Home Frida

Good Morning or Evening, I have no idea what time or day it is. We just returned from our trip to Japan and I am writing this in a jet-lagged stupor, so I will probably be surprised when I read it later.

The room is spinning, and no, I’ve not been drinking. My eyes are crossed and I woke up with a cold, but at least my body had the courtesy to wait until it got home.

This entry isn’t the full-blown synopsis of what happened, because I’ve not yet had the luxury of processing it, as the physical journey has just now ended. We woke up yesterday in Osaka, had a full day of packing and getting our heavy bags and selves to the Kansai Airport, flying all night and landing in San Francisco the morning of the same day. March 24th was Ground Hog’s day for us as we lived it twice.

To answer the most frequently asked question, Yes, we had a great time, Yes, it was worth every minute, penny and yen. We would go again in a heartbeat.

We discovered that almost every Japanese person carries a cell phone with Internet service, so there weren’t many wi-fi spots to be found, as the general population has no need. Their phones seem to be all-purpose and can do just about anything and the most popular item for sale at every shrine, temple and 7-11 was a charm to hang from a hole in the back of their phones. We noticed several women who had entire collections dangling and sprouting color. Their technology is so advanced, the commercials advertised waterproof phones that could be used if caught in a downpour, taking a shower, soaking in a hot tub, or while scuba diving in the big blue.

We’ve already mentioned the uber cool fancy toilets, but the techno-thingy I had not seen before was a video screen in the dashboard of cars for backing up into impossibly tight spaces, an area in America that would be used for storing a handkerchief or an iPod.

Our luggage is currently plopped on the floor, the contents spilling out as we have not quite unpacked, but the bags seemed determined to start without us. As we collect our belongings and ourselves and make the transition back to the Here, there will be fun photos and quirky moments to share.

Thanks for all your good thoughts, prayers and feedback. It’s always a treat to go somewhere new, but you guys are what make this place home.

Soaking it in

Ahhhh...Back in Japan. It is starting to feel like I am really here, and yet as much as is familiar is sooo different. Who would have thought that everybody would have aged while I stayed just the same? Well, maybe not just the same -- I keep hearing how thin I am. That would be a great compliment were it not for the fact that they follow up with, "You were so fat back then!"

In my head in know that it is true -- I gained 40lbs in the four months I was here the first time -- but, I so quickly returned to my more natural weight when I returned to the States I never really thought of myself as "so fat." It is a bit shocking to hear that they have held that particular picture of me in their heads for all these years!

It seems that the local economy has also thinned over the years, and I am amazed at the lack of hustle and bustle on once busy streets in this area. Even in the larger city of Tsuyama the shopping center was like a ghost town. Even more distressing, I had my first cup of bad coffee in Japan there. I have been raving about the fact that they served the best coffee in the world for the last 26 years, so that cup nearly brought me to tears.

In their possible defense, they did not speak English and my Japanese is not what it was, so they may have thought they were doing us a favor by making us "American" coffee -- meaning very weak.

This is a land of juxtapositions, though, so my delight has far outweighed any disappointments. The people are still kind and helpful, there is beauty around every corner, and the food is so good that if I were to be here any longer than two weeks I would soon quit hearing how thin I am.

I can see that being here is a great reminder about being in the Now. The tea ceremony is about being at the tea ceremony. Every detail is to be noticed and appreciated. There is no room for who said what yesterday or where am I supposed to be tomorrow -- you must be present.

The same is true for soaking in the Onsen. It is about being in the water. The heat purifies all of the nonsense out of your head, and you scrub the day off of your body before you enter the pools. Worry can't coexist with that level of relaxation.

And Now, it is time to go have some more adventures!

In Japan!

As you know (if you have been reading along thus far) I have returned to an essential and hugely formative piece of my past, and what a ride it has been! Literally. The turbulence was enough to get a wide-eyed look from more than one flight attendant as they buckled themselves in mid-flight, the musical seats before we got under way (my seat-back would not stay in the "upright and locked position" so we were moved), the air conditioner peed on us during take off, and...well, you get the picture.

But, I'm here and in love with it all over again. The food, the people, the everything. Much has changed (like everywhere in the world), yet it still maintains the essential spirit. I will wax poetic in greater detail later -- right now I am on a keyboard that has a key which is all too easy to hit by accident that causes the letters to do this: 間用レアd亜ny尾fティs？So, stay tuned...

