CHAPTER 30

GO FOR IT!  But Where?

   It's funny how the worst upsets in our lives often offer us the best chances for evoking our dormant strength and creative passions.

MEANING:

   Though it took me only months of bag lady days to go from paper to Samsonite, it took years to learn how and why to discern between: Who I want another to be, and who they actually are. To learn when and if I should jump into an arena, be it marital, professional or charitable; and which cause is honestly worth championing.

   As I escaped my bag days, the lioness within roared to have my life enforced with spiritual equilibrium. And with the help of God and my GUT Buddy, I knew I was the only one meant to begin assembling that heart project.

   Though temporary office work had become my lifesaver, the void in my joy jar told me I was here to do more than yank and file. Creatively, I screamed to come out of the closet, even though I had not a clue as to how that could happen and what would emerge. At least, not a clue I was ready to acknowledge.

   Perhaps because my art-self lived so long in the emotionally poverty-stricken dungeon of denial, I never figured I could make a dime from art, possibly because I enjoyed it so much it didn't feel like real work. And, the echoes of Ashley and my ex-mother-in-claw still haunted my doubts with “You have no talent. Only an idiot would pay for your work.”

SHOWING:

No matter how illogical and nasty others' degrading slurs of us are, or how clearly we see them as a product of their own anger or bias, we're vulnerable to buying them if they coincide with our kidhood debase file.

   One day, as I spoke with Helene, a straight talking new friend, I asked her for input regarding what I should do with myself and what career I could possibly generate.

   Having shared the artwork I created in the past with her, she quickly told me: “Be an artist! Heck, you already are! I know you could make lots of money and you'd enjoy it!”

   My reply? “I thought you were my friend.”

   Her idea seemed so unrealistic and impossible. Yet, so incredibly delicious that I feared even dreaming it.

   Wow! Was my Fear Flea on the assault or what!

   Then, through a fluke of fate, my temp work led me to switch-bored-ing at CTV, a Toronto TV station. There I met the production crew for Kenny Rogers & The First Edition's TV show, Rollin' on the River. They suggested I work as an extra in the upcoming shoots. I'd make more money in a shorter time. Sure, it was only for a few weeks, but it was emotionally jazzing.

   The day before I was to begin my extra passage, a crossroad fell into my lifal map. The temp agency called, offering me security — of sorts. Ah! Choice! Two weeks of work as an extra or, filing forms at the Otis Elevator Company. I pushed the up button for Rollin' on the River.

   Still squeaking out of my bag lady duds, even now I recall the hoot I had with Maggie Spalding, their production lady, when she called to say: “Now,  hon, be sure and bring your cruise clothes for the shoot.” Examining my ragged closet, I wondered if the tramp steamer look might work.

   With a little help from new boarding house friends, I pulled a mini wardrobe together. After 3 subways and 2 bus transfers, I arrived at the studio prepped to sail into un-known waters.

   It was odd being in a studio like this. In kidhood, I had pages of dialogue to follow. Here, all I had to do was sit on a fake barge crate, enjoy the great music and get paid. Wow! Was this a sign that I could make money and have fun?

   The other extras were all Miss Canada runner-ups doing the gig for a lark and to meet hunky celebs. The main topic of chitchat was the Wrinkle Dread and who would lasso the cutest male singer.

   Not wanting to chat about cult worship or the lack of about-town-shelters and having no cash for commissary nibbles, I hung out in the dim lit corners of the studio during breaks and sketched on scrap paper.

   One fate-fueled day, Shirley Eikard, a 16 year old song writer/singer, was taping as a guest. She joined me in my corner — in many ways. Apart from Helene, her enthusiasm for my art was the first outside support I ever received for my sketching. She urged me to paint professionally.

   Those two weeks felt as if fate had thrown a concert for my spirit. It was song-filled, sensational and over too soon.

   Feeling that possibly it was time to go straight and settle down, time to give up all thought of thinking and creating, time to take an extended sabbatical into normalcy, I looked for a regular job — whatever that might be. Having made that decision, the first job I interviewed for, I got. In a few days I would be permanently cemented as a receptionist for a large downtown law firm. Though I felt I was sculpting my future in granite, destiny was about to prove that granite can be shifting sand in disguise.

