prayer

with every cell of my being, thank you, thank you very much

A friend once asked me if I'd write if I didn't have an audience. My answer: "nope."

That same week The World's Strongest Librarian made a comment to me to the affect of, "we write because we need to, right?" It sounded so noble compared to my admission.

This got me analyzing my potential narcissism, neuroses and persona. From where do I derive my joy? The giving or the receiving? The process or the packaging? Am I in this for the glory or have I truly got the guts of an artist? Did Elvis sing in the shower?

The conclusion: I don't actually need to write, not like Anais Nin did, or Henry Miller. I don't journal. My bookshelf is less than 20% fiction. I've never been to a writing workshop.

What I need - like I need clean water, kisses, and milk chocolate at 3pm, is to share what I've found in my search for meaning. I yearn to philosophize. My voice - written, spoken, sketched - engages me with life. Either Rumi or God or Orpheus planted a mechanism in my brain that compels me to broadcast my epiphanies in anyway I can. Even on my most interior and complex pursuits I'm thinking to myself, "Can't wait to register this a-ha in The Ever Evolving Big Mix of Cosmic A-ha's." The mix of us-ness. The mix of heartbreak and euphoria, collapses, and victories of determined love. Our mix. My art doesn't work without the Our.

So I thank you. Thank you. For listening. For hearing, cheering and even for leering. Your readership and conversation are the alchemy that makes the pixels meaningful. This ain't just a blog, or a drop in the bucket, this is a sacred feeding-post on the way to more. More to be grateful for.

2010 Blazing Blessings,
Danielle

 

hot song: one day, matisyahu

Some Sunday Monday any day Hasidic reggae gospel fer us all. xoxo

For more Matisyahu, go to Matisyahu World

 

how to make the most of being toast: embracing burnout

"AND THEN SHE CLEARLY UNDERSTOOD.
IF HE WAS FIRE,
SHE MUST BE WOOD."

- Joan of Arc, by Leonard Cohen
(the most gorgeous version
of which is sung by Jennifer Warnes)

I admit it: I'm burned out. Fried. Toasted.

But this time, there's something satisfying and tasty about being...roasted by the life I've chosen. I'm reveling in it. Rather than the usual "How'd I let this happen?, or, I'm weak, or, I should take better care of myself..." admonishments (from myself and others,) I'm curling up to my tenderized being and I'm really very pleased with the state of me.

I'm devoted to tending the fire of knowledge, to blazing my own trail. Burn out is a natural part of shining. Naturally. I welcome it now.

Because I'm such a Typically Tough Cookie, admitting to burn out is not my first inclination. My response to the creeping psyche crispies has been to put on more mascara and tighten my bra straps. But the evidence has been surfacing:

YOU KNOW YOU'RE BURNED OUT WHEN:

1. Your friend asks where you want to go for breakfast and you say, "Anywhere they serve mashed potatoes and chocolate cake."
2. You start to feel a whole new sympathy for Britney Spears' last breakdown because, "Poor thing, the pressure to be skinny, manage your millions, raise your babies, and remember your dance routine must be outfreakingrageous. Someone needs to nominate her for the Nobel."
3. When asked what famous historical figure you'd like to have dinner with, you choose Joan of Arc, "because I want to know if she was a nut-bar or truly vocationally inspired."
4. You start listening to inordinate amounts of music from high school (for me that would be The Cure) and Gregorian chants.
5. You wear a hat, sunglasses, and a scarf to the grocery store. You wish you could wear your Uggs to business meetings.
6. You generally feel like you're walking through the world minus a layer of epidermis and it's really windy outside.
7. You totally relate to this "Overnight Success" video from Chris Brogan.
8. When you hear some tragic news about brutality and violence, you want to collapse into a ball of sobbing guilt because, clearly, you're not doing enough to save the human race from it's mortal coil.
9. Your monastic fantasies are unceasing. You dream of living on an island only accessible by boat (but where, magically, FedEx and Pizza Hut still deliver.)

Yep, you done be fried.

