The Artists Guide to Finding Time


I wear many hats, but my purpose in this lifetime is to write and to publish compelling stories with characters many would not pause to consider or feel compassion for—people on the fringe of society, whose inner light is rarely acknowledged. This is my passion. Yet it seems that all my other ‘work’ demands my primary focus. Intention plus Attention, Manifests. Yet most of my Attention, for years, has been drawn in too many directions. I am a single mom who has been raising her two boys solo for nine years. I am the author of three novels seeking representation, as I desire to publish traditionally. I am a freelance journalist who writes for magazines. I am a yoga teacher who has taken 5 yoga trainings and led a yoga and writers retreat in Greece, hoping to run more! My ex lives in Europe and I have no family help, so I have few weekends off to re-charge, and no help when a kid is sick or there is an emergency at school. I guess you can say I am a master juggler. Yesterday a friend told me she can’t find time or motivation to write/create her blog because she has too many demands, yet she has no children or full-time employment. Our demands, are our demands, however. What we focus on, grows. If we focus on fear and lack, we will scramble in too many distracted directions and lose our willpower.

I am finally mastering the balance and carving out more time to focus—even within my hectic schedule. Trust me, between school runs, lunches, dinners, homework, soccer games and practices, violin performances, Taekwondo, volunteer requests, yoga classes I teach, etc…My daily life can become a blinding, dizzying, depressing grind that used to relegate my passion for writing to a mere 30 minutes a day—and that was on good days! I’ve now cut out the major fat, the time-suckers and distractions and am working on my fourth novel. If I can find more time—trust me—you can too. I want to help. Here is the first of a five-part-series on how to find the time to create:

First, cut out ALL the distractions. By that, I mean, ALL SOCIAL MEDIA HAS TO GO. For a year. It’s been seven months of no social media for me in my first year cleanse. During this period, I finished my 3rd novel (click here for excerpt), edited it four times, attended a writers conference and submitted the novel to agents who are currently considering it. Also during that period, I taught yoga classes, helped manage a studio, worked with private clients, attended a meditation retreat, raised two humans by myself and dealt with health issues. If I had stayed on social media, I would have been sucked into its time-wasting trap—losing momentum, motivation and self confidence—while wasting valuable time better spent writing. Now I know all authors and artists need a “platform” to sell their art. But while you are still struggling to create & produce art and then garner an agent or deal, social media needs to go. Here’s why social media is not only a waste of time for budding artists and writers, but it actually makes us less creative, less authentic, and less productive:

  1. Social media thwarts momentum. Why? because it turns the focus outward and not inward. You may be half -way through that novel, or composition or mural, and suddenly you become overwhelmingly self-conscious and fearful and less sure, losing your drive to move forward. We lose our ability to connect deeply to our core and hear our intuition (the birth place of creativity) and our desires, when we focus on others: on what they are doing, how they are doing it and and on how others feel about us and what we do. To create, we need to turn inward, tap into our inner power, our inner passion, our inner purpose and JAM.
  2. Social media drains our Motivation and lessens our Gratitude—which can spur bad habits that actually suck more time away from our projects becoming successful. Looking at what others are doing, can thwart us from realizing our dreams and we can become filled with thoughts like:  Maybe I should be going out more? Those drink looks good, I need a happy hour. I need to have a spa day, why don’t I get to have a spa day? I love her dress and shoes, I haven’t had a new outfit in years. etc etc. Yes we all need balance, but spending more, getting hung-over, or spending money we don’t have or time with negative friends, will NOT help.
  3. Social media lowers self-confidence by comparing our lives and our projects with others. This is an expansion of the last point. Artists often live with less before they are published or discovered. If we compare our lives by what we have or own and are constantly filling our minds with visions from Instagram or Facebook of ‘friends’ new houses, new cars, new relationships we can develop thoughts of fear and lack, that dissuade us thinking in affirmative powerful ways that manifest. Thoughts like: I should be doing more. Or I’m not as good as him. Or I need to focus on money-making projects or pick up more part-time work in order to get a date like his. etc …
  4. Studies have shown that even a mere 20 minutes of social media photo sharing or scrolling increases anxiety, depression and feelings of lack. Studies proved social media lowers self-esteem and it creates disrupted sleep patterns (likely from light erupting from a phone by the bed). One study says that not only does social media foster addiction, but it re-wires the brain to become more addictive and reactive in general. All thwart inspiration to create authentically and powerfully.
  5. The more time we spend on social media, the less we take ourselves and our art and our passions seriously. Sure, you may post a pic of yourself painting or writing, and love the 100 likes you receive, but are you really delving into the project for hours, connecting to your inner voice, inner guides and moving forward in a powerful way? Answer this truthfully.

So, my advice, drop the Instagram, SnapChat, Facebook for a year and gain back the two—or more hours a day—to focus on your art, your potential, your inner fire.

Next installment covers what to replace those two hours with. SO GOOD.

Have a beautiful day!

If you liked this article, you may be interested in:

Is Social Media Bad for You? BBC, January 2018



Do I Call the Cops on a Neighbor?

I’m getting triggered by my alcoholic angry neighbor. Do I call the police, or slip his girlfriend a hotline number on a card? My neighbor is often so abusive to his girlfriend’s children that I can hear every word and feel the vibrations of slamming doors and skidding car tires from my bedroom. Tonight I am writing after the yoga class I taught—the theme, finding balance and harmony and thwarting fear–ironically. I come home and have to listen to such violence. I nearly called the cops. Can you do that for verbal abuse? It’s beyond awful. And I know a thing or two about this.

So, the gal is a single mom who only has her two boys maybe 4-5 weeks a year. I don’t know why, but I do know that one is on the spectrum severely and the other is very hyper. Still. Her boyfriend is big and a drunk and loves to scream menacingly at them. He will threaten and belittle them and slam doors. I’ve heard him call them pathetic to be alive and idiots and fucking morons, etc. I’ve heard him scream and bang on walls while his girlfriend begs and pleads that ‘they all’ stop. But it’s just him. Then he’ll call her an idiot and threaten to kick her out if she can’t control her animals and then usually throws something, before maybe smacking one of the boys and driving off to go to a bar.

