Tagged Jen Pastiloff

September 4, 2014

Drunkard’s Prayer

I know it’s throw back Thursday, not throw UP Thursday, but I just got a phone call from my oncologist’s office, letting me know that it’s time for my quarterly check-up…and I almost tossed my cookies (or in this case, nachos). Happens every time. That first chemo cocktail I downed six years ago yesterday, waking up with my first chemo hangover six years ago TODAY… has. left. it’s. mark. on. me. Besides the port scar. Which I had a big c (namaste _/_ Laura Linney) tattooed on—copyright that cancer.

Photo Cred goes to my friend Isis Charise, photographer of The Grace Project

Anyway, so this past weekend I went to a Jen Pastiloff Manifestation retreat in Ojai, California. It was a gift from the hubcap aka Mr. Joules, for my 6 year cancerversary, which I just celebrated August 20th. Now, this is a thing that drives my Redheads bOnKeRs (because they keep their “letters to Santa” constantly updated on Google docs) but I don’t have a list. Mostly because I already feel so lucky that I can’t even imagine what else in the world I could possibly ask for. But I asked for this because I felt I could use a little inspiration boost(er) before my 6-year check up this coming Monday.

One of the exercises she had us do at the retreat is the inspiration for today’s #tbt pic/post. This is where I feel like it’s only fair to give you a #CheeseAlert—so you might want to go pour a glass of wine to go with the cheese I’m about to throw down not up for throw back Thursday.

The exercise I’m referring to, was a writing prompt. The writing prompt flowed from a series of yoga poses. Somewhere in the ebb and flow of the yoga poses and the writing prompts, a beautiful breakdown occurs in places that were a little stuck. All the “I would/could/should/did/didn’t/have to/can’t excuses we all make. Something in the way she makes us do all those hi-YAH! kicks, makes us feel like we’re knocking down walls. (And we did.) Also, all those planks rendered our arms incapable of being raised, even an inch, to point out even one of those lame ass excuses that we all make for not manifesting aka “making shit happen” (the good kind) in our lives. I don’t know about you, but I have a boatload of excuses in my head. So many voices in my head. And way too freaking often, I hear them calling, “All aboard!” Next thing I know, I’m sailing away on a yacht called Hotel California where “you can check out anytime but you can never leave”.

Which is why it’s always a good idea to keep the voices in our head in check. Or, check-mate, as it so happened, for me during this particular exercise. The writing prompt was to write a letter to ourself in the voice of someone who loves us.

“If you knew who walked beside you at all times, on the path that you have chosen, you could never experience fear or doubt again.”~Wayne Dyer

This is one of Jen’s themes. It’s also one of the magical things that happens at her workshops and retreats, when you look around the room at the beautiful souls who walked beside you through the weekend, and beyond.

I wrote my letter, to myself, in the voice of my husband. And here’s where the cheese enters. But not, as you might suppose, just because I’m the one stringing together said cheese. The truth of the matter is: Dave is just as cheesy as me. I was only channeling him, or I guess you could say, being the grater. Here’s a little slice (and no, I didn’t cut it) of the cheese:

Dear Joules, my jewel, wife of my youth and, I hope—NO. I know. Yes, darling, I know you have trouble seeing that far ahead, into the future, but I know. I know like I know Jesus loves me, and you, that we will be old together one day, like the couple in UP—but we won’t wait to chase our dreams. We are not waiting. The chase is on! And what. a. ride… Go ahead and put your hands up in the air. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t shave. I’m over here right next to you. I got you. Like I vowed when we were 22. And I believe you’ll still love me when I’m 64. And beyond. Even if you can’t see that far. I can see. This I know. I know enough for the both of us.

I forgot to sign it but I think I nailed it, and I have proof. I’ve been celebrating my 6 year cancerversary with this six part series of a half a dozen chapters from my book, SHAKEN NOT STIRRED…A CHEMO COCKTAIL, and there just so happens to be a chapter that Dave wrote for me. Kinda like a letter in the voice of someone who loves me…

#tbt to the day after Christmas 2008 aka our 21st anniversary

Chapter 13
Drunkard’s Prayer

[Cue my fave band Over the Rhine. Click HERE to hear the song that is the soundtrack to this chapter.]

