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.
Friday Check-in #48: Spontaneous Fruit Party 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.
Zip!
This week kind of went by in a blur.
But here we are.
Yup. It’s definitely Friday. No getting around that.
Hi.
The hard stuff
Wrong side of bed.
A couple of days this week just didn’t work. As days.
I don’t know. Kept losing my clarity. Or couldn’t find it to begin with.
Just lost in the foggy and the fuzzy. And it took me TWO HOURS to do Wednesday’s post (which was half-completed when I started).
Agggggggggh.
Wednesday.
Speaking of Wednesday, it was brutal.
Not grounded. Depressed. Summer. Way too hot. Groggy. In bed. Miserable.
Also in pain. Arms hurt. Head hurt. Stitches hurt.
It was just generally not fun to be me on Wednesday.
It is also not fun to be me in the summer.
I tend to forget this every single year, but I really don’t do well with summer.
Pretty much everything horrible that has every happened to me has happened in the summer.
And the associations tend to catch up with me. Once I remember that oh, right, this is just my annual bout of summer misery, I can start to move through it.
But it takes me a while to get there.
Putting down baskets.
On Monday we had Jen Hofmann do a genius guest class for my Kitchen Table people and I begged her to do her awesome “how many baskets am I holding?” exercise with us.
Man, recognizing how many symbolic freaking baskets I’m carrying at any given moment is depressing. And carrying them is exhausting.
And putting them down is scary and hard. But I did it. Or worked on it, at any rate … which leads me to the good.
The good stuff
Putting down baskets.
I finally got around to canceling the VIP options on all of my products.*
*If you’ve already ordered one before yesterday, you can still totally do your session with me. So no worries.
Also finished planning the curriculum for two programs so that those baskets can go to the closet until I’m ready for them.
I looked at my baskets. And even though I love the stuff in them …
Down. They. Go.
Extreme self-care.
EXTREME!
Seriously, I’ve been treating it like an extreme sport that I’ve just gotten completely addicted to.
This is also hard, but I’m really, truly making this a practice.
Naptime. Trips to the Angel Refueling Station (aka my meditation closet). Bed. Kindness. Permission.
All the stuff that’s hard for me but really, really good for me.
So that’s a win.
Rose City Roller Derby Finals!
Okay, so admittedly my beloved Guns ‘N Rollers came in fourth, cough, last.
But the Breakneck Betties beat the High Rollers in a brutal fast-paced super-exciting bout and that was very cool.
And Danielle was there. And Dana the Spicy Princess. And our bartender. And a billion other people. And I love Portland.
Actually knowing people to run into.
So yeah, that’s a sign that hey, we live here now.
Because in San Francisco, I never ran into anyone. And in Sacramento, I didn’t even meet anyone.
But somehow in Portland the whole “knowing people” thing is working for us. This is new. And fantastic. So hooray!
We (my gentleman friend and I) even ran into our acupuncturist at the Neko Case concert. And if that doesn’t prove we live in Portland, I don’t know what does.
My gentleman friend made homemade ravioli.
With porcini mushrooms from the farmer’s market.
Oh, and he also made his own sourdough starter this week.
Because, you know, it’s not enough that he’s smart and funny and completely gets me and is the world’s biggest goofball and I love him. RAVIOLI!
And … STUISM of the week.
Stu is my paranoid McCarthy-ist voice-to-text software who delights in torturing me misunderstanding me. I can’t stand him.
Ooh! This one might actually be my favorite Stuism ever …
I was talking to Stu and my gentleman friend was yelling “What?“, because this often happens when you talk to yourself converse with software.
Especially when you’re shouting things like “Work already, you stupid piece of crap!”
Anyway, I yelled “I’m not talking to you–I’m talking to STU!”
But I forgot to silence Stu and he wrote it down. Except that he didn’t write what I actually said.
Instead he wrote:
“I’m not talking a deal to Congress on August 2!”
Fabulous.
The rest of this week’s Stuisms:
- it encloses UN instead of “it closes you in”
- beer is healthy instead of “fear is healthy”
- When we strapped on instead of “when we eavesdropped”
- Prince of pal instead of “principle”
- Or hmmm instead of “okay”
- we cannot tax a sum of missed communication instead of “we can unpack some of this miscommunication”
- him is like pure myth instead of “seem less like a pyramid”
- and a DVD for personal ads instead of “an itty bitty personal ad”
- a gray base for teaching workshop’s instead of “a great space for teaching workshops”
- the endless psych of Moore crappy beans created instead of “the endless cycle of more crap being created”
And … new at the meme beach house!