Lovely. I moved into this house in July and the first week I was here, one of the boys ran down the street screaming. He’s maybe 9. I went after him because I had just pulled into my garage. He was shaking and scared. I walked with him home because the mom and boyfriend were screaming. The autistic boy was walking near an intersection that was very busy. It could have been really bad. The next day the girlfriend wouldn’t look at me in the face, but she sent both boys away and they didn’t return for six months.

What I hate the most, is how the girlfriend never defends her boys. She begs them to be better for HIM. The ASSHOLE. She begs them to be quiet and good and not mess it all up. Like the ASSHOLE’s money is worth letting him abuse and terrify her boys, who likely feel like shit and like they don’t deserve to breathe or to be alive and have certainly become an imposition to their mother and her set up with the ASSHOLE. They don’t feel loved or lovable. I tried to say hello to one boy last Fall. I pretended to need to go into my garage to get something after I heard all the screaming that I worried was partly physical. I found him hugging his knees and rocking back and forth in his driveway. He wouldn’t look at me. When I reached out to touch his shoulder, the little boy moved quickly away like he was frightened.

What’s shocking is that when the kids aren’t around, the ASSHOLE is very nice to me. He’s charming and funny and always asking if I want to come over and have a glass of wine. He’s always drinking and smoking a cigar by his fire pit. I’ve heard him tell his girl (they both talk loudly when drinking and my bedroom is right above their firepit) that she doesn’t need to wear make up or get her hair done or work out. Yet he always mentions how great I look when I’m coming back from my yoga classes.

Why is this woman putting up with him? WHY? I want to scream at her “WAKE UP & PROTECT YOUR BOYS & GET THE FUCK OUT.”

But I can’t. And from what I can tell, it’s ‘only’ verbal abuse.

I have experience with explosive drunk verbal abuse that can, at any moment, explode violently. I’m shocked that I didn’t overdose from a lifetime supply of cortisol from my youth.

It’s probably why I get super anxious whenever I’m with friends at a bar or a party and one of the men has a little too much to drink and his arms swing widely. It’s why I don’t go to bars much and am extremely careful about dating. It’s fear. I fear a sudden explosion of violence. I don’t even drink anymore because of it. I can’t live with the vibration of abuse and addiction and manipulation and negativity and control EVER again. It’s what I grew up with and it’s why I used to cower when having an argument with my ex-husband and he still doesn’t really understand that. It’s a slow process to find self-esteem and self-worth and to trust the Universe after going through all of that.

And now I have to hear the little boys next door go through Hell. I ache inside. I cry sometimes. I hate it. I love children so much. All children. Autistic and ADHD children need to be protected. They aren’t trying to be ‘difficult.’ They are innocents. To be screamed at like they don’t matter and to be threatened and be terrified to come visit their mother is a sin. I know if I call the police this woman will not leave him and the abuse will get worse. I feel it deep down inside.

Say a prayer for these children and all the children who are being raised with such terrifying insanity. We are all sparks of the divine. But little children believe what they are told and how they are told and blame themselves for being bad and somehow causing the drunk’s outrageous abuse. They don’t know how to believe they are lovable and deserving. It’s a long road to recovery. My heart aches tonight for them.

In search of peace, love and angels this Monday night ~ Laura x



Underneath the Surface in Hawaii


We’re off to Hawaii again! It’s my sixth trip back and this time, I’ll be re-visiting all the spots where magic occurs in my novel Between Thoughts of You. The boys and I are are exploring moving to Honolulu too. The freedom of being a full-time mom, means 100% custody and the ability to live wherever I feel the tug of my life pulse, where mana can be felt and built. So we’ll see. In this pic, the three of us are snorkeling in the gorgeous aquamarine waters of Waimanalo Bay. We arrived just after the sun rose, before tourists could scare away the fish and turtles. I can’t wait to go back!

Here’s a short excerpt of my novel when Lulu recalls her first kiss with Akoni as they swam in Waimanalo Bay. She is remembering this after Akoni, her husband, has left her. After he left her for her best friend—a mere three months after their baby girl Healani died mysteriously. Lulu is remembering this from Tuscany, where she escaped her sadness in order to care for a dying old man. She needed to leave reminders of her life in Oahu behind, yet she can’t. As the old man’s remorse engulfs him in a rabid lust for the love of his life, whom he abandoned after the War, sweet memories of Akoni flood back into Lulu’s consciousness. She must find a way to resolve her broken heart around the fact that a pure love can, and did exist, regardless of how it was destroyed.

CH 6: Between Thoughts of You

ko’u Pu’uwai : My Heart

The first time Akoni kissed Lulu, 15 years earlier, he had laughed afterward and said: “You didn’t know you’d fall in love with a prince today did you?”

They had been swimming in the clear, aquamarine waters of Waimanalo Bay. Lulu and Akoni were splashing around in Pahonu Pond, the ancient fish pond built hundreds of years earlier to trap turtles for the kings of Hawaii. Only royalty had been allowed to eat the turtles, others would have be killed for doing so. The wall, although weathered, enclosed a perfect place for keikis to swim safely. Lulu’s favorite spot in Kaiona Beach Park was just a 15 minute walk from Nan and Rusty’s farm in Waimanalo. Rusty had taught her how to swim there by getting her to ‘chase’ the fish in the clear waters. Out of breath, little Lulu had risen up with her over-sized goggles on, and through water droplets, had seen Rusty laughing and clapping for her. She had always felt happy there. She had never felt more safe and more loved, as Rusty’s uhane had surrounded the two of them like a warm blanket when they were together.

