never say goodbye ...

There’s a saying I like that’s really true: One cannot seek new horizons if one is afraid to leave the safety of the shore.

With that in mind, I’ve hedged on something all week. Should I, shouldn’t I? Why? Why not?

It all started when I answered five questions from Ian Lidster. And simultaneously read a post on KJ's new blog. And another by Kiyotoe. Then one of my closest friends left Seattle to begin a new life in Florida. Sometimes it takes just a little nudge to get us to regroup, recommit, or re-assess.

Whatever you call it, all three posts sparked that flame that flickers deep inside and I realized I’d been coasting, living in a very cushy comfort zone—something I knew intrinsically, but not a state I like to be in for too long.

I need to step it up, and step on out!

Won’t bore you with the details of my life, but as a result of this, I’ve made significant changes and have the opportunity to really stretch myself. And … most importantly (!) … I want to (choose to!) get away from the keyboard more. So last month I hired a personal trainer to get me reconditioned over the next few grey months. I want to learn to ski ‘properly’ this winter. I also want to master that darn snowboard once and for all; and go snow-mobiling and snow shoeing—without getting stuck in a drift!

To gain a better balance on my work and personal life, I need to create more creative space and time. That means letting go of, or subtracting, certain other roles and activities, most of which I can't/won't mention here for obvious reasons.

So it’s with much ambivalence, my bloggy-buds, that I sing “So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye” … at least for now.

Blogging was something I thought I’d do for a couple of months—and even though I was by no means a prolific blogger compared to most of you, 18 months later it’s like leaving the comfort of a home you’ve lived in for a while to move to a new town. Sad to be leaving, but excited about the journey and new challenges and opportunities ahead.

I hadn't expected to ‘meet’ such wonderful, warm, funny, wise and incredibly smart and talented people. So, thanks for the timely kick in the pants! Thanks to those who've left comments on-blog and off-blog.

And thanks to all of you who’ve made me laugh, learn, and cry by sharing your skills, experiences, and life-journeys.

Bibi’s come to the end of her Beat for a while … but I hope you’ll stay in touch …

Love and hugs x

P.S. I have withdrawal symptoms already.

namaste

5.30 a.m. … 30 minutes until the alarm goes off. I roll onto my stomach, bury my face in the pillow and groan. If I doze now, it’ll be harder to wake again … I roll back and throw off the duvet. Four steps and I’m in the bathroom.

I hear my dog pad up the hallway, signaled by the hum of my electric toothbrush. He yawns, stretches, waits patiently outside the bedroom door … is she or isn’t she? I duck into my closet and reappear in sneakers and running pants … she is!

Whispering good morning to him, I slip his collar over his head, and we step outside into the silence of early autumn fog.

Two-hundred steps and we’re on the beach. “Morning ladies!” I greet the Canadian Geese as I walk through the gaggle at the water’s edge. “Any good gossip today?” As usual, they stick their noses in the air and turn their backs on me.

Pebbles crunch underfoot as I stretch out up the beach throwing sticks into the water for Dylan. We climb up and over the rocks to our usual meditation spot, where we each take up our position.

He sits upright in the water, looking yonder for signs of anything unusual. I sit cross-legged on the 30-foot tree trunk that long-ago crashed from the hill above, and now spans across the beach and into the water. I close my eyes, circle my thumb and forefinger and take a deep, cleansing breath.

Sometimes I meditate on a specific topic. But this morning I think about nothing. Just the sound of my breath. Just the sound of lapping water. Just the sound of wind rustling through the trees and the brittle leaves they are preparing to shed.

In and out. Calming and cleansing.

I am grateful for this day.

I am grateful for my family and friends and appreciate having them in my life. I’m grateful for the interesting projects I work on and appreciate the opportunities I have. I’m grateful to feel excited by life and appreciate the choices I can make.

In ... out. I am grateful for this day.

Namaste …

… WHAT THE *!@#?

I shoot forward off my perch, reaching around to my lower back. Ack … it’s wet!

“Really, really, sorry about that! Bad boy!” shouts the sleepy-eyed man with bed-hair, who stands red-faced on top of the cliff behind me.

“No worries” I reply. But didn't mean it. Bad enough I have to scoop poop. Now I have to search my pockets for a tissue and dry off the spray his Labrador squirted up my back!

In ... I smile … Out. And mean it.

I am grateful for this day.

five from ian

Thanks to the very wise, talented, and funny Ian Lidster of Or So I Thought, for initiating this week’s post. I don’t usually indulge in Q & As, but since Ian’s a great journalist, I knew he'd pose five good questions and be kind!

1. Your provenance is the UK, and now you live and work in the US, what motivated you to make the shift across the Atlantic?

I’ve known since I was nine-years-old that I would live overseas … just one of those knowing things. I’m glad I was raised and grounded in the UK and that my family base is still there, but I always wanted to travel and experience different cultures.

When I started looking around at 16, I thought it would be Australia; New Zealand; and then, following a topless (and sometimes bottomless) summer in the South of France with my sister, where we dined on local wines, cheeses, and handpicked cherries every day, I thought I’d move to France. But shortly after returning to England, she and I both fell madly in love with Capricorn boys and that put paid to dunking croissants and baring all in St. Tropez!

A couple of years later, Mr. Capricorn and I filed emigration papers to South Africa. And then I went on vacation to California. Big deal, nothing special … they all lived in ‘wooden’ houses! But when I arrived home to brick-built London, in two feet of snow, San Diego started looking pretty darn good, wooden houses and all … says she 22 years later.


