“There’s little more satisfying than the feeling that at last you’ve taken ownership of yourself.” ~ Marianne Williamson
There comes a time.
You set yesterday aside,
Softly.
The thing you held;
Coveted.
Soft addictions cling like
Teddy Bears carried
Into adulthood.
Until you leave them.
Without tears.
Or fanfare.
There comes a time.
You pick up new habits
The way you used to
Lovers in bars.
It’s a new day.
You delight in what’s
Sweet, soulful, and true.
Your radiance.
In the mirror.
So, my dear,
you’ve learned to cry.
Not just reactionary tears,
earnest ones born of
your brave heart.
You see the darkness and refuse
to disrespect yourself
into denial.
Bravo.
Welcome to the juxtaposition:
No one asked you
to lay down
your joy.
Claim it again.
Be a warrior, enlightened.
To fight for light,
enter the darkness
dancing.
Let them hear your laughter.
Flash your smile
like a peace sign
as you pledge to do your part.
In one bucket, carry the problems.
In the other, the spirit with
which to transform them.
“Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.” ~ Leo Tolstoy
I’m leaning into joy the way
a cross-country runner
leans into the tape.
My chest hurts from
shining my heart forward
and flirting with men
who aren’t my beloved.
Because he’s dead.
I’m mad/sad/hurt/angry/lonely and exhausted from trying not to be.
Doing affirmations and
taking meditation courses,
along with walks in the woods.
I’m leaning into joy
the way my dog
wishes she could
lean into the wind.
But, she can’t
because I put her
in the way back,
behind the backseat
of my SUV.
She longs to be like
other dogs in other cars,
Golden Retrievers leaning out windows
with long hair blowing
in the wind and smiles
beaming from their faces.
Truth be told,
I’m still saddened
by men with fine physiques,
who wear ACDC t-shirts,
and smoke cigars.
The blues still strikes my heart like a fist.
I’m laughing loud and
leaning into the love
of being alive.
I’m grabbing gratitude
like it’s my last refuge.
I’m celebrating love, when it’s not mine.
I’m dancing to music that
didn’t exist when he was alive.
I’m leaning into joy
the way my Black Lab
asks for a third helping of food.
I’m devouring books and gathering friends and eating healthy and meeting new people and keeping up with world events and our crazy-*ss country to the best of my ability and going on evening walks with my sister and
Missing him like a dripping faucet in the background of everything.
I’m learning social media
and getting published.
I’m planning and revising.
All the while,
I’m remembering you
cheering me on
with an awe
I felt I deserved
And miss like a best friend.
I miss you.
The world goes on.
I rise daily.
I miss you.
Every time the clock ticks.
“In release, we begin.” ~ Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
Thank you for all the time you invested in my health issues. You’ve been busy!
Here’s the thing, Worry. You’re not actually helping. When you’re around, I rarely get anything accomplished. I waste too much time with you.
I know you mean well and are trying to help because you’re concerned about my future.
Would you be willing to step aside for a while so I can spend time with my other team members?
It’s hard to hear you’re not qualified to lead me in the direction I’m headed, but if success and health are what you truly want for me, I need you to step aside.
There may be other occasions where I call on you in the future. For now, your services are no longer required.
I’ve put together a new team with Planning, Follow Through, and Faith.
I’ll be spending time with them. When I’m not working with them, I’ll be partnering with Peace, Forgiveness, and Fun.
I just don’t have the time to be with you anymore, Worry.
This is a conscious decision, one you’ve helped me make by all the time you’ve spent with me. I know it’s not your intention, but you exhaust me!
I’m simply not able to spend my late nights and early mornings having endless conversations with you.
You tried to help me. I get it, but now it’s time for you to go. I’ve got work to do.
Thank you for your contribution and allowing me to grow on my own from here. We just can’t be partners anymore.
No, really. I must go, Worry. I want to go. I choose to go. I’m letting you go.
Just step off, Worry! Seriously, you’re holding me back and trying to manipulate me into discussing every little detail and then rehashing over and over. It’s not going to happen.
I can’t do this anymore. I need you to leave my home and my life.
Thank you and goodbye.
Sincerely,
Alice in Authorland
When her husband died, Jayne—in the throes of wretched grief—wrote how she’d like her life to be, specifically.
