Faith over Fear: Don’t Wait for Rock Bottom

”If God has a refrigerator, my picture is on it.”

That’s what my friend Gary told me during an intense conversation on spirituality and religion a few months ago. He’s a two time cancer survivor who just got another clean scan yesterday and I was blown away by his confidence, and his perceived connection to the Man (or Woman?) upstairs.

Wow, I thought. I want my picture on that fridge too. But first, my faith has to be unwavering. Like Gary’s. I’m not religious, but I’m a believer. Or so I used to think.

Losing my mom ten months ago has certainly accelerated my yearning for learning in the deep end of the pool.

Faith is one of the only things we can count on right now. If you’re questioning yours, despite all the logical reasons you shouldn’t, it could be time to rethink your connection to whatever it is you believe in.

I am on my way to living proof that an unwavering sense of faith that everything will be OK can shift the stress and uncertainty pumping through your innards right now.

We are 6 months into this deadly and frightening pandemic, and four months since we white people got knocked over the heads by our ignorance, with the clock ticking towards this election that has divided our country and some of our Contact lists, right down the middle.

We have never been more challenged. Or lost.

And I’ve been searching, for years now. This is not a COVID thing. Or a quest for this long-awaited and elusive social justice. It’s been building for a very long time. It just finally imploded on us.

In 2013, I left a long career in TV News, to bring a dream to life with my college professor mother. I was in LA and she was in Miami. Together, long distance, we created Campowerment, a transformational playground built around the concept of community and the summer camp culture I loved as a kid. Infused with friendship, life’s grounding lessons, and the spirit of the campfire, we brought inspiring experts together to share their wisdom, wrapped around the power of playtime. And for 7 years, it was a beautiful gift we got to deliver. To thousands of people longing to live life bigger and better. To find purpose. And community.

Sharing that experience with my mom Grandy, the Campowerment “Goodwill Ambassador” and Journaling counselor, and my daughter Chelsea, who’s now CEO, has probably been the greatest gift of the Universe has ever brought me.

Even through a fire in Malibu that nearly wiped us out, my own life threatening illness brought on by the stress of trying to carry on in the face of adversity, and my mom’s brain injury from a fall that triggered a dormant disease which ultimately killed her, Grandy and I shared 23 life-changing camp retreats together. Each one carried its own kinda magic with it. Just like she did.

A few weeks before she died, Grandy told me how proud she was of this movement we created, and all the people we’ve helped along on their journeys to take the action they didn’t even realize they needed. To propel their lives forward and live the joyful existence they had always just assumed was out of their reach.

My mom spoke quietly about this from her hospital bed, with her eyes closed for most of that conversation, but then she opened them wide and pointed her index finger at me, speaking slowly and carefully:

“Tata,” she whispered in as strong a voice as she could muster, “it’s your turn now. Time to live the glorious life you’ve created for everyone else. Go create your own dream and make it happen. No one can fix your life but you.”

Over those next few weeks, we talked a lot about this, and she confidently promised to help me get that life she was referring to, once she got to the other side. “But how, mommy,” I would ask her repeatedly, “will you be able to help me if you’re dead?” We would laugh together til I got serious again: “How am I gonna know if and when your spirit is with me?” She told me to look for a flamingo, and when I saw one, I would feel her. “Why a flamingo?”, I asked curiously, as we had never, not once, talked about flamingos. “Long legs. Skinny body,” she said, chuckling.

My mom, who was barely 4’11”, even after a Pilates class, always wanted long legs. For much of my life, she would stop tally, leggy women on the street and ask them, sarcastically, if they liked their gams, because, as she would explain between a giggle, “in my next life, they’re gonna be mine.” SO not funny when you’ve heard the same joke for 50 years, but her shtick always got a laugh. That day in the hospital, I cracked up too, with no clue at the time that I would very soon equate my beloved mother with a long legged pink bird.

And wouldn’t you know it, on February 21, ninety days after she left us, as I was in month two of a six month, self-imposed healing hiatus that was supposed to have me writing this book/screenplay that’s been whirling between my ears for a very long time, something incredible happened.

