“The Poet With His Face in His Hands”
—by Mary Oliver

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need any more of that sound.

So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

So last week I had, what was for me, a bewildering array of successes; and this led not, as you might think, to celebration and delight, but to the worst throat infection I’ve ever had. I’m not kidding, it was BAD! It felt like someone had taken a wire brush, heated it so that it was red hot and was using it to exfoliate my tonsils. Worse, my uvula (hate that word)—anyway that thing that hangs down in the back of my throat got so swollen that it was just sitting on my tongue. I know! Gross, right? And it felt like—well honestly, it felt like constantly servicing a certain male appendage, which at times I don’t mind—but not without surcease. Frankly, the whole experience got me a little edgy. 

It also got me to thinking. How on earth could having some things that I’ve been working toward finally going right wreak such havoc within my own system? What the hell? 

Here’s what happened. Last year, I took a class on how to make video blogs from the incomparable Jessica Steward. One of the things we had to do was to make a video to post on our websites. So after much procrastination, I did that. I made a short one about how to get over procrastinating when it comes to creativity. This was last March. And then I procrastinated on posting it to my site because I couldn’t figure out how to do it and I didn’t want to ask for help because I felt like such an idiot, so I gave up. 

(Once you see the video, the irony will feel even deeper. If I could figure out how to link you to it, I would. But I can’t. See reason above. If you really want to see it, just click the damned button on my website!)

So anyway, I finally asked Jessica to help me post it last week, and the response from coaches was just nuts. It got shared and re-posted and in my world, was kind of a big deal. Suddenly, people I’d never heard of wanted to be my friends on facebook and were writing me these lovely emails saying how much they appreciated the video and how inspired it had made them. This was delightful; and also, it completely freaked me out. 

On the same day the video went out, an interview I did got posted about a cabaret that I’m putting together for a coaching summit that’s happening in March. Suddenly, there was all this buzz about the show. I had done a run through of it that week that and it had gone really well. All signs were that it would be a lovely experience for people to share. But instead of feeling excited and proud, I felt nauseous and sweaty. I couldn’t catch my breath. People were talking about splitting the cost for tables in the front row. I didn’t even know there would be tables up front, much less that you had to pay for! And don’t they know I might suck? Auugh!!! 

During the same time, I had 4 new potential clients call me in one day. I usually see about 3 clients in a week—I like keeping things easy and I like a lot of time to do creative stuff. Actually, I say I like a lot of time to do creative stuff, but what I really love is a lot of time left open wherein I could be doing creative stuff—but then use the time for dithering about how I should be doing creative stuff. I usually end up going to Target at these times and buying absolute essentials like cheese spreaders and soup tureens.

On Friday, when I got notice that one of the biggies in the business coaching world, Pamela Slim, whom I’ve never even met, had posted my video on her site, I had an absolute panic attack. Shallow breathing, shaking, sweaty palms, the works.

Having clearly lost my mind, I went and pried my 10 year old son, Anton, off of his video game and asked him to talk me down. This must sound weird if you haven’t met Anton. But—well, you’ll see.

I had a pad of paper so that I could write all of his nuggets down. It went something like this: 

Me: (whining) I’m nervous! I’m scared it won’t go well! (I was meaning the show; he thought I meant with new clients. Even though we misunderstood each other, I thought his answer was worth relaying for any coaches who might be reading this.)

Him: Well—you should just say it’s your client’s fault if your coaching sucks or if it doesn’t work. Just say they’re not doing it right. I mean—you’re just giving advice—if they take it or not, that’s their own business. Also—about being nervous, Mama? Don’t talk if you don’t have to. I notice that when you and I get nervous, we talk a lot.

Me: (whimpering) But what if the show is bad? What if I’m lousy?

Him: Remember the last Academy Awards with James Franco and—Oh, what’s her name…Oh yeah, Anne Hathaway. Well, they were CRAP onstage—but they still get work. They probably don’t even know if they’re crap. Some people won’t like your show. But some people will. I mean, some people even liked Bush. 

Me: What should I do if I forget words and lyrics? 

Him: Well—if you hear yourself saying stupid stuff, just say you did it on purpose. Lower their expectations. Say: “This might not be very good.” So if you suck, that’s okay, and if you’re good, they’re surprised. And if you forget words, just shorten the hell out of the speech. You’re an actor, you know how to improv, right? 

Me: (wailing) But what about songs? I can’t just improv songs!

Him: If you forget words, just keep on going. If you can’t get back, you skip to the end. Make sure you have a signal with Cassie (my accompanist) and skip to the end. And this might sound weird? But if I have hard assignments, sometimes I tape them to my pillow and just beat the crap out of them. You should do that with your script. Say: “I’m not afraid of you!”

Me: (fearful) What if people are jealous?

