What Happens when a Vision Grabs You

Posted on September 6, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Open your eyes and see what you can with them
before they close forever.
~ Anthony Doerr (from All the Light We Cannot See)
* Stamp

This first issue Susan B. Anthony stamp was given me by a college professor in 1990.
I wrapped it with lots of padding, paper, and tape. Enclosed archives from my time at NC State University. Then unwrapped it, took a picture.
Because it went in the mail today.
This is the story why.
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In 1989 I returned to school for the fifth time to complete my BA. Until now I felt those previous four attempts were failures in my character. I should’ve worked harder to rise above emotions and circumstances. Been more mature, got my priorities straight. Looking back, I understand the bigger plan of the Universe had nothing to do with failure. Because when I walked away Summa Cum Laude in 1991, final proof to myself I was ‘smart enough,’ I left a legacy. And that never could’ve happened earlier. Because I never would’ve had the activist’s passion or vision that drove me to rise at 4:30am after crawling in bed at 11pm, do the work.

I underline – I was an unintentional activist. My stated mission of a Women’s Center on campus by the time I graduated 2 years later came from new awarenesses. And it was something even those who worked toward it called impossible. North Carolina State University was large (22,000 students). Conservative. Centered on the sciences and agriculture. Women students on campus was only a 20 year, or so, phenomena. It was a time state budget cuts for education were first deeply felt. Full professors held a Bake Sale in symbolic protest. Campus real estate grew more precious. I loved college life, felt so happy and lucky to be there, but I also felt the pain of isolation.

Here’s the letter I sent with the stamp. The last paragraph the reason why I do the work I do now, and still hold hope in a world awash in bad stuff:

Dear Ms. Zugay –

You and I spoke a number of weeks ago regarding my donation of two framed items that were inspirational to me when I was at NC State, dedicated to securing a women’s center on campus. Enclosed is one of the framed items I mentioned – a Susan B. Anthony first issue stamp released on the 50th anniversary of the 19th amendment giving women the right to vote in 1920. I hope you have a place on your walls for it. With the upcoming elections, it’s a good reminder privileges we take for granted were not always here. And often came about only after years of dedication and focus by others before us. I think it’s especially hard for young people to imagine. Call it too many hours on Facebook or whatever, but I think we’re at a crossroads as a society, which makes this an incredibly important reminder.

I’m also enclosing copies of archives from the ‘early days,’ before the Women’s Center. Honestly, I have not looked at these materials in over 20 years. Am not even sure why they remain in my files, except the fact seeing a Women’s Center on campus was a singular guiding light once I decided that’s what had to happen. And that intent infiltrated everything I did as a student. I even still have the research materials for my proposal! Go figure, right.

Before writing this letter, I perused your website again. Looked up other resources on campus. I am so heartened to see all the services the Women’s Center provides. And to see the long list of people on NC State’s Council on the Status of Women advising the provost. Understanding the huge evolution since my time there, I want to share a bit about myself, too. Because it may be inspiration for others who feel an urge to do something greater than themselves in response to a spark inside (should you choose to share).

In fall 1989 I entered school for the fifth time with the intent to earn a BA. I had a son in college. Just left my first ‘real’ job as a corporate advertising account manager. Before marrying my second husband in 1986, I’d been a single parent for nine years after walking away from a years-long physically and psychologically abusive marriage. I had never heard the word patriarchy, but I’d experienced gender discrimination when I couldn’t get a loan for a washing machine without a husband’s signature. And once worked in a fine dining restaurant that didn’t allow women to wait tables at night. A month into classes, I heard young women talk about the risk of date-rape as something they accepted. And I was shocked.

My greatest challenges my first semester, though, were as a non-traditionally aged woman student. My intent was to earn a Certificate in Training and Development as part of my degree, so I would eventually enroll in a number of graduate courses with my undergraduate free electives. But that was down the road, and they all met after 5pm. I sought out Evelyn Reiman, then Director of Student Development, who sent me to Jan Rogers, the Coordinator of Women Student Concerns (Dept. of Student Development). Jan shared a tiny office with a student assistant on an upper floor of the student center. At Jan’s encouragement, I secured a classroom for a support group meeting, put up flyers across campus inviting others to come. That endeavor did not last long, but something else happened. I grew determined we needed a women’s center on campus, with resources to address the challenges women students faced so no one else would feel unmoored and isolated the way I did. I committed to seeing it established before I gradated in 1991.

