It was a beautiful day in March, mid-afternoon, my assistant and I were in the office, heads together working on my schedule for the rest of the month. Out of the corner of my eye, as I glanced at my computer, I noticed an urgent email saying that starting at midnight we all had to work from home.

My staff and I mobilized quickly.  Within three hours we had a plan and a new life.

For over 30 years we have delivered training and coaching largely in person, only very occasionally and sporadically delivering online webinars.

What we did that week and in the last two months is build a brand new business entirely from scratch overnight. Online training and coaching.

In less than two months about 450 people have completed our training programs, way more than we ever reached in person given that amount of time.  We’ve added over 20 corporations newly to our list.  The success stories and the wins flooding my inbox completely blow me away.

But this blog isn’t about that.  It’s about our country and even the world.

The word crisis is older than our civilization and many others that came before us.

Following it’s trail here …. in the 1400’s crisis had come to mean a decisive point in the progress of a disease.  But it also meant vitally important or decisive state of things, point at which change must come, for better or worse.

It arrived in English from Latin which took it from the Greek word krisis which meant turning point in a disease, that change which indicates recovery or death. 

It literally meant judgment, the result of a trial, selection  and had come from the word krinein  which meant to separate, decide, judge.

The actual root of it all was a word mankind was using before they could even write or draw on cave walls.  This was the word krei which meant to discriminate, distinguish.

Distinguish means the ability to see the difference.  Often between the false and the true.

In short, crisis is that vitally important turning point where recovery happens.  Or doesn’t.

When it comes to the recovery of a society, it depends on our ability to distinguish the false from the true.  To judge.  To decide.  And make choices.

I’m watching the politics of the situation, and especially the politicians, very closely. On a local, state, country and international level.

Usually words, words and more words obscure their actions, many of which are hidden from our view.

Today their actions have no cover, you can see them clearly.

This creates a turning point.

I think our world will respond the way one of my neighbors did. This is what she chose. She put a little red bucket outside by the street with a note that said if you give her rocks, she will paint rainbows on them for you.

Neighbors have been pouring rocks in on her daily.  You see her results in the photo above.  Throughout the neighborhood you can see these rocks sitting prettily on mailboxes.

The politicians right now are not giving us choices.  How we deal with that is a choice.  A big one.

I believe we have been given rocks. What we do with them is our choice.

I believe in all of our ability to transform society’s current reality into something beautiful.

It’s something we have to do well as individuals. Only then can we come together as a group.

I believe we can.  I believe we will.

Sending you much love,

Ingrid

I live up a hill overlooking the San Francisco Bay.  My neighborhood is informally called, “The Hills” because there are so many.  (You really feel it when you’re a runner.)

At the bottom of the hill is a village.  Not a city or a town.  A village.  We call it, “The Village.”

It’s a place where the shopkeepers own their own shops.  Other than Starbucks (of course there’s one!), Peet’s Coffee and Noah’s Bagels, they’re all creative, independent stores where the owner is behind the counter, remembers your name, continues whatever standing joke you have with them, knows what you like and effortlessly makes 5 minutes rich with the kind of conversation that only happens between old friends.  Sunday mornings the main street is closed and filled with the farmers’ market and farmers who are old friends too.

It’s personal.  It’s also upbeat.

Montclair (the name of this little retreat in the hills away from the real world) was started in the 1920’s by early bohemians.  It was where San Franciscans built summer homes (more like cottages).  The only way to get here from San Francisco was by ferry (no bridges at the time) and it was considered quite a getaway.  The ferry to San Francisco is still my favorite way to get there.  Especially coming back when the sun is setting over the water and the Golden Gate.

The free spirits who founded this place were originally going to call it “Ecstasy” but the horrified conservative vote won and they named it a socially acceptable Montclair.

These people had imagination.  This is our fire house.

And this is our library.

Trees are tall (some of mine are 75 feet).  Only a couple streets have sidewalks.

It attracts a certain type of person.  Independent spirits.  People who think for themselves.  Modern, and and at the same time, old-fashioned.  Berkeley is right next door and that lends a certain air of rebel.

What you see above is the headline in our local paper for this week.

I’m part of an online news group for my street.  A neighbor posted that he wanted to organize volunteers who would help anyone on the street who needs help at this time.  He asked for two people to be the points of contact.

He immediately was flooded with an abundance of volunteers.  A couple of days ago he and his 2 daughters came by to drop off this flyer.

