Darlings.
 
We had an earthquake in Japan.  Maybe you heard.  We were fine in Tokyo, though pretty scared.
 
The north was devastated.  One of my favorite spots in the world, the bit of coast where my family has spent the summers since I was a little girl, is no more.  
 
We grieve for the losses, and we send all of our healing energies and love to all those battling for survival, and those battling on their behalf. 
 
Thank you so much to all of you who have reached out to me with messages of love and support.  I've had more offers of places to stay than I could count one hand, and I am grateful beyond words.   

A few days ago I wrote a note about the way I was choosing to battle my fear instead of succumbing to panic.  It's called "How to stop being afraid--even when the whole world thinks you should be."  I decided that the techniques that were helping me cope with my fears might be useful to others who were feeling afraid, no matter what the reason.  You can read that below.

Shortly after that, I decided to bring my daughter to the US.  We arrived safely in Portland, and are staying with my siblings here-- a strange bit of delightful joy amidst this great tragedy.  
 
In deciding to leave Japan, I got the answer to a question I'd been wondering about for a long time-- how to tell the difference between fear and intuition.  I wrote about that, below. 
 
I'm glad to be here, but big chunks of my heart are still in Japan.  People in the north face untold hardship and loss.  My partner remains in the country, though he has gone further south.  My parents, who have been missionaries in Japan for more than 25 years, feel called to stay and minister to their church family and the other missionaries in their care.  I deeply respect their decision, but my heart aches. 
 
For now, I am taking my daughter to the park, leaning against these mighty trees of the northwest, and watching the rain come down on the daffodils and crocuses.  I have no idea what happens next.  But I am grateful.  I am so intensely grateful for so many things, and one of them is you who are reading this. 
 
Much love to you and yours. 
 
Anna
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As I write this, I am in Tokyo.  It’s been 48 hours since the biggest earthquake that's ever been recorded in Japan.  Ever since the sheer terror of those five minutes in which our building shook and swayed and groaned, and I didn’t know if my daughter and I would make it out alive, I have been glued to the public lens—tv, facebook, text messages, photos—with a surreal combination of horror and paralysis.  The devastation north of us is shocking.  The normalcy of Tokyo is shocking, too, except that water, rice, and batteries are disappearing from the supermarkets.  And looming over everything is the very real chance that a nuclear reactor will melt down and release unfathomably toxic substances into the air, water, and land.  

I have been afraid—terrified, really—for 48 hours. 

People, I am here to say, that is long enough.  

Here is where my fear got me: my head aches.  My shoulders ache.  My jaw aches, from clenching it.  My breath is short and shallow.  My heart aches at every sad photograph, and my nervous system is at the mercy of every authoritarian voice broadcasting worry.  

In that condition, I am no more useful to the world, my family, or myself than a very anxious marmoset.  

So here is how I am changing my frequency.  If this stuff is working for me today, it will work for you too—whether you are afraid about your finances, your future, your failing left tail light, or your embarrassing flail in yesterday’s meeting.  

1.    I turned off the news.  I can receive up-to-the-minute information via text, and my heart is already with those who are suffering.  When I read information, it goes to my brain and not straight to my primal fight-or-flight response.  The music and images of TV news are geared to trigger panic and an empathic flood; I’ve decided not to let myself get triggered.

2.    I cleaned my house.  This grounded me, calmed me, and got me back into my body, which is a much more reliable navigation system than my shrieking reptile survival brain, what Martha Beck calls my ‘lizard.’  My lizard tells me that we are DOOOOMED.  My body tells me that we need to stretch, to sing, to self-soothe with quiet rhythms.  (Folding laundry works nicely.)

3.    I faced the worst-case scenario.  My partner and I came up with a plan for what we would do if the reactor begins to spew, or if there is a serious food crisis in Tokyo, or any of the other frightening scenarios that have been haunting me.  Now that I know what I will actually do if any of those events come to pass, I can dismiss them when they clamor for my attention.  And the last line of every plan is: “And if none of that works, we wing it as well as we can.”  This is actually a pretty good plan.  

