TAMA KIEVES (journal entry)
If you insist on having a destination when you come into a library, you’re shortchanging yourself.
ANNE LAMOTT
Sometimes you can’t find your answers, because you are playing chess with your life. In chess, you calculate all the moves. But living an audaciously inspired life is a different game. You start in checkmate. Admit you’re clueless, then open your heart to the four winds, the eight noble paths, or just any one speck that stirs your curiosity. You don’t find answers. You find moments—experiences that somehow create you. And you follow these bread crumbs to the gingerbread house—or the Grammys or wherever you’re trying to go.
Your brain hates bread crumbs. You’re just going to follow a path because there’s a crumb on it? That’s your research? That’s how you’re going to invent your life? Hell yes, it is. That crumb is a messiah. It’s a message from God. It’s an arrow. It’s a promissory note. And it will take you all the way, but not a way you know.
My good friend Lisa is a Juilliard-trained pianist who has awed audiences with her performances and who owned her own music school in Half Moon Bay, California. Several years ago, she started talking to me about her love of dogs, beyond Sanchez, her own mischievous yellow Lab. “I’m going to these dog agility trials and I just love it. What the heck do I do with this?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Follow the love,” I say, as though there would ever be anything else to say.
“Tama, I’m a classical pianist. I don’t want to be a dog trainer or a veterinarian. How can this be something? I just love the dogs.” She giggled. Yes, giggled. A telltale sign of a bread crumb.
One day Lisa attended a talk by a longtime sound researcher who was using the power of music to heal people. I want to play music to heal dogs, she suddenly realized. She’d received another bread crumb. Daring to set up a meeting with the sound specialist, she suggested playing classical piano compositions to calm dogs down from separation anxiety, loud noises, and other stresses. He did the research, measured conclusive results, and they began collaborating.
To date, they have eighteen albums on the market, including their number one bestseller, Through a Dog’s Ear, published by Sounds True, a leading holistic learning audio company. She’s been on CBS’s The Early Show and her music plays in shelters worldwide. No one in their right mind could have put these two exciting concepts together. But Lisa had followed the bread crumbs, the language of the intuitive mind.
Oftentimes, a bread crumb won’t make sense in terms of your “identity.” It may change the story of who you think you are. That’s because it’s guiding you to more of yourself, perhaps the secret parts you have not yet met, realized, or sanctioned.
When I was in college, I met Ben at a dance club in the Upper West side of Manhattan. He was a playful, sensual, wild curly-haired man. And as we talked, we realized in a city of 8 million people, we lived just houses away from one another, in another borough. Shazam! The woo-woo choo-choo pulled out of the station. That “something else is going on here” feeling wasn’t just physical chemistry. It was the fun chemistry, an electricity, a playfulness, and an anything-could-happen-now feeling, a thoroughfare of green lights.
I don’t remember if we kissed in the club or in his car. I do remember his kindness and forthrightness. “I’m only going to be here until the end of summer,” he whispered. He was moving to the desolate far ends of the universe after that. I think they call it Utah.
“You might not want to date me since I’m leaving,” he said. It wasn’t a “safe” plan. It wasn’t leading anywhere, except to guaranteed loss. Besides, to my kosher-keeping Orthodox Jewish parents, dating Ben would be as unkosher as eating shrimp and pork, together. I was supposed to find and marry a nice podiatrist, a mensch who would buy the four-bedroom home on Long Island with the oval-shaped swimming pool.
There was no way my mother and father would approve of me bringing home a guy in ripped jeans who was moving to Utah to hug red rocks and camp under the stars. Better you should pick daisies, if this is how you’re preparing for your future. Dating Ben was jumping off the Good Ship Lollipop onto the Titanic. This romance held no promise of future gain. But I didn’t need future gain. I knew I was gaining something right now. It was magic.