I banded with a small core of like-minded faculty and students, became a tireless activist. I recruited, educated, and organized students, faculty and university administration on women’s issues every chance I could. Was one of two student representatives on NC State Council on Status of Women. I announced my intention for the women’s center at the Student Leader’s Retreat after becoming president of the newly formed Women’s Resource Coalition. Spoke at Panhellenic meetings. Founded the first campus-wide newsletter distributed to 16,000 women students and faculty with another student. Centered every class paper on gender when allowed. Researched and developed a proposal for a woman’s center as an independent study that ultimately became the core of the final proposal.

On November 1, 1990 associate professor Dr. Sarah A. Rajala and I were scheduled to discuss development of a Women’s Resource Center with Interim Provost Dr. Franklin D. Hart. Dr. Rajala was ill that morning, so I met with Dr. Hart alone for nearly an hour. I knew the School of Engineering set a fine example in the way gender equity in the classroom and program was addressed and championed. So, I spoke to him from that place, what we shared in our understanding. At the opening ceremony of the Women’s Center, Dr. Hart said his meeting with me was what convinced him to put his full support behind it. At that time I could only think of the miracle I stood in this space I was told was impossible. I told him we all did it.

Because that’s how change happens. Change comes when something opens inside a person that leads to actions never intended. Takes him/her past stuck. When a vision forms that is impossible to let go. It is not a quantum leap until after a series of shifts in mind and heart. I call these shifts triumphs. And say, celebrate all triumphs.

Thank you for doing the good work.
Sincerely,
Heloise Jones

package2
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My Thanks to those who championed me – Evelyn Reiman, Dean Robert Williams (College of Education), Dr. Edgar Farmer (College of Education) – and all those who do the good work.
*

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

Tell me. . .what vision for a better world do you hold?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .tho the magnitude of the Women’s Center presence on campus didn’t hit me until I stood in it, I never once doubted there’d be one before I graduated.

*
I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth – A Guide to Lasting Creative Freedom.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

Walking with Angels

Posted on August 30, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Perhaps home is not a place, but simply an irrevocable condition.”
~ James Baldwin (from Giovanni’s Room)
*

heart rock

Heart rock, with a thick quartz ring around the entire perimeter.
The ring makes it a wishing rock.
It fits in the center of my palm.
*

Yesterday this time I was sieving thru 3 tiers of security and customs in Toronto airport. Even with designated lines and expedited international baggage transfer, it dawned on me how much tougher coming home to the states is to arriving in Canada. And the lines could’ve been much, much longer on a later flight, with so many more planes in the air. I whispered a Thank You for that 5am first flight out of Saint John, New Brunswick.

I’m calling today Part Two Canada. At the end of Part One, I’d split with my guide in a bevy of differences that left me with a week alone on a tight budget in Canada. I was headed toward Prince Edward Island (PEI). This morning, walking before dawn within the ring of townhomes where I live, I saw exactly how angels watched over me from the moment I entered that gas-stop cafe, had tea and pancakes while I regrouped. Oh, gosh, that sounds so Pollyanna-ish, but honestly, they did. My caveat, as a human I knew each one as it happened, but not until this morning did I see the pattern.

A bit about me in travel. I’m an explorer. I rarely read about places before I go except to get a lay of the land and cultural rules of the place. I love ambling, talking to locals. Rarely feel I missed something because each arrival to a gem holds the surprise of discovery that could’ve been dampened by expectations. But I felt bruised and vulnerable last week, my only knowns the east-west parameters I’d travel. And that PEI was famous for mussels (I learned later they’re famous for potatoes, too). My then unknowns: how hard it is to find a room at the last minute, especially in the earliest and best high season ever. Canadians staying home for vacation because of their dollar. US folks traveling ‘cause our dollar gets 22% more in Canada.

