The Deservability Contract (Sign and Date Your Infinite Worth).

As a stamp of approval to last week’s deservability post, your divine footprint has some light paperwork (Get it?  Light!) to make things officially official.

Below you will find your very own copy of The Deservability Contract.  It’s purpose is to recognize, acknowledge, and claim the God-given worth inscribed within you.

That said, I find it beneficial to print, read, sign, and date the contract. In doing so, you’re communing with and making space for bundles of tall energy to back you and flow through you.

Once complete, I encourage you to keep it somewhere nearby (wallet, bulletin board, etc.) or a sacred spot at home and reread, re-sign, and remind yourself of it and how deserving you are whenever need be.

I personally have a worn copy that I sign frequently.  It’s covered in black ink, blue ink, pencil, crayon, and marker. There’s coffee on both the front and back too.

So without further ado, I give you The Deservability Contract.

I hope you enjoy.






The Deservability Contract


I, _______________________ {name}, hereby agree to enter into The Deservability Contract with the Youniverse on ________________ {today’s date}.

This agreement is based on the following KLITE truths:

1.  In being born, I have innate, boundless worth.

2.  I AM free and absolute.

3.  The fruit of life blooms to be eaten.

4.  Approval is an inside job – that which I own, I AM.

This contract binds all parties involved as an entity of Oneness and Love.  To be blessed in the fullness of its opulence, one knowingly submits to a life of self-acceptance and an eternity of inherent value.

If at any time one forgets, falls flat on their ass, and/or fails to adhere to the above provisions, no sweat.  As a child of God, you’re still worthy, and always will be.

Upon signing, this agreement is subject to the laws of the Youniverse and effective starting immediately.  Stillness, sunshine, and compassion expedite its activation.


__________________________                               ___________________________

 {Printed Name}                                                               {Signature}






© Keepin’ It Light, 2017.

On Deservability…. a Myth, a Duty, a Gift.

I am deserving.  I deserve all good.  Not some, not a little bit, but all good.  I now move past all negative, restricting thoughts.  I release and let go of the limitations of my parents.  I love them, and I go beyond them.  I am not their negative opinions, nor their limiting beliefs.  I am not bound by any of the fears or prejudices of the current society I live in.  I no longer identify with limitation of any kind.  In my mind, I have total freedom.
— Louise L. Hay, Love Yourself, Heal Your Life Workbook

Deservability.  A concept that, often coated in a layer of unease, provokes a murky response.  Why?

Cause we’re born, bred, and conditioned to praise the value of rigidity.  Work hard.  Sweat.  Pay your dues.  Fight through it.  Put in the hours.  Show up sick. Ignore it.  Prove, earn, validate, repeat.  Work harder.  Complain less.  Push a little more.  Validate that validation.

Together, let’s call this the Illusion of Rigor; which is, of course, a blatant pile of malarkey.  Not to mention a sermon in inefficiency and inauthenticity.  BUYER BEWARE.

Side NoteDon’t let this undermine the importance of making things happen.  There’s a fine line between taking action and resigning to another’s idea of what is “right.”

The problem with the Illusion of Rigor is that somewhere, at some point in time, it became the hallmark of deservability, making it wrong to participate in life’s harvest for the simple reason of just being you.  So we scrap, claw, and get stuck in a trance of “earn,” or ignorance, lambasting our inner thirst. One that colludes our evolution with conflicting intentions of desire and guilt.  We spread clichéd-butter on stale bread…

Spouse is absent?  Well, that’s marriage for ya.
Finances are thin?  Nothin good comes easy!
Asshole of a boss?  Aren’t they all?
Yearning for a raise?  Don’t be greedy.

Cause we’re tough, right?  There’s virtue in toughness… in sweeping it under the rug… in hardening ourselves, our soul, our skin. You know what you call tough skin?  A callous. You know what you call healthy skin? A glow. The irony is hardly ironic.

The gift of life is exactly that – a gift.  In being born, you accepted said gift. It was blessed unto you. No clocking in, résumé check, or overtime required.  Just a present courtesy of the Youniverse.  Effortless.