Him: If people are jealous, screw them! (I’m not sure he knows exactly what this means. He hears his granny say it. I say it too, but in the expanded "f" word version…)They came to see a play, that’s all! And Mama—you always say this stuff and it never happens. It’s always fine. You don’t actually need all this worry.

Me: What if it makes me uncomfortable to succeed and take a compliment?

Him: (rolling his eyes) Okay, we have two problems. One: That’s crazy. Two: Just say: “Okay, thanks. Now go away.”

He’d had a touch of the flu that day. He said: “Your whole person is like my stomach right now. Jumpy and worried about the future and not sure what will happen. But anyway, that should cover it. Just be frank, Mama. Frank but funny. Like I am with you.”

Tempting though it was, instead of throwing up, I got the throat infection. I’m doing some mind/body coach training with the amazing Abigail Steidley, and decided to ask my miserable throat directly what on earth was going on.

Its message was: Yes, feel the fear and give voice to it. But stop giving voice only to the fear. Also give voice to the exultation. To joy. To excitement and pride. Or your voice will be inauthentic. You’re not fear only.

I'm not fear only? Oh, right! I'm not fear only!! I forgot about that…

In coaching, we often say: Dare to suck. I thought this would only apply to trying something new that was hard. But—I guess it also applies to learning to succeed gracefully. This is not something I’m used to, this sort of success. This weekend, I totally sucked at it. But—it wasn’t bad enough to make me not want to try to succeed again. Maybe next time, I’ll only get the panic attack and won’t have to have the infection. I don’t know. But what the hell.

So here's the thing: I invite you to think of something in which you'd like to succeed. And then I’d like to invite you to not feel alone if you totally suck when you get the success. I’m here to tell you: getting what you want might be uncomfortable. Sometimes, it might not seem survivable. However, so far at least, it's…navigable.

[Can't see the video above? Watch it online!]

So the other day I was taking a piano lesson….

Huh? 

Yeah, I take piano lessons. This came about because my young son, Anton, wanted to take lessons, so we got him a teacher. And lots of times as he’d be practicing, I’d sigh and say: “Gosh, I wish I’d stuck with lessons when I was a kid. I’d love to be able to play now.”

And he’d say: “Well, you could still learn.”

And then I’d say the usual adult thing: “Well, I don’t really have time and it’s harder to learn as an adult and I’m a little afraid of your teacher…”

And this went on a couple of times ‘til he finally said, “Mama. You just became a life coach. You tell people all day long to follow their hearts and do what they love to do. If you don’t do that, do you know what that makes you?”

“….A big fat loser?”  I asked.

“No,” he said. “It makes you a hypocrite.”

Ahem.

So anyway, I was taking my piano lesson the other day and I was telling my teacher how much I really hate to practice. I hated it as a kid and I still hate it now. I told him—“I think it has to do with hating authority. If someone tells me I have to do something, I usually look and them and say, ‘Oh, yeah? Watch me not do it.’”

I laughed and looked around at my messy house.  “I think that’s why my house is as messy as it is,” I told my gifted teacher, Kelly.  “I hate doing things the way you’re supposed to do them. “

 But a little later, as I was rooting through the omnipresent piles of precariously stacked music, looking for a sheet of chord progressions that I needed, I sighed and said to the waiting (and luckily, patient) Kelly: “Sometimes I wish I could be a little more willing to deal with authority.  The lack of it in my life comes back pretty often to bite me in the ass.”

Well. I didn’t say “in the ass,” not to Kelly, as he’s a religious person and I didn’t want to offend him. But I thought it. And it did. It bit me in the ass AGAIN.

My lack of love for outside authority is bad enough. It had me at odds with my mom for years. But my lack of love for my inside authority is downright obnoxious.

It’s true. I hate even my own authority. I’ll think: “Gosh, I’d like to start eating in a healthier way.”  And my little authority hater goes: “Really?” And the next thing I know, I’m mainlining Twinkies. Or I’ll think: “It would probably be smart to try to get a routine going about work. Maybe write a blog at the same time every month or set particular hours to work.” And my hater says: “Yeah, let’s do that, right after we: go to the movies, go shopping, talk on the phone, go on Facebook…”  Whatever it is that isn’t work, that’s what my authority hater wants to do.

I can’t really blame her. I have to admit that on some basic level, authority sucks. Being told what to do and feeling controlled is something no human wants. Or anyway, the humans I try to control, i.e. myself, my husband and my kids all seem to hate it. But—it’s not that fun, really, to be fighting against myself all the time.

I came in the back door today after dropping my kids at school and thought: “I should practice”—and then immediately thought, “Yeah, right, piss off, authority. Who’s gonna make me?”— and right then it struck me that the word authority has the word author in it. Hmmmm. Well, that got me thinking.