She wrote about the kind of job she wanted: the company, culture, income, minimal travel, and optimum opportunity to affect people. It’s the job she now has.
She wrote about the kind of place she wanted to live, long before I came on the scene.
It’s where we live now: three bedrooms, two bathrooms, basement with storage space, safe, walking distance to restaurants and nature, awesome landlord… Some things have changed and maybe we’ll move on, but Jayne manifested more than just a place to live. It’s home.
That’s an almost impossible task when home for 35 years was with her husband. So, after losing him, recreating that kind of space meant a major mind leap.
What’s more, she wrote about the kind of relationship and man she wanted.
A couple of guys flitted in and out, revealing their inability to step into the kind of relationship Jayne sought. She easily released them, rather than trying to make something work that wasn’t meant to be, as so many people do, especially women, and even more so for vulnerable widows. Not my sister.
One guy she really liked early on forgot to mention he had a girlfriend, because he was so busy telling Jayne how fabulous she was. One day, while she was at work, his girlfriend showed up at our door, making me the bearer of the bad news. Jayne laughed it off.
After your husband/life partner/best friend/protector/father of your children dies, cheating boyfriends get swiped away like flies.
Even after Jayne got deep enough to let a relationship develop with her current man, she never stopped working to create the kind of communication that makes a long-term love worth the heart and time investment. She speaks her mind, gets angry, asks questions, listens, and brings him coffee in the morning.
That’s amazing manifestation and continuous development.
At work, my sister insisted she wanted to be able to wear jeans every day, as she had in her previous job. She kept saying it over and over.
Guess who left this morning, as she now does every morning, wearing jeans? It took years, but the policy got changed!
Here’s the way many of us try to manifest. Well, at least the way I’ve been known to finagle. Let’s say I wanted to wear jeans, but the policy was business casual.
I’d say, “I wish we could wear jeans,” but then I’d try to make myself happy with business casual and feel good wearing certain outfits that I wouldn’t wear if I wore jeans. I’d even try to rationalize myself into feeling as if I was for the policy I truly didn’t prefer, while whining about it over drinks with friends every few months.
So, a key is to know and stand by what you truly want and not try to convince yourself to feel differently because you’re afraid you can’t have that which you desire.
Of course, I’m not saying Jayne magically gets everything she wants, but her magnetic mind is staggering.
Another example: she wanted more vacation time. When she was hired, she’d been told that wasn’t possible. It was the one thing on her ideal job list she didn’t get.
However, not long ago, I received a text: “Guess what?!”
In the interim, she repeatedly said, “I make great money, but the thing I’d really like is more vacation. I don’t mind working. I just like playing, too. I just don’t have enough vacation time.”
Then, after years of working for the company who couldn’t give her that, they did. Jayne received another week of vacation.
Just. Like. That.
It’s simple, but I’m more of a complicate the hell out of it and reevaluate 42 times kind of manifestor.
I need to get out of my own way and keep it simple.
For example, I’m a writer, but not yet as successful or as solvent as I intend to be. My sister supports and encourages my writing career.
When I first moved in with her, I’d freak out every few months, feeling guilty for not bringing in more money. I’d tell Jayne I could go back to teaching or get another job. She’d say, “No, this is what we’re doing. You’re pursuing your dream.”
I did. I have. I am. I’ll never give up.
However, I’ve been known to get sidetracked, as in, do you think I should teach yoga?
Also, I’ve wanted my health, but enjoyed beer and pizza.
Conflicting desires sometimes prioritize through pain. On my path to better health, my body no longer tolerates pizza. Now, I choose my health over cheap thrills.
There are times we need to renegotiate with the Universe and things don’t always happen the way we want, but often it’s because we’re unclear and keep changing our minds.
Like a couple of my single girlfriends. They’ll admit and recommit to wanting a man and a relationship. They’ll go speed dating and on dating sites and on some dates.
Then, when we get together the question of dating or meeting someone special comes up. Inevitably, these gals will go on about how happy they feel in their lives and therefore, they don’t really need, or even necessarily want a man.
These are successful women with fabulous friends, family, and a full life. They’re happy.
And yet, each one of them, like me, carries a deep desire to connect with a special someone in the way that a relationship with a mate offers.
