Have I always been grateful? I can’t say as I have, but I have never been ungrateful either, if that makes any sense. I’m learning that genuine gratitude is something that comes from a place of conscious effort. Not being ungrateful is something that – in and of itself – can be taken for granted. It’s a state of being, so to speak, like being healthy or even employed. Actually acknowledging, “Hey, I’m healthy,” or “Look at me. I’m employed,” shifts the state of not being ungrateful into one of active gratitude.

I recently attended one of Oprah’s “Live The Life You Want” weekends in Houston, TX, and I literally left feeling changed – as did many of the other men and women who filled the Toyota Center. I’d heard the gratitude message before – even from Oprah herself – but this time it hit home, and I’ve been consciously shifting my perspective since, and with amazing results.

Something magical happens when you stop striving to have and simply strive to be. When it becomes blatantly clear that all you need is right here, right now, your heart overflows, and you begin to feel more fulfilled. Great word, that one: full – filled.

I’m thankful for so much this Thanksgiving: My family, my friends, my health, my work, my apartment, my fridge full of food, my tank full of gas, my plants, my stories, my laugh lines, my toothbrush, my socks, my pillows, my nail file . . . well, you get the picture. Everything. Every little thing. Genuinely.

Take your “not being ungrateful” to another level. See not only the loss of, or the absence of, but – instead – the joy of having had and the presence of abundance that exists now.

I wish each one of you – who I am also grateful for – a joyous and happy Thanksgiving.

Another great word, by the way: Thanks – giving.

I write this blog from the perspective of a Canadian American. Yes, I’m considered to be both, having immigrated to the US in 1997 and obtaining US citizenship. Throw in a brief return to Ottawa in recent years, and I can tell you that I feel equally as much one as the other. I’m truly blessed to call each of these fine nations “home.” It’s today, however, that I feel closest to my birth country.

Those of you who know me know that I spend as little time watching the news as possible. I see it as nothing more than a fear generating machine manned by variations of Barbie and Ken, spouting off their latest “RUN FOR THE HILLS!” version of propaganda. ‘If something important arises,’ I tell myself, ‘I’ll hear about it.’ And hear about it, I did.

On Wednesday of this week, Cpl. Nathan Cirillo was gunned down while standing guard – unarmed – at the tomb of the unknown soldier in Ottawa. The gunman, who does not deserve to be mentioned, then proceeded to enter Parliament where gunfire erupted. For those who have never visited Canada, know that this is far beyond shocking.

I’ve become accustomed to living in the US. I’ve learned to accept the fact that we are loathed by some, which makes us the constant target of radical extremists. That became a harsh reality on September 11, 2001, while I was living in Portland, OR. Prior to that, for me anyway, it felt like we lived in a kind of “Never on our soil,“ blissful numbness. That’s now long gone.

I have found myself in tears several times over the last few days. No, I didn’t know Cpl. Cirillo personally, or his family, but the Canadian people are my family, and I ache for the harsh reality that they now face.

I knew it was only a matter of time, given the current state of the world, but – still – I literally wouldn’t wish the end of “Never on our soil,” on my worst enemy. It has been said that the demise of a belief system is the most difficult personal challenge of all. One would have to assume that this also applies to a culture.

Canada has always been an open, generous, loving, peaceful and accepting culture – all reasons to be proud of the country from whence I came. I cried this week, because they will literally – now – have to “stand on guard” and make efforts to partially close their ever open arms. I cried, because I lived the shift after 9/11, and – sure – one guy compared to thousands may not seem comparative, but the aftermath of disillusion has potential to be. Nothing will ever be the same.

Cpl. Cirillo did stand on guard for us, and he did it unarmed and open to embracing people from all over the globe. Isn’t that the reputation of Canada, itself? Could it be that the gunman who performed this horrific act was determined to hit us at our very core?

I dreaded the day that Canada would have to face the harsh reality of extreme hatred, but I pray that all are aware that their neighbo(u)rs to the south feel their pain, and, if something good is to come of this, which I’m already seeing evidence of, it’s an undeniable sense of unity, brotherhood and determination.

“We will not be intimidated,” chimed Prime Minister Stephen Harper. No – you won’t – and I’m proud to be part of the true north. Shall we forever remain strong and FREE!

I moved to San Antonio from Canada in 1997, and I can distinctly remember my initial awe at witnessing a sky full of monarch butterflies. I was confused by the site initially, having seen monarchs all my life in southern Ontario, but I’d been naive regarding their life cycle and migration patterns. Not only did I not expect to see them in Texas, but the vast number of them astounded me. Hundreds, more like thousands, working their way across six and eight lanes of aggressive Texas traffic. It was a jaw dropping.