After many desperate and unsuccessful attempts to connect with the elusive spirit of my mom, despite lots of fake plastic flamingo spottings in the oddest places, I was driving across Florida with my sister, when she noticed a beautiful pink bird flying low, directly perpendicular to our car.

OMG. A real live flamingo, cruising solo, about 25 feet above us.

WTF? I didn’t even know flamingoes could fly?

Or that I had finally come to a place of complete surrender, to step aside and allow the Universe, or God, be my co-pilot on this journey into the unknown.

A few hours later, still amazed by this perceived “coincidence”, we stopped at a pizza joint, and as we ordered, I got dizzy. Really dizzy. Excused myself and went to the bathroom where the room began to spin, and it didn’t stop, for almost an hour.

Sweating profusely, I tore off my clothes, and got sick. It didn’t stop. My sister kept texting from the table to ask if I was OK, and I somehow mustered the strength to write NO, warning her to be ready to call 911. After what felt like hours, I carefully made my way down to the filthy floor, got on my hands and knees and begged God to help me. Cried and prayed and pleaded like never before.

And in less than a minute, the swirling stopped. I clawed my way up to the mirror to clean myself up, and hardly recognized this beautiful woman staring me in the face. I was confused, but so freaking grateful to feel back in my body again. Was that just an epiphany?

Could it be that easy? Do you only have to ask whoever or whatever you believe in, for spiritual guidance, from rock bottom, for it to land right at your feet? Holy shit.

At that moment, I was all in.

“Game on”, is what i said, out loud, looking up at the nasty, near-crumbling ceiling of that teeny tiny bathroom in the back of that pizzeria. I half expecting to see God’s face staring back at me.

When I got it together and walked back into the restaurant, my sister’s only response was “what just happened to you?”. She said she never saw me glow like that in her whole life.

It was on that day, 2/21/2020, that I the took this real live flamingo sighting as my cue to finally let go, and step back to allow the energy of my mom, our matriarch, to show me the way. And show up, she did. All I had to do was jump on her wings.

Three weeks ago, right before my 61st birthday, I picked myself up and moved to Philadelphia. All by myself.

In the midst of this global pandemic, I’m throwing my future once again into God’s hands, with zero doubt that now, my mom’s spirit is at the wheel of my life, sharing space on the front seat with the Almighty.

Talk about faith. And trust. And knowing deep down that I have absolutely nothing to lose by moving across the country during COVID19, with Medicare looming in the not so distant future, as the whole world tries to stay afloat while trying to cope with this collective trauma that no one can escape or control right now.

My psychologist friends, who in my circle are now considered essential workers, tell me that whatever issues we all were dealing with pre-pandemic, have now multiplied exponentially. And those of us who were too busy running from the reality of our own uninspired lives, have had nowhere to go to escape and hide these past 6 months, and we’re only now waking up to the fact that we’ve gotta do something about it. Soon.

I do believe we’re all gonna be OK once we learn what we’re supposed to from all this. But I don’t think we’re even close yet.

I made a very bold move in the middle of all this world instability, and recognize that I’m either brilliant or I’m a total idiot. The jury is still out. But I’m trusting we will all make it through this chaos that has become our lives in 2020. The question is when. And the not knowing is killing all the logical thinkers.

No me. Every single day, I get a weird sign or two that feels very real to me, and that helps me believe in this unexplainable divine intervention, which pushes me to put one foot in front of the other, and keep moving. Sometimes, these signs don’t make any sense, but I’m paying attention in a way I never have before. And I know this too shall pass. Pandemics don’t last forever. Nor can our ignorance.

But Philadelphia? I’ve always loved that city because of its people. Many of my childhood camp friends live there, but that’s about all I really know about the City of Brotherly Love.

So why move from Paradise on the Pacific to Pennsylvania? Let’s rewind for a moment.

Right after the New Year, 2 months after losing my mother, one of my dearest childhood camp friends generously offered me her empty apartment in Center City…to run away from home and just BE for a few weeks. To get away from my routine and embrace my grief. To take some time to heal, and wrap myself in the silence I needed to properly mourn my mom.

