Angela Carole Brown is an award-winning author, poet, multi-media artist, and singer/songwriter, and is involved in the wellness arts. This is her space for telling stories, exploring the creative process, and courting the marvelous caves of self-discovery. All of which reflect the wellness themes of her new book, "HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN: 10 Principles for Reclaiming Your Spirit."
Category Archives: Wellness & Self-Discovery
Mind. Body. Spirit. Meditation. Yoga. Laughter. Howling at the Moon. Courting the caves. Courage in self-facing.
Certain laws of the universe just seem to never fail:
That if we’re looking for something we’ll never find it;
then suddenly when all effort is abandoned, there it is.
The guarantee that if the appointment is conveniently close to home,
we WILL be late to it.
And the absolute assurance, when someone we love dies, that themes of living, truly living,
not just sleepwalking,
are suddenly as loud as sirens.
They say to be devil-may-care when you’re young, and cautious when you’re older,
but I have begun to maintain the exact opposite.
Young is when you should organize and plan,
so that effective longevity stands a greater chance.
It’s when you’re older, and with fewer days ahead than behind,
that the attitude of “what do I have to lose?” makes more sense.
The older I get, the bolder I get.
It didn’t used to be that way.
I used to grow increasingly conservative as the years went by
and the hairs on my head began to lose their color.
A little more cautious,
a little more nervous,
the sense of consequences ever larger and clanging in my head.
But in this past year, a shift of some sort has happened.
And, yes, I am indeed growing more into the “what do I have to lose?” category.
I believe the reason is that a personal record number of people in my life passed on this year,
and the sheer volume of it has dizzied me.
And perhaps with how untimely so many of them have been,
I’m simply being nudged to move with more deliberateness in my gait.
Because, after all, tomorrow could be my last,
as it was (too young!) for so many I knew.
And then what would’ve been the point in my hesitation?
This isn’t a gloomy thought.
On the contrary; it is fresh with hope.
Ripe and rife with possibility.
Inspiration to be gleaned from the seeming senselessness of death.
It IS senseless, that death,
unless we, the ones left behind in life, choose,
through it and because of it,
to be awakened.
“Be nobody’s darling:
Be an outcast; Be pleased to walk alone (Uncool) Or line the crowded River beds With other impetuous Fools . . . Be nobody’s darling; Be an outcast. Qualified to live Among your dead.”
― Alice Walker
“And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly.
Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.” ― Maya Angelou
We are not born only once,
but many times over, when someone dies,
to a better level of ourselves,
climbing studied rung by studied rung,
to reach a self worthy of that death.
. . . At least we should be.
The Scottish song Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns
translates roughly to “times gone by,”
and was originally a commemoration song about loved ones past,
and never letting them be forgotten.
According to modern legend, Guy Lombardo popularized the song
when his band used it as a segue between two radio programs
during a live performance on New Year’s Eve in 1929.
Purely by coincidence, the song happened to play just as the clock struck midnight,
and a New Year’s tradition was born.
2014 was a rough year by just about all accounts of everyone I know,
and much of it had to do with death, for some cosmic reason.
So, as long as we’ve had to endure it,
it might as well not be in vain.
That’s up to us.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
To write or not to write the memoir is a topic often bandied about; and usually what’s discussed or debated are the ethics of such an endeavor. James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces is probably the best-known controversy in recent publishing history. He created a national scandal, even involving Oprah, by pushing the envelope on the ethics of telling the truth. Lauren Slater purposely challenges our notions of truth versus embellishment versus downright deception, in her book Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir, by questioning whether fact equals truth, or is just one by-product of many that delivers a truth. Charles Mingus’ Beneath the Underdog doesn’t read like memoir at all, but like the most artful turn of poetry, at once urbane and plebeian, which has begged the question: Just how “creative” is his memoir? Yes, loads have been written and discussed on the subject.
I confess to being baffled at all the uproar Frey’s book created. I once wrote a novel, a piece of fiction, that was told in first person from a child’s standpoint. And at one juncture in its development I had toyed with the playful enough conceit of calling it a biography “as told to Angela Carole Brown.” And with, frankly, never the intent to genuinely deceive a public, as it would all, by design, come out in the wash, and just be this piece of fiction turned on fiction’s ear. But at the time I was considering it, the idea seemed harmless enough while achieving that sense of urgency that a true story intrinsically has on the psyche. It never even occurred to me that such a conceit could be somehow profoundly damaging to culture, as I am someone who believes that truth does not always equal fact. A universal truth can be unveiled in the very best of fiction. So, yes, I was a bit puzzled over the degree of James Frey’s “crime.” Yes, he exaggerated his story. What exactly did that take away from us?
One of the rumors I’d heard throughout this scandal was that Frey had originally submitted his manuscript to the publisher as fiction, because though it had come from his own experience he admitted to greatly embellishing, and therefore thought it was best to submit it that way, and that it was his editor who suggested it would be more marketable as a memoir. Whether or not that rumor is true, I think the greater point here is just how easy it is for a “true story” to be rendered true, false, real, deception, whatever, merely by the way in which it is framed. And that perhaps Truth isn’t subject to perception and window dressing, but is the oak beneath it.
I have my own quandary with the memoir, but it looks nothing like the above. Because though, as I’ve said, I never really saw the injury in James Frey’s “true” story, this article is not about to be some confession that I , too, have written a lie and called it memoir. No, I have not done so. And I’m not saying, by my take on the Frey scandal, that I’m a proponent of deception. He exaggerated some details. A memoir is supposed to be the truth. I get that. Only that perhaps Frey’s deception really didn’t merit the public slaughter it received. He wasn’t writing a history book. He was sharing his own personal experience for the greater purpose of the message it had to offer.
I only even bother to mention this particular avenue of the dialogue on memoir, and my take on it, because to write a piece on the memoir and not to acknowledge its most road-tread of avenues would be to plant an elephant right in this room. And no, I never did publish the “biography as told to Angela Carole Brown,” nor in its pre-published state have I remained with the idea of that conceit. To be honest, the reason I abandoned the idea (which was only a momentary entertaining anyway) is because such a gimmick would only distract from a story I believe is compelling on its own merits. Its day will come.
Here, finally, is my quandary. As a writer, I am primarily a novelist. It’s only been in recent years that I have even begun to entertain the notion of the memoir. And what I know about myself is that my issues with self-value have often created a twisted knot of identity assertion and confusion whenever I have entertained that notion.
Simply put, I’ve lived in the belief, for my entire writing life, that memoir was reserved for people in the public eye. After all, why would anyone’s story be interesting to a total stranger unless it was that total strangers already know who you are, and this is, after all, a culture of fame-worship? The irony here is that most of the memoirs I’ve read were written by writers who had not been especially well-known prior to a publisher finding something powerful in their story and taking it on. And yet, the belief in me seems to be gravely deep-seated, and likely more a reflection of my own self-worth than anything.