   The next day, a new friend came by to visit, telling me she had an appointment that night for a reading with a psychic named Maggie Irving who was reported to be excellent. She then said she couldn't keep the appointment and wanted me to go. She even gave me the $5 to cover the cost. Why not, I thought. Possibly this might be my last vacation before the looming straight and narrow.

   That night's sky was dusting the city with layer upon layer of sparkling snow. Though it was a magical vision, the reality of not having any boots or warm clothes made the trek to Maggie's into a possible Perils of Pauline installment.

   When I arrived after 2 subways and a streetcar commute, plus several frozen streets navigated in rundown high heels, I skidded up to her front door. The warmth that emanated from her home caused me to think I might be greeted by a gingerbread grandma — and so I was.

   Maggie's radiant smile scanned my aura as she hugged me in from the cold. As she linked eyes with mine, she said: “Of course, it's you, honey, it had to be you, considering my dream. I'll do the reading for you, don't you worry, but first you have to eat. You're hungry, very hungry, so, I'll just pull out some chicken and put the kettle on, okay?“

   Guess she was psychic.

   During her wonderful meal of lovingly cooked leftovers, I had the chance to scan her home, filled with well-hugged teddy bears, a black Raggedy Ann doll, a plethora of eclectic mementos from her colorful past that I would later discover all carried a story, and a smiling Buddha dominating her fake fireplace, whimsically decorated with plastic flowers.

   As we finished our pot of tea, Maggie commandeered my cup and ushered me to her antique lace covered dining table. Following her cuddly, chubby frame as she led the way, she giggled about not really needing the tea leaves to read me, but it was fun to play with them. “You never know what they might want to tell you.”

   I knew that Maggie knew nothing about my life as we had never met before and neither I, nor the lady who gave me her appointment, told Maggie anything personal about my life. Well, I was amazed by her unassuming accuracy.

   She spoke of my dichotomous past that was both public and imprisoning. She spoke of the extreme impasses I had to traverse in order to return and relay my escape for others to discover. Sharing my ventures was to be my responsibility, but I was absolutely not to be responsible for whether or not anyone listened or accepted me or my thoughts.

   She told me that though my future was destined for many years of necessary experiences that would not be the most pleasant, she said I had pre-requested this journey as my soul knew there would be no other way to describe “the passage toward the well, or the need for drinking the waters from that well” unless I had, in this life, experienced that thirst personally.

   She cushioned the script that was planned to unfurl, by reminding me that throughout every episode, I would be completely protected. Harm would not come to me, and each episode would only last long enough for me to extract its meaning, its challenge and its solution.

   She spoke of one of my past lives when I tripped through the sweaty, darkness of Salem and having been torched — this I had not revealed to any mortal, only my diary. She spoke of my having left my body before the surrounding straw was lit, so that I felt no pain — only joy at being given the homebound ticket. She then spoke of the re-upping I experienced with the man who had torched me in Salem. Again, I had not revealed this to a soul.

   Before I could ask “Why?”, Maggie answered with: “You two met again in this life so that he could have one more opportunity to release his tendency toward tyranny, which opportunity he did not avail himself of.”

   She then spoke of Tanya, by saying: “She too was part of the plan. She too was part of that past Salem posse, and the purpose for her returning mission was to rid herself of her intolerance and bigotry which she levied against anyone who did not believe as she, or her group, did.”

   Adding: “In this life, she was not intended to remain with you as she needs to be immersed in the pattern of the very bigotry she's here to cleanse herself of. An opportunity that she could not have had if she remained with you. If her soul chooses to free herself to the next stage, she might find you when you are public. But not for many years. Not until she's much older. Let it go, let it be, let God oversee her progress, and you must do what you're here to do, honey.”

   Though I was not ready to hear that about Tanya, I would later be glad, as it would bring comfort way down the timely trek of this life.

   Maggie's reading lasted nearly two hours as I furiously scratched notes on the stack of paper she gifted me with. But, the last minutes really disintegrated my prior road map toward my wits' end when Maggie said: “In 5 days your life will never be the same again, honey!”

   Well, that's what I had thought given my upcoming reception gig which I broke in to explain to Maggie.

