I am still a zealous convert to the Church of Our Lady of Decluttering. I love the feeling of lightness after discarding useless kitchen gadgets (RIP electric mango peeler) and hideous articles of clothing that I’d like to think I bought while under the influence of psychedelic drugs (nope, I just had reeallly bad taste). And I almost never regret getting rid of things.

Except when it comes to my writing.

Some pieces are easy to hang onto. The screenplays I think are worth a damn and may someday get made. The pretty poetry that I wrote as a child. College essays that still make me smile with their snarky humor and tendency toward clunky overstatements.

But there are also the messy, raw, who-the-hell-wrote-this-sh*t pages that make my stomach drop.

The parts of me that I don’t think are fit for public consumption. Musings on thoughts, feelings and situations that I don’t want to own or acknowledge because they scare or sadden me. Or maybe both.

When I was in my mid-20s and still living in Southern California, I found myself in the midst of the perfect storm. My brother was hospitalized with viral encephalitis and not expected to survive. My mother flew out right away, and almost immediately began suffering what we thought was gallbladder-related pain. She was admitted to the same hospital as my brother and ultimately diagnosed with bone marrow cancer. Mom began chemotherapy and I moved out of my studio and into a small condo that we would share for the next year and a half while she went through treatment.

I was also starting a brand-new relationship (with the man who is now my husband). While I was happy and excited, this love brought its own set of stressors to the mix.

I tried to hold all the facets of my life together, but was wildly unsuccessful. I couldn’t eat, sleep or focus on anything to a reasonable degree. The pressure of my tightly coiled anxiety was relieved only by periodic bouts of crying that rapidly became more incapacitating than cleansing.

Because I was living with my mother, it was impossible to hide my behavior from her. She worried about me, and I kept telling her I was fine. Thankfully, she ignored my protests and got a reference for a therapist from her best friend. At her insistence, I made an appointment to see this woman. And she changed my life.

What I thought was going to be a session or two to help me cope with caring for two sick family members turned into a relationship that lasted nearly three years. My therapist was a professional through and through, but she was also one of the most compassionate and generous people I’ve ever met. Instead of just having me sit in her office for 50 minutes and then signing off until next time, she encouraged me to write out whatever I was dealing with and drop it off at her office so she could read it before our next session (this was before email was in full-swing). I always felt better having gotten things out of my head and down on paper, knowing we would hash them out later.

Eventually, I stopped seeing her for therapy, but we remained friends. And after Paul and I moved to Arizona, she sent me a beautiful crystal butterfly to symbolize how far I had come (I still have it on my dresser to this day). But she also sent me something else.

A box full of the letters I had written to her during our work together.

I was awed by the sheer volume of pages that I’d turned out. Line after line of angst over things both important (“I’m afraid my mom is going to die.”) and inane (“I wrote Paul a poem. He must think I’m a total cheeseball idiot.”). I read through it all, and while amazed by some of it, I was mostly horrified by what I perceived as missives written by a needy, terrified, broken lunatic who brought obsessive-compulsive thought to a whole new level.

I kept the docs for a while, but then worry took over. What if someone found them? What if I died and this pile of craziness was how I was remembered? So, I waited until Paul wasn’t home one day and I shredded the whole batch. And I felt relief…at the time.

But now, I so wish I had those letters back.

I could tell you that I want to see them again to generate writing ideas. Use the situations I’d been through for story fodder. Glean emotional insights for character development.

But the truth is, I want to see a glimpse of my old self again. To tell her that she was stronger than she gave herself credit for. That real feelings aren’t something to be mortified by, but rather to marvel at.

Today, I could look at the young woman who wrote those pages with compassion and love instead of judgment and disgust. I would congratulate her on a journey from being the girl who would analyze the nuances of a casual phone conversation for six days straight to someone who rarely loses sleep over the multitude of questionable blurts that tumble out of her mouth on a daily basis.

But those physical remnants of her are gone. So, there is only one thing left to throw away.

My regrets.

I wasn’t ready to accept my imperfection back then. But now – thank God – I embrace it. Though I’m not saying that’s always easy (my inner critic is still alive, well and mouthy AF). But the only alternative is to hide from the world until I can tick all the boxes on some sort of mythical Fabulosity Checklist.

