An exhalation, slow and disappointed, comes from behind. I don’t have to turn around to see who it is. I know it’s my long dead grandmother, Reta, watching me beating a pie crust into submission with her ancient wooden rolling pin. Why did she have to show up right when I’m obviously failing pie crust, her specialty?

“And you claim to be my granddaughter,” she says, looking out at the muddy creek below the kitchen window, bloated from snow melting in the mountains.

Like so many times before, my imagination has her dropping by to revisit her favorite place in the cabin that she and my grandfather, Malcolm, built in the late 1950’s. A spotless apron, freshly ironed, covers her good Sunday dress because my mother’s family, her daughter, was considered company. Silver hair waves past her ears but doesn’t make it to her shoulders. She stands as if her back is held upright by a wooden spoon.

She glares at the mess being made in her dream kitchen, a domain that was once hers alone before it passed to my mother and then onto me. She tries to cross her arms over her massive bosom but they settle instead somewhere underneath, close to her small waist. I’m a child again, underfoot and failing to live up to her expectations.

“But I can explain,” I say. “I don’t want to make a heart attack disguised as a pie so I didn’t use lard and white flour like you used to do. I’m trying to make it out of whole wheat pastry flour and olive oil instead.”

She looks at the hard-packed glob smashed like a cow pie over the worn spot on the counter.

“It’s suppose to be healthy.”

Her eyebrow raises in a doubtful curve. “Healthy doesn’t necessarily mean edible,” she says. “But, I’m sure the squirrel will like it.”

I follow her gaze to the platform nailed to the side of the pine made especially for him. It still holds the soggy remains of last week’s fermented muffins. Even the magpies are giving it a wide berth.

“Actually, he’s getting tired of my cooking too.”

She leans on the scratched and pitted porcelain sink that holds the last of the apples picked last fall from the tree that my grandfather planted over 60 years ago.

“Maybe the squirrel yearns for the good ol’ days when I was the one cooking in this house,” she says. Softly, she adds, “Just like me.”

In her day she was considered one of the best cooks in this Wyoming mountain community. She was a master at pies and a champion with flowers. And yet here I am in her kitchen, acting as if I have the right to be here.

“You can’t tell it by this piecrust, but actually Grandma, I’m a pretty good cook. I just cook entirely different than you.”

I haven’t the guts to tell her I’m a vegetarian and that I won’t be trying my hand at a mince meat pie, roast beef or corned beef hash, some of my favorites when I was a child sitting at her table. I say instead, “You’d be proud, I think, if you gave me half a chance.” I’m sounding braver than I am. I’ve never talked to my grandmother this way. In a rush not daring to look at her, I continue, “For instance, I don’t cook with white sugar. Not even for a pie.”

I’m still holding onto the hope that the piecrust will fulfill its destiny, in spite of my grandma’s doubts. “I’m going to use agave nectar.”

I brave a look in her direction. Confusion furrows her brows. I burst out laughing and a rare smile blushes her lips.

“Weird, I know, but look.”

I reach down to open the two built-in drawers my grandfather made to her specifications. Long ago, the top one was filled with white flour poured directly from the sack she bought from the Best Out West mill in town. The bottom was filled to the brim with white sugar. A battered tin cup was half buried in the middle of the white mound. These two drawers, when she dictated what was put where, were uncluttered and pure.

Now that I’ve moved into her kitchen, I was careful not to break the tradition of flour in the top and sugar in the bottom, but with major variations. In the top, no white flour. Instead tins of whole-wheat pastry flour, brown rice flour, spelt, rye, buckwheat, quinoa and a bag of kamut elbow for room in the deep drawer.

In the bottom drawer, there’s no white sugar. Containers of raw sugar and date sugar fit securely in the corners while jars of rice syrup, unfiltered, locally grown honey, and agave nectar from the tequila plant leave sticky rings on shelf paper since the 60’s.

“Well, good luck with that,” she says, turning to go.

