When I perform my most popular keynote speech, "Finding Your Mojo: The ABCs of Living in Abundance, Balance and Creativity", one of the first mojo busters I describe is Ignoring the Signs. It's time for me to follow my own advice.
Over the last few years, I have been doing what I thought I needed to do to be a successful author and speaker. I have performed book readings at countless bookstores, conducted a monthly women's discussion group both in Florida and Minnesota, facilitated meditation circles and healing workshops, and took any other opportunity presented to me to get in front of people. Ever since Opening the Kimono was published, I have performed free speaking engagements whenever possible in exchange for the opportunity to sell books and audiobooks afterward. I had been in training and facilitation roles for several years, both in my corporate and alternative healing days, but I had not yet broken into the land of the "paid professional speaker".
Boy, have things changed.
Over the last nine months, I have worked my cajones off to get recognized as a bonafide speaker, worthy of commanding a decent fee for my services. It has been incredibly difficult to break into this industry, especially in the midst of the worst economic downturn in my lifetime. It turns out that being a professional speaker involves a helluva lot more than just being good on stage; you also need to be an expert at sales, marketing, customer service, and business administration. You need to have an appealing, professionally-designed web site, a killer four-minute demo video, the ability to write compelling marketing materials, the courage to pick up the phone to call (and call and call and call and call) strangers to pitch them about your work, and most importantly, possess a thick layer of skin that will help you survive when you get pierced by the word "no" time and time again. The sales cycle is long, the competition is fierce, and the budgets are tight. Simply put, speaking ain't for sissies.
During this challenging time of growth, I had been relying on local events to keep me connected with people, sell a few books, and get my name out into the community. When we first moved to Minneapolis, my small events were going well, but I was not finding success with the larger keynote programs I was trying to secure. Yet, over time, the tides have turned. Over the last few months, I have seen a dramatic drying up of my small events, e.g. no one showing up for my free women's discussion group, three people showing up for my guided meditations, and workshops getting canceled due to lack of participation. At the same time, I have seen an explosion of interest in my major keynote programs - events where I am speaking in front of several hundred participants. Just this week I did a keynote at the Sheraton Bloomington Grand Ballroom for over 400 people. In a few months, I'll be performing "Finding Your Mojo" for 600-800 people, and I am in the final selection round for a Fall event that would be give me the opportunity to present in front of THOUSANDS of women. Prospective clients are sending me emails telling me that they want me for their next big function, glowing testimonials are opening doors to new gigs, and several national speaking bureaus have chosen to represent me.
Here's the irony. Two weeks ago, I had to cancel my monthly local chakra meditation at a neighborhood apartment complex because the door to the party room was inadvertently locked. It wasn't a major catastrophe, as only a few people showed up anyway. I have also decided to permanently cancel my Club Kimono Discussion Groups due to lack of participation. Finally, I am scheduled to do a workshop this Saturday at a local yoga studio that looks like it will cancel too due to poor registration. Talk about reading the signs!
At first, all I could think about was the personal sting of rejection that the "failure" of my local events brought about. It hurts when you get all gussied up to host a meditation or discussion group, pack up your car with books and flyers, drive to the venue, and wait for people to arrive. And wait. And wait a little longer. With each passing moment where no one walks in the door, a little more of my self-esteem was chipped away. Why? Why didn't they like me anymore? What was wrong with me? How come no one was showing up? WTF?????
Then I reminded myself of my Mojo Buster #1: Ignoring the Signs. In my presentation, I talk about how we lose our mojo when we constantly ignore the signs from The Universe (aka Spirit) to do something different. When we ignore them, the physical indicators will get louder and more unpleasant until we recognize the underlying message and act upon it. Eight years ago, I received a crystal-clear sign from Spirit that I was no longer going to be a Corporate Climber. The unmistakable sign was that I got laid off. Twice. Afterward, I could not find a comparable position no matter how hard I tried. In hindsight, I realize that I was patently unsuccessful in finding another job was because I wasn't supposed to. The Universe wanted me to move in a whole new direction -- alternative healing -- and I needed to have it slapped across my face for me to pay attention. Fast forward eight years later, and I am grateful beyond belief that I received those unpleasant signs.
I now find myself in another major transition. My life as a local healer is over, at least for now. Spirit is slamming doors shut left and right while opening others for me to walk through. I believe that Spirit has put an end to my local events so I don't need to let people down when I'd inevitably need to do it down the road. My calendar is already getting full with major keynotes, and my Club Kimonos and Chakra Meditations simply wouldn't be able to fit around them. There is a part of me that is saddened by this loss, but I also know that it is the natural next step for me.
One of the toughest challenges I face as I traverse this exciting new path is the acknowledgment of Bigness. It's a little uncomfortable to accept the fact that I am now being handsomely paid to get up in front of hundreds of people and...talk. There is a part of me that feels like I don't deserve this kind of success. A little annoying voice whispers in my ear, "Who do you think you are, Miss Fancy Pants? Do you really think that you are good enough to do this job?" It feels like trying on a luxurious, beautiful outfit at your favorite store and feeling enormous guilt for even bringing it into the dressing room. Yet, here I stand, wearing the outfit.
When I was freaking out before going on stage at the Sheraton this week, Michael took me in his arms and reminded me that I was BORN to do this. He's absolutely right. I've prepped for this moment ever since I was a child when I stood in front of my mirrored closet holding a microphone/hairbrush in my hand and performed for my enraptured stuffed animals. My current profession is a glorious combination of teacher, preacher, actor, and cheerleader -- all of which I have joyfully performed -- and I am finally accepting that I have gotten what I have been asking for. I am ready to accept my role as Bringer of the Mojo, even if it occasionally tweaks me (and a few others around me).
Thanks, Spirit, for being my Cosmic GPS. I understand that I have finally arrived at my destination: Joy.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Opening My Kimono in 2010
I no longer want to write, I NEED to. My life depends on it.
The last eight months have been one of the most difficult periods in my life. My husband Michael and I have found ourselves in the unenviable position of struggling to find gainful employment, shortselling our home in Florida, having to move out of our rented home in Minnesota and into a small, two bedroom apartment, and fighting off creditors that are starting to bang on our door. Long story short, we are running out of money.
When I was in college, I learned about a psychologist named Abraham Maslow and his theory that human behavior is dictated by a hierarchy of needs. On the bottom level of the pyramid, one strives to have basic, physiological needs met, those of breathing, water, sex, food, and shelter. Once those needs are met, one has the freedom to move up the pyramid to the second level in an attempt to meet safety and security needs. Once those are met, we move upward to focus on love and affection. If those are satisfied, we elevate to having our needs for esteem, confidence, and respect of others met. Finally, if all of these areas are provided for, we transcend to the highest level to that of self-actualization.
In other times in my life, I have been blessed to reside on the top of the pyramid. I have spent hours contemplating my own existence (and navel) and worked on core issues that kept me from being the most enlightened, non-judgmental, expressive person I could be. Those were good times indeed! I got the healing work I needed, experienced the creature comforts that a full bank account (or a large credit line) afforded, and had ample time to pursue happiness around every corner. My relationships were rich and rewarding, my body was in excellent condition, I had a spring in my step, and I went to bed every night with a smile on my face.
However, I have also resided at the bottom of the pyramid. I painfully recall the years in my early twenties when I avoided answering my phone -- when I had a phone -- because I knew that a bill collector would be on the other line. (These were the olden days before the invention of the omniscient Caller ID.) Dinner consisted of ramen noodles or easy cheese spread over my fingers. I lived in a God-awful, rodent-infested apartment right next to the El train tracks in Chicago and lived paycheck to paycheck. If my friends and I went out and had a few drinks at the local bar, I would have to find a way to survive over several days without food until I got paid again. Sometimes dinner would be saltine cracker packets surreptitiously acquired from the local Wendy's. Eventually I worked my way out of the shithole I was in and slowly, ever slowly, climbed up Maslow's ladder.
Now, at forty years of age and a husband and daughter later, I find myself back on the bottom. Many nights I have laid awake, asking God why he won't send me the big book deal or the next lucrative speaking contract. My stomach has started to respond with that same, burning sensation I used to feel when I had ulcers. Everything around me is getting tighter -- my throat, my bank account, and my pants. This difficult situation has become even more disquieting given the fact that I am supposed to be the award-winning author of inspirational personal essays and a dynamic motivational speaker!!! I tell myself in the quietest, darkest times that I am a failure because I am so woefully mishandling my life. Instead of being the Bringer of the Mojo, I have become the Bringer of the Slo-Mo. This challenging period has caused me to fill myself with guilt, shame, and anger, both at myself and at God. Why won't you hear my prayers?? What have I done to deserve this?? What did I do wrong?? Am I being punished for some bad behavior I have previously done?? Why, why, why???
In the cold light of day, I realize that my struggles aren't unique or personal. The economic downturn has caused many of us to dramatically alter our lives, and we are forced to re-examine our priorities. Not only are we doing without, but many of us are thrown into the deep end of the survival pool. However, it's important to remember that just because you can't pay your bills, that doesn't make you less of a person. Just because my calendar contains less speaking engagements then I would like it to doesn't mean that I am a bad speaker. Just because my books aren't selling as well as I would like them to doesn't mean that I am a rotten writer. It's not personal; it just IS.
This experience, like every obstacle, has provided a wealth of gifts and lessons to me. I am releasing attachments that have kept me from being truly at peace: attachments to material objects, to ego, and to the approval of others. Through the process of downsizing, I am letting go of anything that no longer serves me. Our basement is filled with boxes of stuff that I thought was important to me, but no longer is -- pictures, paintings, furniture, candleholders, books, and anything else that won't squeeze into our new, tiny abode. In the next two weeks, we will be selling or giving away items that have kept us mired at the bottom level of Maslow's pyramid. In this act of release, I am already feeling myself getting lighter, become less afraid, and, dare I say, becoming hopeful for the future. One of the greatest realizations I have had during this maelstrom is this: I am not my stuff. I am not my calendar, my business card, my house square footage, my piano, my family vacation, or my display of knickknacks.
This morning I realized that there was one final step for me to take to begin the journey upward: I needed to publicly share my story, warts and all. Embarrassment and ego have kept me from telling the gory details of my latest imbroglio. I was afraid of people judging me for not being the powerful woman I present myself to be. I was afraid that I would be seen as a failure, a victim, and a loser. One of the risks associated with full disclosure is the chance for those who may want to hire me or buy my book to say, "She's a nutcase! She's a nobody! Why in the hell would we want to hear anything she has to say?" However, the risk is well worth it. I need to authentically express my truth if I am to step away from the fear and back into power. It is time for me to open my kimono. Again.
I ask that you hold me in possibility, and I will do the same for you. Let's see each other climbing ever higher into that blissful place of self-realization where all of our needs are met and we can be the best of who we are. I am so very grateful for the gift of writing so I can purge the toxic thoughts that have kept me unhappy, unhealthy, and unrealized. The truth is a magical elixir that helps wipe clean all of the dirty little secrets we keep hidden away, and I am jumping back into it with gusto. My physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health are at stake. I must acknowledge, own, and even celebrate my life, even at its gunkiest. Because even at its ugliest, we are all still blessed with untold gifts. Sometimes the most painful times remind us of how friggin' awesome we truly are.
If you, like me, are living at or near the bottom of Abe's pyramid, please know that you are not alone. You are still a beautiful, magnificent, worthy, and divine being, no matter what the numbers on your check register or the credit report say. I honor you and your journey.
The last eight months have been one of the most difficult periods in my life. My husband Michael and I have found ourselves in the unenviable position of struggling to find gainful employment, shortselling our home in Florida, having to move out of our rented home in Minnesota and into a small, two bedroom apartment, and fighting off creditors that are starting to bang on our door. Long story short, we are running out of money.
When I was in college, I learned about a psychologist named Abraham Maslow and his theory that human behavior is dictated by a hierarchy of needs. On the bottom level of the pyramid, one strives to have basic, physiological needs met, those of breathing, water, sex, food, and shelter. Once those needs are met, one has the freedom to move up the pyramid to the second level in an attempt to meet safety and security needs. Once those are met, we move upward to focus on love and affection. If those are satisfied, we elevate to having our needs for esteem, confidence, and respect of others met. Finally, if all of these areas are provided for, we transcend to the highest level to that of self-actualization.
In other times in my life, I have been blessed to reside on the top of the pyramid. I have spent hours contemplating my own existence (and navel) and worked on core issues that kept me from being the most enlightened, non-judgmental, expressive person I could be. Those were good times indeed! I got the healing work I needed, experienced the creature comforts that a full bank account (or a large credit line) afforded, and had ample time to pursue happiness around every corner. My relationships were rich and rewarding, my body was in excellent condition, I had a spring in my step, and I went to bed every night with a smile on my face.
However, I have also resided at the bottom of the pyramid. I painfully recall the years in my early twenties when I avoided answering my phone -- when I had a phone -- because I knew that a bill collector would be on the other line. (These were the olden days before the invention of the omniscient Caller ID.) Dinner consisted of ramen noodles or easy cheese spread over my fingers. I lived in a God-awful, rodent-infested apartment right next to the El train tracks in Chicago and lived paycheck to paycheck. If my friends and I went out and had a few drinks at the local bar, I would have to find a way to survive over several days without food until I got paid again. Sometimes dinner would be saltine cracker packets surreptitiously acquired from the local Wendy's. Eventually I worked my way out of the shithole I was in and slowly, ever slowly, climbed up Maslow's ladder.
Now, at forty years of age and a husband and daughter later, I find myself back on the bottom. Many nights I have laid awake, asking God why he won't send me the big book deal or the next lucrative speaking contract. My stomach has started to respond with that same, burning sensation I used to feel when I had ulcers. Everything around me is getting tighter -- my throat, my bank account, and my pants. This difficult situation has become even more disquieting given the fact that I am supposed to be the award-winning author of inspirational personal essays and a dynamic motivational speaker!!! I tell myself in the quietest, darkest times that I am a failure because I am so woefully mishandling my life. Instead of being the Bringer of the Mojo, I have become the Bringer of the Slo-Mo. This challenging period has caused me to fill myself with guilt, shame, and anger, both at myself and at God. Why won't you hear my prayers?? What have I done to deserve this?? What did I do wrong?? Am I being punished for some bad behavior I have previously done?? Why, why, why???
