A Lesson for Writers, and Life

Posted on July 30, 2019 by Heloise Jones

I stayed up to the wee hours watching the 1998 film ‘Meet Joe Black.’ From the second I saw it on Netflix, the little voice nagged me to watch. I remember feeling uninspired 20 years ago when it first came out. Slow, the critics and I both said. This time was different, tho. I slipped into a time warp of presence, with no expectation and no time.

I watched, understanding what the writers did. I saw the threads embedded in the story, and why they were done the way they were. And I thought about it for days. I needed to. The world feels upside down. I’ve felt upside down.

In the story, Death (Brad Pitt) shows up in the form of a young man to media mogul William Parrish (Anthony Hopkins), who’s just had a heart attack. He enlists Parrish as a teacher & guide to life on earth. Choosing the man for his experience, wisdom, and fine character. In exchange, he gives Parrish more time to live. The only criteria, he says, is he stays interested.

We expect William Parrish to change, and he does. The surprise is the change in Death, now called Joe Black, self-described as ‘the most lasting and significant element in existence….that’s existed for millenniums, multiplied by eons, compounded by infinity, and taken to the depth of forever’ (Can we even comprehend that?)

The story was brilliantly woven. Each character and side story an integral piece for the whole.

The nature of love is explored. We see it in the love story between Parrish’s daughter and Joe Black we think we’re watching, that turns out to be something else; the relationship between Parrish’s other daughter and her seemingly mismatched husband, so dominant throughout the film, looking superfluous; Parrish knowing so well what love is, and yet, learning more.

All of them with a message about love that Joe Black learns.

Why we love, and how feeling loved may sometimes be the thing that matters. That being seen and accepted for who we are, and having the freedom to be ourselves is at love’s core. And at times, giving is the way we show our love, and to receive it as such. That we can make mistakes, hurt the people we love, and be forgiven.

Even false love. How avarice can steal those close to us. Ones we think most brilliant, loyal, and there when we need them. Avarice shredding all layers to reveal the corrupted heart of a person.

Ultimately, to fight for what we love and care about.

It’s true we humans often only see what we’re emotionally & mentally able to. We evaluate the world from our experience, or yen to learn & understand. Messages and the meaning we make of things sink in when we’re ready. Every step of this film sunk in to my deep Soul.

The film ends with Joe Black and William Parrish meeting on a hill above the site of Parrish’s lavish 65th birthday party. They quietly watch a spectacular display of fireworks. Three days have passed, and in a few moments they’ll leave together.

William Parrish: Beautiful. Isn’t it?
Joe Black: Yes, it is.
William Parrish: It’s hard to let go, isn’t it?
Joe Black: Yes it is, Bill.
William Parrish: Well, that’s life. What can I tell you?

Many years ago the film was panned. Slow. Useless side stories. Too many characters. Look at the marketing and available images to see where the focus was. . .and yes, how it was evaluated. So, they made a shorter TV version, cut out an entire hour. The director refused to put his name on it. I know exactly what they cut, and I know why he refused to put his name on it.

This film was not a remake of ‘Death Takes a Holiday.’ He made this film to show us something: Life is beautiful. Love is the center of everything we are and do, in more ways than we imagine. Death and Life are both about letting go. Stay interested in life.

And I think he may have wanted to make a difference in the world. Something I can’t confirm, and yet, isn’t that why so many of us create? To speak to something inside us we want the world to know.

It was days before that one thought, ‘Life is beautiful,’ left me.

The last time we see Parrish before he crosses over the hill he won’t return from, he pauses, asks Joe Black if he should be afraid. “Not a man like you,” Death says.

Who will I be when the time comes, I wonder. How about you?

Watch it. Settle in. Let go of the story you think you’re watching. Tell me what you see.

“. . .The more we all know about each other, the greater the chance we will survive.”
~ William Parrish (from Meet Joe Black)

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Why Creativity Takes Courage

Posted on June 11, 2019 by Heloise Jones

Some of my best ideas come in the shower. Characters show up, share stories I couldn’t have guessed. I get downloads for blogs, word for word. Answers to puzzles, insights on questions, things to explore. The shower’s my creative power spot, and this morning I got this: Creativity’s not for sissies.