And I don’t have that kind of time or patience.

I hope you don’t either.

Your gifts reside in your brilliance, but also in your brokenness. Love them equally. Let the world see both.

And don’t leave us hanging. We need what you’ve got. 

And while I am exceedingly grateful for the life I live, I gotta be honest: this is the emotional limbo I’ve been in for the past few weeks. I had imperceptibly slid down the proverbial rabbit hole of thinking that just maybe I could be okay with less than I’d dreamed of.  I mean, life is about compromise, right? Even Mick Jagger said, “You can’t always get what you want.”

But because God has a sense of humor (and I have satellite radio with a Broadway channel), I was given a much-needed moment of enlightenment via a flying witch with a five-octave range.

My favorite musical is Wicked, the prequel to The Wizard of Oz that tells the story of Elphaba, the nice girl who turned into the Wicked Witch of the West when society couldn’t accept her for the unique being that she was. I love the idea that she unapologetically flew (literally) in the face of what was considered appropriate.

After a particularly uninspired morning of slogging away at writing something that felt like a cross between a term paper and a tech manual, I decided I needed a trip to the Holy Land (aka Starbucks).  I got in the car, turned on the radio, and the first thing I heard was my favorite emerald-skinned rebel singing these words:

Something has changed within me,
something is not the same.
I’m through with playing by the rules
of someone else’s game…

Touché.

As I listened, I realized that a huge part of my problem was that something had changed inside of me, but I was still behaving outwardly as if nothing was any different.

I had been actively embracing the truth that you can truly be, do or have ANYTHING in this lifetime that you desire. And for me, that included accepting the fact that I am a passionate multipotentialite, with interests ranging from creating healing essential oil blends to filmmaking (with about 14 things in between those two).

But somehow my hard-wiring for “be/do/have it ALL” had short circuited into “be/do/have what seems reasonable.”

Conflict much?

But I realized that feeling this nagging unrest was actually a blessing. If I was numb to the fact that I was so off-kilter, I’d continue cantering along like a one (or two) trick pony and completely miss my destiny.

And apparently the wicked one agreed with this assessment, because the next gem she belted out was this:

Too late for second-guessing,
too late to go back to sleep,
It’s time to trust my instincts,
close my eyes and leap…

I had been second, third and fourth-guessing myself right out of the person I was meant to be. Just because I saw people around me choosing one thing and dutifully staying in their lanes, there was no reason I had to go along lockstep with that program. My soul knew this, but my human brain was hitting back with the one-two punch of fear and resistance.  So, I decided to follow the next musical directive:

It’s time to try defying gravity…

We aren’t taught that defiance is healthy. That it’s part of our built-in spiritual protection mechanism to keep us on course with the purpose we were given when we first donned our earth suits. Sure, guidance and advice can be helpful…and even life-saving at times. But ultimately, we are the only ones who can read the blueprint that lives in our divine DNA.

We alone create our futures. Why is that message so hard for us to receive? Because it’s easier to say “I can’t because…(fill in the blank with the person/thing/circumstance that supposedly holds you back).” And it’s often daunting to realize that we may disappoint people because we aren’t doing what they want us to.

But what are we so scared of? Why do we believe that someone not liking us or declaring our chosen path to be stupid or sacrilegious is going to be the very death of our souls? In fact, it’s the opposite. Choosing to follow our own light is what gives us freedom, and inspires others to pursue it, as well.

And no matter who or what we lose along the way, nothing can ever replace the God-given desire to be exactly who we were created to be. Nothing more, nothing less.

Dare to defy the doubts – your own, and those of others – and nothing can keep you down.

Maybe not even gravity.

Our recently completed move to Cleveland, Ohio had me in that exact space. And quite frankly, still has me there on more days than I care to admit.

When we made the decision to move, I knew logically that there were a lot of wonderful things to look forward to. My husband Paul’s great new career opportunity. Living on Lake Erie. Being closer to my Midwestern and eastern friends and family. But there was still the deep sadness of leaving a life of 20 years that we built in our beloved adopted hometown of Scottsdale, Arizona.

And I allowed that – along with the overwhelm of all that had to be done to get us from the desert to the tundra in the middle of winter – to paralyze me for a good portion of every day.

