So yesterday, as you can all see, was not exactly a brilliant day.

But it did force me to make some choices. I felt so stuck, mired in all the exhaustion and shame and sadness, that I couldn’t really see clearly.

So I took a leap of faith. I think I had reached a point internally where I either leaped or plummeted.

So I leaped.

I emailed Naomi at IttyBiz, and told her my situation – I am dirt broke, between a rock and a hard place and I need to be outta my house within 6 months, or I’m going to implode.

And because she’s Naomi and absolutely wonderful, she helped me out. So I’ve signed up for Marketing School 101 and I’ve got one hours coaching time, where we are gonna sit and storm brains and come up with a “Get Me The Hell Outta Here” Plan.

I felt tons better after doing that, despite all the ‘Oh my god, I spent money!” pangs afterwards. But it felt like such a right thing to do that today, I’m okay with it. I feel good about it.

In fact, I’m feeling downright hopeful.

And I also realized yesterday that if I’m feeling all this sticky-stuck then I really need to start taking better care of myself. So this morning, I meditated, did some yoga, and wrote my morning pages and felt decidedly more peaceful after wards. Centered, calm, and able to take on the day.

And I had the most interesting conversation with my morning pages.

I would say that I had a conversation with the Universe/God/Whatever, but that sounds pretentious and like I think I’m Joan of Arc or something. I don’t. I’ll just call it a conversation with a smarter, wiser, more intelligent part of myself.

I was worrying about money (shocking, I know), and about how I felt like if I asked for more than a certain amount, this big, scary, stern God/Father figure would glare at me and say, “No!” in a booming voice. Like I was being told off by something inside of me for even asking for more than just enough. It made me feel like a child, wanting a new Barbie Doll and being told, “No, you’re being greedy. You’ve got enough. You don’t need anymore.”

But then I started wondering, what if this God/Father Figure/Universe thingy actually liked me? What if I’d gotten it wrong, and the world wasn’t like that at all? And that maybe, just maybe, this entity-thingy might even actually be on my side?

So I thought to myself, “Hey, why don’t I just ask it?”

Apparently the world has a sense of humour

Me: Hey, uhh…Universe/God thingy? Do you actually like me?
Voice: Yep.
Me: Do you actually want good things to happen to me?
Voice: Yep.
Me: Are you actually kind and nice and friendly?
Voice: Yep.
Me: I don’t believe you. Universe/God wouldn’t say things like “Yep.” I’m just talking to myself.
Voice: No, you’re not.
Me: The Universe/God is supposed to be all dignified and grand and all powerful. It wouldn’t say something like “Yep.”
Voice: Pffft, says who? I show up in the way that’s best for the person to take me seriously. Aren’t you more likely to listen to the voice that sounds like a friend, and is kind and has a sense of humour, than some big, scary, booming voice?
Me: Wait, you’ve got a sense of humour?
Voice: (Rolls eyes) Yes, I have a sense of humour. I made humans didn’t I?
Me: Oh. Fair point. I guess I just expected you to be more like my grandfather. All stern and booming and powerful.
Voice: Nope, I’m pretty friendly. In fact, I’m very friendly. I just want to help.

I had to kind of sit and process this for a while. It took me some time to wrap my head around it.

Everything will probably be okay

Me: So am I going to leave and move to my apartment by the sea? Will I have enough money? Is everything going to be okay?
Voice: No problem. You just gotta stop worrying about it. Your businesses will be thriving by the time you leave. And you’ll be happy and thriving too. It’s not half as scary as you think it is.

This needed some more processing – the idea that everything was going to turn out alright, and not completely blow up in my face.

The world is now actually scolding me

Me: I used to hate you. I was so mad that made me sick. Why did you make me sick?
Voice: Was there a better way to slow you down and get your attention, Speedy?
Me: Oh. I guess you have a good point there. But why did you want to get my attention?
Voice: Dance? Seriously? You thought you were gonna be a dancer? You knew, in your heart of hearts, that dance was wrong for you. True, you were good at it but not because it was right. Your old teachers were so determined that you be the next greatest thing that the only way to get you out was to stop you from dancing altogether.

And even then, they still wanted you to keep dancing. Art is what you were put here for. I had to get you to come back to that somehow. Speaking of which, you should probably get on that.
Me: Are you scolding me?
Voice: I’m just pointing out what you were put on this planet to do and that you’re doing an excellent job of avoiding it.
Me: Okay, I know, I know. But I’m just really worried about the money and leaving and just everything.
Voice: Yes, don’t worry, I have noticed. You keep asking for help and then either ignoring the help sent or spending so much time worrying that you don’t even notice the help that was coming to you. You just keep blocking it.

Relax!

