Inspiration

You might have noticed I’ve been oddly silent lately. Being honest, I didn’t feel like I had much to say about happiness. I still read my Happiness Manifesto often, and I choose love and joy every day, but there have been more moments of the other junk lately: doubts, sadness, worry. Not just for all the changes in my life and those to be faced ahead, but for those people near and dear to me.

Happiness is a choice. I know that. And most days, I get up, and I choose it. In fact, I sometimes have to change my perspective on something driving me crazy (like going to the DMV for the second time after being turned away at first in my new state on a technicality in paperwork) or making me sad (like hearing news about a dear one’s troubles).

I’ve promised myself I won’t be Pollyanna about happiness. I’ll feel what I need to feel. One of my oldest friends recently told me I’m going through one of those seasons. She’s right, but frankly, I’m tired of it. I want to feel like I have a million hot air balloons and rainbows inside me every day.

What I’ve realized lately is that I can feel the other stuff and know it’s not going to stay. It isn’t me or the sum total of me. I am whole and complete as I am: fearful, joyous, or sad. Maybe the junk will pass in an hour or a day. But it won’t stay. I won’t let it.
Sure my choice to stay in my happiness has often felt like trudging uphill in a blizzard, but trudge I do, trying to believe easier roads are opening up as I walk. Because there’s no going backward. Only forward. Despite the doubts that plague me sometimes or the sharp sadness for others I love that breaks my heart.

How do we live in the world with compassion when people are hurting? When we’re hurting? One moment at a time has become my answer.

Wishing you easy roads and happy moments.

I was joking with a friend last night about the song, “Auld Lang Sange,” which is sung frequently around the turn of the year. One phrase from Robert Burns’ esteemed poem stood out to me:

“Should old acquaintance be forgot…”

I’ve never really listened to the song’s lyrics. Perhaps it’s the old English that prevented me earlier. But I got to thinking about it, and yes, I think old acquaintances should be forgotten. As I’ve gotten older, I more clearly draw the line. I delete people from my contact list that I haven’t spoken with in six months. To me that’s long enough to know if we’re meant to have a meaningful relationship.

The new year is always a time of reflection for me. Some days ago, I began the process with a list of all the things I was grateful for. The list topped out at three pages front and back. Hurray! Then I moved on to all of the things I didn’t want to bring forward, things like self-doubt, fear of the future, limiting beliefs, grudges, etc. You know what I’m talking about. Lastly, I picked up a fresh piece of white paper and began listing all of the things I wanted to have the Universe bring me this year with the caveat I now include with everything: “this or something even better.” I carry things over from year to year, sure, but I keep believing in them, keep sprinkling fairy dust on them, waiting for them to manifest. This year after meditating, I realized I needed to dream even bigger. And to open my arms to receive all the goodness in store for me.

On the eve of the new year, I bring out all my lists and give them one last gander. To the old, I say goodbye. To the new, I seal all my hopes and dreams in a crisp new envelope. I open my envelope from the past year, examine what I’ve manifested, and then let go of that too. With the new envelope in hand, I lay it in a sacred space in my meditation room. Every once in a while, I take out the letter and bless the intentions, giving thanks for those which have already appeared.

This year, I’m considering writing down all the acquaintances I need to say goodbye to—or the ones who bid me goodbye. I’ve never done it that intentionally, but perhaps it’s a fresh way of letting go of the past. There have been some hurts and misunderstandings. There have been some shifts and some changes in life. Whatever the reason, these folks have stopped walking with me. It’s time to officially say goodbye as I move into this new year. I want to manifest a lot of loving, fun, and trustworthy people in my life.

How do you cross the threshold into another magical time? What do you do with your blank slate?

Whatever it is, I’m wishing you all the love and peace and joy and abundance you could ever dream of.

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

As many of you know, Paris is home to me. I’ve gone there three times in the last year alone as a combination of holidays and book research for the mini-series I released in August.

When the tragic events occurred less than a week ago, I was shocked and heartbroken. I have friends there now. Wonderful people I love to drink champagne with and talk about la vie (life). I also love to meander along the streets and window shop like any good Parisian. There are certain shopkeepers I wondered about. Had the woman closing her hat shop after forty years next month been glad to do so after this frightening event?