Yes, that’s a Stuism too.
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.”
So this week, I bring you:
Spontaneous Fruit Party
Me: “Did you catch Spontaneous Fruit Party at the Wonder Ballroom? They were opening for the Pneumatic Mushrooms.”
Ez: “Dude. I heard it’s just one guy.”
Yes!
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.
Scissors. Part two.
Or: A number of surprising realizations and a typewriter.
Okay. Kind of left you trailing last time … let me catch you up.
If you will recall, I’m getting my stitches taken out (part one) by someone fabulously incompetent.
Or hilariously incompetent …
At least, that appears to be the opinion of my various symbolic allies and helper mice* that I have called on to help me stay grounded and centered.
*Not actually mice.
Because my allies and helper mice are falling apart. Hysterical laughter. Convulsions. Everyone is on the floor.
Even my most hard-core spiritual teacher who never laughs ever is totally snickering behind his hand. And his eyes are crinkling and he’s so completely about to lose it.
I ask what’s so funny, and that just makes them laugh even harder.
Apparently, I’m the funny part.
[What I have to explain here is that I don’t have the clearest reading on who my helper mice and allies are. My teacher is always there. Hiro is there a lot. My grandmother, sometimes.
There are ones that I recognize and ones that I don’t. And sometimes it’s just a big fog. So I’m just going to give them numbers so you know when someone new is speaking.]
Me: No, seriously. I get that this situation is completely absurd — I do, really — but why is it so funny for you guys?
Helper mouse #1: Giggling. You come up with the funniest things to happen to you! Every time! Every time the funny!
Me: No, I don’t. And don’t put this crap on me.
Helper mouse #2: Oh, honey! I’m sorry. She didn’t mean it like that. We’re not laughing at you.
Me: You’re not?
Helper mouse #1: No, of course not. It’s just … the drama. You love the drama. And you love it to be funny. And then you get these total characters around you.
Me: No, I don’t.
Helper mouse #3: Wiping tears away. It’s not you, exactly. It’s your writer self. The part of you who is a writer. You like to share the stuff that happens to you.
I think about this.
Writer Me.
Me: I’m confused, I guess. Are you saying that I exaggerate what happens to me?
Helper mouse #4: Oh, not at all. That’s kind of why it’s so funny!
Paroxysms of laughter from the helper mice. Question marks from me.
Helper mouse #2: What he means is that the funny part is that you don’t need to exaggerate. Your life is just filled with funny.
Helper mouse #3: And then you have this phenomenal auditory memory and you can record conversations verbatim … and Writer You just loves it.
All the helper mice nod in agreement. More question marks from me.
Helper mouse #3: I mean, look at her.
Everyone looks up. And then they laugh and laugh and laugh.
I look up too.
And there, a few feet above me, is Writer Me.
She’s tiny.
Like, Tinkerbell tiny.
Her hair is up in a messy bun held together by a pencil. And she’s typing furiously away at an old-fashioned typewriter and laughing her head off.
And that’s when the realizations started …
Some of them were really obvious. Some were really subtle.
Some were painful and some were sweet.
But they were coming fast and furious.**
**Which, admittedly, is my own fault because I’d been messing around with Shiva Nata the day before and that’s just kind of what happens.
Realization #1: I know that typewriter.
I know that typewriter.
That’s the typewriter that my friend who is dead gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday to remind me that I am a writer.
I have no idea where it is or what happened to it.
Realization #2: Tiny Writer Me is familiar too.
Of course.
She looks different than I’d imagined her, with her retro cat eye glasses and slim skirt.
But yeah, she’s me. And she’s the writer self that I pretend doesn’t exist.
Not that I haven’t thought about her. About what might have happened if I hadn’t moved to Israel at seventeen.
I spent years imagining this parallel life. While I was getting in screaming fights with drunks at various dive bars where I worked in south Tel Aviv. While I was teaching yoga in Berlin.
I’d imagine the me who stayed. Who committed to her writing. Who ended up in New York or Chicago. Who wrote pieces for the New Yorker and did odd little indie projects and collaborations.
And then I gave her up.
Realization #3: I’m completely wrong about Realization #2.
Uh uh.
I realize that this imaginary writer person I am always half-mourning does not exist … and that Writer Me is actually always wherever I am.
