What I Know For Sure Read online

  I know exactly where the disease came from. Having a history of abuse also meant a history of not being able to set boundaries. Once your personal boundaries have been violated as a child, it’s difficult to regain the courage to stop people from stepping on you. You fear being rejected for who you really are. So for years, I spent my life giving everything I could to almost anyone who asked. I was running myself ragged trying to fulfill other people’s expectations of what I should do and who I should be.

  What cured me was understanding the principle of intention. To quote Gary Zukav again, from his book The Seat of the Soul, “Every action, thought and feeling is motivated by an intention, and that intention is a cause that exists as one with an effect. If we participate in the cause, it is not possible for us not to participate in the effect. In this most profound way, we are held responsible for our every action, thought and feeling, which is to say, for our every intention.”

  I started to examine the intention behind my saying yes when I really meant no. I was saying yes so people wouldn’t be angry with me, so they would think I was a nice person. My intention was to make people feel I was the one they could call on, count on, last minute, no matter what. And that was exactly what my experiences reflected—a barrage of requests in every aspect of my life.

  Shortly after I started to understand this, I got a call from somebody quite famous who wanted me to donate to his charity. He was asking for a lot of money, and I told him I had to think about it. What I thought about was, Is this a cause I really believe in? No. Do I really think that writing a check is going to make any difference whatsoever? No. So why would I do it? Because I don’t want this person to think I’m stingy. This was no longer a good enough reason for me.

  I wrote down a few words, which I now keep on my desk: “Never again will I do anything for anyone that I do not feel directly from my heart. I will not attend a meeting, make a phone call, write a letter, sponsor or participate in any activity in which every fiber of my being does not resound yes. I will act with the intent to be true to myself.”

  Before you say yes to anyone, ask yourself: What is my truest intention? It should come from the purest part of you, not from your head. If you have to ask for advice, give yourself time to let a yes or no resound within you. When it’s right, your whole body feels it.

  I know for sure that I had to first get clear about who I was before I could beat the disease to please. When I accepted that I was a decent, kind, and giving person—whether I said yes or no—I no longer had anything to prove. I was once afraid of people saying, “Who does she think she is?” Now I have the courage to stand and say, “This is who I am.”

  I’m not nearly as stressed as people might imagine. Over the years, I’ve learned to focus my energy on the present, to be fully aware of what’s happening in every moment and not to worry about what should have happened, what’s going wrong, or what might come next. Yet because I do have an awful lot on my plate, if I didn’t find a way to decompress, I’d be totally ineffective—and probably a little crazy, too.

  None of us is built to run nonstop. That’s why, when you don’t give yourself the time and care you need, your body rebels in the form of sickness and exhaustion. How do I give back to myself? Hardly a day goes by that I don’t talk things out with Gayle. Almost every night, I soak in a hot bath and light a candle or two. It may sound hokey, but focusing on a burning candle for a minute while taking deep and relaxing breaths is very calming. In the evenings right before sleep, I don’t read or watch anything—including late-night news—that would give me anxiety. And because I don’t like fitful dreams, I protect my sleep by dealing with difficult situations during my waking hours. I also keep a gratitude journal and, at the end of a workday, I “come down” by reading a great novel or just sitting with myself to come back to my center—it’s what I call “going mindless.”

  As women we’ve been programmed to sacrifice everything in the name of what is good and right for everyone else. Then if there’s an inch left over, maybe we can have a piece of that. We need to deprogram ourselves. I know for sure that you can’t give what you don’t have. If you allow yourself to be depleted to the point where your emotional and spiritual tank is empty and you’re running on fumes of habit, everybody loses. Especially you.

  I once taped a show in which a life coach discussed the concept of self-care—putting your own needs ahead of anyone else’s—and the audience booed. Women were upset by the mere suggestion that they should put their needs before those of their children. I interrupted to explain: No one was saying you should abandon your children and let them starve. The life coach was suggesting that you nurture yourself so you’ll have more nurturing to give to those who most need you. It’s the airplane oxygenmask theory: If you don’t put on your mask first, you won’t be able to save anyone else.

  So stop and take a look at your own needs. Go mindless. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure.

  What I know for sure is that your breath is your anchor, the gift you’ve been given—that we’ve all been given, to center ourselves in this very moment. Whenever I have an encounter that involves even the slightest tension, I stop, draw in a deep breath, and release. Ever notice how often you unconsciously hold your breath? Once you start paying attention, it might surprise you to see how much tension you’ve been carrying around inside. Nothing is more effective than a deep, slow inhale and release for surrendering what you can’t control and focusing again on what’s right in front of you.

  Here’s a confession: I have a fear of flying over the ocean. Though anytime I get on a plane it’s a flight of faith, a belief in something greater than myself—aeronautics, God—flying over the ocean is particularly disconcerting. (I’m not that good a swimmer.) But when I have to cross continents, I just do it, because I want to be bigger than my fear.

  I bought a home on a Hawaiian mountain because it was what I imagined paradise to be, knowing that every time I had to cross the Pacific to get there, I would challenge my fear.

