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.

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.

– Christopher Robin to Winnie The Pooh

As I kid, I loved the tales of a potbellied bear and his posse that included a tiny pig, a grumpy donkey and a boy who adored him.  His innocence made me smile, and I could definitely relate to his insatiable sweet tooth (honey for him, anything chocolate for me).

But as an adult, I realize that the stories aren’t just cute, they are full of wisdom and comfort…two things I could certainly use right now.

Which is why I’m writing this today.

I’m staring at a finished novel that I’m terrified to send out to my beta readers because I may find out that I spent six years writing a piece of sh*t.

So, I don’t feel brave.

People close to me are hurting because of circumstances that I can’t fix. One is in prison, both physically and spiritually. Another is battling chronic pain and flirting with an opiate addiction. Someone else is shouldering a family loss so huge they may never be made whole again.

So, I don’t feel strong.

I still can’t get my damn blue tooth device to talk to my phone.

So, smart isn’t in the cards today, either.

But the good news is, I don’t have to let my momentary feelings determine the rest of my life.

Because as much of a gift as they can be, sometimes our emotions just get it all wrong.

As the fear and doubt start to pile on, we feel them so strongly that we forget what we know to be true about ourselves in saner moments.

So…

I will send my book to the readers and get it published, regardless of whether I feel like J.K. Rowling.

I will pray for those I love and do whatever is humanly possible to help them, even if it isn’t nearly enough.

I will throw myself on the mercy of the Verizon store gurus and get over my temporary techno-conundrum.

I will listen to the words of a boy who loved his bear, take them into my heart, and share them with anyone who may need them.

Maybe that’s you right now.

If so, I’m here to remind both of us to honor our feelings, but don’t treat them as infallible. Gently question their validity if they try to lead you away from the truth about yourself. And that is…

You are brave.

Strong.

Smart.

Beloved.

Badass. (especially Badass)

To a fault.

As one scenario after another flooded my mind, I decided further clarification was in order.  So, I countered with, “Do you mean ‘relive’ as in it was so awesome I want to experience it again?  Or as in, ‘Man, I screwed that up, and I wish I could go back and fix it?’”

He smiled and said, “Which one did you jump to first?”

Interesting question.

And my response surprised me.

My first inclination was to try to think of a moment I’d want to live over again because it was so wonderful. But then I figured it would be much more productive to go back and repair some atrocious blunder that should have earned me a Darwin Award.

But in spite of the fact that I had zero difficulty conjuring up a virtual encyclopedia of ridiculous things I’ve said and done in my life, I realized something pretty cool.

I really don’t have any serious regrets.

Because if I had gotten a do-over every time I thought I needed one, I wouldn’t be anywhere near where I am today.

When I was 20 years old, I was two years into college, burnt out and dying for a break. Two of my girlfriends were newly minted flight attendants and having a blast jetting from New York to Paris, with a few other glamorous locales thrown in for good measure. (This was back when flying was pretty much an airborne cocktail party, not a TSA-driven nightmare.)

So, I applied to American Airlines and got called for a group interview right away. And when I got the notice that I was hired not long after that, I was ecstatic.

And then I was flat-out terrified.

I’ll probably have to move. They could base me anywhere. And I’ve never lived outside of Southern California in my entire life! Holy sh*t.  Maybe I’m not ready for this. Maybe I should go back to school. Maybe I should just get an office job. Maybe…

In the midst of my mental maelstrom, I called my mother. I figured she would be happy that I was leaning heavily toward sticking close to the home front.

But she was actually upset with me. I remember her telling me that I lived in a “vacuum.”

She said I needed to leave my cloistered existence in suburban Orange County and see how the rest of the world existed without mega malls and perfectly manicured planned communities.

A part of me knew that she was right. And I had to admit that I had a Kung Fu death grip on my comfort zone.

But there was another part of me that knew that I was more in love with the idea of fleeing the rigors of higher education than forging a lasting career flying the friendly skies. And if I didn’t finish my degree then, I probably never would.

So, back to Cal State Fullerton I went.

And I did continue living in my “vacuum” for several more years while I completed school. But while I may have lost out on a well-stamped passport and Parisian shopping sprees, I would have missed so much more if I’d have chosen that path.

I wouldn’t have taken my first screenwriting class in my junior year of college and fallen in love with filmmaking.

I wouldn’t have stayed in California long enough to take a decidedly unglamorous purchasing job at a manufacturing company where I met my future husband.

If he hadn’t lost his job and accepted a new one in Arizona, this born-and-raised beach girl would’ve never realized how much she could love the desert.

I wouldn’t have had the chance to realize that the phrase “bloom where you’re planted” was more than just a refrigerator magnet.

There’s nothing wrong with remembering happy times, or rolling your eyes at some of your less-than-stellar performances.