Author. Writer. Creator. Someone who makes up stories or researches things that are true and then writes them down in a way that makes them interesting. Someone who creates stories just as she wants them to be. Someone who uses author-ity.

Well, I have to say, this gave me pause. Somehow, breaking down (what I perceive to be) the meanness and pettiness of authority into something who just takes ownership of creativity makes it a lot easier to think about working with it. I mean I do get to write my own story.  And I guess I can keep the one about the disorganized creative who loves writing, but never actually finishes anything. I can keep the story about the woman who wishes she could be healthier but can’t bear to have anyone (even herself) tell her how to eat a little better. And I can stay with the one who says an organized house is the mirror of a boring mind. But—I think I’d rather authorize a different one.

I don’t really know if I can do it, to tell you the truth.  To trust my own authority—well, it seems like a huge undertaking. I first will need to see what my own true desires are, for how can I be authoritative about something I’m not sure I want? Because trust me, being organized isn’t really a big desire of mine. But being able to find what I want when I want it would be great.  And—I really do hate to change the way I eat. But having more energy? That would be lovely. So, where is the change? How so I write a different story about my own author-ity?

As ever, when working with authority, I suspect it will take compromise. Authority says: “Clean your house!” The creative Author-ity says: “Just get your music organized. Who cares if the beds are made, as long as you can find the stuff you need every day?"  Authority says: “Practice the piano or by god, you’ll be in big trouble!” Author-ity says: “Wouldn’t it be cool to go fool around on the piano and get that one phrase right?”  Authority says: “You put that potato chip down right now, young lady!” Author-ity says: “Doing yoga would be fun.” Authority says: “You’re too old to keep wanting to act and sing! Give it up!” Author-ity says: “Bullshit.” (Okay, no compromise on that one.)

But—compromise on some of these smaller things might be a good place to start owning and trusting my own authority.  And look at that. Huh. I love it when this happens. See? Compromise holds promise in it.

That’s promising, isn’t it?

So I was talking to a friend the other day in the capacity of a coach (and just a quick word to the wise here…if you’re a coach and your friend wants to speak to the civilian you, for god’s sake, don’t suddenly morph into coach-speak.  I learned this one the hard way. From my husband. And my sister. And my mother-in-law and my neighbors. And a couple of friends. It takes me a minute to incorporate feedback, apparently.) Anyway, this friend really did want to talk to the “coach” me—and what was bugging her was the idea of making a decision concerning moving that she fears might make her life permanently, air-suckingly miserable.

Oh, decisions! Those nasty and seemingly impossible decisions! I’ve noticed this with a lot of people, myself included, this fear of making the wrong decision. It puts us all into terrible paralysis. Speaking for myself, the paralysis usually involves my whole body except for my mouth which keeps doing one of two things: frantically scarfing up sea salt and vinegar potato chips dipped in blue cheese dressing the vast quantities of which could actually eclipse the sun; or spewing complaints about how I have to make this really hard decision, but I don’t know what to do.  Yep. My mouth keeps plugging away while the rest of me sits there believing that whatever I do, it might be the wrong decision—-and the results of it might be so terrible that it could actually kill me. And—that there’s no going back. Once the decision is made, baby it is permanent.  So—certainly in the past, I have put off decisions and done nothing. Which is a decision in itself, since time has a way of marching forward, dammit, and doing nothing eventually amounts to making the decision to just sit there and not make a choice, which is typically when, to put it in technical life coaching terms, the shit really hits the fan.

In listening to my clients talk about decisions, the same thing comes up for every single one of them and for myself, too. Here’s the lovely thought: If I’ve made the wrong choice, I will be stuck with it forever and ever and ever, world without end, amen. 

Yikes. Such a terrible feeling, this fear that not only will you do the “wrong” thing, but then you’ll have to live with it and pay for it right on into eternity. Which will surely be spent in hell, because you’ve spent a lifetime making lousy decisions, so where else could you possibly end up?  No wonder so many of us falter.

Okay, now I have to tell you a little anecdote, because it ends with the best sentence on decision-making that I’ve ever heard.

I got married in 1993, and this was, for me, in my life, quite a surprise. I was not one of those gals who always wanted to be married. No. I had read The Women’s Room by Marilyn French when it first came out in 1979 and I was 15. A lot of it went over my head, but the central message was pretty clear: marriage is a slave state.

That may be a little extreme, but…I had seen a lot of marriages that I didn’t want to emulate, that was for sure. I wanted to be free to be an actor—and by the time I got married, I was getting a master’s degree in Feminist Theory, besides. Talk about confused. 

But—I also really loved my husband-to-be and felt like I was happier with him than without him. We decided to get married, but—frankly, I had a lot of misgivings about the whole thing. Not about him. Just about the state of holy matrimony.