   “No, that's not it, honey. This is what I get, in 3 days, you will party unexpectedly. On the 4th day you'll cry, but not too much as we don't want you to get your eyes all puffy. On the 5th day, you will re-meet someone, and your art career will begin to take root. In time you will be known as one of the most famous graphic designers and portrait artists and writers for commercial stuff in this town . . . no, the area will be bigger than that.”

   What? Impossible! I was about to walk away from all my creativity!

   Maggie consoled me with: “Sorry. That's not your plan.”

   As I left her home, she refused to accept my $5 for the reading, saying: “You're going to need that money in 5 days for your project. And remember, in 3 days you party, in 4 days you cry, but not too much, and in 5 days you'll begin a very exciting voyage, after what you've been through, it has been decided that you're due for a little vacation. So, keep the $5 for that 5th day, okay? We'll be talking!”

   As I returned through the city's snowy maze to my boarding house, I did not feel the cold, only the confusion and stirring of my granite plans.

   As I woke up on the 3rd morn, I felt that, though Maggie rang clear on everything else she said, I was definitely not going to a party. Definitely not!

   That afternoon, as I was out walking to a nearby market, a lady called from her car for me to talk with her. I knew her from somewhere, but from where? She explained that she was Marilou, the ex-wife of one of Joe's clients, she remembered, and liked, me. She said she had heard of my disappearance and spoke of her joy at throwing herself a lavish party that night as her divorce had just become final.

   As Marilou said I had to share her happiness, she pulled me into her car and told me not to worry about what to wear as she had a closet full of dresses I could choose from.

   After a few last minute rounds of gourmet shops, I was back in her condo, dressed in a beautiful long white toga with my hair redone and a perfect makeup job thanks to her stylist who arrived to decorate her.

   Okay, Maggie, I'm at this “unexpected party”, but I'll only stay a short while and tomorrow I'll begin my new job. I'll just enjoy the fantastic food and bubbling champagne and keep a sharp eye on the clock and look for an early ride home. No problem. And no way shall I be crying tomorrow on the 4th day. No way.

   At 9:15 a.m. the next morning, I woke up in Marilou's spare bedroom, having been tucked away in the luxuriant safety of a white satin comforter. She said I had been having such a great time, she didn't want to bother me with an early wake-up call. The hour was late, and feeling I, as many others, may have had a bit too much of the bubbly, she “somehow” felt she had to tuck me away in her home and let me sleep until I woke up on my own.

   WHAT!

   I was to start my new job at 8 that morning, and before I began I was already more than an hour late! As I paced her living room in my white toga, I declined the offer of a bloody mary from a batch she was concocting for the other guests who were still there partying.

   As I placed my call to the law office, I figured truthfulness was my best excuse for what had happened. Wrong — but probably right, as I was aborted before I left my launching pad toward normalcy.

   Racing to the bathroom for privacy, I sobbed over the sink, begging God to tell me how I could've been so stupid! But, when my teary eyes linked with my mirrored vision of dripping eyeliner, Maggie's words dominated my thoughts.

   “Now, honey, you'll cry, but not too much.”

   Got it, Maggie.

   After cleaning up, I joined the freedom brunch that was in full swing. Why not? After all I experienced in the last few days, I felt I was setting sail on an incredible cruise into my creative potential. Might as well relax before all that work Maggie told me I'd be offered.

   Next day, the 5th, was a hoot! A scramble of disorientation. I rattled with: This is the day. Okay. Do I stay home? Do I go out? Do I wait for a phone call? Do I call, or visit, someone? And who? Where is this chance coming from?

   My head was so scattered with thought, that if my GUT Buddy was serving an answer, she couldn't get a word in. By early afternoon, I was fed up with struggling for the answer. So, I borrowed a parka, slipped on the boots Marilou had gifted me with, and took a walk through Yorkville, the pretty boutique area of Toronto. I surrendered to destiny.

   After about 30 minutes of window shopping, I heard a voice yelling my name from a passing car (again!) as I sloshed through the mental streets of my curiosity. It was Shirley Eikard! Her driver pulled over, as Shirley leaped out with her news flash.

   She spoke of the portrait sketches I'd gifted her with at the TV taping, and said: “I showed Capital Records your work. They loved it and want you to do my album jacket. I have been looking for you everywhere, but couldn't find you. Today was the last day before they give the job to someone else. Quick! Call them! And don't you let them con your price down.”