And by drunkard, I mean to give the microphone here to Dave (while I take a little break to pour another glass of wine) because he’s the one who got stuck with a handful of “in sickness” and “for worse” chips. If I were to write a six-word memoir, it would be Sorry I Cashed “In Sickness” Chips. And the sequel would be, I Hope It’s “For Better” Now. Anyway, without further ado . . . Dave.

Joules (or as I call her, Joule, for short, which I prefer to spell Jewel, if you don’t mind) is a sucker for Shakespeare. I am a sucker for my Jewel. A + B = C. It’s simple math, really. I believe even she could figure that one out and with one hand tied behind her back. Even if it’s the one with that little finger she’s got me wrapped around.

All that to say, I like Shakespeare too. Once I stood up on a bench in the middle of Borders and recited Sonnet 116 to her—it’s one of our favorites of his sonnets. And it goes, something like this… ahem:

Sonnet 116

By Will

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Shakespeare wrote, “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.” Surely he had not considered “the remover” to be a breast surgeon, nor “Time’s sickle” to be a scalpel, nor the compass of Time’s sickle to encompass his love’s breasts.

We’re not talking wrinkles, gray hair, and a little extra weight here. This is serious alteration. But when it came down to them or her, clearly they had to go.

I admit, initially I told myself that this will be a good thing. There will be reconstruction. My wife will be perky in her old age. But looking into the details, it quickly became obvious that this was not an option either of us wanted. But I have found, in true love, that there is a breastliness that transcends the physical and is more tangible than the flesh.

The only real difference this alteration has brought is that when we embrace, our hearts are that much closer together.

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.” As I gaze on her even now, I hear my heart say, “Well then, Will, this must be love.”

August 29, 2014

The Beeswax on My Mastectomy

I suppose not everybody celebrates the anniversary of their mastectomy. We all have to deal with getting dealt shitty hands like cancer or ALS or breaking a foot or being broken up with… (Pain is pain. And the thing about pain is: “It demands to be felt.” ~TFIOS_/_) by playing whatever cards they’ve got in their hands or, if their lucky, up their sleeves. I don’t know why I always seem to luck out with a joker up my sleeve, but I bet the house it’s got something to do with the Dealer’s good pleasure. So if anybody thinks I’m out of line here, I totally blame the chemo or the “Vespa Incident” if I don’t exactly walk a straight line. Or color within them. #cancercard

So here’s the deal. My deal. Six years ago today I had my mastectomy #forgottowearredlipstickcuzidontwearredlipstick and what worked for me when I was playing that shitty hand, was to celebrate the hell out of it, and every tiny little beautiful thing I could conjure up, for a reason to celebrate. (P.S. for the record I wore yellow Burt’s Bees Lip Balm. #livestrong)

How about 2,191 reasons to celebrate/days I’ve gotten to BE ALIVE since getting the damn spots removed? #outdamnspot #winning

And that’s pretty much how I roll the dice. Oops. Switched metaphors, there. Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away.

Anyway, so in celebration of the number 2,191 days aka my 6 year cancerversary, I’ve been publishing a half dozen chapters from my breast cancer memoir: SHAKEN NOT STIRRED…A CHEMO COCKTAIL on this, my space in cyberspace, as my cancer dates come up in the rear-view mirror of my calendar.

So without further ado…

And this is where I throw in a little plot twist to this post, to “see if you can dance”. I know this is where everybody’s expecting the chapter about that rainy day six years ago TODAY, when I got my “aerodynamic” superpowers; but instead, I thought I’d tell ya the one about the bra-burning I had with my girlfriends, the night before my mastectomy. Meanwhile, I’m off to a yoga/writing retreat in Ojai, Cali with my friend Jen Pastiloff. #betterdays (Thank you to the hubcap for the gift of this retreat for my cancerversary<3)

Chapter 10
Man, I Feel Like a Woman

(Cue Shania Twain)

Sure, the optimist can say the cup is half full when it is half full, but what about when both “cups” are about to be empty?