I could talk about a lot of things. Like when you go to PEI, know the best food on east PEI is from tiny, off the beaten path take-outs. Kinda gotta know it, or someone who knows it kind of places. And locals agree. Places like Lin’s in Greenwich beside St. Peters. Far off the road. The drive up thru planted crops. Small sign you could miss. Road no one travels unless they’re going to their farm, state park, or Lin’s. Dinner of scallop burgers (think grilled), handout fries and perfect homemade slaw + ice cream made on the island – Big YUM – at a picnic table, looking out at St. Peters Bay. So quiet the gal speaking gently over the speaker startled me.

lobster-roll Or Pirate’s Cove take-out at North Lake, a flat point that boasts a windfarm of 10 super mills & the title Blue Fin Tuna Capital. The buildings, a short row of motel rooms, painted light yellow. Grayed fishing sheds with piles of lobster traps all about. The entire place seeming deserted. How I drove out, but turned around when the little voice said to. Where when I asked ‘How much mayo in your roll,’ a conversation struck. The gal appreciating me, as she’d always searched for a ‘real’ lobster roll, too. One that wasn’t the standard of lobster bits smothered in mayo. Every time she came home from the big city she moved to, she said. Until she finally moved back, decided to make them right. Took over running this one of three pirate-themed shops. I’m not much into pirates, tho, she said. ‘It’s on your sign, that counts,’ I replied. And we laughed before I sat down to a beautiful roll, brimming with large pieces of unadulterated lobster on a bed of organic lettuce picked from a garden out back, a slip of mayo underneath.

But this story is bigger for me. It’s about Home. A theme that’s showed up a few times on this blog over the past 18 mos. And it’s up especially now because we’re leaving Florida at the end of December. Don’t have a home staked, yet. And tho I don’t say anymore that I don’t how I’ll do it, I think about how it’ll unfold nearly every day. But not ’til this morning did I understand I’ve already been shown it’ll be okay, despite appearances.

I visited three inns in Saint Andrews late Mon. afternoon when I arrived. One room only available in each. And I missed my first & second choices by minutes. Because I stepped away to see what better I might find, returned to the room booked. Once to watch a gal pay for it. Even the off-water places – No Vacancy. I gave in to accept a basement room that felt bad, smelled musty. But Jackie at the counter said, ‘You shouldn’t be on the ground floor.’ And she moved things around. ‘These people won’t mind, they’re late arrivals, with friends.’ + I made her day because I was so nice, she said. Angel #1.

Tuesday, PEI was 6+ hours away, not 5, as expected. I arrived on island 15 minutes before the Information Center closed. First time ever I used such a place. 3 rooms available on the east side under $150/nt. 1-1/2 hrs. later I arrived to my bed. The next morning I sat with an author at breakfast. Go figure the luck to talk writing, right? He wants to quit his day job. I shared guidance for marketing & finding an agent. Was surprised again at how little authors know about the biz of being an author. Was reminded the hours of search and study it takes. Reaffirmed once more the value I can offer. + I learned the inn had a cancellation, so I booked a second night. Angel #2

I rested all day Wednesday, relieved I wouldn’t be moving on. Walked 4-1/2 miles thru a park, crossed a floating boardwalk on a gorgeous marshy pond to stand at the top of tall dunes at a red sand beach. And hunted for a bed Thursday night. I couldn’t book the one I wanted online. That’s because we’re full, the gal on the phone said. Then. . .oh, wait, we have one more room. Angel #3.

Thursday morning, realizing my old bones needed more rest than I thought, I wanted to make it 2 nights in my new location. Nope, full. Then. . .oh, wait, one more room. It’s more expensive, you have to change rooms. Angel #4. As a bonus, my new room vacated early morning Friday. No packing the bag tightly to wait in the office. By 9am I was in my new room overlooking the river. Angel #5.

Angel #6 delivered me to a big room in a haunted inn in St. Martin’s on the Bay of Fundy Saturday night. I’d searched 10 places, was at the door with my packed suitcase when the little voice said, ‘go back, look one more time.’ The inn popped up first. One I hadn’t seen before. I arrived before dark. In the large hallway at the top of the stairs, I felt chills. An unmistakable tingling of energy that wasn’t God Bumps. What is that, I asked. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. But she wouldn’t talk about it, except to say she’s seen a man in a top hat sitting in the chair in the large alcove at the end of the hallway. Under the wedding arch, looking out to sea thru the tall arched windows. And I wasn’t afraid, because the energy felt loving. And she’d said on the phone when I booked I’d feel that way.

