A Sharp Pencil

Posted on June 29, 2018 by Heloise Jones

What is it inside our imagination that keeps surprising us
at odd moments
when something is given back
We didn’t know we had had
In solitude, spontaneously, and with great joy?
~ Charles Wright

I love the smell of just cut green grass. Not the camel, gold, and sage grasses of the desert where I live. The smell of cut lawns. So rare here where water is precious, and where smells die in the dry air with nothing to hold them. On my walk the other day, before every trace of moisture evaporated with the rising sun, just as a mental grumble over the roar of the monster mower at the park settled in, that smell of cut grass hit me. I calmed, and noticed the mower was moving further away, to a different section of the park, the sound becoming buffeted by trees, felt less grinding. I leaned against the huge tree I visit each morning, and took a long breath. We smell grass, I told her.

As I walked on, I wondered when I fell in love with that smell of freshly cut grass. A question I’d never asked myself before. I’d only paused, basked in the pleasure.

A conversation with poet James Nave the day before was the prompt for my when & where question. ‘Knowing you,’ he said, ‘I’d ask you about pencils. When I was a kid, I loved the pencil sharpener. . .’ Tho I can’t remember now exactly what his remembrance was, I feel how much I LOVED his question. Because I immediately jumped to the old fashioned, now ugly, tarnished metal crank desk pencil sharpener I’ve had for 40 years. It’s gone across country three times with me. I don’t think I will ever get rid of it, because it’s perfect.

From the moment I pull it out, flip the level that lifts the rubber pad on the bottom, creating a vacuum that holds it tightly to any flat surface (brilliant!), I anticipate the long sharp point, and the ease, cleanness, and beauty of the line I’ll get. A satisfaction that no other pencil sharpener has ever given me. And I realized I’m taken back to myself. I’d never thought about that, either. Only felt it. Like I felt the pleasure of the smell of that grass.

These experiences bring me back to my writer Self. This is how we write what we know. How I can write from the POV of a 10 yr. old boy, not being one. Or experience the meaning a cello holds for a woman, not ever having owned and loved such an instrument. This doesn’t mean we don’t do our research. I played a cello. Noted how it felt in my arms, and the weight of it against me. How the notes vibrated thru my body, filled me and pulled me with them. It means we find the place where we meet, human to human. Connection. What writing is about. First with ourselves, heart to mind, mind to page, then with the reader.

It’s about observing and living with awareness, something all good writers do. The awareness of noticing how something fits in the context. The rarity of the smell of cut grass in the desert. How something holds more than the object in hand, leading to values and meaning. A sharp pencil. How these awarenesses can expand, take us deeper into ourselves and creativity.

We can shift awareness in the real world when the hard stuff assails us. We can see the multitude of what’s before us, including choices. Which is what story and creativity are about!

We’re in a dance with creativity when we write. We’re expanding the dance floor! Taking it to the edges of possibility.

James Nave has a favorite story I’ve heard him say many times. When he was young, his mother quoted lines from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses to him. She changed the I to You, making it a message he carried with him. I’ll say it like his mother said it to him:

You are a part of all that you have met
Yet, all experience is an arch
where thru gleams that untraveled world
whose margin fades forever and forever as you more.

We suspend belief each time we write and the words come from the heart and the imagination, and all that is part of us.

What do pencils bring up for you? Tell me in the comments.

(Photo: Alistair Macrobert)

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

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Becoming a Writer

Posted on June 15, 2018 by Heloise Jones

‘You identify with what you do!’ He said it with more of ah-ha than surprise. ‘I sure do,’ I said. ‘I’m a writer, and mentor, and I love all the pieces.’ He asked for more. I rarely get this sort of interest from someone who’s not a writer. ‘It’s different for everyone,’ I said. For me, I love the challenge of finding a way to say it so others can experience something for themselves thru my words. I love following a story, getting to know a character, the surprise and discovery in the journey. I love the connection writing & mentoring creates. + It’s cool to see someone feel empowered in their process, and share their triumphs.

He’d never thought about it that way, he said. Then he asked the big question: Did I always want to be a writer. Ha! No! Writing was something that happened.

I planned my first book in 2nd grade. I had a theme, a table of contents, a few stories written. My parents thought it wonderful. I let it go. It felt like drudgery, despite being fairy tales.