4.    I questioned my scary thoughts.  My underlying thought, the one that was making my heart palpitate and my fists clench, was: “We are in danger right this very second!”  I asked, “Is this true?”  And the answer is, Who the heck knows?  We could be, for sure.  But then any of us could be in danger at any minute of any day.  But what I know right now is that I am sitting in my apartment with running water, electricity, heat, and very fast internet.  My loved ones are safe.  We are getting the best information we know how to get.  So I choose to live in the blissful sense of safety that most of us inhabit when we’re not acutely aware that the sky could fall at any moment.  Believing that I am safe is no more arbitrary, at this particular moment in time, than believing that I am in danger, but it feels a lot better and it makes me more insightful, more courageous, and more wise.  It lets me think more creatively and compassionately.  And all those things, paradoxically, will work to keep me and the ones I love safe.  If I am in real physical danger, my system will flood with adrenaline and I will be able to act on the terror I’ve been feeling and suppressing these last two days.  I will run, or fight, or negotiate, or do whatever I need to do.  Until then, I choose to keep breathing deep, calming breaths (Thanks, Terry DeMeo) and asking myself, “Is that scary thought even true?”

5.    I took constructive action.  I made up a backpack full of emergency items and our important paperwork.  Maybe your constructive action is making a phone call or getting something checked out.  Maybe it’s opening the scary envelope or looking at your online balance.  You’ll feel better if you just do it, I promise.

6.    I let my body release.  Because I was with my daughter during the most frightening part of the quake (lying on the floor of our 16th-floor apartment as it pitched and creaked like a ship in a storm), I spent significant energy holding it together for her.  We talked a bit about how scared we both were, and she seemed okay, but later she had a major sobbing meltdown about something inconsequential.  Then she was perky again.  Little kids are very wise that way.  I waited until I was alone in bed that night to sob and shudder.  With each heave of my shoulders and shuddering quaking tremble, I let some of my fear and tension release.  Animals tremble and shudder to shake off trauma; we need to do it too, even when the trauma is only visible to us.  

7.    I consciously flooded myself with beauty.  I listened to music that makes me want to move my body and heal the world.  For me this means Christine Kane, The Dixie Chicks, and other things too embarrassing to write here.  I also bought flowers today, a big gorgeous bouquet of them, in a flagrant act of flipping the bird at fate.  I am buoyed and nourished by their blooming faces as I make my way through my home.  

8.    I grounded back into my purpose.  I had a brief panic about a class I’m teaching in a few weeks, The Queen Sweep.  I wondered if clearing clutter would seem frivolous in light of global tragedy.  I questioned its ultimate value in the world and the worth of the work I do.  In other words, I freaked out.  Many people are layering their immediate fear with scary thoughts like this about their future worth and their careers.  Screw that.  In a crisis like this, I’m more glad than ever that I know exactly where to find my passport; that my papers are in order and I’ve declared a guardian for my daughter; that we all have clean underwear and clean sheets to sleep on; and that my home is an oasis of calm and beauty.   Whatever the crisis, the world needs people who are sharp, who know their stuff, and know what they can contribute.  Be ready to bring what you can  to the table.  

9.    I gazed at my daughter.  She is so beautiful.  She is so alive through her fear, her joy, her rage, her desire—she doesn’t shut any of it down.  It’s all right there, messy and inconvenient at times, but gloriously awake.  

10.    Most importantly, I remembered that I am the boss of my own energy.  I kept waiting for someone to make me feel better, to reassure me, to tell me what to do.  Guess what?  No one can declare dominion over my life besides me.  I have to be the leader that I was waiting for.  

Chin up, deep breath, flowers on table.  Here we go.  

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My darlings.
 
Here it is at last, The Birth Story Project. 
 
I so craved the firelit circle where women would tell their deepest stories of initiation and transformation that I created a virtual one, where anyone in the world could contribute and anyone in the world could read it.  
 
I told mine. 
 
Now will you tell yours? 
 
And if you'll tell your friends too, I'd be tickled pink. 
 
http://thebirthstoryproject.com 

Twitter: #birthstoryproject
 
Women have already sent in the most amazing stories.  If you'd like to get just one featured story a week, sign up for the weekly story (at http://thebirthstoryproject.com) and you'll also receive a copy of a poem I wrote.  It's called A Meditation For Mothers, but it's really a love letter.  And in its own way, so is the whole project. 
 
Because motherlove can light up the world.  And it already does.   

 
Much love, 
Anna 


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This month, I just have a tiny suggestion.  

If you feel agitated, instead of trying to calm yourself down, simply accept yourself as agitated.  If you feel sad, instead of trying to cheer up, simply invite the sadness to hang out as long as it wants to.   

If you feel petty and judgmental and badly done by, pat that petty judgmental victimized self on the cheek with total gentle love, and don't try to talk her out of it for a second.  Tell her she's perfect, and you love the petty look on her.  Very now.  When you are furious, let the anger grow as big and red and boiling as it wants to.  (You might want to walk away from your children first.)   

Say hello to your intense irritation and your prickly boredom.  Also your grandiosity, exhaustion, and ambition.  