I’ve generally tended to journal. But I’ve never been that person who opens the notebook ritualistically at the end of every day lived, dates the log entries, and into the golden years can boast volumes upon volumes of my life on paper. No. It’s been erratic and sporadic at best. Something just hits me as worthy of documenting. And I may not be hit again for several years.
The first of those incidents in my life that I felt strongly enough about documenting, in a way that I could easily envision as a book, was the death of my mother. It was, however, almost a decade after her passing before I felt clear enough to unfold it in the written form. It’s a book that I’ve more or less finished, though I’m not quite ready to put it into the world yet, and the reasons are more personal than they are about marketing and pacing strategies.
What continues to fascinate me is that the entire time I was writing it, a balls-to-the-wall battle was going on between my two selves: the Left Self, we’ll call her, who argued that everyone has a story, and every story has value not only for the one living it, but in the written form to be shared with others; that every story has a lesson, a light bulb, a dawning, to offer, if written with authenticity and purity of goal. Every story has universality.
Right Self argued that no one cares about your story if you haven’t already made a name for yourself; that our present culture just doesn’t operate any other way. And who do you think you are, anyway, to think anyone should care about your story? That it’s only delusions of grandeur and self-importance that would make any writer think that her unknown life holds any interest for the average reader of books. So stop being so narcissistic and wallowing up your own ass, and write a great piece of fiction, instead, that will be universal enough to resonate with an audience.
Well, fiction IS what I’ve generally tended to write. And while I’ve always been a proponent of the idea that (though fictional) a great novel carries truth within it, just as I said above, I also believe that memoir is a very different animal indeed, and has a place. The question for me became, does it have a place documenting Joe Blow’s ordinary life?
While these two Selves warred, I trudged forward, anyway, with my first stab at memoir. Because something in me believed that my story had a message for the world. One about the layered complexity of the mother/daughter dynamic. One that examines grief in all its nuances and bumps.
Right Self, of course, just kept whispering, “self-indulgent. Who cares! You aren’t the first to write about grief. And only the grief of Joan Didion or Frank McCourt or Edwidge Danticat is going to fetch an audience. Go work yours out in therapy.”
Right Self had a point. But I kept on writing, kept on trying to defend Left Self’s creed.
Since the writing of my grief memoir, which still sits on the proverbial shelf, I’ve written one other, not counting all those journal entries over the years of isolated mini-stories and experiences, which has been published. I felt a little more qualified to write that one, though that idea discombobulates my brain because the fact is I am qualified to write about any part of my life. It’s my life. Who knows it better? Yet clearly I am still being influenced by Right Self in determining whether I have a worthy story, and by extension a worthy life. Isn’t that really what’s going on, Angela? So I guess what I mean to say is that I was finally writing about something that might count as sensational and unique in the eyes of a society that craves sensational and unique, whereas death and loss and grief is not especially.
I’m truly bothered that I allow myself to reduce my merits to that graph; but, well, there it is. The point of all this (all this being a good chunk of why I write) is to work that out. I’ve already been writing, already producing content. Now I’m just bobbing around in the waters of trying to get read, and trying to figure out the puzzle of how to get that done when I am not Joan Didion.
In any case, my unique story (the second stab at memoir) is that I donated a kidney to someone who might’ve died without it. I saved a life. This wasn’t done for sensationalism, but it was sensational, in every sense of the word, and in anyone’s book. Yet what I wrote about was not the “hair-raising” or “breathtaking” aspect of such a deed. All the adjectives any good sell-line MUST have these days. The real story is about how the deed managed to save my life too, as I had been living in a profound spiritual malaise at the time this need presented itself. And so it is the story of an ordinary and flawed human being struggling through the landmines of life. Not about heroism.
And that’s when I realized that I was writing a book, yet again, that had Right Self’s eyes rolling.
“Who cares about your self-exploration!”
Right Self is mean. But then so is the world.
I also now really understand my relatively new penchant for writing about myself, after years of writing fiction. Because when I look back on the grief memoir that sits on the shelf, waiting for polishing – and courage – I realize that my flaws as a human being are not only on parade in that one too, just like with the kidney book, but truly are the nucleus of all my stories, it seems. And it is suddenly clear to me that the gravity of my need to tell MY stories exists as a way of granting permission for my life to be made valid, and my flaws to be expunged if not transformed.
The act of storytelling, and my own stories specifically, may well be of no interest to anyone who doesn’t personally know me, but it is first and foremost, for me, an act of healing.
Now here’s where I will chest-spread. I also believe that such an act of storytelling requires a special kind of bravery. And I think what separates the women from the girls is the ability to resist self-aggrandizement in the writing, to look in the mirror, and to tell the story.
Of course, there are those who would say that the very instinct to write a memoir, in and of itself, is pretty self-aggrandizing. Well, that’ll have to be. It still requires walking a road many would shudder away from.
I read quite a bit of memoir when I was preparing for writing my first one, especially those dealing with grief. There were the ones I was floored by, like Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and the Lauren Slater book. These were examples of startling perspicacity, the very seed of the brave and gnarly self-reveal.
And then there were the ones that were so much “Isn’t my life blessed? Even with all its precious dilemmas? Don’t you wish it was yours?” that I could barely get through them without choking on the propaganda. I won’t name them; I’m not interested in being cruel. But they were such obvious cases of fear and inability to see the pearl in authentic confrontation with the shadow that I felt deeply for the writers, if not the writing.
William Giraldi speaks in a recent Poets & Writers issue, an article on Louise Gluck, of knowing oneself en route to becoming oneself. That “the facts of any life are impotent and ineffectual until literature intercedes, until it takes hold of those facts and twists them into the light, casting a refraction that allows us to glimpse them anew.”1
From the same article comes a quotation from Stanley Kunitz: “The empty ones are those who do not suffer their selfhood.” 2
I see both of these sentiments as revering the act of vigilant self-inquiry and the level of courage it takes to face Self, and to mean that only through that kind of bravery can any writing truly arrive at an important place.
So, my question is, could bravery possibly count as a worthy enough star in the memoirs of the unknown? Might that be my sole hope for believing that I could tell my stories to an audience that would bother with me?
Or is the better question: Should I care?
Maybe I should just be writing. And healing. And sharing the experience. Because the experience of leaping out from a prison of the internal through words is like nothing else I can describe. For all the criticism that both of these writers have received in their writing careers, I imagine that James Frey and Lauren Slater, both, understand that sense of liberation. And I suspect there are resonant ears and eyes out there, just waiting for me and others like me, hungry for a tale that could very well be their own, for what it might dare to examine. We just need to find each other.
And then, to be able to let go of all else.
Alas, my running theme in life.
* * *
Notes / Works Cited
1. 2. Poets & Writers, Sept/Oct 2014 Issue; Internal Tapestries by William Giraldi.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
Newborn pups suckling from their mother
who is wary of the stranger stopping to take it all in.
As well she should be for her protection of her young is a wonderful thing to behold.
A lone bloom in a garden full of yet-grown flowers.
A couple on a street corner holding hands and kissing.
Perhaps a little too intimate for public view.
So deliciously meretricious.