   My price? Whoaah! Another moment of truth.

   We raced into the lobby of the nearby Hyatt House and placed the call that would pivot my life toward not simply a brand new chapter, but a whole new volume of living.

   Suddenly, I was forced to rate my work and worth, which financially was sharply immersed in the red sea. As I called Capital, my GUT Buddy must have spoken through me, as I suddenly blurted out: “Well, first, what's your budget?”

   They replied: “We have only $500 left to spend on this project. Think you can do us a cover for that little?”

   While part of my brain was figuring how I could even afford a bright light bulb (a neighbor later lent me one), I said: “I think I can pull it off as the project is so artistically tempting.”

   Oh, God! Is life no more than a constant masquerade?

   Shirley and I arranged a time for our first portrait sitting as she re-upped with her driver and car that brought her to our destined encounter. I was offered a ride, but opted to walk home as my head needed clearing from all that had occurred.

   The first corner I turned presented me with an art supply shop that was, surprise! surprise!, having a sale. I quickly found the fine line brush I needed and a very high quality sheet of water colour paper that was price cut because one side was stained. Including tax, my entire bill came to $4.95. Triple Bingo! I could hear Maggie giggling as I pulled out that $5 she urged me to save for this 5th day.

   Cutting to the chase, with the old paints I had stashed before my marital eviction, I finished water coloring that album cover portrait in a few days. Having had to paint in secret during kidhood taught me to paint quick, or trash it. As I reviewed the visual result of my venture, I felt great, though terrified, as I simultaneously realized I was about to officially put my private self on the public line.

   When Shirley arrived at my cramped campout, Helene was there and unknowingly helped me stall my moment of Truth. After an hour of small talk, Shirley pleaded: “I can't take the suspense! SHOW ME!”

   I said my painting is “Drying in a closet” Where else?

   Opening the door, she drew near. My pulse swung into a samba as she said: “I'm sure it's great, but some light would sure help.”

   She and Helene grabbed the painting and raced to the window, before I could jump in to say “Don't worry, I'll do it again if you don't like.” Shirley cried out: “I love it!”

   My pulse raced as the Capital exec rapped on my door. At first I thought he came in costume as I'd been out of show biz trappings for so many tears. Along with his tight teal blue suit, he wore a flamboyant red ascot and Mickey Mouse smiled vacantly from a giant wrist watch.

   As he eyed my small boarding house room over his very black sunglasses, from the tin foil I taped to the walls to act as mirrors to the rickety card table I used for an easel, his first words were: “You don't really live here, do you?”

   Not wanting my creativity's worth to be equated with my transient surroundings, my quickie comeback was: “Oh! Of course not! I rent this for atmosphere. Humble garrets are not easy to find, you know!”

   This seemed to comfort his agitation as he prepared to review the work to be exchanged for capital by Capital. How prophetic. My pulse revved to a polka as he enthusiastically approved, slipped the portrait into his folio and gave me a $500 check.

   Wanting to look collected as I collected, I briefly scanned the little piece of paper that would buy my passage into solvency, saying: “It's been fun. Possibly we can do more business sometime soon.”

   Waiting a conservative 10 seconds after he left, the 3 of us immediately exploded into a leaping giggle match.

   After Shirley and Helene left, my first thoughts were: “Gee I am an artist! A paid one! Maybe there is a career in this!” My mind rapidly flashed still frames of those in my past who told me my artistic nature had no value. I recalled the creative hiatus I took so as not to deny Joe his supplies with my “scratchings.”

   I recalled the phrase “The Best Revenge Is Success!” Though since I had no desire to sing “If They Could See Me Now”, I altered that into:

   The best way to let go of past abuse is to pamper our heart with love and success, whether it be the success of a creative triumph or of a dumping of the trashy grades others have saddled us with, so we become our own best friend.

   Success is anything that enhances our self-worth, as long as it is done for our personal happiness, and not as a smug retaliation toward a past abuser. Otherwise, we continue to relinquish permission for us to enjoy our accomplishments to those who don't give a damn about our best interests. It's asking to be hurt. It's asking for an emotional downer by making our happiness contingent on others' unhappiness or envy of our success.

