From Pastis to Panic

The figurative flight from paradise to reality can be a bumpy one at times. I was shaking Cote d’Azur sand out of my suitcase when my computer crashed. No phone, no internet and no contact with the outside world for over a week. While I tried to see the technological meltdown as some type of cruel cosmic extension of my French holiday, there wasn’t a Mediterranean view out my window, a baguette on my plate, or a sexy accent swirling around my ear as I sat in silence, hopelessly trying to resuscitate my dead computer. I didn’t want isolation anymore without the luxury perks. I just wanted to have both feet back in the rat race. I wanted to know what Obama was doing and what my friends were complaining about on Facebook. I wanted my NYC life back in the condition I had left it…I wanted to plug my cords back into the familiar sockets, where news and nonsense could be delivered to me at breakneck speed. Alas, this was not to be.

As a “meaning-seeker”, I am always looking for the silver lining on an otherwise cloudy day. However, jet-lagged and expecting immediacy, I simply could not accept this unfortunate turn of the karmic tides. Did the holiday gods grant me too much pleasure and this was the price? Did my post-vacation elation blow the cable circuits at RCN? I looked and looked for blessings but my fear of losing a lifetime of precious data mounted as my baby cried. It was not only my files at stake, but my sanity. All the soul soothing sensations of 12 days in the South of France were at once hacked by an anonymous computer criminal and heartless thief; a villain so subversive not even my buddy Norton could end his reign. The beautiful image of paradise I thought was indelibly etched on my psyche, like my hard drive, was suddenly erased.

So, as I emerged from my apartment, beaten, broken and bedeviled by a battle with Dell I could not win, it was hard to feign joy when I ran into my elderly neighbor Bill. “How was your trip?” he asked me. “It was great!” I said before propelling myself into a full confession that I had traded in heaven for my computer obsession. “It was amazing…” I continued, “It was so beautiful and warm and we saw so many stunning places and ate delicious food and went swimming everyday.” “However…” I said, before pulverizing my own perfect postcard “Since I came back, my husband has been traveling for work and I haven’t had a phone or computer for over a week. You know how hard that is? Feeling so isolated and lost without these things?” Bill just smiled and shook his head in empathy before saying what I suddenly knew he’d say, “Well, young lady, I can IMAGINE that is hard but you know me, I don’t even have an answering machine let alone a cell phone, computer, or internet connection. I only replaced my rabbit ears with a digital tv because I had to.” And then, with his good old-fashioned newspaper in hand, he opened the lobby door and limped away.

While Best Buy continues to baby my broken computer and while I still don’t have a home phone line to this day, I remind myself that in some exotic place, there is no technological turmoil, no blogs, or broadband, and no battles with a re-booting screen. It’s a quieter simple place and you don’t need a visa or vaccination to visit. Somewhere, on the top floor of a Manhattan brownstone, an 82-year old man is free from the noise and dependency of a computer-centered life. In his world, croissant or not, there is no chaos or data loss. It is as restful as The Riviera everyday.

Sunscreen and Cigarettes

With the end of the summer approaching, my husband, daughter and I are departing today for a luscious 12 days in The South of France. It’s going to be part exploration, part relaxation, and part “babymoon”. As my belly expands, my window of travel opportunity narrows so I won’t be getting on any more transatlantic flights until the arrival of baby #2. It’s fine though because fall in NYC is my favorite time of year. I am willing to waddle through the autumn leaves with my big bump knowing airplanes and skinny jeans will be back in my life soon. The backdrop of a colorful and cool Manhattan will surely give me peace and patience as I wait.

Walking past Barney’s the other day, however, I admittedly felt a bit glum. I have the “Back to School” blues that make me want to buy new clothes and notebooks. I want to set new goals, switch-up my style, and seize the momentum of that autumn energy. Sauntering in stretch pants and pushing a stroller (with the recent sweltering East Coast weather) hasn’t been so conducive to that. I’ve had to take it slow and shelve my shopping fantasy. However, I’m still keen on setting some new goals, in any case.

So, when my little family and I were sprawled out on The Great Lawn the other day watching wandering tourists and softballs fly, I was seeking answers and searching for a sign. What could be my defining decision this September? What did I need to remind myself of? What did I need to remember? At that moment of questioning, I looked to my left and saw my unlikely messenger. A foreign woman was slathering herself with sunscreen…and then lighting up her cigarette. Now, understandably, to many, this might not have meaning at all. But to me it was a reminder of exactly what I needed to do to have my best fall.