A crosswalk box so layered in endless encounters with midnight taggers and their spray paint cans
that it has transcended its civic role and become art.
A fledgling on the pavement before me
whose little life has been lost from falling out of the nest too soon.
The scurrying ants upon it.
The windshield glass in the street shattered into snow and the splats of red upon it.
The ubiquitous yellow tape.
Remnants of a city tragedy that are merely an inevitable part in the tapestry.
A sky that radiates a marbled canvas of unspeakable magnificence.
Or the rolling dark angry eyes of a tempest creeping.
The tiniest thing is mine.
All mine.
To love.
To cherish.
To covet.
To reflect upon.
To mourn.
Perhaps a moment of silence and a bowed head.
Just another day on my morning walk. A meditation.
Until it is someone else’s turn for a captivating discovery.
And then to be able to let it go.
To appreciate its impermanence.
To move on to the next wonder.
The next brush.
The next audacious interception with life in all of its astonishment.
I once opened a fortune cookie to a fortune that was meant for me: You discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.
I DO discover treasures where others see nothing unusual.
It is my proudest trick.
I also brazenly plagiarize fortune cookies.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
Hope and Crosby never made a road picture like this!
I wholeheartedly salute two extraordinary young women whom I had the honor to encounter nearly two years ago. They are Holli Rae and Sara Landas, and they have been in the midst of filming their documentary The Goddess Project for some three years now. Their credo: “To set our fears aside, and film other women who are doing the same.”
The film’s premise is simple, yet their journey to make it was a life-changing one for them. It is an intimate look, through interviews, into the lives and inspiration of over 100 women across America, each speaking and baring their souls in a very personal way about their struggles, their inspirations, their contributions, on everything from sisterhood, family, and overcoming fears, to spirituality, aging, body image and sexuality, and speaking in such an honest and disclosing way, toward the purpose of demonstrating real and diverse role models for women of all ages to see and to experience, and to bridge the gaps that have sometimes separated us.
THE STORY
In 2012 Holli and Sara left all of their comforts behind, acquired a vegetable oil-powered school bus (decking it out as only goddesses can!) and took a leap of faith, embarking on a remarkable journey across the US in search of women from every walk of life – artists, activists, mothers, sisters, academics, businesswomen, scholars – all eager to share their stories.
I came across these two lights, or they came across me, because Sara’s dad is a friend and colleague of mine. They came to my home bearing a bouquet of beautiful blooms, and carrying on them their cameras and their great big hearts, and we had a ball talking about life as women, and even shedding a few tears. I believe L.A. was the first wing of their journey, so little did they know at that moment what amazing adventures and encounters were awaiting them.
“Everywhere we stopped, whether it was at a coffee shop or rest stop,
we were amazed by the number of people who wanted us to meet
an inspiring woman in their life . . . This film presents an intimate look at the
universal concerns that we face as women through groundbreaking dialogue . . .”
– Holli & Sara
10,000 miles later, they had amassed hundreds of hours of footage, and had experienced the time of their lives. After the honor of being one of their interviewees, I caught up with them recently, in the midst of their post-production tasks, and asked if they wouldn’t mind being on the other end for a moment.
* * *
ACB:
How did you two meet? And did the idea for this film come out of your blossoming friendship, or did one of you have the idea first, and through or because of the idea met the other?
H&S:
We met in the summer of 2008 on a mountain top! Through sharing stories and making art together, our connection quickly developed into the most co-creative friendship we had ever experienced. As our bond became stronger and our dreams became bolder, we started meeting so many other inspiring women who were also on a path to pursuing their dreams. Meeting these ladies and hearing about their unique journeys of self-discovery inspired us to create The Goddess Project. We saw a need for more empowering stories like theirs in the media and instantly started envisioning how we could share them with the world. We decided to sell everything that we owned, and launched a Kickstarter campaign to raise enough money to fund the production of the project. We promised each other that even if the campaign wasn’t successful, we would still hit the road and find a way to make it work. Our minds were blown away by the incredible people who showed up to help make this film possible. Over 100 people from around the world donated to help us start the project.
Then something even more magical happened! We met a man named Chirp at a music festival, told him about our project, and he offered to give us his vegetable oil-powered bus! Neither of us had ever been given a gift like this from a total stranger, so this act of kindness absolutely blew our minds. This incredibly generous gift was a huge game changer. Then we serendipitously connected with an incredible artist named Michelle Robinson through Tumblr who donated her time to help us transform a little brown school bus into a beautiful, inspiring art car. So we packed our lives into The Goddess Bus and hit the road with two suitcases, our camera equipment, and no idea what we would find!
ACB: Well, we love Chirp! Our angels do come to us in the most unexpected ways, don’t they? And Michelle’s bus art is just so breathtaking in that powerful Sacred Feminine tradition.
As an artist, myself, I find that the ideas I come up with for a book, or a song, or a painting, are usually coming from a place in my soul of lack or need, a hole to be filled, in a sense. Where do you think this idea of interviewing inspiring women came from?
H&S:
We felt frustrated by the constant bombardment of the same stereotypical roles of women in the media. We wanted to see a broader spectrum of female role models, so we decided to put our heads together and come up with a solution!
Movies play a huge role in shaping culture and we need to see more films that empower women rather than perpetuating negative stereotypes and limiting beliefs. We don’t need any more distorted versions of reality telling us that we are not good enough. We are perfect as we are, and more films need to encourage that! We are creating The Goddess Project to remind women of all ages that they are strong, beautiful, and capable of achieving anything they set their minds to!
ACB:
What were you hoping to discover in talking to women across the country, and were your hopes and expectations answered? Or did you find that conversations went in completely different directions than you had planned?
H&S:
We wanted to see what women across America are passionate about, and to discover how similar we all are in our differences. We wanted to know what it’s like to be who they are, and hear about what they have overcome to get there. We wanted to know what their fears are, what they love about themselves, and what they hope to see and become in the future.
We hoped that we would be able to find women who were willing to be open, honest, and real . . . and we ended up finding over a hundred of them! We sat with women from all walks of life; at dinner tables, coffee shops, on horseback, and in parks; to talk about what they felt most called to share. We interviewed artists, mothers, healers, business women, and scholars about the life-changing experiences that shaped them to become who they are today. We talked about everything under the sun, and almost every interview ended in tears.
We learned that many of our fears and obstacles are the same. We learned that women across America want to feel connected and understood. We learned that every story is profound, and that women are ready for more representation. We learned that women across the country are dedicated to bettering themselves and the world around them.
ACB:
As young women, yourselves, looking for positive role models from just such women as you describe, how important was the older demographic among the ones you encountered? And what gold did you get from the younger women? And what ended up being the age range of everyone you interviewed?
H&S: Well, so much gold! We ended up interviewing women from the ages of 18-90! The older women we spoke with absolutely blew our minds because they have come so far and have so much insightful wisdom to share. The younger women inspired us as well because they were so dedicated to pursuing the life of the dreams. Each woman taught us something new about ourselves and the world that we had never seen before. It was an amazing experience to be able to travel from city to city, hearing the collective voices of women and seeing the amazing things that they are doing in their homes and communities!
