Step by Step instructions to target your ideal clients on FB

Fan page owners. Looking to get above the white noise to reach your intended audience.

Trying to reach your fans on Facebook can be a challenge on a good day. Thanks to Mari Smith, and Amy Porterfield, I learned a simple step to help reach my clientele.

Post privacy  is a relatively under utilized tool to help you reach your intended audience.  Target your page post to reach the right audience.

For example, if you have an event for woman, why overpopulate  the news feed of all your men fans.  Follow the simple steps in the info-graphic which takes under five minutes. Then you can target each and every post when you make a status update.

The Making of a Chef

I would sit at the window and count cars until his Chevy pulled up to the curb.  He was always about forty to fifty cars late. I spent hours waiting for his visits, only to hate him out loud once he came to the door.  My smart aleck comments reeked of pain, and boomeranged through the screen door, keeping me separate from my hurt and fear. My father moved from our apartment before my memories became crystal clear.  He would reappear periodically, adding facets to my recollections, sometimes bringing more clarity and other times more distortion.   You’d think I’d have preferred to count cars than fool myself into believing he wouldn’t come home and inflict the inevitable terror over and over again.

Or perhaps my mother had found him again at the bar and brought him home after closing time. It would only be a matter of minutes before Mom’s badgering began, and the evening ended with a fistfight and the inevitable police call. In the morning, my mother was always left alone with yet another black eye or bruised rib, and a promise to us she could not keep, that he would not come back again. This was the norm in a household that never healed.

As a child, I learned early that love meant enduring pain inflicted by the people you love most. I grew up believing this definition of love. Undying loyalty was a hard lesson to unlearn and reframe.

As much as I loathed my father, I revered him. His gangster predispositions shaped my moral make-up from a young age.

I once believed that all men were part of the mob, carried guns, and had sausage rolls of hundred dollar bills in their bulging pants pockets.  His folktales could satisfy a hungry beggar; they were the square patties of ground beef grilled at Harry’s Hamburgers, Dad’s favorite roadside stand. Bar rooms were his stage and my classroom.   Little did I know that safe cracking was not an acceptable trade for career day at school.

As a child my father was dirt poor.  He was a cowboy who played the guitar and sang in a country band. He never told me the straight story, forever changing melodies as his bulky fingers two-stepped down the neck of his guitar.  Watering his thirst for money, he opened a Country Western Bar called the Office Lounge when I was ten.  The slogan was, “Don’t lie to your wife, when you say you’re at the office, be at the Office. “  That was Dad’s variety of honesty.

He was a workaholic, always at the Office, and a ladies’ man. Women lined up throughout his life claiming to have born his offspring; two of these children have shown up in my life since his death.

When dad and his younger brother were still in diapers, his father volunteered for a WWII suicide mission with an infamous U.S. Army Paratrooper unit, The “Filthy Thirteen” made of rabble-rousing Canadians, crazy as they were brave. Six months before their mission, they are said to have exchanged a blood oath to neither wash nor shave until after D-Day. They slept in their clothes – including jackets and parachute boots.  They trained in a style then compared to the warfare tactics of Native American Indians, had Mohawks and wore war paint on their faces. “They fought among themselves with their fists until they dropped from exhaustion,” one newspaper account reported.

One night my grandfather, Frenchie Baribeau, got into a barroom brawl, left, and came back an hour later dressed in his full army uniform ready to kill.  My father apparently inherited these traits from his father.  While he would willingly die at gunpoint for his loved-ones, Dad was incapable of living for us.

Granma Baribeau, as we called her, never remarried, and shared her shack with her brother, my great Uncle Richie, a devout Catholic who missed his calling as a priest. The house had the same construction as the chicken coop in the back corner of her two-acre farm, with rooms tacked on as needed when two more children came along. She was the original entrepreneur in our family who ran a roadside produce stand to supplement her war pension. My grandmother taught both my father and me that sometimes it is ok to shape the story to fit the circumstance.

