I have at least a dozen posts waiting in my draft file.  I must have opened one every week for the past month or so, but the inspiration to edit and publish one of them just wasn’t there.

I had become so attached to the perfection of the archive feature, that I was committed to post something, anything just to ensure that every month since October of 2009 is accounted for.

Okay, and now that self-imposed agenda is over.

December of 2011 is gone.  The deed is done.  There is no recognition, trophy, or perfect attendance reward for a writer who has not missed one consecutive month posting an article on her website.

Imagine that.

Happy new year, my friend.  May you find peace and happiness in letting go of all the things in your life, big or small, that just don’t matter:)

I was home from college for the weekend and all I wanted to do was sleep.

The scratchy wool rug on my sister’s hardwood floor was not a deterrent.  I tucked my arms underneath my chest, cradled the side of my face within the palms of my hand, and willingly surrendered myself to slumber.  I was making the full commitment, allowing myself to drift effortlessly within that magical realm where consciousness is suspended.  Physical awareness was yielding itself to the soothing waves of relief that were beckoning,

beckoning,

beckoning me,

ever so gently,

toward the glorious sea of tranquility…

“Ahhh…”

…And then there is something, somewhere, within this ethereal state of bliss that feels mildly incompatible.  It begins as a slightly foreign sensation, fluttering somewhere near the fringe of what I vaguely recall to be my right ear.  This curious signal audibly rises, producing a rather persistent disturbance, until I manage to register the intrusion of another human being.  A miniature voice releases a soft puff of graham cracker breath near my cheek, and I am finally able to discern the lyrics of the chorus that was now ringing through my head.

“Aunt Jilly,… Aunt Jilly,… Aunt Jiiilleeee…”

I have no recourse but to re-enter the world of the living.  My retreat into dreamland has been successfully thwarted by a pack of toddlers.

“Ugh.  Remind me to never have kids,” I vow in silence.

Sesame Street had just ended.  Currently, this was the one and only television show that my sister allowed her preschool-aged children to watch.  Twelve-hour broadcasts of Nickelodeon Junior and recorded episodes of Blue’s Clues were nonexistent.  Satellite television was science fiction.  None of us knew what a DVD was.

Had today’s technology been available, I suspect that my sister’s list of approved programming may have been more lenient.  As it was, Gen had a good bead on what, when, and how much media exposure to prescribe for her kids.  “The Electric Company” had not yet made the cut.  Leaving the television on for another twenty minutes or so (to let Aunt Jill catch some shut-eye) was not an option.

These were three smart, beautiful, well-behaved kids who promptly turned the television off during the final credits of Sesame Street…Because that’s what their mom had instructed them to do.

Splendid human specimens.  But I prefer to sleep, thank you very much.

Thirty years later with three grown children of my own, I obviously changed my mind.  Who needs sleep, anyway?

Parenting may be mostly instinctual, but I credit my sister Gen with the basic framework that I relied on to foster those instincts effectively.  Had it not been for the time I spent with Gen, (not sleeping), during her early years of  motherhood, I may have fumbled around for guidance and resources more than I ever felt like I had to with the Bean sprouts.

The great thing about being a grown-up is that you get to choose what feels right and healthy in the nurturing of new arrivals.  It always felt right for me to follow Gen’s lead.  Patience, kindness, an abundance of humor, age-appropriate mindfulness, and an unwavering focus on the individual nature of each and every little person who chooses us for a parent…these are the basic ingredients of Gen’s “home” recipe that I chose.

Now when my twenty-year old son tells me that he loves me, out loud, or my twenty-four year old daughter wants me to join her for a drink at the local pub, or my seventeen-year old baby brushes the side of my hand to hold it while we’re waiting in line at the store, I feel content with the decision to waive my right to sleep when they were much younger.

Thanks, Gen.  I may have tweaked the recipe when needed and incorporated a few substitutions, but I stuck with the basic ingredients that you gave me.  Your concoction has allowed me to foster a few of the best damn people on the planet…right there next to yours.

Congratulations, Grandma Genevra.  The fool-proof recipe continues:)

Boundaries blurred

Whispers heard

Be mindful of your spoken word

Let not intention be recanted

From seeds once planted

Requests be granted

Equals only be enticed

Review the guest list once or twice

Then light the candles

And fire up the blender

‘Tis no better night for wishes rendered!