Of course, she would have her first kiss with a Hawaiian prince in that same spot! Rusty, who had been called this because of the strawberry hues in his hair, practically had predicted it. He had pointed off to Rabbit Island one time as he gave Lulu a lesson and had said: ‘Princes are buried there. Their spirits are smiling on you, little one, and will bring you your own prince some day.”

Akoni and Lulu had both been working on Nan’s farm that summer day. Rusty had died four years earlier and had been a close childhood friend of Akoni’s grandfather. They both had loved outrigger canoes. Rusty had become famous for carving traditional Hawaiian ones resembling what ancient royalty had been transported in hundreds of years earlier. He sold them humbly out of his barn by word-of-mouth referrals. Those in the know happily referred customers his way—as Rusty had been someone on the island people were proud to call a friend and to ride with. When Rusty died, Akoni’s grandfather made a solemn promise to Lulu’s Nan that he would always help to support her family. So, every summer after Rusty’s death, Akoni and his brothers and sisters worked on Nan’s farm. When Rusty had been living, the farm had grown corn and Nalo greens. Over time, however, the farm, called Rusty Patch, had become a popular tourist attraction. Set just at the base of the Ko’olau mountains and near the crystal waters of Kaiona, Nan decided to listen to friends’ advice who insisted it was perfectly located to attract tourists. So she started advertising the year after Rusty’s death and Rusty Patch suddenly exploded—selling tickets year-round to various events: a petting zoo, a pumpkin patch, hay rides, corn field maze games, watermelon races, even cooking classes.

That August morning, Akoni and Lulu had decided to take a break from selling mango and strawberry “nalo” lemonade to tourists and walked down to the turquoise waters. Splashing around in the keiki pond, Akoni suddenly began to talk. A boy of few words, Lulu stilled herself and paid attention.

“This pond was created for my ancestors,” he told her, raising an eyebrow.

Lulu smiled in response and teased, “So I’ve heard.”

“You think I’m being arrogant?”

Lulu shrugged. She had heard on the playground that Akoni’s family was related to King  Kamehamoa I, who had reigned Hawaii until 1819. But how many Hawaiians would have loved to have claimed the same? Besides, she had read in history books that King Kamehamoa had married more than 30 wives! So who documented all the children born from the 30 wives—and probably mistresses—200 years ago? Lulu decided that it would be hard to prove, or disprove, whether a Hawaiian family had actually been related to that King’s family today. But Akoni was handsome. And charming. He had grown into his chest. His skin was the color of cinnamon and smooth to the touch. She noticed that his eyes were soft chocolate with flecks of yellow. His cheek bones were broad giving his round face a distinct definition to go with his cleft-dented chin that Lulu suddenly wanted to bite that day. Lulu had known Akoni most of her life. She didn’t understand why that moment she felt such an urge to smell his neck or touch the place just between his collar bones. But she wanted to. Desperately. So she said nothing about his ridiculous claims of royal blood. And smiled silently back at him.

Akoni began to swim around Lulu and continued with his story.

“So, this pond was created to keep turtles for the Wakea or the ali’inui.”

“So Rusty told me,” Lulu replied.

“What if I told you that one of my great grandmothers was King Kamehamoha’s keopuolani?”

Lulu raised an eyebrow at him.

“We have artifacts at my house to prove it, but my mom and dad say it is arrogant to speak of it. They say it will cause others to not respect me if I boast.”

Akoni dipped beneath the waters surface, and emerged very close to Lulu’s chest. It had been a bit chilly that day. The clouds had come in and it started to rain lightly. She sunk down into the water to stay warm; just her chin peaked above its grey green surface. Akoni was down on his knees in order to look into her eyes. Her green eyes.

“Your eyes are now the same color of the water. I think you are a witch,” he said laughing. “You have put a spell on me,” he added.

And then he kissed her. Lightly. Sweetly. Lulu started to tremble. When he pulled his lips from hers, Akoni wrapped his arms around her saying, “You’re freezing!”

She responded, “No. I’m scared.”

Akoni laughed hard, before saying the infamous line Lulu would tell all their friends for years to come: “You didn’t know you’d fall in love with a prince today did you?”


 For more excerpts of Between Thoughts of Me, or Uriel’s Mask, please click Words in the Categories side bar.

Have a blessed day.


Laura xo

Voice, Authenticity & the Right to Write


Is it OK for a writer to create main characters of the opposite sex, sexual orientation or with a different ethnic background from her own? Is it believable? Will the readers trust the voice of the protagonist? And IF I write a novel where the characters live in another country, is that stepping too far outside of my zone of authenticity? Since both of my novels that I’m currently selling to agents have crossed these barriers, have I now become an author that is too hard to sell in todays restrictive fiction marketplace?

These are questions that kept surfacing for me while at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference this past weekend. First, let me say Wow! What an amazing four day journey! The SFWC had more than 100 workshops, pitches to agents, meetings with editors, authors, publicists, experts and lectures by famous authors, poets at the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill. There were hundreds of authors from all over the globe with manuscripts in hand. The level of creativity was intoxicating. I highly recommend writers go next year!

What I heard from agents, and a few published authors, however, was confusing. Two agents (after hearing my short pitch) told me I would be ‘hard to sell’ to top 5 publishers because my main character of Between Thoughts of You is a Japanese-Hawaiian woman and I’m not Hawaiian. Yup. These comments were made before reading a word of the manuscript and without asking me why I chose this character, or how much research I did, or how I felt compelled to create this person who is a strong, yet gentle and spiritual female—the perfect combination to be the hospice nurse to trigger an old man who misses the love of his life, a Japanese woman he met after WW11.

A published author who spoke at the conference, expressed her trepidation over crossing ethnic and socio-economic barriers in her first novel inspired by an NPR story. Because her protagonist was a woman from Mexico and she, a college-educated, middle class woman from San Francisco, she said she feared whether she had the right to create her. “I worried. Who am I to write about someone from Guatemala or Mexico?” she said to a large audience of writers.