So what did I do to mentally prepare myself to go in and have my breasts cut off?

It’s not like I think I can dance with the stars or anything, but I just tried putting one foot in front of the other. What I ended up with was some clumsily choreographed mash-up kind of a dance— something between a two-step and a waltz, with a little bit of a hip- hope groove just to shake things up.

Step 1: I went out with the girls and let my hair down. Literally. To the ground. As in, I got it cut off. Well, not all the way off. But I did get a new haircut. I was told that after my mastectomy it would be a while before I could raise my hands above my head, and since I am a quick thinker, I thought, “Whoa, I wonder how I’ll shampoo my hair?” Clip. Problem solved.

Honestly, I probably learned this idea from Matt when he was four years old and sitting at his desk one day, learning to read. I was doing math with Amanda, and I could hear Matt getting a little frustrated about something. I just assumed it was over blending consonants, and I was trying to wrap up with Amanda so I could give him my full attention. All of a sudden I heard a clip, and then, “That’s better.” I looked over and Matt’s bangs were blurring the letters on the page he was “reading” in his Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons book. Matt’s bright green preschool scissors were sitting on top of the pile of bangs like they were trying to make some kind of a point . . . which I got. Now it was my turn to try to blend in his new ’do.

It took me a while to get used to me with a boy cut. But it really shouldn’t have surprised me with the spy ops training I had done in my youth. Disguises 101. Duh.

That summer my hair was the longest it had been since I got tired of sitting on my hair in second grade and had it lopped off to my shoulders. I don’t think I’m blowing my own cover at this point, now that it’s a moot one, to hint that one of my aliases had to do with a certain little girl of fairy tale lore who hung out with bears. I can’t say how many bears there were because that is classified. Suffice it to say that my hair used to be down past my shoulders and it was dirty dishwater blonde. I know what they say about blondes and all, but I was about to be bald shortly. I didn’t feel like missing out on any fun. I didn’t feel like taking any chances. I just decided go with Shania on this one and exercise my “prerogative to have a little fun.” So I grabbed a few girlfriends and we turned a salon and a haircut into a party. I also definitely channeled a little Cindy Lauper, even if my true color would soon be shining through—like a cue ball.

How cool was it that my stylist that day “happened” to have gone through this very similar chemotherapy ’do transition scene with her own mum, who was a sixteen-year breast cancer survivor, now seventy-five years old! Coincidence? Well, what would be the fun in that? I know this may be totally politically incorrect, but I just can’t help but believe it was a God moment.21 I like to play connect the dots between moments like these and imagine the outline of the hand of God that the big picture will reveal someday.

Step 2: I couldn’t really sidestep pre-op testing, even though it meant a few more needle sticks. One jab that hurt the most was when they told me I couldn’t have a glass of wine with my dinner the night before my surgery. That just seemed a little “over the top.” If it’s five o’clock anywhere, it’s definitely five o’clcok wherever I’m at the night before my mastectomy. I totally appealed that order, and after being forwarded so many times even I’d consider my message spam, I got permission for one measly glass of wine, from some nurse or best friend or second cousin of a nurse, who said she was tight with my anesthesiologist, who said it was okeydokey with him. Whew .

Step 3: The night before my mastectomy I went to another prayer meeting the Redheads’ youth pastor Alton had organized for three high-school students’ mothers, all of whom were in critical situations. Yott’s mother was waiting on a lung transplant. Theresa Maria’s mother was having brain surgery at the same time I was having my mastectomy. I was the only mum who was physically able to attend. I didn’t even know the other mothers at that point. But I prayed for them from that night forward, when we three were joined together and lifted up by our kids. To me, without this step, it would be like trying to dance with two left feet.

Step 4: (A little to the left now.) My tennis girlfriends and I let it all hang out and had a bra burning.