   Revenge doesn't work. It re-knots shabby ties to past abusers. It short circuits our journey into the future due to traveling it past-backwards.

   Thank God, I always knew that despite all I didn't relate to on this crazy planet. Ergo! I totally adored that fantastic moment as I read, and reread, my name and the amount on that little strip of paper!

   Immediately racing to a bank, I opened my very own personal bank account. A mega-thrill. Though shaky about inner worth, my material worth was becoming undeniably tangible. That week I brought Maggie a huge bouquet of flowers, another funny teddy bear for her collection, and paid the money that destiny had delayed me from paying her. Needless to say, she was not surprised, only delighted.

   That $500 check was the encouragement I needed to go forth and multiply, to investigate the record scene and see where I could dub in. The acceptance I immediately got, astonished me, possibly because I still hadn't accepted what was happening, or what I was creating.

MEANING:

Though I believed in me, I'd yet to believe that others would believe in me.

   Soon, nearly all the Toronto record companies were on my client list, Capital, A & M, RCA, Columbia, plus many sub-labels. The horizon opened by adding many more clients such as Revlon, Yardleys, Volkswagen, and as a full-circle symbol, set designs and graphics for CTV telecasts!

   After only 3 months “in the biz”, I was doing well enough to create, and donate, a full-fledged campaign to Foster Parents Plan of Canada. By their accepting and publicizing my thoroughly new approach without interference by their U.S. marketing department “researching it into pap”, their office and sponsorship count doubled in the first 18 months!

   I was forced to concede, I indeed had marketable talent. Not only from client and public response but via weaving a golden nest egg after my first year as a creative consultant, artist, copywriter and commercial designer. Not to douse my joy with cold water, but I knew I could have earned more, but I still struggled with my price tagging.

   Ironically, the more I was in demand, the harder it was to set my price because my joy of wanting to create battled my material logic. This battle persisted whether I painted a celebrity portrait, illustrated books, conceived concepts and copy for campaigns, or whatever challenge I undertook that fell into my path.

   There were no guidelines from the graphic community. Other designers wouldn't help, and since most clients were out to make a deal, not to delete my dummy disc, my rates became quite subjective and depended on my mood at the moment.

   One of my clients Bill Eaton, creative director for Columbia Records, volunteered for being a great guardian gentleman. He offered me a project which required me to sketch 4 portraits of their Quebec artists. The portraits were to be reproduced into parchment posters for regional promotion.

   Wanting to do the job because of the intense character in the performers' faces, my vision wandered to the old clock on the wall which read 2:00. Based on this logical research, I said $200 for the lot, or $50 a piece. Bill paused at length, and said “Okay, if that's what you want.” He gave me a purchase order and had me meet the performers.

   I reran that scene and wished the clock had read 10:00, as my pricing system desperately needed a thorough revamping.

   Though I had no intent of reneging on the deal, I felt I had to tell Bill how I felt — just for future reference. Bill listened in fatherly silence. When I finished, he crossed the room, closed the door and offered me a new deal. Agreeing that $1,000 was more accurate, and that I was ridiculously low on my first bid, but wanting me to remember the experience, he tore up the old P.O. He then balanced the difference between my first figure and the correct one, and rewrote the slip for a higher figure. “Just between us, okay?”

   As this miracle occurred, Maggie's words, regarding my ongoing protection, replayed in my head. My angels were definitely on duty. Heck! They were working overtime!

   Realizing I had to grab a rational handle on this bidding issue, I saw that it had nothing to do with pricing my work, but with pricing my personal value to life itself.

   To avoid that, I recall longing to win a million in some lottery so I could give all my work away for free! But in truth, this was not charitable. It was an escape as I'd be able to avoid my pricing challenge.

   Reality forced me to take a giant step when a local artist spoke with me at a Graphic Designers meeting, saying: “Hey you're good. It's easy to see why you get the jobs. But stop selling wholesale. You're screwing it up for the rest of us. You're creating a rate precedence that's killing us. And you are not doing yourself any favors.”

   Though he still wouldn't help me with specific numbers, the cause he spoke of got to me, it forced me to adjust my scale so I wouldn't mess up the system for others. Ergo! I evolved, though not for the right reasons. I didn't raise my rates for me, and fate would not let me out of my challenge as it would soon kick down another door of my denial.