We had a “destination wedding,” not that we called them that back then. We just wanted to get married in the beautiful town where we’d met, so we made everyone schlep up to Ashland, Oregon. It was a lovely night, the last day of April, (because we got married on May Day—as in “May-day! May-day! We’re going down!”)  (Also, our room number at our hotel was 911. Portents everywhere!), and we’d just had the rehearsal for the totally non-conventional ceremony (my sister Karen called it the “performance wedding pic-nic” and I think that pretty much says it all) and were wandering the streets back to our hotel. I had a splitting headache, was tense out of my mind and just wanted to drink. A lot. Many of my friends and most of my family were gathering; and for a person who was as co-dependent with the planet as I was at that time, this was about as much fun as having an un-anesthetized rectal exam. Also, my father was very ill and all of us were mourning my grandmother, who had recently died. Plus, let us not forget, I was knowingly submitting to marriage and all I thought that meant. How would I never have sex with another person? How would I keep from getting bored? How would I manage to be someone’s wife? What was I thinking???

It was in this state that I ran into my friend Dan and his girlfriend Anna, who had just gotten into town. Dan was an old friend from CalArts—Anna was his incredibly gorgeous girlfriend whom I knew less well. She was a self-described “JAP,” which was not on my cultural radar, Jewish American Princesses being as uncommon as, well, as real princesses in my rural-ish home town of Grand Junction, Colorado; she laughingly said it basically meant she was spoiled. She was also so beautiful that I often felt a little tongue-tied around her—my envy making me uncomfortable. She was from the east coast—far more sophisticated than I, and was working a lot as an actor. To say that I was jealous as hell of her would be gross understatement; but I really liked her, too. In fact, she was going to be helping me with my makeup the next day.

Anyway, I was in this pre-wedding wreck mode when we ran into them on the street. Dan gave me a big hug; but Anna just grabbed me, looked hard into my fragmented face, didn’t even say hello, but instead, in her Carmella Soprano-light accent said urgently: “There’s always divorce, Pussywillow!”

And there it is. The best sentence I’ve ever heard about decision making. “There’s always divorce, Pussywillow.”  I tell you, after I stopped my hysterical laughter upon hearing it, that sentence is what got me through my wedding. It’s what’s gotten me through 18 years of marriage. Not the idea that I want to divorce my lovely husband; but the idea that there’s an escape hatch. A change in plan is always an option. There is always divorce should one need it. I’m not saying it would be easy or without consequence or maybe even ex-communication. But it’s there. Once I remember that, I don’t have to act like a trapped maniac. This gives me great comfort. 

I have one friend who says: “I hate to make decisions because whatever I do will have tsunami results.” I think that’s a thought that bears some dissolving—and the first step for me in moving past a fearful thought like that is to realize that nothing, nothing is permanent. Change is always an option.  In fact, it’s inevitable. Try it next time you feel like a decision you make may put you in hell forever.  Remind yourself: “There’s always divorce, Pussywillow.”  And thank god for that.

Okay, so I’m nearly a month late with a sentiment that’s hardly original. And darn! One of the New Year’s resolutions I was toying with making was to be more on time. Well, you see how that’s going.

Actually, I was thinking a lot about this new decade and the idea of resolutions. Every year, I resolve not to make any stupid resolutions, and every year they seem to sneak into my brain anyway. Even though I don’t tell anyone my New Year’s resolutions any more, I still privately make them and then get publicly depressed when I don’t manage to keep them. Of course, they’re never things like: “be kinder to yourself”, or “have more fun.” No, no, part of the thing about New Year’s resolutions, it seems to me, is that they come out of some perverse need for punishment. They come out of not being happy as I am. So the voice in my head goes: “Lose 50 pounds!” or “Exercise every day!” or, my particular favorite,  “Stop being so hard on yourself and by god, if you don’t, I’ll REALLY beat you,”—which, come to think of it, is just a new twist on the age-old, “You stop crying right now, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”

Clearly, my inner drill sergeant has some mother issues.

But be that as it may, as I was ruminating about what I could resolve to do to make my life better, I got to thinking about the past decade. According to all the news magazines and radio heads—or anyway, Time and NPR which are my only sources of news, the decade between 2000 and 2010 was just horrific, epically disastrous on nearly every level. And I have to agree. Between 9/11, Katrina, Iraq, the BP oil spill, the Indonesian tidal wave, Darfur, etc. etc., not to mention the insidious rise of people like Paris Hilton, Sarah Palin and Justin Beiber, the whole decade seemed like one prolonged nightmare.

Except that mine wasn’t. 

Oh—it could have been.  I’m amazed, looking back, that it wasn’t a conflagration of the sort that the rest of the world was experiencing. Let me tell you how the decade began.