The Journey to Wa

Two out of the “three grandes dames of modern painting in the Americas,” had pet monkeys. Frida Kahlo’s primate was named Fulang-Chang and Emily Carr named hers Woo. I can’t say for certain whether Georgia O’Keeffe had one or not, but besides monster talent, I wonder if having a monkey was part of their secret club handshake?

For those of you who are reading The Everyday Anthropologist for the first time, Companion and I are planning on getting up in the middle of the night and flying to Japan. This trip has been 25 years and two months in the planning. Last week’s installment set up the trip, and for the next two weeks, it is my intention to write in spurts and bursts about where we are and what we’re doing.

Considering we’re going to the Land of Contrasts, a place of ancient traditions and cutting edge technology, we should be able to have access to a computer and the Internet, we just don’t know how often, so stay tuned…

Now, back to the monkeys. As an anthropologist, I’ve often teased that I’m part Simian-American, feeling a kinship with the almost-humans. When I was in Japan as a teenager, the effect I had on the people who had never encountered an American before was that of a chimpanzee in a dress. I was an amusement, an oddity, I mean, who wouldn’t laugh at a talking monkey? I was brought into their homes as a distraction, for entertainment.

Even though I was a curiosity, I fell in love, with the country and the people who opened up their homes and invited me into their lives. And here’s the thing I’m discovering about myself, when I meet and fall in like with somebody, I create a space for them in my heart. The outline is of their shape, their essence and they are the only ones who can fill it. Even if time or distance separate us, I hold space for them. In that capacity, I am fiercely loyal. It doesn’t matter how many other individuals I may encounter, their place in my heart is sacred.

As I mentioned before, the struggle I’m experiencing is trying to integrate the past with the present. I adored my sojourn in 1983 and my head keeps trying to inform me that this is 2009. Everybody and everything has changed.

Speaking of monkeys, didn’t Darwin have a catchy little phrase, something about the “survival of the fittest?” My impression about that has always been the iguana with the biggest bicep wins. But perhaps the notion has more to do with this fortune cookie wisdom, “He who adapts survives.”

Adaptability. Suddenly, the idea intrigues me. Do I possess the emotional intelligence that will allow me to live successfully in a particular environment? The strongest are not always those who are rigid, but those who are flexible. Wow, adaptable and flexible, not the first two words I would use to self-describe.

Japan, a country imbued with Buddhist and Shinto beliefs, infuses Zen coolness into just about everything. We’ve all heard of “monkey mind,” a Buddhist term illustrating a headspace that jumps from thought to thought like a monkey swinging from tree to tree.

The Japanese word for now, the present, is “Ima.” It’s a fun word to say, especially if you draw it out, “Eeeemmaaaaa.” It can easily be said in a Kermit the frog accent or in deep breathy Darth Vaderian. It is my new mantra, since I am currently in possession of a monkey mind. Mine is not content with existing in the present moment, but is much more fascinated with the unending stream of thoughts that pass through like a Mardi Gras parade.

Over the last few days, as I’ve explored my psyche with alien probe determination, I’ve concluded that my Japanese memories are my holy of holies. I have a shrine in the middle of me, dedicated to the people and places I visited.

And then it happened.

My interior walls began to shake and an internal earthquake knocked the sacred figurines off their shelves, smashing them on impact. Oh help, my precious memories! I had a moment of sheer panic and then the calm appeared and with it, an invitation summoning me to the present.

For too long, I’ve allowed my wa, my peace and harmony, to be easily disturbed; by my thoughts, by other people, by external circumstances. It’s time to adapt to the Now, to use my passport and go back to the future and meet up with myself.

And as for my pet monkey, the one in my mind, I think I’ll take a twist on the name Emily Carr gave hers, Woo, and call mine Wa. Aah, peaceful, harmonic monkey mind.

And now, it’s time for us to fly. Iiiiiimmaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!

Time Machine

Have you noticed that good memories can be just as painful as jagged ones? Valued memories cost more because the red hot poker of sentiment leaves scars. To avoid that kind of pain, I tend to nurture the bad ones, stroking the furry little things like a favored pet. Oh, what angst ridden impressions am I waxing dramatic about now?

Have you ever experienced a time in your life that was so magical, so defining that everything after pales by comparison? Astronauts experience this type of pain. I mean, where do you go after visiting the moon?