It’s like, I had always thought that Writer Me was my unfulfilled self.
The me-that-would-have-been. The grand, tragic story.
But it turns out that Writer Me is with me all the time — about two feet above my head, as it turns out — inventing hilarious things to write about.
And slapping her knee and guffawing, if you can imagine someone doing that in this totally dainty way.
Realization #4: My allies and helper mice deeply appreciate something about me that I am not even aware of.
I realize that they’re laughing with joy and merriment.
And now I know why they’re laughing.
It’s because to them it’s obvious that I want things to be funny.
In fact, they think that I intentionally (or subconsciously?) gravitate towards ridiculous situations because Writer Me enjoys them.
They’re amused and entertained by my marvelous, tumultuous, goofy-ass life. And they are here, in part, to help me enjoy it more. To appreciate it more.
Of course, if I ask them for more calm and grounding and quiet, they can do that too. But if I’m not asking? They’re pretty much just going to sit back and enjoy the show.
Because it’s basically the best situation comedy in the world.
Realization #5: Writer Me pushes me into bizarre situations so that I will be forced to write about them.
She knows that I avoid her. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to put up with me not writing.
In fact, I suddenly understand with perfect clarity that if I spend more time with Writer Me, she won’t have to invent such crazy scenarios to make me write about them.
It’s as though she’s almost forcing me to write.
And then she said that. To me!
“You know what your problem is? You don’t want to own me. You won’t even admit that I’m this huge part of you. You don’t even call yourself a writer.
You call it “blogging” and pretend it’s just this thing you do for your business. You hide from the world.
Well, guess what. I make sure your life is so interesting that you can’t not tell people about it. In words. That you write. That people read. So there.”
And then she stuck her tongue out at me.
And went back to typing furiously and snickering.
Oh.
Realization #6: I don’t have to make everything so complicated all the time.
Because yeah …
Maybe things can be funny and sweet without always having to be so hard and so bitter.
Maybe I can let things happen with more ease.
Maybe Writer Me and I can work together on some projects.
Maybe she can help me keep writing and keep seeing the funny … but without it all having to be so ridiculously chaotic all the time.
And maybe there are more realizations that are going to clear stuff up around this and I don’t have to figure it all out right this second.
So I’ve been practicing asking for what I want to receive in the comments — if you feel like leaving one, you totally don’t have to, of course!
Here’s what I want:
- Reactions. Reassurance. Things from your own life that this reminds you of. Realizations of your own if anything is coming up.
- If you have a Writer You or a Dancer You or a Scientist You or whatever who shows up on occasion, I would love to know what they look like! Or sound like …
Here’s what I would rather not have:
- Judgment/observations about how crazy I am. Or about how obvious and predictable this all is. Or, you know, casual backseat psychoanalysis.
- Shoulds.
My commitment.
I am committed to giving time and thought to absorbing everything that people say, and I will interact with their ideas and with my own stuff as compassionately and honestly as is possible for me.
Thanks for doing this with me! I am totally hesitating over the publish button on this one, but what the hell.
Item! Wednesday is back! Hot!
A somewhat goofy mini-collection of stuff I’ve been reading, stuff I’ve been thinking about and oh, some completely random crap.
Basically the stuff that never gets mentioned here because I’m not the kind of person who can just make some teeny little point. Not into the whole brevity thing, as the Dude would say.
Actually, I’m under the strict compulsion to write ten pages about anything on my mind. So this is me. Practicing brevity.
Alright.
I know we ended on a cliffhanger yesterday (and I promise we’ll get back to that exciting story tomorrow) but it’s Wednesday.
Also, my brain is tired and I can’t write straight.
And am also completely distracted by all the smart, funny, weird, interesting things on Twitter, which is partly why these Item! posts exist, because otherwise all this stuff just vanishes.
Item! Post No. 24 in a series that still has no point but has become (for me, at least) weirdly addictive.
Item! Care for your introvert!
Loved this Atlantic article by Jonathan Rauch.
Not because I necessarily agree with everything (or even a lot of) what he has to say but because it’s helpful for me to remember that other highly sensitive people have it hard too.
We’re sensitive mice.
And sometimes it’s nice to have permission to stay that way.
“Second, when you see an introvert lost in thought, don’t say “What’s the matter?” or “Are you all right?”
Third, don’t say anything else, either.”
Item! Best. News. Ever.