I am laughing because they now have a long list of volunteers – way more volunteers  than people who need help.  And one of the volunteers is over 70 and another is over 80 – they volunteered to help with anything online.

Those are jasmine in the photo from my neighbor’s yard.  He graciously lets me bring some home because he knows how much I love the smell in my house and mine are just starting.

It’s beautiful when something brings out the best in people and makes it so unmistakably visible.  Their goodness is shining bright enough to fill a neighborhood.

I feel surrounded by incredible beings who really care, who are really there, who respond to life by giving.  Such happiness.

May you too be encircled by people who take your breath away.

Love,

Ingrid

 

Right now the world around me is focused only on what is essential. I’m acutely aware of what this is for me, and rather blown away and grateful for how much there is in my life.

I think each of us defines essential our own way.  These are my essentials.

Sophie’s Cuppa Tea in the Village down the hill where I live is still open to sell tea “to go” as well as tea leaves. This is the finest tea shop in the world. John and Xiaobei, the two owners, travel to China every year (except this year), to remote and even isolated villages, where supremely dedicated farmers with ½-acre farms, so small, no pesticides ever, grow the most delicious teas in the world. I have a white tea from a tree that’s 2,000 years old and another from a bush that’s 300 years old. You can taste the ancient wisdom and robust health in each of these teas with every sip. These teas are essential to my mornings.  I start my day swooning with delight.

Running is considered essential by many here in California and I agree, I do it every morning.  Filling my lungs with the freshest air from our tree-filled trails and streets.

You won’t find this in the news, but I consider Spring essential and the first day of spring began this week.   Yay!  Celebration!

Also essential is my neighbor’s abundant jasmine that I pass on my run to become intoxicated with the fragrance that sends me to heaven.  A couple doors down, another neighbor’s wisteria (photo above) also sends out a heady fragrance I consider essential.

My many wonderful neighbors (I have awesome neighbors) who are reaching out to help each other are essential to my well being.

My rich red rhododendrons are blooming and the azaleas are beginning. My fuchsia is celebrating with a riot of color. Oh, are these ever essential!

If you’ve been reading my blogs, you already know I consider my three cats, lovely beings with soft, soft fur, who communicate exceedingly well, and who are extremely affectionate, essential.  My cat, Jazz, comes and washes my face around 3 pm every day.  The best exfoliation I’ve ever had.  Munchkin loves to sit on the computer to make sure I get my priorities straight (petting him).  Zaiba sits on my shoulders, wrapped around my neck as I work.  I find purring essential, and only wish we humans could do it too. Wouldn’t that be great!?

The extraordinary farmers’ market open every Sunday in my Village is also absolutely essential. Their super fresh, organic, vibrant produce, oranges, almonds and pistachios are absolutely essential.  Also essential is each conversation with the farmers (I love farmers) where they tell me how the fields are doing, what time they picked the kumquats, when they think the asparagus will be coming. These conversations nourish my soul as much, or more, than the delicious soups I make.

I consider Steve Sando’s Rancho Gordo heirloom beans totally essential.  Thankfully I can order them online.  Señor Sando has completely spoiled me for any other bean.  Their Ojo de Cabra bean makes the most delicious bean broth in the world and you can eat these beans just straight with their broth.  All their beans taste 1,000 times better than any other beans I’ve ever had.  Here’s an article from a skeptic who didn’t believe Rancho Gordo beans could be that good who took it took it to the test:  https://thetakeout.com/canned-vs-soaking-dried-beans-which-better-rancho-gord-1841421154?utm_campaign=2020%20MAR%204%20%28J2QCTU%29&utm_medium=email&utm_source=Highly%20Engaged%20-%2030%20Days&_ke=eyJrbF9lbWFpbCI6ICJpbmdyaWRAdHJhaW5pbmdzdWNjZXNzLmNvbSIsICJrbF9jb21wYW55X2lkIjogIkpFVWhYTiJ9

And, speaking of farmers, one taste of the incredible bursting-with-flavor collard and kale growing on my patio (thanks to a dear friend and co-worker who surprised me by planting them) will tell you they’re essential.

While we’re on the topic of food (I love real food), essential is my Sprouted Steel Cut Oatmeal.  You probably know that steel cut oats are much better than regular oats, but did you know that sprouted oats have 10 times the nutrients of regular oats????  You can taste it – they are delicious!  I load them with cinnamon, brown and golden raisins and goji berries.  I get the One Degree brand (it’s the only organic sprouted steel cut oatmeal I know of) on Amazon (of course I consider Amazon essential!!!!).

