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?

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?

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.

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?

Somehow I’ve managed to extricate myself (at least for now, knock-knock-knock) from the incessant maddening loop of check-check-checking.

Either by way of the much-needed decaffeination project, my sailboat construction process, Grace, or some combination of all three, I am happily navigating a more peaceful, detached relationship with all things online.

Thankfully, I’m spending time on Important Things. And making progress.. oh, sweet progress.

But. I have to admit – I really think that until now I was harboring this incredibly naive belief:
If only I can get all of my time-management ducks in a row, and wash away the more heinous of my time-wasting habits, I will end up riding along a magical swell of unlimited time.

I know it sounds lame and trite and all, but it’s true – I ignored the whole 24-hours-in-a-day thing.

Clearing the clutter has only made me more aware that even if I maximize each moment, I still only get so much time each day to do all the things I love. And sleep and eat and breathe.

It has thrown the inevitability of choice into stark relief. Saying yes also means saying no.

If I spend time I this, I don’t get to spend time on that. Gulp.

I thought if I was perfectly efficient and productive and engaged, I wouldn’t have to choose. Because, you know, once I get There, time will be boundless. I can’t believe I thought that either, but it’s true.

When I was wasting time, I believed (and definitely acted accordingly) that I had all the time in the world. Now that I’m milking it, time has transformed into something precious and viscerally finite.

(Note that for me, milking it doesn’t mean work-work-work and isn’t measured in productive output or anything crazy. It absolutely includes time for open space and play and following certain whims.)

Which in a roundabout way, only makes it easier to avoid the most egregious time wasting. Unfair somehow, like you have to stop procrastinating to discover how wonderful it is to not procrastinate.

And it only makes me more grateful for this process of evaluating the activities that fill my day, what I commit to, where I choose to give my time and attention and energy – which ideas, which people.

Do you ever think if you just put all of the puzzle pieces together just right, you’ll be able to do it all?

I do this thing where I resist structure because I should be disciplined enough to just do what I need to do without extra support or boundaries. That stuff is for wimps, right? Also, restriction scares me.

Just do it.
Sometimes I get spun out with online distractions and time wasters. I find myself on this crazed loop of checking e-mail, checking Twitter, checking forums, checking my reader. I know! Let’s check stuff!

And so I’ve toyed with the idea of trying a software program that forces helps you focus by blocking out distractions. But then, that’s just silly because I should be able to focus on my own, right?

I’m starting to think there are two ways to look at this kind of help.

Needing help = weakness + lack of self control + time to crack the whip

I have plenty of experience with using structure as a way to tame my wild tendencies and whip myself into shape. Yuck. Who wants that? And I spent enough years exploring the self-mastery route that I can recognize my inner dictator… even when she dresses up in a Let’s Be Productive cape.

If I go that route, it won’t be long before Miss Productivity gets bored or tired. At which point the wild child will take over and yank us along on a frenzied four hour tour of every link on Twitter.

(Yes, there must be some needs I’m trying to meet by check-check-checking my way through this maddening loop. But so far the conversation about exploring better ways to meet those needs only exists in my head. More on this later.)

So if self-mastery backfires and willpower just isn’t enough, what else can I do?

Wanting help = support + safety + taking care of myself

Okay, needing help because I’ve decided I suck… well, sucks. But I’m discovering that I am perfectly allowed to want help. Totally different thing. Consciously asking for help has everything to do with the way I frame the goal, and the way I see myself. I can choose to create support and safety.

Consider the goal. (And while you’re at it, come up for a non-triggery word for goal.)

When it comes to hanging out online, I want less bobbing around aimlessly (and the subsequent blurry-eyed hangover) and more experiences like this. Less energy drain, more connection.

When I believe I need structure because otherwise I can’t be trusted to do the things that are good for me, I feel totally dispirited. (God, we’ve worked on this. Why can’t you just be perfect already?)

But consciously creating a system of support that helps me do the things I already want to do? Yay!

Here goes.
Time to play with creating some containers for these activities. And experimenting with gentle accountability and productivity tools. Thoughts about this stuff? Ideas? What works for you?

Last night was gorgeous. The sunset was hot pink and the air was fresh. And as I pulled into my neighborhood, I saw a bunny hop across the driveway. I grew up in Arizona, where bunny rabbits hop all over the desert. But I hardly ever see them anymore, and I’ve never seen one here.

Happy New Year to me. (And yes, to you. Of course to you!)
So it’s January 1st, and I see a bunny hop across my path. For some reason, that feels big to me. Like it means something auspicious and symbolic. Or I want it to. Which is pretty much the same thing.

And it reminded me of something beautiful I read and loved this week about bunny rabbits. And I remembered that they symbolize life and rebirth and fertility and innocence. And new beginnings. (I’m going to breeze over the association between rabbits and, ahem, flirtatious frolicking. Blush.)

Which all reminds me of the heart of this year, and my wish for connection, friendship, community.

And so I have this idea.
What if bunnies can be a reminder? Sure, I can be conscious about creating connection in my life. But it’s more fun if I can be playful about it, too. So I can remember my wish for connection anytime I see a bunny. And I can laugh when I notice one unexpectedly or in some unorthodox rendition.

I can pause and remember: Connection is on the way. Shiver. And, yum.

If the idea of a some grand message from the universe is way too woo-woo for you, I totally get it. That’s not really what this is about. Sometimes, for some of us, we can choose to see it as some kind of possibly-maybe-wouldn’t-that-be-cool divine sign. And that interconnection can be thrilling.

But it can also work just by planting the seed in your mind. Kind of like looking for your friend in a crowded theater: You know she’s wearing a bright blue shirt and so suddenly that’s all you’re noticing. Because that’s all you’re asking your brain to notice.

Delightful little perk.
If I’m always thinking about how I want more connection, sometimes I might get stuck thinking about lack of connection. And slip right into loneliness or sadness. (Emphatically not the delightful part.) Okay, now for the delightful part: Looking for the symbol instead of the thing you want so much can help balance any icky emotional charge.

For whatever reason, I just can’t get worked up about a bunny shortage.

And so the whole idea of setting an intention or making a wish… It doesn’t have to be all I want, I need, I have to have. Because that can invite a bunch of resistance. Instead, our attention can be light and easy, full of hope and delicious anticipation.

If you made a wish for 2010, is there a symbol that could remind you? Or do you have ideas for other ways to weave reminders into our lives?