What's in the gallery?
We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.
We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**
* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.
** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.
What's in the gallery?
We dissolve stuck and rewrite patterns. We apply radical playfulness to life (when we feel like it!), embarking on internal adventures (credo of Safety First). We have a fake band called Solved By Cake. We build invisible sanctuaries, invent words and worlds, breathe awe and wonder.
We are not impressed by monsters. Except when we are. We explore the connections between internal territories and surrounding environment to learn what marvelously supportive delicious space feels like, and how to take exquisite care of ourselves. We transform things.* We glow wild.**
* For example: Desire, fear, worry, pain-and-trauma, boundaries, that problematic word which rhymes with flaweductivity.
** Fair warning: Self-fluency has been known to lead to extremely subversive behavior, including treasuring yourself unconditionally, unapologetically taking up space, experiencing outrageously improbable levels of self-acceptance, and general rejoicing in aliveness.
Retroactive Emergency Vacation
It’s story time today.
Ten years ago this May.
I don’t want to write about this. And definitely not in the mood to go into all the details.
So. Ignoring the mechanisms, the how and why of my world falling apart, some relevant pieces:
In May of ten-years-ago my husband and I left our Tel Aviv apartment that I loved so much. Maybe even more than I’d realized, in retrospect. Oh, retrospect, you are always so late.
His parents had given us a flat they owned in the suburbs. Next door to them.
Except it was still being renovated, and I was working in the city.
My shifts at the bar ended late — too late for buses. And a cab out of town would eat up all my earnings.
My husband stayed at his parents in the suburb. And I stayed on various couches of girlfriends in Tel Aviv.
Time is funny.
It was supposed to be just for a month. We’d see each other weekends and in between my shifts at work.
We didn’t. Not really. Renovations took longer. My best friend went to London and I house-sat for a while, then took care of her ex-girlfriend who was going through a rough patch.
Three months.
I went to the States for a visit. Stayed with a girlfriend in Chicago. Went on a road trip. Place, perspective. Breathing room.
Four months.
Timing is timing.
I was scheduled to fly out of Chicago on September 12.
This was 2001, so September 11 meant there was no September 12. At least, not in any way that mattered.
Flights were canceled. Flights to Israel were canceled for even longer.
Another month.
Six months into seven.
Eventually I came back. The marriage, unsurprisingly, came apart. It was agreed that I would move out.
A friend of a friend was moving to Sweden. I could rent her apartment.
She changed her mind about if and when so many times that I lost count.
I stayed on more couches.
By the time I moved in, it was almost December. Seven months of couch-sleeping. Of not knowing when or where — or if at all — there would be home for me.
Why this.
This six month period is by no means the hardest or the shittiest thing that has happened to me.
It hurts to say: this doesn’t even make the top ten.
But that doesn’t mean this time wasn’t terrifying and painful, because it was.
And sometimes I talk to me-from-then. I invent vacations for her. I put her up in hotels and buy her books. I take care of her. It’s what I do.
Why now.
I have trouble taking time off. I have trouble stopping.
Until it’s an emergency, and Emergency Vacation is declared.
This is a known thing.
But to every absolute declarative “this is how things are” truth, there is always an exception. And here it is:
While I personally may be terrible at creating refuge for myself now, there is a version of me who knows how to stop.
It’s the me who invents vacations for past versions of myself.
Look at all the things I have trouble giving to me-in-the-present:
Time, space, money, attention, caring, forgiveness, comfort, reassurance, appreciation, protection.
And yet all of these I gladly give to me-who-went-through-all-that-crap.
Bless the loophole.
Yesterday, I took myself away on a holiday.
I took me-from-now and me-from-ten-years-ago, and we went on a little self-rescue mission.
We booked a gorgeous hotel room. We packed an overflowing picnic basket. Books and magazines. Slippers. An appointment for a facial.
Normally I would never do this for myself. But it’s okay, because I’m taking care of her. I’m taking care of her by showing her that now I can take care of myself.
