Archive for the ‘Overcoming Delusion’ Category


Posted: March 2, 2011 in Overcoming Delusion


Asking for help is one of the fricking hardest things to do.  Harder thant that mountain I just tried to run up at the Chattahoochee river-trail,… harder than running a half-marathon.  Most of the time I don’t even know I NEED help.  Meh.  I cruise along in my own sandbox of too-high-tolerance-for-pain and it’s only when my metaphorical skin starts to peel and the stink of burning-flesh has me CONTEMPLATING that maybe.  I should remove my hand from the stove.  Ya’know,… maybe.

You know what helps the most?  Is a real friend who says, “hey asshole, how ‘bout taking your damn hand off that there stove for starters.”  — Or a person who says “I am here for you if you need me” — Or someone who says “you mean a lot to us,… keep going, we’ll wait.”

Too often I don’t reach out to others because frankly I am slightly overwhelmed by my OWN world (of late) I’ve tricked myself into thinking that if I step into yours, two or twenty-fold things that I have to shuffle around will inundate & capsize me — and that feels like it’s going to be a liiiittle more overwhelm onto my head pushing me under the surface.  But it’s like love.  When you give some you don’t lose it — rather, it multiplies like tribbles, instead.

I realize I hadn’t been in contact with close-friends & family as much as I wanted (should) because I didn’t want to LIE in response to the inevitable “so how you been” jeopardy-on-crack question.  WAY too many worms in that can, — and “fine” (fucked-up insecure neurotic egotistical) just hurt too much in it flip fraudulence.  I realized that calling or sending a message OUT to them meant I might need to be ready to respond.  And I just wasn’t equipped for that recently.  But now,… Now I am open for business.  I am a start-up company that doesn’t know what the hell I’m doing — but by-God I’m GOOD at it!! (lol)  I’m not even going to bother to say “forgive me, I’m not very proficient at this yet (being a real-person.)”   It’s more a matter of “dude, I’m part of the CLUB  now! Let’s fuck this shit up TOGETHER ohyeababy.”

I’ve been “living” (questionable) in a cave of my own isolation and demise.  Which means I stood myself apart looking in-on the zoo and thought I was making a CHOICE to stand above.  But really, what I was doing was standing alone.  And craving to be part of the group.  I comforted myself with the delusion that I’m non-to-comfortable with team-sports (I do “better” at loner-things) because what I was really.  Afraid of,… was the fear that I’d let someone else down. I’d embarrass myself because I couldn’t catch that frisbee and you’d hate me for losing the game.  What this did was negate all the skills I DO have (I’m pretty good for a girl at throwing a football and I can block like a mutha’fuka) — in order to give-life to the gargantuan-ogre of insecurity.  All insecurity is, is security that hasn’t baked yet.  I didn’t know that everyone messes up or has an off-day and that’s OKAY!  Pressure on ourselves is much fatter than all the participants of the Biggest Loser — right on our heads.  So then we recto-cranially-invert ourselves thinking the load will be lighter if it’s where the sun don’t shine.

No go.

I thought to myself today “I like reaching out to my friends because they’re great and they like me and I don’t CARE if I’m ready or not-ready to respond,… it iz what it IZ and maybe we can help each OTHER.”  And it’s so stupid-awesome that connecting with them helps ME.  Helps me to get out of my self-imposed shell-o’hell (when I’m in that shell I am a frelling slow-ass snail) — helps me to pay-it-forward (instead of hoarding the love like a miser) — helps me to want to give more — helps me to appreciate myself as the person who is human just doing the best she can.

See,… I did a crazy thing the other week,… I asked the universe for help.  And guess what?  It fucking ANSWERED.  With a resounding YES.  So when the helping-hands came, who am I to smack them away?  I was honor-bound to deliver on MY end and take it.  Grab ahold and hang on tight.  Now I’m being flung around like a tetherball in circles by the daunting numbers of offers to help.

And all because I asked.

What else is out there that I’ve been too much of a moron to ask for?


Singing in Your Mind

Posted: August 7, 2010 in Overcoming Delusion

Everyone has a “practice” that re-connects them to their soul.  Whether it’s meditation or yoga, writing or sharing with another human being — doing that THING, brings them back to themselves. Brings me back to me. How many times have you found yourself avoiding the one thing that seems to cleanse your spirit? It seems like such a contradiction to know in your brain that you feel so much BETTER when you just go with that little voice inside.  Instead we second-guess ourselves, we question the instinct of giving into that whim.  We get caught up in the mundane bullshit REASONABLENESS of status quo bare-minimum existing.  We actually tell ourselves that it’s okay to be ordinary.  It doesn’t do much good when dancing in your mind takes the place of letting the music flow through you and DOING it. It is the act and the permission and the abandon and connection that wakes your spirit.  Just as exercise is cathartic for getting those toxins out of your muscles, so too our soul needs release.

