paint by word — a sneak peek into Create Your Most Delicious Life

The more power in a system, the more work it can do. 

Add fuel to the gas tank, you can go go go. 

Eat healthy foods, your body will feel and be strong, powerful, able to best support you.

The mind requires fuel, too. What feeds your mind? 

Stories. 

Specifically, the ones you tell yourself over and over again. 

If you're feeding your brain tales of lack, of I can't, of victim-is-me, don't be surprised when that's all you experience. 

What you feed grows. 

I share more about how words fuel your reality and paint your life in my upcoming book, Create Most Delicious Life. 

Let's dive into a little sneak peek here . . . 

paint by word

When you think, the universe listens. 

When you speak, the universe hears.

When you ask, the universe responds. 

This is law. 

Don’t like the word universe? Sub in whatever resonates with you, for words are only words, yet the energy, your energy, behind those words does matter. 

Your words are your paint-by-numbers guide to creating all you desire in this life. See, you are more powerful than you can even begin to fathom. 

Heck, just one cell in our fabulous body has enough energy and know-how to power an entire aircraft carrier. 

“I have a need . . . a need . . . for speed.” 

If you’ve yet to see Top Gun, please do, for me. There’s a sequel coming out more than two decades after the original even as I write these words. 

But the point is not flying fast planes
but that one of your cells is capable,
has the ability to, the energy to
power the entire ship
those jets land on. 

And when I say power that aircraft carrier, I’m not talking about just steering the boat but all the systems on said vessel. 

One of your trillions of cells can power the engines, the navigation, the communication coms, the many dozens of planes that take off and land, while also supporting a crew of more than 1,000 souls and seeing to all their needs. 

Can you even fathom that for a moment? 

One cell.
Just one.
Of your—too numerous to count—delicious cells
could run that, all of that. 

What power?! 

And yet, what are your cells, all of your cells, doing in a regular, average-Joe day? 

Besides naturally and effortlessly running all the systems of your body? 

Sitting stagnant.

Worrying. Wondering. Wishing.

Debating. Do-do-doing all the
perhaps not-so-important things.

Praying. 

Leaking, leaking, leaking
all the power you have in just one cell.

The infinite ability
to run such a magnificent,
complex structure as an aircraft carrier. 

If you but channeled the power, the energy, the intention of one cell. 

If you perfected, mastered –
using your will . . . 

Even if it took a lifetime
of practicing the art . . . 

Never full obtained,
imagine what would be gained.

And yet, if you are like so many, you are unaware of just how much of your own abilities, power, essence circles the drain before you even fully start your day. 

Imagine if you stopped leaking your personal power and started to harness all the energy you are naturally granted in this amazing life. 

Saying no more to spinning negative stories . . . 

To people pleasing, caring what others think,
hating yourself, shaming your body,
focusing on another’s drama instead of your own delicious journey. 

If one of your beautiful cells can run such an intricate vessel parked in the middle of the sea where so many systems are being used simultaneously . . . 

Then what’s possible for you,
in your day-to-day life,
harnessing the power
of even half your fabulous cellular energy?

You, my friend, would be a force unstoppable.
You would be focused forward.

You would be a master storyteller of tales that support you in all systems go. 

You would focus on your delicious path. 

No distractions.
No more drama.

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If You’re Ready For That
You’ll Want To Read My New Book

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Post Photo Credit: Taelynn Christopher @taelynnmae

Eleven — My First Memoir & Finding My SuperPower

Back when I was eleven years old, I had no clue my life was about to change on every level. 

From another cross-country move
to moving in with the other parent
to finding my calling in life

it was quite the year of change for me. 

Much like this last year has been.  

In the blink of an eye, due to the dedicated influence of just one kind person, I started down the path of writer is me.

And, unbeknownst to me, started to pen my very first memoir. 

And this year, well, having my name as my word of the year, that right there has been a delicious discovery that has unearthed all the tender, raw, torn, divine parts of me that I’ve intentionally kept hidden till now. 

More on that to come, along with news about my first soon-to-be-released in my name book, but today’s words are a trip down memory lane. 

An excerpt from that new book, Create Your Most Delicious Life, written by me, as me. A first and yet not.

A story I recently shared a bit on in my free Facebook group, Write Your Book Already!

