My mother says I talk too fast. A little over 10 years ago, I remember hearing back from mom after leaving a message for her. (The good ol’ home phone, still kicking since 1978):
Honey, I’ve been your mother for 30 years and I still cannot understand you on the answering machine!
Mom isn’t the only one who says I talk fast. If the words, thoughts, ideas, and excitements that run through my brain in a 24 hour period were Olympic track athletes, they’d win gold for being the fastest, every single day. “You must be from The North” is a regular (correct) assumption, and “You should take some valium/smoke some weed/lay off the coffee” are regular suggestions as well.
If they only knew I worked for Red Bull during my 20’s and never even needed or drank the stuff to be a part of the Mobile Energy Team! (I did actually have a few vodka Red Bull cocktails that time our boss showed up in a limo fully stocked for a night out. Free drinks, friends, and a fancy car with a hired sober driver. I had my moment feeling like a Hollywood kid on prom night.)
I think I’ve been asked if I was on a speedball about 55,000 times.
I have the opposite of writers block. Too many words and too much energy I’ve been told. When I sit down to write here, there are so many things I want to say, and so many opinions, life hacks, thoughts, and ramblings I want to share, that I start, and my writing goes in 100 directions because I’ve waited too long. (Translation; not allowed myself the time/not taken the time, fallen into workaholic mode again, not shut my cell phone off enough, taken care of everyone else first, etc.) So my posts (book) end up in my drafts folder.
That friggin drafts folder!
It’s your own fault, sister.
As I call myself out publicly here again, for not gifting myself nearly enough time to do what I love the most until I start bursting at the seams, I hope you’ll take a little quiet time to think about what’s eating you up inside, and figure out a way to start feasting.
My favorite silent moments to recalibrate are during sunset each night:
(Yes, those are flowers in a vintage Cowboys juice glass. You’ll have to ask me about that time I married a huge Dallas fan.)
A classmate from elementary school just posted these photos on Facebook about one of the books we made in Mr. Collin’s 3rd grade class. This one was Native American Stories Author Bios:
All of these write ups we did about ourselves are cracking me up! I think we were the ones who came up with these paragraphs? Maybe a bit of guidance from the teacher:
Kelly, above me had favorite “maple sugar trees” – so this shows how all kids from Vermont are hooked on the good stuff from birth. (Schoolhouse Maple is my favorite syrup hands down by the way, made by hometown friends in case you need a supply.) I can’t say I remember writing a single thing before age 8, so what was this supposed sense of humor my “readers” found fascinating? I did get straight off the plane and beeline to Taco Tuesday in Barrio Logan this week for the start of adventure #2,859,443:
…so as I sit here sipping coffee on the west coast today, I have to think our small fry selves must have the instinct to know exactly what we wanted to become…far before we are even close to getting there.
As life keeps flying by and I ebb and flow in and out of writing here, this Blue Lollipop Road remains my absolute favorite place, no matter where I go.
Thanks for the post, Lenny. And to you little Diane…thanks for the reminder.
Here’s to continuing to give yourself permission to do and be everything you wanted to, before you were even tall enough to get on that ride.
Y’all! (Like that southern charm?) It has been a BIII-ZEEEEEEEE (busy) summer! Holy guacamole. (Love that stuff.)
Humongo projects with downsizing 5,000 sq ft houses, travels to Vermont, for fun, family, and other, Pro Athlete client move across the country (hello flying for work…so fun and yes, sky miles, and wow lots of shoes), weddings, graduations, retirement celebrations, preparing client homes to go on the market, our birthdays and engagement (wha?!), off to Florida and overseas shortly, and did I mention more work, meetings, work, meetings, and boom, its nearly September?
30 seconds of summer!
At least I made it to the gym today before yet another work meeting with my partner in crime, at the coolest place that’s opened in Charlotte since Charlotte became Charlotte. (Ok, so the USNWC is a super awesome favorite as well.) Messy, frizzy hair don’t care:
When you work for yourself, you’re a hustla, baby. Sometimes you change in a bathroom, and have to go without a shower after getting your sweat on, so you can fill your pipeline with next opportunities. Sometimes weeks pass without a break, then you take a big one. Sometimes you wonder how you haven’t come up for your own air, and then realize it’s because you’ve been filling client lungs with what they need to breathe.
We help people get unstuck. We LOVE what we do. We declutter lives to clear paths for whatever’s next for the people who hire us, dealing with the most stressful all-consuming times they might ever have. (Then WE are all-consumed.) When we are on 24/7, we know we’re making a difference by being the trusted guide by someones side when they often don’t even know what end is up. It’s exhausting at times, but after we get the red carpet rolled out for our clients next adventures, we always make time for our own.
What’s next for you?
We hope your summer was BIII-ZEEEEEEEE (busy…the good kind) like ours. We also hope that you won’t ever be afraid to go out with messy hair so you can keep creating the life you want.
I’m sitting outside in the quiet green mountain space of Vermont, after getting back from a hot sunny run down the dusty back roads I grew up on:
It’s hard to believe it’s been 8 years since our first BLR Play It Forward weekend. A high school alumni women’s soccer reunion that started out inspired by some very special friends, has expanded over time to be that, plus a homecoming each July where so many other community members young and old, have joined our group for some fun, and to celebrate life.
