Showing posts with label Baddasses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baddasses. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 12, 2024





A reader commented that her favorite part of last weeks excerpt was when I shared the story of my first kiss. Then, she shared hers...

From TH:

"Oh Jo, I loved your sweet little first kiss mention. My favorite part! 

"My first kiss was from a neighbor boy a few years older than myself, who felt sorry for me having never been kissed and decided to rectify what he termed “my problem”. I guess that’s about as unromantic as you can get!"

However, later she commented that the first kiss from the love of her life, made her knees buckle. and she found out what she'd been missing.

I love it.!

Now, how about sharing yours, and say yes, if I have permission to print it. I will post your stories weekly.



CHAPTER TWO Continued from last week:





When I say, "Your story matters," I mean the real story, not the excuse stories—you know, the ones, "I'm not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, and I don't know the right people."

 Those are the "Ain't it awful" stories that some people repeat repeatedly until it fixes them in their brain so powerfully it would take an excavator to dislodge them."

Write your story to honor your life but look at it all so you can make sense of it and readjust it when needed. You can see where you've been and the people who influenced you. You might find out they were better than you thought. And you are better than you thought.

 You will find that you have picked up beliefs that no longer serve you. After all, you formed your fundamental belief systems when you were a wide-eyed little babe, taking in everything, smiles, frowns, words, laughter, tears, winks, eyebrow twitches, and shouts, with no filter system.

 These beliefs, impressions, and observations became locked in the subconscious mind.

And although the conscious mind thinks it's in control, it isn't. The subconscious mind is.

However, the subconscious mind is there to be utilized. We could think of it as our friend, not our enemy. One of the best explanations of the subconscious mind I have read came from the actress Angelia Lansbury:


One day, on a movie break, she launched into one of her favorite subjects: believing in her destiny. 

"Ah," she said, "I think perhaps I've phrased it badly. I don't mean anything magical or occult. Perhaps faith in the power of the subconscious mind would be a better way of saying it."

 "How do you go about tapping your subconscious mind?" an interviewer asked.

 "Heavens! I don't want to sound stuffy or highbrow, but it's awfully simple. If you tell yourself over and over again that there's no limit to the creative power within you, that's about all there is to it. Honestly, that's true."

 "It's there for everybody, like light and air."

 She explained that it isn't a cut-and-dried formula for success. You must keep plugging away, adding to your skills to be ready when an opportunity presents itself.

At age 92, Angelia Lansbury was performing on Broadway.


The people mentioned in this book deserve to have their stories told: June, the most upbeat person I have known; Jack, the war hero--shot down three times, twice the only survivor.  Bill, my writing buddy. 


A story not told becomes like an exquisite movie; when lost, it is forgotten.


I chose my parents. That's my belief, anyway. My dad might have felt shanghaied, but he seemed willing to contribute to making my body.

 One of my daughter's friends told her mother she believed she was conceived in the back of a Ford.

 "No," said her mother, "It was a Chevy."

 I didn't mean for Mom to feel guilty her entire life for getting pregnant at 16; I was happy she had me. I love the little girl I once was who ran while the breeze, soft as a feather's touch, brushed away the light skim of sweat from her skin. And older, she and her horse, Boots, pole-vaulted the orchard's cherry trees—not too close to the branches, but while doing it, she and Boots were at one with each other.

 I am curious how my mother's conversation with my dad went. Her best friend told me long after Mom was gone that she went with Mom to tell my dad he would be one. You see, the friend kept the secret, too, until I told her I knew I was conceived before marriage. I wish that friend was still around so I could ask about that conversation. I didn't realize Mom needed backup, but, hey, she was only 16.

 My mother didn't look like a 16-year-old. She looked like a healthy, voluptuous peasant from the hills of Switzerland. And since we lived with my grandmother, our family of grandmother, mother, father, me, and little dog Tiny worked out well.

Didn't we all come in as innocent little spark plugs ready to party? No wonder we get disillusioned when the party gets canceled. Or if our parents don't tell us that we need to sit down and shut up, the world does, "Who are you to question? Who are you who think you can be great? Many are called and few are chosen."

 Who are you, indeed?

 You are a magnificent child of God, like everyone else. So, stop denying your greatness, and live an exemplary life. That's what we came here for.

 Let's reboot.

 The voices of the world come in on us like pungent smoke. It coats our hair and lingers on our clothing.

 Why is that?

Well, who wants a bunch of Badasses running around thinking they are grand and, on top of that, knowing they can create the life they want?

 We do. That's who.