Friends are essential.  Great conversations are essential.  This is Cristina, one of my best friends.  Cristina is one of the smartest people I know.  She speaks 4 languages too.  I love every one of our fabulous conversations.  Cristina, my friends, are essential.

Books are, of course, essential, and I am positively loaded with enough reading (fiction, non-fiction, history) for the next couple years!  I love that saying, “It’s not hoarding if it’s books!”  I have them everywhere!  So many great places to sit and read.  I love communicating with extraordinary people and reading surrounds me and fills my world with some of the best.

Poetry is essential.  Little Worlds by Louis Alan Swartz is the most uplifting recent book to come along – try to stay depressed, cynical or dismal while you read this – impossible!  Here’s the link for it:  https://hugohousebookstore.com/product/little-worlds/

I’m also acutely aware of the things I consider vital, that even with all the changes, have not diminished at all. My ability to help, my ability to communicate, the incredible team of special, special people I work with (so essential!), my ability to reach you given all this wonderful technology that we have.  All there.  Strong as ever.  All essential.

I consider music absolutely essential. Demonstrating great intelligence, it has been deemed that my favorite radio station, KCSM, is essential. Specifically, I wake up around 5 AM and enjoy the serenity of emerging dawn and then sunrise as I work with a cup of tea, listening to John Hill (who I hope is back soon).  I also greatly look forward to and enjoy when, at 6 AM, Alisa Clancy comes on with her show Morning Cup of Jazz.  And Clint Baker with his Breakfast, Dance and Barbecue show Sunday mornings at 6 am is a never-to-be missed exhilarating experience.  I almost can’t believe a show this good is on so early on Sunday mornings.  KCSM has lots of other fabulous shows including Crazy About the Blues (Friday nights), Rhythm Retrospective and Annals of Jazz (both Sunday evenings).

Someone who has been essential in my life since 1973 is the singer Maria Muldaur.  She first recorded Midnight at the Oasis all that long ago.  Many people have not followed her career and don’t know that she has recorded 41 albums filled with absolutely fabulous music. I’m extremely lucky because she lives in the Bay Area and frequently performs live. So I’ve been listening to her and going to her concerts for over 40 years. She is uplifting, funny, powerful, inspiring. Most of all, she’s a GREAT singer and she’s timeless.  My kind of hero.  Her live concerts are the best. She is essential.

And so, I give you a link to one of her songs, one that’s especially relevant today, called My Sisters and Brothers, written by Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead who sang it many, many times:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EzZiY2DuSbo.

And I wish you many, many beautiful essentials in your life too. I would love to hear what they are, so please feel free to write back.

Love,

Ingrid

 

She was the first person my eyes went to when I walked into the room full of 20 people.  Heck, she would’ve stood out in a room of 1,000.

She was about 70, soft peaches and cream complexion, bright almost-orange hair, vivid orange-red lipstick, jazzy orange-print blouse, rich deep-purple silk skirt, flamboyant suede purple heels.  She was petite, around 5’2”, with a visual impact that filled the room.

Somehow it all worked. She was beautiful.  Stunning.

I was teaching a communications class for an oil company in Houston.  She had flown in from New Orleans to take it.  She was way past the age for retirement, with no intention to retire ever.  The company never wanted to see her go.

Her name was Jeannette.  Her exuberant and totally charming personality matched her dazzling looks.  She especially loved orange.

You know how sometimes, many years later, someone pops into your mind? Jeannette does often in mine.  She left an impression on me that’s forever.

After a couple days working with her, and hardly being able to take my eyes off her, I said to her, “Jeannette, I’ve never seen or met anyone like you. You live in color.  You are dazzling.”

She fixed me with her deep blue eyes, gave me a brilliant smile, and with a rich voice thick with southern drawl, distinctly pronounced, “My dear! I LIVE in superlatives!”

You have to imagine it said with a rich southern accent where “dear” is drawn out to 2 syllables and sounds like, “Dee-ah!” and “I” sounds like “Ah!”

It was true.  Jeannette did nothing in half measures. She gave 100% to every conversation, every person.  She was intensely interested in everything and everyone.  She exuded a blazing passion for life, for every little thing.

Jeannette was magnetic.  Always had a gaggle of people around her.  Every age group loved her, young, old and in between.  Wherever in the room you heard laughter, you knew Jeannette was smack in the middle of it.

I’ve never had a student like her and only wish I had 1,000 more.

