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Perfect Humans

Posted on May 9, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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Can you see the heart in the weeds?

I call myself a recovering perfectionist. A friend recently said I was no longer recovering, that I’ve made it. All I need is to settle into this new way of being. I like to think that’s so. What I do know, I’ve learned a thing a two about perfectionism.

I got two postcards back-to-back from my grandson in Taiwan that really tweaked this whole issue for me. He usually writes every seven to ten days. But these are dated 5 days apart. No doubt for his excitement with his achievements. The list is stellar. It’s easy to understand his pride.

“The day before yesterday was sports day. It was super fun. I had a running race again; this time I won,” he wrote. “My drawing is in the high school; it was chosen. It’s a drawing of a tree with a swing on it and me standing beside the swing. . . Last Thursday and Friday I had exams. I got 99 for math, I got 96 for common sense, and the whole class only I got 100 for Chinese. I was shoked <sic> and happy. I didn’t know that would happen.”

I’m not sharing here to boast, tho I certainly could. He’s only 7. + this all portends well for his future in a culture that’s competitive, with less higher education slots than number of students. I’m sharing because of what happened inside me when I read his cards. After my WOW.

You see, none of his stardom surprises me. He truly is bright, observant, and curious. Truly considers what he sees, and works to make sense of the world in a way that uses his heart and mind.

I want to cheer him. I want to tell him what a star he is. How proud I am. And I want to give him something more. Something to hold on to, and know about himself when he’s not perfect. Something that will stave off perfectionism. The kind of perfectionism that serves bright, curious, exceptional children, but can choke them, too. Like I saw bloom in my 9-yr-old great-niece recently. A medal winning gymnast, Olympics bound, who wanted to destroy poems she wrote that she found less than perfect.

So, I wrote my best hope back to him:

Dear Chevalier – Yea YOU!

Oh, my goodness. You are certainly showing how smart – talented – and fast you are! Remember when you said you wished you were Flash so you could run fast enough to win the race – and I told you ‘3rd was good, just do your best. You’re as good as Flash.’ Well, now you won. Without being Flash. Just being your best right then. And next time, whether you’re 1st or not, you know you’re a good runner.

And your drawing is on display at the high school! You are a fine artist, and everyone can see! You’ll always be a fine artist. You know that now, right? Even when others don’t see, you’ll draw like artists draw, with what they see in their minds. Yea!! With what you see in your mind. Because you’re an artist.

And oh, my goodness – 96, 99, 100 in school exams. I am not surprised. You know why? Because you are curious, and interested in the world around you, and ask questions, and want to learn. All the smartest people are curious and interested in the world around them. They want to learn, like you. Your daddy is like that, too. :-))

So, now you know these other very important things, too. When you do your best, you may surprise yourself. And there’s always a next time to try.

I included a little yellow pin that says Bee’s Knees.

I don’t know if my letter will make sense to a little boy. But he saves all my cards, and one day may read it again. With my reminder, he may remember the conversation we had when he was here about how artists work. May remember how he felt free and satisfied when he did his own thing. He may even remember I told him he was as good as Flash. What I hope he remembers most, tho, is someone praised him for Who he is, as well as what he did.

Because I understand where he’s at. I was in the exact place when I was 5. My younger sister shared she observed the pressure I was under to perform and deliver, all wrapped in praise and encouragement. And decided she didn’t want that pressure for herself. Her way out was to randomly mark the answers on the aptitude tests when she started school. It didn’t bother her they thought her mentally challenged. I imagine the anger our father expressed in her defense probably made her feel special. She chose her path with no regrets.

It took years for me to break the bonds of perfectionism and reject feelings of not-good-enough. To discern when perfectionism serves, and when it doesn’t. To simply let things ride, and know I’m okay, anyway. To quit earning my breath, and understand in my cells my perfection is in being fully who I am – growing, making mistakes, and learning as humans do. I still have bouts when it snags me. But I know how to find my way out.

He may never respond the way I did. My letter may be imperfect. But it’s a gift I can give him today.
Isn’t he amazing?!

