Blogging Pheromones

Some of you love this blog. Some of you like it. Some of you tolerate it. Some of you unsubscribe. This is how life goes in the blogosphere.

And I’m so curious to know why. Why do some of you ooh and ahh and hyperventilate with joy while reading and send me emails professing your love, while some of you just shrug your shoulders and move on? Why do I wait anxiously for some feeds to appear in my email and hit delete when I get others?

You all know that I have very serious thoughts and feelings and opinions about smell. The power of the nose? It’s astounding, not least because of its use of pheromones.

pheromone |?fer??m?n|
noun Zoology
A chemical substance produced and released into the environment by an animal, esp. a mammal or an insect, affecting the behavior or physiology of others of its species.

There are some people in this world that smell so good to us that we can’t keep our hands off them – literally. It’s carnal and biological. Their very scent lights something up inside of us. It makes us do crazy things – more hypnotic and tantalizing than a full moon. Much, I’d say.

And there are some people in this world that smell so bad to us that we can’t get far enough away from them. It’s also carnal and biological. Their very scent brings something up inside of us. And it’s usually revulsion. It makes us do crazy things – like run away, it can even make us cruel in our distaste.

So…

Can you smell me? I didn’t think so. Because I can’t smell you. Which leads me to believe that there’s some sort of blogging pheromone wafting about.

What makes us connect, fuse and fall in blogging love? And what make us delete, leave nasty comments and close the window? It must be the words, the sentiment, the emotion, the energy, the shared life experience, the joy (or disdain) of shared humanity.

Image credit: Brouhaha (I could NOT resist this picture)

Wide open

Warning: this post is kinda gross.

My birth experience was horrid: preeclampsia, 2 lb. baby, NICU (neonatal  intensive care unit). All bad. I also had an emergency c-section. Let me tell you, it is a crazy thing to be awake while you are cut open. Then, it is a terrifying thing to move about the world with your abdomen cut open.

Yes, there were stitches binding me together. But I wouldn’t move without pressing a folded towel tightly against the incision. Granted, I was in a trauma state from the whole experience, but my fear that all-of-my-everything would spill out of me was as real as the hormone induced tears that I couldn’t make stop.

Then, yesterday, I was having a conversation about the fact that you can feel 180 degrees different about the same ‘thing’ depending on the circumstance.

Because when I write – and when I’m on – I feel like my head, my heart and guts are sliced wide open. But it’s glorious. I pray the cut will deepen. I would do anything to keep it open. To plant stakes in the sides and let it all flow without constraint.

Somethings you’re desperate to keep inside. Others you urgently need to release.

Image credit: Martin Clifton

The Importance of Butterflies

When I was little, Sundays were my least favorite days. Not only because of Sunday School, but because, I think, it always felt like an ending. Saturday, you were in it. But, Sunday, even though it was 40% of the weekend (including Friday night), felt doomed. The steady advance of the clock swallowing up any remaining freedom. I wasted a lot of it, I’m sure, mourning for it’s inevitable departure.

I had a physiological and emotional reaction to Sunday. I named it – in true writer fashion – when I was about 7 years old. I know that my mom (who reads this blog) won’t remember this, but I do. I was trying to tell her how I felt, because it was so, well, sad and intense. My interpretation was that I had my ‘Sunday Feeling’. Eventually, this became the term that I used to describe that particular brand of sadness whenever it happened – Sunday or not. Clinically, I think it would be identified as depression. The Sunday Feeling feels bottomless and lost, a little bit scared and incredibly still. And it still creeps up on me every now and then.

See how I’m a classically tortured artist?

I like to name things, always have. Like the time I told my 1st grade teacher, Miss Carragher, that I was carsick. She told me I couldn’t be carsick sitting at my desk – but it was the only reference I had for nausea at that point, being in the car. It made perfect sense to me. That woman never understood me.

But, Friday, glorious Friday. It held so much possibility, you know? It was the day you spent planning and dreaming up the weekend, the expanse of the two days to come spread out hugely in front of you. And, just like the Sunday Feeling, the Friday Feeling also and quickly became unattached to the actual day.

The Friday Feeling happened on the last day of school, and on the first. The Friday Feeling happens at the beginning of a relationship. The Friday Feeling happens when you get a call about a great project. The Friday Feeling happens when you can’t stop writing and everything just works. The Friday Feeling feels topless (as in the opposite of bottomless, not as in shirtless – though sometimes that could apply), full, purposeful, gleeful. The Friday Feeling has butterflies attached – they fly around in your gut, your chest, your throat.

To me, the butterflies are the drive behind the Friday Feeling. Their movement, after all, is the surest sign that you’re leaving the despair-filled stillness behind.