I worked for her before I could even reach the counters without standing on a crate, earning a bounty of $1.00 per day. I grazed all day long, moving from succulent peaches to juicy tomatoes with mayonnaise on white bread, to perfectly cooked Gentleman John’s corn that my grandmother simmered for exactly 6 minutes, with just a touch of sugar and salt. The lie I learned to tell was that we grew all our produce in the fields the customers could see from the road. In truth, the only thing growing out behind the house were the four rows of corn we cultivated to shield the dirt acre field.  Beyond the flowing golden tops of the façade were abandoned cars under a blanket of weeds.

My early love affair with food began with that job. However I would double my height before I would ever eat anything at home beside cheeseburgers and bologna sandwiches.

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One spring morning Dad arrived in Syracuse by plane. Tempered by Bloody Marys, looking like a Smithfield ham; his big belly hanging over tacky lime green polyester pants, his fist-size gold nugget on a neck chain bobbing up and down off his belly, he climbed into my lemon colored Ford.

We set out to inspect the building where I would soon build my first restaurant.  I was ecstatic; thrilled for once, that he showed up to do something special for me.

After an instant appraisal he gave his conditional approval but insisted that I buy the building solo, authoritatively shutting out my business partner and beloved mentor Lena.  Inside I was anxious, although I exhaled excitement. I knew the consequences of not speaking up for Lena.  But I swallowed my truth. I accepted his offer.

Up until then, the only way he knew to show his love was by doling out money, and for a long time, my willingness to accept his signature on anything had been rare. At fourteen, my animosity erupted, and I stood before this giant, ripping up his birthday offering like used scrap paper, insisting he dig deeper to find a meaningful gift. Even his high school graduation gift, a Mercury Comet, came to a crashing end when I slammed it into the back of a turning car one drunken night.

Now it was time to come to some resolution in order to work with my father, and quite frankly, I did not have the proper tools. I had already sold out for his approval and his money. My joy fled within the hour after I took Dad to the South Side to see my home.

This was his first visit to Syracuse since I moved there ten years earlier.  Even though he had freehandedly given me the $1300 to buy the pigeon-infested, city-owned nightmare of a “house,” Dad could not see beyond the neighborhood or my next-door neighbor’s Afro to appreciate my renovation.  He spent even less time at this property than at the proposed restaurant site.

I had become accustomed to his prejudices, but still, I would squirm in my skin during his outbursts, hoping no one I loved got hit in the crossfire. His bigotry was the microscope he used to view the world. He could not see how many times he crushed my spirit.

A few drinks later, tensions eased and resentments were replaced by laughter as he shared his escapades with my bar friends.  They perched on the edge of their stools, listening to Dad’s vinegary tales whose main characters were named Shifty, Speedy, and Bumpy.  For a week, I had bragged to my cronies that he might come to town; now he exceeded expectations as he bought another round.  I escorted him to all my drinking haunts, showing him off like a Beefsteak tomato at the fair.

The crocuses and tulips were singing for me that day.  Finally, after twenty-nine years, my dad was there for me.  He arrived on time and– for the first time in my life ever–and completed my first real initiation as an adult, co-signing the loan at the bank to get my business started.

Our fun came to an abrupt end when our celebratory spree made us late for his afternoon departure. He complained for days afterward about the black security guard who made him remove all his gold jewelry, causing him to miss his plane. He even threatened to drive back to shoot “that nigger” with his gun.

My Father died when I was only 33 years old. This is from a section of my unpublished memoir. You can download the first three chapters here. 

I still miss him and celebrate all the gift received by knowing him  this Fathers Day.

Good Cheer provides Organic Farm raised foods for the community.

The large vegetable garden in front of  our Food Bank supplies fresh vegetables and fruit  and and has enabled us to serve more people. The garden was started in 2009, and under the direction of Good Cheer Garden Coordinator, Cary Peterson, has been providing over 5000 lbs of produce to the Food Bank annually. The vegetables are grown using organic methods.
Thank you to Good Cheer for feeding the community and offering classes on how to use fresh vegetables. Follow the Shaman Chef  on FB

Sacred Spaces are places on earth that carry special vortexes of energies containing high frequencies that many people can detect. As you become more sensitive you will be able to sense the energies where-ever you go.