His name was Duke.  I remembered the name so suddenly that it surprised me.  I wasn’t counting on coming up with a name while recalling a scenario that occurred over 25 years ago.  But there it was, right out of the blue, having no significance whatsoever to the memory of what had actually transpired.

Duke.

We were sitting around a picnic table placed on a small grassy island in the middle of a vast concrete parking lot.  Someone decided that this was the ideal spot to hold a staff meeting.  It was a warm summer afternoon just two short weeks before we were scheduled to open.  Most of us were seasoned in nightclub operation and development, so the recent construction delays and increased work hours were expected.  What we had not anticipated was the unusual amount of resistance from a neighboring homeowner’s association.  There’s only so many community meetings you can facilitate while you have five thousand other items of business to attend to.  With our public relations skills to the test and stress levels in overdrive, our general manager thought it prudent to invite a motivational speaker to meet with us.  And so here we were.

Had the acronym written on the board before us been the least bit impressive, I suppose I would have remembered it.  I only remember that the letter “E” represented the word “elan.”  This seemed to be the word that Duke was having an issue with.  He kept interrupting the presentation to ask for clarification on the word.

The rest of us might have had a sense of bewilderment with this word, also, but we were too preoccupied with our own agendas to admit it, much less care.  I remember thinking that I had shit to do, and that this stupid gathering was just a waste of precious time.

I watched with mild amusement as Duke persisted in returning to the subject of “elan.”  Sporting a Flock of Seagulls hairstyle, our guest speaker grew noticeably flustered, pushing up his carefully turned shirt sleeves and adjusting the end of his belt to hang just-so over the front pocket of his pleated linen pants.  He shuffled his sock-less, leather slip-on clad feet back and forth while attempting to articulate his thoughts.  It became rapidly clear that he actually had none.

The pirate had outwitted Miami Vice.

In 1985, spandex frequently passed for business attire, particularly if you worked in the nightclub industry.  While women resembled Madonna’s Material Girl and guys wanted to be in The Breakfast Club, Duke kept his long hair in a ponytail, wore an untrimmed beard, and rode his motorcycle to work.  With his boot heels perched on a overturned milk crate, he rested his folded arms comfortably over the ancient jean jacket covering his flannel shirt.  This man would never follow a trend.  Amidst a sea of desperate wannabes, Duke was a rogue.  He was Jack Sparrow decades before we had the name.

Some twenty-five years later, I suddenly appreciate the manner in which Mr. Miami Vice’s well-planned motivational presentation had been derailed.  Back when words like “proactive” were used by everyone for subjects other than an acne solution, I realize now that I had the rare pleasure of witnessing a display of genuine individualism.  Spirited self-assurance is a state of being.

When I think back upon that one summer afternoon, it occurs to me now that Duke was already living his personal elan.  He was either fascinated with the notion that someone thought it could be defined by one word, or more likely, he simply knew that it could never be communicated with language, so he simply found it entertaining to watch someone try.  In any case, the memory will certainly remain entertaining for me.

Thanks, Duke….wherever you are.

What is an epiphany, exactly, and when the hell do I get to have one?

Water was sloshing from every surface of my shoes, including the spongy soles of those stupid gel inserts which, until now, had never given me cause to wonder just how many gallons of liquid they were capable of retaining.  Diligently running toward home seemed pointless now.  The alarming rate at which rainwater was streaming from the hem of my shorts should have been my first clue to abort this mad dash, but I had been clinging to the illusion that I could outrun the storm.  Once I dared to look up and take in the current weather conditions of the road ahead, the reality of my defeat began to register.

My route was veiled in billowing sheets of rainwater that were sweeping across the terrain in violent waves of wind.  An eerie approach of grumbling thunder rolled boldly along an expansive swath in the sky overhead, and I immediately heard another brisk crackle of electric energy somewhere in the distance behind me.  I paused to close my eyes.  Yielding the side of my face to a relentless pelting of raindrops, I allowed the full wrath of the storm to confirm the grim reality of my situation.  I get it now.  Storm wins.