In the cold light of day, I realize that my struggles aren't unique or personal. The economic downturn has caused many of us to dramatically alter our lives, and we are forced to re-examine our priorities. Not only are we doing without, but many of us are thrown into the deep end of the survival pool. However, it's important to remember that just because you can't pay your bills, that doesn't make you less of a person. Just because my calendar contains less speaking engagements then I would like it to doesn't mean that I am a bad speaker. Just because my books aren't selling as well as I would like them to doesn't mean that I am a rotten writer. It's not personal; it just IS.
This experience, like every obstacle, has provided a wealth of gifts and lessons to me. I am releasing attachments that have kept me from being truly at peace: attachments to material objects, to ego, and to the approval of others. Through the process of downsizing, I am letting go of anything that no longer serves me. Our basement is filled with boxes of stuff that I thought was important to me, but no longer is -- pictures, paintings, furniture, candleholders, books, and anything else that won't squeeze into our new, tiny abode. In the next two weeks, we will be selling or giving away items that have kept us mired at the bottom level of Maslow's pyramid. In this act of release, I am already feeling myself getting lighter, become less afraid, and, dare I say, becoming hopeful for the future. One of the greatest realizations I have had during this maelstrom is this: I am not my stuff. I am not my calendar, my business card, my house square footage, my piano, my family vacation, or my display of knickknacks.
This morning I realized that there was one final step for me to take to begin the journey upward: I needed to publicly share my story, warts and all. Embarrassment and ego have kept me from telling the gory details of my latest imbroglio. I was afraid of people judging me for not being the powerful woman I present myself to be. I was afraid that I would be seen as a failure, a victim, and a loser. One of the risks associated with full disclosure is the chance for those who may want to hire me or buy my book to say, "She's a nutcase! She's a nobody! Why in the hell would we want to hear anything she has to say?" However, the risk is well worth it. I need to authentically express my truth if I am to step away from the fear and back into power. It is time for me to open my kimono. Again.
I ask that you hold me in possibility, and I will do the same for you. Let's see each other climbing ever higher into that blissful place of self-realization where all of our needs are met and we can be the best of who we are. I am so very grateful for the gift of writing so I can purge the toxic thoughts that have kept me unhappy, unhealthy, and unrealized. The truth is a magical elixir that helps wipe clean all of the dirty little secrets we keep hidden away, and I am jumping back into it with gusto. My physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health are at stake. I must acknowledge, own, and even celebrate my life, even at its gunkiest. Because even at its ugliest, we are all still blessed with untold gifts. Sometimes the most painful times remind us of how friggin' awesome we truly are.
If you, like me, are living at or near the bottom of Abe's pyramid, please know that you are not alone. You are still a beautiful, magnificent, worthy, and divine being, no matter what the numbers on your check register or the credit report say. I honor you and your journey.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Give Up!
I have two words of advice for those of you who want great things to happen in your life: GIVE UP.
Give up, you say? Never! We are taught that we should work work work work work for all of the things we want. If you want a better job, work for it. If you want a healthier body, work on it. If you want a better relationship, work to attract it. I don't know about you, but all of this damn work is making me tired.
For the last ninety days, I have been drowning in work. The more I tried to accomplish, the more unsuccessful I became. I had a list of action items that could choke a horse, none of which I was doing very well. My list of work priorities in no particular order included:
* Creating one-day seminars for social workers, nurses, and bodyworkers
* Proposing corporate training on time management, overcoming adversity, and change management
* Pitching keynote speaking events for health care organizations
* Developing in-service training modules for teachers
* Acquiring a literary agent in order to reissue Opening the Kimono
* Writing my blog, freelance articles, and "Sex and the Suburbs" column
* Trying to get "Sex and the Suburbs" syndicated
* Contacting radio and TV stations for interviews
* Scheduling book signings at booksellers
* Submitting Opening the Kimono to popular book bloggers for review
* Teaching creative writing classes
* Hosting meditation circles
* Conducting intuitive healing private sessions
* Facilitating Club Kimonos
* Growing my social media network on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn
* Networking networking networking
* At least 25 other "mission-critical" tasks
UGH. After writing all of that crap down, I can understand how I was miserable. There was simply too much to do, and not enough time to do it. I was under the wave.
During last week's flight to the East Coast, I asked Spirit for some much-needed help. My To-Do List From Hell had to stop, and I needed a receive a clear message from the Universe as to what I should be working on. After my prayer, I went about my business and waited for the signs to appear.
After conducting a couple of righteous guided meditations, two super-charged speaking events, and a heartwarming Club Kimono, I realized (or remembered, to be precise) that I NEED to be on stage bringing the Mojo in order to be happy. I get energized when I am in front of a group of people doing my thing -- making them laugh, inspiring them, and helping them to see what they can do to bring more joy and peace in their lives. I got very little sleep last week, yet I had enormous amounts of energy. Simply put, motivating people and connecting them to Spirit is my passion, not my work. It is like oxygen for my soul.
Later in the week, I received additional guidance that I should let go of any other tasks that don't have to do with my inspirational speaking. That meant that I was to drop corporate consulting, educational training, and bookstore events --- at least for right now. Instead, I should funnel all of my energies towards getting on the stage. As I have written before, it is my natural habitat. If I were to be honest with myself, I am not that juiced up about the other stuff. My motivation to accomplish all of those goals was simply fear in disguise. I was afraid that I wouldn't make enough money if I didn't get it all done. Never mind that, since my heart wasn't in most of it, I wasn't able to close any business.
On Saturday afternoon, I came to another conclusion: I no longer needed to kill myself to find an agent. This discovery was made ONE DAY before I was going to fly to New York City to attend a swanky "Meet the Agents" forum. How ironic! I opted to go to New York anyway, since I already had the plane ticket and prepaid for my stay in a trendy Brooklyn apartment. I decided that my new goal wasn't to acquire an agent; rather it was to have fun in The City and meet some cool people along the way. I packed my suitcase, put a few copies of Opening the Kimono in my big purse, and was on my way...
When I got to the event, I immediately noticed that the room was full of angst-ridden wannabe authors. While waiting for the presentation to start, many of my neighbors were kvetching about how unsuccessful they have been in acquiring an agent, how rude some of the agents are, and how unlikely they were to get a "Yes". Nice attitude, ladies.
After the agents introduced themselves, all of us fledgling writers waited in very long lines to get our three minutes of face-time with two or three of our preferred agents. The anxiety, depression, and anger levels were reaching a fever pitch. I recall a woman behind me who was nervously reciting her pitch in her head. She reminded me of the late great Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live doing The Chris Farley Show; she looked liked she was going to start pulling out her hair and scream, "I'm so stupid! Argh! I can't believe I said that!" One could almost smell the fear. I, on the other hand, was totally relaxed. I decided to tune out the crazies by goofing around on the Facebook app of my iPhone.
When it was my time to be in front of Agent #1, I joyfully sat down, plopped down my book, and said, "Hi, my name is Theresa Rose. I am the author of this book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges. It has won two awards so far: the Royal Palm Literary Award and the Living Now Book Award. I am also a motivational speaker and workshop facilitator, and I sell my book to about 80% of the attendees at each function. I also write a column called "Sex and the Suburbs" for Creative Loafing newspaper, and I am looking to get it syndicated. I think the time is right for me to start looking for an agent to take Opening the Kimono to a larger audience. Is this something you might be interested in?" My pitch took me no less than one minute, and frankly, I could have cared less what her response was.
What did she say?
"I'd like to learn more. Send me the book and your proposal when you get home. Next!"
I waited in two more lines over the next two hours, and I had one more agent tell me to send her my materials.
Just like that. Easy peasy.
It was an interesting lesson for me. When I let go of the need to work so hard at it, the results come easily and effortlessly. Even today, as I finish up the book proposal, I am relaxed, confident, and totally trusting that whatever happens will happen. Either Ms. R or Ms. B will want to take me on as a client, or they won't. Whatev. It doesn't negate the power of the book or my absolute certainty that I should be on stage bringing the juice.
Two nights ago, I had the pleasure of seeing Deepak Chopra speak in front of 2,000 people at the University of Minnesota. Naturally, he was brilliant and inspiring. But, I got more out of watching Deepak than hearing him. I imagined myself speaking in front of a large, enthusiastic group someday and thought how friggin' kick@ss that will be! I heard the laughs, saw the smiles, and felt the warmth. Right now, I mostly speak in front of groups of 50. Someday, it will be in front of groups of 500. If I'm lucky, eventually it will be in front of 5,000. For now, though, I am content to let go of the need to "work" at it and just BE.
Sometimes we need to give up so we can receive.
Give up, you say? Never! We are taught that we should work work work work work for all of the things we want. If you want a better job, work for it. If you want a healthier body, work on it. If you want a better relationship, work to attract it. I don't know about you, but all of this damn work is making me tired.
For the last ninety days, I have been drowning in work. The more I tried to accomplish, the more unsuccessful I became. I had a list of action items that could choke a horse, none of which I was doing very well. My list of work priorities in no particular order included:
* Creating one-day seminars for social workers, nurses, and bodyworkers
* Proposing corporate training on time management, overcoming adversity, and change management
* Pitching keynote speaking events for health care organizations
* Developing in-service training modules for teachers
* Acquiring a literary agent in order to reissue Opening the Kimono
* Writing my blog, freelance articles, and "Sex and the Suburbs" column
* Trying to get "Sex and the Suburbs" syndicated
* Contacting radio and TV stations for interviews
* Scheduling book signings at booksellers
* Submitting Opening the Kimono to popular book bloggers for review
* Teaching creative writing classes
* Hosting meditation circles
* Conducting intuitive healing private sessions
* Facilitating Club Kimonos
* Growing my social media network on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn
* Networking networking networking
* At least 25 other "mission-critical" tasks
UGH. After writing all of that crap down, I can understand how I was miserable. There was simply too much to do, and not enough time to do it. I was under the wave.
During last week's flight to the East Coast, I asked Spirit for some much-needed help. My To-Do List From Hell had to stop, and I needed a receive a clear message from the Universe as to what I should be working on. After my prayer, I went about my business and waited for the signs to appear.
After conducting a couple of righteous guided meditations, two super-charged speaking events, and a heartwarming Club Kimono, I realized (or remembered, to be precise) that I NEED to be on stage bringing the Mojo in order to be happy. I get energized when I am in front of a group of people doing my thing -- making them laugh, inspiring them, and helping them to see what they can do to bring more joy and peace in their lives. I got very little sleep last week, yet I had enormous amounts of energy. Simply put, motivating people and connecting them to Spirit is my passion, not my work. It is like oxygen for my soul.
Later in the week, I received additional guidance that I should let go of any other tasks that don't have to do with my inspirational speaking. That meant that I was to drop corporate consulting, educational training, and bookstore events --- at least for right now. Instead, I should funnel all of my energies towards getting on the stage. As I have written before, it is my natural habitat. If I were to be honest with myself, I am not that juiced up about the other stuff. My motivation to accomplish all of those goals was simply fear in disguise. I was afraid that I wouldn't make enough money if I didn't get it all done. Never mind that, since my heart wasn't in most of it, I wasn't able to close any business.
On Saturday afternoon, I came to another conclusion: I no longer needed to kill myself to find an agent. This discovery was made ONE DAY before I was going to fly to New York City to attend a swanky "Meet the Agents" forum. How ironic! I opted to go to New York anyway, since I already had the plane ticket and prepaid for my stay in a trendy Brooklyn apartment. I decided that my new goal wasn't to acquire an agent; rather it was to have fun in The City and meet some cool people along the way. I packed my suitcase, put a few copies of Opening the Kimono in my big purse, and was on my way...
When I got to the event, I immediately noticed that the room was full of angst-ridden wannabe authors. While waiting for the presentation to start, many of my neighbors were kvetching about how unsuccessful they have been in acquiring an agent, how rude some of the agents are, and how unlikely they were to get a "Yes". Nice attitude, ladies.
After the agents introduced themselves, all of us fledgling writers waited in very long lines to get our three minutes of face-time with two or three of our preferred agents. The anxiety, depression, and anger levels were reaching a fever pitch. I recall a woman behind me who was nervously reciting her pitch in her head. She reminded me of the late great Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live doing The Chris Farley Show; she looked liked she was going to start pulling out her hair and scream, "I'm so stupid! Argh! I can't believe I said that!" One could almost smell the fear. I, on the other hand, was totally relaxed. I decided to tune out the crazies by goofing around on the Facebook app of my iPhone.
When it was my time to be in front of Agent #1, I joyfully sat down, plopped down my book, and said, "Hi, my name is Theresa Rose. I am the author of this book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges. It has won two awards so far: the Royal Palm Literary Award and the Living Now Book Award. I am also a motivational speaker and workshop facilitator, and I sell my book to about 80% of the attendees at each function. I also write a column called "Sex and the Suburbs" for Creative Loafing newspaper, and I am looking to get it syndicated. I think the time is right for me to start looking for an agent to take Opening the Kimono to a larger audience. Is this something you might be interested in?" My pitch took me no less than one minute, and frankly, I could have cared less what her response was.
What did she say?
"I'd like to learn more. Send me the book and your proposal when you get home. Next!"
I waited in two more lines over the next two hours, and I had one more agent tell me to send her my materials.
Just like that. Easy peasy.
It was an interesting lesson for me. When I let go of the need to work so hard at it, the results come easily and effortlessly. Even today, as I finish up the book proposal, I am relaxed, confident, and totally trusting that whatever happens will happen. Either Ms. R or Ms. B will want to take me on as a client, or they won't. Whatev. It doesn't negate the power of the book or my absolute certainty that I should be on stage bringing the juice.
Two nights ago, I had the pleasure of seeing Deepak Chopra speak in front of 2,000 people at the University of Minnesota. Naturally, he was brilliant and inspiring. But, I got more out of watching Deepak than hearing him. I imagined myself speaking in front of a large, enthusiastic group someday and thought how friggin' kick@ss that will be! I heard the laughs, saw the smiles, and felt the warmth. Right now, I mostly speak in front of groups of 50. Someday, it will be in front of groups of 500. If I'm lucky, eventually it will be in front of 5,000. For now, though, I am content to let go of the need to "work" at it and just BE.
