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.
You, me, and my duck, baby.
It’s a secret rendezvous.
Well, maybe it’s more of a ménage à duck discreet tryst.
Okay, fine. Not really. It’s a workshop. A life-changingly great one, if I do say so myself.
In Paris person.
In Paris North Carolina. On an insanely gorgeous lake. Surrounded by all things beautiful. Including — but not limited to — me and my duck.
Here’s the thing.
I was supposed to announce this weekend of fabulousness and hot buttered epiphanies forever ago. But I got distracted with all sorts of other things.
In the meantime, while I was busy not telling people about it and forgetting to get my plane tickets, the workshop kind of went and filled itself up without letting me know.
People are flying in from California and Arizona and Minnesota. And a bunch of other places that I don’t remember offhand.
So.
As it happens, there are now three spots left. One of which comes with on-site lodging.
I don’t at all want to scare you but there’s kind of a crazy deadline.
Technically, the “early bird” sign-up period with its absurdly lower prices that I still don’t know how I agreed to is good through the end of June.
But I will be astonished if there is anything left after tomorrow morning at the latest.
So if there’s even a slight chance that you might want to spend August 21–23 zapping through your stucknesses with me and Selma, you probably want to get on that. Or at least take a look.
(Obviously if you’re in panicked crap crap crap I have to do this but won’t have the money until next week mode, write to Marissa and beg. She might agree to save you a spot with an extension on the payment because she’s way nicer than I am.)
Come play.
I’m only doing a few live events this year. And most of them are in Berlin.
So yeah. Would be fantastic to get to hang out with you in North Carolina this summer.
And either way, Selma and I will see you here tomorrow.
» Just in case it’s not completely obvious, here’s where you learn all about it and sign up if you’re the one.
EDIT: The one “with lodging” opportunity is now taken. If you sign up for one of the last spots, we’ll help you get settled with the camping option or we can point you to some affordable places to stay in the area.
Someone just threw a shoe at you.
So you’re walking down the street and someone throws a shoe at you.
Except that you weren’t walking down the street and they didn’t really throw a shoe at you. Also — as it turns out — there is no shoe.
But never mind that.
What really happened is that someone made a particularly condescending remark about something you did or said or wore or thought or admired.
Maybe not though. Maybe they just gave you a total asshat response to something you posted on a forum (yes, that happened to me last week).
Or maybe they did something.
And that something makes no sense because how could they not know that this something would be completely disastrous for you. Ugh.
Whatever it was, you’re feeling hurt.
And upset. And angry. And scared. And indignant. And annoyed.
Completely understandably.
Okay. So. You know what? We’re going to pretend that it was a shoe.
This unknown someone threw a shoe at you. It hit you in the back. Not hard enough to knock you over or do any damage or anything.
But it hurt. A lot. And it surprised you. It was startling and painful and unpleasant.
Where am I going with this?
There are always going to be some people who are going to throw shoes. I wish that weren’t the case, but that’s just the way it is.
And given that this is true, it’s useful to know about the Five Primary Reactions To Shoe Throwing.*
*Thanks to my teacher Orna Sela in Tel Aviv for the shoe-throwing metaphor.
The Five Primary Reactions To Shoe Throwing.
The “It’s all about me” Reaction.
- Man. Not again. People are always throwing shoes at me.
- I don’t know what it’s all about but if a shoe is going to be thrown, damned if it isn’t going to hit me right in the back.
- It’s not fair. Everyone hates me. Everyone is against me. I have all the bad luck. Everything bad happens to me.
- I probably deserve it, though. I must have done something to provoke all this shoe-throwing.
- And now this shoe-throwing has ruined my day and made everything even worse than it already was.
This is most of my clients when they come to me. It’s most of my blog readers. It’s a lot of people. Common reaction.
The “It’s all about them” Reaction.
- What the hell kind of person would throw a shoe at someone?
- What the [insert especially impressive stream of cussing here] causes someone to pick up a shoe and throw it?! What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with everyone?
- Why do people have to be so mean and stupid and hurtful?