Ben healed my wounded self-esteem. I blossomed. And, as it turned out, he did not leave at the end of the summer. His plans changed. But it didn’t even matter. The relationship ran its course and ended when it ended for other reasons. And I am so grateful I did not miss the experience of being with that wild, expansive dreamer who beckoned the genie out of me. He gave me something far more valuable than diamond stud earrings from Tiffany; he gave me a significant piece of my identity to take with me into the rest of my life. Priceless.
The fearful part of you insists on guarantees and a straight shot. But not everything is meant to last forever or line up in a way you can see right now.
Some events or circumstances are catalysts or stepping-stones. That’s what a bread crumb is. It’s something that is right for the moment.
“You don’t find answers. You find moments—experiences that somehow create you. And you follow these bread crumbs.”
Years later, living under the bright blue skies of Denver, where everyone can always find a parking space, so you know this has to be heaven, I flashed on the memory of Ben, that golden curly-haired man, electric, full of the possible. He was so alive. “You have to see the skies out west. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen,” he bubbled. “You have to go out west.” He’d said it like a man who had discovered chocolate for the first time. I have no idea if that’s why I applied for legal jobs in Denver on a lark years later. But I believe now that it’s possible that Ben had been a messenger, an ally of my destiny in tight ripped jeans.
Here’s the thing. Something that seems random or out of the blue at one point in your life can seem like the linchpin of the whole infrastructure later. It’s like when you look back, you see that things just couldn’t have been otherwise. Moving to Denver seems like that to me now. I thought I was moving out here as a fun experiment and because I’d been offered an exciting job with a high-powered law firm. I didn’t consciously choose Denver, thinking, Now, that would be an excellent place to fall apart, leave a law practice, and journal like a madwoman. But I’m thinking my unconscious mind, servant of the soul, understood the higher plan.
Really, would I have left law, waited tables, given myself permission to “find myself” and explore writing if I had still been living in New York City? I don’t know. Living in Denver has perks. Can you say rent? I cannot say enough about the ecstasy of a lower cost of living. Also, Denver isn’t as—how shall I say this—rabid about ambition and status climbing. People here care more about mountain climbing.
A social gathering doesn’t immediately launch into an interrogation: Who are you? Who do you know? Where is your work showing? Of course, Denver might paint its streets orange in honor of its football team, but I can live with that. Overall, to me, Denver, graced by the Rocky Mountains, seems gentle, which is a very big plus if you’re planning on having a meltdown. Maybe it’s the sunshine—320 days of it a year. No matter what you’re going through, it’s clear that even you will have a sunny future.
When I teach my workshops on unleashing your calling, I instruct students to stop asking, “Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life?” A better question is “What feels right to me in this moment?” Likewise, whatever you’re going through, I want you to simply follow a bread crumb. You’re not choosing what you will do forever. You’re choosing what you will do for now.
Your whole life is a meteor shower within a mosaic, laid down tile by tile. It’s not just a straight line to a goal or a race of expedience. A butterfly net might be a better tool than a map.
Think about it. Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz had to take the whole giddy journey through poppy f
ields with crazy monkeys and a witch and everything, just to get to a place she could have gotten to with a mere click of her heels. The click would have taken her there, but she would not have arrived. She needed to follow the yellow brick road, or the bread crumbs. A meaningful life is not a straight line. It’s a hurricane that picks up a house and lands on you and sends you on a journey into Technicolor.
“What do I want to do with my life?” is way too big a question. The mind does not have those big-picture answers. But the soul does. And in its infinite wisdom, it doles out illumination in increments.
Spirit speaks in the now. It doesn’t speak about the future.
When I first left law, I felt the desire to write poems. “Oh, now we’re talking,” hissed my critical inner voice. “This is what we busted butt for in antitrust law, so that you could write about the geese?” But you don’t get to choose what you love. It chooses you. And it’s often just what comes before a comma, not a period.