That lesson was to be consistent; to align my thoughts, words and actions so that I am not fooling myself into thinking I’m doing the “right thing” while I am actually undermining my own efforts at the same time. The psyche is a sneaky master in the art of self-sabotage. Depending on what we REALLY want, we can convince ourselves we are dancing forward while we are actually doing the two-step the wrong way. Sunscreen and Cigarettes, Cheesecake and Diet Coke,  or promises made to self followed by excuses the same day all share space in the same dingy den of denial. There we play games with our own well-being and pretend to be on track for better things. There we say…”Well I used my sunscreen”…or “I didn’t have a REAL Coke, at least”…or, “I promise I’ll start tomorrow”…but there we smugly start our engines and sink our boats all within the span of a short race.

So my skin-saving, lung-losing, lawn-mate might have not have shown up in a classroom or behind a podium but she showed up as my teacher in any case. She showed up to remind me to make clear commitments I can keep, to be kind to myself in goal-setting by not setting the bar too high or getting in too deep. I may not be able to wear the size 6 Balenciaga jacket right now, or move at a fast pace, but I can stay consistent with my highest intentions and take “baby steps” in the right direction until the temperature drops, my body is less cumbersome, and I’m in a better physical place.

Right Road, Right Way

When I heard the tragic story of the “wrong-way” driver on the Taconic Parkway killing 7 people (including children) that day, I thought of how deadly it is to betray our own best instincts and steer our lives and those of others into harm’s way. There is an invisible chain that connects us and we cannot always see the adjoining links. We see ourselves as islands, not countries on a continent. ”Who cares what I do? Leave me alone!” we say…Meanwhile the lives of those we love are destroyed by our selfish actions and as trust is violated, the protective vine of our communal safety loses its grip and withers away.

We know of the tangible human casualties and of those physically affected by the choices the mini-van mother made. However, there’s more to the psychology of self-destruction than just a bottle of vodka, a joint, and a bad day. Symbolically, the wrong-way driver often has a vehicle full of disowned personas along for the deadly trip. Carl Jung would know what I mean. The abuser, the self-saboteur, and the addict happily hitch a ride. Thumbs go up in glee when trouble revs it engine. The self-hating subconscious self wants nothing more than to cause as many accidents as possible and to spread its pain like fresh pavement. No one is safe on a highway where drivers are intoxicated with bottled blame. All roads lead to potential disaster in this case.

At a local beach a couple of weeks ago, I saw an obese mother berating her slim 4 year-old daughter with a level of anger that didn’t seem fitting of her simple “crime” of dropping a fresh fruit roll-up in the sand by mistake. What message was the mother sending to her child and how in turn, would the child move forward in life feeling about herself? Was the problem a dropped snack, an imperfect little girl, or a self-loathing mother? I could see the chains forming with every undeserved critical word and exaggerated claim. I prayed even this tiny soul could see she was not the problem. She was probably just target practice for her hurting mommy’s projected pain.

There is an interesting program on A&E called “Intervention” which documents the lives of addicts and the families tormented by their disease. If there was any doubt that the acts of one person could ruin the lives of many, this show will end that debate. Wrong-way drivers wear designer suits and have nice jobs and beautiful families.  Wrong-way drivers are perfect housewives and honor students. Wrong-way drivers await their starring moment within the weakest parts of you and me. It doesn’t have to take an alcoholic binge or a crack pipe to spread our sick seeds. We can do plenty of damage simply by not liking ourselves enough, feeling unfulfilled and frustrated, and projecting our negativity and shame. Like sponges, those who love us most will absorb our toxic emotional emissions. However, we are not powerless. We can choose to fill our tanks with poisonous thoughts and pollute our environments or we can make peace with ourselves, leave a minimal carbon footprint, and spiritually, go green.

The moment we give the keys to our highest selves or a higher source and challenge our own steadiness behind the wheel, we are making the world safer for everyone. The moment we can step back from our impulsive reactions to ask, “Is this person the problem or is the problem within me?” We are taking a U-turn in the right direction. The moment we take responsibility for ourselves and stop blaming others, the road becomes a Zen-like place to be. Surely as long as some of us stay cloaked in ignorance, unwilling to evolve, or incapable of holding up a mirror to our actions, cars will be barreling toward us in the wrong direction, I regret to say. We might not be able to save those set on sabotage but we can be model drivers and wear our symbolic seatbelts. We can protect ourselves from predators and learn from the cruelest crashes of others to commit to the right road and the right way.

