The other day, Mark Le Blanc, my wonderful business coach, reminded me that, as a motivational speaker and presentation skills coach and trainer, I am always and only one big toe ahead of the clients and audience members I’m trying to inspire to greater fulfillment.

He’s right of course.

Every day I try to motivate other people to stand out, be heard and move forward in their lives and careers.  And every day, I do the very same thing to and for myself. I motivate the motivator, which, I admit, can sometimes be a daunting task.  Some days I’m brilliant at it.  Some days, I’m not.  Some days, I fight what’s outside of me: unexpected circumstances, limited budgets, other people’s recalcitrance. Some days I fight what’s inside of me: limiting messages from my childhood, ingrained rules about what’s “nice,” or “right” or “polite” for me to do or say; fears of rejection, of not being liked or accepted. And I assure you, the obstacles I face inside of me are a lot more sneaky, insidious and potentially debilitating than anything coming at me from the outside.

On my darkest days, when I let the obstacles inside of me stop me from moving myself forward, my husband loves to gently point out that I am not walking my talk or practicing what I preach.  “What would your clients think, if they heard you right now?” he’ll ask, as I mope around, seized and stuck by fear or despair.  He’s right, of course. But I can’t help hoping that my clients might think “I do that stuff too!  Eleni’s human after all!” And maybe they’d take me even more seriously.  Because I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on,  any credibility as a motivational speaker, trainer or coach, if I didn’t know first-hand what it’s like to get sidelined by inner and outer obstacles, and moving forward anyway.

I’ve spent my entire life as a creative artist (and yes, I consider my current path as a speaker and trainer to be just another variation of my lifelong journey as a creative artist) motivating myself to stand out, be heard and move forward in my career, in spite of obstacles.  And there have been obstacles, boatloads of obstacles.  If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard the word “no” from someone in a position to hire me either as an actress, a touring singer and songwriter, a speaker and a coach and trainer, well, I’d be in a position to buy a nice little tropical island somewhere.  I am, however, convinced that all those no’s – and all those years of moving forward in spite of them– are what give me the chutzpah to think that I have the right to speak about following one’s passion and purpose to it’s fullest potential, in spite of obstacles (inside and out).   And that is what helps me face down the fear (of rejection? of being too pushy?) as I pick up the phone to call an event planner who could potentially put me in front of my ideal audience:  A bunch of women just like me who want to stand out, be heard and move forward, in their lives or in their careers. Whether they’re facing obstacles from the outside.  Or from the inside.

I recently watched a PBS special about the life and career of singer, actress, cabaret artist and all-around stellar performer, Eartha Kitt.  Miss Kitt– who many of you will remember as the purring, growling, sinewy Catwoman from the original Batman television series) died this past Christmas day at the age of 81.  When asked by the interviewer how on earth she was still able to do what she loves– and do it so very well—Miss Kitt replied:   “You have to prepare yourself to do what want to do you.”  Then she went on to explain that, for her, preparing involved thinking the right thoughts, eating the right foods, and keeping negative people away, among other things.  I smiled when I heard this, having seen for myself just how seriously and thoroughly Miss Kitt took the notion of preparation. I had, in fact, spent some time in her company at a Jazz festival booked by my husband, Jim, and presented at the famed Grand Hotel on Michigan’s Mackinaw Island.  She was 79 years young at the time.

Jim and I went to pick up Miss Kitt at the ferry docks the evening before her performance. I fully expected Miss Kitt to be as expansive, slinky, glittery and diva-esque as the persona that I had seen slithering across  a television or teasing the lyrics of I WANT TO BE EVIL in her vixen’s voice.  Instead, the woman who came forward to meet us was a silent, tiny, plain-clothed little thing, without a shred of makeup, as reserved and pulled tight as an oyster.  She barely spoke a word to us as the horse drawn carriage pulled us up the steep hill towards the long, white-pillared porch of the Grand Hotel.  As a performer myself, I knew enough to respect her need for silence and distance.  I simply shut my mouth and joined my husband in accompanying her to her sunny, airy, stunning hotel suite.  She took in the panoramic view of the smooth cobalt surface of Straits of Mackinaw, put her hands on her hips, rolled her eyes and spoke:

“If I had known it was going to be this fabulous,” she said, “I would have brought a man.”   “Well, Miss Kitt” said my husband, “that can ALWAYS be arranged.”She smiled.  We smiled. She spoke again.
“What time am I performing tomorrow “

“2 pm, “ Jim replied.

“God,” Miss Kit said, rolling her eyes, “ it’s HELL being Eartha Kitt at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.”  And then she put her hands on her hips and laughed, a big rich throaty laugh.  When I look back, I realize that that simple question, “what time am I performing tomorrow,” catalyzed the start of Miss Kitt’s preparation countdown and her metamorphosis into the Eartha Kitt (Big E, Big K) people would be paying to see.. Because the Eartha Kitt we expected to dazzle us required time, work and preparation, emotionally and physically.  And I was privileged to observe some of that preparation, which occurred in phases over the next 12 hours.