“Wait, Grandma,” I say, reaching out and touching her muscular forearm. The sensation surprises us both. My mother’s family was not demonstrative. I don’t recall my grandmother ever touching or hugging me, but surely she did, didn’t she?

The other day I came across a photo of the two of us. I’m standing in eight-year-old awkwardness in front of her, my hands placed stiffly on my thighs. The difference in how tall the spruce trees behind us have grown marks the years between. Our hair is almost the same, aged silver and innocent blond, falling to our shoulders in soft curls.

I’ve looked at this photo many times, but what I never noticed until now is that my grandmother isn’t touching me. It would have been so natural for her to rest her hands on my shoulders since I was standing so close. Instead, her arms are clamped resolutely to her sides.

“And I’m good at gardening and growing flowers too, just like you,” I say, looking for approval 42 years after she can no longer give it.

She looks toward the table where her old glass flower vase can barely hold the vibrant colors of spring tulips and yellow daffodils. Her gaze continues around the knotty pine walls, noticing what changes I’ve made to make it my own.

My collection of blue antique jars filled with grains, seeds and beans are stacked in righteous rows on a shelving unit I found in the garage. I’m curious if she notices which jar is hers – the one I found discarded in the basement as if worthless.

She lingers longer on the photo of an 18-year-old Reta, newly married to Malcolm, framed in ornate chrome salvaged from an antique cook stove.

“Was I ever that young?” she says so quietly I barely hear her over the raging of the creek – a creek raging against growing old in this house, and for the growing seed of dementia that tangled her thoughts the last years of her life.

I make myself recall her in better times. “I remember watching your hands work as if on automatic pilot making the cinnamon rolls I had requested and looking out at that creek.” We both look out the kitchen window at the only thing that has not changed drastically in the intervening fifty years.

“And the smells coming from this kitchen– oh my, Grandma, it was the smell of my personal heaven.”

“Mine too,” she confides. “This is where I was happiest.” She pats the worn Formica counter. “This is where my heart still lives.”

“And I honor that every time I step into this spot.” I don’t tell her what an honor it is for me to stand here, or how it has grown to become a sacred spot in the old house. My grandmother wouldn’t cotton to sentimentality, but I gather the courage to add, “I intend to do it justice for the rest of my life.”

“I know you will, Janey,” she says quietly. I smile. Calling me by my middle name instead of my first was her term of endearment for me even though I didn’t realize it until years later. It is as personal as my grandmother ever got with me, this secret between us, until I took it for my real name in the 6th grade.

She looks down at the forgotten piecrust.

“Start over.” A firm demand but the right choice.

She won’t let me subject my husband to this glop even though he bravely eats whatever I cook and doesn’t complain. I scrape it up with effort and plop it into the compost can. I doubt if the deer will even eat it.

I start over, but lard is out of the question and I can’t bring myself to use shortening, but maybe I can splurge this once and use butter.

“How about butter?” I ask, turning around.

But she is gone.

I set to work. As if Grandma is guiding my hands, they move swiftly and with confidence measuring the flour and salt, using the pastry blender to mix the butter, and dribbling in the ice water. In no time, the dough is not too wet, not too dry, but just right. A miracle. I pick up her wooden rolling pin.

“I think I can do this,” I whisper.

I feel a soft touch on my shoulder, reassuring. I smile and the creek laughs.

I go turn up the stereo until the harmony of the Eagles rocks the walls, breaking old traditions and setting a new precedence. I dance my way across the small kitchen floor where my grandparents once waltzed and my parents sashayed a two-step. I feel the aging floor creak and shift as the old gives way to the new. I step into the treasured spot, claiming my rightful place with no apologies, but with great reverence and gratitude.

I. Am. Home.

(Article and Photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

The other day, Tupelo and I had an errand to do at a local print shop. I sat down and loved on the resident golden retriever while we waited for the quick job to be done. All kinds of sayings covered the walls — mottos – creeds — posters — inspiring words, all. I had plenty of time to read most of them.