I surrendered with a curt stomp in my stride, welcoming a brief distraction to marvel at the oddness of walking in water-logged shoes.  A heavy trudge through the downpour seemed an appropriate choice now that salvaging a remotely dry body part was absurd.

I was pissed.

I imagined my family members to be sitting, napping, or picking their noses somewhere within our comfortable and marvelously dry home.  Without the slightest concern for my welfare, it appeared as if no one would be making a rescue attempt.  Not a single one of the warm and dry vehicles that were parked in our driveway were being manned for a heroic recovery operation, nor did it seem that anyone would bother to call and inquire about my current location within the storm.

Like my long-distance runs, severe afternoon rain events are common enough that I can usually depend on receiving a brief text from home.  Most of the time.  This time they forgot about me.

“Fine.  So I’ll just call them,” I declared.

Malicious intention would be the driving force behind the hefty dose of guilt that I was fully prepared to deliver.  Woe to any unsuspecting loved one who may answer my call.  Now if only my phone would have been the least bit cooperative, then a ’someone-get-off-their-ass-and-save-me’ directive might satisfy a burning desire to express my outrage.  Apparently cradling a phone underneath the palm of my hand during a powerful rainstorm merely provides the ideal environment for an electronic instrument to go completely haywire.  This feeble attempt to shield my only communication device from moisture had failed miserably, and now it was taunting me with senseless voice commands and erratic call options.

My phone had become part of the conspiracy to ignore me.

The need to blame someone for my predicament smoldered as my head filled with contempt for the world at large.  It sucks to be soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and trapped underneath an endless waterfall of wind and rain where any progress toward relief seems nonexistent.  One pitiful thought evolved into a network of problematic scenarios, until the general perception toward my life experience seethed with unanswered appeals, patterns of hardship, and inevitable adversity.

Jeezus.

Clearly it only takes one goddamn rainstorm to incite a Law of Attraction Pity Fest for one irritable witch.

So now I know that.

Were this my one and only epiphany, I could easily end my story here, adding to the never-ending notes that mere mortals gather regarding habitual thought patterns during times of misery.  If it only takes 17 seconds of consistent thought to attract more like it, then being stuck in this damn rainstorm became the perfect venue for me to wrack up multiple intervals of emotionally-charged blueprints.  This is how it works.  Find yourself within a shitty experience, notice the hell out of it, dwell on it some more, inject with appropriate feeling, and ensure the successful creation of many more similar disappointments in the future.

No revelation there.

If any battle-weary witch could comprehend the theory of redirecting her thoughts, she certainly could put a little effort into the practice.

Cold, bitchy, and mad at the world, I squeezed my eyebrows together and stopped abruptly.  Be quiet.  Stand still.  Let the pouring rain fall upon thee.  It’s just water.  I’m already drenched in it, so what did it matter now?  Candid inventory availed a few basic conclusions: I wasn’t exactly in peril, I know that I am not wicked enough to melt, and though massive amounts of rain continued to descend from the sky, the distant thunder rendered me relatively safe from electrocution.  All I really needed now was a mood change, and the only person available to provide this would be me.

I considered removing my shoes.  The wonder of walking in one-hundred pound footwear seemed more appealing than having to carry them, so I tucked my aquatic phone inside the saturated waistband of my shorts and held my duty-free palms out in front of me.  Pellets of rain swept through my fingers in a curious rhythm as I raised my arms out to my sides.  Surrendering my sense of touch to the full force of nature’s shower massage, I allowed cool sheets of water to relax my neck and shoulders, while the wind at my back prompted me to move shamelessly forward through the downpour.

This was it.  This was my epiphany.  This is what it feels like to walk underneath a waterfall.  It could be water, or it could be anything.  Whatever it is, this is what it feels like to be in the midst of its limitless abundance.  It was as if I had no choice but to choose it.

Now every time  I find myself entertaining the notion that there isn’t enough of something, I remember that goddamn storm.  It turns out that there is no lack of anything but the desire to change one’s perception.

