I read this on a post-it note some months ago and am still laughing about it. It's just too true. In my life, for example, I have many moments of peace and openness. I revel in the appreciation of both small miracles - like having a good hair day - and humongous displays of magic - like walking again after paralysis, which happened to me after a discectomy went haywire on an operating table in 1997. I study the lessons of my spiritual teachers like Byron Katie, Eckhart Tolle, and Abraham, and experience the joy and freedom that these teachings gift my spirit.

And yet I fear. Many things. I fear that I'm getting older and wrinklier in a society that values youth and immaculate beauty, and that I have 87 bills on my kitchen counter and exactly $87.00 in my bank account to pay them. I worry that Tinky's health is in decline and I'll not know how to go on living without her. I worry how I look in a pair of jeans, how I'll face an increasingly challenging body with no health insurance, and how Oprah will know which eye to look at when I'm on her show (I have a wandering eye that makes photography and television an almost impossible thing). And yes, when sitting in traffic on the freeway, bumper to bumper in the summer heat with my AC working overtime but not nearly pumping enough wattage to remove the sweat from my upper lip, the tide pool under each armpit and the Amazonian river running down my thighs, I want to smack someone. Hard. And for good measure I might just want to dole out a few atomic wedgies while I'm at it.

And then I hear the voices of my teachers in my head. They attempt to soothe the writhing, suffering creature living inside me. "Accept the present moment as if you had chosen it. Make this now your friend." And when I follow this advice I feel much better. Sometimes I even fly. Which makes me marvel: why do I so often get lost in anxiety? Why do I paint dire pictures in my head when I could be creating enchanting ones? Why am I driven to smack the snotty waiter who not only brings me the wrong food, but when I point this out to him, treats me with disdain as if I'd ordered incorrectly, as if I was inconveniencing his very life, as if I was single-handedly responsible for his bad haircut, his strained relations with his father and the incessant hair-ball hacking of his prize-winning Siamese cat? I just know he's spit in my chipotle chicken salad when he returns to set it on our table, so it sits pristine on my plate. I lose my appetite. And now the entire restaurant needs a smack.

What to do? I cannot turn my back on the teachers in my life. Their messages of love and consciousness are a life-line, creating a capacity for joy and hope I didn't know I had. Is this what consciousness does? Is this evolution? A series of lessons which make our old patterns and habits increasingly distasteful until we release them, allowing them to remain untouched like a spat-upon chipotle chicken salad?

Perhaps. But I don't think I'm up for sitting under the Bodhi tree or scrubbing floors in an East Indian ashram in order to attain enlightenment. So maybe this is my task. Maybe life is my dharma, in all its cellulite-inducing anxiety. And if so, how can I pass this test and move onto the next phase? Can I please just study hard, take an exam, and graduate? When does the struggling end and the consciousness begin?

When I was in college I didn't really care about learning. I cared about grades. Give me the syllabus, the books, the schedule and let me at those exams. I aced every single one and when the paper or test was turned in, I promptly forgot everything I'd studied. On paper? A model student. In reality? A short-cutter, a side-stepper, just lookin' for the grade. Not exactly what a University has in mind when it dreams up the competent, courageous students it will one day offer up to society at large. And yet, this is what I did with my college education, and what I'm dangerously close to doing now with my spiritual education. Just tell me what's expected of me, let me memorize it, regurgitate it back to you and then I'm outtie with my 4.0. Only one problem. Spirit doesn't care about test scores and GPAs. Spirit cares about learning, experience, growth.

I just hate that. But I admire it, too. (Maybe Spirit needs a smack?) And in the deepest recesses of my heart, I want to BE it. To live out the poetry in my veins, to touch the essence of the intangible within a life incarnate, to dwell in harmony with my own body, with my state of mind, with my world at large, these desires are bigger than my fears and more powerful than my need to smack.

And so I chafe. I chafe at the cellulite on my ass and my disparaging reaction to the cellulite on my ass. And then I remember that my ass is temporary, that my soul is not. And I wonder. Does my soul have cellulite? Does it care how it looks in a pair of jeans? Does it strive for a 4.0? Or is it possible that my soul is glorious and generous, that it loves me just as I am, no matter where or how I am, and that it draws to me the things, events and circumstances I need in order to become the very glory and generosity dwelling at my core?

But let's back up a moment. What is a soul, really? I've read various definitions, most of which leave me feeling like I'm playing with liquid mercury: touch it, and it shifts, splits, changes. It refuses to be pinned down. Take Webster's, for example. There are a total of fourteen definitions of soul. For the sake of this book, we're going with Webster's #1 which reads: soul - the principle of life, feeling, thought, and action in humans, regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body, and commonly held to be separable in existence from the body; the spiritual part of humans as distinct from the physical part. When I refer to soul, I am referring to the part of us that organizes and guides our life principle, an entity existing within and around us, the part of us immune to the need to smack.

