Racism over Dinner – 2

July 28, 2020

I read THREE posts to my kids over dinner tonight. One from Krista Wallace (current), another from Steve Locke from 2015, and I made them watch a video that has gone viral online about three generations of black men protesting.

We didn’t discuss much.

I wanted them to hear it, watch it, digest it and see where it took them.

Copied from Krista Wallace

The other day I copied and pasted a list of things I can do with impunity because I am white. A lot of people are reposting this list, in reaction to the horrific murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis. The outrage is justified.

But make no mistake, I have white privilege here in Canada, too, and I am not smugly saying, “Oh, those Americans, why can’t they get their shit together?”

~I can walk down the street, go to the grocery store, buy beer [insert virtually any activity here] without someone blaming me for the coronavirus, and yelling at me, or spitting on me, or tripping me, or any other form of abuse.

~I can do all of the above without anyone telling me to go back where I came from.

~I can do all of the above without anyone questioning or judging me for what I choose to wear on my head.

~I can do all of the above without being called a drunk.

~I have clean water to drink.

~I wasn’t brought up by people who were ripped from their families and put in a residential school, where they were subjected to countless atrocities which would cause massive long-term emotional fallout which would affect my entire family for generations… etc.

I could go on, but I think I have made my point. We should be just as outraged by the racism here in Canada, and fix it.

This is a professor, who has the tools to articulate how this encounter affected him. He also has the age and wisdom that allowed for him to maintain his composure and not lose his life. Now, imagine a YOUNG Black person, who is not equipped with either.

Steve Locke wrote:

“This is what I wore to work today.

On my way to get a burrito before work, I was detained by the police.

I noticed the police car in the public lot behind Centre Street. As I was walking away from my car, the cruiser followed me. I walked down Centre Street and was about to cross over to the burrito place and the officer got out of the car.

“Hey my man,” he said.

He unsnapped the holster of his gun.

I took my hands out of my pockets.

“Yes?” I said.

“Where you coming from?”

“Home.”

Where’s home?”

“Dedham.”

How’d you get here?”

“I drove.”

He was next to me now. Two other police cars pulled up. I was standing in from of the bank across the street from the burrito place. I was going to get lunch before I taught my 1:30 class. There were cops all around me.

I said nothing. I looked at the officer who addressed me. He was white, stocky, bearded.

“You weren’t over there, were you?” He pointed down Centre Street toward Hyde Square.

“No. I came from Dedham.”

“What’s your address?”

I told him.

“We had someone matching your description just try to break into a woman’s house.”

A second police officer stood next to me; white, tall, bearded. Two police cruisers passed and would continue to circle the block for the 35 minutes I was standing across the street from the burrito place.

“You fit the description,” the officer said. “Black male, knit hat, puffy coat. Do you have identification.”

“It’s in my wallet. May I reach into my pocket and get my wallet?”

“Yeah.”

I handed him my license. I told him it did not have my current address. He walked over to a police car. The other cop, taller, wearing sunglasses, told me that I fit the description of someone who broke into a woman’s house. Right down to the knit cap.

Barbara Sullivan made a knit cap for me. She knitted it in pinks and browns and blues and oranges and lime green. No one has a hat like this. It doesn’t fit any description that anyone would have. I looked at the second cop. I clasped my hands in front of me to stop them from shaking.

“For the record,” I said to the second cop, “I’m not a criminal. I’m a college professor.” I was wearing my faculty ID around my neck, clearly visible with my photo.

“You fit the description so we just have to check it out.” The first cop returned and handed me my license.

“We have the victim and we need her to take a look at you to see if you are the person.”

It was at this moment that I knew that I was probably going to die. I am not being dramatic when I say this. I was not going to get into a police car. I was not going to present myself to some victim. I was not going let someone tell the cops that I was not guilty when I already told them that I had nothing to do with any robbery. I was not going to let them take me anywhere because if they did, the chance I was going to be accused of something I did not do rose exponentially. I knew this in my heart. I was not going anywhere with these cops and I was not going to let some white woman decide whether or not I was a criminal, especially after I told them that I was not a criminal. This meant that I was going to resist arrest. This meant that I was not going to let the police put their hands on me.

If you are wondering why people don’t go with the police, I hope this explains it for you.