She knows what I’m doing, me-from-then.
She knows this is my way of easing into being the person who can take care of herself in the moment and not just after the fact.
She’s happy for me.
And I am happy for her.
Very specific comment blanket fort zen for today.
This is really, really vulnerable stuff I’m writing about. It’s hard to do.
What is welcome.
Your stories.
The versions of you who are in need of a Retroactive Emergency Vacation, whether you literally might go on one or not.
Spaciousness. Warmth. A glass of wine or a cup of tea.
What I am not okay with:
Not that you would do this, of course, but just to have said it…
I do not wish to be told what to do, psychoanalyzed, judged, given advice or given that thing which is called tough love but is not loving in practice.
I do not want to be told that I shouldn’t be posting here if I’m on vacation, or that I need to learn to take time off.
Thank you.
Happy Retroactive Emergency Vacation to me. And to all of your various verisons-of-you who need one too. Hug.
Except.
Something I find both incredibly frustrating and empowering at the same time is how there is at least one exception to just about everything I think is true.
So. No big surprise, but I’ve been using this thing of finding the exceptions as part of the destuckification practice.
Whenever I catch myself making some sort of declarative statement about myself, the plan kicks in:
Pause (paws!), and look for the exception.
There is a part of me or a version of me who knows what the exception is. A me who lives that exception. I just need to find her.
Like this:
Finding the exceptions.
The me who knows how to stop.
Exhausted me: “This sucks! I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to recover when I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know how to do this.”
Except…
When I was first training to be a yoga teacher and sprained my ankle in a non-yoga-related and completely ridiculous three-stooges-tripping-over-a-ladder incident?
Sprained ankle me knew how to stop and recover. She knew how to take time off. She knew about ice and elevation and not-doing.
So…right now I kind of have a sprained life. And here is the me who knows how to say this is the time to stop and recover. Or as Cairene says, reboot!
Trust.
Frightened me: “I don’t know how to trust. I never have. Trust is not comfortable. I have issues. And history. I hate this situation and I don’t trust anyone in it.”
And since there is always an exception, which part of me does know how to trust?
Oh. The me who moved from Berlin to San Francisco on the basis of a recurring dream and with no plan other than this is truly what needs to happen right now.
And the me who responds to “You can’t do that” with “Yeah? Watch me!”
Creativity.
Angry me: “I can’t stop being angry because if I do, I will lose my creative driving force. How can I make the world better if I’m not constantly upset at everything that is wrong with it?”
If there is a part of me who knows how to be in creative flow without being outraged, where is she?
The me who worked in the dairy. Between work and sleep, she wrote stories and read books and gave birth to ideas. Peaceful creation.
The me who traveled by ship from Copenhagen to the States. She watched the water, and was in the most remarkable state of flow, except that it came from total relaxation.
Rest.
Irritable me: “Ugh. Rest. I don’t know how it works. I get bored too easily. Stopping isn’t my thing. I’m no good at this.”
Who is my exception?
The me who worked in the orchard. She was tough, wiry, dirty and she lived in her body.
Those afternoon naps under the trees or in a tiny, cramped bed were some of the most delicious, sweet, refreshing pieces of my entire life.
I miss those naps.
Comfort.
Upset me: “I always take care of everyone else first. That’s my pattern.”
Except?
Broken-hearted me. And me who worked at the Horrible, Horrible Job.
They knew how to get me to the bar, meet up with girlfriends, seek out what was needed.
Their solutions from then might not work for me now, and their methods are not mine, but they took our broken heart seriously, and that’s important.
Faith that everything will be okay.
Anxious me: “But what if it won’t be okay?!”
Who knows about this?
The one who wrote FAITH on her body each day until it ended.
Sovereignty.
Tired me: “No matter what I do, people throw shoes. I hate this so much. Why aren’t we done with this yet?”
Except?
There is a me who doesn’t care what other people think. Dancing me.
