If the current thought of modern science is correct, and every atom that is in my body today came into existence from the Big Bang, then I am one big cosmic star system, with pieces of Pluto and Pilates mixed in with bone and blood. It’s an incredible concept when you think about it.

One lone hydrogen atom, miniscule and magnificent that is residing in my body today had other lives, other missions, other jobs. What an incredible journey it must have taken until it landed in me. Was it once floating in the rings of Saturn? Was it part of a Triceratops’ eggshell? How about in spittle coming from a Neanderthal’s lips? Did it come to Earth in the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs? Was it in the green glop on the bottom of a thermal pool in Iceland, surviving a billion years of ice?

I can feel it sometimes – this rogue atom itching just beneath my skin, making itself known. I envision him looking a bit like James Dean, a cigarette dangling from a half smile. There’s a restlessness in its movements as it cruises through my veins. Anxious for the next experience, never satisfied with its progress, always looking for something more.

I’d like to think that it’s been with me a long time, entering my body through the icy taste from a half-pint of milk we got mid-afternoon in grade school. That was about the time I noticed there was something more to me – something unexplainable happening on the inside. Too young to form the question and with no one to ask even if I could, this hydrogen atom became a tour guide, holding the light, helping me remember my cosmic connection. Before it came, I thought I was just Janey and nothing more.

I almost lost this tiny entity a few times. A rusty nail attached to a board gouged through my little foot when I ran out into the back orchard unattended. The atom hung back from the gush of blood, and instead became part of the healing crust forming over the deep wound. Years later it flowed in a tear down my cheek when a close friend was killed in a car wreck on a lonely Wyoming road. Luckily it reabsorbed through my skin from my wet pillow, making it back to familiar ground and the world it knew.

Nothing has daunted its irrepressible spirit, of which I’m grateful. Not even the radiation treatments for breast cancer. It dodged the killing rays, and instead, attached itself to healthy cells. It thrived and kept reminding me that I would too, eventually.

Like an old married couple, we’ve been together a long time, and now I’m wondering what will happen to it when this body, its universe, is just a pile of ash dug deep into a garden, becoming food for flowers and worms. It will grow bored, I know, living in such a dark place and will struggle to reach a perch drenched in sunlight.

And then one day, an inquisitive traveler won’t be able to resist smelling an exquisite bloom on a deep green bush. A small smudge of pollen on his skin is all it will take for my little friend to swan dive through a pore.

Once inside, my James Dean atom will straddle a white blood cell like a Harley. With a half smile and its cap pulled down to shade the secret of the universe, it’ll barrel down the artery highway with joy and abandon, heading toward the ankle or the heart, the destination unimportant.

The new body will never know what hit him, but he’ll soon find out.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

One year, looking to expand our experiences by performing, we took Holland American Cruise Lines up on their offer to travel the US and Canada promoting their Alaska cruises and tours.

It was a six-month run, and when we finished singing and telling thousands of people of how great Alaska was and encouraging them to go, a free cruise to anywhere in the world waited – one for Tupelo and one for myself.

Daydreaming of where to go was one of the best parts. We finally settled on one through the Mediterranean and the other around northern Europe with ten days in between to explore Italy.

Our “free cruise” wasn’t exactly free because we footed the airline ticket expense to Europe and we expanded our trip to include ten days in England and ten in Spain.

(Well, we’re going all that way …) It was a risky commitment because we were on “stand by” for both cruises with no confirmation until just before boarding. I envisioned our stateroom being over the bilge, under the dance floor, and next to the engines. But this didn’t deter my excitement. Neither one of us had ever cruised before. Still, I wished for the good luck of having a window, just a small one. I wasn’t asking for much.

My friend, Jojo said, “Well you know, Janey, don’t ask, don’t get.”

