My Brain, My Banjo and Me

September 11, 2012September 13, 2012 Deana2 Comments

It’s all about perspective — I told my son last night that I was going outside to work on sucking less at playing my banjo (aka practice) and he looked at me and said, “Mom you play that thing better than everyone in this house – including Dad and he’s a musician. You don’t have the right to say you suck at something when you are better than all of us. Just sayin.” — Man I love that kid.

I’m a horrible perfectionist. I used to think a perfectionist did everything perfectly or at least near perfect. It took me years to learn that being a perfectionist is a demand rather than an outcome. The self-inflicted demand is more often than not the root of a stink weed of a memory and/or fear of abandonment.

I don’t like doing things I can’t do well and if I can’t do it well enough to suit myself, the old me just didn’t keep trying. I didn’t see the reward in trying again. While riding horses last year, I learned that I’d have great days of riding as well as days of great humility. Some days Cowboy did exactly what I asked and other days he just wanted to jack with me.

Learning the banjo is no different. Some days I nail it, some days my picks trip up the strings and my fingers can’t remember their assigned places. On days like that, I have learned to take a deep breath, relax my shoulders and try again.

For those of you who’ve been around all year you know that my word for the year is “breathe.” Oxygen does wonders for a negative brain. As simple-minded as it may sound breathing in the good and breathing out the negative works wonders.

I gave up horseback riding so that I can afford banjo lessons. While I miss riding, I do love the banjo. Playing is a different skill set entirely and yet the lessons are the same. Sit tall, be confident, keep it fun and BREATHE.

Vision’s of Sugar Plums? Try Homicidal Wives

September 6, 2012September 6, 2012 Deana6 Comments

Menopause sucks. I’m just going to say it. If it’s not hot flashes, weird girl issues, sweaty palms, hormones through the roof that keep me looking at the ground half the time, and insomnia, — it’s dreams so strange that if Sigmund Freud were to analyze them he’d think “Wow that woman is messed up!”

In the past seven days I have:

Met the Gaithers in my underwear
Been adopted as a daughter by my son’s former high school principal
Been stalked, hunted down and shot at by an acquaintance’s wife. That one still has me freaked out.

Not to feel to horribly alone, a friend shared with me today that she dreamed she was forced to create macaroni art using cockroaches.

I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I want my insomnia back.

Cherokee Proverb, Our Highest Calling

August 21, 2012August 21, 2012 Deana1 Comment

From: The Great Spirit Facebook Page

I’ll be honest, I’m a bit of an independent female with a very strong “I so got this” mentality. Over the past few days, I have found myself at the end of myself. I don’t “got this.” Someone is trying to take advantage of me and I have to set painful boundaries. I am at the moment surrounded by some great female friends as well as some wonderful male friends who are standing around me in a figurative way – and keeping me safe. I awoke this morning feeling loved, and feeling safe. That does not suck.

Quote: When You Feel Afraid

August 20, 2012August 29, 2012 Deana3 Comments

I really like this gals work — if you’d like to see more go to LUPYHA HERMIN FACEBOOK PAGE.

Thought for the day: Are we there yet?

August 13, 2012August 14, 2012 Deana3 Comments

I’m a redhead again. My year of hair repentance is over. (Some of you may remember the great blonde fiasco of 2011). There is much rejoicing in my house as I got the green light to cut my hair and go back to my truest self. I cannot tell you how much I missed my hair. Learning patience is not an easy journey.

Raised an only child by a single mother who worked two jobs when she needed in order to make ends meet, I had to learn how to wait for things.

Today I live in a world where I no longer have to worry about what I’m going to eat, if I’m going to eat, and where I get to live. Lulled by a false sense of security, I’ve forgotten how to wait.

I am safe.

I am in many ways, the exception rather than the rule.

I am impatient and a perfectionist.

In this season of my life, I catch myself wanting it now instead of later and get impatient with the journey.

I still wait for the day when I can finally say “I’ve arrived.” only I read in Fully Alive that arriving is death. Once I arrive it means I’m out of things to learn and mountains to climb. Arriving means I get to relax. I’m ADD, if I relax I’ll get bored. When I get bored, I forget who I am and make stupid choices.

It’s the valleys of life that teach me compassion and it’s the mountains I conquer that teach me bravery. Without those two crucial things in my life, my spirit withers. I lose touch with who I am created to be and I lose touch with others.

I want to race through the valley, and be on the mountain top already. I forget that the journey is the life. Whether I’m in a valley, climbing a hill on my bike, or standing on top of the mountain, I’m breathing. I’m alive.

I used to dream of the day when I would no longer be neurotic until I realized it’s that place of living in the raw, stuck between the shitty first draft (As Anne Lamott would call it) and the clean up that gives breadth, depth and meaning to all of my relationships and experiences. It’s here in the middle where the oxygen is most abundant and I am at my most truest self. It is here where I am free.

Living in the middle means I get to be bad at something until I become good at it.

Living in the middle means I get to feel pain, know hunger, and suffering on occasion and learn that this too shall pass.

Living in the middle lets my eyes scan the horizon for the next goal, and the next opportunity to push myself beyond my perceived limitations and experience the joy of real accomplishment.

Jeff and I took a new path while riding bikes yesterday. This one has more hills than flat lands and I wasn’t prepared. I wound up walking the first hill and dug down into myself for the rest. I decided that I could stop and catch my breath if needed but I was not coming off my bike again no matter what. I knew that hill was waiting for me on the return trip. I knew I was going to have to dig in if I wanted to climb it.

I watched my pace and kept close to his. I shifted gears, pushed through the pain and refused to stop. I made it to where he was waiting and then…

…………………………………………………………………I threw up.

I am living in the middle of the consequences of throwing a temper tantrum and gaining 50 pounds hoping to assure that I’d never get hit on again. I’m living in the middle of learning boundaries, facing fears and finding myself. Sometimes living in the middle means doing the right thing even if it means I have to throw up afterwards. (Fellow scardy cats will understand that one)

Living in the middle is messy. It means I don’t get to have all the answers. It means I get to make mistakes and be imperfect. It means I get to try again until I get it right.

I don’t know what middle you are living in right now. Maybe it’s the middle of a storm, the middle age of life, the middle of a climb or the middle of a descent and you keep waiting for the day when you can finally say “I’ve arrived.”

Don’t settle for arriving. Don’t waste time wishing you were there, when you could be living in the here and in the now.

Strive to live.

Dig down.

Get messy.

Make mistakes.

Be neurotic.

Throw up if you have to.

Choose joy.

Believe in yourself.

Thought for the Day: Permanently Stupid

August 8, 2012 Deana1 Comment

The Melody of Life

July 15, 2012July 15, 2012 Deana2 Comments

“The banjo is such a happy instrument–you can’t play a sad song on the banjo – it always comes out so cheerful.” –Steve Martin

I can have a horrible week.

A heart breaking, nothing goes right, things break, family crisis, gut pulling kind of week.

A run away from home, lock myself in a cabin by the cove and play banjo for two days straight and question my sanity kind of week.

Then I walk into my banjo lesson and my instructor breaks down the songs, gets me laughing my butt off, reveals deeps secrets of the musical universe (Don’t force it. Don’t rush, you have all the time you need. Pay attention to the important things. Don’t forget to have fun.) and my soul is happy again because we’re playing a banjo and I can hear the melody.

A lot of us who do comedy for a living think we need a stage to help people feel better. That isn’t always the case. The day-to-day interactions we have with others can have a profound impact. He helped me remember that even with all its twangs, missed notes, thuds and buzzes, the melody of life can still be heard and that is a glorious thing.