Every day it was full-at-the-inn, and a room appeared. One that delivered what I wanted. And I was fed, soul & body. Which to me is a sign to carry. Let go of my fret about my bigger search for Home. Can I do it? I don’t know. But I got my wishing rock in case I slip.

BayFundyBeach Low tide on the rock beach in Saint Andrews. Bay of Fundy.
Where I found my wishing rock the last day of my trip.

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

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

When Big Plans Change

Posted on August 23, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”
~ Allen Saunders
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St Andrews window

I have a vision for a writers retreat in Canada. The Maritimes, a place of natural wonder and otherness-type beauty. So I laid out significant money that was a huge stretch for our budget, a gamble for the future, came up on the invitation of a writer I think smart, talented to help in the process. Who shares a wealth of information about the place and people I find interesting. Saw the whole thing as win-win. Felt really good. Didn’t even sign up for international calling. Within days she and I clashed in a complicated mix of experience and perceptions. I left her a week early. Feeling shaky. Completely vulnerable. I kept reminding myself I’ve done scarier things. Wasn’t really alone, because I’m never alone. I talk to people, and people are nice. But I wasn’t up here for a vacation, and money’s tight. And I hadn’t done the homework. I had someone for that.

In thinking back, I should’ve looked at the map once more for orientation. A slip of the tongue at my question, or my jumble. It doesn’t matter. The fog had been heavy for many miles, and rain was falling by the time it dawned on me I’d gone too long for my intended destination. When I saw the sign confirming the opposite direction, I turned off the highway, pulled in at a Canadian mainstay gas-stop cafe, Irving. The gals there were nice. Considered my options with me for a moment. And suddenly it seemed the only thing to do was hunker down right there. Pull out my laptop, order tea and pancakes, and let the rain fall until I felt calm and adventurous, again. Until I accepted more money would be spent. The intent could be salvaged. That it was one day in the middle of many. Nearly three hours later I left with a huge slice of chocolate creme pie in a box.

And still held this: The magic of the rock beach on the Bay of Fundy. Learning about this place of many wonders from someone who loves it. Finding a perfect heart rock to gift my host of several days. Fresh-made seafood chowder with lobster & fish. Blueberries picked off the bush. Workshops planned. Giant moon, brilliant orange. Black maple syrup so smooth I could drink it as an apetife. An inn on the Bay of Fundy that’s 90% what I want for the retreat. A local specialty, homemade sausage, for dinner. Conversation about writing with 2 sisters who are poets. One, 19, a spoken-word poet with passion, who I already know will do great things in the world for others with her insight, heart, and words. All good.

It’s high season here, tricky to get a room late in the day. I’m moving on to Prince Edward Island (PEI, they call it here). I met a couple who encouraged me to seriously consider a retreat there. ‘The energy is very creative,’ they said. ‘We can help spread the word.’ Angel messengers.

I guess sometimes we’re taken the long (and wrong) way to get where we really need to be, meeting the people we may really need to meet. The other thing I learned. . .if you never hear a person utter Thank You to another soul, good bet s/he’s not my tribe.

I’m still shakey. Still feel bad about what happened. And I’m okay.

St-MartinsRocks On the beach, low tide, Bay of Fundy
*
Another Small Journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . . how do you ground yourself, shift in the midst of unexpected plans?

I’ll tell you a secret. . .I never thought how tiny wild blueberries might be best in muffins before.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

Lessons from a Little Boy

Posted on August 16, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I’d like to tell you everything I know about love is in the right hand drawer of that
table from India book-ending my living room.
~ Maya Stein (from Still & Always)
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WaterWings

The little family (my son, grandson, daughter-in-law) spent the last days of their trip in the States not far from me. I pulled out the big pad of paper and crayons. Lined up the kid’s books I got from the library. Pulled out the bowl a potter glazed with happy faces. I wore the earrings they sent for Mother’s Day my son said they all chose together. Imagined how tickled little boy would be when he saw pictures he painted and shells he gave me around the house. But he didn’t come, as promised. Two days in a row didn’t come. I did little else but wait in the waiting. Their silence and my wondering like screams.