I know this sounds simplistic.  I know you've heard all about 'feeling your feelings.'  But I'm telling you, try it.  

It's the most radical thing I've ever done.  

As a life coach I have lots of tricks up my sleeves to handle life's ups and downs.  I can question painful thinking, shift my story from victimized to heroic, and make step-by-step plans that will take me to the moon if I really put my mind to it.
This is something different.  

It doesn't try to change anything.  It just looks at what is and says, Ah yes, we've got room for that here.  Come on in, darling.   If this doesn't sound crazy to you, you're not paying attention.  It's so crazy it should have blue eyebrows and pierced knuckles.  

What will happen if we don't Manage Things around here?  If we don't cajole, smooth over, take deep breaths, grit our teeth, buckle down, and soldier on?  Won't all hell break loose?  

So far, all evidence points to: No.  

But don't take my word for it.  Try it out yourself.  And when you get little hits of what it feels like to love and accept yourself even when you're having all these warty embarrassing feelings?  OH MY GOD.  CALL EVERYBODY.  

It reminds me of that Rumi poem:

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

     ~ Rumi 
         from The Essential Rumi, Translated by Coleman Barks  

I've loved that Rumi poem for years, but I never really took it literally.  I mean come on.  I'm crazy, but not that crazy.  
 
Only now I am.   

And I recommend that you try it.  You'll be shocked at how much room you have in yourself.  When you stop fighting them or cajoling them or trying to persuade them to come back next Tuesday instead, all those feelings lose their fight.  You'll find sadness pooling gently, rage roiling without burning, joy leaping without anxiety--all at once, usually.  Try letting them take up as much room as they want, and ask them if they need anything from you.

In my experience, they'll say something earth-shattering, like, Oh, I just needed your attention; just a little compassion.  And did you notice, that's what it feels like when you don't draw good boundaries?  Look at that.  Just making sure you're paying attention.  And then they drift off into the ether.   
 
It's an experiment.  Go forth and try it.  And report back. 
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Today I sat and watched the moon rise.  It was an accident.  I had no business watching the moon; I had THINGS to do.   

Important things.  Urgent things.  Things I had very successfully avoided doing so far.  

So there I was, cranking through my list.  Maybe you know how this feels.  It does not feel wonderful.  It feels more like cranking an old-fashioned ice-cream maker, where somebody accidentally put in sand instead of salt.  Even though I was working on projects I care about, it was mechanical and dry and onerous.  I honestly think it would have been more fun to investigate my own teeth with a pair of pliers.   

And then before I knew what had happened, the moon swooped into view.  It had been hidden behind a dramatic bank of clouds floating just over my slice of the Tokyo skyline, and it was very dramatic.  In fact it was kind of show-off-y, if you ask me.  This tiny luminous arc pushed up through the clouds and then kept blooming.  I watched it, transfixed, as it rose steadily up into the sky, growing enormously big and bright in its full-moon glory.  

I think my mouth might have hung open.  It was that sacred and spiritual.    

And then I started giggling.  I laughed so hard that it's lucky my neighbors were out or they definitely would have sent over the nice people in the white coats.    

I put away my list.  I sat down to write you all this letter.    

Here is what I remembered!!!  

As usual, it was something I already knew.  It's what Martha Beck calls 'Beginning At The End,' and it's serious magic.      Here's how you do it.   

First, I thought of this goal that I was so dutifully plugging along toward with my lists and my cranking and my bad attitude.    

But I didn't think about it as a goal I had to work desperately hard toward.  In fact, I imagined that I already had it.  I imagined it in such gloriously delicious detail that I sat there with a big goofy grin on my face.  I might have drooled a little.  (This is how you know you are deep in meditation and about to achieve enlightenment.)  

I imagined all the feelings that I believe this thing, which happens to be a certain amount of tuition money, would bring me.     I imagined how safe I would feel, how grounded and sturdy.  I let my body actually sit more heavily in my chair, felt it holding me up.  I imagined how proud I would be, and a sense of pride began to well up almost on its own.  I felt how calmly maternal I would feel, knowing that I was taking good care of my beloved daughter, and the warm glow of loving her spread all the way down to my fingertips.  Also, I truly believe that if I have this amount of tuition money, I will be prettier.  Even though I know this is ridiculous, I nonetheless felt my posture straighten a little bit, my chin lift just a smidgen.        

And there you go.  Like magic, I had given myself the very things I was longing for.  I thought I needed the thing, the intermediary, to get me those feelings, when all along they were just feelings, just thoughts, and I could trigger them all on my own.  By thinking about safety, I could ground into the support that was already there.  By thinking of love and pride, I was flooded with-- love and pride.   

