Wed, 16 May 2012 22:53:24 -0800WeeblyThu, 16 Feb 2012 22:39:22 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2012/02/what-to-do-when-life-feels-hard.htmlLie down.  Take a nap. 

Buy yourself flowers, hot chocolate, lavender tea. 

Watch Little Women, Erin Brockovitch, Steel Magnolias, or any other good weeper.

Use every little sample cosmetic you've been hoarding: slather yourself in the rich mask, the special eye cream, and the foot butter smear.

Excuse yourself from that thing you're supposed to do tonight.  Make yourself soup instead and drink it in bed.    

Use essential oils at your wrist and throat.

Write it all out in your journal, as whiney as you please.  Cry a little.  Wipe your eyes with a very soft tissue and put a cardigan around your shoulders. 

Wallow.

Take another nap. 

Do those things right up until the moment when a part of you rears up and says, "All right!  That was very good.  And now I'm ready."  

Follow her meekly into the kitchen, where she will make a strong cup of tea.  While she drinks it, she will make a list.  After she makes the list, she will go into the other room and blare bright, outrageous, defiant music while she shakes her caboose in a most unladylike way.  Then she will pick up the phone or her pen or her purse and do the hardest, scariest, stickiest thing on that list.  Because that's just how she rolls. 

After she's slain that beast, nothing else is quite as hard.  The rest of the list falls quickly. 

What she cannot fix with bold action, she takes to the window.  She strokes it softly.  She kisses it.  She blows her soft breath on it, and it sprouts wings.  She watches it fly away with soft eyes. 

She puts bloomy flowers on your table and pats your cheek. 

You cannot goad this part of yourself into appearing.  You cannot scare her into rescuing you.  She wears a ridiculous hat.  She smiles a secret smile.  She waits to see that you are being gentle, lets you fill up the vial of tenderness inside yourself, and then she swoops in.  When she appears, welcome her.  Pin cherries on her hat.  Look into the mirror and give her your secret smile. 

]]>Sun, 01 Jan 2012 22:34:23 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2012/01/book-party.htmlMartha Beck's new book came out December 27th.  

I'm devouring it.  My friend Amy Pearson and I are so excited about this juicy tome of magical magicalness that we're throwing a party in four dimensions.  

If you live in Portland, come join us in person!  If you live anywhere else, join us on the great wide internet!  We'll be broadcasting a live stream (that means video that you can watch online) of the party itself, as well as having a Twitter party. Everyone who joins us virtually will be automatically entered to win some seriously bad-ass prizes.  (A course for approval addicts, a free reading with an expert astrologer, Shiny Object School, 21-day Business e-course, Queen Sweep DIY, and more.)  Not to mention that you might get to see us twirl people and bend spoons. (Don't let that scare you.  Oh, all right, maybe just a little.)  

To get the scoop on the festivities, go HERE to watch a little video we made.  You'll want to sign up there whether you're planning to join us in person or virtually.  

Sometimes people ask me what the big deal is about Martha Beck.  I think they're worried that I'm part of some weird cult.  It is sort of embarrassing sometimes to get so excited about my mentor that I actually start bouncing.  But if this is a cult, it's the most joyful, open, non-clutchy cult I've ever been part of.  There's a pretty good story behind how I encountered her books, and I wrote it up for everyone who joins the book party.  Here's a snippet from that story: 

***

For some weird reason, I really didn't want to read Expecting Adam.  People kept handing it to me, bringing it up, mentioning it to me.  And I got more and more irritated.  I didn't care who Martha Beck was!  I didn't even watch Oprah!  I wasn't interested in childbirth, Down syndrome, or Harvard!

And yet there it was.

The copy my friend handed me.

Sitting on my nightstand, blinking at me....

Picture me reading it late at night curled up on the icy tile of my bathroom, sobbing so hard I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to keep the keening sound down.  Picture me throwing it across the room, furious that it had awoken such pain in me. 

Not because it's a sad story.  Not because I'd ever been through a difficult pregnancy or had a child with Down syndrome.

But because it plucked such a chord of longing in me that I almost couldn't bear it.

I'd stuffed my longings down for years.  I'd loyally plodded through the wretched marriage, the deadening and humiliating job, the faithful service to a religion I had come to loathe.  And I intended to keep doing it, dammit!  It was the Right Thing To Do.

