Book Spotlight - Psychic Protection by Ted Andrews

I have read other books on the topic of psychic defense, but Ted Andrews' work, in my opinion is one of the very best.

What Drew Me In

1. Ted Andrews has the intention of making the spiritual pragmatic and more importantly obtainable.  He doesn't cloud everything in secrecy.  He wants you to clearly understand how the psychic works.
2. Instead of mystically ruminating about the reader's gifts being tested, he instead offers that it is the student who should test their teachers.  He points out that a true teacher will not be offended, because a true teacher understands the need for confirmation and validation.
3. Exercises like the Cleansing Fire Vortex were laid out in an easy step by step process.

How I Think I Can Apply This Magically

1. The Cleansing Fire Vortex has become one of my favorite meditation practices.
2. Sheltering my own energy was something I took for granted.  This book helped me be more aware of how the people I associate with and my environment affect me.
3. This book suggested that psychic and magical abilities are skills that can be improved and practiced.

If you liked this post you may also enjoy some of my other Book Spotlights

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

The Art and Practice of Geomancy by John Michael Greer

Your Money Or Your Life by Vicki Robin

Are you on GoodReads?  Let's be friends!

Adventures in Accidental Talismans: The Curious Case of Officer D

In 2007 I met my friend Officer D when I briefly accepted the position of Field Training Officer for my police department. D and I were promoted together that year. Several years later I transferred to my current district where Officer D was also assigned; and we resumed our friendship. I didn’t know much about Officer D then, except that he’s one of those people who just makes everyone around them calm and comfortable. He’s just got a comforting personality. I have never seen him lose his temper. I can’t really imagine anyone not liking Officer D. And I certainly couldn’t picture him getting into any kind of trouble at work. However, he recently got into some very serious trouble. So serious in fact, that he could have very well lost his job.

Officer D knows that I am fascinated with possessions and that my passion is not policing, but rather clutter. As we were partnered up during long summer hours patrolling our city, he generously allowed me to chatter on endlessly about it. I believe that our possessions have power. Sometimes that power is empowering, and propels people towards their future and their desires. But sometimes that power latches onto us like a chain that traps us in the past – I call those dangerous possessions “Accidental Talismans.” As I went on about my clutter theories, Officer D told me his curious tale and he has given me permission to share it. The most curious thing about Officer D? He really has few possessions, and we were both interested to realize that sometimes the lack of possessions can be an Accidental Talisman all by itself.

Officer D, has been living alone in his house since 2008. But being the comforting soul that he is, he knows many people. Officer D will always come through for his friends, whatever the need. In 2016 a young man, whose father was a friend of Officer D, was accepted into our municipality’s police department. The thing is, our department has a residency requirement, which obviously the father couldn’t meet. Officer D immediately agreed that the young man could move in with him. Officer D had a spare bedroom complete with a bed…albeit a set of bunkbeds he had purchased for his son, but mattresses were fairly new and the room was clean.

The young man didn’t care, he just need a place to sleep with the right zip code, so he moved in with one duffle bag of clothes and some recruit uniforms. Officer D didn’t see the young man much. He was busy at the academy and out and about with his young friends at every spare opportunity - the way young men often do. Things were going well for the young man in the academy, and Officer D lived his life mostly as he always had. Although, things went to hell and a handbasket when the fire department called.

For reasons I will never understand, lots of young men think that it’s much cooler to be a fireman rather than a police officer. So a lot of young men apply for the Fire Department in our fair city and are placed on a very long waiting list. So it’s common for these same young men to also apply for our Police Department. These young men enter the police academy and wait out the fire department waiting list with the police until they are finally called to the fire department instead. Such was the case of Officer D’s roommate. He was even luckier. He hadn’t even finished the police academy when he was called to the Fire academy. So the young man resigned from the police department. He still needed the residency though. The fire department is very particular about that - very, very particular.

