Giving Chase

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

Let’s get this straight, it’s not like I went around talking to dead people. They started it is all I am saying. My name is Max Chase and I am a school counselor for the love of god I work for a living. It just happens that the dead are a lonely bunch with problems too, seems like whatever side of the fence you are on you need to be counseled, sheesh. What I mean by “side of the fence” is either the living side or in spirit side. I have had to make up a whole vocabulary for the stuff I do now because there is no Wikipedia for mediums. What they show in movies and on TV only gets me so far. How many times can a girl watch GHOST?

I wish I could tell you this was a recent development but it’s not. This kind of thing runs in my family only as a kid I never was much interested. My mom, Aunt Ruthie and grandmother are table tippers from way back and held séances once a month to help folks connect with their dearly departed. I would sail through the room, grab a wedge of my grandmother’s poppy seed strudel and take off. The whole ghost thing creeped me out truth be told. I had a relatively normal childhood barring the séances, the talk of past lives at the breakfast table and a spattering of dream interpretation here and there. I mean we all have dreams that come true right? I just chalked it up to normal and went off to college as far away from home as possible. I love my family but really they are a little nuts.

Things started to get a bit wonkey for me after my Aunt Ruthie died a few years ago. It’s not like she’s really gone or anything she still shows up for the séances and her and my mom are as close as ever. When she first got sick I was living a little ways upstate New York, she was down with my mom in Florida. They all lived in Florida by then as that is what happens to old people in New York they migrate south.  A few fall out in the Carolinas and Georgia but the bulk make it to Boca.  So any way, on the way home from a vacation my Aunt called. She did not sound good and I thought uh oh this is the big good-bye. After we hung up I called my sister and told her to book us two tickets to Florida for the next day. I got home from the west coast that night and flew out the next morning. We got there in time to say good-bye and support both Aunt Ruthie and my mom. I don’t think the uh-oh feeling I was so sure about in terms of my aunt being ‘ready’ was anything unusual. Everyone can feel that stuff. It was the whispering I heard in the hospital room that was unusual.  It wasn’t coming from any of the live people sitting in the room either.

I kept turning around and looking at my sister thinking she was trying to get my attention. She was not. I kept turning around and looking to see if the TV was on. It was not. I didn’t realize at the time and not until a few months after my aunts death was I was hearing spirit, all of the folks that came to meet, greet and shepherd over my aunt. I deduced that I was hearing departed family when my mom shared that my aunt had sat up the night before she died and was talking to my long dead grandmother. My aunt had been in a morphine coma for the 12 hours prior to that so this impromptu chat was startling for my mom and the night nurse. The realization I was hearing my grandmother and my dad who has been gone over 20 years was a little spooky for me. I promptly ignored it and buried my head in my work and graduate school and soldered on.

A few months after my aunt died I started to talk to her in my head. Not out loud, that I reserve for my surly cat Gus. Any way I could feel her but didn’t pay any real attention she was background to going to grad school, working and falling in love. You know life, not death stuff. Then there was the next incident I remember that got my attention.

I was living in an old Victorian with crystal doorknobs, high ceilings, bay windows and a draft so hard that you could fly a kite in the house. One Wednesday night I went into my tiny upstairs bathroom to take a shower before bed, dropped my slippers in front of the sink, placed my jammers on the toilet cover and jumped in. On my exit I found one of my slippers gone. Look I wear a size 11 and these slippers were big on me, and red. Not something you can overlook. They were bigger than my cat, I live alone, and the freak’n slipper was there 6 minutes before. Now it was gone. I looked everywhere, but all I found was the one lone slipper where I left it. I chucked the lone slipper next to my bed and thought… either I am going crazy or something crazy is going on.  I continued to look for the missing slipper for next couple of days. Early the next Saturday morning I got up and wandered bleary eyed into my bathroom to find the rogue red slipper sitting right where I left it. I got chills all over my body. I could not find any logical answer; I lived alone, no dogs, a lazy cat, no guests… nadda. I started to think those internal conversations were not all me, there really might be a true dialogue. Ah fuckity fuck me I didn’t need more crazy I needed less…

So that is how counseling folks on both sides of the fence began for me. Very few people know I have this gift and skill. I am what you might say mostly in ‘the closet’ about talking to dead people because, well, it does not help in most social situations. And really the ones it does help are very odd, trust me. This is also not something I share in my school life as district employees are clearly prohibited from this kind of shenanigans. I am pretty sure talking to dead people is listed in the employee manual under Conduct and Crazy.

In the beginning I was wide open to every spook who wanted my attention, not good. So I have had to learn to control and focus my gift. I am helped by an executive assistant on the other side. And lucky for me I found Tiffany, a master teacher on this side who helps me navigate the ether.  Turns out it works just like a radio, I can turn it on and off and choose the station, simple as that.  It’s been a year and a half since I started studying. Now I help find missing people, deliver messages, mostly to folks who are grieving, counsel the departed and I’ve realized strudel compliments a séance nicely. I just got to say that life these days is never dull and there is always someone to talk to!

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It’s not you it’s me

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

It’s all about intent…ya, ya, ya, we know that. I know that in spades. Do I always pay attention to my intent? Do I pay attention to my words and how what I say creates and mirrors my beliefs, attitude and all the baggage that comes with that in a very tangible way? Uh some days not so much… But other days I am very clear. The first rule of interaction with others is to “do no harm” as far as I see it. I really try my best to live by that. I sometimes don’t remember to apply that to myself however. That being said it does not mean I don’t hurt people’s feelings; it is just not my intent to do so. Sometimes just by choosing to be who I am instead of who they would like me to be can hurt feelings, but that is their struggle not mine. I choose me, because if I am not healthy, balanced and well, I am no good to anyone. I am also a major cranky-pants, and yes that is a textbook psychological term.