We’d love to manifest love for ourselves, but we waiver. We tell ourselves we don’t want it because we’re already happy, as if fulfillment in other areas of our lives negates our desire for intimacy with a partner.
We say dating is too much work and we’re busy and we don’t mind being alone—because we don’t.
It’s all fine, but should we settle for fine when our hearts crave fabulous?
Just because we have a delicious meal, it doesn’t mean we don’t want desert. It’s fine if we don’t, but let’s not lie to ourselves.
I love my life. I’m happy as it is, right now, and I’m up for manifesting more and better, like a book contract and maybe even a fresh new man.
I’m following in my sister’s footsteps for manifesting and creating a life I love.
How about you? Are you clear in what you want or do you tend to waiver?
If you want to move into the direction of your desires, here are the six steps the best manifestor I know follows:
1. Know what you want.
2. Say what you want.
3. Believe you can have it.
4. Practice patience.
5. Do your work while you wait.
6. Allow what you want to come to you.
Or, the shorter version:
1. Know what you want.
2. Don’t waiver.
So, I’m off to manifest my writing success—as in a savvy agent and a life-changing book contract—along with a crazy, sexy, kundalini man. Because I believe I can.
How about you? What are you up for manifesting in your lovely life?
In fact, he said he never understood why I pursued you in the first place.
Well, I won’t go that far; You’re so attractive! So ideal for me! I desire you. Unfortunately, you’re like a mirage. The closer I get to you, the more walls you put up.
You ghost me. Then, just when I’m at peace in my life, you come courting and seducing me with sweet gifts. You give me books. You know my weakness!
One Minute Organization, You Are a Badass, You Are a Badass at Making Money, Big Magic, Spontaneous Transformation, …
I read the pages and imagine you and me making things work the way you want. It’s what I want, too. But, you make it too hard. You don’t let me enjoy myself.
You’re like the opposite of my bad boyfriend who made all my money disappear. I once told him, “I bet if I had a million bucks, you could turn it into a -$1,000,000!”
With you, Perfection, if I earned $1,000,000 today, you’d say, “How about $2,000,000?”
You’re never satisfied. Plus, you’re kind of a stick in the mud, a dud.
When it’s time to celebrate, or even just sit in the sun, you pull out a to-do list.
Well, let me ask you this: what part are you doing? Because in this relationship of ours, I don’t see you doing a lot of heavy lifting, but I sure do hear you b*tching.
Like when I completed my Intentional Blog course and felt proud—because you know that technical sh*t brings up my childhood hurdle of feeling stupid—but I did it!
You said, “Yeah well, isn’t there another course you need to complete?”
When I balked because I wasn’t being lazy, but just acknowledging one step forward, you said, “My God, Alice, it’s not like you ran a marathon. I really care about you. It’s just that I know you’re going to feel better about yourself when you have 5,000 followers.”
Perfection, here’s what you don’t get: I was already feeling good!
You and I have different values and belief systems. You say you love me, but you don’t even respect me.
You invalidate my feelings, especially when I’m happy. How can you call that love?
You don’t appreciate me for who I am, but some fantasy of who you want me to be.
You’re trying to get to some destination down the road and when you catch me relishing my life, laughing with my sister, reading a novel, enjoying time with friends—you act like I’m doing something wrong.
No, Perfection. You’re wrong!
You’re wrong in your attitude. You hold up your ideals, but make no room for the path to attainment or fulfillment.
What you don’t get, Perfect, Perfect you, memories are made from running all the miles of the marathon. There are aid stations along the way and it’s ok to stop. Not everyone has to be a world champion.
You make everything like there are two choices: either you’re perfect, like you, or you’re a loser. I’ve got news for you. There’s a whole lot of in between.
There are thousands of writers earning a living off words who’ve never been on Oprah or the New York Times Bestseller list.
There are songwriters whose success is solid, but whose names we wouldn’t know and faces we wouldn’t recognize in public.
Perfection, you’re also a snob. If someone uses the wrong word—your for you’re, a less-than politically correct term, says “honey” or “babe” when they don’t know you, or mispronounces Guadalupe, you act as if they should be banished from earth.
Come on! Give people a break! Like me.
I’m better off without you. See, I want to enjoy my life now, not someday.
I’m not an idiot. I’m no fool. I know I’ve got work to do. It’s not like I’m going to totally screw up my life without your constant supervision.