2. What aspect of your work gives you the greatest satisfaction?

I know this sounds hokey and I don’t care, but I’ve always been a change-maker; always needed to learn and grow. Everyone wants to feel that what they do matters and what’s really important to me today, is making a difference. And having fun along the way. It doesn’t matter how small or seemingly insignificant the difference, if someone tells you that something you’ve done, broadcast, written, or shared has helped them in any way, it makes everything worthwhile.

I’m in a position where I now do work that really excites me. In fact, my work is not work, it’s my passion … if I won the Lotto tomorrow, I would still do it but on a bigger, grander, more global scale. I also love that, thanks to global technology, I’m not restricted to one location and can, and do, work from anywhere in the world.


3. You've traveled considerably in your life. Rather than ask you what place you like best, I'm going to ask what place gives you the greatest peace in your soul?

Oh … great question. I love being in nature … the wilder,
the better. But my number one soul-spot has to be the ocean. Whether I’m on it, in it, or by it.

I’ll take it under any conditions: wind and rain, fog, or sun and heat. Give me craggy headlands, crashing surf, huge rocks, golden sand that stretches unspoiled for several miles and I totally lose myself … or more accurately, find myself!

My absolute favorite ‘soul’ places are in Cornwall, the south-western peninsula of the UK—especially the beaches at Perranporth and Watergate Bay. (Shown here.)

A piece of my heart also remains in the Isles of Scilly, 30-miles off the coast of Cornwall. They fly food and newspapers in every other day, there are no cars (everyone uses golf carts), and it’s a little slice of unspoiled, sub-tropical heaven.

Outside of England, Oregon’s Ecola State Park, Cannon Beach, the Florence Dunes, and California’s Big Sur are amongst my favorites.


4. What is your idea of an absolutely perfect evening?

I could give you a glib ‘watching the sunset with Tom Selleck’ (which sounds pretty good to me). But if I’m honest this is a hard one!

Close friends say I’m a true renaissance woman, which caused me great insult at first because I thought it meant old-fashioned. But it apparently means someone who’s into many different things and has many different interests. And that’s true.

Some might say I seem conflicted because I enjoy seemingly opposite activities. I love the energy and facilities and haute couture of the leading big cities—yet love the solitude and isolation of virgin wilderness.

I love everything from dressing up for the opera, gourmet dining, fine art, and theatre; to sky-diving, off-roading, horseriding, and camping in the wilderness … and just hanging out with my family or friends.

So I guess the perfect evening boils down to who I’m with, rather than what we’re doing. And I’d like to be doing more of it!


5. If you could choose another era of history in which to live, when would it be and where would it be and what would your role be?

Well I know Marie Antoinette got a terrible rap, but when I was 11, I was lucky enough to stay in a French boarding school in the heart of Paris. And I instantly loved all-things French. Still do.

We traveled a lot and some of the history around Marie Antoinette’s time totally engrossed me. I saw her dresses and personal things, and thought she was so fine and glamorous, and had such a fun time that I was enthralled with her and wanted to be just like her. (Hey, I was 11 … I thought Isadora Duncan was a great role model too!)

Now of course, I know that no one wore deodorant, and that my big mouth would have seen me beheaded tout-de suite!

So if the opportunity of time-travel ever arises in my lifetime, I think I’ll go back just a little, and visit Old Hollywood, when big screen movies were just starting to be made … maybe I’d be Kate Hepburn for a day and raise holy hell.

Okay, enough I’s and me’s … thank you Ian, I did enjoy your questions! If you would like to play and have your own 5 questions, let me know and I'll send them on.

inquiring minds

There are many occasions when I’ve avoided panty-lines by skipping underwear underneath a sleek outfit. I’ve sometimes fed junk food to my God-children. And I’ve frequently walked naked around my own home.

I often talk to myself. Speak in funny voices. Chat to my sister in Irish
and Russian accents. Sing because I can. And dance because I can't.

I’ve accidentally driven north on a south-bound one-way street (in London, San Francisco, Madrid and Seattle). Thumbed my nose at the advice of people who know everything, yet have experienced nothing. And reciprocated in kind to those who treat me or mine with disrespect.

So does that make me insane? Would it make me a bad mom? An unfit parent?

I don’t know if Britney Spears is a good, bad, or indifferent mother. She doesn't appear to be making very wise choices of late. But I’m tired of every expert and their brother who once-took-a-psych-class analyzing her behavior from an elevation of 30,000-feet based on hearsay and supposition ‘reporting’.

Maybe inquiring minds should ask how many green dollars the brutish-bodyguard packed in his wallet for the story he sold of Britney allegedly using drugs in front of her kids.

And, more importantly, since Tony Barretto is so ‘deeply concerned’ about the welfare of Brit’s children, maybe we should ask why he’s only just stepped forward—weeks after these events supposedly happened … after he was fired … after he hooked up with TV-hog Gloria Allred. And the month before Kevin Federline’s $20,000 per month alimony expires.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s more that inquiring minds should know.

perfect conditions

How many times has someone said to you “Some day I’m going to write a book …” Or, “When I quit work I’m going to dig out my easel and start painting.” Or maybe, “If I had the money to lock myself away in a mountain cabin, I’d get that screenplay finished.”

I’m guilty of saying similar things myself about a couple of my own pet projects yet to realize fruition. For me, it’s not always the number of paying projects I’m working on that stalls me, but the intensity and timeline of each project. For example, I’m currently working on 11 paid projects, which is down considerably from last month’s count, but the intensity is high and I’m working 7 days a week to maintain. Other months I have just one or two projects that require most of my time.