Something weird happens when you are on the street being detained by the police. People look at you like you are a criminal. The police are detaining you so clearly you must have done something, otherwise they wouldn’t have you. No one made eye contact with me. I was hoping that someone I knew would walk down the street or come out of one of the shops or get off the 39 bus or come out of JP Licks and say to these cops, “That’s Steve Locke. What the F*CK are you detaining him for?”

The cops decided that they would bring the victim to come view me on the street. The asked me to wait. I said nothing. I stood still.

“Thanks for cooperating,” the second cop said. “This is probably nothing, but it’s our job and you do fit the description. 5′ 11″, black male. One-hundred-and-sixty pounds, but you’re a little more than that. Knit hat.”

A little more than 160. Thanks for that, I thought.

An older white woman walked behind me and up to the second cop. She turned and looked at me and then back at him. “You guys sure are busy today.”

I noticed a black woman further down the block. She was small and concerned. She was watching what was going on. I focused on her red coat. I slowed my breathing. I looked at her from time to time.

I thought: Don’t leave, sister. Please don’t leave.

The first cop said, “Where do you teach?”

“Massachusetts College of Art and Design.” I tugged at the lanyard that had my ID.

“How long you been teaching there?”

“Thirteen years.”

We stood in silence for about 10 more minutes.

An unmarked police car pulled up. The first cop went over to talk to the driver. The driver kept looking at me as the cop spoke to him. I looked directly at the driver. He got out of the car.

“I’m Detective Cardoza. I appreciate your cooperation.”

I said nothing.

“I’m sure these officers told you what is going on?”

“They did.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“From my home in Dedham.”

“How did you get here?”

“I drove.”

“Where is your car?”

“It’s in the lot behind Bukhara.” I pointed up Centre Street.

“Okay,” the detective said. “We’re going to let you go. Do you have a car key you can show me?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to reach into my pocket and pull out my car key.”

“Okay.”

I showed him the key to my car.

The cops thanked me for my cooperation. I nodded and turned to go.

“Sorry for screwing up your lunch break,” the second cop said.

I walked back toward my car, away from the burrito place. I saw the woman in red.

“Thank you,” I said to her. “Thank you for staying.”

“Are you ok?” She said. Her small beautiful face was lined with concern.

“Not really. I’m really shook up. And I have to get to work.”

“I knew something was wrong. I was watching the whole thing. The way they are treating us now, you have to watch them. ”

“I’m so grateful you were there. I kept thinking to myself, ‘Don’t leave, sister.’ May I give you a hug?”

“Yes,” she said. She held me as I shook. “Are you sure you are ok?”

“No I’m not. I’m going to have a good cry in my car. I have to go teach.”

“You’re at MassArt. My friend is at MassArt.”

“What’s your name?” She told me. I realized we were Facebook friends. I told her this.

“I’ll check in with you on Facebook,” she said.

I put my head down and walked to my car.

My colleague was in our shared office and she was able to calm me down. I had about 45 minutes until my class began and I had to teach. I forgot the lesson I had planned. I forget the schedule. I couldn’t think about how to do my job. I thought about the fact my word counted for nothing, they didn’t believe that I wasn’t a criminal. They had to find out. My word was not enough for them. My ID was not enough for them. My handmade one-of-a-kind knit hat was an object of suspicion. My Ralph Lauren quilted blazer was only a “puffy coat.” That white woman could just walk up to a cop and talk about me like I was an object for regard. I wanted to go back and spit in their faces. The cops were probably deeply satisfied with how they handled the interaction, how they didn’t escalate the situation, how they were respectful and polite.

I imagined sitting in the back of a police car while a white woman decides if I am a criminal or not. If I looked guilty being detained by the cops imagine how vile I become sitting in a cruiser? I knew I could not let that happen to me. I knew if that were to happen, I would be dead.

Nothing I am, nothing I do, nothing I have means anything because I fit the description.

I had to confess to my students that I was a bit out of it today and I asked them to bear with me. I had to teach.

After class I was supposed to go to the openings for First Friday.

I went home.”

~Steve Locke

These are the times we are called to listen.

Listen not just with our ears, but with our ability to hear someone.

Listen not just with our empathy, but with our senses.

Listen not just with our spirit of reconciliation, but with our very being?

First.

What if we didn’t jump to understanding, to coming alongside, to putting ourselves in their shoes, to doing anything?

What if we just let the story of someone’s experience roll over us and into us… wave after wave after wave until the story itself changed us over time?