Same thing. A lot of my clients, students and blog readers. Me a lot of the time. And most of the people I know. Again, very common.
The Consciously-working-on-my-stuff Reaction.
- Wow. Someone just threw a shoe at me and I’m feeling hurt and angry and upset.
- This is me feeling hurt. I’m allowed to feel hurt. This is my stuff showing up in response to having a shoe thrown at me.
- My anger and hurt and frustration? My stuff.
- The shoe-throwing itself? Their stuff.
- I am reminding myself that this shoe and the throwing of it are not about me and actually have nothing to do with me.
- The throwing of the shoe is all about the shoe-thrower. It’s about their personal stuckification, which — oh, look! — just set off mine too.
- Okay, so that’s my stuff interacting with their stuff. And then if we put my stuff and their stuff aside, there’s still the part about how it’s not okay to throw shoes at people. So let’s deal with that.
- I can say to this person, “Hey, it’s not cool to throw shoes. It hurts when you throw a shoe at me.”
- Because yeah, even though I can’t do anything about their stuff, I can still stand up for myself.
- And I can keep working on my stuff.
This is where I try to be most of the time. This is where many of my Kitchen Table program people are at now after several months of working on their stuff with me. Totally worth working towards.
This kind of approach changes your life and it changes the life of the people around you. Plus it’s very Fluent-Self-ified.
The Advanced Consciously-working-on-my-stuff Reaction.
The Advanced reaction? Same as the above with just one difference.
- This time you’re not upset and you’re not angry.
- You’re still interacting with yourself in a conscious, loving way. You still recognize that the shoe-throwing is all about them. You’re still empowered to tell people that they can’t throw shoes at you.
- But it doesn’t even occur to you to take it personally. Because it’s so obviously not.
This one is my goal. This is where I want to be. And maybe one day it will happen.
It’s not where I am yet, but that’s okay.
The Impossibly-enlightened Reaction.
- There is no shoe.
I’m not even slightly there.
In fact, I’m not even sure I’d ever want to be there. It might even be a purely theoretical option.
But if we’re just following the movement of possible reactions and taking this movement to its logical extension, I’m pretty sure this is where someone could (again, theoretically) end up.
The point.
It’s not that I’m especially invested in moving people along from one reaction to the other.
And I’m also not interested in chastising people for being where they are. That doesn’t seem like it would be especially helpful.
Here’s the part that excites me:
I like watching how our relationships with ourselves change when we start paying attention to the fact that there are different types of reactions available to us.
I like being able to notice that hey, I’m slipping into a certain reaction as a default. And then I remember that the very act of noticing this is altering my relationship with myself and the people around me.
Because when I’m noticing, I’m not in it. And when I’m not in it, I’m more likely to be patient with myself.
And when I’m patient with myself, things don’t hurt.
Friday Check-in #44: the extra schleepy vacation edition
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.
Yep. Still on emergency vacation with my gentleman friend and Selma.
Though Selma has been making herself scarce because I’m trying to be all incognito.
Hooray for emergency vacation!
But — emergency vacation or no emergency vacation — there’s no way I’m missing this since the Friday Chicken is my favorite part of the week.
Of course it’s a pretty short chicken, all in all, because hardly anything happened. Which was absolutely wonderful.
The hard stuff
Saying no: I still completely suck at it.
Even away on my little holiday I still ran into way too many situations where a NO was required and it was uncomfortable and not fun for me.
Oh, irony. How I love you.
Given that one of the biggest things that triggered my about-to-have-a-breakdown must-go-away-and-recover vacation was this whole theme, it was pretty interesting to see just how often it came up this week.
I know these situations are just going to keep showing up until I’ve found the right way to interact with and resolve them. And at the same time, I really, really needed a break from it.
There are a couple of things I’m not looking forward to coming back to — situations where I know completely that NO is the only answer I can give but I am scared of the consequences of that NO.
And still don’t know how I am going to find a way to give the NO that still manages to be both gracious and generous.
But I’m trusting that the right NO will come, as will the strength and grace to stand in it.
Connection to the real world = totally depressing.
