So What if Glass Slippers Don’t Come in Size 11

Posted on by
10
IMG_1986

Pucker up!

First betrayal, then divorce, and now I am not a candidate to be a Disney Princess unless I’m photoshopped and they lop off my flipper feet.  Even then, being a divorced woman (gasp!) likely excludes me.  Although the betrayal thing could stick, because what Princess has not been betrayed?

Kate Middleton has had a pretty charmed life, no betrayal that I’m aware of.  And she’s an actual Princess, complete with tiny waist, upturned nose and hyper-glossy hair.  Has anyone checked for a Disney logo stamped on the underside of her tiny foot?  Disney is such a powerful organization that I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow they took Snow White, and through the power of animation, brought her to life.  Then, sold her to the Royal Family while still retaining the copyrights.

Who knows, she could be carrying the human version of Mickey Mouse.  Or Walt Disney himself.

As you know, I’m not much of a girly girl.  Never liked dolls – they creep me out.  I always thought Barbie looked unwell, and fragile, and totally not like me.  The kind of girl you don’t bring to places where there are large crowds because if someone bumped into her she might shatter.

I’ve never been a fan of fairy tales.  I loved Nancy Drew and stories about pirates and wenches.  Wenches that could keep pace with the boys.  I swapped nail painting parties for deep sea fishing trips with my Dad without hesitation.

I am the anti-Princess.

So explain to me why I read every story about the Princess/Duchess Catherine?  Really.  Every one.  I won’t buy a magazine because it has a story about her in it, but I’ll read one in Vanity Fair (I’m a subscriber and lover of VF) or any slightly reputable online media outlet.

Define slightly?  Any site that I happen to stumble across when I search for Kate Middleton on Google because she hasn’t shown up in the Daily Mail UK in a few days, and I’m dying to know what she’s up to.

This makes no sense.

Unless you factor in subliminal training since, oh, birth.

A kitten suggested I check out The Blogess’ thoughts on the controversy surrounding the redesign of Merida, the heroine of Disney’s film Brave, for her inclusion in the ranks of Disney Princesses.  I haven’t seen the film, but being a ginger I was stoked about the story of a redhead who thought more about her bow and arrow and less about her mascara wand.  Those frizzed curls and googly eyes won me over.

The redesign made me cringe.

The decision to photoshop the life out of an animated character is the ultimate move in our quest to further perfect an already perfect being, as anointed by animation man and not genetics.  A being designed to be perfect enough for film, but apparently not enough for the Prince – for one does not become a Disney Princess without a Prince.  So, not only does nature make mistakes, now animators do as well.  A nip here, a tuck there, doe up those eyes and puff out that bosom, and viola!

Princess.  Supermodel Married to Financier.  Trophy wife of Internet Icon.  Or, woman who has never felt beautiful enough just as she is.

The Blogess, whom I love dearly, didn’t have her underfrillies in a tizz over Merida’s makeover because she felt that, as a mom to a girl, it was her responsibility to teach her daughter about self love and self esteem and not leave it to Hollywood.  She’s right.  But she has a formidable foe in that endeavor – subliminal programming.  Some call it advertising or marketing, but that seems so benign.  When you really consider the negative effects of how we are programmed to believe only a certain type of beauty is actually beautiful, it becomes programming the human psyche, not just trying to move products.  It stops being about the clothes and the shoes and the makeup and attracting Prince Charming and it becomes the only measure of acceptable beauty, causing us to spend our money in a never-ending quest to achieve it.

You might as well hate yourself now if your hair doesn’t flow just so and your waist isn’t small enough to be encircled by the two hands of a man.

When we drop 1, 5, 10, 100,000 dollars on hair extensions, liposuction, the latest threads, the newest sea kelp, coconut oil BB cream placenta filled crystal jars of promise, we aren’t keeping ourselves healthy, we are telling ourselves that we haven’t yet become perfect.

And we never will be.  (Unless I develop a photoshop program for actual human bodies.  I will then be physically perfect and ludicrously wealthy.  I promise it won’t create duck or cat faces.  They look weird.)

No matter how well-adjusted your daughter (or son – they’re programmed, too), she will succumb to Disney.  Or The Kardashains, or Cosmo, or Danielle Steele.  Or Twilight, to include the red carpets showing whiffs of women wearing the equivalent of yearly salaries, having affairs and making it all seem okay because of a backwards worn baseball cap and Converse sneakers…when they aren’t wearing Valentino.