So this past May was a cranky-pants fest for me. I don’t think I was too bad to those around me because they are still around. I was however, a major pain in the ass to myself and the village of idiots who live inside of me. I woke up angry or frustrated for three weeks in a row. I was having crazy dreams then nothing, like someone dropped a curtain and the wizard was back there working like a fiend only I was not invited to this party. I can only repeat what a wise woman told me, “When you’re a student you don’t benefit from looking at the lesson plan. You do best to focus on what has been presented to you and not what is coming.” I was intent on what was coming, it felt like nadda and it felt like that for a long time. I was having faith issues to say the least. Faith in myself, the Universe, that I would feel good again and that Liza with an M will find happiness.

I went up to Encinitas, a town I love, to the meditation garden, walked on the beach, ate good food, did a lot of things that felt good even though some of them left tiny scars. But I could not right myself. I railed at the Universe, which is a first for me. I generally don’t get angry for long much less yell at the sky and shake my fists. I can do Scarlet just not that flavor, I am more a “fiddly-dee” girl than a “as god as my witness”.  I yelled into the ether about what was wrong and what I needed. I did a lot of bitching, moaning, futzing and got nothing. I wish I could tell you I had an epiphany or an Ah ha moment. The closest I got was in week three was I realized I got nothing because I was doing all the talking. No listening.

I was not letting go of my expectations of how the help, happiness and relief should arrive. I was still holding that list of what it should look like, to the detail of size, color and nanosecond of arrival. How I got to the next step was I got tired simple as that.  I gave up trying. I just said hell I can eat cat food, I can live in box, I can sell what I have for a bit to maintain. I can’t control anything but me and I am doing a shitty job of that so I choose to go have more fun and let it all go. I choose to stop trying so damn hard and just go with the current.

After having that conversation with two different people on Friday I woke up on Saturday morning calm and what felt like happy. I was not going to rush to judgment so I lounged with a caffeinated beverage to be sure. Turns out I had let it go and was feeling great.  Then all hell broke loose in a good way, the damn of goodness busted open and I was shocked and felt like a Class A idiot for being the one to create this in the first place. I know better, I have done better but this time I did not. I fell down the rat hole and hung out a while. I think we all do that, we get spun up on what we thought would happen, what we want to happen and we don’t see what really is happening. My intent was not to make my life a crankfest for three weeks but I was successful at it. My intent to “do no harm” was out the window when it came to me. I totally sabotaged myself and will take a look at that. But not today, that work is a little ways down the road so I can get some perspective on it and more lightness under my belt. Right now I need to laugh with my friends, get into some trouble and have a boatload of fun. It’s a tough job but somebody has to do it!

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The lesser of two evils

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

That is what I am doing right now: choosing to write this article rather than work on a screenplay. The reality is I feel like doing neither, even a nap today feels like too much work. It is one of those days where nothing fits, everything hurts and I can’t find comfort anywhere. Choosing the lesser of two evils seems like a way to maybe climb my way out of this hole I have dug or fallen into—it is hard to tell which and it matters not. What matters is that I do something to right myself. The walk, the laundry and the phone calls of urgent natures have been finished. None of the urgency was mine, all very real and very difficult situations. I am good person to call on these occasions. I know this because friends do and are glad when I am on the other side. I am happy to be there as they have done and do the same for me. But today that is not what is needed; today the need is to write, paint, do something to exercise what no longer fits within me and put it out. So here we are, you waiting and me doing the same. I require inspiration to be productive, but only a small portion, irritation is the larger piece of that puzzle. Like an oyster I work over something that is irregular, sharp, an intrusion, until it becomes part of me or I expel it out. Sometimes it’s just crud other times it can be much finer but the process is just the same. I have to go to the paper, the canvas, the instrument of voice and use it, over and over. I have to defer judgment, good sense and peel back till I feel something that pulls me in or pushes me back, hard. One of those two junctures is my jumping off point. That is where I strike a nerve and find truth, however ugly or beautiful it might be, and run with it.

Today choosing to write this article is training wheels to get me ready for working on my screenplay next. If I can hobble this together I can maybe jumper it into a scene or two afterward. These are the tricks, tips and lies I tell myself to get from point A to point B on a project. I got news for you, that project can be a screenplay, a book, finding a job, hobby, lover or a dream life. It is about finding small steps to string together with duct tape, spit and fiction to keep the movement going when moving is the last thing you feel like.  Pick one small task and do it. Bribe yourself with a treat when you are done, like you would a fussy child. Because that is who we are dealing with when we do not feel good in our skin. If the first task falls short, choose another, then another, until you do feel better. Let your inner guidance of fun, lightness or relief from the cranky be your guide. Let me tell you my inner cranky is some mean-ass bossy bitch.  She gets a vote like all the crazies that live inside but ultimately I choose. I choose to feel better even if I don’t know how to get there or know what better looks like on that day.  I know to keep trying things; sooner or later I am down the road and will have a new perspective. Not doing anything leaves me sitting in a damn hole with that cranky witch; nobody should spend an hour or a day, much less a lifetime like that.

So what can you do to climb out of a hole? What, on a better day, feels good? What would be a carrot to dangle or a bridge to build to get you from shitty point A to sucky point B? If you don’t know you need to find out. Nobody has the keys to you, but you; you own that crazy contraption and yes it came without a manual. There are no universal blue prints for us to move through life, one size only does not fit all. Not only does it not fit all but can actually do us harm if we try to jam ourselves into a fictitious prototype.

As a life coach who specializes in transitions I show people my tricks, tips, lies and tactical maneuvers to get movement started. I can get you thinking about what would work for you, but only you will know what feels right by trying each one in different circumstances. I show folks that this process is a lot like finding an old trunk of clothes in the attic. Looking at items or thinking about them tells you very little. We never know what will fit until we try it on and move around. Only then do you get the feedback you need to know if something works. So there we stand holding a chartreuse and mauve flowered Mumu in one hand and a scratchy set of see-through harem pants and gold lame vest in the other. Neither is what we want, but what can we do but choose the lesser of the two evils and take a walk in the hood? And hope nobody has a camera ready.

