The Fruit Of Someone Else’s Labor

I truly thought I was doing it right. 

You know, that cutting and eating an avocado thing. Sadly, that all changed after this crept onto my retina today.

It's never good enough that I make sure I eat a big, fat healthy avocado every day. Nope. I used to think in doing so, I was somehow in the lead. That I was maybe on my way to the fruit race finish line. Where all the awesome people were. 

But somehow, somewhere, there always needs to be that brilliantly talented, opportunistic jerkface, with a perfectly ripe avocado, and a full set of archeology tools, to prove you wrong. You know, just popping in to remind me that I'm a highly uncreative, boring as fuck simpleton, with my avocado sandwiches, and salads and mouthwashes. Boring! 

Whereas this avocado...ahahaaa... this vision of beauty, magically appearing on my newsfeed just to hammer that final nail in the 'You pretty much suck at everything you do, Dawn', coffin, and to make sure beyond the shadow of an avocado pit's doubt, that I realize that I'm not fully utilizing an avocado's creamy centers to their fullest potential.

Unlike this master of life, every day I partake in the meek, boringly nutritional, caveman chore, such as the act of slicing the flesh of an avocado, and then continue creating my masterpiece by mining out it's mushy centers with the careful acuity and finesse that only an oversized tablespoon can provide. 

Then I slap it on a piece of toast, smear it everywhere...on the toast, the plate, probably my hair... like I'm on LSD during a light show, and then jam it down my throat with the elegance of a starved alligator swallowing a kicking gazelle. 

Art.

And then I see this flawless visual, and fall nauseously into a fetal position heap and wonder why I've been so creatively short-changed. Simply reaping the dense nutrient profile of an avocado, is 100% for sure, only for lazy, trite, talentless, predictable, peasant, fruit-eating common folk, such as myself.  

Next time, carve a detailed bas relief of Gandhi in a flowing robe into your lunch flesh Dawn, or sit the fuck down. 

Lesson learned.

Even in the avocado world, there's always someone who'll one up you.  

StayHumble. 

~dawn

How's That 2018 Treating Ya?

Has your anticipated 2018 calendar of events proven to be as erroneous and disappointing in it's predictions and outcomes as the Mayan calendar of 2012 was? 

Were you hoping the new year would have brought you new happy things, changed your old habits, solved your cholesterol problems?

A calendar doesn’t have a caring soul. 

A calendar doesn’t have goals.

It doesn't want to be an entrepreneur. 

It doesn’t seek your approval.

A calendar need not worry about finances for it’s survival. 

Nor does it worry about yours. 

A calendar doesn’t have empathy nor compassion for your hardships. 

Time is busy running the universe and confusing the shit out of all of us in the process.

It’s not concerned about your bills, your declining portfolio, your startup ideas, your disappointing friends, or your weight management issues.

According to the silly parties and wrongly scribbled check dates that happened a few weeks ago, I believe it’s 2018.

Yet all it is, is just another day. 

Another ill-defined moment in time, in a string of ill-defined moments that we're simply breathing in, day after day after day, attempting to give both meaning and definition to.

It's really just 'Happy New Day', another daily at bat. Another opportunity. Either an opportunity to do things exactly the same, questioning nothing, mirroring our yesterdays, or an opportunity for operating differently. For living more courageously. For becoming more.

2018 will come and go, just like 2017 did. And just like the rest of us will.

To a planet who has it’s own, non-bias survival objective, 

every living, breathing organism on Earth is sadly and inevitably mulch. 

(Especially if you’re buried in one of those cool Bio Urn’s(®)and can become mulch to a tree of your choice. I think I'm gonna choose to be a grapevine so I can have access to wine at multiple points. But that’s another story altogether.)

What you do with your pre-mulch existence, has only to do with you and your mind’s willingness and dedication to manifest something different into it. 

Set new standards for yourself. Work less, live more. Spread love and wellness. Do more for others. Whatever. 

Within reason, you can do whatever it is you want. And by all means, have high expectations and reach for the moon. But don’t expect to be a basketball player if you’re 4’11”,250 lbs, and built like an ottoman. Critical honesty in your abilities, as important as high goal setting.

As we inched and clawed our tired, lethargic 2017 asses towards the ’New Beginning’, the ‘Happy New Year, it’s 2018!’ starting point, we created hopeful resolutions and wishlists that attempted to reinforce a belief in our future successes. 