After I pressed publish on my last post, proclaiming myself as a “minimalist, childless, single gal from Vermont with a nomadic heart” – I got a little tease from my parter in crime:
“So you’re a single gal now, eh?”
“Well, we aren’t married…yet!” I said, laughing and teasing him back. “When I fill out forms that ask marital status, I check single. That’s all I meant!”
Lucky me, I get to share my life of adventure with this guy, who always makes me smile as big as the sun:
…the one who’s always the best sport about everything, everyday, even being game to rip up the dance floor because he knows how much I love it:
…the one who always makes me feel like I’m home:
J and I met almost 2 years ago, totally unexpectedly, on a very special weekend. A weekend that means the most to me. That same year a group of us put up a wall. The kind of wall that brings people together:
Strong Mojo is the indefinable essence of magic, when everything comes together perfectly.
Do you believe? I sure do.
Lead with love. Do work you love. You might just run into a whole lot you didn’t expect, that’ll make you smile as big as the sun for the rest of your days.
I just read this article a friend posted on her Facebook feed, then sent it to someone I thought it would be helpful to, for a project he’s working on. After the link in the email, I added:
Some people like stuff, and a lot of times, stuff does tell stories. I however, hate stuff, and I’d rather be the one telling stories, but either way, we can all get along…
Being a minimalist, childless, single gal from Vermont with a nomadic heart, and because I’m in the business of helping people get unstuck, I’ve been accused of:
1.) Suggesting everyone burn everything they own.
2.) Eating granola 3 meals a day.
3. Wanting all the people around me to move into a tiny house.
Laughing? You didn’t get the memo that all “hippies” from states like Vermont who don’t find it particularly fun or comforting to shop or have large living spaces, must think anyone else who could possibly like Target, or reside in more than 200 square feet is a terrible person? I’m laughing too. Yes, ridiculous, and certainly not the opinions I share.
Some of my besties have the biggest houses I’ve ever been in, and peruse through Home Goods like it’s their job. Some have shelves littered with books, and tchotchkes like your favorite auntie, or garages full of gear, and some could have thriving careers in interior design their spaces look so amazing with all the stuff they’ve collected. In fact, the person’s feed I took this article from is one of those longtime friends who every place she’s ever lived in, has been filled with beautiful decor floor to ceiling in each room, perfectly fit to her personality and experiences from her adventurous life. The kind of spaces you walk in to that transport you to a far of land and make you want to ask a zillion questions about everything you see. I love these homes, but I don’t want to live in them. These people wouldn’t want to live in my home, either.
Isn’t it great that we all have the choice to live exactly how we want?
A recent client was in her home 30 years, and she was more than ready to downsize from over 3,300 square feet:
Whether you’re a maximalist or a minimalist; YOU DO YOU. Figure out what lifestyle you want, and go for it. Time waits for no one, so whether you spend your 365 days a year in the same pair of shorts and live in a van so you can have the freedom to roam, whether you redecorate your McMansion every season to be the place with the capacity and currency to host all the people you love, or anything in between, use your time wisely enough that you still have a little bit left to celebrate every day.
Hi there. It’s been a while. Almost 3 months, actually. As I’ve been busy working with clients to help them better manage their time, space, and money, (lifestyle), I’ve been guilty of not taking enough time for myself to do what I love the most…be right here. Pretty ironic, eh?
I spent years traveling alone. I’m a big huge fan of solo time. Silent time. Ahhh…the time when nothing is beeping or dinging. That place where you can just breathe, and become more of yourself. Quality time. Think about it, how much quality time have you gotten with yourself, your work, or your family, lately? These days, we even take our phones to the bathroom. Hello, 24/7 plugged in, even when (ahem) are bodies are trying to unplug themselves. Sheesh.
It’s a little much.
Welcome to the spinning club. The place where you snap at your partner, don’t run outside and play with the kids anymore, where your pants are getting tighter because who has time for the gym, and by the time you pick up that magazine you wanted to read front to back, you realize the date says November, 2018 when it’s May, 2019. We are overwhelmed, and have no idea how we got there. We are so burned out, at both of those candle ends, we want to just snap it over our knee.
Pass the tequila! Nah, that’s not a good idea.
I learned long ago, that whenever I start feeling like a total brat, and I want to punch someone, or something in the face, I need to get the hell outta Dodge. Dodge for me means my apartment/city/routine. I’m not the kind of gal who punches people or things, so when the mighty beast fist starts clenching, I know it means…pack your bags, sister, and run for the border.
When’s the last time you wanted to punch someone or something in the face? Do you even have any idea about what you might need when you’re about to lose it on that poor grocery store clerk for simply asking how your day was?
I’ve been at a lake for a few days now, on a private road that’s not even state maintained. The only sounds have been birds, and an occasional boat. Heavenly. I’ve showered daily, but only put a bra on to go to the grocery store, and I really have zero desire to go back to the rat race. Not because I don’t love going to the gym, helping clients, connecting with friends, working my tail off, attending swanky events, sporty events, and educational events, or wearing bras…but because I know all too well how easy it is to get sucked into that gerbil wheel that makes us all a little crazy from time to time.
So what do we do when the peaceful breaks at lakes are replaced with honking horns and stress levels boiling to a million degrees when the rat race start gun goes off?
We just stop. That’s what we do…
…and start again when we have our quality head screwed on straight.