What’s your point Jedi?

Call off the ordination. You’re pre-packaged with worth. An infinity of it too. The fact that you’re Here – alive (and reading this) – kind of confirms it. You deserve, as Louise Hay puts it, “not some, not a little bit, but all good.”  Breakfast in bed, smiles “just because,” flowers on Monday, paid vacation, and attentive conversation… with eye contact… perpetual eye contact.

Yeah, but I still don’t understa…

Look, you want to thrive, right?

Of course I do.

If you truly aspire a rich, meaningful, love-loaded experience – the ‘life well lived’ so to speak – you gotta know, know, that you, yes you, are inherently worthy of all the goodies the planet has to offer – long weekends, foot rubs, affordable organics, R-E-S-P-E-C-T, and commissions… fat commissions… from a job that THRILLS you.  Without said belief, your heart’s desires, and bona fide fulfillment for that matter, don’t stand for diddlysquat.  They’re but a wet match on a windy day.  You gotta own it, period.

Ah, I get it… (scribbling on a notepad) … “The goal:  entitlement.”

If you need to trick yourself, that could work in the short-term. But no, entitlement is the ego’s theme song. Consciousness headlines the deservability soundtrack. It’s about opening up. Acknowledgment. Listening. It’s a self-love thing, really.

Merit comes from within. And responsibility means exactly that…. responding.

You deserve the best of the best of the best of the best… just for being you.

Let that be enough.




P to the S.  The opening quote can be read in its entirety by googling “The Deservability Treatment.”  For anyone struggling to accept their infinity, it’s a supportive resource to keep in mind.

P to the Double S.  Sit with your magnificence for a bit. Come back next week to sign “The Deservability Contract” – a sacred clause of self-love and luminosity.



Fetch in 50, A Victory Lap: How to Ride Home in Someone Else’s Car.


Dad didn’t fight it… because he knew.

I suppose I did first, really.  I know the feel of Betty’s gears better than the felt on my balls. But given my inability to dictate any semblance of human speech, it didn’t matter.  What did was that Betty needed a vet, and a vet she needed quick.

In typical Fetch in 50 fashion, the timing of our “situation” was, for lack of a better term, interesting. I mean, we were 19,533 miles in and out of the summer, with our current position a mere three-hour shot to our driveway. After 98 days on the road – a road that demanded patience, and in turn, delivered immeasurable opportunity – dad eased my fearful fur with a look and a remedy that stretched from ear to ear:  he smiled.

The real kicker was that just an hour ago dad gave Betty quite the oral thank you card.  His gratitude for four years of service to him and I came out in one big, messy monologue. She was shade and she was warmth. She was home and a window to the world.  If it majored in love, it minored in surprise. Dad holds quite the vision for all who cross his path, but said even he was surprised by our mechanical-free summer.

Until now that is: when Betty’s top-end speed could see a deer make a roundtrip highway crossing without threatening its path.

Dad exited in Concordia, Missouri and popped in the first available gas station in search of an auto garage.  (The one across the street had just gone out of business.)  “Turn right and just past the church,” dad said, repeating the directions from the cashier.  “Maybe we should drop Betty off at the church instead,” he joked.  “And light a candle… or two.”

My premonition was that this would be an overnight job in the least.  Fetch in 50, Operation Alaska now seemed a shoe-in to hit the century mark in nights, and depending on the severity of Betty’s injury, there was an outside chance we’d reach month five.  At least we wouldn’t have to find a parking lot… we could sleep IN Betty, IN the garage.  But then dad handed Dennis, the man whose shop this was, his Triple A card and the Universe opened wide.

Dennis:  Looks like you got Premier Status.
My dad:  Is that right? (Dad hadn’t a clue of what Dennis just uttered. That’s when the awkward pause began).

Dennis:  Well… you can get a 200-mile tow with this card.
My dad:  Really? How far are we?
Dennis:   One-hundred and ninety miles from here to the Arch.
My dad:  So you can tow us home? (With dad’s math skills and following a long summer, he wasn’t too quick on the uptake.  Bless his bearded heart).
Dennis:  Yes I can.
My dad:  When?
(I was hoping for tomorrow, but would settle for the day after next).
Can you gimme 30 minutes?

