Puppy Dogs and Rainbows

The other day, I posted a piece titled, Pens and Penises. Some people did not appreciate my metaphors. I suppose they are still sorting out recent events. Or they just plain didn't like it. Other people didn't get the metaphor at all, and still others connected with it.

I am hoping to have better luck with this post. After all, who doesn't love puppy dogs and rainbows... right?

My point (no pun intended) was that regardless of who the President of the United States is, it is incumbent on those of us who have personal power in any form - whether by nature of our gender, our money, or our talents - to mobilize that power for good in this world.

I embraced my first real post-election opportunity to do so yesterday along with my friend Janice. A gay couple who live in the Browncroft neighborhood where Janice lives had a rainbow flag on their porch. Someone set it on fire. On their front porch. Of their house. Where they live.

I'm not gay, and that's not OK. (See what I did there?)

Pictured left to right: Janice, Love, Me

Janice and I don't have to be gay to stand up for justice for people who are. I don't have to be black to speak out against hate toward those who are. I just have to recognize that you are my sister. Or my brother. I don't stand idly by as someone bullies my family.

We need straight people standing up for gay people, whites fighting for blacks, and men advancing the causes of women. And guess what? I don't have to agree with you to stand beside you. I just have to agree with love. The proliferation of hate and injustice is not "their" problem. It's our problem. And we are the solution. Together. Under any administration.

Pictured, left to right: Janice, Love, Person giving out free hugs

It didn't cost me anything to attend this event. And I got a couple of awesome free hugs, met some amazing people, and had the chance to pet a few puppy dogs.

Emerson, Dog of Love. (He is looking for a home. Contact rescuepit.org)

Despite all the rage and hate that seems to be everywhere, yesterday was a day of puppy dogs and rainbows. And it made a difference that I showed up; it was an act of love and justice that had impact in the moment and that I know will ring out for all eternity. You should try it. Please do.

Find someone in need of your power, then do something small in your neighborhood or do something big if you can. Just do something. That's where the revolution begins.

Love and Peace,
Julie

Pens and Penises

The pen is mightier than the sword.

Whenever I think of that phrase, I remember once early in my relationship with my husband Rick, he gave me a really nice pen as a gift, and on the card he wrote that phrase but then he accidentally-on-purpose left out the space between the words "pen" and "is." If you add a comma in there you might have something like, "The penis, mightier than the sword."

That's kind of funny. In a morose sort of way.

I'm not going to talk about politics. I actually went on Facebook last night for less than a minute and I ended up with a pretty intense anxiety attack. I had to take half a Lorazepam to settle down.

So many swords. So much sword fighting. All I could say to Rick was, "I don't feel safe." And I don't. In fact, I've only felt this way a couple of times in my life. Once was during a long term abusive relationship, and the other was after 9/11. In both cases, I yearned for normalcy, for comfort, for understanding. I turn to God for those things, and I also turn to my friends and family.

But I can't do that right now because we've all gone crazy.

I get it, I feel drawn into the eddy of emotional chaos with fear and anxiety and hate swirling around me, lifting me up off the ground and plopping me down into a strange new land where none of the rules make sense. And I don't even have a little dog to cuddle, which makes it even harder.

Here's the thing: Because I've felt this way before, I know what it is. I feel terrorized. If you know what terror is, you know that it's not fear over what's been done, or what is imminent. It's fear over what might happen.

I am terrorized not by the result of this election, but by what I think it might mean. To me, to my country, to the world. 

I am terrorized by the promises our President-Elect made during his campaign, and by the power of the sentiments those promises represent.

Now get ready because shit is about to get real.

I was sitting in solitude this morning praying for the comfort and understanding I long for, and it occurred to me then that I am responding with terror to the very same promises that I accuse others of being fooled by. 