ACB:
I’ve been following this journey, and it’s been very exciting! In seeing the clips, the beautiful teasers, in the trailers that you’ve made over the past year, I’ve been especially moved by how you left no social demographic out of the loop. As an African-American woman, myself, in this society, it isn’t uncommon for me to feel, at times, a bit left out of the cultural conversation. And, of course, I had the honor of being one of your interviewees! And I have to say, I was completely struck, as I followed your journey, by how much you were so all-inclusive of the radiant array of women of every heritage, station, vocation, age, and every other social orientation. Can you please speak a bit on that? Was it conscious on your part, or were you just walking this path with hearts so open that . . . well, let me let you finish the thought.
H&S: We embarked on this journey with open hearts and planned to interview as many of the most diverse women as we could find. We definitely made a conscious effort to be all-inclusive when it came to our interviewees because we know that all women out there are seeking inspiration and in most of the media, women, especially those of color, are lacking representation.
As we made our way across the country, we ended up finding women in the most serendipitous and magical ways. Initially we reached out to them through the internet and by word of mouth, but as we traveled from city to city our brightly painted bus became a magnet that attracted amazing women everywhere we went! At each destination we were approached by women from all walks of life who felt called to share their stories. Having the opportunity to connect with all of these unique women opened our minds to so many different perspectives, and as we got to know each of them we also realized just how similar so many of our fears and obstacles are. We learned that although each of our individual journeys looks so different from the outside, there are similar threads that connect us all. We are so excited to weave this beautiful web of women’s stories together, so that we can bridge the gaps that separate us from one another and inspire people everywhere to create positive change in their own lives!
ACB:
Please talk a little, if you don’t mind, about some of the more unexpected things that occurred on your journey. Any interesting hurdles? Especially considering that you were living on the most menial of resources.
H&S:
We both love camping and road trips, so going into the journey we weren’t too worried about life on the road! That said, the reality of living for 6 months in an amenity-free bus (sometimes in 100 degree heat) ended up being a lot more challenging at times than we had anticipated! Most of our showers consisted of baby wipes and Dr. Bronner’s, and we spent a lot of time peeing in cups if there wasn’t a bathroom nearby. We quickly learned how to live off just the bare necessities, but also discovered how many amazing people there are out there ready and willing to help you out in a time of need! One night, we found ourselves trying to get some sleep in our bus in New Orleans when it was still blazing hot outside and we were in a bad part of town, so we had to keep the windows shut. We lay there pouring water on ourselves, wondering if we could survive the night in that kind of heat. Suddenly there was a knock at our door. It was a woman we had met earlier that day who insisted we come stay with her. We followed her back to her place just down the street and had a beautiful night’s sleep in her air-conditioned den. Everyday we faced new hurdles as we stepped into the unknown, but we stayed open and our intuitions always led us right where we needed to be!
ACB: Was there anything that scared you about taking on a vision as monumental as this? Doubts, at any point, about the leaps of faith you were taking, not only to go on this journey, but the leaps of faith in each other?
H&S:
From the very moment we made the decision that this is what we were going to do, we committed wholeheartedly to it! We did have our fears about taking on something this big, but we made the choice that no matter how things unfolded, whether we rallied the support or not, we were going to make this film happen! Three years into the journey and we can definitely say we had no idea how much work was going to go into bringing this film to life, but everyday we work together to keep our vision strong. When one of us is feeling doubtful or overwhelmed, the other one is always there reminding us of the importance of this project and why we have to keep pushing forward! Taking on something this big is a lot more manageable when you’re sharing the weight with your best friend!
ACB:
SERIOUSLY amen! Who have been your personal heroes, who have helped to build you into the strong young women you are today? Either personal, or in history? And why?
H&S:
One of our personal heroes is Eve Ensler. From her playwriting to her global activism, she is a force of nature! She is a woman who has devoted her life to being a voice of change, and an example of how instrumental just one person can be in changing the lives of so many! We were lucky enough to have her reach out to us when we were about half way through the journey, and her organization One Billion Rising became a producer of the film! We are so honored to have her on board, she is such an inspiration to us!
ACB:
Eve Ensler is truly a special being on the planet. You’re definitely speaking my language. So, what is ultimately the legacy you’d like to leave?
H&S:
There is this great quote by Albert Pine: ” What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world is immortal.” We want to use what little time we have in this life to use the talents we have to create art that helps raise the consciousness on the planet and empowers others to overcome their fears and live the lives of their dreams!
ACB:
You two are an inspiration, and the world needs to know about The Goddess Project. I have felt incredibly humbled to have had some small part in this, and to have been able to watch it grow beyond all expectation, as your journey unfolded. I raise my proverbial glass to you two bright beacons for change and liberation, Holli Rae and Sara Landas. Thank you so much for chatting with me.
* * *
THE GOAL
The larger goal, of course, is the film itself, and everything that it stands to shift in our consciousness. But the immediate goal is one that can use our help. Holli and Sara have a Kickstarter campaign in the works, to help raise enough money to complete the post-production on a film that is truly important and needs to be out there. If you’re feeling even the slightest bit philanthropic ($1 even!), I urge you to consider being a part of this game-changing, transformational project. You honestly couldn’t choose a nobler investment. The deadline to raise their pledge is Friday, Aug 22, 2014, 3:33 PM PDT.
If NOTHING ELSE, please take 4 minutes to watch this newest trailer, and I defy you to not be inspired.
Congratulations to Sara and Holli for successfully reaching their funding goal! It was all because of you, the supporters. That means there will be an extraordinary film coming our way in 2015. Brava, ladies! And bravo to all the philanthropists who made it possible.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
“Just let go. Let go of how you thought your life should be, and embrace the life that is trying to work its way into your consciousness.”
― Carolyn Myss
The life I used to want . . . or perhaps the better way is to say the life I thought I wanted? . . . was a grand one. A life of being celebrated, and documented, because of what I’d put into the world.
Maybe it’s age and the wisdom that hopefully comes with it. Maybe it’s disappointment, and choosing to redefine a goal instead of wallowing in the failure of an old one. Or maybe I just lost my appetite for grand. But today there is a very different life that I want. And it comes closer to a renunciant’s path, to Zen, and to nature, than ever before.
Let’s take Oprah Winfrey for a minute. I think the legacy that she has carved for herself is a noble one; that of being the spokesperson for discovering one’s best self and living one’s best life, and the idea that this has nothing whatsoever to do with financial prosperity, but instead with spiritual prosperity. Yet the irony can’t be lost on even Oprah that her own financial wealth makes the very kind of zenning, sentient life she purports virtually impossible for her. A woman with homes (plural) that rival the size and scope of art museums, and require staff. A woman who has entourages. A woman who is stalked and hounded and quoted and misquoted by a frenzied culture desperate to crack the code that is the Entity Oprah, because we all want whatever magic has befallen her. How does one live in that life and temper the monkeys in the mind, never mind the monkeys coming after you?