They sent an inspector to check on the young man’s residency. In accordance with their standard operating procedures, they come by the home at a pre-arranged time and verify that the candidate is actually living where they say they are living. They usually make themselves comfortable in the kitchen or living room and briefly ask questions about educational transcripts and former drug use while they subtly judge housekeeping skills. After visiting Officer D and his roommate, the poor young man was subsequently fired.  And not only did they end both a fire department and police department career for this young man, the fire department sent a letter to the police department urging them to fire Officer D! Because the fire department’s inspector had determined that neither the young roommate nor Officer D lived in that house.

Officer D has been a police officer for over 20 years. Not only that, he grew up in our city, in the same neighborhood he lives in now only a block and a half from his parents and conveniently located only 15 minutes from our district police station where we work. Of course he lived in that house! Everyone in our district knew that! Why would that inspector from the fire department say such a thing? Well, maybe it might have something to do with the fact that one of the only pieces of furniture in Officer D’s house were the bunkbeds that young recruit crashed on.

In 2008, Officer D had a bitter disagreement with his wife. Officer D’s father owned the house next door to his and had been using it as a rental property. However, when the last tenants had decided to move, the house had remained empty. That house was larger than Officer D’s classic raised ranch, so the wife wanted that house. Officer D was very proud of his little raised ranch, and he didn’t much like the idea of just taking over his father’s property. But his wife wanted that bigger house. She wanted to be wealthy and apparently, calm and comforting Officer D just wasn’t rich enough or good enough. Officer D’s wife moved into the larger house next door to her in-laws and when she moved she took everything. She took every piece of furniture and every single picture was removed from the walls. There was one thing she left behind though, besides the nails from the pictures – and that was Officer D.

When I got to see Officer D’s house this year, his refrigerator was still decorated with alphabet magnets and a few drawings from his five year old son (who is now 14).

There were some similar drawings in his son’s bedroom (the bedroom where the young roommate had dumped his one duffle bag of clothes), along with a few forgotten stuffed animals and a beautiful sculpture hanging from the ceiling light, made by tiny hands in a children’s art class.

By 2016 the only thing that Officer D had purchased was a set of bunkbeds for his son. His wife though had made the edict, “he will never sleep there. That was stupid.” There was a TV and a beat up frat-house style couch that one of Officer D’s friends and made him take so he would have something to sit on if he or the roommate watched the TV. The walls remained empty though, decorated with only nails. There were no new pictures of Officer D’s son anywhere in the house. It was frozen in time – that house. It was frozen; set forever in 2008, the scene of the crime – the day his wife of 20 years left him and took his son.

His house told this heart wrenching story when Officer D allowed me to see it for myself. I ached for Officer D. I wondered where his wife and son were now and how often he got to see his son. I was in for a bit of a surprise there. You see, I had no idea that she had only taken their son a block and a half away to the property next door to his parents. He saw his son all the time. He could in fact see him every day if he wanted to. And yet there were no new pictures, no new art work, just the same nails left on empty walls.

Officer D’s house really is pretty clean. He doesn’t actually have a lot of clutter just two significant areas. Officer D showed me his little den area, in it there is a couch where he sleeps and a desk over flowing with clutter. He said that it got so cluttered that he moved his bills and things to the kitchen table, which is now also overflowing with paper.

“I need to file it,” said Officer D.

“Uh-huh,” I commented.

Where Officer D’s clutter lives is significant. His wife apparently walked out on him because he wasn’t wealthy enough for her. Oddly, now, Officer D owns four houses. His parents passed away in recent years and he inherited his father’s house, his father’s vacation house in Michigan, and the rental property where his wife lives with his son. Officer D owns all of that in addition to his little raised ranch and all of the properties are completely paid for. And yet Officer D chooses to bury the paperwork acknowledging his wealth. Officer D’s desk is an Accidental Talisman. It says, “I do not deserve to be wealthy.” 

The table is also interesting. I asked Officer D where he eats and he answered, “Standing over the sink.” Over the sink is a fine thing for a rushed young man to do every now and again, but a cluttered table ensures that no one would be able to join Officer D for dinner at his home, ever, even if they wanted to. Officer’s D’s new desk, the table, is also an Accidental Talisman. It says, “I will not share my life, with anyone, ever again.”