So I asked, and sure enough, on our first cruise around the Mediterranean, we had a window…but barely. The tiny porthole looked out over the deck where everyone and their mother walked or stood at the railing taking in the passing scenery. If I didn’t see a parade going by our window, it was a wall of rear ends. But, I was grateful for the window. After all, this is all I asked for, right?

Ten days later, we were booked on a cruise to northern Europe. With Jojo whispering in my ear I was bolder this time in requesting a veranda suite. We checked in, and there on our pass it read: Veranda. YES! I asked. We received. We were thrilled.

I’ve never forgotten Jojo’s advice, and I’ve put it to the test many times. I don’t assume that my wishes are known because people aren’t mind readers. Now I know to ask. What can it hurt? And sure enough, more often than not, I’m given what I asked for.

The same holds true when asking the universe for what we want. If we don’t ask, chances are, we don’t get. If we want more love, or joy, or money, or contentment in our lives, we must first feel what it will be like when we do have these things. And then we say, “Yes, universe, please bring me more of this.” How about better health? Ask. A better way to make money? Ask. It’s like we are writing our desires on paper and handing it over saying, “This is what I want.” The universe needs to have a clear idea of what we want before it can bring forth what we desire.

Flashback to working for Holland America: Our tour began in the fall, so I envisioned being sent to the Northeast in time to see the autumn colors. It was Jojo, again, who encouraged me to ask the tour coordinator to arrange it. I wrote an email asking if it were possible to “go to the NE.” She wrote back, “I’ll see what I can do.”

A month later, she calls to say, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m having a hard time scheduling good routing through Nebraska for you.” Nebraska? “Yes. You specifically requested to go to NE in the fall – Nebraska.” I laughed. “I meant the Northeast – not Nebraska!” Luckily, this misunderstanding was cleared up in time so that yes, we got to go to the Northeast in time to see the spectacular fall colors.

So let this be the lesson learned: We not only have to be bold and ask for what we want, we also have to be very clear in what we want. This goes for every day interactions, as well as in asking the universe for assistance. Being vague doesn’t cut it in either realm.

The next time the opportunity arises, hear Jojo’s encouraging and magic words: “Don’t ask. Don’t get.”

Then, ask for what you want. Be prepared to stand back and be amazed at how well it all works out in your favor.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

Sometimes it takes a life-threatening situation to challenge what
we really think about our life. When the hourglass tips, our
reflection stares back at us from the glass, daring us to look
closer at questions we’ve been asking our entire life. We may no
longer have the luxury of time.

When I was given a frightening diagnosis, my world crumbled and
exploded at the same time. I retreated as best I could into the
shelter of my inner knowing, reminding me that everything is
exactly how it should be and that everything would be alright. But
I also reached out and grabbed the lifeline thrown from Tupelo and
my loving family and friends. The love I gave myself and the love I
received helped to keep me on top of the tsunami (most of the time).

One big question danced on the sidelines almost every day, waving
its arms to get my attention. Was I really not afraid to die like
I’ve said so many times before? In all honesty, I knew I wasn’t
afraid to die because I’ve never been in a stare down contest with
that possibility before. Then I was tested on how I really felt.

And I believe I passed. To my great relief, I found out that I
really wasn’t afraid to die. (This was just one of the many
blessings I received from this experience.) And I’m also happy to
report that I’m all better now – healthy and celebrating being
alive!

I encourage you to not be afraid to ask yourself the deep
questions about your life. Then listen for the answers. And when
tough encounters with this physical experience come along, love
yourself through it.

Recently, I came across a poem I wrote in the midst of the dance
with the hourglass. I’m offering it now in the hope you may feel
the same when the time comes.

When I fall
let me fall like a
waterfall

tumbling wild
spinning free

not landing like a dead leaf
to sink
to the bottom of
a deep pool

but rising up
indigo mist
tickling the belly of heaven

Yes,
when I fall
I will fall
like a waterfall

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

I belong to a small and intimate writers group in Story, Wyoming,
called Storytellers. Here’s a piece I wrote when the assignment for
the week was, “It came in a small box.” This is a bit different
from the usual writing Tupelo and I send to you, but here it is
with the hope you might notice what areas of your life are boxing
you in so you can do something about it if you choose to.