While I’d arranged to have one of my pirate crew put up blog posts for me and such, I also promised my first mate that I would check in now and then just to make sure there weren’t any big, crazy emergencies that needed my input.
Ugh.
Yes, I learned that lesson fast.
The first few days of emergency vacation were so completely healing for me. And then as soon as I was back online for even a few minutes, my oof everybody needs stuff from me mood returned.
So I shut off completely and am just hoping that between Marissa, Peggy and the universe, the Fluent Self pirate ship is still staying its course.
Zero energy.
I’ve developed a theory about going on vacation. I’m thinking what one really ought to do is take the break not seconds before it becomes an emergency but significantly before.
Because I didn’t so much take a vacation as go somewhere and sleep a lot.
Not that I’m complaining, really, because it was spectacular.
Just that next time I’d like to maybe, I don’t know, see something or do something in addition to all the napping.
But … speaking of napping …
The good stuff
Napping!
I have become the most ass-kicking rockstar of napping.
Seriously. I’m talking Olympic training levels of napping. If napping were an Olympic sport. Which it totally should be.
The funny thing is that it’s not like I run around completely sleep deprived in my normal non-emergency-vacation life or anything.
I do get up fairly early (between five and five-thirty) but then I also go to bed early (by ten). And I am a fan of the occasional afternoon nap.
Not to mention completely addicted to the weekend afternoon nap.
But this was out of control. I took a nap twice a day every day for a week. And when I wasn’t napping, I was planning the next one.
So yeah, it might all sound kind of boring but it was just what the hypothetical doctor would have ordered had I actually consulted her.
Unscheduled time heals all wounds?
My very favorite part of the week by far was watching myself come back to being me.
Like I was just turning back into myself.
Each day the dark circles under my eyes were a shade lighter, my smile more easy, my step more happy.
My gentleman friend and I took long walks by the water. We practiced our rhumba (very entertaining). We drank bourbon under the stars.
We began each day with no plans and let each day be filled by whatever needed to fill it.
It was perfect.
I didn’t fall apart.
How’s that for the most amazing part? The whole point of the emergency vacation was if I’m going to fall apart, I might as well do it somewhere pretty.
But then I didn’t.
Obviously, I’ve known all along what sorts of things were triggering the ick. But actually seeing and experiencing what happens when you remove yourself from the stressful situation was a really big deal for me.
It’s helping me realize just how much power there is in not being in the situation to begin with.
Not making the focus be having better tools to cope with it. And not working on how I react to things.
Just removing myself physically and emotionally from the hard.
It was absolutely incredible how my need to fall apart and collapse just faded into nothing.
I didn’t need to fall apart. I just needed to get plenty of sleep and to not have anything to do for a while. And that was enough. Deliciously enough.
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 weekend. And a happy week to come.
Wormholes in memory.
Note: I am on my emergency vacation.
This is a piece I wrote a few months ago and never did anything with. Waiting for the right window, I guess. Maybe it’s today.
Sometimes I think there are wormholes in memory.
Back doors.
The other day I had a flash of déjà vu so intense, so disorienting that it tilted everything out of balance.
And in that imperceptible moment of in-between, something began pulling out bits of memory and reassembling them into present time.
Memories from all five senses flowing seamlessly together, replicating a certain place and a certain time exactly.
The situation.
Most mundane trigger ever.
I was bringing up laundry from the basement.
My brother and my gentleman friend were brewing beer in the kitchen.
The experience.
One minute I was walking up the stairs. The next I was back — completely — at my job at the homebrew store.
Fifteen years ago? Ten years ago? I’d worked there at a couple of different points, so I couldn’t even orient myself in time. All I know is I was back.
I was back.
But I don’t mean to say that it took me back. Or that it reminded me of there.
I was there. Then. Not partly here and partly there. Not partly now and partly then.
Only there. Only then.
Falling into memory.
It’s hard to say where memory begins and ends.
Something about the sensation of coming up that dark staircase into the heady aroma of hoppy alchemy.
Something about the angle of the climb. And the strains of music from radio soft in the background.
