The thing you've been chasing all your life - persists.

I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song that i came to sing remains unsung. Rabindranath Tagore

If you were ten people...

If you were ten people, what would each of you do with your life?

1. Lead singer/writer in a rock/country band

2. Writer of motivational books/blogs

3. Entrepreneur with motivational business through public speaking/books

4. Spiritual leader

5. Cooking show star

6. Stylist

7. Intuitive healer

8. Actress

9. Life & diet coach

10. Top executive

Nothing is more wasteful than ignoring what you long for Barbara Sher

When you play it too safe, you're taking the biggest risk of your life. Barbara Sher

Start moving toward a goal you really want and the resistance will leap out of hiding and start trying to talk you out of hiding. . Barbara Sher

Every time you have to make a choice about anything think does this go toward or away from what I want? Always choose what goes toward what you want. BS

What will determine the course of your life more than any other one thing is whether or not you're willing to tolerate necessary discomfort. BS

Because high self-esteem comes after action, not before. BS

What you really supposed to be doing is what makes your heart sing. SH ER

Even action in the wrong direction is informative. Sher

My Impoverished Artist

He said it was a Vata imbalance. I thought I had a Pitta dosha. Well, apparently, you can have one dominant constitution but still have an imbalance from a secondary one. When I looked up the characteristics of a Vata person, I read that these are the artistic, wired types. So that’s it! My artist is impoverished! She needs a diet of creativity, word smithing, and believing in that big dream of hers. She’s sickly because she does not feed upon the proper nutrition which is daily writing. She’s been looking for her manna, and her owner is not giving it to her. Her owner tends to operate from the right brain hemisphere where everything works according to a formula. But the artist can tell her that has never worked for her in the past. She operates better when she uses her child like eagerness to dance in fields of tall dandelions and create from her playfulness. There’s no order to things as well as no “shoulds” that line up what she “should” be doing. There’s an open field where she longs to roam and if she lets her dance, she might find her energy again.

The Real Bingo (June 2006)

My fingers crave the keyboard like a crazed nymph who’s looking for passion in her myriad of dry lovers. Looking, looking and no one can satisfy that longing within for something that takes her way above her animal acts. One email after another. One enticing profile. The right word. The word that beckons.

Ah email. Can it even compare to an occupation that allows me to write and write all day? One where I can tell you why I love my Tall Vanilla Soy Lattes in the morning, and why I call my newest friend, jazz-muffin. How I can explain to you the days I find my body and emotions weighing in like the tides of the moon? And how bloated I feel after two nights of strawberries with sugar. Whoever thought that you could get fat from strawberries?

It’s like the word “Bingo” went off in my head. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve won “Bingo” in my head. That’s it. I am one step closer to my life calling. I will try that. And then I will try this. And then three years later, I am still trying to figure it out. Yeah, three years is about my average tenure.

I crave words.

Healing words. That’s what the voice said to me one night in bed. Every gift given seemed to have the word healing before it.

So today while beating myself up for lack of chores done once again, I asked myself, “What is it about the Net that drives me so.”

In one word, it came. Communication. Frustration. I want a creative outlet. And so tonight I am exploring what it takes to be a freelance writer.

Writers We Were Before the Season

I sat still with a blanket and a warm cup of coffee with a frothy mix of cream, cinnamon and nutmeg for a rainy day full of prose and naps. Holding the oversized cup in both hands, I peered out my windowsill as the pat-pat of rain tapped out my thoughts. Everything was quiet and inactive. No birds sang or perched upon a pre-spring limb. The time before a budding ...season was perfect for reflection and appreciation. How thankful I was to have a warm house and time to be a writer. I thought of how I could couch this moment in words so other people could share my peace. And for one simple moment, we became artists and knights and journeyman, asking the questions and penning the answers. We had so much to give and so much to learn. We took it all in on a spring-like winter day.



DD