If you just start taking tiny, daily steps towards your dream – you don’t need an elaborate plan – just tiny steps, actions every day in the direction of what you want, everything is going to work out just fine.
Me: But what’s the next step? What’s the right thing to do?
Voice: There is no “right thing”. Just do something! Anything! Whatever! I don’t care! Just get some movement going on and everything’s going to be alright.

And for pete’s sake, can you please just stop worrying? Everything is going to be fine.
Me: Promise?
Voice: Promise.

And that was it.

Over, done. My pages were finished, and the voice stopped talking. But that sense of reassurance, of hope and of protection are still here.

That feeling of, everything is going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. I don’t have to have all the answers. I just have to keep heading in the direction of my dreams.

It’s a good feeling.

I’m in week 3 of the Artist’s Way. This week’s discussion? Synchronicity and buried dreams.

It got me thinking about all of the things that I want to do that maybe, for various reasons that I discussed yesterday, I haven’t done. Or even admitted that I’d like to do.

Julia Cameron talks about the synchronicity, and the serendipity that can sometimes happen after admitting to a buried dream and committing to it, so today, I’m going to do a bit of excavating. I’m going to throw out there some of the things that I’ve always secretly dreamed of doing, and never really told anyone about.

First up – I want to design my own line of lingerie.

I know, I know. It seems like the most ridiculous thing ever, right? But I’m secretly a magpie, and obsessed with all things frilly, shiny, sequined, beribboned and silky. And the great thing about lingerie, or even just undies, is that it means you can wear the most ridiculous colours, patterns and shiny things that you would never get away with in real life.

Do I have any idea how I would go about doing this? Not a clue. I don’t know the first thing about designing bras. No start-up capital either. Or anywhere to sell them. But how fun would that be? Super fun. It would be a labour of love.

Next - I want to create a creative empire.

I’ve always dreamed of being mogul. It’s got nothing to do with the money. I just want to boss people around.

Kidding

I actually just like to have a million plates spinning at once. The more projects I have on the go, the happier (and more exhausted) I am. For me, it doesn’t even mean having a million employees. I think I want to recreate something along the lines of Picasso, and Warhol – their art was everywhere, without being compromised artistically. I want to get into designing other things, like furniture, or having my art printed on products and stuff. Nothing lame and tasteless, of course. I just want lots of juicy creative projects and collaborations with deliciously creative people. (If you happen to be one of these people and would like to collaborate with me, please, email me at sarah@smlacyart.com – we could have fun.)

I want to meet/see the Dalai Lama. And be on Oprah.

The first one is just a random wish that I’ve always had – he just seems like the coolest, happiest dude around. I think just seeing him would transfer some of that peaceful happiness onto you. Plus, you could tell everyone you’ve seen the Dalai Lama. You can’t really beat that as far as cool goes.

Oprah is like this love-hate person. You either love her or you hate her. I know a lot of people who hate her, but I have major admiration for this woman. She went from nothing to mogul (see above). You gotta have respect for that. So sitting on that couch, having a conversation with her would be pretty amazing.

I want to live in a big, rambling, Jane Austen-esque house.

This is mostly because I’m a dork. I love Jane Austen. I love period houses. It was inevitable that the two would combine into one major Want. It’s going to be covered in ivy, with leaded glass windows, and plaster walls (no drywall for me!) and fireplaces galore. And a window seat. And maybe a turret. With damask wallpaper on the walls, and lots of trinkets and junk everywhere. It’ll be super cozy and yummy, and I’ll just hibernate in there all winter and paint and read and design bras.

I want to write a book. And secretly, I love to write.

I’ve always wanted to write a book. Maybe a self help book. I don’t think I could write fiction, although I used to when I was younger. But it’s not really me. I want to write books that will help people, and make them feel better about their lives and themselves. Maybe one will be about coping with CFS (a book version of the CFS Ninja perhaps?) and maybe another will be about loving yourself. I’m not sure yet. I just know that I really want to write a book one day, when I’ve got my own self loving under control.

I don’t often admit that I love to write. I think maybe its because my boyfriend is a writer, and he’s so good, I just feel like a fool, hacking away at the words on this blog. (Confession – when he started reading this blog, I was absolutely terrified. I was convinced he was going to tell me that I was terrible and that I should stop before I started making people’s eyeballs bleed and their brains melt.)

So there, I said it. I like to write. Can I hide under the covers again now?

Alright, I think that’s it.

I’ve covered my major secret dreams. There’s probably some others kicking around, but these are the ones I really think about when no one is watching.

Some of them seem so grandiose, and others seem so wacky (Hello? I want my own lingerie line) that I’ve just dismissed them as being unattainable.

But maybe I’ll give them a second chance. Writing them out here, they don’t seem quite so nutty anymore. And maybe even a little bit believable. And goodness, do they ever seem fun. A lot of work, yes, but whoever said that work and fun can’t be in the same sentence?