I believe someday science and Spirit will meet. A day will come when researchers will discover proof of the soul, or at least physical evidence of something larger than our perceived reality, contained within us and around us. We'll then be able to chart and graph the various messages and meanings encoded within our being. Until then it's hunches, intuitions, guesswork. And in frustrating times, smack-work.

But life in motion begs the question: if soul is the grandest part of ourselves, yet the most subtle, how, then can we live according to its bounty?

Last week I notice lumps - quite a few of them - on Tinky's chest. A stab of fear pierces my heart. Tinky is the eight pound Chihuahua who single handedly saved my life in 1998. She brought light and hope into a very dark hour, helping restore a life devastated by paralysis, emotional bankruptcy and financial ruin. She asserted herself as my guardian, a winged sentinel determined to fly me to safety to the shores of healing. What will I do if she's sick? We have no money to cure her. What will I do if she's suffering? What will I do without her? She's not like other dogs. All that ball-throwing, stick-chasing, ear-tousling, lap-sitting, kissing, hugging, rolling around the floor together? We don't do that. I've done that with other dogs and I watch my friends do it with theirs. Tinky is more like an elemental. She's not into laps, doesn't like being held. She's not much into the games and pursuits of other dogs. She's a guide, watching over me, perched on her bed by my feet, guarding. But those lumps? They make her a dog, a very real flesh-and-blood Chihuahua. With a lifespan. With lumps. I of course was aware this moment would come. From the day we met I knew we'd have to part, and that the emotional price would be a blood-letting. But this right here? It's too much. Who will I be without her? I haven't a clue and I don't want to find out.

"Love what is" Byron Katie would tell me. But I don't love those lumps.

So last Wednesday, after noticing the lumps and needing to do something to distract myself (with nothing and no one on hand to smack), I'm trying to sort my art studio. I'm arranging and rearranging and nothing works. None of the items I need to pack up for storage fit the boxes I have on hand. Papers fall from my hands. Boxes topple, their innards strewn across the studio floor. I cut my finger on a pair of dull scissors. (Have I ever done that? Even running with scissors in kindergarten?) Those lumps on Tinky's chest have moved to the back of my throat and nothing's getting past them. I can't swallow food or tasks or hope. I can't stomach reality, have no appetite for optimism. I start with a fear that Tinky has tumors and then spiral into the fear that I'll be powerless to change her condition and then I just plunge right into the ugly pit of depression and loss.

For a day and a half, nothing can pull me out. I'm down there wailing and moaning, doing the Swing Low Sweet Chariot routine with my tin cup banging on the iron bars of an emotional jail cell. When Joseph and his Technicolor frock were thrown into a pit, a band of Ishmaelites dug him out. Me? I hear the voice of Abraham, their wisdom a hand held low, my very own sweet chariot offering rescue. "Look to your emotions. They will tell you how close - or far - you are from Source. Feelings of depression indicate distance from your true self, your source of power. Feelings of joy and enthusiasm herald alignment with that same source."

The message resonates with me. And while I cannot jump the chasm from feeling helpless and sad to feeling strong and joyful, I can grasp the hand of wisdom before me. I climb out of the pit and go to the one place where wise women have been going for eons to search out wisdom and enlightenment: the bathtub. In the warm, steamy waters I feel strong enough to face the facts: I love Tinky. She has lumps. Some day she will die, but not today. I don't know when, but I haven't even been to the vet to figure out what exactly is going on with her body. I'm not certain the lumps are malignant, but I'm moping and fretting and suffering while Tinky sits patiently beside the tub, staring up at me through twin, brown pools. Alive. I could be snuggling her, hugging her, relishing our time together. Instead I am tortured, and in the tub of reason I realize it's voluntary. I do not have to indulge the thoughts that create the suffering. I have options.

And that feels good. Well, better anyway. These options create a tiny space in me un-choked by fear and I crawl inside it. I think this is what Eckhart Tolle is talking about when he encourages us to live in the now. When embracing the now, and only the now, all the anxious ‘what ifs' settle down and take a nap. The brain gets a little quieter, even if life does not. In the quiet, I ponder. Can my teachers be believed? Is it possible that my very soul is creating these circumstances, orchestrating these events? Am I, on some soul level, calling to me what I need in order to manifest the glory and generosity residing at my soul's core? Are these lumps my doing?

And now I feel the need to smack myself. How could I do this to me? But wait. A voice inside my head. Is there not some gift in this situation? As ridiculous as it feels, I begin reviewing the potential benefits of being confronted by suffering.

#1 - I cannot think about the past, because it pains me to think Tinky and I won't have those moments again

#2 - I cannot think about the future, because I cannot bear the thought of Tinky not being in it

#3 - Number one and Number two lead me directly to...The Now. And haven't I been saying that I'd like more peacefulness in my life? Haven't I been asking for a deeper understanding of presence? Wasn't it me, just three weeks ago, spouting off to a friend that I intend to love more, even if it means loving the ugly and unlovable?

