Being Productive {divine timing of distraction}

Being Productive {divine timing of distraction}

Last week I said I’d talk about following the white rabbit of distraction on purpose. I didn’t realise I was setting myself an assignment. May I just say I kicked arse! So much distraction, you wouldn’t believe.

Here’s the thing: the deadline for getting my current novel’s draft manuscript to my editor was Friday (four days ago) and, finally, today I got it done.

On more than three occasions, I heard the phrase, “Resistance is useless!” in the voice of the Vogon guard from Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Like, my muse had to latch on to my ankle and drag me, by degrees, to The End. Who knew my muse was Vogon? Maybe the spirit’s appearance and voice change to suit the depth of distraction.

The whole Easter/Spring rebirth has been overwhelmingly present over these four days of delay. So, I can’t say that the timing has been off. To the contrary, the timing was more perfect than had I planned it myself. Understand I’m a hell of a scheduler.

I realise, I’ve just insinuated that the universe is the most perfect scheduler (that’s only because it’s true).

It’s one of my distraction methods, planning. I can break tasks into tasks until they vanish completely. That is the magic of spreadsheets. I’m exceptional in my ability to plan, but with great power comes great responsibility.

I allowed myself to plan the steps that would get me to one milestone. Just one. Finish the draft. Had I not done that small amount of planning I think I’d be spending today punishing myself for failing to meet the deadline by an even greater margin.

Two of my favourite distractions: planning, and punishment. One is helpful one is not. Not all distractions are created equal. Scheduling for the terminally distracted would be a cool series of articles to create *adds to list of ideas*.

Next week I’ll talk about some of the ways we disguise punishment as constructive distraction.

Personal Magic

Personal Magic

Seasonal journeying

My new guided meditation is live!

This season, I introduce the wonderful magic of my soundtrack producer (she is sound engineer, composer and director rolled up into one fantastic person). She’s woven all the elements together beautifully, adding support and depth to your journey with me.

It’s free to sign up. Head over to Goddess Kindled to find out more, and join the Tribe!

Welcome to your personal magic.

Being vulnerable

Being vulnerable

I’m sporting a lovely new cold sore on my top lip. It was shocked into existence this afternoon by a few happenings:

#1 – I realised I might have made a fool of myself.

#2 – Someone I admire requested me to dive deeper into myself and then write about it.

#3 – One day in the not too distant future, I will be talking to a possibly world-wide audience about what I wrote in item #2.

I’ve been tapping all afternoon to stop the cold sore going ballistic. It’s working, thankfully. The self inquiry woven into the tapping eventually brought me to one pattern in particular, which I have never before been able to vocalise.

Context: tapping – EFT – Emotional Freedom Techniques (one of the therapies I used with clients of my healing practise).

The reason I struggle with untangling this pattern is, it is a paradox. I worry I won’t get what I deserve; but, I worry I won’t deserve what I get. At least, I can see the circle, now. Time to tilt it on it’s axis and spin that sucker into a spiral, then jump on for the ride and trust there is no knobbly banister-type stopper at the end of the slide, waiting to goose me.

My life is a series of magical moments. I write magical realism, because it is the way I see the world. Connections and threads, and sometimes, a bannister too shiny and inviting not to straddle.

Being real

Being real

There is an old pattern circling the drain of my psyche. It is the gross wad of hair we will affectionately call, Knotty. Knotty reminds me that I am shy and insecure. And, certainly not good enough to do the thing I want to do.

Danger! Danger!

Problem is, by the time I notice Knotty these days, I am already in the middle of doing the thing I am supposedly incapable of doing. Last night, I was actually finished doing the creative business thing (and being completely awesome and magical in the process) and had moved on to spooning a large helping of pumpkin curry into a bowl, before I noticed Knotty. I guess that is the definition of an ingrained pattern. Every time I look away, I forget it’s there.

Even so, the pattern tries with all its might to remind me what I am.

The thing is, I’m not shy and insecure. I seem to have been something else for quite some time, now. I am talking out loud to people I admire about my work and not feeling the need to pretend to be anything more (or less) than exactly what I am. I’m not vigilant for moments when I can casually allude to a mystery about myself that might lead the admired listener to believe I am interesting and capable.

I am using direct language, and finding it exhilarating.