Instead of using the experience for writing fodder, I would sit down at my laptop and immediately have an anxiety attack over all the things I should be doing instead. Like packing boxes. Arranging for utilities. Or making sixteen trips to the vet to discuss how to keep our three cats safely medicated so they were calm during our travels (and didn’t “serenade” our fellow cabin passengers for four hours straight during our transport flight).

But eventually, everything got done. All our stuff arrived. The lights were on. We didn’t get banned from Southwest for having the loudest felines in airline history. (Actually, the three-year old screaming about his malfunctioning iPad six rows up would have drowned out even their most robust vocal stylings.)

The bottom line is, if I had opted for the “one bite at a time” approach, I could’ve made the whole moving escapade much easier on myself. But that didn’t happen. So, all I can do now is try to apply a more sane methodology to the process of settling in.

Slowly.

I won’t make a bunch of new friends overnight. But I can get out of the house every day and try to make contact with at least one other human being. Even if it’s just a “hello”…it’s a start.

I won’t instantaneously know where everything is in a new city. Granted, my sense of direction is the stuff of legend (not in a good way), but damn it…I found a place to get my hair done without accidentally ending up in a neighboring state.

Our house will not be vying for the cover of Architectural Digest any time soon. We love the place; however, like any house, you’ve got to make certain adjustments so it feels like your home. For example, replacing valances that have trumpet playing monkeys on them:

Or re-doing what we have dubbed the “Little Mermaid” bathroom:

I think the shelves are supposed to be seashells. But it looks more like a giant crustacean that is trying to burst through the walls and kill you while you’re bathing.

But these things are minor. And it’s okay if we chip away at the fixes, rather than doing an extreme makeover in one fell swoop.

I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions. But whether you choose to make them or not, it’s worth considering approaching 2019 – and all that you want to accomplish within it – with a more relaxed feel. The book you’ve always wanted to write starts with one sentence. A series of small successes at work can morph into the coveted promotion. Fitness happens (literally) one step at a time.

Be kind to yourself. Take credit for every advance, not just the major milestones. Tiny triumphs will lead to bigger blessings than you can imagine.

Of course, the wiser part of me knows this is a recipe for disaster (or at least disappointment). But sometimes the id screams like a toddler being forcibly removed from the toy aisle and the hubris of me insisting on doing things my way prevails.

But in saner moments, I realize that I simply need to catch the dreams and ideas that come to me, give ‘em some love, take a few action steps…and then release the trajectory of their manifestation to God.

My best friend recently gave me one of the most beautifully thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received: a very cool replica of an old school drive-in theater speaker. Her note said:

“To remind you that you are a screenwriter and filmmaker. Regardless of the fact that it may not look like what you thought it would.”

I was touched not only by her belief in my work, but how spot-on she was about the fact that our desires don’t always come to us in neat little packages designed by our imaginations.

Ever since I fell in love with screenwriting in college, I pictured that my films would one day end up with one of the big studios.  (Granted, this was when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and before everything was available on YouTube…but I digress…). My producing partner Curt Apduhan and I tried for years to get into the Hollywood club. Curt is an Emmy award-winning cinematographer, who has worked with a lot of famous people who are well-entrenched in the studio system. But even with his personal and professional connections, we always seemed to get thisclose with one of our scripts, and then…crickets.

Finally, we decided that it was time to stop wasting time courting approval and just make a movie on our own. Even if it wasn’t a full-length feature backed by millions of dollars and starring a household name, it was still tangible proof that we knew how to write and produce something screen-worthy.

So, we shot our first short film, “Anniversary” with an amazing cast of three in a friend’s home (whose living room was miraculously transformed by our set designer into a hotel suite). We were on a shoestring budget, but everyone involved gave so generously of their time and talent that we ended up with a beautiful film that was very well-received at several festivals in the U.K.

We may still make it to Hollywood one day. Or maybe not. But I will never forget the thought that came to me as I stood on set for the first time and watched the actors say my words:

“I don’t know if I could be any happier if this were being played out on a giant soundstage or a glamorous location. I love filmmaking, period. I just want to be in the game.”

And as of this writing, I still am. Another short film produced and screened at festivals last year, and one more in the works that will be expanded to a feature. At least that’s the plan.

(I know, I know…cue the “we plan, God laughs” jokes.)

