Friend-ly ride

So I rode the subway with David Schwimmer today. What a hoot. I'm looking at this guy talking to his friend and I'm thinking, "Could that possibly be him?" I tried not to stare, but just get close enough to hear him talk. When I did, I knew it was him beneath the baseball cap.

I ask myself, if I was a multi-millionaire, would I ride the subway? I don't know if I would.

Kind of admirable.

About connecting

Sometimes there is a disconnect.
It rattles me.
Makes me ponder things, go within.

Then as if by design there is a connection from a whole different source.
I am relieved.
All feels right.

I value connection.
Sometimes maybe too much.

Connecting with self sets the tone for all the rest.
Value that.

Research respite

Let's call this Really Cool Research Day. Oh man. So much work needed to be done on my book with regard to details and broad overview. I have spent a delightful afternoon writing and researching plot, character and other neat intricacies.

I am immersed. My ideas are good and increasingly clear. My plotline makes more sense. I am being more real in my writing.

The research took me on one of those incomparable Google journeys. Try it sometime. Start looking up some word or title or person and then see where it takes you. I can't believe I've been sitting in the same cafe for hours when my computer has taken me to a sitcom from the 1960s, to a little-known actress from the late 19th century, to a Virginia Woolf classic, to the history and meaning of flowers, to a smart summary of super heroes, to a multi-layered thesaurus search.

I am in a world of my own creation. What a nice respite.

Goal-free?

There is a very provocative article in the November issue of O magazine, at least provocative from a life coaching standpoint. It's titled, "Are Your Goals Holding You Back?" and it's about a book coming out in December called Goal-Free Living.

I expected to be resistant to the story, maybe even rolling my eyes. After all, I set goals with clients all the time and the idea is to move them forward, not backward. But once I started reading I realized author Stephen Shapiro is talking about something I've been preaching and practicing for years.

"... when you focus on a goal, 'you put blinders on. You lose your peripheral vision and miss out on all the great opportunities around you.'"

Of course that can happen. The idea is not to let it happen. What I try to explain to my clients is that they must have goals but stay open. For example, I would never be a life coach now if I had tunnel vision around my goals. I had never heard of life coaching, so how could it have been a goal? I stumbled on it and followed my gut. For that matter, I never set out to be a web producer, a TV producer or a sports writer; they were all opportunities that came about due to friends, colleagues, mentors who helped me see my gifts.

The point is that goals and peripheral vision can co-exist. In my view, that is the best possible way to live a meaningful, purposeful life.

A lesson learned

In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron talks about how the 9-to-5 job can either, a.) shackle someone from creating or, b.) liberate someone so she can create.

I'm in a phase where I realize the latter is true for me. Giving little thought to how the bills will get paid -- a common concern for freelancers and self-employed folk -- makes for a whole lot more energy to devote to writing and cultivating ideas.

A day at a time. That's how it has to go.

Warm and fuzzy

Today people from different areas of my life said and did things that made me feel special.

To hear you're a good friend, a good editor, a good writer, a good co-worker, a good coach, all in one day. Well, not in so many words, but certainly in intent. Remarkable, really.

I feel abundant and very fortunate.

Eyes

I'm writing this without benefit of reading glasses. I had to give them up for 24 hours so the prescription can be updated (read: strengthened) in my existing frames.

It's so strange how I've come to rely on those glasses. I feel naked without them. The words on the page and the screen are still readable, but I feel a little bit of a strain.

I'll welcome back clarity tomorrow.

Love

I've been thinking about love a lot lately. The romantic kind.

I'm ready for its bliss, its complications, its glow, its work.

I don't think I've been ready until right now.

Wow.

Visitation rites

I just spent the weekend at my parents' house. Saw my siblings, my niece and nephew. Very relaxing. Very nurturing. It feels good to connect, check in, have dialogue.

I came home on the train, complete with an insulated bag filled with single-serving meals -- chicken marsala, chicken cacciatore, beef barley soup, a homemade corn muffin. My freezer is filled with my mother's love.