My first writer’s block was in 3rd grade. Prompted by a poem in a school newsletter, I thought a poem something I could do. I never showed it to anyone. I was unsure it was really a poem, or if was any good. I was afraid of rejection.

My first award for writing was in 6th grade. The story displayed at a school arts fair. Heloise is good at creative writing written in my report card. I don’t remember what the story was about. I know it was long. . . 11 handwritten pages.

At 18 I failed creative writing in college. Every Friday we had one assignment: Write. Each Friday I turned in a blank sheet of paper. I didn’t know what to say, or how to start. I told myself it didn’t matter. I wanted to be an artist, anyway.

Nine years later, I left a physically, psychologically, and emotionally abusive marriage. I was alone, felt devastated and full of fear. I got my first journal, and poured my heart into it—questions, doubts, joys, yearnings. And as if by magic, poems flew in like angels and birds, unbidden, fully formed. At all hours. When I laid in the dark, feeling the pain. As I washed dishes, wondering how I’d get thru. I was in awe whenever it happened. Those poems were evidence I was OK, even when I did things I was ashamed of. They left as suddenly as they appeared.

Over the next ten years I let my journal go. I wrote for jobs. Wrote letters and cards to friends. And I went back to school for the fifth time to complete my bachelor’s. You know how you look back, see the turning point of your life? How it led to where you are now, even if years passed before you picked up the trail, again? This was it.

I heard the word patriarchy for the first time, and heard young women students talk about date rape as an accepted risk. Something inside me ignited. I became a tireless activist for women on that HUGE university campus. I fought for awareness and sought alliances, speaking to groups, students, faculty, and the provost. Another student and I founded a campus-wide newsletter for women students and faculty.I announced at a student leaders retreat there’d be a Women’s Center on campus before I graduated 18 mos. later. Something they said was impossible.

In that experience I found my Voice, and learned the power of using it, both as a student writing what matters to her, and as an activist. When the Women’s Center opened on the eve of my graduation,I didn’t know how to own this thingfar bigger than me created for others. It took seeing it in writing to realize the true power of my Voice.

Ten years later, I realized I’d lost my Voice. Something vital was stripped from me. I remembered that empowered feeling I had.

By accident or by angels, I met a woman who led prompted writing circles. For one afternoon each week we wrote to prompts, read our raw work aloud, and responded to one another’s work. Every time I read, I left the group mute. I vowed I’d quit. I was encouraged to stick with it, until finally I asked the right question. . .what can I do to connect? I took her answer and perfected my craft, and dove into all the things writers do. And I learned the power of story and connection. And that I was a writer.

The other day I noticed the most extraordinary things on my morning walk. One could call it budding. I call it babies. Young, short cholla cactus with what I know are their first blooms ever in life. Young, short prickly pear cactus with what I know are their first ‘apples’ plumping up. New growth on a longleaf pine, how the long needles cling tight in a shaft, in their birth tribe, before spreading out. The beginnings of pine cones, something I didn’t know.

I stopped at the very,very big tree I visit each morning, paused like I do before walking to the rose garden across the long grassy park sprinkled with clover. Above me, the clearest, loudest song caused me to look up. A small sparrow, with a blushed red throat, 10 ft. up on a limb sang those clear, really loud notes. I watched its throat move in and out, amazed. That little body, using its Voice!

There are so many beginnings happening all the time, inside and outside us. Song to a new morning. First blooms and fruit. The cluster of needles before each stretches, becomes part of the tree on its own. Thoughts and emotions. Words on a page. Birth. It may be a tree or a cactus or a bird, or words. . .and, by golly, it’s not *just* a tree or a cactus or a bird, or words.

Those poems that flew in those many years ago. . .they were me, telling my story from within. In a lyric I could feel thru the pain. I didn’t think myself a poet. I never thought to be a writer.

And the books I’ve written. . .the characters and stories chose me. I never thought I’m going to write a book. I got curious.

That need at the huge university campus. . .it touched my heart in a way that sparked passion, and gave me my Voice.

“All of us are scared: of looking dumb, of running out of ideas, of never selling our copy, of not getting noticed.

We fiction writers make a business of being scared, and not just of looking dumb. Some of these fears may never go away, and we may just have to learn to live with them.”
~ Jack Bickman

We show up, say Yes, try it on. And find what matters. What I know for sure, our Voice always matters. We are made to create. Writing chose me.

What creative projects have you ‘tried on?’
What matters to you?
Do you feel empowered when you write, even if it’s not perfect?
What can you say Yes to?