But I’ve done my best to catch and cultivate the dreams that come to me. Now begins the continual process of prying my fingers off of the steering wheel.

Time to let the Divine do the driving.

But while all of the above events may be true, they’re still excuses. And if I championed them, I’d be creating an absurd rationale for why I’m not doing the one thing that makes me feel the most alive: putting words on a page.

So, why do we go silent on our life’s passions?

Sometimes it’s for a good reason, like the need for genuine introspection. Taking a brief step back from what we love so we can see it with fresh eyes and return to it with renewed zeal.

But all too often, that short break turns into a self-sabotaging sabbatical. Excuses are reframed as “reasons” why we can’t get back in the game.

It’s been too long.

I’m out of practice.

I’ve lost momentum.

I don’t even know where to start.

Those toxic rationales enable us to politely excuse ourselves from doing what feeds our souls in favor of the things that – while perhaps necessary – feed only our practical routines.

We all have to take care of business. And because we’re good, responsible grownups, we buckle down. The work gets done, the groceries get bought and the bills get paid. All the boxes checked.

Except the one that didn’t even make the list: the dormant desire that is never truly silent.

But it is stealthy.

You’ll think you’ve successfully buried – or simply forgotten – it. That is, until it chooses any number of ways to slyly remind you of its existence:

You see a book you could have easily written.

A canvas you could’ve painted circles around.

A dish you could’ve cooked WAY better than that stupid, screaming TV chef.

And the only difference between you and those artists and creators is that when life got noisy, they didn’t lie back quietly and allow it to drown out what they loved.

They turned up their own volume, ignored the cacophony of “shoulds” and “have-tos” and pushed their passions to the forefront.

You can do the same. So can I.

And once we do, we’ll find that our dreams are very forgiving.

Just like a close friend who slides off our radar, all it takes is one moment to reach out and reestablish that connection to our God-given desires. To remember why the love was there in the first place. And to forget how long we’ve been apart.

Let’s break the silence. It’s time.

But we’ve all been there before. And I’m there now.

I recently found out that a dear friend of 24 years passed away unexpectedly. The last time I saw her was right before Thanksgiving of last year. We drank coffee and solved all the world’s problems.  She had fought cancer valiantly. Her gorgeous green eyes were bright, and her sense of snark was in fine form. She had plans to start hiking again and create more of her amazing handcrafted jewelry.

I try to focus on gratitude for the years we had together. But admittedly, I am selfishly sad that the number in my phone (which I can’t bring myself to delete) won’t be picked up by her anymore.

I know that she will always be in my heart. But right now, I would much rather have her sitting in my living room.

I find myself foraging for any physical thing that will bring her close to me. I’m wearing the beautiful silver bracelet she made me 24/7. I’ve pulled photos off of her Facebook page in case it is taken down at some point. I’ve destroyed my closet looking for old snapshots of us taken back in our massage therapy school days (she made a career of it, me…not so much).

I visited her favorite hiking trail where her ashes are scattered in a bold, beautifully defiant Z pattern.

I whispered words that weren’t nearly enough and prayed that somehow she would hear them.

When I left the trail, I felt some peace for having paid my respects. But I knew that this was only the beginning of a process that can’t be rushed. Serenity will be interrupted by sobbing. Memories will be alternately happy and heartbreaking.

The grief pendulum is in full swing.

And part of that (at least for me) is ping-ponging between caring about nothing…and then everything. One minute almost every single thing I do seems trivial and ridiculous. The next, I’m awash in appreciation for the fact that I can breathe and walk across the room without pain or issue.

I also find myself invoking the “Five by Five Rule” a lot more often.

If it’s not gonna matter in five years, don’t spend more than five minutes being upset by it.

It’s useless to incubate an ulcer over whether I underwhelmed someone with my prose or over-emojied in a work-related email. Because five years (more likely five minutes) down the road, no one will remember my supposedly egregious gaffes. I wish I’d known about this rule in my younger days, but I don’t think I’d have been able to apply it. Back then, every weird look or disapproving tone was fodder for obsession and self-critiquing for days on end.

Now I know there isn’t time for that sh*t. Literally.

And I’m thankful for that perspective, even as I miss my friend deeply.