Last week, when I was interviewing bestselling true-crime author, Ann Rule, she inspired me to realize that—as much as I have to be organized—I often get in my own way.

For one, I like clean, clear and open space to work in, no clutter in sight. And most days I work in nothing less.

Yet, as I write this, at the end of a crazy week where I’ve juggled all day and everyday—as we all do—my desk is overflowing with books to review, publicity material to scan, a phone log with 13 calls to return, marketing collateral for my show, a network folder full of regional events I ‘should’ attend; guest material to research; and a folder full of resumes to sift through so that I have another pair of hands before I tear out what little hair I have left.

There’s a desktop LCD, two live-laptops ready to receive urgent client messages from different sources; a banker’s lamp on the far left corner and an artist’s magnifying light on the right. A bottle of coral nail polish, a vase of past-their-best roses, my old classic-sized DayTimer and my new full-size Covey planner. Then there’s a digital clock, salt rock to dispel negative electrons, three wireless mice, a wireless keyboard, and oops, another bottle of nail polish—this time pink. (Now you know what I do on global conference calls!)

There are two DVD roughs to sign-off on, as well as a list of production credits to proof and approve. Two staplers (don’t you hate when they run out and you’re in a hurry?) and a block of Post-it notes. A “No Whining” sign sits behind a framed plaque saying, “You can be pleased with nothing when you are not pleased with yourself”. (Must remind self of both sayings!) A cell phone, business phone, and an assortment of colored pens so I can color-code my new planner. (…anal?) And no less than two cups of cold coffee and a glass full of Perrier water.

“This is ‘My Life’” … oh no, wait, that’s the Cover Girl commercial.

Back to Ann Rule.

She was a cop turned writer. A single mom who had to find a way to make money when she could no longer be a cop because of eyesight limitations. And she found that way by setting up a typewriter in her kitchen and writing fantasy stories for True Confessions magazine, in and amongst the chaos of raising five children.

“We were so poor, for so long” she said, “but it teaches you, you can write through anything if you’re determined.”

She tells people who talk of seeking perfect conditions, like that cabin in the woods where everything is quiet (or the super clean desk), “It doesn’t work that way. If you want to write [act, paint, dance] you will find a way.”

And despite the huge disappointment of losing her career as a police officer, and her recollections of peeling fighting children off the top of her typewriter, Ann has now made the New York Times bestsellers’ list 26 times.

So, while I take a few minutes to clean and de-clutter my desk, tell me, what perfect conditions are you waiting for?

how vain it is to sit down and write

I've always loved quotes and one of my favorites used to be: "How vain it is to sit down and write, when one has not stood up to live!"

My 12-year-old brother turned blue in the face, then chased me all over the house screaming bloody murder, after he found that quote scrawled in red ink across a blank page of his hidden journal. Thank goodness we ran into dad on the staircase …

Many years later, I still feel guilty for reading every private thought my little brother laid bare on those pages. But I've lost my need to pry and would never do anything like that now. (Honest, I wouldn’t!)

However, I've never lost my love of quotes, and thought I’d share a couple of current favorites that I keep around my desk.

• American writer Williamn Saravon encourages writers to experience life in all its glory! "Try to learn to breathe deeply; really to taste food when you eat; and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”
• Robert Fritz tells us to think outside the box: “If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise.”
• And for those moments when everyone else is an idiot, and nothing works out the way you want it to, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wisely reminds: “You can be pleased with nothing, when you are not pleased with yourself.”

What are your favorite quotes? Have you ever read anyone else’s journal? And if so, did you get caught?

jumping off cliffs

Come to the edge, He said.
They said: We are afraid.
Come to the edge, He said.
They came. He pushed them,
And they flew …

Guillaume Apollinaire
Avant-garde French poet.

I don’t usually talk much about my work, too busy doing it; and I like to pour my energy into the process rather than explaining what I’m working on. But last month, after telling my friend in no uncertain terms (for the umpteenth time and for seven million reasons), “Not happening! Not going to do it!” … I went and did it!

When I took a break from the radio show at the beginning of this year, I intended to be hosting again toward the end of the year, and planned to take my time looking for a new executive producer (EP) to team up with. I wanted to wait until I found someone with a good match of goals, values, and vision; and was willing to be patient.

So even I was surprised, when early in May, I found myself calling several stations to talk about airtime and studio and production costs.

Information gathered, meetings held, discussions clarified, contracts reviewed … now all I had to do was decide. Did I want to do ‘it’?

Well I did want to do it. And without analyzing it to death, I trusted my instinct and took a huge leap of faith—with the stroke a pen, I became my new EP. Done. Dusted. Sorted.

I spent the next week on a roller coaster: It’s thrilling, scary. Exciting, daunting. Energizing, terrifying. Yeay! Aghh!

But life truly is what we make it.

No matter how you define success, there are many times in life when we have to be willing to leap without knowing what’s in front of us. We have to push through our fears, our doubts, and self-prescribed limitations. We have to close our ears to those who say it can’t be done and who try to drag us into their misery pit. We have to fill our minds with the belief that we can accomplish whatever we set out to do; and our hearts with the courage to do it.

So without further ado, I’m jumping right off that cliff, damn it, and building my wings on the way down. See you safely on the ground!

Others who jumped off a cliff (and kept on jumping!)