Sometimes we need to give up so we can receive.
Monday, October 12, 2009
In-flight Ruminations
It’s amazing what comes to mind when one is forced to endure a jam-packed, turbulence-ridden Delta flight from Minneapolis to Sarasota.
Having recently moved to Minnesota, I am not used to taking off during a snowstorm. Frankly, it freaked me out a wee bit. I know how hard it is to navigate my Toyota on a slippery, snow-covered highway, so how could I not question how the pilot would keep control of this massive chunk of steel on a slick runway? The answer, of course, is the mystery process called ‘de-icing’: that magical solution that makes everything A-OK. It's so reassuring to know that my life is safe now that the plane received a five-minute, high-powered car wash. As we careen down the runway, I focus on my tried-and-true “I'm scared shitless” mantra: All is well, all of the time. In conjunction, I try to calm my stomach that is doing somersaults and breathe into my legs that have turned into jelly. Despite my best efforts, I have visions of that terrifying movie Alive – the story about the jet crash in the Andes – dancing through my head. This is all happening a few hours before one of my public appearances in which I am supposed to become Big Theresa, the Bringer of the Mojo. As I type this, I am looking down at my black plastic and brushed metal bracelet that has the word "Fearless" emblazoned on it and wondering how the hell I have the cajones to wear it.
I am comforted by the fact that I’m not the biggest Fraidy Cat on the plane. There is a chick sitting in the row ahead of me who looks like she is going to jump out of her skin, barf in the white paper bag, and pee in her stonewashed jeans all at the same time. Prior to takeoff, my Nervous Nellie cabin-mate sporting the Taylor Swift tee shirt incessantly grilled the flight attendant on the safety of the plane, e.g. “What is that strange noise?! Is that sound normal?! What about all of the snow on the wings?!” (I was grateful to my squirrelly travel compadre for asking those questions, as I wondered the same things myself.) The jaded flight attendant whose behavior clearly indicated that she has logged waaaaaaaay too much flight time, condescendingly responded by saying, “Then maybe you should have taken a Greyhound bus to Florida”. Hey, Blondie? Two words: Blow me. Delta’s new tagline should read: Fly the Bitchy Skies.
In order to deal with the stratospheric roller coaster in which I am currently being forced to ride, I am focusing instead on my upcoming itinerary. I will be spending the next six blissful days in sunny Florida conducting Club Kimono discussion groups, facilitating two group meditations, having private intuitive healing sessions, and doing a speaking engagement. All of that that is fine and dandy, but to be honest, I am more pumped about seeing my peeps!! I get to spend quality time with Jax and V, go out to dinner with Abby, hoop with Shellie, lunch with Linda and Donna, gab with Lourdes, and laugh with Shaun and Di. I’m gonna walk the beach in my flipflops, get up whenever I want, and eat whenever I want. Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and daughter more than the Biggest Big Thing; but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it is gonna be pretty friggin’ nice to be a single gal for the next week. I am sure my jaws will ache at the end of the trip from laughing and talking ad infinitum. Sometimes I just need a break from the roles of Mom and Wife.
Not only am I spending quality time in the Sunshine State, but I will also be taking a quick jaunt to New York City for a “Meet the Agents” forum. During three nerve-wracking hours next Sunday afternoon, I hope to dazzle the to-be-determined Dream Agent with the awesome potential of one Ms. Theresa Rose and her literary baby, Opening the Kimono. This trip is huge for me, and I want to make a great impression. As any woman knows, the clothes we wear can dictate our confidence level. As I scoured my closet yesterday to pick out my travel wardrobe, I discovered several bold, trendy, oh-so-New Yorky outfits that would be perfect to wear for this event. The only problem is that none of them fit. Ever since our move, my girth has steadily expanded, thanks to too many trips to Caribou Coffee, too many take-home pizzas from Papa Murphy’s, and too few trips on the elliptical. It’s a depressing thing indeed when all one can find to wear on the eve of a major business trip are stretchy skirts and baggy shirts.
Blessedly, I found a cute Michael Kors skirt in the back recesses of the closet that I bought on sale at Macy’s several months ago. I have never worn it, because it was too big when I bought it (it was incorrectly sized and misfiled on the sale racks). Not anymore, dammit. Thanks to Caribou and the Papa, it fits perfectly now. Through a few tears, I cobbled together a decent Manhattan-worthy outfit that doesn’t make me look like a hausfrau or an aging hippie at Burning Man.
So begins my trip. I am trying to stay as positive as possible, recognizing that wonderful things are just around the corner. My goal right now is to be in the groove, go with the flow, and embrace every moment, regardless of how unpleasant it may seem. I pray this damn turbulence will end soon, the cranky old coot next to me will eventually arrest his restless leg syndrome, and the faceless-yet-powerful expeller of noxious intestinal gas will stop his (or her) pungent tooting. Just a few moments ago, my jittery neighbor actually had the stones to ask me if I’d switch seats with him, giving him my coveted aisle seat in exchange for his middle seat. Yeah. That’ll happen. I’m all for loving my neighbor, but he’s gonna have to keep his shaky ass right where it is for the duration of the flight.
PS: Despite how it seems, I love writing while traveling. There is something about being surrounded by strangers being put in uncomfortable surroundings that make my creative juices flow like the Colorado River (or at least how the Colorado River ran ten years ago). The only drawback is the presence of nosy neighbors who think they are being surreptitious when they sneak a peek at the contents of my screen. Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, buddy. Keep your damn eyeballs on your USA Today or Golf Digest where they belong.
I love traveling. ☺
Having recently moved to Minnesota, I am not used to taking off during a snowstorm. Frankly, it freaked me out a wee bit. I know how hard it is to navigate my Toyota on a slippery, snow-covered highway, so how could I not question how the pilot would keep control of this massive chunk of steel on a slick runway? The answer, of course, is the mystery process called ‘de-icing’: that magical solution that makes everything A-OK. It's so reassuring to know that my life is safe now that the plane received a five-minute, high-powered car wash. As we careen down the runway, I focus on my tried-and-true “I'm scared shitless” mantra: All is well, all of the time. In conjunction, I try to calm my stomach that is doing somersaults and breathe into my legs that have turned into jelly. Despite my best efforts, I have visions of that terrifying movie Alive – the story about the jet crash in the Andes – dancing through my head. This is all happening a few hours before one of my public appearances in which I am supposed to become Big Theresa, the Bringer of the Mojo. As I type this, I am looking down at my black plastic and brushed metal bracelet that has the word "Fearless" emblazoned on it and wondering how the hell I have the cajones to wear it.
I am comforted by the fact that I’m not the biggest Fraidy Cat on the plane. There is a chick sitting in the row ahead of me who looks like she is going to jump out of her skin, barf in the white paper bag, and pee in her stonewashed jeans all at the same time. Prior to takeoff, my Nervous Nellie cabin-mate sporting the Taylor Swift tee shirt incessantly grilled the flight attendant on the safety of the plane, e.g. “What is that strange noise?! Is that sound normal?! What about all of the snow on the wings?!” (I was grateful to my squirrelly travel compadre for asking those questions, as I wondered the same things myself.) The jaded flight attendant whose behavior clearly indicated that she has logged waaaaaaaay too much flight time, condescendingly responded by saying, “Then maybe you should have taken a Greyhound bus to Florida”. Hey, Blondie? Two words: Blow me. Delta’s new tagline should read: Fly the Bitchy Skies.
In order to deal with the stratospheric roller coaster in which I am currently being forced to ride, I am focusing instead on my upcoming itinerary. I will be spending the next six blissful days in sunny Florida conducting Club Kimono discussion groups, facilitating two group meditations, having private intuitive healing sessions, and doing a speaking engagement. All of that that is fine and dandy, but to be honest, I am more pumped about seeing my peeps!! I get to spend quality time with Jax and V, go out to dinner with Abby, hoop with Shellie, lunch with Linda and Donna, gab with Lourdes, and laugh with Shaun and Di. I’m gonna walk the beach in my flipflops, get up whenever I want, and eat whenever I want. Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband and daughter more than the Biggest Big Thing; but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it is gonna be pretty friggin’ nice to be a single gal for the next week. I am sure my jaws will ache at the end of the trip from laughing and talking ad infinitum. Sometimes I just need a break from the roles of Mom and Wife.
Not only am I spending quality time in the Sunshine State, but I will also be taking a quick jaunt to New York City for a “Meet the Agents” forum. During three nerve-wracking hours next Sunday afternoon, I hope to dazzle the to-be-determined Dream Agent with the awesome potential of one Ms. Theresa Rose and her literary baby, Opening the Kimono. This trip is huge for me, and I want to make a great impression. As any woman knows, the clothes we wear can dictate our confidence level. As I scoured my closet yesterday to pick out my travel wardrobe, I discovered several bold, trendy, oh-so-New Yorky outfits that would be perfect to wear for this event. The only problem is that none of them fit. Ever since our move, my girth has steadily expanded, thanks to too many trips to Caribou Coffee, too many take-home pizzas from Papa Murphy’s, and too few trips on the elliptical. It’s a depressing thing indeed when all one can find to wear on the eve of a major business trip are stretchy skirts and baggy shirts.
Blessedly, I found a cute Michael Kors skirt in the back recesses of the closet that I bought on sale at Macy’s several months ago. I have never worn it, because it was too big when I bought it (it was incorrectly sized and misfiled on the sale racks). Not anymore, dammit. Thanks to Caribou and the Papa, it fits perfectly now. Through a few tears, I cobbled together a decent Manhattan-worthy outfit that doesn’t make me look like a hausfrau or an aging hippie at Burning Man.
So begins my trip. I am trying to stay as positive as possible, recognizing that wonderful things are just around the corner. My goal right now is to be in the groove, go with the flow, and embrace every moment, regardless of how unpleasant it may seem. I pray this damn turbulence will end soon, the cranky old coot next to me will eventually arrest his restless leg syndrome, and the faceless-yet-powerful expeller of noxious intestinal gas will stop his (or her) pungent tooting. Just a few moments ago, my jittery neighbor actually had the stones to ask me if I’d switch seats with him, giving him my coveted aisle seat in exchange for his middle seat. Yeah. That’ll happen. I’m all for loving my neighbor, but he’s gonna have to keep his shaky ass right where it is for the duration of the flight.
PS: Despite how it seems, I love writing while traveling. There is something about being surrounded by strangers being put in uncomfortable surroundings that make my creative juices flow like the Colorado River (or at least how the Colorado River ran ten years ago). The only drawback is the presence of nosy neighbors who think they are being surreptitious when they sneak a peek at the contents of my screen. Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, buddy. Keep your damn eyeballs on your USA Today or Golf Digest where they belong.
I love traveling. ☺
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Morning of "Me Too!"s
As part of my job as Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo, I write a monthly newsletter called The Rose Report. In it, I include a message of inspiration typically about self-acceptance, gratitude, consciousness, and other warm, fuzzy things that make life so juicy. However, I have not felt like a Bringer of the Mojo over the last few months due to my recent, hellacious cross-country move.
When I had to write this month's newsletter, I was faced with a choice. Do I pretend that everything is hunky-dory, or do I share my inner ick? As with writing my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, I decided to have some cajones and go for the latter. I know from personal experience that it is where the healing takes place. Here is what I wrote:
"FINDING MY WAY BACK...
Just as I wrote in last month's Rose Report, I continue to struggle to find my footing in my new home of Minnesota. While I have been blessed to spend more time with family and meet new, wonderful friends, I am still filled with a fair amount of fear. And panic. And anger. And annoyance. And depression. And every other negative emotion one can feel.
As a self-proclaimed "Bringer of the Mojo", it pains me to show you this small, disconnected part of me. I am feverishly trying to grow my professional speaking business, but I am feeling like a phony right at the moment. (How does one promote a speaking program called "Maximizing Your Mojo" when the speaker's Mojo is missing in action?) I dreaded having to write this month's newsletter, knowing that if I wrote a bunch of "life's-wonderful-be-grateful-you're-beautiful-everything's-a-gift" stuff, it would merely come across as empty platitudes from a woman who resembles a sad, powerless mutation of her true self. If you haven't noticed, I need someone to bring some Mojo my way.
The thing that's even more obnoxious about my descent into the dark side is that I know the cause of it! In a nutshell, I have not yet been successful in re-establishing my spiritual practice in my new house. I can count on one hand the number of times I meditated over the last thirty days, and I have done precious little movement. While I have somehow been able to sever the vice-grip sugar addiction I acquired during the move itself, I am still pounding my head against the wall, both personally and professionally. The price I have paid for ignoring Spirit has been a big one. I have been short with Emma more often than I care to admit, felt sluggish and icky physically, and obsessed over the fact that my book sales are lagging despite the overwhelming enthusiasm from readers and critics. Long story short, I am still teensy, tiny Theresa.
My mother used to have a saying that she would use during a particularly difficult situation. She used to say, "There is a four-letter word that will fix any problem: W-O-R-K." While I appreciated her teaching me about the value of a strong work ethic, a part of me believes that it was damaging in the long run. For the last sixty days, I have been consumed with that four-letter word. I have started working as soon as Emma goes to school, go non-stop for several hours without a break, and plug away until well into the evening. My neurotic behavior hasn't netted me any great successes; rather, it has fueled my sour attitude that has, unfortunately, permeated our home. In hindsight, I should have focused on the other four-letter words that would have helped me so much more: L-O-V-E and P-R-A-Y. Ironically, in order to kick myself out of this nasty funk I've put myself in, I need to do a lot less working and a lot more loving and praying.
Why on earth would I want to publicly share this bit of ugliness in a newsletter designed to pump people up? If I learned anything from writing Opening the Kimono, its that the act of sharing one's gunk allows it to be released, opening one up to new possibilities of power and joy. Hopefully, you will recognize some of your own self-inflicted smallness in my telling, and realize that we ALL have these moments once in a while. I know from first-hand experience that getting out of the spiral of depression is a challenging exercise. However, no amount of chocolate, movies, or complaining will make it any better. You have to carve out time to sit in silence every day, even if it is for only a few minutes. You have to move your body in more ways that just from bed to the table to the chair and back to bed. You have to honor the fact that if you want to heal yourself, you need to ask for help, not only from friends and family, but also from your Spiritual Posse. I guess Mom was right after all; you gotta WORK at it.