Being real all the time is not a decision. It is my natural state of being. I am relaxed without that irritating grain of nausea in the back of my stomach, because at any moment someone is going to realise I am not good enough.

Holy crap!

I’ve passed through the magical green door that waits patiently in the most secret corners of the universe for unsuspecting voyagers. I didn’t even have to paint it black. (I’m pretty sure I’ve just mangled the meaning of that snippet of lyric and managed to either offend someone, or make them laugh.)

Half Strung Bow

Half Strung Bow

There were already strings in my bow when I became an indie author.

I’m not talking about having a bow, half strung. However, one with loose strings, frayed and flying from previous symphonic madness … probably, I was waving that like a flag as I staked my claim on this authoring path.

Regardless, I always have had and always will have a bow that is strung completely and perfectly. It must be so. I tend to get edgy when things don’t line up. Things like the edges of a book that I surreptitiously tap with gentle fingers until it is square with the corner of the table.

Like any accomplished reader of the score of life, I must restring my bow at the appropriate moments, and slather on the rosin at others.

I didn’t come to this career without foreknowledge. I bring with me a wealth of understanding and depth of self-knowing that serves my stories and characters more thoroughly than being able to spell complicated words.

Although, I generally manage to do that without hiccough (because I think it’s cool).

Point is, everyone has a path littered with shredded bits of bow trailing off behind them. There are even chips of wood and some completely shattered frames on mine.

That’s okay, find a likely looking tree beside the path, and get whittling! I only cut my fingers on very special occasions, and rarely on purpose, these days.

My release of limiting beliefs has unleashed an awesome fearlessness. It’s simultaneously bizarre and hilarious. I sit on my own shoulder, observing the wonderful madness of me, going ahead, and doing the work I feel drawn to create. And, I don’t care if nobody except me falls in love with the result.

Such daring. {My latest bit of daring.}

I read that last line and have to laugh with an unrestrained blatt of vocal eruption — it’s just so damn funny. Because, now, the daring doesn’t leave the cloying aftertaste of fear behind.

Self-sabotage

Self-sabotage

This week, I almost gave up.

Right in the middle of a writer’s high (that may or may not have been a little too much like mania to be entirely healthy), a nice big red button that had taken many years to fully develop burst out of an intimate conversation one afternoon and punched me right in the face.

It fucking well hurt!

But, it woke me up. The button was clearly labelled. There was no disguise or deception.

It tried to shimmer sideways and turn on its perception filters to throw me off. But, no. I see you now, you old pattern of sabotage. You will never be able to hide again.

I will write. Even though maybe everything I’m pouring my heart and soul into will come to nothing, which earns less than that. My worth is not determined by how much other people are willing to pay for it.

Not any more.

I will say my opinions right out loud, even though you may not agree with them. Maybe you will! The terrifying part is that I don’t know if you will or not. The part of my opinion I share has always been shaped that way. I have always sculpted it into an attractive form. My powers of seduction are considerable.

I will stick to my path, even though it veers off in a different direction to the one you deem proper. My effort is enough because I say so, not because you can see the point.

… It makes me smile when you do, though.

Big and toothy smiling that shows the discolouration of my capped front tooth. The one that I think ruins my smile, even though I’ve had decades to get used to it. Bet you didn’t smack yourself in the mouth with a cricket bat when you were seven.

Was it way back then that I choked off my voice? Clamped my lips closed to keep away the judgement?

This week, I didn’t give up. I thumped the hell out of that red button until it told the truth. Turns out, I installed it and made it bigger over the years.

Just me.

Limiting beliefs

Limiting beliefs

Mine seem to have vanished.

I discovered some long-forgotten stairs that wound down into the long hallway of my subconscious. The carpet was antique olive and there was burnished wooden panelling as far as the eye could see.

There was a door. The sign read clearly, Limiting Beliefs.

I opened the door and a roomful of fluttering escaped and soared away. I even went inside the room and made sure the windows were flung wide, too.

Sometimes I need to be reminded that I can allow myself to be guided, I don’t always have to be the guide.

If you want to explore your creative self (you have one, even if you don’t think so) click the following link to find some wonderful inspiration for going creative with Orna Ross.

There was space to breathe after my limits were freed.

My spirit wanted to build a pillow fort and play in the realm of Epic. This is what happened … Pull of the Tribe – Series Trailer … Yep, still feeling the awesome power of a deep breath.