• Composer Oscar Hammerstein had 5 bombed shows lasting less than 6 weeks in total before Oklahoma! It grossed $7million and ran for 269 weeks.
• Author Tawni O’Dell had 6 unpublished novels and 300 rejection slips over a 13-year period before her first novel was published. When it became an Oprah book club selection, it made the New York Times bestseller list for 8 weeks.
• Admiral Robert Peary reached the North Pole on his 8th attempt.
• Stephen King got so fed up of receiving rejections on his novel Carrie that he threw it in the trash. His wife, Tabitha, retrieved it and sent it back out … we all know what happened next.
• Model/actress Angie Everhart was told by Eileen Ford that redheads don’t sell. Everhart later became the first redhead in history to appear on Glamour magazine and appeared in more than 27 films and now has her own show.
  

What cliffs have you jumped off? How did you build your wings? Maybe more importantly, what cliffs do you regret not jumping off?

someone new

There’s someone new in my life. Don’t get me wrong, he hasn’t replaced the other someone. Let’s just say he’s added a renewed sense of energy and some ... tantalizing new tricks.

We’ve been together only a month, and already, I’m crazy in love! I kept it quiet (until now) because … well … I wasn’t sure it would work out. He’s been around the block a few times—you know how baggage goes—but I thought he was worth the risk.

He’s tall, dark, handsome, and incredibly smart. He's strong, well-traveled, well-mannered, kind, and responsible. Yet he’s wild, adventurous, free-spirited. Very creative. Tons of fun. And he makes me laugh from morning till night.

We’ve kayaked together; sailed, hiked, and climbed rocks. On Wednesday, we watched a grey whale puff his way up the narrows during our early morning constitutional. On Thursday we picnicked on the beach, snuggling close as the sun set. On Friday he brought me crab. Saturday, a seal’s flipper. And this morning … a half eaten fish.

His brows knit together and his soft amber eyes fill with confused disappointment as I squirm at the delicacy of the day, so proudly dropped at my feet. I kiss his nose and ruffle his head, “Good boy Dylan. Come on … let’s go chase seagulls!”

I renamed him Dylan, derived from Welsh mythology: Dy = Great, Lan = God of the Sea, very appropriate since he's of Welsh origin, loves the ocean, and Dylan Thomas is one of my favorite poets. This Great God of the Sea was rescued from an abusive situation in Nebraska. He then spent several months traveling with his rescuer in an 18-wheeler across the States. But it was unfair to keep a working dog confined in a cab, so the trucker reluctantly turned him into PAWS. He was fostered out to a lovely foster mom down on the WA/Oregon border, and then I adopted and brought him up to Seattle. He's a Welsh Border Collie mix, about 2 years old. And he's a keeper!

writing for lemons: part II

If you read writing for lemons-part I, you know exactly why I was sitting slumped at the breakfast table drinking cold coffee.

The shears were being returned. Unopened. I reached for the bag of groceries I’d brought in and started unpacking and ... unpeeling.

Every piece of fruit and veg I’d bought, from bananas, cantaloupe, oranges, apples, lemons, to cucumber, tomatoes, and squash, had an annoying little sticker very firmly attached to the skin. Oh, please!

I began washing and scraping the stickers off two dozen lemons. What words of wisdom are sellers trying to impart to consumers, I wonder? What could possibly be of such great importance that it has to be announced on every single piece of fresh produce?

Was it a health warning about pesticide use? Or had lemons suddenly been linked to cancer? Or brain tumors?

I grabbed the Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass (again) and hovered the lens above the label. Hmm … it ... says … ock!! “LEMON.”

Now, I know firsthand that decisions in corporations are rarely made quickly. So I imagine a typical scenario in making such an earth shattering revelation, and wonder: Who wrote the copy on that? And what was their fee? Was the writer with an ad agency, or was he/she plucked from the marketing team? Who developed the concept? Approved the proof? Did it get redlined and redrafted? Did they use an editor to make sure it was spelled correctly? And most importantly: How many branding hours were billed?

If they are going to take the time to label every piece of food for us ijeet consumers, shouldn’t they also offer the explanation in Spanish? “Limon.” Or is this a subtle way of teaching the English language? You know, like we had labeled picture books in kindergarten … table, chair, bed … lemon.

Seems I have more questions than answers. But, I guess if you can get it, writing for lemons would be a pretty safe gig.

writing for lemons: part I

No, this isn’t a piece about being paid for your writing with lemons. It’s part one of writing for lemons. Confused?

Well let me back up a bit.

It all began when I got frustrated with the Fort Knox of packaging that encased a pair of pruning shears I’d bought on sale at Target. I could not, for the life of me, get the gosh-golly-darn shears out of the plastic tomb they lay in.

After fingers and teeth failed to unravel the seal, I took a large pair of kitchen scissors to the thinnest edge of the package. Then I took my electric carving knife to it. And finally, I ran into the garage and revved up my newly acquired electric hedge clippers. But all to no avail. The shears lay ensconced in plastic, allowing quick-and-easy, front-and-back view, but zero access.

Thinking there must be some new-fangled way into the case, I flipped it over and started reading the instructions printed on the back. Now what’s the point of putting all those words on a package when NO ONE can read them because the font is Times New Roman point-minus-three !

I grabbed the Sherlock Holmes type magnifying glass that I keep with my kitchen utensils …

“Do not chew or swallow casing. Do no cut hair with shears. Do not allow children to play with blades. Do not run with shears. Do not …”

Everything but HOW TO GET THE IJEET SHEARS OUT OF THE PLASTIC CASE.