One caught my eye. It read: “What would you try if you knew you couldn’t fail?”

Ooh, I liked that one. Imagine having a golden touch, and anything we wanted we could have. With every goal we could think of, we’d be successful, fulfilled, thrilled and content. Our inner critic would not exist. If failure was taken out of the equation, our imagination and determination would soar. Undeniable strength would come from knowing how powerful we are as creators. Our life would be exactly what we would want it to be. The law of attraction wouldn’t be a theory or a philosophy, it would be fact.

When Tupelo came from the back room, I pointed it out to him. He smiled. Like me, he considered it a pep talk – a sentence to jumpstart our thinking into doing without having the fear of failure.

The owner of the shop saw which one we had singled out from the wall of words and nodded. “I like that one too. But an older gentleman came in the other day, and when he read it he said, ‘If I knew I wouldn’t fail, I would do nothing. What good is it if you already know the outcome? Where’s the challenge?’”

Ooh, I liked that too. I understand the man’s point. Imagine what it would feel like to know ahead of time that whatever we tried, failure would not be an option. Every cake would come out of the oven magazine perfect. Every creative endeavor would end up exactly like we had envisioned. Every client would be thrilled with our work. Metaphorically, we would reach every mountain we set out to climb.

I agree with the gentleman. After a series of easily achieved successes, we would think, what’s the point? Our joy in the achieving would feel hollow, our effort inconsequential. We’d fall into an uninspired state, and do nothing. It would have the exact same outcome as if we were afraid of failure in the first place. We would do nothing.

Think of the last time your efforts turned out successful and re-experience the elation that came from it. Why would we even consider short circuiting that feeling? It’s the mystery of not knowing the outcome that creates deep joy and satisfaction. Success or failure brings us our greatest life’s lessons.

It reminds me of the time we hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with some close friends. Tupelo and I thought we were fit enough for the strenuous hike and were well equipped for the four day camping trip.

After hiking seven miles down the Kaibab Trail that first day I was doubting my sanity the following morning when I couldn’t roll out of my sleeping bag. My legs hurt so much I couldn’t walk without squeaking in pain with every step. My back ached with the memory of the 60 lb. pack.

Three days later I almost kissed the ground when we got to the top of the Bright Angel Trail. I was elated. I made it! I had blisters the size of quarters on my feet. Every cell in my body ached. But I was thrilled. The journey to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on a full moon, autumn equinox was not the easy outing I had envisioned. But because of the immense challenge and toll it took on my mind and body, it turned out to be one of the most memorable and worthwhile experiences of my life.

So the statement, “What would you try if you knew you couldn’t fail?” is true from both vantage points.

Coming from the first direction, let your imagination fly with the inner knowing that whatever you try, you will succeed. Put no limitations on yourself. Make a list if you want to. Then let this list be an inspiration to make your life better — however you envision it.

Coming from the gentleman’s outlook, let the statement be a kick in the butt. If life was easy, what would be the point? Life is worth every drop of sweat, and every tear we shed. The point is that we have to take charge and try beyond our abilities.

We do have a golden touch. We just need to believe we do, the courage to use it and the heart to try.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

It’s been over 35 years since I flew to Europe by myself in 1973. My travel legs are steadier now. My armor is thicker, my patience packed deeper. I’ve endured much since then.

Rank smells, huge bugs in my bed, outdoor meat markets and hordes of flies. I’ve been smashed together with people and pigs on a Guatemalan bus for 12 hours, only to do it again the next day. I’ve been sick. I’ve been stranded. I’ve been robbed. I’ve been lost. But none of this stops me from starting to pack a month before I’m due to go to a place even more remote and unknown. I must love it.

And not for just the stories I glean from it, but what it does for me. I like the person I am when I travel.

If you strip away everything you are accustomed to — language, clothing, customs, landscape, the appearance of the money, the food, everything — you get a real close look at who’s left standing. You either like who you see, or you don’t. When you travel, get ready to know yourself a little better.

