Nothing more that I want than to go back to sleep. I don't want to make a peep. I want to make dreams. My head screams--well it's more like a whine. It's heavy and I can't ever seem to find the time to get my full 8 hours in. I think it takes me much longer to do anything. My mind tends to linger and ponder and grow fonder to just being blank. I can thank meditation for that. I am now typing with my head on the desk. Multi-tasking. I ask a lot of myself as most women do. I put all my goals on the shelf right above my desk as if gazing at them day after day they will grow wings and take flight. I guess any forward movement is good trajectory but if I were to erect a line graph of my progress it would look like long leisurely wedge of swiss cheese. Slow and steady, don't mind the dips--although my head does flips when it's not staying still and I wish that I could just chill or focus or be like those founders that don't need Z's. They work on their projects as if curing disease. I respect that but also know that it could take its toll on you in other ways. Maybe not now, but eventually, when your life is off kilter, you bleed. Or atrophy. You use some parts and get that reputation strong, but your spiritual health is long gone. Or you're super fit and your love life has gone to shit. The question I'm constantly asking myself is am I willing to sacrifice living well in all domains to realign my career to be free to work independently. I'll cradle this thought--it will be my premonition, as I return to my bed in the fetal position.
"Who do you think you are?"
Who do I know I am? I stand before me to receive that which must be believed.
I am a dreamer, a doer, a believer, a prover. Mainly to myself. I visualize what I will see then write it down when it comes to be so I can thank God for it later. Yes, I keep track of the times that my mind makes true--it is astonishing what thoughts can do. When you have a one-track mind that is set to success, the universe won't rest on it. That is of course if you have the right attitude, you must be practicing gratitude. Thank your creator for giving you rocks and water to hike and swim, for your arms to embrace your family and friends, for delicious meals and music to dance to. For moments of romance. For the positivity that flows into your brain. For the ability to stop and slow down your mental train.
Think great, do great, wake early, meditate, and thank God for the ability to conspire and create your inevitably fabulous fate.
Several weeks ago I woke and could not turn my head. Since then I have headed up a neck committee that involved hot compresses, Motrin, a massage therapist, and pillows that kneel diligently beneath my back in bed. One pillow I received (thanks, JG) is the vibrating type and it is gyrating relief into me as I write. After the massage, the Pains took holiday, but now a Little Pain has returned and is wanting to stay. I am debating my next move and how much I will pay and invest for this ache in my neck to just go away.
I wonder now about the solutions we seek when we desire relief. A chiropractor and acupuncture are on my list to enlist, but I also think about how I may need to shift my mindset to lift the torment. I'm learning more about how the mind is our most powerful tool, and perhaps we need to use it to rule over discomfort. If I use the methods like those in the Science of Getting Rich by Wallace Wattles, the answer is not by suffering through within an ibuprofen bottle.
He might say to think that I am already well and to supply my thoughts with images of the uninjured. This belief will lead to relief. I choose to think that a troupe of handsome shamen are on their way ready to give me a luxurious rub-down. I can handle the pain for another day.
Good morning, person.
Are you reading this before noon?
Do you work best before the sun peaks?
“I don’t know”? Me too.
It was recently discovered that there are genes that determine morningness
so it is a “thing.”
Yet, like so many things that we cling to and assert our identity to, it often times becomes a mental hindrance if you are trying to create change.
you say you’re not a morning person—that your best inspiration strikes after dark.
That might be true.
But what I have come to starkly realize for myself that when you start taking action consistently and you actively seek inspiration, it comes; you don’t have to wait for it to find you.
‘Cause if you do, you may be waiting forever.
Progress isn’t made from a lightning epiphany someone had just once in bed wearing their mismatched socks. It is made from someone taking stock, doing the work, regularly. Sometimes slowly. Whether it’s before dawn or after dusk is inconsequential. Everyone moves differently.
For some time, I had been fascinated by successful people’s morning routines. I studied people whose work I was consistently enamored with and wanted to know what they did to start their days. Some of them meditated, some wrote plays, some did pushups. Some, like Marie Forleo, started it the night before by outlining her day in her planner. Big ups.
Not much did they have in common other than the fact that each of them did seem to have a morning, i.e. woke before noon. And none of them were eating donuts or any kind of junk. When you’re in a sugar stupor it can put you in a mental funk.
Regardless of what their process was, they were making things happen just because.
My process is a constant experiment in being comfortable being uncomfortable. At the present, I do pushups, meditate, and write. And if the rest of the day doesn’t pan out, I did something for me before the first light.
Did it dawn on you that you’re a self-made morning person, too? Tweet me your early-riser ritual @alisonperrie. I’d love to hear from you.
I forgot my phone in my office last night. I was distracted, I had a big box, I was anxious about my eyeliner being intact. I was beelining to a stand up comedy class and I knew I'd be seeing my soon-to-be-ex. The problem is, without my phone, I had no way of knowing where I was going next. I knew it was less than a mile away, but without GPS, I was pretty hopeless. In the pouring down rain, I asked a lady who was headed to her car if she could give me some direction and let me know if Institution Theatre was far. Her name was Purity, and she took pity on me. I wrote down how to get there the old-fashioned way--with pen and a paper and then I was on my way.