Until Martha came along with her story that brazenly declared that gritted teeth and white knuckles were not the only way to live.  Until she spoke of a connection with a spiritual world so sweet that suddenly I was five years old again, standing out in a garden and believing that I could hear the flowers singing to me.  (They sang gold, if you were wondering, but I had renounced such pagan trysts like the good Christian girl I was trying to be.)

I was seriously pissed.  There was no room in my carefully locked down life for such a wild hunger. 

***

To read what happened next, sign up for our book party over here.  Once you're signed up, you'll receive my story by email, as well as Amy's first encounter with Martha.  And, naturally, you'll receive all the book party deets.  

*Post-edit*  The book party is finished, but the book is awesome. 

]]>Sat, 10 Dec 2011 22:30:46 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/12/practical-magic-for-secret-mystics.htmlA secret mystic is: 

intelligent
skeptical 
grounded
savvy 
wise 

and knows in her bones that there is magic lying dormant in her.  She knows that there is more to this world than we can see with our eyes or explain with our logic.  She knows that it's time to harness her intuition, spidey senses, sensitivity, and empathy so that they can become a force of healing in the world instead of a source of overwhelm. 

The secret mystics are my people.  And this practical magic is for them. 

This past month I taught a free training call to over 350 women on how to strengthen their energetic boundaries.  I have to confess something embarrassing: I hadn't reserved a big enough phone line.  I thought maybe 3, 4 dozen people might show up.  I thought they might want to use pseudonyms.  I thought it would be kind of a quiet, under-the-radar gathering.  I was dead wrong. 

Last month when I started talking about 'energy' here, I felt a little bit like I was taking my clothes off.  A tiny neurotic part of me is still worried that if I talk honestly about all the subtle ways I believe our lives are magical, people might throw stones.  So I was deeply moved by how many women stood up and said, I'm ready for this.  I need to know this stuff.  

One of the things I talked to them about was my own journey of declaring dominion and how it had shifted everything for me.  Most women will never do this.  It's not so much that they 'give away' their power as that they never claim it in the first place.  

We're socialized to be obedient.  My daughter will receive praise that comes in phrases like 'Follows Direction Well' and 'Listens To Instructions.'  I have mixed feelings about this.  Naturally, I want her to learn to cooperate, share, and treat others with compassion.  But 'Following Direction Well' has led me and many of my clients into narrow, painful lives.  

Learning something is not the same as following instructions.  There's a slight but crucial difference.  For many of us, to truly become adults, we've had to learn to step away from the instructions. 

Maybe your instructions come from the voice of a critical family member, or maybe you look to experts with their opinions and data to justify your choices.  Maybe you need to get all your friends to tell your ideas are good before you move on them, or maybe you're waiting for the man in the long gown to tell you you're smart enough to do useful work in the world.  

Growing up in a very religious environment, I was taught in a very fundamental way that I was not my own authority.  My parents are wonderful and loving people (Hi Mom & Dad!), but the message from the religious community around us was: You don't really know what's true.  WE know.  This BOOK knows.  YOUR thoughts, longings, and experiences are not as valid as what WE tell you.  You do NOT have the right to decide what is true and right, and what is not. 

When you can't trust your own version of reality, it's hard to make powerful choices, let alone trust your intuition.  

While this is more extreme than most peoples' experience, many of us get the same underlying message.  It boils down to: Who the heck do you think you are?  

Here's my answer to you: you are you.  You are exactly who you are-- and I mean exactly, with all your flaws and foibles and gifts and follies-- for a reason.  And you get to say what is true and right for you.  

Not only are you in fact allowed to do that, I believe it's an essential rite of passage that gives you the strength to step into the fullness of who you are.  

So my challenge to you as 2011 winds down and you begin planning for 2012 is to Declare Dominion in whatever way is calling to you.  The women of The Queen Sweep, The Royal Keep, and The Flying Leap have declared dominion over their physical spaces this year.  They've cleared clutter, set up systems, and created beauty.  The women doing Personal Alchemy with me have declared dominion over their story, habits, and relationships.  And a new group of women will begin 2012 by declaring dominion over their energy.  

The magic we'll be practicing has helped me and my clients: 

• Feel more safe 
• Laugh more often 
• Be more bad-ass 
• Trust our instincts 
• Make clear choices 
• Draw strong boundaries 
• Practice ick-free generosity 
• Stay calm even amidst chaos 
• Carry a more powerful presence 
• Return to center after a shake-up

Are you a secret mystic?  Then please join us.  This group is almost full, but there's room for a few more soulful women.  We're kicking things off on December 15th with a holiday alignment call to set you up for the holidays so that they don't wipe you out.  December 14 is the last day to get early declarer pricing and be on that powerful call.  