When I dance, the whole world disappears.
Not every exception will make itself known.
Sometimes I can’t find it.
But the pause counts. There is something the stopping. In knowing that I am invariably wrong about things and that being wrong about things is usually good…
That is enough to lovingly, consciously interrupt whatever patterns and programming are running on cruise control. It all counts.
And comment zen for today.
As always, you are welcome to play with me.
You can find exceptions, ask yourself questions, wonder your wonderings, find out whatever you need to find out.
We all have our stuff. We’re all working on our stuff. It’s a process.
We let people have their own experience, and we don’t give unsolicited advice.
Kisses to the commenter mice, the Beloved Lurkers and everyone who reads.
p.s. Many thanks to my beloved Hiro for constantly reminding me about exceptions, and the hidden vastness of my own knowing and experience. And also for booking a spa treatment for me when I was having a moment, and then making me go. Now that’s love.
Very Personal Ads #86: Recovery Monday. Can we make it official?
Personal ads. They’re … personal! Very.
So my itty bitty personal ads made me realize that it’s time to make a regular practice of trying to feel okay asking for stuff.
Even when the asking thing feels weird and conflicted.
Ever since I posted the first one asking my perfect house to find me, which united me with Hoppy House, I have been a fan of the madness that is personal ads.
And now it’s my Sunday ritual for clarity and remembering and stuff like that. Yay, ritual!
Today is the day that will live on in infamy as Recovery Monday.
At least until next Monday. Oh, it’s so unfair.
Anyway. I am a leetle groggy. But here we are. Very Personal Ads. Let’s do it.
Thing 1: aaah I don’t know what this is called.
Here’s what I want:
You know when you go to a hotel and there’s always a binder on the desk that’s full of informational useful this-and-that?
There’s a room service menu and stuff to do and policies, and maybe a postcard or something.
I want to make one of those for the Playground, with general stuff that we always tell people.
But I don’t know what to call it.
And while I definitely won’t call it whatever it’s official name is, it would help me to have something to call it when I metaphor mouse it.
I’m assuming there’s probably a front of the house name that’s different than what the hotel staff call it. Maybe?
Ways this could work:
One of you might know what this is called! Maybe you’ve worked in a hotel. You could leave a comment and let me know.
Or I might stumble on the name.
Or I might never find out what this is called, but that lack of knowledge will miraculously stop driving me crazy because some other perfect name will reveal itself.
My commitment.
To appreciate how wonderful it is when you have the right word for something.
To never stop playing.
Thing 2: To create the thing I don’t have a name for, in a way that is not stressful.
Here’s what I want:
With or without a fabulous sparkly name and with or without knowing what that type of binder is actually called in real life, I am going to make one.
Since I have been me for many years now, I am aware of my inclination to make everything ten times more complicated than it actually needs to be.
And I can easily imagine this mission in particular turing into a big endless project.
So I want this to come together with ease and grace. Lots of perfect, simple solutions, not too much over-thinking. And done!
Ways this could work:
Not sure yet.
Just putting it out into the world in gwish form.
Maybe I’ll brain-dance on it with some Shiva Nata and see what comes up.
My commitment.
To stay with the essence of what I want to create and not get sucked into a million variations of what is possible.
To giggle when my patterns come up (if I can). Or to have a giant permission slip to feel frustrated if I can’t.
To give this as much time as it needs for now.
Thing 3: Solid recovery time.
Here’s what I want:
So between running the Shiva Nata teacher training and leading the Rally (Rally!), I have been on for twelve days straight.
Cue hysterical laughter and impending nervous breakdown music.
We need some Emergency Vacation, kids.
Ways this could work:
I have an idea but I’m not sure if I have the balls to pull it off.
There is also a version of that idea that is delightfully insane, and therein lies its extra-special appeal. So maybe I’ll do that. I don’t know.
My commitment.
To take care of myself this week, no matter what comes up. This is important.