Yes-Men surrounding you constantly will lose you your touch with reality, and make you operate from an engine of dissociative ego. And I often wonder to what degree she is aware of that peculiar power (or is it a liability?) and takes full advantage of it. I think back to her controversy with the author James Frey [read about it here, if you’re not familiar]. I have my own opinions about what he did, which is perhaps an article for another day, but I have always, and for this article’s purpose, also questioned her role in this, because of the Yes-Men phenomenon that ostensibly makes Oprah incapable of ever being wrong, and gives her permission to wield the ax at her discretion. Did she really think that what Frey did was morally reprehensible? Or had she just been personally humiliated, and therefore needed to use her power to humiliate him in return? Was the punishment that she doled out to him on national television really about teaching James Frey some ethical lesson? Or just about saving her own face? And does she even choose to recognize that whether she feels it’s her responsibility or not, she has set herself up to shape the zeitgeist for a lot of America and what America should think about such things?
I only choose to analyze the Oprah phenomenon, as opposed to anyone else out there in the celebrity world, because she is not just a celebrity but a pop culture icon, and there has been a pretty wide swath in my life of envisioning a similar station. A few years ago I wrote a grief memoir about the death of my mother (not yet published), but what the book is really about is an examination of our relationship; complex to say the least. One of the commonalities that I examine is both of our desire for fame. I am an entertainer. My mother’s life was in politics. And we both had an appetite unlike anyone else in our family for renown. There was something just so fundamentally dreadful to us both about living unsung (let alone dying unsung) in anonymity. And somehow the belief that if only a hundred people were touched by our gift, versus a million, that our gift was meaningless.
I have had many knock-down-drag-outs with my soul on the place my art and my contribution has in the world, and where I place its value. Is its value in acceptance by the larger public? Acceptance by the boutique few? Or is it measured by no barometers at all save my own instinctive sense of personal best?
I think we all know my answer, but putting that into actual action and ownership has been another trick entirely. Believe it or not, getting older helps. A lot of delusion gets shed away. I think I know what kind of famous person I would be, and it isn’t pretty. Talk about dissociative ego. Today I am finding more peace with the artist I am, and with the spiritual being I am, while living in a world (“in this world, not of it”) that woos only greatness, as defined by financial station, celebrity, and popularity. And yes, I’m even finding more peace with that world, as well.
And so, any longer, here’s what today’s dream looks like. Here’s what’s truly attractive to my soul, and what I believe my consciousness has been inviting. Hint: It hearkens awfully close to a Thoreau utopia.
(And let me preface what I’m about to say with this: I don’t begrudge the Oprahs of the world their wealth, their station, their largeness and their guaranteed seats in the history books and Forbes Magazine. These choices, and these good fortunes, are not bad ones or wrong ones. I’m just finally finding a different value for my life.)
I want to live simply.
I want to be awakened every morning by the sunrise, and honor a ritual by which I prepare for bed nightly, instead of letting myself fall asleep to the white noise of the television, fighting with everything in me to stave off sleep, just because the waking hours feel like a desperate drug to this addict.
I want to bask in quiet and stillness for at least a few precious moments every single day.
I want to encounter every wonder with the patience and pace required to catch every detail, and I want to write about it, because every one is as remarkable as a Van Gogh or a Stravinsky.
I want to be of service.
I want to read books and, through them, get lost.
I want to stare at a painting in a museum, and have my life changed. No, it doesn’t move. No, it’s not interactive. No, it doesn’t trend. There are no hash tags. No friends. No followers. No algorithms. No memes. No apps. It hangs on a wall merely, and blows our illusions out of the water, if we’re canny enough to see.
I want to be canny enough to see.
I want to sing, not for my supper, but for the gods.
I want to earn my wage outdoors, with labor and sweat and sun about me. I want to plant gardens, and eat what I’ve grown, and work my body like the vessel it is.
I want to forgive my body its daring to creak and ache, and instead awe at its magic to move, to protect, to repair and regenerate, to create, to haul lumber and compose symphonies equally.
I want to open my doors, and meet my neighbors. And hold children. And praise animals. And laugh with friends till it hurts. And invest in compassion.
I want to watch the rainfall with the same fascination as when I watch a great movie.
I want to abolish from my own brain, my own agitated sense of desperate measures, once and for all (warning: incoming rant), the emperor’s new clothes of this insidious Religion of Prosperity that’s gripping our culture today, and the irresponsible false promise that all we need is a positive mindset and to walk in the world AS IF, for all our problems to be solved. If only the billions of starving, war-torn, Third World citizens of the earth would stop for one second to apply its principles . . . Don’t they know! I’m not knocking positive thinking – a huge proponent actually – I just reject this idea that it’s a magic pill. The world IS insecure. It is unsure and unpredictable. It will always, and till the end of time, give us joy beyond measure . . . and loss, heartbreak, and disappointment beyond measure. And all the praying to the manifesting, law-of-attraction gods will not make us magically immune to pain and disappointment. The true key is not to be constantly coveting an over-there reality that may or may not ever come to us, or to try and create a cocoon of cotton candy denial around us from all the realities of life, but to amass the masterful tools meant to help us respond to all of it – the fortunate and the unfortunate – with grace, humility, mindfulness, and compassionate vigilance. To truly be able to recognize the beauty, and power, and opportunity for transformation and swift healing in whatever experience is given to us. Which doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t work toward goals, or not try to cultivate a can-do mindset. But what it does mean is that if we live only for the GOAL, then we completely miss the GOLD of the absolutely magnificent right now.
I want to never miss the gold.
I want to learn the lessons that every encounter with every kind of being on the planet is meant to teach me. And I want to appreciate them for that, instead of collecting enemies.
And I want my only prayers from this day forward to be . . . NOT . . . “Dear God, please give me . . .” But two words, and two words only: Thank you.
I want a simple life.
With wine.
And chocolate.
T H I S !
(yes, it’s a commercial for life insurance,
but it’s the most brilliant message ever, and is exactly what I’m talking about.)
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
I’ve spent the last 30 years as part of an industry that I have never loved. And, frankly, it has never loved me, though I take pause even with that assertion. Does it really love anyone? Or is it merely more tolerable and pliant and giving (and forgiving) to the ones who have the gift for manipulating it? I don’t. Have the gift, that is. I never did.
Now, let me preface everything that follows with the pronouncement that I have had a fortunate career (writer and musician are my vocations). It’s never been large. Never global. But the shelves are always stocked. There’s always content. And I am blessed.
Here, however, is the crux of my quagmire. I have always resisted working the system. And I’ve had people in my life literally shake my shoulders with, “what’s wrong with you!” Especially when they know me well, and know that as equal as is my great skill of ignoring the system, is also, paradoxically, my great desire to thrive within it.
