"The world is as you are." -- Maharishi Mahesh Yogi
Breaking rank from my normal routine, I'm sitting upstairs reflecting on the pouring rain and my recent "personal evolution," instead of working (editing two new chapters from a past client, whose literary agent is a former V.P. at Random House, world's largest tradebook publisher -- yes, a plug for my top-shelf book editing services... www.BookEditorCoach.com)...
The world is, indeed, showing up in the mirror just as I am . . . or at least, as I have been recently... Forward motion from within me -- making a performance art production proposal to a local arts council board, requiring that all of my clients pay me using PayPal, asking for what I want, doing what I love, and the like -- continues to produce a world for me to live in where the soup du jour is "desirable results"...
Sure, one could say that getting unanimous support and financial backing for dream projects, and enjoying more relaxed, less nail-biting daily business (i.e., the benefits of PayPal) comes from "playing the game smarter"... which may be enough of an explanation for most folks.
But in my case, I'm sure it's also got something to do with both the quantity and quality of attention I've been putting on addressing one of my core issues: stepping onto the stage of my life and putting myself in the spotlight . . . not an easy thing to do for a child of a narcissist.
What I mean is, I've come to find out -- through even partial reading of Trapped in the Mirror: Adult Children of Narcissists in Their Struggle for Survival and The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists (more on these books in next blogpost) -- that because of growing up in a family dominated by a clinically narcissistic father, I (and my four sisters) were afflicted by the fallout from his maximally self-centered way of living, his way of perceiving us (as though we didn't exist, except to serve his self-interests), and the lack of proper "self-worth" that comes from being ignored as a unique and valuable, lovable person.
And one remedy for such an affliction, I've discovered, is to "take back my power"... Believe that I deserve, as much as my father did, to enjoy the spotlight of attention and affection upon me... and that it's not shameful to feel good-... no, to feel great about whatever it is that makes me want to wag my tail! (More about the health/spiritual benefits of engaging in regular tail-wagging activities in future blogposts)... ;-)
Hence, my stepping up to the plate recently to develop a proposal for a one-man storytelling show (with live music and multi-media visuals to enhance each story)... And just like that, voila! I got word yesterday that the local arts council voted a unanimous "yes" to financially backing me/this production!
And the list goes on: tentative support for my attendance at a kick-ass Tony Robbins weekend workshop (which I feel will be a great boost to the momentum I already have); clients are responding well to paying me via PayPal (rather than by mailing a check with indefinite clearing dates), which frees me up from having to make bank deposits and lets me know exactly when my $ is available to me...
Life gets better . . . when I start treating myself better! Maharishi was right -- the world is as I am . . . and today, I'm glad that's true.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Shiva Lands Anywhere You'll Let Him
Due to my friendship with her good buddy, Jerry Lee, Greta, a quite stout, yet deeply kind-hearted woman from Springfield, Illinois, invited our fledgling Oriental import company to hold an “Oriental Garage Sale” at her home one summer about 15 years ago.
During the weekend sale, Jerry informed me that Greta was a nationally known psychic who'd been enlisted 100's of times by police forces across the country to assist them in solving crimes that only a “gifted” person like herself could (finding missing persons, etc.).
As the Sunday morning of that weekend wore into the early afternoon, what I'd observed about Greta was that she was really anything but “weird” or “unusual”… in fact, she was about as “normal” as they come.
It got to the point--what with her regularly serving us pie and lemonade, and helping us clean up whenever she could--that I could hardly believe she was “gifted” in any way at all, other than being a sublimely sweet and way easy-going human being.
At about five o’clock that Sunday afternoon, after the last crowd of buyers had disappeared and most everything had been boxed up, I was walking through the living room when I noticed Greta sitting on the couch, looking straight at me.
I paused, and she asked, “Would you like to sit down and talk a little, now?”
How she knew that I’d been quietly incubating on a single question, I’ll probably never know (since she passed away a few years ago).
“What am I supposed to be doing?” I humbly asked her, innocently going straight to my seemingly ever-prevalent longing to know my “dharma.”
“You’re a writer. You’ve enjoyed writing throughout your life, haven’t you?” she casually replied. Mind you, she knew nothing about my life from my lips, nor from Jerry's (I asked him later).