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Life with new lemon scent and extra brightness built right in!

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

Finding a better mood, more lightness and laughter does not have to be difficult, suffering is an option.
Being lighter does not have to be event driven like a trip, it doesn’t have to be expensive like a spa day, it doesn’t even have to be purposeful like a walk on the beach. All you need to have is the right attitude, want it and be aware of what is going on around you. Because I am here to tell you the Universe is the perpetrator of drive-bys.

This is something I’ve always suspected but did not have enough empirical data until now. It started with an OK morning albeit busy so I was a bit rushed. I was driving across the park on a mission of mercy.  A friend of mine just found out that they can’t eat wheat products, no gluten, so no donuts, pizza, biscuits… So many things that were life giving just a week ago were gone. This adjustment takes research and patience to find gluten free options, which are not my friend’s strong suite this is where I come in. As a life coach, a creative thinker and a foodie, options are my middle name. I figure life this way, if someone has done something I want to do so can I, and if it hasn’t been done yet it’s just a matter of time and I might as well be the one to do it first. So really I see everything as a puzzle to be solved which works pretty well as long as the puzzle is not a person. People puzzles are best left alone if they are still puzzling after a few encounters, that just leads to crazy making and large caliber hand guns.

 

I already knew of a pizza joint that had gluten free options and I was about to make an introduction to make both parties very happy. Up till that morning I had been in a funk for a day or two and being working at trying to right myself with some success. Being alive long enough you start to add options to your bag of tricks for healthy self-soothing remedies.  They can be things like a walk, a run, a bike ride, bubbles, a favorite movie or book, meditation, taking photographs, talking with someone who makes you laugh and or feel loved, coloring books and a full set of crayons, volunteering, good music, great sex, any prayer, a visit to a dog park/dog beach whether you have a dog or not and of course a road trip to nowhere, just to name a very few. How you find things to add to that bag of tricks is by being open, trying things without judgment and letting your feelings for fun, wellness and joy lead the way.

 

Earlier during my morning’s meditation while in my favorite yoga pose called Shavasana, which is dead man, I had a great idea. I could take hot dogs and roll them inside corn tortillas and bake them for a healthy option. Hey, spirituality comes in all flavors so don’t judge! So an hour later sitting at the stop sign waiting to go on my way to my friends I had gotten myself to almost happy when it happened, my drive by from the Universe. The Wienermobile drove by in all its glory right out of my mediation and onto Pershing Drive,  the splash of mustard yellow and garish orange woke me up more than 75 minutes of yoga and a half gallon of tea had. My heart soared and I laughed out loud. I had never seen it before and it was beautiful. I almost blew off my friend and followed the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile on its wondrous journey of suspect meat products like a tie-dyed hemp wearing, dreaded-out, hashish brownie making entrepreneur after what’s left of the Grateful Dead.

I held fast and did not deter from my mission of mercy, now though I was laughing the whole way. I had learned a good lesson.  Yes, it’s important for me to actively try to raise my vibration and my mood, with the tools I know.  But I also have to be open to having that raise be matched and called by the Universe and it was but good. Something so small and bizarre had absolutely made my day, maybe my week. I still have a call into Celine Dion for karaoke night so I can’t say for sure on the week. What I can be sure of is that I am expecting from now on that my efforts will be matched.  For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. What I put out comes back to me, my actions, my intent, my juju… good or bad. That when I am working at staying positive, letting things go and finding options that I will be met at least halfway with what I am working towards. I need to be aware of what is being offered as it does not always come in a package I expect. Sometimes it might look like a check in the mail, a heartfelt hug and kind words, a bouquet of white tulips, or a gianormous mobile hot dog  inviting you to play, wait that sounds so wrong… ah the hell with it  you know what I mean.

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Pulling up Stakes

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

There are things that happen to us in the course of our lifetime that can affect the trajectory of our lives, leaving us forever changed. That is the nature of the beast; we are the balls in the Dukes of Hazzard pinball machine doing the best we can. This is true of all events big and small but today I am talking about major traumas like being a survivor of incest, cancer, abuse or the death of a loved one. There are just too many events that fit here but you get the idea. Surviving trauma is heroic but reliving trauma can become a full time job and all consuming. Surviving trauma is somewhat a badge of honor. The death of anything, whether our innocence, a marriage, our health or a person, is life changing on many levels. It causes us to step back and re-evaluate who we are and what life means. These events become part of us and we carry them into every relationship we enter.

What frequently happens after a trauma is we end up honoring that battle by identifying ourselves as the event. We put a stake in the ground to hold fast in the fight but remain tethered to that stake as a matter of principal. What that does is leave us tied to the wound and walking in circles around a firmly placed stake, never being able to move past it.

What happens to us is not us. Trauma is something we live through and learn from; it alters us but does not define who we are. The incidents of our lives, no matter how horrible, become a part of us but they do not make up our whole. We are not honoring the dead but choosing not to live. By choosing to move forward we don’t minimize struggle or the effects of these events but rather go with the flow of life. We are moving away from the impact, taking our hard earned lessons and choosing to leave the limitations that we once imposed.  This is the gift life gives us, the opportunity for a different perspective from down the road to deepen the learning. We honor ourselves and our struggles by leaning in, moving forward and learning from our traumas.

By accepting what is instead of what we would like it to be we are then able to choose different behavior. By seeing people and circumstances for what they truly are we work with what is true rather than our tired fiction.  In doing this we release the beliefs that keep us tethered to the stakes we have planted about others and ourselves. We no longer invest in the image of what we should do to uphold principals that no longer fit or serve us. By letting go of those ties we can forgive others and ourselves for our human frailty. Healing is not a disingenuous act. It does not take power away from us or events but rather it brings us full circle giving circumstances meaning and context.  Pulling up stakes is an act of growth, honesty and courage all of which make the journey a much better story in the end.