I criticized people and laughed at them for voting for lies and empty promises, and then I sat here, terrorized by those same promises. Are they true threats, or aren't they? If they are indeed empty lies and progaganda, then I have nothing to fear. Now we shall see. We shall all see. It will be good to know the truth. Then we can effectively act from a place of truth.

Which leaves me with the emotional collateral. 

I am angry and scared because many of my brothers and sisters in Christ say our President-Elect is anointed by God, when clearly Jesus refused to get involved in politics - even when his followers wanted to make him the King. It's there in your Bible. So please stop giving Jesus credit. You're making people hate him and those of us who follow him. We all voted for our own agenda. Own yours or go find someone else to hide behind. 

But the Bible also says I must love my brothers and sisters, and my enemies, so I will go into solitude and silence as much as I can, and seek to transcend that which divides us.

I am angry and scared because it feels like racists and homophobes and misogynists will now feel entitled to their hate. In truth, they have always felt entitled. Maybe now they will just be more bold about it. Maybe that's better. Then we can see who they are. I'd rather know. Flush it out into the daylight and deal with it.

I am angry and scared because I am worried that life will never be "normal" again. The truth is that human life has never been anything that could be considered normal. I've just always found a way to feel normal despite my human condition. I'll find that again, by the grace of God. Or maybe I won't. And maybe that will also serve to flush out my complacency. Could be time for action.

Mostly, I am angry and scared because everyone on both sides of the conversation seems so vicious.

If your candidate won, congratulations. We have no choice but to wait and see what happens next. You are victorious. You need say no more. We get it.

If your candidate did not win, don't let this development make you hateful. If that happens, then you really lose. We all lose then, because hate disempowers and we won't be able to lean on each other in our moments of weakness. I think we can expect many.

We're OK. We will deal with it.

I'm not psychic, but I can tell you the outcome of this. In this battle - as in all battles - love will win. Each of us can be part of that love revolution, but we must first address the hate and fear in our own hearts and stop projecting it all onto the other guy.

So take out your pen - or your penis, or your paints, or your money, or your signs - whatever you've got - and find a way to calm the fear and transmute it into loving action.

That's what I'm going to do. At least I'm going to try. 

Peace and Love,
Julie

What's your pocketsquare?

My brother Larry is an accomplished scientist, a business professional, and a devoted family man. His head of thick curls is now frosted with a bit of silver, but he's one of those guys who you can look at and imagine exactly what he was like when he was five years old. Affable and soft spoken, intelligent and kind, he is one of my favorite people ever.

My husband Rick and I went to visit Larry and his family recently, at their home outside of Boston. The morning after we arrived, Larry suggested that we take a trip to Hampton Beach, New Hampshire, which was just about an hour's car ride. He'd seen online that they were hosting their annual sand sculpture competition. So off we went.

As we drove into the beach area, we all prayed for a parking space and then laughed together as one opened up in the best possible spot - just as we were cruising by. The day was lovely - sunny and cool - and the people-watching was fantastic. Not to mention the amazing sand sculptures, like the one above titled, "She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not."

After we strolled up and down and had a good look at the sculptures, we spotted a tent where McDonald's was giving away free iced coffee, and other marketing SWAG, one of which was a smile on a stick. There's really no other way to explain it, because that's precisely what it was - a smile on a stick. To demonstrate, here is my brother Larry and his wife Debbie enjoying theirs.

After our coffee break, we went for a stroll on the beach, enjoying the sea breeze and the amazing gift of a summer's day, and Larry said to us, "You know, this is such a nice place. Everyone is so friendly. I've never had so many strangers smile at me." It was as if everyone knew my little brother and could discern his fine attributes.

Then Rick pointed out that Larry had tucked his smile-on-a-stick into the breast pocket of his shirt. He'd been walking around like that, and that little smile-on-a-stick was evoking grins and nods and giggles from passersby.

That's all it took. A smile as a pocketsquare.