The flickering light on the dark basement stairs. The smells of malt and grains and hops. The weight and heft of the load in my hands. The flash of unexpected sunlight as I came through the door.
Until standing in the doorway, blinking in that sunlight, I stood confused. Temporarily paralyzed. I was in my kitchen but it made no sense. It wasn’t what I’d been expecting.
Everything was the same. And everything was completely different.
And that was when I realized that I’d actually stepped back into memory. And not just back into memory but into a very specific memory.
Because what I had been expecting to find in place of the kitchen was an entirely different day.
An old, faded day that no longer exists. A pretty day. Conjured up again by a precise and accidental melding of scent, sound and sensation. Exactly that. An old, faded day.
But what does memory know, really?
It was all right there. And at the same time, it was — it is — a little hazy and more than a bit dusty.
I’m rounding the last stairs and coming through the door. And G. is there. But why? To pick me up from work?
Looking a bit bashful — but again, why? — and holding something.
And there I am too, tired and achy and happy with flecks of crystal malt dust on my face, smelling of hops. Smiling.
He has something to tell me. Or show me. I can’t remember. Music. Someone begins to speak.
And then there I was in my kitchen again. Blinking. Taken completely aback by the complete now-ness of right now.
Returning.
Here I am. And most of the time I’m pretty sure it’s where I’m supposed to be.
So I start talking myself down, into the moment that is right now. The important one.
I say, very clearly: “I want to be here now. I’m ready to be here. Now. Present time. Here. I. Am.”
[Ed. Also I might have done some hardcore wacky energy protection things because I’m that way.]
And then I begin sorting everything out, as if I were a soap opera character with a complicated case of amnesia:
“My love, this is your kitchen.
This is Hoppy House.
It’s where you live.
That man in the skull-and-crossbones apron is your gentleman friend. You love everything about him.
You do not work in a homebrew store. You run a company. Your business partner is a duck.
And G. is not here. He’s married and has a sweet little boy and you are that sweet little boy’s far-away auntie person who sends gifts.
Everything is exactly as it should be. Everything you need is inside of you. You are safe and loved and you are right here. Right now. Here. Now.”
Returning again.
I like to trust (or imagine that one day I will be able to trust) that every memory has purpose.
That it heals something. Releases something. Reminds you of some quality or experience that is important or necessary in that moment. Sometimes it even tells you what you are tripping over. Or what you used to be tripping over.
It returns you to yourself.
And at the same time, memory can take you out of yourself and away from yourself. It can lead you into walled gardens where the only thing that grows is hurt and regret.
Sometimes returning from the memory is as important as the memory.
I don’t have anything smart to add to this. I’m just thinking about memories. And about doors. And about different ways to return things.
Or to return to things.
Or to return to myself through things. I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.
Working for yourself: the REAL pros and cons
Note: I’m on my emergency vacation. Hooray for emergency vacation! So anything posted this week might not make sense. There. That’s my disclaimer. Carry on.
Right. Yesterday when I was ranting incoherently making my point that one of the hidden benefits of being self-employed is that no one can force you to move to Denver, I hinted that none of the drawbacks are what you think they are either.
So today I want to talk about that. And about what actually happens when you start your own business.
Which varies, depending on how seriously you take the pamphlets of doom.
Beware the pamphlets of doom!
Doom! Doom!
I mean, they were probably written by very kind, well-meaning parental sorts of people who are just worried about you. But they kind of end up sounding like my monster.
They tell you about how hard it is to run your own business and how most of them fail and how you’re doomed (doomed!) without a certain kind of plan and blah blah etcetera.
Then when you’re a. completely panicked and b. have no money and c. are searching for help in the middle of the night, you go online and find the exact same depressing stuff about the supposed pros and cons of being self-employed.
Let’s talk about this.
The supposed cons of being self-employed.
The two biggest things everyone seems to worry about happening to you are:
1. Oh no, you don’t have anyone to make you do the work, so you’ll probably just sit around in your underwear all day, staring at the wall and picking lint from your belly button.
… and …
2. You’ll get lonely not having anyone to talk to at the water cooler. Because talking to people at a water cooler is one of the stupendous joys of being alive and is also the only thing that keeps human beings from slowly going crazy.