I was pondering a comment by a client about how people dismiss her as a writer. “I feel bothered when people tell me it’s my hobby,” she wrote. “It means more to me than that.”

I knew no amount of words would help. I could say it’s about them, what they don’t understand, and it wouldn’t matter. Because I get it. This expression of hers is a diamond in her genetic code. It’s serious stuff. Even for hobbyists. We gotta be like ducks, let stuff like this roll off our backs. It takes courage to be creative!

We have to accept we see things most others don’t.
And may see in ways others can’t comprehend. We’re often called weird, different, flighty. . .or creative, with special emphasis as if it’s an explanation for something not right. Until our weird gets redefined. . .think Steve Jobs or Iris Apfel. What to do? Own It. I mean Capital O. Capital I. The world needs our creativity.

Sometimes it takes time to find our Creative Soul Song.
I’ve been an artist my entire life. My mother said from the time I could hold a pencil, the thing I loved most was to draw. But Writing is where I landed. It’s the Soul Song that answers Yes for me every time. Everything in my life feeds it. We have to be patient, and feed our creative spirit.

Your creative life is your life in the real world.
We carry multiple realities at once – the one from our creative spirit, and the one living in the real world. They’re both as real as real can be to us.

Creativity takes loving yourself, unconditionally.
Whether our signature is visual, movement, words, music, biz, solutions, gardens, healing, name it, it’s part of who we are. We love it, we gotta love ourselves. It always amazes me folks think the book easy to read was easy to write if you’re a writer. Or that painting was done because someone has talent. That dance done so beautifully by a natural dancer. The smart biz person lucked out. And the master gardener just knows. Yes.Yes. And the truth is skill & getting good at our craft took digesting a metaphorical million page manual. And hours of practice. All ongoing. + It’s passion (heart) and belief (mind) that keep us creatively alive. The fantasies persist in people’s mind, even when we tell them.

Deadly potholes are everywhere, despite our accomplishments and triumphs.
They’re always there, and we fall in. Again and again. Comparisons, doubts, fears, performance anxiety, questioning, fraud syndrome, feeling selfish for taking time to create, the failure that erases the long line of stellar works. Like a secret society, those who’ve been there & understand are the ones to get us out.

We want our work seen and valued.
And that often takes what seems like unfair stamina, persistence, self love, loneliness, giving pieces of ourselves away, and getting up from a fall too many times. The hidden hours learning, daydreaming, envisioning, honing and refining are discounted when someone asks how long it took, or asks for a discount when they pay. When our work’s dismissed or someone says anyone can do that, vs. asking, “What does your writing mean to you?’ it hurts. Even with a thick skin.

We humans were all born to create. A home, a family, a path thru life….and some of us, well, we swirl to a special tune we hear, offering something unique to the world in the process. New ways of seeing, an experience that awakens, enlivens, and touches others. It takes a fierce heart. And it’s worth every minute of it.

“I always felt that writing––it just felt magical to me; it felt like alchemy: that you could take mere words and end up creating a feeling or a sensation or evoke a memory.”
~ Susan Orlean

How does your creative spirit show up? What does it mean to you?

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My Mother’s Day Magic Wand

Posted on May 12, 2019 by Heloise Jones

I got a surprise Mother’s Day gift. It made me cry. It was about a 9 yr. old boy, and magic.

My grandson, born the exact hour and exact minute I was, lives in Taiwan. I saw him for the first time when he was 5 mos. old. ‘He just woke,’ his parents said. ‘He’ll cry when he sees you.’ He turned toward me when I sat on the bed, and smiled.

As a small infant, he looked like a little Buddha. My friends agreed, and called him Buddha Baby when they asked about him.

Later I called him sparkly little boy for his enthusiasm, laughter, wonder of the world, and mind-blowing wisdom that left my heart effervescent, and my Facebook friends saying Wow.