Another Small Journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . .what snags you up?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I did go ‘huh?’ on that 96 in common sense, wondering what they based it on.

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The Value of Pauses

Posted on May 6, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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I hit a patch of molasses with my writing. Not stuck, but slow. Slow to get words on the paper. Slow with edits. Getting up from my seat bunches of times to walk thru the house, only to come back, keep working at an inch-worm’s pace. You get it. Slow.

Didn’t matter what the topic, whether I knew the material or what I intended to write. The challenge was not on the page, but in me. When my little-girl self sent messages of self-doubts, I finally stopped. A pause was in order.

The day was perfect for retreat. Snow fell in heavy, wet sheets, accumulated on the road. Makings for a hearty soup – lentils and beans and split peas, onions and carrots and celery, spices for flavor – were in the kitchen. Even when the sun came out and roadways cleared, I stayed in. I let the wind that whipped the door from my hand and frigid air that sent knives thru my jacket give me the final excuse. It didn’t matter what others did. The calendar was erased, and writing group rescheduled. I needed to find space inside myself.

Perhaps I knew what I needed before the decision, because I’d bought a wedge of my fav double-creme French brie the day before. I’d avoided cheese for many weeks because of allergies, letting wedges of fine cheese mold in the fridge. The brie was a treat.

I settled in, watched the first three episodes of Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale.’ My intention to pause from all Doing. To release expectation, pushing, soldiering thru and focused attention. It wasn’t exactly daydreaming, but it was 100 steps closer than what I’d been doing.

When I felt myself breathe easily again, an article called “Why Idle Moments are Crucial to Creativity” crossed my desk. The article centers on constant engagement with technology and devices. How our minds engage differently when we look at a screen (external attention system) vs. daydreaming (internal attention system). The internal attention being our natural default network in the brain. And the place creativity comes from.

What I know. . .it’s not just about technology. We need pauses from Doing periodically so our creative juices can flow freely. Pauses are not stasis. They pull you out of the forest so you can see the trees.

What I also know is pauses don’t need to be long to be effective. Those short wanderings thru the house I mention are pauses. And when they didn’t work, I simply needed more time because the issues were bigger than the sentence or paragraph.

You can learn about digital detox from the article. Below are suggestions for building pauses into your writing and creative life. None of them include writing, and all of them feed your writing:

  • Move the body. Take a walk or hike. Get up and dance. Do a yoga pose. Go to the gym or pool. Do the laundry, wash the dishes, dust, or clean the bathroom.
  • Take a sound pause. Turn off all electronics and listen to your surroundings. Walk outside and listen for birds, the sound of water, leaves riffling in the breeze. Or change the music if that’s how you work.
  • Pause from the work at hand. Put the manuscript or story away for weeks or months. Come back to it with fresh eyes and perspective. Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, and I do this.
  • Change the scenery. Take a new route than you typically travel or walk. Go on a drive to favorite countryside or someplace new. Go on retreat away from home, whether 15 min. a day, an afternoon, three days, or weeks.
  • Step away from your active mind. Immerse in something that engages you emotionally. Go to movie, read a novel, a short story, or poetry.
  • Engage in creative play, meaning create something strictly for fun without making judgements or thinking about outcomes. Paint, collage, garden, bake.

As your life goes, so your writing goes. Your creative life and life in the real world are linked. We all need pauses to create at our best.

Photo: Chris Ensey, open copyright

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Universe Says, Doin’ Alright

Posted on May 4, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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“Expect your purpose to unfold in a series of shining moments.
Also, expect it to scare you witless.”
~ Martha Beck

Infamous Mercury retrograde goes direct in a week. The post affect another 4 days after that. I’ve long made the shift from looking at this period with trepidation. As a period where the works of daily life get wonked. To me, it’s a period of review, revisit, reconsider, make over. Before I go on, let me offer a new thought for those who stop here, thinking it a bunch of hooey.

