Whole Lifetimes of Changes, in My Hand

Posted on August 2, 2016 by Heloise Jones

The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work,
who felt their own creative power restive and uprising,
and gave it neither power nor time.
~ Mary Oliver
*

dead-sea-swim_13603_990x742

I feel I should start with a postscript to last week’s blog. I considered not writing it. I’m glad I did. Because five women wrote private notes, said same for them. This painful estrangement by daughters-in-law. My postscript leaves me soothed, tho. I had a last afternoon with my son and grandson at the rehab aquarium. Looking at big sea turtles and sea horses that change colors. Little boy excited over the cases with seashells. Look! broken ones! he said, pointing to the shells sliced in half to show their inside magic. Pleasing me beyond all get-out he remembered what I told him. I decided I could definitely be a ray petting guide. Don’t splash. Let them come close, then gently put your hand in. I scored 10 good pets across their whole backs. They feel so silky, I love it. The little family comes back a few nights before they’re off to Taiwan. I have hope for more hugs.

But the whole experience wound into a low-grade anxiety two days later. Under the surface of my skin. Like I may be missing something. Or falling behind. Won’t get it all. Get it right. Time passing, passing. Strangely, not like I won’t be okay. I knew I’d be okay. A friend said Uranus went retrograde.

I turned to two tubs of pictures with a goal to reduce by half. I flipped thru without lingering. Duplicates tossed. Flowers, buildings, scenery, photo experiments passed to my husband to decide. Short piles for family members, including oldies of parents & grandparents. More short piles for my son, organized by people and his age. Short piles organized by people and events for me. One of my father set aside for little boy. Because he draws dragons, loved his temporary tattoos. Was fascinated when I told him dad had mother & baby dragons covering his forearm. Those dragons not so sweet.

Since starting my blog, I’ve noticed stories repeat themselves. How my mother rarely shows up, but my father does. How I never say ‘when we moved to FL’ without adding ‘over 4-1/2 yrs. ago.’ So telling of this time I’m still counting. Same thing happened as I flipped thru pictures.

There’s none of me in Florida. Not even digitally. I found a shot of a Dad story that arrested me. The story how he sailed around the world x4 by the time he was 17. The note says “on the high seas, 18 yrs. old.” He stands beside another, shorter seaman. Both alike. Legs planted apart. Arms behind erect backs. Gaze direct, face serious. And most interesting, a shine to my dad’s boots. I remember he always shined his shoes. I put it on my desk. Look at his face, the turn of his mouth, often. Not sure what I’m looking for.

I noticed how emotions passed thru as fleeting as the images I flipped past. A spark of happiness, expansion in my chest at the sight of the arroyo behind one of our Santa Fe homes. The way the light captured how it feels on a warmish winter day in the high desert. The affection I felt in those early years with my husband. A strong dislike for the way I looked at times. Confusion I didn’t recognize myself in two retrieved from the trash for a double take. Relief I have images of friends I’ve loved, and some, still love.

I noticed I’m attached to particular images of my son and parents. One, my mother pregnant. She and my dad out on the town. Others. My baby boy under dappled light in a baby carrier, looking up at a leaf. Tiny boy with a big smile, all in red, half standing on the cheap sofa. His arms wide open. A teen leaning against his first car. A young man, his fair hair long, face looking down as if we eavesdrop. The shot atmospheric, like a foggy wood. Something about the faces.

The favorites of me were mostly in times I felt a surety within myself, if not my life. Most stunning, the contrast between the shy, sweet, innocent me barely in my twenties. And those decades later showing me strong, present, solid. As if somehow I filled in not with flesh, but with some kind of stuffing that made me real. I put those in an album next to one another. Two me’s, so different.

Only one shot I lingered over. I stand beside a young woman after a ceremony at NC State where I received an award for my activism for women’s issues on campus. I’d worked with her. She was president for all the sororities. Someone I admired for her clarity, intelligence, clear offers in service. I lingered because one clear early summer day, standing beside a lamp post, outside Bruegger’s Bagels on Hillsborough St. across from the university, she looked up at me and said, ‘I want to be just like you.’ I was so sure the work I’d do next, then. And seeing her face now, I don’t know if I let her down. Think perhaps if there’s a second chance, this work I’m creating to help writers live and love their best creative lives may be it. Because writing is power to enliven people’s hearts and minds, help them see things thru new lens. I need to sit with it.