We've all heard it countless times - you get what you give, reap what you sow, do unto others. And we seem to really struggle with what that actually means, and how to implement it. As it turns out, it is as simple as giving people a reason to smile. Because in the end, they want to. They want to smile at you and laugh with you and mill about in the mist of gratitude and pleasure for the life we share.

But sometimes it requires an invitation. A smile for a pocketsquare.

I'll admit I am sometimes terrible at this. My pocketsquare is often a complaint, or anxiety about getting where I'm going on time, or anger that other people simply refuse to behave the I want them to. And that's what I get back from them. But I'm working on it.

I challenge you to conduct an experiment of your own. Give people a reason to smile, a reason to be open and warm toward you. You go first. And then let's just see if that doesn't change your experience of the world and the people in it.

Let a smile be your pocketsquare for a day, or an hour, or even just for a single trip to the grocery store. Then come back and let me know how it went. I'll be here waiting.

I'll be the one smiling.

Peace,
Julie

Julie Scipioni is the co-author of the Amazon #1 bestselling novel series, Iris & Lily.

One bite of chocolate

I love my husband with my whole heart. He has just one fatal flaw. He chews his chocolate. The way one might eat a raw carrot. He takes a bite, chews it, swallows it, takes another bite, chews it swallows it.


















I don't believe I ever saw him eat chocolate before we were married. I'm sure I wouldn't have said "I do" to someone who would do such a thing. I would have had to ask him to sign a prenup, at the least, since this behavior was strong evidence that we were doomed. We are hanging in there despite the odds, thank God.

The process for eating food for nourishment does follow a bite-chew-swallow-repeat pattern, we can agree on that. But eating for the pure pleasure of it - as we do when we eat chocolate, or a brownie, or salted caramel frozen Greek yogurt - requires more finesse, and a mouthful or two of mindfulness.

The right way to eat fine chocolate of course is to first take one small bite and allow it to linger on the tongue, until it softens and melts, painting the roof of your mouth with a silky coat of smooth loveliness. Closing your eyes and moaning helps.

My husband hates it when I try to help him eat chocolate the right way. All I'm doing is explaining it to him. One time he even told me, "I beg your pardon, but I've been eating chocolate this way my whole life."

Exactly my point.

We are made for eating, but we are also made for savoring, for the experience of pleasure. Eating chocolate should be different than eating a carrot. Otherwise, I suspect that carrots and chocolate would taste the same, and then when we love someone we would give them a heart shaped box full of vegetables on Valentine's Day, and our Easter baskets would overflow with kale.

When you truly enjoy something, and are in the moment with that experience, it enriches your life, balancing out - even in a small way - the topsy-turvy, rushing around, messed up, crazy world in which we live.

Enjoy the one bite.

Peace,
Julie

Julie Scipioni is the co-author of the Amazon #1 bestselling novel series, Iris & Lily.

Don't forget to look up

It was a fox. At least I think it was. The face was still intact and even though I was passing by at 15 miles an hour, I think I saw a fox face. A cute little snout, red fur, perky ears. But the rest of it was just smeared across the road. I didn't want to look at it, but when you're riding your bike down Lake Road it's generally ill-advised to close your eyes.

My heart went out to that little fox, an innocent soul probably just trying to make it across the street. I mean, a fox is pretty big, and fast, and it seems to me if you're even paying a modicum of attention, you would be able to break or swerve or notice... or something. I live in a world where I am more likely to force traffic to go around me than I am to run over a caterpillar, and I can't imagine plowing down something as big as a dog - and then just leaving it there in the middle of the road. 

I don't know if it was the time of year, or the fact that it had rained the night before or what, but this particular morning, my path seemed to be paved with death. Frogs not hopping, snakes not slithering, birds not flying. Their tiny bodies littered the road and the shoulders; they were everywhere. I swerved to dodge the carnage, like I was riding some kind of macabre obstacle course. It seemed so unnecessary, all this death. 

As I rode north along County Line Road, with the sun just peeking up over the treetops, I contemplated the violent nature of the world we live in. It seems to me that with just a bit more care, we could make way for the creatures with whom we share this earth. It grieves me that we can be so callous, so disinterested. 