RE-FRAMING BURN OUT INTO A BEAUTIFUL POSSIBILITY:

1. You run long and hard, you get tired. That's a fact. Marathoners don't criticize themselves after a race for being exhausted. They rest.
2. Rest and excitement don't have to be mutually exclusive terms. You can have some down time and still bubble with the anticipation of getting back into the game.
3. My wonder goddess coach, Dyana Valentine puts it this way: "Your energetic vulnerability is helping you get clear on what you need." Damn, that's goood.
4. Take stock of all you've accomplished. You've come far, baby. And you've got the road rash and the muscle definition to prove it.
5. "Life balance" is an insidious myth. Picasso, Oprah, Steve Jobs, Einstein, Maria Callas - they weren't aiming for balance, they were aiming to rock their genius, and they've all had periods of burn out.
6. Cozy comfort hiding quiet time can make for some amazing new ideas.
7. On the seventh day, even God rested.
8. As the legend goes, when the Phoenix resurrects from the flames, she is even more beautiful than before.

I will start a fresh fire and jump back into it. I'm gathering kindling in between unpacking my suitcases and naps. I've got Bigger Than Ever Plans. And maybe six months or six years from now, I will be burned out, spent, deeply satiated and in need of cocoa and solace again. I'm looking forward to it.

. . . . . . .

Send my note cards 'round the world...when you care enough to say it in black & white.

 

the desire to be useful

 

the divinity of the suck factor

"There will always be suffering. The trick is to not suffer over the suffering."
- Alan Watts, Zen master

One of my best friends and I have a sick tradition. We get excited about each others' hardship. One of us will be sniffling through an out-pour of angst about how wrenching a particular life lesson is, and isn't it crazy how when it rains it pours with shitty news, and turmoil, and big life do-overs. You know, those excruciating disappointments and Tough Spots - the kind that require a friend to help you navigate.

Sniffle. Silence.

And then the listener on the other end of the line replies, “Holy suck factor. But, you know ... I’m kinda excited for you.” And then the other one of us blows her nose and says, “Yeah, I know, it's great.” And we're not joking. But we laugh at that absurdity and our sheer effing moxy, and then the other person goes back to whingeing and processing while the listener resumes her role as the receptacle of angst out-pour.

And we believe it. We believe in the divinity of the suck factor. It's an implicit, and lived, and affirmed understanding: that the universe trades up. That as Camus and kd lang said, "In the depth of winter I found in me there was an invincible summer." Or as Nietzsche and Bruce Willis put it, What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Or at least more expanded. And that's very exciting. And excitement about getting to the other side is just what you need to get there.

 

wonder what their dream is

Our dreams and desires define us. Be they broken, scarcely remembered, on the verge of reality, or in full bloom. They pilot our choices. Dreams have the power to shape the entire landscape of our lives. Because they tend to be so precious and potent, many people keep their dreams and aspirations to themselves.

A dream is a very sacred thing to share.

If you knew someone's dream, you might look at that person very differently...with more tenderness, more respect, more familiarity, and more wonder than before. Dream-sharing melts boundaries and it calls forth resources and commonalities.

Look at everyone you meet this week and actively think to yourself, “I wonder what their dream is?” Ask at least one person this week what their dream is. You can do it subtly, and traditionally, like, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” or “What did you want to be when you were growing up?” Or you can just go for it, playfully and momentously and ask, “So, like, what’s your big dream?” So many people never get asked that. And fewer are really listened to. And for those who are stumped by the question, I guarantee they'll be thinking about it for days to come. Just the asking of that question sets essential things in motion.

The guy in the cubicle next to you may be working on novel about unicorns and espionage. Your sister might be fantasizing about her own cabaret break out performance. Your postal carrier may be patenting the next great invention. Make no assumptions about your partner, your workmate, or the bus driver.

Small, mighty, seemingly impossible, or simply pure ... when you know what someone’s dream is, your perspective leans toward openness. And every dream needs space to run.

Oh, my dream-stream... White Hot Truth The Fire Starter Sessions is a stunning success in every way possible, and I'm wearing suede boots and big gold hoops on stage and laughing "you-know-what-I'm sayin'-don'tchya?" laughs with thousands of people.