On the train, a two-hour ride each way, I wrote a section of my book, read the Sunday New York Times, wrote an essay on an idea I've had lately.

Now that's a weekend.

Creative juices

The words came bursting out today. On the PATH train I was scribbling down my thoughts on whatever paper I could find in my purse. I haven't had that feeling in a long time. Ideas. Crystallized images. What a rush.

Glory be.

Getting real

I just finished reading the book! A Million Little Pieces. The reader in me couldn't put it down in the home stretch. So fascinating and compelling.

But the writer in me is really blown away. Author James Frey is beyond brutally frank. Sometimes I have so much fear about revealing what is true and this man just unloads everything onto those pages. There are parts I couldn't read while eating lunch. There is blatant emotion around love and sickness and rebellion.

Something about finishing it made me immediately do some serious work on my own book. I strive for that kind of real on my own pages. It can only evoke real in readers.

What a read.

Gut check

Sometimes your gut tells you to do something. You wonder if it's right, but you go with it because, hey, it's your gut and you trust it.

Today I took a first step toward doing something I really want to do. It was a phone call. When I hung up I found myself singing, "The hills are alive with the sound of music ..." I wasn't quite belting it out Julie Andrews style, but I was going at it pretty good.

Such a euphoric song. It sprang to mind out of nowhere.

My gut is so damn good.

Sky writing

You know how sometimes we get little signs from the Universe? Subtle hints along our path?

Well, so much of what is happening around me these days is completely the opposite. I'm being pelted with strong signs that need no clarification. They are boisterous and obvious, surefooted, smack in the middle of my forehead.

It's like there's a big message in sky writing as I look up over the Hudson River. Here's what it's blaring:

Sell your book, Nancy. Sell it! Sell it! Sell it!

Got it?

Over and out.

Neon moon

The moon and New York City. Remember the song? That's what I thought of as I walked home from the PATH station along the waterfront this evening.

A full neon-like moon was hovering just above the Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building is lit up in orange and white tonight and what a sight that combo made. Amazing.

It was such a nice way to come down after a long day.

Happy Birthday, Blog

Today marks one year that I have been writing my blog. I can hardly believe it. I distinctly recall being very nervous about starting it, wondering if I'd have enough to say to keep it going day in and day out. When I finally took the step of creating it and naming it, I was so excited I immediately wrote a friend to share my news. It was like putting out a birth announcement.

Well, my "baby" is one. I am so proud. I have mostly stuck to daily writing. I have done my best not to self-edit. I try to keep it real and keep it thoughtful. I write for me because if I'm not writing I'm simply not happy. I like to find meaning in the mundane, take lessons from pain, express unfettered joy, ask little questions that as it turns out really aren't so little.

There are readers from all over the country and the world who come to my blog. Some find their way through Google searches, others my website, still others by surfing blogs. Some stick around, some keep moving. I like that. It all goes back to that connectedness I spoke of in yesterday's post.

This is a body of work. It's me thinking out loud. It's an outlet, a forum, a home.

Many happy returns, dear blog, many happy returns ...

Connectedness

Sometimes I think life is like the Kevin Bacon Game. Everything is connected.

I'm still reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. It feels odd that I can't put it down yet I'm only about halfway through. The writing is small and my reading time is a bit fragmented. That pretty much accounts for that.

Anyway, I find myself routing for this guy in what is an excruciatingly frank memoir about his six weeks in rehab. He had a turning point in the part I was reading on my commute yesterday and I wanted to jump out of my PATH train seat and shout for him.

Now comes the connectedness part. His brother gives him a copy of the Tao Te Ching. James is cynical and skeptical about everything. He is tired. He is filled with self-loathing. He's destructive. He desperately wants alcohol, crystal meth, cocaine, glue, gasoline, anything that will numb him. He is anti-religion. He thinks 12-step stuff is a joke. He mocks spirituality. But he picks up the book because his brother gave it to him. He skips the intro, figuring he doesn't need someone else's two cents (so admirable). He reads the first four verses. He connects with their meaning, their simplicity.