A Small Box

When I slipped out into the world, I must have been confused at
first, thinking I was a mermaid instead of human because I held
onto the fluid in my lungs and refused to take in the alien air. So
when I was presented to my parents, I came in a small box, an
incubator. No bows, no ribbons, just tubes and glass and a
paralyzing fear their newborn might not come home with them. They
worried over the incubator, like the egg we watched in third grade
until the hairless creature finally pecked its way out.

When I convinced the doctors I had given up on being a mermaid and
hatched into a squalling baby that had the lung power to peg the
volume to 11, my parents handled me carefully, gratefully, and
placed me in a metal box – my grandpa’s 1949 Buick. Arriving 45
minutes later in the small town of Story, I was cribbed into the
top drawer of a boxy dresser. This was nested into a bigger wooden
box, my grandparent’s cabin.

As I grew my world expanded into more complex boxes. School, a box
full of play and pretend was fun at first, but then made bearable
by my cliquish box of friends.

For years, in a box-shaped swimming pool, I tried in vain to
return to my mermaid heart.

I rebelled from the suffocating box of my first serious
relationship and escaped in a streamlined box to Europe.

There I found my voice box, surprising me when it turned on its
singing voice, so I stepped up on a box-like stage, changing my
life for good and for the good from that moment on.

As I grow older I fight to keep my mind from becoming a closed box
of limited beliefs and narrow ideas. My heart strains to keep my
world open and not closed off in a constricted box of my own making.

My first two weeks on earth might have been spent in a small box,
but ever since, I’ve been doing my best to live outside the box the
best I know how.

No one wants to fail, but let’s face it, we all do. Trying things
beyond our current abilities gives us perhaps a 50/50 chance of
success. Failure is an indispensable ingredient in this stew called
“Being Human.” Along with heaping amounts of other essential
ingredients, it helps life remain delicious.

Few things turn out perfectly the first time around, and the
sooner we learn this the better off we’ll be. As Tupelo has said to
me many times (as if I need to be reminded), “You don’t have to get
it perfect – just get it going.”

I have a very talented friend who is often stymied into immobility
by thinking that whatever new thing she wants to try will not come
off like she envisions it, so why bother? This in turn frustrates
her, which fortunately spurs her into action. Once she gets over
the major huddle of expecting perfection, she forges ahead,
enjoying and surprising herself in the process.

Why do we sabotage ourselves into thinking we have to do it
perfectly the first time, or not at all? I’m a good one to talk.
When I try something new, I want to be great at it – right from the
git-go. No learning curve. No embarrassing outcomes. If it doesn’t
come easily, I have zero patience with myself. I drop it. Learning
to play the fiddle is a perfect example.

There have been exceptions to this self defeating behavior, of
course. Learning to do glasswork is one. During the mid-70’s while
living in Alaska, I started at zero and taught myself. My first
lumpy creations where destined for the dumpster before the lead
solder even had a chance to cool. But I loved the process. I loved
the medium.

I kept at it until I could create something I felt was
worthy of signing my name to it. After all these years, creating in
glass is still one of my major joys in life. Perfection is still
something I’m striving for, but I definitely don’t regret forging
through those hideous beginning projects or cutting my fingers to
get to where I am now.

But like I said, I usually want it to turn out great the first
time – and fast.

Tupelo, on the other hand, is a grand example of not letting the
deception of perfection get the upper hand. In those early years of
learning to play music together we rehearsed a lot, learning enough
tunes to get us through a night’s gig. It was during that time that
I found out he is living proof of what he believes: “You don’t have
to get it perfect – just get it going.”