So there ya go, Universe. I’ve declared out loud my secret dreams. Its your turn – I’ll be keeping an open mind.

This whole “writing my morning pages” stuff is getting kind of heavy.

Its bringing up so much…ugh. Junk. Stuff I’d seriously rather not think about. Except I know that when I’m not thinking about it, its actually deeply affecting me.

Today’s exercise was excavating core negative beliefs. Holy crap, do I ever have some of those. I’ll warn you now that you’re going to look at this list and be like, “What the heck is wrong with you girl? None of these things are true!”

But that’s the thing about core negative beliefs. You don’t believe them because you want to, or because they’re true. You believe them because you’re taught to believe them.

So let’s have a quick look at what I came up with:

The Universe hates my guts.
No one wants to buy my paintings.
My paintings aren’t good enough to get accepted into a “real” gallery.
People don’t buy art. Its a luxury.
My paintings are the wrong kind of paintings. I should be painting other things.
I will never accomplish anything of any kind of importance because I am sick.
No one will take me seriously because I’m very young.
I’m annoying.
I’m boring.
I’m not good enough. (For what, I don’t know. Its just came out.)
My work is too expensive, and no one will want to spend that kind of money on my work.
Showing my personality is bad. The more of my personality that I show, the less people will want to buy from me and the more my potential customers will hate me. I must be business-like and safe.

So I’d like to say that pretty much all of these beliefs came from one specific person. Let’s call him Bob for the sake of anonymity and just in case he reads this, he won’t stop talking to me for a week. Bob is prone to doing that. (I do actually know a Bob, and Bob, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Its most definitely not you. You’re awesome and I love you.)

Bob likes to rain on my parade. Good thing happens? Bob likes to tell me how its not good at all. How its actually pretty terrible. Or that its a fluke, and will never happen again.

So the belief that I did some exploration on today was “No one wants to buy my paintings.” I kind of sat there for a bit, wondering where that came from, and a memory came back to me. A strong memory.

It was the day of my opening to my first solo exhibition, which for me, at 19, was a pretty huge freaking deal. I mean, this was after I’d finally gotten away from the abusive boyfriend, and beat depression and was back at school, and getting near graduation (finally) and I just really needed a victory for me. I needed to prove to myself and the world that, yeah, I was still here, and I was still gonna kick ass, and nothing was going to stop me.

So at my opening reception, I sold my first ever painting. I mean, I’d done commissions before, but this was a painting that I’d painted for me, and then somebody else loved too, and they decided it was worth $200 to buy it.

BIG FRIGGING DEAL. Huge deal. I was overjoyed. I was shaking I was so excited. I felt like a huge world of possibilities had just opened up to me. People liked my work. People wanted to buy my work. I felt like the luckiest, happiest girl in the world.

So after everyones left, and I’m expounding this wonderful things to the people who stayed behind, and Bob turns and says to me:

“Well, you would have never sold that painting if it wasn’t to your friend’s mother. Its only cus your friend bullied her into it that it sold. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have sold anything.”

I think I actually disintegrated on the spot. It took every ounce of strength I had to A) not automatically burst into tears and B) not deck him.

But I was furious. And hurt. Really hurt. Because Bob is really close to me, and if Bob said it, it must be true, right?  (I’m starting to see that Bob is often wrong, but I was young. And at that point, I thought Bob was behind me 100%. He’s actually not. Or if he says he is, he’s lying.)

And so even though I did sell another painting for $500 at that show, I’d stopped believing in myself. I’d stopped believing that anyone would actually want my paintings. I told myself that the only reason I’d sold the other painting was because it was my mother’s friend who bought it. My mother had probably talked her into it. I lost all of my faith in myself. Which my faith wasn’t exactly iron strong, but it was better than it had been in years. And it was growing.

And I remember that even after I sold the $500 painting, Bob rained on that parade too. I don’t remember exactly what he said, I just remember I didn’t talk to him for the rest of the evening for fear that I would completely and totally freak out on him. I think it was something along the lines of, “Well don’t expect this to continue. I mean, sure you sold 2, but this doesn’t happen all the time.”

Gee, thanks Bob. Thanks for that support and encouragement. Thanks for being on my side. Jerk.

Wow, I actually feel so much better. I hold a lot of this stuff inside, and I’m often afraid to talk about it out loud. Bob would never admit to saying these things, and he would never take responsability for hurting me or crushing me. It would actually end up being my fault, I’m sure. He would resent me and stop talking to me for a while. And he’d be seriously, seriously pissed that I’d blogged about it. Ohhh boy, I would hear about it.

But now I feel a little bit better. I used to be ashamed about all of the things he’d said to me, and would hold them inside, where they festered and caused even more damage.

But writing about it is healing. It’s giving me some perspective to realize that Bob is wrong. And kind of mean sometimes. And that maybe people would want to buy my paintings.

Feels good.