“Artists are people who are not at all interested in the facts—only in the truth. You get the facts from outside. The truth you get from inside.” --Ursula K. LeGuin

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

"How Do We Change Our Beliefs?

Last Saturday as my youngest daughter and I were driving away from Chevy's Mexican Restaurant in Portland Oregon I asked, How do we change our beliefs?"

I have a problem believing my book will sell, “ I continued, maneuvering the Prius onto an already full freeway. “We have a guardian at the door of our subconscious, and when we say something like, “I’m going to sell a million books,” the guardian throws it out.

The voice in our head says, ‘What makes you think that? You’ve never sold many before.’

 “Every time we try to get past the guardian, he counters our request.

You can’t do that. You don’t have a great following. Your platform sucks, people don’t need and don’t want another book. Besides people don’t read books anymore. And they have better things to do with their money.”

What an obnoxious guardian.

I know the first line of receiving is believing that it’s possible. But, we ask, “How do we believe in the face of conflicting evidence?”
Wise daughter countered: “Maybe you should treat the Guardian like a water purifying system salesman.

“’I don’t want a water purifier,’ you say.”

Just let me show you this one.”

I don’t need a purifying system. “

“’Oh, you’ll like this one, and I need the experience explaining it. It’s only take a minute.’”,

I don’t have a minute.’”

“’Okay, half a minute.’”

Don't take no for an answer,” she says.

Wow, what a concept, that just might work.”

Beat the Guardian at his own game.

We started laughing and remembering another time at a Chevy’s restaurant. We were in Rancho Santa Fe, California.

Yes, I know much is accomplished with a glad heart, and not having a charge on a request makes it easy to receive. When we  really really really want something, the Guardian comes out dressed in full battle regalia.

That day in Rancho Santa Fe, having completed our meal, and with glad hearts, we sat looking out a restaurant window talking about manifesting. Daughter dear had been testing the concept of manifesting, that is putting out a request, meditating on it, then waiting for it to show up. She had asked to see a purple bear.

Within a day she saw a purple bear sticker on the bumper of a car.

Chances are,” I said, (I sound like the Guardian here), “we couldn’t manifest a train here for there are no tracks.

Not a minute later, a big truck stopped for a traffic light and was sitting right outside our window. A huge tan tarp covered the back portion of the truck. The tarp was taunt, and neatly ratcheted.

 On the side of that tarp written in big capital letters was one word: TRANE.”

That bowled us over, and it has given us a glad heart and a giggle every time we think of it.

Believe in Possibilities.

P.S. Regarding Salespeople:

The ones that attempt to sell you inferior merchandise, at an exorbitant price, something you don’t need and didn’t want are con-artists.

A  true salesperson will assist you in the purchase of something you do want, or maybe give you reasons why you ought to have it, and push you a little for as a buyer we can always put off a purchase.  “Tomorrow,” we say, and we leave without the very thing we were looking for. We lost, and so did the salesperson.

Think of it this way: You want a car, you need a car, and you are looking for a car. The salesperson wants you to buy from him—since he is in a competitive market, and relying on commissions to pay the bills.

You trust him or her. She is nice; she negotiates a good deal for you, so you buy.

A year later you are still driving your car, it’s in good condition, and you’ve had no trouble with it, but the salesperson, who depended on your commissions to pay the bills, has spent the money and has nothing from your deal to show for it—except still being alive.

Who’s the winner here?


Monday, August 20, 2018

A Drop in the Bucket

Holy moly, I just looked at how many blog accounts there are, and the number 426 million came up.
Talk about being a drop in the bucket, no I mean ocean.
I began blogging before blogging was popular. Motivated by a friend who wrote a newsletter, I decided to write one as well, a journal of sorts, and I called it The Frog’s Song.
I sent out a printed version to friends, and it lasted for a few years. And when this mysterious, weird thing called blogging came available on the Internet,  I moved to that.
Even after all those years, I am not a big fancy blogger with a million followers or readers.
I’m a simple little blogger, who writes for the fun of it, of things I’m interested in, and if I can tweak a thought, or add something of value, so much the better.
My readers are people of excellent taste. They either like me, and therefore graciously read my words, or find something here that suits their fancy—Oh gosh, I just saw that someone channeling Archangels is getting a million views.
Well, what can I say? I’m not a channeler. And I suppose she is saying/channeling excellent content. 
Neither have I paid for advertising. So,  I suppose many people do not know I exist.
Yesterday I watched #Marie Forleo interview #Seth Godin, the el-primo blogger who blogs every day. Imagine.
He says everyone should blog every day.
I have been afraid people would get bored with me if I blab too much, and blogging every day is over the top for me, but he has a point. If you know you have to say something the next day, you will pay attention.
On top of that,  you would leave a trail of where you’ve been what you’ve thought.
A lot of people’s thoughts could go in their journal and kept to themselves, but I suppose blogging would keep them on their toes a bit more.
Four hundred and twenty-six million bloggers and counting! That blows my mind,  426,000,000,  did I get the zero’s correct? I just wanted to get the magnitude of it.
I am happy you found me among the multitude.
Thank you for joining me today.
Some bloggers wonder if the only blogs read are the ones that tell people how to blog.
Okay. How to Blog:
 ·       Turn on Computer
          Put butt in chair.
·         Type.
Write as you talk, and USE CONTRACTIONS. It makes conversation sound like a conversation.

I have a gripe against The Royal Caribbean who chastises email writers if they are not formal. Do not use contractions, they say, do not call a person by their first name, and grammatical errors are subject to severe reprisals.

They must have had the same college English professor I had.

All the students at Oklahoma State University were addressed as Mr., Miss. or Mrs. I was a Mrs, and the professor found that intriguing. Perhaps he didn't know I was 23, while most of the other students were 18 or 19.

And I had an accent. I guess an Oregonian in Oklahoma would. 

·        Lastly—blog brilliant content. Ha ha ha, There’s the rub.
James Baldwin—remember him? He would have been 92 on the 2nd of August and was popular during the civil-rights movement. He wrote, Notes of a Native Son, 
The Fire Next TimeNo Name in the StreetThe Devil Finds Work,  and an unfinished manuscript, Remember This House, was expanded and adapted for cinema as the Academy Award-nominated documentary film I Am Not Your Negro.
From an interview published in The New York Times Baldwin said:

“You is speaking to an old rat. I find much of so
called avantgarde writing utterly trivial. If there is no moral question, there is no reason to write. I’m an oldfashioned writer and, despite the odds, I want to change the world. What I hope to convey? Well, joy, love, the passion to feel how our choices affect the world . . . That’s all. (1979)

Here here, Baldwin.

P.S. Update on my book The Frog’s Song. 
(The frog calls the rain that settles the dust for our journey.) 

This book is a journal about our move to and from Hawaii, of living off the grid, and what strange forces we experienced there. The title is an homage to that old journal once named The Frog’s Song.  I went through about 50 possible titles before settling on The Frog’s Song. I believe it fits.

The Coqui’s, those sweet little frogs that sing their own name lulled me to sleep in Hawaii. When I first moved there, I thought they were birds, and they create a great jungle sound. 

The Frog’s Song is being typeset. Wow, I thought they would go digital. Yea! That seems carved in stone. (And with me and my many boo-boos, that’s scary--and exciting.)