I need a partner, a lover, a friend, maybe even a coach, but not a parent.
You know me; I’m antiauthoritarian a rebel and. So, what makes you think I’d be drawn closer to you by your control tactics disguised as loving advice and encouragement?
Sometimes, I resist doing things simply because you tell me I must. Perfection, you don’t own me and you sure don’t determine where I find joy in my life.
You want us to do all these things. You plan and plan, but then when we get there, it’s never good enough for you and you head off on the next plan.
Geez! You wear me out! I just need to be away from you for a while.
I’m done chasing you trying to make something work that was never meant to be.
By the way, I’ve been hanging out with God and he said something interesting. It reminded me of my first summer selling books when my sales manager noticed my sales plummeted on the days after I talked to my boyfriend back home.
God said he noticed whenever I’m trying to win you over—and haven’t I tried?—you try to make me feel like less-than. It’s true, although I know you’ll never admit it. It’s always cloaked in “trying to help.”
I’m not mad at you, Perfection. I get it. You don’t know another way to be. I shouldn’t ask you to change. I’m not. I’m just stepping away.
So I can be me. So I can be free. So I can pursue my passions without constantly worrying about how they might play in the marketplace or measure up to your standards.
I don’t want to measure up. You think I can’t make it without you just because you’ve been around for so long?
Wrong again. Sorry, but it’s often when things fall apart (according to your standards) that I find my greatest fulfillment.
My life often comes together in the most imperfect and unplanned ways.
I promise, Perfection. I’ll be fine without you.
I’m walking my own path. You may not like it, might disagree, can even laugh at me.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be manipulated by you anymore, Perfection.
You’re the one who’s missing out. You’re missing the messy party called life, cloud watching, sunshine sipping, ducks landing in the driveway, 30 minutes of a one-hour meditation, budget vacations, and showing up late only to find you’re right on time.
You want life with straight edges, but baby I was born for riding the curves.
Perfection, our paths will cross again, maybe when I sign my book contracts and on Christmas, but don’t plan it. This just isn’t working for me. And in case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t been giving you what you want either.
Besides, I like hanging out with my other friends: Peace, Solitude, Serenity, Joy, Fun, Music, Poetry, Sister and Yoga. Oh, and Laughter, Hugs, Writing, and Conversations.
You’d hate our parties. We just sit around and bliss out. Not your style, I know. That’s why you are I are done.
Please don’t think it’s easy letting you go or that I won’t sometimes fantasize about you, but I will never chase you again.
So, go be you. I’ll see you in the movies and on TV, in pharmaceutical commercials and political campaigns. Get out there and tell them how it’s going to be, Perfect—tomorrow.
I’ll be here, basking in this magic moment.
“The journey back to ourselves begins with wanting something to change.” ~ Jennifer McLean, Spontaneous Transformation
Sometimes joy rushes in like a child, “Mommy, there’s a pony!” Other times, she rises like steam from a hot cup of coffee.
Joy crashed my party last night, the welcome addition to friends swapping so many stories a line formed behind the laughter.
How did these friends weave their way into my world?
We met in a writers’ group and respected each other’s critiques for years before we started sneaking away for beers as a threesome after group. That’s when the conversations started to get good.
Then, like children lined up for spankings, we each got ours.
Death crashed like waves washing away all that didn’t matter and taking those who did: my beloved, Jeff’s brother, Sharon’s sister. Just. Like. That.
We formed a bond. We talked. We cried. We wrote. We listened. We laid off.
We struggled with our individual losses branding our hearts with sorrow. We admitted we weren’t good company and flipped off the angel of death collectively.
Now, over 12 months have passed since our latest loss. Our gaping wounds are healing scars. Our every conversation isn’t laced with tears and wretched sadness.
So, I invited them over to my place last night. Sharon brought her husband. I fell for him as easily as my Black Lab leaned into his long legs. The combination of Clint Eastwood looks blessed by a liberal bias, and one-liners that had me forgetting life isn’t the funniest joke I’ve ever heard.
Last night, it was. Roy was a hunk of authenticity and as comfortable as sweats on Sunday morning. However, when I say I fell for him, I don’t mean romantically or that I’m attracted to him.
It’s just that I don’t always dig my friends’ mates as much as they do. Of course, that’s ok. But Roy? He’s in the club. No application required.