   Still, that time was extraordinarily satisfying. I was unwittingly back in the biz of Show & Sell. I rented a large high-rise apartment with a sparkling city view, replete with a giant studio. I bought a car and discovered the delight of buying brand new clothes not broken in by unknown others.

   I was very comfy traveling the entertainment road my career led me toward as my background prepared me for dealing with celebrities. Recalling how I once felt like a product, I knew how to reach and relax the performers I portrayed for album jackets and posters. My compassion for them escalated as they too were dangling on the Risk Limb of being their own product.

   By sharing the stress they endured, I was confronted with a great two way mirror for my anxiety of flinging myself into a public arena.

   As I gained strength, I enhanced my ability to assess and state my value by splitting me in two (again). My business self became the agent for representing my creative self. By not being the artist when I negotiated, I took better care of me. My next Giving Issue would be: Knowing when enough was enough.

   As a kid, I experienced the Enough Limits so I thought I had conquered the issue. But, my new career venue would show me I still had some loose trends to clean up.

   Never knowing when I'd given enough, reappeared as not knowing when I created enough to get a client's approval and further work.

   The thought of pulling back wasn't easy, as I bubbled over with ideas and energy. My intoxicating brew was mixing un-limited quantities of creative passion with the essence of wanting Earthian acceptance, whatever that was. Especially, when the potential clients were gluttonous consumers searching for all-you-can-eat bargains.

   I couldn't figure whether or not I ought to holdback my creativity to purge myself of this need to give-more-and-more-to-be-loved jinx.

   Was I stunting my growth by stifling the range of my creative potential because I dreaded letting myself get used?

   Was I basing how much I ought to give on what my con-temporaries served?

   Was my fear of placing an honorable high price on my work related to my fear of losing my new career and new acceptance?

   Was I afraid to state my standard of excellence?

   Was I afraid to be me and thus risk exile from the world in which I longed to be a participant?

   Life seemed to be a never-ending masquerade party, so I possibly feared the vulnerability of walking through it naked. I feared revealing the extent of my abilities and energies because I might be terminated.

   I was operating on the obsolete survival mode of my kid-hood: There's safety in shadows. On examining this, I saw that I forgot why I initially adopted that mode which was to cover my Ashley and not let the world ever see into my life for fear of rejection as a familial weirdo, as different.

QUESTION:

Who was I covering for now? And why?

   Had I misled myself that different was a war-letter word? An enemy of contentment? Of being loved?  Of fitting in — but to what? Was I denying the flip-side of different? Was I forgetting that without those who dare to be different, our world stagnates and would have remained satisfied with wolf pelt togas, square wheels and fireless camp grounds?

   That idea urged me to begin stripping layers from the self denial of sharing my abilities, of sharing the potential of my talents that were packed in my cosmic tool kit prior to my birth in this life. I began reassessing the value of struggling to fit-in versus fully savoring my joy of Life. And! fulfilling the mission I had accepted so as to be granted this life by the Godian travel agents.

   The more I revealed of me, the more some people chose to call me an overachiever. But, what is the criteria by which society measures the perimeters and standards of achievement?

   Is it because as kids we're denied stretching our potential muscles and specialness via being urged to fit-in with what-has-always-been? And does that Earthian restriction have to naturally bleed over into what we expect of one another and ourselves?

   Is the critical labeling of another as an “overachiever” the defense by which underachievers justify their resistance to exploring their own potential? Is it a traditionally approved cop-out?

   Ergo! When on a creative career assignment, should I hold back in order to be thought a clever business lady? Or, by giving “so much”, was I under the spell of never knowing when enough was enough? Should I feel guilty producing work worth $5,000 on the market when I asked for, and was paid, $2,000? Should I hold myself back to be accepted? Do I risk a client voting me a fool by letting them pay beneath my commercial value, or the going rate, by my producing too much? And how much was too much?

   Since I knew my GUT Buddy was my chief heart director, I knew it was the only voice to call a project a Wrap. So! Was I to douse the spiritual fire that motivated my energy and productivity so as to appease a public criteria that was not making me happy?

   My GUT Buddy answered with Hogwash!

   This balancing fact showed me that only our inner self holds the true answers for our outer self's questions.