Weirdly enough, I find that this sort of imaginative play is a powerful magic spell to bring that intermediary thing rushing into the fold as well.   

So here is what I wish for you.  I wish you moments of timelessness.  I wish you moments that are so tiny, so ordinary, and yet so ludicrous in their eager beckoning for your attention (their wild wave or super soar right outside your window) that they throw you out of the relentlessly ticking chronological time, chronos, and into your true nature, which is beyond time, which is what Madeleine L'Engle calls kairos.  True time.   

And in that moment of truest time, where time paradoxically winks and disappears, may you sink into yourself, find what you are longing for, and then give it to yourself.   

On a silver platter, if you like.  Though I can also recommend tea and cookies...and moon infusions. 
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My life has been teaching me some intense lessons this month.  As usual, one of my best teachers is my daughter.  What she taught me this month is that just because I have an idea about timing doesn't mean that it's true. 
 
For example!  Just because I have a lot that I want to get done in a month, and I'm sort of expecting that my home and family life will coast on its own momentum for just a couple of weeks while I throw myself into these amazing projects...are you laughing really hard yet?  
 
My darling girl's chosen teaching methods were: being whiny and needy, getting sick, crying when I wish she would play on her own, and throwing some tremendous tantrums.  Oy!  I didn't like it.  Not one little bit.  But I did finally get it.  I accepted that she needed me to slow down.  I realized that she needed me to get back into my body instead of zipping along fueled entirely by inspiration and manic brain fumes.  I saw that she needed the quiet routines of our home life-- and I needed them too.   
 
Then, because my sundae needed a cherry, I had a session with my technology coach.  We were planning to talk about exciting and thrilling things like podcasting and video and all kinds of media treats.  Oh, the visions that danced in my head!  Sweeter than sugarplums!
 
Only-- my hard drive was full.  And my software kept crashing because I wasn’t updating it properly.  Oh, and I didn't have a reliable system for backing up my data, and my files were a mess, and... Oy!  I didn't like it.  Not one little bit.  Cleaning up all those messes was not how I wanted to spend my time.  I wanted to skip all that and jump straight to the part where my dreams turn into celestial spirals of audio and video.  
 
And there I was, standing in my clients' shoes again.  I know exactly how they feel.  They come to me ready to do The Big Thing.  They're eager to make the scary leap and watch it All Happen.  They want me to help them be brave, think outside the box, and go renegade.  And I am all about the big thing happening.  I LOVE working with them on their wildest ideas.  And the first step is almost always to clean up their messes and lay down new, more nurturing routines and practices. 
 
This just doesn’t sound as fun.  I signed up for leaping, dammit!  Leaping!
 
Especially us dreamers; we really hate this part.  When the beautiful new home needs to be picked up every single day.  When the sweet little baby produces endless piles of laundry.  When the sparkly new business plan requires spreadsheets.  When the manuscript needs a total rewrite.  When our mental narrative, our ‘story,’ begs for an overhaul.  Ugh.  Where’s the champagne and the fireworks?
 
But I have come to believe that it's worth it.  It feels so amazing to shine a light on the dark tangled parts of our lives-- our money fears, our backed-up correspondence, our crazy packed schedules or the boxes of old mildewed books.  We feel so solid when we set down routines that nurture us and keep us steady.  For me, it was a fabulous investment to consult with a tech expert and spend some hours cleaning up the hash I'd made of my technology.  Now my data gets backed up without me even having to think about it, my files are in order, I have space on my hard drive to do those dreamy projects I want to do, and-- to top it all off-- I finally learned to synch my iPhone!  (I even have music on it.  Seriously.  It's true, I am obviously a technological savant.)
 
So here I am, settling into this physical coil again much like I'm settling into December.  I’m tying up loose ends.  I’m laying the groundwork for next year.  I’m getting ready for the holidays now so that I can enjoy them when they come.  I keep having to remember to breathe, because there are so many thrilling things zipping around my mind that I can lose track of what I’m doing.  Sometimes I chafe at the daily rituals of motherhood-- endless meals, the all-sacred storytime, and the slippery slope of bathtime.  I get bored with the business routines, too-- filing boring things and putting boring things away in boring cupboards.  I much prefer the all-nighter fueled by caffeine and adrenaline, or the last-minute frenetic rush of an impossible deadline.  I like the mad dress-up spree where every single item of clothing I own is strewn across the apartment. much better than putting it all away again.  I would rather make vision boards than spreadsheets any day of the week. 
 