I’m glad I have the hard copies. Like a book, even faded they feel more real in my hand. And I can place them anywhere. Look any time. I left the piles of me, Art, and us as a couple scrambled, without a timeline. As if all that time ran simultaneously. Whole lifetimes of changes I can flip thru. As if I gave it the power and time for no regrets.

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

Tell me. . .what stories do you return to?

I’ll tell you a secret. . .Always. I wanted the creative life. And to do something good for the world. And that day on Hillsborough St. I planned to go on for a phD.

How to Hold a Jar of Stars

Posted on July 26, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I’m looking for that place now, the kind of place
that puts clocks to rest because something must
come forth to reset everything. . .

Reason doesn’t have roots that run deep enough
to tap the place that I am longing for, that place 
where obvious things cannot be explained.
~ Jamie K. Reaser (from ‘It Will Be in the Silence’)
*

jar of stars

I’m honestly grateful I was ‘forced’ into renting a condo close to home. I say forced because the little family from Taiwan (son et al) rented a place 40 ugly-drive minutes away. And it was those min.x2 each day or a staycation to see them. I say grateful because I’ve never done a staycation, and it worked wonders for me.

I stepped away from work. Didn’t go back to the computer for two hours before bed like I usually do. Opened it 2 hours later than usual each morning. Like a real vacation. Who knew? No frets with forgotten items, either. My husband the shuttle. And I discovered I’ve not lost the ability to relax, spend hours (!) sleeping or doing nothing (read, daydreaming) without guilt.

I shared my countdown to the little family’s arrival on Facebook with five exclamation points: Blog published. fb ‘briefly’ perused. Perishable items for their breakfast care package. Hair cut. First project discussion with my publisher. Stuff gathered for the beach. Finally, counting the hours, watching the clock for late arrival.

The first three days were pure joy. My heart filled to overflowing. Little boy stayed over, told me so many times he was happy.

I got a jar of stars from him. He showed me how he made them. I want a turquoise one, I said. And pink. So he filled the rest of the jar with pink & turquoise. And I learned we both love stars. And he learned we were born the exact same hour and minute. He 5:47pm, me 5:47am. The exact same ’cause we live exactly 12 hrs. apart.

I let him apply a colorful tattoo on my arm. It surprised me how much I liked the little nautilus, its pretty colors, on my skin. That it stayed for days tho they said it’d wash off that night.

He was a whirlwind of activity. You have so much energy, I said. Where does it come from? My heart, he replied. He’s so sweet, I knew it truer than true. Even when he reduced it, said his heart pumps blood all over his body.

I was so happy, I didn’t even mind the mosquitoes and sweat to sit in the yard at the place they rented. Eat under a dried palm leaf covered umbrella (think tiki), linger an hour longer to talk.

I was grateful. Even to see the moon lift from the horizon. Turning a corner one night just as the clouds moved aside, revealing her fullness SO, so, so huge, otherworldly, like another world hanging off to the side in the sky. Like a companion. Took my breath away.

I walked on the beach for the first time in ages. Watched a bank of white, white clouds billowed over the water in the distance. One above the rest like a funny too-small hat, billowing pink. Watched as the whole bank turned deep pink, lit translucent with light inside as if it was a giant rose-quartz crystal. Noticed each time I turned my gaze down to my feet, a fine shell stood amongst the millions of tiny pieces.

Each time I looked at the water, a solitary bird in view. Egret. Pelican. Skimmer. Heron. Piper. Even the two seagulls were singular. One with a solid black head, one common white. I watched the clouds go golden, rainbows appear in two hollows. As day hit full on, the tops of the billows melted, and one of the rainbows stretched to the heavens. I thought how lucky I am.

And when a heron slowly walked up, stood in front of me five feet away. Eyed me this way and that for long minutes. I thought I gotta look up messages from heron. When it turned its back, stood looking to sea before flying to land a distance away, I thought myself special. Then I saw it far down the beach. Planted smack next to the man fishing. Waiting for a treat. I thought I’d bring little boy the next day. ‘Cause I knew he’d love seeing it up close, how big it is.

Little boy asked why the broken ones when I laid out the seashells. Well, look at this perfect shell, I said. Can you see what’s inside? No, well, look here at the broken one. See, another shell just like it inside. And here, a shell within a shell within a shell. And here, windows. ‘Ooooh. That’s cool.’ He got it. Loving all sorts of perfection.