Recently, Tupelo and I were rumbling through Cambodia on a bus heading to Thailand’s border. As the bus shook over the bone-rattling road, the hard seat beneath me made it impossible to get comfortable, but I didn’t complain as I looked out my window as if it were a TV screen. Plowed fields were churned dark behind overworked oxen and sweating men. Naked children played in the mud. Fat pigs wallowed in shadows cast from thatched huts on stilts.

I felt removed from the scenes blurring by my window. The ancient bus quarantined me from their lives. I could never fathom their joys and sorrows, their deepest secrets.

I was just skimming through their world like a dried leaf on moving water. And yet I felt my heart opening, exposing long held beliefs, questioning them, fleshing out new thoughts, surprising myself. Gratitude for my own life spiked with a tender barb.

When we booked the tickets the day before, the smiling travel agent pointed to the poster on the wall that showed a sparkling, luxury motorcoach. We laid our money down gladly, envisioning the comfort we’ll be floating in for the 150 dusty miles to the border. What showed up the following morning was nothing more than a repainted school bus. It was too late to make other arrangements so without a word we jumped on board. The promised air-conditioning was an opened window.

Luggage stacked high on the seat in front of us threatened to fall with every curve and pothole. But we are used to it. This is just the way things work in the third world.

When you travel, you’ve got to leave behind the tendency to have everything exactly the way you want it to be. Instead bring along an endless supply of patience and a hefty dose of humor. Otherwise it’s going to drive you crazy.

You can’t travel stiff. Because of the immense differences in cultures and peoples, one has to bend to fit in, to make do, and hopefully enjoy the process. Travel tests our limits in nearly every way. We have to be willing to find out what they are, and then go beyond.

Travel shakes out the good, the bad, and the ugly. The good for me is the incredible sense of awe and fascination I feel when immersed in a new culture, and finding out how well I fare in varied or difficult situations. The bad is the heart breaking scenes of human conditions and the mistreatment of animals. The ugly, hum – I guess I haven’t found that yet, but to tell you the truth, I’m not really looking.

The unexpected brings us deeper and more meaningful travel experiences. Giving up our tendency for control stretches us, sometimes digging up traits or fears we thought were long buried. It can be unnerving, but eventually this can be a good thing. Like I said before, if you travel be willing to get to know yourself a little bit better.

Getting to know yourself better should be at the top of the list for reasons why you travel. Go ahead. Let go. Surprise yourself. You can thank yourself later.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

Everyone loves to laugh (well, almost everyone) . . . so this message is a reminder that it’s good for us.

I wrote a song a while back to help me remember the wisdom of this favorite quote . . .

“Life is too important to be taken seriously.” — Oscar Wilde

Here’s a link to the song . . .

http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescX.html#Anchor15

Here are a few great ideas about humor, and then an actual example of humor in action:

“Humor is by far the most significant activity of the human brain.” – Edward De Bono

“True humor is fun – it does not put down, kid, or mock. It makes people feel wonderful, not separate, different, and cut off. True humor has beneath it the understanding that we are all in this together.” – Hugh Prather

“A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.” – Clive James

And now (drum roll please) an example of people wise enough to appreciate the humor in their everyday lives . . .

After every flight, UPS pilots fill out a form, called a ‘gripe sheet,’ which tells mechanics about problems with the aircraft. The mechanics correct the problems, document their repairs on the form, and then pilots review the gripe sheets before the next flight.

Here are some actual maintenance complaints submitted by UPS’ pilots and the solutions recorded by the aircraft mechanics.

(By the way, UPS is the only major airline that has never, ever, had an accident.)