But today, let’s dive into this blast-from my past essay entitled eleven. 

eleven

When I was in the 5th grade, I entered my third fifth-grade classroom, after moving across the country to live with my Dad. It was unexpected, as was the entire topsy-turvy year, but that’s another story.

See my teacher, I’ll never forget him. He met my father at the classroom door to welcome the new student (me again). And unlike my last teacher that year, his smile was real and kind.    

My last teacher, number two for the year, even though she randomly shared my last name, did not have the same compassion, kindness and care as I did. In fact, at times, I’d often felt she downright hated me.

This teacher—he seemed fun even, with glasses,
a grin that turned his lip up on one side,
almost hidden
but seen by me,
behind a trim,
close-cut beard.    

As the students craned their necks, leaning to and fro in their seats to get a look at the “new kid,” I stared unflinchingly back.   

Being the new kid can go one of two ways. 

With you on the top,
Queen B.

Or you sucking wind by day’s end
like you took a few swift kicks. 

This time, I was determined to end the day on top,
as I’d had it both ways already
this year. 

And to be honest, I was tired of being someone’s punching bag, another reason I was here, now living with my father at eleven.   

So, this teacher, Mr. R. let’s call him, took me by the hand and walked me to the front of the classroom after a quick side hug with my so-not old man.    

At first, I thought, Crap, a desk in the front row. 

I preferred to observe. Hard to do from the head of the room. 

But then we stopped by his desk and my heart dropped into my stomach, creating a ripple of nauseating waves that threatened to erupt out of me if I didn’t suck that shit down.   

He turned to me and said, “Tell me your story.”  

I nearly passed out as I forgot yet again to breathe.   

First minute, first day, and he was going to make me stand in front of the 40+ eyeballs already trained on my back and share who I was while all sat in judgment of me.   

Seconds from my vision dimming to black, I remember resisting the urge to push up my too-big-for- my-face glasses and instead began to count backward from 99. 

Sometimes that worked. I’d never once fainted, yet knew there was a first time for everything.   

He repeated the words, “Tell me your story.” 

But this time he stood behind his desk chair and pulled it out with a scrape of legs against old, worn linoleum floors. A palm up offering of his hand encouraged me to focus on the paper and pencil already set neatly...

for me?   

The relief was a wave so glorious, I smiled — an uncomfortable upturn of my normally straight-line, at that time, lips.   

I quickly sat, before he could change his mind,
like adults tended to do,
and scooted closer to the desk.

When he nodded, I picked up the pencil, turned to the blank page and felt such peace and JOY at being left the hell alone. 

I got to work writing the waves of thoughts, words, sentences, paragraphs that were my life. 

Fragments and tales and all the many shoved down emotions. Feelings that had been bottling up within me for days, weeks, years… a lifetime.   

That teacher, that man, gave me a gift that day. An outlet. 

And I often dream of crossing paths with him.

To thank him with a hug,
a handshake,
a kind word for taking the time,
for knowing just what I needed
in that moment
to thrive.   

Survive.

Plus, it made me the must-have lunch companion when the time came, as everyone wanted to know why I was at the teacher’s desk in the front of the class, not doing the assignments but busy working on something that seemed super-important.   

And it was. Important. Vital. Everything to me. 

It was the first time I wrote the story of me.   

My first memoir. 

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If  you liked this share, an excerpt from Create Your Most Delicious Life, and want to sink into more words with me . . .  Get on the waitlist for my latest book today. 

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I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

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Post Photo Credit: Юлія Дубина @yulia_dubyna

Frigging Dishes — A tasty sneak peek into Create Your Most Delicious Life

Let’s dive right into an essay within my new soon-to-be released book. My first book written as me...

So kinda a big deal because while I’ve been writing forever, I’ve not yet published as little old me– till now. I talk about that, writing and the deliciousness that can be life in the upcoming book. 

But for now...

As I get ready to finally add a kitchen in my cottage writer’s retreat...I want to take you back.

Back nearly five years to a temporary kitchen and the essay loving entitled

Frigging Dishes 

In my early years, I grew up in an environment where arguing was communicating. Now I see just how ineffective, inefficient, and back-assward that is. 

But back then I was simply modeling what I knew with my own Frenchman. 