I’m nowhere near the “relief” part of the equation. And my middle ground is a chaotic jumble of emotions.

But I know my sense of balance will return (it always does). Until then, I will use this period to reflect and recommit to the only thing that is truly eternal: the love we give and receive.

Corinne Marguerite (Geerling) Bixby
August 31, 1941 – March 29, 2018

The choice seems obvious: you’ll be much happier in a constant state of wonder than you will be feeding on a steady diet of cynicism. But the decision to view things as beautiful in the face of a world filled with suffering and discord can feel  self-indulgent at best, and completely delusional at worst.

But choosing to see everything through a divine lens isn’t just some Pollyanna panacea. It’s a perceptional shift that will change your life, and quite possibly the lives of those around you.

To be honest, this miracle-minded gratitude nut is road-testing this philosophy on a very tough situation right now.

A close family member is mentally ill, drug addicted, homeless, and as of this writing, refusing treatment for what seems like the millionth time. He has physically and verbally abused strangers and loved ones. His own parents have a restraining order against him.

I don’t know if he will ever get well.

And my well-honed Catholic guilt is having a freaking field day with this.

Any attempts to stick with a positive, thankful mindset (You’re healthy. You have writing work to do and money coming in. You have the support of friends and loved ones.) are met with a swift smackdown from my inner opposing  counsel:

Go right ahead. Sit there and enjoy your Starbucks while writing on your laptop in your nice, safe home. I’m sure your relative is doing just fine holed up in a drug den or sleeping on a bench somewhere.

I’d love to tell you that I can blithely whisk away those thoughts with the adage:  “You can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.”

But I love this person. And I don’t want to forget about or give up on him.

So, I do the only thing I can think of.

I reach for the miracle, no matter how infinitesimal it may be:

He’s still alive. And every heartbeat is an opportunity to come back around.

That’s all I have right now. But I’ll take it.

And sometimes that’s all it takes to see a miracle come true.

We’re all made of the same basic building blocks. We all eat, drink, work, sleep…lather, rinse, repeat every 24 hours. The Constitution even confirms that we’re all created equal.

But somehow, we just don’t get that “all” includes us, too.

She sings like an angel. I sound like a cat being attacked by a lawn mower.

He’s written five bestselling novels and he’s only twenty-six. I’m um…not twenty-six and have barely finished one book that approximately nine people know about.

The entire planet follows them on social media. My dog follows me to the kitchen.

So, why do we habitually catapult those we admire to godlike status, while relegating ourselves to watching silently from the cheap seats?

I think it’s because we forget (or at least I do) that those who have attained stratospheric success are there for inspiration…not imitation.

Big difference.

In the midst of flailing about writing my first novel (which is now thankfully in the hands of some amazing beta readers as I write this), one of my favorite – and futile – things to do was to look at famous authors and note all the ways that I wasn’t following in their esteemed footsteps.

I don’t write long tomes (my head explodes when I think of Ayn Rand spinning out 1000+ pages for Atlas Shrugged).

I’m big on dialogue and nearly non-existent when it comes to description (welcome to the side effect of 25+ years of screenwriting).

And I’m completely missing the “vampires and wizards obsession” chip (somehow I doubt that Anne Rice and J.K. Rowling are losing any sleep over this, since I am one of approximately 15 people worldwide who feel this way).

But the further along I get in my own work, the more I realize that even if I wanted to imitate the aforementioned greats…it’s just not gonna happen.

And it shouldn’t.

Mark Twain said, “Comparison is the death of joy.” And he’s right.

Because there is nothing that sucks the beauty and fun out of creation like wallowing in angst because you don’t paint like Cezanne, sing like Adele or write brilliant prose about blood-sucking creatures of the night or magical adolescents who fly around on broomsticks.

You weren’t put here to be a half-assed copy of someone else. Respect the talented masters that you admire, but don’t revere them. They are just like you, except they’re doing the one thing you might be avoiding:

Being 100% true to who they were created to be.

So, take them off the pedestal. Or better yet, climb up there with them.

There’s more room at the top than you think.

You may not be redefining the world of dance like Martha did (my own musically-induced gyrations have prompted people to ask if they should call 911), but there is a bit of habitual dissatisfaction in all of us.

And I think it’s awesome.

But I didn’t always feel that way.