It became clear to me, seconds after entering Officer D’s house that he is unwilling to trust people. He knows that he is dependable though. He is very sure that he can be counted on; it is just simply a part of who he is. It is one of the character traits that makes him such an excellent officer. Officer D had always wanted to be the police. It was the only thing he ever wanted to do. Even though my primary passion lies elsewhere, I do agree with Officer D that what we have chosen to do is not just a job, it becomes what you are. We are the police. We have heard people’s horrible nightmares. We have seen people through crises (that sometimes have nothing to do with a criminal act). We have taken injured stray dogs to emergency veterinary clinics. We have held people in our arms covered in their blood as we waited for emergency medical services to arrive. We have cleared apartments for lonely elders when they are scared by the creaking of their floors. And we have risked our own lives, struggling to handcuff violent criminals so that justice may be served and the community protected.  Officer D and I both have been sworn at, spit on, punched, and much, much worse. But whatever you may think of us, doesn’t matter - no matter what, we will still come for you. Whatever your need, criminal or not. If you call us, we will come. Because when the chips are down, you can count on the police. We always show up, for better or for worse. You know that we will be there. We pride ourselves on that determination – that reliability to show up. Not only are we there for our citizens, we are there for each other, for all of our brothers and sisters in blue. Civilian citizens refer to the police devotion to one another as “The Blue Line.” It is meant to be a derogatory term but I for one am exceptionally grateful for that line.

Like Officer D, 2008 was a significant year for me as well. I got very sick. I had vertigo so badly that I couldn’t walk. My eyes drifted in separate directions, rendering me legally blind. Obviously I was unable to work any job, let alone serve and protect. For almost two years no one could figure out what was wrong with me. Any other occupation would have let me go, but the police department kept me and saw me through the final diagnosis of thyroid cancer. I am forever grateful to my department. They were there for me when no one else was. “The Blue Line” fed me and my child when I was unable to give them anything in return. But most officers don’t require a gigantic tumor in their necks, cutting off the blood flow to their brains to understand what “The Blue Line” is really about. It’s a given. We will always come, for better or for worse, and we will take care of our own.

Officer D may not trust people, but he does trust that Blue Line. The only deviation from the 2008 timeline in his house is the line of blue police uniforms decorating his hallways.

Officer D has at least three full closets in which to hang his clothes, and yet he chooses to adorn his hallways with his uniforms. He has given himself a physical blue line. Those police uniforms remind him of one thing he can absolutely count on. But that line of uniforms in the hallway is another Accidental Talisman, because that line cannot hide the fact that the whole house is a time machine, set for 2008 – the day his wife left him and took his son. It doesn’t matter that they live down the street, they might as well be a million miles away.

The one question I get asked most about Accidental Talismans is how one can transform them. Basically, people are asking me “How can I keep them?” In my opinion, you can’t keep them. You have to let them go. Getting rid of them is the only way to transform all that negative energy that’s been dumped into them. You cannot transform a message like “I do not deserve to be wealthy,” you can only abandon it. If you are constantly surrounding yourself with the message, “I will not share my life, with anyone, ever again,” there will never be room for something else (or someone else) to take its place until you are willing to let go.

In most cases, I recommend donating them to charity. A person who finds your Accidental Talisman in a second hand store will most likely be thrilled to have it. One of my favorite sweaters came from a second hand store. I love it, but the person who got rid of it, had their reasons for not ever wanting to wear it again. No matter how negative it was for her, my joy of it is what fills it now. And I think, that joy filters back to her a little.

In some cases it’s okay to sell some Accidental Talismans, but that takes time - time where the Accidental Talisman will continue to drain you. 

In some extreme cases, I recommend returning these nasty magical buggers to the elements. I mean elements in the archaic and mystical sense which are regarded in the Western spiritual traditions as air, fire, water and earth. Burning things is my personal favorite and flushing things down the toilet (hello water element) is a close second. Biodegradable items can also be released to the wind and of course burying things can be an excellent option. Burying things closes doors in our western minds, because to bury something is to put it in the grave once and for all.