At the time, my husband and I were having an absolutely crappy time in our relationship. We felt completely disconnected from one another, each steeped our own separate misery. The holidays of 1999 had been lousy—we’d had 32 people over to Thanksgiving dinner that year, and the turkey was so big that the oven wouldn’t close, the result being that the turkey never actually got done. Was that also the year Albert and his mom had a fight during dinner? Maybe. We went to New York over the holidays, where my husband fell into deep regret about his career and sad nostalgia about the time he’d spent in that amazing city; and I fell into a deeper funk about my career or lack thereof. I solved all of this in the time-honored way of semi-alcoholics everywhere: I drank copious amounts of alcohol. I told myself it was only social drinking. Which it was if being home alone and killing off a bottle of chardonnay night after night is considered social. Good times.

Then came New Year’s Eve. We were spending it with friends in Santa Barbara who had an estate. They asked us to invite a bunch of friends up from Los Angeles, saying that our (actor) friends would make an interesting mix with their business friends. So a whole gaggle of us were up there for the weekend, just pretty much partying non-stop.  And my husband ended up…

…well, I won’t bore you with the details (although many of those details are salacious as hell and wouldn’t likely bore you—but—well, it all gets a little unseemly.)

The upshot was that my husband and I got to enjoy the opportunity to re-evaluate every single thing about our marriage. Which, as you know if you’ve ever been married, is just as much fun as repeatedly and deliberately slamming your fingers in  a car door. And not just any car. A big ol’ Buick.

During the aftermath of that tumultuous millennial weekend I remember saying to Albert: “The thing is, we’re both actors! We’re both totally addicted to drama. But—maybe we could find some drama in other things besides drinking too much, acting out and brooding over lost career opportunities. Maybe we could have drama in other ways. Like…maybe we could buy a house. Or travel the world. Or have a baby. Maybe we could get our drama from starting a theatre company or getting better jobs doing what we love. Maybe we could have the drama of having lots of money instead of the drama of always being on the edge.”

And you know what’s weird? We did every single one of those things. In the last decade, we somehow came to the conclusion (resolution) that the drama works better on the stage. Or rather, that you can still have tons of drama in your life that is all focused on stuff that’s actually fun and exciting instead of melancholic and destructive. And then—we made all of those things happen. It wasn’t really that conscious. I hadn’t actually realized it until I thought back about the decade. We’d actually done ALL of our New Year’s resolutions, just by finding our way back to each other and by changing our minds about the nature of drama.

I don’t know if that will work for global warming or for the general craziness of the world. But—I don’t know that it won’t, either.  The need for drama seems to escalate the need for argument, that’s for sure. Wouldn’t it be exciting if the world could re-think drama? Focus on the drama of everyone doing work they love for fair pay? But I digress…

So this year, my resolution is just to come up with more ideas of what will be fun. What will be exciting and dramatic for me? I’m making a list. And in 2020, I’ll bet a ton of it will have come true without me even resolving to do anything except keep moving in the direction of what I really love.

So go ahead, make your list. Just, for god’s sake, keep the crazy-making drama out of it! Aim for comedy, that’s my new motto. Or at least dramedy.  Here’s to fun drama. May we all create a whole decade—make that lifetime—of it.

They’re so—what?  Joyous? Hectic? Miserable? Confusing? As ever, it depends on your point of view. 

Here’s a little anecdote for you:

When I was in the third grade, I had a teacher named Mrs. Montgomery. She had been our neighbor before we moved to our new house, and by the second day of school, I was clear that there were two of her. There was Mrs. Montgomery, our friendly neighbor with the delighted caw of laughter that was akin to some strange sea fowl; and there was Mrs. Montgomery the teacher, one year from retirement, who had ideas about the rigidity of education that she’d no doubt learned in teacher training back in—oh, let’s say the Victorian Era.

But right before Thanksgiving, she surprised us by giving us an assignment that could sort of be considered fun. We were to have a little contest to see who could find the most words using only the letters in the word “thanksgiving.”

Well, this was right up my alley. I was good with words, but not much else. I was a tubby, bespectacled little child who got on well with grown-ups and knew a lot of the answers at school and wasn’t afraid to say them out loud. Did this make me a peer-friend magnet? Uh, no.  I was also a sad person much of the time, trying to make sense of the covert alcoholism that, at that time, went on at home; and trying to figure out how to be noticed in a gaggle of 3 older sisters, all of whom excelled at music, school and everything else, it seemed. I was often called by these sisters’ names both at home and at school. In short, I was often a chubby mis-named little puddle of despair.

I decided that winning this contest would somehow turn all these things around. I was desperate to be good at something, to be noticed, to be seen.  I began to make my list: thanks, thank, giving, tank, stank, ink, think, etc., etc., etc.  My 16 year old sister, Gretchen, came by and I told her what I was doing. She looked at the word for all of 2.3 seconds and “Didja get Viking?” she asked. Sheesh! “Uh…not yet,” I told her, secretly vowing not to use goddamn Viking. How did she see that so fast? 

