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.

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.

Think about that. I mean, really let it sink in.

If you have a book, film, artistic work or even a simple bumper sticker-sized message to share with the world, no one will physically prevent you from putting it out there.

You can proclaim your faith – or lack thereof – and you won’t be thrown in prison.

You can champion a cause that sears your soul. At the top of your lungs, and in broad daylight.

So, in honor of this privilege, it’s time to realize that “just add water” is only a good directive for condensed soup and Chia Pets. Not so much when it comes to speaking your personal truth.

I know I’ve been guilty of taking this blessing for granted. Keeping quiet because I didn’t want to rock any boats, hurt any feelings or alienate anyone.

But that got me nowhere.

By trying to be something to everyone, I was nothing to anyone.

So, here’s the truth about me.

I’m not  a regular churchgoer, but I have a deep and abiding faith in a personal God who loves each one of us. And I believe that if people followed the principles of unconditional love, acceptance and service to others that Jesus taught, the world would be a better place.

I can also be very “woo-woo” and constantly marvel at the energy-based universe that God created. It makes perfect sense to me to not only observe how He works with those energies, but to learn to work with them ourselves in order to elevate our minds and live our best lives.

I’m a dedicated vegetarian, but you can still invite me to your barbecue without fear of a lecture on how your burger was once Bessie the cow. I hate soapboxes, so I do my damndest to stay off of them.

If you want me to run screaming from the room, mention the latest weight loss fad.

I vote because it is a right and a privilege that people have fought and died for us to have. But I have zero faith that any elected official has a significant effect on whether or not I get to live an incredible and abundant life.

I believe that if you want to kick some ass, you have to stop waiting for pats on the head.

My three least favorite words in the English language are: “It’s too late.”

I’ve been known to break my own “no-soapbox” rule when I hear those three words come out of the mouth of someone I care about (or even a complete stranger). My thought process is simple: Are you breathing? Good. Then there’s still time to (fill in the blank with embarrassingly audacious dream you refuse to acknowledge to yourself or the world).

Author Sarah Ban Breathnach sums it up beautifully:

“The authentic self is the soul made visible.”

Notice she didn’t say “the soul made perfect” or “the soul made for mass appeal.”

She said “visible.”

Yes, visibility is scary. But definitely worth it.

Think about what it would be like to…

Be rid of the convoluted mental flow chart that tells you which persona to use for which occasion.

Receive the gift of being loved and respected for who you actually are.

Realize you’re going to be just fine if everyone on the planet doesn’t give you the aforementioned gift.

If revenge is a dish best served cold, then truth is one that’s best served raw.

So, let’s hear it. What’s real for you?

Share in the comments below. And everywhere else you get the chance.

Your truth is a treasure. Treat it accordingly.

I got a decent amount of work straight out of the gate. And that was partly due to the fact that I was so elated to no longer be starring in my own personal revival of Office Space, I would write about anyone or anything.  From executive officer profiles and Facebook campaigns to video scripts for spray tan gadgets and robotic surgery, I took everything that came my way.

But after some time, I started to feel that something wasn’t right.

Not cataclysmically so. Just enough to get my attention.  Repeatedly.

But instead of taking this sense of disquiet as a sign something was intrinsically wrong with me, I decided to treat it as a signal to dig deeper into what was really going on inside. Look back on my creative path and see where – or how – I’d gone off the rails.

I had successfully escaped the 9-to-5 rat race.  But I realized that once my initial sense of liberation began to flag, I started approaching my work from a place of  fear and self-criticism.

You’d better not screw up with these clients or it’s back to File Cabinet Hell.

You can’t keep this up forever. Every well runs dry eventually.

You just wrote a piece about anti-fungal cream. Sexy.

The more I worked from that dark and cramped space, the worse the internal nagging became.  I couldn’t understand how I’d managed to ruin the writing life that I’d always wished for.

I didn’t know what was missing. But I was determined to find out before CareerBuilder.com started calling my name.

That’s when I was gifted with a little book by Melody Beattie simply titled Gratitude.

And because the Creator has a wicked sense of humor, this quote was on the first page I opened to:

God, teach me how to enjoy and savor the pleasures, gifts and talents that are spread out before me.

Alrighty then.

From that moment on, I made it a point to be deeply grateful for every single idea or project that came to me…no matter how seemingly illustrious or insignificant.

To see them as blessed opportunities to grow instead of just paying assignments.

To enjoy the learning curve instead of letting it terrify me.

As I collected more and more of these experiences, my sense of inspiration and joy – and consequently, my entire world – expanded. I connected with other writers instead of staying isolated. And that led to opportunities that I had never allowed myself to consider before: blogging, guest posting and eBook writing and publishing, to name just a few.

But there was still something more.

I never really thought of myself as a teacher or a coach. Or more accurately, in true Mary fashion, I simply didn’t allow myself to be cast in that role. Who needs your motivational genius? Pretty sure Tony Robbins and Oprah have that arena covered for at least 90% of humanity.