A Clearer View

Every summer, my husband ventures outside our apartment with a bucket of sudsy water to clean our street-level windows. While we both know the results are temporary and the soot will collect quickly again, we enjoy some fleeting satisfaction with the clearer view. Ok…There’s not a huge upside to better visibility when you face trash cans and traffic, but on a psychological level, clarity is a healthy pursuit. The world looks different through sparkling glass and light enters more freely creating an uplifting space. When darkness is dispelled, a positive perspective can permeate. Even the riskiest ventures seem more possible on a cloudless, sunny day.

With a host of impending decisions on my horizon, I have been contemplating this concept of a clearer view. Like a window, the psyche collects dust which can impair impartial thinking. Before we know it, the sludge of our past and projected fears for our futures create a slimy film that taints our lens of objectivity. We can’t see clearly if we can see at all. A good example of this occurred a few weeks ago with the Cambridge Police case. It was not the actual event but the perceptions of it that made the story newsworthy. Each side came in with their established filters, deciding if what had happened was right or wrong. Evidence was gathered to “prove” one’s case, but nothing was ultimately proven, even after a beer summit on The White House lawn. The most illuminating lesson of this “teachable moment” was that our biases are more forceful than facts when it comes to shaping our views. We are writing our own histories each and everyday, whether we are aware of it or not.

It is so easy to forget this inherent human tendency when we are faced with a fork in the figurative road. We never think to get out our psychological squeegee then. But imagine how different our worlds might be if we had clarity during life’s greatest moments of decision. Imagine if we could junk our judgments, edit our experiences and ditch our dread. What if we could clear out the mental clutter to let the light of a fresh perspective radiate in? There is certainly a place for wisdom when it comes to deciding what is next but clean slate thinking can lead us to happy places too.  As Japanese Zen Priest Shunryu Suzuki said, “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s mind, there are few.”

So, when a storm cloud rolls in and that doom-like darkness of impossibility creeps in beside it, I remind myself to clean my mental windows. Behind every old certainty, tired thought, and worn-out worry, there is a fresh tomorrow awaiting creation. Through that pristine pane, anything can enter. Surprisingly sunny revelations to boot.

Questioning the Quo

City life has some unparalled perks. You realize this when you are contemplating a move out of Manhattan. How does one survive without a Starbucks on every corner? Will my palate protest without Indian, Mexican, Thai, and Japanese food each week? What if my nail breaks? What if I need an aspirin or newspaper at 3am? Once spoiled by immediate gratification, it can be scary to settle into suburbia. You actually have to think and plan ahead. You need to pay attention to store hours and national holidays. You need to track down a Toys R Us and a Target. You need to (Yikes!)…get in your car.

However, being realistic, my husband and I have started to mull over this once unimaginable thought. With a growing family, we need more room. There are only so many ways you can organize onesies or stack diapers before you realize you are basically tenants of a lavish storage container. You might as well live in a walk-in closet when baby #2 arrives. It’s the stuff…then the kids…then you…

The search across The Hudson for this mythical space, however, led to some surprising ends. What we realized was that indeed, polished and professional people DO live outside of the city and live happily, I might add. There is more square footage for a civilized price and the view of Manhattan skyline is more enchanting than our street view from the belly of the beast. So why were we clinging to sardine-like sidewalks, hot trash fumes on humid days, and living in a box on an income that would seem lavish in Small Town USA?

The key to this bizarre obsession; the reason why we suffer for city sophistication, might be found outside a local brunch restaurant at noon. Each Sunday, there is a line along a Upper West Side neighborhood eatery that snakes halfway around the block. Are they featuring free flapjacks? No…Are their lox laced with libido enhancers? I don’t think so…However, there is a keen psychological experiment at work. Because the place is so tiny and there are so few tables, the establishment fills up fast. Consequently, a queue forms quickly. When ravenous ramblers pass by, they assume the food MUST be “Magnifique!” Where the crowd forms, the numbers increase. Before you know it, everyone wants to eat there no matter how good or bad the food. The competitiveness for what others desire turns into a contest and then a congregation. Everyone wants what is precious, rare, and not easily attained. The same might be said about living in Manhattan.

