Gratitude Mojo: How can you boost your confidence?

What do you want to accomplish this week?

Is it a stretch for you?

If it is, you may need an extra dose of confidence.

Here's a magic formula:

Reflecting on your past successes boosts confidence;

confidence boosts energy and motivation;

energy and motivation boost life and success.

Period.

Recently CampReinvention.com caught my attention with their tagline: Because your age is just a number. They help women over 50 reinvent their lives and I loved this quote about how our brains work:

When you’re reinventing, there are three important things to remember about your brain:

1. It has a negativity bias

2. It seeks evidence

3. It makes up stories

That may sound daunting, but it actually contains the keys to greater success if we understand how to work with our brains rather than against them.

For more about how to boost your confidence,

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Sweet Peace #37: Codegas of Confidence

Rainbow Spiral

“In Venice in the Middle Ages there was once a profession for a man called a codega—a fellow you hired to walk in front of you at night with a lit lantern, showing you the way, scaring off thieves and demons, bringing you confidence and protection through the dark streets.”

― Elizabeth Gilbert

Codega: Illuminator of the night. Bringer of light into dark places.

For those of us who are afraid of the dark, finding a codega seems like it would be a miracle, a blessing that would brings us confidence and courage. The monsters who lurk beyond the dark edges would be pushed back and we could walk strongly on through a path of light.

But I didn’t know about codegas until recently, and fear has been a constant companion even when seldom justified. Night, dark waters, strangers, unknown streets, crowds, lonely paths leading through unknown forests. Maybe it came from reading … things always go bad in books … or maybe it was part of my DNA, handed down from days of lions and tigers and bears … or perhaps from an angry family where I always felt alone and unsafe. I wanted a big brother to protect me, however, it’s hard for an only child to have a big brother.

Somewhere during my 20s, with a big brother-husband for protection, I began to recognize fear as my constant companion. Life offered me choices that demanded fear in payment. So, I studied courage; baby-stepped my way toward the bright baubles that lured me. Decades passed in a dance that zig-zagged toward a future that called, fear always pulling me back to a safe place before I struggled forward once again.

Eventually though, years of doing what scared me began to overpower fear. When my husband died fifteen years ago, I grew stronger about making choices in spite of niggling fears. I travelled by myself, lived in Mexico for two years, entered into and exited from relationships that weren't right, and moved often, trying on different situations. Fear was a reminder to examine situations, however, it was no longer calling the shots.

By my 70s, although I was well armed with the courage and confidence to make decisions about my life, there was one dark area that still stubbornly resisted my efforts: rejection related to my creative life: my writing and art. I’ve learned enough about art, and writing, to know that the judgment of it is subjective, with little predictability as to what will catch the public eye or what will become classic over time or fade into oblivion.

And, it shouldn’t matter because I can’t imagine life without writing or art. It’s as fundamental as food. However, both are a means of communication and sending writing or art into the world without someone receiving it, is a form of rejection. I was learning to live with this void … this rejection … imagining myself dying surrounded by a computer full of unseen art and writings and shelves of little books I’ve published for myself.

Available at GratitudeMojo.com

Then I began the Gratitude Mojo journal/workbook with Lynne Snead and things began to change. Lynne, in all ways the co-creator of this work, and Barbara Gaughen-Muller became my codegas, shining their light by reading and responding to the gradually developing workbook, being actively involved in its shaping. Their insights and encouragement shone a light that let me see a brighter path. It was like the three of us were skipping down the yellow brick road.

We’ve been on this path for over a year, and what I now feel sprouting is a confidence, a sudden willingness to risk rejection, to put this work out into the world, without expectations of success or financial reward. I have confidence that this is my best possible work … and what more can the world ask of me?

I am grateful to Lynne and Barbara for being my codegas of light. I also realize that other friends have each added their own light to my journey and, without them, this would have been a long, dark, and scary path.

If you would like to see a light-hearted overview of the Gratitude Mojo Path, click here.

And, all writings about gratitude, self-awareness, and self-appreciation will appear in the new newsletter GratitudeMojo.substack.com ... it's a free newsletter and you're invited to join the conversation.