Shortly after the class, she was romanced by and married another Houston student, a wonderful gentleman her age who fell madly in love and swept her off her feet.  I have no doubt they’ve been happy every day of their lives. I can easily imagine her over morning coffee, loving him exuberantly and making it spectacular.

I don’t remember Jeannette’s last name, so there’s no hope of my getting in touch with her and letting her know how much meeting her has meant to me.  I wish we had stayed in touch.

Living life in superlatives.  Not big. The biggest.  Not good, the best.  The most. The finest. The grandest. The brightest. The happiest. The highest.  Unafraid to reach for the all in life.

That’s what each moment was to her. And because she was contagious, that is what it was for everyone around her.

Jeannette has been a source of great inspiration to me.  Her blazing self and personality busted every limit I ever put on how to behave in society.

What a gift to the world she was. And maybe still is, although it was many years ago.

Thank you, Jeannette, for your blazing exuberance in all things, for walking into my classroom, for creating a bright orange flame that lights up my life and forever will.

And you, dear reader, may superlatives sail into your life.  And maybe a little orange too.

Love,

Ingrid

This fabulous Matisse painting is one of the first things you see when you walk into the Barnes Foundation, home to a feast of over 4,000 incredible works of art.  I was there last week, swooning like a drunken sailor.  I think Matisse had great fun painting this Moroccan man and I had great fun taking it in.

Albert Barnes made a fortune inventing and manufacturing a new antiseptic.  It was a time when the world’s greatest painters were madly churning out new works in Europe and selling cheap to pay the rent.

Barnes deeply loved good art and took advantage of his wealth and the artists’ bargain prices, amassing one of the finest collections of art in the world.  We’re talking a staggering 181 Renoirs and 69 Cezannes, not to mention the Van Goghs, Degas, Picassos, Manets, Rousseaus and Toulouse Lautrec.

Barnes had great affinity for African Americans and, in the face of popular prejudice, employed many of them in his factory.

Astoundingly, every day for 2 hours he stopped all production, assembled his entire workforce and, using paintings from his brilliant collection, taught them about art.  He also had them all reading philosophy and engaging in lively, spirited philosophical discussions.

In 1922 he purchased 12 rich acres on the Main Line right outside Philadelphia, a land of old-money mansions.  He built a beautiful home and a gorgeous building to house his fabulous collection, where he offered free art appreciation classes.

After his death, and numerous law suits demanding public access to his astounding assemblage of great art, his family was reluctantly forced to open the collection to the public or face severe tax and legal implications.  Keep in mind this is a very beautiful and affluent residential neighborhood, so you can imagine how the neighbors felt about masses of non-residents invading their secluded street.

When I first visited, a law suit had compelled the Barnes to expand its hours to 2 ½ days a week.  The number of visitors was strictly limited and you had to make reservations way in advance.  The family was clearly unhappy about it all and you had to ignore, or in my case sympathize with, their chilly reception when you arrived.  They were most unhelpful if you had any questions.

The city of Philadelphia managed to wrest the collection from it’s intended home in the affluent suburbs and it now resides downtown, making it much easier access for everyone, and way more livable for the neighbors.  The incredible story of the battle to make this happen is documented in the film called, “The Art of the Steal”, one of those movies that’s stranger than fiction, especially because it’s true.

Barnes was an opinionated, pigheaded, stubborn individualist and I’m glad of it. The way he displayed his art is radically different from the way any other museum does it.

Most museums put all the Renoirs in one room, the Van Goghs in another, the Medieval art in yet another, etc.

Not Barnes. One wall will have a variety of different artists displaying the same theme so you can compare what they’re communicating and how they’re saying it.

For example, in this room the two main walls have 22 Renoirs and 11 Cezannes.

This is Cezanne‘s portrait of his wife.

This is Renoir’s portrait of his mistress.

Very different kinds of love.

Here you see Renoir’s Bathers and right above, Cezanne’s.

It’s not a matter of choosing favorites. That wasn’t Barne’s point. What you want to do is see the similarities and differences and appreciate each for what it is.

As stern as she was, Cezanne painted his wife numerous times, more than any other model.  She was his lifelong partner.  And clearly his painting captures an intense expression of feeling there.

Barnes really mixes it up bringing eclectic pieces together.  He even does the unthinkable and sometimes puts African art right between a Toulouse Lautrec and a Matisse.

He was a big Matisse fan (displaying 59 of his paintings to be exact) and so am I.