There’s the time I had a foreign record deal. I was in a state of ridiculous elation over having scored this. And when I was overseas promoting it, I was asked in an interview what I thought of my hit song. (Yes, I had a hit song in this particular country many moons ago.) The truth was, I hated it. I thought it was poorly composed, and I was angry at the phenomenon that merely based on this particular writer/producer’s reputation and popularity in the community that his song (ostensibly my song) was an instant hit. Did anyone out there ever actually stop to consider if the song was good? …. had been my perplexed self-questions.
I reflect now back to the day we recorded the song, at the legendary Capitol Records, which gave me a total thrill independent of the dreck I was about to record, and the knot in my gut over said dreck. And I remember having a hard time connecting with the song, and therefore failing to deliver any semblance of an authentic take. I sounded terrible to myself. So I asked the man producing the track, the songwriter, to please tell me what the song meant. I didn’t understand the seemingly disconnected lyrics, but felt it was only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume first that I just didn’t get something, that it was over my head, rather than to assume it was simply lazy writing. When he, very frustratingly, said to me, and clearly done with me wasting his time, “What do you mean, what does it mean? Just sing the damn song!” I knew in that instant that we’d all sold our souls to the devil.
Now back (or forward, as it were) to being interviewed about it. Why would anyone even ask me IF I liked the song? I’d recorded it. I’d been complicit in the crime. I was here promoting it. Why wouldn’t they just assume I liked it? Instead, as if I were wearing my guilt and shame on my forehead, they would ask me, in their barely conjugated English, if I liked my big, giant hit. And I suddenly felt like that old commercial about E.F. Hutton, where everyone turns their head in my direction, and shuts up. If there was any part of my soul that hadn’t yet become the Devil’s bitch, I owed it to said part.
And so I said, so sheepishly that if I’d had testicles they’d’ve been sucked right up inside of me: “No.”
The room went bedlam. Seriously. And bedlam in a foreign language is just white noise, but the gist was pretty clear.
I was properly schooled and ripped a new one, later on that day by a label rep, on the obligation that is mine to play the game, and oh, I don’t know, maybe think about being a little bit gracious for this opportunity you’ve been given in the first place, Miss Brown. There wasn’t a single thing that was said to me in this rant that wasn’t absolutely correct, and what I deserved. I’d signed on for this ride. It had been responsible for a lot of money in my pocket (fleeting though that was), my first jaunt abroad, and the potential for who-knew-how-many doors to be opened for me. And now it was time to help sell this thing, to help make its investors their money back, to help us all get somewhere in this business. I was obedient for the rest of the trip.
Needless to say, they were not interested in renewing my contract for a second album. It was “good riddance to that arrogant chick.” I cannot blame them. I’d been their liability with that one little powerful word. And yet once I got back to the States, and resumed my life, I was beyond frustrated with my failed efforts to parlay that experience into something more, bigger, better, a roll, a continuing relationship with that record company. And I genuinely did not understand how that closed door might’ve had anything to do with my unwillingness to be a company man.
Okay, here’s just one more example of my industry and me being at odds, and then I’ll leave it alone, because truth be told I’ve got examples by the droves, but I’m sure you have my dynamic by now.
My second literary agent (I’ve been through two, with no book deal between them) seriously believed in my writing. The way she praised me, she could not have been any better for my ego. She’d read two of my manuscripts (one of which is now The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, which came out last year, published under my own imprint, because I’ve never managed to get that book deal), and she thought I was someone very special. She also stated quite frankly to me, in agreeing to take me on, that her specialty was selling romance writers, but that she so believed in me that she would try this area that was not even her expertise, which is the general fiction/literary fiction genre.
When all efforts were exhausted to get me a deal, she took a meeting with me, and urged me to consider writing romance novels. I told her that I’d never read them, but had a good impression of what we were talking here, and that it was of no interest to me. She gave me a handful of books by some of her authors, encouraged me to learn what the genre was about, and to at least consider it. Her spiel was that she didn’t have a clue how to sell a literary novel (not the most popular in this age’s quick-read-bathroom-reading-airport-reading-breezy-formula culture), but that romance she knew, and she knew it well, and she could make us both a lot of money.
I took the books home, read a couple of them, and my stomach churned at how much I disliked them. And not the specific books themselves, or the writing, per se, but the formula. Which includes: That the conflict in the story always be external, never internal. It needs to be about someone or some thing/institution getting in your protagonist’s way from her (almost always a her) intended pursuit (romance, of course). It is never about internal conflicts and psychological dynamics being the barriers to a protagonist’s road. It is never intended to be an exploration of soul or the human condition. And the result must always be that she gets her man. Not my kind of book. I want my guts turned inside out by a book. So, as a reader, I knew what kind of writer I wanted to be … what kind of writer I was.
I prayed so hard on this, because I knew that I was just a “yes” away from possibly making my name as a writer (my agent was confident that she could do right by me). And that was damned enticing. Yet, in the end, I chose not to go that path. My conversation with self and God was that life was too short, and my creative voice too precious to exert any amount of energy writing something that I did not love. Self-important? Well, yes. I believe there should be no shame in believing that what we are put on this earth to do is important.
So, there you go. This is what I do. I derail.
In all of my frustrations over the years with continuing to be what many would call “small time” with my artistic pursuits, it almost never dawns on me my own culpability in the deed, and my seeming penchant for self-sabotage. And so I’ve remained, for better and for worse, a loiterer in this business. Someone who doesn’t really belong here, but who has hovered around the fringes long enough to actually be somewhat of a tiny institution, a familiarity (even loved by some, which always humbles me), but almost never invited to come inside and sit at the grownup table. That’s the “worse” part; that because of my own stubborn, self-important machinations, I may never be lauded on that scale of which I’ve always dreamed.
But then there’s the “better” part. I have carved for myself a voice, a brand. It is unique. Some love it, others not so much. That’s okay. It has perseverance. It has legs. Even in spite of the many closed doors. And it is here that my penchant for stubbornness and hardheadedness actually works FOR me.
Doing it on my terms is the surest way to sleep soundly at night. To keep my soul clean, and my legacy one I’ll never, ever have to disclaim. It is who I am. It not only nourishes my spirit, but keeps me firmly grounded in integrity.
Opportunities may have passed me by. Many never offered. But my voice, as an artist, writer, songsmith, singer, is strong and immovable. It is oak. And I am learning to let go of regrets. It’s a rancid lesson sometimes, full of painful dawnings. Because what I do know about myself is that I always seem to take 4 steps when 2 would do the job. There is just a make-it-happen! gene that I seem to be missing. But I also can’t help believing that if I had managed to master the chops of working the system, that I simply would be a different artist. And, frankly, I’m kinda partial to the one I’ve cultivated.
Is this about reclaiming my better self? Fostering grace? After more than a decade lingering in and out of minor depression? Self-doubt? Bitterness at my industry? Bitterness at having to age while still holding onto that rung of my youth-worshipping business? I think it may well be. It also could be a mass of rationalizations. But then again, what is that? Just a way of accepting, really. That the here and now is all that matters. That our efforts and our contributions, and even our sometime inability to make things happen, will render whatever it renders. And whatever that is….is a part of our story. And is okay.