Image credit: Laura Burlton

Delighting in the tumult

I love how you often don’t realize something’s missing until it shows itself. This morning on my run, I heard the most tremendous sound: bird song. I didn’t know I’d been longing for it, so sweet – and full, demanding its rightful place in the woods and in the air.

But it wasn’t the only rare sound that I heard this morning. On my run, I circle around a knob of land that sticks right out into the ocean. The first part, on the west side, is quite open to the elements and the wind and surf are usually pounding me and the sand (respectively) with tenacity and total disregard.

The second part, however, as I come around the bend to the east side, sits in a harbor. It’s protected, in part because the space through which the greater ocean feeds it is relatively narrow. So, typically, no matter how crazy the wind is on the west side, the east side is seemingly always calm and serene.

But not today. Today it was the exact opposite. Somehow – for the first time since I’ve been running this loop – the wind and the waves were blowing at exactly the right angle, allowing them to puncture the inlet and pummel the harbor.

As I ran alongside the eastern shore with the wind threatening to push me over and the new sound of crashing surf in my ears, I thought about the fish and the plants and the whatever else is in this bowl-like slice of water. What it must feel like for them today to be shaken up? I projected that they were upset or alarmed or scared.

And then I noticed something else new. I saw the colors and the light. The sun had already risen for all intents and purposes, but the day was grayer than gray – the skies were soaked in heavy rain clouds. But where the water is usually gray or dark blue, today it was a light green…and vibrant. Like the color ’sea green’ in the Crayola box. A color I didn’t realize was missing from my eyes until I saw it.

I’m wrong, I thought. This safe little harbor isn’t disturbed by the tumult, it’s all lit up – from the inside.

The suspense could, quite possibly, kill me…

It’s not quite as glorious as it sounds. I figured out how to see and control my future. But only my bleak one. And bonus, it’s very easy to do – anyone can play!

This magical skill that I’ve developed is born from an inability to deal with anticipation, with not knowing. In other words: the suspense is killing me.

In reality, I only have one question that I need to have answered. If you look at all the story threads that I have in my life (work, writing, relationships, health, family, etc.) – I want to know one thing and one thing only: Will it turn out for better or for worse?

Like I said, the suspense is killing me. So, the brilliant thing to do is just kill the suspense, right? I mean, if you think about, it is completely in my power to make sure none of those things come true – and then I’ll have my answer: it will turn out for worse. I can stop writing, I can stop running and I can sit around all day doing nothing but eating hotdogs, using Twinkies as a bun. And, just like that, I don’t have to wonder if the fame, glory, health and dollar bills are headed my way. I’ve taken control of my future and satisfied my curiosity.

Yeah, not gonna happen.

I would never purposefully sabotage my life or my pursuits just to abate my anxiety. But, you’ve got to admit, there’s something really seductive about knowing that I could. That if I really needed my answer, I could get it. It’s like the ‘myth of control’ loophole.

I do want to see the future, how this will all play out, NOW. But, I understand…that’s not how it works. How it works is that we show up for it, we move in it, we talk through it, we write about it…and eventually we find out what’s behind those elusive curtains.

And you know what? I believe it’s all good stuff back there. Don’t you? If we didn’t, we’d be much more tempted to chuck it all in the trash…wouldn’t we?

Image credit: The Real Estreya

I’m with SportsCenter

I have a thing for SportsCenter. There’s something about ESPN that just really does it for me. And I know what it is (besides the overflow of testosterone). This news media outlet is not scary. Every other news station out there tries to reach out, grab your eyeballs and attach them to their screen with teasers like, “How we know you’re going to die a violent death and HOW YOU JUST MIGHT, MAYBE, POSSIBLY BE ABLE TO STOP IT!!! Next on the News at 10.”

But not the guys at SportsCenter.

They love the game, the love the athletes, they have fun. And when there is drama – cough, cough ‘Tiger’ – they somehow still manage to stick to the facts and not so much the soap opera, focusing on what it will mean to the game of golf. I know, it’s mind-blowing.

This morning I was at the gym, and while I really abhor TV, the screens are inescapable. So I make sure that I’m stationed in front of SportsCenter – just in case my Eye of the Tiger concentration should get distracted. Which it did. And I found myself watching highlights from the Olympics  – where yesterday, Lindsey Vonn and two other U.S. dudes won gold medals. And then I was watching crazy basketball highlights where huge men were leaping gracefully into the sky at just the right moment, catching the ball and slamming it into the basket.

Makes me tingle

I got shivers. Everything I saw was so beautiful, so extraordinary. It made me work out harder, feeling my own strength and power. It also made me think about Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk. You know her, right? She wrote Eat, Pray, Love – a masterful memoir that is so authentically real it’s almost blog like. Almost.