‘But all the way from Canada to Mexico?’ I asked myself. Yep – all that way. A trip that few would make by car.

I had occasion this week to take a road trip through central and eastern Texas, and I got a glorious reminder of my first autumn in San Antonio. There they were again. Pockets of monarchs struggling their way through 75 mph traffic. Not even close to the number I remember seeing seventeen years ago, which saddens me, but enough that every few minutes I’d cringe at the thought of hitting one. I hit two, and I mourned. The rest, which seemed to fly right about windshield level, got caught up in the air current and whipped over the top of the car into safety. I suppose this phenomenon occurs, because they weigh – ah – nothing whatsoever.

All I know is that few things inspire me as much as these little creatures on their annual mission. At a stop light yesterday, I watched one maneuver his/her way through the intersection. Flap, flap, flap, flap, glide. Flap, flap, flap, flap, glide. Repeated motion, and for thousands of miles! Fragile and vulnerable little bodies accomplishing the seemingly impossible.

I admire, respect and truly love these blossoms of nature – and I’m grateful for them. Grateful for the reminder to appreciate beauty and to keep repeating our own version of flap, flap, flap, flap, glide. Sure, some of us will hit obstacles on the way to our destinations, but most will arrive simply by staying the course.

How can we help these little treasures replenish their numbers and continue their inspiration? It’s simple, really. I urge you all, especially those in the north, to watch this video and provide our butterflies with a much needed place to rest – and reign: VIDEO

Bubba. Does that name conjure up any images for you? Any words that come to mind? I have one: joy.

I met Joyful Bubba at a roadside venue in Bulverde, Texas in 1999 where I was performing with my guitar, Lydia. Just over six feet tall, and pushing 300 lbs, Bubba filled his faded overalls like an overstuffed cushion. He wore a camouflage tractor cap and leather work boots that had worn at the toes exposing the protective steel beneath. Despite his attempt to speak to me, he was quite obviously a shy man. He stared at the toes of those boots while introducing himself.

“Sure did like your singin’, ma’am.”

He barely looked at me, and when he did, his small blue eyes expressed less than his lips. Until I asked him this question: “What is it that you do?”

Bubba’s stature altered. His shoulders, which had been bent forward as though to shield himself from potential enemies, moved back, pushing his chest out and exaggerating his already massive frame. His hands, which had been stuffed into the pockets of his overalls, reached for his suspenders. The corners of his mouth curled up in an obvious smile, and those blue eyes twinkled like Santa himself.

“I work with wood,” he said, as though he’d been responsible for its creation.

“Wood?” I replied. “In what way?”

“I make things. Cabinets, tables, chairs. Why, pretty much anything you can make out of wood, I make it.”

And, even though it was obvious to me what the answer to my next question would be, I asked anyway. “Do you like what you do?”

“Like it? I love it! There’s nothing I hate worse than Fridays.”

I stood and stared at this man with a slacked jaw and a tilted head. I’d never met anyone in my life who hated Fridays. I was raised to believe that you worked to fund the things you loved to do – not that the two could actually go hand-in-hand. And if they did, that only the fortunate and famous types in our culture were lucky enough to have both. Not average Joes like me or Bubba.

Up until that encounter, I’d envied only those fortunate and famous among us. That night I drove home envying a gentle messenger wrapped in denim and camouflage.

Bubba had it all figured out. He’d mastered what great minds have been trying to teach us for an eternity. Joseph Campbell would have loved this guy.

Admittedly, I still struggle with wishing my week away. Monday mornings continue to be my least favorite part of the week and Friday afternoons my favorite, but I’m working at it. I try and do something every day that moves me in the direction my ultimate goal, and even in that practice, I’ve found a bit of the joy that Bubba shared with me that day.

There are three key things that I learned from the man I’ve since aspired to be more like:

1) Look past the stereotype to the soul of a person (this one was more of a reminder)

2) You don’t have to associate success with grandiose accomplishments

3) Strive – above all else – to make your weekends less appealing

THANK-YOU, BUBBA!

Admittedly, I’m a Kindle girl when I’m not reading an honest-to-goodness, hold it in your hands, page flipping version of a story, but iBooks started carrying my novel recently, and I see that as cause to celebrate.

Wanna win a free eBook from moi? Click “Like” on my Facebook page over the next week (you can find me here) for a chance to win.

I’ll announce the recipient on Wednesday, September 17th.

Good luck, and happy reading!

I love traveling, and I travel frequently, which requires me to rent a variety of vehicles. This past week I found myself in a Chevy Traverse LT, and, although it had a bit of a mom’s mini van look to it, it drove like a dream, allowing my mind to wander as though in one. Hypnotized for miles by the rhythm of broken center lines against glistening asphalt, I seemed to snap out of my daze when the year of my birth popped up on the odometer reading. I smiled.