By the day before the contest, I had 83 words. I’d had to include Viking, despite my jealousy, because Bruce Ward, our neighbor down the street and one block over, also had 83 words. It crossed my mind to let him win—I was secretly in love with him and had been since kindergarten, but even then I knew that I wouldn’t look like I’d made a sacrifice. I’d just look like the fat girl with glasses who came in second. And I just had to win. If only I could try a little harder, look a little longer, there had to be one more word, there just had to be…and then, suddenly, there it was. Eureka! 

I went running into the kitchen where my dad was making dinner. I eyed the ubiquitous bourbon and seven sweating by the stove; expertly, I took in his state and judged him to be sober enough to talk to. “Daddy,” I said excitedly, “Did you know there’s shit in thanksgiving?”

******************** 

…..So here’s the thing: I’ve known since I was 8 that there’s shit in Thanksgiving. It’s there in Christmas too, if you care to look at it like that.  But—this year, I’m going to do my best to focus on the other words. Thanks. Giving. Words like that.

Instead of getting into the sometimes overwhelming insanity of a modern Christmas, I’m going to remember the gifts of growing up in that brilliant and sometimes imperfect family. I’m going to be thankful for sobriety and the time given to me by the universe to heal my relationship with my parents while we’re all still here. I’m going to be happy to find gifts for my fiercely intelligent sisters. I'll aim for good words.

I’ll have to practice, no doubt. A lot of the time, my default setting is still one of world weary cynicism. So—before I get out of bed in the morning, I’ll find 3 things I’m grateful for. I'll use the amazing Susan Hyatt "dial it up" tool: that is, I'll think of three ways I want to feel that day; and check in with myself as much as I can as I'm Christmas shopping and working and being with my kids— to see if my thoughts are supporting what I'm wanting to feel.  This year for the holidays, I’ll take the enlightened Indrani Goradia's advice: I'll do everything I do out of love—and if I don’t love it, I won’t do it. I’ll aim for a shitless Christmas.  And I sure wish you the same.

NEVER GIVE UP… 

Albert Einstein did not speak until he was 4 years-old and did not read until he was 7. His parents thought he was “sub-normal,” and one of his teachers described him as “mentally slow, unsociable, and adrift forever in foolish dreams.” He was expelled from school and was refused admittance to the Zurich Polytechnic School. He did eventually learn to speak and read. Even to do a little math.

Winston Churchill failed sixth grade. He was subsequently defeated in every election for public office until he became Prime Minister at the age of 62. He later wrote, “Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never, never, never, never give up.”

As a young man, Abraham Lincoln went to war a captain and returned a private. Afterwards, he was a failure as a businessman. As a lawyer in Springfield, he was too impractical and temperamental to be a success. He turned to politics and was defeated in his first try for the legislature, again defeated in his first attempt to be nominated for Congress, defeated in his application to be commissioner of the General Land Office, defeated in the senatorial election of 1854, defeated in his efforts for the vice-presidency in 1856, and defeated in the senatorial election of 1858. He later became the 16th President of the United States of America.

Walt Disney was fired by a newspaper editor because “he lacked imagination and had no good ideas.” He went bankrupt several times before he built Disneyland. In fact, the proposed park was rejected by the city of Anaheim on the grounds that it would only attract riffraff.

Henry Ford could not read nor write, failed and went broke five times in business before he succeeded.

As an inventor, Thomas Edison made 1,000 unsuccessful attempts at inventing the light bulb. When a reporter asked, “How did it feel to fail 1,000 times?” Edison replied, “I didn’t fail a thousand times. The light bulb was an invention with 1,000 steps.” Thomas Edison’s teachers said he was “too stupid to learn anything.” He was fired from his first two jobs for being “non-productive.”

R. H. Macy failed seven times before his store in New York City caught on.

Louis Pasteur was only a mediocre pupil in undergraduate studies and ranked 15th out of 22 students in chemistry.

Van Gogh sold only one painting during his life. And this, to the sister of one of his friends, for 400 francs (approximately $50). This didn’t stop him from completing over 800 paintings.

F. W. Woolworth was not allowed to wait on customers when he worked in a dry goods store because, his boss said, “he didn’t have enough sense.”

When Bell Telephone was struggling to get started, its owners offered all their rights to Western Union for $100,000. The offer was disdainfully rejected with the pronouncement, “What use could this company make of an electrical toy.”

Sigmund Freud was booed from the podium when he first presented his ideas to the scientific community of Europe. He returned to his office and kept on writing.

Rocket scientist Robert Goddard found his ideas bitterly rejected by his scientific peers on the grounds that rocket propulsion would not work in the rarefied atmosphere of outer space.