And I dream of Morocco and France and a koi pond in the back yard of my mod pre-fab house. Collecting art. Magazine coverage. I dream about communion with my man that blows both our minds. I dream of sitting 'round a fire with leaders and lovers of progress. Being able to give yeses and make phone calls that open doors and new dimensions for people.

I dream of children being taught mindfulness in school, and a movement of conscious birth choices and parenting, and technologies that heal. And I dream of invitations that humble me, and more magical connections with people who I recognize on a cellular level, and we band together to leverage change, and to support and care for each other in the way that reminds you how great it is to share space and time. And I dream of feeling more electric and sweet every single day.

But mostly, I dream of being amazed.

How 'bout you?

. . . . . . .

thought of the day: your innate perfection

11 slightly scary ways to become a better you

the “i don’t know” conspiracy

 

the liberation of fred: keep your heart open and the wisdom will show up

I traveled a lot of miles and with a bag full of Big Questions to bring to the sanctuary of the Christ in The Desert Monastery. Me, in my well-abused rental car and straw hat, ready for a cosmic breakthrough, I wanted some divine answers, dammit. I hoped to hear something omniscient and awe-inspiring by the cemetery overlook, or to find an eagle feather on my canyon hike. Maybe a coyote or a monk would cross my path just when I asked my heart-bleeding question and that would be my Big Sign.

Instead, I met Fred, in the gift shop. "When you're ready to pay for your candles and books you can just do it yourself on that table over there." D-I-Y cashier style, there was a shoebox of cash and a stack of credit card slips ... how civilized, I thought. "Gotchya. Cha-ching," I answered to Fred. And his curiosity about what "cha-ching" meant started us talking, (remember, no TV in the monastery, no People Magazine...I was probably the biggest dose of pop culture they'd seen in them hills for a while.)

Fred was a fifty-something Hispanic guy originally from L.A. For eighteen years, he's lived at the monastery as the custodian. "Eighteen years?! And you don't feel the call to serve as a brother after all this time?" I asked. "No way. I serve by serving the brothers."
"Wow. Well, way to go for making such an intense choice," I said.
"Every day is a choice. Obligation...all those obligations...marriage, kids, the job...it's all bullshit if it's not a choice."
He just swore in the monastery, I thought.
Fred continued. I was rapt. I set down my Frankincense and leaned in. His eyes sparkled.
"Say more," I nudged.
"When I left my old life to come here I was so afraid."
"Afraid of what?" I asked.
"Everything. I woke up two or three nights a week in a sweat, just afraid of life, of my choices. I was terrified to, you know, just live."
"Terrified to live." I repeated, nodding my head.
"And then four and a half years into it, I woke up and I was free. You know, free. Instead of always seeing just fifty feet in front of me there was a vista - I could see forever ahead of me."

He slid his hand out to gesture to the expanse. I could see it. I could see his state of being and there was nothing impeding his delight. We both kind of giggled, nodding, communing.

"Fred," I said, "That's all I need to know. I thought I was coming for the monks. But you're The Dude."

"Why thank you then. I'm happy to be the dude for you today."

You know that the teacher appears when you're ready. Sometimes it's a pop tune, or an ad on the bus, sometimes it's the handy man. Keep your heart open and you'll recognize the wisdom when it shows up...wearing overalls and fedora.

. . . . . . . .
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time management with the monks

One mile south of Georgia O'Keefe's beloved Ghost Ranch in New Mexico, thirteen miles down a cliff-hugging dirt road in the heart of Chama Canyon, you will find Christ In The Desert. The Benedictine Monastery is cloister to about twenty monks. I'd fantasized about retreating to the remote monastery for about fifteen years. And when I finally made the white-knuckling drive to the end of the long road and saw that adobe-anchored cross kissing the sky, I felt ... Home.

The peace. The humility. The sheer devotion. Getting to Christ In The Desert was a pilgrimage that my cells thirsted for. It's worth mentioning here that I considered being a nun when I was about six years old. Then I learned what celibacy was and heard that there was a lot of cleaning involved in convent life, and I asked Jesus for his forgiveness because I just knew I wasn't going to make the cut. I decided I wanted my own variety show, like Cher. Religion, cabaret...it's all a kind of intense theater of passion.