You can establish a sacred space in your home, garden, or anywhere you choose. The keystone to creating a “sacred space” is continued attention coupled with prayful intention. As you repeatedly return to this space, your prayers and intentions are compounded.

Suggestions

Choose Your Space Carefully — This is the first intention of your spiritual interaction. It can be simple or elaborate. One time a homemaker had no place, so she made her altar in a drawer for privacy. This is a place you will visit frequently so it is best that it be close by and be a place that you love to be in. A garden works as does a special altar in a room.

Set Your Intention — Clear the spot if necessary. Invite the Energies to your altar in the same way you would welcome a guest into your home. Light a candle, set out fresh flowers, and a plate of food or fruit.
Once you beckon the spirits they will come, so invite your guests with an open heart. Set your space on days when you are upbeat and feel happy.

Decorating your Space -- This is where creativity shines. Some people build elaborate medicine wheels on the land (circular stone formation with spokes pointing in all the cardinal directions) but you can easily replicate this idea on a table or a corner of your garden. Basics may include: pictures of your favorite dieties, stones you love, a vase or a candle. This is your place of refuge; decorate it with items that have special significance for you.

Sacred Space Practices — Energy Compounds every time you place your intentions in your sacred space. Visit your sacred space often. Some people like to chant, sing, drum, rattle and dance. Rituals are personal and can be developed over time. Start with a simple practice.

The most important aspect of maintaining your sacred spot is faith. Power builds with focused attention. Pray with an open heart, and listen. Know that spirit is there.

1. You can sit on a Curb for 10 years and when your destiny is ready it will call you!

Several years ago, a psychic said to me, “Renee you can sit on the curb for the Next Ten Years and Your Destiny will find you.” The Network called to me one day as I was sitting at a beach in the Southern Mexico. Like a surfer riding a wave, a powerful vision took hold of my life. I tussled about in the bay like seaweed for years, caught up in the undertow of the task. As the full moon rose high in the sky with the same force of nature, it became evident that my work was done.

Some tasks are ours alone to complete. They may frustrate us and bring us to our knees, but we gain an awareness that everything learned up to that point was in preparation for the challenge at hand. Everything gained in the process will decide the future outcome. Eight years ago, my surfboard crashed into the shoreline. My phone rang and the caller was not looking for a referral, but sought me instead. Like a container placed curbside for the weekly pick-up, destiny beckoned once again and I began a new path as a healer.

2. Where there is light there is Shadow lurking

In my naiveté I believed I could simply relocate back to my central home in the desert and open a doorway of light in the form of a Healing Arts Center. As I crossed the threshold of this spellbinding dream, I was met with the harsh reality that everyone has an ego, and no one could get along, including myself. I thought that all I had to do was build a baseball field and the team would arrive. Perhaps this worked in a movie but not in real life.

3. A Spiritual Path is just that, a dirt road up the narrow side of a mountain.

For years I’ve benefited from helping others. It gave me an opportunity to hide behind my own fears. I received lots of notoriety and free entrance passes to many events. I’ve shared breakfast and coffee with many famous spiritual leaders who stayed in my home.

Over the years these perks became limiting ideas. I traded my services like seconds at a bargain basement, always loving the free passes, but never realizing my true worth.

4. Diamonds are not the only things that Glitters

There were times along my journey when I felt like a stopgap; I felt like I wasn’t being fully accepted. In the past I’ve received many calls, whenever a new shiny object came to town. Once it was a flashy guide, and then another healer etc. Each time I gazed within and realized that my job included holding space for others, as well as for myself. One slick dude went as far as stealing content from my website in order to lend credibility to his venture. Many people did not listen and lost money. Either way, many sought my advice.

5.  Things are Never as They Seem

I was sure I heard the Angels saying, “Go back to the desert and open a column of light.” I was instructed that it wasn’t my destiny to run the network forever, but to build and hold until further instructions came. As a wise teacher once said, “The money is in the boring and the mundane.” After two years I was sure that it was time to sell. Looking back I can only laugh as many launched their own center. I was no longer the column of light but the center of a wheel. This took some getting used to, as it didn’t match the imagined words of the Angels. I am listening as they speak to me again.

