This IS me! I’m staring into space in the fall of 2022. I am seventy-two. I’m small. And tall. I have no clue at all.
“Heaven is a new pair of glasses.” ~ Anne Lamott
With this post, I am starting on the second in the series that started with Giving My Self to the Wind. (2017)
This one will be called: Giving My Self to the Stars
Subtitle: How to BE Life (NOTE: Not DO Life)
“How to Be Alive”
“How to Life”
“Life’s Secrets” Hint: There are none.
This post doesn’t have to do with the Deathlist, My Piano Hands, OR Giving My Self to the Wind. NOPE. It’s about climate change. It just happens that Margaret Atwood is one of my favorite authors, and she gets it.
We must all work together to do this thing… Keep our planet from imploding on itself because of our neglect. But “It’s Not Too Late!” YAY
Okay. That’s it. Be the change. Thanks, Margaret, for supporting our cause.
I don’t need anything more.
No nothing. Of that, I am shore.
I don’t need more stuff, it’s all just fluff.
More clothes? I’ll give mine to the poor.
I’m not taking a class or writing a post.
I won’t try putting extra butter on my toast.
I’ll refrain from checking my Facebook Page.
And won’t tweet a Tweet to vent my rage.
I will not compare. I will not look back.
I cannot look forward or fear an attack.
Today is today. And all I can say
To the people who’ve gone astray and lost their way…
EGBOK, my friends. Have faith. Make hay.
Believe me, Receive me. “Everything’s Going to Be OK.”
Now… Am I happy?
* * *
I think the entrepreneur and investor Naval Ravikant would agree with Andy Puddicome, founder of the meditation app, Headspace, that we only find happiness in the present. And we can only be in the present if we are willing to work hard to do nothing.
Do you feel the TENSION in that statement? I do!
When we meditate, we are trying to do just that. We work (at meditation) to pay attention to only one thing in the present moment. Thoughts of the future and the past and the emotions surrounding those thoughts rip us from our present.
Worry is a particularly useless feeling. It’s a projection of a future over which we have no control. Worry can also be a feeling that shoves us back to some previous time when we wish we had done or said something different. Wayne Dyer used to say, “You can’t should have done anything!” I miss him.
I smile at my own ineptitude. I’m not Naval, nor Andy, nor Wayne. (All men, by the way, and what’s that about?). I am, however, beautifully inept. I am wondering about the depth of my imperfection at this second. When actually, in this very next second, I am happy. Grateful. Here at this moment, to be writing this post and nothing else.
It’s bitchin’, I tell you, bitchin’!
I play music as I pass through my day.
Sometimes it’s harsh, and sometimes easy-breezy, hooray.
Each day it’s a choice to:
Curate the chords
Making majors from the minors.
Nurture each note and
Relaxing on the rests.
Dive into dissonance
Forcing fortes and frowns.
Invite
Pianissimos seeking peace,
Soft pedals pushed down.
Channel rock ‘n roll?
Relish Rachmaninoff!
Meet Miranda or Mozart.
It’s a joy, it’s an art.
The best news is
The music I play.
Is totally mine,
To make my day my way.
I assumed the misbehaving “poop” bag hitched a ride from the wind, gratefully escaping my pocket to evade its sure fate. As in, who wants to be a poop receptacle? In a former life, this spunky bag lived on a squished roll at the supermarket, on its way to having something yummy and edible stuffed inside like broccoli or red lettuce or maybe even artichokes! Being a produce bag is not fantastic, but It’s a J.O.B. and carries with it a utilitarian kind of respect.
So, maybe you want to know why we use plastic bags in the face of climate change? Seriously. Reusable produce bags are a carbon-reducing option. My friend Marilee uses them, as does Alexandra. That said, we justify plastic vegetable bags at the grocery store by repurposing them for doggy poop bags. Maybe we should use leaves, but the park doesn’t approve of leafed poop in the trash cans. I must remember to send them a copy of The Carbon Almanac.
So, this bag seemed determined to attain a better life: Freedom. Liberty. Happiness. Smart bag.
Okay! Game on!
As I chased it, the wind picked it up just before I reached it and scuttled it a few feet beyond my reach. “Almost got it!” I said to my dog (after all, it was her bag, albeit empty so far). The bag laughed as it scooted forward again. Did it look over its flappy shoulder taunting me, or was that my imagination?
I followed the gleeful little bugger for almost a whole block until I snatched it from out of the gutter. “Gotchya!”
The wind stopped, and the Universe smiled, knowing She had gently yet firmly guided me to a metaphor moment.
Huh?
I was chasing empty.
Because that’s what chasing empty does—it lands you in life’s gutter. That’s good to know, right? Well, but now… what do I do? Is the opposite of empty “full,” and how is that defined? Does not empty require living a life with Meaning (capital M)? What is and how do I find my Meaning and my life’s Purpose?
Next time I see an escaped, empty poop bag. I will pay attention. Or I may let it go. It’s too much work.
. . .But she doesn’t smell nearly as good!
Death has had all manner of bad press for centuries–even before there were media outlets. History, literature, music, and life are replete with death. It’s not something we can avoid.
But Death has her job to do. Death, a.k.a. Coco, climbs aboard the train of life to complete her mission of passing souls from the Earthly plane to the Metaphysical space. When she enters the train’s passenger cars, she fills the closed spaces with her “aroma.” As we find out in Deathlist, her odor is compliments of God, and it’s a definite turn-off. We want to know why it’s there, and so does Death!