Here’s Matisse starting work on a commissioned mural he had initially turned down but then agreed to paint because he was financially strapped.

This mural is right across the room from Barnes’ favorite Renoir – a Bathers painting.  Matisse intentionally echoed the rounded form of the bather on the right who is stepping up in Renoir’s painting in his own mural.

I don’t know how many visits I’ve made to the Barnes over the years. It draws me to its provocative rooms like a sublime magnet.  The art is magnificent.  Aesthetic euphoria takes over my universe.  A happy, drunken state that reaches deep into my soul and lasts for weeks.

May you find a treasure trove of art that nourishes your soul with aesthetic elation.

Love,

Ingrid

It’s 6:24 a.m., completely dark, the end of the longest night of the year.

It’s the last moments of winter solstice, one of my favorite holidays. I say holiday because I enjoy celebrating it.  I don’t do anything special, I simply find the experience fills me with elation.

It’s traditionally known as the shortest day and longest night, but it’s celebrated as the return of the sun because every day now going forward is going to be longer and longer.  I love the long days of summer, but I also love going into the depths of night and the miracle of coming out again.

I’m an early bird and am crazy about sunrise, the return of the sun each day brings. This morning, this Sunday, it’s raining.  I’m listening to enchanted rain on the roof and a fabulous radio show on KCSM (which you can stream and they also archive on their website if you want to listen any old time).  It’s called Breakfast, Dance and Barbecue.  DJ’ed by Clint Baker, whom I greatly enjoy.  Right now he’s playing a lot of Louis Armstrong and Jelly Roll Morton.  A rich and happy way to wake up on a Sunday.

It was completely dark as I started to write this.   And now, with each new moment, great magic is unfolding. The world is appearing.

So gradual, such infinitesimally small changes in light.  Yet each new moment a living work of art completely changing the landscape.  The sun is still far from the horizon but its light is already reaching me and dauntlessly changing my world.

Over the next hour the sun will return, the world around me will appear, will transform from invisible to visible, from shrouded in night to boldly glistening in the rain.

My day will begin.

May the rain in your life be enchanting and the sun make your world bright and bring you the beginnings of a brand new day.

Love,

Ingrid

I have a very dear friend. She’s around my age. I’m 64. She’s very, very worried about her wrinkles. She’s feeling that as she gets older, she’s losing her beauty. This makes her a little sad. She’s one of the more beautiful women in the world.

I’m out of the mainstream on this one, always have been. My mother was 43 when I was born. Back then it was almost a scandal. The doctor misdiagnosed her pregnancy symptoms, thought it was menopause and recommended a hysterectomy. Fortunately, my mother’s farm-girl wisdom was stronger. She knew.

The point though is, as my mother always told me when she was lecturing me, “No matter how old you get, I will always be 43 years older than you.”  I had the benefit of being born to a beautiful older woman.

I saw both my mother and her sister, my aunt, age into old age. My mother lived to 91. So I saw her over time for almost 50 years.

With my mother and aunt, as with all my relationships, I find love deepens and grows the longer I know someone. By the time it turns into decades, the love I feel has reached the depths of my being and is profound.

And with that love is a profound happiness of being with them.

As I love someone, they become more and more beautiful, or handsome, to me. So to me, my mother and my aunt both became much more beautiful as they went into their 80’s and 90’s. By the time they passed away, they were the two most beautiful women in the world. Their eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world.

The very last time my mother looked at me, she was in a hospital bed. She gazed at me for two solid hours without speaking. The love radiating from her eyes was the most potent, most pure, most overpowering love I have ever seen radiate from any human being ever in my entire life.

She was beautiful with a beauty I have never seen duplicated before or since.

The last time my aunt looked at me, she too was in a hospital bed, love radiating from her eyes, her face more beautiful than any I had ever seen. Her last words to me were, “Tu esi mano saulyte” which is Lithuanian for, “You are my little sunshine,” words she said holding my hand and holding my gaze with her powerful love more tightly, more strongly than anyone had ever held it before.

To this day, they are the two most beautiful woman in the world to me. Those particularly poignant moments of beauty were preceded by thousands and thousands of other moments of extraordinary beauty.