The class went fine and even the talk with the guy, but what I was missing felt like my third eye. Or limb, or some kind of appendage. Our phones these days hold worlds we wallow in, lost mentally in the glow of a 4 1/2" screen. Without my phone, I feel scrappy and lean--I talk to people more. I explore. I have a few more minutes of time for me--I remember to breathe. It's actually pretty freeing not having it here. No reaction or impulse when the texts come in, no social media binge, no internet friends. I mean, I guess I could summon them on my laptop, but then, it wouldn't be procrastination tactic, so it loses a bit of the appeal. It makes me want to steal away where I have no connection and I feed on and read words off of pages. A place that has not been so affected by recent ages. I did go off the grid with my mother a couple years ago to the Grand Canyon. The only service we had for three days and two nights were our raft crew setting up tables at our campsite for meals. I hope I forever remember the sound of the Colorado River, churning fervently while I sat still.
As we returned back to Vegas, I remember the strange joy of turning on my iPhone and hearing the messages ring in like slot machine bells. Like, the world missed me while I was away. Perhaps I will return to the rocks for another electronic detox, if only to remember what it is that I am missing.
I woke up on Friday not able to turn my head. I was in quite a bit of pain and microwaved a wet washcloth at my office to keep my muscles relaxed and proceeded to turn my entire body to speak to someone throughout the weekend like I was wearing one of those large, nerdy invisible neck braces. I popped Motrin like M&M's to which, unlike M&M's, I started to get immune. After an intense massage on Sunday that felt more like physical therapy than anything I've gotten done at a hotel spa, I am about 75% better. The last three days I have heeded the advice of the internet and my MT, Ben, and slept on my back, which is common for only 8% of the population. I feel like a needy corpse, that needs her proper pillow position, but I've always been somewhat of a snobby sleeper, so the pillow thing isn't really new. (Normally, I need the right temperature, neck position--needless to say I never sleep well when traveling and tend to drool, so you know, it's awkward to sleep publicly for the slobberers).
The wild thing is, when I sleep on my back, I get crazy dreams. They are dramatic, intense, and obviously speaking about the ones that I can recall after waking, very rarely pleasurable. I have started to notice a theme of terminal disease, fire, and men from my past who were their own natural disasters, romantically speaking. My mother never sleeps on her back because she says she gets nightmares. I did some research, and although I did find out some evidence of this, nothing that was seriously backed by science. The massage therapist, Ben says perhaps I'm falling into a deeper sleep than in my regular position on my side and perhaps this is true. Is the trade off for better sleep a tumultuous dream trip? This may be conversely true of waking dreams too--the more frightening and risky, the better the payoff for a more fulfilling life if they are manifested. I think it is worth exploring further--perhaps I will start journaling these night journies and will report on the other side.
"We’re all going to die. And we all eat food. Therefore, food must be the culprit."
-Jim Windolf, Why Everything is Bad for You.
(Best read out loud in your mind.)
Is what's sustaining us really killing us? To answer, I must ask, “what's us?” Physically, we are sixty percent water. The stuff that makes up the other forty? Triglycerides, calcium, proteins...the synapses and firing behind them. It is the fire that drives us, ignites us. When we wake and when we say goodnight . And when we break down, it is our bodies way to say "What’s up? Just slow down, enjoy the view, won't you?" We eat crap. We catch colds. We drink too much wine. We get caught in the net of ‘not good enough. We whine, "If I only had her figure…" we figure we could be the ‘me’ in our ideal obituary. We bite off more than we can chew, then spew excuses.
Food isn't the culprit, it's our body's limitation; the libations, medications, and rations we ingest affect where and how strong these barriers are. If deconstruction is true (go with me here), then what is filling our bellies and minds is making us stronger. However, the longer and harder our body works to process what we put in, this process wears and tears; it catches up with us in the end.
Aspirin & asparagus both break down to dust, and furthermore into stuff our bodies and brains digest. If a pill or drink alters the way we think, why can't miso soup or tiramisu? Feed your brain food like nuts--I'm with Jack--the only people for me are the mad ones anyway. We are what we eat.
I knew a woman once whose spirit was so alive that she radiated energy to all she touched. Emily was the sun. But they found in this twenty-four year-old orb a tumor in her brain. It remained and grew. Even cancer could not resist her. How fervent she was about finding a cure. She raised the most funds for all of New York for brain tumor research. She even empathized with all those of us who suffered ailments not meant for life or death, but strife over where roommates put the knives, or our dating lives. The day after my breakup, I brought her hospital-bedside bagel brunch and 'faux-mosas' (alcohol did not pair well with her multi-vitamins and pain-med cocktail). She ate life for the taste of it and spit words of positivity. 'Sweet Emily', we called her. I did not find out her favorite dessert until the end. Cheesecake--every flavor and kind that one might ever dream to find, lay abundant across the banquet tables for the reception following her funeral. The hall was filled by all those who were blessed to have basked in Emily's glow. Yet, it felt vulgar to indulge in the sweet dish while we tearfully divulged memories of Emily. The bite sat heavy in my abdomen, a contrast to the emptiness I felt in my heart without her there. On the car ride home, our friend shared that he tried one time to convince her to eat all alkaline. It is no easy feat--no sugar, no dairy or wheat--it had been proven to reduce cancer growth rate as it raises your pH. Emily would not have it. If she was going to die, it would not be on a diet. If we are, indeed, what we eat, Sweet Emily was Mexican, the marrow of life, and powdered-sugared starlight.
What's left of the baloney and white bread once it's broken down? It's simple, sugar. We are all made of stars--just ask Moby, who may be all-knowing. I maintain that the mainstay of our diets does not make us us die. If stars are what we are, I'd advise to swallow cosmic fire; passion to nourish that inner child--wild, wide-eyed and never satisfied. And wash it down with juice that's green to keep your engine running clean.
Every morsel of our mortality we should savor. Save yourself--don’t stuff your face, eat veggies--read Polluck for more on this--and bring a healthy dish to the potluck. Share. Best of luck from there.