When I was growing up none of this madness existed.  WOMEN were the sex symbols of the day.  I didn’t have to compete with them.  I was a girl.  Not a sex symbol in the making.  (Just typing that makes me die laughing.  And then want to shake the bodies of all those that have sent us down this most unfortunate and destructive path.)  Sure, we had Maureen McCormick (Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!) and Valerie Bertinelli, but we didn’t have an 8 YEAR OLD GIRL DRESSED UP LIKE SHE’S ABOUT TO HAVE MARITAL SEX WITH HER SUPER WEALTHY AND TOTALLY PERFECT BETROTHED WHO WILL HONOR HER UNTIL HER LAST BREATH!

That is so destructive on so many levels it negates, in the grand scheme, all the good Merida achieved on screen.

Do the Disney animators and the creative heads live in a (man) cave?  Did they not for one second think to themselves, Out of all the chicks to princess-ize, Merida might be the least receptive candidate, leaving those who have finally found their very own heroine the most confused?

Merida would have shot them with an arrow before allowing them to line her eyelids, shrink her waist and expand her bosom in order to make her worthy of the title, and then the man.

Timing what it is, I found it hard to brush aside this story.  Just before it came out I mentioned in a post my own issues with my body image and that I needed to understand them better.  These issues permeated my marriage.  Throughout my childhood I fluctuated between big-boned (I can never write that and not think of Cartman.) and chubby.  I had a decent figure in high school and then the freshman 15 turned into a college gain worthy of a separate diploma.  I had always worked out (except for college when classes and fishbowls of beer got in the way), but I’m Swedish.  They make them substantial.  Better to deal with winter.  Mrs. Claus was not a waif for a reason.  It costs less to heat the house with her in it.

It wasn’t until my career was well under way that I got serious about getting back in shape.  Shortly thereafter I met The Genius.  And shortly thereafter, due to a total lack of boundaries, I took his lifestyle as my own.

My biggest mistake.

I made many mistakes in my marriage, but the most significant one was to leave behind my passions that nurtured me and reinforced my love of self.  Instead I got totally lost.  And gained 20 pounds that went north, when at 39, I became pregnant.

It’s not a recipe I recommend.

Even though I was the only one that worked out regularly in our house, my body was held to a different (higher) standard.  Not just by TG, by me, too.  I have no idea if it would have made any difference had I maintained my single working girl physique throughout our marriage.  I suppose if I had, I would still be in the same position I am in today.  Love is supposed to be about more than just the body, right?  Maybe we never had the right chemistry, or maybe appearance mattered more than substance.  Or maybe I was in a bad mood because I failed at meeting the standards.  Who wants to be married to a bad mood?

But I’m still so trained, and not only because of TG.  I’m trained to believe that my appearance is the single most important part of my being.  As a species we spend a remarkable amount of time on our appearance compared to most other beings whose preening is mainly for the purpose of getting clean.

For me, the time spent is in endless hikes and swims.  I don’t starve myself, but I also don’t overindulge.  I hike and swim off whatever I can, which isn’t always enough for me.  As one kitten sweetly (overstated) said, I have a body a 30 year old would envy.

But I see the flaws.  In fact, historically I’ve only seen the flaws.

Because I am so not Disney.

Consciously, I am totally cool with that.  But unconsciously, I (cannot believe I am typing this) want to be the Princess.  Because I’ve been well trained.  Despite our best intentions, subliminal messages will always trump the spoken ones unless we are hyper-conscious.  There is no denying it.  A small fraction of the population exposed to the constant assault of all this jacked up, sliced up, dolled up beauty will recoil and retreat.

The rest of us will need to revolt.

Not to make white noise or to demand changes to the conglomerate that is the Hollywood/Beauty biz; making a difference in their world isn’t as important as making a difference in our own individual lives.  We need to revolt to honor ourselves, to get healthy mentally and emotionally, and to put an end to perfection paralysis – the dis-ease of choosing to shelve goals and dreams, hopes and aspirations out of fear of failure.

One of the key contributors to my anxiety while traveling back east was a complete stoppage of working out.  I swam for 20 minutes and stretched 3 times.  It drove me mad.  Partly because of the lack of endorphins I churn out during a swim or hike, and partly because I feared being perceived as out of shape.  After not feeling desired for so long in my marriage, my drive to keep my body fit has taken second in line status in my hierarchy of needs, loving myself being the Queen. Thank goodness for that or I’d be one 500 calorie day away from an eating disorder.