Humph. If there's ever been ugly, these lumps are it. And unlovable? I'd say that's me right about now, chock full of resistance. In this realization, I begin to soften. Toward the lumps. Toward myself. Compassion swells inside me for all that I reject, for the circumstances I deem unfavorable, for the people and events I judge as wrong or bad. I consider that maybe - just maybe - my intentions have been heard and I'm being offered the reality that will create what I've said I want.

I get out of the tub, dry myself off. I scoop Tinky in my arms and carry her upstairs to my bed. We lie for a time on the red duvet, human and dog. She stares at me, as is her habit. I swear she believes I am her charge, and is determined to provide me safe passage. As sleep begins to beckon, her liquid  eyes blink more and more slowly, until her breath evens out long and low and I know she's drifted into some enchanted land for guardians, full of journeys-end dreams. I turn to look out the window: a tiny patch of blue looks back, its heart a thousand white pieces. And I am reminded of the quote I read by Yehuda Amichai: "Behind all this, some great happiness is hiding."

I think it's us.

You know how you can talk about a thing and it sounds really good to your own ears? You might even spout off to friends or family about this thing, encouraging (harassing?) them to try it. Maybe you even consider yourself somewhat of an aficionado about this thing. Then BLAM! You actually do the thing you've been talking about and it takes on a life of its own, totally surprising you, and, in the end, teaching you once again that you really know nothing?

 Yeah, that's how I feel about art right now. I've been preaching the virtues of staying open and responding to What Is, in the context of both life and art, then a few days ago I sit down to collage with Mernie and I end up painting a page-spread turquoise, white and red, but not in a very intriguing nor compelling way. I stared at the pages. "Lookin' a lot like the French flag to me," I mumbled, thinking how nice it'd be to skip the painted pages all together and just go on to something else. But my own words hung in the air: "Just put some paint down on the page and then respond to What Is. Don't plan. Work with your impulses and at every stage ask yourself "what does this call for next?"

I was spouting advice I'd heard Teesha and Anahata say - advice I had taken at their workshops. Advice that had been very good to me, in more ways than one. Both Teesha and Anahata are a bit guerilla in their art: they simply start somewhere (anywhere) and begin cutting, pasting, painting. At each stage they respond to what's on the page, allowing the art to unfold, to tell its own story and take its own direction. I, on the other hand, can get so knicker-twisted when making a piece of art, I'm almost defeated before I begin. So hung up am I on a certain idea I have in my head that if I cannot see my way through to the "how" of creating what's in my mind, I quit. Quitting before you begin? Not so good for art-making.

So the advice of starting somewhere -anywhere- and letting the piece unfold at each stage was a life saver for me. It's changed the way I create, the way I write, the way I compose. It's had such a positive impact that it won't leave my head as I stare down at those garish red, white and turquoise pages I'd like to destroy or abort. "Work with What Is. Let the canvas tell you what's next." I'm looking down at my patriotic looking pages and am just not up to lighting firecrackers. But Mernie's sitting next to me and after spouting off this advice for the past hour as we prepared the studio for a day of collaging, I can't simply abort now. Damnit. I'm going to have to walk my talk.

And thank gawd for that particular peer pressure, for I did forge ahead, allowing the piece itself to dictate my next steps. And what can I say? I was thoroughly surprised (and pleasantly, I might add) to discover the piece telling me its own tale.

I wonder how many times this happens in art. We forfeit new and compelling wonders because we insist on going with what we know, what feels comfortable.  And how often in life do we forgo a new experience or friendship because of the persistent need to control? It baffles me how often I stand in my own way.

How often have I robbed myself of surprise and delight because I'm certain a work of art should look this way, or a friend should act that way, or the world should be other than it is? I swear it all goes back to the same rule: Curiosity over Judgement. When we judge a thing as right or wrong, when we label art or life as "good" or "bad" we cut ourselves off from all that might be. We fence ourselves in...in a little space we consider "right." But when we stay open, curious like Alice, allowing ourselves to observe and respond to each moment as it occurs, then we have a fence-less field in which to play, wander and wonder. 

I know. I know. It all sounds so simple, and then you're in front of a red, white and blue French flag of painted paper and you want to hurl technicolor frog legs. Or you're standing in line while the new 7-11 store clerk counts out eight dollars worth of pennies and you're thinking that gouging your eyes out with thumbtacks would be more pleasurable than one more minute in line. Or your friend calls for the fifth time to cancel dinner plans. You reach for your curiosity and find only judgment. You reach for your compassion and find only a petty, angry pride flexing its Tony Soprano muscles.

But you have a choice. I have a choice. Which way will we go? Upstream full of resistance and the illusion of control? Or downstream full of ease and possibility? I know one thing. I'm awfully glad I chose downstream to let this French (freak) flag fly!

 Now somebody be kind enough to remind me of this next next time I'm standing in line at the 7-11. That'll be me with the package of thumbtacks.