Consider that the swing of the planets and inexplicable energies sit right next to particle physics, quarks, and Higgs boson (the God particle). That it’s all additional information. That it can be quite exciting when faith includes an expanded concept of the Universe and our place in it, and we’re linked to this universe in a way we can’t see. And our language and thoughts have power to change not only what’s in our heads, but the world around us. Like the Bible says it does. Consider the possibility that miracles exist. That coincidence and serendipity are commonplace, and all that makes them invisible is not noticing, or dismissing them as nothing wondrous when you do.

I once read God speaks to us in song lyrics, words on billboards, overheard conversations or something said by a friend, phrases that jump out in a book or magazine. I say thru Facebook, too. Read enough, it’s easy to believe. So many comments ‘just what I needed to hear today.’ I often share the messages and coincidence I see in this blog (like last week, that full day finding Home, and a few weeks before when messages collided like stars)

Here’s my confession. I had a serious moment of self-doubt the other day. I could see it happening and knew it was what I call my little-girl self. The one raised on crazy-making messages of be this, no, that. Whose perfectionism was praised and displayed as a shining banner to family friends. Who didn’t smile when she woke and felt the constant reminder of this flaw. Who was told she was too loud, always heard above the other kids. Who was repeatedly abandoned by the people she knew loved her, and beaten by the man who said he loved her. Who was always a tad behind her best friend Margie Applegate in schoolwork, choir, PE, and looks. Who never had a home for more than 4 consecutive years until she was 30. That girl. The one who bought it. I saw her and thought, nope, I don’t buy it anymore. But she lingered.

When snow and frigid temps arrived, I decided to pull back, just BE. I got the makin’s for hearty soup, signed on to Hulu, watched Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” the entire afternoon. Indoors, alone, Being. Little Doing. I did it again the next day (tho I can’t remember how the day flew). And I rose Monday knowing I choose, I can, I am.

Today the messenger angels swooped in. The personal ones saying ‘Right On’ to my Yes. First, the quote above reminding me the shining moments are real and true. That I feel such purpose, I think ‘next’ when something doesn’t fly right. I’m reminded that scared witless is what just happened, and it will happen again, and again. ‘Cause when you leave what you know so well behind for a better thing you’re positive of but haven’t lived fully, yet, scared happens. It’s only my head and experience keeping me back.

Following the quote was this from poet Maya Stein. She just lost her father, and is sharing parts of his truly remarkable, poetic, and loving correspondence to her on Facebook.

“. . .I admire your courage and curiosity and willingness to take risks. Not just risks about finding the right audience for your work, but risks about love, about life. What you are setting out to do is not just inventive and courageous, but it is also filled with risk: will these people who have invited me be interesting? will my workshops be fulfilling? will I come back home empty-handed and empty-pocketed? will I be bored out of my skull repeating something so many times? Will I be good at what I think I should be good at?

In any adventure– and this is surely an adventure you have created for yourself– there are bound to be surprises; and surprises come in many flavors, as you know. I wish for you the BEST surprises, and that whatever inevitable disappointments may occasionally arise, they will pale in the face of the inevitable successes. What you have to share is worth sharing, and you are incredibly good at sharing, and it is uniquely yours to share. The ultimate success is perhaps just that, the taking of your leap. . .”

Those words were like God speaking directly to me. Every bit.

The star on the cake came in a text from my sister. My sparkly, curious 9 yr. old Olympics-bound gymnast great-niece wrote a poem, wants me to see it. The end, “This bright shining star can lead the way. Nothing can stop it. . .” Wise little girl. She understands.

What I really want you to know is these messages are for you, too. So, go on back. Read them, again. It’s a magical world.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . .what’s grabbed your heart lately? What’s let you know you’re alright?

Photo: Pamela Nhlengethwa, open copyright

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A Facebook Game for Writers

Posted on April 29, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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There’s a game circulating on Facebook that’s hit a cord: Of the ten bands in this list, which one have I not seen?

I found the game to be a gold mine. For writing, and for illuminating what every good story can, and should, do.

1)   Like a good prompt, every one of the bands on the lists holds a story. Either a memory for the person who compiled the list, or a reminder of a story in the reader. My clue came from my own response as I considered my own list.