On a side note, turns out that no one in my family actually forgot about me that afternoon either.  Apparently, no one even knew that I was out there.  Failure to communicate before leaving the house aside, as well as obtaining a noteworthy epiphany because of it, did not, however, prevent me from satisfying latent traces of bitchiness.  I managed to briefly mask the recent euphoria that I discovered while walking home through that storm by pounding up the stairs of our front porch in my nine-hundred pound shoes, if only to delight in the act of firmly pushing the doorbell button repeatedly until Durwood appeared in his groggy “I was asleep on the couch” state.  Looking simultaneously bewildered and mortified was shamelessly gratifying as I asked him if someone could please bring me a goddamn towel…

This final act of contempt is now a mere remnant of worn-out patterns which no longer serve, only a fleeting and temporary moment of fruitless pleasure that cannot sustain a promising future, nor could such bitchiness ever compare to one’s true epiphany within the storm.

Watch yourself, sister.

Should you dismiss that vaguely familiar shitty feeling once again, your role in this recurring drama is destined to continue indefinitely.

Hold still for a moment.

Take an objective view of the scenario that you have found yourself drawn into.

Notice anything?

Ah, there it is.  Now you see it.

It is painfully obvious that once again you are the

Last

One

Standing

While everyone else has abandoned the one who is in constant need.

Again.

Positioning yourself for sainthood, are you? :)

Or, perhaps you are simply afraid to be perceived as heartless, selfish, merciless.  Perhaps you are blindly committed to live up to someone’s definition of a true friend.

And yet if this behavior is so noble, why do you experience a feeling of doom whenever this one particular name appears on your caller i.d.?

I’ll tell you why.

It is because without even having to retrieve the message, you already know that it will contain yet another desperate plea for salvation from her perpetual hell.

You realize that you are ultimately unable to save her from a world that she has deemed unjust, but you have dutifully continued in your attempt to assuage her hopeless saga.  You provide comfort when there is no one else she can turn to, compassion when there is no one else who can understand her struggle, and assurance when there is no one else remaining to answer her cry for help.

When did that stop feeling rewarding for you?

When did that start to feel shitty?

Was it last week?  Last month?  Last year?  Or was it during one of the several million times before this when you answered her call to no avail?

And now here you are.

Again.

There has been no change in her dire circumstances.  There has been no change in her perception of the world.  There has been no change in her inclination to drain the energy from the resources of your open heart.

Change, my friend, has at long last come for you.

I commend you on your willingness to recognize the unsettling sense of futility you experience every time you answer her call.  Fearless inventory of your emotional response is a testament to the decision to be true to yourself.  When it comes to a chronic friend-in-need, ‘tough love’ may be a theory that offers self-preservation for a so-called savior; and yet the practice of said theory can be heart-wrenching.  When you are conflicted with your obligation as a dutiful friend, only you can determine the best course that will provide inner peace throughout your continued expansion.

Congratulations, sister.  To walk away is often the simplest way to say “I love you.”

Who the hell is in charge here?

I am.  You are.

At least, we are supposed to be.  If only we could accept this truth without those pesky human belief systems, we might reclaim our birthright to consistently call the shots.

Any well-trained and clever witch would remember that it is she who sets the tone for her life experience.  She would naturally develop her thought patterns to reflect this truth.  She would fashion her intentions and behavior accordingly, knowing that it is she who ultimately holds the power to determine each and every outcome within her life experience.

And yet does she believe it?

Ah.

That, my friend, is the one question in which we share our skepticism toward whether or not creative control is truly in our hands.

Well, welcome to earth.

It is here where we are systematically conditioned to believe that there is, and always will be, a force that is greater than ourselves who decides our fate.

With six billion residents occupying our physical plane of existence, it certainly makes sense that any one individual would seem an insignificant speck in an endless sea of influence.  Common sense suggests that no matter what we do, there will always remain a power greater than ourselves that is in control.

Acts of God, ploys of Satan, and popular terms such as “fate” and “destiny” are used to explain circumstances over which we appear to have no control.  Eventually, this stuff sounds pretty damn good.  When in doubt, we need only to look upon the wisdom displayed on our bumper stickers.

“Shit happens.”

..And in the grand scheme of things, it appears that shit would occur regularly.

What is a witch to do?

She could admit that shirking full responsibility for every shitty circumstance in her life has been rather convenient.  Why take full ownership of your life experience when it is socially acceptable to pass the buck to a supreme being?