Thing 4: color for Hoppy House.
Here’s what I want:
At the Rally last week, I was doing a lot of thinking about what makes the Playground so amazing, and how I can bring some of that into my home. What are the elements?
And one of the things that came up was COLOR.
The Playground is extremely colorful and cheery. Hoppy House is very subdued. Which I like.
But it’s time to change some of that.
Ways this could work:
Hmm. I’m looking at where this is already working:
There’s the deep orange duvet, that I love. The bright green of plants. A wonderful rug in the living room that, to quote the Dude, really ties the room together.
Where else would I bring in color?
The Wish Room needs some purple/violet something or other. Maybe I’ll start with flowers and see which colors bring the happy.
My commitment.
Curiosity, experimentation, receptivity, play.
Conscious, loving, wonder-filled interaction with this amazing place that is my home.
Lots of sitting on the window seat and appreciating the view.
Progress report on past Very Personal Ads.
Just to update you on what’s happened since last time.
Last week I wrote tiny little love letters instead of VPAs. And that was fun. It felt good.
Also the comments were amazing.
I asked my week for spaciousness, ease, support, wonder and appreciation. And while it was hard at times, there was definitely a lot of that. So thank you.
Then I wished beautiful things for the graduates of my Shiva Nata teacher training.
Another love letter wish was for a personal situation to be resolved. And while it hasn’t, I also haven’t been worrying about it, so that’s kind of a big deal for me. Writing the letter definitely helped.
And I wished excitement for the March Rally (which is coming up crazy soon and is the one that comes with a head-shot for your blog, if you want one, that you don’t have to pay for). And I am excited.
I may need to wait until post-recovery to do more with that, but I’m glad for the letter of love. Mmmm. That was nice. I didn’t think re-reading those love letters would feel so good, but it did.
Comment zen. Here’s what I’d love today.
- Your own personal ads, small or large. Things you’ve asked for. Or are asking for. Or would like to ask for. Or updates on last time!
Stuff I’d rather not have:
- The word “manifest”.
- To be told how I should be asking for things.
- To be judged, psychoanalyzed or given unsolicited advice.
Wishing love and good things for your Very Personal Ads! I’m so happy to have people doing this with me.
Friday Chicken #134: Away, Rio!
Because it’s Friday AGAIN. And because traditions are important. In which I cover the good stuff and the hard stuff in my week, trying for the non-preachy, non-annoying side of self-reflection.
And you get to join in if you feel like it.
Wow. I mean, wow.
I’m just getting ready for the last day of Rally (Rally!), which is Rally #6, in case you’re wondering.
And between that and the Shiva Nata teacher training last weekend, this was one of the busiest, fullest, most creative weeks of my life.
So apologies if I am a) completely and utterly wiped out, and b) speaking confused-tired gibberish.
The hard stuff
Conflict.
This thing going on in the building where my offices are.
It’s so freaking insane that I don’t even know how to describe it.
But I am so ready for this to be resolved.
Though at least our other neighbor has stopped playing the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack on repeat, so I guess that’s something. Appreciating the parts that are not horrible. Yay, me.
Time. And the way it moves.
This is probably more of the pre-birthday blues.
But various frustrations about the process of years going by. Seeing certain windows of opportunity shrinking.
No, not related to Bolivia.
It’s this: recognizing that if I want to be teaching the extreme physical and mental coordination and agility training that is Shiva Nata to the Blazers and the Timbers and high-level athletes in other places…
Well, that needs to happen sooner rather than later. Because I keep having birthdays.
And while yeah, they say 50 is the new 40, and Madonna is still crazy-hot and and and, I can feel change coming, and I’m not loving it. At least, not right now.
Giant shoes flying my way.
Some really mean-spirited things that no one should ever say to anyone.
Of course, since I know from experience that shoes will be thrown and that they don’t have anything to do with me, avoiding the places where shoes are likely is the thing to do.