As a journalist who studied with the BBC in London, researched documentary journalists such as John McPhee, and who studied and published with the Salt Institute for Documentary Studies in Maine, where I was asked to live with islanders and sailors for months and write about them, I was dumbfounded by her statement. I sat in the audience and thought, “Who are you NOT to write about a Mexican immigrant?”

IF a writer is inspired by a true story and wants to fictionalize the experience to create more awareness, the writer is hearing a calling. IF a story beckons to the writer, it will become inflamed with passion and purpose. And IF, even in the face of fear and doubts, the writer can’t kick the idea of the story, much like a buzzing of a bee at his ear, then the writer must follow the calling and write the damn story. The mission, then, becomes to open the eyes and hearts of the reader so that they can become compassionate towards a human whose experience they might not otherwise care about. I would then say that it becomes imperative that we cross those borders, of ethnicity, walk that tightrope of place and voice as an author, to enter into the international language of emotion. And, of course, much research needs to be done to make the voice of the writer and the sense of place and location believable. But this is achievable.

It’s not surprising that my first novel Lucifer’s Laughter, a murder mystery and my MFA thesis when in New York, has a main character that is a lobsterman in Maine. I lived there and documented that region and had been a crime reporter for years prior. My second novel, Uriel’s Mask, is inspired by a newspaper article I read back in 1991 when I was a reporter in North Carolina. I kept the newspaper clipping with me through multiple moves, knowing I would write about this character, an illiterate daughter of a freed slave, who created masks in honor of the spirits who visited her while she sat by the French Broad River in Asheville. See, I knew that I’d write about her one day, but I didn’t know exactly how. It was a story that called to me. In Uriel’s Mask, her masks (like in real life) are sold in New York, allowing all her grandchildren to become educated. One of the main characters is a southern black man, a talented musician and her grandchild, who becomes one of the first black students at University of North Carolina. As a southerner, Uriel’s Mask, may be easier to ‘sell’ to agents, but I am not black, nor am I a man or the grandchild of a freed slave. And, to make things more complicated (I write with a laugh) I also created a side character who I adore. He is a gay man having an affair with a married man in the closet. Once inside Chris’s head, we see his heart, so full and kind. At the children’s library where he works, he is more patient and compassionate with the children then most of the strict, uptight southern mothers.

When we step outside our comfort zone and allow ourselves to see another viewpoint—to enter into the heart and mind of another human being—we accept the fact that there really are no chasms too great to justify our differences, our racism, our sexism, our superior judgements.

So my reaction to the agents who want authors to look like their main characters is this: Give us a chance. If a writer does a lot of research, like a documentary journalist, there is no location too far, or background too different, to write about. We would not have Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden (as Michael Larsen, Co-Founder of the SFWC so kindly pointed out to me) or The Pearl by John Steinbeck, Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, William Styron’s Sophie’s Choice, Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland,or even the JK Rowling Harry Potter series.

To write Between Thoughts of You, my latest novel and the one I pitched at the SFWC, I returned to Italy, I travelled four times to Hawaii, and I researched WW11 documents regarding northern California internment camps for the elite of the German, Italian and Japanese forces to await trial. So much research went into this book that called to me simply from a conversation with a dying old man I once loved. Our conversation in Tuscany was one where he pondered how his life would have evolved, had he followed his heart, and not his fear, after the War. If he had married his true love, what would have happened? Another inspiration for the novel came from conversations with an 89-year-old German woman whose father was high up in the SS. She, her mother and father were sent to a Northern California camp after the War…Both stories merged in my consciousness and birthed the idea behind Between Thoughts of You. It is the story that called to me. It is the story that only I could tell. And it is one fueled by the power of love, the destructive forces of fear, and the dying desire to follow one’s heart.

These are universal truths no matter sex, sexual orientation, or ethnic background—for the characters & the writer. 🙂

If you enjoyed this conversation, you may also be interested in the following articles:

When Authors Create Title Characters of the Opposite Sex, HuffPost.

The Four Rs of Writing Characters of the Opposite Gender Writers Digest.

Whose Life is it Anyway? Novelists Have Their Say on Cultural Appropriation The Guardian.

Should Authors Write Characters Outside Their Race? The Good Man Project.





The Heart: Submerged in Mystery


Photo by Toni Frissell

“You were a risk, a mystery. And the most certain thing I’d ever known.” ~ Beau Taplin.

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.” ~ Albert Einstein.

“Love is the way Messengers from the Mystery tell us things.” ~ Rumi

Underneath the surface of our daily lives—concealed beneath a hundred smiles and practical choices—its faint heart beat lingers, quietly pulsing and pulling us back into its orbit of truth. The mystery of love: for all its impractical, unwise, and disruptive qualities, contains an element of the mysterious, surviving in an eternal space beyond the physical realm. It is a timeless, yet terrifying space, that intellect strongly neglects, and the heart fully embraces and recognizes. It is the ‘Ah, it’s you,’ feeling upon the first hug, the first touch, the first scent that lingers at the nape of his/her neck. It tells you you’re home. It belies logic. It lives within the waters of intuition. And it exists within you long after the physical experience or relationship ends.

Australian poet Beau Taplin captured its essence for me with this line: “It’s a frightening thought that in one fraction of a moment, you can fall into a kind of love that takes a lifetime to get over.”

Maybe not everyone experiences this kind of love in their lifetime? But I’m convinced they know if they have. That’s been my experience. When it ends, it’s shattering. The idea of never touching, seeing, or being with the other person is brutal. It’s hard to go on. And what happens within that space of misery, is also a mystery. Trying to avoid pain, many of us can try to make intellectual ‘safe’ choices, like being with people we don’t love in the same insanely passionate way. Or maybe some choose to be with someone because of what they can do for them, or because they would be more accepted by family, or it just feels like a safe bet. But it could be farther from the truth as it short-changes your heart. Not taking the risk for love, over time, haunts us. Memories of our true love, or the longing for this love, will linger within us and bubble up to the surface eventually. Even if our safe relationship lasts a lifetime—think of the married couples who are miserable, treat each other with disdain, yet stay together for the sake of the children, or due to financial fears. What lingers underneath the surface? Who do they think of at night when their partner barely touches them anymore? Love will find a way to survive. It resides deep within us, like a longing whisper.