It is only when she no longer wants to believe that her destiny is determined by a power greater than herself that she can begin to recover her birthright to creative control.  A conscious decision of this magnitude may be determined immediately, and yet a genuine belief in one’s sovereignty is a process subject to one’s acquired level of human resistance.  Ingrained traditions based on thousands of years of religious explanation are some mighty tough nuts to crack.

There may be infinite ways to position a firm grip on the nutcracker, but none so intriguing as the ability to question authority.  After what may feel like a lifetime of assigning responsibility to a higher power, the process of reclaiming creative control over one’s destiny may begin with a simple inquiry.

Of course, it defeats the purpose to acknowledge one’s sovereignty by engaging in conversation with a perceived superior entity.  But if “I am God, also,” then a familiar little exchange between myself and myself would be perfectly sane:)

Besides, should a witch be so inclined to initiate an effective transfer of power, posing a relevant question to Oneself may hasten the unraveling process of a tightly-wound belief.

She may start with something general, such as, “What is it, Oh-Great-One, that you have in store for me as my greatest good?”

In which case, she might clearly hear the splendid truth.

“I don’t care,” God said. “You decide.”

Well, thank the gods for second chances.

Most occupations that uphold a reputable track record regarding safety require some manner of assessment for employees.  It is only appropriate that I would be expected to demonstrate some notion of what the hell I am supposed to be doing in my new job.

After a five-day crash course in a position for which I have had zero prior knowledge, my first evaluation turned out to be exactly that.  A big, fat zero.

Failure to recognize and formally acknowledge a potential hazard, regardless of whether or not it was covered in training, apparently constitutes an instant red “X,” meaning “you fail.”

So now I know that.

The designated score keeper’s nerve-wracking, highly audible huffing and puffing that was delivered incessantly over my shoulder before, during, and after the official “I’m failing you” episode was an exceptionally delightful supplement to the evaluation.  Because, of course, the self-inflicted tension that I had been experiencing all morning was not stressful enough.

Jeezus.

Never mind that I was studiously completing an itemized check list that might as well have been written in Arabic.  Never mind that my confidence was steadily rising as I focused on the actual nuts and bolts of the procedure.  In spite of the excessively long exhaling sounds that were streaming over my shoulder, it appeared that my brain had finally begun to address the task at hand.  All of the details that two separate (and extremely knowledgeable) trainers had shared with me over the past five days were beginning to click.

I was reveling in a few glorious and sure-footed minutes of “I can do this” when the moment was abruptly thwarted by a disturbing perception that something was horribly wrong.  It was then that my brain registered the “I’m failing you” ceremony that was being conducted on my behalf.

What.  Just.  Happened.

Previously informed that I was restricted from posing any questions once the initial evaluation commenced, I had quickly surmised that my assigned adjudicator prefer that this policy include barely speaking to me at all.  Adapting to this unnerving silent treatment had consequently placed my sensory perception within a state of heightened alert.  Therefore, I experienced no lack of comprehension when the rare and curt phrases that were being directed toward me had suddenly shifted to pronouncements about me.  Even without an inkling toward the exact nature of my heinous crime, it had become painfully obvious that I had done something horribly wrong.  The “I’m failing you” festivities continued in full regalia while I merely remained in awe over my unexpected initiation into the “cut off at the knees” club.

Damn it.

I must have stood there in bonehead mode for an eternal minute before I could recover some ounce of wit.

“It is what it is,” I said to myself.  This seemed the mature option over breaking down in tears.

While my livid scorekeeper was completing her dramatic pronouncement to a supervisor on the phone, I took an inventory of myself and my immediate environment.  The sizable lump that had materialized within my throat was threatening to incite an impromptu cry-fest.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Then I sensed the presence of the kind and pleasantly human trainer who had been at the scene simply observing the latest segment of this harrowing ordeal.

“Oh god.”

As the heaving scorekeeper hung up the phone prepared to address me directly, I choked back that goddamn lump, made a conscious effort to avoid any and all eye contact with the nice guy standing directly behind me, and proceeded to feign my best inquisitive expression.

When at last she revealed the cause for my immediate failure, all I could think was,

“That?

That was it?

That’s what you’re failing me for?!”