I no longer want to feel this badly. I no longer want to feel the fear of failure. I no longer want to go to bed angry. It is up to me to step back into my power, and I start working it. My first task is to ask for your help. Take one moment after reading this email to visualize both you and me as powerful "Bringers of the Mojo". See the two of us letting go of the vices and addictions that keep us tiny. Imagine that everything we desire is flowing to us easily and effortlessly. As I am writing this, I am imagining this for us both. Now, we need only to make those choices that will fulfill this vision.
This month, I will try to find my way back to the meditation room, back to the hoop, back to the yoga mat, and back to me. I hope you, too, have a wonderful, colorful, blissful, healthful October...just like I envisioned it to be!
Take care, and let's BOTH make it a great day!
Brightest blessings,
Theresa"
The response has been nothing short of phenomenal. I have received dozens of positive email responses from people over the last few hours. Their words were tender, vulnerable, honest, and courageous. Some wrote several paragraphs, and some merely a few sentences. While every person has a different story, every email contained the same theme: Thank you for sharing your heartfelt words, and I FEEL EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. It's good to know that I am not the only one out there.
I needed to hear this today. I needed to remember that my work is important and helps people. I can get lost in the depression of publisher rejections, stalled proposals, and meager book sales. The gifts I have received this morning are like precious jewels for my psyche. As such, they are going to be filed in my "Smiles" email folder. When things are especially difficult on the financial front, I am going to look back at these notes to remember why I've chosen to be an Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo in the first place.
I am so grateful for being reminded that we all go through the same struggles. It makes me feel like I'm not alone in this journey, and sharing our stories with each other will help us find our way back to joy. Together.
(If you want to receive the Rose Report for yourself, please visit my web site!)
When I had to write this month's newsletter, I was faced with a choice. Do I pretend that everything is hunky-dory, or do I share my inner ick? As with writing my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, I decided to have some cajones and go for the latter. I know from personal experience that it is where the healing takes place. Here is what I wrote:
"FINDING MY WAY BACK...
Just as I wrote in last month's Rose Report, I continue to struggle to find my footing in my new home of Minnesota. While I have been blessed to spend more time with family and meet new, wonderful friends, I am still filled with a fair amount of fear. And panic. And anger. And annoyance. And depression. And every other negative emotion one can feel.
As a self-proclaimed "Bringer of the Mojo", it pains me to show you this small, disconnected part of me. I am feverishly trying to grow my professional speaking business, but I am feeling like a phony right at the moment. (How does one promote a speaking program called "Maximizing Your Mojo" when the speaker's Mojo is missing in action?) I dreaded having to write this month's newsletter, knowing that if I wrote a bunch of "life's-wonderful-be-grateful-you're-beautiful-everything's-a-gift" stuff, it would merely come across as empty platitudes from a woman who resembles a sad, powerless mutation of her true self. If you haven't noticed, I need someone to bring some Mojo my way.
The thing that's even more obnoxious about my descent into the dark side is that I know the cause of it! In a nutshell, I have not yet been successful in re-establishing my spiritual practice in my new house. I can count on one hand the number of times I meditated over the last thirty days, and I have done precious little movement. While I have somehow been able to sever the vice-grip sugar addiction I acquired during the move itself, I am still pounding my head against the wall, both personally and professionally. The price I have paid for ignoring Spirit has been a big one. I have been short with Emma more often than I care to admit, felt sluggish and icky physically, and obsessed over the fact that my book sales are lagging despite the overwhelming enthusiasm from readers and critics. Long story short, I am still teensy, tiny Theresa.
My mother used to have a saying that she would use during a particularly difficult situation. She used to say, "There is a four-letter word that will fix any problem: W-O-R-K." While I appreciated her teaching me about the value of a strong work ethic, a part of me believes that it was damaging in the long run. For the last sixty days, I have been consumed with that four-letter word. I have started working as soon as Emma goes to school, go non-stop for several hours without a break, and plug away until well into the evening. My neurotic behavior hasn't netted me any great successes; rather, it has fueled my sour attitude that has, unfortunately, permeated our home. In hindsight, I should have focused on the other four-letter words that would have helped me so much more: L-O-V-E and P-R-A-Y. Ironically, in order to kick myself out of this nasty funk I've put myself in, I need to do a lot less working and a lot more loving and praying.
Why on earth would I want to publicly share this bit of ugliness in a newsletter designed to pump people up? If I learned anything from writing Opening the Kimono, its that the act of sharing one's gunk allows it to be released, opening one up to new possibilities of power and joy. Hopefully, you will recognize some of your own self-inflicted smallness in my telling, and realize that we ALL have these moments once in a while. I know from first-hand experience that getting out of the spiral of depression is a challenging exercise. However, no amount of chocolate, movies, or complaining will make it any better. You have to carve out time to sit in silence every day, even if it is for only a few minutes. You have to move your body in more ways that just from bed to the table to the chair and back to bed. You have to honor the fact that if you want to heal yourself, you need to ask for help, not only from friends and family, but also from your Spiritual Posse. I guess Mom was right after all; you gotta WORK at it.
I no longer want to feel this badly. I no longer want to feel the fear of failure. I no longer want to go to bed angry. It is up to me to step back into my power, and I start working it. My first task is to ask for your help. Take one moment after reading this email to visualize both you and me as powerful "Bringers of the Mojo". See the two of us letting go of the vices and addictions that keep us tiny. Imagine that everything we desire is flowing to us easily and effortlessly. As I am writing this, I am imagining this for us both. Now, we need only to make those choices that will fulfill this vision.
This month, I will try to find my way back to the meditation room, back to the hoop, back to the yoga mat, and back to me. I hope you, too, have a wonderful, colorful, blissful, healthful October...just like I envisioned it to be!
Take care, and let's BOTH make it a great day!
Brightest blessings,
Theresa"
The response has been nothing short of phenomenal. I have received dozens of positive email responses from people over the last few hours. Their words were tender, vulnerable, honest, and courageous. Some wrote several paragraphs, and some merely a few sentences. While every person has a different story, every email contained the same theme: Thank you for sharing your heartfelt words, and I FEEL EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. It's good to know that I am not the only one out there.
I needed to hear this today. I needed to remember that my work is important and helps people. I can get lost in the depression of publisher rejections, stalled proposals, and meager book sales. The gifts I have received this morning are like precious jewels for my psyche. As such, they are going to be filed in my "Smiles" email folder. When things are especially difficult on the financial front, I am going to look back at these notes to remember why I've chosen to be an Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo in the first place.
I am so grateful for being reminded that we all go through the same struggles. It makes me feel like I'm not alone in this journey, and sharing our stories with each other will help us find our way back to joy. Together.
(If you want to receive the Rose Report for yourself, please visit my web site!)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Confessions of a Closet Cougar
I am back in the groove of my writing, and boy, oh boy, does it feel GOOOOOD! I just finished my latest "Sex and the Suburbs" column for Creative Loafing newspaper titled "Confessions of a Closet Cougar". I hope you enjoy reading it, and please share it with your friends on Facebook, Twitter, or any other way you stay connected to your peeps in this crazy, 21st Century world of ours.
As an aside, I must tell you how awkward it was to have my husband edit this month's "SaTS" column. I kept thinking, I wonder if he'll blow a gasket when he reads the line, "I almost splurted after peeking at his perfectly round tushie." (The aforementioned tushie not belonging to my beloved.) Being the confident and supportive hubby that he is, he merely smiled and told me how funny the piece was. Honestly, the man is a freak of nature. I think he is missing the jealousy gene.
To all you cougars out there, keep prowlin' and growlin'. There is so much delectable prey on which to feast!
As an aside, I must tell you how awkward it was to have my husband edit this month's "SaTS" column. I kept thinking, I wonder if he'll blow a gasket when he reads the line, "I almost splurted after peeking at his perfectly round tushie." (The aforementioned tushie not belonging to my beloved.) Being the confident and supportive hubby that he is, he merely smiled and told me how funny the piece was. Honestly, the man is a freak of nature. I think he is missing the jealousy gene.
To all you cougars out there, keep prowlin' and growlin'. There is so much delectable prey on which to feast!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Lovemongering
So much has been written about the traumatic, devastating, and shocking events of September 11, 2001. As such, I am not going to bother writing yet another blog about what we already know: September 11th sucked. It sucked BIG TIME. It sucked as big as a thing can suck. We all watched in horror as those colossal buildings came crashing down, and we continue to feel the grief in our hearts when we think of tremendous loss of American life it exacted, both on that day and in the years that followed.
As expected, I was met with a barrage of 9-11 themed statuses while logging on to Facebook this morning. Several of my online friends took the opportunity to pay homage to the event, to our country and to the brave men and women who fight for it. All of that is really, really good. I was heartened to see that people were taking time to authentically reflect on the impact of that unforgettable day.
However, I did get my knickers in a twist about one particular comment. One of my Facebook "friends"* (NOT!) wrote in his status this morning, "Never forget that the demons are still out there waiting to destroy our civilization." Seriously, dude? You want me to start my day off making sure that I remember that there are imaginary devils lurking somewhere in the distance -- the Middle East, perhaps? -- that are biding their time, waiting for that perfect moment to "destroy our civilization"? Really?! Hey man, I have some advice for you: Never forget that listening to too much fanatical, reactionary talk radio and not getting enough hugs can destroy what's left of the mind and soul of a bumbling goober.
* (Needless to say, I de-friended this bozo after receiving one-too-many of his crazyman, racist updates.)
I don't think it's right to use this day of collective introspection as an opportunity to bathe in the shallow end of the victim pool. Only Spirit knows our ultimate fate. We may meet Our Maker by slipping in the shower, being splattered on the interstate, getting struck by lightning or having the treatment of an infected toenail go terribly, terribly awry. Or, like my paranoid former FB friend believes, maybe we will meet our end at the hands of a bomb-toting terrorist (which, unfortunately, happens with a tragic degree of regularity in other parts of the world). There's no escaping it; every one of us is going to exit the earthly plane one of these days. The key isn't about obsessing over the method of departure, it's about reveling in the experience while we have it. I personally think being a fearmonger isn't the ideal way of doing it. Fear only brings with it anger, bitterness, resentment, and smallness. Nobody wins when the venom of fear runs through our veins.
Let's truly honor the heroes of this day by becoming LOVEMONGERS instead. Share vast amounts of joy with extreme prejudice! Tell people to never forget that they are adored! Give warnings that today will be better than the last! Remind all of your friends that all is well, all of the time!! Send links to uplifting, funny web content instead of angry, fear-based crap! Be a beacon of hope instead of an obnoxious strobe light of imaginary doom!
If we have learned anything from that day eight years ago, it is to ENJOY life. To enjoy it, we must not fear it. Instead, let's try to be grateful for our juicy, amazing, fabulous, love-filled, perfect lives! They are so very precious, after all. Let's never forget that.
As expected, I was met with a barrage of 9-11 themed statuses while logging on to Facebook this morning. Several of my online friends took the opportunity to pay homage to the event, to our country and to the brave men and women who fight for it. All of that is really, really good. I was heartened to see that people were taking time to authentically reflect on the impact of that unforgettable day.
However, I did get my knickers in a twist about one particular comment. One of my Facebook "friends"* (NOT!) wrote in his status this morning, "Never forget that the demons are still out there waiting to destroy our civilization." Seriously, dude? You want me to start my day off making sure that I remember that there are imaginary devils lurking somewhere in the distance -- the Middle East, perhaps? -- that are biding their time, waiting for that perfect moment to "destroy our civilization"? Really?! Hey man, I have some advice for you: Never forget that listening to too much fanatical, reactionary talk radio and not getting enough hugs can destroy what's left of the mind and soul of a bumbling goober.
* (Needless to say, I de-friended this bozo after receiving one-too-many of his crazyman, racist updates.)
I don't think it's right to use this day of collective introspection as an opportunity to bathe in the shallow end of the victim pool. Only Spirit knows our ultimate fate. We may meet Our Maker by slipping in the shower, being splattered on the interstate, getting struck by lightning or having the treatment of an infected toenail go terribly, terribly awry. Or, like my paranoid former FB friend believes, maybe we will meet our end at the hands of a bomb-toting terrorist (which, unfortunately, happens with a tragic degree of regularity in other parts of the world). There's no escaping it; every one of us is going to exit the earthly plane one of these days. The key isn't about obsessing over the method of departure, it's about reveling in the experience while we have it. I personally think being a fearmonger isn't the ideal way of doing it. Fear only brings with it anger, bitterness, resentment, and smallness. Nobody wins when the venom of fear runs through our veins.
Let's truly honor the heroes of this day by becoming LOVEMONGERS instead. Share vast amounts of joy with extreme prejudice! Tell people to never forget that they are adored! Give warnings that today will be better than the last! Remind all of your friends that all is well, all of the time!! Send links to uplifting, funny web content instead of angry, fear-based crap! Be a beacon of hope instead of an obnoxious strobe light of imaginary doom!
If we have learned anything from that day eight years ago, it is to ENJOY life. To enjoy it, we must not fear it. Instead, let's try to be grateful for our juicy, amazing, fabulous, love-filled, perfect lives! They are so very precious, after all. Let's never forget that.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
In God I Trust
TRUST. It is such a simple word, yet it is sometimes so damn difficult to put into practice.
Several months ago, I was fortunate enough to have my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, considered by a major New York publisher. If they decide to carry the second edition, it would most certainly be the easiest way I can get my work out to the largest possible audience. From a writer's perspective, having the support of one of the largest publishers behind my words is like reaching literary Nirvana. I have visions of Oprah, Ellen and Rachael dance in my head. (Oprah would most certainly LOVE Opening the Kimono! Can we say "Oprah's Book Club"?) Yet, I sit here in limbo waiting to receive the coveted email of acceptance. Maybe if I hit 'Refresh' one more time, it will magically arrive in my Inbox. I endlessly check my account, but the object of my desire keeps eluding me.
