How does one feel the fear and do it anyway?

That book didn't do it for me. There are SO many things I would do if I weren't scared. I'd move to a new place. I'd find a new job. I'd socialize more. I'd "network". It isn't as if I've never done these things before. Maybe I have just had enough over the years and need to regroup.

I keep on coming up with more material for a damned good stand up routine. Funny thing is, it seems like a commitment to even start with that. What is WITH me? I know I can write, too. People have told me I'm very good at it. So what's stopping me from getting on with the book I started?

Just rambling and bitching today.

Jewellery

I have too much jewellery. Never thought I'd ever say that. Too much jewellery that I have bought for myself. That and too many wallets. (With my ex-husband, aka "the bastard", it was always sunglasses; he could never have too many pairs. They weren't cheap either. At least my self-bought jewellery is understated.)

Myself; I can't resist buying leather, silver and stones. And Lapidary is one of my favourite words.

Every day I try to wear a piece of family jewellery. Something that was given to me by my Grandma or my Uncle, after my favourite Auntie's death. Or I'll wear the hefty silver bangle that my Mom gave to me; one from her parents that she never wore... that I love. Sometimes I wear my Michael's Mother's cameo that she gave to me the day before she died. Then when HE died I had a ring made with our two birthstones. And even that keeps me closer to him.

If, on any given day, I am not wearing one of these family downs or love links, I inevitably feel a little bereft. I definitely feel as if I'm remembering in a more comfortable way when I wear the garnet or rolled gold ring or the gold fob bracelet. How is it that these pieces work the same way scents do? The light airy quality of Oil of Olay takes me back nearly 40 years, right to my Grandmother's house. ('cept then and there it was "Oil of Ulay")

The feeling with jewellery isn't quite so immediate. But it is there nonetheless. I get taken back to the presence of people passed. I feel a bond with them that I don't feel I when I am without their treasures for a day.

It's a good way to keep people with me. And I sometimes wonder what will happen to all the associated memories when I die. they'll probably be replaced by new ones, won't they. New ones belonging only to my sisters, niece, nephew or nephew's spouse.

This is a large part of exact;y why I believe in "something" after death. Not only those memories associated with scent or pieces of stone and metal.... but all memories. I created them with perception and as long a I live, they are there. So why should they disappear when I am convinced that consciousness is not tied to this "mortal coil"?

God now I seem to be borderline plagiarizing Willy. It wasn't my intent.

Children are wiser than we credit them for.

CHILDREN
…. OR “OVERHEARD IN OR ON THE WAY TO THE BOOKSTORE”.

“You wanna hold my hand Daddy?”
“Sure buddy.”
“I love you Daddy.”
“I love you too Buddy.”


“No, stop. You have to wait until the little man walking lights up and THEN you can cross the road.”
“Ok.” ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
“I’m walking now. Now I’m WALKING. I am walking, yup. I AM WALKING! YESSSSS!”


We stocked some party games in the store where I once worked, as part of selection of by-line products. These games included but were not limited to things such as “Boob Juggling”. A great company named TopThat came up with these things and they sold extremely well. On one day which seemed somehow rather ordinary, I was delighted to hear an extremely excited voice from upstairs. It was a little boy’s voice.

“Hey Dad, Look! Drinking games!”
This was closely followed by a matriarchal bellow,
“We don’t need no drinking games! Put that back where you found it.”



Some men who come into stores with their wives and children can be real asses. They strut around telling their kids not to touch things. They “allow” their wives or children to purchase a book. (Well the books are placed meekly on the counter top and the father pulls out the wallet with a grandiose ceremony of seeming generosity and the family patiently waits.) I am quite serious here. I’ve seen it many times.

One man in particular actually made my “energetically aware” self feel ill as this routine was played out. He was Mr. Macho. Each child placed their book before me. The wife demurred. He strut his stuff and there was no doubt as to who wore the pants and so on.

“You just take funny money?” he asked, “Or real dollars too?” I explained that either would be fine.
“Would you like a separate bag for your book?” I asked one of the little girls. (Kids sometimes like that you see.)
“Oh, no thank you,” she said, “I don’t need a bag. I’m going to read my book in the car.”
“Oh, I wish I could read in the car.” I told her. “But I get sick if I do.”
“So does Dad.” She said.
Cost of the books? $58.73
Look on the Father’s face? Priceless.

Why does everybody clap when somebody gets the "Daily Double"?

There's lots more to my upcoming book but I'm not ready to post yet.

Oh, and why is it that there are traffic signs in certain neighbourhoods that read "Local Traffic Only"? What are they going to do? Give you a ticket if you're not "local" and you're driving in there? Jeez.

Oh, I should do stand up. Maybe in another life...........

Book Notes

When I was a little girl, I was good friends, not “best friends”, but good friends with a girl whom I will name Alicia. At the tender young age of eight, it seemed as if Alicia’s genes and environment had already kicked in somewhat and on one particular day, I saw first evidence of what was essentially her entrepreneurial personality.