If I lose ground in my physical condition it negatively impacts my mood, which negatively colors my emotions, and makes it hard to see magic.

I’ve tested this theory.  It’s rock solid.

While we should spend our time taking excellent care of our bodies because it is one of the most beneficial ways, as humans, we maintain physical health and support our self esteem, it is also a clear indicator of our love for ourselves.  If we are letting our bodies suffer, something else is ailing – our hearts.  And even when we are conscious of that, the program is still running behind the scenes.  Causing us to aspire to be the Princess and then, when we realize that ideal is not attainable, causing us to berate ourselves for failing to be worthy of the crown jewels.

The controversy around Merida will die down.  And then another manifestation of our obsession with body image will surface, like a story about a Hollywood star losing control because she gained weight in rehab after her Adderall was taken away.  (Oh, wait, that’s already happened.)  I’ll continue to troll the web for stories about the Duchess to see how fast she loses the five pounds she gained while pregnant.  We’ll all go see Disney movies with our children, our hearts beating hard as the Princess and the Prince embrace after fire and brimstone and other assorted disastrous circumstances fight to keep them apart.

Lately, I’ve focused in on eliminating struggles in my life.  One has been to be friendly with The Genius instead of being a Warrior.  (I had thought I would be friends with TG, but thanks to the wisdom of a kitten, I’m going with friendly.  I am doing this for the dudes.  They need it and deserve it.  And I’m doing it for me because being a Warrior makes me anxious.)  So far the results have been fantastic.  I feel really good about our future interactions.  So now I’m moving on to Struggle Part Deux – deprogramming myself from years of judging my appearance as never good enough.

I am not intimidated by this task.  It’s part logical and part spiritual.  I am a perfect soul in a human body.  I want to be here.

I didn’t just end up here and, Oh, the travesty of it all!  I wanted to be here.

And I’m only here for a really short time.  So while Kate is fascinating and I can stare at Gisele’s legs for hours coveting them, that gains me nothing but lost precious time.  Worse, it screws with my mood, which kills the magic.

The real magic.  Not the one that happens only at midnight with the touch of a wand.  Tomorrow I will attend the first wedding since my own marriage went all pumpkin.  I fell for the ice blue dress with a poofy skirt and a tiny satin bow around the waist.  Mr. Viking will be my date.

I guess deprogramming will have to wait until Sunday.

Love yourself,

Cleo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share SHARE

Setting the Mood for Love

Posted on by
Reply
Moody much?

Moody much?

During my trip back east I experienced a decent amount of anxiety.  Just enough that I could push it down with both hands and then hold it there with my flipper feet.  I looked at it with contempt.  It was an intruder.  But instead of setting it free, I held it in place.

I don’t want to feel this way.  (So, let go!)  I tightened my grip.

Distractions came, thankfully.  A surprise birthday party for my Mom, the usual comedic shenanigans of my family, a wonderful afternoon spent with Cock Robin and M (sweetest girls ever) and then Cinco de Mayo with Dr. E.  But still, it treaded water, like a massive black sting ray, waiting for me to ease up on the foot hold so it could flip its stinger and exact revenge.

My week was a whirlwind, so it wasn’t until near the last day that I finally made the commitment to come face to forked tongue with this beast.  It swirled in constant motion – a clever way to disguise its origin, its intent.

I smiled at it.

Whoa, honey, what’s that?  I don’t do smiles.  You must be thinking of bliss, or joy, or contentment.  I’m anxiety.  I make you clench which automatically brings down the corners of your mouth.  It’s physics, or something like that.

I kept smiling.

And I immediately felt better.  Instantaneously.  Like magic.

Nailing the cause of a mood is like trying to tie down fog.  You can see it rolling in, so thick you can’t imagine not being able to lay down inside the bank on Nature’s version of a TempurPedic bed.  When it overtakes you, you can barely see it.

But you can feel it.  From right up against your skin, cold and wet, to swirls of mist that fill every inch of space around you.  It can’t hold you, but there is no escaping it.

Whereas emotions come tethered to an event, a being, something tangible.  The question, Why are you sad? can have an infinite number of answers.  Why are you moody? usually elicits a shrug.  Some say emotions come and go while moods linger.  We know that emotions linger, too.  The sadness experienced in divorce seems never-ending.  Thinking back on the events surrounding my divorce over the last year and a half will forever make me feel sad.  I don’t see how I can change that.  Or why I should.