Which somehow seems “fitting” since the event fell on the same evening of Obama’s address at the Democratic National Convention. I’m not sure if it’s politically correct to say that, either. But then again we were burning bras, and I’m pretty sure I’ve already crossed the line plenty anyhow. I don’t mean to get out of line so much. It’s just that I never really learned to dance.

And have I mentioned that the bras I was burning were brand new ones I had just bought at Victoria’s—or is that a Secret? But seriously, I can’t remember the last time I had bought a bra prior to that. Although, now, I will always remember the last time I everbought one. (And good riddance, in a way—if you know what I mean.)

So I finally decide to buy new bras—a month before I get diagnosed with breast cancer and have to have an emergency double mastectomy. It literally took me five hours to get fitted and find the cup that was “just right.”

Timing is everything.

Dramatic irony happens. I like it when I can find a way to laugh about it. I’d way rather laugh about it than kick myself in the ass for buying expensive bras I’m just going to toss into a bonfire.

It wasn’t exactly a burning bush—more like a barbeque pit—but my girlfriends and I all tossed in bras. I threw in the brand-spanking new bra I had barely worn but couldn’t bear to return empty, as it were. My friend Heidi threw in a box of Band-Aids, which we all got a huge kick out of. They were BIG Band-Aids after all (wink, wink). It was truly one of those Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood types of moments, which I will never ever forget.

Step 5: And now, for the bow, thanks for the mammaries, I mean, memories. In other words, it was the Kodak moment—for my boobs, for posterity, for my hubby. Hey, every guy is a breast man, right? Well I thought Dave ought to have a postcard or two, so sue me, but I had my sister, who happens to be a professional photographer, take a few pictures.

Unfortunately, my computer crashed before I had the guts to get the pictures developed for him. We may never know, but we suspect that it wasn’t just my shirt that I was too sexy for—but the whole world. And especially my poor computer, which, after that particular upload was no longer PC.

Curtain Call: I packed my bags for the hospital, took a Valium, and then it was curtains for me. I went to sleep, resting in God, and woke up still there. Then we piled into our minivan, whose name is Yukon (after our favorite blend of Starbucks coffee, which sort of irked me in my de-caffeinated state) and headed off to the hospital.

What else was there to do? With the prospect of both “cups” soon to be empty, all I knew to do was to trust the One who was pouring. Somehow, He makes even empty cups overflow.

Thanks and big love to my friend Marika for making this for me. — Photo Cred: Cheers, thanks, and big love to my lovely friend Marika Rosenthal Delan for making this way freaking cool pic!

February 21, 2014

What Are You Manifesting?

I couldn’t help but smile, which helped me relax a little, when she started handing out post-it notes. I love post-it notes. I’m forever putting those sticky reminders all over the Evanshire to try and help me remember shit. Lists. Prayer requests. Blog fodder. Vlog ideas. Quotes. Addresses. Dr. appts. Songs I want to download. People I need to thank. Writing ideas….

But I’d never even thought of using them as an icebreaker before. BAM! Already got my first takeaway from Jen Pastiloff’s Manifestation Retreat that I was on, and we had barely taken our seats, cross-legged, on the floor, side by side, forming a large circle. Like a tribe. At which point Jen handed out smiley face colored post-it notes, each pregnant with possibility, all of them glowing like a blank pages do. Expectant. Waiting to be written.

“What are you manifesting?”

The way Jen threw down those 4 little words was a lot like Bobby Flay throwing down one of his challenges, with some Heisenberg mixed in: Wanna cook? Just. to. shake. things. up. But shaken, not stirred.

I’d driven for 2 days to come to Jen’s yoga/writing retreat in the Berkshires, to kickstart the writing process for a couple projects I was was ready to dive into. I was manifesting a prequel, of sorts, to my cancer memoir, SHAKEN NOT STIRRED…A CHEMO COCKTAIL. And also a sequel, of sorts.

Jen told us to write down what we were manifesting that weekend on the Post-it notes, and then to get up and go stick them in the middle of the circle of the tribe of beautiful souls we hadn’t met yet, but would walk beside, that weekend during Jen’s Manifestation Workshop.