I balked. “But I’ve never done it professionally, or made a living at it before… but yeah, I do like writing quite a bit.”
“You will touch many people with your writing, more through that than through anything else you’ll do,” she stated rather bluntly. And although it seemed sort of cryptic and somewhat spooky to me, at the time, I sensed, even then, that she was somehow right. 100% right.
“And you know what’s the best of it all, Sweetie?” she added with a twinkle in her eye. I stared silently at her, waiting for the sound of trumpets or kettle drums to magically appear out of nowhere.
“You don’t have to write about anything particular at all. You just sit down and write your truth… what’s true for you. Because that’s what people will get the most out of from you… the truth.”
And then she smiled bright as the sun, got herself up off of the couch, and went into the kitchen to make dinner for herself. (Yes, she “knew” that Jerry and I’d be leaving momentarily).
Well, I am here to tell ya’, folks, that ol’ Greta really was psychic as they come… because my life has continued to turn, more and more, toward writing . . .
As I've continued providing writers with my book editing services (for ten-plus years), I've recently begun preparing various writings of mine for publication . . . stories about my experience, about what’s true for me . . .
Yesterday, I sent one of them, a feature-length screenplay, to a "TV/film producer." In my last blog (“The Roaring Begins Now”), I chronicle what a "huge deal" that was for me. As my old guru used to say, "Something good is happening."
And I've continued writing, more and more . . . a creative act that comes so easily, and yet is, still, ever so challenging.
For example, telling “my” story through the screenplay I mention in that last blog took me ten grueling years; and yet, in the end, the writing came out of me like a sigh or a breath.
Taking me out to where she sees people from, Greta helped me to see that I’ve always been a writer… I just needed to believe it myself… just needed to start putting it—and myself—out there.
Thanks, Greta, wherever you are, for the opportunity to gaze into the mirror… to see the light of what’s true and dispel the darkness of what's not. May Shiva bless you a thousand times, my Dear!
Writers are not just people who sit down and write. They hazard themselves. Every time you compose a book, your composition of yourself is at stake. ~E.L. Doctorow
During the weekend sale, Jerry informed me that Greta was a nationally known psychic who'd been enlisted 100's of times by police forces across the country to assist them in solving crimes that only a “gifted” person like herself could (finding missing persons, etc.).
As the Sunday morning of that weekend wore into the early afternoon, what I'd observed about Greta was that she was really anything but “weird” or “unusual”… in fact, she was about as “normal” as they come.
It got to the point--what with her regularly serving us pie and lemonade, and helping us clean up whenever she could--that I could hardly believe she was “gifted” in any way at all, other than being a sublimely sweet and way easy-going human being.
At about five o’clock that Sunday afternoon, after the last crowd of buyers had disappeared and most everything had been boxed up, I was walking through the living room when I noticed Greta sitting on the couch, looking straight at me.
I paused, and she asked, “Would you like to sit down and talk a little, now?”
How she knew that I’d been quietly incubating on a single question, I’ll probably never know (since she passed away a few years ago).
“What am I supposed to be doing?” I humbly asked her, innocently going straight to my seemingly ever-prevalent longing to know my “dharma.”
“You’re a writer. You’ve enjoyed writing throughout your life, haven’t you?” she casually replied. Mind you, she knew nothing about my life from my lips, nor from Jerry's (I asked him later).
I balked. “But I’ve never done it professionally, or made a living at it before… but yeah, I do like writing quite a bit.”
“You will touch many people with your writing, more through that than through anything else you’ll do,” she stated rather bluntly. And although it seemed sort of cryptic and somewhat spooky to me, at the time, I sensed, even then, that she was somehow right. 100% right.
“And you know what’s the best of it all, Sweetie?” she added with a twinkle in her eye. I stared silently at her, waiting for the sound of trumpets or kettle drums to magically appear out of nowhere.
“You don’t have to write about anything particular at all. You just sit down and write your truth… what’s true for you. Because that’s what people will get the most out of from you… the truth.”
And then she smiled bright as the sun, got herself up off of the couch, and went into the kitchen to make dinner for herself. (Yes, she “knew” that Jerry and I’d be leaving momentarily).
