I'm celebrating the release of my cd Baby Steps, Giant Leaps.   Thank you Little Bear Studios for your patient support and endurance (an ounce of practice is worth a pound of recording).  There are nine original songs on my cd that you can find by clicking here www.cdbaby.com/ericbowers.  I have crafted the lyrics of these songs over several years and I love them like teachers who have held my hand and helped me find my way.  

There is so much more I would have liked to have done with these songs, but I might have waited the rest of my life to find the time to create my vision.  The upside is that no one is going to accuse me of overproduction, or perfect pitch, or flawless musicianship, and I'm left with the sweet, vulnerable aliveness of a child in his first play as I unleash my heartfelt, imperfect creativity into the world. 

For me vulnerability means facing a perceived threat of harm.  Because I have the incredible fortune of living in a safe country, most of my perceived threats are of emotinal harm-the pain of judgement and rejection, of disconnection, of thinking I'm less loved, worthy, or accepted if others don't like what I do. 

To protect ourselves from vulnerability we learn to be nice, polite, obedient, small, numb people who fit into some nebulous definition of normal.  We shrink our aliveness-our juicy emotions, our zany creativity, and our powerful passion-and trade it in for the ever elusive acceptance from others.  It's a bum deal, the rip-off of a lifetime.

When I manage to step into vulnerability, fear and excitement jump up to face each other and can't decide whether to attack or dance as I move along the tight rope between seeking approval and coming home to self-acceptance.  My prefrontal cortex does all it can to embrace the feelings and keep me connected to my body, while my amygdala pulls the fire alarm and screams at me, "DEFEND YOURSELF.  No, RUN.  No, HIDE!" 

Vulnerability isn't easey ground on which to stand, mainly because the trick seems to be getting comfortable with not knowing where to put my feet.  But, if I can allow the not knowing and remember to breathe, I can fall into an aliveness that can't be found in what's familiar.  It's a chance to see through my own jungle of conditioning and find my way home to something more connected and accepted than I'll ever find by being nice.

Turns out I'm not at all alone on this journey, even though that's how it feels when I'm in the thick of it.  Whether it's colleagues, friends, or clients, more and more people tell me they're hungry to fire up their juicy aliveness, to face their fears, to stand on the precipice and unleash their wild, awkward, authentic, frightened, passionate, compassionate, powerful selves into the world.  Each step seems scary and risky as hell, some part of us sure that we'll end up alone or dead.   But another part wants its money back, wants to trade in the get-away plans and carefully built bomb shelter.  It wants a new deal that brings us all closer to something that lifts the heart, something that we'll remember fondly when we're close to the end, something that perhaps brings us closer to what brought us here.

For more on vulnerability from a funny and engaging speaker/story teller, check out

http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." ~ Anais Nin

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." ~ Howard Thurman

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