It was a very hot musky day when I could smell dry grain in the air even though the closest farms were miles away from the suburbs. Sweltering and bored, my sister and I were at Alicia’s with her sister and a couple of our neighborhood buddies. Alicia decided that what we would do was form a back yard circus. She lined us all up and had us perform cartwheels, dances…. Anything that she figured would entertain. Under her harsh scrutiny, we all tried our damndest to be the best. Because Alicia was the most popular girl in school and if a person impressed her, then “hanging around’ with her was definitely an ongoing possibility. She was also “the boss” of any project we undertook. This was a given. Always.

About six of us, including mine and Alicia’s sister, sweat our buns off, performing contortionist moves that I can no longer at this mid point in my life, consider attempting.
After “practicing”, Alicia sent us out to spread the word that there was a back yard circus and to tell people it only cost 10 cents to watch. We all took off to do her bidding. She may well, at that point, have gone into the house and had a nice glass of Tang or something. We didn’t pay much attention. The circus performers we were, we went out and advertised ourselves. Within half an hour, dozens of kids from blocks around were gathered at Alicia’s house. The “performers” went into the back yard through the gate and Alicia stood at that gate and collected 10 cents from every child who had shown up. She pocketed it all and then directed the show as soon as all were assembled.

Alicia’s mom got wind of what was going on, yelled at her daughter and demanded that every cent be returned to those who had paid to watch us half dozen performers. Alicia did return all the money. She pouted, but she did it. Funny thing was, none of the kids who had paid their ten cents had been the least bit disappointed in what they had seen for their money. And none of us performers had demanded payment or thought anything out of the ordinary when being ordered about. Alicia, I now realize, had made herself a nice chunk of change by doing very little. It was a knack she had then and, as it turned out, maintained throughout her entire life.

I had none of those genes. None of the confidence or chutzpah to do what Alicia did. My “environment”, not nature nor nurture, nothing ever set me up to be an Alicia. That is why I ended up doing what it is I do.

I work my ass off in retail and provide top notch customer service; I go the extra mile every day. I go way above and beyond when it comes to my work. My work ethic may seem painfully overdone to an outside observer. I did not ever understand the phrase "do the minimum required". That is how I ended up working very, very hard to make money for other people. Perhaps Alicia set that in motion many years ago?

Much Much later................

It was not as if I never experienced inspired thought. I had many talents that I held dear to my heart and I knew that with some lack of fear and a little money, I could probably have cashed in on them quite easily. I, after all, had acquired my Mastery level in Reiki long before it was fashionable to do so in the local area. I had all of that knowledge and I was too scared to put myself out there and teach or even do mobile Reiki treatments with my portable massage table. I read “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway” and couldn’t do it anyway. I was frozen because by the early 2000’s, I had convinced myself that there was a community of Reiki people in our local area which represented all that had gone wrong with our small town growing in leaps and bounds and destroying the atmosphere that had once been so comfortable for me.

It was the same old thing. At one time, everyone had known everyone in town. Main street was once a wonderful place lined with little mining town houses and a couple of small businesses. The town was now a playground for the weekenders who had turned the place upside down. Upper end boutiques lined main street; places in which I could never afford to shop. It made me feel robbed. Reiki was now practiced by a group of elite in which I in no way belonged. They had a “monopoly” on it which was, I thought, incredibly sad.

So why did I stay when so many other original residents had left? I think I did it because I refused to be driven out. I survived the rental increases and penny pinched instead of moving to a place where the cost of living was more manageable. I wasn’t going to let the new breed of people drive me away. You will no doubt hear me refer to “little town” and “big town” from here on in. “Little” was what I remembered so fondly and “big” is what came later and exists now.

Oh., I was writing about inspired thought, and my talents. I had a great love of editing, proofreading, and writing letters. I had once had a column in the local paper. And I had written some great letters which elicited excellent results, whether it had been from the local or regional newspapers or the Government of Canada. I was a heck of a letter writer and I loved being able to help others get their points across also. Once, when I lived in the little town, where a home business license only cost $20.00 per year, I did have a little business called “Letters Ink.” I put my old DOS programs to good use, then, coming up with letters for business men and resumes for young people. But then the newbie’s came in and after 10 years, the cost of a business license had increased to $250.00. As all the other expenses in my life had increased by the same such “Leaps and Bounds”, I could not put together the money required.

One of the most enjoyable positions I ever enjoyed as a martyr to my work was employment as an unlabelled, middle management doormat who worked in bookshops. Lots of responsibility, little pay and many, many headaches. I loved every minute of it. I had heard so many times that there is a book in every job. And this is so true that I am perpetually surprised at how long it took me to realize I should write this one…. particularly when my “job” involved working in bookshops for 20 years.

“Is there a ‘love interest’ in your book?” People ask me. I tell them that as far as love goes, I’m like a plant that hasn’t been watered for what seems like forever. But that is neither here nor there. I married myself to my work.

Why did I remain working for piddling wages? I mean beside the fact that I’d have surely stayed in book shops as a hobby after winning some lottery. I loved working with books and people. But it certainly didn’t make me wealthy. I was divorced and over 40 years old but I refused to run away.

The number one factor required for working with people in a gratifying manner, within a tourist Mecca, is compassion. It was something I always had and that I found sorely lacking in others. I was less likely to laugh out loud at the silly questions posed by traveling public. But I wrote them all down anyway, hoping that one day they would help me to write a book. Maybe this will start me off..................