  The day after Christmas a few years ago, my plane had been airborne long enough for us to pull out Scrabble and start thinking about lunch. Urania, my friend Bob Greene’s wife, had brought leftovers from Christmas dinner.

  “No more mashed potatoes for me,” I said. “I’ll just have turkey—dark meat, preferably—and green beans.”

  Our flight attendant, Karin, leaned over the table. I thought she was going to say, “There’s no dark meat left,” but instead she said calmly, “There’s a slight crack in the windshield; we’re going to have to turn around.”

  “Oh,” I replied.

  “The captain wants you to strap yourselves in and be ready for oxygen masks.”

  “Oxygen masks? What will happen to my dogs?” They were lounging nearby.

  “They’ll be fine,” Karin said. “We’re going to drop to ten thousand feet now.”

  I could feel my heart pounding and my voice rising, though I was trying to mirror her calmness. My mind was speeding: Oxygen! Danger! Oxygen! Danger! I can’t swimmmmm. Oh, my dear God!!!!

  I didn’t speak, but Karin later said my eyes were as big as plums. Stedman, steady as a boulder, took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, “You’re going to be fine. God didn’t bring you this far to leave you. Remember that.”

  The crack had spread and shattered the entire left side of the windshield. We could see it from our seats. Whoosh, thump, whoosh, thump. I know all the familiar sounds on that aircraft, and this was something different. I don’t like hearing something different at 40,000 feet.

  “What’s that noise, Karin?”

  “We’re depressurizing the cabin, lowering altitude quickly, and that sound is the oxygen pump. The pilots are on oxygen, just in case.”

  I didn’t ask, “Just in case what?” because we all knew the answer. Just in case that windshield blew.

  The pilots, Terry and Danny, turned the plane around, and I watched the cl
ock: 27 minutes to landing. I thought, What if I’d listened to my inner voice and not flown today? Several times that morning I had wanted to cancel. I was feeling off balance, rushed. I’d called Bob Greene and said, “I may not go today.”

  “Why?” he said.

  “Not feeling it. What do you think?”

  “I think you should consult that trusted inner voice of yours.”

  I had taken a bath, since the tub is where I do my best thinking, and got out ready to call the pilots and postpone the trip. And then I didn’t. I overrode that feeling. If I hadn’t, would the windshield still have cracked? No doubt. But would we have been over the ocean with no place to land?

  I looked at the clock again: 26 minutes and 12 seconds until landing.

  I was going to lose my mind watching that clock, so I started to read. Soon, I felt a resolved calm. We’ll be all right, no matter the outcome. The whoosh, thump became a source of comfort: Oxygen! Life! Oxygen! Life!

  We landed safely, of course. The windshield was replaced, and the day after, the pilots said, “We can fly anytime you’re ready.” Did I dare fly over the ocean again so soon? What was the lesson for me? Did I get it?

  I know for sure that whenever your inner GPS is off-kilter, trouble awaits. Your instincts are your compass. I got it. I get it. I know it for sure. Up in the air I relearned the importance of tuning out distraction and tuning in to myself.

  One of the most important questions a woman can ask herself: What do I really want—and what is my spirit telling me is the best way to proceed?

  My answer eventually led me toward my passion for serving women and girls. I have a deep understanding of what it’s like to be a girl who has suffered abuse or lived in poverty, and I believe that education is the door to freedom, the rainbow that leads to the pot of gold. I began to realize that in order to be most effective, I had to be extremely focused on using my time, my concern, my resources, and my compassion to uplift a generation of courageous women who own themselves and know their strength. I knew I couldn’t save every dying child or intervene in every case of abuse. None of us can. But once I got clear about what I most wanted to give, much of what didn’t line up with that intention naturally fell away.

  Those years of becoming focused taught me a powerful lesson about letting go of the outside pressures and distractions and instead tuning in to my gut—that inkling that says, Hold on. Something’s not right here. Please pause and make an adjustment. For me, doubt often means don’t. Don’t move. Don’t answer. Don’t rush forward. When I’m mired in uncertainty about what the next step should be, when I’m asked to do something for which I feel little enthusiasm, that’s my sign to just stop—to get still until my instincts give me the go-ahead. I believe that uncertainty is my spirit’s way of whispering, I’m in flux. I can’t decide for you. Something is off balance here. I take that as a cue to re-center myself before making a decision. When the universe compels me toward the best path to take, it never leaves me with “Maybe,” “Should I?” or even “Perhaps.” I always know for sure when it’s telling me to proceed—because everything inside me rises up to reverberate “Yes!”

  Around my fiftieth birthday, I became more aware of time than I had ever been. I felt an almost primal understanding in the core of myself that there was a finite amount of time left, and that feeling permeated everything I did, dictating how I reacted in every moment. It made me more conscious and appreciative of every experience, every awakening (Gee, I’m still here; I have another chance today to get it right). I still try to take in all experiences, even the negative ones. I take the time, even if it’s only one minute in the morning, to breathe slowly and let myself feel the connection to all other breathing and vibrating energies in this world and beyond. I have found that recognizing your relationship to infinity makes the finite more palatable.