PILOT: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.
MECHANIC: Almost replaced left inside main tire.
*
PILOT: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
MECHANIC: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.
*
PILOT: Something loose in cockpit
MECHANIC: Something tightened in cockpit
*
PILOT: Dead bugs on windshield.
MECHANIC: Live bugs on back-order.
*
PILOT: Auto pilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200 feet per minute descent…
MECHANIC: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.
*
PILOT: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
MECHANIC: Evidence removed.
*
PILOT: DME volume unbelievably loud.
MECHANIC: DME volume set to more believable level.
*
PILOT: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
MECHANIC: That’s what friction locks are for.
*
PILOT: IFF inoperative in OFF mode.
MECHANIC: IFF always inoperative in OFF mode.
*
PILOT: Suspected crack in windshield.
MECHANIC: Suspect you’re right.
*
PILOT: Number 3 engine missing.
MECHANIC: Engine found on right wing after brief search
*
PILOT: Aircraft handles funny.
MECHANIC: Aircraft warned to be serious, straighten up, and fly right.
*
PILOT: Target radar hums.
MECHANIC: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics.
*
PILOT: Mouse in cockpit.
MECHANIC: Cat installed.
*
PILOT: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
MECHANIC: Took hammer away from midget.

Life is Too Important to Be Taken Seriously This is just plain fun . . . an unlikely love song and reminder of the importance of making it a point to deliberately live life in joy, reverance, and with a light-hearted spirit. A good sence of humor always seems to come in handy too! http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescX.html#Anchor15 Celebrate Life Create your own personal celebration of life by your choices, rather than allowing life to be something that merely happens to you, or around you. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescHB.html#Anchor2 Preacher and the Bear I always appreciated the refreshing attitude of faith coupled with a healthy attitude of self-reliance demonstrated by this adventurous preacher’s style of prayer. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor11 Stuff, Stuff, Stuff, Stuff, Stuff About all the stuff you’ve been keeping that’s not good enough to actually use, but it’s way too good to throw away. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor4 You Gotta Have Fun Our moments are fleeting . . . and finite. Too few to squander on “bad news”. We must steer our attention deliberately in order to attract the kind of life we were born to live. http://www.somemusicmatters.com/DescAnth.html#Anchor20 Songs by Tupelo
The Six Mistakes of Man We share the journey, even though each journey is unique. It’s encouraging to know others are also interested in the mysteries of life. It’s inspiring to see others dedicated to living life to the fullest, in spite of the fact that humanity has been making some of the same mistakes for centuries. Your Passion as Your Compass Allow your passions to stretch their wings and the direction of your life could surprise you – in a good way. Celebrate life with passion! Being Present through Sensuality The idea is to occasionally turn off the senses in order to better tune into the aliveness that lies beyond them. The realization that there is something beyond the world of the five senses can provide an “aha” experience, especially at first. With the senses turned off (or even turned down), there remains a vibrant sense of aliveness – the world of feeling and the realm of being. Articles by Tupelo
Why wait for inspiration to strike? Be proactive, and go get it. Better yet, this newsletter brings it to you. “Inspired on Purpose” newsletter by Tupelo Kenyon contains articles, reviews and resources to supercharge your personal development, inspiration, productivity, abundance and joy. FREE e-book Instant download – when you subscribe. Personal Development Supercharger 101 Tips and Techniques by Tupelo Kenyon It’s FREE. Subscribe now. Enter name and email address below: Name: Email:
Privacy policy: Your email address is secure. I will not sell, rent or trade your information to anyone for any reason. Period. – Tupelo Kenyon

We all make mistakes. Or do we?

In life, we have plenty of should-have-dones, and if-I-had-only-knowns, but do we really make mistakes? No, I don’t think so.

Let me explain: A very close sister-friend of mine has had marriages that ended in nasty divorces. Obviously, this saddens her, and unfortunately, she feels unlovable and a failure because of them. We have had many conversations over the years where she bemoans the huge mistakes of marrying these men. I listen because she needs me to, but I don’t agree that they were mistakes.

I look at it like this: There are no mistakes, just hard lessons.