We were on an island, much like how we met but no longer full of that honeymoon-like, island-hopping awesomeness. 

Instead, we were in life, a life we had created together and one I resisted at each and every turn.

Let me take you to that moment in time, my hands in water, banging dishes as I washed them with force. 

Frigging dishes.

Steaming internally.
Flushed externally.
Mumbling outwardly.
Screaming silently inward. 

So much happens when my hands are in water. 

Water is a conduit for much as everything is energy and water transfers that energy. 

For me, typically water gives me ideas and characters to write, stories to tell, and awareness around something that’s being processed. 

Well, I was wrist-deep
in a shit-ton of awareness
and I was choosing to be unhappy about it all.

Catch that—to be unhappy in a moment is nothing more than a choice. 

The dish soap that came with the place was vivid blue. 

Something I’d never buy and typically would not use,
but we had just arrived and this was our very first night together. 

And first fight. Again. 

His voice soft. Unsure. Struggling to understand.
My voice loud. Harsh. Feeling angry and unheard. 

This damn soap,
so strong,
overpowering me,
much like my over-the-top emotions. 

I remember this putrid chemical (to me) odor surrounding us like a thick, too-fragrant cloud. 

My body, senses, intolerant to most chemicals.
Much like I was being that evening. 

So I’m arguing with the husband and the smell of the detergent permeates the entire conversation. 

We go through the highs and lows—the disconnect—forever misunderstanding. 

Sighs (on my part),
Head shakes (on his).

Tears (on my end),
Pleading looks (on his).

Lack of connection.
Incapable of understanding.
All the emotional overload
Bubble-Wrapped in sudsy chemicals.

Dishes, half-washed, forgotten. 

The argument, eventually, brushed away,
never forgotten.

But worked through
like so much
these last few years. 

Acceptance.
Allowing.
My new middle names–
competing, of course, with more JOY. 

Pass the detachment, pretty please.

And then years later,
from this new state of being,
where JOY is my default setting,
I find myself squirting a stream of blue on a sponge,
the only option at hand.

And immediately, shockingly, I’m transported through time.

Hands once again sinking in doing the—shout it out, yo—
Frigging dishes! 

The smell, which lived within my memory banks
on a cellular level,
took me right back to
that night,
that fight. 

All of a sudden I was angry.
Fuming mad.

Steam arising from the hot water
and my scalding temper.

The glass in my hand in serious jeopardy of a good old tossing. 

I didn’t, but man, upon occasion, I so want to . . . 

To break the tension erupting within me.
To hear the shattering of glass,
of something, anything
but me.

If you please. 

Because even though that
misunderstanding, disagreement, argument
was now years in my rearview mirror,
it was a good thing The Frenchman wasn’t present in that new moment
as he could have been in the crosshairs of my

—welcome back—

short-tempered,
emotional
overloaded
fuse.

Brought to the surface
by sensory memory.

Crazy, no? 

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Want more Delicious Life book excerpts
and to be the first in the know?

Get your ass on the waitlist now.

There’s no time to delay. This book-puppy is in final edits... and ready for a forever home soon–on your bookshelf or happily in your e-reader!

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And if you’ve ever wanted to write your own book,
you now have two options

Book a 1-on-1 Clarity Call with me today

Join my free group on Facebook: Write Your Book Already! with Jill

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One Hour Does Have The Power To
Open Doors & Transform Your Life

Photo Credit: Brooke Lark @brookelark

Create Most Delicious Life - An Excerpt: the delicious reward

the delicious reward

Did you know that when a hen lays an egg, she clucks? It’s true! 

She’ll strut around,
ruffling her feathers,
flapping her wings,
clucking to the heavens,
celebrating the amazing thing she just did.

And the rest of the flock will follow suit, clucking and celebrating her accomplishment. 

Imagine if you started to celebrate your accomplishments too. Daily.

Hens know what humans have forgotten—there’s enough sunshine for everyone. One hen’s accomplishment does not diminish another’s. 

They never think it’s selfish to toot their own horn.

In fact, the louder the better. 

Yet when a human sings her praises, what does that make her?

Arrogant

Selfish

Stuck up

Egotistical

Hearing words like, 

Don’t brag. It’s not polite.

Be a lady.

Tone it down.

No one likes a show-off.