We move so quickly to make things right, before we’ve even felt what right might be.

I want to meet your story first. Let it have its way with me. Let it change the very cells of me, and from there, I am really with you, and you’ll know it.

What if we approached amends this way – first?

Listen.
Listen.

Listen.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

If you’d like to know more about TinaO’s upcoming book: Story Stones or performance dates about her upcoming show O MY GOD, click here.

Tina Overbury is a core-communications specialist who works with individuals and organizations who feel called. She is a storyteller, performer, and a professional listener who works with narrative and story structure as a vehicle for human connection. Her work is rooted in Myth, Mysticism, and the practice of personal faith. She brings thirty years of collaborative storytelling in theatre, film, marketing, team based selling, and workshop facilitation. She is the founder of Live Your Best Story, a weekend retreat of deep listening held on Bowen Island, BC, Canada and is the voice and story behind TinaOLife, home to Story Stones, TinaO’s weekly online gathering of listening in to sacred stories. Tina is a proud associate of PowHERhouse media where she listens and supports the ‘stories’ of whole and integrated leaders of tomorrow.

If you would like to know more about Tina’s approach to story, click here.

Can You Dream the Wrong Way?

May 29, 2018

What does dreaming actually do?

I dream, sure. I have bucket lists. I have visions of places I want to go, people I want to see, and moments I want to create. I was in a highly successful business for years where the entire motivation to grow was fueled by one catch phrase: dare to dream, so I did, and it worked. But I think I kinda did it wrong because I didn’t really want what I had.

Can you dream the wrong way?

I remember the stickiness of change in that business when things I could only dream about were starting to happen. I was travelling and staying in beautiful hotels with gifts left for me on the bed. I ate the most delicious things in five star restaurants, had fireside chats in great-rooms overlooking the desert and I was blessed to spend a week in Hawaii every year. This is what I never dreamed about but thought I was supposed to, so I did, and it happened.

It felt a lot like being in a space ship which is why I’m wrestling with the whole dreaming thing right now. I had to leave the roots of my life behind in order to ‘lift off’. I dreamt, I affirmed and I created. I remember walking down wide hotel hallways, stunningly dressed, on my way to attend another evening gala. I don’t remember feeling my feet touch the floor.

We say this about dreaming: ‘as if my feet never touched the ground’.

Today things are different yet I am living a dream for sure. Things are simpler. I live by the ocean in a beautiful home surrounded by nature. I wake up to the sound of birds and I fall asleep to the glow of the moon and stars. I am self-employed. I am blessed to make a living doing what I love. I am passionate about it. I am nourished spiritually by it. I create my schedule. My boys are healthy, happy and ridiculously funny. We eat on a long table outside on the deck in the summer and we snuggle up by the fire in the winter. This is a dream I never made a goal, though I felt my through to this experience since I was a little girl. I did not visualize this. I did not create affirmations either, I simply followed a feeling of home inside me. Sounds pretty good right? Yes, but I still think what I’m doing isn’t quite right because I can’t help but notice how much effort it takes to keep this dream floating. I have many agreements, exchanges and structures within this dream.

We say this about dreaming: ‘there are no limits’.

As a child I would wake up to an orchestra of stories in my head. If thoughts were words, were music, were water, were warmth, were colour, that’s what I’m talking about. I woke up to inspiration all at once. Some days I still do. I experience speckles of hope, fragments of beauty, shards of mystery and particles of fireworks in each moment. This ignites the impulses to move me forward. This is the dreaming that happens effortlessly. Unfortunately for the rest of the world, it’s just weird.

I’ve been called flighty, impulsive, frivolous, unbalanced, wild and, wait for it… a dreamer…

We say this about dreaming: ‘a dream is a wish your heart makes’

I’m approaching 50 and as part of my #thisis50 series I am looking at a lot of things. Last Saturday I went to bed feeling quite sad and lonely. I had been moved during a film festival and had no one special to share my shards of inspiration with. But this is 50 (almost) so I didn’t go to the bar and try to meet someone. Nor did I go on a two hour walk in the dark to cry. I didn’t binge with a bag of cheesies and watch netflix, I didn’t do a lot of things I would’ve done in my 20s and 30s – not that this list is bad (no shame here), they just don’t change anything and neither does dreaming.

I went home. I felt sad. I layed in bed (kids were at their dad’s), and instead, started asking…

What do I want?