Grrr. I sat down at the breakfast table and sipped the coffee that had gone cold during the 30 minutes I'd spent fiddling with the shears. And then it occurred to me. Even though they had omitted the crucial step—the key to unlocking the plastic tomb—a writer had actually sat down and written all that junk on the back of the shears.

I rolled my eyes and wondered if it was the copy editor who'd cut the line: “Here’s how to open …”


Part two of writing for lemons next week

mother's day

Oprah says motherhood is the hardest job in the world. And I agree. So in honor of the millions of hardworking, underappreciated mom’s out there, I want to take a moment to recognize moms in general, and mine in particular.

Mother's Day hits my mom twice a year. My brother and sister celebrate the UK Mother’s Day with her in March. And I celebrate (usually from afar) the US Mother’s Day in May. She likes it that way; makes her feel doubly special.

Despite her now chronic disabled physical state, she is a rock. She never complains. Tries always to keep a positive attitude (“ ... who wants to hear about my problems when they have their own ... ” she says). And takes each week one day at a time.

There are many things I could write about her, the list would be long. But many of them are very private, personal memories. So today I want to share just 5 things that I really do appreciate about J, my mom.

• I appreciate that she taught me to write, read, sew, knit, swim, and cook all by the age of 6; and that she engrossed me and my siblings in music, books, films, dance, art, athletics, foreign food and culture … and that she continues to surprise and teach me even today.


• I appreciate that J was always the cool mom; that when my siblings and I threw parties, we could rely on her to mix the best cocktail punch in town … and then discreetly disappear. (Except the time she dressed as a Playboy Bunny, then none of the boys would let her disappear!)


• I appreciate that she cheered me on to run free and see the world after school; that while my friends' mothers all nagged them to “ … find a husband and settle down” close to home, my mother told me over and over “There’s a huge universe out there for you to experience”. Even now, when I know she would love to have me closer to home, she remains adamant that I must lead my own life, wherever that may take me.


• I appreciate that she encouraged me to still be my daddy’s girl, even after they divorced, even though she was really mad with him ( … and even though I was 25 years old at the time!)


• I appreciate that she’s always believed in me, often much more than I believed in myself. And that no matter what time of day or night I’ve called ( … and still call), she’s patiently listened to my most difficult struggles and blackest heartbreaks, and smiled at my over-the-top joyful hysteria or garbled excitement about nothing-much-at-all. And most importantly, she’s listened to all that garbage without judging me ... or mine.

I know that was 5, but this last one is so much a part of who J is that I can't leave it out.

I appreciate her self-effacing humor and no BS British Bulldog character, which has picked us up during tough times, taught us to celebrate the good times, and allows no place for moping, pity, or grandiosity—from self or others. (She’s probably asking for a gag bucket right now as she reads my list.)

With that said, and to quote a wise-wise woman, “Let's get moving! All this lallygagging won’t buy the baby a new dress!!” ... and I have to get back to work.

Love you ma! x
Photos of J and grandkids at her 70th birthday, May 2006.

skipping me

I’m known as the change manager. The one they can count on, no matter what. Need a nightmare project delivered on time and within budget? Vicki’s it. Need a group of employees shaped into a sharp-winning team? Vic’s got it covered. Need a bloody no-hope concept (that someone else abandoned and no one else will tackle because it’s in a thousand pieces) refocused and produced to quality standards? Vicki will rise to the challenge.

So it totally confounds and DISGUSTS me, (yes I meant to shout disgusts!) that when I make promises to myself—to me, the only being on earth that I have any control over—I often break them!

Sure, I could teach you the principles behind human motivation and performance improvement. I’ve read all the psychology books on why people sabotage themselves: fear of success, fear of rejection, fear that we don’t deserve whatever it is we promise ourselves ... the list goes on ... and on.

I’ve studied profiles on extraordinary leaders; and theories on short-term versus long-term achievement, instant versus delayed gratification. And listened to CD recordings that tell listeners in cooing tones: “ … you deserve the love/job/house/life (you fill the blank) that you desire. But first you must love yourself. Repeat after me: … I love myself … I. LOVE. ME. …”

Hmm … skipping right along … for me it’s all about habits. And over the past couple of years, my once exceptionally healthful habits have gradually been overturned by Skipping.

Skipping is a good habit, you say! Yeah, but I mean the other kind of skipping. Skipping meals, skipping sleep, skipping workouts.

So last weekend I sat down—and in writing—fully committed myself. Not to an asylum (which is arguably where I belong), but to regaining good health habits. No excuses. No negotiation. No skipping.

Preparing for the new me, I even dusted down my bike and threw it in the back of the SUV.

Tomorrow’s a new and exciting day full of wonderful opportunities!

• Monday’s Ideal: One commits 100% to good health habits
  To bed (sleep!) by 11 pm. Up by 6 am.
  Eat 6 small meals throughout the day, starting with early breakfast.
  Last snack by 7 pm.
  Cycle or walk x 30 mins per day.
  Weights x 20 mins, alt repping.
  Etc, etc, etc.

Tuesday’s Reality: One is a pathetic loser
Flopped on top of the bed at 1:30 am. Not sleepy, flicked through TV.
Got up and danced an Irish jig at 2.01 to the theme music of 'Crossing Jordan' (can never resist a chance to throw my arms in the air and kick up my heels).
Fell asleep with timer on TV at 2:30-something. Up at 7.30 am.
Breakfast … um…
Lunch … errr … Healthful snacks? Dinner???
Yeah but I did eat at 4 pm. And again at 9 pm.
Walk? Well … yeah but I did rush around all day. Ran from the car to studio. From car to Federal Express. From car to Trader Joe’s. From car to Café Diallo. From car to library.
Weights? … does humping my bike into the back of the SUV count?

