Hey, New Yorkers, this Heart to Heart healing happening comes highly recommended from my pal Doug E. Fresh Larson. If you’re feeling the woo-woo, it might be right for you-you? The Urban Pixie can’t personally recommend but anything that includes, “Say ‘Yes’ to our life energy, our sexual energy, and our aliveness” in the announcement is a-ok with me!
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While I hate that it all comes down to the money, that’s the way the campaign cookie crumbles! I got another email from my buddy, Barack, seeking additional support. So, if you’re on-board & feeling HOPEful, please pony-up & pass on. If not, the Pixie respects your right to choose differently & asks only that you participate in the democratic process, FUBAR as it may be.
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Dear Jennifer,
Last night each of the presidential campaigns reported their third-quarter fundraising numbers.
The results are clear. We continue to build the largest grassroots movement in history, but Washington lobbyists and special interests rallied to help Hillary Clinton out-raise us for the first time.
If we want real change in this country, then we need to prove that together we are stronger than the lobbyist-driven money machine that has dominated Washington for too long.
The situation here is simple. We are $2.1 million behind. We must close that gap right now. I need you to make a donation of $50:
https://donate.barackobama.com/closegap
Hillary Clinton aggressively seeks money from Washington lobbyists and special interest PACs. She’s even said that these lobbyists represent real Americans.
She’s wrong.
I think it’s time to turn the page on that kind of politics, and that’s why I have not accepted a dime from Washington lobbyists and special interest PACs in this race. We rely on a network of more than 350,000 ordinary people to make us competitive — more supporters than all the other Democratic candidates combined.
Washington lobbyists have chosen their candidate and are determined to provide her with an overwhelming advantage. But you can even up this contest.
In the face of the most entrenched political machine in Democratic politics, I believe a movement of ordinary Americans can change our country. And you can prove that right now.
I need you to make a donation to close the gap:
https://donate.barackobama.com/closegap
Barack
In a time when a noose appears on Columbia’s campus, Columbinesque copy-cats creep up around our country and faith fades fast in lost leaders, I turn to wise words from another. Please take this one to heart and pass along the peace out there.
“The world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love.” – William Sloane Coffin
Once again, thanks for the Sunbeams, Sy & Co. My days are brighter with your light in my life.
The Urban Pixie’s poised to wax poetic this coming Saturday, 10/13/07, & I’d love it if you could make it. Rocking the mic at the Ear Inn again, I promise to debut new material & use bad language as per usual.
Thanks to my fab teacher, Jason, & his hubby, Michael, for making the magic happen!
Here’s the scoop:
Ear Inn
Saturday, 10/13/07, @ 3:00
326 Spring Street (west of Greenwich Street)
New York City
FREE
Subway: C/E to Spring Street; 1/9 to Canal Street; N/R to Prince Street
http://www.mbroder.com/ear_inn/10-oct07.htm
With love & sporting the sass,
Jennifer
As I’m learning in my latest educational exploration, 4Ts, all the good I need is lined up, ready & waiting for me to feel worthy of it being broughten. I know, I know, this is not the easiest pill to swallow for most of us, as who wants to think it’s their “fault” for being poor of spirit, spending money or, God forbid, sex? Not me! But since I’ve sheriously started shifting my shit around, business is booming in all the bureaus.
Ironically, yesterday, the day I headed out to 4Ts at Unity, everyone (on the Internet anyway) seemed in agreement. Here’s what I got, in back to back email updates:
Actually, Jennifer, it’s not that you want stuff that you don’t have, but that you want stuff that you think you don’t have. And the best way to change this is to begin thinking that you have it.
“Oh, there’s my electric, fully loaded, 2008 Habitron cloud maker!!” – The Universe
&
October 8, 2007
Purposeful Prosperity
Pisces Daily Horoscope – You may find you excel at everything you do today, whether your day’s tasks involve professional responsibilities or domestic duties. Consequently, you will likely feel quite prosperous as well as sure of yourself where your abilities are concerned. Capitalizing on these pleasurable feelings may involve channeling them into self-trust so that you can further your efforts without doubting your capacity to handle the changes that take place as a result. Your purpose will no doubt be as clear to you today as it has ever been, but your potential may be heightened by your willingness to see yourself as someone who is destined for success.When we view our growing prosperity as a sign that we are on the right track, we can continue forward confident that we are doing all we can to realize the purpose designated for us long before our birth. Many people have learned to doubt themselves so severely that they find it nearly impossible to break the cycle of uncertainty, even when their lives are unfolding in a positive and fulfilling fashion. It is important that we allow ourselves to draw encouragement from our successes, as it is these that will contribute greatly to our level of confidence and drive. We tend to be far more enthusiastic where our prospects are concerned when we believe that we are capable of achieving great feats of strength, intelligence, and endurance. The fact that you are excelling at work and at home today should be seen as a sign that you are making the right choices.