In her talk, which I highly recommend that any human (but especially us creative types) watch (and I’ve posted below), she talks about creative genius. She talks about the fact that now that she’s ostensibly hit her ultimate peak with her last book, it is expected that she can only go downhill with her highly anticipated follow-up.

Ah…fear-based wisdom

Apparently, this is a typical phenomenon for anyone who has reached such heights. As she notes, she topped out at 40, so she has 40 more years (give or take) of never being quite that good again – according to this fear-based wisdom, that is.

Lindsey Vonn is 26. When she gets home in a few weeks, will she sink into a deep, dark depression and think that she’ll never be that good again? Will others assume that as well? Is this, then, as good as it gets?

I’m going to say NO. And I’m going to say it in a very loud and strong voice. Because ewwww. Who wants to live like that? I can tell you that I do not.

Waking up

When these professional basketball players woke up yesterday morning, they knew they were good athletes, they knew they were strong and agile. But did they know exactly how the ball would come to them during the game? Did the know exactly how they would jump and twist and grab and dunk? No and no.

Gilbert discusses the unrealistic expectations we place on geniuses to be genius…and it made me think about what’s coming next, what we can’t see – how maybe some thing, some accomplishment, some physical and creative feat is still out there, around the corner, barreling towards us.

Yesterday, I (and Writing Roads) had a really, really good day. When I woke up, all I had was me – my knowledge of who I am and what I want to do. The rest lay before me sight unseen. I had no reason to think the day would unfold like it did, but as I sat on the edge of my bed, ready to put my feet on the floor and get moving, I thought, Who the hell knows? Maybe today will be the day that things really come together. Maybe today will be my best day yet.

And it was. You know why? Because I’m with SportsCenter. I’m not in it for the fear. I’m in it for the love of the game and its players and my team. And because I really do think there’s always somewhere farther, longer, stronger, better and higher to go.

Image credit: jjaani

The Sense of Write

I have an uncanny sense of smell. Seriously, I’ve broken up with people over it. Not because they liked the smell of lavender while I insist on freesia and lilac, but because they didn’t smell right. If this writing things doesn’t work out, I might become a pheromone detective.

My nose is my directional. And this week, it stopped working. It’s a little bit completely amusing because I wrote a post about voluntarily shutting your nose on the 15th. I can only guess this is the Universe telling me, Not so fast, sweetheart, we still hold the ultimate control card in these parts.

Anyway, it stopped working because I have a cold. For me this is a once a year occurrence, the last time was late last February when I had a full-blown flu. This time, just a wicked head cold.

They say that when one sense stops working, the others kick into overdrive. But, I can’t smell, taste or hear from the cold and I haven’t been able to see since 1983. (I’m practically blind and my vision can’t be corrected to 20/20 even with my glasses or contacts.) So that leaves me with the 5th sense: feel. Except that the cold has usurped that as well. Because all I’ve felt like is crap.

First let me say that there’s something refreshing about not having any of the senses work. While I can’t taste my food, I also can’t smell anything bad. When I was running yesterday (yes, I still ran even though I was sick – I think sweating helps), I couldn’t smell any exhaust. There I was moving up the last hill on State Road thinking, Wow! These cars are all running so clean! It usually stinks out here! And then I remembered. And I can’t taste that nasty cold/sick taste you usually have in your mouth when you’re sick. And I can’t hear annoying people. All in all, not so bad.

But the best news is that I think I’ve developed my own sickth sense: the Sense of Write. My writing has been lip-smacking good. Everything else is hibernating, but my writing brain and my writing fingers are looking for the party. Which is great because I have a lot of work to do. And because it’s one of my favorite things to do. And because my boss refuses to give me any sick time. (So I’m leaving used Kleenex all over her desk.)

Image credit: hebedesign

Every fish has two sides

This past weekend I adopted this beautiful blue fish to sit by my computer and keep me company while I write. I thought it would be so cool. But, it’s not really cool. It’s two other things:

Depressing. As hell. I kid you not. I look at this little fish all alone in his little bowl with his fake plastic plant and I want to end it all right here and now. I mean, talk about a reminder of how fruitless it all is! She’s trapped, she has no options, no real future, no chance of making any friends or finding love or even just someone to fool around with. And she only gets to eat a few tiny pebbles of food a day, the same food every day.

Luckily, that’s only what I see about 3% of the time that I look at her. The rest of the time, I think she looks extraordinarily

Chillaxed. My fish is so mellow. She just floats around. Sometimes she’s very still, sometimes she swims up and down or in circles. But nothing seems to bother her, she never looks ruffled. She is totally safe in that bowl. It’s clean, there’s food, there are pretty rocks. She doesn’t have to work and she has no responsibilities. In short, she’s living a charmed life. Like Paris Hilton.

And – minus not having to work or shoulder any responsibilities – like me.

Image credit: ayelie

What are you saving it for?