This mystery is what I write about in my novel Between Thoughts of You. An old man on his death bed, finally admits to his hospice caretaker, who happens to look like his true love, that for 60 years he has never stopped thinking about a Japanese woman he fell in love with during World War II. Riddled with guilt for leaving her, the old man, now in the final stages of lung disease, keeps having lucid dreams of his true love, forcing him to face the truth. Here’s an excerpt from my novel, that I’ll be sharing with agents and publishers this weekend in San Francisco (wish me luck!). In this scene, the old man recovers from a vivid dream and reveals his secret to his caretaker.

Excerpt from Between Thoughts of You: Chapter 3


Wasure raremasen: Unforgetable

“She’s here. I mean, I smell her. It’s so God damn real. You know what I mean?”

Lulu thought of her sweet Lani’s smell. The scent had been so real in her dreams that it often lingered a few seconds after she had awakened.

“I might,” she replied softly. She started to take his pulse and placed the oxygen reader on his finger, ensuring that his oxygen levels were OK. The old man began to cough, too.

“Take it easy,” Lulu advised, sensing that the conversation might rile him up. When she reached for the nebulizer, Pops put a firm hand up saying no. With a sense of urgency on his face, Lulu decided it could wait a few minutes.

“My dreams of her are so real, I can even feel her touch as I’m waking up. I feel her soft hand on mine. She had the softest God damn little hands. They were like doll hands. Light as a feather. And I smell her. Jesus I smell her!”

Pops closed his eyes and breathed in. Lulu couldn’t help but smile in response to his dramatic energy.

“She smells like goose down. I know, odd. But that’s her smell. Soft and innocent. I wake up needing her so bad.”

The old man’s eyes looked searchingly into Lulu’s. 

“I even heard her voice this morning, calling me Yuki. She called me Yuki,” he explained with a sheepish smile.

“So he does have a secret,” Lulu thought. Most of her hospice patients told her at least one secret. Some might be small, such as secretly not liking a cat that a daughter had given her. But some were huge, like being gay and never telling their spouse. She had gotten used to hearing and keeping secrets. It was part of the job as a hospice nurse; to listen and not to judge.

The old man’s head fell back slightly onto his pillow, as his right hand instinctively lifted. His index and middle fingers straightened and touched, rubbing back and forth like he was rolling a cigarette between them. Lulu imagined that he often had long conversations with friends, while smoking cigarettes and drinking cocktails.

“Who are you talking about?” Lulu finally asked, demanding more clarity.

For more than 60 years, he had not said her name. Not once. When he did, it came out as a whisper: “Kiyomi.”

A sense of relief seemed to wash over the old man’s face after he spoke her name aloud.

“She was the one. I mean, no one has ever come close. You know what I mean?”

Lulu blinked, wondering if Akoni was her one and only, then decided not to go there.

“Of course, when you’re young and with the ONE, you’re just, you’re-I mean, you’re so God damned young and stupid you tell yourself that there will be other women like her. Like they’re just waiting for you everywhere, on every street corner and bar. But they aren’t.”

Pops looked contemplatively over Lulu’s shoulder, out the window facing the driveway lined with cypress trees. He placed a cloth up to his mouth as if he would cough, but just cleared his throat politely.

“I was so stupid to let her go. I mean. I knew. Deep down I really knew she was the one the moment I laid eyes on her. It didn’t matter that I was only 20. She was like this Japanese princess. I laid eyes on her and just couldn’t breathe. Like now,” the old man laughed a little. “Like God damned now.”

The conversation was riling him up. Pops started coughing so violently, his shoulders crashed up and down on the bed frame. Lulu had no other choice but to give him his nebulizer and to leave the room to finish making his breakfast. If she stayed any longer, he would just keep trying to talk.

It had turned out to be a gorgeous morning, so after his treatment, Lulu decided to wheel Pops out to the patio for his favorite brunch: eggs benedict and orange juice and toast. Apparently, on Sundays Pops liked to re-create the regular brunch he had in New York. The old man adored traditions. Yet, Lulu noticed that he hadn’t seemed to miss his homes in Rome or Manhattan—or his boys, or his wife—much at all. That perplexed her at first. Now that she had heard his heart was with another— and for nearly sixty years—her curiosity was peaking. 

Once the old man settled into the patio area and ate at least half of his meal without any signs of distress or coughing, Lulu leaned in. “I have to hear more about this Japanese princess. Where were you? Who was she? I thought you had been married forever?”

So, the old man started to tell his long love story. But in his fashion, he began telling it a bit lop-sided. He started the tale of his greatest love affair, after it had died.

“I married the boys mom, but I didn’t love her.” Pops looked around like he was at his favorite restaurant in New York or Rome, fearing someone might overhear his confession.

Lulu instinctively placed a hand on top of his and said, “You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul.”

Pops smiled and blushed. He really loved Lulu. He couldn’t explain how or why, but it felt as if he had known her before, or in another life. Or maybe he was just old and dying and needed to finally tell someone? Either way, he knew he was safe with her, so he continued:

“I mean I liked their mother, but Fran didn’t hold a candle to Kiyomi.”

Lulu wasn’t able to hide her quizzical expression. She just never understood why or how any man could ever marry a woman he didn’t love.

“See these were different times. I returned from the war and suddenly was making money. I mean, Real money. That’s a long story for another time. But, see, my mother was very patriotic. You’d think she’d been born in America, the way she acted.” Pops began to giggle, then continued in a high-pitched voice, imitating her: “‘No son of mine’s marrying a Jap! Just get over her.’ She had said that to me so many times it should have painted it on the kitchen ceiling!” The old man sighed.

