Finding My Alleluia

The other day, my daughter wouldn’t let me play the song Good to be Alive by Andy Grammer because it had “the A word” in it.

To this I said, “Dude, it does NOT say a-hole in that song…”

“MOM! I mean ‘Alleluia!” We aren’t supposed to say that during Lent!!”

Jeeze louise.

We Catholics begin Lent with the ashes on the forehead to remind us of our impermanence, and from there we launch into 40 days of giving up something. The next thing you know, Easter shoots up at us like a wind-up jack-in-a-box. It can feel a little jarring.

But the truth is, I love Lent. In the midst of this culture of filtered Instagram shots of perfect sunsets, the tacit expectation that we are to be relentlessly cheerful and happy all the time (especially women, but maybe that’s just my perception), it’s kind of a relief to have an entire 40 days to take it down a few notches. To ponder life and death. To think about where we might be missing the mark. To ask questions like “How am I doing? No really. Not the nice version. How am I really doing?”

To get closer to the answer to this question, I gave up what is probably my biggest distraction: Facebook. I love it for the same reason the other 1.4 billion active users on Facebook love it. I don’t need to go into that here.

What I did want to get into was this: What dynamic is at play between me and the FacePlace? Why is it the first thing I turn to when I finish a task, or stand in line? What am I avoiding? Getting curious without too much self judgment was the goal here. And to be absolutely clear, I cheated a few times. (Just posting this blog on Facebook will be cheating, but whatever…)

Here’s what I found out about myself, and maybe you can relate:

My need for stimulation knows no limits.

If not Facebook, then Instagram. If not Instagram, then NYT news app. If not NYT, then NPR. If not… then… and the list goes on. My need for stimulation is a hunger so deep, I don’t even know where it begins or where it ends. It feels massive, unruly and utterly opaque to me.

I also learned that without Facebook (or Instagram… pick your poison), I can be a real bummer. Which leads me to my second major realization of Lent 2016:

My biggest fear is…“What if this is all there is?”

What if driving around from activity to activity, from work to play… making dinners, doing dishes, making sure people were clothed fed and on time to various places…

What if there actually is no real meaning, there’s just… “busy?” And being “busy” just lets us avoid facing the grim truth that we’re all just biding our time until it’s our turn to die, making ourselves exhausted in the process.

What a horrendous thought. And for a dyed-in-the-wool optimist like myself, it was upsetting (and shame inducing) to imagine myself capable of such dour thinking. But there it was.

I also felt disgust. Even with all of the comfort, support and endless opportunities I have… It’s STILL not enough??? Talk about privilege.

But then, true to my Lenten promise, I tried to access some self compassion, side-step the judgment, and got a little more curious:

Do I really believe that life is meaningless? What evidence do I have to suggest that this is true?

Ok, so what evidence did I have? Just the shitty feeling I was now sitting with at the longest stoplight in Northern California. That was about it.

While this shitty emotion was potent, it was no smoking gun as far as convincing arguments go. It was just one singular emotion that surfaced the minute I stripped out the stimulation of scanning the radio for the perfect song, or checking my iPhone for 900^th time that hour. I believe that singular emotion could be described as existential dread.

So I asked myself, “What evidence is there to suggest that the opposite is true? That there is meaning everywhere and in everything? And that this busy-ness is certainly NOT all there is to living?”

I was flooded with thoughts and memories. Hiking by myself in Sedona earlier this year, in a state of goofy awe… blown away by the shocking orange of the rocks, the absurd blue of the sky. The beating of my own heart, my loud breathing as I climbed higher on the trail.

I thought of my son’s massive Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal that smacks me in the face every morning as he hoists himself (and Winnie) onto our bed each morning. And how flooded I am with love and gratitude for his skinny little body finding coziness next to mine. I thought about my fiery daughters and their precious faces as they got themselves decked out for “Sunday Best” free dress day at school.

I thought about meeting my husband 15 years ago, and how much joy and new life we’ve created together. I thought about how much I still love hanging out with him. And how incredible that is, when you really think about it.

When I compared the evidence (meaningless vs. meaning-full), it wasn’t even close. My life is crowded with meaning. I’m just usually too over-stimulated to notice.

The big reveal of Lent 2016 has been that what Facebook is helping me avoid is my feelings of existential dread. And yet, at least for me, the existential dread seems to be brought on by the very thing I’m using to numb it. I learned that I use stimulation to avoid feeling bad, even though actually, I’m feeling bad because I’m not allowing myself to be present to the moment I’m actually in.

I felt like Neo listening to wise Morpheus ask, “What if I told you that constant stimulation is actually causing your existential dread?”

Who knew?

But avoiding the stimulation… not checking email obsessively, not checking Facebook, not checking NYTimes.com… avoiding all of these things requires faith. Faith that on the other side of this awkward stillness is meaning. Emotion. Awareness. Goodness. In that moment, it feels like the biggest leap of faith I can make.

Over the past 40 days, I’ve come to see that when I make time for writing, walking around outside, getting endorphins pumping through my system… that’s when life seems to be dripping with meaning—beautiful, dazzling, almost psychedelic.

I’ve come to understand that the part of me that needs constant stimulation doesn’t like to see patches of the calendar filled up with time for writing, dog walking or exercising. But that’s the same part of me that finds life meaningless.

I’ve decided that part of me needs to shut up and sit down. I think it’s time I let faith drive for a while. Come Sunday morning, I will blast that corny Andy Grammer song, and sing at the top of my lungs:

“I think I’ve finally found my alleluia….”

I hope you find yours, too.

 

 

 

 

 

Check Ignition, and May God’s Love Be with You.

Mondays are never easy, but this Monday will be remembered by my kids as the Monday When Mommy Was Crying in Carpool.

 

My husband texted me at 7:10am with these words:

 

“Just heard that David Bowie passed. :(”

 

As my 4 year old struggled to get the toothpaste onto his Spiderman toothbrush, I struggled out of my sports bra with one hand, and searched “Heroes” on my iPhone with the other hand. The soaring melody took flight, and I started to cry. I cried through my shower, and I cried the entire drive to school, forcing the carpool to listen to “Under Pressure.” The kids were absolutely silent, the poor things.