He’s loved reading and making art since I can remember. When he was 7, a package of watercolor pens was his fav Christmas present. The next year, a set of 29 Magic Treehouse books. Before the travels and history of Magic Treehouse, his story passions ran in this order: Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Star Wars, and the Avengers. Regular kid stuff, until you see the deeper messages. They spoke to his soul.

He’s been a happy kid. Animals, people, and super-heroes in his drawings all sport big smiles. He simply can’t make them look mean. One time I noticed what looked like a grimace on a villain’s face, and he loudly sighed with a ‘finally.’

It’s been three years since we had an in-person hug. Let’s just say sometimes things happen that break your heart, and break something between you & others, and tho you tried, there’s not much to do about it. The last visit was wonderful, tho, ’til it wasn’t. And he’s stayed in touch.

For two years he sent weekly postcards. After that, he rose before his parents, & signed on every week to Skype. Now, it’s twice a month. What’s happened is third grade in Taiwan.

With classroom and homework, his work week is often 40 hr. + There’s mandatory sports days, and four intense ‘final’ exam periods per year. There’s art, writing, and storytelling competitions and events. Medals and statues to earn for competitions, the most books read, best behavior, and best student. He shows me his medals. When I expressed surprise at homework over summer vacation, he shrugged and said “It’s the Chinese way.” A part of me goes ‘Jeepers, he’s only in third grade!’

Culture comes up more and more these days. “In Chinese culture…,” he’ll start before he shares his holidays or answers a question. I listen. I want to understand. I know his world’s different.

Then there was the turn. And it was hard for me to hear.

One night I asked what he was doing for fun. “I don’t have fun,” he said. “I study, do schoolwork all the time.” He’d just finished a round of final exams, so I thought perhaps it was a momentary thing. I know he and his parents ride bikes, go to movies, visit farms and other places as a family.

I asked another time if he and his friends played together when not in school. I know he has good friends. When he said no, I asked if that was culture or because they were busy like him. ‘We don’t do that here,’ he said. ‘It’s not Chinese culture.”

When I asked later about books, he said he didn’t have time to read. On art, ‘I draw when I’m bored.’ I was stunned. His sparkly magic was getting squished!

I sent a card illustrated by Pamela Zagarenski (see it above). I love her magical images, and simple, yet profound messages. On the card, an elephant balances on a ring, holds a feather in its trunk. “I found this feather for you. It’s perfect for the wind,” the caption reads. Spread flat, the painting continues. The elephant now tiny, flying high above a hawk, the feather still in its trunk. On intuition, I chose a raven feather from my stacks, slipped it in.

I can’t remember what I wrote. Only that he could fly on his imagination, and that it was a raven feather, rare to find. I left off how some believe ravens are sacred & full of magic. His mother is devoutly Christian. After I mailed it, I worried on the feather being black, how that might be received by her.

The other day his father (my son) sent a video of my sparkly-hearted boy at a storytelling event, with a note: Happy Mother’s Day. Here’s where the magic comes in.

The story he told, complete with gestures and different voices, was about a long ago time when people lived in darkness with no sun to help things grow, and they called the ‘mighty black bird,’ Raven (!), for help. How raven brought them two balls of light that stuck to the ‘walls of the sky,’ becoming the sun and the moon. How the people still celebrate raven for his kindness. At the end of the video, you can hear someone say Wow.

I don’t know, for sure, if the feather I sent played a part in him choosing that story. And it doesn’t matter. Because to me it was a message…our connection’s still here. And he’s still connected to that Big Soul of his. It’s not snuffed, yet.

We’re all so very human. We carry lifetimes of stuff . And still, I think what I feel is what so many of us mothers feel…trusting our heart-centered intentions will take root, with hope they flower and fruit in a beautiful way. And perhaps how we see or wish our own mother’s are, or were….listening, giving gifts without judgement or expectation, trusting we’ll find the gem offered. I like to think it, anyway.

Summer 2016, the last time I saw him. It was like holding a jar of stars.

Tell me in the comments what Mother’s Day means, or has meant, for you.