So I was happy to see a gorgeous male mallard duck standing at the side of the road. He just stood there, proud in his emerald and sapphire cap, as if contemplating about whether or not to cross.

I called out to him, "You can fly, you know. Just fly over the road." 

And then I saw it. His mate, dead in the ditch, a tuft of speckled brown feathers rolling across the grass. She'd been hit. And he was just standing there, befuddled.

My aching heart broke.

I heard once that ducks mated for life, but I don't even know if that's true. I thought that I would have to look it up on Google as soon as I got home. Maybe discover that the mallard would easily find another mate. Or maybe see what I could learn about the emotional life of ducks. Perhaps he didn't have the capacity to feel sad, the way I felt sad for him. I thought like this because I needed to find a way to comfort myself. Crying while you're riding your bike down County Line Road is also generally ill advised. 

As I rode along, I struggled to put that morning's experience into some kind of a context that I could accept. Because I couldn't accept the image of that innocent little thing, standing over his dead mate, immobilized. I wondered how long he would remain before he moved on. 

What is our big hurry? Where are we going that is so important that we can disregard the gentle lives that have no protection other than our sensitivity? Can't we answer a text five minutes later? Can't we be second in line for our latte? Can't we make room in our schedules to be careful with the world?

As I rode along, my heart sank more deeply into despair. So many roads. So many people making great sacrifices at the altar of the gods of Rush, Indifference, and Distraction. 

And I know that animals on the roadside is just one among the symptoms of our disregard for life. I know the stories of man's inhumanity to man. I've even lived some of them. I found myself asking God how we are supposed to stand it here, with so much violence and death and apathy. 

"How can you expect us to bear the tragedy of that?" I prayed.

Look up, came the answer. Your eyes are trained on the road, on the death, on the suffering around you. But what about this gorgeous day I have provided? What about the way the early morning sun is filtering through those tall trees over there? And what about the birds who line your path, singing in ten-part harmony? And look over  there - see those clouds of tiny purple flowers that seem to be floating on the fog? That's beauty, that's life. 

Acknowledge the violence and the suffering in this world, take time to pray and act for peace and love. But then, don't forget to look up. 

My tears subsided then, and I crossed the bridge that passes over Four Mile Creek. I looked over and saw two flat rocks rising up in the middle of the gurgling water. A male mallard was perched on one rock and his mate on the other. Quacking, enjoying the morning, safely tucked away, far from the cars and bikes and trucks pulling boats, whizzing past, thinking only of getting where they are going.

Peace,
Julie

Julie Scipioni is a writer, speaker, and the co-author of the #1 Amazon bestselling novel series, Iris & Lily.

Vision

Lately I've been having dreams where I can't see. My lids are so heavy that I don't have the strength to raise them. In one dream in particular, I had a military rifle in my hands. I was a sniper and my co-snipers had been protecting me, due to my blindness. But then my fellow snipers (what do you call a group of snipers, anyway?) left and asked me to guard the fort. Me, with the lead eyelids.

Like WHY would you put ME in charge of THAT?

After they left, I strained and struggled to open my eyes. I would get them open a tiny crack, and then they would slam shut again. I heard our enemies approach and I panicked. There was no way to fight them without being able to see. Even with my fancy-schmancy John Reese rifle. So instead of defending the fort, I hid behind a dumpster in the alley. I hid and waited until my allies came back and secured victory. 

This dream, this visitation from a group of angel snipers, was speaking to me about the importance not of sight, but of vision. I can have the most amazing and powerful rifle ever, and be surrounded by the best and strongest friends, and have something important worth fighting for, worth defending. But if I refuse to see things as they really are, if I can't find the courage to face my enemies, I will always be cowering in the alley, hiding, waiting for someone to come and save me.

I can never develop a sense of my power from behind the dumpster.