Every morning for six weeks, I would brave the winter’s cold, and walk the city, where our nation’s independence was born. Taking in the magnificent architecture and the history and imagining our forefathers walking these same streets on their way to create the freaking Constitution. This city mesmerized me.

But I was a lost soul, just trying to recover and find some connection. To myself and to the elusive spirit of my mama, who promised to be there for me from wherever she was going. I believed her, though I still had zero idea how this was supposed to work. I’m a seeker and a chaser, and I’m not great at sitting still and allowing life to happen. I like to make shit happen.

Every morning after my long walk, I’d find my way back to Rittenhouse Square, cozying up to a La Colombe $7 almond milk latte, and slide myself into the front row of an almost empty, toasty Trinity Church. It’s a magnificent building with its pews bathed in streaks of rainbow from the mid morning sun sneaking in through the stained glass, and the door was always open to those who needed to snag some respite from the cold. It was usually just me and the homeless, escaping the whipping winter’s wind. Once in awhile, someone joined me in prayer, but most of the time, it was just me.

Yes, I’m Jewish, but by this point in mid-January, I was asking for something (anything!) from any holy entity that would listen. I’d pull down the padded knee rests and every morning, and ask God to help me find my way to my mom. I was desperate to feel her presence, like she promised, to help me figure out what to do with my life. Begging for a sign, with tears streaming down my face (see unflattering selfie above, taken in January to remind myself what rock bottom looks and feels like).

Should we keep Campowerment alive, after all the hits we took in the name of helping people live their lives better? Even though mine kinda sucked? Or should I go back to TV where I could easily make a living, and try to make a whole new life for myself? I had so many questions for God. And Grandy.

But every single day, I got nada.

My last weekend there, one of my camp girls asked me what I love so much about living in California. My list, it turned out, was a lot shorter than I thought.

So she urged me to go look at some apartments in Center City, just in case I ever wanted to consider making a change to upscale urban living in a brand new, vibrant city. As if I would ever leave my ocean view in Lala Land, where it’s 72 and sunny every day.

But something in my gut told me to go, and just look.

The moment I walked into that first, historic building, I knew I had to live there. Just standing in the lobby, I felt like Eva Gabor in Green Acres (Dahling I love you, but give me Park Avenue…”)

The Leasing Agent told me nothing was available, but she was happy to put me on the wait list. I didn’t even want to live in Philadelphia as badly as I wanted to live there, in that building, two blocks off Rittenhouse Square. I didn’t even know it was exactly what I was looking for, til it stared me right in the face. Moving, to Philadelphia no less, was never even on my radar.

Then I remembered that two years earlier, my mom and I had visited Philly for a Campowerment event, and I casually mentioned to her how very much I loved this city and could even live there if I was a little younger. “So why don’t you?”, she asked. And I just laughed at her.

Now I had a chance and there was no vacancy? I saw a few other apartments that day but nothing compared. Talk about an exercise in patience. Tell me I can’t have something and suddenly, it’s all I never wanted.

A few weeks later, after stalking this poor Leasing lady, right about the time I saw that flamingo, an apartment in that fancy building miraculously became available…a unit that was set to be gutted and completely remodeled. That’s the one that is now mine for the next 12 months.

And get this. Two months after I signed the lease, I learned my kids are about to become my neighbors, when my future son-in-law, a fifth year Orthopedic Surgery Resident, got accepted as an Attending Physician In PHILADELPHIA. Seriously?

That day Chelsea called to tell me they too were moving to Philly, was the day I realized my photo had finally made it onto God’s fridge.

So, after spending five months in Miami caring for my 91 year old dad in Florida during the quarantine, I hired someone in California to pack up my stuff via FaceTime, and put it on a moving truck. Then my awesome sister Jojo and I rented a car and headed north. One of my favorite Campowerment sisters drove up from Virginia to helped move me in, and when they left, I was all alone, wondering why I had done this.