Sigh …

Yeah, but, tomorrow’s a new and exciting day full of wonderful opportunities.

*Thanks everso to Vicky Pollard of Little Britain for pic!

the girl in grey

Chin tucked down, eyes lowered to the splintered wooden floorboards, she shuffled forward in line with 124 other homeless people seeking food and shelter that night. The cuffs of her silver grey suit shone with wear; the heels of her black pumps sloped down on the outer edge. She carried a small black purse, hooked over her head and shoulder, and wrapped a black overcoat around her arm.

Every two steps, she leaned forward a little, shunting a battered suitcase in front of her with the side of her leg. She was blond and pale and baby-faced, but I guessed she was in her mid-twenties.

Earlier, we’d filmed outside the building but weren’t allowed to shoot or conduct interviews inside the shelter, so Scott tucked our camera and sound gear under one of the large standard army equipment desks that doubled as a buffet table. For all intents and purposes, I was just another faceless volunteer serving the needy.

I spooned pale gravy over the plate of mashed potato and dry chicken that the girl held out to me, and made some stupid remark about enjoying her meal. She didn’t meet my gaze, or return my smile, but turned away with a barely whispered “Thank you.”

As other ‘guests’ came back for seconds, or to share their stories of the day now behind them, I looked around the room for the girl who didn’t belong here. She was in the far corner, rolling out one of the yoga-like mats that the homeless were given to sleep on. Between each mat and the stranger next to it, lay only 18-inches of bare floor.

There were drunks here. Others who were clearly meth and heroin addicts. There were the paranoid, the ranting, the scathing. There were the grateful, the helpful, the humble. There were the mentally ill, the physically challenged, and the folks who pushed life beyond the edge.

And then there was the girl in grey.

Who was she? Was this her first night at the shelter? Was she a regular? Did she have family? Or friends? A job? Why was she here tonight?

The shelter manager asked us to leave so the guests could prepare for lights out. Scott lugged our heavy equipment and I followed behind, looking one last time over my shoulder at the girl in grey. She was kneeling on her mat, head tucked in silent prayer.

We threw the gear in the back of the van and remained mute until Scott dropped me at my front door. “Heavy, huh?” he looked over the top of his glasses.

Next evening—and the next—I went back to the shelter. No Scott. No video equipment. Just me and a glimmer of hope.

I wasn’t looking for ‘a story’; I wanted to talk to her, to hear her story. I hung around the square outside the front door watching the expressions on the faces of the homeless flip from anxiety to relief as they were head-counted indoors, assured of a mat for the night. But I never saw her again.

Occasionally, the glance or gesture of a stranger, sparks a memory of that night and the girl who didn't belong there. So I pause for a moment, wondering what truth the girl in grey could tell these years later … and, although I’ll never know who she was or what story she had to tell, I truly want to believe that she found the happiest of endings.

child heart

"The great man is he that does not lose his child's heart.” Menius
“Bang! Stick ‘em up mummy. Bang! Bang!”

But instead of raising her arms in the air, her mother took a photograph. This child never had to be told to smile for the camera—her eyes twinkled mischievously and she laughed every day, brimming with an abundance of love and compassion, hope and wonder, joy and curiosity.
 

She had not a fear in the world. She knew she was loved. Knew she was safe. Knew she was precious. And she reciprocated.

She adored her mom. Worshipped her dad. And kissed and cuddled and dressed My Lady in discarded baby clothes, far beyond the tolerance of most long-suffering rescue dogs.

She had a brother two years her junior. His special name was Coco and she loved to squeeze his coco-puff cheeks and kiss his pursed red lips, never quite sure if he was trying to cuddle her back, or push her away.

And now—after spending a week with her cousins—she'd come home to a brand new baby sister.

She couldn’t pronounce the baby's name, but slapped her hands tight against her own cheeks and gasped "Pretty pretty Kaya,” as they met for the first time. She snuggled into Kaya's neck, sniffing her baby-smell, and gently slid her small hands under baby's shoulders to lift her from the cot.  Her mother reached over and whispered “Let’s go outside and play while baby sleeps.”

Straightening her Sheriff’s hat, she raced downstairs and into the yard.

She couldn’t wait until her brother could run—then she’d have had a real bad cowboy to chase! (No way was she giving up her Sheriff’s badge.) And when her sister was big enough to climb on the shiny, black wooden pony that daddy had carved, she’d make her a deputy. That would make the new baby feel special. She smiled and her tummy tickled and tickled inside.  Nanny said those were butterflies, and she had a belly full, fluttering and dancing around. Life could get no better …

“Bang. Bang. Stick ‘em up mummy. Bang. Bang.”

 ~ ~

Like an ever-burning flame, the essence of who we are flickers within us forever. It may get blown around a little. Or quiver for a while. It may feel dampened—weighed down by this journey called life. We may be brought to our knees by the cruel grip of grief, or the crushing black pain of betrayal and heartbreak. Our very essence may feel scorched. Blistered and damaged beyond repair. The flame gone. Burned out.

But it’s not.

No matter how small, or how dim, the spark is always there. Smoldering eternal.