  What I know for sure is that giving yourself time to just be is essential to fulfilling your mission as a human being. So I give myself Sundays. Sometimes I spend the whole day in my pajamas, sometimes I have church under the trees communing with nature. Most times I just do nothing—piddling, I call it—and let my brain and body decompress. Whenever I’ve slipped up and missed a Sunday, I’ve noticed a definite change in my disposition for the rest of the week. I know for sure that you cannot give to everybody else and not give back to yourself. You will end up empty, or at best, less than what you can be for yourself and your family and your work. Replenish the well of yourself, for yourself. And if you think there’s no time to do that, what you’re really saying is, “I have no life to give to or live for myself.” And if you have no life to live for yourself, then why are you here?

  About a decade ago I learned a big lesson. The phone was always ringing on Sundays, when I had set that aside as my time. I’d answer and feel agitated and irritable with the person who’d called. Stedman said to me on one of those occasions, “If you don’t want to talk, why do you keep picking up the phone?” Aha moment: Just because the phone is ringing doesn’t mean I have to respond. I control what I do with my time. We all do, even when it seems out of control. Protect your time. It is your life.

  Many times we insist on having all the best things because that’s the only way we can ensure “quality of life” for ourselves. I can neglect myself in every other way, but if I have the best watch or pocketbook or car or square footage, I get to tell myself I’m the best and how much I deserve to have even more of the best.

  What I know for sure: Having the best things is no substitute for having the best life. When you can let go of the desire to acquire, you know you are really on your way.

  I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I’ve grown to enjoy lifting weights. I relish the sense of strength and discipline that comes when the muscles are forced to resist. Better still, lifting weights has taught me something about life.

  I’ve tried varying schedules—lifting every day, every other day, two days on and a day off. The everyday approach was the least effective; constant lifting begins to break down the muscle tissue. The same is true with mind and spirit. Without giving yourself a chance to reenergize, you begin to break down all the connective fibers of your life.

  Keeping it all straight is stressful. You need to give yourself moments to rest. I once told my assistant just because I have ten free minutes on my calendar doesn’t mean I want to fill them. “Let’s practice what my philosophy preaches,” I said. That meant breathing space had to become part of my daily routine.

  So I began scheduling little moments of calm—moments in which I do nothing for at least ten minutes. Sometimes I just rub my dog’s belly, or play a little fetch. Or I take a stroll, or just sit still at my desk. It works wonders. Whenever I give myself these little breaks, I find I have more energy, and I’m in a better mood for all the business that comes afterward.

  I know for sure that a little restoration goes a long way. I don’t carry even a twinge of guilt about giving myself that time. I’m refilling my tank so that when the next phase begins, I’ll be fired up and ready for whatever is to come. Fully restored.

  I always thought I knew why exercise was essential—to not have a fat tush—but I didn’t get the real reason until a visit to Johannesburg in 2005. I was visiting the Leadership Academy for Girls, the school I was building at the time, and knew there were many things on my agenda. I was jet-lagged when I arrived, so at 7 o’clock the next morning, I chose not to get up and work out. Instead, I stayed in bed an extra hour to catch up on rest. That was my excuse the first day. By the third day, it was about the treadmill. I didn’t like it—not enough cushion support for my knees. After three days of not exercising, my resolve to stay fit dissipates. It’s easier to lie to myself: I’m too tired, too busy, there’s not enough time are all part of the downward spiral.

  Unfortunately for me, the resolve to work out is directly tied to the resolve to eat healthfully—if one slips, so does the other.

  The food at the hotel was not to my liking, so I ma
de a special request for something anyone can make: mashed potatoes. The chefs had no problem whipping some up. And so I ate mashed potatoes and bread every night for the duration of my stay, which was ten days. Ten days of high-glycemic foods combined with no working out equals ten extra pounds for me.

  Even worse than the weight gain was the way I felt. Exhausted. Lethargic. I suddenly had aches and strains I didn’t know existed.

  Aha! I finally got it: When you nurture and support your body, it reciprocates. The basis of that support is exercise, like it or not. The most essential benefit is more energy; weight control is a bonus. I know for sure that taking care of your body, no matter what, is an investment, and the return is priceless.

  Among the many things I learned from Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth was this: I am not my body. After studying Tolle’s ideas closely, I felt far more connected to consciousness, or soul, or inner spirit—whatever you choose to name the formless being that is the essence of who we are. I thought of all the years I’d wasted, hating myself fat and wanting myself thin; feeling guilty about every croissant, then giving up carbs, then fasting, then dieting, then worrying when I wasn’t dieting, then eating everything I wanted until the next diet (on Monday or after the holidays or the next big event). All that wasted time, abhorring the thought of trying on clothes, wondering what was going to fit, what number the scale would say. All that energy I could have spent loving what is.

  Who I am, who you are … I know for sure we’re not our bodies or the image we hold of them. But because what you give your attention to looms larger—in this case, literally—all my focus on weight actually made me fatter. I can look at a picture from any period of my life, and the first thing that comes to mind is not the event or experience, but my weight and size, because that is how I’ve viewed (and judged) myself—through the prism of numbers. Such wasted time.