 

My oldest asked finally, “Mom, I’m really sorry that he died, but like, you’ve never even mentioned this guy’s name to us, and now you’re, like, really really crying…??”

 

She makes an excellent point. My David Bowie appreciation years predated the birth of my kids. It’s been a long time since I binged on him. So why am I so emotional? Judging by my Facebook feed, it seems I’m not alone.

I think that Bowie’s death isn’t just his death. It isn’t just the shocking realization that someone as otherworldly as the Man Who Fell to Earth is just as mortal as we are. And it isn’t just that a creative genius‑ who gave literally zero fucks‑ is no more. And for the record, that’s plenty to mourn. Plenty.

 

Bowie’s death hits hard because it feels like an ending closer to home. Listening to Heroes this morning reminded me of a golden time in my 20s when my friend Ted and I had a standing Thursday night gig at a bar called Ireland’s 32, on Geary Boulevard in San Francisco- Ted on guitar, me on vocals. Heroes was the song we couldn’t wait to do. It was when everyone in the bar would really watch us, feel us and listen to us. Even when “everyone” consisted of just 5 people.

Hearing that song in the context of 2016 and Bowie’s death is bringing me face to face with that young woman’s earnest expression at the microphone, taking the whole thing so very seriously. The woman who was trying so hard to figure out who she was, and what she might want to be in the world. It reminded me of an era when the biggest responsibility I had was making sure I could pay my rent and still have money left over for gallivanting. I feel a surge of affection for her, and the small world she inhabited. She has no idea what lies ahead. She has no idea how much this next break-up will hurt. She can’t fathom that her Gran will die suddenly and without warning. She can’t imagine how frightened she will be when she is told she could lose her baby and that she must lie down for 3 months. She has no clue how lucky she will get, because she will marry the greatest guy ever, and have three precious children.

All of this rushes into my mind as Bowie sings, “…and we kissed, as though nothing could fall….”

 

It’s more than just David Bowie we mourn today. It’s also the people we used to be when we listened to his music. It’s the pin prick that explodes our belief that we have all the time in the world.

 

May David Bowie, and the sweet younger self we used to inhabit, rest in heavenly peace.

 

Best Reads of 2015

I have been meticulously keeping a list of my favorite books since January. This list was lovingly nurtured in the notes app of my iPhone. A few months ago, this iPhone had to be wiped clean. And AWAY went my precious list.

As a result, I had to go to Hicklebee’s, our local independent children’s book store—which also happens to have the most fantastic selection of books for grown ups—to reconstruct my list. After about 5 minutes of grumbling to myself for not backing up my iPhone, I began to enjoy reconnecting with the paper “friends” I had made over the course of the year.

I also realized that bookstores heal all that ails me. In fact, when I die, can you decorate the church like a bookstore and read quotes from Professor Dumbledore and anything written by Elizabeth Gilbert? Thanks.

I’m glad we got that cleared up.

And now, here are my favorite reads of 2015.

Fiction

 This book reminded me of Song of Solomon in the best possible way: it pulled me in with language, a sense of place, and blended reality with a heavy dose of magic that would have given Gabriel Garcia Marquez a run for his money. It is the telling of an unthinkable fate for a little girl. But the telling of Ruby’s story is so beautiful, so full of love and hope, and the characters so vivid, it makes you want to be strong for Ruby. Or as Ephraim says to her:

“If you brave enough to live it, least I can do is listen.”

Ruby made me remember that even the greatest traumas can begin their healing in small acts of love and noticing.

If I’m being honest here… had I read the book’s description, I never would have picked it up. A novel about war torn Chechnya circa mid 90s? Nope. Luckily, I fell in love with the title and the little blue suitcase on the cover and off I went. Not only was I amazed by the history of this part of the world, it gave me fresh perspective on the plight of refugees fleeing Syria. There are too many parallels to count, but never again will I ask the stupid question “Why do these refugees keep coming even though they know they’ll probably die in the effort?” Like Ruby, Constellation of Vital Phenomena is a story of love, connection and hope, even in the darkest of circumstances. And the writing? Lord have mercy, Anthony Marra can write.

You have probably read this book already, given that it’s on the top of every list in the universe, not to mention that it won the Pulitzer Prize. This book is worth the hype. Even my husband liked it, and we were able to discuss it. This has not happened since he finally got around to reading Lord of the Rings back in 2001. No joke.

 

I hereby nominate Ready Player One as the “Feel Good Dystopian Sci-Fi Novel of the Year.” When this was chosen in my book club, many of the gals had misgivings. It’s about virtual reality, post-pubescent boys and is filled with vintage video game trivia, for heaven’s sake! But almost every single one of us raved about it when we met to discuss it. The 80s references will have you cheering out loud in public places. RED DAWN! FERRIS BEULER! He even quotes Howard Jones!

Ready Player One is a really good time. Trust.

 

I am embarrassed to admit this, but until this year, I had never read a single Margaret Atwood book. And to think I call myself a feminist…

The premise of this book is so chilling, and so completely plausible that it will make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. I listened to it on my Audible app, with Claire Daines as the reader and it BLEW MY MIND. BLEW IT. It was creepy and every bit as relevant in 2015 as it was in 1986. Maybe more so! Which is incredibly depressing. But I couldn’t turn it off. It’s one of those sit-in-your-car-long-after-you’ve-arrived books.

 

Non Fiction

Oh my GOD you have to download this immediately. It must be listened to for several reasons: a) Amy Poehler’s voice is so effing funny and generous as she reads, I feel like Amy and I are now super tight friends. (Amy, call me. Seriously). Anyway, the guest appearances on the Audible are too many to count, but my favorite without a doubt is the non sequitur casting of Kathleen Turner. And the stories?? Are you kidding me?!? My favorite was when she tells of being in first class on a flight with Tina Fay and the ensuing confrontation with another passenger. The end of this scene made me laugh so hard I almost lost control of my car. I was driving 70 mph. It could have been really bad. Totally worth it, though.

Oh Liz!!! May I call you that, Liz? This is a magical book you have written, Liz. Truly. I will read it over and over again. It’s like you crawled into my head, examined all of the darkest corners, shined your fairy dust flashlight on them, and gently lead me into the light of day, dusting off my cobwebs as you went. Thank you for writing this book. I will treasure it always.

