continued from A Certain Something, Part One

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 squeal 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 sorta kinda 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 that escape is under the covers, over a plate of food or in a 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 interspersed by Shrinky Dinks, Play Doh Factories, and naptime. 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. And occasionally he shows up unannounced and has to be shacked overnight in my guesthouse before I remind him of his retirement, pack his bags and send him back on the next plane.

And since many of us in this pandemonium of a day and age, allow ourselves to be driven, it's a good time to talk about pace vs. race. We are all involved in the Human Race but it doesn't mean we have to compete to win. I like to think of 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 takes a lot of effort to live in the Human Pace instead of the Human Race, but it's effort 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 what I can done, one thing at a time. Then I close the computer and feed the girls, have a glass of wine, watch an episode of The Office with Silas and let go. Tomorrow is another day. I've done my best. It's enough.

Part three coming up...stay tuned.

So this is another piece I've made at Anahata's workshop. It's designed to go with the previous ones as a diptych. These are my Bali Cirque muses. Nowhere near finished, lots of detail work to do, but I like the direction. And again, instead of goin' all critical on my own ass, I rather like the idea of letting this just flow. No judgment. Beginner's mind and all that--I'm enjoying the process.

For those of you who don't know, I'm currently in Bali. Right now I'm in the seaside fishing village of Amed for a workshop with artist Anahata Katkin. It was Anahata's workshop that led me to committing to a trip to Bali, which in turn led me on this odyssey: three and a half weeks in Bali on a soul-o journey.

Today I made this piece of art, and I must say, I like how it turned out for a timed experiment. It's also my first crack at collage in this format. Before you ask, "D E C F" don't stand fer nuttin', it's just what I had on hand. (And might I say that what I had on hand was precious little? Due to the fact that Korean Airlines left one of my bags in Seoul, Korea, and it has yet to arrive.)

I'm sleeping in a small room that's kept at 18 degrees Celcius.  It's the only place to escape from the heat. And when I say heat, I mean heat. Like I'm learning the true meaning of pulverized. Sweat pours off my head, down my face, streams in rivulets down my back along my spine. I've taken to wearing these little tank-top dresses I bought in Mexico that were never meant to be anything but a bathing suit cover-up and I'm wearing them with no bra. (You are so not getting pictures). It's the closest thing to going naked I can achieve and if I could swing that, I'd do it. The only thing worse than constantly sweating is constantly sweating while people point and stare. So every few hours I charge back to my room, catapult the dress over my head and throw myself down on my bed. There I remain until the air conditioning revives me to the status of human being.

Speaking of the bed, I'm relieved to no end to discover the it's reasonably soft. I don't even need the turbo air mattress I bought from Amazon.com and hauled over from the states as my good-night-of-sleep insurance policy. I'm delighted to discover my sleep is not broken by pins and needles, my body on fire and ice at the same time, which happens to me any time I'm on a firm mattress (a nerve-damage gift from post-op paralysis). Instead, my sleep is interrupted only by the night creatures, some of which I've yet to identify.  The frogs, the geckos, the big iguanas and the constant cock-a-doodle-doo from the 1001 roosters in a three block radius are easy enough to discern. (The roosters, incidentally, do not announce only the sunrise. No, these bad boys must sleep all day, for they are up all night announcing each wink of the moon, each trade wind, every damn blinking star in the sky. And they are Right. Outside. My. Window. It's like having an alarm clock go off in your ear every four and a half minutes.)

But then there's this mysterious noise, an utterance from an animal as-of-yet unidentified. Just as I'm falling back to sleep after the latest rooter's yodel of assurance that the earth is still turning and he's still available for some late night lovin', should any hen be silly enough to be awake at that god forsaken hour and wanting that certain kind of sum-sumthin' he's got to offer, a bone chilling guttural cry cracks the silence. How can I describe it? I'll use here the exact exchange I I had with Wayan, the native housekeeper, upon waking the next day.

Angi: (Disheveled and looking haggard) Say, Wayan? Do you know the animals of this island very well?

Wayan: (Smiling) Yes.

Angi: Well, I'm wondering. There is this one creature that sounds...well...

Wayan: (Eyebrows arching) Yes?

Angi: OK, it's not the short, high pitched bark of the gecko. And it's not that really cute squawk of the iguana-lizard guy. It's more like. Hmmm. It's the sound of something between a mating cat and a monkey with it's hair on fire, with a little squirrel-dipped-in-acid for good measure.

Wayan: (Eyebrows reaching toward her hairline) (Speechless)

Angi: You have to know what I'm talking about. It's this squealing kind of angry thing. Really loud. High pitch. With lots of accompanying scampering noises. And rattling. Kind of playful and horrified at the same time. Yanno?

Wayan: (Smiling again) Angi, you writer? You playing with me? You so funny.

Angi: (Dark circles under eyes) No, really. I'm serious. What is that animal?

Wayan: (Shaking head, picking up her broom and returning to the terrace to sweep) You so funny.

I shall not let this pass. I'll be making art and sweating my ass off in Amed for the next week. But when not pulverized on my bed, I'm gonna find that animal and either strangle it or join its shriek infested party.

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.

I am currently in need of that "certain something" for I am up to my eyeballs in Unknown and 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 race to the computer to write these words.

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 as was put in bed for a 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've unloaded thirty pounds of chip off the 'ole shoulders. Think of the  chiropractic savings.

to be continued

Anything more need be said here? I'm just discussing my fashion influences with Izzy, "When all else fails and you don't know what to wear, just ask your self 'What would Pippi do?' " If Miss Longstocking doesn't have the answer, no one does.

A few months ago Aimee came to town and Silas and I had the chance to play tourist in our own 'hood. Which, lemme tell ya, ain't exactly hard to do. I remember being in college in Orlando completely bored out of my mind yearning for something interesting to do on the weekends. The local newspaper had suggested "playing tourist in your home town" and my god the plethora of boredom and nothingness that descended upon me was vast. The art museum took all of ten minutes to walk through. The parks and lakes held no new mysteries as I'd scoured them since I could crawl. Which left the tourist traps like Disney World, Sea World, and good 'ole Circus World which later became Boardwalk and Baseball, which was the scene of my very first roller coaster ride, but that's another story entirely. The tourist parks were as familiar to me as my grama's house, I'd visited so often. Which meant I could play tourist in...in...my head.

But Taos? I never tire of playing tourist here. I often sigh "I love this town" as I drive around on miscellaneous errands. Even a trip to the grocery store can find me professing undying love for this village. It fills my soul. I mean--what kind of town has places like "Bad Dog Road" and "Alpaca Avenue?" These random shots were taken--some by Aimee, some by me--on our outings around town. Nothing special except everything.

(one of the bad dogs. on the road.)