I danced and realized that fucking-hell, my inner-ear balance (from lack of spinning) was WAY off.  It’s amazing how quickly we forget, use-it-or-lose-it. Dancing isn’t only about going through the motions, it’s about staying proficient, staying sexy, staying SHARP. But mostly… we don’t mind going through life a dull-blade, do we? At what point does it just become too much trouble to keep our creativity honed? To let that goddess-inside come out to play? Stay in touch with ourselves by reaching out to others? We FOOL ourselves into thinking that we will step up to the plate if the situation calls for us to.  That if we don’t speak a second language, a foreign-language, for years — we’ll be able to call up that library whenever we want.  What in your life has ever confirmed that this is TRUE? That if the footprint-of-habit is not ingrained deeply, that we’ll be able to walk organically in those steps?  That we’re waiting for love to find us — THEN we’ll be prepared to reciprocate,… but what’s the first thing that runs through your mind when it actually happens?  Ohshit I am SO not-ready!  What about if you’re waiting for LIFE to find you? How can it possibly be productive to not be ready to be ME?!  The best of me, the most of me, the FULLNESS of me.

I lay in bed and dream of dancing.  I choreograph entire musicals with dialogue and scenes and backdrops and lighting,… and the plays are good.  And then, when I let go and danced in the kitchen, I found out the truth — that reality was not in-line with what I thought it was GOING to be.  And… it was my fault.

When I had my first car, it was a hand-me-down that I “hated”. It was an ugly, green, 1971 Plymouth Duster.  I trashed that car.  Didn’t take care of it, didn’t clean it, didn’t maintain the engine, didn’t give it attention.  That car just wasn’t COOL enough for me.  I remember talking to God about how if only He’d just give me a car worthy of me, THEN I’d take care of it.  THEN I’d keep it neat & clean, do all the things I was SUPPOSED to do.  And I recall distinctly putting myself in God’s shoes.  If I were God, would I believe me? Why in the world WOULD I believe me? Where was the PROOF?  I wasn’t proving that I could take care of what I HAD, no matter my low opinion of how unfair it was to get saddled with a beneath-me crappy car.  So I decided to change.  I made a decision to prove to God (and myself) that I could take care of what I had, then at least I could cover my ass that I was doing my part to BE worthy.  Worthy to receive a “good” car.  Or hell, a good life.  It’s all symbolic.  And relative.  I didn’t get a new car — but you know what?  When I look back on it, that car was awesome.  I burned out one engine, it got me across the United States (from Florida to California) SEVERAL times.  Down to Mexico.  Not to mention what it did BEFORE it ever got bequeathed to me.  My parents were the original owners, we drove all OVER.  From FL to Indiana many MANY times.  We had it in Germany and it took us to many COUNTRIES.  My brothers & I slept, played games, fought, didn’t wear our seatbelts, thousands of miles in the backseat of that car. I watched my dad work on that car, I learned how to not be scared to get under the hood on THAT car.  I got three flat tires in one WEEK on that car, I learned real fast how to change a tire (God obviously wanted me to check that one off.)  I changed a radiator, a carburator, a starter, fan belts, and batteries on that beauty. I didn’t know what I had.  I didn’t appreciate it.  I just… just… didn’t KNOW.

There’s a law-of-nature called entropy.  Essentially, it means that all things degrade from the moment that it comes into existence.  Things don’t get newer, or shiny-er, or less weedy left on its own.  Just as a practice doesn’t usually miraculously IMPROVE when not touching it. Buuuut maybe our ability to FANTASIZE that it will, does lol.

