I don’t care how hard one tries to “look on the bright side.” There are times when “stuff” happens and it’s just plain difficult to get back to an upbeat view.
I don’t know whether it’s an age thing or not but I am now finding myself at a stage in life where I’m actually, honest-to-goodness, really, truly working on my prosperity.
No longer am I just “talking the talk;” I’m “walking the walk.” I signed up for a class about prosperity consciousness. I even joined an investment club where we take real dollars, do actual research, and make genuine investments. We’re like grown ups!
Don’t misunderstand; I have no interest in gaudy bling, driving a Lamborghini Veneno, using $100 bills to ignite “King of Denmark” cigars, and vacationing at the Mantangi Private Island Resort in Fiji. It’s not like that at all.
Actually, according to Eric Butterworth, author of the popular book, Spiritual Economics, “prosperity” is derived from the Latin root, which translates: “according to hope” or “to go forward hopefully.” Therefore, instead of assuming the dark cloud will push its way out from behind the silver lining, I’m changing my expectations from those of lack to beliefs that everything is going to turn out the way I need it when I do.
This is not like switching on a light.
One doesn’t go from Winnie the Pooh’s Eeyore to Inside Out’s Joy overnight. Years of trudging down a worried road have left well-defined ruts in my consciousness. I must actively work it; especially when things don’t seem to be heading in what I would describe as a “hopeful” direction. You know, the roof leaks. (Ka-ching!) You need to take out a second mortgage just to buy groceries. (Ka-ching!) One of your largest, more regular clients decides to go in “another direction.” (Ka-ching!) Each time I get hit, it can throw me back on my heels. After all, it’s hard to feel “prosperous” when you’re robbing Peter to pay Paul.
So, I’m learning to expand my definition of what actually is prosperity.
For example, you have more money than a Sheik, but if your health is preventing you from enjoying life, your personality is a toxic waste dump, and you come home to an empty — albeit well furnished — home at days end, I think we’d all put down money saying you’re not prosperous. Like so much in life, it’s not about what you have, but about your attitude about what you have.
Therefore, in the interest of lightening attitudes, and reminding us that prosperity comes in many forms — including humor — I put forth Ten Ways You Didn’t Even Know You Were Already Prosperous.
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I witnessed a miracle this morning!
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Do you LOVE your job the way this guy does?
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I’m impatient, tense, and in a frenzy as I pull up to the intersection to turn right.
The light’s green but because a meandering male pedestrian is wandering unhurriedly across the crosswalk on the street to which I’m trying to turn, I’m stalled.
He’s quite the eyeful; forty and short – maybe five and a half feet tall, with a hobbit-type potbelly.
His brown hair is a bird nest of a toupee with the crown not even pretending to match the temples. He’s adorned in a garish, undersized, well-worn, striped, algae-greenish, polyester sports coat that doesn’t fit him — or the current decade. His trousers are twisted so his fly doesn’t line up with his belt buckle. Neither is aligned with the center of his body, each wrenched askew in a different direction. The waist of his pants is pulled up so high, resulting in the pant-legs being too short, exposing his calves well above his socks. (As a kid, we called those, “high waters” because if there were a flood, you wouldn’t get your pants wet.) Pants, grey; shoes, maroon; socks yellow — he obviously did not have a wife to help him choose his clothes.
Wrapped within his short arms that the sport coat’s sleeves do not cover, pressed to his chest, are too many files in too few folders. While navigating the crosswalk, he’s trying to prevent the papers from sliding out of the packets on to the ground, causing his hands to be constantly in motion, sliding hither and yon across them. Further complicating this maneuver, is his Styrofoam cup full of coffee held at a dangerously perilous angle. With each step, the brown liquid sloshes over the brim of the cup, splashing him and his documents. It’s clearly hot because when it makes contact, he winces.
To top it off, he’s slower than a sloth.
Granted, if I wasn’t so stressed, it might not have bothered me. After all, it was almost like observing the offspring of a gnome and a businessman, and how often does one see that?