“Why couldn’t I smell like bacon?” she might ask herself rhetorically in a quiet moment.
We all have odors. I mean, I feel like our odors are the mistakes we make. They are the hurts we pass to our fellow humans. And to ourselves. We have things on us that we think we cannot expunge, although we try desperately. Bad habits. Sins, maybe. A divorce! Well, heck. I think we all have those, and yet, we save our friends (and sometimes our enemies), our pets, spouses, and ex-spouses because, in a brave moment, we come above our sins. Maybe we step around them. Or we push them aside, even for a split second, to do something we never expected we could or would do.
And at that moment, we realize that we aren’t so bad after all. We can even hug ourselves or at least pat ourselves on the back.
“Well done!” you say to yourself in the mirror.
AND we need to remember that day for the funky times when all looks lost. Those are the times when the “odor” of unworthiness surrounds us. And we’re in the dumps.
@AustinKleon, in his book Steal Like an Artist, says, “Keep a Praise File.” Collect the pats on the back and the hugs, so you can find them when you’re sad.
In the meantime, chin up. Help a friend in need. Or… heck…save the human race. We’ll be glad! And for you… You’ll smell like bacon!
Would you want to know when you’re going to die?
This is not a trick question. Think about your answer and let us know, please. Perhaps it would depend on the circumstances. Maybe it depends on if you’re old or young. Sick or well. Rich or poor. Death herself doesn’t care EXCEPT she cares about humans, despite herself and how they treat her.
The only way to know what Death really thinks is to read Kathryn Atkins’s book, Deathlist.
AND then you’ll know more about your fellow humans but also how sucky it is to be Death. She hates her job.
If you’re old enough, you remember Kermit the Frog’s song, “It’s Not Easy Being Green.” If you’re not old enough, you might look it up, but suffice it to say, it’s not easy being Death! It’s almost as bad as being a dentist. No one wants to see Death or the dentist, and people are afraid of both of them when they shouldn’t be afraid of either one.
Death, who also likes to be called Coco for Coco Chanel, is very tired of being feared and of her job of collecting souls. Here’s the thing. She doesn’t CAUSE death. She only collects souls and helps smooth the path between living and the here-after. PLUS — Death doesn’t send people to their eternities, Heaven or Hell, or wherever they are going to go. But people don’t get that about Death. They think she’s the one doing all the dirty work.
So, that’s why Death has a therapist named Nancy. And when Nancy isn’t available, Death uses retail therapy to get through the roughest days on the job.
She wonders if her therapist is real. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. But then she REALLY wonders if she needs therapy!
How about you? What do you do when you’re feeling blue? Bubble baths? Dancing? TV? What’s your secret escape? Let us know!
Maybe check out the Deathlist book trailer to see more about Death and why she’s tired of her job. AND why she buys so many clothes. No, she won’t bite! If you read the book Deathlist, which is a satire (and pretty heavy on philosophy), you’ll get to meet a pretty goofy God, a bike riding Jesus, and a fashionista Holy Spirit. They’re funny, although sometimes Death questions their idea of funny because they all drive her nuts!
Death plays golf with the Trinity when they’re talking to one another, that is.
The book asks: “WOULD YOU WANT TO KNOW WHEN YOU’RE GOING TO DIE?” Because that’s what the Deathlist will tell you. Take the survey here.
I’m often asked, “What was the inspiration for this novel?”
Well, pretty often. Um, so. Hmmm. Okay. I’m telling you now that you’ve asked. Thanks! 🙂
Here’s my ANSWER: Every time I saw someone on the news or heard of a person dying that seemed especially odd (like a child, for gosh sakes, or someone sitting on a bench eating a sandwich and a tree fell on them, maybe), I began to form a theory that everyone had a specified death date. Death was not by chance, happenstance, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. God had it planned out. He kept track of it in a big database, which someone or other dubbed the Deathlist.
I still believe there might be one somewhere. How do you explain those little times when you were two seconds behind that huge traffic accident? Or, okay, on a morbid but equally mysterious level, why do some suicide attempts not work? Without bogging down my explanation with statistics, we can all report anecdotal evidence of failed suicides.
Then imagine that humans were somehow allowed to know what their death date was. That was the germ of the book.
I could know how much time I had to finish and publish the Deathlist. Write a how-to book about anything. (I’m not sure, but I buy a lot of those fix-me-please books, so I think I should write one!)
When is death? I would like to tell my fanbase that I am able to answer this question for you. It’s THE question, and I AM DEATH. I should know.
On my side, when I pick up a soul, that usually means a person’s sentient mind and corporeal body are no longer connected. More importantly, the “spirit” has been separated, and that essence is what flows to its next existence. Your IS and your IS NOT co-exist in a non-existent in-betweenness that some people call Heaven, some call Hell, and some call Limbo.
Some people don’t call it anything. And some people say those places exist not after life but during life. They think that the really terrible stuff that happens to them is “Hell” and that the sweet, happy stuff is Heaven.
Let me tell you this: In Heaven, we have several beautiful golf courses, a free gym with lots of machines, jacuzzis, and lovely fluffy towels. And the best part is that you get to meet a lot of the people you’ve admired over your lifetime. Sorry to say that the people you admired most, however, may not have made it to Heaven. We do have standards. You know. Too many sins and you go to the other place.
I’m going to say this about death. It’s not the end. You can quote me. Because you won’t know if I’m telling the truth until, well, until, you’re gone. In the meantime, read DEATHLIST. You’ll get to hear more about Heaven, Hell, death, and me, Death, a.k.a. “Coco.”