“See, I made the mistake of telling my mother, after I returned to New York, that I was in love with this Japanese girl. My mother went Bofo. She went crazy. It took her less than a week to start rounding up pretty Italian girls in the neighborhood for me to date.”

The old man rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, like what could I do?

“I was only 22 then and making a lot of money and really stupid. I mean, the boys’ mother was a looker. I’ll give her that. But nothing made me want to hold her. I mean, she was bossy and flashy. And LOUD. So loud. Key could barely whisper and I’d always hear her, or lean in so I didn’t miss a word. Fran was always yelling. I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders again and then took a sip of his orange juice that Lulu had poured into a champagne flute to be festive.

The old man then shifted into a more serious mood and looked off in the distance, as if sizing up how to best explain what he’d say next.

“If I could do it all over again I’d change everything. That’s why the boys can never know. Never. See, I’d marry Kiyomi. I still love her so much it hurts inside. Isn’t that crazy? It’s been what, 50, no 60 years. Nuts.”

The sun had risen, getting too bright, causing the old man to squint. Tuscany in September could still be hot. Lulu helped lift Pops out of his chair and handed him his walker. “Lets get a little exercise around the property, before going back to bed,” Lulu suggested. Walking on the gravel would be tricky for him, she had decided, but it would also be a good way to provide a focus for the old man. He’d have to concentrate fully on exactly what was before him, and not behind him. Lulu loved the moments that were fully present, like dancing or painting—neither the old man could ever do again. This little treacherous walk would require all the focus he could muster.

They stopped in the shade by the pool, so he could catch his breath. The old man had been panting and trying to hide how hard the walk had been for him. Lulu wondered if she had pushed him too far.

The old man leaned into an old knotted olive tree and looked up at Lulu with such love in his eyes it caused Lulu to blush and look away. Although he hadn’t told her, Pops had been thinking that if he had married Kiyomi, they might have had a daughter, or granddaughter that would have looked like her. The old man touched Lulu’s face gently, turning her gaze back to his, before asking an impossible request:

“I want to die smelling my Kiyomi. Feeling her hand on my hand. I know you understand. I can feel it. I don’t want the boys here. Just you, me and Key, OK?”

Lulu touched the old man’s hand with her own, tears welling in her eyes.

“I promise,” she said, making a promise that she had no earthly idea how to carry out.




Let Him Go — Thought Catalog

I love this post so much. … Had to share 🙂

Felix Russell-Saw Let him go not because you don’t love him but because you deserve to be loved back. Let him go not because you didn’t try but because you deserve someone who tries harder. Let him go not because you weren’t enough but because he should have never made you feel that way. Let…

via Let Him Go — Thought Catalog

Kindness Week Challenge!


This week, January 22 – January 26th is “The Great Kindness Challenge” at my son’s elementary school, Hermosa View. We’re taking it very seriously in this household, as I’m encouraging both my sons to participate. Yesterday, I put a few extra quarters in my meeter before I left and today gave a nearly frozen homeless man my Starbucks gift card with $12 remaining. Ideally, we’re supposed to check off all that’s on the following list. Wouldn’t it be great if more adults participated? Want to join? Here’s our list:

-Smile at 25 people.

-Take a treat to your local firefighters.

-Do a household chore without being asked.

-Donate something to an animal shelter.

-Take a board game to play at a senior center.

-Read a book to a younger child.

-Make a thank you card for your librarians.

-Entertain someone with a happy dance.

-Create a family gratitude jar.

-Cheer for every player on both teams. (good luck Super Bowl Sunday!)

-Deliver a special gift to a child in the hospital.

-Make a new friend or welcome a new neighbor.

-Send a card or gift to a military family.

-Walk a pet, ask first.

-Go a full day without complaining!

-Hold the door for someone.

-Learn to say thank you in 3 languages

-Embrace your family with a big hug.

-Teach something to a younger sibling

-Write or draw a loving note for someone.

-Make and display, “Kindness Matters.”

-Raise funds and donate to your favorite cause.

-Breathe, stretch and think a happy thought.

-Cut out 10 hearts and leave them on 10 cars.

-Donate needed school supplies.

-Thank a bus driver.

-Leave a flower on someone’s doorstep.

-Be kind to yourself and eat a healthy snack.

-Call your grandparents or an esteemed elder.

-Walk or bike to school or work, to be kind to the environment and your body.

-Say thank you to a police officer.

-Bake cookies and share with a neighbor.

-Say good morning to 5 people.

-Pick up and recycle trash in your neighborhood.

-Take a family walk.

-Volunteer in the community.

-Say hi to someone who looks sad.

-Write a happy message on the sidewalk with chalk.

-Paint a kindness rock and randomly place it.

-Share food with someone who is hungry.

-Let someone go ahead of you in line.

-Help plant a garden.

-Reflect on kindness you have seen throughout the day.

-Create your own kind deed. 🙂

Sneaky Depression & Forgiveness


I’ve been teased and complimented (equally) on my smile. I am often smiling, even when I’m faking it till I’m making it. I smile to fool my kids when I’m sad. I’m smile to keep striving, to keep working toward my goals, to keep working, when I’d rather stay home in bed. I snapped this picture on a day when someone stood me up for a date. Yup. It’s happened three times in the past month that I’m tip-toeing out into the dating world again. I’m determined to not take it personally, keep a sense of humor, and not let them have another chance. SO rude! I’m glad I heard Marianne Williamson tell her story (over New Years weekend) about being stood up and saying over and over again “I forgive you, I send you to the Holy Spirit” until she no longer cared and of course, the guy called again and she said NO. That happened exactly the same way with me three times with three different men and when they all called later asking for another date, I was able to laugh and say no thank you! LOL That is really for a story about online dating, but I snapped this pic to remind myself to keep smiling, to keep laughing, to keep taking care of myself, to keep connecting to my inner light, to stay trusting, yet to set firm boundaries that represent self love. But trust me, that smile was not a super joyous one, LOL.