In fact, I think I spotted a bit of a bromance between he and Jeff, as they talked about sneaking off together alone to share their well-developed music tastes.
But, hey, Jeff left me the Eliane Elias CD. Probably trying to expand my musical palette, which I appreciate.
It seems where the three of us had been holding the umbrella for each other, Roy showed up with the sunshine.
Suddenly, as if we hadn’t been saddled under grief, we swung on the laughter of life.
We’d planned a casual get together. It turned into a real party where I drank too much wine and slept with a stranger.
Her name is Joy. She spent the night, stayed for coffee, is still hanging around, and even planning our life together. You should see the smirk on my face.
For you, life is constant pressure to conform and perform. Your world holds more challenges than most adults imagine.
Most of us have forgotten what it’s like to be 16, 17, 18, or 19. We talk to you from our adult minds and increase the disconnect. We listen to correct or inform, or even encourage, but we don’t hear your truth, experience, and perspective.
You know that. So, you say what you think we want to hear and too often you’re right.
You navigate through teachers, parents, coaches, and bosses who have little idea what you’re thinking or feeling.
In many ways, you’re smart. That’s your survival tactic.
I see you looking for a way out and screaming for help in ways no one hears. Those who do seem to make you feel worse.
I’m sorry you’re going through what you’re going through. You have more pressure than we ever did when we were your age.
And yet, even without the same chaos you’re dealing with, I was a suicidal teenager.
Now, I’m 53 years old. I recently told a close friend I’ve known since high school that I tried to kill myself my first semester in college. She said, “What? I had no idea.”
Of course not. We all keep secrets.
Dear teenager trying to get out of this world, this life, your life, I know how that feels.
People who’ve never truly hated their lives or their parents think your words are exaggerations or drama. They can’t fathom your daily pain.
Your pain is real. It feels unbearable. Hang on. It won’t feel like this forever. I promise.
During my first year in college, I lived with a nurse who had a refrigerator door full of prescription bottles. (I have no idea why.)
One night, I swallowed every pill I could and went to sleep hoping to never wake up.
I did. In a bed of vomit.
I told no one. Not my best friend. Not my sister or my mom who lived in town.
Not my boyfriend who kept trying to dump me.
I was a failure even at trying to check out. And in college, which I wasn’t cut out for at the time, I pulled a 1.9 grade point average. Stellar, right?
Looking back, I can still ignite the feelings that were all-consuming and impossible to communicate.
Two things saved me. One: I went to a counselor who made me PROMISE, NO MATTER WHAT, I WOULDN’T TAKE MY LIFE.
It was a real promise, one I couldn’t make to myself, but somehow made to her.
Later, when I had the impetus and opportunity to try again, my promise stopped me.
Is there one person you can make that promise to? One who cares about you to whom you can say, “I want to be dead, but I promise you I won’t kill myself” and mean it?
If so, please make the promise right now. If not, I raise my hand for you. Promise me.
Second, I got a summer job with Southwestern selling books on the other side of the country. This took me out of my circumstances and gave me a new focus.
It was an extreme step for a suicidal girl. I had to save my own life.
Sometimes, we need a complete shift in our environment to transform our perspective. When we can’t change how we feel inside, sometimes changing our outside world helps.
You can think your way into suicide. Please don’t! Choose better.
Stick around to see what the next chapter of life brings you. It may be your best yet.
Although I know the deep desire to end the pain, I don’t know your life. I’m not pretending I do.
I’m praying if you try to die, you get lucky and get it wrong, but we can’t count on that.
I’m praying you don’t get on the exit ramp. Drive yourself back into life. Find one thing worth living for. Just one. Let that lead you.
It’s a long road and there are many chapters to your life. You won’t always be in the situation you’re in now. I know it feels that way.
Your life won’t always feel like this. I promise.
Sometimes just staying alive takes courage. Stay. Alive. One hour at a time. Call up the brave one inside you for one minute, one hour, one day at a time.
The urges may follow you and you may have to fight them for a long time, as I did.
But, it’s worth it. I’m grateful to be alive. I’ve had multiple chapters of good and bad.