But moods I can change, and for a very good reason – moods color our world.  Even though they seem so untouchable, as if the only way out is to sit it out, they can be shifted with a smile.  Not a Joan Crawford I’m 10 seconds from going mad smile, but a soft, bright eyed, I just smelled the best rose ever smile.

There are many ways to momentarily alter a mood.  My personal favorite is to indulge in dark chocolate and cayenne pepper.  When I say indulge, I don’t mean like the French and eat a square.  I mean indulge.  Four squares minimum.  But I prefer odd numbers, so a last square to keep the balance in my world.

After licking my fingers I feel guilt.  An emotion tied to the event of inhaling 800 calories and frying off my taste buds in the process.  But my mood doesn’t shift.  It’s got a job now – to make my guilt even guiltier.  Darker.  A better guest at the pity party.  My bad mood got a nice meal.

And so the trip around the Velodrome of Moodiness commences.

I had some time alone in the car while running a few errands before flying back to Marin.  The smile I shined at anxiety gave me confidence to look deep and give anxiety a voice.  Not just try to silence it, but be able to ask, Why are you here? and listen to the answer.

I don’t like being away from the dudes.  I’m still upended by the last (and hopefully LAST) burst of anger from TG.  I am in the midst of my third period in 3 months and paying the price for consistency.  (I know, possibly TMI, but I mention it because it can be quite mood-altering and many of us are dealing with the wonders of perimenopause.)  I have not worked out in 10 days.  If my body doesn’t feel good I am on the Bullet train to a seriously bad mood.  I’m not relaxed.

That’s a pretty tame list.  No life-altering entries, no tragedies, no imminent doom.  I’m going to see the dudes in a day, his anger is not my anger, at least my ovaries work!, not that I plan on doing anything with them, and a few sessions in the pool followed by a couple 20 mile hikes and I’ll be able to see my obliques again.

(This issue around my body needs some serious exploration.  Maybe it’s perfectly fine, a great motivator even, but if I don’t feel fit I don’t feel good.  I’m not one to be able to brush off a muffin top.  I get sad if my jeans don’t fit.  I feel less than…)

I smiled at the anxiety again.

Then, as I made a right hand turn at a crazy intersection packed with drivers racing to go sit in some more traffic, I saw the word LOVE in my head.  Big pillow letters, white, outlined in cherry red, floating.  The message was not to love the anxiety but to consciously send love to everyone around me.  I didn’t create this message, not consciously anyway, it just appeared.  So I didn’t doubt it, but put it into practice.  All the way home, and by home I mean all the way to Marin, I sent out love.  I did 3 easy things to make it happen:

I smiled a lot. I consciously opened my heart, picturing it as a waterfall of love, and I noticed all the kind things people did rather than all the rude things.  I was conscious of these choices through the security line, while waiting for the flight, onboard the airplane, at baggage claim (My bro gave me to surf casting rods and reels that needed to be checked.  How cool is that?), and all the way to TG’s house.

For the first time I would have to enter it to rouse the dudes from slumber and into our car for the drive to Bolinas.

I never wanted to go in that house.  Why?  There is no good reason.  I simply chose to create drama by putting up a wall saying, I will never enter your house.  Totally freaking silly.  A waste of energy.  Food for a bad mood.

When I got in my car in San Francisco I was anxiety free.  Once the dudes were in the car, I was full of bliss.  Whole.  Present.  And extremely grateful.

The next day the game continued.  While school is essential, so is a day of hookey.  Hooking fish seemed like the perfect way to spend it.  Mr. Jackpot played hookey with us.  We loaded his car with the rods and set off for Bodega Bay.  The winds in Bolinas suggested a rough outing up north, but we blew off that suggestion.  Mr. Jackpot had a plan to find a cove that was protected by the winds and satisfied my need to avoid the rough seas and potential sneaker waves that could create a real reason for anxiety.

Just north of town we found a nearly deserted cove, dotted with rocks rising out of the water from just a few feet to twenty feet, breaking the waves that came from the north.  Nestled in the cove facing south, we launched herring into the sea hoping to catch dinner.  While Mr. Jackpot caught a ling cod (too small to keep), the rest of our fishing was really feeding time for the birds and the fish that were deft enough to snatch the bait before we could land the hook.