What do I see in that want?

What do I feel in that want?

How do I see me in that want?

What is this want?

All of this because earlier last week a friend told me a story about his mother asking him directly: What do you really want? -as if he could simply order it off the menu from the universe and it would be delivered. I noticed I never ask that of myself. I never ask what do you want?, because if I want something, I go get it so I rarely feel want, I just feel get instead. I think this might be the gap in dreaming I’m not doing right. This idea of asking for what I truly want feels foreign to me. I want that piece of cake or I want my son to be happy is not the same as I want to travel to New York and fall into the magic of theatre every year and get paid for it. While theatre season may mean nothing to you, to me it makes me want to laugh, cry and love at the same time, and that’s just ONE thing on my want list.

This is what I think:

A want is not a dream, but a dream without a want is just a wish.

And that’s what Cinderella does. Remember… she’s fiction.

We say this about dreaming: Dreams don’t work unless you do.

So again, this mantra about effort, work, results and dreaming. Where is the sweet spot?

I’m three years from fifty and all I know is, it’s time to trust my kaleidescope approach to dreaming, the way I did before I knew what it was. As a child I would just see things inside first as I wanted them. I would feel things before I knew what they were, I’d follow that feeling and what I wanted appeared. I would hear words before the story arrived and solving the mystery would manifest the very thing I wanted.

I’m beginning to believe that dreaming is allowing myself to want something. Really really want something.

So from this place of really wanting, this is what I know so far:

I want to cycle in Europe, sleep in little Inns and drink wine at night.

I want to travel to cultural birthplaces and listen to the stories that live there.

I want to go to New York, London and drop in to Niagara annually for Theatre Season, like it’s just what I do. It’s not a trip, it’s my life.

I want to touch spiritual symbols and listen to them.

I want a home, maybe a few.

I want to meet as many beaches as I can.

I want to own and drive a jeep. I know, it’s kinda cliché but I really want that.

I want to Christmas with my family forever – as if Christmas is a verb and not a day on the calendar.

I want to swim the way I run – like my body just knows how to do it.

I’m sure there is more, but this is the list I’m starting with. Don’t ask me about love and relationships yet. I have no idea. None. Zip. Zilch. I got nuthin’. Well, that’s not true. I’m just not ready to say them out loud yet. I’ll get there. Beauty, Love, Art, Adventure, Home, Health, and God. That’s all I know right now.

I think dreaming is wanting from the essence of how you are designed, and that’s another Story from the Core conversation.

So now it’s your turn. What do you want?

Thanks for listening.

As we say here in Storyland, Listening is Loving.

#thisis50

xxT

TinaO is a Writer, Story Coach, and Host of the TinaOShow, collecting and telling Stories from the Core. She’s the co-owner of The LEAP Learning Lab with Gina Best, and the other half of The Writer’s Compass with Meribeth Deen. She says: Stories are like toddlers, they will follow you around, tugging, hanging off of you until you listen to them. TinaO is the founder of Live Your Best Story, a weekend retreat of deep listening using writing, storytelling, nature, nourishment, art and connection as a way to listen to the personal story within. The retreat is held in various locations around the world, and is always offered 3x/year in British Columbia where she lives. All are welcome.

As always… let me know your thoughts. They’re always welcome.

This is Fifty with TinaO

May 27, 2018

This is 50. But I’m not quite there. I’m 47 and like every milestone, their whisperings begin around the 7 mark: 17 begins 20, 27 begins 30, 37 to 40 and now this, fifty. A half century.

I’m already blessed because I have made it this far. In 1962 the average life expectancy was 65 which means a whole lot of people in my circle (even me) could’ve been dead by now fifty five years ago. In 2018, our average life expectancy for women in Canada is 83. I wonder what it will be in twenty years. I’m guessing closer to 95. If that’s the case, right now, (if all goes well) I’m probably at the half way point. In these moments I wonder… good gawd, what on earth am I going to live through next?