P.S. Is there anything you can’t do? Just last year Signature of All Things was at the top of my list, and now this? I can’t even…

 

I REALLY loved this memoir from Kim Gordon, bass player, guitar player, vocalist and general badass from the band Sonic Youth. Kim Gordon’s writing style is exactly what you would hope for: low key, evocative and razor sharp. For any of us kids coming of age in the era of Sonic Youth, Kim Gordon represented the ultimate cool band woman. She was stoic, brave and could totally hang with the most dour and serious dudes of the grunge scene. In fact, I think she probably intimidated them most of the time.

Discovering that Kim Gordon’s trademark stoicism was a coping mechanism for growing up with a schizophrenic brother reminded me that even the coolest among us are carrying grief and agony. It reminded me that nothing is ever what it seems—not even in sunny Southern California. Maybe especially not in sunny Southern California.

Gordon captures the vibe of the place, and the laissez faire parenting style so many of us grew up with. You could almost see the quality of afternoon light in the scenes she describes. But best of all were the little vignettes… the moments when we get to drop in on a house party as she watches Henry Rollins and Black Flag tear through a set in somebody’s kitchen. Or the part when she calls Billy Corgan a “cry baby” and describes the hideous dance of narcissism between he and Courtney Love during their alleged affair.  This did sting a little, because I was a huge Hole and Smashing Pumpkins fan. I cried right alongside Billy Corgan on pretty much every album he ever made with the Smashing Pumpkins. Whatever. This book was a joy to read.

That’s my list, friends.

I thank all of the authors on this list who slaved away in a lonely state of creativity, and pushed through the self doubt and procrastination, and produced these beautiful books. An extra shout out to Anthony Marra, author of Constellation of Vital Phenomena, for actually responding to my breathless fan mail.

 

 

My Podcasts, My Self : Top Five Must Hears

My name is Bronwyn, and I am a stimulation junkie.

I am that person at the long stoplight who is engaged in a full blown white-knuckles-gripping-the-steering-wheel battle with temptation over whether or not to grab the phone and check email while I wait for the light to change. I know, I know. It’s not great.

Rather than fight the fact that I’m a stimulation junkie, I’ve decided to embrace it. In fact, I’ve decided that Obsessive Facebook and Constant Email Checking are truly lame stimulants compared with a FAR more interesting drug of choice …

Podcasts.

Podcasts have been around forever, but I’d previously relegated them to long drives. But no more. Now they are a part of my daily everything.

Dishes to be done? Podcast.

Clothing to fold? Podcast.

Dog to walk? Podcast.

I now have a list of MUST HEAR podcasts that I want to share with you, in case you find yourself white knuckling it at the stoplights. (And duh, of course you should already be listening to This American Life and Serial. I mean honestly, do we even need to talk about this?)

(Important Safety Tip: Earbuds are key to successful stimulation via podcast for two important reasons: 1) it looks like you are on a conference call, so no one messes with you, and 2) you can listen to stuff with swear words or sexual content without your kids hearing if they are in earshot.)

1) You Made it Weird with Pete Holmes – Pete Holmes is a standup comic who interviews other standup comics. I hadn’t heard of Pete Holmes until recently, and then it seemed that he was everywhere I looked, so I figured it was time to investigate. Not only is Pete Holmes more fun than a barrel of monkeys, he has some seriously rad comic talent on his show… from Jemaine Clement (Flight of the Concords) to Judd Apatow to Tig Nataro. The format is loose, a little tangential and uneven at times, but really, really funny. I had tears running down my face listening to the last Jemaine episode. And Oh my GOD I just realized there is a Jon Hamm episode— that’ll get me through grocery shopping this weekend.

2) Magic Lessons with Liz Gilbert – I have loved her since Eat, Pray, Love. I fell even more deeply in love after reading The Signature of All Things, but went absolutely crackers for Liz Gilbert after seeing her speak as part of the Oprah tour. (Yes, I was one of 16,000 screaming fans. Don’t judge.) Now she’s at it again—her soon-to-be-released book on creativity is called Big Magic. The podcast consists of Liz calling up women to help them get “unstuck” creatively. These women each have their own stories and reasons for being “stuck,” but it’s as if there’s a little piece of all of us in each of these women. So listening to Big Magic is this wonderful “you’re not alone” experience. And as if that’s not enough, after she’s spent time with each caller, Liz does a follow-up interview with some rad artist friend to add to the conversation and to help this woman along with her project. So far, the callers have received sage advice from Cheryl Strayed, Ann Patchett, and Rob Bell. The podcast is only 15 or 20 minutes long, and it’s a delicious little snack for those of us trying to carve out creative time in our lives (which is most of us right?). And speaking of Rob Bell….

3) The Robcast with Rob Bell – Ok, fine. He’s another Oprah stage-sharer from her tour last year. Rob is… what is he? A preacher? A modern day mystic? It’s hard to pin down exactly, but I can tell you this: The man is 100% dedicating his life to perfecting the art of the sermon, and he NAILS IT EVERY TIME. You don’t have to be particularly religious to get into this podcast, you just have to crave a little time for pondering the Divine. It is time well spent.

4) Criminal – If you loved Serial, you’ll love Criminal! If you love Obsession, you’ll love Confession! Ok, so Criminal does explore some of the stories and dynamics surrounding people who’ve “done wrong, been wronged, or someplace in the middle.” It’s not as gripping as Serial, but it’s fascinating in a quieter sort of way. I always learn something about human nature and also the reality of being poor in this country, and how that affects your path through the justice and legal system.

5) Invisibilia – Hosted by two fabulous women, Invisibilia looks at “the invisible forces that control human behavior – ideas, beliefs, assumptions and emotions.” I love how this show makes us examine own behaviors in a completely fresh way. There is a particularly riveting episode that looks at Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). I had to pull over so I could finish it before returning to my house full of people who need things from me.

So there you have it. May your podcasting time be as stimulating as a triple shot latte, and as nourishing as an Oprah conference. (Yep. I just said that.)

 

 

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

I saw a quote the other day that kind of rocked my world:

“There is no competition among wild women. They are too damn wild to be caught in a tiny space of envy. Instead, they dance together and allow the good to flow abundantly to them.”