Dictionary.com states that trust is defined as a "confident expectation of something". To be honest, after one month of unrequited refreshing, I am starting to lose my confidence. I try to keep telling myself that no news is good news; maybe their lack of response to my status inquiries is the fact that they are busy figuring out the details of the lucrative contract they are going to present to me. However, as each day passes, my resolve is wavering. My insecure, inner nancy-girl fears that the answer will be "NO! We don't want your tacky little book of inspirational stories! NO! There is no market for your kind around here! NO! You are not a big enough name for us to gamble on! NO! NO! A thousand times NO!!!"
I guess I need a refresher course on trust.
My favorite tool I use when conducting intuitive healing sessions with people is the Osho Zen Tarot card deck. It has beautiful pics, none of which makes me feel like the Grim Reaper is waiting with his scary-ass sword to cut me to shreds. The insights I receive from them are always powerful and dead-on accurate. It just so happens that the Trust card, has always been my personal favorite.
Whenever I do a reading on myself, I invariably choose the Trust card. I have selected it so many times that I actually installed the image as my laptop wallpaper so as to remind me of its teachings. The card shows a woman enthusiastically diving into a beautiful pink void with outstretched arms, knowing she will safely land wherever she needs to. The commentary on the card states, "Now is the moment to be a bungee jumper without the cord! And it is this quality of absolute trust, with no reservations or secret safety nets, that the Knight of Water demands from us. There is a tremendous sense of exhilaration if we can take the jump and move into the unknown, even if the idea scares us to death. And when we take trust to the level of the quantum leap, we don't make any elaborate plans or preparations. We don't say, "Okay, I trust that I know what to do now, and I'll settle my things and pack my suitcase and take it with me." No, we just jump, with hardly a thought for what happens next. The leap is the thing, and the thrill of it as we free-fall through the empty sky. The card gives a hint here, though, about what waits for us at the other end - a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, rose petals, juicy...c'mon!"
This card reads like it was meant for me. After recently packing up all of our worldly belongings and moving across country to our new home in Minnesota, I feel like a bungee jumper without the cord. After having my husband quit his safe corporate job to manage my fledgling book and public speaking business, I feel like I am free-falling through the empty sky. As the card states, the idea scares me to death. Yet, Michael and I made the leap anyway, trusting that what awaits us on the other end of these incredibly terrifying choices is a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, juicy reward.
Maybe that yummy pink reward is a contract with the Mystery NY Publisher. Maybe it's not. As the card states, the act of trust isn't about knowing the exact details of the outcome. It's about taking that first step toward the unknown, knowing that whatever the outcome, it is always in the best interests of all involved. In Jason Mraz's song, "Make It Mine", Jason sings, "Leap and the net will appear". Well, God? I have taken the leap, and I'm waiting not-so-patiently for the net to appear. Can it appear please? Pretty please? Soon? Before I go totally insane?
The biggest piece of advice I give people when moving through a transformational phase in their lives is to do two things: 1) Watch for the signs from Spirit, and 2) Act joyfully upon them. I have most of that routine down, but I must admit that I sometimes omit the 'joyful' part. When a carrot so juicy, so delectable, so career-making is dangling in front of me, I have found myself forgetting that the object of the game isn't to reach the carrot, it's to have fun while doing so. Because once I actually grab onto the elusive carrot, another one will appear. It's just the rules of the game; nothing more, nothing less.
In order to insert the word 'joyfully' back into my world, I need to embody the trust that comes with playing the game of life. I must remind myself (yet again) that Spirit is supremely benevolent and wants only the best for me. I must remind myself that I have written an award-winning book worthy of international exposure. I must remind myself that whatever happens -- whether I get this particular contract or not -- is exactly what is supposed to happen. I simply need to trust that God knows what He (or She) is doing.
It turns out the hardest part of becoming an author wasn't writing the book, editing it, designing it, or self-publishing it. It's diving into the void that I am in RIGHT NOW and trusting that, no matter the outcome, that all is well, all of the time.
During my meditation today, I will ask Spirit to release me from my self-imposed burden of worry. I will ask for It to resume the project management role. I will fill my body, mind and spirit with that simple word until it pushes all of the fear and doubt out of me. Just to be sure, maybe I'll be like Bart Simpson and write it on the chalkboard over and over until it actually sinks in:
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
And so on and so on...
************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
In what areas of your life do you surrender to trust? In what areas do you hold on too tightly?
************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive the Rose Report or your Daily Dose of Mojo!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Several months ago, I was fortunate enough to have my book, Opening the Kimono: A Woman's Intimate Journey Through Life's Biggest Challenges, considered by a major New York publisher. If they decide to carry the second edition, it would most certainly be the easiest way I can get my work out to the largest possible audience. From a writer's perspective, having the support of one of the largest publishers behind my words is like reaching literary Nirvana. I have visions of Oprah, Ellen and Rachael dance in my head. (Oprah would most certainly LOVE Opening the Kimono! Can we say "Oprah's Book Club"?) Yet, I sit here in limbo waiting to receive the coveted email of acceptance. Maybe if I hit 'Refresh' one more time, it will magically arrive in my Inbox. I endlessly check my account, but the object of my desire keeps eluding me.
Dictionary.com states that trust is defined as a "confident expectation of something". To be honest, after one month of unrequited refreshing, I am starting to lose my confidence. I try to keep telling myself that no news is good news; maybe their lack of response to my status inquiries is the fact that they are busy figuring out the details of the lucrative contract they are going to present to me. However, as each day passes, my resolve is wavering. My insecure, inner nancy-girl fears that the answer will be "NO! We don't want your tacky little book of inspirational stories! NO! There is no market for your kind around here! NO! You are not a big enough name for us to gamble on! NO! NO! A thousand times NO!!!"
I guess I need a refresher course on trust.
My favorite tool I use when conducting intuitive healing sessions with people is the Osho Zen Tarot card deck. It has beautiful pics, none of which makes me feel like the Grim Reaper is waiting with his scary-ass sword to cut me to shreds. The insights I receive from them are always powerful and dead-on accurate. It just so happens that the Trust card, has always been my personal favorite.
Whenever I do a reading on myself, I invariably choose the Trust card. I have selected it so many times that I actually installed the image as my laptop wallpaper so as to remind me of its teachings. The card shows a woman enthusiastically diving into a beautiful pink void with outstretched arms, knowing she will safely land wherever she needs to. The commentary on the card states, "Now is the moment to be a bungee jumper without the cord! And it is this quality of absolute trust, with no reservations or secret safety nets, that the Knight of Water demands from us. There is a tremendous sense of exhilaration if we can take the jump and move into the unknown, even if the idea scares us to death. And when we take trust to the level of the quantum leap, we don't make any elaborate plans or preparations. We don't say, "Okay, I trust that I know what to do now, and I'll settle my things and pack my suitcase and take it with me." No, we just jump, with hardly a thought for what happens next. The leap is the thing, and the thrill of it as we free-fall through the empty sky. The card gives a hint here, though, about what waits for us at the other end - a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, rose petals, juicy...c'mon!"
This card reads like it was meant for me. After recently packing up all of our worldly belongings and moving across country to our new home in Minnesota, I feel like a bungee jumper without the cord. After having my husband quit his safe corporate job to manage my fledgling book and public speaking business, I feel like I am free-falling through the empty sky. As the card states, the idea scares me to death. Yet, Michael and I made the leap anyway, trusting that what awaits us on the other end of these incredibly terrifying choices is a soft, welcoming, yummy pink, juicy reward.
Maybe that yummy pink reward is a contract with the Mystery NY Publisher. Maybe it's not. As the card states, the act of trust isn't about knowing the exact details of the outcome. It's about taking that first step toward the unknown, knowing that whatever the outcome, it is always in the best interests of all involved. In Jason Mraz's song, "Make It Mine", Jason sings, "Leap and the net will appear". Well, God? I have taken the leap, and I'm waiting not-so-patiently for the net to appear. Can it appear please? Pretty please? Soon? Before I go totally insane?
The biggest piece of advice I give people when moving through a transformational phase in their lives is to do two things: 1) Watch for the signs from Spirit, and 2) Act joyfully upon them. I have most of that routine down, but I must admit that I sometimes omit the 'joyful' part. When a carrot so juicy, so delectable, so career-making is dangling in front of me, I have found myself forgetting that the object of the game isn't to reach the carrot, it's to have fun while doing so. Because once I actually grab onto the elusive carrot, another one will appear. It's just the rules of the game; nothing more, nothing less.
In order to insert the word 'joyfully' back into my world, I need to embody the trust that comes with playing the game of life. I must remind myself (yet again) that Spirit is supremely benevolent and wants only the best for me. I must remind myself that I have written an award-winning book worthy of international exposure. I must remind myself that whatever happens -- whether I get this particular contract or not -- is exactly what is supposed to happen. I simply need to trust that God knows what He (or She) is doing.
It turns out the hardest part of becoming an author wasn't writing the book, editing it, designing it, or self-publishing it. It's diving into the void that I am in RIGHT NOW and trusting that, no matter the outcome, that all is well, all of the time.
During my meditation today, I will ask Spirit to release me from my self-imposed burden of worry. I will ask for It to resume the project management role. I will fill my body, mind and spirit with that simple word until it pushes all of the fear and doubt out of me. Just to be sure, maybe I'll be like Bart Simpson and write it on the chalkboard over and over until it actually sinks in:
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
I trust.
And so on and so on...
************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
In what areas of your life do you surrender to trust? In what areas do you hold on too tightly?
************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive the Rose Report or your Daily Dose of Mojo!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, August 28, 2009
Back in the Saddle Again...Almost
Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned. It's been four weeks since my last blog confession.
I haven't written for over a month, yet my life has been busier and crazier than ever before. Since my last blog on July 27th, my husband (our household's primary breadwinner) quit his fancy-schmancy corporate job to work full-time at our publishing and public speaking business, Serious Mojo Publications. Within a week of him quitting, we decided to make another huge change and move across country from Florida to Minnesota. Subsequently, after four weeks of hell, we arrived in the 26-foot U-Haul outside our rented home in Minneapolis. Each day, I thought to myself, "I need to blog! I need to blog! I need to blog!". But I never did.
I kept telling myself that my inability to write was because the story was too big, there were too many details to share, and that blogging about major life changing events as they occur was too time-consuming.
Yeah, right. That wasn't it at all! That was just some bullshit excuse I created in my own head to avoid the obvious: I was afraid.
Any entry I would have made would have undoubtedly been peppered with words of fear, panic, doubt, agitation, exhaustion, and anxiety. As an inspirational writer and speaker, I felt like I would have jilted my readers (and been seen as a whimpering ninny) by showing my unattractive, unconscious self that has emerged center stage. I couldn't bring myself to describe my tumultuous journey, even though that is precisely what I do for a living. There were always other, "more important" things to do -- packing, finding a house, cleaning, moving, and settling in. I had a million things to do, but writing had not become one of them. I abandoned who I was, all for the sake of the next completed task.
Now, when everything is nearly complete, I am stuck in the muck of writer's block, or to be more precise, writer's fear. I am petrified that my career won't be able to support my family, nervous that our house in Florida won't rent, upset that I have allowed my body to go to pot, anxious about the status of a major publisher reviewing the second edition of my book, and overwhelmed by the work I have waiting for me. Even more importantly, I have been deathly afraid that, after a month-long hiatus from writing, the words will no longer come. Will the literary gods strip away my snazzy wordsmithing chops from lack of usage?? I am supposed to be the Bringer of the Mojo, yet I feel like I have morphed into the handmaiden of victimhood. Ugh. I am so very small right now.
My mantra over the last several weeks has been, "This too shall pass". I keep telling myself that everything will work out exactly as it should because Michael and I are following the signs that Spirit has sent our way. In my quiet moments (of which there have been precious few), I KNOW that Michael quitting his job and our move to Minnesota are exactly what needs to happen for my speaking career to flourish and my book to gain national acclaim. Yet, I sit here twiddling my thumbs, moving knickknacks, shopping at Target, endlessly surfing Facebook for the next distraction, and waiting, wishing, hoping that I can turn the corner towards balance and joy.
Where, or where, have my balance and joy gone? Did I leave them in a box in our garage in Florida? Are they permanent fixtures in my meditation room in the Sunshine State?
I am constantly trying to cocoon myself in trust before the tsunami of fear threatens to overtake me. Visions of food stamps and blank screens dance in my head. Will I be ever be able to resume my writing? Will my calendar remain empty? Will I continue to spiral down the darkness where inspiration is lost forever?? Needless to say, I am in the midst of a full-blown freakout.
Sometimes we forget that everything is temporary. When we are in difficult periods in our lives, it often seems like the challenges will never end. I recall the agony of losing my mother and fearing that I'd never be able to get back to a place of happiness. Of course, my grief, like all pain, lessened over time. But, as we all know, pain makes us feel like we are stuck in molasses on a cold, wintry night. It is so damn hard to see the light that is flickering in the distance, calling us forward. We often resort to self-medication to get us through the dark hours. Personally, I have chosen unhealthy food as my propofol of choice. I have consumed massive amounts of Dairy Queen, pizza, Wendy's, Waffle House, Starbucks, and all manner of artery-clogging, pimple-creating culinary creations. Somehow the sweet and salty goodness found in no-no foods has given me the artificial fuel I needed to slog through the emotional molasses. The result, of course, is the reappearance of my fat pants, an explosion of zits on my face, and the hint of a second chin. Oh joy.
Ironically, if I were to conduct a counseling session with a client in a similar situation, I would encourage her to do two simple things: joyfully move her body and meditate more frequently. I know from personal history as well as professional experience that getting into one's body and getting right with Spirit are the two biggest methods towards healing and empowerment. I KNOW this. In my head. Yet, the hoop remains on the floor and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard continues to regularly enter my pie hole.
It isn't about knowing what's best for us; it's about DOING what's best for us. Those are two very different things. I know I should have kept up with my yoga practice and found time to regularly meditate, but I didn't. Instead, I ate crappy food and neglected my spiritual practice. Oops. Shit happens.
Unfortunately, getting back on the horse is never fun. Our tastebuds cry out for the sugary deliciousness of our edible anesthetics. Our bodies grown and wheeze when they are asked to perform in any other way other than to schlep boxes. Our self-esteem gets perpetually stuck in low gear. But, if we don't get right back on the horse, we'll stay firmly planted on the ground, bitching and complaining about how friggin' hard everything is.