A good Parisian friend told me the streets were largely empty, and many shops closed. What was all the more interesting, he said, was how much comfort Parisians were giving each other—something he mentioned was not at all normal. The people he knew were declaring they would not let fear run their lives. They were going to resume living the life they knew.

But it’s still scary, no? In my old career, I worked to rebuild warzones and conflict-affected areas. I went to cities while they were being bombed or shortly thereafter. I was scared, let me tell you. And this weekend, I felt a great solidarity for the people of the Paris, the home it’s become for me.

You might be wondering why I’m talking about this event when I’m supposed to be talking about happiness, but something happened to me as I meditated and prayed after the news broke. I realized I could do something—even though it might be like a drop of water in the ocean. Our positive intention and action can make things better and can support a higher vision of the world, one where peace and understanding and safety flourish. I reached out to other authors with books set in Paris. My idea was to band together with our books that celebrated that magic of Paris—a magic we all need to really remember, one that these events seek to undermine. We could share these books with our readers and raise money to help the French Red Cross, who has been supporting victims of the attacks and works for peace.

We have eight authors in our group, and for a moment, it made me so happy to see these other women happily raise their hands and join me. They all said, “Yes, I want to support this. I wanted to do something to help.” We all did. As one of my readers so brilliantly said, “We are all Parisian today.”

Yes. We are.

I was working in downtown Washington DC on 9/11 and had to flee the city in a mob scene of chaos to Maryland in the opposite direction of my home in then Virginia. I stayed with a friend for three days until the government opened the bridges going into Virginia again. It was a terrifying time. I remember the first time I got back on the Metro after the attacks. I looked at everyone differently. I looked at them to see if they would be a threat to me and the city I lived in. Thankfully, prayer and time healed that mistrust, that fear.

I imagine Parisians will be going through their own process as life resumes. Because it does. The streets of Paris will see families walking down it again. The shops will have their bells chime as people resume their shopping. And the cafes…well, pink champagne and cappuccino will be drunk again.

Life can’t be stopped, and neither can magic. Paris has the magic, and I for one know it will never lose it.
If you’re interested in hearing more about our fundraiser for the French Red Cross, you can check out our special page detailing all of our wonderful group of authors and the books we have set in this magical town. https://avamiles.com/books-that-celebrate-paris/

Image courtesy of Pansa at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The time came to reassert my intentions around happiness after all the grieving from my best friend’s death, the huge move to a new state, and lots of family members and friends going through “stuff.” It seemed a manifesto was in order, so here goes.

I love myself enough to do the following to the best of my ability at any given moment:

Choose love and joy—first, last, and always
Stop from worrying about things I can’t control
Say no to drama in my own life
Not give away my power to anyone
Not let other people’s opinions or drama reduce my joy and wellbeing
Cry if I need to and then move on
Get angry if I feel it and then move on
Not get stuck in a rut of self-doubt or self-recrimination
Not judge how other people live their lives
Intentionally make time for play and rest
Trust in myself and others
Believe in the good in people
Be vulnerable
Be strong
Write
Dance
Sing
Sculpt
Paint
Cook
Garden
Explore
Hike
Meditate and Pray
Listen
Speak
Love—with all my heart
Be grateful
And hang out only with people who uplift my spirit and accept me for who I am.

What’s your manifesto look like? Don’t have one. Try it. It’s pretty easy once you set your pen to paper.

Lately all of my old roots to people and places have been torn up. I have to be honest and say it’s been a little scary. I embrace change, but part of me longs for the comfort and safety of things past—even though they aren’t the same anymore.

Life is a series of changes, and I’m trying not to resist the ones where I really can’t see where I’m headed. Have you ever turned on the right road, but it hasn’t looked familiar? For a moment, you wonder if you’re on the right road, and you consider turning around. That’s how it’s been for me. Thankfully, I have lots of support to help me keep moving down this new road—even when I’m trembling.

With all these changes, I’ve had to dig a little deeper to anchor in happiness because deep down I realized what happiness really is.

Happiness is soul food.

Being happy feeds my soul when I feel all my roots torn up and set in a new place, when the roots are just starting to spread and aren’t yet sure of the land I find myself on. Our soul needs feeding in these times of tremendous change.