I never heard of the Tao Te Ching a few years ago. Now I have a well-worn copy. Every time it comes up I marvel at how I missed it for so long. I can't wait to see what transpires as James continues his journey through it.

Not about me

It is not about me.

His actions are about him.
His moods are about him.
His passive aggressiveness is about him.
His victimhood is about him.
His petulance is about him.
His lashing out at others is about him.
His fear is about him.

It is not about me.
And it feels so good -- liberating even -- to know that.

Dialogue

Scene: Reception area of Manhattan office. Switchboard rings.

Caller: Hello. May I speak to Joan?

Receptionist: May I ask who's calling please?

Caller: Mr. Jones.

Receptionist: And what is this in reference to?

Caller: Just tell her Mr. Jones.

Receptionist: Can I tell her what this is in reference to?

Caller: Why do you need to know?

Receptionist (in her fantasy): I don't, blowhard. I could not care less.

Receptionist (in reality): I would like to tell her who's calling.

Caller (screaming): I just told you!!! Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones is calling.

Receptionist (in her fantasy): What the hell is your problem?

Receptionist (in reality): Silent

Caller (screaming): Are you gonna talk to me? What is wrong with you?

Receptionist (in her fantasy): Get a life. Get a grip. Get an ounce of decorum, you miserable loser.

Receptionist (in reality): I'm here. Hold on, please, and I'll see if Joan is free.

Joan is in a meeting and says she'll call Mr. Jones back later.

Receptionist (in her fantasy): Ha. She's not free. She doesn't want to talk to your sorry self.

Receptionist (in reality): Mr. Jones, she says she'll get back to you later.

Caller: Click

Ring, ring ...

Insane rain

The rain drives, persists, intrudes.

Happy to be in my warm, dry home.

Happy I own towels.

Happy my life coaching session tonight is on the phone.

Happy to nest.

The rain trickles, lulls, soothes.

Umbrella

I have a hot pink umbrella with a wood handle. It was given to me by someone I love on Valentine's Day.

That umbrella is the strongest one I've ever had. It has stood up to windy storms and driving rains. It has turned inside out and righted itself. It has been in my possession longer than any umbrella I've ever owned. I have left it behind, panicked and gone back to get it, always relieved to have it in my hands once again. Two weeks ago I left it on the PATH train and didn't realize it until I was almost out of the station. I paid my way back in and found it on the seat I had vacated.

I love that umbrella. It's full of personality. We're a heckuva pair.

Sweet vision

I was talking to someone wise today. She was giving me some frank talk.

"You've got a lot more work to do on this," she said.

"Can we remember that I've done a lot of work on this already?" I responded.

"I know. Not to take away from that. But there's more to do," she said.

My mind suddenly went from the situation at hand to a cheese danish. Honest to God. A stressful thought brought on a vision of a cheese danish with thick glaze icing. Sick, right?

I didn't give in.

Straight up

My friend from church, an intuitive, told me today that while I spoke to the congregation last week he could see my aura. It was white. Apparently that's very good.

A week later, I am still feeling the positive effects of that experience. It may have been the first time I've spoken to a group with no initial shake in my voice, no overwhelming nervousness. It was very heady.

I think today I stand up a little straighter because of it.

Author

Just reread my book manuscript for the first time in a while.

It's good.

:)

Lesson?

Tap into your emotional intelligence.

Breathe.

Find the lesson.

Feel the anger.

Breathe.

Feel the sadness.

Try to think straight.

Find the lesson.

Find the lesson.

Find the lesson.

A million little pieces

So my mother leaves me a voice mail telling me Oprah's newest selection for her book club. Says she thought of me because Oprah said she couldn't put it down even though it was a little outside the box for her. I buy it on a whim. The Universe has put it in my path for a reason, methinks.

So I'm reading it now. The print is tiny, so it's deceptively long. I'm 75 pages in. It's called A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. It's remarkable and excruciating and so raw. Almost too raw. It's a memoir about his six weeks in rehab. I know what Oprah means -- it's definitely outside the box for me, too. It's like watching a car accident; you want to look away but you are also so drawn to it.

