Go time. Finally. (And yay!)

July 7, 2010

hopscotch_blog_w

It’s here!

You know – IT. The happy secret I was so tortured about keeping. And now I’m tongue-tied all over again. But that’s just as well, because you can finally just come visit and find out for yourself. Yayyy!

So what will happen here?
I know I’ve been super quiet lately. Part secret-keeping, tongue-tied. Part Distillery-building-Hopscotch-playing. Part cranking away for a few awesome people doing my right-hand-girl thing.

And I really do miss writing. And I’ve been wondering myself what this here blog might become.

Most of my worky-type writing (which I unexpectedly love doing) will happen over at the new digs. So what I’d really love is to write (more!) here about daily life stuff.

To write more often, but about less, if that makes any sense at all.  And to write about simple little everyday things – what I’m cooking, reading, wondering, doing. In some ways, I’d like to write more often for the sake of writing itself — deep practice and all that.

We’ll see when I actually start writing more. Ha. I’m guessing that I’ll be swimming in all things Hopscotch Distillery for awhile. (Note the hopeful description of Swimming rather than Treading Water. Because life and things are busy, but good busy. Critical distinction.)

In the meantime… hope you’ll come by, hang out, throw confetti with us. See you there!

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A case of the pre-launch awkward blurts

June 9, 2010

Being yourself online can be the strangest experience. (In addition to, you know, the basic essential weirdness of being a human being.)

Sometimes you want to dip your toe in a certain water without making it a big deal or announcing anything. And then it can feel oddly disingenuous to not share everything with everyone.

I open my mouth sit down to write, but nothing comes out.
So then you just don’t talk at all, because hello, all of your brain matter is occupied by this one thing. Feels a bit like being told something about someone and sworn to secrecy. And before you’ve even absorbed the information, he walks up and you get all blurtey and act like a total dooooofus.

Must have happened umpteen times on Seinfeld: Jerry tells Elaine a secret about George, and then she gets all mumbley and super suspicious. Until George gets her wasted and she spills everything.

A glimpse at the flip side.
Sometimes I feel awkward as a reader/consumer when someone hints at something they’re growing in the background. But now as a writer/producer I completely get it. Because you have this thing you want to talk about, but you also feel a bit protective, and you need to wait until the timing feels right.

Must be a bit like couples feel about telling people (or not) that they’re pregnant?

Nurturing something tiny and sweet is a vulnerable and delicate time. It might start out as just a private glimmer of an idea, a flutter across the screen. And at that point everything is so fragile. You need time to get used to the change. And it needs time to put down some roots and get stronger.

The baby point.
And there’s no reason that setting the stage for a new business venture or product has to be icky or manipulative anymore than it would be with a (real life) baby. Because your business can be your baby. Your next idea can be a tiny, sweet thing.

No one would be like: Oh, gross, she totally hinted at being pregnant – she must be pushing her baby on me. Dude, I don’t want your baby!

So why does it sometimes feel that way when someone hints about their next thing?

It’s like you I want to share a little bit, but you’re I’m scared that it will look like priming the pump or something. (Which in this case is extra ridiculous because part of my thing is for such a teeny handful of people that it would be impossible to game anyone.)

The bigger point?
Part of being yourself online (without wanting to stab yourself in the eye repeatedly) has to do with sharing what you can, being all you in a way that feels genuine and safe.

And if you can’t share everything rightthissecond, it doesn’t mean you’re withholding to be manipulative. And you definitely don’t want to over-share in the name of “authenticity”.

I guess this is me saying that I’m doing some stuff. That I’m crazy excited about. And I’ll be ready to share soon. Then, hopefully, I can stop being quite so super awkward and blurtey.

How about you? Do secrets make you clumsy? Even the exciting ones?

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I don’t know anything. (About tamales.)

June 4, 2010

I made friends with the tamale guy at the farmers’ market last Saturday. This is embarrassingly huge for me. Not making a friend so much – more to do with how it happened.

I was waiting for someone who was standing in the world’s slowest line. (With the world’s oldest, sweetest farmer.) So I busied myself looking through tamale flavors at the stand across the way.

After muttering a cold, inaudible greeting when I first walked up, the guy was pretty much ignoring me. He probably assumed I was just another sample-scarfing stop-and-run, which I very nearly was.