Why am I fessing up to my inconsiderate potential dates? Because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about depression and its causes, roots and the difference between clinical depression and blues. Why? Because depression runs in my family AND some dear friends suffer from it. Plus, one friend was a bit upset about my last post, where I outlined Marianne Williamson‘s best quotes from her New Years Eve retreat on forgiveness. Specifically, he didn’t like this quote:

“You must have already decided to not be joyous if that is how you feel. Recognize you actively decided wrongly. So choose again. Ask God to help you. HE will listen to your slightest request, your slightest willingness.”

It felt too simplistic to him. He was convinced that the person who wrote this, said this, must never have lost a child, lost a spouse, endured a major illness, tragedy, attack, war, etc. Clearly, we can’t be joyous all the time. When I had a seven month old baby to care for all by myself, after losing my job, losing my dog (seriously, this was the biggest loss), losing my mother’s mind to advancing Alzheimer’s and losing my husband…lets just say I could barely function. Was I joyous? Hardly. But I recall looking into my baby’s eyes as he smiled a wet gooey post breastfeeding grin, and being humbled by how much love was between us, and how pure his light was. I shook with the realization that that moment was perfect and precious and exactly as it was meant to be. Of course, moments, days afterwards, especially when I was severely tired and not taking good care of myself, mindless, negative and pity-party thoughts ruled, triggering me into the blues.

Why am I sharing this? Because life throws us hard balls and sometimes we land on our asses without anyone familiar to comfort us. We aren’t supposed to be joyous all the time. But I’ve come to accept what Marianne Williamson meant by that paragraph (and she has certainly experienced many losses in her life). I think it means to let go, to surrender, and to allow more light in by focussing on the present moment—while also taking responsibility and accountability for our roles in each situation. Maybe you didn’t cause a specific situation, like a family member with cancer. or a death in the family, but what can you do to get through to the shores of peace again? Can you reach out for help? Can you pray? Can you drink more water? Can you take deep breaths and eat healing foods? Can you get more sleep? Can you find something meaningful to do to give to others? Can you take long walks or say no to obligations? Can you say kind and loving affirmations to yourself?

I read in a blog post recently the ego is behind all depression as when we are in our ego, we are in alignment with separation from God and separation from others. The ego embraces criticism, fear, cynicism, the belief of lack, the belief of not being worthy, the belief in a punishing God, the belief of sin and loss of innocence, isolation, confusion, permanent death, disease, pain, … etc. As I read this long list, it hit me that really the ego is just the mindless voice of criticism in our heads, like a bully on the playground. It is the voice of fear. And fear always lives in the past. Always. To be in the present requires letting go of the past with forgiveness right?

It is radical to forgive. It is also radical to believe that God loves you so much, He/She put a bit of GodLight inside you. That GodLight exists in everyone. Not just some people, but EVERYONE. Not forgiving, or bad-mouthing, is not forgiving yourself, or badmouthing yourself. That’s a hard concept to embrace, I know. Nothing you do. Nothing you say, takes your light away. It is the same with others. When I am in fear, I am not loving to myself or others. If someone ‘wrongs’ me, it represents their unloving choices, not their lack of light. So if love is the only thing that is REAL, if I am unloving by not forgiving and holding onto grudges, judging, or talking smack, I am participating in more unloving nothingness. Think about it. Depression is connected to this concept. According to experts, depression’s roots come from a lack of enthusiasm for life, a feeling of isolation, a belief in the inability to stop chaos or out-of-control situations or pain from entering our lives. It is connected with a lack of love for ourselves, God or others. It is connected with a lack of purpose too…Therefore, negative thoughts—especially obsessive looping thoughts of lack, of fear, of criticism, of re-playing past conversations or past events—has to be especially damaging. If they trigger bad choices, like letting in people who are not loving, or trigger negative habits like drinking, or isolating, or eating fattening foods, or not exercising, being hyper critical, etc. it can have the powerful domino effect of creating bad physical feelings in the body to springboard more sadness, confusion, feelings of emotional lack. It’s a cycle that perpetuates the myth of unworthiness. It hijacks from the present moment. It re-iterates the mindset: “Why bother? It won’t work anyway.”

I know, I’ve lived it. For me, it ALL boils down to forgiveness. Forgiving myself. Forgiving others. Then finding ways to ‘feel good’ in my body: yoga, walking, dancing, listening to music, eating fresh, healthy foods, etc.

Thanks for reading my meandering thoughts this Sunday, six months since I’ve been off ALL social media by the way! I’ll end with the beautiful Maya Angelou:

“Forgiveness. It’s one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself, to forgive. Forgive everybody. You are relieved of carrying that burden of resentment. You really are lighter. You feel lighter. You just drop that.”



Offline & Off Alcohol … What?!


Good morning. I’m feeling raw and authentic these days, so why not post a naked face pic? ha ha … So here I am, no make up, early morning cup of joe, my last lingering vice. Five months ago, as some know, my 15-year-old dared me to go off all social media. I did. He did. We are both more productive—although his gaming time has gone up, LOL! I finished my 3rd novel, Between Thoughts of You (link to except on title), and sent it to an agent on Monday. Woohoo!! Fingers crossed! The day after Thanksgiving I gave up alcohol. I did this at the request of a dear friend. It was a good request. Alcohol didn’t serve me. There were too many times when I found myself around drunk friends and the chatter became negative or gossipy. Then there were the mornings after when I would still have to teach hot 105 degree yoga. Ow! Plus, I want to be someone my boys can look up to. Someone who still has fun, still enjoys her life, is healthy, vibrant and joyful—all without alcohol. So far SO GOOD. I don’t miss it at all. I enjoyed my 2nd New Year Eve at a yoga (last year) or meditation event where we all ended up dancing for hours and hours! A dear friend I met in Peru, when I attended Mike Dooley‘s retreat, (yeah, the source of Notes from the Universe and SO much more!) flew in. Beth and I attended Marianne Williamson‘s weekend retreat on forgiveness, miracles, finding your voice, vision, taking calm, yet powerful steps toward peace, etc. It was inspiring! We met people from all over the world and via her livestream folks tuned in from Israel, Syria, Egypt, Palestine—talk about powerful! Here’s a pic, post-midnight, of us dancing with Marianne Williamson, her party-goers and the Agape Choir.