I had my over-the-moon experience when I was 19 years-old and lived in Japan for the last half of 1983. Not that I haven’t had great moments since, but I was a malleable lump of clay back then, and the experiences cut deep, the stamp of Japan marking me all over on the inside. I may have been born in the US, but part of me was “Made in Japan.”

Through the intervening years, life has imposed its own heat on my clay body, hardening me into whatever it is I am today. I find myself with one foot rooted in 1983 and the other one trying to find grounding in the illusive Now. I say illusive, because my head is often in yesterday, tomorrow or circling the stratosphere in between.

Now please climb aboard my time machine and I will transport us back to 1983. Fasten your seatbelt and use your imagination for an appropriate soundtrack while the pages of our calendar go flippety flip backwards.

Ronald Reagan held the Office of President, Microsoft debuted Word, Tokyo opened Disneyland, a Soviet Union fighter jet shot down Korean Air Lines Flight 007, Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Tootsie and Flashdance played in theaters, Duran Duran, Culture Club (remember Boy George?) and Michael Jackson dominated the airwaves as well as MTV, and Cyndi Lauper and Madonna were in the battle of the legwarmers.

During this era, the planets aligned and an opportunity to travel and study in Japan opened to me.

Nobody I knew had ever heard of sushi, the word “Asian” had not yet become PC. Hello, the term was “Oriental.” Ahem, I was in Southern Oregon where men shopped at a clothing store called “The Gay Blade” and we ate “Ayd’s” candy in High School to lose weight, whadd’ya want? CBS aired the final episode of M*A*S*H, Rick Springfield starred on General Hospital and we all knew the lyrics to his Grammy award winning rock song, “Jessie’s Girl.”

So with that illustrious frame of reference, this child of the ‘80’s boarded a plane and flew to the Land of the Rising Sun. I went to work for a 75 year-old missionary in exchange for room and board and a chance to experience the vast culture of Japan. I should mention now, she was surprised that I was far more interested in making friends, studying Kendo, Ikebana (flower arranging), tea ceremony and brush painting than I was in evangelizing. She called me a “hot shot jazz little number.”

This was when and where I became The Everyday Anthropologist.

And now for my confession. I noticed a copy of Shogun on her bookshelf and decided to read the 1200 page novel while living in a house with tatami flooring, sliding rice paper shoji doors, and eating raw octopus and jelly fish like Anjin-san did in the book. I didn’t quite finish the epic before I left, so I borrowed it for the flight home. Without telling her.

The guilt has plagued me for the last 25 years. With this blemish on my conscience, I received a letter from her that she recently turned 100. I immediately booked two flights to Japan. If not now, when? The answer to the question, “Why are you and Companion going to Japan?” is to return a book. See, if I get it back there in time, then technically it’s still “borrowing.”

If my experience in Japan was so fantastic, why am I just now going back? It’s very complicated, but one fraction of the equation is that on my first day in Japan, I met a man that would impact me from that moment on. He drove the Missionary to Osaka from their little village in Western Honshu to pick me up at the airport.

Raised on Hee Haw, Lawrence Welk and Bonanza, I am quite embarrassed to admit, but when I met this gentleman for the first time, I thought he was her “house boy,” like Hop Sing. To be fair, many in their village had never seen an American teenager before and they also had misconceptions. We taught each other many things and built a cultural bridge.

This man, who was married and 69 at the time, became my best friend. We both found it remarkable that two people from different genders, cultures and generations could form such a bond. He and his wife lived next door and adopted me as their American daughter.

I traveled half way around the world to meet my soul mate. He became my mentor, my Sensei, my deep and abiding friend. So it was the shock of my life when I received the phone call telling me he died of a heart attack in his home where I visited every day.

The grief was overwhelming. The idea of returning to Japan without him there was unthinkable. But the planets have rearranged themselves again and I’m getting the Celestial nudge. Intellectually, I know I cannot land in 1983, however much I might want to. The precious little village, where they’d never seen an American teenager, now has a McDonald’s and a Costco. The house where I stayed has been torn down and my favorite store that sold Hello Kitty is now a funeral parlor. What?

Many of the older folks have passed, the one-year old child of a friend is now a Jr. High school teacher, and my single friends are now married, some widowed, and raising children. I’m not the same. A quarter of a century has passed. My head knows these things, but my heart wants what it wants, for everything to be just as it was.