I told Officer D about his Accidental Talismans. I relayed the negative messages of his desk, his table and his representation of our Blue Line. But then I told him that his entire raised ranch is one big (albeit empty) Accidental Talisman. I told Officer D that his wife is still living in his house. It isn’t his, it belongs to her, in 2008.

It might be interesting to note that Officer D’s house really does belong to his wife. It’s in a trust in her name only. Legally speaking, the raised ranch is all that does belong to her. Everything else she calls her own was paid for in full by Officer D. He even still pays her credit card bills. If I was an extremist…I’d recommend that that little raised ranch be burned to the ground. Officer D is too good a police officer and too good a person to be trapped in 2008.

Epilogue

There is no need to worry about Officer D’s failed fireman roommate. He is now a police officer in another municipality and crashing at the apartment of his current girlfriend. He has yet to come back for his duffle bag of clothes still in Officer D’s house.

As for Officer D, I know our municipality well and I’m pretty sure there was a secret investigation of Officer D by Internal Affairs where they discovered that Officer D has absolutely no secrets.

Incidentally, he decided to retire this year. He wanted to buy a motor home and tour the country with his son and spend some more time at his property in Michigan.

He recently sent me a text with a picture of his table, which he had cleared. I pretty sure that might be an invitation to join him for dinner...how sweet.

The Day I Died

On August 11, 2005 at 7:00 in the morning, I went into labor with my first and only child. My water broke - which contrary to popular belief is not really how labor usually begins - usually you have contractions first, and then, during the labor process, the water sac breaks and the baby is born. That water sac not only protects the baby, but it also is a safety barrier for the mother. A safety barrier I was missing for 42 hours. It wasn’t until August 13th that my son was born. He was so very healthy. He was so strong! He was also huge at 10 pounds and 2 ounces.

“That’s the biggest baby I’ve ever seen!” one of the nurses shrieked as my son finally made his way into the world.

His placenta was also gargantuan, also weighing in at 10 pounds…or so they thought…

On August 15th, I was discharged from the hospital. The nurse came in to check on me one last time. “Hmm,” she said. “You have a little bit of a fever.” I thought that was odd, but they issued me my discharge papers and off I went.

As I struggled with my then husband to get our (not-little) new babe into his car seat for the first time, a lovely mother who had been discharged with me that morning came to our aid and showed us what we were doing wrong with the car seat. She seemed fine, great actually, that heroic awesome mom who helped me. Any yet, I was worried; because I was decidedly not fine. I felt awful and I never feel awful. I’m rarely sick. I’ve never have had a broken bone. I’ve never even had a cavity!  I rationalized that maybe I just had never really experienced pain before and that what I was feeling was normal. I saw a toddler in awesome mom’s car with her newborn and I thought that maybe childbirth is easier the second time around.

When I got home I struggled out of the car and staggered to the house. I stumbled to the bathroom and then a thick piece of flesh - at least six inches in length - fell out of me (I know now that it was the missing 2 ounces of placenta). I was panicked; but my then husband covered up all that goo and told me I was fine. I really wanted to believe him.

He helped me to the couch that sat in the summer sunshine. I layered myself with several blankets. It didn’t matter that it was August, I was freezing. My husband put our son in a laundry basket next to me and then he left, perhaps to get food, but I don’t think I was able to comprehend where he was going. Then it was as if time slowed down. I started to shake with the chills and then I remember my head banging against the couch several times in a bizarre state of movie-magic slow motion.

And then…it just stopped. I found myself surrounded by this beautiful soft white light. I was floating in silky white clouds. I was so beautifully warm and comfortable and perfectly at peace. I had never felt so relaxed. I had never felt so complete, so completely myself. I had no concerns for my future. My past had such perspective, and such clarity. There was only this beautiful peaceful moment, surrounded by softness.