'I want to be this'er, and that’er. Make this much, lose that much. 

Be more X, less like Y.’

The intentions were good. 

But much like the flavor of a piece of paper wrapped bubble gum from the bubble gum vending machines, it rarely lasts.

But for a little while, we DID believe we’d do something life-shattering (or in my case, thigh-shrinking). Because as this collective energy ball (not the oversized Time’s Square Disco ball) of human thought got closer and closer to a new calendar year, while even though a somewhat fictitious one, there's always an almost palpable, positive, and transformative group energy in the mind's of so many people. It’s a physical train of positivity that we all hop onto, in hopes of an easy ride over to the self-improvement station.

At that time, we are all relatively thinking and feeling the same sentiments at the same time: Time for something positive, time for new energy, time for personal growth. New beginnings. Empty the closets. Both metaphorically and literally. Shed the bullshit. Do like Rumi said and drop the dead leaves (Although more eloquently ). Reach higher. It’s coming! We all feel it. So it happens. It begins to manifest because there's such a strong, collective inertia behind it. 

Off we go. We start doing it!  Look ma, no hands! 
It’s happening!It's really happening!

At least for a few minutes.

But sadly, shortly thereafter, the fade-off sets in, and after a few weeks of putting in the work, the majority of once gung-ho, 2018 party participants will casually creep back into old habits and predictable lifestyles.

And our previously clear and defined 2018 goals start to take on a more hazy, amorphous shape. 

And eventually, so does our non-gym-going asses.

The show is over, the curtains closed, the 2018 magician has left the podium, and one by one, people start to walk away from the celebratory hoard. We start to disband from this collective group of higher expectations. Our cheerleaders all now back home microwaving popcorn. Or stringing pom-poms…or whatever it is cheerleaders do in their free time.

And once again, all of our too familiar self-doubting and personal sabotaging techniques start to rear their ugly heads.

But not to get discouraged!

No big deal that it's 2018.

It’s just a starting point number we made up based on Christ’s birthday.

The Jewish calendar says it's 5778. 

Mayan calendar, 3114 

Universe calendar, 13,772,983,654.

It’s rather arbitrary.

You can always make up your own brand new starting point.

It can be right now. 

February 11, 2018, 11:08 a.m.

To hope the new year provides you with all the good shit you’ve ever wanted out of life, is arrogant to assume and hope that 2018 is this servant who comes strolling up to your bedside every morning with all the solutions to your 2017 problems laid out on a silver platter.

It’s not gonna happen. Nor will it happen in 2019. Or 2020, or 4012. 

(I don’t know, maybe 4012. They’ll definitely have some cool, overly capable robot servants who could 3D-print you a bedside, silver plate by then. ).

But until then, it’s up to you. We live in a world where we still poop and flush it down a little watery hole, and have silly things like Presidents and #FLOTUS’s.

So the impetus to foster change will need to come from inside of you. 

And it only happens from knowing you're the only one responsible for all your bullshit, everything in your life, and therefore, the only one capable of completely changing it.

Except for your eye color, texture, amount, cellulite, or lack thereof, (to hell with all of you with the lack thereof), talents or addictions, annoying laugh or blood type. You can blame or thank your ancestors for that one. 

But all the other stuff, the personal hangups, wanting a healthier life, the attitude, the constant pessimism, the anger, jealousies, the shitty job, the boredom, the daily Ho-Ho’s, addictions …the list is endless. No calendar change will ever have the capability of changing 

any of that for you.

Only you do.

Happy February 11th.

Go change something for the better.

Trial By Fire

11:51 a.m. 

Snow is gently falling outside. At the moment I'm sitting on my fireplace hearth, typing this with my back to a blazing hot fire, as I smell burning oak and hear the soft crackles of embers becoming more of themselves.

This having no heat is actually kind of cool. No pun intended here, and nothing facetious about that. I'm speaking from my heart.
And while it’s not exactly ’normal’ to have no heat in the middle of January, I’ve realized, nor am I.  

Nor are you. 

We are all unique and do things our own way. We are all subject to curveballs and happenstance. Look at the people around the world whose homes have gone up in flames, flooded, or disappeared right in front of their eyes. Who have lost their loved ones, pets, everything they’ve ever had, worked for known or loved.

How dare I even complain an iota about no heat. 

How dare I.