Thankfully, I am just about ready to let go of my self-generated victimhood. Just about, but not quite.
I have decided to take baby steps back to the land of the Mojo. I've made a salad for lunch today instead of shoveling in Chipotle. I am planning on doing some gentle yoga later in our new meditation room. Maybe I'll even sign up for a local hooping class! I know my fat pants will not immediately go away, nor will my complexion magically clear up. But, I do know that writing to you today, dear reader, has helped me a great deal. It was the perfect boost I needed to get my rapidly-expanding tushie back in the saddle of life.
Thanks for your patience. Thanks for your understanding. Thanks for being there. I missed you.
I haven't written for over a month, yet my life has been busier and crazier than ever before. Since my last blog on July 27th, my husband (our household's primary breadwinner) quit his fancy-schmancy corporate job to work full-time at our publishing and public speaking business, Serious Mojo Publications. Within a week of him quitting, we decided to make another huge change and move across country from Florida to Minnesota. Subsequently, after four weeks of hell, we arrived in the 26-foot U-Haul outside our rented home in Minneapolis. Each day, I thought to myself, "I need to blog! I need to blog! I need to blog!". But I never did.
I kept telling myself that my inability to write was because the story was too big, there were too many details to share, and that blogging about major life changing events as they occur was too time-consuming.
Yeah, right. That wasn't it at all! That was just some bullshit excuse I created in my own head to avoid the obvious: I was afraid.
Any entry I would have made would have undoubtedly been peppered with words of fear, panic, doubt, agitation, exhaustion, and anxiety. As an inspirational writer and speaker, I felt like I would have jilted my readers (and been seen as a whimpering ninny) by showing my unattractive, unconscious self that has emerged center stage. I couldn't bring myself to describe my tumultuous journey, even though that is precisely what I do for a living. There were always other, "more important" things to do -- packing, finding a house, cleaning, moving, and settling in. I had a million things to do, but writing had not become one of them. I abandoned who I was, all for the sake of the next completed task.
Now, when everything is nearly complete, I am stuck in the muck of writer's block, or to be more precise, writer's fear. I am petrified that my career won't be able to support my family, nervous that our house in Florida won't rent, upset that I have allowed my body to go to pot, anxious about the status of a major publisher reviewing the second edition of my book, and overwhelmed by the work I have waiting for me. Even more importantly, I have been deathly afraid that, after a month-long hiatus from writing, the words will no longer come. Will the literary gods strip away my snazzy wordsmithing chops from lack of usage?? I am supposed to be the Bringer of the Mojo, yet I feel like I have morphed into the handmaiden of victimhood. Ugh. I am so very small right now.
My mantra over the last several weeks has been, "This too shall pass". I keep telling myself that everything will work out exactly as it should because Michael and I are following the signs that Spirit has sent our way. In my quiet moments (of which there have been precious few), I KNOW that Michael quitting his job and our move to Minnesota are exactly what needs to happen for my speaking career to flourish and my book to gain national acclaim. Yet, I sit here twiddling my thumbs, moving knickknacks, shopping at Target, endlessly surfing Facebook for the next distraction, and waiting, wishing, hoping that I can turn the corner towards balance and joy.
Where, or where, have my balance and joy gone? Did I leave them in a box in our garage in Florida? Are they permanent fixtures in my meditation room in the Sunshine State?
I am constantly trying to cocoon myself in trust before the tsunami of fear threatens to overtake me. Visions of food stamps and blank screens dance in my head. Will I be ever be able to resume my writing? Will my calendar remain empty? Will I continue to spiral down the darkness where inspiration is lost forever?? Needless to say, I am in the midst of a full-blown freakout.
Sometimes we forget that everything is temporary. When we are in difficult periods in our lives, it often seems like the challenges will never end. I recall the agony of losing my mother and fearing that I'd never be able to get back to a place of happiness. Of course, my grief, like all pain, lessened over time. But, as we all know, pain makes us feel like we are stuck in molasses on a cold, wintry night. It is so damn hard to see the light that is flickering in the distance, calling us forward. We often resort to self-medication to get us through the dark hours. Personally, I have chosen unhealthy food as my propofol of choice. I have consumed massive amounts of Dairy Queen, pizza, Wendy's, Waffle House, Starbucks, and all manner of artery-clogging, pimple-creating culinary creations. Somehow the sweet and salty goodness found in no-no foods has given me the artificial fuel I needed to slog through the emotional molasses. The result, of course, is the reappearance of my fat pants, an explosion of zits on my face, and the hint of a second chin. Oh joy.
Ironically, if I were to conduct a counseling session with a client in a similar situation, I would encourage her to do two simple things: joyfully move her body and meditate more frequently. I know from personal history as well as professional experience that getting into one's body and getting right with Spirit are the two biggest methods towards healing and empowerment. I KNOW this. In my head. Yet, the hoop remains on the floor and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard continues to regularly enter my pie hole.
It isn't about knowing what's best for us; it's about DOING what's best for us. Those are two very different things. I know I should have kept up with my yoga practice and found time to regularly meditate, but I didn't. Instead, I ate crappy food and neglected my spiritual practice. Oops. Shit happens.
Unfortunately, getting back on the horse is never fun. Our tastebuds cry out for the sugary deliciousness of our edible anesthetics. Our bodies grown and wheeze when they are asked to perform in any other way other than to schlep boxes. Our self-esteem gets perpetually stuck in low gear. But, if we don't get right back on the horse, we'll stay firmly planted on the ground, bitching and complaining about how friggin' hard everything is.
Thankfully, I am just about ready to let go of my self-generated victimhood. Just about, but not quite.
I have decided to take baby steps back to the land of the Mojo. I've made a salad for lunch today instead of shoveling in Chipotle. I am planning on doing some gentle yoga later in our new meditation room. Maybe I'll even sign up for a local hooping class! I know my fat pants will not immediately go away, nor will my complexion magically clear up. But, I do know that writing to you today, dear reader, has helped me a great deal. It was the perfect boost I needed to get my rapidly-expanding tushie back in the saddle of life.
Thanks for your patience. Thanks for your understanding. Thanks for being there. I missed you.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Loosening the Apron Ties
I just finished putting my seven-year old daughter on a bus to Bemidji, Minnesota for a week-long stay at Spanish Immersion camp. I can't stop crying.
When I woke up this morning at 3:00am, I knew the departure was going to be rough. I kept mindf#@king the supply list, mentally going over it one last time (ha!) to make sure that Em has everything she needs. I thought it ironic that the parent handbook stressed the importance of the children packing lightly, yet they put 75 things on the friggin' list, including sleeping bag, pillow, a set of sheets, three towels, backpack, laundry bag, clothes appropriate for any weather, rain gear, four kinds of shoes, water bottle, sunscreen, industrial-strength mosquito spray, stationery, Spanish books, toiletries, and other assorted camp fare. When all was said and done, my kid looked like a mini-version of a Tibetan sherpa.
Beaner and I had breakfast at Caribou Coffee, and we discussed some of the new experiences she would be having over mochas and scones. We talked about cabins, bunk beds, group showers (Eeeeek!), counselors, campfires and deer ticks. Whereas Emma was totally calm, I was rapidly becoming a screaming mimi. I was reassuring her left and right, telling her how much fun she was going to have in North Country. I stressed the added benny of having a whole week without parental supervision. Needless to say, she was thrilled.
After breakfast, we headed to the Brookdale Mall, the location of the bus pickup. Given my anal-retentive personality, we naturally arrived forty-five minutes early. There were already dozens of older kids loitering with their luggage, waiting to get on their assigned bus. I didn't see any parents accompanying the kids, so I figured they've all done the dealio before. In a moment of parenting inspiration, I opted to refrain from dragging my child over to the congregation, thus sparing her the nauseating humility of having her mother doting after her, fixing her hair, quadruple checking her backpack, and giving her a spit bath. Instead, we spent the next thirty minutes talking, laughing, and cuddling in the front seat. As I looked into her beautiful green eyes, I started to get choked up at the thought of my little girl leaving. The only words she kept repeating were "Just don't cry. Just don't cry. Just don't cry." The more she said it, the closer the tears came.
Once the other kids started to board the buses, I felt it was safe to exit the vehicle. A Minnesota Nice camp counselor approached the car ("Hey there! How ya doin' today? Where'ya headed to, young lady?") and checked her in. He pointed us to Bus #2 and instructed her on how to stow her luggage. We walked to the bus together and another Nice welcomed her and took her bag ("Spanish Bemidji, eh? Sounds good!"). Before we knew it, it was time for THE MOMENT: the final hug goodbye. Emma was self-conscious about the other kids witnessing her mother have a potential emotional meltdown, so she made the hug and kiss brief but meaningful. Right before she stepped onto the bus, she turned around, gave me one of her priceless toothless grins, and gave me the "I love you" sign. Lower lip quivering, I returned the gesture and watched my only child disappear into the darkness of the luxury coach.
For the next ten minutes, I sat in my car and cried. It just didn't seem possible that EmmaBean was already old enough to be parent-free! Even though she has been away from us several times before, there wasn't the comfort of Mim, Nana Jean, Auntie Suz, Jackie or Shellie to soothe my nervous tendencies. I am now being forced to trust strangers with my precious angel. As any parent can attest, it's harder than it sounds.
After realizing that I actually needed to drive my car, I wiped my face and tried to exit the mall to go to my next destination. It literally took me another fifteen minutes to decipher Google maps, my iPhone GPS system, the labyrinthine side streets, the parking medians, and the Sears Tire Shop. I finally finally finally got out of the damn mall parking lot with tears still streaming down my face.
My rational side knows that Emma will be fine. Actually, she'll be more than fine. She'll be fantastic. She is a naturally adventurous, open person who welcomes new people and activities in her world. I know she'll be talking non-stop on Saturday about how totally cool camp was and how excited she is to return. But my rational side isn't in charge right now. The crazy, nervous-nellie, emotional, sentimental, basket-case mommy side is in control and she doesn't like it one little bit that her little girl is on a bus to Bemidji right now.
Wow. I can't even fathom what I'm gonna be like when she goes on her first date.
When I woke up this morning at 3:00am, I knew the departure was going to be rough. I kept mindf#@king the supply list, mentally going over it one last time (ha!) to make sure that Em has everything she needs. I thought it ironic that the parent handbook stressed the importance of the children packing lightly, yet they put 75 things on the friggin' list, including sleeping bag, pillow, a set of sheets, three towels, backpack, laundry bag, clothes appropriate for any weather, rain gear, four kinds of shoes, water bottle, sunscreen, industrial-strength mosquito spray, stationery, Spanish books, toiletries, and other assorted camp fare. When all was said and done, my kid looked like a mini-version of a Tibetan sherpa.
Beaner and I had breakfast at Caribou Coffee, and we discussed some of the new experiences she would be having over mochas and scones. We talked about cabins, bunk beds, group showers (Eeeeek!), counselors, campfires and deer ticks. Whereas Emma was totally calm, I was rapidly becoming a screaming mimi. I was reassuring her left and right, telling her how much fun she was going to have in North Country. I stressed the added benny of having a whole week without parental supervision. Needless to say, she was thrilled.
After breakfast, we headed to the Brookdale Mall, the location of the bus pickup. Given my anal-retentive personality, we naturally arrived forty-five minutes early. There were already dozens of older kids loitering with their luggage, waiting to get on their assigned bus. I didn't see any parents accompanying the kids, so I figured they've all done the dealio before. In a moment of parenting inspiration, I opted to refrain from dragging my child over to the congregation, thus sparing her the nauseating humility of having her mother doting after her, fixing her hair, quadruple checking her backpack, and giving her a spit bath. Instead, we spent the next thirty minutes talking, laughing, and cuddling in the front seat. As I looked into her beautiful green eyes, I started to get choked up at the thought of my little girl leaving. The only words she kept repeating were "Just don't cry. Just don't cry. Just don't cry." The more she said it, the closer the tears came.
Once the other kids started to board the buses, I felt it was safe to exit the vehicle. A Minnesota Nice camp counselor approached the car ("Hey there! How ya doin' today? Where'ya headed to, young lady?") and checked her in. He pointed us to Bus #2 and instructed her on how to stow her luggage. We walked to the bus together and another Nice welcomed her and took her bag ("Spanish Bemidji, eh? Sounds good!"). Before we knew it, it was time for THE MOMENT: the final hug goodbye. Emma was self-conscious about the other kids witnessing her mother have a potential emotional meltdown, so she made the hug and kiss brief but meaningful. Right before she stepped onto the bus, she turned around, gave me one of her priceless toothless grins, and gave me the "I love you" sign. Lower lip quivering, I returned the gesture and watched my only child disappear into the darkness of the luxury coach.
For the next ten minutes, I sat in my car and cried. It just didn't seem possible that EmmaBean was already old enough to be parent-free! Even though she has been away from us several times before, there wasn't the comfort of Mim, Nana Jean, Auntie Suz, Jackie or Shellie to soothe my nervous tendencies. I am now being forced to trust strangers with my precious angel. As any parent can attest, it's harder than it sounds.
After realizing that I actually needed to drive my car, I wiped my face and tried to exit the mall to go to my next destination. It literally took me another fifteen minutes to decipher Google maps, my iPhone GPS system, the labyrinthine side streets, the parking medians, and the Sears Tire Shop. I finally finally finally got out of the damn mall parking lot with tears still streaming down my face.
My rational side knows that Emma will be fine. Actually, she'll be more than fine. She'll be fantastic. She is a naturally adventurous, open person who welcomes new people and activities in her world. I know she'll be talking non-stop on Saturday about how totally cool camp was and how excited she is to return. But my rational side isn't in charge right now. The crazy, nervous-nellie, emotional, sentimental, basket-case mommy side is in control and she doesn't like it one little bit that her little girl is on a bus to Bemidji right now.
Wow. I can't even fathom what I'm gonna be like when she goes on her first date.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Flying Into the Fear
In two days, I am getting on an airplane with my seven-year old daughter, and I'm scared shitless.