“Whew! I’m so glad that’s over!” I said.

It blossomed quickly in my mind, however, that while I was relieved that the convulsions were over and the fever was gone, that was not what I meant. I was glad that everything was over. It was as if I had spent 35 years studying feverishly for an exam and although I wasn’t sure if I had passed or failed, for better or for worse, I had taken the exam and it was over. It was done.

I was dead. 

My peace was then suddenly replaced with incredible panic. “I’m dead!” the white light vibrated with that thought, because I wasn’t in the white light, no, I had no body anymore, I was the white light.

I had been a practicing pagan for many years at this point, but I was still staunchly monotheist. I believed in a one all encompassing female divinity that happily accepted any mantle or name you felt comfortable to give Her (even if it was male). I had always gravitated towards the warrior, protector stories of the Greek Goddess Artemis; but in my arrogance at that time, I believed that to be a silly construct of my human mind. The name Artemis, surely was beneath this divinity. But in this state of anxiety I gave into my humanity and I named my Goddess.

“Diana! Diana!” I called to Her. “Please! I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son!”

And just like a cliché movie ending twister, I gasped in that very dramatic and noisy breath of life, I sat up, and I gazed upon my sleeping son.

When my husband returned he did drag me to the doctor. When I described the fever and all that goo the doctor’s face turned notably white and he stammered, “You…you should be in a hospital! You…you shouldn’t be standing here!” But I was in fact standing in his office and I never was re-admitted to the hospital because there wasn’t a single thing wrong with me. There was no fever, no sepsis, nothing. I was just fine. They did prescribe me antibiotics just to be sure, but I wonder if I really needed them.

I had died that day. Yet Diana, She who is also called Artemis, She had heard my plea and had given me life. I spent a great deal of my postpartum researching Diana. It just so happens that She is also attributed as the Goddess of Childbirth (I had no idea); as She helped Her mother Leto give birth to Her twin, Apollo. Another interesting fact – my son’s birthday, August 13th is called “Diana’s Day.”

August 15, 2005 remains as one of the most spiritual experiences of my life to date. It is a day that I reflect upon often. I still struggle with what I learned that day. I am still processing the magnitude. What I learned was that life and death are largely a choice. That knowledge is fraught with heavy responsibility. I didn’t just choose to live, I chose to live this life – my life – as it is.

That is sometimes very difficult for me to accept, because I am so often disappointed with my life and more precisely, myself. One of my greatest shames is that I thought I never wanted to be a mother. My childhood was in some ways difficult and I did not want to continue that legacy. I had been told that I had trouble connecting with people, and so I was not confident that I could connect with a child. But I was desperate for the love I lacked in my childhood, and I was wooed by a man who wanted a child, and begrudgingly…begrudgingly, I gave him one. That same man who left me as I died, left me before that child he demanded from me reached his first birthday. In my darkest hours, that shame courses through me. It is then that I tell myself that I never wanted to be a parent, and certainly not a single parent. And certainly not a single parent who works at night, and on weekends, and holidays, and birthdays, and who often has to work late, sometimes 48 hours late… In my darkest hours, I tell myself that I am precisely the lousy mother I never wanted to be.

And yet, when I was dead I called to Diana and I said, “Please. Please I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son.” I didn’t say “My son needs me.” I said, “I need,” that was what I said. “I need to be a mother to my son.” The truth is, my son really doesn’t need me. Yes, absolutely, we have a great relationship (one I never believed I was capable of). I have made a positive impact on his life. I am a decent mother, and sometimes maybe even better than just decent. Yet, had I chosen to let go on August 15, 2005, my son would have continued on without me. I may not be a fan of my son’s father but if I acknowledge the truth again, he left me, not his son. His father loves him. My son would have been cared for and supported. When I begged my Goddess to live, I wasn’t begging for my son, it was all about me. It was for my experience. I chose this life. I chose to be a mother.

