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?

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?

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?

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?

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.

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?

Last week I listened to the loveliest, most delightful interview with Dr. Stuart Brown of The National Institute for Play.

(!! Yes, that is apparently a thing. I know!! And a little note to my current clients: When he realizes how much I support him and his playful endeavors and decides that The Institute can’t go another day without hiring me, I will probably go. But I will do what I can to squeeze you guys in. Also, if that doesn’t work out, I am willing to take him on as an adoptive grandfather. Imagine the fun!)

Mmmm, science.
He talked about the importance of play, obviously. And he was so very thoughtful and scientific about it. Highly helpful when you’re trying to convince a bunch of intellectual, achiever-bees that play makes everything better – creativity, connection, productivity, everything.

He explained how playtime engenders empathy, problem solving, resiliency… all kinds of good stuff. We have actually evolved to be playful; we need play as a powerful form of learning and relationship building.

On a non-scientific and random personal note.
I keep thinking about his explanation of the way animals play and roughhouse in the wild. Monkeys and lions and the whole wondrous kingdom. And he said that one thing that differs between wild animals and humans is that the monkeys and lions aren’t competitive when it comes to play.

They will actually handicap their own ability and let their playmates catch up in order to allow the play to continue. And this is maybe probably okay, definitely me oversimplifying and making excuses for my own behavior… But, I couldn’t help but think that we have evolved to root for the underdog.

So that’s why I cannot bear to watch the end of a sporting event. Especially any game where the victory depends on just one person – a goalie or tennis player or whatever. I get so overly empathetic, imagining how sad they’ll be and how they’ll beat themselves up. It slays me entirely. I usually have to leave the room, the stadium, the court.

And now I know why. Because animals evolved to keep the game going for the sake of fun and meaning and growth. Not to beat each other. Not to strip each other of dignity.

Anyway, that’s my new (ridiculously oversimplified) theory. And I am inappropriately hopeful that the sports-fanatical guys I’ve dated get a chance to listen. And to hear this: I am not the crazy one!

Anyway, I recommend listening to the interview – it was fantastic. I had a wheelbarrow full of epiphanies and I plan to listen to it again. Is play something you prioritize? Or is that an oxy moron?

For years and years people have been describing me as sweet. Which never fails to surprise me. And has kinda rocked my proverbial boat because I’d gotten all used to wearing my snobby suit. Cramping my stuck up image and all.

In Sarah’s latest series about online rockstar-dom, she wrote:

The point, after all, isn’t to change yourself so that people will like you. The point is to gauge how accurately you are voicing your truths.

Ahhh, yes. That’s where 16 year old me got things very wrong. I’m pretty sure I was all about changing myself to get people to like me.

I definitely thought I should be sweeter. My best friend since fourth grade is actually Sweetness Incarnate. Also, supermodel beautiful. And lovable in a Homecoming Queen Every Year of Our Life kind of way.

So you might think this was part of my complex. But no. It was actually incredibly reassuring to have Earth’s Sweetest Girl as my childhood sidekick. (And dear friend, today… Hi!). Because she’s not going to choose to be best friends with some troll/ogre, right?

But her suchness was how I defined sweet. Not mine. I, after all, was stuck up.

And I had so readily incorporated the attribution of snobbery into my sense of self that being called sweet today usually makes me feel like a complete impostor. See, you do the dramatic reconfiguration of your suchness, but then when it works you feel like a total fraud. Crap.

I’m realizing that maybe sometimes, you’re trying to be something you already are. Only you just don’t see it yet. And maybe if something’s getting in the way of voicing it or expressing it, no one else can see it either. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Sometimes being misunderstood probably has to do with me.
And if my sporadic introversion occasionally comes across as holier-than-thou, that is so not my intention. And I want to be willing to see myself and sometimes choose to act differently.

I would never be purposefully insensitive or cold. And I would hate to make someone feel jilted or left out. At the same time, I can’t make anyone feel anything. And I don’t want to try by wrapping myself up in some artificial candy coating.