Have I mentioned that Mernie has been in our small Taos adobe for weeks? You'd think it could feel crowded and tense with three humans and three dogs and a Houdini mouse in such a small space (especially given the relations of all involved) and you'd be right! But now that we've settled into a routine, things are smooth sailing and we're finding creative ways to enjoy ourselves and each other. We're all back to work with a healthy dose of plurk mixed in.

With business and household duties out of the way, Mernie and I sat down yesterday afternoon for a little mother/daughter collage activity. We haven't created or painted together in over ten years. And as I shared with her some of the techniques I've learned at workshops and through my own risk-taking (mistaking) I really heard myself clearly, as if listening to me with someone else's ears. As we painted, drew, cut and glued, it dawned on me that the "rules" for art (in this case, collage) are the same for life. Well, when I say "rules" let me clarify: rules are the codes by which one operates if one wishes to BE DELIGHTED, and enjoy the creative process, regardless of the results. (But the results are almost always better for having followed the rules. It just works that way.) 

 
"To know delight, you first must be delight."©Angi Sullins 2009
This is the piece I made while contemplating the rules of delightful creation

Rules of Art, Life and Delightful Creation

rule #1 - start where you are! 

Pull out your materials and just play with them. Be inspired by colors, textures, patterns. Delight your senses. Then choose a starting point. Pick a color that moves you and put the paint down.

rule #2 - play spontaneously

Once the paint is down, sort through shapes and figures, faces and places, pull out the images that feel most connected to the colors you've chosen. Instead of intentionally creating a vision from your mind, spontaneously make choices and let the images guide themselves into a story. Let them talk to your right brain and bypass all the anal-retentive "have-to's" of the left brain.

rule #3 - respond to What is

Regardless of what stage you are in, respond to What Is, rather than what you have in mind. Give your creation a little room to create itself. When one arrangement feels dissatisfying, try another, move things around until they feel harmonious. Pose them upside down. Look at your overall composition from multiple angles. Get a new perspective.

rule #4 - fuck ups are fun!

Really, they are. Oh they don't feel so fun when you've worked eight hours on a project and then splashed black ink on top of it, resulting in an ugly smudge in the middle of your lovely Victorian landscape! Then when you relax and let go - after some chocolate and red wine and an ever so teeny bitch session about how you want to pull your eyeslashes out and how you'll never buy black ink again and why doesn't anyone put the LIDS back on the BOTTLES ever ever EVER - you begin to loosen up and play again and suddenly the black smudge resembles an old oil stain, the exact kind you'd have found on a cool Victoriana steampunk engine.

Loosen up. I think maybe all great art and life comes from this one rule. Ultimately, fuck ups are invitations to surprise ourselves with our own brilliance. Think of the students in an art college I heard about recently that requires its students, after every assignment, in each class every year of their schooling, to burn their art. Yup, after completion and critique, all the art is burned to ash. As painful as it sounds, the school turns out incredibly grounded students ready and willing to risk-take, to take themselves and their art loosely, prepared to greet a new genius each day.

 rule #5 - love the process, not the art

Of course it's ok to love your art. But it's counter productive to hate your art, to despise or degrade your results. If you keep your mind continuously flowing with What Is, however, you really give yourself a gift. It keeps you in the moment. And when you finish your piece (or in the best of circumstances, when it finishes itself and nods to you with a wink) it feels stunning to have taken the journey, to have been timeless, dancing with the muse. If, when all is said and done, you feel less than thrilled with what emerged, - and this is the kicker! - allow the result to simply be. what. it. is. 

It's your judgment that creates the dissatisfaction, the misery. Allow your art (your project, your life circumstance) to be what it is. Allow that creation to be  a creation. It's not a measure of your talent. It has naught to do with your worth. The joy of being a creator is in the creating. Move. Start another project. The results will change. And, once you've honed a skill (if that's your choice), even if you are a master, results will often vary. If your results don't vary, if they aren't creating eyelash-tearing, chocolate-eating, red-wine swilling meltdowns you're not taking enough risks. Risk takers inevitably encounter defeat, dissatisfaction. But only on that same risk-taking road do they also meet surprise, thrill, joy, and bliss.

rule #6 - at the end, begin again

I read a poet laureate's work recently that said "All of life is saying goodbye." Our world is built on change, on the life,/death/life cycle. Breath in. Breath out.  And in our art we find, as in life, our end is our beginning. After the blooming of a really great project, I discover the seeds of the next project germinating. Open up. Receive. You've created, birthed and are being called by the great wheel once again. Move on. Don't get too attached to any triumphs or too depressed over any defeats. Just move.

Until. It's time to be still. You'll know it when that time comes upon you. Writers call it "Writers Block." Other artists call it "The Wall." No ideas come. Creativity comes in fits and starts, it stutters. Some days it has Turrets and screams obscenities at your self confidence or barks nonsense at your blank page. Just be still. Once again, "allowing" is the cure-all. Don't fight it. In fact, in your stillness, take a walk, look at the sky, watch a candle, court nature, both inner and outer. The seeds for the next project are there. They just need your field to lie fallow so they can settle into the ground. Be that ground.

rule #7 - feel free to break any and all rules. even these.

In the name of joy and wild abandon, make your own rules!

It takes a certain something to voyage into the Unknown, to walk boldly in the direction of uncertainty while maintaining your center, your sense of calm and confidence. Though we rarely anymore take up our shield, mount our trusty steed and make for the Deep Forest in search of the Hero's Journey, we human beings (and especially us artists) brave the dark, tangled wood of the unknown on a regular basis. It could come in the form of a trip to a foreign land, one whose customs and language are unfamiliar to you. It could be a new creative or business venture, one requiring you to risk much without any secured outcome. Perhaps it's a scary economy and shaky prospects for future employment. Or a new relationship, one infinitely intriguing to you but with a person whom you fear might be just the littlest bit too good to be true. Or it could simply be you venturing into the next phase of your personal creativity, staring down a blank canvas or screen, fearing the critical monsters and the harbingers of failure sure to show up on the path.

One thing's for sure. You're not going to create a stunning piece of art or a gorgeous piece of life without that Certain Something--the something that creates certainty, confidence. Master pianist and conductor Christoph Eschenbach said of confidence:

 In order to express yourself in a piece of art you have to be secure in yourself, know yourself, have confidence in yourself, and finally love yourself, at least enough that you can cause a potential BELOVED (your audience) to believe in you and your message.

I was so struck by the words, the first time I heard them, for I had not realized the huge role confidence plays in the act of creativity. I am currently in need of that "certain something" for I am attempting to create a magnificent journey, but am up to my eyeballs in Unknown while a giant maw of Uncertainty stretches before me.

In four days I embark upon what has come to be known as The Odyssey. The stars aligned and designed a journey for me that involves three very different back-to-back trips, all with radically different agendas and needs. I'll be away from home for six weeks and...and...well, let's take a moment to peer into the giant maw:

I leave for Chicago on Thursday to present a workshop on the topic of inspiration and have to pack winter clothes and boots, props for the workshop and two boxes of books, calendars and other goodies to sell at the conference's marketplace. That's not such a big job until you realize that I can only take two suitcases on the plane and must depart Chicago directly after the conference for a 24 hour plane trip that will land me in Bali, where I'll spend the month of March. There I'll need sandals, sunscreen, malaria tablets and all kinds of things that don't get packed when you're headed to Chicago in the middle of winter. And then there's the art workshop. The first week in Bali I'll be participating in an art workshop and the list of supplies I need to carry with me runs the length of a thigh high stocking. Have I mentioned I'm only allowed two suitcases on the airplane? And I'll be in Bali three weeks after the workshop concludes, so this means traveling all over an island with a week's worth of art supplies in my bag. And that's not all, folks, nope! Because of the airfare "deal" I got for this trip, the flight home from Bali will land me back in Chicago where I will then have to hop another flight to Seattle so that I can keep my commitment to ArtFest, where I'll be mingling and creating with artists from all over the country for five days. And I guess this is the place to mention that all the supplies for those five days are NOT the supplies I'll be needing in Bali. And April in Seattle is not compatible with Chicago in February or Bali in March, so the clothes I'll need in Seattle are all completely different from what I've got stuffed in my bags. Have I mentioned I'm only allowed two suitcases?

And these are just the details. Little, pesky details. Not Big Stuff like presenting my first workshop on the subject of inspiration and trying to cram a lifetime's worth of learning into a three hour program. Big Stuff like recording my first audio book and preparing all the packaging in time for said workshop. Big Stuff like hauling a handicap body halfway around the world on a twenty-four hour flight. Big Stuff like investigating a foreign country, preparing for a month I'll spend there solo--solo as in no husband, no friends, no one to whine to, no one to hold my hair while I'm bent over the toilet with Bali Belly, no one to rush to the local chemist when I'm sweating with Yellow Fever. Big Stuff like daring the rapids of the art world, daring to call myself an artist, daring to pick up a paintbrush and finagle my way around a canvas in a room full of accomplished painters. Big Stuff like Will I Make Friends? Will I Make a Fool of Myself? Will I Make It Down the Street Without Falling Over My Own Two Feet? Will I Make All My Flights and Return Home Safely?

Between the little stuff and the big stuff, between all those pesky details and huge daunting tasks, I've been just the teensiest bit anxious. Slightly panicked, really. OK, I'm starting to lose hair and my teeth are falling out, but who's counting?

So last night as I'm falling asleep it occurs to me that what was once (in my mind) a marvelous opportunity and thrilling adventure is quickly morphing into a giant albatross, a downright neck-twisting heavy chore of a trek. If I'm not careful, I'm going to leech every delicious potential from The Odyssey and turn it into The Odd-I-See. And I fall asleep asking for help, reaching for a new view.

Lying in bed this morning, coming out of a deep sleep, I am still chewing on the last night's thoughts. They've morphed in the night and are wispy-light, like cotton candy, and are floating around my mouth with the remnants of melting dreams. As the first few rays of light reach our loft's tiny window, I can feel the tendrils of anxiety mingling with the first sunbeams of consciousness.

I hear a moan in my head. And it's not mine.

"You don't have to do this. Suffering is optional," it says. It's tone is feminine and kind, but really rather short on patience.

"Whaddaya mean?" I ask internally as I roll over and face the window that holds the sunrise over the Sangre de Cristos, eyes still closed.

"You can stop this panic stuff anytime. You're not responsible for everything. Quit trying to tell yourself you are."

I rub at my eyes, scratching sandman dust out of the corners. "There's an alternative?"

"Of course there is. You've already learned it. You just forget. Plain and simple: Confidence is part preparation, part performance, part trust. You keep forgetting about the trust part. And every time you do, you invite Anxiety and its sidekick Panic to come shack up with you. Really, you should choose your company more carefully."

And then in my mind, I see her words begin to line up like some strange celestial power point presentation for slow learners like me:

Preparation + Performance + Trust = Confidence

My eyes flip open in excitement. They see the long fingers of sunlight appearing from behind a bank of smoky clouds that hover over Taos Mountain, but they might as well be staring at the power point presentation on a giant, blue screen, so clear it remains in my head. A new insight dawns. I bound down the stairs, pausing only to heat up my morning cup of chai then dash to the computer to write these words.

But first, a word about confidence. If the goal is one of confidence, (a certain something) if that's what we're hoping to achieve, it makes sense then that we should be operating with a common definition. For our intents and purposes, I am defining confidence as the energy allowing you to move through the world at ease, comfortable within your body and being. It fosters communion and community, as it is your confidence that, when extended toward others, allows them a clear view of who you are, unencumbered by insecurity and the myriad of traits we employ to cover it up. And as a general rule for everyone, but especially for artists, confidence engenders in you the yin/yang energies of receptivity and creativity, allowing you to connect with heightened states of synergy.

So how do we first obtain and then maintain that elusive state? Those of you who feel they have confidence down pat, or who keep no account at the bank of insecurity need read no further. No, this missive is for those of us who entertain wild imaginings of personal success matched only by storms of anxiety and fear of failure. Namely, me. And this missive is also for those of us who spend a minimum of 50% of our lives asking anxiously "What If...?" and then trying to rearrange the universe, with its mountains, oceans, flight control towers, weather patterns, and malaria warnings in hopes of avoiding catastrophe. Or worse, disappointment.

PREPARATION

One of my favorite childhood stories was The Little Red Hen. For months I'd ask Mernie to read it to me everyday after kindergarten when I'd eaten my lunch and was put in bed to nap. It's the story of--surprise!--a little red hen who decides to bake a loaf of fresh bread. There's much work to do and none of her fellow farm-mates will help with the preparations, but they all melt with hunger when the bread is finally finished, craving a slice of promised deliciousness as its aroma drifts from the kitchen. Of course none of them get a single bite, for only those who help prepare can enjoy the plunder.

Now the moral of this story is clearly that it's good to contribute, to help, and to share. I'm sure any normal five year old would walk away learning these fine lessons. But somewhere in my brain a little red wire must have gotten crossed with this story and my lesson was "You can't rely on anyone else to help you. Do it all yourself." Before I even entered the first grade I became the Little Red Hen and forgot all about the part of the story where she asks for help.

And by the time I'm seven years old, this little red hen wire crosses with the Baptist-Sunday School-go-the-extra-mile-turn-the-other-cheek wire. And so I become the Little Red Jesus Lovin' Hen who bakes the five loaves and the two fishes and attempts to feed the five thousand, all the while going hungry. The moral of this new tale is Do It All Yourself and Give It All Away. And it makes perfect sense to my little wire-trippin' mind. I love Jesus and he was a martyr. He performed all the miracles, asked for nothing in return, then climbed up on the cross to pay for countless sins including mine.  I love Grama and she is a martyr. She goes to work every day, works many late hours as a shoe buyer, comes home, makes dinner, pays bills, tends my grandfather and us grandkids, then falls into exhausted sleep in the wingback chair with her high heels and stockings still on. Sometimes she falls asleep sitting straight up and her mouth hangs open. I like to walk past her and sing long, operatic notes turning her for just a moment into a sleep-singing diva in some heavenly choir. But I never do it loud enough to wake her and I never let her know what I've done.

Thirty years later I'm sitting in Christina Baldwin's Self as the Source of Story writing class, which is taught in circle formation. Christina explains that part of meeting in circle is a willingness by all in the circle to comply with a set of agreements. When she explains "holding each others' stories with confidentiality" I get it. When she goes on to include "listening with curiosity and compassion while others speak" I nod my head, understanding how valuable these tenets are. Then she says, "We also agree that our responsibility is to ask for what we need and offer what we can." And somewhere in my brain that little red wire starts tripping, shooting of sparks that fly around my head like fireworks. "What? Ask for what I need? Offer what I can?" And I swear, that little red wire sits right up like a preening hen, fluffs out its chest til it's big and bold, squints its eye in consternation and says "Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?" Just like Gary Coleman. I swear.

Ask for what I need and offer what I can. Gee, really? And all this time I thought the way to be a responsible participant in life was to ask for nothing and offer everything. Yanno, the widow's mite and all that. Yet here I was being introduced to another world paradigm, one that seemed actually, well, healthy. And just like that thirty five years of modus operandi came tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty.

Of course this was several years ago, so I really thought I had this portion of the equation solved. And yet, in light of this morning's power point, I see that preparation for The Odyssey has not involved much Asking for What I Need. Somewhere during the past month, the Little Red Hen moved in and made herself a nice roost in my psyche. I'm surprised I'm not molting red feathers on my pillow, laying eggs in the bed, pecking at stray bits of dried corn on the ground.

So this morning, remembering this part of the equation, I gave myself permission to ask Silas for help in preparing our house for my departure and Mernie for help preparing Duirwaigh. And within an hour I felt as if I'd unloaded thirty pounds of chip off the 'ole shoulders. Think of the chiropractic savings.

PERFORMANCE

And now for the performance part of our equation. Remember the equation? It looks like this:

Preparation + Performance + Trust = Confidence

Performance is really straightforward and yet it's amazing how easy it is to muck it up. There's only two things necessary to perform in a way that brings confidence:

1) Show Up

2) Do your best, leave the rest

Now most two year olds have #1 down pat. They know they have to wake up and cry or squeel or tumble out of bed and wander into mommy's room to get breakfast. They show up. And most forty two year olds also have this down. You wake up, boot up the computer, fire up the car, go where you need to go. So what's with this hiding under the covers? I'll tell you what brings on hiding, and that's anxiety. When we feel as if we have to bounce the red rubber circus seal ball, always keeping it in the air, never dropping it, the pressure can be overwhelming. But that's where #2 comes in.

Do Your Best and Leave the Rest.  Most of us--ok, me--are trying to do The Best instead of Our Best.  And when I'm in that mode, I ransack my own energies. I attempt to Do The Best and Never Rest, which means I end up in an endless cycle of doing, critiquing and agonizing. When in this mode I neglect to Leave the Rest, which is a gorgeous double entendre. When I neglect to Leave the Rest (the details I cannot control, the remaining tasks when I'm already tired, the workload that extends beyond my means) then I Leave the Rest --I don't relax, don't sleep well, don't enjoy the little moments in the day that could be filled with peace but are instead filled with anxiety. If we are always attempting do the best, then evaluating our performance and stacking it against some imaginary ideal, on what rare occasions will we actually be satisfied and how incessant are the opportunities for dissatisfaction and disappointment?

If we stop at Our Best and let all the rest go on any given day, I wonder, would the drug companies producing Xanax and Prozac still remain in business? I'm not saying that pharmaceuticals don't have their place. But I've noticed when I'm exhausted or overwhelmed it's easy to become depressed and seek escape. Whether we escape under the covers, over a plate of food, in a relationship or bottle or pill, it's often an escape from a self-created task master. I call mine the Drill Sergeant. He lives inside my left brain and wears a dark blue uniform and an old fashioned mortarboard police cap. Around his chest is a silver whistle and he's not at all shy about using it. He looks a lot like the policeman on the Monopoly board, the one that says "Go Directly to Jail."

It's not that my Drill Sergeant is a bad guy. He sprang from my inner realms probably sometime around kindergarten when my little self was learning about schedules and agendas, responsibility and obligation. Around the time we're learning how to read the big hand and little hand on a clock, we're also figuring out that life isn't just a long episode of Kaptain Kangaroo. We learn about Right and Proper and Fitting In. We learn what will and won't get us knocked down on the playground. And up springs the Drill Sergeant as a way of protecting our sensitive selves. He tells us what to do better, stronger, faster so that we're always on the right side of approval--the upward side of our parents smile. Of course his enthusiasm is rampant and if he goes unchecked he ends up acting like a dictator instead of a helper, driving our lives to the incessant sound of his whistle. Do this. Go here. Do. Go. Do. Go. We become driven until one day we look up from the human race and realize we're no longer driving.

I let this guy rule the driver's seat for thirty some years until I finally sent him to Jamaica and ordered him to remove his cap and whistle, don a Hawaiian shirt and flip flops and drink mai tais by the pool. He's much happier now and so am I. Of course he returns from time to time to oversee important projects. Occasionally he shows up unannounced and has to be shacked overnight in my guesthouse before being reminded of his mandatory retirement. We pack his bags together and takes the next plane back to the beach.

