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

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.

– 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.

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.

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.