That’s a far more peaceful way to live. I’m opting for that. Non-attachment to outcome. Just do. Because truth be told, I have ridiculous stretches of creative productivity, and they are always accompanied by joy. Is there a better way to live than that?
Life has unfolded for me exactly as it was meant to. The rocks that have been thrown in my way (or that I’ve tossed in my own way) have built a certain muscle on me. Some walk between the raindrops, and get everything easily. I know many of that type. I have a good life, a blessed life. But I am not that person. And if I were, frankly I’m fairly certain that I would be unmanageable. So, I do believe I am a better person because of the path that has been selected for me.
And yes, that means I was destined to be the difficult one. The one you just can’t reason with, when an opportunity is being offered. Stubborn to a fault.
Oy. There are worse mantles, I guess.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
Last night I spent hours going through all the footage from a (sort of) one-woman show I wrote and produced years ago called The Purple Sleep Cafe, and which I was fortunate enough to have filmed. And I was going through the footage so that I could edit together an excerpt from the show that was about my relationship with my childhood friend and true savior during a difficult childhood. I had idolized and now immortalized “Nene,” but she never knew about the show, as we’d lost touch in adulthood. The last time I saw her (which was one of the only times since childhood) was at my mother’s memorial service twelve years ago. We promised to keep in touch, and did for awhile, until eventually, as will happen, numbers got changed, leads ran dry, and we lost each other again.
She ran across my mind yesterday, and because of the advent of social media I realized the real feasibility of finding her. So I excitedly culled through the show footage of my tribute to her, so that I could post it on YouTube. It was actually a most joyous several hours of going back down Memory Lane, not only of the show I’d done (which actually climbed as far as Off-Broadway!), but of a childhood made special ONLY because of Nene’s presence in it.
The thought behind this effort was that I would get this footage up on YouTube, then find her on Facebook, reconnect, and send her the link to the video, which she has never seen. It would be the perfect way back to her.
Today I went onto Facebook, and sure enough (as is the magic of Facebook), found her. Only to learn, from a post that her daughter had made, that she passed away 6 months ago. My stomach rushed up into my throat, and I’ve scarcely breathed since. Who knew that in finally posting this footage, that it would end up being a memorial tribute instead of the entree into a reunion?
I sure do want to embrace the idea that true cosmic connections have occurred – that I would think of her, and put forth the labors to construct this gift, so shortly in the wake of her passing. But I am, instead, bitter and resentful of my own gut and gumption not to have pursued finding her before now. After all, how old is Social Media already? That lesson we’re all taught, time and time again, of not waiting for inspiration, but leaping now? How many more times do I have to lose someone without the chance to reach out, before finally getting that lesson through my thick skull?
I do realize I’m being very self-punishing right now. The news is only hours old for me. Perhaps I should’ve waited until I was in a better place to write here. Except that I simply could not wait another instant to share this footage, to celebrate my friend, to lift her up, and call her glorious. The bitter part of me says: “too little too late.” The part that is full of grace says: “look at this remarkable gem that you get to keep forever, of this time in your life, this love of your life.” I am grateful for grace. And I am forever grateful for this love of my life.
This is a memoir of sorts, of one of the most special friendships I’ve ever had.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
Try this. It takes nothing away from you. And, in fact, will actually add something quite substantial.
Get still. Get quiet. Breathe deeply. Slowly. Fully. Inhale to the very end of possibility. Exhale till there’s nothing left. Pay attention to the breath.
As you inhale, envision filling every organ and muscle with life-giving oxygen. And as you exhale, envision letting go of that which no longer serves.
And repeat.
Now take the next several minutes, this carved time of focused silence, to hold sacred space for peace and goodwill. And this is most important: With each prompt, take your time to live in silence with it, before moving on to the next one. Be with your internal rhythm.
First begin by wishing peace and goodwill on our most sacred of servants: Our teachers. Our mentors. Our gurus & spiritual guides. Our wayshowers.
And now, wish peace & goodwill on your family, your friends, your loved ones. You may think of them as a collective whole of your great body of love. Or if, in this instant, they are coming to you one by one, if they are floating through your consciousness in this way, take this moment to call their names out loud.
Next, wish peace and goodwill on your acquaintances. Your colleagues. Those whom you genuinely hold in regard and respect.
Wish peace & goodwill on those you may know by face, but not by name. The ones we run across in the neighborhood, weekly, daily. We may not know their story, but what we know for sure is that they experience the same struggles and joys that we do.
Wish peace and goodwill on every stranger who has passed your way. The ones you may never think of again after that initial encounter. Again, who knows what their paths and histories hold, or what private battles they may be waging?
Wish peace and goodwill on those you have never met. Those whom you have only read about in newspapers, who may live in a world so radically different from your own, who may very well operate under a different set of ethical rules and belief systems, who may seem so remote from your own everyday experiences that they are a bit of theoretical abstract in your mind. And then remind yourself that no human being is an abstract … unless we all are.
Next, wish peace & goodwill on those you might be inclined to label “enemy.” It’s a word full of hyperbole, and yet stunning how often we actually use it in daily language. I refer to those whose towards you sits heavy on your heart, and those toward whom you hold animosity. Those you feel you cannot trust, those who have harmed you in some way.
Next, wish peace and goodwill on those to whom you have caused harm. The ability to do this requires the stripping away of ego enough to be able to own your part. That can be a tough one. But the lure, the appeal, the reward is that it’s also the most liberating one.
Wish peace and goodwill on all living creatures. The two- and four-legged ones. The ones who fly. The ones who swim. The ones who crawl or slither on the ground. The ones so tiny we don’t even think of them as sentient beings. And then ponder how tiny we are in the scope of the infinite celestial constellations.
Wish peace and goodwill on our planet. The earth gives us life and sustenance. And all that is asked of us, in return, is that we treat her with reverence, keep her alive and thriving, and crucially shift our consciousness from living ON the Earth to living WITH her.
And lastly, wish peace & goodwill on YOU. Every one of us in this room honors and practices in our lives some measure of compassion and mindfulness within us. Let us never waver from our resolve to daily renew our agreement with the universe to BE that in the world.
We also hold within us injuries, blocks and stumbles, our particular baggage and dysfunctions that we all try our daily best to heal, and to forgive … at this time, wish those Internal Agitations … peace & goodwill.
Do not banish them to a corner for being less than mindful. Invite those agitations to a dialogue. Ask them to reveal to you what need they are feeding.
And then … listen.
With all that is going on in our world these days, it becomes clear that we have been severed from each other … even severed from ourselves. More than ever before, we need to raise the vibration by holding an eternal space of peace & goodwill for all of humanity.
Let us BE that Highest Vibrational Frequency. Let us be a trillion souls, clasping hands and forming a great net of souls* in order to hold an eternal, cradling space of peace & goodwill for all of humanity.
The writer Anne Lamott once said: “Grace always bats last. But finally, when all is said and done, and the dust settles, which it does, Love is sovereign here.”
Namaste.
* This powerful bit of sacred imagery is from the writer Tony Kushner.