I am still bemused by the consequences of that choice and more importantly, the responsibility of that choice. I chose this life. Not only did I choose to be a mother, I also chose, much to my chagrin, to be a single parent. Not only did I choose to be a single parent, I chose to be that single parent who worked at night, and on weekends, and holidays, and birthdays. Those were in fact, my choices. I am responsible for all of that.

I have had people try to argue with me that I could not have possibly known that my husband would leave me. However, the writing was on the wall that my marriage was not made to last. There were all kinds of warning signs, not to mention a few blunt comments from a close and brazen friend. I however, chose to ignore those signs, my intuition and my feelings. When he demanded a child, it wasn’t a request, there wasn’t a discussion; it was an argument. I could have divorced him then but I chose to be a mother instead. I was ultimately the one that made that decision. I was the one who made the counter demand - I would have a child, but it had to be before I turned 35. On my 34th birthday, I remember distinctly that I said to my then husband with nothing short of disdain in my voice, “I’m reminding you that I’m 34 today.” I turned 35 a month before my son was born. I cannot hold my son’s father accountable for that. That was my choice.

It was also my choice to accept a career that had me working nights, and weekends, and holidays and birthdays, etc. etc. My husband crooned that it would be stable and secure; there would be benefits and oh so much money. My close and brazen friend warned me there would be consequences for my family with this career. My heart warned me that this career was not going feed my creative personality. There were once again multiple signs that I would sacrifice a great deal of personal happiness for stability and security in addition to the desires and needs of my son; but I ignored them all, along with my intuition and my feelings when I made my choice.

It would be easy to lay the blame elsewhere and whine that I had no choice. I could blame my once husband for the demise of our marriage, but I had a heavy role to play there. I do not think talking about our conflicts would have resolved our issues; because the reality I must face is that I chose a husband who was not the right partner for me; nor was I a good partner for him. I knew it from the beginning. I chose to ignore our conflicts – I buried my head in the sand. I also chose my profession. I chose security and stability over creativity. I knew it would ultimately make me very unhappy, but again I buried my head in the sand. I also knew I was dying the moment that nurse told me that I had a fever. But I chose to ignore my own instinct. I ignored my own instinct because I think I wanted someone else to accept responsibility. I wanted the consequences to be someone else’s problem.

I think I say that I have no choice when what I really want is to shift responsibility. The day I died I learned that as much as I wanted to blame someone else, there was only myself to blame. I had been given all the information I needed. I had been given multiple signs in addition to my instinct and feelings. I chose to bury my head in the sand, until I was faced with the ultimatum of no sand, at all.

“Diana! Diana! Please, I want to live. I need to be a mother to my son.”

Diana gave me life on August 15, 2005, of that I am sure, but it was because I made my choice. I wanted – I needed – to be a mother to my son. That is profound, just that, but something else that I find interesting is that it was the one time I made a choice based on my own instinct, and feelings.

When I ignored my instincts about my marriage, it resulted in a very ugly divorce. When I ignored my instincts about my current career, it resulted in a diagnosis of depression. I based my choice not on what was within me, with my own instinct and feelings; but external stimulus and information that largely had nothing to do with me. I nearly refused to become a mother based on external stimulus and information as well. I assumed that I would repeat the pattern of my childhood. I assumed that I had no choice there. Yet, when there was nothing of me, except my instinct and my feelings, the one thing I needed and wanted most was to be a mother.

I am responsible for my choices, and actually, what I would consider as the worst of those choices came with some great fringe benefits. My job is seriously lacking in creativity but boy that money is great and it does afford me to come up with some creative vacations. My marriage may have been doomed from the beginning, but boy, oh boy did it give me the most wonderful boy. Conversely, motherhood is not without its counter as well. As I said, in my darkest hours, I recall all of those external stimuli and situations in attempt to convince myself that I was wrong to want to be a mother – that I made a bad choice. Although, they are only hours after all. The ultimate truth is that when I had the courage to tap into my own instinct and feelings, that choice lead to the greatest joy I have ever known. It makes me wonder what I would be capable of if I reached for that divine clarity in my life, rather than only on the edge of death.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that death is easy. It’s more than easy, it’s sublime. Life in contrast is not easy. A great deal of the time it’s not anything even close to sublime. It’s complicated and confusing and downright messy. Life is filled with goo; but what I have learned is that some of that goo is sticky cotton candy kisses. Life is full of choices – which leads to responsibility and repercussions, and then more choices. Maybe that is why death is so peaceful, it is the last choice anyone ever has to make.