But then I noticed one of the tamale packages was marked Tinga. I’ve only had something called Tinga once before – on special at Mijita in the San Francisco ferry building. It was amazing. And then they never had it again.

(San Francisco locals & visitors: Get thee to Mijita, please.)

Well I got so excited at the sight of a Tinga tamale that it thwarted my usual know-it-all tendencies. (My pervasive hesitation to show ignorance about something. Really about anything at all.)

And when I asked about the Tinga, the tamale guy got super animated – he explained the traditional dish to me, and then proceeded to school me in the best way to prepare that particular tamale.

(Steamed, then lightly pan fried in olive oil, and stirred into scrambled eggs for extra oomph.)

We laughed and bonded, I bought some tamales, and we bid farewell like friends. That interaction (and the tamales) pretty much made this particular farmers’ market experience.

And without my question about the Tinga, I would have missed out. For sure. And by no fault of his. (See sample-scarfers above.)

No — I’m usually the problem. Because I am not a good question-asker. I am a very good know-it-all.

I have some issues with being vulnerable. Or knowledge-vulnerable? What do you call the habit of never wanting to appear as if you don’t have all of the answers? Beginners-mind averse? I like what Martha Beck calls it: The Kindergarten Complex. I’ve got it.

In my work life, after plenty of experience fumbling around and spinning my wheels, I’ve pretty well learned to ask questions as soon as they arise.

But if I walk into a new coffee shop, I have an overwhelming need to pretend like I already know the protocol. Yes, it’s weird.

And this defense mechanism would be funny if it weren’t so counterproductive. I’m not sure what I’m try to protect (ahem, ego?), but it doesn’t exactly endear me to friends and family. Or strangers.

If I pretend I already know how to make tamales, there are a few obvious consequences: I miss out on the connection with the tamale guy, and my tamales come out dry and blah. But it has me wondering about how it extends to other, more subjective, situations.

Like: What about pretending (to myself) to know that I won’t be good at something before I ever try it? Or that someone doesn’t like me, without ever being the one to wear my heart on my sleeve?

It just can’t end well. Maybe I’ll try to play with this pattern in some easy, low-risk ways. Like asking more questions at the farmers’ market tomorrow.

Does anyone else do this? Pretend to know your way around a coffee shop?

{ 4 comments }

Discombobulation. (Or, When I don’t feel like being sovereign.)

May 20, 2010

Discombobulated. A word whose meaning and mouth-feel are so well-matched. And a dear cousin to one of my all-time favorite words: Bijigetty.

So… This week I moved into my very own place. I even signed a lease. A twelve-month lease. Eeep!

After a little review of my former living situations, I was shocked to discover that I’ve never lived alone. I actually had to double-check my memory. And if you know me, you’re probably surprised, too. I just seem like someone who would. Plenty independent and all that.

But nope. I’ve lived with friends, I’ve lived with a boyfriend, I’ve never lived by myself.

And taking this step is a Very Good Thing. But the decision-making was terribly uncomfortable. The act of committing unsettled me. I guess settling in is sometimes incredibly unsettling.

I’ve been learning about personal sovereignty, the quality of owning your space, from some wise women. Playing with techniques for establishing boundaries, separating my stuff from other people’s stuff, and taking responsibility for the shape of my life.

And now I guess I’m wondering about the opposite. What about when the last thing I want is to be the master of my own domain?

Because in this particular lease-signing frenzy, I found myself casting around for someone else to tell me what to do. I found a place, the place. And then I desperately needed someone else (my mom? a friend? the landlord? God?) to tell me whether I should take it.

There’s more at play than just sovereignty. I can try to choose the next right thing. I can play the heat-seeking missile game. But I’m wondering how to step up to the plate and run my own show when part of me wants to be taken care of by someone else. (Or drown my sorrows in metaphor.)

One trick is to ask myself, what would Someone Wise do? Can I call on my internal council of representatives? If I try to guess what Martha Beck or Pema Chodron would advise in this situation, isn’t my interpretation of their advice an indirect way of accessing my own internal wisdom?

Or I might ask a future me. Me-ten-years-from-now, what do you think? But she usually just smiles beatifically, generously, and shrugs as if to say: All will be well. And: Sweetie, life turns out just right either way. This is comforting, yes. And reassuring, absolutely. And not one bit helpful.