 

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The Backcountry Take on Fear

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

I write about fear a lot. Partly because I have spent a good portion of my life not participating, not living a bigger life for fear-sake. The other part is I now work with folks as a life coach and one of the principal things that gets brought to the table over and over is fear. Many times it comes incognito, under what we say is wrong, broken, and missing with our lives. It is this gelatinous layer that lies beneath what ails us. What can be trickier are the occasions fear appears in mist form like an old monster movie, it drifts in as free-floating anxiety that attaches to everything and nothing. It can be paralyzing, we have this light terror of what exactly, we don’t know, that cause us to wake at 2 am and lay there dissecting our lives in sentences that start with “what if”.  That is never good. But if we stop, that is an important word right there, STOP and take a breath we can then go through the grocery list of fears we carry around with us and see where it fits.  If we can assign it to something going on, if we can name it we can then attach it to the trigger and in doing so take control back. That doesn’t mean we aren’t afraid it means we know where the fear lives and that way it does not permeate everything.

Fear can be used as just another tool in our bag of tricks if we choose. As an example I use fear as an indicator, not in warning me away from things but rather as something to look closer at, move towards. Unless it’s a loaded gun and I am not talking metaphorically here, no fight or flight scenarios but rather emotional fear. I know that sounds redundant but events over the last few days brought me to a place to think of fear in context of having sub categories and one that came to light is emotional fear. The best example I have of emotional fear is something I wrote about recently: when I signed up to read one of my short stories at a book launch party. I was absolutely terrified to the point I made myself sick. The fear was unmistakable, raw and very real but not primal, not physical. Those flavors came this past weekend.

My friend Lisa’s husband, Sam, grew up Jeeping, exploring the lore and the land of the desert especially the area of Anza Borrego. As you can imagine Lisa has done this for many years with Sam. As a kid my friend John went off-road exploring with his family as well but had not been for damn near 35 years. I was a virgin, and really I don’t get to say that about too many things. For those of you who just spit your beverage at your screen, serves you right and people who live in glass houses… but I digress. As for Saturday the moon was going to be full, there were mud caves to be explored, some ghost stories and missing kids to investigate and crazy big rocky treacherous hills that needed to be climbed, we signed up for the lot. “Little did she know…” is all I can hear the narrator say.

There is no better teacher than someone who is passionate and knowledgeable.  When they take you on a journey of discovery and show us their love as they see it, it is incredible. This was true with Lisa and Sam on our desert adventure. I have a number of friends who are not trained teachers but are some of the most gifted ones I know. They teach what they know, love and have a passion for in doing so they tap into our natural curiosity. That is how we learn best when our teacher is engaging, full of energy and on fire. At the end of the day I was filthy, dusty, bumped and bruised and had not had that much fun in a very long time. I had also not bumped up against physical fear since spring of 2006 as my best guess. In fact I had forgotten all about it.

That spring I had an occasion to tag along with my beaux, his brother and nephew, all accomplished skydivers, to a drop zone. I had always wanted to try skydiving and at this point had hung around drop zones all over the country while my beaux jumped. While he jumped I took photos and made sure I knew where his car keys were in case things went terribly wrong. Skydiving was a bucket list item for me and I decided to try it. The timing of my jump was attached to my younger sister being in the hospital with leukemia and me having just given a stem cell transplant that was not transplanting. I thought I could do an even trade with God if he saw fit to take the cranky older sister and let the younger stick around a bit. He didn’t as you all know, but I had to try.

My foray into skydiving was the kind of fear where you think about your life and that this might just be the end of it. There was terror yes, but there was also exhilaration, excitement and full throttle adrenaline. I am sure there was emotional fear about my spaz-o-matic body, and all that goes with hand, eye and full body coordination of which I lack. But the overriding feeling was visceral and very grounded in my body. The dive was awesome to sound like a southern cali girl. I loved the free fall more than the gentle float down of the canopy to the landing, which I hear is opposite of most folks. I guess the weightlessness and the wind did it for me.  You don’t feel like you are falling you just feel. I loved the rush of fear and joy that flooded my body and made me feel alive. I didn’t love it enough to become a skydiver but would do it again in a heartbeat.

The same thing happened to me on Saturday. There was a little wisp of fear winding our way in the dark labyrinth of the mud caves, but it was that tiny fear of the unknown, the untried and the Indiana Jones syndrome. As the day in the desert progressed we went further into the backcountry climbing over hill and dale, just like Roy. Towards the end of the day we had trudged narrow rocky passages and climbed a good sized sand dune that would have made Lawrence of Arabia weep. There was a plateau in the distance across the desert floor. We crossed to it and began to climb mountain goat territory over boulders, through gaps, listing to the side all the while being regaled with stories of how they tipped over here, and flipped over there. My body had started a high hum of fear on the sand dune and by this time I was a teakettle ready to blow. I was absolutely terrified that we would go tumbling over or down the rock grade and that would be it. As we got close to the top I stopped looking out the windows as it was too much sensory overload. Just as we scaled a particularly precarious spot the teakettle blew and I let out a little yelp, involuntarily, mind you. I had hoped it was just in my head. It was not, which was confirmed a nanosecond later. It seems that I whimper when I fear for my life and limb. Who knew? When I was skydiving it was all lost in the wind, in a jeep of four well, I was not so lucky.

John was the first to comment about my whimper of fear. Sam confirmed that, yes that was what it sounded like and yes; it had come from Kyra in the back seat. There was much laughter and gaiety as to my yelp or plea to the universe to save my wrinkly yet still soft hide. Sam laughingly told us that this was not even the dangerous stuff; Lisa confirmed that it was true and added a few stories. I was a wimp it seemed when it came to off-roading.  But in my defense I hate heights and don’t even look down at the hillsides in a car on a skinny road. I only look straight ahead on the winding Highway 1 even when I am not driving.  I was good with being a wussy because I was having the ride of my life, however spooky that ride was–even if that meant closing my eyes sometimes to get to the end point.