We’d all come to Manifest a certain goal or dream aka to make that shit happen, the way Jen breaks down the word Manifest so there were 40 Post-it notes in the middle of our pow WOW. We’d made it rain Post-it notes. And they were written.

Mine said, HOMESCHOOL HAPPY HOUR…IT’S 5 O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE, KIDS! And, BOTTOMS UP…”GETTING OVER” CANCER.

I’d post a picture of it, but I don’t have it. After all the Post-its were out there, sitting there like yellow badges of courage, Jen told us each to get up and grab a Post-it that wasn’t our own. To keep. To remember. To hold what they are manifesting UP. I purposely chose the last yellow badge of courage left on the floor. I do fortune cookies this way too. I could explain, but then we’d end up falling down some rabbit hole. And also I’d probably get hungry thinking about that cookie too much. And squirrel! Like that, this post would be history. So thankfully this post is about Post-its, which are sticky reminders. So hopefully I’ll remember to stay on task. Like I’m remembering the yellow badge of courage I brought home with me, and the beautiful soul behind the badge. It is hanging on a wall in my office, where I keep Post-its of prayer requests and peeps I pray for.

And one of those beautiful souls has mine. But I believe they are all cheering me on, as I am them, as we all are each other. Like a tribe.

“If you knew who walked beside you at all times on this path which you have chosen, you would never experience fear or doubt.”

In honor of that, and in light of that which I was/am manifesting, I thought I’d throw down a possible prologue, of sorts, for the project on the front burner, my homeschool/parenting memoir: HOMESCHOOL HAPPY HOUR… IT’S 5 O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE, KIDS!

Prologue

Skyfall

The first time I saw my first book, SHAKEN NOT STIRRED… A CHEMO COCKTAIL had finally hatched on Amazon after 18 months of blogging my way through breast cancer, 8 months of writing, and 11 months of editing, it was as if the heavens opened up and I felt so way up high that I thought I really could see somewhere over that rainbow where dreams really do come true… and then I read the fine print. Or rather, the fine misprint in the form of a parenthetical aside to the title: (Volume I). That’s when the sky fell. I was definitely not in the mood for a volume II, to my breast cancer memoir, if you know what I mean.

I got the kink worked out with Amazon, but I guess it’s a fairly reasonable thing that people, whether or not they saw the Amazon typo, started asking me, “When does the sequel come out?” Or, “Is this one going to be STIRRED NOT SHAKEN? Um, no. That wouldn’t be very James Bond of me, now, would it? The truth is, the mere thought of another volume, another chemo cocktail, is where I channel my inner Chicken Little and can picture the sky fall.

Which I can totally imagine being the theme song (and a Bond song to boot) if I were to write that sequel. Which, this is not, thank God, and God willing, may I never have the unfortunate occasion to have that sequel to write.

The last time I saw the sky fall and I found myself smack dab in the middle of my hopefully one and only breast cancer memoir, it fell on top of me and nearly took me out. Literally. It almost killed me.

Like I wrote in the prologue of that hopefully one and only breast cancer memoir, I’ve always been a writer and I have always dreamed of writing books ever since I cracked the code and learned to read. I just never ever would’ve could’ve imagined the story I’d have to, quite literally, “get off my chest” and that would become the subject, not to mention, the antagonist, of my first book. Which, in an ironic twist of fate thanks to the genre gods, landed it in the disease section of Barnes & Noble. This is not the end either, though. Let the books fall where they may. It’s still a dream come true. Not to mention…the last page was not the end of my story. Spoiler alert: the hero of the story is somewhere once upon a time in a not-a-chemo-cocktail kind of a sequel, hopefully a series.

But this is not the end…of that story. Even I’m still wondering what happens next. I mean, c’mon. It’s a memoir not a novel. I don’t write the plot. I just try and go with the flow, enjoying the ride, sharing moments and making memories with the people I love, collecting new friends along the way, keeping a decent travel journal, taking lots of pictures, and sending plenty of postcards.