But here's the thing.  I have some serious shit to do.  I think I'm here to do certain things in the world, and I think they're important.  And in order to do them justice, I have to connect my airiest dreams with the physical realities of running a business and having a child and being in this body that just doesn't do well at warp speed.
 
So I'm learning to walk slower.  And all this ritual, the cleaning and sorting and bathing and filing and making food and cleaning it up again, it keeps me grounded.  It helps me remember to put my feet onto the earth and look up at the moon and listen intently when I am treated to long sagas about acorns.  This physical life is like doing the snail dance, and it's maddeningly slow, and it's also exactly what I need to keep me connected to my intuition, my truth, and my knowing.
 
Because those deep forms of wisdom always speak to me through my body.  And oddly enough, their teaching methods are a lot like my daughter's-- when I ignore the nudges, the quiet whispers, and the little flutters, then they escalate into aches and pains, depressions, and mighty skin tantrums. 
 
So sit with me here.  Wiggle in until you feel the weight of your body connecting with what’s holding it up.  Not much happens.  Maybe we'll fold some laundry.  We’ll do a little sweeping.  We’ll breathe in and out.  It's excruciating.  But if you tip your head back, you'll see the stars.

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I have been absolutely loving working with a group of women in a coaching program called The Clean Sweep.  (Which will be fully launched in January under the name The Queen Sweep!)   This week we were taking a look at our closets.  Below is a brief excerpt from this week's reading, where I challenge them to throw away one 'low self-worth outfit.'    

But I was feeling a little bit like a hypocrite.  Because there is this suit hanging in my closet.  It is navy.  It is pinstriped.  It is a very nice suit.  And I feel lousy every time I put it on.  Don't get me wrong-- I like suits.  When I MC big swanky events, I rock my black shantung double-breasted number with the power shoulders and the cinched waist like nobody's business.  But this navy suit is different.  This suit isn't about shining; this suit is about disappearing.  This suit represents my best efforts to fit in, blend in, and not draw too much attention.   

So, as a love gesture to these women who have astounded me with their bravery, authenticity, and all-round bad-assed-ness over the past few weeks, I am getting rid of the suit.  Because I want to only show up as my most fabulous self from now on.    

The Purge (excerpted from week four of The Queen Sweep)
Throw away what Julia Cameron calls your "low self-worth outfit."  She goes on to say, "You know the one."  But just in case you aren't sure what I'm talking about, let me be clear.  I am talking about the outfit that you hang on to because it makes all sorts of sense, it's what someone like you really ought to be wearing, and you really need to have something like that even though you always feel kind of awkward in it, and what is wrong with you that you don't like wearing it when it's so good and you paid so much money for it or Aunt Susie gave it to you for your birthday but you just never quite feel at ease in it--THAT ONE.  GET RID OF IT. 

I predict that getting rid of it will either fill you with terror or elation.  You're doing more than sorting fabric here, you're defining yourself.  Other people's smallest, most confining versions of you?  Gone!  Your dowdiest, itchiest self-illusions?  Gone!  This is powerful medicine. 

Purging can be heady stuff.  If you need to, you can create a temporary holding box for things you don't really wear or like but can't quite bring yourself to throw away.  Tuck it away somewhere.  In six months or a year, chances are that you'll be ready to throw it away without even opening it.  But one note of caution.  If you have just had a baby, or lost a job or some money, or your body has changed suddenly because of an illness, or for any reason you are feeling angry and ashamed, STEP AWAY from the closet.  In that kind of mood, you are quite likely to throw away the very items that bring you joy and keep only what reinforces this new miserable version of yourself.  Go back to Best Self exercise above and touch base with your potential, with what delights you and gives you joy.  Then go back and take a look.  The point is not to be uber-practical and only keep what you're wearing every day; the point is to weed out the junk, start inviting your authentic self to clothe you, and hold a little space open for all the adventures you're going to have. 

Some people say that you should throw away anything you haven't worn in a year, but I don't think that's a good guideline.  What if you haven't had any fun in a year?!?  I think you should try everything on and keep only what feels FABULOUS.    I read once that every woman should have hanging in her closet the outfit she would want to wear on her dream job interview, her dream date, and her dream vacation.  This guideline has stood me in pretty good stead.  I have accepted invitations and speaking opportunities that scared me a little bit because I already had the outfit ready to go.  If I hadn't had it ready, I might have been able to tell myself, "Oh, I'm not ready for this, it's too much of a stretch, I'm not qualified for that, I won't fit in."  When you have outfits to wear to the events that you most want to happen, you send a pretty powerful message to your unconscious. 

Want to be in the next Queen Sweep group?  Send me an email and I'll put you on the advance notification list!  
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I don’t know if it’s the moon, or the time of year, or if there is some great sea change rippling through the ether, but I am dreaming like crazy.