– the Crone’s Grove

Contrast this with the story of the lobsters I heard a while back:

A chef and her sous-chef are boiling lobsters to serve to their customers that night, and the sous-chef says, “Don’t we need a lid on that pot? The lobsters will crawl out if it’s open like that.”

 The chef replies, “Nah, if one tries to escape, the others drag it back down. No lid required.”

If you look at these two stories side by side, they both feel very familiar. Both whisper some important questions…

How do I want to live?

How do I become less lobster, more wild woman?

When you frame it like that, going the path of the wild woman seems pretty compelling. But why do wild women seem so rare? Why are they always just a small segment of our friend populations? And what does it really mean to be wild?

When I say “wild” I don’t necessarily mean the kind of wildness that leads to bad choices and severe hangovers. That’s the cheap knock-off version of wildness. (Although, who among us hasn’t been there?) I’m talking about real wildness that allows a perfectly average woman in her middle years to strike out and do something brand new in her life. I’m talking about boldness, creativity, and a balls-out strategy to follow her own music—whatever that music is.

Wild Women Everywhere

I began to really think about who in my life reveals that kind of wildness, not by virtue of her ability to swear like a truck driver (guilty), but because of her ability to do the unexpected, the unsafe.

I thought of my friend Erica, who after many years in corporate America started her own personal training/nutrition business. She’s such a wild woman she actually named her business Green Goddess Studios. So badass.

I thought of my friend Ellen, who decided to give stage acting a try. She and a group of friends (also wild women and men!) decided to write and stage a performance of Alice in La La Land, loosely based on Alice in Wonderland. Ellen said she was scared out of her mind, but had the time of her life. Seeing her in full stage makeup in photos on Facebook filled me with such joy, it almost felt like I was the one performing.

Or how about my posse of friends who competed in our School’s Amazing Race, and dressed up in crazy costumes and performed various feats of strength and insanity over the course of an afternoon just because. I watched my friend Stacey balance a bucket of water on her head while traversing a patch of grass in swimming fins, looking like a complete nut job, and having the time of her life, while my other friend Laurie did laps in a giant kayak inside of a backyard swimming pool. There was no booze involved that I could see. This was just wild women doing their thang.

My own inner wildness gets let out every morning when I take 30 minutes on the porch in the early dawn hours to write. Or when I make it to my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class and grapple with a bunch of dudes and a few totally badass dudettes. It’s not like I’m any good at it—I barely make it past the 5 second mark. But it’s thrilling, and I leave feeling alive and electric.

Wild women have something in common—wild women are working on that set of emotional/spiritual/psychological muscles that allow them to burn less and less energy seeking approval from the outside world. Wild women are constantly learning new ways to tune out the “shoulds” and tune in to the “what ifs?” Wild women know how to balance the groundedness required to be good mothers, partners, friends, and professionals with the untethered energy required to follow their curiosity and their bliss.

Wild women get butterflies more often than the rest of us. If Rob Bell is right when he says: “…getting butterflies is just your body’s way of telling you you’re still in the game,” then these queens are most definitely still in the game.

I think our culture wants us to believe that wild woman = dangerous, irresponsible woman. But I think what’s actually true is that wild woman = whole, integrated woman.

So, as we live in the practical, the here and now… as we face the bone-crunching process of re-entry into a new school year… as we go to the grocery store, figure out carpool schedules and pack lunches, let’s also schedule time to honor that wild woman inside of each of us. That inner Stevie Nicks who so badly wants to prance around in flowy scarves and grab that microphone. As Stevie says, “Lightnin’ strikes, maybe once, maybe twice… it all comes down to you.”

So do it now. This second. Open your calendar. Schedule time for wildness. Even if it means doodling or sketching something crazy in a notebook for 10 minutes while you’re waiting for your next meeting. It could involve cranking up the music and getting your grind on for a few minutes before picking the kids up at school. It might just require you to do a cartwheel on your front lawn before going into the house. Your will leave your children, neighbors, or spouse speechless. And you will find you have a great big grin on your beautiful face.

‘Tis Better to Receive

I have a really hard time accepting compliments. It’s not that I brush them off, or discourage them. My problem is that I get so excited about receiving a compliment, I sort of disassociate. I’m not really there to receive the kind words. I get this fleeting hit of goodness, but I can’t quite remember what was said, or by whom. It makes me wonder if the problem isn’t the compliment, but the act of receiving that is my problem.

Receiving is tricky business for women. We are implicitly taught that our greatest good is always in giving. Give until it hurts. Give to show everyone that you are a good wife, mother, citizen of the world. Give without expectation. Give. Be agreeable. Say “yes.”

And while this all sounds very nice and holy and selfless, I’m now 41 years into this “give” mentality, and I gotta tell you, it’s exhausting. At this point, I have a hard time distinguishing between what I am joyfully interested in giving, and what I’m giving out of guilt or a desire to be liked. I’m too tired or busy executing the giving to really notice how I feel about the giving.

Just the word makes me feel uncomfortable. Receive? Gross. If I receive, then that means I’ll owe someone something. That means I’ll get trapped into even more GIVING. Receiving is so passive. It’s kinda wimpy.

But I also wondered, what kind of vibes am I sending if I’m closed to really receiving? It can’t be good. What kind of life perks am I missing out on? Rather than just wonder about it, I decided to do an experiment. I decided to expect to receive good things from life, and to stay present and open when these good things show up. I was curious to see if it made any real difference.

Here’s what I learned:

My Brain the Unicorn Finder Within the first few days, I was bombarded by moments of receiving, both large and small. Just tuning my brain to seek out moments of receiving created the perception of an increase of blessings being showered upon me. It seems that there is evidence to suggest that this is a real phenomenon, but seeing it first hand was a shocker. On one hectic day, I had a client cancel, and realized it was the perfect pocket of time to take a walk and listen to Serial (my all time favorite thing). Then there was the batch of loquats (best fruit ever) that showed up via my in-laws. My dear friend Christina gave me a book on the secret history of Wonder Woman. Another friend (this time Kristina with a “k”) brought me a specially made batch of essential oils all the way from Seattle. BAM! BAM! BAM! One good thing after another. And those are only a few! There were many more. It was like an aperture in my brain opened up to perceive the receiving opportunities, and a fire hose worth of little, delicious blessings poured in.