My playful spirit freed the dudes to explore, cast as best they could without me interfering with instructions on the ‘proper’ way to do it, and – this is a big one – leave me not feeling guilty that we were blowing off responsibilities for a day of fun.

My Observe Self kept noting for my benefit how my mood was light, I had no expectations (The day was allowed to be beautiful because I wasn’t seeing all the reasons why it wasn’t perfect.), and I was safe.  All the challenging aspects of my life can’t compete with all that beauty.

A bad mood would have highlighted the negative.  My good mood accentuated the positive.  I could have chosen either mood, and that choice would have colored my entire experience.

I thought back to my freshman year in high school when I talked my Mom into buying me a mood ring.  Those magical little baubles that were sure to let me know exactly how I was feeling inside just by being on my finger.  My friends and I would gather around our outstretched hands and stare in wonder at the changing colors, green to orange to blue, squealing as our moods shifted.  We’d cover the rings with our hand, heating up the stone to create reds that, to us, meant we were in love, lovable.

I never bought into the accuracy of a mood ring, but it was fun to have it.  Now, in looking back, I see the unintended lesson of that ring.

I can shift my mood without much more effort than it took to turn the mood ring red.

H, a beautiful kitten, asked on twitter if I read a book to teach me about shifting my mood when I tweeted that I was choosing bliss over anxiety.  I’m not good with self-help books.  I skip around and end up being overwhelmed and confused.  And then I forget everything I’ve read.  Instead, I ponder, coming up with my own strategies for navigating this crazy beautiful life I am so blessed to be living.  One idea, one theory rises above all the rest.

Life is a game.  There are strategies we can employ to create magic.  Without adversity we would be left unchallenged.  Our human self might see that as one big holiday, but it’s not the goal here.  How fun would it be for a major league baseball team to play only against T-ballers?  Over time the easy victories would lead to depression.  Their skills would diminish.  There would be no thrill in the win.

Would I have preferred to be challenged by fixing our marriage?  Sure, especially for the sake of the dudes.  But instead I’m going to be grateful for the challenge of thriving in the midst of a divorce.  I feel that all that is required of me is to be optimistic and make good, conscious choices.  Nothing any more complicated than that.

So I choose to be in a good mood.  I choose to start my day by being grateful.  I choose to make healthy decisions about how I treat myself and those around me.  The part of me that sits just above, popcorn in hand as she watches me navigate life, smiles when she sees me taking the uncomplicated route to bliss.

I simply chose it.

Love yourself,

Cleo

…sorry for the delay in the post.  The Golden State Warriors needed me.  Apparently, my love is not enough.  But there’s always Game 6.

 

 

 

 

Share SHARE

Epiphanies, Mantras and High (Altitude) Hopes

Posted on by
22
The beginning of my mermaid transformation. A scale here. A scale there.

The beginning of my mermaid transformation. A scale here. A scale there.

38,018 feet exists between me and terra firma at this very moment.  It feels good to be up here.  So good, I am one of the few that don’t want this flight to end.  There are, however, two reasons I want to land: to see the dudes and to get on a mountain.

Whatever malaise I’ve allowed to blanket me these past several weeks will be set free over the Sierras, in about 600 miles.  I do need to get to the root of it, but so many of you gorgeous beings have said lately, Let go, relax, chill.  So I’m just going to let go and be a little unconscious for a bit.

Unconscious in a good way.

Doesn’t mean I’m not going to ponder and get all excavation-ish.  I’m just going to stop trying to figure out why I’ve had to fight so much to get organized, be excited to work out, get enthusiastic about encounters and generally be super present, instead of wanting to drift off into space, alone.

Or drift down to the canyons of Utah that pass by my window.  If it wasn’t for the dudes I’d want to be hiking at the base of those red giants right now.  Their crests streaked with yellow bands of time lit by a setting sun.  Like ribbon candy, they bend and curve but are not supple.  The conditions there are as harsh as those here, where it is -82 degrees Fahrenheit.  I crave being there.  Being tested.  Being worked over by nature because we both want to see what I’m made of.

So instead of getting all heavy, I’m going to pretend I’ve already figured it out.  That I know exactly why I’ve been feeling anxious.  Why nearly 10 pounds have somehow crept onto my frame. (UGH.)  Why I am not enthusiastic for anything outside of being here with you and loving the dudes.  Note I didn’t say that I’m enthusiastic about building legos, playing hide and seek, climbing trees, going on adventures, things I love to do.  Just loving them.  I just want to hold them in my arms on my dark blue, shell-shaped couch where I can pretend I’m a mermaid and they are my underwater sentries.