Sure enough, after a petro stop, Dad, me, and an on-leash Betty – in all her mala-swinging glory – were headed east. Dad was detached, I could feel it, but a bit disappointed that after the grind of the summer, and his paw being the only one to push Betty’s pedal – (not a tenth of a mile had been driven by anyone else) – that he wouldn’t be able to take her across the finish line.  He said our front-seat-tow-truck status felt like a country song.


Close to home from a road trip,
Broke down on the highway.
Tow truck with my yellow lab,
Didn’t get to finish my way.

But somehow our victory lap home couldn’t have been scripted any better.

As I sprawled across dad’s lap, his heartbeat never felt so still. Between Dennis and dad’s sporadic conversation, I closed my drooping eyes and fell into my last deep Fetch in 50 sleep, where memories of a grand and glorious American adventure flashed across my canine cortex like a montage of moments passed.

Like our first night on the road when we CouchSurfed with an electric-guitar-playing herbalist in Ojai, California – all the intel dad needed to comfortably BettySurf for the remainder of our journey.

Or the week we spent driving to Key West only to leave less than 24 hours later because dad said it was like “Six Flags on an island.”

Then there was the summer up East. In Maine, we awoke in a dark Walmart parking lot to drive up Cadillac Mountain – the peak of Acadia National Park – to catch the sunrise and first light in all of North America.

During our tour of Ivy League campuses, a professor at Brown University told us that Fetch in 50 was – and I quote directly – “the coolest idea I’ve ever heard in my life.”

And it’s hard to forget our visit to New York City.  It was September 11th, hot, and busy.  I lollygagged to a single toss in Central Park.  We slept at a Walmart across the Hudson River in New Jersey.  By happy accident, Betty’s view was a panorama of the Manhattan skyline.

We drove through a heat wave to reach the Outer Banks. Dad beelined into the cold Atlantic as I feared for his life. The moment I caught him, a wave caught us. Together, the liquid lift was an aerial, salty experience. It still feels like something more was at play that day.

There was the food too. In North Carolina, I begged for a driver’s Doritos three lanes over at a stoplight. In Oregon, I sat for a man with torn clothes and an onion-like stench.  He gave me the only food he had:  an entire banana.  Dad called him a “paragon of faith.”

When I arose from my dream, Dennis and dad had slammed their doors and were headed towards the facilities. With no yearning to bark, I sat in the front seat of the red truck and the anthem played on…


Stuck in park at a rest stop.
Betty White still in jeopardy.
Wondering:  will it ever end?,
Or is this just another memory?

I rotated between dad’s lap and Dennis’s knee the remainder of our 174-mile tow home.  What originally seemed to be an inconvenient way to conclude our 49-state journey, turned out to be the most graceful closing act. Dennis was our captain and his truck was our land ferry. A mile from home, we exited the highway at the exact moment the sun fell from Earth. But before the curtains closed, dad had an idea.

Drop us off at the church, will you Dennis?

Ten minutes later, with dad’s arm out the window and my nose towards the sky, together, we crossed the finish line.

19,534 miles.

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Into Oregon and Through Nevada: Fetch in 50 Turns Fetch in 49.

First and last toss in Nevada.

We entered Oregon at rush hour and dad veered left.

The abrupt turn didn’t calculate right away. For much of the past week, the three of us had trekked through the bowel of Small Town U.S.A.  Now, a mere 10-minute ride from downtown Portland – and reintroduction to humanity – it seemed dad had plans for an extension.

If there’s a perpetual riddle to life on the road, reintegration takes the trophy.

My nose can relate. In the countryside, there are acres of land at its sniffing disposal. But not in the city. Between the trash, the fumes and overdeveloped earth, not only is fetch space affected, so too is my oxygen.