This is what came before that story. B.C. or before cancer, the prequel to SHAKEN NOT STIRRED…A CHEMO COCKTAIL, which chronicles my “cancer era” or C.E., or my life A.D., after diagnosis, if you will.

Before I became radioactive with a chance of superpowers, using them to fight cancer and also to write, I had some big ass glasses like Clark Kent or Fearless Fly and was holding down a pretty cozy job with ridiculous crazy hours as an accidental homeschool mom.

Back then I taught writing more than I wrote; although I wrote whenever I could, read about writing in all the great books on writing not to mention the classics I assigned my Redheads to read, thought about writing while grading papers, and dreamt about writing one day when we all graduated and I retired.

This is the book I thought I would write first. Kinda my “Confessions of a Homeschool Mom.” After they were all successfully situated in college and I was pretty sure they had all survived homeschool safe and relatively sound.

I was so enchanted with that story and the development of my three main characters that the plot twist when the sky fell and I almost didn’t survive homeshooling not to mention, my life, caught this supporting character by surprise. There’d been no forshadowing. But the sky fell anyway, and when it did there was nothing we could do but let it. So we let it. But on our knees. And together. Before cancer was the unfortunate subject of my book, it was the most unfortunate subject in our homeschool. But it wasn’t the only subject in our homeschool; although in a sense, it tested everything that had gone before the sky fell. Before cancer. So BC is where the confessions of this homeschool mom begins. And might as well start at the very beginning, before BC, to the A. Which comes first in the alphabet. Which is one of the very first things kids learn in school.

Chapter 1 (Cue Jackson 5)

ABC

Easy as 1-2-3. This was not the first thought that crossed my mind the first time my husband, Dave, brought up the idea of homeschooling our children to me when I was pregnant with our first child. First of all, I hadn’t actually even heard of homeschooling back in 1990 when I was knee deep in What To Expect When You’re Expecting despite the fact that I couldn’t even see my knees for the belly. My first thought was more like, “What the F is homeschool? Then Do-Re-Who-Me?” Then I pretty much summed things up when I hyperventilated, which was a perfect time to practice my Lamaze breathing techniques he he he hahahahahahahaha.

It seems appropriate to end on that note since I only intended to give a little teaser to chapter one.

So this is me, taking the next step and throwing down a shitty first draft of a possible beginning to my next book. BAM! That’s what I’m manifesting. That’s the shit I’m trying to make happen. That’s me, trying to do what I was created to do, what love compels me do. Like Jen says,

“At the end of your life, when you say one final ‘What have I done?’ let your answer be, I have done love.”

What about you? What are you manifesting? Please share in the comments, or send me an email, or If you want to write it on a Post-it note and snail mail it to me, I will stick it on my wall.

February 10, 2014

Road Trip to Kripalu

A few months ago I was up late counting sheep, when some shit I’d been dealing with must’ve hit the ceiling fan over my bed and started splatting all over the sheep, spotting them like 101 Dalmatians. Which kinda felt like a spoiler alert to the sleeping game I was trying to win. So I stopped counting shitty sheep and I prayed a little. Which is probably what I should’ve been doing about my shit in the first place instead of kicking it around a bit, and then, kicking myself for making such a mess. I’m assuming we all know how messy metaphorical shit can get when you kick it around. Now, I know I’m not supposed to go assuming, but I figure it’s legit in this case, since there’s no such thing as a shit vaccine. I don’t think there is a sequel or grown-up version of the children’s book, Everyone Poops. But I could see it being called something like, Everybody is Full of Shit. Well, at least, I know I am, on a pretty “regular” basis.

Anyway, after all of that ruckus I sort of pulled it together a bit. I wasn’t in the mood to go back to counting sheep quite yet so I woke up my computer, and Googled: “yoga, writing, cancer, retreat” to see where it would lead. Yeah, that third word is some of the shit I was dealing with. The first two are a couple of ways I try to deal. And the last word sounded like a good thing to do when you’re up to your sleepy eyeballs dealing with your own shit.