You know how when a toddler falls or bumps her noggin, the first thing she does, before her eyes even have a chance to fill with tears, is to look up at you? To gauge your reaction? And if you soothe her saying “you’re okay, you’re okay,” she’ll usually shake off the experience and go back to her play.

I guess I’m wanting to learn how to be that “you’re okay, you’re okay” person for myself.

Do you finding yourself casting about for advice about big decisions? How do you trust yourself?

{ 4 comments }

On feeling jealous

May 14, 2010

A few weeks ago I noticed that every time I’d see an article announcing someone’s good fortune or sparkly new thing, I wanted to throw up with jealousy. And it wasn’t only limited to celebratory announcements. Reading a kick-ass blog post made me want to chuck my computer at the wall.

A couple gazing lovingly at each other at the coffee counter could knock the wind out of me, too. In fact, they could gaze lovingly at the chocolate rugelach instead and still rock my little boat.

And a pang of jealousy like that almost always lets its faithful sidekick tag along. Hello there, Shame. After all: Can’t I just be happy for people? How petty and shallow am I?

Add pathetic to the mix and stir. Enter: Self-loathing. Bleargh.

So I usually dive head-first into avoidance-mode as soon as I feel that mean little hook. Easier to look away or smack the magazine closed at the first mention of someone’s glowey life.

Unfortunately at that point it’s too late. I’m all triggered and edgy. Then I promptly forget what made me so irritable, and have to comb back through my day to place the source of this sticky angst.

When I’m lucky, the jealousy carries a message. This usually happens when I’m feeling dead opposite of lucky – When I’m lost or totally clueless about what I want. But that’s exactly when I’m most motivated to look for clues in mysterious, and even angsty, sources. Cue the jealousy investigation.

If I can convince myself that there’s something useful here, and step into the curiosity zone, things generally open up. I can peer at the edge of something that made me want to gouge my eyes out before. And maybe even admit: There’s something in there that I want.

Being someone who wants something she doesn’t have is way easier than being someone who doesn’t know what she wants. Or who hates herself for hating someone else for having it.

Still, this is kind of a weird moment, because wanting something isn’t inherently painful.

So there must be some belief that lodges itself in between me and the object of my affection

Something like: You want THAT?! OMG, I can’t believe you want that. That would make you materialistic/indulgent/hopeless. You’ll never get it anyway. Let’s throw down the kibosh pronto.

If I shouldn’t want it, or can’t have it rightthissecond, surely it would be easier to just check out.

And that is always the wrong move. I never feel better until I fess up: Oh. I want this thing. And it might be only tangentially related to the thing that wracked me with waves of nausea.

But it doesn’t matter. Message delivered.

Somewhere deep inside of wanting something I don’t have, there is this little, teeny seed of hope.

And that seed clears space for the jealousy to transform into something lighter. Something like aspiration. Maybe eventually even action.

And it usually only takes one small gesture to step back into the stream. No dazzling daring required. You don’t have to quit your job or buy the farm or move to Paris for pastry school. (Yes, I am talking to myself here. Feel free to substitute your own pie-in-the-sky someday scenario.)

All of the sudden, my blog reader no longer makes me nauseous. Couples are allowed to kiss in front of me now, and that girl’s size 26 jeans don’t make me want to stab myself in the (ample) thigh.

Other times the best I can do is to see someone else’s bright, shiny thing and borrow a line I learned from my improv class.

Yes, AND.

Yes, that. AND this. Where this is a sliver of possibility in my own life.

Yes, that. AND, this weekend I’m moving into my own tiny, funky, charming place at the beach. Yay.

Yes, that. AND…

Do you have a yes, and? Or another technique for dealing with envy-monsters?

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The Talent Code. (Or, why I’m trying to suck at stuff.)

April 29, 2010

I read Daniel Coyle’s The Talent Code the first week of 2010, and I still think about the premise at least, oh, every single day. Hands down the most influential businessey read of my year.

Not to build it up or anything.

Premise: Remarkable talent is possible for all of us. That means you. And me. Seriously. Genius isn’t native or innate, but instead within our reach. We can develop talent through deep practice.