I Was Asking for It I also found that articulating my need out loud was like waving a magic wand. I am ashamed to admit that I rely heavily on other people’s ability to read my mind. Especially my poor husband. If you’re getting serious about receiving, there has to be an asking aspect right? All that “ask and ye shall receive” business? So for Mother’s Day this year, I decided to state clearly what my wishes were for my day. I wanted to feel loved and celebrated by my family, and then I wanted time in silence, in nature, and then some time to go shopping. My wish was Sal’s command. He and the kids each shared what they loved about me as we drove to Mass, and I forced myself to be present and take in what they were saying, and found myself crying some very happy tears. After Mass, I spent my morning wandering in the trees on a beautiful hike in Saratoga, and then quickly scurried through the sale rack at Calypso, snapping up an awesome dress for an upcoming trip. I came home to a husband wearing a man apron, making a whole mess of ribs for dinner. There is nothing sexier than a man making ribs for his woman. Lemme tell you.

Make the Request, But Lose the Attachment By far the most unexpected moment of receiving had to be what I consider the “U2 Debacle of 2015.” There are only two performers that I will see in a large stadium environment: Bruce Springsteen and U2. I just can’t take being in a closed environment with so many people. It drains me and makes me want to curl up in a fetal position. But U2 and the Boss are like going to church. There’s unity, love, and joy in that space. It feels nourishing rather than depleting. So of course when I heard U2 was coming to town, I was all in. Except that I never got my act together to buy tickets. I was so angry at myself, so full of self loathing over this. But once my experiment in receiving was underway, I decided to just turn it over to the Universe. If I’m meant to go, I’ll go. If not, I’ll do something else and all will be well.  A few days later, Sal forwarded an email from a friend inviting us to the show. I laughed out loud when I saw it… Of course! I received that gift with open arms, and Sal and I rocked out and got lost in a Bono-induced nostalgia fest. Here’s a snapshot.

Intuition as a Portkey Do you remember in the Harry Potter story how simply touching a portkey would transport any wizard to wherever he or she needed to go? This experiment taught me over and over again that intuition is like a portkey to receiving blessings. When that voice of intuition comes a callin’, get ready to take action, because good stuff lives on the other side. I was sitting in a client session with a very well known author. In fact, he authored one of my all time favorite works of fiction, and I could hardly believe he was asking me for on-stage storytelling support for a talk he would be giving. We had two fantastic sessions, and at the end of the second session, my intuition whispered in my ear… ask him what he’s working on…  I decided to go for it. “So, if you don’t mind my asking—are you working on anything new?” Not only did he tell me all about his newest novel and the agony and strife of writing it, he actually showed me a time lapse video of himself, white boarding some of the larger plot points and character elements. As a wanna-be writer myself, I have always dreamed of asking an author I admire to tell me how the process goes in inventing a world, a story, a character. I sat in awe and gratitude at the humble and generous way he shared the details of his own writing process. It left me speechless. And he sent me away with signed copies of two of his books, something I will treasure for the rest of my life.

As I sit here in this cafe, writing this, I’m noticing bubbles floating through the air, probably from a nearby toy shop. I’m reflecting that I’ve been noticing bubbles a lot lately in various places. A quick Google search revealed that many believe bubbles are a sign of everyday moments of magic. That’s what this experiment has taught me: life is practically throwing itself at us, begging to be noticed. It’s hoping we notice the colors on the hummingbird’s neck as it zooms past. It’s praying we allow our hearts to feel the magnitude of a child’s whisper of “I lub you, mommy.” As Walt Whitman said, “..the sidewalks are littered with postcards from God.”

If nothing else, my receiving experiment has taught me this: The blessings have been there all along, it’s been my opportunity to notice them. I now know that yes, it is wonderful to give, but it is absolutely sublime to receive.

 

Magic Mike, Margaritas and the Art of Free Fall

A few days ago, a group of us treated ourselves to cocktails, dinner and Magic Mike XL. I’m not usually a male stripper kind of person, but after seeing Mr. Tatum’s performance in Magic Mike #1, there was a zero percent chance of missing a redux.

As we sat drinking our margaritas, each of us shared the high and low points of our summers thus far. It was remarkable how fundamentally similar our situations were. We truly are in the “sandwich” phase : we are the meat of an aging parent + raising young children sando.

Our parents really didn’t experience this the same way. They had kids at a younger age, so by the time their parents were at the critical point, the kiddos were all growds up, and likely out of the house.

But us? Today? Not so much. We got married later, we likely had kids later, and as a result… it’s happening all at once. Young kids and aging parents, yes, but also let’s not forget trying to keep our careers on point, and our marriages humming and satisfying. It’s no wonder so many of us numb ourselves with wine and TV every night. We are exhausted and anxious. And guilty. GOD the guilt!

This is bigger than just a “balancing act.” This phase of life forcibly dismantles old beliefs. Magical thinking. Avoidance behavior. It’s all out the window. The sandwich being served is big fat reality sandwich.

For example, I’m quite fond of this long held belief. Perhaps you are familiar with it as well:

“If I work hard, keep my little patch of life high and tight and organized, nothing bad will ever happen!!!”

In other words, if I exercise and eat right, no cancer!! If I’m financially conservative, no unpleasant and unexpected money issues will come my way!! If I read all the right parenting books, I won’t screw up my kids!!!

But this phase of life seems to be ripping out that old belief and replacing it with a new one:

There are no guarantees, and we are all doing the best we can.

In other words, there’s no magical force field protecting your house from the proverbial wrecking ball of a rapidly deteriorating situation with an aging parent, or loved one. Or a marriage.

This belief also robs you of that smug satisfaction of judging someone else’s poor choices that lead to a bankruptcy, or a teenager hooked on drugs, or the IRS garnishing wages due to lack of payment. Because no matter how hard any of us try, or how “mindfully” we live, shit happens in ways we are completely blindsided by.

There are no guarantees and we are all doing the best we can.