   This thought urged me to encourage others to explore their capacity of talent without being fenced in by social fear or inherited limits. Having suffocated within limits, spiritual expansion served me the freedom to say: It ain't worth it!

   Sharing this philosophy, as with sharing anything, became a tranquil breeze as I share it with no emotional investment into how my thoughts are received. Stress occurs when we try to control another's reactions, rather than simply govern our own actions. I learned to act, not react.

   I conquered my impasse of when enough is enough by continuing to give my all. Pleasing my own standards. But! Without attachment to whether or not others appreciate the scope of my professional and/or personal giving. I give to please me and my guiding right.

   This attitude strengthened my ability to align my priorities in Life, even to rejecting jobs that subtracted from my time to be good to me and mine, to pass on ventures my GUT Buddy told me weren't worth my energies.

   I learned how, why and when to say no. I learned that if, by stating my true feelings, I lost a client or potential friend, that was OK.

   By doing so I ceased giving others the control panel to manipulate me and my choices. I ceased letting others program the guidelines for the quantity and quality of my giving, my sharing and my accepting. I ceased stressing myself with project overload. I ceased producing more than my GUT Buddy advised. I ceased listening to the Fear Flea's nagging of “Watch out! You won't be liked!”

   I followed my new guideline whether the overload was meeting impossible deadlines at work or giving so much to friends that I was maxed by denying them the chance to discover their ability to help themselves.

   Learning to say “NO!” felt terrific!

   In doing so, I finally answered my Enough Question with: I was giving too much if my giving hurt me. If I knowingly let myself be abused professionally, personally or spiritually. Enough was Enough when I felt comfy and satisfied with my output.

   Next dare? Riding this carriage with a full-time attitude.

   I became very aware of my graduation from this Life Course during my recent last minute New Year's Eve party. Over 100 people showed. I never had such a terrific time. No stress or anxiety. My secret? No attachment to the out-come or how others rated the gathering.

   I felt: Hey! I did my best and gave my most. I had no doubt as to if I prepared or decorated enough. I served the best I could, invited the most fun spirited people and designed a warm atmosphere. I figured what happened after that was up to them. If they chose not to enjoy — SCREW IT!

   Hey! Auntie Elsie, did I get it right?

   I discovered satisfaction is in genuinely knowing that we gave our best. No more no less than we feel truly good about.

   Possibly, the Giving Question for us all is: Do we give to please others for an ulterior return? Or for just the personal joy of it?

   As I've seen it, when giving turns from a natural wanting to share our heart into a self-depleting energy of sacrifice or martyrdom, then it bombs. No one likes a martyr, not even the martyr.

   My professional perspective on giving and how it was not worth worrying if the world felt I'd given enough or not came into play when I was commissioned to illustrate the anniversary cover for a Canadian golf association magazine.

   I submitted my sketchy Magic Marker color rough. After that scribble was enthusiastically approved, I proceeded to paint my four colour final. Upon submission of my final art, there was a mix-up at the printers and the rough was printed on over 50,000 covers! While I careened into Conniption Canyon, nothing but praise came in for my inventive work.

QUESTION:

Was I better than I realized? Or, were their expectations lower than I felt they ought to be?

OPTIONS:

To protest. Or smile and say thank you.

ANSWER:

If it woiks it woiks! Creation is creation. If whatever creativity channels through us is right, there is nothing we can do wrong. So too, if what we're doing is wrong, there's nothing we can do right.

   Ergo! I learned to let what lovingly WINS win!

   Thus I began a new extension to WALK MY TALK via making a conscious choice to keep me out of my own way when it came to how my creativity is received — whether in friendship, play or work. My Goal is to feel good about the doing and to not force my joy to be contingent upon the resulting feedback.

   The Life Course of: When Enough Is Enough proved to be a greater personal stretch than I initially imagined. As was the side-course of learning when to lift the paintbrush from the canvas and declare a project “Done!” … whether the canvas is an art sheet, a business deal or a personal cruise upon a Situation-Ship.

   At the height of my then success, independence and joy, I didn't recognize the calm as the qualm before the forth-coming storm. Life was preparing to serve a post-graduate course of When Enough Is Enough by extending it from the career class to another marriage-go-round... or is that mirage?

Copyright © 2004 by Krystiahn