So, as I walked along Broadway this morning, dodging pooch puddles and flying paper cups, shielding my daughter from the stifling sun and the cooking concrete, I wondered why I too clenched so desperately to the city. Was I so afraid of change, commuter passes, fresh air, and quiet nights that I dare not leave my mobbed metropolis? Was I afraid that if the world around me wasn’t rattling so loud, I would discover I had actually formed a dependency on the din? I can’t speak for every New Yorker but this is what I’ll say. There are plenty of restaurants offering bountiful brunches and they are plenty of places to live that have more quiet and more space. It is just so much simpler to stay crammed in our cosmopolitan containers, muddled in the madness, and sparring for subway seats and overpriced omelets, than to question our chosen chaos. For many of us, it may not be sane or logical but it is thrilling. And, isn’t it always easier to cozy up to our comfort zones than to risk losing the only status quo that we know?

Tour de Lance

There is something very sexy about a comeback. I thought about this recently at my “unsexiest moment” when I found myself knee deep in scattered baby clothes and toys, my hair in an impromptu bun, still in my gym clothes, with no makeup on, unpacking my vacation bags and cleaning up my house for the millionth time. What a dramatic turn my life has taken. The standard of personal excellence I once had seems laughable now. I can only yawn when I hear single, childless friends talk about how busy they are. If you can make it to cocktails, the manicurist, or to a yoga class in Soho on a regular, unencumbered basis, you won’t garner my sympathy I’m afraid. I used to think my life was overwhelming too. I’ve been seriously schooled in selflessness since then. I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m number one. I am most definitely an overworked number two.

So, when my husband called today to tell me to check out The Tour de France, all I could think about was how little time I had and how mid-day television seemed like a frivolous diversion. Sesame Street? Ok…but bicycle racing? That’s what TiVo is for. In any case, I was intrigued that the race was in The Pyrenees and that good old Lance Armstrong was making strides toward an 8th yellow jersey. I flashed back to stories of his cancer battle and to recent scenes of his paunchy post-“Post Office” past, boozing it up with Matthew McConaughey and Jake Gyllenhaal, seducing starlets in Hollywood, riding the wave of his prior success to celebrity prestige and power. Who knew he had it in him to return to his blazing athletic former self. And, if it was possible for him, was a comeback possible for us mortal humans too?

When we are deep in diapers, debt, or despair it’s hard to envision such a thing. It’s hard to see ourselves in our full glory again. At those low moments where fatigue and frustration rule, it’s so easy to think greatness is either a future impossibility or an ancient relic of days gone by. As we age, our weathered souls weaken with life’s brutal blows. Those podium moments and symbolic yellow jerseys seem further and further out of reach. However, whether we feel past our peaks or prisoners of a perpetual Pyrenees, our potential power persists. We can look to the Lance Armstrongs of the world for inspiration and remind ourselves that optimistic attitudes will aid our ambitions and that mountains will shrink in proportion to our self-belief.

As Joshua Marine said, “Challenges are what make life interesting; overcoming them is what makes life meaningful,” We might not always have control over our circumstances, but we can decide which mental gears we’ll choose. As we take on our own destinies, we can peddle against pessimism or cruise along with confidence expecting to win the race. No matter how many times we have given up on ourselves or our lives, we can climb on our bikes once again. Like Lance, we can believe in our own greatness. We can be comeback kids too.

One Song

Living on the street level, in a first floor apartment in Manhattan, it is difficult to be a centered soul. My desk is near the window and the distractions are plenty. I know whether or not my neighbors use the recycling bins for their bottles and I know which rule-busting dog owners leave poop on the stoop. I hear cell phone chats of people passing by and profanities of drivers who are stuck behind trash trucks on my street. I hear children laughing and crying, high heels racing to subways steps, and homeless can collectors digging for gold. So, when I emerged from a soul retreat at Omega Institute last weekend, refreshed, focused, and calm, I was worried how long my ethereal buzz would last. How long could I maintain that zen-like stillness once re-planted at my noisy city desk?

I have been told by countless teachers to develop a daily spiritual practice, but when you note the circumstances above, I have had my work cut out for me. Throw a baby into the mix and you have a recipe for pandemonium not peace. Sitting in complete silence is nearly an impossibility in my apartment, but even when I have found rare moments as these, my rational brain was wondering, “Where did everybody go? How come it’s so quiet?” Instead of concentrating on my breathing or a simple chant, I found myself flashing back to frightful images of Will Smith as the last urban survivor in “I am Legend”. When I should have been taking a relaxing mental journey within, I was plotting city escapes after a global pandemic, chased by mutant plague victims, longing for the familiar din of my bustling brownstone.