For example, writing poetry led me to writing deeper essays about the journey of career transition, which turned into my first book, This Time I Dance! And as I wrote, I followed the intuition to start a support group, which led to teaching, which led to coaching, which led to putting on national retreats, which led to global programs online and more. And diving into writing, however it started, led me to write and publish four books with my dream publisher, an imprint of the largest publishing house in the world. One thing led to another and another. This is the radical path of following bread crumbs to everything you want.
Speaking at a commencement speech at Stanford, Apple founder Steve Jobs stole my strategy and made it public, for which I forgive and bless him. “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future,” he said. “You have to trust in something—your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.”
Give yourself permission to be led by your light. We live in a world that asks you for a five-year plan. But when you’re in transition, which is always, I suggest a five-minute plan. Follow the bread crumbs. Follow love. Always follow love. Love takes you places you wouldn’t believe. And it’s often sunny.
TURNING POINTS:
Follow the Bread Crumbs to the Banquet
You don’t find answers. You find moments—experiences that somehow create you. And you follow these bread crumbs.
A bread crumb won’t make sense in terms of your “identity.” It may change the story of who you think you are.
The fearful part of you insists on guarantees and a straight shot. But not everything is meant to last forever or line up in a way you can see right now.
Some events or circumstances are catalysts or stepping-stones. That’s what a bread crumb is. It’s something that is right for the moment.
Something that seems random or out of the blue at one point in your life can seem like the linchpin of the whole infrastructure later.
Simply follow a bread crumb. You’re not choosing what you will do forever. You’re choosing what you will do for now.
Spirit speaks in the now. It doesn’t speak about the future.
You don’t get to choose what you love. It chooses you. And it’s often just what comes before a comma, not a period.
CLARITY IS IN YOUR FEET, NOT YOUR BRAIN
We keep moving forward, opening new doors, and doing new things, because we’re curious and curiosity keeps leading us down new paths.
WALT DISNEY
You don’t have to go bungee jumping or slinking into a Kama Sutra class. I’m just saying that doing new things is a way to discover new information about yourself. You have to leave the couch—or your office, or the life you know—behind. Just buy a purple toothbrush. Do something different.
TAMA KIEVES (e-mail to a client)
Lauren was an alternative coach in Boulder, Colorado, who was half power pixie and half rocket scientist. She had a gift for turning driven, broken, tired people into open-hearted, functioning, actualized citizens of the world. The woman had earned a black belt in kung fu “just for fun.” I guess listening to everyone’s problems all day may have made her need to attack something at night. But weekly she encouraged me to “play,” to try new things in order to discover more about myself. Play, as in not immediately marry, incorporate, scale it, or win a medal. Visit the cult, don’t join it. Just try something.
I sat there clenching the tissue box, not wanting to tell Ms. Kung Fu how strained I felt just finding socks that matched in the morning. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to voluntarily add something new—and not a sure thing—into my life. I was doing everything in my feeble power to avoid uncertainty. I’m sure that zealous woman babbled on about the joy of challenge and I looked at her with my bleary, pleading eyes and said, “English, please.” But all these years later, I remember the light in her eyes on a Wednesday afternoon. I remember the ease of her skin. That woman was having fun.
These days I coach others who feel stuck in the story of themselves. I help them dive into new realms of potential. I know that when you feel stuck or like you’ve plateaued in your success, you’re craving experimentation, action, and magic—and not, my darling head cases, more analysis. It’s time to wake up different hot zones in your brain or unleash a new part of your identity, a sapphire in your buried treasure chest. It’s there waiting for you.
Sometimes you don’t know what you want anymore, because you don’t want what you know. You want what you don’t know. You yearn to wake up. It’s time to take an adult education class, meet a new acquaintance, visit another neighborhood in your city, or do something unusual, whether or not you’re in the mood. Because, really, you won’t be in the mood. You’re bored, stuck, and timid, and you feel like that clump of muck stuck in the drain of the kitchen sink, until you do something new.
A mood is not a fact.
