Today I released Fritz’s ashes into the wind. It was his kind of day – cold, blustery, with snow flurries.
We awoke today with the power out. During the night a tree in the neighborhood fell, knocking down power lines. This happens in our neighborhood from time to time, more frequently though because of the drought. In our zip code, life and limb are more at risk from falling trees than tornadoes, and this is a state where tornadoes are common.

I made a coffee/bagel run early and then went back to bed. As I lay there watching the wind and flakes, I just kind of knew that today was the day I would let go. My lovely cat is gone, and I’ve been holding onto remnants – bone and fur and tissue fired down to powder.

So, I got out of bed, announced my mission, gathered up the baggie I hadn’t looked at or touched since December of 2006, and walked out the back door to a spot behind the house that I know he claimed as his. It’s beautifully quiet back there, daffodils dotting the grass sloping up from the creek and a cluster overgrown camellias someone planted long ago still hanging on to the last hot pink blooms. I followed Fritz back here once. A cold front had moved through mid-morning bringing a wind that would flay the skin off you, and snow flurries icy sharp rather than fluffy. Like I said, Fritz loved this kind of weather. Pointing his pink nose straight into the wind, everything in his movements and posture spoke that he was in his element.

So, I sat the bag of ashes on the ground in the same spot and waited for the wind to do it’s work. It didn’t. In the end, I had to do the scattering.

Reflecting back it makes sense. Ambivalence derails purpose. So, if I said I was going to let go I needed to show it. And I do because I’m far enough removed from the loss to understand that letting go doesn’t mean loving less.

Note:  This post came out of a project called Thirty Voices, for which nearly thirty women in their thirties living in various parts of the world wrote about various themes over the course of a year.  I don’t remember the theme that triggered this piece. I forgot to keep notes.  Ooops.

While I was training to be a coach, our training consisted of mostly experiential exercises, one of which is a visualization called “Future Self”. The idea is that you conjure an image of you 10, 15, 20 years later, and ask this older (and presumably) wiser self for insight, guidance, maybe even comfort.

It was all new to me, so my expectations for this exercise were both high and low. High in the sense that I hoped my future self was kick-ass and bold, (a Helen Mirren basking at the Oscars), as well as wise (a Judi Dench who doesn’t necessarily bother with the Oscars). Low in the sense that never having done a visualization before, my concept of what it would be like was wide open and unattached.

The visualization part of the exercise was incredibly relaxing — darkened room, post-lunch, soft background music — so much so that I nodded off for a minute or two. The woman reading the script had a lovely voice, round and warm like a cookie fresh from the oven. The part of the exercise that didn’t fly was the star of the show, my “future self”. She was a no show. continue reading…

Note:  I used to write a newsletter for my coaching business.   However, I found newsletter making to be a hard slog.  Practice makes perfect, but I got fed up with motivating myself to practice.  So, I parted ways with that initiative last year.  A few of the articles weren’t too bad.  This is one of them.

When I had my residential organizing business a few years ago, a project would sometimes crash and burn when the client became hung up on the plank of their past decisions. The choice to acquire the thing in question may have been made many years prior. But, as if it were yesterday, the logic and emotions from that past decision would overwhelm them.

Their past choices had enough heft that the goals and desires of the present time were no match. In short order the client’s ability to make decisions had been slung high into a decision wedgie. Until that dang wedgie was undone, the project dangled high above the floor…and so did the client’s pursuit of more order and peace of mind.

If you’ve been graced by good fortune and were never hoisted up by your underwear, please remember to thank the graces of good fortune. Still, you can likely imagine a wedgie in action: flailing legs, extreme discomfort and a woefully lingering impression.

Although the effect of a wedgie is the same whether we’re talking about options or knickers, the bully rendering it differs. With decision wedgies, it’s usually a fear of some kind: fear of what it will cost to change your mind; fear of disappointment; fear of choosing wrongly – again; fear of the unknown; fear of what others might think about your new approach to choosing. Fear is a potent deterrent to moving ahead in your life. And it will never unhook you from the peg reserved expressly for key decisions unless you choose to boogie onward in spite of it.

I say this from experience. I’ve had my own fear based decision wedgies that succeeded in keeping me from rethinking my status quo, including a doozey that had me down for the count until recently.

Many months ago I became interested in pursuing a new niche for my business. I love the people associated with this niche, and I have enough experience with their concerns to be able to understand where they’re coming from. I’ve invested in market research and marketing. I’ve done the networking song and dance and started conversations with prospective clients.