It was nothing like I expected. Masked humans everywhere with eyes kinda glazed over. Boarded up shops and restaurants, and homeless people all over the streets. It was beyond depressing. My childhood friends? They had all fled the city in March and hope to return by Spring or Summer of 2021.

But that’s the point, I am learning. We have no control of anything. Ever. Even when we think we do. And it rarely turns out the way we think it will, anyway.

That’s why we have to surrender, and trust that all of this is part of God’s plan. To teach us the stuff we’re not learning otherwise, because we’re letting our heads take charge. I have now come to realize I know nothing, and have put my life into the hands of a complete unknown. And it all feels different. Just because I gave up being in charge of my own destiny.

Now, when I ask for a sign or some sort of guidance, I’m pretty sure my request skips the line and jumps unapologetically in front of all the bajillion other requests from seekers who are also begging to have their prayers answered.

I didn’t always believe that. But I do now. Thanks to a long legged pink birdie that flew over us on that memorable February day, just a few weeks before COVID19 hit the fan and everybody’s world turned upside down.

I probably wouldn’t have made this move if I had not already signed that lease to the apartment that was not even supposed to be available. That’s the other point. I trusted God and myself enough to just put one foot in front of the other and make a move. Knowing it’s going to be the right one, however it turns out.

During this crazy time, we’re all making up our own rules about what is and isn’t safe to do at this moment. My Psychotherapist friend Suzanne calls it Kosher COVID.

Like the many practicing Orthodox Jews who sometimes subjectively interpret religious laws to suit their beliefs, we are all now finding our own ways to feel comfortable about stepping back into the world, and no one has any right to judge one another about those decisions. We all do what works for us, however that looks.

As for me, I’m now convinced that my is life only half in my own hands, as I’ve bequeathed the other 50 percent to a power I can feel but cannot see. And I know I’m on my way to exactly where I’m supposed to be, to a brand new place spiritually, even in the midst of this uncertainty. There’s a chance I may be locked down in my new place for another 6 months. Or maybe even a year. And I’m OK with that, because I know, deep down, I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to.

Nothing really changed. Except everything.

Campowerment has now gone virtual. And after beta testing our LIVE, interactive experiences 200 times over the past 6 months, with thousands of willing participants who are looking for purpose and connection to people and who think like they do, along with Expert-inspired ways to live their lives bigger and better as we move into this new unexplored world that will come, we’re about to launch an unprecedented, really fun and inspiring, community-minded program that every woman on this Planet needs right now.

Change is coming to this world, whether we’re ready for it or not, and I am so stinking proud of what we’ve been able to create for so many women, by letting go.

This digital membership program, which we will unveil in less than two weeks on campowerment.com, is only happening because we stepped back and let it unfold in a way we never dreamed possible, making space for the unknown. And it’s also going to allow deserving women who might never have a change to experience this kind of empowerment, to play with us too. It’s gonna be epic. Thanks Mom, for helping me see what I otherwise couldn’t.

Martin Luther King once said: Faith is taking the first step, even when you can’t see the whole staircase.

Could the man of my dreams is waiting for me at the top of that staircase? Or maybe my kids are gonna make me a grandma while I’m in Philadelphia? (Side note to Chelsea and Peter: NO pressure, but if anyone can make that happen, we all know it’s Grandy, the greatest Grandma of all time). Who knows? We certainly don’t.

I thought I was completely lost without my mother. Til she found me.

Cuz I’m pretty sure that no matter wherever she goes or whatever it is she’s doing in Heaven, every time my mom opens God’s refrigerator, there I am.

And when I meditate, I imagine that fridge to be a double wide Sub Zero. With plenty of room on it for your picture too.

Faith doesn’t cost a thing, but miracles only happen when you trust in them. And they’re waiting to be thrust upon you. You just have to believe before you can receive.

It’s that simple. Just ask. And trust in the knowing that God, or the Universe, or Jesus or Buddha or Allah, or whoever you believe in, is standing by, waiting to upload your photo too. There’s room on that fridge for all of us.