The 4Ts may not be for everyone – as it’s a pretty potent program for prosperity – but this Pixie’s ready to move on up. Watch out, George & Weezie, cuz I’m making it look easy!
Here’s a poem I shared last night that popped out in my magical Mexican shower stall:
I AM PROSPEROUS
I am prosperous.
I am prosperous.
I am prosperous, got blessings galore,
Got all kinds of good showing up at my door.
Thanks to Stretton and Britt, my mind’s not the same,
No more playing that tired “poor old me” game.
There’s fortune and fame and love all around,
I’m up to go get the bounty I’ve found.
God in me guides my soul to the love,
My coat of new consciousness fits like a glove.
This Pixie is prosperous, published and free,
Do you see all this substance coming to be?
I’ve prayed and I’ve prayed with all of my breath.
With pleasure I measure my treasure, chest
held high to the sky.
Caterpillar no more,
I’ve learned how to fly.
Say it with me people, “I AM PROSPEROUS” & so you are!
Tomorrow is all about Obamanation for this Pixie. Any NYers out there care to hear some hope then party it up afterwards at Jay-Z’s? If you’re undecided, why not see the man on a mission in person? & trust me on this one, there’s never been a better looking bunch of supporters!
RSVP for the party on my.barackobama.com.
While I’ve held back in the past on the cancer-chat, the Universe seems to be saying “Put it out there, Pixie.” This week, a friend asked me to share my stories with a man mid-chemo, in need of help & hope, woo-woo style. I know now that part of my journey is sharing my lessons learned & secrets of “thrival” with as many peeps as possible.
Looking back on the below story, written in 2005, I see how it yadda-yaddas past the pain en route to the positive point. I’ve done an additional two years of deep digging since & am now ready to write more from “the fire” that I was too afraid to feel, much less share, back then. But for now, I offer you this…
Abreasted Development
My own father doesn’t recognize me anymore. It’s not like I’m trying to hide from him or anything. I just look different. Back in the old days, sallow skin covered my fat-suit frame. My black-coffee eyes avoided others, and I put more breath than boom behind my vacuous voice. Yep, that was me at thirty-three, pretty as a picture.
An office manager, I’d bounce from accounting to payroll to party-planner all in one day. Gal Friday, at your service. Sure, I had big dreams of being a writer or a talk show host. A sexpert really. Advice cum humor. Watch out, Dr. Drew and Adam Corolla. I’d dabbled in creative communications: a comedy class here, a volunteer day at a radio station there. And nothing in between. I believe they call this dicking around.
My latest man and I had just done the friendly-break-up thing. We dug each other but our six-month relationship had dead-end written all over it. He had enough baggage to fill the overhead bins. I thought if I cared enough, he’d abandon it on the carousel. Yeah right.
But it was always happy hour somewhere. Believe me, I knew when and I knew where. I’d churn out the Evites, assemble my posse and welcome in the weekend. That meant drinky-drinks, smoky-treats and beautiful blurry nights.
Off the party barge, I spent quality time with my family. My parents were there when a picture needed hanging or IHOP beckoned us to breakfast. They all longed for me to find “the one,” especially my brother-in-law. He and my sister had two adorable boys and I played the part of the fun Auntie. I loved the little buggers but each trip to their house played like an episode of Scared Single. Lego-land’s a nice place to visit but I didn’t want to live there. And motherhood’s the toughest job you’ll ever love one moment and want to run from the next.
So there I was, thirty-three and free to be me. Livin’ for the weekend with a whopping two weeks of vacation. Searching for a soul mate so I could end up at home, cranky with two kids. Bored with the rat race, I had no faith in the American dream. It wasn’t like I planned to off myself or anything. I just didn’t know if I wanted to do it anymore. This whole life thing. I had nothing to look forward to and was tired of trudging on. Little did I know, life was about to call bullshit on me.
* * * * * *
We’d noticed the lump in my breast in December. “Mac” and I were on a Christmas casino vacation – an exercise in escapism given our relationship’s imminent demise, but that’s why White Russians were invented, isn’t it? We’d felt it, fretted about it and forced the scary sucker under the rug. Back at the blackjack table, we resumed the roles of happy high rollers. Hit me baby one more time!
At my annual exam in January, my GP dismissed the lump as harmless. She casually called it a fibroid without even feeling it and sent me on my merry way. When spring came, Mac had disappeared into the sunset, but my lump had not.
In early April, I made another appointment. I wanted the doctor to take a real gander at it and put my nagging fears to rest. But instead, her assistant sent me for a mammogram and ultrasound “just as a formality.”
The mammography tech said, “it’d be really weird” if someone my age had breast cancer. She was wrong. In fact, at stage three (out of four), mine was a locally advanced and aggressive cancer. Leave it to me to have one motivated malignancy – an overachiever even if I wasn’t. He’d already spread to my lymph nodes. I was sent for a CT scan to see if he’d gone further. And just like that, I got pushed down the crazy chute that is cancer, without a ladder in sight.
Initially, I wished the cancer were everywhere. I wanted to hit Mexico’s margaritas and live my last days to the fullest. I didn’t want to do it, that cancer patient thing. I’d seen the movies – chemo, baldness, mastectomy and mutilation, all of it seemed so horrible. I was no Lance Armstrong. You didn’t have to be a doctor to diagnose that.
Word of my disease raced around town. Even Mac came back to support me in the shock. All of a sudden it was “read this,” “take that.” A cancer captive, I soaked it all up like cereal going soggy. So when my sister suggested I call a psychic, I smiled and dialed before I could say “new-age nonsense.” My very own psychic friends’ network. Who knew?
Cindy the Psychic started our chat with guru guns blazing. She said my cancer wasn’t about me dying. She said I’d been asking myself if I really wanted to be here, to be alive at all. This girl was good. The old me would have called it all crap. What a difference a disease makes.
Cindy painted the colorless panorama that was my life. At rock bottom, I remained blocked to loving myself, she said. She called the cancer a wake-up call. She encouraged me to consciously decide to be here. Just like that. Decide to live. Suddenly, my mission seemed possible.
I became an “alternative therapy slut.” I read every book I could find and if they built it, I came. I had a SynchroZapper to change my electronic frequency and kill the cancer. I hopped on the Migun massage bed train and felt the healing power of its mighty jade wands. I got Reiki and meditated like a mother-fucker on Ms. Pac-Man chomping her way through my tumor. Once a fainter, I got “Zen” about all things medical. Test after test, machine after machine, needle after needle. I never let it see me sweat.
A good little soldier, I marched into chemo hell. I lost my hair and killed all the eggs in my baby basket. I night-sweated my way through four months of absolute agony. But I got myself a couple of long and luscious wigs. And morphed the chemo cocktail into a “magic elixir” with my mind.
Then they came: the desert days of disease. Flopped in bed, drapes drawn in beautiful blackness, I floated away on my percocet pillow. Had I been a horse, I’d have been put down. But Cindy said it wasn’t about me dying, didn’t she?
I made it through that grueling gate; the chemo worked. My tumor had shrunk; the surgeon could save my lovely little nipple. Woo-hoo! During the lumpectomy, they’d take a chunk from my right boob and scoop lymph nodes like pumpkin seeds from under my arm. I covered my Kojak crown with a “Fuck Cancer” cap and sailed into surgery. I did want to be here. If that meant a few scars, so be it.
My oncologist direct-dialed me a few days later. According to the post-op biopsy, not a trace of cancer remained. The elation in her voice told me she was thrilled; I knew she was really relieved. I’d started with some scary stats, which I chose to ignore. Thanks, Cindy, for the wise words: “Don’t worry, be healthy.” And I was.
I got a month off disease-fighting duty before the prophylactic radiation treatment would begin. I spent the first two weeks resting, draining raspberry-red chunks from the plastic tube sewn into my armpit. By the end, I’d returned to work almost full-time, just waiting to be worn down again.
Then it started. Everyday at three o’clock, my Outlook reminder flashed, “Radiate good times, come on” (to be sung to the tune of “Celebration.”) I spent six and a half weeks hog-tied to a table: gown wide open, hands above my head, grabbing on to a pole. In mere minutes, the modern machine penetrated me with ultraviolet electrons.
Finally, at Thanksgiving, I threw myself a “radiation graduation.” Turkey never tasted so good and Cindy the Psychic graced my gratitude list this time around. My energy rolled back into town and baby-soft hair sprouted from my scalp. I was a wigless wonder for Christmas and debuted a sassy new do. Santa brought me all the presents I needed.
Almost a year later, here I am back in business at the office. Cured by cancer, and living the examined life. My free time’s spent being a Yogi, becoming a real writer and figuring out what makes me tick. It’s a full-time job and I can’t get enough. I‘ve traded the pub crawl for coffee talk. My good friends have evolved. My drinking buddies have eroded away. I’m not saying everything is perfect or that I never cut loose. Come on, I spent thirteen long years perfecting the art of a good buzz. But instead of being a permanent resident, now I’m just a tacky tourist in that wasteoid world.
My younger nephew turned two last month. Wearing no mask for my emotions, tears flowed freely as I neared his party in the park. I sported a hot new number instead of a hangover. My head held high, I found the family and headed straight for cupcake central. I spotted Dad first. Well within fifty feet of him, I waved. No response. I kept walking until he finally figured out it was me. “I wondered why that pretty young girl was waving at me,” he said, smiling. So take it from dear old Dad. It doesn’t take a psychic to see there’s a new me.
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Humaniversity AUM: An Active Social Meditation
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