I think dad’s sweet spot is acoustically related. The guy likes stillness, or as he calls it, “the best state anyone will visit.”  I’ve come to enjoy it as well.  And each time we transition back to the hubbub that is society, reverence is a must.  If jerkily entered, his sweet spot quickly becomes a sore spot.

So I let him do his thing.  And that’s what this turn was about.  Dad needed a breather, courtesy of an evening drive, before jumping back in.

We peeled east down Highway 84, a scenic little drive that parallels the Columbia River. The timing proved ideal. The air chilled and the sun fell. Together, we stood at the base of Mt. Hood, gawking; just the three of us, all alone, in a thicket of lodgepole pines.  (Silence).  When we circled back to Portland, I snored and dad completed his reintegration with a string of heartfelt tunes.

From there on, Oregon astonished – despite being nicknamed for a rodent.

Our 48th state was the ultimate championship test. In all my years on the fetch circuit, never have I experienced such surface fluctuation. Morning toss in the Cascades gave way to evening toss at Canon Beach.  But the real adjustment came in Central Oregon, where the high desert caught my stride by surprise.

I’m pretty certain dad fell for Bend, Oregon. He said God must’ve timeshared there. I couldn’t argue. Every which direction seemed an advertisement for Heaven.

We spent three days in and around Bend.  Our first afternoon we hiked the most beautiful state park, Smith Rock, either of us had ever seen.  My paws turned red and my tongue hung low.  The next day we climbed to the summit of Mt. Bachelor.  Dad took a nap.  And I took it in.

On top of Mt. Bachelor.  When dad sleeps, I watch… kind of.

Cool nights made for added blankets in the rear of Betty. Walmart’s occupancy was at an all-time high that week.  Of course, dad can make home just about anywhere.

I’d wager a week’s worth of road treats that my dad is the only camper in the history of Walmart camping to diffuse his car with essential oils prior to bed, only to wake up, walk inside, and grab a green juice for breakfast.


Sorry, an organic green juice. See what I mean?  You just can’t script things with this guy.

Oregon had some interesting quirks too. Strangers pumped Betty’s tank, which I didn’t care for one bit.  Sales tax is obsolete, which I don’t understand one bit.  And grass, dad says, is legal, which has me wondering the number of states I’ve unlawfully grazed in.

Two weeks later, we were in Nevada, the only state I’d yet to clench my jaw. We split the Mojave Desert and arrived in Vegas at nightfall.

The irony of a Sin City finish to Fetch in 50 was too comical to ignore.  The thought of me completing the dream with a night chase on the Vegas Strip could garner quite the Instagram shot. But dad determined – with all his facial-haired foresight – there isn’t a vaccination on the market to guard against the filth of that sidewalk. Plus, our fulfillment doesn’t stem from a mouse click.

That’s not to say we skipped the Strip.  No, no.

After 17,000 miles on the road this summer, Betty deserved to strut, and strut she did. By sports cars and casinos; past limos and a big fountain with a strong, synthetic stench. Dad smiled at the moment, but wondered aloud how this street and the Blue Ridge Parkway could both be branded All-American Roads. No woods and no wildlife. Dad did mention a pack of wolves, but I didn’t smell any.

The following day we ditched the glitz and the glamour and I earned the 49th stamp on my fetch passport with a single pop-fly.  After a dry and exhausting desert hike – and 80-plus days away from home – we knew it was enough.  A few hours later, dad said the omens confirmed our completion.

Just before leaving town, Betty had a run-in with local law enforcement. Despite her paperwork and palpable aura, the officer said Betty was not showing up as a registered vehicle… anywhere.  Dad was pretty ho-hum; he even read a magazine while Sherlock did his detective work. Not me though.  When he returned, I showed him my teeth.

The nerve! The gall! The disrespect! Not only did he touch a woman without her permission, but he failed to genuflect as well.  When I first heard the sirens, I assumed a reward was in store. Did they want to name the highway for Betty? Maybe he was delivering the key to the city? Nope, just a leisurely Saturday warning that disrupted my nap and lifted my butt hair.

“All is well,” dad said.

And we broke east beneath a pink desert sky.


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