Here is what I dreamed the other night:

I was at a glamorous resort with some really glitzy, overdone décor, but I learned that I was only a short ride from Londolozi.  I jumped up, desperate to get there immediately, and as I was trying to arrange a jeep to take me there, a beautiful black horse turned up instead.  But as we headed down the road, somehow I found myself seated backward on the horse, facing Londolozi but looking down at the horse’s rump.  The horse was walking backward, lifting each hoof slowly and awkwardly, and I was urging him on with great frustration.

It felt so real.  It felt like something I was remembering more than dreaming.  So, just like I do most mornings, I took out my journal and began to interpret it. 

Using Martha’s method, I pretended that I was the different elements of the dream and imagined how each one would answer questions like “What is your purpose?  What do you want?  How are you trying to help the dreamer?”  As I scribbled down their answers, I could almost hear how each one would speak.  It was like having a conversation on the page.  I’ve been doing this for a while now, and my dreams tend to cough up their true messages pretty quickly.  As I lay down a habit of listening to my dreams, the dreaming part of me has begun to trust that my waking self will not mock or dismiss its nighttime messages. 

I went through the ‘characters’ one by one.  The ritzy resort, it turned out, represented success, performance, and pasted-on smiles—it was about a very socially sanctioned kind of success.  As an element in my dream, it was trying to help me by getting me very close to where I wanted to be without actually satisfying my deeper longings. 

Londolozi, which is an actual place in Africa where they have restored the ecosystem to health, and just happens to be a place I am ACHING to go to in real life, represented a new way of being.  It was hovering nearby, just out of sight, vibrating with life and love.  It represented harmony; it represented our true nature.  Its purpose was to unite humans and earth and spirit.  It was everything that I long for. 

Then the dream interpretation slipped out of its familiar groove.  Londolozi, see, had a question for me.  This doesn’t usually happen during the dream interpretation, but I scrawled it out on the page like I was taking dictation:

“Dude--are you coming or not?” 

At the time, I wasn’t even fazed by the fact that the deep beautiful harmonious nature of all things had just called me ‘dude.’  No, I was too busy checking my hair.  You see, I was seized by longing, but also by an adolescent-flavored anxiety.  I wrote my reply underneath. 

“Isn’t it rude to just rock up without an invitation?  I don’t want to intrude.  On the cool kids.  And stuff.” 

An answer swirled out of my pen.  “Ah.  I see.  Ok.  Sure, you can wait for an invitation.”  Then Londolozi twiddled its thumbs, gazed up at the ceiling, and hummed a little.  “Or, you could just declare the truth, which is that you ARE the invitation.  Tell me where I’m wrong.”

I swallowed hard.  It wasn’t wrong.  The invitation is coded into my very being.  My longing is my invitation. 

So I asked, with much angst and furrowed brow and melodrama, “But how do I get there?  I have this horse, but I’m riding it backward.” 

Londolozi said, “Why don’t you hurry up and ask the damn horse?” 

Oh yes.  I had forgotten about the horse. 

But the dream interpretation exercise had moved out of its familiar formula and was scrawling itself out on the page.  My pen looped and scratched, madly recording the dialogue that was taking place entirely in my mind and yet seemed utterly real. 

The horse was describing itself: “I am black, gorgeous, powerful.  I am neither male nor female.  I want to run.  (I can run really, really fast.)  I am walking ass backward because Anna doesn’t know how to ride me.  My message to her would be: Learn to ride!”

I asked the horse how to do that.   It was growing impatient.

“Work with me here!  Turn around!  Stop trying to direct me.  You’re telling me where to go-- but have you ever been to Londolozi???  Hunh???  No, you have not.  And I have!  I know the way!  Listen.  All you have to do is come up to me, whisper, ‘Londolozi’ in my ear, and I will just take you there.”

I was still confused.  I wanted instructions!  Why are these dream messages so cryptic?  So I asked it again: “But what does all this mean in real life?  What do you represent?” 

I swear to god, it snorted.

“I am your power.  I am your strength, your speed, your beauty in motion.  I know how to get where you want to go.  You need to whisper in my ear, and then hang on tight.  Remember how you felt when you were working with the real horses in Arizona?  Remember how in order to get them to do what you wanted to do, you had to be very calm but also very fearless?  It’s the same thing.  When you whisper your destination, you must hold it in your body, see it in your mind, feel it in your cells. “

“Yes, yes!!  I remember that feeling exactly!”  I thought back to the blissful hours I spent working with Koelle Simpson in a corral, learning to adjust my energy until I could get the huge, beautiful creatures to follow my lead.  “It was quieter than I expected but also bigger, more active.  Okay, okay, I think I’ve got it.  Stop pushing, stop bossing you around, turn around and face forward, and be utterly clear in my destination.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?” I asked the horse.  My pen was slowing down.  I could tell that our conversation was almost over.