Here’s my top ten ways of calling in happiness in such times.
1. Pillow Fights
2. Jumping on the Bed
3. Champagne Picnics With Pie
4. Walking in Nature
5. Creating New Playlists and Singing
6. Dancing
7. Grounding
8. Dreaming Bigger
9. Accepting All Invitations
10. Driving in the Dark and Shining the Light

You might notice some themes here. Some of these actions feed the inner child, some the mystical woman, and some the brave warrior. I am all of these—and likely you are too, if you’re being honest.

What feeds your soul right now? Make a list and join me in actualizing them more in your day-to-day.

Image courtesy of digitalart at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Everything changes. Right now it feels like my life has changed so much that it’s hard to recognize the guideposts anymore. My beloved friend and neighbor is gone. My home no longer feels like home, and I am journeying somewhere new. A new story is beginning to take shape in a new place.

Everything is new.

There are moments of fear amidst all these changes. Sometimes the shadows seem bigger than I am. But in my heart, in that quiet, peaceful center, I believe I’m on the right path.

My dear friend dying set me free finally to go where I needed to go. I’d known my destination for a while now, but I’d stayed where I was to be with her. Now it’s time to fly and live the new dream, believe in the new story.

Happiness is believing.

It’s said all it takes is a child’s belief to make miracles and magic happen. I need the belief of a child right now. The kind that comes from knowing that this moment is the new story and that all is unfolding with grace in perfect order. To the shadows on the wall, I say, “I believe. I trust.”

I trust in all who are supporting me, all who are leading me. And I am grateful. Never before have I had so many wonderful friends and supporters in my life as I start this new story, as I embark on these new adventures.

What are you needing to believe in right now? What are your shadows, and what do you need to say to them?

I say simply to my shadows once again: “I believe.”

Image courtesy of 9comeback at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

In the quiet hours of the night, one of my best friends and next door neighbor, passed away from cancer. Just a week ago, we celebrated her 39th birthday in the hospital. Like one of the great synchronicities in life, she passed on in the hospice center where I used to volunteer. All of the nurses I cherished took extra care with her because she was my family.

I’ve lost beloved relatives before and sat with the dying many times in hospice, but this is something different. I know she’s in a better place. I do. But I still miss her. I ache from missing her.

I’ve talked about her here before under another guise. She was the friend who discovered she was a piano prodigy over two years ago when she took her first piano lesson. She played Mozart that day, and her teacher and the rest of us were totally floored. Soon she was playing Chopin at local concerts. A famous maestro was interested in teaching her, and there was also interest in her performing at the Kennedy Center.

Then she got sick, and it all went away. That’s been one of the other great tragedies, besides the horrible decline of her health and body. She’d found this incredible gift inside herself, was poised to share it with the world, and then the door closed. I won’t say the music died, but it did. She couldn’t play anymore, and it crushed us all. Especially her.

Last night as she lay in her hospital bed, her husband put his phone next to her ear, which played classical music and her piano recitals. Hearing the music she made broke my heart all over again. And then I played the song that had come to me while I was sitting in the garden, the one I’d sang to her when I was all alone: “Dream A Little Dream of Me.”

Happiness is saying farewell.

I won’t say goodbye because I know this isn’t the end. We’re always connected. Always. But I will share what I will miss about her.

How we’d always have hibiscus tea together and chat for hours.
How much she loved it when I cooked her chocolate pudding and brought it over to her.
How passionate she was about women’s rights and helping others.
How bright her brown eyes looked when I would share special book news with her.
How she and I talked about life and illness and death because I was the only one she could talk to about her fears.
How much she loved the ballet when I took her there.
And her laugh…I can’t forget to mention that.

There have been lots of tears, and there likely will be many more. She lived right next door. Everywhere I turn, she’s there. Her husband needs us all now, and we’re going to be there for him. But we will all feel the loss of her deeply when we are together from now on. As we will tonight. He wanted to have a BBQ for all of us and the few family members who were able to come from Europe. I expect there will be more tears as we wait for her to come out the back door like she used to, and she never comes.

So, farewell, my beloved friend.

You will always be in my heart.

You might be wondering why I’m suggesting there’s a part of me that’s happy when I see men cry. Well, let me tell you. Last night, my neighbor finally told us he was calling hospice for his wife, my beloved friend. We were out in the front yard, and he’d been calling relatives to give them the news. This beautiful man has been her champion and warrior for these many years she’s had cancer. I’ve never seen him cry—until yesterday—and witnessing it was like witnessing a miracle. He’s been hurting for so long. And he finally allowed the pain to come out.