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A Road to Creativity

Posted on May 29, 2018 by Heloise Jones

I’ve always said I’m not into rituals. It’s not true. I’m out before traffic starts each morning. 6 blocks up, and more than 6 blocks down. It’s a far cry from the 3-1/2 miles I walked for years when I lived in Asheville, NC. And there’s no small group waiting to watch the sunrise with me like I had in St. Pete, FL. It’s OK. I’m letting go of comparisons.

I walk through a park on my route each morning. A grassy expanse two blocks long and more than a half block wide. It’s bordered by tall evergreens and cottonwoods. Some seemingly ancient, their bark thick & deep-grained. One’s missing part of her outer coat on one side, revealing her smooth, hard core. The shape of the outer bark at the opening is draped, gnarly, reminds me of hanging flesh. And is somehow beautiful. Trees that flower each spring are in the mix, too.

At one end of the park is a smallish bed tended by master-gardener volunteers. Irises bloom there now, and it looks like an impressionist painting in the soft morning light. I know later there’ll be bold hollyhocks. Their big, luscious trumpets of frilled edged flowers clustered up thick into straight towers.

‘The Rose Garden’ is at the other end. 4 long tiers of a wide concrete promenade down the middle of hundreds of bushes, a fountain at the bottom. Spots of color teased for weeks. Then almost overnight it was all awash in pinks, reds, corals, and yellows, big and small, begging to be adored. Older residents come in the early hours, snip them with shears for their own private bouquets. When the breeze is right, rose fragrance drifts to the top of the promenade. I’ve put my nose in so many, I know only a few offer this gift. I always stop at the blooms I can count on. One smells like orange sherbet.

The morning walk and this park are my ritual. . . to wake my senses and move my body. To step out of my head and shift the view. To observe with awareness the world around me. Vital for surviving the chaos that reigns across the globe right now. And for writing.

I realized how much it brings me back to center one morning at the top of my Up. The toes in my right foot began to throb so painfully I had to stop. That foot’s had three surgeries. My toes are an ugly mess as a result. Coming so sudden, I thought ‘I’m supposed to pause,” and waited for the Why. I heard the insistent chatter of a male bird working hard for attention of his intended. I watched his dance up and down and fluttering about. I remembered hearing other birds the day before as they chased their hoped for mates. When I stopped at the fountain in the rose garden, I heard each individual drop before the fall of water. The cascade sounding huge in the whisper of breeze thru leaves all around me. At home, I opened my computer to this by author Kim Barnes:

“I am sitting late outside in our yard, which is the forest. To the east, the sound of a night bird I can’t identify–it sounds like a rusty windmill. To the west, a distant neighbor is calling her cat: “Kitty? Kitty?” To the south, a coyote clan is throwing a wild party. A few yards to the north, a gravid doe is stamping and blowing. All around me, beetles and shrews are burrowing beneath the fallen dead needles of winter. The trees are talking, talking, talking. I want to stay out here all night and listen to this dark world.”

Listen.

One day I walked up on a very little bird like a tiny sparrow sitting on the edge of the fountain’s rim, facing the water. Not wanting to disturb it and fearing my shadow might, I stood still for minutes. When it didn’t startle, I took a chance, sat down 3 ft. from its perch. It stayed. The two of us together. Then, slowly, it moved 2 ft further away from me. As I sat, I felt random drops sprinkling my skin, and realized the little bird faced the fountain for the spray like a soft shower. As I watched, it bent forward, scooped water into its beak from the wall of the pool. Again and again, scoop and drink. It was still there when I left ten minutes later.

Be still. Notice. Understand.

Other days I’ve seen small flowers growing in the gutter. The petals soft pink, delicate, tender. I’ve stood besotted over my first glimpse of the soft blush of mauves, cream, lavenders, and faintest hint of green on the fresh blooms of a yucca. I’ve watched a raven as big as a 2 yr. old walk upright across the street, birds twirling in a mating dance high overhead, and I know where the bunnies are. I’ve found roots that broke ground & wore down to look like large foot prints. Observed the white and pink clover spread day by day across the park lawn, and noted the slow addition of plants in a neighbor’s landscape project. I know the visitors, like the hawks that stayed three days.

See the everyday unseen.