Deep practice is a specific way of engagement — a method of concentration and effort in which you’re intensely focused on doing something as perfectly as possible in order to create pathways in your brain that favor exquisitely crafted skill, and eventually grow talent.

Of course it’s inspiring to learn that, if we’re willing to put in time and effort, it’s possible to become incredibly talented at something that we’re passionate about.

But more important for my own spark of inspiration is the knowledge that deep practice involves dwelling at your edge. Attaining mastery requires concentrating intently on your mistakes in order to adjust course. Focusing on flaws is (for me at least) almost always inherently uncomfortable.

And that’s okay. The mistakes and accompanying discomfort are expected and required.

My perfectionistic self finds so much freedom in this understanding. What a lovely offering of permission — to really and truly bomb, fail, and suck throughout the creative process.

I think of all those writers who find the experience of writing to be excruciating, but still can’t stop themselves. That stinging discomfort mingled with satisfaction sings of deep practice.

And Coyle clearly illuminates this highly technical, biological process of talent acquisition without oversimplifying or sacrificing meaning. For example, by the end of the book you’re able to make sense of this oft-repeated phrase as if you were fluent in neuroscience-speak:

Skill is insulation (myelin) that wraps neural circuits and grows according to certain signals.

And, you will be psyched to get your myelin wrapping circuits like a Christmas-present-wrapping Elf on speed.

(As a Shiva Nata junkie, my mouth waters at all this talk of neural circuitry, at discovering further proof that our patterns are generously flexible, and the implications for changing habits.)

Coyle describes concrete, actionable steps in the acquisition of talent, and the conditions that allow greatness to thrive in talent hotbeds like Brazil for soccer players and Renaissance Italy for painters.

And he explains the process of ignition – how we’re sparked by motivation that makes us so hungry to master a skill that we’re willing to subject ourselves to this occasionally awkward deep practice.

And woven throughout the book are compelling stories of toil and triumph so inherently motivational that there’s no need for excess sentimentality – Coyle inspires without becoming gushy or annoying.

This book honestly makes you want to go out and suck at something. Something that, more than anything, you’re desperate to master.

Then, last night, I read this bit from Julia Child’s My Life In France, of her experience learning to cook:

Of course, I made many boo-boos. At first this broke my heart, but then I came to understand that learning how to fix one’s mistakes, or live with them, was an important part of becoming a cook. I was beginning to feel la cuisine bourgeoise in my hands, my stomach, my soul.

Spoken like a revelation: Deep practice, all the way.

Have you read anything fantastic lately? What can I add to my towering stack of books?

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Getting over the not-thing (to make room for The Thing!)

April 27, 2010

I think one of the surest ways to get super stuck in the pursuit of your thing is to say that the time and energy you’ve spent doing the not-thing was all for nothing.

And then get all mired in regret, pretty much the foreboding ingredient in brewing up some bitter funk, making it almost impossible to let go of the not-thing and clear the way for happier work.

If I call my last experience a big, fat, failing waste (just for example), then I’ll probably end up paralyzed with the fear of choosing “wrong“ again. (I’m not so sure you can ever choose “wrong.” But I am very sure it can feel that way.)

And after regret gets you all jammed up in the search for your perfect incarnation of work, you feel justified in refusing to choose anything until you’re eleventy thousand percent sure that this time it’s the bestest, most perfect Thing ever. Without risk or vulnerability or fear.

We’re going for fail proof, baby.

So now we’re only willing to consider ideas that are guaranteed to make us all fizzy with glee and enthusiasm. (Guaranteed, the Gods chuckle.)

Possible solutions? Well at some point you probably need a little bit of faith in order to take the next teeny, tiny step forward. But oof, at this point faith can be really hard to come by.

I usually have to do some reconnaissance work first, where I try to suss out some teeny, tiny reason why that the whole not-thing endeavor was maybe, possibly, not a completely wasted effort. For me it helps to tease some shred of worth out of the last experience in order to clear some room for the next one.

Because then, once you can find something palatable in the bitter brew, it’s much easier to entertain the possibility that maybe this is the exact spot you were supposed to arrive at all along.

The spot that will serve as a jumping off point for your next big thing.

Making it easier to see why the seemingly random skills and connections and insights you gathered while doing the wrong thing were absolutely necessary in order to find the next right thing. And then we can see the necessity of our meandering loop.