6.  Anger is the Greatest Motivator for Change

For more than a year I was furious at the lack of support for the network. Venom poured out of me everywhere I went. During this period I alienated myself from many people. I didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t playing by the “rules.”. The hurt I felt for the lack of support turned out to be a gift. The pain fuelled my healing to go deeper and reach into the Internet for answers, which took me deep into a study and understanding of social media. Along the way I accumulated a significant mailing list of spiritual seekers from around the world.

As I healed I began to see that the inner spokes of the wheel were genuinely working and that the ripples of the waves were being felt as far away as Iceland.

7. This is our Community.

I am reminded of a story about a community in Mexico. There is a crazy man who strips naked and jumps into a fountain for a swim. The neighbors bring blankets to wrap him in and then they take him home. They do not shun or throw him away, like we can do in the North.

The Greatest Lesson that I have learned during the past eight years is to acknowledge everyone’s contribution to the group. Some people sit in their homes and pray over the fault lines. Some rant and rave to anyone who will listen. When I gave my farewell blessing last night, I encouraged everyone to look around and take note of the brothers and sisters who will be there when needed.  So often I hear about people seeking connection, but with it comes a definition of what it should look like. As my ex always asked, “On what page of the Relationship Handbook can that be found?”

8. Acceptance

Another big lesson I’ve learned as a community leader, is that the energy which we extend is always returned, but not necessarily in the manner that we might expect. Eight years ago it was easy for me to imagine who would be at the farewell party. This would have left me short on joy as the perfect cross section of the group turned out. From the high desert to the very first member of the network, every corner of the desert was accounted for. I was grateful for the garbage disposal repairman who wasn’t there, and for the friend who accompanied me to the beach. I had finally come full circle and realized that I was never in charge.

9. Timing is everything

This year I had two amazing experiences that explain why I was given the job to organize the forces so many years ago. On 12/21 I held a worldwide ceremony with over 1200 people, and it was anchored in my own yard. All of the yogic and healing energies, space holders, and resistance met that day around the fire. As I stood there welcoming my guests over live streaming video, I knew that this was a debut performance that had required many years to prepare.

So it is with the person who will carry the group forward. With my idea fully formed, I presented the package to Joy Meredith who has kept the light shining in Palm Springs for over 26 years with her “New Age” Store.  As I move on, I am honored to pass along the wheel to her, wishing her well as she continues to share the light.

Please sign up for my mailing list to find out what is next with Renee.

The Practical  Shaman’s view on Health
1. Wellness is an ongoing process of maintaining balance in your mental, physical and spiritual bodies.
2. Most illnesses are caused by disharmony is one of these 3 areas.
3. Some illnesses  are karmic, intended to help you evolve spiritually.
4. A Balanced life, a recipe for optimum health.
5. Healing is not always about Curing; growth and evolution may lead to death. No one gets out of here alive.
7. Facing ones impermeability (death), leads to greater happiness,  harmony, and less fear.
8. You are ultimately responsible for your own Health; shamans may witnesses your spiritual transactions, and can aid in your healing.
9. Prayer and Ritual Works.
10. Shaman compliment medicine; both are marvelous creations of Spirit.

Shortly after completing a peaceful, heart-warming interview with Bhakti Fest creator, Sridhar Silberfein, I logged onto Facebook and read the horrific news of the Boston Marathon bombing.

Bad news travels fast on the internet: I’m here to spread some good news.

During our conversation, Sridhar and I discussed how our planet would benefit from more kindness, understanding and trust. What a contrast; the appalling acts of terror in Boston and the Bhakti/Shakti Fest, where thousand of enlightened people will gather for a weekend in Joshua Tree, California in May.

Can peace and safety be found at a Bhakti Fest, where unconditional love and forgiveness prevails?

Is it possible to band with spiritual masters and avoid contact with the stark reality of senseless violence?

Who are these villains? Do they actually believe that they are in service to a higher calling in the same manner as the mat-carrying crowds at the Bhakti/Shakti Fest? Can we sing loud enough, pray with enough fervor and release the love light from within?

I believe that we can.