An expert said of Vince Lombardi: “He possesses minimal football knowledge and lacks motivation.” Lombardi would later write, “It’s not whether you get knocked down; it’s whether you get back up.”

After Carl Lewis won the gold medal for the long jump in the 1996 Olympic games, he was asked to what he attributed his longevity, having competed for almost 20 years. He said, “Remembering that you have both wins and losses along the way. I don’t take either one too seriously.”

Babe Ruth is famous for his past home run record, but for decades he also held the record for strikeouts. He hit 714 homeruns and struck out 1,330 times in his career (about which he said, “Every strikeout brings me closer to the next home run.”).

Hank Aaron went 0 for 5 his first time at bat with the Milwaukee Braves.

Stan Smith was rejected as a ball boy for a Davis Cup tennis match because he was “too awkward and clumsy.” He went on to clumsily win Wimbledon and the US Open…and eight Davis Cups.

Tom Landry, Chuck Noll, Bill Walsh, and Jimmy Johnson accounted for 11 of the 19 Super Bowl victories from 1974 to 1993. They also share the distinction of having the worst records of first-season head coaches in NFL history; they didn’t win a single game.

Johnny Unitas’ first pass in the NFL was intercepted and returned for a touchdown. Joe Montana’s first pass was also intercepted. And while we’re on quarterbacks, during his first season Troy Aikman threw twice as many interceptions (18) as touchdowns (9) . . . oh, and he didn’t win a single game. You think there’s a lesson here?

Charles Schultz had every cartoon he submitted rejected by his high school yearbook staff. Oh, and Walt Disney wouldn’t hire him.

After Fred Astaire’s first screen test, the memo from the testing director of MGM, dated 1933, read, “Can’t act. Can’t sing. Slightly bald. Can dance a little.” He kept that memo over the fireplace in his Beverly Hills home. Astaire once observed that “when you’re experimenting, you have to try so many things before you choose what you want, that you may go days getting nothing but exhaustion.” And here is the reward for perseverance: “The higher up you go, the more mistakes you are allowed. Right at the top, if you make enough of them, it’s considered to be your style.”

After his first audition, Sidney Poitier was told by the casting director, “Why don’t you stop wasting people’s time and go out and become a dishwasher or something?” It was at that moment, recalls Poitier, that he decided to devote his life to acting.

When Lucille Ball began studying to be actress in 1927, she was told by the head instructor of the John Murray Anderson Drama School, “Try any other profession.”

The first time Jerry Seinfeld walked on-stage at a comedy club as a professional comic, he looked out at the audience, froze, and forgot the English language. He stumbled through “a minute-and a half” of material and was jeered offstage. He returned the following night and closed his set to wild applause.

After Harrison Ford’s first performance as a hotel bellhop in the film Dead Heat on a Merry-Go-Round, the studio vice-president called him in to his office. “Sit down kid,” the studio head said, “I want to tell you a story. The first time Tony Curtis was ever in a movie he delivered a bag of groceries. We took one look at him and knew he was a movie star.” Ford replied, “I thought you were supposed to think that he was a grocery delivery boy.” The vice president dismissed Ford with “You ain’t got it kid, you ain’t got it … now get out of here.”

Woody Allen: “I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying. Eighty percent of success is showing up.”

Michael Caine’s headmaster told him, “You will be a laborer all your life.”

Charlie Chaplin was initially rejected by Hollywood studio chiefs because his pantomime was considered “nonsense.”

Decca Records turned down a recording contract with The Beatles with the evaluation, “We don’t like their sound. Groups of guitars are on their way out.” After Decca rejected the Beatles, Columbia records followed suit.

In 1954, Jimmy Denny, manager of the Grand Ole Opry, fired Elvis Presley after one performance. He told Presley, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, son. You ought to go back to drivin’ a truck.”

Beethoven handled the violin awkwardly and preferred playing his own compositions instead of improving his technique. His teacher called him “hopeless as a composer.” And, of course, you know that he wrote five of his greatest symphonies while completely deaf.

Leo Tolstoy flunked out of college. He was described as both “unable and unwilling to learn.” No doubt a slow developer.

Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women, was encouraged by her family to find work as a servant.

Emily Dickinson had only seven poems published in her lifetime.

Eighteen publishers turned down Richard Bach’s story about a “soaring eagle.” Macmillan finally published Jonathan Livingston Seagull in 1970. By 1975 it had sold more than 7 million copies in the U.S. alone.

Jack London received 600 rejection slips before he sold his first story.

Twenty-one publishers rejected Richard Hooker’s humorous war novel, M*A*S*H. He had worked on it for 7 years.

Twenty-seven publishers rejected Dr. Seuss’s first book, To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street.