There’s this whimsical notion that inspiration arrives as a clap of lighting. Or maybe a prophetic dream in which a dusty scroll unfolds, which would be rather lovely, though cruel, really, if you have a menopausal memory problem. Fortunately, there’s a more reliable way to unlock your enthusiasm: Sample something new. Anything. Lots of things. Pay attention. Chase a glint. And repeat.
I remember when I first bought a house. I had no idea what I was looking for. Zilch. It was like the Sahara in my head. Some people have elaborate, exacting ideas of their needs and desires. I knew I didn’t want to live in my apartment anymore. That’s what I had.
“What do you have in mind?” the real estate agent asked. I looked at him numbly, and maybe even provocatively, as though with a little encouragement he might tell me the right answer. So we started with some of the things I knew I didn’t want. I did not want to live next door to a brothel or a toxic waste dump. I did not want a tree stump. I did not want green eggs and ham. I did not want neighbors on the lam. And lime green siding was out. Mr. Realtor smiled weakly. I have a feeling that wasn’t one of the days he loved his job.
Then the Realtor showed me different neighborhoods and styles of homes. Over time, as we looked at different places, clarity began to emerge. I realized I loved older homes, but I wanted extra closet space. I loved the idea of having a private backyard and garden, while being close to a coffeehouse and trendy restaurants. Then came skylights and hardwood floors—cherry hardwood floors—and vaulted ceilings where possible. Pretty soon, I was rattling off features as though dictating an old family recipe.
I would never have figured it out or gotten that clear in my mind. I got clear in Bob’s Toyota Camry, driving around and viewing properties. I recognized desires as I looked at kitchens, sunrooms, decks, bathrooms with white claw-foot tubs, and porches. I couldn’t name my preferences in the beginning. I had to prime the pump. I needed to see options. When I saw examples, my desires kicked in
and ran wild.
I’ve seen this same dynamic when I teach writing classes. If I tell my writing students to write “anything,” many will stare at me blankly, frozen in the paralysis of too much choice. I tell them to write about the blue box, and bam, they’re off to the races with memories and scenes. Psychologist Rollo May explains in The Courage to Create that creativity often requires an “encounter.” Most artists don’t create from thin air. They encounter a landscape, an object, a person, or a bad date. From this brush with reality, they meet themselves. Their expression is a response to something as much as it’s a creation of something radically new.
Want to discover who you are now and what your guidance is asking you to do? Your inspiration is often waiting for you in the wild country of doing new things, not thinking about doing them.
Oh, wait. You might be afraid to make a mistake.
You may be afraid to try things because you don’t want to “waste time.” The voice in your head that says this rolls its eyes and speaks as drily as the vodka martini you are about to suck down instead of an experience in your life. You don’t want to make a mistake, or “another” mistake, some of you say, as though you’re keeping tabs, which of course you are, and according to the vicious calculations of the tab Nazi, you’re losing.
But life is a series of trying new things, fizzling, faltering, seemingly going nowhere, and then awakening. It’s the system. It’s not going to change. I have wanted to hide in my bed and magically sprout into a superstar. It hasn’t worked. Hiding is withering, because risk is a vitamin and without it you die.
I once taught a class of young artists to explore their gifts in the world. Most of them, like most of us, wanted to avoid making mistakes. But holding back is not how we thrive. In my book Inspired & Unstoppable: Wildly Succeeding in Your Life’s Work!, I talk about this and since I can’t say it much better now, I’ll quote what I wrote: “I wanted them to take risks, consume risks, billions of them, as though they were hungry baby birds opening their beaks for worms. I wanted them to know that everything was safe because everything would teach them and eventually activate their bionic strength and fire. I wanted them to know that openness would strengthen them more than caution and protection. I didn’t say this to them, so I’ll say it to you: It doesn’t matter where you enter the stream. It doesn’t matter how you begin. Just jump in. Get moving.”
Thriving Through Uncertainty Page 18