]]>Wed, 16 Nov 2011 13:42:54 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/11/are-you-a-grimm.htmlThe first time I heard about the new tv show Grimm was when they shut down my Portland street to shoot it.  I didn't plan to watch it.  I don't watch things that are designed to scare me.  

But I'll  make an exception for fairy tales, those archetypal stories that are so powerful and have such wisdom embedded in them.  So I peered through my fingers, clutched my copy of Women Who Run With The Wolves, and watched Grimm.  

My manicure suffered, but I understood why it's such a sensation. 

It's because so many of us know that we see things that other people don't see.  We resonate with the young detective who can see through the masks of pretense and glimpse what is underneath.  

Now, just so we're clear, I don't see my neighbors' faces transform into snarls and wolfish teeth (thank heaven).  But I do pick up...stuff.  I get feelings.  I have dreams.  I sense subtext.  I smell bullshit.  Call it intuition, empathy, sensitivity-- whatever.  

For years I thought that being intuitive and empathic meant that I was at the mercy of whatever was coming my way.  Bad moods, depression, anger, sadness, scary images--if I encountered it, I took it in.  

I don't recommend this approach.  It was intensely painful and draining.  It kept me from doing my deepest work, because I could never feel bad enough to make anyone else feel any better.   

So why are some of us so sensitive to these levels of communication that scientists are just now beginning to measure?  

The reason that the protagonist of this tv show can see the true nature of those around him is because he's here with a special mission.  As a Grimm, his job is to protect the innocent and do battle with those who would hurt them.  We see this storyline again and again in our cultural myths, from Buffy the Vampire Slayer to Harry Potter; I believe it reflects our deep longing for the brave soul within us who can stand up to shadowy elements that scare us.  

I don't have cupboards of knives in my house.  But I do have a powerful toolbox to help me do my work.  Most of my tools are invisible.  They are habits, practices, beliefs, and the ability to create and hold energy.  (Also some flat-out woo-woo techniques, I'm not going to lie.)  I have learned to create a place of safety and clear vision within myself.  Listen.  You can too.  

I'm teaching a class on the phone on December 1st.  It's free.  I'm sharing five potent ways to strengthen your energetic boundaries.  You don't have to be a grimm to have a mission, and you don't have to see visions to know that there is more to this world that we can see.  You can declare dominion over your own energy.  And I hope that you will.  Because the world needs you to see what you see and do what you're here to do.  

You can sign up here.  

Love and magic, 

Anna 


]]>Wed, 09 Nov 2011 00:00:00 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/11/how-to-be-open-to-the-world-without-being-washed-away.html
Calling empaths, sensitives, and secret mystics. 

Let's get honest. 

Do you pick up other peoples' energy?  

Can you read the subtext of a meeting accurately?  

Do your friends feel better after they tell you their troubles...but you feel worse?  

Can one hateful comment or awful image ruin your day? 

Do you squelch all this because you're intelligent, not woo-woo?


If it sometimes feels like you're taking on other people's bad moods, negativity, or angst, it's probably not your imagination.  Some of us really are more sensitive to all that stuff broadcasting on channels that science doesn't have words for yet--and it doesn't mean you're crazy!  

I'm coming out of the closet about this stuff.  I remember years ago whimpering on a phone call with a master coach.  I was all, 'This stuff is so embaaaa~rassing,' and 'I know I'm not craaaaa~zy but people will thii~ink I am.'  In other words, I was whining.  I had a big victim-y story about how I'm so se~nsitive and it's so ha~ard and I just need to get over it so I can be like other people and never be mistaken for a crystal-wearing aura-clearing kool-aid drinking airhead.  

The coach, bless her heart, had no sympathy.  She said, 

"Anna, stop hiding.  STOP HIDING." 

And something in me sprang to attention. 

So this is me, not hiding. 

Here is something true about me.  I pick up on stuff.  I get the subtext in meetings.  I can sometimes tell when people are lying.  (Not always.)  I sense things.  I get intuitive hunches when I'm coaching.  I have dreams that give me important messages, and when they work with me, my clients do too.  Call it intuition, call it sensitivity, call it an overactive imagination or a dramatic streak if you like.  I've been a little embarrassed about it most of my life. 

