Realizing you are not the Center of the Universe

Yesterday, January 18, 2011, was a day of epiphany for me.

You see, until yesterday, I thought I was the center of the universe.  I existed to be the focus of attention at a party, the witty joke-deliverer, the one who made people laugh.  The one who was chosen for extra special assignments, for the writing jobs because of my excellent word choice.  The problem-solver.  The representative.  The level-headed one that could lead the group to success.

And yesterday, I gave up that role to others.  And with it, I gave up my self-perceived and  immense responsibility for saving the world.  I am free to live my life as a regular person.  I can enjoy my family, and can sit on the couch for four hours knitting without guilt.  I can draw a picture if I want to, or write a poem without the need to publish it and receive accolades from all that read it.

I am free!

At the ripe age of 45, I have realized that it’s not necessary to carry the world on my shoulders.  I can be a normal person without the need to be an overachiever.  What a relief and what a breath of fresh air.

So today, when things got rough, and I would normally have stepped in and led the team without being asked, I sat on the sidelines and observed.  I pictured myself as the wizened Eskimo elder, knowing that I could solve the problem but not forcing the solution on others.  I let them solve the problem, and when they looked to me for confirmation that their decision was a viable one, I simply nodded my head and let them take the credit.

What bliss.

Are You a Bird Perched Alone?

Do You Feel Disconnected from the World?

Last week a series of horrible and vulgar events sent me spiraling downwards into a pool of pity. In my eyes the world was against me and despite all my knowledge of the powers of manifestation, I couldn’t change my negative mood into a positive one. I locked myself away from the rest of the world and stewed.

I tried counting my blessings, and there were dozens, thankfully, but this time that didn’t seem to help. I planted flowers (they died), baked muffins, and got a new haircut. Still…I was in the pits, disconnected from the rest of the world.

And then I remembered what Aristotle said: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit.”

How long was I going to keep up this habit of thinking negative thoughts? The constant repetition would create…you got it…a habit. So once I realized that this negative habit didn’t fit into my master plan, the decision to lose the negativity–to delve back into humanity–and to show my excellence again was an easy transition for me. After all, that is my (and your) natural state.

 

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God’s Faithful Servants Judging Others

I Truly Doubt that God Hates Fags

I felt sick inside when I read about the upcoming Supreme Court case of a radical church’s right of free speech to protest a fallen soldier’s funeral. According to this article, the Westboro Baptist Church picketed Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder’s 2006 funeral in Westminster, Md., because it believes troops’ deaths are God’s revenge for the United States’ tolerance of gays.

Let’s get real here. This is not about free speech. This is a case of judgment.

First, we know that Baptists refuse to interpret the Bible any other way than literally.  That means that whichever old man wrote whichever book they are reading, and whichever translator translated it into English, was doing so with the exact syntax intended by our Lord above.  Nothing lost in translation here, could there be, folks?  I may be pissing off 35 million people out there for what I am saying, but I really don’t care, because I am a sinner in your eyes anyway.

Christianity is about giving, loving, and lack of judgment.  That part of the Bible, if you read it literally, is pretty darn clear.

So how could these monsters, who call themselves faithful to God, speak out about their fellow man in such a judgmental manner when they can visibly see people suffering at the loss of a loved one?  Can they really be so offended and threatened by something that doesn’t match their (myopic) beliefs that they must lash out in anger?  That they must put  “GodHatesFags.com” on a T-shirt and make an 11-year old girl parade around in it?

For these children will be making laws someday, will be lynching people on trees in the forest, will be scorning society’s advances because of an ancient book that was written by dozens of people, and translated dozens of times throughout the years.  That, to me, is scary.  That, to me, is tearing down what the modern world is attempting to do in its shift toward spiritualism. Read the book, folks, and understand that it was meant for guidance, and it does not give us judgment rights against our brothers.

It’s fear that creates the feeling of offense.  It’s the inability to put oneself in another’s shoes, and judgment of a person’s outer shell rather than of his soul.  It’s the lack of certainty about who we really are that makes us offended, because if someone else believes differently from us, then we must protect our beliefs lest the ego begin to falter.  It’s sad, but we all do it sometime or another and it affects our life and all others we meet.

It takes great effort to see a soul in today’s times.  When so much focus is put on the outside, we make our shallow judgments based on external criteria rather than the more spiritual kind.  And because we must protect, at all costs, our tiny selves.

The Universe is full of so many choices–neither good nor bad–but merely those with different consequences.  Those that choose to judge others for the sake of preserving their antiquated notions about “what God wants” from us will experience a very different life than those of us that choose to see the soul and know that we are ALL God’s people.