While she offered her reasoning as it had been acquired primarily through her time served on-the-job, I did not question her authority to use my ignorance regarding this information as a measure of my overall incompetence.  At this point, I was just damn relieved to be spoken to as a fellow human counterpart.

It wasn’t until after I consumed my second bourbon later that evening when I was able to conclude that occupational proficiency and effective training skills are mutually exclusive.

I am a grown woman with a bachelor’s degree, graduate school work, licensed certification, and years of experience in my former field of study.  I worked my way through school waiting tables, tending bar, and managing a full-service wait staff before earning the position of marketing director for the corporation that owned and operated several establishments.  I raised three children of my own, assisted with the full-time care of my sister’s, and currently serve as a vested partner and client liaison within my husband’s construction company.  I’m confident that I would have retained the significance of the potential risk factor that was introduced during the morning of my evaluation without having to receive an emphatic failing grade in order to do so.

Then again, the inclusion of senior-ranking members among a training and management staff does not necessarily imply that these individuals also possess high-ranking people skills.

So now I know that, too.

Oh, and the kind and pleasantly human trainer?  Being witness to the unfortunate events that transpired during my first evaluation, this honorable soul had meanwhile gallantly secured a position as the assigned ’score-keeper’ for my second-chance assessment. Well-equipped with job experience and stellar people skills, his presence throughout the subsequent testing phase resulted in none other but a smooth and successful “passing” grade, which hence forth, has earned him the title of Jesus Christ.

For any witch who thinks that she has fulfilled all the necessary requirements in order to manifest one of her deepest desires…and yet the damn thing still has not happened, well, what is there to do?

Brood?

Always a first choice, brooding remains my knee-jerk reaction to the absence of something in my life that I want.  When it’s something that I really, really want, it seems practically impossible to focus on the place within where I won’t care, or notice, that I do not yet have it.

Impatience seems reasonable, even justified. After all, did I not do all that is required to have this thing in my current experience?  What the hell?

A familiar tune it is, indeed.  “It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming….where is it, where is it, where is it?…damn it and damn it and damn it…!”

Therein lies the problem, in which a clever witch might remember if she were not thinking so much.  We all know that a watched pot never boils, but try removing your focus from the pot when you really, really want that goddamn water to boil.

Most of us are aware that, in theory, distraction is the logical solution to avert an overactive mind from focusing on the absence of something.  Applying this theory in practice is an ongoing challenge.

A consumed brain that is charged with intense desire and sheer will is not so easily distracted.  This is like trying not to notice a throbbing headache.  The overdose of Excedrin that you threw down your throat ten minutes ago is proving to be useless.  Currently, there appears to be not even the slightest bit of relief from the invisible, freakishly large rubber band that has somehow been tightly wound around your head.  Exactly how does one go about not noticing that?

The possibility of distraction seems ludicrous.  It is the nature of theory and practice at its best.

So here’s an idea.  I recently discovered that the issue of distraction can be forced, in the sense that “fire” is fought with “fire.”  It may be one thing to attempt the steering of your mind away from whatever it is obsessed with by exploring other subjects, but forcefully plunging your mind into any avenue that requires a level of accountability is the real deal.  This is the theoretical “distraction solution” that really works in practice.

A powerful mindset that is fueled by intense emotional direction has no other choice but to follow your lead.  Our mind is a perfectly designed and rightly arrogant task-master.  Once you give it something to focus on, and feed it with emotional “energy bars,” it will continue to perform superbly.  The adage, “can’t get my mind off of it,” is a true reflection of the nature of the beast.

When the mind is focused on the absence of something in your life that you really, really want, then the absence of your desire will surely remain as constant as the mind’s superb ability to keep enforcing this reality.  The more you want it, the more you notice it isn’t here.

Once-a-week pottery class is not going to distract your mind from the emotionally charged task that you have bestowed upon it.  “Oh-what-a-nice-bowl-I-turned-out” is really not going to dissuade the beast from remembering that your publisher still has not called.  Pleasure reading, hiking, running, relaxing with music, or taking in a good movie are notable methods to relieve the mind, but they are merely temporary.  In time, they may add up to pose a worthy respite from the incessant observation of that “thing that you want and do not have yet,” but impatience reigns the ultimate spoiler at the end of the day.