But I have always felt a need to serve people. To give back, pay it forward…whatever you want to call it. The need to give was always there, but I didn’t know exactly what to do with it.

But the more I worked with gratefulness and saw how it transformed my life, I couldn’t shake the idea that I wanted to share what I’d learned. To let people know that peace, satisfaction and unlimited joy can be the norm…even when Life tap dances all over their perfectly laid plans.

And the best way to do this is to step into a role that enhances rather than replaces my life as a writer:

Gratitude Coach

I am still figuring out how this is going to take shape. How it will evolve as a mission, a business, or both. But I’ve decided today that I am dedicated to helping people live their best and most fulfilled lives by using the most powerful tool on the planet: Thankfulness.

Here’s to the start of yet another new adventure. I look forward to having you along with me.

Mr. Emerson’s quote is famous for a reason. It really is an ideal way to see your existence.  Adopting a viewpoint like his makes it easier to handle frustrations.  To see great progress in small victories.  To appreciate life as the weirdly wrapped gift that it is.

But I didn’t always feel this way.

For most of my years, I thought that throwing that quote around was just a way to excuse yourself for not being where you should be in your career or creative pursuits. Journey? Bah.  I didn’t want to be mindful of every painstaking step toward my desire.   I wanted to teleport straight to my glorious arrival.  STAT, please.

I honestly wasn’t trying to call bullsh*t on one of America’s greatest poets. The idea that the journey really could be its own reward was a lovely one.

But I just couldn’t grasp how being on some meandering voyage was supposed to be more gratifying than actually grabbing the prize. More amazing than having that moment where you finally succeed.

So, what finally got me to accept the truth of his philosophy?

Doing something I’d been dreaming about for decades: making my first film (Anniversary).

The day that I realized my producing partner and I had secured funding and our wish list cast and crew, I felt unstoppable. Something I wrote was actually going to be viewed on a screen larger than my laptop.  I could really call myself a filmmaker.

I was elated. For about fifteen minutes.

And then the real work began.

Don’t get me wrong. It was work that I had fantasized about year after year as I was parked at my desk in the cube farm.  But between budgets, scheduling, script revisions, equipment rentals and about forty other things,  I soon realized that I had been watching way too much E! Channel.

All those “behind the scenes” segments seemed so glamorous. Everyone laughing, joking and  throwing out cute quotes for the camera.  Actors waxing poetic on their craft as they sat in the makeup chair.  The crew seamlessly gliding around on location, making every shot look effortless.

But while there was plenty of fun and games on our set, there was also plenty of…reality.

Airplanes that kept flying overhead during a critical scene, causing the sound guy to mainline Pepto Bismol.

Major equipment almost no-showing.

The script supervisor actually no-showing.

The family cat expressing displeasure with us shooting in “her” house by strolling through several shots. (She also requested a guest starring credit, but that’s a whole other story.)

This filmmaking stuff was not for the faint of heart.

But it was awesome.

And then it was over.

And I was bummed out.

Not just because the experience had come to an end. What really hit me was the realization that I had spent 95% of the pre-production and actual shoot time in varying degrees of anxiety.

Even when I wasn’t cranked up to eleven, I was almost always in a state of mild disquiet.

Thinking about what else I was supposed to be doing.  What I might be doing wrong.

If I looked like an idiot.  If I was an idiot.

And as a result, I witnessed – but didn’t fully absorb – so much of this once-in-lifetime experience:

Hearing an actor say my words for the first time.

Watching a group of virtual strangers become instant collaborators.

Noticing how the set design almost perfectly mimicked what I’d seen in my mind’s eye.

And so many other things.

I was making memories, no doubt. But what I should have been doing was making moments.

Staying present. Not stressing about what would come next, and how fast it would come.

Not wondering whether the film would be a pile of crap or a critical darling.

Not trying to guess whether this would be the start or the end of my filmmaking career.

As I write this, my second film Waiting for Goodbye is one week away from being in final form and ready for festival submission.  I’m excited to get it out there, and hopeful for a warm reception from audiences.  And I won’t lie, winning an award or two would be a dream come true.

But unlike my maiden voyage with Anniversary, this time I paid attention to every bit of the experience.  I savored the times where things went smoothly.  I rolled with the inevitable mishaps (which were amplified by the fact that our leading man was a cranky 16 year old Shih Tzu…but I digress).

And this time I left the shoot with a peaceful, grateful heart…and a new mantra:

Making memories is wonderful. Making moments is magical.

When we’re already low, our monkey minds go to town…blowing up minor missteps into irrefutable proof that we are complete idiots:

The time you choked during your presentation and forgot the name of your own company.

That stellar moment when you asked your co-worker when she was due. And she wasn’t pregnant.

The night where you had one (or three) too many at cousin Barb’s wedding and assaulted the dance floor with gyrations that looked like MC Hammer on peyote buttons.

“All right.  I can forgive myself for stammering through a presentation or dancing like a jackass.  But what about the really big stuff?  Opportunities I lost out on.  Things I didn’t step up for.  I would be soooo much further along if I had (fill in the blank with regret du jour).”