And here’s where it turns. That night at dinner, something thought healed blindsided without warning. Judgements, assumptions, assignations of motives. Of me. Of everything offered. Perceptions projected. No questions or room for illumination. My daughter-in-law. Artistically gifted, beautiful. Who can be bright like a sunflower. Who remembers I love the sausage lettuce wraps she makes. Who gave me Taiwanese pearl rice in lovely packaging for abundance. Chopsticks chosen for their length & good fortune.

I’d missed the clues. Forgot irrational fear & anger don’t dissolve. Even if it only simmered, didn’t boil, their last visit two yrs. before. Even if I followed all their rules. Because I forgot how mean it was. How the face, words, body, and energy feels & looks like unadulterated hatred. Even tho I know it’s pain. Lies in her history, separate from me.

And finally, after six years of turning the other cheek. Responding with kindness, love, forgiveness. I’m done. I’m committed to compassion and understanding. Hold gratitude for many things in the midst. Will cherish my grandson when allowed. Continue to mend what I can with my son. But I won’t allow myself abused any more. I can live with rejection. My grief, once desperate, then sad, has evolved into acceptance.

The entire next day I was numb. The day after that I cried, letting my emotions, including anger, flow. Flow like a swollen river. Full, but not raging. I decided to focus on the Pure Joy of those three days still in my cells. And perhaps hope for more one day. Because it’s never over ‘til it’s over. And it’s always a choice. + I know she’s sorry.

Tattoo Smiles

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

Tell me. . .what hard things have you held with compassion?

I’ll tell you a secret: I always dreamed of a close daughter from a daughter-in-law. And it wasn’t meant to be with either of the women my son married.

A favorite: Little boy is a lot like me. Curious about nature, and an artist.

Good Stuff Coming

Posted on July 19, 2016 by Heloise Jones

This. So friggin’ lovely. The space. The books.
The impetus to do such a thing. Preserve a theatre by transforming it into a bookstore.
The interest and support to keep it open.
Humanity. So friggin’ beautiful.

bookstor.theatre.1

I’m losing track of time. My clue. Sunday I thought it midweek. Yesterday, Monday, I thought it Friday. Because whew, what a month. A lot of grief and sadness. I imagine you’re feeling it, too. So, I thought I’d share good stuff this time. Because when I asked, my husband said I mostly write about my awe and wonder with the world. Nice he gets that in the midst of my shares how I move thru the hard stuff in life. Nice he reminds me that, my goodness, a bunch of good stuff’s happening.

Last Wed. I signed a contract with a publisher for my forthcoming book, The Writer’s Block Myth. I’ll begin writing this week, and publish in January. Right when we all remember we have real lives awaiting after the holidays, and want to make them better than ever.

On the other spectrum. . .completion. Within weeks I’ll launch two accessible offerings that’ve been great fun (!!!) to create. An audio subscription of blogs I chose from archives, and my signature program – The Creative Life for People Living in the Real World. A package of audio recordings and printed guides speaking to writers, but really for all of us. Because it’s really about Life, and we’re all creative.

The thing is, this work to support us living and loving our best lives, is a call from the Universe I resisted for years. Even turned my back when I heard a roomful of angels scream in my head two years ago in Santa Fe.

And now, here I am. Running 6 deadlines simultaneously, personal and professional. Believing it all good. Including my son, grandson, and daughter-in-law, who I call the little family, arriving tonight from Taiwan. Four years ago I was on a countdown to their arrival. Hours, minutes, and when I knew the plane flew close, watching the second-hand sweep the clock face. But it was not the visit I anticipated. It was the kind that can happen with family sometimes. The kind that blindsides. I spun into nearly unbearable grief. And have never repeated the words said to me.

Because the lines we knew, the boundaries of love, the ways of being with the one you love most in all the world were broken. And it was impossible to mend thru emails. Time and love all to hold a heart together. And acceptance for what may (may, the key word) evolve.

They came, again, two years later. We found a peaceable kingdom between us. And messages have come after. We’re healing.

Tonight I pick up them up, two years since our last hug. We still don’t talk much on Skype. And the beach where they’re staying requires a drive too unpleasant to repeat daily, so I rented a condo close. But I’m counting hours, again. And making a breakfast care package. And my grandson, now half past 6 yrs. old, regularly writes me postcards. Lettered in pencil. The pretty girl who likes him. The teacher he likes a lot who’s also beautiful. How he cried at his kindergarten graduation, it was so beautiful. The markets of handmade goods he likes, and fun with best friends. How he loves flowers. Writing this, I notice how much he uses the words likes and beautiful. He notices how much I talk about birds. You probably do, too.

