Live Like You Were Dying

 

"It isn't true that you live only once.You only die once.You live lots of times, if you know how."  ~Bobby Darin

In the early 2000s, my kids were in private school in Providence, Rhode Island, and every weekday morning I left our country home, and drove them to a bus stop a few towns away. Invariably, at least half a dozen times each week, the 2004 Tim McGraw song, Live Like You Were Dying, came on the radio. My son was eleven at the time, and sitting there in the backseat, he could belt out the words and final few notes of that tune without missing a beat.

That song, and the Bobby Darin quote in the heading of this post came back to me this week as I prepped for a medical procedure. As I pen this post, I am awaiting word from my doctor about an abdomen ultrasound that I had on Wednesday. My doctor has reassured me that the ultrasound is routine, precautionary after some elevated blood work, and nothing to get worked up about, yet, I fret. If you've ever had a mammogram or other diagnostic test and been called back for a second look, then perhaps my anxiety will strike a familiar chord.

After years of recovery and 12-step work, I've learned to keep my head where my feet are, meaning I try to harness my fear by staying off that wild ride of what ifs. But on my long solo drive to and from Tennessee last week, it was hard to not fall down that rabbit hole of catastrophic thinking. As a creative midwife, helping women give birth to their creative ideas, one of the key tenets I teach is: choose love over fear. So, today and until (and perhaps after) the results are known, I plan on doing all the things I love: writing, taking photographs, hanging out with my kids and grandkids, going to the movies, and eating popcorn. 

Downton Abbey: A New Era, here I come.

Keep Watering Yourself.

“Keep watering yourself. You’re growing.” ~E.Russell

'Tis the season. Romance is in the air and love is in bloom. Facebook is bursting with new relationship status updates and glowing selfies of couples delighted with their new-found fortune. On the flip side, there's an undercurrent of break-ups, twisted hearts and folks left to pick up the pieces of their shattered dreams. As a creative midwife helping women give birth to their creative ideas, it breaks my own tender heart to watch talent take a back seat to a new main squeeze as my client's creative juices play understudy to raging libido. Partners in long-term relationships can get lazy, too, and turn a blind eye to their muse waiting patiently in a corner. As satisfying and wonderful as your new (or old) relationship may be, it is not your masterpiece. It’s just one flower in your garden of life, and you have many more varieties waiting to bloom. But your garden needs tending. You’ve done the tilling, the planting, the coaxing—-don’t stop watering it now! The fruits of your labor are ready to burst forth.

When’s the last time you took an artist’s date, ventured off alone, without the security of a partner in tow, without the safety net of a companion, charting your own course, deciding where to go, where to stay, what to eat, what to do with your time, your life, letting your mind wander and roost? If you answered, “Just yesterday,” or “Last week,” or “I have an overnight planned,” then you can stop reading.

Each time you relegate your creative life to the bottom of the laundry heap, your muse lets out a deep sigh. Like all relationships worth maintaining, this one requires nurturing. Your muse won’t ghost you, she won't leave you high and dry, she won't question your judgement, she won’t waste your time.

Embrace your beautiful self and the gifts you were born with. It's time to  tend to your own luscious, colorful, fragrant, magical garden. 

Jump

 

"Jump and you will find out how to unfold your wings as you fall." ~Ray Bradbury

Yup, that’s me, running, jumping, hurling myself right off the cliff of my comfort zone into the great unknown.

Today, after weeks of market research, weeks of watching endless YouTube videos, weeks of delaying a course of action I intuitively know is the right one, I jump. I jump in feet first knowing that you, my gentle readers, will abide my learning curve, no matter how steep. As a creative midwife, I help people give birth to new ideas and direction, so isn’t it fitting that I should heed my own inner promptings?

On the surface, it may look like nothing has changed; I’m still coming to you on Saturday morning with an edition of Lessons and Blessings, but beginning today I have partnered with Substack, a home for great writers and readers who come together to redefine the integrity of the written word.

For me, integrity means bringing my authentic and best self to the table. As the founder of The Footloose Muse, I have endeavored to do that every day for nearly two years. From the daily inspirational quotes I create in Canva, to our Monthly Muse Book Club, to a whole host of online workshops, you know me, you know how fervently I believe in you and your creative birthright.

The best way to support me and my work is to become a paid subscriber. As I unfold my wings here, I am asking you to support me inflight with a monthly subscription of $7 ($70 for the year), or consider becoming a Mighty Muse with a custom amount of your choosing. In return, I promise to deliver tools you can use: Saturday editions of Lessons and Blessings, weekly guided group meditations to get and keep you centered, Carol’s Cafe where we gather monthly to exchange creative ideas and inspire each other, advance notice of online courses, retreats at Sweet Caroline's Vintage Cottage, and excerpts from my forthcoming memoir. Finally, become a Mighty Muse  and you and I will engage in monthly 50-minute creativity coaching calls on zoom for three months (a $300 value) to help you birth your creative vision.

I was taught to leap and the net will appear.  Will you be part of my net?

Wish to join me on my adventures? Now you can. Subscribe to my channel on Heygo and follow me at: https://www.heygo.com/the-footloose-muse

Know anyone that would benefit from our community of like-minded female creatives?  Invite them to join the Footloose Muse Facebook group here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/thefootloosemuse

Live and Let Live

"A miracle is a shift in perception from fear to love." ~Marianne Williamson

There have been a lot of pictures on Facebook lately of oversized, leggy, furry spiders. Some brave friends have actually gotten close enough to photograph these creatures, and I've marveled, not sure what fluke of nature is underway.

Once upon a time, I ran from bees, hornets, wasps, spiders, and insects in general. If it had the capacity to sting, bite, or crawl over me, it didn't matter where I was, or who I was with, I ran. I have barreled head-first, down stairs, into bushes, over chairs, and bolted out of cars (several times into traffic). To say I was afraid of insects is a gross understatement. My fear of bees, in particular, was pathological, yet at the same time, I had an insatiable urge to watch them, to understand what made them tick. Fascinated, I would watch from afar (providing I had an escape route) as hornets crawled and burrowed their way into our stone walls, wood trim, and other hiding spots.

Decades have gone by since the summer morning that I emptied an entire can of Raid in my kitchen to kill one hornet that had mistakenly taken up space in a skylight. (Certainly, the toxins from that spray had the potential to do way more harm than any bee sting.) I am no longer that same fearful, hysterical woman. What changed? Well, certainly I have aged. Life itself, indeed all life, has become more precious to me. But it's more than that. Fear has given way to a knowing, a belief, that all creatures have benevolent intent, and that a bee doesn't wake up in the morning (do they sleep?) plotting ways to sting me. I've become more inclusive of other people, their viewpoints, their idiosyncrasies, our differences, our similarities. It was only a matter of time before I could extend that same magnanimous worldview to all living things.

Today, I marvel at the powerful role insects play in nature. I've sat stock-still and noticed the translucent, shimmering green wings of a sand flea. I've admired the tight waists on wasps as they crawl over a brick on a hot day. Today, when I find myself in the company of a spider, a bee, a slug, I reach for my pocket guide, Animal Speak, by Ted Andrews, and I open my mind and heart to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, that insect has come into my life at that moment to deliver a valuable lesson.  Why not?