Photo credit: Gregory Colbert
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
Well, here we are. We did it! And we got a 30-second-long earthquake as the celebratory party favor and noisemaker! Whoooo-hooo! (Those of you in the L.A. area know what I’m talking about)
In all seriousness, when I first started this, I asked a friend if he’d do the fast with me so that I could have a support system. He came on board enthusiastically, and so I want to thank Ross Wright for being so willing. He actually started a few days after me, so he’s still going at it. When I called him to check in on my last day, I told him he was free to stop if he wanted. And he said “no, I’m gonna see this through,” which made me smile. What I never realized, by blogging about this adventure, was just how much of an extended support system I would end up having. My running joke has always been that I wonder if Bindi Girl Chronicles even exists, if no one tunes in. You know, that whole bear in the woods things? Because I’ve tended to feel the presence of the wasteland here. Cyberspace can be a cruel mistress. So, imagine my surprise to discover a genuine rooting section, as I’ve peeled away each layer and each day. Some even feeling the inspiration to try something like this themselves. My heart is incredibly warmed and humbled by your presence on my quest. Which is why I shout “WE did it!” So, not only do I thank my friend Ross, I thank YOU.
Today has been a good day. Contemplative, as you might imagine. Wondering about all the shifts and changes, both internally and externally, physiologically and spiritually, overt and covert, instantaneous and yet-to-be-discovered, that may have taken place during this time of privation, fortifying, prostration, and inward-turning. It hasn’t necessarily been a quiet time. Especially emotionally. But it has been an astonishing time.
When I looked back today over all the blog entries of this journey, I wondered if the shorter entries were because I just couldn’t get inspired, perhaps was downtrodden that day. And then I realized that the size and length did not necessarily correlate with a good or bad day. Quite the contrary, some of my longest entries were about very taxing days. In fact, my shortest entry had been a peaceful day. All systems were go. The engine was running smoothly. And therefore, there simply wasn’t much to report. Then again, my most buoyant day beget the longest of the entries. No rhyme or reason, kind of like life itself, in all of its magnificent abstract and bebop free form.
Today’s juice was beets, beet greens, spinach, and cucumber. It tasted so lovely that I could almost picture it as a warm beverage for a cozy evening.
My meditation happened later in the day today, and the theme seemed to be compassion and equanimity. When I’ve referred in past entries to the “themes” of my meditation, I haven’t been referring to anything I’ve deliberately set out to ponder before I close my eyes. I close my eyes, and these issues, themes, lessons, whatever you want to call them, show up. Sometimes, no theme at all shows up, and I’m merely meant to quiet my head. But today, compassion and equanimity were definitely floating like a haze over me, and I know that I have been challenged in that area of late, so there’s no mystery as to why it would make itself present.
What have I been hoping for this observance of Lent to do for me? I think, slow me down a bit in certain areas of my life. Areas where beauties are missed, where stress and hyperactivity rule, where over there is more meaningful than right here. And in other areas I’ve been hoping to speed up, show up, get into action. Areas where complacency or fear have clinched my ankles and caused me great frustration and despair. Wanting to appreciate impermanence. Wanting to be made weightless by non-attachment to outcome, and to recognize the beauty and wisdom in creating for its own sake. Wanting to love exactly who I am, without judgment and chastening. Embracing imperfection, and finding that a little perfect. A tempering of narcissism. Having the ability to listen to and honor every voice and every story, and to really get that someone else’s isn’t rendered valid ONLY if I can claim the same experience. Center. Ground. Clarity. And letting go. And letting go. And letting so.
So, have I achieved any of that? Have the plate tectonics shifted at all? I guess I’ll see, as my life goes on and I operate in it.
But what I do know for sure, today, is that I’ve set a groundwork for ongoing self-tending and soul-tending. Let there be no doubt about it, I am on the precipice of profound self-awakening. I am completely geared for an embarrassment of riches. I find beauty in everything. And I express my gratitude to the Source everyday. The tools are in place. So bring it on. Whatever it is. The blessing and the challenge. I am ready for the responsibility of my Buddha mantle.
Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light comes in.
― Leonard Cohen
Here’s wishing us all vigilant healing and constant transformation.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
Why didn’t I think to post pics this entire time! Today is quite possibly the most energetic day I’ve had in some long time, so I’ve just been bopping around my house juicing and taking pics like a madwoman. But I’ll only inflict this one on you.
My yummy watermelon and ginger from yesterday just HAD to have a revisit today.
Especially after the disappointing green batch I made this morning. Here I am on Day 9, when all experiments should’ve been perfected by this point, and today’s was the least palatable batch yet. AND, I was stuck with it, because today I worked my office job, took my jug o’ juice with me, and my sippy cup, and hadn’t bothered to do a taste test before I left home. I wouldn’t exactly say it was vile; it was just really pungent and bitter. It was more of the dandelion and chard from yesterday, which are pretty bitter greens anyway, but I’d already successfully used that combo, so it must’ve been just an unfortunate ratio of the greens with my apples and lemon. In any case, each sip was met with a grimace, but it’s all I had to fuel me for the day.
Thankfully my boss came to the rescue with some pineapple slices she had, and a blender, and I got the chance to rescue the rest of the batch. Thanks, Karla!
So you can see my need to come home to a wine glass filled with… (any other time in my life, that sentence would be finished with “a nice cab”)….my watermelon elixir.
Okay, I lied, here’s one more pic. Man, I have a lot of energy right now. Hyper, party of one! My little Zen girl certainly has a thing or two to teach me about meditation, doesn’t she? Look at that focus. Yeah, I’m pretty hyper.
In all seriousness, my meditation this morning was a doozy! It seemed to ring with themes of forgiveness. But I was a good long way into it, as I wondered whom I needed to be forgiving in my life, or whom I’m needed to be asking forgiveness from, before I was suddenly hit with the dawning that the answer to both was ME. Forgiving myself the difficult realities about myself. We all have them, don’t we? Those pesky little “difficult realities.” We try to buff them up, better them, put a little spit shine on them. Or we try to tuck them away and pretend they aren’t there. We rationalize them, justify them, or we self-berate. But it really all comes down to this: We can transform, evolve, improve who we are, learn something new every day, open our hearts, practice compassion, and yet at the end of the day we are not perfect specimens. We aren’t designed to be. And so all of those rough edges, the warts, the fears and defenses that still insist on lingering there, even with all the soul work we may do….that’s where forgiveness comes in. That’s where we’re tested to see if we can love and embrace the shadow as well as the benevolent characters in our personal army. Because they all have a role to play in shaping who we are, and how we walk in the world. They all have a lesson to offer.
And by no means am I saying don’t do the work. We should always be working toward transformation. Just don’t forget the self-forgiveness. It’s a pretty powerful ingredient in the recipe. Without it, it’s kind of like my bitter green juice today …. something vital missing.
And finally to recognize that we’re always evolving, and so wherever we are on the path is the right place to be for that moment. That’s a HUGE one for me. A mountain. And not just any mountain. Everest.
So the work continues.
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.
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