Okay, so I don’t have a television, but no, that does not stop me from being madly obsessed with the short-lived series Arrested Development.
I think I’ve seen every single episode at least twice. And the ones with Liza Minnelli in them? Way too many times and still not enough.
So it was pretty cool when I saw the trailer for the new Arrested Development Documentary.
Be happy for me!
Item! Sometimes people want to give us money and we don’t let them!
Nice post from Sparky Firepants about wanting to give people money and not getting to.
It’s called … Hello? Is anyone there? Can I give someone my money here?
And yeah.
This situation is totally a thing. I notice at least a few times a week that I’m really wanting to give someone my money and they’re (accidentally, I guess) making it extra hard on me.
And goodness knows I probably am guilty of this too. Useful.
He’s @sparkyfirepants on Twitter.
Item! Two lovely posts about a Sad Little Ghost.
The first post is a conversation post which references an earlier post which references me.
She’s doing the whole “talking to her stucknesses” thing.
Very good stuff.
“My Sad Little Ghost isn’t haunting me because he wants me to feel bad about myself. It’s a Sad Little Ghost because he’s just trying to get me to the things that he knows (and for that matter, I know) would make me happy in the long run. He’s sad because I don’t listen to him.”
Go read the rest.
She’s @supercareo on Twitter.
Item! This is nothing short of miraculous but maybe you could end up coming to Taos?
The amazing Jennifer Louden — who is not only smart and inspiring, but is also pretty much the only self-help-ey author that I actually listen to) is doing her week-long women’s writing retreat in Taos, New Mexico.
I crush so hard on everything she does that it’s just embarrassing.
And, incredibly, I’ve been invited to be a kind of scholar-in-residence there, teaching destuckification and epiphany-generating wackiness and gentle yoga and maybe even some emergency calming techniques.
And of course it sold out early because this is basically the best thing in the entire world.
But now, even more incredibly, two people can’t make it and there is an opening and ohmygod you should take it if you can.
Seriously. The opportunity to learn from someone like Jen in person is heaven. Add to that the prospect of getting destuckified with your writing and finding your voice again and devoting time, energy and love to healing the stuck bits …
I can’t even describe what an outrageously life-changing opportunity this is so I will stop stuttering and just give you the links already.
So first you want to read the long but useful page that describes the course and then you’ll probably miss the tiny, tiny, tiny almost-invisible link to where you actually sign up for it so yeah, this is where you do that.
Item! I I’m not the only one who makes fun of Stu!
About ten different people sent me the link to this picture.
Because I rant about Stu (my McCarthy-ist voice-to-text software) and his curious and malicious misspellings every single Friday.
Awesome.
Item! Comments!
So it was really cool the other day when I was working on my practice of how I ask for stuff and then I made a very specific request for the kinds of comments I wanted to receive.
And that totally felt awkward and weird.
But the cool part was that people really got it and all the comments were so lovely … and I realized that I’m actually making life easier on everyone when I’m specific about what I want and what I don’t want.
So I’m going to try it again!
Here’s what I want:
- Things you’re thinking about.
- Things you think I should read.
My commitment.
I am committed to giving time and thought to absorbing everything that people say, and I will interact with their ideas and with my own stuff as compassionately and honestly as is possible for me.
That is all.
Happy reading.
And happy Blustery Windsday. See you tomorrow.
Scissors.
So the other day I’m in the surgery room waiting to have stitches taken out —
— and before you completely freak out because you are my mother, let me reassure you that it was not a big deal at all and it was just a thing being removed by the dermatologist and it was completely benign and I’m okay mom, I promise —
and I can hear the doctor (it’s a he*) talking to the nurse (a she) in the next room.
*Not because it matters to the story. Just so you’ll know who I’m talking about when I use a gendered pronoun later.
It’s not related to anything in particular, but I absolutely have to share this conversation with you because it was so completely insane.
Not even exaggerating. More insane than the conversation I had with that cab company in Texas.
And then I have to tell you about the other thing that happened. Because that was pretty great too.
The conversation in the next room.
The doctor: Don’t we have any scissors around here?
The nurse: I don’t know.
The doctor: It really seems like we should have scissors.
The nurse: I don’t know. I don’t see any.
The doctor: Didn’t we order some scissors?
The nurse: Oh, that’s right. We did. We haven’t picked them up yet.
The doctor: Well, we’re going to need scissors, you know.
The nurse: We should have some somewhere. They’ve got to be around here.