The truth is, I don't like fighting. Who does? I am actually surprised that I even had a dream about being in a war, it's so unlike me to use such a violent analogy. But I think that was probably the point of this divine communication. Like it or not there are conflicts all around us - within ourselves, between ourselves and others, good and evil, compassion and ignorance, fear and love. Refusing to be engaged isn't an option. You're either fighting or you're hiding, slamming your eyes shut against the truth of the world in which we live.

If I can't see who I am and what I'm about, if I don't know what I believe in or what I would give of myself to protect and uphold I truly am defenseless in this world. Watching everyone else do the work that I must learn to do for myself.

But as I open my eyes and enter the battle, perhaps my presence, the very energy of my courage, the fact that I stand at the ready willing to step into the fray, will steady others, will make the world just a little less afraid, and more will awaken and emerge.

Yes, let's do that.

Peace,

Julie

Julie Scipioni is a writer, speaker, and the co-author of the #1 Amazon bestselling novel, Iris & Lily.

Lighten up Ernest

I saw this guy on a social media site who posted, "The best perk of being a writer is having alcohol with breakfast."

I am a writer, and have been most of my life. I have never had alcohol in the morning. Except for maybe one or two bridal showers where they served mimosas. In fact, I drink very little at all - even at night. I have been truly drunk maybe twice in my life. Once when I was around 13 and my brother got married, someone thought it would be fun to give me champagne and to keep filling my glass all day. And then once at the 2001 Club (yes it was in the 70s and that was a disco, with a shiny mirror ball and everything) I was doing the hustle all night and drinking rum and Cokes just because I was so thirsty.  I've never even gotten drunk enough to vomit. Unless you count that time in 2014 when my novel debuted in Italy and I - ignorant of the fact that I am allergic to vodka - drank a vodka martini and then proceeded to engage in many gastronomical hijinks in general on the Italian Rivera, but specifically all over my sister's patio. But these have been exceptions.

Writers are not a tortured, hypersensitive lot who cannot cope with real life and so must escape by either making stuff up or inebriating themselves into oblivion. That's just bad behavior, and you don't get to do that and then say that we are in the same club. Why would you want to brand yourself that way, and then plaster it all over the Internet? It doesn't make you more talented. It actually only makes you look like you lack individuality.

And yet we all do a version of that. We do it to others, and we do it to ourselves. It's a form of stereotyping. When we stereotype other people, we merely limit the way we see them. But when we stereotype or label ourselves, we limit what we can become. We draw a circle around ourselves with everything that we do not think we are on the outside of that circle, and then we refuse to step over the line.

What labels are you living up to? If you are honest with yourself, you'll probably find them - at work, at church, at home.

If you ever say to yourself, I am __________ so that means I should (or shouldn't) ____________ then your labels are running the whole show. Some examples might be "I am over 50, so I should wear my hair short," "I am a stay-at-home Mom, so I should be a better housekeeper," "I am not musically inclined, so it would be a waste of time and money to take guitar lessons," "I am a female executive so I have to learn to play the game,""I am a Christian, so I should know how to recite fancy Bible verses," "I like yoga, so I should be OK with spending $100 on a pair of synthetic stretch pants," or, like my writer friend, "I am a writer so I should have a penchant for alcohol."

Labels do make life simpler, negating the need for all that thinking and self-discovery and compassion and communication and other such nonsense. Let's face it: It's much easier to make choices when you can clump yourself together with other people who have placed themselves into the same category. Instead of saying, "What is the best thing for me to do in this situation?" you can say, "What do other people like me do? What am I supposed to do?" But when we do that, we are acting as though our roles ARE us, that they define us. How much cooler would it be if instead we allowed our uniqueness to define the way we carry out our roles? Instead of using labels to limit yourself, use your own personal beauty and individuality to shatter the labels themselves.