At the top of the plateau we stopped and unloaded from the jeep, me on jello legs. I took a deep breath and looked out on the huge disc of the sinking sun dipping behind the rough terrain. There was a cool breeze whipping at our clothes as we stood in the golden, still warm glow. The view was stunning; I don’t think I will ever forget the beauty around us or feeling the hum in my body. It was an electrical current of joy.  To have it delivered in such a heart-pounding trip made it all the more sweet. I learned so much that day, while being thrown around the back of a jeep, about my compatriots and myself. I got reacquainted with physical fear again realizing how big life can be and how thrilling the edge is in every sense of the word. What trust and safety mean among friends. Don’t eat carrots on the bumps unless you want them in your lungs as well as your stomach. By sharing what you love with others lets you fall in love with it all over again. And sometimes fear does not come in under the cover of darkness but under bright desert light in a red jeep with a few smart-asses up in front and it’s all good.

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Sophomore Slump?

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

My second book is ready to be shopped around to agents. I did this briefly with my first book, a memoir, but realized that nobody was going to buy the poor man’s version of Eat Pray Love with a sarcastic 6’1 off kilter protagonist and I stopped. I knew my memoir wouldn’t be the first book I sold; that a publisher would come back to it after something easier to sell was sold. Don’t ask me how I knew or believed this because it occurred to me before I had even finished writing it. It didn’t make sense it just was and I didn’t really ponder it, just chalked it up to my crazy and kept plugging away. That book took about 8 years to write and edit. So here I am at that doorway of that “easier to sell second book”, the first fiction work I’ve finished and its show time.

I have some writer friends who have used a company back east called Writer’s Relief with some success. This company offers many services to writers; I chose the cheapest they had, ala carte service which nets me 25 targeted agents names for my specific work from their database and some guidance on submissions, and pre-printed labels for the agents that use snail-mail.

Writers Relief sent the first wave of names for e-submissions last Wednesday. I took a deep breath and sent material to the seven agents who wanted a query letter and or pages from the book. The other four names want a synopsis. That being said I am writing this blog and not writing the synopsis I need for sending the next batch of e-submissions. I am stalling. Yea I know, you are shocked and appalled. I didn’t write a synopsis for my first book, and hoped nobody would want one for the second. I was wrong.

 

I have done a fair amount of research on my own with my first book. That time I wrote queries, researched agent names and in the end submitted to about 30 agents. I got bites from 3 wanting to see the book but no takers. It can be a heartbreaking process as most of what you get is rejection. You have to get lots of rejections before you can get accepted, that is what they tell me. It’s like dating and relationships best I can tell but that is a whole other blog. I can deal better with someone rejecting my book, which is not personal or as personal as your sweetie heading for the hills. The reality is in both situations neither of those things is personal; neither have anything to do with you.

 

By Thursday morning I had my first rejection. It stung, and sucked just a tad. I am opening the flood gates to more of this, in this next round, twenty-four more times. So here I sit thinking that I should open some wine and keep working on this blog to avoid the work I need to do to get closer to both the good and the bad. I am gearing up for writing the synopsis true, but I am also gathering my courage to put my work out there again to be judged, tossed aside and rejected. But if don’t put it out there it can’t be accepted, read and loved, again just like dating and relationships.

Not being willing to put your heart, your writing, your truth on the line undermines what is both wonderful and heartbreaking about being alive. It is both of these things we hold in our hands as we stumble around in this world learning how we fit. It is our willingness to fail that will lead us to success; I know this from years of experience. This is not comfortable but it is true. The level of honesty we apply as we navigate our relationships, our art and what we choose reveals our integrity of self. That being said I am drinking wine and stalling. I know with all certainty I am going back out there and shop around this book and I am also going to date, fall in love and maybe get my heart broken again. It’s all part of having a pulse as far as I am concerned. As long as I’m looking down at the dirt instead of looking up at it I plan on living with abandon despite the fear and despite the joy, it’s about riding it till the wheels come off and then some.

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Don’t Bother Me I’m Soaking

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

It is a lazy Sunday afternoon and I have been reading, drawing, meditating which looks a lot like napping to the untrained eye. I have also been thinking about writing, which also looks remarkably like napping to the untrained eye. Sunday is the day I soak. I try to make little to no plans and let my inner princess-sloth lead. The term “soak” comes from my friend John’s daughter. He would go wake her for school and she would beg to soak a few more minutes in her bed. He would try to explain the misfire of her logic, i.e. no water etc., and finally acquiesced coming back 10 minutes later to her same plea. Eventually he got her up and dressed but they fought the soak battle many mornings. The truth is soaking is essential for creativity, learning and well princess Dom.

Doing nothing in particular can be difficult, thinking about nothing is near impossible, both of these feats require lots of practice. The key is not to engage your brain to much, letting your day unfold, floating from one small activity to the next, not planning, not rehearsing, and not strategizing the best use of your time, resources or drudgery. Yes I understand you over-achievers out there think it is blasphemous to putz around all day rearranging the art in your house, reading a book for hours, taking a walk, scribbling in a journal, watching the birds out the window over a cup of tea, or pulling out an old coloring book and just coloring. Your brain is a muscle it needs rest and some unstructured time to puzzle things out without your direction.  It needs to take a back seat and let your conscious mind, the bigger part of you, run. This is where stillness and wisdom live.

Between the words, the notes and the logic is that space where we find beauty and meaning. If you can’t get quiet, slow down and listen. You are running head first through your life wondering what it all means. How can you hear a thing with your thinking mind running lists, planning a route to Target, the bank, the grocer, and the dry cleaners so you can travel in a single no-u-turns-same-side-of-the-street direction then hit Starbucks for a boost? We have so much noise, commotion and whirling that that is what steals our attention. Or rather we give it away and in doing so give ourselves away.