But treat these moments like a rest stop. They’re just a short respite on a long and important journey.

You’ve got so much ground to cover going forward. Whatever happened before – amazing or awful – is done.

Don’t let yourself get stuck playing it again.

I find it hilarious because – more often than I care to admit – I converse with my dogs like this after they’ve dug a hole to China in the backyard or treated the cat box like their personal snack bar. As they listen to me ranting in exasperation, I can see the thought bubbles forming above their canine noggins: “Oh, silly woman. If only you knew the joy of dirt flying in your face, or the delectable taste sensation of fresh cat turds. But alas, I shall let you continue in your blissful ignorance of the finer things in life.”

(Okay, so my dogs have ridiculous thought bubbles. They get it from their Mom.)

But as much as I’d prefer that they do what I tell them to (and I certainly don’t advocate harmful or destructive behavior)…I have to admit that perhaps there is some wisdom at work here.

I know, I know. Just hear me out.

In their doggie minds, they are perfectly content doing something that others don’t approve of. Sure, they’re not thrilled when their human companions try to dissuade them from what we see as less than savory passions.  But they don’t take it to heart.

Just like Ginger, they simply listen…filtering out all but the most essential knowledge.

So, how does this apply to us two-legged creatures?

Of course we all have to communicate with each other. And (hopefully) to truly hear what is being said.

But do we have to take in judgment, criticism and unsolicited advice…especially when it comes to the dreams we hold sacred?

When you’re told (oh-so-nicely) that perhaps a Plan B is in order.

When statistics are presented as gospel.

When disapproval threatens to push you towards derailment.

In those instances, I stand with Ginger.

Sometimes it’s not such a bad thing to be dog-eared.

But being looked at isn’t the same as being truly seen.

It’s not a big risk to share a meme or join in the latest Facebook argument over whether we just swore in the savior of the free world or a misogynistic Cheeto. But revealing your whole, true self to the world (and no, half-naked selfies don’t count)…that’s an entirely different animal.

And it’s easier said than done. I know, because I wasn’t willing to do it for a very long time.

Like, oh…for about four decades.

I was a shy kid. I dreaded the thought of being front and center (oral book report = raging panic attack). But secretly, I found the idea of being acknowledged very appealing. Having people think I was funny, talented, interesting, inspiring…or maybe even all of those things.

But as soon as my daydream haze evaporated, it was immediately replaced by a paralyzing fear of the potential flipsides to being singled out:

Disapproval. Envy.

Resentment. Ridicule.

And  I decided  (on some level too deep for me to understand at the time) that I was better off incognito.

I told myself I was more of a “behind the scenes” person. I was meant to support the stars, not be one myself.

The stagehand, not the actor.

The announcer, not the announced.

Not surprisingly, the aforementioned roles played themselves out perfectly in – of all places – my elementary school talent show.

When I was in fourth grade, a few of my girlfriends decided we should form a dance group and do a routine to showcase our mad skills. It was the early dawning of the disco era, and we were fascinated by the colorful fashion and spirited gyrations we saw on Soul Train. So, of course, we were determined to emulate both perfectly.

In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that what we thought were smooth moves made us look like we required an antispasmodic. And the outfits were a sight to behold: denim shorts and halter tops with an explosion of sequins across our non-existent chests. But we loved these getups so much that the group was christened…

…wait for it…

The Halters.

So, we began rehearsing. And it was so much fun. I loved dancing and being part of something I thought was totally cool. I pictured us taking the stage and the crowd going wild.

But then the day of the show got closer.

And I did the worst thing any performer can do.

I started thinking.  A lot.

Maybe I’m not all that good. I mean, I did accidentally stomp on Cindy’s foot when we practiced yesterday. And Lisa is so much taller and thinner than me. I probably look like a glittery oompah-loompah in that outfit. I should’ve voted that we wear sweatshirts.

The next day, I went to the group and said that I felt like I didn’t have the steps down as well as I should, and I didn’t want to ruin their chance of winning the competition. But I would be happy to stand behind the podium and introduce them as they took the stage.

At first I was relieved. Whew! Now no one will see me screw up.

Then I was mad at myself. Yeah, but  now they won’t see you at all. Good job, disco dumb-ass.

But I wasn’t upset enough to change the pattern of hiding in plain sight that governed my life going forward.

That is, until I hit my mid-forties. And I couldn’t avoid doing the math that told me – if God and good genes were on my side – my life was possibly half over.

It was time to not only get going, but to get the hell over myself.

To drag my absurd, self-inflicted paranoia out into the light of reason, and ask it some pointed questions:

So, what exactly happens if you write a shitty book?

People will hate it. They’ll hate me.  I’ll look like an idiot.