My sister, Justine, is the third in my “top three” most beautiful women. She’ll kill me if I tell you how old she is, so the only thing I will tell you is that she’s my older sister and I fell in love with her when I was born.  I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, more than any movie star.  I simply adored her and, once I could walk, I followed her everywhere like a little puppy. I’ve known her my whole life, so you can imagine how much my love has grown for her over the years and how beautiful she is to me. But, I am not alone. Many people think she’s exquisitely beautiful. She still turns heads and outdoes her Zumba instructor and every other student in the class.  Justine has a blazing personality that expresses itself in everything she does, including how she dresses. If you were in a room with 100 people and she was one of them, she would be the one who would draw you like a magnet to talk with her.

Somehow flawless skin and a cover-girl version of fabulous hair never did it for me.  Nor the chiseled handsomeness of the men many women swoon over.  Quite honestly, it often left me cold.

I went to all-women’s college that was loaded with homecoming beauty queens. I found most of them irritating and annoying and stayed away.

Wrinkles have never bothered me. I actually get a kick out of them. I think I have one on my face for every year of my life. I’ve kind of enjoyed watching them come in. There’s one I particularly like. It’s on my left cheek and makes a particularly interesting path, especially when I smile.

I get facials and use fabulously high-quality skin products because I believe in taking care of myself. I like being healthy.  I eat right, I exercise, I get enough sleep, I’m the right weight for my height, and I feel great. Physically, emotionally, spiritually.

I’m filled with a tremendous sense of well-being and joy that grows every year.

My work has gotten better and better and better and I’m more thrilled with the results I’m producing now than I ever have been in my life.  I love thinking about the future.

I think most importantly, my capacity to love has grown and deepens with each passing day.

So, I’m a 64-year-old woman who enjoys the entire process of life.  Life and I both get better each year I’m alive.

Two weeks ago I was at the farmers’ market. I was buying pears from the fig farmer I love (see my August 31 blog if you want to know why). There was a good-looking guy behind me, probably 15 or more years younger than I am. I was joking around with the farmer and the guy behind me joined in, so we all started joking around with each other.  It was a great time we had!

Then last Sunday when I went back, the fig farmer said to me, “You know the guy behind you? He paid you a real compliment. He said he really enjoyed talking with you.  He said he really likes you and he thinks you’re a very attractive woman.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. I don’t even comb my hair to go to the farmers’ market. I’m 99% sure it’s sticking out all over the place. I don’t even look in the mirror. No makeup. I look like a woman who just woke up. The sloppiest, baggiest sweatpants and sweatshirt you can imagine. They’re not even color-coordinated and frankly, I think they clash now that I think about it. Loaded down with bags of kale and vegetables, I think I look a little like a mule.

My first thought was, “What on earth possessed this guy to say that?” My second thought was that he was nuts. My third thought was, “Ha! I get it.  Happiness is beautiful.”  I understood.

I don’t believe he was coming on to me. I think it was just a sincere compliment. and I appreciate it. Because what I was feeling was beautiful. And I think that’s what he saw.

This whole subject makes me laugh.  When you’re young, it’s called “growing up”.  When you’re my age, it’s called, “aging”.

So how do I feel about aging? I like it.

My friends are all getting wrinkles. I like them. I don’t tell them how much I like their wrinkles because I don’t want to put their attention on them and I think most people wouldn’t get it. I think they’re the most beautiful and most handsome people in the world. I love looking at my friends. They are becoming more beautiful and more handsome all the time.

No doubt about it. Happiness IS beautiful. And makes us beautiful.  Beyond time.

May you be filled with it.

Love,

Ingrid

 

I’ve been on a spiritual retreat for the past couple weeks and it’s gotten me into a rather sacred frame of mind.  Got me thinking about the soul.

Soul is such a small word for such an immense concept.

We humankind have been talking about the soul for a very long time. I became curious what people thought about this word through the ages.  I decided to take a trip through its meaning down to its derivation, an odyssey which can take you straight to a word’s conceptual DNA.

I dove into some really good dictionaries, especially the big, fat, older ones.  There are a number of very good ones.   I dug into Daniel Webster’s 1828 Dictionary extensively because the soulful quality of his definitions drew me in the most.

This is what I put together.

I started my journey with the brain, which is talked about a lot these days, to explore its relationship to the soul.

Dictionaries say the brain is the part of the central nervous system enclosed in the cranium of humans and other vertebrates, consisting of a soft, convoluted mass of gray and white matter and serving to control and coordinate the mental and physical actions.

I don’t know about you, but that does not sound attractive to me. Actually, soft convoluted mass of gray and white matter sounds a bit, well, convoluted and rather disgusting to me. Necessary, I agree, but most definitely not attractive.