I’d not intended to live close to The Rose Garden. I’m 2 blocks away by accident, or perhaps not. Here on my yearly sojourn since moving away, squeezed to find a home in November (read, low inventory), only weeks left before I returned east to pack, I was bent. I know this town, how I live in it. I knew what I wanted and yes, needed. I preferred the north side. It wasn’t looking good when I said, “OK, angels, I’ll take the rose garden.” The next two houses that showed up were right here. I mean, the.next.two.

There’s a bigger plan.

Twyla Tharp’s book, “The Creative Habit” has been on my bookshelf more than 10 yrs. I’m reading it for the first time. She talks about rituals for getting into a creative space. I’ve written about the same in my book “The Writer’s Block Myth.” And yet, her’s opened my eyes to the fullness here.

One day, drawn to walk up the opposite side of the park than the one I usually walk down, I saw for the first time a huge tree rising above the others. The canopy of the giant is full, tall, shaped like a perfect soft-edged cone. The bottom of the canopy’s immensely wide. A van could drive under and never graze a branch or feel a drop of rain. The first day I stood beneath it and looked up I was awed by the thick, stair-step arms of branches that radiated out like rivers. I came back with my camera. In the photos those branches look like giant undulating spider arms. The lower branches off one side below the stair-step, the ones I felt were arms of Grandmothers who came before, didn’t look that way at all. And the shelter of her canopy. . .shattered by light. It was impossible to capture what I saw and felt.

Each morning I walk to that big tree, stand under and look up, up, up. And as I walk back toward home, hunting the sprinkling of clover in the grass with hopes bees find them before the mowers, I wonder what exactly this ritual is about. This relationship with a tree that feels intimate and full of discovery. Perhaps it’s about being alive, connected to the mystery I can touch. Perhaps it’s about cracking open to Creativity. Perhaps all of that. After all, it’s the heart of my work.

What’re your rituals for getting back to center when you feel bent?
What rituals do you have before you begin writing or creative work?
When you’re out & about, what do you notice around you most ?

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Life Writing, Writing Life

Posted on May 15, 2018 by Heloise Jones

Something shifted bigtime this week for me. One would think the near-death event with the semi might’ve done that, and it did, but heaps of papers triggered the big turning––intentions jotted on notes and pads burying nearly half my desk; stacks of books still too much in the way days after I unpacked them; the once small pile of ‘look at laters’ on a counter threatening to tumble sideways. Chaos mirroring my insides that screamed over things undone and my inertia with them, while buckets of unknowns & changes piled on top. Clearly I needed to create space. And it felt like a whack-a-mole joke, one thing pushed down, another popping up.

Prompted by an email from a friend that contained a link to a writing contest with her note, ‘this reminds me of you,’ I made a decision. I turned to what I’ve wanted to do for months: write fiction.

The deadline for the competition was two days away. I edited 25 pages from my novel ‘Flight,’ submitted it. I also submitted an avant garde poem I love about my father’s death & my childhood. I made it with 1 hr. 20 min. to spare. I don’t know which one got me Finalist. It doesn’t matter. My reward is a 25% tuition waiver for a 10-day writing residency in Kenya (writing, room, board, craft, consults), safari included! A week in the valley Karen Blixen wrote in ‘Out of Africa (!!)’ + 3 days in Nairobi. With frequent flier and the waiver, the daily cost is lower than a week at the beach. The magical part is I’ve been saying for months I’m going to Africa. Who would’ve guessed this way. l won’t be the same when I return.

May 1st, another triumph. My short-short story The Honey Hour was published in The Ekphrastic Review. I love writing to visual prompts. Some of my best work comes from these sorts. And I’m always surprised what emerges. The story was a free-write in a workshop I took that week I tangled with a semi. I like that it’s with an international company of writers.

This sparked me to edit the entire novel, again. The book’s garnered advance praise. I got a lit agent in 3 weeks of my first queries. I have a file with compliments on my writing from famous NY pub acquisitions editors. And it’s moved thru life with me since that first season of trying to sell it. Revisited as I hone my craft further as a writer. The last time I went in was three years ago. A lit agent contacted me after rejecting it the year before. She couldn’t get the characters and story out of her mind, she said. I was living in Florida at the time. I remember it well. Year four there. This detail is significant.

Editing is a process with it’s own level of creativity within the rules. It’s immensely satisfying to me. I find zen in the process, and experience the joy of feeling the work take shape in a more refined way. I’m ‘listening and feeling,’ as well as ‘doing,’ This time I’d go in with breath. Edit intuitively like I do others’ works. I thought it’d be easy.