Well, you are perfectly capable of looking like an idiot without writing a damned thing.  Have you seen yourself practice yoga?

That may seem like a ridiculous exchange. But it’s no more ridiculous than allowing yourself to be boxed in by concerns (most of them fantastic works of mental fiction) that others won’t approve of who you really are.

And what if they don’t give you their kudos, high-fives or rave reviews?

At first, you’ll just survive it.

Then you’ll thrive in spite of it.

Lastly, you’ll wonder why you ever wasted a precious second of your existence jonesing for approval instead of nurturing your next great idea.

Of course, it’s preferable to be liked and lauded. And it’s not wrong to want that.

But it is wrong to withhold your true self – and all the gifts and talents contained within it – until you’re sure the coast is clear of naysayers, haters and trolls.

‘Cause that ain’t never gonna happen, my friends.

But here’s the good news.

You don’t have to wait for a “do the math” moment like mine.

You can kick fear in the ass, and start showing us all of your true colors.

And you can do it today.

Here are a few simple action steps to get you going:

Start Small – So, you’re not ready for a full-on art exhibit? At least pull your paintings out of exile and unveil them to a few close friends or fellow artists. Hang them in your living room. Get used to seeing your work residing someplace other than the garage.

Solicit Support – Taking off your mask is serious business. When you’ve spent years (or a lifetime) presenting only a fraction of who you really are, it can be truly frightening to consider going for the full monty. So, don’t do it alone. Ask friends, family, or even an online group to help you shore up the strength to write the book, start the blog, or sing that song.

Shine, Shine, Shine  –  Once you’ve taken even the tiniest baby step out from the shadows, there is no going back. Thank God. Because what seems like a timid little hop forward to you, is a gargantuan leap to someone who is watching from the sidelines.  Don’t deride yourself because you haven’t yet written the great American novel. There is a person out there who is in awe that you wrote and published a guest post.  Letting your light shine to any degree possible gives them permission to do the same…and then some.

So, let us see what you’ve kept hidden so far.

The words. The music.

The comedy. The art.

The gift for healing.

The truth. Your truth.

Because the rest of you, is truly the best of you.

I used to say that all the time. Usually when I was failing miserably at something and wanted to deflect any suggestion that I should step up my game.

“I can’t write a book. I’m too busy. “
“I can’t create a website. Technology hates me.”
“How am I supposed to eat a salad when a perfectly good pan of brownies is in grave danger of going stale?”

I’m only human.

But while those three little words provided me with a handy-dandy hall pass for avoidance, it always felt wrong. Like I was using my status as a mere mortal as an excuse to not rise higher.  To achieve all that I knew I was capable of.

So, what’s wrong with declaring yourself to be human?

Nothing at all.

As long as you leave out the qualifier that will put the brakes on your potential greatness:

“Only”

I love the way John Mayer addresses the idea of wanting to go beyond our limits in his song “Bigger Than My Body.”

Someday I’ll fly
Someday I’ll soar
Someday I’ll be so damn much more
Cause I’m bigger than my body gives me credit for

We all dream of being so much more than what we appear to be. To amaze the world – or maybe just ourselves – with the strength, talent and innate bad-assery that has lain dormant for much too long.

So, what do you do to get beyond the often minimal “credit” your physical self says you’re due?

First off, remind it very politely who’s boss:

Your God-given soul.

The spirit that animates the earth suit you’re living in for the time being.  The divine spark that was set off the day you were born and has kept you going up until this very moment.

The part of you that knows you’re meant for more than what you’ve accepted as the status quo.

Secondly, do something.

Anything.

Right now.

One tiny step forward that will signal your intent to once and for all stop believing the bullsh*t story that you’re “only” human.

Write the first sentence of your novel.

Throw some color on a canvas.

Capture a moment in your sketch book.

Destroy your kitchen in pursuit of the perfect spaghetti sauce.

Sing. Loudly.

Lastly, try this mantra on for size:

I am contained by nothing and no one.

Those words came to me recently when I felt constrained by circumstances, both real and imagined. I wasn’t drinking my own koolaid when it came to living in Einstein Time, so I felt rushed and scattered.

Every time I’d reach for my work in progress, my phone would launch into an urgent symphony of beeps and pings.

The clock ticked out a constant reminder that in “X” minutes I was supposed to be somewhere else.

I could feel  my resentment choking off any and all creativity.

Why can’t the world just leave me alone so I can do what I want  – and need – to do?

Then I realized it wasn’t the world’s fault that I was stalling out.

It was mine.

So, I took a deep breath, and out came the aforementioned mantra that reminded that I can never be confined unless I allow myself to be.

Because I am bigger than my body.

So are you.

Prove it to yourself. Today.

Your greatness is waiting. And I for one can’t wait to see it unleashed.