This time, however, was going to be different. I didn’t want to lose the momentum I had achieved. My consciousness was cleansed and I was ready to turn over a new leaf. No more Will Smith, no more rational ramblings…I lowered my bar of expectation and finally found a practice that works; a ten-minute daily meditation to one song.  The ancient mantra, Og Namo Guru Dev Namo, off the cd “Grace” by Snatam Kaur, may sound like new-agey nonsense to the non-seekers out there, but it is actually a relaxing and empowering tune. In English, the words mean, “I bow to the subtle divine wisdom…to the divine teacher within.” With the melodic repetition of these words in a manageable time frame, I board the express train to tranquility. I remind myself that I don’t need to outsource my power when it comes to life’s questions. The answers can be found within.

While I won’t be opening an ashram in India any time soon, I do know that life is lighter and sweeter when I have even fleeting inner peace. Whether we work on Wall Street or at Walmart, we could all benefit from a few quiet cross-legged seconds on the floor. We need a place to go to when our outer world is worrisome and deep breathing is just the cure. As stated in The Bhagavad Gita, “When meditation is mastered, the mind is unwavering like the flame of a lamp in a windless place.” Yes, the heels, the cans, the children, the barking dogs, and the city streets still envelop me but for 10 minutes a day, I am an island on the island, a still flame in a tunnel of turbulence and an audience for my divine teacher. Can one song be a pathway to peace? Who knows…but even if isn’t meditative mastery, in Manhattan, it’s a start.

Peapod

I was dutifully attending a red light on Broadway today when it occurred to me that I always spend exactly an hour at the gym. That fact alone is not unsettling; I work out faithfully and I’m in the best shape I can be with my pregnant belly expanding day-by-day. However, I don’t like to fall into automatic responses and patterns. Before you know it, they pave tracks to unconsciousness and you wake up years later asking, “How did I get here?” We forget why we started doing something a certain way in the first place and our robotic routines, not our raw responses, rule our days.

Take for example, a recent story I heard of a husband and wife who adopted the same affectionate name for one another. Somewhere in the early lust of dating, they started to call each other “Peapod”. By their wedding, they no longer even used proper names. It was, “Hi Peapod, I’ll be home at 7:30…Thanks Peapod, I’m making roasted chicken for dinner…Great Peapod, see you then.” This was all fine until they hit a rocky place in their marriage. When the kisses turned to cruelties and the sap went south, they had no other choice but to use their habitual terms of affection. Soon, it was, “Screw you Peapod! Get a life Peapod! You’ll get the house over my dead body, Peapod!” What worked wonderfully once upon a time suddenly became an obstacle to congruous conversation because inflexibility had set in.

In a similar story, a teenage girl went to visit her great-great grandmother in the nursing home to get the secret family recipe for the traditional holiday ham. Generation after generation, it emerged from the oven beautifully glazed, filling the entire house with a smoky sweet scent. Curious however, as a teenager might be, the young lady asked why all the women before her cut the end of the ham off before placing it in the oven. Her mother, aunts, and grandmother did it automatically but didn’t exactly know. The elderly woman laughed and replied, “I’m not sure why the others do it but they must have watched me. My oven was too small when I perfected the recipe. The ham wouldn’t fit in my stove!”

As the Spanish proverb goes, “Habits may start as cobwebs, but they finish as cables.” Like a comfortable bed, they are far easier to get into than get out of. So, life requires regular reflection. Whether it is asking ourselves why we chose our partners or our life’s work or simply sliced the ham. Our original intents and motives might not mesh with our new circumstances or new selves. For both ”Peapod Squared” and for me in my daily routine, improvisational adaptability is empowerment. The fresh opportunity is always there to question our choices and to exchange what is for what could be.