Let me tell you a story…

When I was in my early 20s, my best friend’s stepfather (Gale) turned his experience as a criminal court judge into a screenplay that was made into a TV movie. As a newbie  taking my first screenwriting class in college, I remember going to the film’s screening with (literal) stars in my eyes. Oh my God…there are famous people here!

I was totally in awe of the fact that his debut script had been produced, seemingly overnight. He had not one but TWO agents.  He was being courted to write for several television shows, including the then wildly popular L.A. Law.

I wanted his life.

Being the cool guy that he was, Gale offered to read a few of the screenplays and TV scripts I was working on in class. He was impressed (or perhaps just kind) enough to suggest that his agents take a look at them.  After I got up off the floor and the paramedics left, I gratefully accepted his offer.

A few weeks passed, and Gale got back to me with the agents’ input. No surprise, they had some notes on what could be improved, what wasn’t quite in line with industry standards, etc.

But then Gale said something I’ll never forget.

“They said you could make a living at this.”

So, what do you think I did? Jump up and down in elation that a couple of Hollywood big shots said I had the chops to be a professional screenwriter?  Start writing movies and teleplays like a woman possessed?

Nope.

I stopped writing for an entire year. And only sporadically after that for the next several years.

I could look back at that (and have, trust me) as an abysmal failure. Why did I run away, cowering from encouragement that most twenty-somethings (or any-somethings) would die to receive?

I could tell you that I focused on the agents’ critiques more than their kudos and that’s what sent me scurrying.

But that would only be a half-truth.

The reality was, I was simply not ready to put myself out there in the world. The initial excitement I felt about possibly being “discovered” quickly  morphed into abject terror.  And I hid.

Gutless? Stupid? Wasteful? Yes, yes, and yes.

But it was where I was at the time. I knew somewhere inside of me that I didn’t have the rhino-thick skin I needed to succeed as a scribe in Hollywood (or anywhere, for that matter).  I didn’t have the resolve  to withstand criticism.  And I lacked the emotional maturity to realize that while praise is awesome, it can’t be what motivates you to create.

I kept the self-condemnation going off and on throughout my 30s. But once I started skidding into the Big 4-0, I realized that it was time to not only forgive the past but truly bless it.

Put the lost opportunities in perspective once and for all.

Maya Angelou said it beautifully:

Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.

I didn’t know what to do then. But I do now.

And I’m getting on with it. Writing.  Sharing.  Encouraging.  Running my own race.  And not giving a sh*t if I trip on my shoelaces while doing it.

It’s a good place to be. Finally.

As a self-help geek, I know that reframing things from a burdensome “have to,” to a more light hearted “get to” is a good way to go. Less condemnation, more freedom.  It’s all semantics, but I find that it works.

That is, until I conveniently forget this fact in the midst of some self-created stress freak out, and go right back to whining about everything that I “have” to do.

But something happened recently that made me realize how important it is to frame things correctly.

A man named John Moore passed away on February 6^th of this year, not long after his 50^th birthday.  We were high school friends, and went to Junior Prom together back in the day.

He was an amazingly sweet guy. Not to mention charitable.  When I showed up as his date, I was sporting a horrific Jiffy Pop hairdo and a dress that looked like it required its own inflation device.  Not only did he not run screaming for the hills, he allowed there to be photographic evidence that he attended a public function with a human parade float.

Mr. Debonair & Miss Jiffy Pop Hair

We lost touch over time, but I was thrilled to reconnect with him in recent years on Facebook. He had a beautiful wife, a two year old son and had been an EMT and a school teacher before starting his own business.  Say what you will about the shallow harshness of social media, but I never saw anything but loving words posted to and about John.

What happened? And more to the point, why was the world deprived of such an incredible human being?

I don’t know.  I will never understand it.

But I do know this.

I get to deal with gray hair and wrinkles.

I get to drag my ass out of bed to exercise.

I get to be told that I’m a dinosaur for thinking Fetty Wap is a sandwich, not a singer.

I don’t have to be here.  I get to be here.

And if you’re reading this – thankfully – so do you.

Celebrate that fact.

(And yes, you have to.)

But Athena left something else behind.

A 3,000 word note written in black marker on the back of her bedroom mirror.

It was a series of her thoughts on everything from love (“Love is rare, life is strange, nothing lasts and people change.”) to life’s possible meaning (“Maybe it’s not about the happy ending, maybe it’s about the story.”)

But the one that struck me the most was this:

“Never give up on something you can’t go a day without thinking about.”

How many times do we all toy with the idea of giving up a dream, stomping our feet like a five year old and whining, “It’s too hard!” We do this because we believe we have all the time in the world to come around back to it. Maybe tomorrow, when we aren’t so tired/cranky/depressed/anxious/(insert excuse du jour here).

Athena would have given anything for my tomorrows. How dare I even consider wasting them?

So, I’m signing off here to get back to the dream I think about daily.

Writing.