Ego much?!

Well, aren’t we full of ourselves?

Look at all the messed-up stories we have.

Stories that we pass down from generation to generation. 

And these stories continue on
because we allow them to grow
and take root within us. 

When you stop caring what another person thinks . . . 

When you do what you do because it feels right to you in this moment . . . 

You will be free.
You will feel JOY.

You will be living your most delicious life,
one you have created . . . 
and that right there is divine. 

And you will stop the cycle of passing those stories down.
Down to your children,
grandchildren, a friend,
a stranger on the street.

This is the ripple of you knowing you, loving you, living your most delicious life—unapologetically.

Not everyone will dance it out,
loud and proud,
in front of a large crowd
on the tabletop of their life.

And that’s more than alright.

This is your life to live your way.

Simply stop looking to others before you choose how to be.
Be you. This is your opportunity.

My way of celebrating has always been to do so solo . . . 
a giggle caught by my own hand.

Hidden away to warm my heart on a day
when I perhaps wanted to give up.

Yet where is the ability to receive in that?
Lacking  . . . perhaps. 

And something I’ve personally been working on. 

Even in writing these pages as me,
in my voice . . . 
with my story-shares.

Personal.
Perhaps profound.

Open, willing to receive.
From you, my delightful reader.

Not because I need to hear what you have to say.

Not because it feeds my soul to hear you celebrate these pages, these words.

Just as it will not tear me down to hear nothing,
because to me crickets are one of the most beautiful of sounds.

Yet when we liken them to what we hear when no one shows,
we diss mother nature,
we dismiss our own self-worth.

And that for me is a no-go.

I know, in my soul, this book, these pages will impact one. Thus, I have won. 

Yet I am not attached to that outcome. 

Before it’s even released,
before I even finish writing these words.

In fact, my rooted intention as I write is that these words be like a rushing tide of awakening for hundreds, thousands, millions . . . 

The impact felt for decades to come. 

A sweeping across a land,
a soft breeze touching upturned faces. 

Opening the hearts of all who are exposed,
a ripple effect more profound
than that of The Butterfly Effect. 

Yet again, I am not attached to this outcome.
My work is to write, to release, to allow the book room to freely breath. 

The reader the space to enJOY
or pass on by. 

The one who’s ready will sink in and love these pages
or toss them aside,
and either way is fine by me. 

For I am not attached to an external, outside-of-me outcome. 

Hear that and tap into your own knowing. 

My value, my worth does not come from the recognition of my work.

My value, my worth is present
because I take the time daily to own it, celebrate it,
skinny-dip in it with delicious intention. 

My celebration, my ruckus raised, my clucking
is in writing each and every word.

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If you liked this excerpt from my up and coming book

Create Your Most Delicious Life
Life’s A Bitch (especially now) Make It A JOY.

Get your fine self on my waitlist for more deets and treats.

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Photo Credit: @danieltuttle

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Excerpt: Creating A New Story

If you have awareness of a story, you can now change it.

Do you even want to?
That is the only question.

As it may feel uncomfortable to shed that thing you’ve been attached to

for a day,
a year,
a decade,
gasp,
more.

And we tend to bury our heads in the known-sands when in discomfort, even when it’s the very thing irritating our delicate, thin skin.

At least, that was big-time me, me, me.

And this is where the work is.
It’s what I’ve chosen to write about in a new book.
And the working title (at this time) starts with a verb

Create

To create something new action is required.

The old proverb of when you pray, move your feet, comes to mind. I love that as so many think

If I just pray…
If I just meditate…
If I just ‘om’…
If I just think about it...

No! This is your life, and life is meant to be lived.
Another delicious verb.

You must, and yes, I say must as it’s #truth, show up and do your part.

You must move the needle of what you say you want.
Delicious life? Cool.

Get moving and create it.

It’s no longer enough just to sit and think about it
Humming or not.

You can live in the comfortable-discomfort
of a now-known story –
no judgement here

Or you can do the work and change your story –
with ease, JOY, delight.

Or with a flat attitude of
Another damn story, good God, I swear!

Your most delicious life is created your way…
And it begins with

Do you make it easy? or

Do you make it oh-so-hard?

Take a beat and dive into this idea today...

💜

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Photo Credit:

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