then subduing it in a cloud of ‘who cares, there’s no point.’

I want to love January like I love July, for no reason than it is January, just January, with all its storms and cold and wind and darkness and greyness and isolation.  I want to love me like I love others in my life, for no reason other than I’m me, just me. No changes or fixing. Just me. My appearance, my talents, my fears, my stubborn habits, my restlessness, my desires, my crankiness, my joy. I need to embrace it all, stand firm in the things I find painful, allow joy where it beckons. A January nor-easter can freeze you to the bone and bury you in snow. It can also  make your skin tingle, blow the cobwebs from your brain, and coat your world in a powdery cocoon that invites indoor snuggling with cozy blankets, hot tea, and a fresh journal. July with all its warmth and beachy splendour cannot do that. Likewise, I am no beauty in the morning – or any other time of day for that matter – but I am who I want to be in this moment, and have the parts and pride to create what I want in the next moment.

“Oh, you’re still here.” Me speaking is the part of me stuck in the world that is ‘good enough’, safe and cozy by being inert and hidden because nothing is ever good enough or possible. Me listening, that snoring lump in the bed, is me cocooned, ready to toss off the covers and take on another day, with each footstep, each pile of laundry washed and deadline met is another step into a life I am creating.

You bet I’m still here. So is January. And thank God for it all. I don’t want it to be July, not yet. There’s much to do and love right now.

Thanks for being here.