Sweet Peace #27: Exploring the iceberg of procrastination

    Procrastination is a fraud word, an idea wrapped in false colors. It starts out with a positive prefix … “pro” meaning “for” or “forward” as if we’re making progress or proceeding or producing. That profound prefix is then glued to the Latin word crastinus meaning “of tomorrow” creating a word that basically means moving forward … tomorrow, or basically, not doing today what you could … or might … do tomorrow.

   Over time, this word became an enemy to success, happiness and feelings of self-worth. Wearing the procrastinator label was akin to wearing a scarlet A, something to be scorned in polite company, and especially on the path to success. Even worse, it became a volcano of negative self-talk … I’m lazy, irresponsible, a slacker, a dawdler, a dilly-dallier, an idler, lagger, loafer, slowpoke, or straggler. I will never be a … (fill in the blank).

   Yesterday, an unsourced sketch showed up on my Facebook page. It was strikingly simple, worthy only of a glance … until it started to dawn on me how powerful it was. The iceberg metaphor holds true for so many things … perhaps even for everything. What we see is never all there is.

   Because procrastination is such a rich source of negative self-talk, it’s worth exploring. It helps to think of all the things you could be doing as two buckets of potential procrastination:

First, there’s the outside bucket of all the stuff the world wants you to do … from getting a job, getting married, raising a family, to brushing your teeth, bathing regularly, and balancing your checkbook.

   Then, there’s the interior bucket of everything that’s important to you … from hugging your children or reading a just-released novel by your favorite author to walking through a forest or marketing your latest creative work.

   It’s important to understand the repercussions of procrastination for both buckets. Procrastinating regarding the outside bucket triggers a response from others … from mild disappointment to outrage depending on what they expected of you. The repercussions of procrastination on the interior bucket stuff can range from a momentary oops feeling to a creeping, soul-rotting feeling of having broken trust with yourself and feeling worthless.

The Gift of Procrastination

   As I have walked deeper into the practice of gratitude, I keep coming back to David Steindl-Rast’s statement: Everything is a gift. That’s a mighty big everything. 

   How is procrastination a gift? It is a reminder that we have things to do … things the world wants us to do and things we want us to do. The world is a big, open door to mysteries to explore, problems to be solved, beauty to be stunned by, people to love, places to go. One lifetime is not enough to do it all, so we have to choose. 

   In order to procrastinate, there has to be something to be done, whether it comes from the world bucket or the me bucket; whether it is critically important or an arrange-the-spices task. So, we create To Dos, tasks we’ve accepted from the world and tasks we’ve set as our own priorities. Then the question becomes: Why don’t we do them?

• Time management folks say we need better organizing systems.
• Self-improvement folks say we need to prioritize and be more disciplined.
• Tech gurus offer us notifications and Siri.
• Habit gurus recommend stacking and tracking.

   And then along comes an iceberg graphic that basically states: it’s all about what we can’t see … what we feel and what emotions are triggered by the task and the expectations around it. The Facebook graphic started me wondering and wandering through Google where I found deprocrastination.co, apparently an unknown entity sitting in a cave downloading wisdom from the Universe such as the following:

Procrastination

= a short-term escape from stress 

associated with a task or a decision. 

Procrastination is not the problem. 

It's a tactic we use to make ourselves feel better. 

It’s a symptom of temporary or deeper psychological issues.

   Well, that puts a different spin on it. I decide to test it on a current procrastination in my Me Bucket: marketing Gratitude Mojo. 

   Recently Lynne Snead and I completed the creation of this 26-week, workbook/journal based on advanced gratitude practice tools. We have been using it as we developed it for almost a year and a few of our friends have joined the journey. All of us are convinced it is changing our lives, so it’s now time to take it out into the world. But I am procrastinating, claiming the need for more research, putting other tasks at the top of the to do list, talking about doing but not doing.

Gratitude Mojo, advanced gratitude journal/workbook

If I go back to the graphic above, I own at least the following:

        - fear of failing
- I’m not capable, worthy
- it’s not perfect, it needs more editing
- I’m afraid … I don’t know enough
        - who am I to do this?

   It makes me laugh … almost. I’ve been studying success for decades. I know that everyone goes through this and that the people who succeed are the ones who push through all this fog of doubts and all the dithering. So, rather than sitting here writing this long exposition about procrastination, I should recognize that what I am doing is procrastinating, not sending the letter I’ve already written (and rewritten a dozen times), not walking across the hot coals to get to the other side.