This trip is a pilgrimage, as much to Japan as a journey to the center of myself. If I can go with an open heart and an open mind, then I can make new memories. The pain comes from resisting what is. Or resisting what is not.

At this moment, I’m impaled on my own resistance. My features are feeling stretched and distorted like a pilot’s when faced with extreme G-force. My heart is the stationary object and the flow of time is exerting it’s force upon it, making it feel as though it weighs many times more than normal.

I still have a few days until we leave, I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Queen of Hearts

This is embarrassing. For those of you who have been reading along (and thank you by the way, for the lovely feedback), you’ll remember that I spent all last week at the beach. Everything about the trip was ideal. No, I take that back. The time careened so wildly, that to remain truthful, I’d swear I was only gone for a day. The morning after I returned, the vacation felt like a beautiful dream, sweet but brief.

That’s not the embarrassing part. Oh, I don’t really want to tell you. No, I shouldn’t have brought it up, never mind. Okay, fine, I will.

The trip was bliss. The sweeping view of the ocean afforded by the house, the expanse of blue skies, mouth-watering food, the weather warm enough to sit nake- oops, I mean sit outside without, oh, you know, hats and gloves and stuff. Anyway, never you mind. The point is every single detail about the vacation was perfect.

And yet…

I managed to find something to crab about. Oh, why did you make me say it?

I mean, for crying out loud, when a chill came, there was a beautifully built fire in the wood stove. First thing I saw in the morning was the moon taking a bath in the ocean. I have the best companion. We cozily sipped coffee, nibbled on pumpkin bread, read interesting books, combed the beach, didn’t have a care in the world, but I still invented something to grouse about.

About what, you ask? About freakin’ nothing, that’s what. Okay, it was about something, but nothing is by far the better answer.

I allowed my mellow mood to shift into stormy seas over a card game. Yes, a stupid, meaningless bad hand or two, or nineteen. And before you psychoanalyze the whole affair, there wasn’t anything underlying it. No hidden emotions or agenda. That’s what is so embarrassing. I’d love to give you all sorts of reasons why I allowed a few kings, queens and jokers to pin me to the floor and give me a good thrashing, but that’s just it, the card game was the reason.

No, I am not a gambler. I’ve been to Las Vegas and Monte Carlo and have had the opportunity to see if I am. I’m not. Neither am I particularly athletic. Okay, not at all, so sports don’t get me all crazy wound up, and I’m a semi-gracious board game player, so I don’t become all in-your-face competitive.

It’s the ding dang cards. Once in awhile, when I play, I feel like I’m inflicted with a fever, channeling some beastly intoxicated gunslinger from the west of yester-yore. Simply put, I’m a sorry sport when it comes to the pasteboards, they just don’t suit me. I’ve been known to throw a tanty, sprinkled with a few choice words, as I fling the Bicycles to the floor. Yes, I realize I am not painting a very flattering portrait of my card playing self, but it’s not my proudest moment.

I’m supposed to be enlightened, growing, self-actualizing. What’s the deal?

On my last day, when the week sped by in five minutes, I snapped out of my card-coma and asked myself why I didn’t choose to meditate on the beach, or acknowledge the wonderful God-given beauty and offer up gratitude, or tap into the revitalizing energy of the place and visualize a few dreams?

Why didn’t I play with the ideal conditions that I had immediate access to and build upon them, continuing the creative cycle? Instead, I lowered my vibrational offering by getting into a ridiculous snit over a game and had to see the disappointment on Companion’s face and feel the onslaught of nasty chemicals circling my heart.

As I continue to ask questions, I’m gifted with possible answers. The one that landed ker-plunk into my energy system, made my face feel warm. Again, kind of embarrassing. I was shown how my happiness is rather situationally dependent. If the outer conditions in my world are in order, then I tend to be much happier. Because my snarky emotions are convincing, demanding a perfect environment, I’m often in pursuit of external soothing.

The term “control freak” might have been tossed in my direction once or twice, but one person astutely observed, “You seem to be far more interested in controlling your environment than other people.” Yep, I’m always looking for the outer circumstances to be neat, tidy and calm.

And this week I had a taste of my dream. There was not one thing to complain about. A slice of heaven everywhere I turned. No problems at home, no problems brewing with Companion, a week of insular perfection. And I still managed to create one. Those stupid stupid cards.

The lesson for me was humbling. I was blessed with the experience of having everything in my outer world finally reflect perfection and yet, I still found something to whinge about. The issue was coming from me and only me. I had to face that I was the source of my unhappiness. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky to blame it on. Not a single blemish in my 7-day realm to accuse. The discord was all from me.

Why is it easier to slip into negative thinking, even in the midst of perfection? Of course, as soon as I formed the question, I read this paragraph in Shogun by James Clavell on page 98.

“As she waited patiently, she forced herself to think of pleasant things. ‘Always remember, child,’ her first teacher had impressed on her, ‘that to think bad thoughts is really the easiest thing in the world. If you leave your mind to itself it will spiral you down into ever-increasing unhappiness. To think good thoughts, however, requires effort. This is one of the things that discipline—training—is all about.’”

Yes, before you ask, I have tried meditation. In fact, I attempt it almost every morning. I sit in the lotus position, or maybe it’s the dandelion, and close my eyes, paying attention to my breath. Inhale, exhale, aaaah.

And then my mind starts wiggling and dancing and bouncing off the walls like a jumping bean. I’d say “Mexican,” but perhaps the brincador has no country of origin and that might be considered profiling or even racist. Yet is stripping the hopper of its identity any more dignified and acceptable? Okay, do you see where my mind races off to? Oh yeah, I was meditating.

Breathe in, breathe out. Uh-oh, my nose itches. Alrighty Almighty, how long have I been sitting here with my eyes closed? (One eye opens and sneaks a peek at the clock). Two minutes, that’s it? Back to breathing. This is torture. It feels like when I was four and made to take naps that I didn’t want. Worse than that, it feels like I’m being forced to sit in the corner for a time out.

At this point in my journey, meditation is simply an opportunity for my mind to take inventory of its grievances, to meander the hushed museum of grudge antiquities, to polish my trophies in the rejection Hall of Fame.

Do you suppose I could check my emails, fold some laundry and do a few other tasks I need to complete while meditating without Companion noticing?

I don’t really have an ending, and no, I still don’t know why I continued to play hand after hand of the cards. Okay, go on ahead, psychoanalyze away.

Mirror, Mirror…

Whoo hoo, I’m at the beach! Arrived yesterday at dusk with the wind snapping the rain into a frenzy, but woke up this morning to the waning full moon directly over the water, conducting its orchestra of waves. Streaks of silver tipped the foam, a regal encore before the sun’s arrival.

My companion and I left Eugene, Oregon yesterday and traveled Highway 99 through Corvallis, continuing to Newport where we took a walk by the ocean and shopped in Nye Beach. At one store, where I knew I was going to make a purchase, I politely asked to use their loo.

I was in for a surprise. Hovering over the porcelain throne…okay, I must interrupt myself for a moment. As I’m sitting here at the private beach house where we stay every year, a gas truck just pulled up out front and a man dragging a hose is entering the premises.

Get the humorous timing? I’m about to tell you a bathroom story and a truck full of gas appears at this exact moment. Synchronicity? I’m a fan. Hmmm, I certainly hope he knows what he’s doing. If nothing gets posted this week, then I guess you’ll know what happened. Gulp.

Okay, back to the toidy. I’ve just created the proper paper barrier and have lowered myself into the hygienic position, when at eye level, I notice all kinds of post-it notes and handwritten signs instructing the current occupier of the throne what to do in case of a smelly emergency. “If you make a stink, please use two squirts of this (chemically engineered) Spring Breeze to clear the befouled air.” That proved grin worthy.

But then I saw the price sheet.

There, on the wall, was a menu for possible toilet options. The first itemized a “liquid deposit, with one toilet flush and one hand washing, $2.00.” But what if we want to wash both hands?

The second quote was for a “solid deposit, no odor, one toilet flush and one hand washing. $3.00.”

The last menu item was for a “solid deposit with odor, one toilet flush and one hand washing.” Current market value? $5.00.

At first, I thought this was a joke, but as I continued to read the many signs and notices, I began to suspect the proprietor was more anal than funny. When I later handed over my credit card for a merchandise purchase rather than a “deposit fee,” I wondered if their cash register had special buttons. My mind ran with it. When people approached the counter, did they ever negotiate?

“Hi there. I’ll take one solid deposit, but skip the hand washing?” Ooooh. Ick. Or what if a customer was equally fastidious and asked for a receipt? How would that pan out come tax time? “Yes, Auditor Smith, that was for a poo I took in Newport, Oregon.”

Okay, but the really big question for me was, what about the people - and we all have them in our lives - who don’t think their mierde stinks?? What would they do in that little shop on the Oregon Coast?

“I owe you for one solid deposit, no odor.”

“No odor? I beg to differ! You can smell it all the way down the hall.”

“Oh no, ma’am. Mine smells of roses. In fact, you should pay me for the perfume I leave behind.”

Holy cow, I’ve practically had this conversation. What do you do with those who have no grasp on their toxic vapor trails -- literal or energetic? I’m really asking, because I haven’t figured it out yet. If everything is energy and we receive into our lives what we put out into the world, what do you do when someone stinks up your palace?

Deepak Chopra said to me the other day, well, not so much to me as to the television camera, “If you live with the question, you will move into the answer.”

I spent the rest of the day, living with my question, playing on the beach and hiking to Cape Perpetua. [Note: The propaganda leaflets for the trail says it’s only a mile or so climb to the top. However, and this is key folks, it is much longer from the bottom to the top than it is from the top to the bottom. Somebody lied!]

Panting, wheezing and sore muscles aside, an answer came from an unlikely source. Making our way back to the Visitor’s Center, a woman working for the Forest Service told us a story about ravens. She said that on a regular basis, ravens, upon seeing their reflections in the great picture windows of the Center, dive bomb their own faces.

Apparently, some sort of messy secretion from their beaks accompanies the assault and the glass becomes filthy after a few violent pecks. The ravens believe, whether seeing themselves in rear view mirrors, picture windows or any reflective surface, their image to be that of an enemy and knock themselves out from attacking.

So my question, “What do we do when someone stinks up our palace?” looked different through the eyes of a raven. There are people we get along with and those we don’t. The reason we don’t get along with some of them is because THEY are difficult and annoying. They complain, criticize, pick, poke, assault.

Uh-oh, I don’t like where this is going…

Perhaps they attack because they see their reflection in our own actions and behaviors and believe their likeness belongs to an enemy, us. This theory could be carried even closer to home.

Maybe we interpret our own image as belonging to an enemy and launch an assault on ourselves. Why do humans often stay in a suffering place and throw blame (read sticky secretion from our beaks) all over the place?

What is it about ourselves that frightens us so? Oh great, another question to live with. I’m a little skeerd to find out.

Companion and I went walking in Yachats, a little seaside town south of Newport. We took the meandering path along the rocky beach, passing through second-home neighborhoods on our way to the beach. The first year I saw it, I almost had a heart attack. The second year, only minor apoplexy, the third, raw anger. On a wedge of beachfront property, some scurvy dog built a ridiculously, self-indulgent temple to himself, completely obliterating the view of the quaint cottage a few feet away. A view-pirate is what he is, stealing the most valuable thing from his neighbor.

I was incensed. Furious. It was unconscionable. I’d forget about it though, in between annual walks, but as soon as I rounded the bend, the criminal monstrosity rose from the mist and I’d feel my anger all over again. Rather spoiled my walk, my mood.

This year, when I saw the hideosity and felt the flames of wrath re-ignite, I stopped in my tracks and looked at both houses. I realized I knew nothing about the situation, except what I was making up in my head. If it was all fiction anyway, could I tell myself a story that created good feelings within myself instead of bad?

I pondered and continued walking. What’s a better-case scenario? I spun a yarn about the owner of the small cottage desiring the slice of property for years and finally obtaining it. Then he managed to build his dream house and kept the smaller cottage as a place for his many guests to stay. Phew, that felt so much better.

There’s something about fresh, salty sea air that clears my mind. From that spontaneous story I made the leap that whenever we don’t know something, we make it up -- about others and ourselves. We only exist in this moment. Not an hour ago, nor five minutes from now. Here, in this minute lives the real us. Everything else is memory, thought, imagination, or figment. Does that shock you as much as it does me?

We are storytellers, fiction makers and we create all kinds of crazy business in our heads about who we are. That’s reason enough to believe enemies are lurking within every shiny surface.

If we’re going to make it up anyway, why not embellish life with thoughts that make us feel better, thoughts that create a bondship with our funny, loveable, adorable selves?

I’m going to blow a kiss to the next reflective surface I see, because as Oscar Wilde advises, “Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”