I arrived just in time for prayer. The monks sing their prayers. Glorious Gregorian chants echoed against the baked clay walls. My heart swelled. Tho' the heavy sin-trip of the Psalm wasn't lost on me, I was swept away by the beauty of it all. And I so needed to be swept away. When the chants concluded and the monks filed out behind the tabernacle, I was able to be alone in the chapel for a long, sweet time. I thought about hope - which I have a very cantankerous relationship with. And I thought about priorities of the most divine kind. My priorities have been bumping against each other for a while now - clanking around and grinding down my heart. The focus of my trip was to put my so called priorities on the altar. Smash few. Polish some. Reorganize them to sync with my soul.

"Above all, prayer holds the first place in the monk's day and nothing must be preferred to this activity. Prayer involves coming into contact with divine life, in openness to the mystery of love which is written in our hearts." The monks are encouraged to stop their chores if they feel inspired to pray. The passion to pray comes before work and all other tasks. The Brothers pray seven times in day in collective chanting and in solitude. Seven times a day.

So many mornings I have chosen email over meditation. I let deadlines rank over a stretch or a cuddle or a glass of water swallowed slowly and appreciated. I override the call to feel myself - the call to pray, or meditate, or be fully awake. Prayer comes in all forms and each one spoken brings grace to the day.

Thank you. Yes. Have mercy. Keep them safe. How lovely. Courage, please. I love you.

Our hearts are the altars. Ours days, when lived awake, are another chance to know the joys of what matters most. Attend first to the divine and the work at hand becomes art.

Tune in tomorrow for Part II of my monastery adventures...

 

what it means to forgive

"...holding no prisoner to guilt, we become free."
- The Course In Miracles

Someone asked me this week, "Have you forgiven so and so for such and such?"
And I did the puppy head tilt, "Huh?"
This question throws me for a loop.
"Well...I don't really feel like it's my place to forgive them," I replied.

It's not that I condone bad behavior, it's not that my heart doesn't get pinched, and it's not that I forget - 'cause I'm not the forgettin' type, that's for sure. But there's something about "forgiveness" that seems, okay, forgive me, but...arrogant.

"I forgive you." It rings of, "I bequeath to you...I permit you...I hereby knight thee..." It feels lording. A friend asked for my forgiveness once and I felt embarrassed, and intensely reluctant to add to her shame. I started laughing. "As if," I said. "Duh, like, whatever, it's done, over, let's get on with things."

I'm a Very Big Believer in accountability. I think the Truth and Reconciliation movement is a monumental leap in humanity's evolution. The heart can transform the ghastly into the educational, and betrayal into blessings galore. Forgiveness is a lever to our divinity. BUT...

Unexamined forgiveness is a distortion, just like "I love you," can mean, "you fill my holes," or, "you meet my requirements therefore I adore you." Distorted forgiveness makes you right, which usually makes the other person wrong - the ego loves that equation. Even though your eyes are smiling while you're saying "I forgive you," there might be a little voice inside saying "Ha! gotchya."

True forgiveness is...well I'm not entirely sure what true forgiveness is. I'll let you know when I ascend to those heights of all knowingness, {in which case I'd be levitating and too blissed out to write little articles about self realization...} But I am wondering if enlightenment relies on the forgiveness formula. As The Course in Miracles puts it, "Forgiveness is unknown in Heaven, where the need for it would be inconceivable."

Duh. My sentiments exactly.

. . . . . .

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hot song: my life, nusrat fateh ali khan

{if you're viewing this via and RSS feed, click on the "POP OUT PLAYER "button below or the post title above to hear the song. The playlist is not actually empty, despite how it appears in RSS readers.}

This is the height of devotional singing if you ask me. I saw Nusrat in concert before he died. A rainy night in Seattle at The Moore, packed with money-throwing East Indians and hippies. Unforgettable.

Check out him out in this old video. Buttery with a bit of glitz. Nusrat, baby, I love you.