From my perspective the answer is not to remove our right to bear arms. We must turn off the fear, gather in large groups and hold a powerful vision. Tragedy and misfortune have always been aspects of human drama, but today anger, threats, suspicion and fear spread far and wide at an alarming speed.

The Bhakti/Shakti Fest is a vessel of comfort and relief; a place to express your divinity, and share it with others.

Meals are prepared with love and served with gentle hands of healing light; everyone will be nourished from the inside out.

Children and elders are welcome at the Fest because they teach us how to laugh and pray. Ancient Hindu traditions recognize all humans as divine beings, and this spiritual outlook permeates this wonderful celebration. The energy that is created is capable of pouring forth and sending help wherever it is needed all over the globe.

When asked why she dedicated her life to helping abandoned children, Mother Teresa replied, “One day I discovered that I had a Hitler inside me.”

Everyone’s blood was shed at the Boston Marathon. We can’t separate ourselves from that experience, but we can share our love, and do our part, just like Sridhar, who creates events that unite thousands of people in a common bond.

There will always be bombs, guns and violence.

Events like the Bhakti Fest bring solace and hope to our troubled world.

Shridar awoke to his calling in during the 60’s when people began to search for meaning. He prays and practices yoga every day. His Seva is to help men and woman find their divine feminine, so that power, balance and kindness can be restored to our world.

Some of the profits earned from the festival are spread generously around the world. He’s not a Saint, but he has learned through his studies with masters such as Ram Dass and Muktananda, that true service is given from the heart without expectations.

I extend genuine compassion and condolences to all the families and relatives of the tragedy in Boston.

I invite you and your friends to sit with us this May 17-19 in a celebration of love. Listen to my 20 minute in-depth conversation with Shridar Silberfein about vulnerability, service and love here.

Photo credit: www.murraymitchell.com

Riding high atop a shimmering early morning wave off the coast of Cozumel Mexico, a lucid vision of the Desert Healing Arts crashed onto the shore. The ceremony of the previous day had cleared the sand of all debris, allowing the beach to heartily embrace this new idea. Prior to this glorious awakening, I had been tucked away in Colorado, with plenty of cash in hand, but unemployed. My career as an F&B Director had come to an abrupt halt following a public declaration that I would leave Corporate America once I became financially secure. Little did I know that on a foggy day in Ireland, the universe would conspire to help me; within weeks I was freed from my desk job. The last remnants of my former self had finally dissolved and I was ready to move on. Talk about perfect timing!

For eight months I was like a happy butterfly, as I flitted from one grand idea to another. My adventures included hugging trees so I could feel their Chi, meeting Gurus and Swamis, and scavenging through Denver, as I looked for a place to call home. One door after another closed, until I found myself standing in the silence of a forest, pleading with the trees to guide me in finding my true path.

Seeking relief from my endless searching, and the dreary monotony of a long, drawn out winter, I signed up for a course in the Mexican Tropics. As the wave hit the beach, I realized that I wanted to work with like-minded people and use my skills as a great organizer. At the time I didn’t realize that I was signing up for a ten-year stint to guide others, and bringing light to the desert community. As fate would have it, within days my business partner called to say, “The tenants are moving out of our home in the business district back in the Southern CA desert. Did I want the house back to build a center?” Within weeks I was magically transported back to Palm Desert and started building a healing center. As the center of the wheel was established, spokes grew out in all directions. Healing centers sprouted up like flowers after a torrential rain shower.  Over the years, my role changed and I became an online resource directory.

For years my home had been a focal point for prominent workshop leaders, yoga classes, and community activities. Then one day the phone rang. This time I was being called as a healer instead of a business leader. Reluctantly I followed the trail, despite a prescient dream, telling me that it was time to put down the paperwork and apply my healing energies where they were most needed. For several years I wore two hats as a healer, and as director of DHN. These days my days are totally occupied with writing, teaching, traveling and working with clients. Last year I was developed a new system, the “Awakening Compass,” as a navigational tool, which I now use to guide others as well as myself.

As I continue to shift and expand in my ever-growing awareness, I realize that the time has come for me to move on. I am handing over the responsibility of the Desert Healing Network to someone who can ride the wave to new shores.