When our choices turn out to be less than what we wanted, it was no mistake we brought these tough experiences onto ourselves. It happened because we were meant to learn that lesson.

Make no mistake, I’m not saying that some choices don’t knock us on our butt. These are the ones that scratch the diamond who we are, but eventually, after the hurt subsides, we are polished because of them. The experience fine-tunes us, and hopefully, makes us smarter. Tall order sometimes, I know. But if we grasp the true meaning behind the raw emotions, hopefully we don’t have to repeat what isn’t for our greater good.

The harder the lesson the more we can glean from it. It may take awhile to lose the heavy emotions and gain a new perspective, but if we’re patient, there will come a time when we can grasp the enormous gift hidden inside. This is key.

But the first step is to believe we never make mistakes. Instead, we can look at it like this: Hard lessons catapult us to being the best we can be. We’re not perfect, don’t claim to be, but we’re expanding our perception to try and see the good in our choices — whatever that may be.

((Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

It’s New Year’s Day and we’ve parked Bailey, our RV, out here in the desert. There are a few other road warriors scattered like dice across the cactus and brittlebush but they are far enough away to make it feel like we are here in this arid vastness by ourselves.

I’ve found a good spot to write in my journal this morning, out in the kind sun but sheltered from the cruel wind. Yesterday, on New Year’s Eve, I filled my latest journal with one last entry, and then put it away. Today, my journal is a new one. I write #60 in the top corner of the inside cover and turn to the first page, all crisp and new like a freshly picked apple.

The page glows white in the glaring desert sun, blank of thoughts, ideas and aspirations. It looks like a magic page – as if I could write anything I want and it will come true. I try to focus, but I’m dizzy from all the possibilities as my imagination runs wild. I’m an unsupervised kid in an amusement park. I take up my pen and smooth the paper down with my other hand. I am literally turning a new page for the coming year.

Chances are you’re not reading this on the new year. But let’s pretend for a moment, it is. A new year can start at any time, like right now. Especially right now.

Okay, so right now is the first day of the year, agreed? If so, hopefully interest and introspection spike and we immediately evaluate our life. Are we happy? Do we like the direction our life is heading? What can we do to better ourselves? We assess where we stand and look to see if our next step is moving forward, is stagnant, or trying to step backward.

It’s a good day of the year to be completely honest with ourselves – tough to do but important if we are going to realize the changes that need to be made.

Today we bask in possibilities. Standing on the rim of this coming year, we dream of the best possible outcomes. We dream our dreams coming true. If the past year was difficult, hope dances on the horizon.

Today’s the day that we can consciously turn the light on to illuminate what we want most. Light it up from the inside. Everything seems alive, all rushing toward us as fast as the speed of thought.

I write on my magic page, my heart pumping. I’m thrilled to know everything I write is coming into my life at exactly the right time. It’s like writing a letter to Santa and he is nodding kindly and taking notes.

I suggest you do the same. The universe is listening. Happy New Year.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

Tupelo and I are in Mexico on a second-class train streaking down through the Copper Canyon. But we’re not inside the stifling passenger car, sitting on torn seats with our shoes sticking to the grimy floor and looking out a smudged window.

No.

By a very quick series of events, we have found ourselves outside, clinging to a skinny rail at the very front of the train, directly above the cow-catcher.

Jagged rocks slice by inches from my cheek. The deep canyon is a breath away from my precarious footing. Knuckles white, hair plastered back, my screams are sucked away as if freefalling into the valley below.

I’m having the best time of my life! My situation is dangerous beyond description. But here we are, Tupelo and I, standing on the edge. We’re ecstatic.

We’re in Costa Rica, barreling down a white water river. Untamed, unpredictable, the water is impassioned as it boils its way to the ocean. Class 4 rapids tumble and churn. Our guide speaks quickly and succinctly, giving us instructions as to what we need to do to get our tiny raft through the giant turbulence. There’s no time to lose. With cascading water on each side, boulders the size of small houses, our tiny helmet and life jacket are a joke. I’m not screaming this time because my heart is lodged in my throat.