Not having heat yesterday and today, and last week having to manually refill my tank for an entire week, has taught me just how much I actually have. And having a lot is a gift, and doesn’t come easy…nor should it ever. 

In the past 6 years, stepping outside my comfort zone is a direction my life has aggressively embraced, chased, been subject to, And has increasingly intrigued me because I’ve learned that sudden gear switching is always where some type of personal growth is hiding. 

This silly running out of oil issue, is really just a strange affirmation that I tend to do things differently. That I'm okay with pushing the envelope. Okay with maybe procrastinating with some things. Okay with not being neurotic about everything at all times. (…i said ‘sometimes'...) Okay with maybe doing things at my own pace. Not being conventional, and in this case, not signing a contract/paying for oil deliveries that I didn’t even order. Ridiculous. 

I do things my way, true to my own belief system. Somehow secretly craving the fallout of this path and all it’s glory. Whether it’s comfortable and/or uncomfortable and awkward, strictly for the challenge, the learning curve and the storytelling by-product. I genuinely believe this to be the truth for all we do in all of our lives. We choose / create the situations in our lives rather intentionally. Subconsciously at times, perhaps. But we create them nonetheless. 

We are all creators.

That said, sometimes there may be a small price to pay for marching to the beat of your own ….handmade drum…. made out of banana peels, and thumbtacks and a supermarket garbage pail ... instead of leather, mango wood and steel rivets. In this instance, it was a rather bearable price. Granted, frustrating for a second, because I'm pampered living in a world of mega supermarkets and uber overall conveniences. 

But in reality I just needed to make a fire, keep that going, put on a few more layers of clothes, and bundle my dogs in poofy blankets, and smile as I await my delivery and repair at some point today. That’s the ‘big' adjustment. 

I have a brand new refrigerator, and a beautiful working kitchen. 

I have access to piles of healthy food, I cook, I have a Jeep with a full tank of gas to take me anywhere I’d like to go, (ps I’ve never run out of gas while I'm driving yet, but I’m sure that’s just a matter of time) and friends who will lovingly accommodate if need be. There’s electricity in every corner of my home for light, paints to create with, unlimited computer access to learn from, books to snuggle with, healthy kids, loving pets, and a phone that’s smarter than even the most educated people in the world, all for the asking. 

And as an added bonus, there are no starving, bloodless predators running through my living room, ready to eat my face off. 

That’s pretty lucky.

During the night, my faux down comforter, piles of blankets, and 3 boiling snuggling hot dogs kept me super warm under my heap of bedding, and I slept like a baby. 

Even though babies don’t sleep.

Today I awoke feeling super lucky for everything I have. I’ve always felt lucky…really fortunate. But there's something about a little struggle that always turns it up a notch. 

My nose was a little cold, but that's more because it’s long and was probably touching the window across the room while I slept. But my heart was warm with gratitude and appreciation for being adaptive, resourceful, and lucky enough to have a home and so many other amazing privileges.

So please don’t feel bad for me. At all. 

I’m glamping, for fuck’s sake. 

This is awesome. 

:)

~d

<3

Starting The New Year With A Bang

Every morning around the same time, I feed the birds. Today was no different except it was my first day back home since the yearly calendar date has changed.

With a bag of birdseed in one hand, and a Ziploc® bag of shredded bread and crushed almonds in the other, I slip on my puffy new Christmas slippers, open the door, breathe in 5 degree air, tippy-toe across the snow covered patio, and quickly fill the various feeding feeders and spots for the animals.

With immediately frozen nose hairs, dead digits, and now solid lungs, like some hunched-over, scared frozen ape, I quickly scurry back across the snow, joyfully making the return path back inside.

Glancing at the door of my warm, coffee imbued abode that has been left ajar, with my now iced-bottomed slippers I decide to gracefully glide back inside by leaping over the door saddle, taking a 7’ wide giant jump inside like some Olympic long jumper wannabe, and onto the waxed wooden floors.

Much like a 1940's Tom & Jerry cartoon, I slip so hard that the bottom of my left foot was parallel to the sky, and my head bounced off the floor with the conviction of a basketball dribbled by LeBron James during playoffs.

In some abstract position, seen never before by man, like some genetically deformed fallen snow angel sporting half a bag of birdseed in my ear canals, I just laid there and laughed, and laughed like a tickled toddler.

Hello 2018. Starting the new year with a bang.

Let’s do this.