Yet, as my efforts towards this niche grew, so did the awareness that certain life transitions – really good ones at that — on my near horizon would make it utterly impossible for me to sustain these efforts. I had this same realization back in October, but I put a pillow over it’s face and pressed down, because one of the things I’m most afraid of is looking like a fool who has wasted her money and time on something she’ll never bring to fruition.

That’s a decision wedgie at work, oppressing the choices you know are good for you based on some fear that can seem almost silly in the clear light of day.

Be that as it may, I can now safely say that my fear of looking foolish is in time out, because having acted on the decision to refocus, relief from the decision wedgie in question arrived quick and sweet. Since then my creativity is re-energized, my confidence has soared, and I’m very much at peace with where I’m going. (Is more evidence needed?)

None of us are completely immune from decision wedgies. We’re going to experience them from time to time. That’s OK. It doesn’t make us wimps, just human.

To get released (and relief!) from your decision wedgies, here are a few possibilities to consider:

You may need a little mourning…especially if the past decision has entailed a significant investment on your part — time, money, heart and soul, whatever. This need is normal and healthy. Just the other day, creative coach, Cynthia Morris, reminded me that sometimes we have to sweep out the launch pad in order to land something new. Mourning is a kind of clearing. So be good to yourself and do it if the need emerges.

Focus on the learning gained through this past decision. Surely, you’ve learned or experienced something that might not have been otherwise learned or experienced. So, acknowledge this past decision for the wisdom it’s provided. Celebrate it before sending it off into that good night.

Turn a deaf ear to naysayers. When it comes to the opinions of others who don’t support your change of mind or heart, you may need to tune much of them out. It’s very possible your resolve to choose differently scratches one of their hot spots. So, their response may have more to do with what’s scary for them than anything truly pertinent to you.

This morning Rufus had his first doggie training lesson in about four years. Hard to believe it’s been that long. As with so many dogs, Rufus turns into a different, more difficult and often a more aggressive dog when he’s on a leash. And his track record for coming when called is abysmal. Good behavior on walks and responding when called are simply non-negotiables, and Tim and I have been lazy slobs about addressing them.

One of the things we love about France is that dogs are welcome in all sorts of places, and we’re excited that he won’t have to be left at home so often. But, we’ve been worried that when he acts up we won’t be able to apologize or explain the nuts and bolts of Rufus as easily as we can now. It’s that whole lost in translation/language barrier thing.

So, off to a two-hour private training class we went – Tim, Rufus and myself. And, it was good. Rufus, the cogs turning in his head, was a beautiful sight to see. When he came home, the first thing he did was find a patch of sunlight in which to take a snooze. The little guy was tuckered out. As were Tim and I. It’s never just the dog that’s getting trained. Two-thirds of the training is for the people.

Note:  This post came out of a project called Thirty Voices, for which nearly thirty women in their thirties living in various parts of the world wrote about various themes over the course of a year.  I don’t remember the theme that triggered this piece, although at least this one I can hazard a decent guess.

1. Paper and String – I’ve always loved to collect papers and yarns. Before I learned to knit I would sometimes buy a skein just because the color and texture had me from hello. The artwork on a hand done note card will seduce me to buy it. I never send these cards. I just stash them away. Impractical compulsions that don’t play nicely with eccentricity #2.

2. I have an eagle eye for clutter but a blind eye for cobwebs. I love to declutter. Dusting and vacuuming…no love.

3. Cilantro makes me gag. The taste of it is like a sting on my tongue, and I dread coming into contact with it.

4. Having proper (as in matching menswear style) pajamas is important to me. Slippers, too. Robes, not so much.

5. I’m kind of obsessed these days with the dropped slope stemming from under my chin to my neck. It’s not a second chin. It’s more like a waddle, and it reminds me every time I effing see it, that I will soon, alarmingly soon, be officially middle aged. Inside, I still feel 31 and waddleless. Damn this chin!

6. Celebrity chef, Bobby Flay, is on my top five hotties list.

7. I used to anthropomorphicize stuffed animals. Once I grew out of them, I still couldn’t get rid of them, because I imagined they had little secret souls and attachments and would be really, really hurt if I gave them away, or {gasp} tossed them. Once packed in a box, I didn’t want to reopen the box because I expected to see the sorrow of abandonment on their faces. Crazy.