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Divine Perfection

Posted on May 5, 2019 by Heloise Jones

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
~ Anne Sexton
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I had a moment with extreme presence and forgot myself last week. One that snuck up on me.

Part of the everyday scene here in Santa Fe are glimpses of seriously casual or eclectic attire. And as my mother taught me, and I quite enjoy, I change from ‘house’ clothes to street clothes when I go out. These days it’s replacing loose pants with jeans, big overshirt with the ‘right’ jacket, adding complimentary scarf, contrasting socks, and jewelry, all coordinated.

I also make sure my hair’s nicely tousled with product, elevated above bedhead. I put on lipstick, something I’ve not done my entire life. The lipstick’s now something I like as much as any teenage girl. My once full lips shrunk to bird-lips, and turned pale, disappeared. The color brings them back, with the added benny they don’t dry out.

The magic happened on a day I went for my compounded Chinese herbs. I didn’t tousle with product, or put lipstick on. My only effort was jacket, scarf, and socks. I knew the waiting room would be empty since the other docs were out. That I’d come straight home and write. Only my doc would see me.

My house pants that day were expensive corduroy Christopher Blue’s, circa 2000, fitted where they should be, loose in the legs. Funky in the skinny jeans landscape. I wore my fine vintage specs, not my cool distinctive red ones. My energy was really low, my eyes looked like hell. The more understated specs seemed right. I felt invisible.

The day was beyond gorgeous. The temp perfect, not hot or cold. Trees flowering everywhere under a sunny, clear, saturated blue sky. I wanted to smell fresh air. To not sit at the computer. I remembered a book on reserve for me at the library. After I got the book, still feeling invisible, I remembered my will-call ticket for Irish author Sebastian Barry that waited 5 blocks away. It’d be lovely on the plaza, and I had to walk right through it.

On the way, I dropped in to browse at my fav Indian pottery gallery. I’d forgotten by then how I looked. When the gal approached about the small owl statue I admired, we got in a conversation that led to exchanging cards and promises to connect.

By the time I had my ticket, was back at the plaza, I was hungry. I got a $5 fajita from my fav food stand.

Every bench had someone on it, so I sat where I wanted. The young man there turned toward me, said he’d just finished a fajita like mine. He wanted to taste all the flavors of New Mexico, he said. I told him he’d gotten the best. And something happened. We instantly connected.

Joséh Marion, 32, has been to 28 countries as a ballroom dance teacher on cruise ships. I’d been curious about working on high-end cruise ships. I knew a financial planner who’d done it. Joséh filled me in. I jotted notes. He was a messenger angel.

And he lifted my spirits. His energy was as sparkly as he said mine was. When I exclaimed I couldn’t believe I was sitting in the plaza in house clothes, with bedhead, we laughed together. I did notice he softly commented ‘corduroy’ three times. My gosh, corduroy seemed fine to me. I guess corduroy’s not in either! ha!

Once home, I did what I needed to do, including a nap before writing. In fact, it seemed I did what I needed the whole day. In thinking about it, it reminded me of something a few weeks earlier when I wasn’t looking my best, either.

I’d been sick so long with allergies, I’d rubbed the skin under my nose raw by swiping tissues across it a hundred times a day. Make-up wouldn’t fix that boo-boo. And a video was scheduled. So I showed up, did it, anyway. Because perfection is an illusion.

I’ll still intentionally dress when I go out. I enjoy the feeling of looking together, and like the compliments I get on my style. That day in the plaza, tho, with bedhead and wearing house pants, something important happened. It was about Divine perfection.

It wasn’t the same kind in showing up as with my video. It was in extreme presence with myself. No yearning, desire, or expectation except to enjoy being alive for a few moments with the sky, air, trees, art, and connecting with people. Heart-centered and unselfconscious, without making meaning. *That* perfection was no illusion.

Have you had that kind of divine perfection? Tell me in the comments.

Another journey Getting to Wise. A Writer’s Life.
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Shift the Route

Posted on April 25, 2019 by Heloise Jones

Something happened this weekend I think you’ll appreciate. A gateway life hack to a creative life.