Every time I step onto one of those marvels of modern technology, I have frightening visions of dropped oxygen masks, emergency lighting, twisted metal, burning flesh, and phone calls to loved ones dancing in my head. For years I wouldn't wear stockings on an airplane because I heard they can melt to your skin in the event of a crash. I admit it; I am a certifiable ninny when it comes to air travel. It certainly doesn't help that nearly every time I take a flight, there is a recent plane crash somewhere that grabs the headlines. (I don't know what kind of karmic nightmare I am destined to relive, but I feel I've paid it many times over.) Today while news surfing, I found not one, not two, not three, but FOUR stories of unfortunate flying "incidents": The tragic Air France 447 crash, an emergency landing of a Spanish jet, a missing helicopter in New Mexico, and the congressional hearings on the Miracle on the Hudson crash landing. OK, God. Enough already. I'm officially pissing in my drawers.
My plane paranoia started back in Chicago when I was a little older than Emma. Back in 1979, there was an American Airlines crash just outside of O'Hare that was captured by several amateur photographers. Unfortunately, the seedling of morbid media was planted; the pics were shown on the front page of the Chicago Tribune and replayed on our local TV news broadcasts ad infinitum. As an impressionable ten-year old, the recurring image of that plane going down in my hometown seared into my permanent memory bank. Over the next thirty years, my aviation fears intensified with each new disaster. The disturbing videos from one fateful day in September of 2001 were the final blow.
While I am fortunate enough not to have actually been in a crash, I have experienced a handful of white-knuckle flights where I was totally convinced that the plane was going to plunge into the ground like a well-thrown bar dart. I recall one particularly harrowing flight to Colorado Springs about fifteen years ago where we circled the airport for over an hour while bouncing around like a friggin' cork on the ocean, wishing, waiting, hoping for the wind shears to die down so we could land. Finally, the exasperated pilot announced, "We're gonna go for it. Tighten your seat belts and say a prayer." Oh joy. That was comforting. Passengers were embracing each other, crying, praying, clutching crosses and rosaries, throwing up, strangling armrests, and generally having total, full-on emotional meltdowns. I was basically an amalgamation of my flying compadres, vacillating from crying, praying, puking, and pleading. I shit you negative, the descent was more intense than any hardcore thrill ride at a Six Flags amusement park. After finally finally FINALLY landing safely on the runway of the Colorado Springs Municipal Airport, I didn't know which activity I wanted to do first: have a cocktail, go to church, or sleep with the businessman who sat next to me on the plane. All three sounded very inviting after enduring that God-awful Plane Ride From Hell. (I ended up doing only one.)
Flash forward fifteen years and a hubby and child later. In forty-eight hours, I am going to get on another silver bullet, but this time I'll be toting an impressionable third-grader with me. A good mommy would realize that the chances of dying in a plane crash are infinitesimal, regardless of what the newspapers portray. A good mommy would gracefully accept that if it is our time to go, then it is our time to go. A good mommy would rise to the occasion, making sure her daughter feels safe, comfy, and happy. A good mommy wouldn't drink three screwdrivers at the airport bar before stepping on the jetway.
Hmmm...I wonder if Good Mommy will show up on Friday.
***********************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
How do you feeling about flying?
***********************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Every time I step onto one of those marvels of modern technology, I have frightening visions of dropped oxygen masks, emergency lighting, twisted metal, burning flesh, and phone calls to loved ones dancing in my head. For years I wouldn't wear stockings on an airplane because I heard they can melt to your skin in the event of a crash. I admit it; I am a certifiable ninny when it comes to air travel. It certainly doesn't help that nearly every time I take a flight, there is a recent plane crash somewhere that grabs the headlines. (I don't know what kind of karmic nightmare I am destined to relive, but I feel I've paid it many times over.) Today while news surfing, I found not one, not two, not three, but FOUR stories of unfortunate flying "incidents": The tragic Air France 447 crash, an emergency landing of a Spanish jet, a missing helicopter in New Mexico, and the congressional hearings on the Miracle on the Hudson crash landing. OK, God. Enough already. I'm officially pissing in my drawers.
My plane paranoia started back in Chicago when I was a little older than Emma. Back in 1979, there was an American Airlines crash just outside of O'Hare that was captured by several amateur photographers. Unfortunately, the seedling of morbid media was planted; the pics were shown on the front page of the Chicago Tribune and replayed on our local TV news broadcasts ad infinitum. As an impressionable ten-year old, the recurring image of that plane going down in my hometown seared into my permanent memory bank. Over the next thirty years, my aviation fears intensified with each new disaster. The disturbing videos from one fateful day in September of 2001 were the final blow.
While I am fortunate enough not to have actually been in a crash, I have experienced a handful of white-knuckle flights where I was totally convinced that the plane was going to plunge into the ground like a well-thrown bar dart. I recall one particularly harrowing flight to Colorado Springs about fifteen years ago where we circled the airport for over an hour while bouncing around like a friggin' cork on the ocean, wishing, waiting, hoping for the wind shears to die down so we could land. Finally, the exasperated pilot announced, "We're gonna go for it. Tighten your seat belts and say a prayer." Oh joy. That was comforting. Passengers were embracing each other, crying, praying, clutching crosses and rosaries, throwing up, strangling armrests, and generally having total, full-on emotional meltdowns. I was basically an amalgamation of my flying compadres, vacillating from crying, praying, puking, and pleading. I shit you negative, the descent was more intense than any hardcore thrill ride at a Six Flags amusement park. After finally finally FINALLY landing safely on the runway of the Colorado Springs Municipal Airport, I didn't know which activity I wanted to do first: have a cocktail, go to church, or sleep with the businessman who sat next to me on the plane. All three sounded very inviting after enduring that God-awful Plane Ride From Hell. (I ended up doing only one.)
Flash forward fifteen years and a hubby and child later. In forty-eight hours, I am going to get on another silver bullet, but this time I'll be toting an impressionable third-grader with me. A good mommy would realize that the chances of dying in a plane crash are infinitesimal, regardless of what the newspapers portray. A good mommy would gracefully accept that if it is our time to go, then it is our time to go. A good mommy would rise to the occasion, making sure her daughter feels safe, comfy, and happy. A good mommy wouldn't drink three screwdrivers at the airport bar before stepping on the jetway.
Hmmm...I wonder if Good Mommy will show up on Friday.
***********************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
How do you feeling about flying?
***********************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Art of Downshifting
I am a woman of extremes. Sometimes I find myself on top of a mountain completely disconnected from the modern world and basking in the light of Spirit; other times I fly around my house like a headless chicken, maniacally seeking the never-ending end of the to-do list. I think it's time for me to learn the middle way.
Two weeks ago, I was literally on top of a mountain in Northern California. Many wonderful things transpired for me -- some personal, some communal, some marital, and all spiritual. It was my time to remember who I was: a Divine being worthy of joy and love. I am so grateful for the transformational journey I took, and it's experiences will stay with me always.
So what did I do upon returning from this Zen-like state of absolute bliss?
I stressed out, of course!
First of all, going for more than a week without writing is NOT good for me. I missed my creative outlet and I longed to receive my regular treatments from the King of All Healers, MacDaddy. When I did re-enter my so-called-normal life, I was inundated with the heavy tolls one pays when going out of town: laundry, mail, laundry, putting away stuff, laundry, catching up on email, and laundry. Each day I promised myself that I would sit down to write, and each day I filled it with other tasks deemed "more important" than my creative expression and primary vocation. I had excuse upon excuse that kept me from MacDaddy. My need for literary release became stronger and the gulf between the written word and me became larger.
This morning, I became acutely aware of how I had inadvertently micromanaged my schedule such that writing time was not even considered. I would get up early to make The Bean her breakfast and lunch, go to an appointment, follow up on a proposal, send some important emails, have a working lunch with Michael, update my web site, pick up The Bean from the bus stop and get her hair cut, go to Publix for milk and other necessaries, and finish the day by primping myself for a fancy shindig I will attend later this evening. In my mind, I had accounted for every minute of the day, leaving absolutely no room for one teensy little thing: ME.
Thankfully, a little while ago I forced myself to step away from the computer so I could finally, truly return to it. For the first time since returning from my spiritual retreat, I put on Jai Uttal's "Music For Yoga and Other Joys", did some much-needed movement, and had a fantastic, relaxing, restorative meditation practice. How ridiculous it was to respond to my spiritual retreat by totally ignoring Spirit. Duh. Double Duh.
It was glorious to move my body again! I had grown tired of being one big head, unconsciously flitting from task to task, wishing hoping begging that I could get it all done and knowing that I never would. This afternoon in our meditation room, I did what is foreign to me: I downshifted. I slowed down and allowed my spirit, head, heart, and body to occupy the same space. It was nothing less than Divine.
After only 15 minutes of quiet reflection, my muse returned to me in all her splendor. I knew what I would write about and how I would return to my rightful role as Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo. I would simply share with you how difficult it is to jump from total release to total responsibility in the blink of an eye. The guilt for having gone away propels us forward and pushes us to accomplish just one more item on the list. Why do we think we don't deserve to slow down, even after a period of rest? Is it some sort of emotional masochism that yells, "You can enjoy your vacation, but you better damn well know you'll pay the price for it when you return!"
That's total bullshit.
I want to live in the groove where it's OK to slow down, even if it is for just 15 minutes a day. I want to give myself permission to write as often as possible. I want to bask in the moment instead of automatically jumping to the next one. I want to remember that I am more than a mom and a wife. In the end, I want to put into practice what I learned on the mountain.
Thank you for waiting for me, dear reader. I know that I have been absent for a while, and I know that it is annoying when you are used to seeing new installments of my Serious Mojo blog on a regular basis. I appreciate your patience and will do my best to deliver the goods from this point forward. We are in a relationship together, you and I. And I am ready to do my part again.
Ahhhh.....it feels SO GOOD to be back.
********************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever go crazy right after vacation?
********************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
Two weeks ago, I was literally on top of a mountain in Northern California. Many wonderful things transpired for me -- some personal, some communal, some marital, and all spiritual. It was my time to remember who I was: a Divine being worthy of joy and love. I am so grateful for the transformational journey I took, and it's experiences will stay with me always.
So what did I do upon returning from this Zen-like state of absolute bliss?
I stressed out, of course!
First of all, going for more than a week without writing is NOT good for me. I missed my creative outlet and I longed to receive my regular treatments from the King of All Healers, MacDaddy. When I did re-enter my so-called-normal life, I was inundated with the heavy tolls one pays when going out of town: laundry, mail, laundry, putting away stuff, laundry, catching up on email, and laundry. Each day I promised myself that I would sit down to write, and each day I filled it with other tasks deemed "more important" than my creative expression and primary vocation. I had excuse upon excuse that kept me from MacDaddy. My need for literary release became stronger and the gulf between the written word and me became larger.
This morning, I became acutely aware of how I had inadvertently micromanaged my schedule such that writing time was not even considered. I would get up early to make The Bean her breakfast and lunch, go to an appointment, follow up on a proposal, send some important emails, have a working lunch with Michael, update my web site, pick up The Bean from the bus stop and get her hair cut, go to Publix for milk and other necessaries, and finish the day by primping myself for a fancy shindig I will attend later this evening. In my mind, I had accounted for every minute of the day, leaving absolutely no room for one teensy little thing: ME.
Thankfully, a little while ago I forced myself to step away from the computer so I could finally, truly return to it. For the first time since returning from my spiritual retreat, I put on Jai Uttal's "Music For Yoga and Other Joys", did some much-needed movement, and had a fantastic, relaxing, restorative meditation practice. How ridiculous it was to respond to my spiritual retreat by totally ignoring Spirit. Duh. Double Duh.
It was glorious to move my body again! I had grown tired of being one big head, unconsciously flitting from task to task, wishing hoping begging that I could get it all done and knowing that I never would. This afternoon in our meditation room, I did what is foreign to me: I downshifted. I slowed down and allowed my spirit, head, heart, and body to occupy the same space. It was nothing less than Divine.
After only 15 minutes of quiet reflection, my muse returned to me in all her splendor. I knew what I would write about and how I would return to my rightful role as Author, Speaker, and Bringer of the Mojo. I would simply share with you how difficult it is to jump from total release to total responsibility in the blink of an eye. The guilt for having gone away propels us forward and pushes us to accomplish just one more item on the list. Why do we think we don't deserve to slow down, even after a period of rest? Is it some sort of emotional masochism that yells, "You can enjoy your vacation, but you better damn well know you'll pay the price for it when you return!"
That's total bullshit.
I want to live in the groove where it's OK to slow down, even if it is for just 15 minutes a day. I want to give myself permission to write as often as possible. I want to bask in the moment instead of automatically jumping to the next one. I want to remember that I am more than a mom and a wife. In the end, I want to put into practice what I learned on the mountain.
Thank you for waiting for me, dear reader. I know that I have been absent for a while, and I know that it is annoying when you are used to seeing new installments of my Serious Mojo blog on a regular basis. I appreciate your patience and will do my best to deliver the goods from this point forward. We are in a relationship together, you and I. And I am ready to do my part again.
Ahhhh.....it feels SO GOOD to be back.
********************************************************************************
For your consideration and/or comment:
Do you ever go crazy right after vacation?
********************************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Don't Let the Nutters Win
This morning, I did two things that are bad for me: I drank Starbucks and read the newspaper.
Since I am gearing up to take a much-needed spiritual retreat/vacation next week, I am focusing all of my efforts on being as efficient as possible. As such, I thought I would wait in the parking lot of Staples from 7:35am (the time I drop off Beaner at the bus) to 8:00am (the time the store opens) instead of schlepping back home only to leave again to retrieve my copies. After giving smooches, straightening collars, and instructing my urchin to make it a great day, I decided I would enjoy my parking lot lollygagging a little bit more if I had a tasty Tall (notice not a Grande!) Decaf Light Whip Mocha. While in line, I opted to pick up our local newspaper, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. After having the adorable, scruffy barista give me my poison, er, order, I returned to the Mojomobile and drove to Staples to await the opening. I slurped on my delectable bev and cracked open the paper, both of which I rarely do. Here is what I discovered...
THERE ARE A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS OUT THERE.
During my fifteen minutes of idle-time, I read about unauthorized nuclear testing by North Korea, cutbacks in education, and gunrunners traveling across the border into Mexico. However, two flaming nutjobs jumped out at me as particularly odious.