I challenge you to be the "soccer Mom" who drives a Mini Cooper, the artist who is good with money, the CEO who doesn't compromise her integrity in the name of business politics, the IT guy who is an extrovert, the Christian who is isn't afraid to say, "I don't get it," the 50-year-old who wears long gray hair, the 20-year-old who knows that "ur" isn't really a word,  the writer who doesn't get sloshed every day and who posts a profile photo of himself smiling.

When we let our labels dictate our choices, we miss out on most of the fun, and all of the adventure that comes with forging our own path.

So, to the guy on social media with the I-must-be-a-really-good-writer-because-I-look-like-I'm-in-pain-all-the-time profile photo: I challenge you to stop posing so you look like a writer and just be who you are.You might even enjoy yourself. Sober. So lighten up, Ernest.

And you lighten up, too. Go make it fun. Go make it yours.

Julie

Julie Scipioni is a writer, speaker, and the co-author of the #1 Amazon bestselling novel, Iris & Lily.

My favorite Jesus

Look, I'm not even going to get into it with you. The best Jesus ever was the one from "Son of God." Hands down. I won't even discuss it. Yes, I know he had medium brown hair and he didn't look like he was from the Middle East, but there was something about the way he looked at people... with a sort of an affectionate amusement.

There was one scene where Jesus kept telling Peter to cast his net and Peter was like, "Dude - I've been fishing all morning. There are no fish."

Jesus was like, "Humor me. Whaddya got to lose?"

So Peter cast the net and he got so many fish he couldn't even get them into the boat. Peter was utterly shocked and amazed, as if Jesus had just pulled a quarter out of his ear. And Jesus just looked at him with this smile on his face, as if to say, "You are so adorable when you are being human."

As a human who loves Jesus and is attempting to obey his directive, "Come, follow me," I hope he does have a good sense of humor about my bungling efforts to do so. 

And why do I bungle so much? After all, Jesus only asks me to do a couple things. Love your neighbor. Love God. Forgive everyone. Never judge. It's not a long list.

But of course loving our neighbor includes not flipping off the guy who cuts you off in traffic, and not gossiping about that weird guy three cubicles down. So in its granular sense, it gets a little more challenging. Because really everyone will say they are all for love. Who's against love? It's the stuff of angels and heaven and all that. It's just that what that looks like way down here among us isn't all that romantic. And we think we are expected to be naturally good at this and we think if we struggle with our sister who drives us up the wall every time we see her, then we are hopelessly flawed.  

Part of our humanity is to be ashamed at how awful we can be at this following Jesus thing. Maybe we think if we allow ourselves to be vulnerable about our experience of following The Way we will be exposed as phonies or failures. No one wants to talk about that with raw honesty. We talk about what we should be experiencing, or what we wish we were experiencing, not so much what we are actually experiencing. The longing, the frustration, the confusion of unanswered prayers, the shortcomings we can’t seem to overcome, the regrets that are stuck to the bottoms of our shoes, the hope. And the struggle that hope brings. The tension it creates. It can be agonizing. 

I am moved by Jesus’ compassion, inspired by his power, touched by his surrender, in awe of his wisdom, and humbled by the truth that no matter what I do or how hard I try, since my goal is to imitate Jesus, I will never be able to live up to my own standards. That's no fun. 

And then there’s the part where that’s OK, where the failing is the whole point. We fall and we fall and we fall. Like when you learn to ice skate. It’s a given and no one expects to learn to skate without wiping out over and over again. We don't consider it a character flaw.

I think it would be cool to experience following Jesus with that expectation: To accept that I’m going to fall on my butt repeatedly, and then not consider each wipe-out to be some kind of disaster, but rather a natural expression of my humanity. And maybe it makes Jesus smile to know that at least I'm trying. 

So let’s just strap a pillow to our collective arse and have at it, huh? 

Let's give Jesus something to laugh about.

Peace,
Julie

Julie Scipioni is a writer, speaker, and the co-author of the #1 Amazon bestselling novel, Iris & Lily.