This belief is painful and disorienting. In fact, it feels like free fall. And I’m not a huge fan of that sensation. It makes me feel like my heart will beat out of my chest, and land on this here keyboard. But it also makes me think of Alice down the rabbit hole.  After she had been falling for a while, she started to notice her surroundings. She had time to muse, and wonder, and even grabbed a book off of a passing bookshelf as she fell. She reached this moment of “Ok, this is happening to me. Now what?”

This thought gives me some measure of comfort. I’m beginning to see that the “sandwich” phase is perhaps misnamed. This phase of life has far more in common with falling down the rabbit hole – where the people who were once infallible and indestructible become vulnerable. Delicate. Dependent. It’s a place where time seems to pass in alarming bursts and then slows to a sickening, nightmarish crawl. It’s a place where the person you thought you were transmutes into something less clear cut, but potentially more interesting. It’s a place where logic and fairness barely enter into it, but surrender and acceptance become immediate lifelines, while empathy and patience your only means of long term survival.

It makes you realize that you have always been falling. You were just too busy making choices to notice.

That night out with my girlfriends was the perfect way to spend an evening in the Rabbit Hole. If Alice had been lucky enough to have some pals with her as she fell, they probably would have linked up like skydivers and made a groovy formation in mid air.

Doing the best we can sometimes means linking arms, telling our stories, drinking margs, laughing and strutting into a dark theater to watch Channing Tatum (noun) Channing Tatum (verb). It turned out the theater was filled with other women, linked in groovy formations.

Sometimes, when you find yourself in the Rabbit Hole, the best thing to do is to find your people, link up and fall together.

(Dedicated to my GTP – getcher hands up!)

Midlife Crisis or Stroke of Genius? My Adventures in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

A few months ago, during one of our “fun” weekends away together, my two best friends forced me to watch an episode of that BBC series The Fall. In case you’ve never seen it, It stars Jamie Dornan and Gillian Anderson. Jamie is a serial killer of women (I felt extremely confused watching certain scenes in 50 Shades of Grey because of this), and Gillian is his brilliant detective foil. The episode we watched ended with Dornan working very hard to choke a woman who is tied to a bed. She watches in horror and terror as he tries and tries to squeeze her windpipe until she stops breathing. His hand strength isn’t quite up to the task, this being his first victim and all, so it takes a long, long time. He later works on his hand muscles so the next victim is easier.

When the show was over, I couldn’t sleep. I was anxious and felt incredibly vulnerable. And not in that awesome Brene Brown kind of way. It seemed so easy for this character to break into women’s homes. By the time his victim would register that a window was broken, it was game over. The victim’s ability to defend herself physically was pretty pathetic. Jamie Dornan is ripped. It’s hard to out-muscle a dude, even if you are a woman in top physical condition. Talking to my husband about all of this, he said, “That’s why I want our daughters to do Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. If a woman is attacked, she isn’t able to stand around and spar. She needs to learn how to fight from the floor.”

That did it for me. Because here’s what I know for sure: I REFUSE to go down easily if some sociopath ever tries to jump me in the street, or in my home for that matter. But here’s what else I know for sure: I have ZERO tools for dealing with a real attack.

Holding those two competing truths in mind, I decided to give Brazilian Jiu Jitsu a try. I mean, how hard could it be? I’ve survived Lisa’s Boot Camp. I’ve given birth three times. I mean, I can do this right?

Here’s what happened.

Getch’er Gi On

It’s a Wednesday night, and I am in the changing area of the studio, taking stock of my reflection in the mirror, wearing the heavy cotton Gi that is the official BJJ uniform. It’s not a good look for me. In fact, I laugh out loud at myself, but quickly stop when I realize the vibe of class is more like being in church than in a gym. My classmates are dead serious, and I am beginning to piss them off.

Class begins with everyone standing in a long line, shoulder to shoulder. I shuffle into what I’m guessing is the “beta” section in a room full of “alphas,” but seconds later, I feel giant man hands on my shoulders and a fellow student says, “We’re really glad you’re here and everything? But you’re in the black belt section.” I am escorted firmly but kindly to the very end of the line. I feel sure my face will melt off.

Time to Woman Up

The Wednesday evening Fundamentals class is taught by an alarmingly young instructor named Vitor Paschoal. It turns out that Vitor already has a black belt, having achieved this feat at the age of 22. Vitor begins class by teaching a series of moves that cause me to wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into. He begins in a standing position, facing his opponent, his hands clutching different places on the opponent’s Gi. Then he somehow uses his foot placed at the top of his opponent’s thigh, then hops up, wrapping both legs around his opponent’s back, slides his back down the opponent’s legs, and ends up shoulders on the ground. From this position, he once again uses leverage to somehow wrap his body around the opponent, causing the opponent to fall dramatically backwards on the mat with a loud SLAP.

Vitor looks at everyone and says, “Everybody got this? Any questions?”

No one has any questions.

“Great,” says Vitor, “Go find your partner.” And I am left standing there. In my giant diaper. I mean Gi.

It is at this moment that I give serious thought to slinking out the door.

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is terrifying to me not just because of the physicality and, frankly, the physical intimacy of it, but because I’m afraid I’m so pathetic that no one will want to be my partner. I haven’t felt that way since high school. And that is entirely by design. I mean why would any sane person put themselves in a position of guaranteed humiliation? By choice! I guess I could have partnered with the only other woman in the class, but she seems so confident and intimidating it doesn’t even cross my mind to partner with her. She’s just too amazing.

After a few seconds that stretch out like geologic time, another instructor—Marco— materializes beside me. Like a baby bird, I imprint on Marco, who becomes my savior for the next 60 minutes.

I Am Leverage, Not Muscle

While the other groups of two practice the sequence, Marco explains that Jiu Jitsu is not about who is strongest. It is about figuring out what leverage you have, and exploiting that leverage using the moves you learn each time you come to class. “After a while,” he says, “you build kind of a library in your mind of different moves to match different situations.”

For a second I fantasize about Jamie Dornan trying to jump me in a parking lot stairwell. I imagine his surprise as I tackle him, I see his eyes bulging as I choke him. I am just about to kill this imaginary Jamie when I realize Marco is waiting for me to stand up and practice the move I’ve just learned.

I cannot believe how winded I am after each sequence. And while the movements are pre-set and have awesome names like “the Ezekiel,” and “the Guillotine,” the entire experience of sparring in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is all improvisation, but based on very specific choreography. I’m not particularly athletic, and God knows I’m not a sporty kind of gal, but choreography? That I can do. I think to myself, maybe I can actually do this.