When the call came saying he could’ve gone to the beach, but he wanted the day and night with us, I drove over immediately. That night I woke from an unplanned nap on the sofa to him in a chair beside me. ‘I’m watching you,’ he said. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I know he watches and notes everything. Even cheese, if it matters. Because I asked, ‘how did you know,’ when he picked it up at the market without hesitation. The spice on the side, he said, rubbing his finger over the pepper. I glanced at the other differently herbed cheeses on display. No mistake he knew.

I also know he lives within tight lines. I tried to widen them a bit for him. I think I did. He now knows why broken shells are gems. That he can color like artists, make things any shade he wants. And if he’s asked what goes in the blank space on his drawing, his idea is the right one.

Walking this morning, I thought how much he loves a pool. How when I warned of deep water he said ‘it’s okay, I got my water wings.’ And he kicked off free. With total trust in those wings. I could use wings like that, I thought. Ones I can count on to hold me up. Let me break seeming boundaries, experience adventure. My husband Art wondered at his lack of self-consciousness wearing two giant clown fish. I thought I could use some of that, too.

You know how you can see where the rain falls in the near or far distance? The gray striated sheet that drapes down from a cloud? Today, from a pink-lit cloud that looked like a giant misshapen heart, tatters of pink sheets. The bottoms wisping to shreds where they fell out of the dawn-sun’s reflection, turned to gray. I watched as the pink faded, thinking the whole scene – weeping bruised heart to gray mist finish – a picture of my insides.

But I’ll be okay. They’re soon back in Taiwan, my week’s a busy one, and Thursday I fly to Canada. On adventure with a enthusiastic Canadian writer, scoping venues for my workshops there next spring at her invitation. She tells me night is pitch black where she lives. I’ll see the stars if the fog doesn’t roll in from the sea. Even with the full moon. I’ve longed to see stars in a dark sky, again. The trajectory’s still going up.

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WaterWings2
Another Small Journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . .what do you trust to hold you up, carry you thru seeming boundaries?

I’ll tell you a secret. . . what I know for sure. We’re all learning from each other, if we pay attention.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

How to Strike Gold

Posted on August 9, 2016 by Heloise Jones

To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we put it right; to rest is to fall back, literally or figuratively
from outer targets, not even to a sense of inner accomplishment or an imagined state
of attained stillness, but to a a different kind of meeting place,
a living, breathing state of natural exchange. . .
~ David Whyte
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duck3

Much of Florida floats on water. Ground water inches from the surface. The land pocked with ponds they call lakes. Bayous and coves fingering from the oceans and rivers. Artificial waterways constructed for our use. Acres of swamps. In summer water falls daily from the sky. Inland it used to be a shower that dropped in like a polite visitor, moving on after a decently short time. Along the coast and the peninsula I’m on, it’s thunderstorms and rains every afternoon that drop buckets, cause the groundwater to swell, overtake roads and yards. Allow a manatee to cross streets and thru yards to munch on cultivated shrubbery. This week it’s all about water, and seems to reflect my insides.

One morning as I pumped gas, I noticed a drop in humidity, how good the breeze felt. A sea breeze. Noted with appreciation it wasn’t unpleasantly hot as usual. I watched a crow hop big-leafed floppy limb to big-leafed floppy limb across five waving above the roof of the gas-mart, dropped my gaze to the palms down the road. Thought how if this was your place on the planet, I could see how you’d love it, especially with that sky.

But I hadn’t kept up with the weather. Didn’t register how that beautiful moment portended days of tropical rain. The next day the sky lit up frosted white bright. Not a drop of color. Thunderclouds rose up, gray-tinged white, not gray. Nearly the same value as the sky. A completely white on white landscape overhead I found beautiful. And freaky. Because it was different from the humid white skies of the mid-Atlantic I know. Was not the color of storms. A friend joked it was an apocalyptic sign. Stripped of color as it was, I could see that. What I didn’t see was anger I’ve not expressed.

I’m one who goes to self-responsibility, understanding, frustration, love. I note anger when it rises, and feel my way thru, transform it to something constructive. My lapses are spikes that quickly settle to something calmer to hold. But the anger with family from two weeks ago has no way to channel. A Fuck You rose up inside me, even for the ones I love most in all the world that I always forgive. And I said it aloud to the empty rooms. Fuck you _______. Every time it rose. Like a storm battling the love I feel. The anger pooled like a rain from a stalled tropical depression. My love turned white in the moment. Like the freaky white sky. Still beautiful. And I hoped this rain nourished the ground for something new to grow.