Jane Austen, I Agree…

I confess to an addiction when it comes to enlightening information. My bookshelves are bloated and Amazon is my dealer. I crave knowledge and insight like some crave crack or candy, and I am always looking for my next fix. I’m a junkie for a great pitch and a sexy new release. Who has the answers to my latest pressing questions? What new author and expert will change my life? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ridden the anticipatory “high” of an impending publication only to discover someone had re’hash’ed and repackaged weary themes. Marketing today has become more important than content. You can shamelessly go pretty far on pointless pages if you know how to manipulate and sell to the spiritually starved. Consequently, it’s a rare read that doesn’t leave me with a hardcover hangover. I might be dazzled by the cover or the promise, but inside, I find myself saying, “Yep…I know that already, and that, and that as well…” That elusive master, who knows better than my inherent intuition, becomes more mythical everyday.

I was actually in Barnes and Noble looking for a gift when it struck me. How many similar souls are seeking salvation on towering tables of titles too? We are so trained to look outside of ourselves and we are so bombarded with specialists that we no longer have to think the old fashioned way. Our inner compasses are rusty and corroded. Our instincts are dormant if not dead. We can’t imagine buying a tube of toothpaste without doing a full internet search. We certainly can’t imagine quietly going within. Slowly, the tiny wise voice that knows us best fades into the distance. We can hunt like religious fanatics for the holy grail of guidance, but so often, we are left deaf to our own best opinions, wandering farther and farther from our inner oracles that had the answers the whole time.

On this past weekend of my fifth wedding anniversary, I recalled visiting a nationally known travel agency in 2004 with my then fiancé to plan our Honeymoon. We were looking to go to St. Tropez or somewhere on the Cote D’Azure but our travel agent didn’t know where that was. She asked us if “that was in Paris or France”. We had to show her on the map where we were going, but soon realized we were more informed than the one who was trained and paid to give advice. This travel agency, coincidentally, still stands open across the street from Barnes and Noble on Broadway. I passed by today aware my husband and I are going back to The South of France later this summer. I think we can safely trust our own hunches and expertise on this round.

Jane Austen made an excellent point, before technology tangled our brains…She said, “We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.” I need only look to the failed Wall-Street wizards, leaders who said “follow me” but then fell off the cliff themselves, my bookshelf of empty “expert” promises, and that un-traveled travel agent to say, “Jane Austen…I agree.”

First…The Car

During my brief stint in L.A. a few years ago, I attended an acting class of a well-known Hollywood teacher. Although this man was quite indoctrinated in a “celebrity religion” that had me needing a translator most of the time, I soon learned his jargon and power talk. He sort of looked like a cross between Santa Claus and Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments and he had a psychological swagger to go with the imposing air. Students awaited his most self-indulgent lengthy pauses to see what their master might say. I don’t know if it was his iconic presence that kept us hanging on his every word or if he really was a genius. I do know, however, that sometimes his simplest advice made the most sense.

I recall one class in particular when a long-time pupil took the stage. Half-way through his practice monologue for Star Trek Enterprise, the fragile and frightened actor broke down. He confessed that he had no hope he would ever get the walk-on role, or any role for that matter. He had been auditioning for years and was making more Vanilla Ice Blendeds at The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf than theatrical appearances. Reality had finally sunk in.

As our Svegali salivated at this savory moment, knowing all eyes and ears would be on him, I too found myself breathless, awaiting his reply. Much to my surprise however, he agreed with the man on stage. “You are right”, he said, with that gravely voice only a pack-a-day habit could produce…”You are NEVER going to work as an actor.” We were all stunned. Where was the preaching? Where was the power talk? But then, he continued…”You won’t work until you clean out your car. I’ve seen it in the parking lot and it looks like a homeless person lives inside. Until you respect what you DO have, you can’t possibly attract something more. Your message to yourself and the universe is…”I’m worthless”…and you drive around in that reminder every day.”

That actor might not have become the next Tom Cruise, but I have seen his face appear in a show or two. I guess he took the teacher’s advice. I estimate that he makes more movies and fewer Frappucinos these days and probably has a cleaner car.

This story came to mind recently when I thought about the process of change. We don’t always hear the subversive subliminal messages that lurk in the shadows of our beings. We don’t always see how we are our own red lights and barbed-wire gates. We don’t realize how we cast our characters, gather our props, and set our stages for failure because, at our core, we don’t really believe we are worthy of living out our happiest scripts. As Parker Palmer said, “No punishment anyone might inflict on us could possibly be worse than the punishment we inflict on ourselves by conspiring in our own diminishment.” I think about that actor and that day and how real transformation happens. One symbolic act of self-love, self-respect, or self-control can trigger a personal revolution. We can all aspire to greatness, but first, we have to start by cleaning out our cars.