If I would’ve checked out at age 18, I would’ve missed: Spring Break in Mazatlán, falling in love—over and over again, holding my mom’s hand while she battled cancer, being my little sister’s maid of honor, getting married (and divorced), owning a home, flying on the swings at the Mall of America, laughing with my sister, traveling to Europe with eight women and one guy who didn’t like to shower, running the Chicago Marathon, waterskiing in Tulsa, Oklahoma, falling for Rod Stewart, meeting Billy Joel, learning to like jazz, barbeques on the deck, blueberry and raspberry flavored coffee, returning to college at age 37, becoming a writer, sacred love, Sedona, yoga, a collection of friends who unfold history with me (that I didn’t even know back then), watching my nephews grow from babies into men, living with my sister, dozens of road trips, being mom to the best dog in the world, making love, and best of all, being there for people when they’re going through one of life’s dark tunnels.
I would’ve missed. My life. Don’t miss yours.
This is the book of your life. Keep reading. New scenes will be written and new characters will walk in. It’s going to get juicy. Just you wait.
Of course, you still choose it the way you’d still choose your beloved were he alive, but its existence, meaning, and memories don’t grip as tight as they once did.
When you flirt with other men because you want to, not just to prove to yourself you still can.
When meeting potential suitors, you no longer seethe from your soul the words that rolled off your tongue fresh after his death: Every other man is going to be such a f*cking disappointment!
Although each one will say or do the wrong thing by virtue of not being the man you called Fire!.
He lit you, warmed you, melted you, and went out in the night while you each slept snuggled in the peace you’d longed for your whole life.
Yet, you remember you once gave him a hard time, too–even considered him unqualified.
Until he shattered your walls with his Southern, all-in, “I’m not those other guys” determination and dedication without expectation.
Damn. He showed you how a real man steps in.
So, you might be getting to the better side of grief when you believe maybe there’s more than one emotionally courageous man on this earth, even another for you.
You stop banking on your beloved coming back, although you still secretly believe.
Your fascination with the other side, psychics, and signs subsides.
Sure, the songs still come, like Summer Nights for your sister, the flash from her first date with her husband some 35+ years ago, before he died after decades of love and a devoted family foursome.
That same night in the Bahamas, gals sing and slaughter Ice, Ice Baby, the song that originated Fire’s nickname for you in 1988 when your friendship began, as playful as a paintball tournament.
You’re getting to the other side of grief when these songs, reminders, and hellos from heaven break a smile instead of your heart.
You find yourself fully present vacationing with your sister, letting the alligators in the Everglades and lobster on the beach in the Bahamas own your attention.
Easy, one might say, but to grieve is to always wish you were elsewhere: with him.
When every breath isn’t I wish you were here; I miss you so much! Although the thought still indulges your days, it’s not every. single. moment. Progress!
Now, you’ve done 30 Days of Meditation, cleared everything from your chakras to your lineage, and found your heart bursting with love.
Determination isn’t only in your head; you embody it.
Goals and dreams matter, rather than just trying to convince yourself they should.
You might be getting to the to the better side of grief when birds singing and feeding at the feeder that belonged to your beloved goes from bittersweet to simply sweet.
Morning air and the wearing of his KISS robe isn’t ripe with flashbacks of early country mornings, arising from his bed and arms to let your dog out, hearing your favorite holler, “Come back, Icey! Come back!”
When you stop betting 100% he will.
Once again, you start finding two pennies repeatedly. Then a nickel and a penny, hearing him say, “For your sixth cents,” laughing, and you laugh, too.
Your own laughter rings as real and unrestrained as it flowed back in 1989, before your brother died, when you called The Fire! only Kevin, and he helped you pack your Honda CRX hitched with a U-Haul, so you could haul your ass out west and run away from husband number one.
You no longer want to run away from your own life.
Instead, you lean into the laughter and how it feels in your belly and looks on your face reflected in the eyes of your sister, friends, and strange folks you’ve yet to know.
You could be getting to the better side of grief when gratitude doesn’t feel like false affirmation, when you look forward to time with friends, and frankly, you stop wishing you were dead.
When you don’t keep your eyes on the clouds, begging for the heart shapes so prominent and clear in the first year after he died.
You begin looking at all that is before you.
You stop carrying conversations on autopilot like your decades spent in sales. You listen to others’ pain as more than pacifier for why yours isn’t so bad.
You still yourself and speak from your soul without the deafening echo of his goneness.