I suspect everyone has an approaching 50 list. Here’s mine:

At almost fifty I am:

Shocked to be soon divorced.
Overwhelmed by how many more years I am willingly and yes lovingly carrying my children as a single parent (another decade).
Aware, grateful and still a bit raw about a journey through cancer.
Kind of ashamed by the financial collapse of my life, now twice, both post a marital breakdown.
I forgot that part, I’m soon to be divorced twice. Ugh. Twice. I’m a statistic too.
Almost 50 and I’m pretty awed by my psychological and physical constitution. I have endured many stories and I still smile, just not all the time.
Appreciative of this body of mine which carried me through my first triathlon months post cancer (seriously, what was I thinking?). I’m astounded by what this body can do, and how I can recover.
I am kind of disssociated from the achievement because I don’t really understand how it all happened and where the motivation came from. Have you ever felt like that?
Heartbroken by the randomness of loss I know to be part of this thing called life.
Lost in my own romanticism of possibility.
Drowning while still breathing my almost-50 yearnings.
Blown and breathless by the mystery that is Love, Art and God.
Clear that I never need to be ‘saved’ by any one person again.
Solid to be my own hero yet deeply aware and moved by the knowing none of us are here to do this or be alone.
I am almost fifty.
I am my own hero, my own sunflower, my own carpet of magic, and my own story stone in the ocean.

And still,

Life kicks my ass sometimes, cracks my heart open so wide I swear my heartbeat meshes with the pulse of the sun, and life and all it’s messiness can bring me to my knees in utter helpless, and hopeless beauty.

This is 50.

If you’re familiar with my writing you’ll know ‘this’ is what I do. Something wild this way comes and ‘this’ is what it looks like when my story tells me. After coffee and scrolling through travel adventures online, followed by deliciously facebook messaging a dear friend across the globe with my findings, I began to scribble some thoughts on a big hunk of paper.

This is 50. I wrote.

And then ‘that’ impulse came. Gahhhhh the familiar nudge, push and shove forward I know so well. That feeling launched my first vlog series which tracked my journey post cancer through to the Vancouver 5i50 triathlon in 2016. I turned my computer on.

Welcome to my next series on TinaOLife.

This is 50.

I’m three years out from five-oh and closing an old story. In the work I do as a story coach, I call this swimming between ripples.

The visual I use is this: it’s as if we come in to this world as a story stone and are dropped into the water and who we are, or our story ripples out. Every circle is the next, expanded version of the first one. Every ring another layer of who we are.

Swimming between ripples is letting go of one to follow the ease of the next. I’m going to share this next journey with you. I’ll be posting regularly here. This is 50 with TinaO.

As always…

Thanks for listening.

In storyland, listening is loving.

xxT.

As always… let me know your thoughts. They’re always welcome.

I Needed a Voice to Remind me I Exist – VIDEO

April 3, 2018

I’ve just come out of a pretty raw weekend.

There is so much moving through me these days I’m reminded of my dear friend Miel Bernstein‘s approach to emotions. She says: Feelings are like the weather, storms will come. They will blow through. We don’t control the weather, nor do we become the weather. We simply adjust and wait for it to blow through. My marriage ended this year and it has rocked me through to my very core. I know it’s supposed to. A friend said to me as the undeniable end was coming and I was desperate to hang on: when a marriage ends, a tearing happens. It feels like you’re being ripped apart. She’s right, and the edges are jagged.

I wasn’t sure I would ever share this video because the moment is so personal. What you don’t know is minutes before, I had been gasping and crying so hard I stopped breathing and threw up. It was the first time in my adult life, the pain took me out so far I couldn’t find the surface and I was drowning. I couldn’t feel my life or my body. I knew I was in trouble so I just kept dialing until someone picked up. My friend Liz Powers was heading out on a roadtrip that day. She had a car full of women with her and while it wasn’t the best time to talk, something told her to pick up – so she did. I’m eternally grateful.

I needed to hear another voice to remind myself that I exist, that I was more than the pain I was feeling, that I was here – in my body – on this beach. She didn’t tell me things would get better. She didn’t tell me I was going to be okay. She didn’t tell me her own story of pain, of her marriage ending too. She just stayed with me repeating: I hear you. I got you. I see you. This is hard. This is so hard, and I got you. She stayed with me until I came back into my body and could see my feet on the sand again.

I hear you. I got you. I see you. This is hard. This is so hard, and I got you.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever share this video (I captured this moment last July 2017). I just knew I needed to shoot it because if I didn’t, you might think because I have a website about ”life”, and a workshop about ”living your best story”, and a calling I am following, that I am different than you.

I’m not.

This Easter I think I got a bit more about the Jesus story, his death and his resurrection. And I don’t think you have to follow a religious path to be touched by the power of that story. We all die at different times in our life, and what a blessing it is to be able to live again. Something about this moment on the beach from last summer makes more sense to me now and I’m not afraid to share it, in fact, I think it’s even more important to.