“Well.”  The creature who had been so annoyed at me suddenly pawed the ground.  “Well.  I love you, you know.  I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I love you too,” I wrote. 

And then I was sitting in my Tokyo living room, blinking, my pen clutched in my hand, grinning ear to ear. 

I walked into the other room to take a look at my vision board.  There in the upper right hand corner was the black horse that I had pasted there several months ago.  I had forgotten about it.  I had been thinking that maybe I’d find myself cantering along the beach on this majestic steed, the salty wind streaming through my hair... 

Instead, I got a magical dialogue with a cranky dream horse.  A dream horse who kicked my metaphorical butt.  For which I promptly did a jig of total delight.      

So here is what I’m doing this month: figuring out where in my life I am trying to ride things ass-backward.  Dreaming of Londolozi, a place and a way of harmony.  And taking lots of naps.   You see, I am getting the distinct sense that it is time to gather my strength for the journey that is about to begin.  

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This month I made an error.  An oops, a lapse, a mistake, an accident.  I missed the renewal date on my...
 
No!  Wait!!  That was LAST month's essay.  Only guess what?  Here I am in September, facing another paperwork catastrophe.  Since I am a trained life coach, naturally my response was to flail and moan and shake my fists at the sky.  Then I flew into full victim response mode:
 
But they SAID!
It's not FAIR!  
Those F$%&ing A$%#oles!  
 
My mind raced with enlightened thoughts like: I can't handle this!  I don't have time to deal with this!  I have to write an e-zine about staying centered and balanced and calm and.... Oh.  
 
Oh, shit.  
 
So here I am, in all my imperfect glory.  My best credential as a life coach is that I make all the mistakes my clients make.  I've fallen in all the holes they fall in.  I still fall in!  
 
And I am slowly learning how to crawl out.  
 
I swore rather creatively for a few minutes.  I did some very deep breathing.  I examined the story going on in my head.  It was as whiny and cranky as my four-year-old coming down off a sugar trip.  
 
Believe it or not, this is progress.  Recognizing that I am telling myself a story is the crucial first step.  Instead of believing all the crap flying through my mind, I remind myself that it's just a version.  (This kind of thought work is perfect for literature majors.)  I start coming up with other versions.  
 
Version two: I am my own boss.  I can do whatever I want with my time.  
 
Version three: I could traipse down to the city office right this minute if I wanted.
 
Version four: I had promised myself to do some important creative work that day.  So I consulted my body.  I imagined working for the next few days knowing that a fairly significant piece of paper that keeps us legal is out of order.  It didn't feel good at all.  
 
Version five: I could probably let that piece of paper just sit there, out of whack, and it would bother the people down at the city office even more than me.  It would drive them bonkers!  Eventually they'd start calling me, sending me mail... but that didn't feel good either.
 
So I decided to go to the city office.  But it FELT so different than if I'd gone storming down with my head full of angry stories about how I was getting screwed, and how badly this messed up my schedule, and how behind I was now, and how lousy it was and how the ozone layer was depleting and we were all going down in a fiery pot roast.
 
So here it is.  Here is the magic.  This little tempest in a teaspoon is the heart of my life coaching.  It's a subtle shift, a slight re-framing, a new interpretation.  And just to be clear, here's what it's not: it's NOT me pasting a fake smile on myself and reciting through clenched teeth, "I'm GLAD about this!  I'm SMILING!  And I'll see the goddamn silver LINING in this if it kills me!"  
 
No.
 
But it is about being free.  I could have chosen to ignore the problem and let it fester.  I could have chosen to stew about it and let it poison my entire day or even week.  Instead, I chose to handle it.  I chose to table some projects until later.  I chose all that in total freedom.   
 
It's your life; you get to write it.  Choose your story. 

Do you want to be the victim or the hero?  
 
That's what I figured.  So I'll see you at the hero table!  Hell, I'll even buy you a drink.
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The Mistake 08/03/2010
 
This month I made an error.  An oops, a lapse, a mistake, an accident.  I missed the renewal date on my Japanese driver’s license.  There’s a long story with lots of extenuating circumstances and bad information and whining but it doesn’t really matter.  It was my responsibility, and I screwed it up.  I felt like a total loser about this.  I don’t like making mistakes.