But, yeah, that recognition of serendipity always seems to come in hindsight. Oh, the glorious wisdom of hindsight. Kinda works like that funky regret, only all cleaned up and tied with a bow.

Have you made any sense of your meandering loop? Or are you one of those annoying lucky direct-route, knew-my-thing-from-the-get-go kind of people?

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Weird clues from childhood (and finding your thing)

April 23, 2010

Right now I’m shifting a bunch of things related to my work, which basically means I’m back to hot pursuit of The Thing. Even more than usual. And the ideas I’m heading toward started bringing up all of these memories of (weird) things I liked doing as a kid. (Another dose of nostalgia.)

It’s reminding me of so much of the career advice, from Jung to Barbara Sher, for when you’re stuck in that I-have-no-freaking-clue-what-to-do place: Explore what you loved doing in childhood.

That childhood review never helped me. I was trying to be way too Sesame Street with my imaginings. I kept searching for memories that looked like a nine year-old version of me spinning around in a field of wildflowers and butterflies. (Idealistic, much?)

The things I spent time doing were simple, and they were so Me that they didn’t stand out in my memory at all. (Reminds me of some guidance I love from Gretchen Rubin: When you’re trying to figure out what to do, try focusing less on what you love to do and more on what you do do.)

Infuriating Funny, but I’ve only been able to recall things I enjoyed as a kid after the epiphanies about new directions, after taking tiny steps toward things I maybe possibly wanted to try.

Oh sure, in hindsight, my childhood experiences make perfect sense. Weird stuff, like:

In fourth grade, my best friend and I decided that what our class really needed was a trivia contest. (Nerd Alert.) So we created… SuperQuiz! And somehow convinced our teachers to let us organize this bizarre intellectual battle for nine year-olds. With trophies and everything!

(Most incredibly embarrassing question: What weighs more: A pound of sand, or a pound of water?)

Then we convinced our teachers that we desperately needed a talent show. Organized that, too.

Next, we created a summer camp for kids in our neighborhood. And convinced parents to pay us for subjecting their children to an off-key rendition of “Do your ears hang low?” OMG, I know.

So I was either fantastic at event planning, or freakishly persuasive in my youth. (And also, really precocious. Shudder.) And I loved setting the mood and scene for an experience. I still do.

But none of these memories evoke an obvious career. Instead they offer teeny tiny clues about what I like to do and who I like to be.

There are times when all I can do is act as if this is the right thing, the right course of action and take the next step. And there are times when the right thing is to sit with not knowing the course of action, or even the next step. (link to next right thing). And I’m still trying to suss out the difference. I guess progress is knowing that both exist.

And there are times when all you can do is act as if an idea is the next right thing, and take a little step. It helps me to remember that there really isn’t just one thing. And that no matter what I do, I’m still me. (Well, sometimes that helps. Sometimes it’s totally exasperating.)

It’s looking like I’ll always be discovering my thing, and allowing it to keep doing its metamorphosis thing. Which is one of the reasons I’m super excited about Victoria Brouhard’s Shmorian Thing-Finding class next week. The evolution continues…

Curious… Did combing through childhood memories ever help you find clues about your thing?

{ 8 comments }

Nostalgia

April 20, 2010

I keep getting memory flashes that all share a certain hard-to-describe quality: this easy, glowey, vacationey state of mind. Which is lovely, yes, but also tinged with a bit of bittersweet nostalgia.

Two kinds of flashes… one of entirely ordinary moments, and feel a happy glow at their memory mingled with a bit of nostalgia. And others of moments that might have been incredibly (Vatican) and I was utterly miserable.

Some of the memories are of seemingly ordinary moments, cast with an inexplicable hindsight of appreciation. Something like a commute to work through Southern California traffic. What! Fun!

And yet I’m nostalgic for the experience. For that moment (that feeling?) right after I picked up coffee — just driving, sipping my cup of cozy comfort, and listening to NPR.

Other memories are of moments that should have been amazing, and instead I was totally miserable. Like a first day in Rome, May and sunshiney, wandering through the open air of Vatican City.

Three weeks into a backpacking trip, after a total nightmare trip from Florence the day before, I was not impressed. At least not at the time.

But for some reason these flashes and their flood of wistfulness are giving me a second chance.