And sometimes, it has to do with them.
Back in the day, when people called me stuck up, I would take on the whole thing. I let their description make the entire interaction (or lack of interaction which I’m guessing is what people really had a problem with) about me and my flawed character. My stuff.

But I didn’t have the  perspective to see that it wasn’t all about me. When people describe you as stuck up, chances are good that they’re not acknowledging any of their own stuff.

Which is totally understandable – it can be hard to look at the fact that, for whatever reason, someone doesn’t want to be thisclose to you. Still, I don’t have to take on the whole thing.

I’m just now learning to recognize and express the sweet that’s actually part of my suchess. And to understand that even if the dramatic reconfiguration failed, the quality was there all along.

And yes, if you’re a recovering snob or you have experience with the Candy Coated Cape, I would love to hear all about it.

(Part 1 in a series of potentially infinite posts.)

I’ve been thinking more about strengths and how the ones we end up cultivating have so much to do with how we’re socialized and wanting to fit in. And also, I’m getting sick of the term strengths; it sounds all sterile and externally determined. And that, as I’ve been ranting, is part of the problem.

So let’s call them qualities. Or elements of your suchness.

(Ever since I read about suchness from Thich Nhat Hanh, I’ve never been able to come up with a better way to express the nature of someone or something. The you-ness of you. Your suchness.)

Then there’s the other side of things; We develop the qualities we’re praised for, and squash the less desirable bits. Sweep them under the rug or add a teaspoon of honey to sweeten things up. Or I did.

The bits of mine that underwent some sweetening? I am apparently somewhat stuck up. Or so I’ve been told. Also, there was that phase in the 90’s where the proper lingo was “too good.” Briana’s too good for us. I heard that all the freaking time. Blech.

Or at least I used to be stuck up. Because, as any self-respecting, people-pleasing perfectionist would, I methodically attempted a dramatic reconfiguration of my very suchness. I tried to polish the rough parts and mold myself into the grooves. And, you know, be really nice. To everyone. I have to say, it was kinda exhausting.

And the truth, the part that actually pisses me off confuses me, is that I am nice. I care about people, I’m empathic and compassionate, welcoming and warm. I freaking help people for a living.

But caring about people doesn’t mean I have to let everyone in. One of my best friends refers to her own suchness as The Six Miles, as if your access to really knowing her lovely soul could be measured in distance.

I’m finally growing up and realizing that boundaries are okay. That we’re all allowed our own version of The Six Miles. I’m not stuck up just because most of my adolescent acquaintences didn’t make it past the first mile. I get to decide who belongs in the second mile and who gets to hang out in the sixth. And incredibly, knowing who belongs where is actually one of my greatest qualities.

It means my relationships are deep and strong and true. It means I regularly experience swells of gratitude that the people I adore love me back. And it means that if I adore you, you will know it.

I think being misunderstood is the worst. Unwinding the layers = soooo helpful. And there’s a lot of stuff here for me. Sometime soon I’ll write about my Extreme Makeover, The Sweetness Edition.

Any fellow snobs out there? Or is there another word people use to describe you that makes your suchness shout No No No?

I know, I know, you totally saw it coming.

Last week, I dreamt that a little girl was dangling from a cliff. And that her life was in my hands.

Lately I have been working with this shadowey fear of getting into trouble. Or doing things wrong. Completely blind to the connection, I jotted down this Shiva Nata intention that morning:

Drop this little-girl-in-trouble gig already.

After Dance of Shiva I have a flash.
There’s a picture of me at about 2 1/2 looking incredibly sweet and scared with a certain doe-eyed vulnerability. I’m wearing lavender corduroy overalls and a turtleneck with a small print of kittens.

And the terror in my eyes is palpable. It makes me want to scoop little-girl-me up, and reassure her that, yes, we will always hate having our picture taken, And then take her out for an ice cream cone.