At 9 am the following morning, Miss Kitt showed up at breakfast, five hours before show time, wearing a silky turban, long fluffy false eyelashes, a face gilded with makeup and a colorful kimono—a far cry from the undecorated woman we’d met at the ferry docks the evening before.  Wide eyes turned toward her as she swept into the dining room, holding herself like a queen, flirting with maitre D as he seated her.  Once fortified with breakfast, she made her way down to the Grand Hotel’s tea garden stage to do an official sound check with the members of her trio.  As my husband and I finished our breakfast, we could hear Miss Kitt warming up her voice with a song or two. Then she put the band through their paces, going over parts of a song again and again. Next, word trickled up to us that Miss Kitt required a lounge chair and a tuxedoed waiter to serve her champagne for an improvised bit during her show.  My husband scurried to procure them.  Miss Kitt was exacting and specific.  She knew precisely what she needed and wanted.  After all, as she had declared, “you have to prepare yourself for what you want to do.”

An hour prior to her 2 o’clock performance, Miss Kitt retired to her dressing area.  No visitors allowed: she needed space and silence.  Again, this was all part of her preparation ritual.

At 2 o’clock, I sat eager and breathless in the front row, ready to see the final iteration of Miss Kitt. The emcee hushed the audience and spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Eartha Kitt”

With upraised arms, Miss Kitt swept out of the wings, swathed in a dramatic, long cloak held aloft by a small, scurrying assistant.  The assistant whipped off the cloak with a swoosh, revealing  Eartha Kitt, Big E, Big K in all her gloriousness:  Hair perfectly coiffed, nails long and red, heels glittery and high, stretch velvet gown slit up to there and revealing a very toned leg.  She growled.  And then she did a backbend that brought the back of her head almost perpendicular to the ground.  The crowd gasped!

For two hours, Miss Kitt sang, kicked up to her nose, teased grown men enough to make them blush, made us laugh until we cried, made us cry until we laughed, and otherwise showed us how to take the stage (and an audience) prisoner.  As I watched Miss Kitt in full fiery performance, I thought of the silent, unadorned, reserved woman I had met the night before at the ferry dock.  In less than 24 hours, she had done whatever it took to bring herself to full performance power.  Relying on a lifetime of training and preparation—countless dance and yoga classes, vocal and dance warm-ups, attention to nutrition, costume, makeup, song choices, hours of rehearsal– Miss Kitt had helped transform herself into the stunning, incandescent performer who had me hanging on her every word and gesture.  And she had done so even though– and especially because—as she’d put it, “It’s HELL being Eartha Kitt at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.”

And here’s the kicker.  We– the audience that stood to give her an ovation at the end of her remarkable show– never had a clue that Miss Kitt had just been diagnosed with the cancer that would eventually take her life. I have no doubt that the years of training, combined with the steps she took to be thoroughly prepared, allowed her to rise above her medical condition, and give a performance that knocked our socks off. If Miss Eartha Kitt was (and in my heart still is) not a poster child for why training and preparation matter, then I don’t know who is. 

Last night I watched the semi-finals of Dancing with the Stars while lying in bed eating dinner with my husband and my three cats. Tease me all you want, but it was a whole lot more fun to watch people in satin and sequins mamboing and fox-trotting than, say, watching doom and gloom on the TV news, or a blood and guts flick on the Spike channel.

In any event, Lance Bass, a contestant who used to perform with the boy-band, N Sync, did something unusual to help him get a leg-up on the competition:  He brought his beloved granddad to the show and dedicated his performance to him.  Lance was going to do a foxtrot, and figured since his granddad had grown up dancing this particular dance, some of his grandfather’s latent abilities might rub off on him.

As it happened, Lance nailed his foxtrot, even after one of his dancing shoes fell off (!!) halfway through his dance number.  His grandfather was jubilant. Lance was ecstatic:  He got the highest points he’d ever received on any dance routine thus far.

Here’s my point:  By dedicating his performance to his granddad, who was sitting in the audience, cheering him on, Lance imbued his performance with a meaning greater and deeper than usual.  He danced, this time, not just for himself, but to honor another.  And, as a result, he danced better, with more focus and abandon than he had ever done before.

Authors dedicate their work to others all the time:  Open up just about any book, and you’ll notice a dedication at the very beginning.  Actors do this, too:  They’ll dedicate a particular show to someone they love or admire—their mother, a person who is sick or ailing, the ghost of Sir Lawrence Olivier, whatever works for them. And when they do, the act of dedicating their work in another’s honor gives their performance greater focus, meaning and purpose, and often elevates the quality of their work. 

According to Daniel H. Pink, the author or a wonderful book I’m currently reading called A Whole New Mind: Why Right Brainers Will Rule the Future, dedicating your life or your work to someone you admire or something greater than/outside of yourself gives it a richer and more fulfilling meaning and purpose. So why not give it a try? The next time you have a difficult task to perform—a tricky presentation to give, a tough phone call to make– dedicate your task to someone you love and admire.  If it worked for Lance Bass last night on Dancing With the Stars, it can work for you.