So much good stuff. And there’s more. Messages from the Universe! One morning at the bay for silence. Not bad humid. My bra soaked but not my shirt. I rounded a curve bayside, a large deep pink semi-circle appeared beside me in the water. Reflection of a cloud that accompanied me, kept me enfolded in visions of pink. On the way back, a bird called from above. Clear, three notes, in cycles that felt like the rotations from a lighthouse. I expected a small bird. But it was an osprey on the tall lamp post. I listened with it after each call. And indeed heard an echo. A response from a mate, I thought.

And a few days after that, two blocks thru the neighborhood, I hear the same call. Tip-top branch of a tree to my left. Like the other. Looking not my way, but out to sea. Again, 30 min. later. Bayside. All silent ’til I get close, Osprey in the tree right ahead. In three years of bayside walks, two yrs. nearly every day, this is the first I’ve heard osprey. Now 3 call, just as I approach, fall silent once I see. Say what you like. I thought them letting me know something good’s coming.

To make sure I got the message, these fell from a plastic bag in a box
I don’t usually riffle. Face down.

Keys-Pebble

Look, the voice said. I turned the keys over first.

I saw a man softly hop-jogging beside a short tree stump of a woman. Her face focused on pavement before her. 30‘s, clearly fit, he gently encouraged her each step. ‘Come on, mama, doing good.’ I think, good son. When they come back by, I tell him so. He grins. She stops, looks up, smiles broadly. ‘He workin’ me hard.’ And she laughs, deep from her chest, her belly shaking. ‘Keep moving, mama,’ he says. I hear the love in his voice. The next morning, my wonderful Sound Man tells me about his father’s major heart surgery. Every detail of action and emotion inside him thru the ordeal. His eyes misting. Good son, I think.

Believe, the pebble says.

Now, tell me. . .what good stuff can you share?

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

A secret: I’m learning to share secrets. The warmth I get back helps me be brave.
A favorite: How all of us love flowers.

Throwing Roses to Monsters

Posted on July 12, 2016 by Heloise Jones

. . .throw roses into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster
who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
*

Bluebonnets

I helped a writer get unstuck. She sends me updates. . .how she wrote three pieces & submitted for the first time in two years. Uses the resource I gave her, found new places to send work. Is developing her writer’s voice & accepts it.
And she sent me this picture of acres of bluebonnets in Texas
that makes the man in the picture look like a bug. A million flowers.
A gift because she remembers I dream of touring flower fields.
*

I’ve been feeling soft, vulnerable. Tender. My grief like a lowgrade fever, the walking kind. Showed up in my blog. The tone low, statements soft. In my fb posts with few creative stanzas. My own words brief in my shares. I knew I spiraled. Today I checked how long. Pulse. One month ago today 49 people gunned down as they danced. And today the city of Orlando ceremoniously moves 49 white crosses gracing the edge of a downtown lake that artist Gary Zanis from Illinois made and planted. They’ll reside at Orange County Regional History Center. History. But anyone can still buy an assault weapon. Pulse Pulse Pulse of blood. And yet, yesterday I felt a shift inside me. A spiraling back up.

As events dropped me to my knees last week, I observed anger spike, more than once. A surprise as it’s not where I usually go or stay very long. But as I drove to my audio session Friday, heard once more ‘guns are in our constitution,’ I pounded the steering wheel, hard. Screamed, ‘You idiot. For regulated militia. Read the damn document.’ And I realized anger held residence. Was not a flash like it usually is. But I needed to read for recording, had to be calm. By the time I arrived, it seemed I was fine. We chatted for an hour like we usually do. Then, my voice betrayed me. Pitchy sharpness clearly present as we listened. I thought to leave, try another day. And for the first time my wonderful Sound Man showed me how he adjusted the sound of my voice with more chest, starts of words softened.