There we would be – up on stage – things going along great – and
he would surprise me by starting a tune we barely knew. Neither one
of us knew the chords, or all the lyrics, or the arrangement. The
song was barely formed and far from stage ready. It didn’t matter.
He would charge on, acting as if he knew what he was doing. He’d
look over at me and laugh at the panic on my face.

“Come on, Janey, let’s try it,” he’d say.

“But we don’t know this song!” I’d gasp, seeing the audience’s
faces turned toward me.

“Who cares? We’ll find out how much we do know, won’t we?”

And away we’d go. Did we play it perfectly? Far from it. Was it
fun? You bet. Did I learn a good lesson? Unnervingly, yes. (I’m
still not used to it after all these years even though he still
does the same thing to me.)

So the next time you’re thinking of trying something new, but that
insidious, self-defeating thought of having to do it perfectly
worms its way between you and what you want to try, stop that
thought from getting a foothold on your self esteem. Get on with
it.

Remember: “You don’t have to get it perfect, just get it going.”
I’ll try to do the same.

(Article and photos by Janey Wing Kenyon)

(1) A journal – Record the journey, keep up with your self evolution
and push open new doors through your writing.

(2) A sense of wonder, awe, and Gratitude – Throwing our arms wide
each morning, saying “Thank you” is all we need to say. The more
gratitude flows out, the more blessings flow in. We become stunned
by the beauty of life.

(3) Tolerance – I’m not talking about a mere acceptance of other’s
beliefs here. Tolerance, in the traditional sense usually means,
“You can believe what you want to, but you’re still wrong.”� The
tolerance on this list has a healthy dose of respect, flexibility,
and compassion, as well.

(4) Patience – Especially, patience with ourselves.

(5) A keen ear to hear our inner voice – This is our inner guidance
system, our internal compass. Listen, feel, and head where it tells
you to go even if your mind thinks it’s in the wrong direction.

(6) Develop confidence to go it alone. Be bold and not manipulated
by popular vote. We should never be afraid to question, observe,
and make up our own mind. Perseverance is a good way to put it.

(7) The ability to pay attention to our emotions and hear what they
are telling us. Emotions are like buckets, bringing our innermost
selves up from the deep well of soul. Immense wisdom hides behind
tears and joy.

(8) A permission slip to be able to roam the halls of spirituality
unimpeded. It gives us�� �permission to exercise our free will,
permission to ask questions, to doubt, to reassess, to believe, to
wonder, to absorb, to bliss out, to change our mind.

(9) A “Get out of Hell Free” card – Personally, I don’t believe we
need one, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

(10) A sense of humor – Our spiritual path may become challenging
and absurd at times. It’s advantageous to comprehend the humor of
the universe, and to fully understand the reason we are here: It’s
to experience the joy of the journey.

(Article and Photo by Janey Wing Kenyon)

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)

When Tupelo’s father was transferred into the hospice, we were told it wouldn’t be long before he’d pass on.

We turned toward Texas at 1:00 in the morning after a performance in Arizona to get to his bedside as quickly as we could.

The following few days were unlike anything I had ever experienced and felt privileged to be a part of it. The family gathered close, forming a loving and supportive circle for his transition. The hospice provided a peaceful place for this to happen. The hospice staff was loving and attentive. A steady stream of friends came, bringing food, flowers, and saying prayers.

This was a new situation for me and many times I found myself not knowing what I could do to help. I’ve been a part of this family for over 30 years, and love my father-in-law deeply. I knew that just my presence was all that was required. Still, I wanted to do more.

So I made soup. It wasn’t much, but at least it made me feel like I was doing something. Tupelo’s family came to our RV to get a respite from the hospice room and a bit of warm nourishment on the side.

I met new people and hugged old friends, but one shimmered a bit brighter than most. Jan is a close friend of Karla, Tupelo’s sister, and unlike me, she knew exactly what to do. When Poppy was brought to the hospice, Jan was close behind bringing a basket full of snacks and fruit. It sat on the table ready for anyone who needed it at any time of day. She replenished it daily.