Well, I am here to tell ya’, folks, that ol’ Greta really was psychic as they come… because my life has continued to turn, more and more, toward writing . . .
As I've continued providing writers with my book editing services (for ten-plus years), I've recently begun preparing various writings of mine for publication . . . stories about my experience, about what’s true for me . . .
Yesterday, I sent one of them, a feature-length screenplay, to a "TV/film producer." In my last blog (“The Roaring Begins Now”), I chronicle what a "huge deal" that was for me. As my old guru used to say, "Something good is happening."
And I've continued writing, more and more . . . a creative act that comes so easily, and yet is, still, ever so challenging.
For example, telling “my” story through the screenplay I mention in that last blog took me ten grueling years; and yet, in the end, the writing came out of me like a sigh or a breath.
Taking me out to where she sees people from, Greta helped me to see that I’ve always been a writer… I just needed to believe it myself… just needed to start putting it—and myself—out there.
Thanks, Greta, wherever you are, for the opportunity to gaze into the mirror… to see the light of what’s true and dispel the darkness of what's not. May Shiva bless you a thousand times, my Dear!
Writers are not just people who sit down and write. They hazard themselves. Every time you compose a book, your composition of yourself is at stake. ~E.L. Doctorow
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Roaring Begins Now...
I've got 35 or so old friends who've re-surfaced and wanted (some for weeks and months) me to re-connect with them via Facebook... and within the next 24 hours, I will... because I have longed to make that bridge with all of them...
However, I've been delaying because I'd made a commitment to myself over four months ago, and I've only just fulfilled it today (the day I'd sworn to have it done by)...
This commitment has been what has taken up the bulk of my attention, other than the essentials (eating, sleeping, doing my "main job"--book editing--sharing life with my fiancee, etc.)...
I'm referring to the completion of a feature-length screenplay and my sending it off to "a TV/movie producer"...
And while that in itself is, indeed, an accomplishment (since I started this particular "work" over ten years ago)...
...the real feat, the bulls-eye on the target I've been subconsciously struggling to hit, perhaps for my entire life, is the act of "putting myself out onto the stage"... stepping into the spotlight and letting out the proverbial lion's roar...
"Rowr-r-r-r!!! I am here, people of Earth, Brothers and Sisters, Ladies and Gentlemen!"
There, I did it!
It's good, you see, because in doing this--putting an artistic work of my own into the hands of a professional for critical review--I'm stepping out from the sub-consciously self-imposed "safety" and isolation of my father's multi-layered shadow...
...A shadow that he really is not "at fault" for casting... or shall I say, it's not his fault that I've remained unconsciously plodding along in it throughout the majority of my adult life...
His domineering ways and my getting severely punished by him ended more than four decades ago...
Yet, I've allowed the wholeness of my self, the totality of my psyche, up until recently, to remain subtly suppressed, for fear of being accused of and punished for "taking what's not mine to take"...
...that is, taking the attention away from Dad... "the limelight," as my fiancee has called it...
And so this "stepping out" is a quiet, yet important personal re-claiming of my right to be seen for who I am in this world... "Roaring with Uncle Willy" has arrived!
The main impetus for starting this blog is to create a forum for me to share my writing- . . . to share myself through my writing... with those who have an interest in such expressions...
I'm contemplating posting the screenplay in serial form on this blog; but for now, I'll put out there a short piece that conveys another aspect of the lion within me... Enjoy the roar... May it inspire you to do the same!
The Tickets We Bought
Humans, mammals, animals, all... descendent, transcendent, ascending footfall...
Body-made, ego-played, incest-laid, oh, the price we paid with silver blade through history's trade in greed's charade, religion strayed, a masquerade that's left us splayed, instincts forebade, the cold tirade of rules, no play, each heart afraid...
...'Cuzza things they said turned a black night red, and we lost our head, and it ain't so clear where t' find our bed... So, he'p me, now, or I'll soon be dead...
I need ya', Gawd, like a gun needs lead... I'm callin' ya', Girl, I think it's time we prayed... Or are ya' thinkin' 'bout somethin' else, insta'id...?
Last night I dreamed I carved some jade, your name came through with pearl inlaid... Ya' danced and wore it in Life's parade... Ya' think it's part of how love's made?