Please join us on April 22 at 6 pm at the Crystal Fantasy. There will be music, dance, food and joyous celebration.

Let the magic of the dance continue…

(In Alcoholics Anonymous where I began the search for sobriety they call this your birthday).

As a Shaman, I realize that there are living spirits who derive vicarious pleasure by using us as straws while we drink our cocktails.  Some are friendlier than others.  Years ago, as I was puffing on a cigarette, I became aware that a spirit was smoking through me.  Since that day I have yet to put tobacco to my lips.  My life improved once I quit drinking, but on occasion I am reminded that my inner demons still live on.  I’m grateful to be alive and healthy, unlike my father who died at the hands of a scotch demon.  My motivation to quit came about during Easter Brunch.  I was sitting at a table with my partner, while ogling a woman sitting across from me.  This was the final act in a long drawn out drama of a very important relationship.  As someone who pushes away love, I’ve had a handful of serious attractions the last 25 years; each one took me on a new journey, but always at the expense of my sanity.

Twenty-five years later I’m still struggling with inner demons.  This past year has been a time of isolation and deep longing.  Despite my best attempts not to emulate the generation before me, I’ve followed in my mother’s footsteps, and closed the door to my heart.  My romantic experiences often left me hiding in the closet, crumpled in a fetal position.  After many failed relationships,  I found it easier to pull back and close the door.  Alas, the human desire to connect invariably creeps back, slides under the crack of the closet door,  teasing me until I emerge once again.

Last year I went on an island holiday. I decided to go for a stroll along the local beach.  I was gazing at the ocean, and pondering my life, when a symphony of celestial music suddenly blew in from the trees, lifting me high above the wreckage of my closed heart.  During this moment of peace and clarity, seeds for a new book were born.  My first book of recipes was a metaphor for how I had escaped an early death in the same way that my father had done. My upcoming book will offer a system of healing designed for those suffering from deep emotional scars.

During my 25 years of sobriety I’ve been brought my knees many times.  I’ve chipped away at my biggest character flaw; clubbing people with hurtful words.  With shadow there is always light.  My magical tool is capable of inspiring others, but when crossed, it rears its ugly head and becomes a mace of malice.  This year, my goal is to reconcile my tongue.  Above my desk hangs a sign that says, “Wait Three Days.” Sometimes I fail.  

Over the years I’ve flown thousands of miles and drove countless hours to make amends to 77 different people. Most often it was about self-forgiveness and connecting with the Divine. One day, after making a graveside amends to Jim, my sous chef, whom I had challenged every day, I encountered a chance meeting with Grace.The following day I unexpectedly met his mother while attending a fair, 100 miles away, where I had driven to set one more wrong right. Struggling to find appropriate words I recounted my misgivings with her son. She looked into my eyes, and said, “I am here because he forgives you.” As I dropped to my knees in tears in disbelief, my heart suddenly opened and I felt an inner peace, a new faith. Over the years, whenever dark clouds would hover in my life, I would call forth the memory of this enlightening experience.

Another Easter has arrived, and once again, I am struck sober by the willingness of my heart to open and heal. I love how the heart willingly goes when it is called, without concern. Each time I fall, I forget to ask the important questions, ”Is it right, is it appropriate, and am I safe?” I am truly grateful for the opportunity to love again. I forgot what it feels like to have someone paying attention to me, chatting for hours on the phone, and to enjoy true companionship. No matter how much you love your favorite jeans, the darkness and loneliness of a closet will never facilitate joy, peace and true love.

Healing is a gradual, and sometimes-painful process. The last time the petals of my heart opened they were shattered, and it took me eight years to recover. Today I am grateful for the lessons learned. I have realized that my heart can love freely. There is no need for me to visit a barren wasteland, no matter how pretty the flowers appear on the other side of the river.

I’m celebrating my resurrection this Easter. I look forward to discovering my true self, and finding true love during the next quarter century.

To show my gratitude for another year of Sober Living, I am offering Gifts to my readers.

The first is the complete audio class  

The Five P’s of Socialpreneurs  

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Do you know what energy you bring to your work?

Join me for a Unique 5-Week Program this Spring. Learn More Here