Please know you’re not alone. No matter how dark your moment is, how far from the surface you may feel, or how isolated you think you may be, as long as you have breath in your body, inspiration is still moving with you. Jillian Rutledge I owe that last line to you my friend.

Much love…

xxT

TinaO is a Writer, Story Coach, and Host of the TinaOShow, collecting and telling Stories from the Core. She’s the co-owner of The LEAP Learning Lab with Gina Best, and the other half of The Writer’s Compass with Meribeth Deen. She says: Stories are like toddlers, they will follow you around, tugging, hanging off of you until you listen to them. TinaO is the founder of Live Your Best Story, a weekend retreat of deep listening using writing, storytelling, nature, nourishment, art and connection as a way to listen to the personal story within. The retreat is held in various locations around the world, and is always offered 3x/year in British Columbia where she lives. All are welcome.

As always… let me know your thoughts. They’re always welcome.

Identifying Your Core Story – an Excerpt – BLOG

December 29, 2016

Here’s an excerpt from the first draft of Chapter One of You Matter – Identifying your Core Story that will be complete by December 31st. Follow along if it speaks to you. Big love to Meribeth Deen for being my Story Doula through this process. She said to me once a few months ago: ‘I can see that my challenge with you is going to be when and how to reign you in to a specific focus.’ She was right. But as is true with all my core story work, the focus found me and all I had to do was follow the thread.

Here is an excerpt for you:

I begin every Core Story client with a complimentary inquiry call and while this may shift as my work carries on, here’s why I do it this way: I am creating the best place I know how to let the story tell us and not the other way around. It follows the same belief that we can never run faster than our story and by making the call free, both you and I can step into the ring of ‘what have I got to lose?’ and that’s where permission begins. It’s not a flippant, what have I got to lose? although it can start out that way, usually and very quickly with that kind of freedom between us, I can establish a sense of ‘it’s just you and me here’ so that the story that wants to be known by you can feel safe enough to emerge.

Is my time valuable? Yes, no more than yours. Is my experience worthy of payment, yes, no more than yours. Do I deserve to be paid for my work? Yes, and at this stage of our relationship, only if it’s of value to you. If we decide to move forward together we’re going to be doing some intimate work so we need to choose each other. I like to think of it like dating. Imagine if we charged for that. What would that do to our connectivity? What I’m saying is, we have to authentically decide for it to be real. We don’t kiss the guy or girl at the end of the first date simply because we’re supposed to, or because it’s deserved, we kiss them because we want to, because the desire to be together emerges out of us.

One of my favourite moments with my now husband happened at the end of our second date. We had gone to the movies or something (I totally don’t remember the details), and we both knew that the next day he was going on tour and wouldn’t be back for a week. He walked me up to my door and I let him inside. We had an awkward hug and a peck on the cheek followed by stilted small talk about when he’d be back and how he’d call me when he returned and then I let him out and closed the door. I took a few confused steps down my hallway towards the living room when I heard a gentle knock, and I smiled. I didn’t even have a thought yet, but I somehow knew this was honest. This felt true. I curiously walked back, turned the deadbolt and opened the door. He looked at me, hesitating briefly and trembling just a little and said “If I went on tour without kissing you, and I mean really kissing you I’d have to kick my own ass.” With that he planted one on me and left. His desire to kiss me emerged out of him. It behooved him not to leave without a real, risky, whole-hearted kiss. He could not run faster than the story of that kiss. As for me, I felt confused when he left the first time because I didn’t get it, but I didn’t know what the it was that I didn’t get yet. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t formulaic. It just didn’t feel right, him leaving like that. It wasn’t until he knocked the second time that I kind of understood, and then when he kissed me, I fell, and hard. That was the moment of our connection. Neither one of us needed to take charge of the end of the date, we simply had to follow the thread of the story and then show up and live it out fully.

And that’s why I don’t charge for my inquiry call, I am creating space for what is real to emerge so that the truth can happen without our own alpha-agendas of how things should be or my own story of self-worth getting in the way.

Don’t worry, I won’t be kissing you, but I may knock twice.

By December 31st 2016 the first draft of this book will be done. If you’d like a complimentary digital copy of TinaO’s Identifying your Core Story, pop your name in here and we’ll be sure to send it to you once it’s complete early 2017.