   I know that this procrastination is actually producing the outcome I least want: failure. STOP. Maybe that’s not true; maybe there’s something even below that least wanted outcome: the fear of being rejected. As long as I procrastinate, I am safe. Procrastination is like a giant, bullet-proof shield I can hide behind.

… pause … pause … pause …

   Okay, I just pressed send to the letter and to a tweet. My expectations are nil but I have faced the dragon and sent the letter. We'll see what happens.

Sweet Peace #9: Mojo Cookies: a different kind of energy boost

We wake up to the same coffee. 

Walk around the same kitchen. 

Go to work at the same desk. 

Kiss the same partner. 

Brush the same teeth. 

(Hopefully, before kissing the same partner.)

All day. Every day. We do basically the same things. See basically the same sights. Eat pretty much the same foods. Talk to the usual people. Think thoughts similar to yesterday's.

We get bored … tired of the sameness … feel lethargic and dull … lack luster. Suddenly, we think “I need a cookie.” Two minutes and 250 calories later we feel sugar-fueled and continue on with our day.

The question that hit me after one of those cookie breaks was … is it the sugar or the two minutes? Or, a third choice: was it about two minutes of a state change? 

What is a state change?

Been There Voices: Becky Ripley - Uprooted Miracles

We recently drove to western Maryland where Mother Nature was in full glory. In my Gratitude Mojo Journal, I gave thanks for ten mini-miracles I experienced that weekend. For these and so much more, I am grateful…

 

1. Hillsides of golden trees in mid-wardrobe change
2. Pine needles strewn on the forest floor, creating a blanket for passers-by
3. Rushing surge of waterfalls
4. Cozy-looking lichen-covered rocks, roots and tree trunks
5. Layer upon layer of distant hills, Maryland’s version of a Jerry Schur painting
6. An uprooted tree showing off her labyrinth of lacy roots
7. Six friends professing gratitude for shared time and the gift of each other
8. Wet leaves underfoot, softening the path with intricate shapes and a range of colors
9. Families soaking up Mother Nature, where everything sparkled after yesterday’s rain
10. Blue skies peeking through my surround of autumn tree branches

 

** Becky Ripley, Columbia, MD, lover of life and card making

Click here for more about Becky and other Been There Voices  

________________________________________________________

Been There Voices is about us, our lives, our successes and failures, our joys and sorrows, our lessons and our gradual, hard-won wisdom. We have survived and thrived throughout whatever has come our way.

The reasons are arbitrary and not intended to dismiss half of our population, however, this project focuses on the stories of women, and begins with fourteen women, well-polished grains of sand on the beach of life, tumbled by the waves of time until their light shines through, offering their stories, joys and sorrows, to the ocean of wisdom.

Been There Voices: Joyce Wycoff - Gratitude for Life, a journey into journaling

When I was 10, someone gave me a 5-year journal and I fell into enchantment with the idea of writing my life. One likely ending of that not uncommon story is: here I am going on seven decades later with a trunk brimming over with journals filled with life stories and transitions. 

It didn’t quite happen that way.

My journal was green with a nubby leather-like cover and a cute lock with a tiny brass key. It was all mine and I was going to write my secrets on its endless pages. It didn’t take long to find the fly in that inviting dream. All my secrets revolved around my troubled relationship with my mother and there was no way that tiny lock was going to keep her from reading what I wrote. That was a path leading directly to disaster.

My solution: a code. The problem: I couldn’t remember the code and was afraid to write it down somewhere. I should make it clear: my mother was not an ogre but she did have red hair and the temper to match. My best strategy was to stay out of her way so I escaped into books and left the idea of keeping a journal behind.

However, two seeds had been planted … one grew quickly; one barely sprouted. The first seed grew into a magical cloak of many colors that let me blend in with any group. I became a young yogi, able to twist my body, mind, and spirit into a thousand forms, seamlessly fitting into the groups around me. Only my feelings wouldn’t conform, so they were put into a dark corner where they wouldn’t cause problems. The second seed went into that corner also, languishing but never quite dying.