When we are weary or fearful, confused, or tearful, we need to be still. We need to look deep inside ourselves and nurture the ember, rekindling the unique and wondrous essence that we each brought with us into the world. We need to refuel. To reconnect with the earth. To tease the flame. Gently. Gently. Until it glows. Until the ember grows strong. Until it once again flames. Not so that we can be who we once were—but so that we can become, so much more.
"For it is better to have a heart without words, than words without a heart. " John Bunyan.

remember when they'd pass a silver plate?

Dark and mysterious secrets remain locked in the tall cloisters and shadowy tombs of Tewkesbury Abbey Gloucestershire, England. Since the eighth century the medieval abbey has survived the blood of war, fire, famine, flood. And now plastic ...

For your convenience ...

redefining time

Unless you're lucky enough to live on your own private island (and believe me, I’m saving for mine!) there must be times when almost every working person feels somewhat overwhelmed by trying to keep up with daily events.

I don’t have to list the sources of our overload. Suffice to say that most of my colleagues—and I’m sure it’s the same for you—receive between 150 and 400 business emails every day.

Many of these solicit responses, which in turn, demand further attention. And that’s before you add daily or routine responsibilities, and before you’ve carved out time for special projects, meetings, business-related travel, professional development, networking. Or that thing called a life!

For 13 years I’ve been a proponent of Stephen Covey’s old catchphrase: “Why just manage your time, when you can LEAD your life?” But the work world has changed dramatically since he introduced his Quadrant II, First Things First philosophies, and just as we upgrade technology to keep pace, we must also upgrade our thinking and re-evaluate work habits.

Like most people, I frequently work according to other’s schedules. But on days or weeks when I’m driven only by deadlines, I’ve adapted a method of redefining my time using Jack Canfield’s Breakthrough Results Time System.*

Canfield breaks his week into three kinds of days: Best Results Days, Preparation Days, and Rest & Recreation Days.

Best Results Days: On these days, you’re seeking a high return on your investment of time by spending at least 80% of the day focusing directly on your primary area of expertise, or as Canfield calls it, your core genius, i.e. the one thing you do really well and enjoy doing so much that you would do for nothing. This might be writing, speaking, teaching, painting, sculpting, coaching, filming, editing, designing, negotiating, building.

Preparation Days: Consider this as prep time, crucial to making the most of your best results days. This might include planning a new product line, developing resources, training new team members, seeking out a life coach or mentor, hiring a housekeeper, learning new skills, writing copy for a seminar, or selecting images for a marketing presentation. Assuming you have available resources, delegate anything you don’t do well or don’t enjoy doing—this will free up more time to pour into best results days.

Rest & Recreation Days: Usually the first thing we give up when we’re super busy, but vitally important for renewed creativity, mental clarity, and life balance. Adopting Canfield's rules, an R & R day extends from midnight to midnight and involves NO work-related activity whatsoever! That means you are ‘unavailable’ to clients, staff, vendors, and anyone or anything else business related. I know many who will shrug and say they simply can’t do this, and I’ve been guilty of it myself, but honestly, is the world going to stop if you take one day off? (If you answered yes to that question, get over yourself!! ;-)

The key to making any system work is to remain flexible and— keeping the big picture in mind—set clear expectations and boundaries with yourself and those who work alongside you.

In a typical week, I plan two prep days and three-to-four best results days, but as with anything, this changes week to week; sometimes day to day. And since I spend so much time hunched over a keyboard for work, I have one full day a week where I absolutely refuse to even look at a PC.

How about you: Do you ever feel like stopping the world for a day or two? And if so, how do you cope? What work/life balance tips do you have to share?


*The Success Principles™ How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be by Jack Canfield.

jet lag ramblings

I read years ago that when you wake in the middle of the night, keeping one eye closed ensures that you’ll go back to sleep with ease. Haven’t found it to work for myself, but nevertheless I still open only one eye. 1:50 am. Sigh … I am NOT getting up.

Seven minutes, a million thoughts, much pillow-puffing, and two impossibly fidgety legs later I throw back the duvet and jump out of bed. It’s pitch black. And silent outside, except for a heavy stream of rain rushing down the storm drain. I nudge the shower lever to maximum red and step inside, groaning in semi-masochistic pleasure as the stinging heat smoothes the cricks of a restless sleep.

I’ve been fighting this all week. After five weeks overseas, I’m stuck on Greenwich Mean Time; up by 2 am—a living, breathing zombie by 6:30 pm.

The good news is that I’ve wrapped at least eight hours work before 10 am every day. And in the peace of the early hours, the world outside my window presents an entirely different perspective.

Ideas that seemed ridiculous or tough to fulfill at two in the afternoon, seem reasonable and easily achievable at 3 am. Logic that eluded me at 8 pm, is razor sharp at 4 am. Challenges that made me want to hide my face in the pillow at 11 pm, become great opportunities at 6 am.

The bad news is that I have dark shadows under my eyes and my eyebrows are permanently raised in an attempt to pull open my eyelids. Plus, my current hours are just plain anti-social.

Four-thirty-am and I’m starving. I mean, eat the whole horse and tail, ravenous. (Although as a vegetarian I don’t recommend horse or tail.) So I pull on my ski jacket and head to the only local place open at this hour … Denny’s.

I feel bad about this, because for a couple of years after reading Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed, On (Not) Getting by in America, I boycotted all franchise diners and discount stores whose employees worked for poverty-level wages.

But today I’m beyond hungry, I’m belly-growling famished, and it’s the only place open at 4.30 am. I vow to thank the waiter for covering the midnight-to-six shift and promise to tip generously.

life's seasons

I have three prints on my studio wall. I bought them in the tiny English fishing village of Mevagissey, Cornwall, several years ago while visiting family.