I hope ya' hear beyond the words I say... Will ya' walk with me on a sunny day? Or 'neath the clouds inna' month o' May? Out to a place along the sea, where all can Be and that means we?
Where white birds sail and humpbacks wail and mysteries unveil the Light from the Grail, and all is wa'il... and all is wa'il... and all is wa'il... And all is wa'il!
No runway... No landin' strip... No arrival time... Nowhere t' go...
I know that I'm here, and I know where I'm not... This ain't no rehearsal... This movie's being shot...
There's nothin' t' think, and nothin' t' know... There's one thing to Be, and one Seed t' sow...
We're all made t' give, and that's what I've got... You're just like me... See the tickets we bought?
However, I've been delaying because I'd made a commitment to myself over four months ago, and I've only just fulfilled it today (the day I'd sworn to have it done by)...
This commitment has been what has taken up the bulk of my attention, other than the essentials (eating, sleeping, doing my "main job"--book editing--sharing life with my fiancee, etc.)...
I'm referring to the completion of a feature-length screenplay and my sending it off to "a TV/movie producer"...
And while that in itself is, indeed, an accomplishment (since I started this particular "work" over ten years ago)...
...the real feat, the bulls-eye on the target I've been subconsciously struggling to hit, perhaps for my entire life, is the act of "putting myself out onto the stage"... stepping into the spotlight and letting out the proverbial lion's roar...
"Rowr-r-r-r!!! I am here, people of Earth, Brothers and Sisters, Ladies and Gentlemen!"
There, I did it!
It's good, you see, because in doing this--putting an artistic work of my own into the hands of a professional for critical review--I'm stepping out from the sub-consciously self-imposed "safety" and isolation of my father's multi-layered shadow...
...A shadow that he really is not "at fault" for casting... or shall I say, it's not his fault that I've remained unconsciously plodding along in it throughout the majority of my adult life...
His domineering ways and my getting severely punished by him ended more than four decades ago...
Yet, I've allowed the wholeness of my self, the totality of my psyche, up until recently, to remain subtly suppressed, for fear of being accused of and punished for "taking what's not mine to take"...
...that is, taking the attention away from Dad... "the limelight," as my fiancee has called it...
And so this "stepping out" is a quiet, yet important personal re-claiming of my right to be seen for who I am in this world... "Roaring with Uncle Willy" has arrived!
The main impetus for starting this blog is to create a forum for me to share my writing- . . . to share myself through my writing... with those who have an interest in such expressions...
I'm contemplating posting the screenplay in serial form on this blog; but for now, I'll put out there a short piece that conveys another aspect of the lion within me... Enjoy the roar... May it inspire you to do the same!
The Tickets We Bought
Humans, mammals, animals, all... descendent, transcendent, ascending footfall...
Body-made, ego-played, incest-laid, oh, the price we paid with silver blade through history's trade in greed's charade, religion strayed, a masquerade that's left us splayed, instincts forebade, the cold tirade of rules, no play, each heart afraid...
...'Cuzza things they said turned a black night red, and we lost our head, and it ain't so clear where t' find our bed... So, he'p me, now, or I'll soon be dead...
I need ya', Gawd, like a gun needs lead... I'm callin' ya', Girl, I think it's time we prayed... Or are ya' thinkin' 'bout somethin' else, insta'id...?
Last night I dreamed I carved some jade, your name came through with pearl inlaid... Ya' danced and wore it in Life's parade... Ya' think it's part of how love's made?
I hope ya' hear beyond the words I say... Will ya' walk with me on a sunny day? Or 'neath the clouds inna' month o' May? Out to a place along the sea, where all can Be and that means we?
Where white birds sail and humpbacks wail and mysteries unveil the Light from the Grail, and all is wa'il... and all is wa'il... and all is wa'il... And all is wa'il!
No runway... No landin' strip... No arrival time... Nowhere t' go...
I know that I'm here, and I know where I'm not... This ain't no rehearsal... This movie's being shot...
There's nothin' t' think, and nothin' t' know... There's one thing to Be, and one Seed t' sow...
We're all made t' give, and that's what I've got... You're just like me... See the tickets we bought?
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