I’m blissed out.

I saw a woman wearing a T-shirt that read: I want to be used up when I die.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

Playing it safe is not written in my genetic code. I’m not saying I’m never terrified. Quite the opposite. Massive heights tend to freeze my heart, like the tallest and longest zip line in the world, but still, I jumped. Birds scattered and monkeys took cover for miles around because of my scream.

Sitting numbly at home, watching other people having an adventurous life on my TV screen is something I don’t chose to do. Why should they have all the fun? Why should they get all the friends with the witty dialogue? Why do they get to go on all the great adventures? Where’s the good in that?

I say we must get our own life and then use it up. If we don’t spend it, no one else will. Can’t reuse it. Can’t recycle it. Can’t cash it in for a refund. What a cosmic waste.

Life is a complex tapestry. Each small fiber holds the promise of love and fear, hope and despair, angst and elation, sorrow, beauty, but most of all, joy. We have the choice to twist and turn our tapestry to the light or to the shade. We either cower under it or we wear it upon our shoulders like wings.

You can probably guess the condition of my wings by now.

I know of many others. Like the only blind man in history to hike the entire Appalachian Trail by himself with just the help of his dog. And the man who broke his back in a severe car accident and was told he would never walk again, who we met in Guatemala, as he was bicycling his way from Seattle to Chili.

And the blind-since-birth, 24-year-old woman who sings like an angel and plays the piano, performing all over the country to hundreds of very appreciative audiences. Each one is not afraid to wear their tapestry like wings.

I have to ask, have you looked at your life’s tapestry lately? It’s never too late to take it out of the box, let it fly, and use it up!

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

Recently, we were at a holiday gathering. The house was immaculate. The food superb. The guest list fascinating. The hostess was gracious and beautiful with everything under control and apparently running smoothly.

After dinner I found myself relaxing at a table with a few women, the hostess included. While a band of musicians were tuning up for an impromptu jam, a close friend of hers leaned over, put her hand on the hostess’s arm and commented what a wonderful party it was.
“I had a lot of help,” she said, deflecting the compliment with practiced ease.

This was not the first time I had heard her do this. Remembering the guided tour through the newly built house earlier, Tupelo commented how tasteful it was.
“We still have quite a bit to do,” she said, waving his impression away and turning to go up the stairs.

Later I heard someone congratulate her on receiving a major award in her profession.
“Oh, it wasn’t any big deal.”
But it was. She got major publicity and recognition, and rightly so. It proved she was exceptional in her profession and was honored for it.

I wondered why a talented woman like her was not able to accept a well-meaning compliment. What made her so uncomfortable? Did she think she would come off boastful or egotistical?

Another experience taught me how giving and receiving compliments could be perceived differently. While attending a good friend’s birthday party, the guests gathered in a circle, arm in arm. In a spontaneous gesture, one of the guests told her how much he appreciated her and how grateful he was that she was his friend. One by one, each in turn, told my friend the difference she had made in their life, myself included.
I was amazed and amused watching her accepting each comment, each heartfelt admission, every extremely personal confession. I thought she would crumble from so much gratitude and love, or try to dodge, duck and tumble out of the way of all the intense attention. But she didn’t.
Somehow she accepted each person’s love and radiated it back to them. There was no ego involved. It was beautiful to witness.

Here is the basic difference between these two women: My friend didn’t deflect any of the personal comments made to her, and by doing so, she honored the giver.

For many, it takes quite a bit of fortitude to voice an opinion, express their true feelings, or tell someone how much they care. Deflecting these admissions, for whatever reason, dishonors the giver and leaves the compliment hanging, useless and impotent.

So here is what I suggest if you are like the talented hostess: Next time someone gives you a compliment, smile a heartfelt smile and say a simple, “Thank you.” That’s all you have to do. You will honor the giver by doing this and you will both feel better for it.