As well, if you are a Canadian woman with a story to tell and would like to be considered for PUBLISH, a book writing program launching in mid January 2017 through powHERhouse Media Group, you may want to consider becoming a Woman we Celebrate so TinaO and Meribeth Deen can support you to get your book written this year.

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TinaO is a Core Story Specialist, a writer, speaker and the founder of TinaOLife – a hub for all things worth living for, and the workshop Live Your Best Story. She’s also a professional network marketer with a decade in the industry and she teaches: selling isn’t slimey and marketing isn’t make-believe. You can be yourself and be successful in Direct Sales.

Identifying your Core Story – BLOG

December 29, 2016

By December 31st the first draft of You Matter – Identifying your Core Story will be complete. You can follow along as I share some sneak peeks with you until then. Big thanks to Meribeth Deen for being my Story Doula as I give birth to this word-baby. Did I just say that? Word-baby. Oh boy. I said it again.

We live our life unconsciously as stories with excited beginnings, doubtful mid-way points and then panicked or impending endings. We feel the timing of stories. We are captivated by the unknown because we expect an inevitable resolution. We control our lives to avoid the terror of unnecessary surprises. We get story and because the construct of beginning, middle, end is so ingrained into us, we woe-fully take on the dangerous pretense of being able to write our own story, as if we ultimately can. I’m here to tell you that while that’s possible, yes you can pick up the pen and write your own story, set your own course, and create the life you’ve dreamed of (as the inspirational wall art we buy never stops reminding us), this one-sided alpha position approach to living, while it may bring you short-term confidence, perceived control and seemingly peaceful order, it comes at a high price and that usually means your life, figuratively and sometimes even literally.

Yes you know where you’re going

Yes you may have the means to get there

Yes you may even have full confidence that you can ‘make it happen’

Until one day, you don’t, or unspeakably you can’t, or you simply won’t, and you don’t know why. It’s as if you can’t quite put your finger on it, you just know you can’t do this, whatever this is, anymore.

As well, if you are a Canadian woman with a story to tell and would like to be considered for PUBLISH, a book writing program through powHERhouse Media Group, you may want to consider becoming a Woman we Celebrate so TinaO and Meribeth Deen can support you to get your book written this year.

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Identifying Your Core Story – BLOG

October 4, 2016

Yesterday I started writing my book and if you’ve heard that before from me it’s because I have a few books going – it has been equally as frustrating for me, but you know how I say, “Sometimes the story tells you, and sometimes you tell the story“? – well, this is one of those times. I’ve been looking for the legs to the title of this book for a year or so and every time I thought I found it, it would sink weeks later into the sand and vanish, that is until I stumbled on to this.

My Core Story.

I won’t go into it much because it’s something you kinda just gotta surrender to. To be brief it looks like this. You have two questions to answer, and as much as possible, you have to let yourself answer them as plainly, honestly, and without decoration as possible (which is hard for us mind-centered, or feeling based people because we think we’re so beyond that, ahem… as if we could be). The one thing we all have in common is a primal need to be seen, heard and most importantly known – or as some self-helpers call it: to belong, and we’ll do anything and everything in our power to protect that possibility, including lie to ourselves, or worse, sugar coat it all so that we bare absolutely no responsibility for the possibility that someone in our 360 degree global peripherie ever feels like they might…not…belong.

From my perspective, none of us ever truly belongs and only in allowing the incredibly daunting human truth of that to be so will we ever tumble into the sense of belonging that we’re all scrambling to find. We gotta let it go because there is no proof. We can make some up, throw some names around, some labels, some arrows, some bullet points, share some aha moments and more… but the reality is, the only belonging we can every truly ‘prove’ is our very own personal sense of it, and even then only we, individually, can ever really believe it to the level that it seems real….

How bleak right? Oh gawwwwwd we’re all alone….?

Yep and in that, it’s how we’re totally not. That’s humanity. That’s where our connectedness is. That’s how our sameness shows up. It’s in our fragility matched only by our magnitude that our beauty is realized. How frickin’ gorgeous is that? And damn confusing I might add.

So I have two questions to help us identify how we don’t belong so that we can belong. At this point I’m either making you nuts or you dig my message. Wanna stay for more?