But the biggest way that this empathy factor showed itself was with a kind of energy transference.  People have always told me their secrets, long before I had any training about what to do with them.  And when people would tell me their stories, I would feel their pain.  I don't mean that I would feel sad that they were feeling pain-- I mean I would literally feel something in me like a resonance, almost like I was taking on something of theirs.  And then they would seem to feel better.  And I would feel worse.  

Training with Martha Beck and her master coaches about how to change that dynamic was perhaps THE most valuable skill I've ever learned.  Because as long as I was taking on other people's emotions, I couldn't really help them.  I could just feel bad WITH them.  That kind of empathy has very little staying power.  You can't sustain it, and it's hard on your body, your mind, and your emotions.  It's even hard on your compassion, because you quickly find yourself burning out.  

News stories, emails from Unicef, a call from a friend in tears-- they ignited a curious kind of pained kinship, a bond that I didn't necessarily like but didn't want to break, either.  All I had to offer was empathy, so I offered it.  I took on the whole world's pain.  One angry person could ruin my day.  One nasty comment could derail a beautiful plan.  I seemed to pick up whatever was around me.  I hated it.  

Martha Beck calls this 'spongey' energy, and once I learned that there was another way to be, I put myself into energy boot camp for two years.  I worked with coaches, healers, teachers.  I read 8700 books.  I learned everything that I could, rolled my eyes at all the shallow gunk out there, and found what worked for me.  And when it works...it really works.  

I've been teaching this stuff to my clients, but sort of under the radar.  And now I'm ready to talk about it in a more public way.  I feel braver.  I feel stronger.  And I can feel those things because I finally feel SAFE in my own space.  

After so many years of feeling fragile and besieged, at long last I have learned to create a safe place inside myself where I can live calmly. 

Just to be clear, I'm not saying I live in a constant blissed-out state of enlightenment.  I'm pretty sure they don't let you watch America's Next Top Model once you're enlightened.  

But things are different in a way that I can hardly put into words.  I feel safer, more grounded, and more powerful--but that doesn't really even express the richness I've found within.  I know where I end and other people start.  In fact, now I have a job where people tell me their stories all day long, and I don't take on ANY of it.  I love them, I hear them, and I can help them from a place of real compassion because I don't take any of it into myself.  I feel light and clean.  This is serious energetic magic.  It took me a long time to practice this stuff, but I'd like to shorten the learning curve for you. 

So I'm doing a free phone call to teach you the techniques I use to set strong energetic boundaries in my own life.  Especially as creators, parents, visionaries, artists, healers--whatever you call yourself--we want to stay open to the world's beauty and flutters.  But you also need to tend your own energy so that you can stay centered, grounded, and create from a place of safety and empowerment.  

I hope you'll join me for this call; this very pragmatic magic is seriously juicy and surprisingly fun.  Click here now to watch a video I made about what all this 'energy' stuff is, and sign up now for How To Be Open To The World Without Being Washed Away.  

Our wisest teachers tell us that we can't feel bad enough to make the world feel better.  When we learn to take care of ourselves in this fundamental way, we are able to embrace our true capacity to help and heal and build.  

Ready to come out into the open with me? 

]]>Mon, 17 Oct 2011 00:00:00 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/10/bricks-and-ether.html
I've been thinking about lighthouses.   

Steve Jobs was one of the bright lights in my cosmos--a pioneer who loved beauty, someone who wanted the quantum leaps in technology to nourish our intuition and aesthetic sense.  (If you think he was a horrible elitist snob, that's okay, you can keep reading anyway.)   

It's easy to look at our heroes and think that we could never possibly shine like they do.  And it is certainly true that I will never, ever, no never push the technology of the world forward like Steve did. 

Close your eyes and duck if you hate cliches, because this is the part where I tell you that I think you should shine anyway.  

Me, my favorite way to shine is to run up on a hillside and wave my flashlight in a spontaneous twirly dance.  Or light candles any day of the week.  

In my class The Flying Leap, we're working on projects that take a little more sustained commitment.  I'll be honest, this isn't my strong suit.  I've had to struggle so hard to learn to follow through on things that I feel really confident teaching other people to do it.

One of the women* in The Flying Leap was working with her 6-year-old son on a huge Lego project, and she realized that it was a perfect metaphor for the website that she's also working to create.  