Google threw down an article Jen wrote for LIVESTRONG called “7 Reasons To Go On A Yoga Retreat”. No shit. This was my introduction Jen Pastiloff and her Manifestation Retreats. It didn’t take me long, after falling head over heels into the lovely vortex that is Jen’s tribe, from the Gateway of that LIVESTRONG article, to Facebook stalking her, and then staying up all night watching her YouTube channel, to realize (become enlightened;) that Manifesting is aka Making Shit Happen, in Jen speak. Which, translated, meant that of course I had to go. I hadn’t tried manifesting my shit before so I thought I’d give it a “swirly”.

I’d already practically nodded my head off, agreeing with her 7 reasons I should go on a yoga retreat. As if, in fact, my body was, literally, saying YES. So I booked the next available Manifestation retreat, which meant packing up my shit for a road-trip to Kripalu in January. I don’t usually buy gifts for myself but this was a gift I needed to give myself. I saw it as the perfect diving board into 2014—a gift, which, 5 years ago when I was diagnosed with cancer, I never even imagined. It was time to re-imagine, cast a vision, set course, and dive in. Head first. No tiptoeing about it.

When I first walked in the door, I had a pretty intense moment of truth. I didn’t know anybody. And, I’m actually super shy. Luckily I have blue hair, so I don’t think anybody noticed my knees shaking like green Jell-O when I walked across the room like Gumby and plopped down to join the tribe 40 women sitting in a circle, like lotuses blooming. As bold a display as it was a beautiful bouquet.

“If you knew who walked beside you at all times on this path which you have chosen, you would never experience fear or doubt.” Jen kept repeating this quote as we went around the circle introducing ourselves to one another. Over the weekend we got to know who walked beside us. We unrolled our mats, unpacked our shit, turned it on its smelly ear in down dog, wrote down the bones, made them dance, shared our stories and our dreams, tore up our excuses, became friends, and each other’s fans. We spent the weekend as beauty hunters, making lists and lists of our #5mostbeautifulthings. This is one of the most. fun. games. EVER. We shared our beautiful things, but we also shared our shit—because love is messy like that sometimes, but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

Shit happens. To everybody. Except when you’re constipated. And then you just sit on the toilet reading Leaves of Grass for what feels like forever; meanwhile shit’s just taking its own sweet time while you’re sitting there waiting for the shit to go down. Oh, shit’s gonna go down. And sometimes it’s going to hit the fan.

Shit happens. But so does beauty, and what if it hits the fan? Does it leave a beauty mark or make a beautiful mess? Sometimes you get dealt a shitty hand but sometimes you double down or play a wildcard and beat the dealer. Sometimes you’re up shit creek but at least you’re on a boat. You may not have a paddle, but at least you’re sipping red wine in your flippie-floppies with your girls on deck. Anything is possible. Even making good shit happen. Which is pretty much what a Manifestation Retreat, what Jen Pastiloff, is all about.

Post road trip to Kripalu, I’d have to say, that the shit that drove me there, and the beauty I came away with, are two sides of the same coin. I put so much pressure on myself to not waste this gift of life, but to hopefully leave a beauty mark—that I was here. This is what keeps me up in the middle of the night. I put so much pressure on myself not to waste a second of the gift of time that I’ve been given, but to spend myself, paying forward the gratitude I feel all the way down to my yoga toes—by making it count that I was here. This is what keeps me up in the middle of the night. I don’t ever want to take for granted the gift of a single breath, but sometimes I forget to breathe. This is why I drove to Kripalu. I don’t ever want to take for granted the gift of a heart that beats, or forget what it beats for. This is why I drove to Kripalu.

Jen summed it up best when she wrapped up our time together with these words, this mantra: “At the end of your life, when you say one final ‘What have I done?’ let your answer be, I have done love.”

That’s all.

(Except for the part where I express my gratitude to Jen, Kripalu, and the tribe. Peace, love, and namaste. *bows to your unapologetic awesomeness. Xoxo.)

Chapter 13 Drunkard’s Prayer

Chapter 10 Man, I Feel Like a Woman

Chapter 13
Drunkard’s Prayer

Chapter 10
Man, I Feel Like a Woman