I remembered the first concert that encapsulated me as part of something bigger. James Brown. An auditorium in Houston, small by today’s standards but feeling big. The exhilaration of being in the midst of 2000 people, every.single.person on their feet, dancing as if we were one giant gorgeous writhing animal.

I know there couldn’t have been more than ten white faces in that 1966 Houston crowd. But it didn’t matter. I was young. It was Soul, and we felt it. I can still see where I was in the room, the low stage at the front, the warm palette of golden-tan and wood on the walls. The sea of smiles.

Another, the best concert I ever walked out of. Meaning best band and fantastic, up close seats. Allman Brothers Band. Duke University. They were incredible. Two drummers blasting. The ear splitting, impeccable guitar of Dickey Betts playing ‘Jessica.’ The ride of that song feeling orgasmic and assaulting at the same time. I still say Dickey never topped ‘Jessica,’ but the four of us got up and left. It was simply too loud.

2)  Like details in a story, each band tells us something about the person. Think of the times you walked into a room with music or books in view. Were you compelled to look, even glance, at the titles? Did you notice if the genres were similar? or if it was an eclectic mix? Were you surprised by what you saw?

My music was eclectic. Some expressing a part of me few knew existed until they spent a lot of time and got to know me.

3)  The game engaged the readers. Whether it was for the fun of it, or something inside the reader was tweaked, or like me, it brought out a natural curiosity in patterns. Like looking for clues in a story. The odd detail that time might not explain. People responded.

4) Like a good book or essay or poem that brings something new to a reader’s attention, each list had the potential to expand knowledge of the world for the reader. Consider, did you know every name on the lists? Were you familiar with all of them? I sure wasn’t. And reading the lists of people I like, even tho I know a tiny twinkle of the person & his/her life from social media, it prompted me to explore, listen and hear new music.

I confess it appears I read like a writer. It’s something I indeed do naturally. But that’s not what happened this time. I simply found the lists interesting. Only after a few days and the spite of backlash started, and I saw poet Laura Hope-Gil’s comment (and agreed) – “The rock concert game took me back to when we used FB to get to know things about each other.” – did I realize how the game came straight out of a writer’s guide:

  • Prompts for stories.
  • Use small details to reveal characters.
  • Engage your readers.
  • Expand the reader’s experience.

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Finding Home

Posted on April 27, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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“But the moment I saw the brilliant proud morning shine
up over the deserts of Santa Fe, something stood still in my soul. . .
a new part of the soul woke up suddenly,
and the old world gave way to the new.”
~ DH Lawrence

I’m finally getting more than 3 hrs. sleep at a time. I’ve hit 4 in a row five times already! I still wake tired, but for now, I’ve let go thinking 5:30, gotta get up. And I love drifting back to sleep.

Restoration & Recovery, what it’s all about. Too many successive months of brutal push writing & launching a book, beginning a new journey to a creative life by my definition. Six weeks assaulted by allergies that not only robbed sleep, but my full breath, life rhythms, & clarity. I’m recovering my Happy. Cheer the triumphs, what I say.

Today I’m in a groove moving forward. Ticking things off a list. Not just things, really. But markers toward goals I made by my definition of success for myself. I still fret. Still wonder if it’s enough or I’m too late. But this motion is on the outside. A shift from the motion on my insides so intense I could call this blog Part 3, coming into daylight.

I’ve declared Thursdays for writing, a path back to fiction and poetry, deep loves of mine. 9am memoir class offering great prompts no matter what you write. Afternoons, a prompted writing group a block from home making it easy to go. Workshops when one speaks to me. The first workshop at a place with a cool name – Academy of the Love of Learning.

I’m not sure how to explain the magical cohesion of that writing day. How everything pointed to Home. How the morning was about place, specifically Santa Fe. Write what it means to you, the teacher said. My short answer – Home. Home’s been up for years. I’ve written about it here, and here, and here. Four moves in five years + divesting 80% of one’s belongings can sure bring it up, too.

That afternoon I wrote “How strong is the heart. How much battering can it take from the blood pumping with strong emotion. How long ‘til it wants to surrender. The huff & puff of overworking this central barometer of my Being that needs care & maintenance.”