I just finished a chapter about his visit to the dentist, getting a root canal without anesthesia because of his addiction: I start to fade into a state of white consciousness where I am no longer directly connected to what is being done to me ... There is white. Everywhere there is white. There is agony. It is agony that is unfathomable ...

It's hard enough just to read about it.

Insight

9-to-5 is bullshit.

Today

Today two people in separate areas of my life were exceedingly kind.

Today I wrote a check that felt amazingly good.

Today I realized someone I had unfairly put on a pedestal has come tumbling down hard and I don't know how to handle it.

Today someone ticked me off so royally it spurred me into action.

Today was pretty OK.

Yesterday

I had a wonderful brunch and fun stroll through a flea market in Manhattan yesterday. The silver dollar pancakes were divine, the conversation was meaningful and the wares lined up on tables were quirky and whimsical. I didn't buy anything. The woman selling this great genie bottle pin wouldn't budge off $13, but it was OK. My friend enjoyed checking out Asian decor items and chunky jewelry -- he tried on a fabulous ring and then talked himself out of it. It was so relaxing and spontaneous.

What a Sunday.

I think I'm reveling in yesterday because today was one of those annoyingly drawn out work days. Ugh. Take me away, Calgon. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Tomorrow's another day.

Color me proud

I got up and spoke in front of a congregation today. And I was relaxed. And I had something to say. And it felt great. How cool is that?

Let me back up. Last Wednesday I received an email from one of the ministers at Sacred Center, a wonderfully spiritual place I've been attending for a few years. It seems they had decided that October would be "miracle" month and they asked me, as a congregant, to be the first one to get up and tell a "miracle" story.

My first reaction: NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

But truly I knew this was something I must do. Yes, instead of simply looking forward to a dose of spiritual juice at Sunday service I'd have to deal with butterflies in my stomach. I'd have to actually think about what to say and how to say it. But wouldn't it be worth it?

I'm here to say, "Yes, oh yes." It was worth the worry time. It was worth the prep time, the thinking about content. And truth be told, the butterflies were minimal. This morning I took a long walk at the waterfront and thought about what I might say. I liked what I came up with; it felt good and real. I realized when I got there that's what counted. I knew I could just simply relax and channel it, much like Rev. August Gold does every week. And she's a master in front of a group.

Judging from how I felt when I sat down afterwards and from the fabulous comments I received after the service, I did it well.

It was a Mary Tyler Moore, throw-your-hat-in-the-air kind of moment. I made it after all.

Rilke and silk

So last night I'm in Barnes & Noble. I felt pulled there. Don't know why. I'm perusing the new fiction and then the general literature section. Mulling over my choices.

Then I remember Jodie Foster. In an earlier post I talked about her favorite books as she described them in O magazine. And the one that stood out was one she has given to a few directors wrapped in a silk scarf. But darned if I can remember the name as I'm standing in Barnes & Noble. Hmmmmm. Wait. It was Rilke, something about letters he wrote in a sort of mentoring way.

Maybe the guy at the customer service counter can work some magic with a search engine, I think. And he's cool with it. In fact, he jumps right in when I wax on about Jodie Foster because he, too, saw her on The Actor's Studio last week. And then he finds the book in the database. And then he confirms they have it in stock. So I buy it.

I spent much of today reading Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Marie Rilke. It was a perfect, cloudless afternoon at the waterfront. I read one half with a nice cup of pumpkin-flavored coffee, the second half later with a container of refreshing orange juice. I devoured that 109-page book and loved it for its candor, its intent, its wisdom. There is a foreword by Stephen Mitchell, synchronous because my well-worn copy of the Tao Te Ching is a Stephen Mitchell.

Anyway, this is a section that I want to share with every creative person who comes to me wanting advice about how to be a writer, how to get published, etc. Check it out:

You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you -- no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself.

And the paragraph goes on, but you get the idea. What a wonderful message. Perhaps a splash of cold water to the face for some, but think how eye-opening that is once the shock wears off.

I know this is a book I will give to others (wrapped in a silk scarf?). I know it is a book I will continually turn to. I love these kinds of discoveries.

Thank you, Jodie.