Our other neighbor joined us who I’ll simply call Mr. Special because he embodies the name. He’s one of my favorite people in the world and has been part of our beautiful circle in the neighborhood. We BBQ together, have a drink in the backyard, pop the champagne when I have something big happen with the books, but mostly we just talk. Mr. Special and I have helped mow our neighbor’s grass when things have gotten to critical, and when he heard the news about our dear friend, he started crying too.

It’s a heartbreaking, but beautiful thing to watch the men you love cry. They are both so strong, but in that moment they allowed all their humanness to come through. I put my hand on their backs to comfort them and brought them tissues. We talked, but in these moments, there’s nothing much to say. You can only sit with the people you love as they bleed and hold them.

Happiness is witnessing men crying.

All my life I’ve been lucky enough to have men as friends. In my old career, I worked mostly with men. I get men. Their toughness. Their desire to fix things. Their sometimes practical nature. Crying is not something they often do, mostly because there are so many cultural judgments in this country about what it means when they do it.

But not yesterday. The tears flowed, and part of me was so happy because it’s the release they both needed after hearing the end is getting ever so much closer for our beloved friend. And there’s comfort in sharing your tears, and these two men did that for each other. Mr. Special gave our neighbor permission to keep crying because he needed to so badly. There were no pats of the back and comments like, “You need to stay strong for her.” No the comments were, “It’s not fair,” and a whole string of other things as they both embraced each other and cried together.

When I was a hospice volunteer, I witnessed many of these scenes. I’ve been a part of only a few personally, and this one, well, it’s hit home more than any other. But I know that in the moment, it’s not about me. I wanted to comfort my neighbor and Mr. Special. And then I stepped inside to see my friend and realized she’s already gone. I remember talking to other people when they were end of life, and between the pain medication and the way the body shuts down, they just aren’t there like they used to be. And she wasn’t. I cried a little at that, but I held her too and then rejoined the men when she nodded off.

Our neighbor finally went inside to take care of more tasks that are part of this time: fill more prescriptions, call more friends and family, check on his wife’s oxygen.

And Mr. Special pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me and let me cry too. His tears wet my hair as he rested his chin on the top of my head, and even though everything hurt, there was so much love I felt honored. Honored to know these beautiful people that have been my friends these many years.

When I finally went inside, I took a moment to center myself and cry a little more. But I felt blessed. Because the men I loved so much had been able to find healing together through their tears.

Image courtesy of David Castillo Dominici at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It’s my birthday, and while I have always said I was young at heart—the key to never feeling older—I realized I needed to honor the wisdom I’ve acquired along the years.

This morning I rose after sunrise and headed to one of my favorite places right now in my life. The marsh. The sun was already warm and turning the river to liquid gold in places. A tree beckoned me to climb it and simply lay against her enormously curved branch, and I looked up at the turquoise sky. It was beautiful and playful and restful. Exactly what I needed. A person ventured toward my private space, so I moved on. When I came to the ring of stones facing the water, I stood on one and thanked the divine for all that had come before, all that is, and all that will be. Then I did a little yoga and Qigon with the sunlight streaming over me like a blessing and resumed my walk. There was magic everywhere. The fish even seemed to be dancing, leaping out in the water as if responding to a conductor’s cue.

I allowed the morning quiet to settle inside me. The story I am currently writing flowed in and out of my mind with new inspiration, and I watched it, and then let it go. By the time I left the marsh, I was completely at peace and so happy to be here, celebrating another glorious year.

From there, I went to my favorite French café to have some bubbly, a pan de chocolat, and quiche. They know me there, and pretty soon, one of the waiters brought me a plate of chouquettes (these marvelous French cream puffs) with Happy Birthday written in chocolate. Wonderful!

Then it was off to buy more pink champagne for my birthday party tonight since my friend wouldn’t let me bring a single dish—a rarity for this former chef.

For me, birthdays are a time of beautiful reflection, gratitude, celebration, and dreaming. What might this new birth year bring? So much is happening. Magical things. Wonderful things. I am left speechless and breathless sometimes. Other moments, I simply laugh and put my hands to my heart and bow to all there is supporting me in fine fashion.

What would life be like if we lived like this every day? I’ve decided today I’m going to try it and find out.