She posted to the forum about how overwhelming it seemed, and how her son was so discouraged at the enormous pile of 518 Legos on the floor when they began.  

This is how it can feel when you have a big idea that feels impossibly complicated--like a bunch of jumbled colors that will bruise your feet with their sharp edges if you're not careful.    

She told us that she and her son took a deep breath, looked at the instructions, and began to pick through the pieces one by one.  ONE BY ONE, people--this is the part where I get itchy and start to hyperventilate.  

But bit by bit, piece by piece, their enormous project began to take shape.  

And then one day, there it was--their very own lighthouse. 

Now, I can do a pretty nifty dance with my flashlight and matches.  But the truth is, if I want to shine out into the dark fog in a way that will lead people safely home even on stormy nights and dangerous journeys, I'm going to need more power than a flashlight.  

This is why we start with bricks, even though bricks are kind of boring.  This is why we make plans, even though I love the planning process exactly this much: (insert photo of me making hideous face) 

This is also why we make sure we're really sure we're in the right place before we start to build, because it's a tad tricky to move a lighthouse a couple of feet to the left.  

This has become a powerful guiding metaphor for the women in The Flying Leap, because in one way or another, these women are shining their light out in the world.  The beams of a lighthouse can seem so magical-- they're so regular and consistent, they pierce the night, they save peoples' lives, they're way up in the sky.  

And that's what our dreams are like--these big bright beautiful things in our imagination, these magical possibilities hovering out in the ether.  It seems like they should be happening away up high somewhere.  But the fact is, somebody clears the underbrush, digs into the dirt, and lays pipes and ductwork and a foundation, and that's how we have lighthouses. 

Maybe like me you just want to just leap up into the air and shine out into the sky.  But to have the kind of impact I'm guessing you want to have, we need to start down on the ground.  You have to clear away the underbrush and the trash so that you can start with a clear space.  Even if what you're building will morph and evolve, it helps to start with a clear picture of what you're creating.  And then you pick up one single brick and get started.     

So let's honor the brick-laying you are doing right now.  Maybe it's the five minutes you're putting into your journal every morning.  Maybe it's the endless succession of meals and messes that make up motherhood.  Maybe it's the tentative google searches you're doing on the new business that only exists in your head right now.  

Brick by brick, darling.  That's how it's done.  

I'll see you in the ether. 

*client story and photos shared with permission. To see the photos that go with this article, go to my ezine, rich juicy starry beauty.  ]]>Wed, 07 Sep 2011 00:00:00 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/09/when-the-dreamer-dreams.html

The other day I looked around at my apartment and froze.  I literally stopped walking mid-stride, like someone in a movie.  Then I folded my arms, rested my chin in my hand, and said, "Hmmmm."  

I was not practicing for my role in a local production of Clichéd Things Actors Do. Nope, this was just me in my home, all alone, having one of those tiny breakthroughs.  

Here's what I saw: a squooshy couch with big pink cabbage roses on it.  A shopping bag with a deep fuchsia sweater in it.  And my iphone in its swirly indigo-and-pink cover. An unremarkable scene, to be sure. 

Except for one thing.  I never used to like pink.  

Maybe it's the Portland local ale, or the subtle dementia that creeps in when our children try to talk to us about their new favorite movie, but I sort of hadn't noticed how much pink I'd brought into my life.  Or how much I adore these bright blips of rose, fuchsia, coral, and that heavenly shade that combines them.  

There it was in my living room: incontrovertible evidence of a sea change.

There is a strange magic to the spaces we create.  They reflect what's happening inside us long before our conscious minds can put words to it.  

Even though the past months have been full of chaotic change, major upheaval, and plenty of tears, they've also been full of great blooming joy.  And although I'm seeing the same dire economic forecasts you're seeing, in my deep heart I feel a resilient optimism shaking itself off and squinting up at the sun, grinning madly.  

And even though the days are still hot and the air is thick with pollen, my animal self is readying for the coming winter by picking up a giant blanket of a sweater, in the brightest possible color, to wrap around myself to ward off the dark days of depression and lethargy.  

In all these tiny yet tangible ways, I'm setting my course.  

The part of me that is suddenly drawn to this outlandish shade of pink isn't verbal, or logical.  She doesn't give a hoot about schedules or bank accounts or what Bazaar magazine says is stylish for the fall.  If you put words to her, they would sound like this:  "Oh!  Greeeennn!!! Oh, lummy golden greeny mmmm, and Oh!! Pink!  Oh popping brightly mwah!  Pink!"  