I know which life I choose.  And I can pretty much bet that God doesn’t hate fags.  (There I go, sinning again).

Misjudged First Impressions

Recently, I was shopping for a horse that I could just throw a saddle on and ride around the neighborhood. I already share a beautiful Arabian mare, but she is a prima donna that hates to get her hooves dirty. Not the right horse for riding around the neighborhood.

I scoured the papers, online classifieds, Horse Training Sites, and the feed store bulletin board for the perfect horse. There were gorgeous options–Quarter Horses, Friesians, Saddlebreds and Paso Finos with shiny coats and proud stances.

And then I came across an ad on Craig’s List: “APQA Paint Horse, $900″

And memories of my childhood dreams arose of riding bareback across the plains just like Pocahontas did…and I had to further investigate the advertisement. The pictures were fuzzy, but there was a You Tube video that showed the horse jumping in an arena. From a fuzzy distance, she looked like a decent horse for the money. So out I drove, all the way across town, to see her in person.

She was mixed with 26 other horses, grazing in a field. Her markings were, well, odd. Not the beautiful cow spots that most of you are used to in a paint horse. She is an overo, which looked like someone had splattered bleach on her brown coat, leaving tiny, irregular white spots in really strange places. She is no beauty; she was a hundred pounds underweight, filthy and had matted mane and tail–but her eyes were clear, and she seemed to have the disposition I was looking for. Calm, easy to ride, not readily excitable.

It turns out that this owner had taken the horse as repayment of a debt that was owed to her–exactly $900–and wanted to turn the horse into cash, thus eliminating one more mouth to feed. It was obvious that she didn’t want to put too much effort into restoring the horse back to health, although I give her credit for taking better care of her than her previous bankrupt owner.

So I wrote the check, and she delivered the horse, complete with papers, to the riding facility where I had rented a stall. This facility housed show horses, and sported teenage girls posting with their black velvet caps darting up and down on their perfectly clipped trotting mounts. The arrival of my horse caused quite a stir–a silent one, if you get my drift–not because of her beauty, but rather because of the lack of it. On this property full of high-maintenance show horses, mine stumbled out of the trailer like a homeless bum after he finishes his wine in the bag. Shaggy, dirty, with hay in her forelock, she looked around in fright at all of the horror struck people with gaping mouths.

I had bought a nag.

“She’s got a great disposition,” I told my disbelieving friends. “She just needs a little training and care.” They said nothing, but their lips were pursed, and their gazes turned away from my new horse and far across the field.

The trainers were ever positive, since they were being paid well to do as much as they could do in 30 days. They made no promises. We put her in her stall, which must have looked like Plum Sykes’ penthouse to her, where she ate for 2 hours straight. I named her “Tuesday.”

At first, the reports from the trainers were grim, and the other horse owners made a wide berth when we went a-walking. But then, last night, we worked her again, and the real Tuesday started to emerge. With food in her stomach, and attention directed toward her training, I could finally see a glimpse of the horse she would be. She held her head higher, her gait was more steady as she regained musculature and balance, and her willingness to please her rider was evident now that she was no longer starving.

I am not so sure she is the kind of horse I can just throw a saddle on and ride around the neighborhood.

But I am sure that she was meant to be with us at this time…to teach us that first impressions aren’t always right, no matter what psychologists say the statistics are. After all, what if she were human? Unkempt, unfed, forgotten and lost. We see them all the time, and many of us are quick to judge the external appearance rather than considering the soul that is trapped inside.

Here’s a video of the real “Tuesday” the day before I brought her home.

Balancing Time

Living is so much fun with all the vast possibilities it allows us.  In one day, you could learn about modern art, learn how to make exotic drinks fit for mini umbrellas, sign up for a Mandarin language class, and experiment with a new sake and Sapporo combination.  And during the slow times, you can dream about having a show on the Travel Channel, plan your next book, and research zip lining in your next tropical destination.  Yet when is your mind just too full to consider any more possibilities? My mind?  Full all the time with all the things I’d love to do.

Sometimes we have to consider how much extra time there is in our day and make decisions as to what is most important to us.  For despite all the beautiful opportunities presented to us, there’s still only so much our minds can handle.   What happens is that when we make too many plans, nothing gets done. Because although we start our new projects with verve and vigor, often we realize that all of those other things we’ve started before haven’t been finished yet–and now we’re overloaded with tasks that seem like chores.

So despite all of the wonderful stuff we can learn and do, start one and finish it so you can add another accomplishment to your list.  After all, there will always be something else to start.