I spent a majority of the anxiety-and-self-doubt festival known as my 20s and 30s dreaming of the day when I’d finally hit a peak so high that nothing else could top it.

Everything would be in its proper place, and I’d be perfectly content from that point on. No more striving for goals that always seemed just out of reach.

No more grappling with the fear of what I’d do if I never achieved them.

Or what I’d do with the unease of responsibility if I did.

Back then, that sounded like bliss.

Now, it sounds boring.

I’m not saying it’s wrong to sit back and take pleasure in what you’ve achieved so far. Or to want a life that’s not rocked by constant upheaval.

But there is a big difference between enjoying the season you’re in, and trying to make it last forever.

I believe the inherent – and healthy – sense of discontent we all possess was put in us by a loving God who wants us to be as expansive and creative as He is.

Unfortunately, that natural desire to grow and explore is often suffocated by fears, frustrations and supposed obligations.

But it never goes away.

I know, because I tried unsuccessfully for decades to make it vanish.

I mindlessly collected degrees and certifications for a career that I told myself was practical, but was actually paralyzing.

I avoided bookstores and theaters because they showcased the stories I wasn’t telling.

I saw the success of others as proof that there was one less spot available for me in the world of writers who made a living at their craft.

But deep down, I knew what I was truly capable of.

What I would pursue with abandon if I put on the superhero cape we are all born with and flew like the skies were on fire.

Exciting? Absolutely.

But also terrifying.

Because when you surrender to the discontent, there are questions that demand answers:

What would you have to give up to get where you want to be?

Who might you have to give up?

What would you need to allow into your life…or kick out?

But if you’re willing to listen as your soul responds with honesty to the queries that come, you’ll be rewarded with a sense of passion and purpose that is your birthright.

This kind of unrest truly is blessed…if you allow it to be.

I remember my last night as a grade-schooler, unable to sleep as I pondered my upcoming first day on the big bad junior high campus. Instead of the same familiar pack of munchkins I’d been running with since kindergarten, I’d now be forced to meet an entire legion of new students.

And I was terrified.

In the midst of my angst, I actually had the thought, “I wish I could wake up famous tomorrow. Then everyone would already know and like me.”

I was absolutely convinced that if I were Brooke Shields (the gold standard of teen stardom at the time), I wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of trying to fit in, saying something idiotic or just flat-out being disliked.

Thankfully, I outgrew the naïve notion that “recognition = adoration” long before the internet and social media took public scrutiny to a stratospheric level.

And while it’s tempting to complain about the TMZ-style world we live in today, there is a proverbial silver lining to the often-moronic tidal wave of reality show starlets, viral videos and vitriolic rants:

It’s proof that the gatekeepers are done for good.

And so is your excuse for remaining invisible.

You no longer have to genuflect in the presence of movie studios, radio stations or art galleries, begging them to anoint you as a legitimate artist.

But as the barriers that keep your work from being shared with the world dissolve, so do the walls that keep you shielded from criticism that ranges from the mildly disheartening (actual review for my first short film: “That’s 20 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”) to aggressively hateful.

The fact is, if you’ve got something to offer the world, you’re going to have to deal with online trolls who are more than happy to announce that your novel was apparently written by an orangutan with a MacBook Pro and your abstract canvas looks like a sewage explosion.

And I’ve found the best way to handle the hate is to have empathy for those that dish it out.

No, I did not misspell “Twitter war.” I actually do mean empathy.

And here’s why.

These are people that have opted to spend their precious time and energy on a mission to seek and destroy. And their target isn’t something they despise, but rather something they desperately wish they had:

The courage to offer their gifts to the world, and to keep on doing it, whether the response is kudos or condemnation. 

Your book, film, blog or painting may not be their cup of tea. But the fact that they opt to attack – rather than simply ignore – your creation signals a human being burdened by regrets and hammered by creative Resistance.

Someone imprisoned by fear of failure, success, or both.

Simultaneously facing the dread of taking – or not taking – that first step toward a dream.

And in my book, living that way is suffering enough.

So, the next time snarky or scathing words are lobbed at you, consider the source.

Allow yourself a moment to be angry, annoyed or even amused.

Then let it go.

And give thanks.

Because you, too, could be hiding behind a screen name instead of making a name for yourself.