Sunday I was talking with a good friend in Santa Fe. The story, again, how even tho I see the many positive things for my relationship and both of us as individuals, I feel battered from this time in Florida. I kept thinking it wouldn’t get any lower, I said. And then it struck me hard, bright lights on a movie set hard, it’s not getting lower. Since December, the trajectory’s up. Starting with this home, everything I wanted, saw as essential for my productivity in the time I remain here. Clean and upgraded with quality, walls painted with color, kitchen I love, abundant natural light and a sense of space, responsive landlord I trust. And I hired a coach who didn’t help me to what we contracted for, but brought me to clarity and confidence so I’m making offers to help others from a place where I excel. From my zone of genius. And my circle of connections with authors is expanding. And I found the best person ever to record my work. Who also gave me so much beyond the work – conversations and sharing, something to look forward to, settling into challenge and process I love. My sights shifted as if I’d struck Eureka gold talking to her.

I take my dawn walks inside the ring of townhomes in my complex now. A buffer to traffic roar 2 blocks one way and 3 another. Monday I was relieved to discover a break in the steady rain when I woke. The breeze feeling good in the thick air as I walked. I ventured beyond the complex. The little voice said take the shortcut coming back, thru the gate that’ll put me right across from your townhome. But I said no, I may catch a pretty sky over the small lake. Halfway down the block, the rain started. Insistent, this side of heavy. I shaved steps by backtracking to the shortcut. But still arrived drenched. And here’s the kicker, not ’til I got in the shower did I realize how refreshed that rain left my skin. So different from the brutally hard water coming thru my shower head, even with a double filter. In this minute, I call it baptism.

That afternoon I drove to a small villagey-town at the bottom of the peninsula, met a new author referred to me. She’s written a book. I love that she approached the work the way I’d advise. Let it evolve, be what it is, didn’t push her original intent on the work. That she wants to learn craft, make her book better. That she’s smart. Intuitive tho she doesn’t claim it. I found myself wanting to read what she wrote, but I declined her giving it to me. When she asked if I’d edit it, pointed out when I hesitated that I said I edit, I conceded I’d think about it once she made it the best she’s able. But my mind questioned how I’d fit this into so much already planned, and do her right. I feel overwhelmed, can only do the next right thing most days. Some days feel the strain of the gamble in uplevelng. That deadlines are pushing me, instead of me moving steadily, in flow, toward goals. Question myself in the process.

Outside the restaurant streets flooded. I’d parked two blocks up & brought my rubber shoes as prep. But water ran nearly to car tailpipes. Another woman slogging thru said a catfish lay on the sidewalk further up. It surprised me water stretched 6 blocks to the main road, and 33 blocks on the main road before the land rose above it. Water high enough to elicit a mantra ‘keep moving; please, tail pipe stay free.’ When I got home, saw the street to the entrance of my complex flooded extra deep, I decided to go for it. Didn’t stop for the beeps of a car I hadn’t seen coming fast at me. I kept moving. And we easily missed each other, with space to spare. Another reflection. The water on the edge of overwhelm. Me traversing safely thru miles, not stalling. Keeping my date without expectations, tho I knew it may flood.

At the end of the day I talked with my publisher. I expressed my concerns. Reminded him I’d be in Canada 12 days, scoping venues for workshops at the invitation of a writer I’d helped. And he reminded me I’m ahead of the game because people ask for my work, and refer me. I shifted sights once more.

In dreams, water represents emotions. I wish I wouldn’t miss the Persaid meteor showers with this overcast sky. But I’m grateful how the Universe says, look here. We’ll give you a mirror if you’ll notice. And just in case you missed the water thing, the little ducklings you watched grow from yellow puffs will settle in front of your windows, preen and nap, all safe with their mama. More than once be angel messengers. And in case you miss that, note there’s 8. Eight, the number of prosperity.

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

Tell me. . .what mirrors of your life do you see?

I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m still scared.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth. All about
the creative life for people living in the real world.