Our dreamy selves have a great deal of wisdom to give us.  When we can get them to talk to the parts of us that pay the bills and make the meals, they form an immensely powerful alliance.  Too often we pit these parts of ourselves against ach other.

Many of my clients come to me because they feel out of whack in a way they can't define.  They are pushing but something isn't happening, or they reached their goals but it didn't feel like they expected it to, or they simply feel a deep wordless yearning. 

Some of them have zipped the dreamy parts of themselves into a garment bag and gotten a lot of work done.  Some of them are creatives who have sold away parts of their dreamer until they feel wispy and insubstantial.  They have worked hard, put their ideas into action, and been brave, wise, insightful, and clever.  But they don't feel satisfied, because that dreamy part of them is starving.  They might be happy with 97% their lives, but they don't know the language of delight.

Let me tell you a secret.  That dreamer in you is the cheapest date in the world. All she requires is your amused attention, and she'll give up the goods.  

So take five minutes right now, and get out a piece of paper.  Don't find your pretty journal or a proper notebook; use a crumpled envelope or the back of a receipt.  That's how you get your striving brain to sit back and take a little nap so you can play and dream without censorship.  

Now, close your eyes and take ten deep breaths.  Imagine your breath whisking away any tightness in your body and clearing the way for inspiration.   

Imagine the kind of place that your best self would live if money and practicality were no object.  If there were no hunger or violence in the world, if you and everyone else already had everything they could possibly need, and your only task was to delight in your life, what would that look like?  Go ahead and be ridiculous; no one is watching.  Is it a castle?  A treehouse?  A Frank Lloyd Wright?  A canyon?  A cottage?  A brand new high rise?  Imagine walking through it, touching things gently.  How do you feel?  Let the image be bright and rich with detail.  

Now see if you can come up with three to five words that capture the essence of that space.  

Is it light and airy?  Crisp and edgy?  Is it full of color and taste and sound, or is it silent and tranquil?  What colors do you see?  Go ahead and jot down a few words.  Cross some out.  Write down some more.  Play with it until you come up with five words that make you laugh, they're so frivolous and decadent and...delicious.  Now stick that little scrap of paper in your wallet and don't give it a further thought. 

And send me an email and tell me what happens next.  Because this, my dears, is how you make magic.  


PS.  This is exactly the kind of spell we cast each week of The Queen Sweep.  Thursday September 8th is the last day you can register until some theoretical time in 2012.  Go ahead.  Call in some beauty this year.  It's not too late.  


]]>Thu, 04 Aug 2011 00:00:00 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/08/in-which-i-tell-you-a-deep-dark-secret-and-no-one-throws-a-single-stone.htmlI'm going to confess something to you.  

I love beauty.  

I love it in all incarnations.  

I love the soft curve of my daughter's cheek, the churn of a coastline, the notched edge of a maple leaf.  I love the magnificence of great cathedrals and the sleek curve of a well-designed fork.

I love the butterfly stickers that I stick on my daily priority sheet.  I love printing it out each day with its swirly script and pretty colors.  I love my red toenails.  I love the flowers on my table.  I love my black strappy sandals with a love that is deep and pure.  


For a long time, I believed that this was a terrible flaw in me.  I tried to hide it as best as I could.  (I failed.)  I was sure that my swooning adoration of all things lovely and graceful was proof that I was a heartless, greedy, materialistic, indulgent, lustful, shallow person.

Here were my rules: 

You can't care about starving children and also crave satin high-heeled shoes.  

You can't be deep and soulful and also delight in the perfect pleat in a sculptured linen dress. 

You can't be wise and savvy and also dream of owning a $9000 ottoman one day just because it has the most cunning little buttons. 

You can't be an intellectual and also want pink flowered curtains.  

I so wanted to be good and do good, to help and not to hurt.  For a long time, I thought that meant hair shirts, or at least Birkenstocks.  Many of the enlightened souls I met had eschewed one form or another of 'worldly vanity,' whether that meant that they ate lots of tempeh and always recycled, or they sold their empires and gave the money to charity.   

So I believed my rules, even though every time I told myself that I shouldn't love lovely things, I felt a deep stab of sadness.  My rules hurt.  They bound me in a situation where no matter how hard I worked, I just could not win.  

Because oh, I love beauty. 