My wonderful sound guy who unplugs in the Appalachian woods every now & then, tromps thru any waterway – tiny stream to swamp to ocean – and has dogs with dog best friends. Who was grateful for the turmeric capsules I gave him. Visited the place I suggested, got what he needed that med docs couldn’t give him. The one who says ‘don’t worry’ when we finish way later than I’m booked for. Who told me this story:

When we were kids (high school), there was a homeless guy named Rat Face we’d sometimes hang out with. He had it tattooed on his arm, answered to it. He was all torn up, all over his body. His legs looked like hamburger. Horrible (shudder). He’d call us, ‘Hey, Dudes. Let’s hang out’ and we’d spend the afternoon laughing and joking. He was always saying ‘when I get my money, I’m gonna buy a house’ and talk about what he’d do. Thing is, he got his money! And he bought a house. Where he built a huge outdoor kitchen in the backyard, fed the homeless. And took homeless in to live with him. He was still messed up, drank beer instead of mouthwash, but he helped others. We’d ride all over Clearwarer gathering expired food from markets and bakeries, take it to him. Later I was part of a core of guys, 15 or so of us, who cooked and fed the hungry for Food, Not Bombs. I got an old mail carrier’s bike with a big metal box to carry the food I picked up. And later, joined an REI sponsored program to teach people how to live in trees, protest logging on public lands. Got arrested along with a thousand other people protesting for civil rights.

I confessed my worry I wasn’t doing enough. Inspiring, empowering, motivating with my words. Helping and nurturing creatives thru snarlies and stuck, to live and love their best creative lives. That I’d once done great things as an activist. Felt guilty for not feeling ‘called.’ I questioned myself, because I care, care, care so deeply. And he told me, unequivocally, this getting arrested and resistance is not work for those who are not called. And somehow I knew he was right. I have my place in the web.

But the next day, awake at my usual 4:30, considering if I’d walk under dark skies lit by porch & street lights. Get on with all to be done. I simply couldn’t bear the oppressive heat & humidity. The computer screen. The sound of the washing machine. The guilt if I read a book, did nothing when so much needs my doing. I stayed in bed. Woke hours later. Still didn’t rise. The clock spun past 8 (so late!), then 9. I tried to take to heart the admonishment by the woman in my dream. Her strong words to shift my head away from my negative thoughts. And yet, I laid there. At 10, I rose. Heavy with grief for the world and worry about my personal circumstances. Barely holding it together.

Later that day a friend shared her self-doubts after a long depression and withdrawal from life. I told her we must have time of peace and rest between changes. So we can hear our own Soul Voice in the midst. Especially us creative folks. Shared how I saw a clip from a movie where a gal talks about an astronaut hearing a maddening knock-knock-knock that he can’t find the source of, so can’t stop. Knows he’ll go crazy listening to it, locked in the tiny cubicle for weeks/months as he is. So he decides to love the knock. And it stops, becomes music. I don’t know about that, I said. But I think it a beautiful aspiration. To find something to love inside the thing driving us crazy. Something for me to try in the midst of life whopping me sideways these past few years, I said. She called it a reflection. I call it Truth.

Because I know the truth of what Buddhist philosopher of ecology Joanna Macy says, The other face of our pain for the world is our Love for the world.

And I see clearly my gifts this past week. How I’m seen, remembered. Know my ultimate dream, my place in the web. Was affirmed I’m on the right path by a full-hearted Yes! as I hung up the phone with a publisher for my forthcoming book, The Writer’s Block Myth. Even the both/and of Life in moments of giggles. The realization everything – chat with my wonderful Sound Man, my response to a friend, gifts, resounding Yes – all angel messengers. The Universe meeting me.

I’m throwing roses to the monster in the abyss.
*

Heloise Dreams -MaryAnneRadmacher

Tell me. . .what resides inside you? what gifts are you given?

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

A favorite: I edited last week’s blog to say what I really meant. Directly.
A secret: Despite dire predictions for our world, warnings of blindness, I still believe we’ll be okay.

Photo: Christopher Sherman

Answers in Storm Clouds

Posted on July 5, 2016 by Heloise Jones

. . .letters that Benjamin Franklin wrote. . .how normal the letters were. Filled with greetings for the family & comments on mutual friends & now & then, a few random thoughts about politics & what are you going to do about it,
except maybe start a whole new country from scratch.