So I went out to the far, far suburbs, where the driving gods and demigods live and roar and gnash their teeth, to see what they would say.  I was prepared to have to take the (impossible) paper test and go through the (ridiculous) driving test all over again.  But I was hoping that maybe that wouldn’t be necessary.  You never know.  
   
Dealing with government offices and paperwork can send me right off the deep end, so I decided to use this trip as an experiment.  I already knew that I might not get my license renewed that day; my whole goal was to let go of the outcome and try to stay in my core of peace no matter what happened.
   
I lasted about ten minutes.  On the train there, I found myself spiraling into dark, gloomy, imaginary scenarios.  For instance: I might go, spend hours explaining what happened, pay my $60, and then somehow still not get my license.  Or maybe I wouldn’t get my license at all, ever, and then one day I would be called upon to drive an injured child!  who is bleeding!  to an emergency room!  And then in spite of my heroics I would get pulled over for the first time in my life and I would get arrested!  And they would take away my visa!  And throw me in chains!  And I would never see my daughter again!  
   
Oh, my mind.  My mind, it is so sick.  
   
So I stepped out of my mind and into the core of peace, that place in me that is just fine with or without license.  It is the part of me that cannot be corrupted or destroyed or devastated.  Call it the soul, call it wordlessness, call it whatever you want.  I happen to like Martha Beck’s phrase ‘the core of peace.’  
   
Anyway, so I patted the mind monkeys on the head, reminded myself that I already knew I probably wouldn’t get a license that day, and focused on staying peaceful.  
   
But before I knew it I was having imaginary conversations with people in my head.  My father, for instance.  He likes me very much, and so he might be upset that I had let my license expire after going to so much trouble to get it in the first place.  Or a friend might say something clever and disparaging about me being an adult and not even being able to drive.  Then I moaned in quiet mortification, seeing the irony of a life coach (who gives courses on getting organized!) missing her own license renewal.  I concluded that I was a total fraud.  Then I brooded for a while on an email from a friend who had asked rather primly how I could be upset when it was my own fault.  In short, I was back in my mind—what Anne Lamott calls that bad neighborhood where she tries not to go to alone, that sketchy, scary stretch of graffiti and gunshots and broken pavement.
   
I brought myself back.  It had only been ten minutes, and I had already exhausted myself.  I tried to think about how I might treat myself if I were my own client, or even my own daughter.  I invite you to try this on yourself some time when you are feeling extra loathsome, plus despicable with a side of pathetic.  Probably you’ll feel a rush of affection and laughter for this person, this person who tries so hard and yet makes so many mistakes; who feels so such drunken self-loathing and blazing self-righteousness at the same time; this person who, in spite of the setbacks and mortifications and her terrible flaws, keeps on chugging along trying to get it right.  Honestly, how can you feel anything but total love for this person?  Don’t you want to kiss her on the mouth?  
   
So I sat there on the train alternating between Thich Nhat Hanh and Lindsay Lohan on a bad day.  Every time I remembered to come back to peace, I found that below the peace there was this low, liquid, contagious giggle.  The peace seemed to find the whole thing just hilarious.
   
At the licensing office, I found myself in a special waiting area.  I was sitting with the physical manifestations of all my worst fears and failings: we of the broken teeth and bleary, confused eyes; we the foreign, different, other; we in too much makeup and wobbly high heels; we with our ludicrous tall tales of woe and tragedy; we who carried our official papers in a plastic grocery bag.  This motley crew was so beautiful to me.  I was even beautiful to myself.  We were a perfect picture of human frailty.  There we were: the misfits, the sad and lost, the frazzled, the desperate liars—all of us there to make it right if we could.  I wanted to hold their hands and sing Kumbaya.  
   
I restrained myself.  
   
And I heard another narrative start up in my mind.  This one had Aretha Franklin singing RESPECT playing as its soundtrack, and it went something like this: You know, I work so darn hard.  I did 17,492 things this year, and I got most of them right.  And this one, number 17,493, well—I royally fucked it up.  And what is so WRONG with that?  Can’t I mess up occasionally?  Who am I to think that I’m not allowed to do that?  Welcome to the human race, baby.  Leave your self-loathing and flagellation and groveling apologies behind.  You can be you and make mistakes.  
   
And then I remembered!  OH YEAH.  In my tribe, we make mistakes.  We make LOTS of mistakes because we do brave, difficult, renegade things.  We shoot high and so we fall on our asses sometimes.  If you’d like to join, your initiation will be relatively painless.  One simple round of kumbaya, and you’re in.  
   
Oh, and not that it’s the point, but they eventually?  They gave me my license.  But that’s another story.  
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