Hats Off

Calendar wise, the Eugene Saturday Market opened this year on April 4th, but I was busy getting my wings, so our official first day was April 11th. I floated on air throughout the entire day, reuniting with friends, selling our wares, sharing hugs, sipping coffee and exchanging tiddly bits. Not exactly gossip, as that would be about other folks behind their backs, but more juicy bits of drama from the dark days of winter to the light of spring. Oh, another way of saying it would be “playing catch up” or having a good chin wag.

The one that sent me into bottle shock was Kimmmm’s news. My spell checker is having a fit and I’m telling it, yes, her name does contain a lot of mmmmm’s. How many precisely, I’m not sure, but quite a few. Alphabet conjugation aside, her news sent me reeling, kinda like I’d been kicked in the goolies. She delivered it with such panache and style, too. Kimmmm began with a fashion quandary and demurely asked, “What should I wear to meet Prince Charles?” Huh? What?

Bob’s your uncle, me mate is off to London Town to bear witness while her husband is recognized by the Royal family for his humanitarian work. Crikey Moses, I was chuffed to bits for her. Sounds like I was cheesed off, huh? Nope, it means I was really pleased.

After I got the lowdown and felt all squidgy (soft), I bumped into a friend, Bo Peep, I hadn’t seen for donkey’s years. “Guess what?” I said, all sixes and sevens. “Have you heard Kimmm’s going to meet Prince Charles?” I filled her in on the details, including the one where Kimmmm celebrated with London street revelers on his 30th Birthday in 1978. It had been a teenage fantasy of hers to meet the dishy Prince and now 30 years later, she gets to do it.

“That Kimmm is the bee’s knees,” I extolled. “She may be one of the best manifesters I know.”

Bo Peep was intrigued. “How so?” she asked.

What surprised me next, is that I didn’t jump into all the material goods that come to her as if by magic (although they do), nor describe any cracking procedures she follows along the Law of Attraction path. Instead I began to tick off a few of her qualities.

“Kimmm’s very accepting of people and situations. Her offence-meter seems to be turned down low and she allows people to be themselves without needing to control the outcome. Besides being beautiful and brill, she simply doesn’t spend the energy being brassed off all the time.”

Believe me, this woman has a career where being offended could be her full time job. Right then, I grocked how aerodynamically she glides through this world, without all the drag and clutter on her being. She avoids the aggro and therefore does not gather resistance on her way to what she wants.

Ah-ha moment. When I spend my energy and time in a beastly and barmy mood, poised and ready to be offended by what other people do and say, or especially by what they don’t do or say, I am creating a shambolic atmosphere for my rockets of desire. Bollocks! How are they supposed to land when I am in chaos, offering resistance at the same time I launch my requests?

Last June, during Royal Ascot, when the Brit elite don fancy hats and watch horseracing on Ascot Heath in the historic county of Berkshire, England, Kimmmm sent me amusing photos of posh women in their outrageous millinery. For several days in a row her emails included hats. I sashayed into her office toward the end of that week and noticed several round boxes stacked by her desk. “What’re those?” I nosied.

Horses for courses, if Kimmmm didn’t ceremoniously uncover the mystery boxes one by one to reveal heavenly chapeaus in luxurious textures and colors. “Where’d ya get those ace toppers?” I squealed.

“Oh,” she said casually, with a shrug in her voice, “So-and-So was cleaning out her closet and decided I might like to have them.”

Bite your arm off, Kimmm had just spent several days enjoying Royal Ascot pageantry, and voila! smart hats to rival the horsey diva’s arrived at her office step. Her clarity plus enjoyment equaled a friend daft with envy. Ooops, did I just write that out loud? I meant to say, her clarity plus enjoyment equaled a bunch of fabulous new hats, Easy Peasy, with no real effort or struggle on her part.

‘ello? Sometimes I’m just gormless. While I whinge and complain, struggle and resist, she’s over there looking jammy and twee. I sound like the little boy who didn’t want to do his math homework. “If you could whine every five minutes, how many things could you whine about in an hour and a half?”

“Eighteen.” Sheesh.

Deepak Chopra suggests that we “slip into the gap.” Umm, I don’t know what that means. Is he a paid spokesman for the apparel retail chain and I’m supposed to find happiness and contentment by wearing what everybody else is told to wear? You know the commercial, “Everybody in stripes.” Codswallup.

Upon further investigation, Mr. Chopra (I wonder if close pals call him “Dee” for short?), describes the gap as “the silent space between thoughts.” Hoo boy, I don’t have any of those. The thoughts in my head take up all the space and more. Sometimes it would be handy to use one of those innovative PODS storage units, where the company delivers a weather proof container and I could get rid of my excess thoughts and then “slip into the gap.” I’m certain there’s a healthier route to clearing out the mental clutter, but that’s what I came up with today.

So with a head full of crowded thoughts, I have created an alternative definition of the G.A.P. -- a life of Gratitude, Abundance and Purpose. Maybe if I’d offer more thanks and ta, I could be like the customer on Saturday who answered my, “How are you?” with “I’m doing really, really great, but don’t worry, I’ll get better.”

And as Vickie Getchell says about her guardian angel, “Her wings are broken, but her tennis shoes are smokin’.”

Cheerio my cheeky monkeys!