Post midnight dancing @ Marianne William's NYE event!

I adore Marianne, a 65-year-old who looks 40 and whose powerfully strong light is feminine, strong and passionate. (I hope she runs for office again!!) I did The Course in Miracles a few years back and in my first yoga training four years ago, was given one of her quotes:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people will not feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone and as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same.”


It felt natural that I should attend her event, held here in LA instead of her usual New York venue. What I took away that was new, however, I will share with you. Pray for Donald Trump. Pray for all your ‘enemies’ and know that they have a light, a direct link to God, just as much as you do. AND, the only thing that is REAL, is LOVE. So what they are doing to hurt you, doesn’t represent them, their true essence, their higher self they were born intrinsically with (like you) and nothing they did or said that harmed you is REAL. As Einstein said: “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

It’s easier to forgive those who hurt me (or who I allowed to hurt me, it is the same) when I think this way. Maybe it will be for you, too? BUT, Marianne warns that talking smack about what they did, or even thinking negatively about what they did and/or ‘who’ they are, will hurt you too—as you enter into the negative illusion that isn’t REAL. LOVE is REAL. LIGHT (GOD LIGHT) is real. And it takes strength to embody both. Letting go of the baggage, forgiving and loving ‘enemies’, ourselves, and then doing something to change our world, takes courage.  I’ll leave you with some of the best quotes by Marianne over the NYE weekend:

“Everyone we meet will either be our crucifier or our savior, depending on what we choose them to be.”

“Get off the cross, we need the wood.”

“The warden, just like the prisoner, can’t leave the jail.”

“You can have a grievance, or you can have joy, you can’t have both.”

“Those who act in a loveless manner (who hurt us) are not being Real. They are love, but have forgotten, or fell asleep. Us attacking them, or criticizing or not forgiving them makes us asleep with them. We must stay awake and forgive.”

“You are reborn in the instant you do NOT bring the past with you.”

“The EGO mind is like a scavenger’s dog, seeking your brother’s guilt. The Loving mind wants to see your brother’s innocence.”

“Forgiveness is a Radical concept. Drop victimhood that the EGO uses against you, against your sense of peace.”

“Jesus said, ‘I don’t have anything you don’t have. I just don’t have anything else.’ Remember to look at your problems, but deny their power over you. Fall in love with positive possibility.”

“Our potential is infinite.”

“The EGO wants suffering. The SPIRIT wants joy.”

“You must have already decided to not be joyous if that is how you feel. Recognize you actively decided wrongly. So choose again. Ask God to help you. HE will listen to your slightest request, your slightest willingness.”

So, I am signing off with one last thought. For me to forgive those who have hurt me in the ‘illusion’, I’ve decided to think of their beautiful light that shined inside of them when they were young children. I see their giggles, their little pudgy hands reaching for their mom’s necks. I imagine the way they must have looked wide-eyed at all who came near and smiled gooey smiles and stared deeply at the strangers with so much love, some had to look away. They still have this innocent light. I love this light. And I forgive them for behaving unlovingly or harmfully toward me because that wasn’t the essence of who they are. I love their essence. God loves their essence. And I love and forgive me for allowing them to hurt me, as I wasn’t protecting myself. Yes, only LOVE is REAl, so anything not loving, must be released with LOVE.

Here’s to Love, Light, Healing & Joy

Laura xo

Excerpt: Between Thoughts of You


Happy Holidays!!!

Here’s an excerpt from my latest novel, Between Thoughts of You. Although I am finished writing it and am in my 4th round of edits now, two days ago I felt compelled to get up early. I wrote something fresh, this excerpt, that I decided to keep. Lulu is my protagonist who finds herself in Tuscany taking care of a dying man. She left Hawaii, all reminders, and everyone she has ever known—not to start over, just not to die. See she wanted to die, to collapse into a black hole of darkness after her baby girl mysteriously died and her husband left her. History was repeating itself. Her mother commited suicide after her father left when Lulu was just a baby. She decided she needed the distraction of constant, demanding work and foreign lands to keep going, to not make the choices her mother made. But she didn’t anticipate hearing such dramatic secrets from the old man, riddled with guilt over leaving the ‘love of his life’ during the War—that no one in his family knew existed. His passionate stories trigger Lulu’s own grief and memories—especially in the early morning hours when she wrestles with the Universe for answers. The answers finally start to come. Enjoy! Chime in if you have thoughts…Excited to send the manuscript to an agent first week of January. Keep striving, keep believing. Love & Light ~ Laura xo


From Chapter 6: 

ko’u Pu’uwai : My Heart

Somehow she was starting to understand that none of ‘it’ was about her anyway, which was a relief. All this thinking about herself and what she deserved or didn’t deserve, or whether she was lovable or not, or had bad karma or not, was exhausting. Lulu had not deserved ‘it,’ or caused ‘it’. Any of it. No one left her or hurt her because they loved her too much, or not enough. It wasn’t even about her. These thoughts crept in, like tumble weeds twirling and bouncing aimlessly along a stretch of deserted highway she was now traveling on without a clear destination. She was a grain of sand. A speck in the Universe. Clearly, she hadn’t deserved what Kon did. Just like Kiyomi hadn’t deserved what Pops had done to her—or Sachi what Peter did. It wasn’t about Kiyomi or Lulu or Sachi. The answers were coming in that morning like navigating stars desert nomads prayed to see. All she knew was that what Akoni and the old man did, maybe Peter too, had something to do with fear—and nothing to do with love. To choose love is to banish fear. It is to choose yourself. It demands that you not listen to what others think, or what others want, or what you think others would want for you. It is quiet and it is pure and it is within you all along. And it can’t be taken away. Ever.