And since many of us in this pandemonium of an age allow ourselves to be driven, it's a good time to talk about pace. Another delicious tenet I picked up from my work with Christina Baldwin is the idea of Pace Vs. Race. We all have a choice at what speed we move. It's true we're all involved in the Human Race and we're all trying to win. Including me. But I've had to shift my ideas of winning in order to maintain peace of mind. I like to think of the word WIN (thanks to author Rick Jarow) as What's Important Now. When I live in the present, considering what takes precedence at any given moment rather than looking ahead to the stacks and piles to have-tos, or looking behind at the shoulda-wouldas, I feel present in a way that allows me to move at the pace of guidance, rather than race around at the beck and call of the Drill Sergeant. Being in the Now opens up a whole level of energy that is never open to me when I'm racing, running around with thoughts in my head of  "not enough" and "what if". Western society certainly does not support this idea, telling us through media and advertisement that we need more time, more youth, more money, more organization, more speed, more efficiency, (and more gadgets to increase our time, our money, our efficiency) in order for us to win, to feel good about ourselves. 

It is a revolutionary act to live in the Human Pace instead of the Human Race, but it's energy well spent. Quite simply, I like myself better when I'm moving at a pace that engenders consciousness, presence. I muck up alot, but on the best days, I make myself a list and get done what I can, one thing at a time. Then I close the computer and feed the girls, have a glass of wine, watch the sunset with Silas and let go. Tomorrow is another day. I've done my best. It's enough.

TRUST

Alright, so here's the kicker. There really is no Ask for What You Need & Offer What You Can or Do Your Best Leave the Rest without trust. Trust is a tenet all its own but it's also a component of Preparation and Performance. If we don't trust that our needs will be met or that we'll be enough as we are, then preparation suffers. If we don't trust that our best will indeed take us where we want to go, then our performance suffers. And finally, if we're not willing to surrender when all our preparation and performance is done, then life suffers. We suffer, our loved ones suffer, our coworkers and friends suffer, for we are carrying extra weight on our shoulders and a few chunks can't help but fall onto the laps of those around us. 

Now let me make the tenet of Trust as clear as I can, for our purposes here. Remember the equation we're working with?

Preparation + Performance + Trust = Confidence

Trust, as I intend it here, means surrender. It means knowing we've done our part. When we show up and do our personal best, when we've prepared by asking for what we need and offering what we can, then we've done our part. The rest is surrender. I think surrender is one of the most beautiful words in the English language. It just rolls from the tongue. Say it with me now: surrreeeennnndddeeerrrrr. Kinda just makes you wanna swing in a hammock, no? With a gentle breeze for company? I am constantly amazed of what answers, ideas, solutions and saving graces come my way when I'm laying in that psychic hammock, arms thrown outward, ready and willing to receive. And it's only trust that keeps you in that hammock when your mind says you should be racing around trying to solve, to score, to secure.  At some point we've gotta turn it over, trusting the Universe to fill in the gaps. 

Forget your paperwork at an important meeting? Leave your laptop in the airport?Remember an appointment three minutes before you're due halfway across town? Delayed by traffic? Missed connections? Lost luggage? Trust that the Universe will provide. The Universe is an abundant and generous place. Don't believe me? Listen to the trees. Observe the flowers. What starts as one oak tree turns into a grove. What starts as one rose bud can easily turn into a garden. The Universe is also a responsive entity. I like to think of it as the ultimate container for Call and Response. Our thoughts and imaginings are like signals, constantly sending out messages. The Universe responds in kind, sending us back situations and material experiences that match our call. When I send out anxious, fearful calls, I tend to attract more of the same. The Universe is extremely unbiased, it simply answers what is asked for energetically. So when I send out signals of openness and peace and enoughness, I tend to attract situations that support that call. And when I'm all ganked up with fear, panties in a wad of anxiety, guess what I keep experiencing until something shifts inside my consciousness? (And yes, before you even ask, my drawers are full of wadded bloomers.)

I started writing this post wearing a bunched-up pair of said skivvies, remember? I was in an anxieity-ridden funk of freak-outedness, as I struggled to have all the i's dotted and t's crossed on a very complicated transpacific tour schedule. As I sit typing this now, I'm four weeks into the journey and another 15 days will see me home. Along the way my luggage was lost, for a few days I didn't have the clothes I needed and showed up to an art workshop with only half the supplies on the required list. I stayed at a hotel with no hot water and had to squat in more than one toilet with only my hand as toilet paper. But each time I've allowed myself to follow the equation, especially the surrender of trust, I've been pleasantly surprised at the variety of ways help arrives. Let it stand that I'm not toting an end-all, be-all, hard-and-fast rule, here. I'm just throwing out an equation I saw etched on a turquoise sky in the dreamtime, one that I am continually committing to memory and action.

Doesn't mean I'm always rockin' that yogic vibe, sitting under the banyan tree or considering the lotus flower. That's Buddhas job. Mine is simply to remember more often than not that I need to ask for what I need and offer what I can, while doing my best and leaving the rest, trusting that the Universe will provide in unexpected ways, especially when I'm present enough in the Now to notice.

I don't always do these things, but when I do, they always work. When I practice this equation, I find myself more at peace with what happens, more open, more present, more...confident. One might even say I have a certain something.

And that's something. Certainly.