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.
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. 