---

This article was largely inspired by Errol McLendon’s one man show the Final (?) Journey that was performed at the Life Force Arts Center in correlation with their gallery show Art and the 9 Levels of Self.

I was also moved and inspired by the book Mastering the Art of Quitting by Peg Streep and Alan Bernstein.

September Lessons

September is my work “birthday,” so to speak.  In September of 2002 I took the job that would alter the course of my life.  Now there are many advantages to my job and I am grateful to have it.  Yet I have often noted that gratitude is a far cry from love.  My gratitude to the job I have held for 14 years now was not helping my attitude which gradually and ever increasingly began to plummet further and further into darkness.

I was sporting full blown depression when I encountered a clever Forbes Magazine Article that changed by life.  My co-workers noticed an immediate change in me, "I am impressed by this new attitude of yours!  It's infectious!" 

I'm laughing more, definitely smiling, and my stress level is the lowest it's ever been.  What is my secret?  What was the life changing article?  “Ten Advantages to Hating Your Job” by Liz Ryan - This article helped me realize that I hate my job, and that is a good thing! 

The reality I have to face in my workplace is that I have to work with some seriously unhappy people.  I’m not referring to those to whom I give service, I can appreciate why they sometimes might be unhappy.  No, the people who really lowered my spirits were my co-workers.  Two workplace bullies in particular who I believe attempt to pleasure themselves by making as many other people as miserable as themselves.  Their antics were demoralizing until this article released me from their tyranny.  Their vile little comments and direct antagonism mean nothing to me now.  They can complain all they want about my behavior.  They can even threaten to go to the supervisor.  But they cannot threaten me with a reprimand in the company file if I have no emotional investment in the company.

Before the realization that I hated my job, a supervisor stopping by would have sent me into a fit of anxiety.  “They think I need a babysitter!  They must think I'm not doing enough!"  Now I refuse to compare my work ethic to anyone else.  I give as much as I am able, that is enough.  The supervisor now gets a true smile and a "thank you for your help."  

And oddly, acknowledging that I hate my job has enabled me to provide better service.  Now, I can give someone my full attention.  "I have all day," I say with a smile.  The next assignment is no longer a source of stress.  I'm in the moment with the person directly in front of me.

However, in accepting that I hate my job, I had to acknowledge the reason why.  I really have learned all I'm ever going to learn at my current job.  It's not about changing locations, it's the actual job.  I have gone as far as I can go.  So now, the quest becomes where do I go from here?  But instead of wasting my energy blaming my job for wasting my time, the responsibility is now on me to seek the answer to that question.

What am I here to do?  That is a huge question.  One Deepak Chopra pressed me to look at in the article “How to Find the Purpose of Your Life.”  I found the idea of making the answer to that question viable every day of my life downright daunting.

I have come to understand that I'm one of those people determined to do what I think others want me to do.  I'm aware that is an impossible task and yet I am still determined to do it anyway.  My martyrdom though is avoiding the question:  what am I here to do?  If I'm busy guessing at what everyone else wants, then I have effectively deflected the question of my own destiny.

Not only am I deflecting my destiny, I’m deflecting people too.  My need to guess at everyone’s intentions gives me quite the excuse to avoid people altogether.  My friends do a remarkable job accommodating me when I routinely bow out of get-togethers.  KJ Dell’Antonia made me think hard about this practice of mine and made me think about my contribution to my relationships in the article “Am I Introverted, or Just Rude?”  