That night the workshop was a process of spoken word, writing, and painting. The prompt a poem “where i’m from” by George Ella Lyon. My spoken words landed at age 8-9. When I lost family & home for the first time with awareness. Everything else blank, as if those two years were all I was from.

I took a journey in the writing segment. Starting at a slant from the corner of a 12×18″ thick sheet of paper, I wrote intuitively. Changed direction 7 times. I started, “Iam from red oriental rugs and books, stacks of stories.”

I traveled across the page. “Home a four letter word lodged in my chest like a chicken bone – ’til the day I said I am happy. I am from Alone & Angels & Wonder & Curiosity & Willingness & fear & sadness & creatingcreatingcreating. I am from dry winds.”

I wrote on down to  “I am from heart and mind, and space, and the swirl of stars. Deep beyond bone deep longing. Deep where the beat I hear is not my own heart. . .to the light I am from.”

And then we painted on the paper. Without thinking or looking at words, I painted blocks and swirls and lines of richness and wash – COLOR. The facilitator put on Vivaldi’s ‘4 Seasons.’ I don’t remember which one of the four, but my whole body moved with the music. Only after we stopped did I look how the color washed the words. How the blank space on the page held shades of reddish-pink. I remembered thinking it like blood in water, then thinking a flower. My beginnings are covered in green. The deep yellow circle I needed saturated. It was a sun cradled in turquoise & green, washed over the word God and “I am from the Universe, star of stardust. Dust. I am from some days I wish I could remember how to fly and how to walk thru walls. I am from dreams. . .”

I decided not to think myself thru this exercise. The next day the answer to the memory I asked my sister about, the one that’s haunted me for decades, emerged.

With so much interconnectedness, I thought this inner work on Home complete. But two days later, thrilled the restrung & cleaned blinds were going up, I moved the sofa to help. Which toppled the lamp that knocked over a vase with lilacs in water that soaked the edges of fav periodicals I valued enough to bring cross country. Before it crashed and broke the large textured & painted ceramic bowl made by a Santa Fe artist that can’t be replaced. The one I babied thru 6 moves in 22 years. And to top it, the wrong blinds were delivered, so no comfort there.

I watched a BBC documentary about Neil Young after that. Kept glancing at that broken bowl, the large black plastic bags still taped to the window, thinking Home.

But something miraculous happened the next morning. Rain came. Tamped down the pollen that aggravated my allergies. The plants & trees got watered effortlessly. When I opened my computer, an email announced I won a small painting by Lori Walters in a random drawing. I love Lori’s colorful, heart-filled images. They reflect something inside me that makes everything feel OK. You know I don’t believe in coincidence, so for me it was all about Love.

That same day, I stopped at a place 1/2 block from my home to inquire about a permanent venue for my “Writer’s Block Myth” mini-workshops, got a provisional Yes. A day later, when the guy at a restaurant delivered my salad, my notebook open on the table to the page I just wrote across, me playing with the phone to get a picture of my cool view in the place, I got surprised. So, sorry, I’m trying to be creative here, I told him. ‘I’m always trying to be creative. I’m a writer!” he said. His face bright. But I off-handedly said ‘I’m a writer, too. Creative what I do.’

As I ate, I thought how I might’ve engaged him, been more open. I sent him my card. “Wishing you the Best with your writing” written on the back. And during the conversation with the gal sitting next to me (the tables are really close), she says her husband writes, goes to conferences and bookfairs, and asks for a card. A bit later, the waitress comes over, asks if I have another card. Heloise World officially shifted.

Sometimes finding Home is not what we expect. Sometimes Home is a new story of coming back to something inside us. Those five years in Florida as me coming back to my intuition and connection with the Universe. Here, to being fully Me fully supported. Something I knew could be true.

I don’t have to do this alone. None of us do.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . .what are you from?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .that quote above by DH. Happened just like that for me, too, in 1993. The quote was shared at the end of the workshop.

St. Benedict quote painted by Lori Walters.

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A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

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