As a class, we learn 3 other sequences, and before I know it, an hour has passed. The class ends the same way it began—we line up (this time I know my place in the pack). We slap our palms on our thighs as we bow, then shake hands and thank the instructors, and our classmates individually as we file past one another, the line snaking in on itself. More than one sweaty, burly, more advanced classmate smiles at me and says, “good job today.” I am so elated, so proud of myself and so overcome by the kindness and camaraderie shown to me after just one class that I ignore the fact that I am standing—in my bare feet, mind you—in a puddle of someone else’s sweat.

Upon leaving the mats, I return to Saint Marco (as I now think of him) and thank him, and ask if I should partner with him again next time, given how remedial I am compared to everyone else. He smiles, and gently suggests that I find a woman to work with, if possible.

“You might feel more comfortable. Me? I am Brazilian. I don’t care. But some people feel strange about wrapping their legs around someone they don’t know if it’s a man.”

I turn purple once again, as it now dawns on me that I have just spent the better part of the hour doing exactly this with Saint Marco. I later reflected in a distant sort of way how attractive all the instructors are, but honestly, I am too busy surviving class without soiling myself to really notice. In fact, rarely do I notice this. There is such an air of intense respect in this studio that people’s appearances don’t even register. It’s like this crazy little bubble of sweat, silence and focus. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

The Gi Goes On

By the next class, I am able to take Marco’s advice and pair up with another woman. The first woman I roll with is a purple belt. She is kind, feminine and gorgeous. Somehow her Gi looks elegant and correct (Mine still looks like a giant wool diaper). I am overwhelmed with relief to have found my partner, but half way through, she bails. She moves to the other end of the studio to train for a major Jiujitsu competition. It occurrs to me that she will face another woman on the mat, will wrestle with everything she’s got, and one of them will emerge victorious. I feel as though I have slipped into the rabbit hole, and all of the rules of femininity and beauty no longer apply. It makes me wish I could have slipped into this rabbit hole a long time ago.

It’s now been 10 or so classes, and every time I pull up to the studio, I fight the urge to go to Starbucks instead, drink a latte, and check Facebook.

My ego hates Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and wants nothing to do with it. After all, BJJ is easily the most humbling part of my week. At work I feel sure of my capabilities and I know I’m good at what I do. At home, I’m loved unconditionally and feel completely safe. But on the mat? I’m the lowest of the low. I am most likely the cause of snickering and even pity. And I don’t even get to wear a cute outfit. As if that isn’t bad enough, I am by far the oldest person out there most days, and often the only woman, and believe me, none of the guys are particularly phased or impressed by my presence.

But my soul — my soul loves BJJ. It gets my mind into the present moment. I surrender any need to liked, any need to show off, any need to be anything other than what I am: a humble beginner. After an hour, I feel like my mind has gotten a delicious rest from its own crazy loops. I feel rested. Electric. And ready to kick ass. More than once have I gleefully demonstrated the Guillotine choke hold or scissor sweep on my poor unsuspecting husband. I think he secretly likes it.

I recently overheard the owner of the studio, Caio Terra, coaching his students before a competition (as an aside, little did we know that Caio is a 9 time black belt world champion and famous in the world of BJJ). In his wonderful Brazilian accent Caio said,

“Whatever emotions you feel as you compete… embrace them. Fear? Nerves? Excitement? Welcome them all in. Why? Because this is being alive. Feel the emotions, and get on with it.”

Maybe that’s why I’m still showing up to Jiu Jitsu. When I leave the mat, every fiber of my being: every cell, every vein and artery, they all hum with aliveness. At age 41, I guess I’m finally up for that kind of living.

OSS!!!!!

My Favorite Books of 2014

I love books so much I want to marry them. I love books more than gin & tonics, Pringles, Bruce Springsteen concerts, karaoke, yoga, and modern art museums. And that’s saying something, because those things are pretty much sacred to me. For me, heaven will be a book store with comfy chairs, a soft lighting concept, and brilliant reading lamps atop end tables just big enough for my cup of Whatever. I am incapable of watching TV because I am too devoted to my silent reading time. I’m still not finished with Season 1 of Orange is the New Black, and I’m still trying to finish up Season 2 of Mad Men. That’s how bad my book addiction is. Because those shows are GOOD.

 

Of the books I read in 2014, there are 9 that I absolutely loved. I tried to think of a 10^th, just to be cute about it, but only 9 made it to the top. You won’t find any real plot descriptions with these reccos. I find that by putting the plot into words cheapens it, and makes every great book sound like a lot of blah blah blah. In fact, I ignored Signature of All Things for too long because of the plot description. So instead, I’m just going to share why each book resonated with me.

 

(And shout outs to my beloved book club The Interestings of St Chris… getting to know you ladies at the book level feels like we are blood sisters now.)

 

Fiction

Signature of All Things, Elizabeth Gilbert. Everything about this book was lush and unexpected. I have a giant girl crush on Liz Gilbert, and this was icing on the cake. Her rendering of the life and misadventures of Alma Whittaker will make you decide once and for all that you will never write a novel as good as this. In fact, it may make you feel under qualified even to write a short blurb about it. At least that’s what happened to me.

 

What Alice Forgot, Liane Moriarty. Every few years or so, a book comes along that feels like it was written just for you. I felt that way about Cheryl Strayed’s brilliant book Wild, and I feel that way about this one. If you are a middle class, suburban woman with children, this book will take you right into the heart of the mystery of your own seemingly ordinary life. No matter that it’s written from Sydney, Australia. It turns out, those Aussie gals roll pretty much the same way we do here in the US of A. For better or worse.

 

Power of One, Bryce Courtenay. No, this is not a self help book. This was actually my second time reading it, because it’s just that good. It is a novel about a boy in South Africa, but it almost feels like a collection of amazing stories vs. a full story arc. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Try this little gem from Doc, the wise German mentor to the main character PeeKay…

 

“. . . God is too busy making the sun come up and go down and watching so the moon floats just right in the sky to be concerned with color . . . only man wants always God should be there to condemn this one and save that one. Always it is man who wants to make heaven and hell. God is too busy training the bees to make honey and every morning opening up all the new flowers for business.”