You hear joy—theirs and yours—and let it rise like a favorite song you sang in your 20s. Passion!
I find I’m getting to the better side of grief when I want to grab every morsel of life.
I don’t want to miss out on one grand, or even mundane experience, like savoring coffee, because I’m so damn busy missing my beloved, my Fire!, although I always will.
I crawled through the dark tunnel of grief after experiencing the ecstasy of sacred love.
It hasn’t died. His love lives in me. I’m forever his Ice Baby.
I’m all that he fell for—broken, vulnerable, smart, strong, feisty, funny, and beautiful.
We were crazy, sexy, cool. He still is; I still am.
I’m alive, eager for the moments before me, and excited for the chapters unfolding.
I feel like me again. I’m a woman who loved unbounded and grieved with every fiber of my being.
I’m not a fool. Grief will grab me again. She can knock me down with the power of a colossal ocean wave. I accept her power, her nature.
But, we may be getting to the better side of grief when we once again feel our own power and God’s grace within this brutiful life.
And giddiness! There’s no such thing as giddiness in the grip of grief.
So, if you’re in it, I extend my hand in hope to hold with your honorable despair.
There’s another side to grief. May I see you there.
“Guilt is not a very good motivator.” ~ Psychology Today
Dear Guilt,
You and I have been friends for as long as I’ve known Procrastination, Drinking, and Television. Guilt, we’ve become too close.
I’ve taken for granted that you’ll always be a part of me—not because that’s what I want, but because you’ve been by my side, dancing in my head, and draped around my neck for decades.
Your theory is if I’d take action, you’d leave me alone. You taunt me trying to make me act or not act a certain way.
If you inspired change, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be busy doing all the right things in the ideal time.
Instead, you’re like a sinus infection I can’t shake. You clog my head and slow me down.
Guilt, I don’t want to deny you your purpose. Some say you’re a wasted emotion. That’s not totally true.
As a child, when I had the habit of stealing, you and Shame showed up and helped me quit. Thank you for that.
When I ate my feelings more than speaking to my ex-husband, you guided me back to my truth.
When I worked retail and called in sick, but the only thing I was sick from was working retail, you sat with me and we had that heart to heart. You gave me insight about doing wrong and still not feeling you, Guilt—because I was striving for something more right. Thank you for the lesson.
So yes, I’ve done things and there were times your presence provided a wake-up call.
However, you’re not my true companion. I don’t need you in my life as an umbrella over everything thought, action, or nonaction.
Stop embedding yourself into my every move, from how I manage my time, to what I eat, to the gifts and opportunities I’ve been given.
Your intention is to help. But, remember when I was readying to tell my ex-husband I was leaving him and then I needed to pack all my belongings from our house? Guilt, you showed up in full force.
You were with me first thing in the morning and throughout the days. You even crawled in bed with me, pointing out everything I hadn’t yet done. You brought Shame and Judgment into my home, the one I was losing, as if I wasn’t challenged enough.
Here’s what you didn’t do: help. You didn’t help me feel better, speak clearer, or pack one damn box.
It was my readying time. I needed to gather myself, talk to God, and get grounded. But, you should all over me every day for months.
Not helpful! I may procrastinate (gather my forces), but I accomplish what needs to be done in my own time.
Deadlines help. Your constant yammering takes me farther from myself and the life I choose to live.
So, here’s the deal, Guilt. You’re welcome to visit on rare occasions, only when called for and only when I’ve actually done something worthy of your presence.
Otherwise, let’s take a break, okay?
I know you’ll be checking up on me from the sidelines. You’re like my spotter—making sure I don’t sleep with people incompatible to my soul or speak words to puff up my ego at another’s expense.
However, for the most part Guilt, I’m good. I’ve got this. You can go.
You’re welcome to visit if I collude with Russians, sleep with subordinates, or kick my dog.
But for the days I don’t do yoga, post on my blog, or get my home perfectly organized—for these types of parties, you’re no longer invited. In fact, you’re banned.
I know you want to be helpful, Guilt. So, go help somebody else (maybe a politician).
From now on, I’m hanging with Peace. We’re becoming quite close.
So, see you around, Guilt. Best wishes. May you be of benefit elsewhere.
Thoughtfully,
Alice
Alice in Authorland 