The word brain comes from Greek brekhmos which means front part of the skull, top of the head.  Pretty straightforward. No mention of any relationship with a soul.

So then I delved into the mind.

Dictionaries say the mind is the intellectual or intelligent power in man; the power that conceives, judges or reasons.  It comes from the Indo European root word men which means to think.

So, it’s a power, but it doesn’t seem to have a physical location. It’s just a power we have, the power to think.

Soul is so much more.

Unlike many other words, they don’t really know where this word comes from.  Dictionaries say, “uncertain origin”.

So I like to think of this word as universal and not really having just one source.

Soul is the spiritual, intelligent and immortal substance in each person; the invisible animating principle or entity which occupies and directs the physical body; understanding, the mind, thought, and the faculty of reason.

That’s a mouthful, so I took it one bit at a time.

The soul is a spiritual substance.

Spirit is the intelligent, immaterial (which means not consisting of matter, not in the physical universe) and immortal (mortal = subject to death, immortal lives on) part of human beings.

Unlike the brain, the soul does not exist in the physical universe, although it has an extremely real existence.  Big difference between the two.

The soul is the spirit which animates existence.

Animate means give life to. It comes from the Latin animare which means give breath to, to give courage to, from anima which means life, breath.

The soul DIRECTS the body and the mind.  It operates senior to the body, the brain and the mind.  Think of the body, brain and mind like parts of a car and the soul as the driver controlling where it goes.

The soul is the emotional part of a person – enables us to feels emotion – happy, sad, falling in love, the many, many emotions we feel.

The soul is the source of creativity and aesthetics.

It’s also, as Daniel Webster writes, that part of man which enables him to think and reason, and which renders him a subject of moral government. In other words, it’s the seat of our conscience, our character.

The soul is what keeps us from being brutes.

All dictionaries were consistent on this point:  the soul is the source of internal power.

It’s the source of our courage, fire and grandeur of mind.

And I think most importantly, the source of our consciousness.  There’s an awareness we have that goes way beyond our bodily eyes.  It comes from the soul.

Each person has or is a soul.

It’s the part of us that experiences inspiration.

Wanting to help others, kindness and compassion come from our soul.

It’s the source of my writing.  I don’t write from my mind, I write from my soul.

I believe it’s the source of our magic.

Compared to the soul, the brain is about as interesting to me as the liver (in other words, not really).  The soul operates the brain and as far as I can see, mine is taking good care of it.  I have no doubt my brain is filled with all those endorphins and other good chemicals associated with happiness.  And I’m certain that keeping my soul full creates that happiness.

I’m always working on developing my body.  I exercise in the morning and also at night.

I’m always interested in developing my mind, my power to think.  I’m always learning.

But I’m most interested in developing as a soul. I don’t just have a soul.  I am a soul. That’s in the dictionary too.

Hence the spiritual retreat. For the past two weeks I have been developing as a soul.

Other people are souls and that’s what makes them beautiful.  The soul they are.

%$44.  My cat, who is a soul too, just walked across the keyboard and wrote that.

And of course, some lucky people are fortunate to have a quality of soul in music, in rhythm, that expresses itself even when they’re just walking down the street.

May your life be filled with all that makes your soul sing!

Love,

Ingrid

 

 

 

The San Francisco Bay Area has been having crazy intense winds.  Some have been over 100 miles an hour, where I live they’ve been around 60.

PG&E, our electric company, turned off power for almost 1,000,000 people for two days, especially in areas where we have tall trees.  These trees are known to fall when the winds are heavy and there’s a risk they’ll hit an electric wire and spark a fire.  It happens.

I and my neighbors are surrounded by 75-foot trees which fortunately hold their ground.   But I wasn’t surprised by PG&E‘s decision and I understand it.

In the dark without electrical power for two days and nights, I discovered a whole new beauty in life.

Every morning I wake up at 5 AM, turn on KCSM (the best radio station in the world with the very best DJs), make myself a cup of delicious and exotically rare white Chinese tea, and do my creative work. This time of morning has great spiritual serenity in it, deeply nourishing for my creativity.  A friend of mine calls it my time away from “thought traffic.”  But the sun doesn’t come up until 7:30 AM, the first glimmer of new light isn’t until 7 AM.

Power out … so, candles. You can see them in the photo above. You can also see how dark it is around the surrounding area, little lights way across the San Francisco Bay where the electricity is still on because they don’t have the big trees.

Candlelit mornings were beyond beautiful.  Aesthetic beyond words.  Extremely romantic.  Not in the “boy meets girl” sense of romantic, but in the “I’m living my life with tremendous romance” sort of way.