This morning when I woke up, I did my usual. First, I reached for my Blackberry to peruse the email that had loaded up during the night and then I reached for my running shoes. Uncharacteristically, I reached for them begrudgingly. I didn’t feel like running…which is kind of odd.

But, I shoved my lethargy and fear of the cold, winter wind that is likely to plague my island for at least 2 more months aside and headed out the door anyway. Because I know how good I feel when I walk back in. Triumphant. Accomplished.

By the time I reached the end of my road, something wonderful happened, so wonderful that it is, perhaps, the runner’s holy grail. My body lit up, it felt light, strong, powerful, fast. I felt good, and despite the running blahs I woke up with, my run was going to be good too.

Oh how the brain will chatter…

When I run, I think a lot – my mind is never quiet. I write, I analyze, I have long debates with myself, I replay old memories, I study things…it’s like the steady pounding of my feet is a morse code to my brain that says, ‘Let ‘er rip’. Sometimes I’m in there talking back, fully conscious…while other times, I drop down into my body and just listen to the conversation as it rolls up and down my brain and my life.

Reptiles

Today, I was in listening mode and I was fascinated to hear what I had to say. At first, my brain was ecstatic that I had so much energy, that my body felt so vibrant. But then – shockingly – my brain did a 180 and started sending out orders like it was fighting for its life. “SLOW DOWN!” It cried. “Conserve your energy! Don’t use it all up now or we’ll never make it home! We’ll be stranded, we’ll be cold, we’ll be hungry…WE’LL DIE!!!”

My most beloved yoga teacher, Tarika, and Seth Godin would call this the lizard brain – that segment of our brains that cares purely for our physical survival. In yoga, the reptilian brain needs to know how long a pose will be held, where the restrooms are, when the class will end. On my run, this snake needed to know that my burst of energy was enough to make it home. It was terrified that it wasn’t.

Conservation

This got me thinking about reserves. Are they necessary? And by dampening our performance today in order to save some for later, are we really getting any benefit? Or are we just missing opportunity, turning down our light, buying into the fear that we can’t possibly be that fantastic.

Does this happen to you when you write? Because it doesn’t happen to me. For some reason, when I start writing and it feels really good, I never, ever look back. I go with it and I go for it. And I watch it build on itself, this phenomenalness. The words just come faster, smoother, better the more of this beginning fuel I burn – it’s self-fulfilling, self-recharging, self-fueling.

Good influence

So, why would the run be any different? Why would any pursuit be any different? Physical, mental, emotional – I don’t think it makes a difference. Whether the good energy lasts or it doesn’t, it does affect some part of your trip and that influences next steps. Don’t save it. It doesn’t work that way. Savor it. Take advantage of the gift.

In the case of my run, I jumped right into the lizard brain’s face and bellowed: Seize the energy. RUN! If we glide like a puma gloriously for even one mile, it will be worth it. We can walk home. We can hitch a ride. We can run slower on the way back ’round. We will not die. And we might just fly through all six miles.

Ha! Look at that. I did…I flew the whole way.

Image credit: Nieve44

Hey y’all! Check out The Daily Norm – my interview blog – for a new and stunning interview with Artist & Painter – Traeger di Pietro…

If only my brain were pregnant.

You know how everyone makes all the usual jokes about pregnancy and food cravings? Pickles and ice cream will always be hilarious, but these cravings are a serious force to be reckoned with. If I could bottle them, I’d be rich.

I remember distinctly a feeling of almost possession when I was craving something. Like the baby was calling for protein and my stomach wanted carbs and my bones wanted calcium and my mouth wanted butter and salt – so I ended up eating dark sourdough toast with a 1/4 stick of butter, feta cheese and smoked salmon, sprinkled with jalapeno stuffed green olives. Ah, satisfaction.

And who was I but the vehicle, the deliverer of the goods? None of it was my doing – not the urges, not the recipe development, nuthin’. And it works, right? The body calls, we give it what it needs and wowza, we make a baby. Another human being. How magnificent!

Today, I was trying to write a piece for a client and I was thinking – I wish different parts of my brain would activate like my pregnant body. (FYI, this next part is actually biologically correct. Ha! You do have to be a brain surgeon to run a blog!!!)

• My hindbrain would call for the smooth flow of muscle function so that I could type and sit up straight,
• my limbic system would insist on emotion and sense memory,
• and my neocortex would demand exciting verbs and perfect wordage.

And I’d just sit there at my computer on autopilot spewing viciously remarkable prose until at last I had created a glorious final draft from what was once just a blank page. To the writer? Yes, it’s just as magnificent a feat as the production of a baby. Plus, good copy doesn’t whine or spill milk and it pays for itself. Now that’s a thing of beauty.

Image credit: Bob Fornal