She had been a nurse, so her expert hands and medical knowledge was a solace to the family. She spoke softly but wasn’t afraid to laugh. When she arrived, joy followed her into the room like an eager puppy. In the long hours that followed, I got to know her better, and was comforted by her presence.

When Poppy died, Jan was the first to show up at the house bringing an entire meal, still hot from the oven.

She did this, and much more — aided by a wheel chair.

I marveled at her ability – her ability to know what to say, and exactly what to do at the right time. She knew how to calm, how to love, how to laugh during these amazing circumstances.

I wanted to be like Jan. I wanted to flow like cooling water into a difficult situation, filling what needed to be filled, making things easier for everyone.

So at the funeral, I asked her. Straight out — Jan, how do you know what to do.

She was surprised at the question. She didn’t think she was doing anything extraordinary. But my eyes told her I was sincere in asking and wanted an insight. She smiled.

I just let Spirit tell me what to do, and I do it.

Simple.

I know this. This is how I try to live my life too, but it took watching Jan in action to be reminded. When Spirit guides us it knows what is needed and when. We just have to relax and let it act through us. That was my problem. I worried too much that I’d do or say the wrong thing because I had never experienced anything like this before. I had self-doubts. Worry stifles and silences our inner voice. I’m working on not letting that happen again.

I saw first hand what happens when a light shines bright from the heart. It heals. It loves. It laughs. Its timing is timeless. It always does the right thing. Now that I know Jan’s secret, perhaps the next time, when I find myself in new circumstances, I will remember her amazing example, and let Spirit guide me in doing the right thing.

(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)

Tupelo and I meet a lot of people. On the nights we perform, we see new faces, shake new hands, talk to new people. Incredible possibilities to meet interesting people, but instead, small talk dominates these evenings because there is just not enough time to get to the big questions.

For example, the conversation never goes from, “So, where ya goin’ from here?” to “So, what’s your purpose in life and what have you been doing about it lately?”

I understand this and don’t fault it a bit. I can add to a conversation of small talk with the best of them. Traveling as we do to places where we’re not performing, I rely on small talk at first so that I can meet people.

Notice that I said at first. I can give it three, maybe four sentences/questions, and then I want a more meaningful conversation. It doesn’t have to come down to “So, what do you think happens when we die?” but if I haven’t laughed or learned something or heard an intriguing story, I’ve pretty much lost interest.

Some people don’t get beyond the small talk, not even with their family or their closest friends. This can be dangerous. In this case, small talk becomes our big talk. And it’s the big talk that can define us. If our conversations are mundane, chances are, our lives tend to be too. Sounds boring, doesn’t it? If we don’t stretch ourselves to consider new ideas, new feelings, have new conversations, small talk takes on a much bigger role. We give it more power than it deserves.

Here are some examples of small talk. Gossip is small talk. Complaining or whining are too. How about self-deprecating words such as “I’m so stupid,” “I’m too fat,” or “I’m clumsy, (or unlucky, poor, or ugly, etc.)”? Also unkind or sarcastic remarks to or about family or friends are demeaning to everyone involved.

Small talk can kill close relationships. Small talk can kill intimacy. Small talk limits us. Small talk becomes big talk when it dominates our conversations and dominates our thinking. We’re too big for that.

Notice the conversations you have during the next week. Does the small talk ramble on longer than it should? And who’s fault is it? Yours or the other person? If you find yourself not going to a deeper level with your words, chances are, the same thing is happening in your life.

Skimming the surface with friends, family, or strangers means that the encounter can be of interest for only so long. Don’t be afraid to kick it up a notch. Go deeper. Get to know someone better. Let them get to know you. The ones that still hang around after a few of these conversations are the ones we want in our lives.

Make room for them by eliminating the small talk.

(Article and photo by Janey Wing Kenyon)