When I came to the first lifeless passage, I was confused. I wrote rework this in the margin. As I read on, I saw a pattern. The story was there. The paragraph structure was tight. Every scene was on target. And the lyricism was gone. The magic entering the dream of the narrative missing. The complex weave of relationships and desires flatlined. I felt I was reading someone’s poor copy of my work.

I opened the previous draft, saw all the beautiful sentences I remembered. The ones I later extracted as if with an Exacto knife. As I worked on, I kept both drafts open. When I came to a place that rang hollow, I looked to see what I’d written before. I reclaimed sentences and phrases, wove them in, put flesh and heart back into the story.

In my book The Writer’s Block Myth, I say our writing goes as our life in the real world goes.

When I first finished Flight, I discovered I’d written elements of my life in it. Unknown to me as I wrote. Much later I realized I’d rewritten my story with my mother. Halfway through the edits this time I realized that last draft reflected my life at the time I did it.

Living in Florida, I loved the clouds, the dawn hours I watched the sun rise on the bay, the reflections on water, the magical walks through the historic neighborhood where I lived. At times I was inexplicably overcome with Love for the world. I had wonderful moments of connection with folks here and there, and a few acquaintances. And for the first time in my life, I had no steady friends or colleagues. I felt isolated. Plus, I was writing very little. Most of my hours were at the computer, studying the exploding online landscape. At the same time, in a way that may sound counter-intuitive, I couldn’t find enough solitude. My husband and I were together 24/7. The lyricism and juicy heart of life was missing for me. As it was in the novel when I finished editing it.

Writing a book is a relationship. . . with the material, with yourself, and with your life. And as with all relationships, things shift, evolve, change, grow, shrink, hold surprises. I learned a long time ago that you don’t really know what your book is about ‘til you finish it. You start with an intention, follow a story, and then, when you’re engaged in the process and actively present, things emerge that can’t be fully seen until the work’s a cohesive whole. That was true when I wrote this novel. And it’s been unfolding ever since.

This round I saw how much culture is a character in ‘Flight,’ playing a role in defining the story. As I write this, I see how the characters’ loss of connection with their culture, one by outside circumstances, another by leaving, reflects my own loss at thirteen of my Armenian cultural heritage. Like so many authors before me, I’m re/writing, consciously or unconsciously, some of my own stories.

These lines by Joseph Campbell caused me to pause:

“People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive. . .so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.”

Seeing my life reflected back in my writing, both the experience and stories of it, I think the meaning of life and the experience of being alive are one and the same. It’s why story is the shortest distance between two people. They’re about being alive.

Near the end of the book I cried at two scenes. I’ve cried at these scenes since I first wrote them. It’s a good sign they still touch me. Don’t you think? And I decided it doesn’t matter I wrote little new material this time. I was present, observing with awareness, understanding more, and they’re still all my words. This is Writing. I love it.

Notice how you, and aspects of your life, are reflected in your written works.
Notice how you, and aspects of your life, are reflected in the things you do.

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The Sound in My Body

Posted on April 12, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another,
with a community, a work; a future.”
~ David Whyte, poet

I walked in a cloud of birdsong the other morning. I didn’t notice the birds like this last spring. Nor did I notice how the birch looks as if eyes cover its trunk, and that it sprouts little furry raccoon tails before new leaves come in. I didn’t see the tight fists of leaves that look like knobs of tiny turbans on the limbs of other trees last year, either. It’s exhilarating, seeing all this now.

I also had my heart blown open by music this week. The Santa Fe Community Orchestra, a symphony orchestra so good it’s hard to believe they’re volunteer, had a guest violinist. She has an impressive resume – Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, & other famous venues. But I was not prepared for the exquisite perfection of the notes from her violin. There was a point I thought, ‘these are the strings that evoke the heart, are what makes one spontaneous weep.’ And I confess I felt myself disappear, smack into the midst of that music. Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. 47 (Sibelius) meant nothing to me before those minutes. And I will never be the same.

Why does this matter? I’m once again alive in my skin. And aware of the road I’ve been on.