Something intangible drew me to the women in the prints; I studied their faces and the unspoken details of their body language. Each had a silent strength about them, a look of quiet courage deep in their eyes.

They represented three generations of a native Indian family, each understanding and embracing their individual and collective responsibilities within the tribe. They were women who could climb over or around any obstacle; who would do whatever it took to keep those close to them safe and warm and loved.

Each of the women became instantly symbolic of the three generations of women in my family. Myself and my sister; my mother, and grandmother. I’ve seen the prints that way for almost a decade, periodically drawing strength from the still courage and hushed knowing in each of the women’s faces.

But life goes on and the eldest of our generation died just weeks before my eldest niece-and-God-child, and her twinkle-eyed Irish partner, began their own family.

I knew that in the measures of time, things had shifted. I knew that we’d lost a generation, gained a new one. I knew that in theory I was no longer represented by the youngest member of the three strong Native Indian women hanging on my wall—and that I had a new role to fulfill in life’s cycles. Still, I was reluctant to move up, to be represented by the older, middle generation.

But when I flew to England and held my great-niece for the first time, what I already understood on an intellectual level, shifted on a more spiritual level.

I loved this baby from the second she was born, before I even saw her. And as I felt and smelled and kissed her soft skin, blew raspberries on her long fidgety legs, pulled up the pale pink socks around her ankles, I loved her even more.

I knew with fleeting, bittersweet emotion, that with the birth of this precious beautiful being the seasons had moved on without me. And by the forces of nature—like it or not/ready or not—I had already moved up to the middle of our tribe.

the road less traveled

There are those who are meant to be lifelong employees. You know them. They think in terms of "Company Benefits".

They like the illusion of belonging to a collective, an ensemble—not necessarily a team, but a group of similar beings cocooned in a common environment, working toward a common company goal.

They talk of established procedures and process improvement. They’re hooked into that Monday through Friday thing. Two, three, four-weeks paid vacation. Sick leave. Holiday pay.

They’re often more codependent than interdependent, feeding on bigger- better-brighter corner offices, and the occasional cluster recognition. And unless very ambitious, they are usually quite content to move ‘according to standard performance expectations’, within the constraints of the path already worn.

There are those who are not meant to be lifelong employees. You know them too.

They think in terms of the three P's: Passion, Potential, Possibilities. They might be drawn to more innovative projects and careers, seeking more responsibility, more creativity, more flexibility, more self-expression. They might be motivated by intrinsic values such as being their own boss or building an empire. They might simply choose to live life on their own terms, to gain broader life and career experiences.

Or they might be stoked, deep from within, by the desire to look life in the face. To learn and stretch beyond prior successes; to create and serve a mission in life. They are change-makers, feeding on challenging themselves, on growing, on making a difference. Striving to earn the epitaph they want etched on their tombstone, they relinquish the path well-worn and tread their own.

Which road will you travel?

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (1874~1963)

birthday road trip

Have you ever stopped to think about what your birthday really means to you...I mean beyond birthday cards, cream frosted cake, and gifts from loved ones?

My best friend for many years succumbed to cancer six years ago. I cried for her. Cried for her babies. And as her birthday loomed (five weeks ahead of mine) I felt an ache in my heart that she’d never see her five kids grow up. And how that day, for them, would never again be a time of joyous celebration, no matter how positive a spin they applied, or how brave a face they learned to wear.

I tell you this, not for empathy, but because it made me look
differently at birthdays and the traditional celebration around them; and five years ago, I began my own tradition.

Every year during my birthday month, I go on a four or five-day road trip. I make no serious plans, other than my first night’s accommodation. And make few rules, except that I go alone. No exceptions. I take no laptop, no Blackberry, no Sidekick. I don’t check voice or email, and my cell phone remains turned off.

I travel lightly. But there are some things I always pack and one of those things is my copy of The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, now so dog-eared that it’s held together with tape, and so overly marked with neon yellow highlighter and red exclamation points that there are few pages left as the publisher intended. I may re-read some of it. All of it. Or none of it.

My oversize black leather-bound sketch book also goes with me. Not because I sketch. But so that I can brainstorm and scribble and mind-map whatever pops into my head without being restricted by blue lines breaking up the page, or the size limitations of a normal notebook.

I take good hiking boots and two waterproof jackets. And even if it hails and storms all day long, I walk for a couple of hours every day, preferably on the beach, wind in the hair, feet splashing in the shallow surf. I also pack today’s favorite chi-chi outfit and four-inch-heels so I can take myself out to at least one super fancy dinner.

Without pressure, I like to reflect on the past year: Did I do what I set out to do? Did I enjoy it? Was it worth it? And assuming I’m lucky enough to have a next year, I think about new projects I want to develop. I think about what I want to do more of, less of; where I want to give my time and energy, and with whom I want to spend it. And I think about how I can make a difference, in my own small way.

This year I don’t feel like driving somewhere different each day as I have on past road trips. So I’ve booked a beachfront suite on one of my favorite beaches. There’s a large writing desk facing the ocean, and the French windows open onto white sand that stretches south for several miles. I’m looking forward to being lulled to sleep by crashing surf. And nudged awake by crying seagulls and 5-star room service.

When I get home, always invigorated, always reignited with passion and reverence for this life we live, I begin my New Year—the day after my birth day. This tradition is my birthday gift to myself. I hope you do something nice for yourself on your own special day.

Smile at the Rain artwork by Beth Hendrickson Logan.