I love beautiful clothes.  Exquisite shoes.  Subtle champagnes.  Bloomy blossoms.  Outrageous art.  Luscious lipsticks.  Velvet couches.  Shiny sailboats.  

And as long as I used that love as a yardstick to measure myself and find myself wanting, I'd turn around and use it to whack myself in my own mind.  Whack, whack.  

It was awful. 

And it was even more awful because every time I thought about it, I'd writhe in embarrassment at having such pampered, privileged worries.  What about the god-damn starving children?!??   

Later, as I explored my own shame around this longing for beauty, I was shocked to see how long I'd held onto my rules even though were ludicrous... and painful.  I was afraid that if I didn't temper myself and tamp down this wild hunger in me, I'd go out and do something dangerous, something crazy.  (Something like, you know, go be an actress or a life coach or a writer.)  I've let go of that shame, thank heaven, with the benevolent crowbar of excellent coaching.   It was a revelation when my coaches would just start laughing uncontrollably as I told them my sad, sad beliefs about all the terrible things it meant that I so loved things of beauty.  

It's hilarious to me now too.  Because the truth is, this love for beauty came into the world with me.  It's woven into so many parts of who I am!  Being ashamed of it was a deep form of self-abuse.  

I'm the little girl who wept because the pink rosebud curtains were so beautiful, and who spent hours in utter bliss cutting out tiny, intricate designs out of paper.  I'm the adolescent who would pick up the simplest, plainest frock on the rack and see that it cost twice as much as anything else in the store.  I'm the young woman who wanted to go to the college with spires, fountains, and trails of glory.  

I judged myself so harshly for this. 

Shallow.  

Greedy.  

Spoiled. 

Never satisfied.  

Has to have the most expensive thing. 

Champagne tastes and a beer budget.  

Those judgments make me laugh now, but they hurt me cruelly back in the day.  More truthfully, I hurt myself in my own mind because I believed that they were true.  I lashed myself with these thoughts until I was raw and despairing.  Now that those beliefs seem so ludicrous to me, you could tell me I'm greedy and shallow right to my face and I'd think you had some issues, but it really wouldn't hurt me.  


Listen.  I'm still the woman who walks into stores and picks up the most expensive item, with an unerring and unwitting instinct.  I still groan at the price tags of the things that I am drawn to.  

But this same instinct also means that I can spot things: the item that will become the season favorite, the heirloom in the junk store, and the possibility in most unlikely materials.   I can take a hundred dollars and make it look like a thousand.  I can throw together outfits, rooms, and photographs that satisfy my own deepest hunger.  

And now I finally know that this aspect of me that I felt so much shame over is one of my great gifts.  My deep hunger for beauty pushed me to learn how to train my disorganization and innate messiness so that I could create orderly, graceful spaces for myself.  My deep delight in art leads me to create: blogs, poems, essays, coaching programs, and domestic tableaus.  My eye for diamonds in the rough helps me spot the beauty in my clients that no one else in their lives can see.  

I wouldn't give it up for anything. 

What about you?  What part of you are you ashamed of?  Hold it out to the light. See what gifts it has to give you.  Don't be afraid.  I'm here to tell you, the laughter is better than the beatings.  Put down your stick.  Look at yourself with soft eyes. What old shame is longing to hand you butterflies? 

]]>Sat, 09 Jul 2011 00:00:00 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/07/a-desk-by-any-other-name.htmlWe arrived from Tokyo with one big suitcase.  It's been fascinating to create a household from scratch.  To not have a junk drawer.  To not own any nails, tacks, scissors, tape, or little metal twisty things.  To have only my most reliable clothes hanging in the closet.  For my daughter to be playing with her favorite dollies in a dollhouse made of paper towel rolls and cardboard boxes.  (She loves it.)  

After taking care of little things like beds to sleep in and a couch to sit on, I turned my attention to setting up an office.  I decided I'd get by with a little desk for my little laptop.  After all, I was trying to balance beauty with economy, not to mention speed.  Only the desk was so little, I had to sort of perch to write on it.  I could sit and type OR scribble on a notepad-- but not both at the same time.  There was no storage, and I was cramming files into little cardboard holders.  

I stepped back and took a look.  I decided it wasn't optimal, but I could make it work.  Still, I did at least need a file cabinet.  I guessed I'd make do with an old used metal one.  So I walked into my new favorite thrift store...and gasped.  