I was in San Antonio, the tail-end of wildflower season, and I was bent on seeing fields of bluebonnets like they show in pictures. I wanted flowers at my feet like the pioneers met when they first crossed the country. Flowers as far as the eyes could see.

We headed northeast for Washington County, the proclaimed bluebonnet capital of Texas. We had the name of a town and list of country roads. The wildflower report 3 days prior said bluebonnets were waining, but to my mind, waining’s not the same as ‘gone.’

Preferring a slower pace, settling into the road, we drove backroads and country highways. We love seeing the countryside and how folks live. I expected surprises. There always are.

We saw green lawned parks filled with families beside lakes and rivers. And historic 19th century town centers looking frontier. I wondered on the people who settled those then-outposts. I felt no inspiration to stop, tho, and at two hours, I was done. I didn’t want the last 35 miles. We’d not seen one bluebonnet or tiny wildflower the entire day. On the way home we stopped at the new IKEA for the fry pan I wanted.

Next day, I was tired, feeling low. But we revived the idea and I found a different route. A loop to the northwest promising best ever bluebonnet views. We agreed we’d turn back if nothing showed, flowers or adventure, in 45 min.

Within 20 minutes we were in the famed Texas Hill Country, and it was gorgeous! Rocky, green….and covered with gold-yellow buttercups. They bordered the road forever in front of us. Spread like carpets out either side. They hugged up to the edges of homes, up under bushes and trees. They reminded me of happy gangs. I noticed folks mowed a small swath for yard and path to cars & barns, let the little flowers dance. I liked that, and thought how magical it must feel, living in a field of flowers.

Soon, orange spikes & purple dotted the yellow. And large low-lying pads of white and pink primrose. As we went higher, burnt orangey-red mixed in. (We looked them up later: Red Blanket flowers). And then, their places flipped. We traveled thru burnt orangey-red, the little gold-yellow buttercups mixed in.

I wasn’t prepared for the thrill of the bluebonnets. The blue so distinctive, it seemed it belonged only to that flower. Like a Carolina Blue sky, seen nowhere else and hard to describe. Pictures don’t exactly get it. They took my breath.

I noticed more ranches in this higher country, and where the land hadn’t been mowed or grazed, flowers filled the fields.

I was half starved a good part of the way, every single place (including fast food) closed after 1:45 Sunday, and I didn’t care. I had hours & endless miles of gold-yellow, burnt orangey-red, and that bluebonnet blue. Spots of other mixed in. For a surprise, fields with frilly white poppies for a mile or so. “This is what heaven’s like,” I said.

When we whipped in at a small ‘public restroom’ sign, pulled up to the little cinder-block building, I wasn’t prepared for the surprise there, either. “I’m fine,” I told my husband. “I’ve used outhouses in the middle of nowhere.” And as if angels got there before me, it was the full monty of best roadside public toilet: clean toilets, toilet paper, hand-soap, running water, and plenty of clean paper towels. Once out, I saw the strip of land was named a park. A few shadeless benches set high above a small, most likely damned, river, the banks down to the water encased in concrete. A man sat sideways on one of the benches. Legs crossed, back hunched low, he smoked a cigarette as he stared at the ground. He hadn’t moved since we got there. I looked around, and supposed watching cars cross the bridge could be a passtime.

Later, my heart filled, my Soul fed, feeling full of gratitude, I asked myself ‘What happened? This wild shift in my mood’.

We changed the route. We didn’t go back the same way, hoping for something we knew wasn’t missed.

And I changed my expectations the minute I saw flowers. The fields became a treat.

That night I dreamt I had giant white wings. Gold-yellow, burnt orangey-red, and blueonnet blue – the colors I saw all day – poured over them.

My invitation to you…when it’s not working, when it’s clear it’s not gonna work, shift the route. And shift your expectations if that’s what it takes so you can see what’s there. Open to the magic. I swear, it’s worth it.

Getting to Wise. A Writer’s Life.
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