Open yourself up to hear what others have to say about you and love will shine through everything you do.

Thank you.

(Article and photo by Janey Wing Kenyon)

I’m seven and it’s the summer between 1st and 2nd grade. I’m standing in line for my chance to try out for the swim team. The only trouble is, I don’t know how to swim. Minor detail. The only prerequisite at that moment was my desire to be on the swim team.

A giant man stands beside the pool with a whistle around his neck, telling us what to do. When our turn comes, we’re to dive into the shallow end and then swim to the far end of the long pool. He warns us not to touch the bottom at any time or grab onto the side. We have to go the distance without stopping if we want to make the team.

My turn. I step up to the ledge. “Dive” he had said. I don’t know how to dive, so I basically fling myself at the water, arms wide, belly first. When I hit, water gorges my nose and mouth. Coughing, my feet hit bottom. Dismayed, I look up at the giant man. He gives me a second chance and motions for me to keep going.

Like I said, I don’t know how to swim, so I basically flail my way to the far end while he walks along side, holding a pole in front of me should I need it. I don’t need it.

He helps me out of the pool. “Did I make the swim team?” I ask, breathlessly. He smiles, “Yes,” he said. “But first we need to teach you how to swim.” I’m thrilled. I made the team! All I need to do is learn how to swim. How hard could it be?

I never missed a practice that summer because I lived right across the street from the pool. I not only learned to swim, but was on a competitive swim team until I graduated from high school. The tenacity born on that first day served me well.

Now I’m older, but this trait of flinging myself into the unknown, with little knowledge of how to get myself out of it, hasn’t left me. I wasn’t afraid then, why should I be afraid now?

I believe it serves us well to jump into the deep end before we know how to swim. Arms held wide, heart open, flinging ourselves into situations before the outcome is known gives us the thrill of unpredictability, opens us up to surprises, and brings us life experiences we are desperately needing. It places us on the edge where we learn who we really are.

Predictability is boring. I, for one, didn’t come here to live a boring life. How about you? When the time comes, I urge you to step to the edge. Be courageous. Keep your sense of humor. And then jump. Flail yourself to the other end if you must. Perhaps spitting and coughing on the other side, you will be amazed at the person who rises out of the water triumphant. Only at that moment will you realize it was all worth it.

But first you have to jump.

At a personal development retreat, a hundred people put their name in a basket in the hope of asking a spiritual leader a question. It could be spiritual, personal, or physical — there were no limits placed on the kinds of questions one could ask.

I wrote my name on a small piece of paper, but hesitated before putting it in. I was surprised to realize that I didn’t have a burning question to ask, and thought by putting my name in the pot, it would add to the odds against someone else who did.

My friend was one. She had many questions to ask and struggled to find just one should her name be called. But it wasn’t called. That evening, away from the others, we talked about her question: “When you ask for guidance, how do you know if it comes from ego or true insight?”

Good question.

I have had the opportunity many times to speak on the topic of how to recognize our inner voice – how to tap into our well of wellbeing and find guidance from our true source. You could say that it is a pet subject of mine. It’s not because I have the answer, it’s because I’m fascinated by the question.

Simply put, this is how I know the difference when it is my ego shouting to be heard or it is my true self offering a guiding hand: I ask myself these questions.

1) Does the answer serve just myself or is it for the good of the whole? Ego is selfish, having a very limited perspective, trapped inside the mind. Our inner self is not selfish and small-minded because its perspective is from a higher plane of existence — unlimited and vast. Be honest with yourself. Ego hates it when you are.

2) When I think of acting on this guidance, what emotions does it provoke? Am I terrified or elated? Overwhelmed or excited? Resigned or exuberant? Is my heart closed or open? Our emotions are true mileposts of where our actions are taking us. We should notice and listen to them more often. True insight would never ask us to do something against our better good. Ego would.

It’s important to recognize whether it is ego or true insight when we ask for guidance.

But above all, we must remember to keep asking.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)