The doctor: Yes, scissors. I need scissors.
The nurse: I think they’re around here somewhere. Wait —
Sound of crashing and stuff falling over.
Me (in my head): Oy Vavoy.
The doctor: Oh dear.
The nurse: Well, I just walked right into you, didn’t I? Dear me. Well, at least the floor is clean.
The doctor: Do we at least have suture scissors?
The nurse: What?
The doctor: I need suture scissors.
The nurse: Indeed you do! You have a patient waiting in surgery in room 3.
Me: Uh oh. That’s me. Room 3. Crap crap crap. They don’t have scissors. What am I doing here?
The one-sided conversation in my head.
This is me, talking to myself. But when I say talking to myself, I mean talking AT myself.
Okay, sweetie. We’re good. We’re good.
What do we know about this situation? We know that you’re feeling nervous and needing some reassurance. And that’s legitimate. It’s understandable.
We know this doctor is very competent. You wrote a personal ad for him, remember? He did a lovely job putting the stitches in. You like him.
Sure, the nurse is a bit of a flakerooney, but at least she’s really nice. And anyway, you didn’t say anything about that in your personal ad, so yeah, you know …
Kind of funny, actually, because weren’t you just telling your Kitchen Table-ers about how important it is to be specific?
Okay, sorry. That was kind of obnoxious. I don’t mean to be lecturing you. I guess I’m just nervous.
Maybe we can just work on making this whole experience more comfortable. What can we do here? What would help?
Yoga breathing. Check. Mudra. Check. Grounding. Check. Centering. Check. What else?
The two-sided conversation in my head.
This is me, talking to myself. But when I say talking to myself, I mean talking WITH myself. Like group therapy, except that everyone is me.
Kind Sensible Loving Me: Okay, what are we feeling? What are we noticing?
Scared Tiny Me: Fear.
Curious Me: Is it ours? Does it belong to us?
Observer Me: Some of it is. A little. The rest is just residue. It’s in the room. It’s other people’s fear that they’ve left here.
Healer Me: Is this something that has to be here? Can I get permission to clear it out? Or to let it be cleared out?
Unsure Me: Maybe. Hmmmm.
Cruise Director Me: Alright. Anything that isn’t ours? Anything that doesn’t need to be here? You can go back to the earth and dissolve. You don’t need to be here anymore.
Twenty-five Year Old Me: Man, you are such an embarrassing hippie freak. How can you stand to be around yourself?
Right-Now Me: Sweetpea, I know this is hard for you when I’m all kooky and weird. I’m just going to remind you that we don’t have to believe in this stuff for it to help.
Reasoning Me: You know what it’s like when the energy of a room changes. Is there a reason why we can’t let that happen now?
Scared Tiny Me: Because I’m scared.
Kind Sensible Loving Me: Oh, my love. Oh, that’s hard. I am not going to try to talk you out of feeling what you’re feeling. Come sit here and be loved.
Long story short.
I finish talking to myself.
I clear the fear and the discomfort out of the space.
Then I remember how Hiro suggests calling on your allies in situations like these, so I asked for some helper mice to come to the rescue. Or at least to keep me company. To help me feel safe and supported.
There was some eye-rolling from my inner sarcastic zebra (don’t ask), but we got there.
My helpers and allies showed up. And we waited. Together.
Nu? So what happened?
The nurse comes in to take out the stitches.
Me (in my head): Nooooooooo. She’s doing it? Oh, disaster.
And then she starts to take out the stitches.
The nurse: Oh dear! Oops-a-daisy.
Me (in my head): Breeeeaaaaathe.
The nurse: It’s like I just can’t seem to focus my eyes. I should really have them checked.
Me (in my head): ?!??!
The nurse: Let’s put you at a different angle. Maybe it will be less blurry that way.
Me (in my head): Oh. My. God.
The nurse: Nope! It’s just me. Okey-dokey. Let’s see here. Is that two stitches or three at the end there? It’s certainly hard to tell!
Me (in my head): This is going to be really funny later, sweetie. I promise. In the meantime, just keep using your techniques and we’ll get you through this.
The nurse: Gee, I hope I’m getting them all. I might have left in one or two. We’ll ask the doctor about it.
Me (in my head): Oy.
But that’s not even the funny part. Or the strange part.
I look around at my circle of allies and helpers.
And they’re laughing so hard they’re on the floor. They’re just cracking up completely.
Falling apart.