Remember how we all felt about the year of our birth when we were younger (or maybe it was just me)? Like it was the coolest thing ever? So proud to spout it off when asked, unless – or course – when trying to get alcohol underage. Not that I ever did that, but I’ve heard that this is a common practice among teens. Cough – cough – sputter.

That birth year, which I feel compelled to keep secret, passed on the odometer as my attention went back to the center line. Not until I hit 1974 did I smile again, remembering that decade and the many antics I got into with friends. A classic identity vs. role confusion phase filled with tough lessons and easy living.

Then a left turn onto a new highway flipped the reading into the 1980s where I realizedthat the drive had become synonymous with my journey through life. I began drawing comparisons between the speed it took to get to the day’s destination and the speed it took to get to 2014.

It’s all going too fast! I’m trying to maintain the speed limit, or drive under it if at all possible, but it’s becoming a blur. I want to get pulled over. I wouldn’t protest in court. Instead I’d ask for tips; driving school, if you will. Anything to teach me the fine art of not running out of time.

I eventually traveled right past 2014 and into the future, which always excites me with its potential new travel routes and horizons to explore.

The most surreal part of my road trip? Outdriving my life expectancy, which left mefeeling, well, non-existent in a way. Just an indie traveller on the byways of actuality who will pull off the road someday and never be seen again. Odd.

I suppose the best approach is to take a lot of deep breaths and appreciate each intersection. Savor the moments and allow for random detours without a GPS. Take mental pictures and collect memories along the way, and never, if at all possible, run out of gas.

I’m sitting in an outdoor café in Palm Springs, California having a flashback. Well, two
actually. One because I was a card carrying member of the Sonny & Cher fan club asa child, and Sonny Bono’s statue is smiling at me from across the street. Two because approximately six years ago I sat in an outdoor cafe in San Jose, California and dreamed of becoming a writer. I remember that evening so clearly that I feel as though I’m still sitting at that same table:

I had a glass of wine in one hand and a journal in the other. With the evening sun on my face, I scribbled until my hand ached about future dreams and story ideas. I didn’t begin my writing journey immediately after returning home from that trip, but I did eventually take those first tentative steps toward making it happen.

Now, as I sit here in the warm air surrounded by granite majesty, I stare at that not so flattering likeness of poor old Sonny and feel amazed at where this journey has taken me. One novel completed and a second well on its way. Who knew?

I find it far too easy to lose sight of accomplishments and dwell on what’s not getting done. I suppose we all do, to a certain degree, unless we’re graced with the opportunity to do what we love on a full-time basis. I also think that its harder to push past the rhetoric and expectations the older we get. Faced with an ever decreasing amount of time, the thought of “giving it our all,” when there isn’t as much left to give, can be daunting. That being said, it beats sitting around in a state of self-loathing because life’s passing you by and your dreams have become nothing more than ammunition for your internal failure firing squad.

As you can see, I’m doing a bit of pondering again tonight – this time via keyboard versus journal – and I’m thrilled that I get to do it in another outdoor California café. Something about CA helps me put things in perspective, or at least consider perspective, which Sonny appears to approve of.

 

 

 

I have less than a handful of real heroes in my life, and little Henry Friedler tops them all. Taken from his loved ones at the age of three, Henry battled infant acute lymphocytic leukemia with an arsenal of bravery and abundant love. I know this, because I followed his story online. I know this, because I know his parents.

I met Lucas and Marla at the turn of the century while working in Portland, OR. Theywere my first and only attempt at matchmaking, and, not unlike gambling, I decided to quit while I was ahead. One great success is plenty enough. I reconnected with this wonderful couple a few years ago on Facebook where I learned of their marriage, their two beautiful boys and Henry’s diagnosis.

Henry’s passing came just before Christmas in 2013, and an entire community – in Portland and throughout the country – mourned this family’s horrendous loss. But Lucas and Marla, and their oldest son, Owen, would turn their worst nightmare into something gracious and life-changing.

Henry’s story continues:

Henry rode a red tricycle, and, although he’s not physically seated on the thing these days, the pedals keep pushing, the tires keep spinning and the bell rings out a message to others like the blast from an angel’s trumpet:

“SIMPLE ACTS OF KINDNESS”

The Red Tricycle Brigade has been founded with the sole purpose of spreading acts of kindness far and wide, and here’s how it works:

1. Go to this website: www.http://theredtricyclebrigade.com/
2. Order a stack of “You’ve Been Triked” cards (they’re cheap) – or print them at home using your own trusty computer
3. Give the cards out anonymously with a small token, gift or act that will brighten someone’s day

And it really does work! I’ve seen it first hand. I give at least one of these out a week and most of the time it’s on a plane, hoping to maximize the geographic effect. Again, it’s done anonymously. I’m not telling any of this to ring my own bicycle bell. It’s just important to be aware of the chain reaction of good that can come from this simple act.