You don’t have to be totally still to find stillness. You can be walking, painting or on top of a surfboard. Stillness is when you get in a zone and unplug and just do or be. It can be more profound however if you are physically still as then everything is attuned to that one breath and space. For some this is a guilty pleasure, for others they would rather set their hair on fire. I have been in both seats on any given day but on this day the seat was a floatation tank. I was going to enclose myself in a coffin filled with high levels of saline water… well that isn’t exactly what the brochure says but that is what my friends were saying. And I was thinking, “Wow, this could be fun, right?”

The floatation tank or sensory deprivation tank as they used to be called was something I have always wanted to try. When the offer came up on Groupon, a group coupon site, I jumped at it. Yes Virginia, this is exactly how I wound up in the pole dancing class but really that has no bearing on this. How could I get bruised floating naked in a water filled coffin? What’s the worst that could happen? The reality is that I was hoping to take my meditation to the next level, maybe do some out of body exploration. Hey it could happen? Look even people with humming bird concentration abilities can bust a move on the metaphysical side of the fence. I just didn’t know if I would be one of them or if I could distill stillness in a coffin better than I can sitting on my sofa.

After booking my appointment I read through the small list of do’s and don’ts. This could go any which way I thought. No shaving the day of your float or the salt water will burn, check; no heavy meal before, check; no caffeine, check; list the next of kin or emergency contact, uh check?

 

I took a yoga class in the morning before I tanked and it kicked my butt. I hadn’t been in almost a month and not with this teacher in over a year. The logic being I would be stretchy and physically tired, yoga invigorates and relaxes… two, two benefits in one. Not exactly a breath mint and a candy, but you get the idea. After yoga I did a little reading, a light lunch and a quick meditation before I left for my appointment. I am fine in small spaces; I even like them on occasion so I had no apprehension about that. There was some in the fact that this was all new, new is spooky but in a good way. In the way it makes my stomach feel at the top of the roller coaster ride before it takes off: fear, anticipation, excitement all rolled into one. I got there and filled out the paper work for my session. The paperwork states that they are not responsible for anything, including me going bonkers. Again not worded like that but none the less message received.

I got a tour of my private room, shower, tank and the tank-talk procedure: I could shower. I could use the recommended earplugs and neck pillow to keep me in straight alignment while in the floating position. I could close the tank door for the full experience but could also leave it open if I needed to. It’s mentioned that if I do this cold air comes in, “Not me,” I think, “I want the full on dark, silent cocoon effect.” I don’t even consider this an option. My tour guide goes on to say they play you in with 10 minutes of music to help you relax and you then get 50 minutes of golden silence. They play music again when it’s over to let you know time is up, go take a shower and get the hell out of dodge. Seems simple enough and boy am I ready to relax and kick ass in some meditative way. I am going to wrestle this stillness shit down.

My guide left and I disrobed, showered, played with the ear plugs and jammed them in my ears in what turned out to be not the best way but I was excited to get in the tank. The tank is 4’ by 8’ you walk up a few steps and there is a hatch type door at what could be said is the foot of the tank. The speakers are up at the other end; you climb in, sit down, reach up, close the door and lay back. The saline solution is 9 times stronger than the ocean, they use ultra violet light to clean and blah, blah bottom line it’s 8 or 10 inches of skin temperature water that you float like crazy in. No drowning, no sinking, just warm salty goodness. The high mineral content makes it like a mineral bath and is slick to the touch. I had been forewarned about not touching my face or anywhere near my eyes, which is ex

I laid back and noticed the music, an odd choice, a blend of bird screeches and classical. Ok well, “that is interesting,” I thought. It was warm and moist in the tank not unlike being in a steam room. The water was silky and felt good but I could barely feel it as it was skin temperature. It was not like a warm bath, it just was there. I took a deep breath, or tried to. Ugh it was hard to take a deep breath, I tried again. I am not claustrophobic so that was not the issue it was warm and humid, like a wet sauna, which made it hard for me to breathe. The air already felt regurgitated and I had only been in the tank for 2 minutes. I am a delicate flower, I was thinking, “the air would be circulated better but no matter I am here to relax.” Then my nose itched, I went to touch it and remembered “no.” I tried to breathe in again and thought, “ok relax”. I heard the music then my stomach gurgled loudly. I tested the floaty aspect, stretched a little and splashed some, ok not good. Water near the face was a no.

I needed to relax more, I tried to breath and realized part of the problem was one nostril passage got clogged and I could only breath through one. Ok I tried a deep breath through my mouth and it tasted a little funky, but I got a good breath. I tried this a few times and fidgeted to get more comfy. The water started to enter my years and get all tickly, which was the furthest thing from peaceful and relaxing.  I pushed off from the bottom of the tank and tapped my head on the top. I reached out and tapped the sides with my hands to see where the tank sides were; ok I had a better idea of my boundaries. I tried my nose again as my mouth felt slack when I breathed and hated that mouth breather thing. Parts of my face were itching, my stomach was making crazy sounds that I hoped were not going to be an issue, my head and nose felt more clogged and the music went off. Christ I was 10 minutes in and nothing was going as planned. I was a huge weenie I couldn’t get comfortable, my nose was begging to be scratched, I had water in my ears because I couldn’t work an ear plug,  I couldn’t breathe right, I may have had some upper GI issues and was nowhere near connected to my spiritual center. Hell I was more agitated in the tank then I was getting lost on the way there.

I took another attempt at a deep breath to settle. It was silent; well almost I heard folks somewhere talking in the distance but knowing me that could have been in my head. It is pretty crowded in here, there is a riot of people at any given time giving opinions, making observations, and milling about. I took a deep breath and focused inward trying to relax my body and my mind. I felt a release start. And then I sneezed. I sneezed two more times before it was over and I settled in to my now fully clogged head and bitchy mind. I can’t even ride in a car without the fan vent on and open, so trying to take deep relaxing breathes in there was not going well at all. It seems I am good in a small space as long as I am not breathing my own used up air. The fidgeting, obsessing, mental twitching went on until I let go finally. I could have gotten into the zone, or it could have been a cat nap, all I know is the music came on and I thought, “hell that went quicker than I thought.”