Well, crap. That’s not really a great place for a life coach to be, is it? Yeah, let me run out there and hire the gal who’s addicted to sorrow to help me with my own schtick about my life. It’s bound to be productive…

 But that’s where I’ve been the past week or so. Which is ironic, since my family and I just got back from a great trip to Ireland and England—my husband, 2 kids and mother-in-law; and we had an amazing time. No one got sick, everyone had fun, we saw and experienced things we never had before.

 But what was my thought from the second we landed in Los Angeles to about 5 minutes ago? Was I thinking of the joy of the trip, of the excitement of school starting, of the thrill of getting my website live? Nope. I am addicted to sorrow. That’s what I’ve been thinking.

It’s made me a lot of fun at parties.

I’ve been thinking: How can I be a coach when I’m still so often sad myself? I’ve been thinking: This thought work is bullshit. It doesn’t really help. I’ve been thinking: I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve been thinking: Every decision I’ve ever made has led me right back to sorrow. I’ve been thinking: I should be happy. Why am I always so miserable?

I’m in a class where I’m supposed to coach with a buddy every week. I haven’t done this; I’ve been out of town, she’s been busy, the usual blah, blah, blah. But I felt so lousy this week, it finally dawned on me to call her. I have to say, she fixed me right up. Or—she helped me fix myself right up. 

She asked: “What are you afraid of?” Well, geez. I couldn’t possibly narrow it down to one thing, so I gave her a long list, a small part of which I’ll include here: I’m afraid if I really get in to life coaching, I’ll never act again. I’m afraid if I act again, I’ll end up having to leave my husband and kids for long periods of time to work. I’m afraid if I try to act again, I’ll fail again. I’m afraid of rejection. I’m afraid that I’ll never be happy. I’m afraid that coaching doesn’t really work.  I’m afraid that every decision I make takes me further from my essential self. I’m afraid I’m so damaged or flawed that I’ll never get better. I’m afraid I’m addicted to sorrow.

Being a brave soul, and because she was really listening and could hear the tears in my voice about the sorrow thing, she plunged right into that thought.

Here’s what she did. She asked what sorrow felt like. Heavy, leaden, soggy, wet, comfortable, cozy, omnipresent and familiar is what I think I said. Actually, I didn’t say omnipresent, but I just like that word and it fits. So—whatever. Writer’s license.

And then she switched and started talking to Sorrow directly. “Sorrow, what do you offer Sonja?”  Familiarity, protection from trying again and failing again, a way to remain in one place and not have to try anything. A way to be off the hook, is what Sorrow told her. “And Sorrow, what do you think Sonja would be like without you?” “She’d be lost.  Hopeful—then miserable when she failed again. She wouldn’t have any idea what to behave like without me,” said Sorrow. “I’ve been with her forever.” 

“But she wants a chance to grow. She wants to do other things. You’re keeping her stuck in this dark, damp place,” said Sheila to Sorrow. “No, I’m keeping her safe,” said Sorrow. “But she doesn’t feel safe, she feels so unhappy, and she’s so beautiful and creative and she wants a chance to grow,” said Sheila. 

And on like that.

You have to understand, as Sheila was talking to Sorrow, I was answering in Sorrow’s voice but I was also watching and the tears were just pouring out of me. My whole body was crying. She asked if Sorrow could leave and Sorrow came back with a resounding No!

The thought actually shook me to the core. Sorrow, leave? Horrors! Preposterous! Impossible! Terrifying. What would I be without sorrow? Remember in the book Hotel New Hampshire? Sorrow floats. That’s been my creed for as long as I can remember.

Really, Sorrow was not budging on that one. But…”I can’t leave her, but maybe I could transform,” said Sorrow.  “Transform into what?” Sheila wondered.  “Rain, “ said Sorrow.

……oooookay.  WTF?

But: “Instead of drowning her and being leaden, maybe I could be the gentle rain. The rain that helps things grow.”

“You could be nurturing,” said Sheila. “How would that look?" 

“That would look like the sceenplay she’s wanted to finish, since it’s about sorrow, or the cabaret she’s working on. It would look like helping other people with their sorrow.” 

“So you could let her show other people how to handle you, Sorrow? You could let her write about you and show you but not get stuck in you? Would that feed your ego enough to let her alone so that she could grow?”

And, imagine my surprise, Sorrow said yes.

And I felt better. Imagine my surprise.

I asked Sheila: “How did you know to do that? To talk to Sorrow directly?” She said, “I’ve never done that before. I was guided.” And then she said, “I just pulled it out of my ass.”  Ahhhh. Ass-pulled coaching! Now, that’s the kind of coaching I really understand.

So if you need a little hand with sorrow, feel free to give me a call, or for god’s sake, call Sheila immediately.

Sorrow floats. Maybe. But—for today at least–out there. Not here, not in my heart, not where I actually live.