I am not morose.  I had an amazing time with my family celebrating one phenomenal woman, although being in the East is not a good fit for my spirit.  (Sorry all my east coast kittens!  It’s not a judgment on your side of the country, but rather a fact about my present needs.)  There is excitement on the horizon.  I am healthy.  My family is healthy and happy.

But something is clearly off and I know exactly what to do.

Fake it.  Fake it like it’s fine.

What about all that authenticity?  Honesty?  Willingness to expose all my weaknesses and the errors of my ways?

I’m still going to do that, but I’m faking the rest right now.  Instead of seeking, seeking, seeking, I’m playing hard to get.  In the past I’ve been taken by surprise when I least expected it, so here goes!

I’m gonna get coy.

Kind of like yesterday when my Mom got to see me spontaneously burst into tears.  I was responding to a comment on the last post when, without any intention, I made a direct hit on something huge.  This is the bulk of it in response to K:

Choice. The power of choice. Freedom to choose. No one makes my choices for me. If I allow that to happen, that, too, is a choice I make.  

I choose to be responsible for my emotions, actions, moods and choices. (This is big…man, I hope I can weave this into my fiber beginning now!) Along with the responsibility, I must also accept the consequences. So, as I make choices, I am going to ask myself, Are you comfortable with the consequences of your choices? Is this the right choice? Not just the feel good choice but the right choice?

I remember walking on the fire on top of that mountain in Virginia and hearing Melissa say, Don’t rush, consciously place your feet on the (red hot) embers. Somewhere along the way since my move to Bolinas I have begun rushing. I’ve lost my way. I am happy. But beneath the surface is anxiety. I am choosing to allow the emotions of another to affect me. There’s no pointing fingers there. But I’m not comfortable with the consequences – anxiety, tension, fear.

So I am choosing to not allow the emotions of TG affect me. They exist. They aren’t mine. This may sound like I’m trying to be funny, but it’s a good way for me to look at this: I’m a little busy to take on those emotions. He has someone else for that now.

Wow! I just figured out why I do it! As a wife I felt it was my responsibility. I’M NOT A WIFE ANYMORE!!!!!!

K, you best have patted your back, scratched behind your ears and given yourself a decadent treat.  You altered my path in the most beautiful way.

I AM NOT A WIFE.  I am not responsible for his emotions anymore.  To be accurate here, he never asked me to be responsible for them.  I took it on.  That’s a control move.  Not something to be proud of or to repeat at any time in the future.  I cannot be responsible for any person’s emotions but my own.

(I am now on terra firma.  Back in Bo.  I half expected to walk in to the cottage, through a fog of cigar smoke as a gaggle of arachnids sat around the kitchen table playing Go Fish.  Alas, only a dog and cat greeted me.  I did not feign disappointment.)

Like the separation between church and state, there is now a crevasse that separates me and TG.  The only ladder linking us is that for our children.  And that is a beautiful ladder.  I am so grateful to have the dudes and am grateful to TG for being part of their creation, for without him there wouldn’t be them.

That is where the link ends.

Mantras are powerful.  SO powerful.  Using them is like programming the human spirit.  Using them will help me deprogram, untie the cords that tether me emotionally to TG.

I am one.  BeautiFULLY whole, as I am.

I am one.  BeautiFULLY whole as I am.

I am one.  BeautiFULLY whole as I am.

Loving myself fully frees me to love unconditionally.

Loving myself fully frees me to love unconditionally.

Loving myself fully frees me to love unconditionally.

I choose how I feel, and I choose to feel joy.

I choose how I feel, and I choose to feel joy.

I choose how I feel, and I choose to feel joy.

 

Mmmmmm….that felt good.

 

Tonight I shall crawl into bed and dream of Mt. Everest and those who rest on her shoulders as they prepare for the window to summit.  They inspire me, as do all of you.  Inspiration is what I seek as I right myself.

Because all is right.  With each breath life is unfolding as it is intended.

Perfectly.

I love you all.

Love yourself,

Cleo

…This is an exciting time to read about those on Mt. Everest.  If you have the urge check out some blogs.  And please take a moment to follow me on twitter and sign up for the blog feed.  It will only take a moment (just look up to the right) to sign up and then fun, fun, fun till forever.  I promise.  LY

Share SHARE