I think I always remember writing.  I have poems (or rather, attempts at poems) from when I was a kid.  It was a big secret — I wouldn’t let anyone read my poetry or words.  It took a moment of pure indifference and rejection for me to shift my protecting my work. Which was probably more representative of protecting me.  Or rather, my hiding.  I wrote a poem for someone who I thought was special.  When I unveiled my grand gesture of gifting them, no BLESSING them with a wondrous gift of a poem by me (insert genuflection here), I expected adoration and APPRECIATION dammit.  And what I got was “gheeezzeee this is so looonnng… do I have to read it all at one time?” What the fuck?!  Didn’t this person realize they were supposed to drop to their knees and worship the fact that I’d graced them with the rare treat of me sharing MySELF through my words?? Talk about laying my soul open and having someone wipe their feet on it.  It was a profound epiphany for me to immediately get the insight to respond with “fuck YOU. You don’t EVER have to read it, you ass-hat!”  It helped me, CURED me, to have that interruption to my ego-of-writing — a slap in the face to glorifying my secretiveness.  I had an attachment to associating my words with revealing a piece of my soul.  And I had an aversion to letting those pieces flow free into the universe.  I held them to myself tightly, horded them, thinking that would keep them safe — keep ME safe.  If I let you see into me you might reject me.  My words came from inside of me, if you rejected them, you were rejecting a part of me.  It took a knuckle-head insensitive dork to get me to see the light.  I thought I was bestowing something divine on him, when really he gave me the most precious RIGHTEOUS lesson to escape from a prison I was locking myself.  From that moment, I adopted a “fuckyou” attitude when it came to my writing.  I decided that I was no longer going to hurt myself by shying-away from the possibility of getting hurt.  REJECT ME PLEASE! Go ahead! I consciously shifted my perception from withholding, to making it more of a priority to look foolish and write badly and risk rejection, yet WRITE — rather than sneak furtively around a labyrinth-world of fear.  I started sharing my words and work with anyone and everyone.  The insecurity and anxiousness lessened with each foray.  Amazingly enough, so did it with regard to my talent and skill.  Talent is that thing you’re born with — skill is the extra effort and dedication you devote to it to make it something you can call up in an instant.  If you dedicate a few minutes a day to being physically flexible, it will improve and just BE THERE when you need it.

I started a regimen of writing poetry every morning.  It was a numbers game… if 2% of what I write is “good” and I only write one poem a week, the odds are shitty. If I write 10 poems every morning, 8 will be crap, but TWO… two will be “right.”  And that just means over the course of a week, the odds increase exponentially.  I got better.  I got faster.  I tapped-into that part within myself that breathes deep and channels the words from someplace that is not me,… someplace GREATER than me.  I wasn’t scared of it anymore.  I also learned the facets and limitations of my skill.  If you know a short-coming, you can eliminate it.  If you discover something new, you can capitalize on it.  I found I wrote better at different times of the day.  I found out that writing with a pen on paper produced different results than when I typed on a keyboard — the connection between my brain & the words just translated differently. I found I had difficulty trying to write songs, which I thought was just a poem that rhymed.  I found I could write in different voices depending on whether it was a story or screenplay or poem.

We use different sides of our brain for logic than creativity.  I use either side at will — I can write logical poems, I can write creative poems. How do I know these things?  By action.  By testing myself.

I also concentrated differently with noise than with quiet. Sometimes I purposely wrote with distraction which forces me to tune-out my surrounding and zero-in on my concentration.  (My dad could never understand how he’d find me in my room with the t.v. AND the radio on while I was studying haha.)   Have you ever seen someone concentrating and stick their tongue out or bite their lip?  I heard it somewhere that concentration and processing motor input use the same hemisphere of the brain, the two activities fight for the same piece of brain-computer, so by biting your tongue you suspend motor activity, reducing interference.  You have just freed up a stronger signal to certain parts of your brain to get the synapses firing — you hit that nitrous button.  The vehicle’s the same, you just added a little turbo-boost.  Like a white-noise machine to help you sleep.  If you knew these scientific considerations, would you consciously stop yourself from doing them? Of course not.  There’s a whole science called neurolinguistics — get this fancy sentence, it’s “focused on investigating how the brain can implement the processes that theoretical and psycholinguistics propose are necessary in producing and comprehending language.”  Pretty cool that I get to find a label to describe what I self-experimented on myself about.

The more I wrote & read my poems and was satisfied I knew the difference between regular and special, the more confidence I gained.  The more confidence I gained, the more I did it.

Security is a use-it-or-lose-it thing too.  If you don’t test yourself, put yourself OUT there, you’ll start to doubt the essence of you.  You will be intimidated at the prospect of not trusting that you COULD do it, could BE it.  A practice brings us back to ourselves. Not touching upon your practice numbs your mind to KNOWING the reality of the situation.  Denial is refusing to look in the mirror so you don’t see the wrinkles there.  Wishful thinking is believing you’re still that football athlete or cheerleader size you were in high-school as long as you don’t put on that letter-jacket or daisy-dukes shorts you USED to wear.

Dancing… writing…flexibility… moving through society — every man is the most patient person on an island.  And practicing singing in your mind, an opera-singer of you does not make.  You better find out the truth before you go signing-up to audition for American Idol.

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