I wonder if this is actually one of the prerequisites for nostalgia: Being so completely out of touch with the present moment that you’re unable to appreciate it the first time around.

Which makes me wonder about rituals for remembering to feast on whatever is happening now.

(First-ish Tangent)
Whenever I’m trying to consciously appreciate a moment, I flash to Hawaii during Spring break of my senior year of high school. (Oh, that all flashbacks could be so charmed.)

That trip became my touchstone for present moment awareness, less because Hawaii is easy to love and more because that Spring I had discovered Thich Nhat Hanh and Peace is Every Step.

No, I definitely wasn’t any kind of enlightened at 17. I had found Buddhism through the most cliched of avenues – teenage angst and its dance partner, heartbreak of first love loss. I would’ve turned anywhere for comfort, and it was pure dumb luck that I ended up here.

I remember so many of those Maui moments, because I kept repeating:

“Breathing in, I calm my body. Breathing out, I smile. Breathing in, I know this moment, breathing out, is a wonderful moment.”

At the beach, on the boat, at the luau, on that nauseating Road to Hanna. I was there for all of it.

Now I’m wondering what all of these other fleeting flashes are about. I’m constantly wishing for an easy, glowey, vacationey state of mind. And why do I keep catching glimpses of that quality in moments where I didn’t initially recognize it? Guessing I’m also missing out on it now.

(Second-ish Tangent)
Back when I lived in San Francisco, I usually walked to work – from my apartment on Russian Hill, through North Beach and down into the Financial District.

Some days, especially on elusive sunny Friday mornings, Columbus would be buzzing with excited tourists heading in the opposite direction, making their way from China Town to the Wharf.

And I would be all jammed up with jealousy. I wanted to be on vacation. I wanted to wander aimless and excited, without a care in my holiday-oriented head other than what kind of Ghiradelli fudge I’d be devouring for lunch.

Sometimes it would strike me that in that exact moment, there was really no difference between those tourists and me. The sun was shining on all of us; the energy of San Francisco was pulsing through all of us; we were all free to be excited and carefree and eager for the day to unfold.

(And… end Tangent stream.)

Does this happen to anyone else? Do you ever miss something that you didn’t even like back when you were in the midst of it? Ideas for bring more vacation sensibility into life right now?

{ 5 comments }

Buckling up and riding the tide

April 14, 2010

Do you ever notice how some decisions come so easily and obviously, while others involve hair-pulling, cookie-scarfing fretting and waffling? Ugh, waffling.

Lately I have this sense that life is flowing along a strong, natural current. And I’m the one that manages to keep jacking up the pace. Throwing up boulders and objections, creating rapids and eddies. And scariness. And then getting frustrated when the current takes my hint and slows down.

Of course damming up the current is about fear. And maybe (probably) I’m trying to perfectly orchestrate all of the teeny tiny elements before taking a single step. If I could only manipulate all of the details just so, then everything will unfold cleanly, smoothly.

Without any messes. Without risking failure.

And so I don’t even notice how efficiently the current handles itself. I decide I want something to happen, and then these little gifts of grace start showing up. Or maybe it’s the other way around: I hope for a change, and so I start noticing openings and possibilities sprouting up through the cracks.

And everything is moving along beautifully. Or could be if I didn’t keep pulling the emergency brake.

I know it’s not that simple or easy to ride the waves. I’m not fearless. To flow with the current I have to le go of this little scrap of shore. Which can make me nostalgic and wistful. Oh, and also terrified.

Being scared is allowed. Taking my time is okay. Except sometimes I do it unconsciously, like bumping the pause button and wondering why the movie stopped playing. (And maybe throwing a tantrum about it.)

It feels a little like I climbed into my seat on the roller coaster, and it’s ready to start off down the tracks. Just as soon as I buckle my harness. Or the boat is ready to pull out into open water. Only there’s one line still tied to the dock and I’m struggling with the knot. If I can even find the knot.

Next step? Oh, you know, just me allowing things to get crackin’ already.

But sometimes, when I’m frustrated or impatient, it’s wonderfully reassuring to realize that the world is spinning around, just waiting patiently for me to catch up. That it’s more about letting things flow than forcing anything to happen. When I remember, that is.

How do you stay in the flow? Or recognize the moments when you’re the one slowing the evolution?

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