1) Melissa Huckaby of Stockton, California who apparently kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and killed the 8-year old friend of her daughter. After the killing, she stuffed the little girl's body into a suitcase and dumped her into a pond. If I could say something to Melissa it would be this: Melissa, Poor, Deluded, Fucked-up Melissa, you are like a nasty old string of Christmas lights with half of the lights burned out. You are so twisted that the best thing to do with you is throw you away so you don't have to show your ugly mug in society ever again. Shame on you. How dare you! I am sure that when you go to prison, there will be other mommies in there with you who will frown upon your method of chaperoning play dates. Paybacks are a bitch, Bitch, especially when you harm a child. Ouch. It sucks to be you, in this lifetime and beyond.
2) A not-yet-identified man in my own home town of Sarasota, Florida is viciously attacking old ladies. It seems that Dickless Wonder has broken into the homes of nine middle-aged to older women, sneaked up on them from behind, bonked them on the head, robbed them, tied them up with rope, sexually assaulted a few of them (including an 82-year old woman) and killed the last one just last week. Dick, you WILL be found and brought to justice, you fucking coward. Just as Nutjob #1 will have a rocky road in the hoosgow, you too will feel the pain of your fellow inmates' displeasure at your shenanigans. It's not that I'm wishing it, mind you, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of the yard rats bonks your soft melon and gives you a taste of your own wretched medicine. (Insert your own soap-dropping reference here.)
Now, I know that I will be rightly accused of a lack of compassion for my fellow, extremely wounded, human beings. The Higher Self in me knows that these two whackjobs are most likely products of abuse, neglect, and trauma. My enlightened side says, "Show them love". Jesus would say, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Yeah, JC, God should and will probably forgive them. But I don't need to. I guess I believe that they DID know what they were doing, and those two crackpots are hard to forgive. However, it's possible that my lack of forgiveness stems from my proximity to the crimes.
In the case of the Evil Mommy, I can't help but think about my own almost-eight year old being in that situation. Emma has gone next door for a playdate with her best friend countless times. Ms. Huckaby's actions instilled that same fear in me, even if for only brief flashes of time. Through her unconscionable choices, she has rocked the worlds of mothers and fathers everywhere, not to mention destroyed the lives of the victim's family.
In the case of Dick, he has chosen to attack vulnerable women in neighborhoods where close friends of mine live. I drive by these places several times a week. This isn't some distant story buried in the national news page; it's where my peeps live and work. Clark and Beneva. US41 and Stickney Point. Siesta and Osprey. This deluded shell of a man has put the fear of God into house after house of women in my town, and I for one am pissed about it.
Here lies the challenge and the opportunity. There will always be nutjobs amongst us. Eight years ago, we had a handful of nutjobs get on four airplanes and change our world forever. That same year, a mild-mannered nutjob named Andrea drowned her five kids. Twenty-two years ago, another nutjob was putting poison in Tylenol capsules in my hometown of Chicago. Over sixty years ago, there was a whole country of nutjobs led my the King of the Nutjobs who started exterminating people. How do we live in peace, comfort, and joy, knowing that heinous tragedies, local and global, have happened and will happen again in some form or another?
I'm not sure I know the answer, but here's my humble opinion on how to survive the storm of crazies:
We believe. We are unafraid. We trust in Spirit. We know that everything happens exactly as it should. We don't allow the weakness of others become the weakness in ourselves. We rise to the occasion. We find the gifts buried in the muck. We become shining examples of what it looks like to be conscious, loving, compassionate people.
In short, we don't let the nutters win.
Some days, like today, it's easier said than done.
Since I am gearing up to take a much-needed spiritual retreat/vacation next week, I am focusing all of my efforts on being as efficient as possible. As such, I thought I would wait in the parking lot of Staples from 7:35am (the time I drop off Beaner at the bus) to 8:00am (the time the store opens) instead of schlepping back home only to leave again to retrieve my copies. After giving smooches, straightening collars, and instructing my urchin to make it a great day, I decided I would enjoy my parking lot lollygagging a little bit more if I had a tasty Tall (notice not a Grande!) Decaf Light Whip Mocha. While in line, I opted to pick up our local newspaper, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. After having the adorable, scruffy barista give me my poison, er, order, I returned to the Mojomobile and drove to Staples to await the opening. I slurped on my delectable bev and cracked open the paper, both of which I rarely do. Here is what I discovered...
THERE ARE A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS OUT THERE.
During my fifteen minutes of idle-time, I read about unauthorized nuclear testing by North Korea, cutbacks in education, and gunrunners traveling across the border into Mexico. However, two flaming nutjobs jumped out at me as particularly odious.
1) Melissa Huckaby of Stockton, California who apparently kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and killed the 8-year old friend of her daughter. After the killing, she stuffed the little girl's body into a suitcase and dumped her into a pond. If I could say something to Melissa it would be this: Melissa, Poor, Deluded, Fucked-up Melissa, you are like a nasty old string of Christmas lights with half of the lights burned out. You are so twisted that the best thing to do with you is throw you away so you don't have to show your ugly mug in society ever again. Shame on you. How dare you! I am sure that when you go to prison, there will be other mommies in there with you who will frown upon your method of chaperoning play dates. Paybacks are a bitch, Bitch, especially when you harm a child. Ouch. It sucks to be you, in this lifetime and beyond.
2) A not-yet-identified man in my own home town of Sarasota, Florida is viciously attacking old ladies. It seems that Dickless Wonder has broken into the homes of nine middle-aged to older women, sneaked up on them from behind, bonked them on the head, robbed them, tied them up with rope, sexually assaulted a few of them (including an 82-year old woman) and killed the last one just last week. Dick, you WILL be found and brought to justice, you fucking coward. Just as Nutjob #1 will have a rocky road in the hoosgow, you too will feel the pain of your fellow inmates' displeasure at your shenanigans. It's not that I'm wishing it, mind you, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of the yard rats bonks your soft melon and gives you a taste of your own wretched medicine. (Insert your own soap-dropping reference here.)
Now, I know that I will be rightly accused of a lack of compassion for my fellow, extremely wounded, human beings. The Higher Self in me knows that these two whackjobs are most likely products of abuse, neglect, and trauma. My enlightened side says, "Show them love". Jesus would say, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Yeah, JC, God should and will probably forgive them. But I don't need to. I guess I believe that they DID know what they were doing, and those two crackpots are hard to forgive. However, it's possible that my lack of forgiveness stems from my proximity to the crimes.
In the case of the Evil Mommy, I can't help but think about my own almost-eight year old being in that situation. Emma has gone next door for a playdate with her best friend countless times. Ms. Huckaby's actions instilled that same fear in me, even if for only brief flashes of time. Through her unconscionable choices, she has rocked the worlds of mothers and fathers everywhere, not to mention destroyed the lives of the victim's family.
In the case of Dick, he has chosen to attack vulnerable women in neighborhoods where close friends of mine live. I drive by these places several times a week. This isn't some distant story buried in the national news page; it's where my peeps live and work. Clark and Beneva. US41 and Stickney Point. Siesta and Osprey. This deluded shell of a man has put the fear of God into house after house of women in my town, and I for one am pissed about it.
Here lies the challenge and the opportunity. There will always be nutjobs amongst us. Eight years ago, we had a handful of nutjobs get on four airplanes and change our world forever. That same year, a mild-mannered nutjob named Andrea drowned her five kids. Twenty-two years ago, another nutjob was putting poison in Tylenol capsules in my hometown of Chicago. Over sixty years ago, there was a whole country of nutjobs led my the King of the Nutjobs who started exterminating people. How do we live in peace, comfort, and joy, knowing that heinous tragedies, local and global, have happened and will happen again in some form or another?
I'm not sure I know the answer, but here's my humble opinion on how to survive the storm of crazies:
We believe. We are unafraid. We trust in Spirit. We know that everything happens exactly as it should. We don't allow the weakness of others become the weakness in ourselves. We rise to the occasion. We find the gifts buried in the muck. We become shining examples of what it looks like to be conscious, loving, compassionate people.
In short, we don't let the nutters win.
Some days, like today, it's easier said than done.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Green-Eyed Monster in Me
I friggin' hate being jealous. And it happens far too often for me to ignore.
The most recent case in point: A high school friend of mine just launched her first book with the help of a proper agent and publisher. She has an ungodly huge blog following, each of whom were chomping at the bit to buy her book the day it came out. As part of her launch efforts, she sold one autographed copy of her book on eBay which netted more than what I made last month in book sales. Just recently, she had a book signing where 60 copies of her book were sold (the number would have been higher if the bookstore would have stocked more). At my last book signing, I sold 6 and practically begged each customer for the sale. She did 15 phone interviews in one day; I can't remember the date of my last one. To put it mildly, I am INSANELY jealous of her.
The thing that really sucks about my mental malaise is that this chick is totally nice, funny, and talented. She was like that in high school, and she remains so to this day. (She was one of the few girls in high school I actually liked; she was a delightful flash of realness in a morass of pretentious, teenage phony-baloney.) She deserves to have huge success, and I am genuinely happy for her. However, I cannot escape my own insecurities, doubts, and fears whenever I hear about her latest score.
Why do we silently curse the successes of others? What is it about someone else doing well that rankles us so? I should have more sensitivity to this particular condition, as I have encountered it on the other end from people with whom I thought were my friends. As I dip my pinky toe in the pool of literary success, I have discovered that not everyone is overflowing with joy for me. Somehow they think that going for one's dream is unseemly or that I have become "too big for my britches". I have spent many a night kvetching to my husband about so-and-so giving me the cold shoulder simply because I am enthusiastically pursuing my career as an author, speaker, and bringer of the Mojo.
Yet, I am not immune to it. Unfortunately, this fog of envy that occasionally envelops me is not a new phenomenon. I have been jealous for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was jealous of Mary because she had the first pair of Jordache jeans in school. I was jealous of Kim because she had cable before anyone else did. I was jealous of Angela because every guy (and more than a few girls) wanted to do her. I was jealous of Lindsey because she had the most phenomenal hair and always smelled like pretty French perfume. Bear in mind, these chicks were my best friends. Can you imagine how psycho I got about girls I DIDN'T like?
Jealousy is like a virus. It seeps into our souls and convinces us that who we are, what we do, or what we have is not good enough. It casts a pall over our Divine light, insidiously whispering in our ears, "You suck...you aren't good enough...you'll never have what she has...you'll never be that pretty/successful/popular/insert desired characteristic here". It makes us sick, unhappy, and afraid.
Enough is enough! I'm tired of it. I have been jealous for far too long. I think my friend's rapid rise to stardom is my chance to rid myself of the green-eyed monster once and for all. Every time I read of her latest accomplishment, I will say to myself, "Good for her! There is more than enough to go around. I'm glad to see another female writer succeed and know that I, too, will achieve my goals." There is no reason why her success can't pave the way for my own.
At least that's the plan.
Oh great...the drop-dead gorgeous waitress with the perfect body is sauntering over to my table to deliver my southwestern wrap and fries. Damn her! Who does she think she is, anyway?
Oops.
****************************************************************
For your comment and/or consideration:
Who or what brings out the green-eyed monster in you?
****************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The most recent case in point: A high school friend of mine just launched her first book with the help of a proper agent and publisher. She has an ungodly huge blog following, each of whom were chomping at the bit to buy her book the day it came out. As part of her launch efforts, she sold one autographed copy of her book on eBay which netted more than what I made last month in book sales. Just recently, she had a book signing where 60 copies of her book were sold (the number would have been higher if the bookstore would have stocked more). At my last book signing, I sold 6 and practically begged each customer for the sale. She did 15 phone interviews in one day; I can't remember the date of my last one. To put it mildly, I am INSANELY jealous of her.
The thing that really sucks about my mental malaise is that this chick is totally nice, funny, and talented. She was like that in high school, and she remains so to this day. (She was one of the few girls in high school I actually liked; she was a delightful flash of realness in a morass of pretentious, teenage phony-baloney.) She deserves to have huge success, and I am genuinely happy for her. However, I cannot escape my own insecurities, doubts, and fears whenever I hear about her latest score.
Why do we silently curse the successes of others? What is it about someone else doing well that rankles us so? I should have more sensitivity to this particular condition, as I have encountered it on the other end from people with whom I thought were my friends. As I dip my pinky toe in the pool of literary success, I have discovered that not everyone is overflowing with joy for me. Somehow they think that going for one's dream is unseemly or that I have become "too big for my britches". I have spent many a night kvetching to my husband about so-and-so giving me the cold shoulder simply because I am enthusiastically pursuing my career as an author, speaker, and bringer of the Mojo.
Yet, I am not immune to it. Unfortunately, this fog of envy that occasionally envelops me is not a new phenomenon. I have been jealous for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was jealous of Mary because she had the first pair of Jordache jeans in school. I was jealous of Kim because she had cable before anyone else did. I was jealous of Angela because every guy (and more than a few girls) wanted to do her. I was jealous of Lindsey because she had the most phenomenal hair and always smelled like pretty French perfume. Bear in mind, these chicks were my best friends. Can you imagine how psycho I got about girls I DIDN'T like?
Jealousy is like a virus. It seeps into our souls and convinces us that who we are, what we do, or what we have is not good enough. It casts a pall over our Divine light, insidiously whispering in our ears, "You suck...you aren't good enough...you'll never have what she has...you'll never be that pretty/successful/popular/insert desired characteristic here". It makes us sick, unhappy, and afraid.
Enough is enough! I'm tired of it. I have been jealous for far too long. I think my friend's rapid rise to stardom is my chance to rid myself of the green-eyed monster once and for all. Every time I read of her latest accomplishment, I will say to myself, "Good for her! There is more than enough to go around. I'm glad to see another female writer succeed and know that I, too, will achieve my goals." There is no reason why her success can't pave the way for my own.
At least that's the plan.
Oh great...the drop-dead gorgeous waitress with the perfect body is sauntering over to my table to deliver my southwestern wrap and fries. Damn her! Who does she think she is, anyway?
Oops.
****************************************************************
For your comment and/or consideration:
Who or what brings out the green-eyed monster in you?
****************************************************************
Visit www.TheresaRose.net to receive your Daily Dose of Mojo!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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