I am still not sure if I was able to relax for that short time at the end or if I had just nodded off having exhausted myself mentally with the futzing. There was no distilling of stillness, this was distilling of my neurosis, and I paid to lie in a tank of saline water for an hour to refine my crazy. I can easily get to a deeper mediation on my sofa or in mediation group; I can get more stillness and clarity walking on a beach. What the hell went so wrong in the tank? It took me a couple of days and hours more obsession to finally let the whole debacle go. And you know what comes when we let things go, when we stop trying so hard to find the answer? That’s right kiddos when I let go of trying to puzzle it out, it came to me. I tried too hard to relax; I had too many expectations of what should happen, I over-thought the whole operation and floated my way into my homeland of crazy town.

 

It seems my friends I do my best soaking on dry land. It requires no planning, no dos and don’ts, no expectations other than to just be. It also has a bonus of fresh air, scratches itched, adult beverages, tissues, and sunshine—everything a delicate flower like me needs to grow.

actly what I wanted to do once inside.

 

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I Would Give Up a Lung

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

The assignment was for each team of two to research their assigned organ and give an oral report. This announcement promptly caused my first panic attack, I was in 6th grade. Elyse Pector and I researched and wrote our report complete with a beautiful full color diagram of the lungs that included a comprehensive key at the bottom of the oak tag poster. As the day approached I found out that Elyse was not happy about the oral presentation either and we were both dreading it. Unfortunately for Elyse, in the face of fear I can lie like a mofo and did. On the morning of the presentation I told her that I had some kind of disease that if I spoke in public it would cause me to fall down in fits, or some such. I don’t remember exactly what I said the disease would do other than public speaking would make things worse. The details of this are lost because I pulled the story out of my ass moments before the spotlight hit us and I was as stunned to hear of my affliction as she was. The story worked, I stood swaying in front of the class holding the lung poster as poor Elyse delivered our whole report. I did my best not to faint in giving up my part of the lung presentation and I was successful.

My fear of public speaking, the spotlight and being seen all run together and are a muddy mess. I do better being seen one on one and in small classes. Crowds or public forums make my head buzz, my stomach flip and I get tunnel vision almost instantly. Tunnel vision is a telltale sign of fainting for me. I have been successful and not so successful in avoiding this collapsing into a heap in the most unfortunate and unflattering circumstances. For a writer this is not good, because as we get better, as we grow in audience we are called on to stand up and read our work. Even on the path to build an audience we maybe incited to go to a poetry open mic night and read our work. Those of us who write are all driven to do so for different reasons. I think that is true for anyone who creates; there is this internal whisper, nudge or shove to explore thought and emotion in some way. At the end of the creating comes show and tell however.

A little over two years ago I decided to push myself to read some of my poetry at an open mic night. I was with an ex who is a better poet than I and he was going to read. I don’t believe he finds reading his work easy or comfortable as he is, or rather was, somewhat shy and a raving introvert. On what I believe was our second poetry reading he signed up, yet again, to mount the stage and put himself out there. I struggled with doing the same; I had my printed three-poem limit, as dictated by the guidelines of the event, in my pocket and was twitching badly at the thought of reading them. My ex was good at inspiring and supporting but never pushing. He was a quiet solid force when he was at his best. In being so he gave me call on courage to write my name on that damned list half way through the night causing me to spend the rest of the night in dread. I worked myself into a tizzy and almost backed out of doing it after every poet got up and down from the podium. He had read already and sat and just smiled waiting with me for my name to be called. I was almost last if not last and a wreck by the time my turn came. With bad poetry in hand, and I am not being modest here, I delivered a sweaty, shaky, mumbley three poems and ran. I sucked and so did facing my fear but I did it nonetheless because if I didn’t it would grow.

This past December I was notified that one of my short stories was selected to be printed in this year’s edition of the San Diego Writers Ink Anthology volume IV. I had not submitted my work in a very long time so it was a stunner and a gift. It is said each problem holds a gift for us; we create the problem because we are in need of that gift. I believe that to be true, I also believe the flip side of that coin to be true. That we receive gifts because they come with lessons or baggage to unpack. This gift’s baggage was the opportunity to read my piece at the book launch party on 2/15/11, yikes. Being the evolved soul that I am I promptly turned into a big girls blouse and ran. I said to the Executive Director in my email, “thanks but no thanks I am a writer not a reader.”

Her response was, “too bad, I think it would read well and I loved it.” I was suckered in by a sweet talking stranger who loved one of my ‘children.’ I, coy at first, responded, “really, you think it would read well?” And we went from there. Within an email or two I had turned reader/writer-complement-ho and was locked in to edit my piece down to 3 minutes and read it on the night of the book launch. FFM. I hit send on the confirmation email and regretted it immediately but I knew it was the right thing to do. I hated myself for it, but it was true. I was due to meet the aforementioned ex for dinner and on my walk up to the restaurant I called my BFF John to calm me down, build me up and make me laugh. I generally get all three when I talk to him, which is why he is my go-to-middle-of-the night-emergency-room-guy. John assured me that not only was I ready, I would be great. He went on to say it was also the exact right thing to do now. Then he added emphasis on “like right effing now”. Which meant two things: one, the stars were aligned and he knew something I didn’t know, and two, I was interrupting his consumption of after dinner pie. He’s a complicated guy what can I say.