And wouldn’t you know. That’s when all the really bizarre stuff started happening.
To Be Continued …
p.s. The stitches came out fine. No pain. It looks great. No worries.
I’ll call, I promise.
[Okay, if you missed the follow-up post, it’s right here: Scissors, Part 2. Enjoy!]
An itty-bitty personal ad.
Confession: my obsession with writing personal ads for things that no one would ever write a personal ad for is spinning slightly out of control.
First I wrote a personal ad for my ideal home… which is how I came to live at Hoppy House. Hoppy House! I love Hoppy House. Plus it has blueberry bushes.
Then Kelly wrote a personal ad for a copywriting assistant… and I ran it for her here and that ended up completely transforming her business.
But then lately I’ve been writing really, really little ones and not putting them up on the blog. Not even telling anyone about them. And here’s the weird part. It’s still working.
I don’t get it.
But I also don’t really care because hey, look at that, it’s working.
And so I’m writing personal ads.
That’s how I found a really great dentist who is smart and sensitive and caring and considerate (all the qualities I asked for).
And a dermatologist who is sensible and down to earth.
And a great space for teaching workshops.
And it’s not just me.
My clients and students and Kitchen Table participants are knocking me over with the way they are finding what they need while using this extremely unlikely and “soft” technique.
Houses. Jobs. Relationships.
But also smaller things… like a home for a puppy. Or a good book to read on the plane.
So I’ve decided to start writing itty-bitty personal ads for things I need and want that aren’t big, crazy things to ask for.
Just to see if the process of finding them can be made that much easier.
A tiny personal ad for hangers.
I am a person without a lot of stuff. I don’t have a car. I don’t have a desk. I have two pairs of shoes.
So simple living suits me. And at the same time, I somehow don’t have enough hangers in my closet.
Here’s what I want:
Sturdy clothes hangers, made of wood or metal. Some of them should have clips for hanging skirts on them.
Here’s how I want to get them:
I am more than happy to pay for them. I just don’t want to have to go look for them.
And I prefer used to new, to not have to be part of that endless cycle of more crap being created.
Ways they could come to me:
- A friend or neighbor could want to give them away.
- Someone might see an ad on Craig’s List or Freecycle and tell me about it.
- I could happen upon them somehow. (This makes me think of Mr. Micawber and his waiting for something “to turn up”!)
- Any other possibility. I’m willing to be surprised.
My commitment.
I will treat these hangers well. I will appreciate them. They will be loved.
A tiny personal ad for a place to donate old clothing.
Again, I don’t have a lot. But some of it is stuff that no longer needs to be with me.
I’ve gone through my closet and asked “Is this something that the Pirate Queen or one of her consorts would be happy wearing?”
And now I have a bag of stuff that isn’t. And it would like a good home.
Here’s what I want:
I want to know where to take this bag of clothing, without having to do a bunch of time-consuming research, or calling everyone I know to ask.
Here’s how I want to receive the thing I want:
- Someone reading this could leave a comment here with a useful suggestion.
- The next time I’m hanging out with a friend, I just remember to ask and they have the exact right answer.
- I type my question into a search engine and the first thing that comes up is perfect.
- The right answer just comes to me.
- Any other possibility. I’m willing to be surprised.
My commitment.
I will take this bag of clothing to the right place once I find it. I will give these things joyfully and appreciate the new space in my life.
And … I’m out of personal ads for now.
But I’m sure I’ll think of other things I want to ask for.
I really like the clarity that asking gives me. I like the ritual of it.
And I like the idea that a personal ad doesn’t always have to be for some big life-changing thing.
That it can be tiny and hopeful and personal.
That’s what I’m going for.
And since I’m already asking …
I am going to also try asking today for what I would like to receive in the comments, and that way, if you feel like leaving one, you’ll be part of this experiment too. 🙂
Here’s what I want:
- Stories of things you’ve asked for. Or are asking for. Or would like to ask for.
- Helpful thoughts and ideas you have about the two things that I have asked for here.
- Ways that you’re thinking about this concept and how it could be applied to interesting things … or questions you have about it and how to apply it.
What I would rather not have:
- Theories about why it works.
- To be judged or psychoanalyzed.
My commitment.
I am committed to giving time and thought to everything that people say, and I will interact with their ideas compassionately and honestly.
What I’m noticing.
How weird/hard it is to just say what I want.
Really interesting.
That’s it!
p.s. Thanks for doing this with me. I really appreciate it.