I had never lit candles in the morning.  They are a soft, gentle, dreamy way to light up the dark and gently drift into the day.

At night, the sun goes down now at 6:15 PM.  I discovered headlamps.  I got so excited! These are wonderful! You put them on your head, and you can walk around seeing everything completely hands-free! Way better than using a flashlight.

After dinner I’ve been taking refreshing walks at night. With my new headlamp! With power out completely on the street, and beyond into the whole neighborhood, no street lights whatsoever, no lights whatsoever, it’s a level of darkness that is powerful. The headlamp is brilliant!

I discovered a whole lot of neighbors also walking at night!  All with headlamps! So fun!  We look so cool!

In my excessive zeal to get the best headlamp possible, my neighbors all agree I got the brightest one on the street.  But I discovered, after blinding a good number of them, that you’re not supposed to look directly at the person you’re talking to. They rapidly taught me headlamp etiquette, how to have a polite conversation by turning my headlamp off to the side, or even better, to turn the darn thing off completely for the duration of the conversation.

And I must say, it was so much fun reading in the complete dark, in bed with my headlamp, blankets piled on top because the house was freezing with no heat, 3 cats curled up snug around me, mighty winds blowing fiercely outside against the windows and whipping through the trees!  Felt like a total kid in a big adventure.  So much fun!

PG&E restored our power.  My first thought was, “I’m going to miss my candlelit mornings!”  So I’ve decided to continue them.  It’s just too beautiful to let it go.   Drinking tea, listening to KCSM, doing my creative work by candlelight until the sun rises in the sky.  Huge pleasure in just being.  Grinning.

Thank you, PG&E, for creating an experience that created a splendid opportunity to discover beautiful new sources of power.

Wishing you fabulous aesthetic moments of pure joy of being!

Love,

Ingrid

 

 

I was on the East Coast a couple weeks ago teaching public speaking and presentation skills. One of my students said, “I want to get my Mojo back. I lost it somewhere along the way.”  All the other hands went up and everyone said, “Me too! I want Mojo!”

Mojo became the goal of the workshop.

It got me thinking about the word and how much I like it.  It packs a lot of meaning into just four letters.

Mojo started out as a West African word that meant magic and was exclusively in the province of a shaman.  You went to the medicine man for Mojo.

After thriving for centuries in Africa, Mojo crossed the ocean in the ships sailing to America carrying the slaves.

Once here, the meaning of Mojo began to change, especially after slaves were freed.  Mojo left the shaman and became something not everyone did have, but anyone could have.

It came to mean your personal magic.

Then, around the 1920s, black musicians gave birth to Jazz and accomplished what multitudes of politicians were unable to achieve.  They created a bridge to black culture.  Despite prohibitions and strict laws forbidding it, whites raced across that bridge and flooded the forbidden night clubs to hear the new black music and dance their dances way into the night.  And they were introduced to the word Mojo in their songs as they sang along.

Mojo thus solidly completed its trip from West Africa and crossed over into white culture.  By the 1960s it had gone mainstream here and even appeared in Europe.

Mojo is your personal magic.  Everyone has it, but not everyone finds it.

Little kids often have lots of it.  School does everything it can to kill it, so by the time most people graduate, they’ve lost touch with their Mojo.

Since Mojo is an expression of a style that is uniquely yours, any conformity immediately destroys it. You have to step away from any demand for you to even slightly conform because in those moments that you yield, you give up yourself, and you lose your Mojo.

Mojo is an exhilarating expression of YOU’ness.

And those moments where you have your Mojo on are exhilarating like no other. For you, and for everyone around you.

Recovering your Mojo can make for a beautiful life’s journey. Although many people when they’re old, give up on it completely.

When I look at people, I see past everything that’s not who they truly are.  I see their Mojo, whether they’re experiencing it at the moment or not.

Sometimes it’s an archaeological expedition to get in there and dig it out.  But, if you know what you’re looking for and how to find it, recovering your Mojo can happen fast.  It’s a worthy goal.  At any age.

When I work with a group of individuals, and I see them get their Mojo on, I go into non-stop grinning.  It’s a grinning that lasts long after the workshop is over.

Mojo is true to its roots.  Mojo IS magic.  Your magic.

Your Mojo is your gift to the world.

Your Mojo is you.

Wishing you lots of moments where you fully experience having your Mojo on!

Love,

Ingrid