In the aftermath of 5 years of isolation and stress, coming off a brutal 6 week push of packing my home, moving across country, editing and launching a book, followed by severe seasonal allergies, sleep deprived & unable to breathe fully for months, I completely missed the unfurling of spring last year. I noticed the abundant flowering trees in Santa Fe, how roses cover the town and flowers cover untended lots, and it wasn’t enough. Millions of small wonders went unnoticed and under-appreciated. Presence in the moments, the stuff life’s made of, was lost.

I ignored what I know feeds me, too. Such as the Soul Food of live symphony performances. Even when people are moved by my energy in the experience, and wonder if I know something they don’t. Strangers beside me who ask if I’m a professional musician. No, I say, I just feel the music deeply. Words said, and not heard by me!

One could say this heightened awareness is a result of my recent near death event with a semi 4 weeks ago. It’s truly a miracle I’m here. What I realize is near death is ongoing. A wrong step off a curb. What I know is observing with awareness is a conscious decision. It has layers. When we’re present, we know we’re connected. It’s a choice. And it’s not always easy.

I recently watched a show about butterflies. How the oldest traced species, the painted lady, travels 9,000 miles round trip on annual migrations. Naturalists were baffled because the butterflies disappeared for a period during the trek. They discovered the fragile creatures fly 1500-2000 feet up into the atmosphere to join millions of other insects riding wind currents. Imagine! And that the journey is made by 3 or more generations of the things. The butterflies stop along the way, lay eggs, die, let the offspring continue the journey. At hearing this, I couldn’t help but think ‘We don’t know a thing about the full wonders of nature and other species, what marvels we’re missing, f**king with the planet like we are.’ Right after I read puffins have fluorescent beaks. I am so curious WHY! So in awe of life on Earth.

Two things socked me deep in my core, brought me home:

“You almost always hear a train before you see it. The whistle pierces the air to warn anyone nearby that a thousand tons of cargo are hustling through. You might see the train soon after hearing it, exhaust billowing from the engines as it chugs down the track. But even if you could not see or hear a nearby train, you know when it passes because you feel it. The ground rumbles for several blocks in every direction. Thousands of tons of steel reverberate bass tones up through the foundations of buildings and down toward the bedrock of a place. Things shake and rattle while the train rolls. Stuff falls off shelves. Vibrations slide up through your feet. The sound gets in your body…” ~ Greg Jarrell, on the train, and John Coltrane (the porch magazine)

And this by poet Rachel Ballentine:

“my art teacher said ” YOU CAN’T START WITH THE EYELASHES!” so I am thinking about art and love, if art is not about love then it is not about anything. love of color or the curve of an eyelid or a tree or the bend of a wrist or a mountain. love of the movements of drawing or painting. in front of me is a blue bottle with a purple iris and a plum blossom branch, it is so beautiful,. . .we are so helpless in the face of the overwhelming love that really is everywhere, maybe all we can do is surrender to it. no I can’t explain evil or violence, maybe it is separation from the love. so you have to put in the big gestures first and then at the end, you can paint the eyelashes. you can love in the general or the specific. big loves or tiny loves.”

The emphasis above is mine. I know these things by intuition and heart. We find them by observing with awareness what’s inside & outside us. Like the rock climber who’s present to each micro-second. His focus on every crevice and niche in the rock face, the placement of his fingers, the twitch of his muscle. It’s what a good writer does, too.

As a writer, my writing ignites and flows when I observe with awareness, am present to the moments. Am out of my own way. And when I let go of expectations for how it should look or be, my writing unfolds. And so it is with life. The Muse is always here. You have no idea how huge this is for me to experience right now.

Presence. Breath. Love. And something I knew and forgot, Courage:

“To be courageous is not necessarily to go anywhere or do anything except to make conscious those things we already feel deeply and then to live through the unending vulnerabilities of those consequences. . .On the inside we come to know who and what and how we love and what we can do to deepen that love; only from the outside and only by looking back, does it look like courage.” ~ David Whyte

Looking back, I remember how I sought birdsong on my early morning walks when I hurt most. How I stood under a mockingbird, let it’s strong, clear song piece my heart. The marvel I felt at how such a big sound could come from such a small bird. The beauty of so many melodies flowing from one soul, like stories. I didn’t understand why, then. I just knew I needed that birdsong. I understand now. Like the train, the knowing came first, and the sound got in my body: Love life. Seems so obvious.

My mother told me I cried in the womb.
They said: It will have luck.
Someone spoke every day of my life
in my ear, slowly, softly.
It said: live, live, live!
It was Death. ~ Jaime Sabines

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