Guilt-Free Secret Keeping

As we age, one of the things we (hopefully) learn is how to keep a secret. When a friend confides in you, they are demonstrating their trust in you. Yet we love to show others how much we know, whether to gain status, recognition or prestige. In my twenties, this was the thing to do–to pass on my knowledge of another’s secret situation to show that I could be trusted. What lunacy!

Now that I have passed 40, I have learned to keep my mouth shut because NOT saying anything gets me much further in life with those I really care about. Case in point:

Once, in one of my early retail jobs, a friend confided in me that he would be leaving the company. Juicy information, no doubt, since management had no idea of his impending resignation. But I wanted his hours, which were more desirable than mine. So I went right to the supervisor to ask if I could change my hours to his “if” he left. Oh, I thought I was smooth, planting that seed. But my supervisor detected my excitement, and put two and two together. Needless to say, it ended badly, because my colleague was led out the next day with no notice due to “security reasons,” and not only did I lose a friend in him, my supervisor considered me a tattletale and my hours stayed the same.

Well maybe it took me twenty years of like situations to get it through my thick skull that the value keeping a secret extends beyond a simple trust issue; and the Universe decided to test my strength on this factor once more. Fast forward to this year, when a friend let me know she was leaving her job to start her own business. Oooh, here’s the rush again, for I knew something that will impact not only my team but the possibly the entire company that employed her. But this time, I sat back and measured the consequences. Who would benefit from my keeping my mouth shut this time? Well, obviously she would, since she could continue making her business plans while still employed there; I would, since I can show that I am trustworthy. Who would suffer? The company might, as it finds itself understaffed for a time until she could be replaced.

I asked myself: who is more important to me?

Well, in the grand scheme of things, friendship trumps a job anytime. Even in this depressed economy, I wouldn’t be sitting on my deathbed worrying about whether my boss thought I was a good employee. I would be concerned that my friends considered me a reliable, loving companion. So another lesson learned, and one step closer to guilt-free secret keeping.




When Your Countrymen Show their True Faces

Last week I was in Panama, which is known for a large presence of ex-pats from the United States.  Although most of the ex-pats that choose to move there permanently–for the near-American lifestyle without the conspicuous consumerism and general selfishness of its North American counterpart–were kind and like-hearted lovers of life, the visitors who were there for a short time stuck out like sore thumbs among the soft-spoken and humble Panamanians.  Being an American who was visiting with an intention to retire there, I was stuck in the middle, yet I bordered on sympathy for the natives who suffered from the derision, disrespect and condescension of my visiting fellow countrymen.

“If Panama is going to make it, they have to step it up.  This service stinks.”

“See this thing the Indians made?  It’s cut out of a nut called the tagua.  I think it’s ugly, but if you have some aunt somewhere that likes this kind of stuff, you can buy it here.”

“This place is so behind the times.  I don’t know how people can live like this.”

These were some of the statements I collected, and cringed at hearing, on my recent stay in Panama.

Although I love my country, I was shocked and disgusted at the treatment those people endured from the tourists visiting their homeland.  They were expected to speak English, and if they didn’t, then they were fair game to be discussed in the presence of those that did.

My question  to them and to anyone else who would suggest that all people should adopt our (insane and unhealthy) lifestyle:

Why don’t you stay home if you like it so much?  Why bother traveling?

The key to guilt-free travel is to embrace the differences from the place in which we normally exist, drink in the uniqueness of the lifestyle and leave a benevolent footprint.  Let’s thank our hosts and return with positive experiences to pass on to those at home.

Prejudice at the Gym

I work out at a gym that is full of stereotypes.  There’s the “meatheads” that pump up their biceps and then spend their rest time flexing them in front of the mirror.  There’s the college girls with the sports bra and low-rise yoga pants and sculpted stomachs.   Teased-up ponytailed lithe fairy yoga girls and over-aerobicized models lacking child-bearing hips.  Of course there’s normal people, too, with oversized t-shirts and sweaty backs toting their bottled water from machine to machine.

But there’s one regular denizen of my gym who was sure to send me into a tizzy every time I saw her.  She is maybe 5’2″, 90 pounds, with smooth tanned skin and size 56 DDD additions to her chest that she has a difficult time covering, if she had an inkling to attempt covering them at all.  Smacking gum like a junior-high student, she would work with the free weights, the exercise ball, the cable machines, all the time viewing herself in the ample mirrors.  Everyone–especially the meatheads–knows her, and she is jovial to anyone that speaks to her.  She never speaks to me, since I spend most of my time glaring at her and never attempted to strike up a conversation.  Of course my boyfriend knows her well, because they use the same machines in the northeast corner of the gym.