Decades pass. I marry, divorce, marry again and become a widow. The dream of becoming a writer … about someone else’s life … flickers wildly, always meeting rejection. Journals reappear, collaged pages with abstract words but no context, hinting at possibilities with muted whisperings of an inner life. Most pages remained unblemished while glittery covers suggested a richness unfulfilled.

Grief does what yearning couldn’t. A siege of losses breaks me open and art walks in, speaking in a language I feel but can’t articulate. Behind it rolls a tsunami of words pulled to the shore of my deserted island of self.

Poetry begins bubbling up in the strangest places. Memoir acts as if it has a story to tell. I seem to be a passenger on a bus going somewhere but no one tells me where. 

I think maybe I’m supposed to be a poet so I apply to an MFA program. Rejection. I apply to the most prestigious writers’ conference on the west coast. Rejection again … four times again. 

I start my own newsletter and for eight years, no rejections. I write about outside things, useful things … corporate culture, innovation, creativity … while a cauldron of ghosts and eyes of newt bubbles away deep in the forest. 

I flee to Mexico, thinking to flood myself with a new culture. In spite of the color, the stories, the exciting vitality of Mexico, I don’t find myself. 

I return home not knowing why. However, words and images begin to pour themselves into little books, books only I will publish, books only a few will read. But, there I am, growing more visible on the page, taking that tiny second seed out of the dark corner, watching it stretch toward the light.

For a writer, I’m told, success is being published, ideally by a big name publisher with a big advance. For an artist, I’m told, success is having canvasses snatched up by eager clients and showing in a gallery whose spacious walls are devoted to one or two stunning masterpieces. 

All of that would be nice. However, for me, a different yard-stick of success is emerging.

When I was in the fourth grade, Charlene Storm was the princess. Thin, beautiful, and creative, she wrote plays the four of us girls in the fourth grade (country school) would act out during recess. I wanted to write a play. So, I did and submitted it to Charlene. She was gracious about telling me that she couldn’t read my writing, which, at the time, was a tiny, unreadable mess. 

(Aside: the only “C” I got in school was in “writing” which was what school called penmanship. I have to wonder if that was a factor in a life-time of trying to be a writer and considering myself mediocre, a c-level writer.)

I think back to that first rejection often and wonder why I didn’t just rewrite my play more legibly and resubmit it. Instead I ate that judgment, that platter of rejection, and let it become part of my core belief about myself. I wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t good enough. That role was reserved for pretty girls whose waist bands never crumpled and whose petticoats never slumped bedraggled below their poodle skirts.

It has been a long, slow journey but I now know I am a writer … because I write; and know I am an artist because I make art. I am successful at both of those things because they come from my inner core; they are reflections of who I am. That is success enough. Rejection is just a puff of fog that I walk through on my way to the next writing, the next piece of art.

That ten-year-old child with her unused 5-year journal could not have imagined where we would wind up, the adventures we would have, the growing pile of writings and art with my name on them, regardless of their recognition by the world of judgment and fame.

And, that unloved seedling of creativity is now out of its dark corner, flourishing as I step into another aspect of myself. I have now become a maker of journals. 

Five years ago, I created a gratitude journal and am now remaking it with a dear friend. This morning, it called to me, inviting me to walk into a shadowy part of my journey as I explore  questions to help me and others explore our own selves and our journey in this "one, wild and precious life."

For all of this, I am truly grateful.

Postscript:

1/2/2022 ... Cleaning out Evernote files and find a poem from 1/10/2021 based on a snippet found in one of Maria Popova's newsletter ... was Brain Picking ... now The Marginalian <newsletter@brainpickings.org>

Kerouac Knew

a shadow with a mean hand 

lurked over the green book

with its tiny, brass key.

a siren, beckoning words, 

five years to the page, four lines per day, 

space, inviting forbidden thoughts. 

key and code. too weak:

marble secrets shatter

against cold concrete

stop. stuff real words

back into dark places,

like unmatched socks.

write vanilla smiles

onto bright white paper

in broken, braille letters.

wait. tears and years.

new notebooks still locked

by old shadows, until …

A new key scattered

words across the page:

“for yr own joy”

-- Joyce wycoff

1/10/2021

From Brain Pickings:

Jack Kerouac began his 30-point list for writing with:

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy