It’s amazing how many of us have a story about Dr. Wayne Dyer. A favorite quote. A favorite teaching. A moment where we met him.
Because that’s the thing about Wayne, he was that accessible.
Voted the 3rd most spiritual person on the planet (behind the Dalai Lama and Eckhart Tolle), he was known by everyone. He was the ice breaker to spirituality. The way shower for those just dabbling and others wanting to go deeper into remembering who we are.
Wayne was the one I would recommend to friends who were jaded or skeptic to this ‘new age’ world, because of his ability to take ageless wisdom and break it down simply, for everyone to understand and in an easy to absorb, non-airy fairy way.
Not only was he wise, but he was kind. He was love personified. And he was patient and humble. And grateful.
When I met him in 2011 at the first Hay House ‘I Can Do It’ Conference in Vancouver, he opened the weekend Friday night with an inspiring, standing O (worth the price of the weekend ticket) talk. And then on Saturday, he returned during the day, just to meet people. To chat, get to know us, sign books, take photos and to hug.
You know that line in the Taylor Swift song… Why you gotta be so mean?
That’s me. I can be mean.
Most people would think I’m delusional for saying that. I’m the nicest person they know, they say. I don’t have a mean bone in my body, they say. But I do. Rarely anyone sees this side of me, because I’ve learned to tame that baby dragon (with my Scorpio stinger), where she stays fed and watered in the basement of my heart.
But every once in a while, she comes out to play. It’s no longer a fire breathing death disaster as in days of the past. It’s now subtle. Like little backhanded comments, that jab at another right in their soft parts, leaving them wounded without even realizing they’ve been hurt. I’m that good. Don’t cross the Kirsten.
For a long time, I lived by the mantra of the ever cool Hugh Grant in About a Boy “I’m a bloody island, I’m bloody Ibitha,” proud of my strength and independence as a woman. It made me powerful, I thought. It made me courageous, I thought.
Most times we’re taught that being strong is powerful. And in order to be powerful, we must sacrifice our warmth; our heart. Movies and TV now show female heroines as tough as nails, rather than in touch with their emotions. It’s way cooler to be the wise-cracking sarcastic like Veronica Mars. It’s not safe to be vulnerable and real.
I’m a big personality. I make big facial expressions. I have big hand gestures. There is really nothing small about me, except my chest size.
If I’m speaking out loud or about something personal, chances are, I’ll crack a joke and try to make it entertaining, or worthy of an audience.
Even if that audience is just one person.
That’s just always been who I am.
In acting class recently, after doing my monologue for the first time, my teacher had me sit on my hands and just speak the words from a place of truth, nothing else. No big expressions, no wild hand gestures. No need to entertain or perform.
I was just to be.
It was torture.
“Why?” I asked. “This just feels wrong.”
She said, “Trust me.”
I did my monologue again. And this time, when I was done, she asked me how it felt. I told her I felt like a brick wall, void of any emotion and boring as hell.
She and the class disagreed – saying it was way more powerful this way.
I had intended to start blogging this book months ago. That seemed simple enough, as I’ve had it planned out for years.
Originally this book was called, How to Love Yourself (When everything in the world tells you not to). I had these great chapters, “WWMD, or What Would Miley Do?” except this was based on Miley as innocent Hannah Montana and not licking a wrecking ball, so well, I had to adjust accordingly with the ever changing times.
Then it was another title, then another. The title has changed as many times as I change my underwear. Daily. (Just for clarification).
I even had the chapters fully mapped out and structured perfectly as the Type A part of my personality finds so comforting. Who doesn’t love to pretend they are in total control?! But then I couldn’t actually write the book and feel any sense of flow or fluidity. Imagine my surprise to realize it was too structured, even for me!
And then it hit me. I was trying to write a 5D book from a 3D mindset. AKA I was trying to write about the heart and soul, from my intellect. This might sound like Pig Latin for some but just stay with me.
A lot has changed in the past few years. We are in the midst of some of the most transformational times of our lives. The world is not the same place it was 5 years ago. Technology and social media have exploded, the Disney kids have grown up, and we’ve become far too comfortable having relationships with our gadgets rather than with real people.
I’ve never been good at letting go. When I was young and someone called out for me, I would respond, “Hold On.” I never knew it would mean literally.
I still have memory boxes from childhood that my mom is convinced are filled with gum wrappers. Okay, in my defense they were really funny bubble gum wrappers (you remember the ones with the joke?) that were a gift and are now like retro…. Nuff said.
Recently at the Salvation Army, while dropping off some awesome things that had been in my trunk far longer than necessary, I stood there, pondering if it was really best to let them go… I mean, of course I need 3 pairs of Uggs. As if needing a healthy shove from an angel in overalls, a guy called out, “When you left your house it felt like a good idea. Don’t turn back. Now just go out and get more stuff.” Tail between my legs, I hugged my Uggs goodbye. #HugsforUggs
I’ve mastered the art of the long goodbye, watching my family until they disappear around the corner, soaking in every last essence of their aura, knowing that someday it will be the last time. Pretty morbid sure but it’s a coping mechanism I’ve adopted, and call me superstitious, I ain’t changing now.
I’ve lost family before, tragically and suddenly. It’s excruciating. Not just in losing the ones we’ve lost, but how it changes those left behind.
That kind of letting go is forced upon us, and can lead to patterns of abandonment, thereby shaping how we see the world whether we are aware of it or not.
Anyone else already feeling different than you did last year? Like you’re being pushed to purge and let go beyond your comfort zone?
We’ve launched into 2015 at breakneck speed, still being carried on the backs of the Year of the Horse galloping us towards the Year of the Sheep, which is about to begin on February 4th, 2015.
Most of you will be reading Chinese and Numerology forecasts all over the internet by experts who will go into it with much greater detail. I’m here to take those tidbits of wisdom and put together the pieces of the puzzle into one giant picture of coherency and hopefully inspiration.
In Numerology, we’ve begun an 8 year (2 + 0 + 1 + 5 = 8) which signifies Power, Prosperity and Passion. It’s a year of Abundance on all levels, and a time to reap the rewards of all our efforts. This isn’t just singularly, it’s collectively.
Of course, what is going on inside us individually is usually a reflection of what is happening outwardly as well. We may look different but our inner worries, fears, joys and sorrows are all a lot more similar than we might think. If we are fighting one another, we are unconsciously fighting ourselves. Outward battles are called war. Inner battles are called cancer. And on the flip side, collectively we are yearning for some positive shifts. And this is the year it can happen.
Last year, 2014, we were in a 7 year, which is about inner soul reflection and getting clear on who we are and what we want…. While still being pushed by those galloping wild horses. It was intense. Sometimes we wanted off the racetrack to slow down and go inward. To better know ourselves.
Happy New Year! As we begin a new cycle, and start banging out a long list of unreasonable resolutions and stressful expectations, let us stop and have a little #TBT fun, by grooving to Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happiness.”
This song gets me. Right in the soft spots. It makes me want to move my hips. It’s sexy and it speaks to that inner longing within us all…. That ever-elusive Pursuit of Happiness…. A belief most of us have because “I’ll be fine…once I get it.”
But what if that wasn’t the truth? Hold up, what?!
Stay with me. What if Happiness wasn’t a pursuit, an unreachable material thing that we strive for never to fully grasp…? But instead, Happiness consisted of moments. Little bits of joy. Bite size pieces of pure ecstasy.
Let me break it down for you. Children are the purest source. They aren’t tainted by the reality of life’s stresses just yet. You look at them and their wide eyes are filled with wonder. They know pure joy, freedom, pleasure, unbridled enthusiasm…. And yet, they can also stomp their feet, and throw a temper tantrum if they don’t get their MumMum cracker soon enough.
That’s the reality yo. Not even the purest little innocent baby can uphold happiness all day long. They crash. They need to eat, sleep and rejuvenate just like the rest of us.
Often times we feel guilty taking the time to do what we love, to express our creativity and honour ourselves, because it feels selfish….like time wasted. Unless we have a set goal or deadline, we tend to put it off, thinking it’s truly only serving ourselves.
But that’s just the thing. It is serving. It’s opening you to that sacred, magnificent place within that’s often ignored yet begging to express the colours of your soul. And the world needs more colour. It needs more of us sharing our gifts and inspiring each other.
For me, writing is my happy place. It’s my meditation. When I write, my heart is open so wide, I feel invincible. Connected to everyone and everything, I feel love in my heart and purpose coursing through my veins.
When I was in sixth grade, my teacher asked our class to write a poem. A simple poem. My heart stopped for just a minute…. I didn’t know how to write a poem! I had been writing in a diary (you know the kind that had a little lock and key), since I could hold a pencil, confessing my sorrows to the safety of the page. But I didn’t think I could ever write something that others would want to read… and would be good enough. That was what real writer’s did.
I was an overachiever. And I wasn’t a person who liked to fail at any task, especially in front of my peers when I was so busy seeking their approval.
And so I did the most natural thing to me. I turned my back on myself and asked my very intelligent friends for help. They came from those idyllic families where they had pancakes for breakfast every Sunday. In my eyes, they were perfect. And I was flawed because I was filled with so many thoughts, feelings and worries. A ten year old constantly consumed with the pain inducing fear that I wouldn’t fulfill my destiny… whatever that was supposed to be.