Within the next 24 hours I had little to no time to think about reading as I got sick and hopped on a plane for Denver to attend my fabulous sidekick Marsue’s art opening of her encaustic work. The show was a brilliant success and there was much celebrating, drinking of champagne, some writing and late nights giving way to the flu on day 4 of my visit. I remained sick for the next three weeks coughing, sneezing and sounding very much like the love child of Bea Arthur and Elmer Fudd. I had only invited two people to the reading; I was embarrassed about the recognition and about the opportunity to read. I came to understand I did not believe I was good enough or worthy of the praise. I got sicker as the night got closer and lost my voice three days before the reading in an absolutely brilliant case of self-sabotage. As we all know crazy is and crazy does. What was happening was that I was having trouble owning my voice and standing up for myself and my work so I lost it. I buried it. I kind of knew this as the weeks went on but when I lost my voice it was as crystal clear but not until I owned what I was doing and said it out loud to someone did I start to mend. On the advice of my fabulous sidekick Ms. M I called a few more people to celebrate sharing my work. I became lighter and did not fret that I could not practice reading my piece before the big night. I did not fret that if I talked to long I hacked and coughed so hard people were afraid I would produce a lung.

My old fear was clear and present but it was not the loudest voice in my head. The love, support and good ju-ju I got from near and far all day from those I love and respect came pouring in and buoyed me. The band of supporters with me that night–who took pictures, toasted me, and when it came time clapped for me no matter what–made me feel wonderful.

It turned out I was number 33 out of 37 authors. Just like the night at the poetry reading I was almost dead last, crap. This allowed me more time to obsess if I gave myself over to the fear. My friends listened for almost two hours enjoying the authors and I did my best to be in the moment and not focus on the crazy scenarios dancing in my head. Number one on that hit parade was the fear that I would trip in route or on stage and have my dress over my head in an instant–very real and quite possible given some of my other stunts. Yes, I did say stage. This event was held in the Cygnet Theater downtown, complete with stage, lights, photographer, podium and yes microphone. Yikes! This was as big as it gets for me and the scariest thing I have done in years–and I do some scary stuff on a regular basis as those who know me can attest.

In the beginning of the night the prose and poetry editors read their introductions and I got a nice surprise. The prose editor referenced a few of the readings in her introduction. My work was one of them, WOW! Each time someone who doesn’t know and love me notices my work I feel validated on some level, that I can reach people with my writing. I am not sure that is good or bad, it just is. I write because I need to, it’s part of the package. Some days I do it well, others not so much, but I try. My gift is that in the process of doing this I get to enjoy the challenge of putting what I know, feel, believe to be true, and yes the crazy too, onto the page. The night of the reading I showed up for myself, I owned my voice and did well, hell I got laughs from a theater of people, it doesn’t get much better than that for me. I am not interested in being a literary star; I just want to tell my truth and if along the way it rings true for others, enlightens them or makes them laugh I did my job. If I can do all that without having to give up a lung, that’s progress!

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The Cover of the NY Times

Posted on June 24, 2012 by kyra333

A month or two ago I was having a conversation with a friend who was trying to figure out how they felt about something they had done: were they ashamed or, was it indeed no big deal? The event was a transaction in a doctor’s office where the receptionist had over looked charging for a missed appointment co-pay. As they stood there, torn between informing the receptionist of the mistake and not saying anything, they opted to let it go and didn’t say anything. Several days later she told me about the incident and was still wrestling with it. She said she couldn’t see whom it had hurt. I pointed out the reality that she was wrestling days later which, meant something did not sit well, so maybe it hurt her? In our conversation she came to the conclusion that if she told the story of what happened at a dinner party where her friends or family were there she would be uncomfortable, or ashamed of the route she took in that spilt second decision at the counter. A decision any one of us could make, and have made, during our lives. The fact it didn’t sit well for her meant that she needed to go back and revisit and decide that next time she might choose differently.

During our conversation I revealed that I try to live my life in a way that any of my actions could be put on the cover of the NY Times and I would not be ashamed of them. I hate the spotlight but I stand by what I do and say, even when I screw up. After this conversation I took some time and dug around to see if that was true in all areas, something I had not done in a while. By being thoughtful I was able to be more conscious and tweak someplaces that gave me pause in my own life in terms of the language I choose when presented with a situation that does not please me. I am not always honest, and can at times put myself last rather than make a fuss. Which is misleading, and wussy-like behavior coming from an adult. When presented with a moral dilemma asking if our choice would cause us to be ashamed of our actions is a great litmus test. Our heads can justify any action and make it palatable to us, our bodies can be more soft-spoken—especially if we are not used to listening to them. So having a simple tool to use in times of pause, or wavering, is kind of like having a pair of readers to make something clearer instantly.

Shame is something that separates us, its fear of disconnection from others. “If people see who I really am they will not love me.” or “I am not ______ enough to be worthy, loved or valued.” The blank can be filled in with things like good, thin, successful, smart, beautiful, etc. all of this talk is built on shame and fear. When we do things to perpetuate this separateness we feel more alone, the less we talk about it the more it has a hold on us. I know a number of people who compartmentalize their lives to a point where they have to check their language content constantly depending on who they are talking to. I don’t know if I would call it lying per se but it is editing to a degree that has to create stress, fiction, and maybe never really being seen or loved for who they are. When we slice ourselves up and create tiny lives there is no real freedom to just be who we are for fear of rejection.

I like the simple tool of the NY Times cover to keep me on track.  If I am editing what I say or do it makes me look at my motives. Is there a disconnect between what I believe to be true and what I am putting out there for others? Am I hiding my beliefs and actions for fear of judgment? Does editing myself make me less than–make me feel cruddy about my choices and who I am? If I flip to blaming, which is a method to discharge pain and discomfort, what was my trigger? Where am I vulnerable and covering that up? All these things are hot points to stop, pause and breathe. I go back to my three basic questions; What do I need? What do I want? What do I feel? By using those questions to take my temperature of where I am in the crazy I can take a step back from my motives and adjust so that my mind, body and soul are in alignment. I have found for me that not being aligned in those areas makes for chaos, shame and depression. For me age has given me some great tools, it lets me drop the rules of things that no longer serve, stop bullshitting and just be. Even if I am thought to be foolish in large print on the cover of the NY Times I find no shame in that, only great writing material.

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