 

This book will make you glad to be alive.

 

The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt. I’m pretty sure I began 2014 with this book, and it damn near tore my heart out of my chest. The writing is magnificent and the story is like nothing I’ve ever read before. It ponders so many questions, but the one I carry with me is this: What if the heart wants what it wants? The more broken the heart, the more tragic the desires. And there’s not a lot to be done about it. And yet despite how heartbreaking it is, the final 20 pages are the most sublime I’ve ever read. Tartt’s Pulitzer for The Goldfinch was well deserved.

 

Where’d You Go Bernadette? Maria Semple This book scared me a little.  The slightly off kilter Bernadette was someone I identified with a little too deeply. She is the woman I would be if I didn’t need to be liked so damn much. And I’m not talking about her artistic prowess in the novel, I’m talking about her inability to function in civil society. My fears were calmed a bit when I realized during our book club gathering that nearly half of the people who read it thought she was funny and endearing. So far, I am functioning in civil society at the moment, which means I can be friends with the other half of my book club too. Which is nice.

 

Sci Fi/Fantasy

 

Dune, Frank Herbert. I have no idea what possessed me to tackle this now. Nor can I explain why, despite my love of sci-fi and fantasy, I had never read what most Fantasy/Sci Fi nerds consider to be the bible of the genre. Dune did not disappoint. I’m just now realizing that it might have been the Bene Gesserit training storyline that lead me to the meditation classes I’m now taking. Ha!

 

The Pines Trilogy, Blake Crouch. Holy shit, the Pines. This trilogy may be the most gripping, shocking tale I’ve ever heard. The plot is so insane, I cannot imagine how he came up with it, but I’m sure glad he did. I can’t tell you more than that because it’ll spoil the fun. Think Twin Peaks. And get ready to have your mind blown to smithereens. Do not read if you are currently on high blood pressure medication.

 

Self Help

 

Sacred Contracts, Carolyn Myss. If you’ve ever wanted to explore Jungian archetypes, man, this book is good. I learned so much about myself, my tendencies and why I do the things I do, I can’t even tell you. It’s definitely New Age woo-woo stuff, but I love me some New Age woo-woo stuff.

 

Outrageous Openness, Tosha Silver I absolutely LOVED LOVED LOVED this collection of insights on surrendering to all that life serves up to us. In fact, this book is sitting on my desk at all times, reminding me that All Is Well. If you believe in some form of the Divine, you will love this little book.

 

With that, I wish you a beautiful holiday and may your books be gripping and wondrous in 2015!

 

Xoxoox
B

 

We Need a Little Christmas

My mom is a trip. She is fierce, irreverent, and has a deliciously dark sense of humor. But there’s also this wonderful innocence about her. She sees the world as inherently magic.

 

Margaret sees miracles all around her, all the time. And for her, the Miracle Olympics happen during the Holidays. In fact, since I was a child, she would say, “Now keep your eyes peeled! You might see a Christmas miracle!” At which point I would roll my eyes at her, and keep moving.

 

But there I was, at Target at 8:15am Monday morning, and in a fairly grizzly mood. I hate shopping where large groups of people are gathered. Blessedly, I was treated to a near empty parking lot given the early hour. I finished my shopping in record time, threw it all into the car, and shoved my cart into the empty parking space beside me, where there was another abandoned cart. I mentally girded my loins, knowing that Costco was up next. Costco is where my normally positive outlook goes to die.

 

As I’m starting my car to leave the near empty Target lot, an elderly woman with very organized, short grey hair raps on my window with her bony knuckles and says,

 

“Did you do this? Did you leave your cart in this space?”

 

Damn.

 

“Yes, I did.” I opened the door and dragged myself out to move the cart.

 

“Because you know you’re blocking this spot, and people need this spot,” she said, as if I wasn’t already keenly aware of why it is problematic to leave your cart in an open space.

 

“You are absolutely right,” I said without smiling.

 

I was annoyed with her for interrupting my internal dialogue about how much I hate going to Costco, but I also felt ashamed for violating such an important rule of shopping— don’t block a prime parking spot. I mean, we hate people that pull that crap right? I was pulling that crap. And this little old lady was calling me out on it.

 

So off she goes, huffy in her pastel nylon sweatsuit and her shopping list clutched in her left hand, and me, all judgy and cross in my (notgunna)workout clothes with my iPhone glued to my right hand.

 

Just as I’m about to pull out of my space, I look down and notice a check on the ground right about where our little exchange took place. I looked closer and could see the tremulous writing style that I associate with grandparents. The check was written out to an apartment complex nearby and was beginning to get a little damp on the wet asphalt.

 

I turned off the car, grabbed the check off the ground, and ran into Target to chase down my parking lot BFF.

 

She was at the front desk returning something, and as soon as she saw me, her face looked confused and a little frightened. I showed her the check, and before I could finish my sentence, she threw her arms around me and hugged me so tightly, you would think I’d just come back from a tour of duty in Kabul. I said in her ear, mid-embrace, “I guess we were meant to find each other today!”

 

She was teary with gratitude. And frankly, so was I. She got her rent check, and I got to feel like a Nice Person after feeling like an asshole who blocks a prime parking spot with my empty cart.

 

But it was more than that. Mid-hug I felt such a deep sense of joy, a sense of real honest connection— soul to soul— in the middle of Target. It made me feel human, in the best sense of the word. It made me feel useful, and of service. Such an outpouring of gratitude even from such a small act filled me with happiness. That woman’s hug will power me through my darkest suburban holiday hours of Christmas wrapping and dealing with that *&^% Elf on the Shelf.

 

So of course, I immediately called my mom and told her the story of my First Christmas Miracle of 2014. She said, “You see? In this crazy old world of heartache and cruelty, you have to notice these moments of love and kindness. I’m sure these miracles play out all year round, but they seem to be more abundant this time of year. It is what keeps us from completely giving into the despair of the evening news.”
(Yes, she actually talks like that in casual conversation. No joke.)

 

So my friends, let’s all keep our eyes peeled. Let’s celebrate our tiny moments of connection and kindness. Maybe Marg is right: miracles just might be everywhere.