Two questions – that’s it and trust me when I say, they’re ridiculously simple to answer and insanely challenging to be known. I’ve been offering inquiry sessions with people as I develop this work and I can tell you, out of the countless people that I’ve chatted with, only three have been truly willing to answer the questions with all masks down right away and those that did let their core story tell me before their mind could (an example of ‘when the story tells you’). For the rest of us, most of the time we can tickle out some clues over the hour, like breadcrumb words we’re following to get there. Sometimes our core story shows up as expressions first before we can nail the one phrase that gives us goosebumps, or knocks the wind out of us.

It’s truly amazing when it happens. It’s beautiful to witness for sure.

So… now I’m writing a book. Forty five years of this story chasing me and now it’s ready to be given to the world. It’s not an autobiography, though it will be peppered with personal stories.

Okay, but before I do that, you’re thinking: What are the dang questions???? Well here they are, and if you struggle to find an answer, drop me a message below and we can book a complimentary inquiry session okay? I just may be able to help you out with that. Anything you post in the comments below go directly to my email – I don’t publish them. Now, if your core story does reveal itself to you and you don’t know what to do with it, also let me know and we can book a call to follow the thread together.

Here are the questions:

Question #1: What is the one thing you always give people (and the world) no matter what?

Question #2: In your deepest, darkest moments, what is the sentence you have always said to yourself ?

Here’s a clue: They are usually the opposite of each other, but not always. For example, my answers are:

Tina’s Core Story:

Core Love: You matter

Core Pain: I don’t matter, nothing matters, this is stupid, why bother.

I’ll explain more later… but for today, here’s an excerpt from the opening of my book that is all about this work and how it arrived for me:

an excerpt from You Matter – Identifying your Core Story

…So there’s this thing that you run from right? I do. I have most of my life. Even in my forties when I think I’ve stopped running, I forget, Oh yeah, I’m human, I run from everything. I think we’re master escape artists which seems kinda strange doesn’t it? Why would we want to escape the very thing we’re here to live. I suppose none of us had a choice in the matter and somewhere deep down that bugs us. Because we showed up here kicking and screaming, well some of us did, others came into the world all wide eyed and peaceful – I’m sure that I wasn’t one of them. I bet I came into the world fast – like a blow torch afraid I’d lose my flame if someone wasn’t holding me. Foooooosh, scorching the doctor as I came out.

I was premature. My mom was only sixteen when I was born. I joke about it now, well, not really. I joked about it when I was a kid. Adoption is one of those things that isn’t weird or hard, or difficult, it just is. When you’re a kid, it’s just part of the clothing you forget on the bus because it’s truly so irrelevant. When you’re a kid you don’t care how you came into the world, you’re just so damn glad to be here. Wow, look at that tree! It’s HUGE! Holy smokes I think I could climb that! Hey! I got a lemon twist for Easter! Watch me! Wait a minute how come my hair is so twisty and tangled and hers so straight? I like music. I sing all the time. Like all the time. I’m still singing la la la la la… I live between three churches and nobody in my house prays. How come? My dad is French Canadian and he likes to make home-made wine underneath the stairs. Sometimes we have fruit flies… See? Who cares if you’re adopted, you have lots of other things on your mind, at least I did. I used to tell my friends in highschool that I was a ‘back seat baby’ – I mean, where else do you have sex when you’re 15 years old right? I thought nothing of it. Of course, now I’m a mom to three of my own children, and I’m really close to my mom (biological), we’re kinda like sisters and I never, ever, ever blamed, judged or was angry with her about giving me away even when my mom (adopted) died when I was eight… Truly. I actually always knew that I was chosen some how – but still… that’s the mind, not the body. And you know, I still don’t care if I was conceived in the back seat of a car, but I do care about the rest of stuff.

The adoption thing became a traceable pattern. It was the first mirror of how this human experience was giving me exactly what I needed for who I am to expand (but that’s a whole other conversation, we’ll get there later). It was the first time I was experiencing my core story that I don’t really matter. It was the very first time, on a cellular level, that my body wasn’t sure if this place was where I was supposed to be. It was the first time my eyes couldn’t make sense of a moment, of a missing hand, of a warm chest, as I searched for the eyes of my mom, and the scent of her body. Yes I was only six months old and I could totally be making this up, but I’m not. Because we know stuff we don’t want to know. On some level, that’s what was going on for me, I just didn’t have words yet, but I understood that I didn’t matter.

More to come…

xxT