Recently I flew from Atlanta to Dallas on American Airlines, and I asked the flightattendants to give the first person who ordered a drink or snack a “You’ve Been Triked” card, and I would pay for it once they reached my seat. What followed was a string of positive interactions that literally gave me goosebumps.

First the flight attendant told me that he’d lost his mother a year ago to multiple myeloma. We chatted and bonded on one of those levels that people crave in the midst of day-to-day superficial interactions. Second, the woman who received the “Triked” card, told the flight attendant that she’d just bought someone a coffee anonymously a week prior, and now it was coming back to her. I was then told that the whole scenario had initiated an in-depth conversation about sharing among the travelers in the first 10 rows. Nobody talks on flights – especially not about the good of mankind. GO HENRY!!

Paying it forward doesn’t have to be complicated. Leave someone a stick of gum with a card; buy a pint of berries and leave it with a card; pick a daisy and leave it with a card – just be kind. Someone else will be kind to someone else in return – guaranteed.

Henry touched the hearts of so many people during his brief stay, and he continues to inspire friend and stranger alike. It saddens me that such a beautiful child had to die to initiate this selfless movement, but his legacy lives on and is spreading like the width of his cape in a mighty wind.

Paying it forward works, folks. Find that generous heroic child within yourself. Don your own cape and grab your little red tricycle. That’s how we all should roll.

 

When did it happen? When did I start choosing the aisle seat? And why? Is it really just for the convenience of getting to the restroom?

I fly almost weekly now, but that wasn’t always the case, needless to say. I flew for the first time, at the age of 11, to California. I can still feel the build-up of excitement before that vacation, and I remember wanting just one thing: to look out the window of that plane. Well, and to meet Mickey Mouse, which would make that two things, but I digress.

I watched a video recently, which I’ll include in this post, of two older women in their 70’s who had never flown before. They ended up on Vodafone’s First.com where, strangers at the outset, they flew together to Barcelona. Regardless of the reason that they’d never flown prior, fate brought them together to see the world from a different perspective.

Fear and lost opportunity transformed into pure magic, that’s what I see when I watch this video. It also reminds me of that kid full of wonderment on her way to Los Angeles with a fresh imagination watching cloud sculptures wave hello as the plane passed overhead.

I’m on a plane right now, but today, for a change, I chose the window seat on a three hour
flight instead of the aisle. Potty breaks be damned. I’ve already seen a giant camel, a child praying, an elephant, and a dog with a teddy bear on its back.

I needed to remind myself of how beautiful the world is from this perspective, and maybe, just maybe, how beautiful the world below can be with a different perspective, as well. I think we can become complacent to the wonders in everyday life, and that “clouds” our judgement. Seeing with new eyes, or forgotten ones in this case, is never a bad thing.

Watch this video to remind yourself of your firsts. Choose the window seat on or off the ground. Look, see, feel, and wonder once again.

VIDEO

As some of you know, the heroine in my novel, Control Switch, (Candace Bradford), is a life coach who gains success by spouting off advice on how to master control. Not that she’s taken seriously after life serves her up a big plate full of mayhem, but I have gotten a lot of positive feedback on some of the quotes from her fictional book of non-fiction. One in particular seems to resonate with folks more than the rest:

“How do you build self-esteem? Impress yourself, not others. Follow through with the thing you fear the most”

I put this in my book for a reason: I truly believe it, so I’m here to elaborate on Candace’s behalf.

Our fears can vary as much as our individual personalities: eating in restaurants alone, public speaking, heights, the list goes on. They are, however, generally classified as those things that cause us the most discomfort. It doesn’t matter whether these “fears” are substantiated or perceived. They’re all relative and as real as breath itself to the person experiencing them.

What’s the best way to end these dreaded anticipations of danger? Push yourself outside of your comfort zone.

For me, comfort zones suck. I loathe them. They threaten to age us and hold us back from experiencing life to the fullest. They can scare us into sitting on a sofa watching others live their lives in some absurd display of what popular media classifies as “reality.”

Yes, you need to do things that impress yourSELF and not others. When you can look in the mirror on a regular basis and say, “Wow. I just did that!” you’ll become unstoppable.

Make a list of the things that scare the shit out of you. Start small at confronting each one and work your way up. You will be shocked at the transformation that takes place as a result.

Feel free to share your list of fears, and/or ways you’ve overcome them, on this comment thread or on my Facebook page. Both Candace and I will celebrate each and every victory along with you.