If the subject you have chosen to distract the mind with does not include a level of accountability, something along the lines of community art class will do nothing more than succeed at keeping the monster mildly amused for about, mmm.., maybe one minute.  After the beast smirks at your stupid pottery bowl, it will surely turn right back to its constant vigil regarding the still-to-be-heard-from publisher.

Fine.

There is not anything that a beast loves more than a suitable challenger.  Choose to study another subject of interest that requires incremental testing toward some form of certification.  Any level of genuine accountability forces the beast to perform.  It wants to.  It has to.  This is what the beast is designed to do.

Instruct the mind to learn how to fly a plane, navigate a boat, drive a bus, or even create an inventory of pottery for a scheduled art show.  Provide the beast with something, or anything that requires a form of accountability.  There are endless possibilities to choose from in any area of study that piques a personal interest.  The mind’s responsibility to inspire the world through one small abstract design that you have painted on a bowl of pottery one night in class simply cannot hold a candle to the responsibility of something like, oh-let’s just-say, keeping a plane from crashing to the ground with you and another live human being on board.

Qualifying as a worthy distraction, a subject that requires any form of genuine accountability will most certainly challenge the beast.   In fact, this method of theory-in-practice may be so successful in redirection that the beast may not even be capable of providing you with immediate assistance should you need to, I don’t know, maybe recall the publisher’s name on the weekend when he does actually return your call:)

Armed with bullet points on an index card, even a timid mind can express intention clearly.

Well, most of the time.

I’ve had my moments.  Predetermined lines of reason fly out the window if nervous energy makes an untimely entrance.  With a potential to spread like wildfire, unchecked emotions will overpower a well-rehearsed delivery before a witch can even register the words that are coming out of her mouth.  The content of whatever the hell was carefully written on those index cards vaporizes, rendering the original intent of a message to be lost under a heightened state of panic.

I hate when that happens.  The advice to employ any number of various relaxation techniques before you open your mouth should be considered.

For whatever reason we need to speak our mind, using our voice is a one way to get what we want.  I taught my kids to organize their thoughts into clear and concise bullet points before they expressed their desires to another fellow being.  Formulating precise statements that convey emotionally-driven thoughts improves communication.

I may have helped the kids find and use their words throughout the years, but it is my children who taught me the value of personal confidence, inner trust, and pure expectation to empower those bullet points with the positive momentum required if we are to manifest the desired results.

Kids.  We can only teach them what we know through our own experience, while they can usually remind us of the subtle energy differences that exist throughout our relationships between each other, as well as the Universe at large.  There’s a fine line between aggressive and assertive energy.  It took me awhile to get this.  Stubborn or blind, an aging witch can forget that she still has a thing or two to learn from her kids.

A person could earn a degree in communication and still not know how to talk to people, express their wishes clearly, or set their desires in motion.  Appropriate language that relies on carefully chosen words is one thing.  This is when those index cards come in handy to record applicable bullet points for future reference.  Almost like magic, recalling predetermined words minimizes the possibility of any unplanned emotional eruptions that may sabotage original intent.

It is one thing to know exactly what you want and practice expressing these thoughts with carefully chosen words.  It is quite another thing to believe that you can have that which the words describe.  Even the most carefully chosen declarations will lie dead in the water without a genuine belief in their fruition.  A speaker must first ascertain what it is that they are truly capable of achieving.

Only a complacent witch would skip that part.

Trust.  Confidence. Calm assertiveness.  These are the ingredients summoned to empower otherwise latent words with an ability to produce desired results.  I needed my kids to remind me of that.  This did not happen overnight, but only after years of observing the energy these young human hearts would use to surround the words that I had only helped them to discover.  Apparently there was good reason to keep them around all this time:)

Over the past few weeks, the Bean sprouts, as well as their aging parents, have been batting one thousand.  We are getting what we want through the use of effective communication.  Words that are fueled with desire are powerful, but desire that is backed with unconditional belief is life-giving.

Hence forth, may I only open my mouth after consulting the divine source within, remembering that the most effective way to speak one’s mind is to first be silent.  For only in silence can a chattering mind prioritize the heart’s belief in self.

Recalling the words I wrote on the index cards never hurts, either.