I am finally beginning to understand that if my schedule is full I do not have to overwhelm myself to be of service to others.  I also have the right to say no, just because I want to.  If I begrudgingly do something that I don't want to, I'm not doing anybody any service.  There is a difference however between an invitation from my second cousin whose political leanings drive me batty, and the birthday party of my best friend.  If I fail to show up to the birthday for the second year in a row, that is an issue that needs to be addressed.  I can blame my absence on my schedule and my priorities or on my boundaries and introversion but none of those excuses is going to help me foster my relationship to my best friend.  

Relationships are based on sharing - our time, our energy and our selves.  I can't expect to be exempt from reciprocation.  Parties may not be important to me but if they are important to my best friend, her party should make it to the top of my priorities.  If she really is important to me. 

I can show up.  I can talk to my friend's mother.  I can share how we met with her second cousin whose political leanings drive me batty.  I can choose to put aside my annoyance of crowds and my anxiety of being judged and even my need to guess at what someone else wants me to do.  Yes, it is possible that my friend's second cousin will think I'm a lawless godless witch out to destroy humanity as we know it.  And it is more than likely that I will be unable to correctly guess at the right behavior that second cousin wants from me in order to feel comfortable and not as though she is about to be eaten by the lawless and godless witch.  But so what? I'm not important in these circumstances.  It's my best friend's birthday, it's her time to be important.

And after an hour or two I can go to my friend and say to her, "Happy Birthday! I'm so grateful I had the opportunity to be here with you!"  And then it's not just my words that communicate how important my friend is to me, it's my actions.  They are synchronized.  And that intimacy between us has meaning.

I want intimacy with all things.  

I came across this Matt Daniell’s Ted Talk through the article "Are You Just Sleepwalking at Work?" By Bruce Kasanoff. As I watched this video I realized that I was similarly inspired. I want intimacy with all things. I want to have an awareness of the present moment. I want clarity of focus.

Mr. Daniell points out that receiving is important. Receiving is a step of being present. I have to be willing to receive information not just from my environment but from myself as well. I need to know how I'm breathing and what I'm thinking and what I'm feeling. I need to have this awareness to obtain that clarity of focus with the present moment. If I really want intimacy with all things, I have to be willing to sip my tea, and observe and receive in order to stop the internal war within.

I wasn’t sipping tea, it was coffee when I had the epiphany that I hated the job I have been so grateful for these past fourteen years. When I realized that, I had to face the fact that I’ve been so busy doing this job because that was what I thought everyone else wanted me to do. And then I had to face that I had forgotten who I am.

During the depression that I mentioned, I started to read Rhonda Britten’s book Fearless Living. She has this amazing concept that there is an essential nature to every individual. She gives a list, but there was one word on that list that I would not under any circumstance acknowledge. The word was creative.

One of my all-time favorite actresses is Nicole Kidman. I revere her because in her movies, you don’t see her, Nicole Kidman, you see the character. She’s so good, sometimes she’s unrecognizable until the credits role. It is also true that I think she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. For most of my life I believed that I was ugly. I didn’t exactly want to change my body, but I thought I was nothing special and most certainly plain. Then, when my son was still in diapers, one of his babysitters held up a fashion magazine with Nicole Kidman on the cover and she asked my son, “Who’s this?” He responded quickly and simply, “Mommy.” My babysitter was trying to show me something which I refused to see. The woman I revered for her talent and her beauty - I looked like her.

I can also sing and I can also act, like the woman I so revered. I am creative like Nicole Kidman.

Creative is my essential nature whether I want to acknowledge that or not. I am grateful for my job and yet I cannot grow anymore there because it does not allow me to be creative. In fact, my job rather frowns on creativity.

I didn’t really understand why I was so resistant to what was supposed to be my essential nature until during some research for my previous blog post on Accidental Talismans of the Verbal Kind I came across Brene Brown’s Video on Listening to Shame.


She said that among innovation and change, creativity is born from vulnerability. In order to have intimacy with all things I must first have intimacy with myself. I must let go of guessing at what others want, and first consider what it is that I want. That takes great vulnerability.

Looks like I have a great deal of work to do.