But every once in a while they sneak in somewhere that you thought was safe. Not cool.
Oh god emergency vacation pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaase.
But not the kind that happens because of an emotional breakdown or physical exhaustion.
Just that it’s time.
I really, really am committing to taking this time off before it takes me.
The good stuff
The Shiva Nata teacher training.
I don’t even know what to say about how amazing this was. Clearly all the brain-melting rewiring madness has temporarily taken away my ability to describe things.
Twenty bright, beautiful, radiant, creative, curious people doing wonderful things.
It was such a joy to lead this training and be a part of this emerging world of great things. Just astonishing.
I confronted a thing without confronting it.
By reworking my definition of confrontation.
And then changed a bunch of patterns by going and talking to people I wouldn’t normally confront about things I wouldn’t normally confront them about.
But nicely. And wearing my sovereignty boots.
Speaking of interrupting patterns, I also painted my toenails (which is extremely not me) and painted them gold, which is triple-extremely not me.
So basically patterns were challenged all week, and I am super proud of myself for not doing my usual thing and running away and sulking. WIN.
We are doing things DIFFERENTLY and it is changing everything.
Better at dealing with shoes than I used to be.
This week none of the shoes hit my core.
They just bounced off the edges, like Hiro said they would.
I have a new section in the Book of Me that tells me what to do when I encounter a shoe, and I did it and it worked.
Normally shoes of this size/magnitude would have completely derailed me, but they didn’t and this is a very good thing.
Knowing things I didn’t know before.
All this Shiva Nata has been doing outrageous things in my head.
I am channeling ridiculous amounts of information about what my gwishes are and how to make them happen.
Never in my life have I had so many interesting goals and so much faith that I can actually do something with them. This is new and exciting.
Thank you, neurons. Thank you, flailing. Thank you, new patterns.
My new nickname!.
My gentleman friend has invented a name for me and I’m not ready to share it but it is the cutest thing, and I love it.
Normally not so much into nicknames. This one is perfect.
Despite all the crazy, we were still able to brunch the Secret Lab.
Ten thousand sparklepoints to me.
The Secret Lab is something I have been working on for many months. I am so very happy that (with dust still on the floor) it is ready.
Happy Playground.
Having spent the last nine days at the Playground, teaching, writing, projectizing and doing yoga, I can say that its magic keeps getting better.
And the Rallions and the teacher training mice brought so many wonderful presents: stuffed animals and new art supplies and snacks and beautiful things.
It’s just becoming even better, which I hadn’t thought possible. It’s home.
And … playing live at the meme beach house it’s the Fake Band of the Week!
My brother and I have this thing where we come up with ridiculous band names and then say in this really pretentious, knowing tone, “Oh, well, you know, it’s just one guy.”
This week’s band is super loud and a lot of fun.
Nothing But Iguanas
They’re playing in town all week. Except that it’s actually really just one guy.
That’s it for me …
And yes yes yes, of course you can join in my Friday ritual right here in the comments bit if you feel like it.
Yeah? Anything hard and/or good happen in your week?
And, as always, have a glorrrrrrrrrrrrious day and a restful weekend-ing.
And a happy week to come. Shabbat shalom.
This.
The wall is not the impediment to the destination.
The wall is not the distraction keeping you from the destination.
The wall is the thing that contains vital information to help you arrive at the destination.
And this.
How you interact with the wall is directly related to how you will find your destination.
The more time you spend finding out what the purpose of the wall is, the more ease and support there is on the way.
Get on board with the secret mission of the wall,* and discard the mechanism,** and you will change the wall forever.
* It wants to keep you safe.
** Its various attempts to paralyze you with fear or keep you stalled.
Because of this.
Every time you change how you approach your walls, you change how you end up at the destination.
And how you will feel when you’re there.
This is true for projectizing. It is true for destuckifying. It is true for biggification. It is true for relationships. This post brought to you by what happens to my brain when I do Shiva Nata.