Let’s talk about #1: not doing any actual work ever.
Okay. I know exactly one person this has ever happened to.
And it doesn’t even count, because she was so destroyed from years in corporate hell that after she quit her job, she needed some serious “having my emotional breakdown now, if you don’t mind” time.
Every other entrepreneur I know has the exact opposite problem. We’re all insane workaholics.
Not that we don’t procrastinate or mess around online or whatever, because we do. But mostly we just. can’t. stop.
In fact, for the first few years, we don’t ever stop working because, you know, no one tells us to.
I cannot remember who said this incredibly brilliant thing, but it’s something along the lines of:
“My boss is a jerk. And crazy. And treats me bad. Yes, I’m self-employed.”
Exactly.
If the hundreds of people that I know are any indication of anything, it is far more likely that your problems will be related to over-work rather than the slackerism everyone warns you about.
Let’s talk about thing #2: isolation.
Okay, this one might be a real thing. It does happen to some people. Then they get on Twitter and everything works out just fine.
And anyway, turns out you do end up meeting plenty of people in real life.
But here’s the thing. I’ve been running my own business for nearly four years and have not once wished I had someone to talk to at a water cooler.
Hello, introvert here. Sensitive freaking flower.
For me, not seeing people and not talking to people is like, the highlight of my life.
As disastrous past experience has shown, I cannot work in an office. I would shrivel up and die for any number of reasons. But one of them would be having to be in a room with other people that I did not choose to share this space with.
Also, meetings. I do not like them. Also small talk. I do not like it.
No, isolation has not been a problem for me. And anyway, I have the blog. I have Twitter. I have a gazillion internet friends, with whom I don’t have to actually share space and energy.
And this isn’t just me. I also know plenty of especially talk-ey connect-ey extroverts, and they also seem to be doing okay. So I think we can stop worrying about this and move on to the things you really should be thinking about.
Okay, here it is. This is what sucks about working for yourself.
Well, you already know what it is. Because I told you.
No one tells you to stop.
Add to that the fact that you have the most relentless boss in the world. And that if you try to delegate and outsource, you end up spending a lot of time managing.
And that you have to learn how to do stuff you don’t like. Like the dreaded “M” word.
(Though you know what? No one tells you the good part which is that all that “marketing” stuff is just a means, not an end.)
But really the main hard is Not Stopping — especially when combined with self-doubt. And, more often than not, one fuels the other.
Your stucknesses (guilt and fear and various internal blocks and monsters) push push push you to keep working. Until you’re exhausted. And then your exhaustion feeds the stucknesses.
Lovely.
The good news. There’s good news, right?
You learn.
About three years ago my gentleman friend and I instituted a strict no-working after dinner policy. Which we have been known to break occasionally for “work emergencies”, but we’re pretty clear on what counts as an emergency and what doesn’t.
Then we started our hour of yoga before dinner thing, which makes us stop working even earlier.
We also have cleaning the house every Friday morning. And we’re getting a lot better about weekends. We’ll do some writing, but not work-work (whatever that means at the moment).
Not to say that this always works because hi, I’m on emergency vacation. But my own personal emergency right now is more about my own internal stuff in reaction to external circumstances than it is about said circumstances.
You learn — and you keep trying.
You try to be a bit more conscious and aware of taking that time to actively not-do.
You try to be a little more patient with yourself when it’s not working. And not treat yourself in a way that no one else would ever put up with.
Because if one of the great joys of self-employment is no one gets to treat you like crap and not appreciate you anymore … then it kind of sucks if you become that person who treats you like crap and doesn’t appreciate you.
You might as well be appreciated. Because the rest of us need you.
And … now I’m going to try and follow my own advice for once and take a nap.
postscript.
I just want to point out how incredibly lucky it is that there is so much more good information about self-employment available online than when I started.
Seriously, this situation has improved tremendously since I was that person freaking out in the middle of the night, thanks to genius people like Itty Biz and Sonia Simone and Chris Guillebeau who are out there making sure you get actually helpful help.