(Wait. If this is my time-travel fantasy, let’s choose a slightly more innocuous comfort. She’s going to have plenty of food and body struggles to contend with on her own without my little Back to the Future whirlydo screwing things up even further.)

Flash, take two.
There’s another photo of me at twenty standing in front of a painting at the Marc Chagall museum in Nice. Photography was forbidden in the museum, but my friend insisted on taking the photo. So I was nervous and uncomfortable and fully expecting to get in trouble. And when we get home and get our pictures back, I’m startled because I still have those wide, vulnerable, little girl eyes.

Confused?
Yeah. Me, too. I don’t really get the connection yet. But this fear of getting in trouble? It’s not a grown-up sense of trouble. It’s small and tender and childish. I’m ready to let it go. To let her go.

If you were looking for an epiphany tied up in a pretty bow, this is the part where I leave the audience completely unsatisfied with the movie’s ending. But I intend to keep working the scene.

My secret weapon.
Analyzing my own dreams is difficult. My left brain commandeers the process. (Shocking!) Which is why I’m scootching myself over for a dream investigation session with my favorite dreamweaver.

(Note: I’m on Eileen’s crazy super secret list so I kind of have a backstage pass. Word on the beat, though, is that she’s opening the doors for a few dream investigation clients soon. If you have vivid or recurring dreams or are looking to dance with your unconscious, I’d either beg her to get you on the list or start neurotically checking her site for the dream offering.)

Comments?
Any thoughts on dream analysis in general? Just a little note: I’m not into the idea that every symbol in every dream means the same thing for every person. So I would *love* to hear your experiences, but please no diagnostic theories on this particular dream.

I had a scary, vivid dream the other night and I’m really excited about it. Huh? I know, that sounds weird. But the more I learn about dreams, the more I’m intrigued by their transformative and healing nature. Also, any dreams sparked by my Dance of Shiva practice are unequivocally welcome.

I first learned about this inherent dreamtime power from my teacher, Martha Beck, who says:

The more respect you give your night dreams, the sooner they will become day dreams: ideas for new adventures, enterprises, and life strategies you may never have thought up while physically awake.

Your psyche is offering up clues about big stuff, and possibly even some hints about what you really want and what might be keeping you stuck. And the most comforting thing I’ve learned in my dream analysis training is that the scariest parts are really meant to help you.

Nothing in your dream, nothing you do or say or feel or think, says anything bad about you. Which makes looking at them much easier, yes?

Even better.
Dreams are meant to help you re-integrate good bits of your personality that you’ve inadvertently rejected. Meaning you get to start liking elements of yourself that you’ve been unconsciously ignoring. I don’t have time to prove all of this today so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

(Wouldn’t it be cool if I could say stuff like that and get away with it? I think so. No, but really, if you want more background I’d start with the Soul Sleuthing dream investigation series. And then if you want to go deeper, there’s always the collected works of C.G. Jung. *Swoon*. Brain crush.)

The dream.
There was a little girl dangling from a cliff. And the only thing keeping her from falling was my foot. At first I wanted to help her, but no one would help me help her. And so eventually I just wanted to let her fall so that I could finish my marathon. (Apparently in the dreamtime I am quite the athlete.)

Sometimes you get a hunch that a dream is important. This is one of those times. There is a message in this dream, and the message is not: God, you are selfish. Save the little girl you heartless witch!

The connection.
But I didn’t even come close to understanding the significance of the message until I wrote an intention for my Dance of Shiva practice that morning. See, I’ve been noticing that I have this annoying fear of getting into trouble. And without seeing any connection at all, I wrote:

Shiva Nata intention: Letting go of this little-girl-in-trouble gig.

Hmmm.
An epiphany is percolating. More on that next time. Thoughts on dream analysis in general? Are you into this kind of thing? Do you have vivid dreams? If you’re a Shivanaut, does it affect your dreams?