There it was, sitting in the back, an enormous behemoth of a desk.  Two desks, really, that fit together with cupboards and a file cabinet and shelves.  It was like an entire office made out of furniture.  It was also white.  And pretty. 

And yet I didn't think I could buy it. 

I already had a desk!  (More like a dressing table.)  This was so huge!  (In the most fabulous way.)  It was decadent!  (Not really.  The whole thing cost what a nice new file cabinet alone would have cost.)  

Something about this desk stopped me in tracks.  I couldn't believe how freaked out I was by it.  After circling the store anxiously a few times and picking up many china teapots, I sat down in a brocade chair and did some investigating. 

What on earth was going on?  Why was I hyperventilating?  The desk seemed so....serious.  And yet it was calling to me!  The thought of buying it for myself was utterly delicious.  And utterly terrifying.  

I tried to think about it logically.  It wasn't the price tag; this was a thrift store, after all.  It had something to do with the size.  I couldn't stuff this in my car and trundle it home; it would need to be delivered.  Again, no real problem there.  It was big, but it would fit perfectly against the wall with the french windows.  I could sit there looking out at the green park.  

I walked up to the counter three times to tell them I'd buy it, and each time I chickened out. 

I finally realized what was going on.  As long as I had a little desk, with a little laptop, and a little stool, all the work I did there would somehow  be  diminished.  I could be something of a dilettante, a hobbyist, a dabbler.  I could be a frazzled temporary single parent who was just barely managing to keep her cute little business going over in a corner.   

This big desk, with its shelves, cupboards, space for files, and built-in surge protector and printer port, upped the ante.  It said that this was work that took up space.  It deserved to take up physical room in my home.  It deserved real tools that serve a real business.  

And so in that moment I got to choose.  Did I want to give myself a nice physical reason to keep my work and my business small, crowded, and chaotic?  Did I need some nice tangible excuses for why I couldn't meet deadlines, keep commitments, or be professional?  

Buying that desk scared the crap out of me, because it was such a tangible representation of my intentions for my business, my wealth, and the importance of my work.  

I love it very, very much. 

As I get ready to teach this next round of The Queen Sweep, I appreciate the beautiful irony of having to choose so clearly for myself to shape my own life from the outside in.   

This is exactly what we work on, over five weeks-- we shift our internal landscape by cleaning up our external one.  So for all the women who will join me on this next round, this is my declaration of intent: I'm not scrabbling, perching, or dabbling.  I sit at my big beautiful desk and do work that feels big and beautiful to me.  And I'm not even  embarrassed to say that out here in front of people and everybody.

What about you?  What are you ready to say?

]]>Wed, 08 Jun 2011 00:00:00 -0800http://www.annakunnecke.com/1/post/2011/06/reeling-and-tuning-in.htmlThese days are anything but boring.  I am bombarded with decisions, tasks, uncertainty, and heartache.  It's intense, it's confusing, it's terrifying.  And here is the gift of that:    
 
I am wide awake.  Life with all its raw urgency is surging around me, and I am open to it in a way I haven't been since I was a teenager.   


There are plenty of moments when I want to crumple up in a ball and cry.  And many more moments when I want to fling my arms out and crow at the simple joy the days bring: 

Sunshine.  That dappled warmth on the skin is as seductive and melting as molten gold. 

Flowers.  Peeling back their petals so bravely and gushing beauty so potent it almost speaks. 

Clothes dryers.  Big American ones that toss the clothes so lightly that they actually dry unwrinkled.  This is a miracle, people.   

Rain.  Cold sudden splots of water startling us, pelting us alert and laughing. 

A car.  Of my own!  And red!  With keys that beep!  That I can wheel groceries up to!  Oh, it's delight. 

I'm reeling with the richness all around me. But the thing is, it's been there all along.  It isn't that the world suddenly grew more beautiful-- it's just that I started paying closer attention. And I could feel the hum underneath, as steady as a heartbeat, of my life whispering me to wake up, pay attention, be in my own skin.  So I tuned in.  And I wrote down what it was saying. It felt like I was getting love letters from my own life.   And your life is whispering to you, too.


Darling, I've missed you. Do something for me.

You dear, dear soul.  Will you please let up on yourself?  If only you would find your foibles and faults as amusing as I do--these are hilarious stories to laugh at, dearling, not to be worried over. You are just fine.  You are magnificent.  Stop trying to fix yourself! 

love,
your life



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