She’s a stripper–no surprise– but to me she was a threat for no good reason.  For she embodied the kind of person that spent all of her time focusing on her external appearance in order to please others.  After all, that’s how she makes her money,  pleasing others with the body she spends so much time perfecting.  She was the embodiment to me of the perfect little love doll that every man wanted purely for pleasure; and that to me was somehow sleazy, undermining healthy relationships with the allure of easy sex.  But as I watched this woman so different from me, I recognized a trigger in myself from some past experience where I had felt like I was not enough–and I redirected my thoughts to remind myself that we are all one.  She was simply different than me, but still a human with wants and needs and issues.  Perhaps she wasn’t the Jezebel I wanted her to be.  For all I knew she was putting herself through law school, or paying her grandmother’s nursing home expenses and dancing was a way to make that happen with the gifts she was given.

So a few days ago, I stopped glaring at her, and started smiling at her.  I haven’t received a smile back yet, but I am sure it will come in time when she realizes that I accept her for who she is, not what she looks like or how she earns her living.

Saying No to Yourself

It seems like when we were kids, we heard “no” far more often than we ever heard “yes.”  Of course, I know that it was in our own best interest that our parents made these decisions on our behalf, since they were protecting us from things and situations that we didn’t know were harmful.  But to a kid, it’s just a bummer to be shot down when our thirst for learning and new experiences is at an all-time high.  So when we grow up, we don’t want to have to say no to ourselves…after all, we are making decisions for ourselves now, and we are willing to accept the consequences for our poor decisions.

This, of course, leads to all sorts of vices, as many of our decisions are made for the purposes of instant gratification–ask anyone with a sizable handbag collection and I’m sure they will concur–rather than what’s really best for us.  We don’t want to miss out on any situations that could bring us joy or freedom; but this can lead to decisions that we later regret.

Take a serious night of drinking for example, or the Ding Dong-eating binge one night when those little black and white rolled cakes just looked too good to leave any in the box.  And then the next day comes along, and we wish we had said “no” to ourselves much like our parents had.  And what’s worse, we don’t learn the first time we do it, either.  It can take multiple examples of the same miserable experience to learn that some actions just don’t serve us.  If perhaps we could learn from our experience the first time, then when that second chance at failure is presented to us, we can make an alternate decision–which may actually include the word “no.”

The Gossip Boomerang

Admit it…we all do it.  There’s the really annoying girl with bad habits two cubicles down that you just can’t wait to hear about.  After all, if she misbehaves on Friday night and your friends were there to see the debacle, of course they’ll talk about it.  And because it’s juicy information, you have to listen.  You may or may not pass the information on, but if it’s that torrid, wouldn’t you just be the informed one at the next gossip gathering?

Yet in this world of expanding awareness, I would implore you to think a step further than your immediate gratification.  If your friends are willing to talk to you about someone’s actions while the subject of the gossip isn’t there to defend herself, why wouldn’t they talk about yours while you weren’t there either?

Clean as the driven snow, are you?  Show me someone that truly is.

Now perhaps one in a thousand doesn’t really give a crap whether others talk about him or not.  But odds are, you’re one of those who does care.  For the rest of us, gossip is nothing more than disrespect for another person–and we partake in it for one of three reasons:

• It makes you feel better about yourself
• It takes attention away from yourself
• It brings attention to yourself

Let me explain each of these briefly:

It makes you feel better about yourself

Yes, you know what’s happening with ev–erybody and all your snitches trust you with this clandestine information…and in order to show others that you are in with the IN people, you demonstrate this knowledge to anyone who will stand around long enough.

It takes attention away from yourself

If you can dish out the dirt on someone else, maybe those who question your character or its actions may overlook your faults.

It brings attention to yourself

Love to be the center of the crowd, do you?  Did you bring your own soapbox to the party or did you use the host’s?  Chances are you love to be heard, and dealing out trash about others brings ears closer that may not have ever given you a chance otherwise.
Many years ago,  I visited a sports bar after work for a drink with a few co-workers.  I danced one line dance with a beer in my hand, played a video game and left 20 minutes later.  When I returned to work the next day to winks, nudges and cries to “show me more!” I finally had to ask someone why everyone was acting that way.

“Don’t you remember?  Maybe you were too drunk to recall dancing on the bar in your bra.”

Wow.  That wasn’t me, for sure.  But someone decided to play Whisper Down the Lane, and look what happened to my quiet night with one beer.

So next time you hear the gossip flying, stand up for the absent person and defend her.  Or if you can’t do that, walk away.  She probably only had one beer and went home anyway.

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