That’s when it struck me that’s how simple it is: each day living your life until the moment you have an idea like starting a whole new country & you stand up &
clap your hands together & say Well, then, I guess it’s time to get to work.
~ Brian Andreas
*

2007 North Shore, Kaui’i, from my condo. Can you see the rain? the double rainbow?
*

It seems I’ve traveled a million miles this past week, into new territory. Tuesday my business coach and I parted, leaving me feeling vulnerable, and at the same time sure I’m on the right track with renewed focus to my forthcoming book, The Writer’s Block Myth. That very night my husband returned from a trip north. Relationship building and contracts for possible work. Both our sights turned toward change. The next morning as we gazed at a big double rainbow in front of our building, I thought, a good omen. We’ll be okay.

I thought it even when I rose feeling fragile with only 3 hours sleep Thursday, coaching someone else. And read a wonderful poem entitled ‘What I’ll Miss’ which turned me tender as I considered my life. Even when hearing the manager at Trader Joe’s share he’s moving back where he feels more at home, too, which shifted me softer still. All okay ‘til I walked toward my car in the small, narrow lot where carts pock it like landmines, and I saw a woman at the car backed in next to mine leave a cart in the lane at her fender. Oh, don’t leave your cart there, I said. No admonishment. A plea. ‘You are so rude,’ she said. Stopped me mute in my tracks. Thrice more she said it. I looked to the many empty spaces in the lot, my mind wobbling, trying to make sense. She came close, spoke in a soft voice to my face. Said she moved the cart from behind her car so she could back in. That I was rude, and she wished I hadn’t said what I did.

She was in her car backing up before I thought to speak. Her window rolled up. Her face turned away, hand held up ‘no’ at my tap. 15 blocks toward home, I turned around. The note I left: I am sorry. I apologize. I did not mean to sound rude. I made an assumption, spoke without thinking. I was wrong. I wish you Peace. Heloise Jones. I purposely placed it with the words I am sorry up, so she might look before she flung it away. It was all I could do except chase her down in the store, which would be a total violation.

But the exchange sat with me. Something beyond the regret and remorse I felt. Beyond forgiving myself. I considered how I would respond in a similar situation. Know it’d be different. Probably thank the person for being conscious, saying I tried to be, too. While feeling all wiggly inside as I said it. But we don’t know another’s pain or experience, can’t know for them.

Friday, walking the 8 block loop in my townhome complex, the sky completely dwarfed my existence. One side clear, peaceful pale dawn, the few clouds in the field starting to take on sunrise yellow. And as I turned the loop, large billows I’m positive went to space, that looked like a hulking beast, like the scary dust storm racing to swallow Phoenix we all saw online once. Standing before me all gorgeous thousand shades of grays, whites, sweet washed blues, pink. I stopped, admired it. But as I turned the loop once more, I felt a chill like impending rain at my back, turned to see the cloud flattening, spreading overhead like a car’s sunroof closing. Noticed how the sky it overtook had darkened to the purest baby blue. And as the cloud spread, turned the colors of an old bruise, I saw a rainbow tucked in its layers. And that’s when I saw what I needed to understand about what happened in the parking lot.

I made a mistake. And what I didn’t see. . .she did, too. In the multiple times she repeated how bad I was. Not my action, me. Her assumption about me, labeling me. Then turning away to shut down all communication. Leaving no room for two stories, understanding, or reversal. I saw how both of us, the whole interaction – assumptions, speaking without thinking, labeling, shutting down communication – mirrored so much what’s happening in the world right now. What allows division to persist.

The rest of the morning rainbows popped to my mind unbidden. The rainbows shooting from clouds as I flew to the Big Island, Hawiaii. No one to see them but me and the flight crew on the last plane out, empty, because of impending hurricane. The darts and dashes on a clearest blue slate above me the summer the drought broke in NM. Short flying rainbow flags and banners mid-sky, no anchors to earth. So many so frequent my fellow humans seemed blind they didn’t look skyward with me.

Saturday I went for a late lunch. Dining alone, observing, sitting with my thoughts and the taste of the food something I enjoy. The gal who approached my table smiled brightly, openly, as if she beamed joy. And she made me feel seen, taken care of the entire meal. Like a gift. Like a reflection of the way I want to be.

I read articles about – ask questions of – have conversations with people who think very differently than I do often. Attempt to understand so I can hold compassion with my judgements. But this week something shifted bigtime. I believe I just committed to creating a new country from scratch.

Tell me. . .what new territory have you stepped into?

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

A secret: I paused before signing my name on that note. Even believing if we mean what we say, we put our name on it.
A favorite: I’m forgiving myself faster.