Writing My Way Out

Posted on January 12, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Telling stories and reading stories changes you. Both allow one human being to reach more deeply into the experiences of another. Both involve our two greatest gifts:
the tools of empathy and imagination.”
~ Nancy Peacock, author & NC Piedmont Laureate

I’ve been in a deep pause for weeks – from who I thought I was in the shape of my life, and with writing. It’s been insular, and quiet, and pregnant with something I don’t know, yet.

I know the value of pauses. I wrote about it here. Even included a half dozen ways to intentionally pause. And this pause has not been easy to sink into with trust that what matters to me, like connecting with you each week, will be there when I come back. Hovering in the back of my mind is what might melt away.

A pause can be a journey when you soften into it. We come out the other side changed, often with unimagined insights or a valuable shift in perspective. The same as when reading a book, or traveling. And yet, it’s not the same as riding the length of an archipelago in Taiwan on the back of a scooter, or diving into another’s created world.

Last week, thinking the December pause was over, I had two strong days flying toward goals, feeling gloriously in the flow of my two words for 2018 (Connect & Commit). I told myself ‘I’ve got this’. . . then, Bam. Violent, ugly, mean, ravaging food poisoning the very night of my high five with myself. Dehydrating fast, my legs crunched into excruciating cramps in the midst of it. All night it had me, giving me no rest ‘til 5:30am.

I didn’t move from the bed for the next 24 hrs. I slept. A glass & pitcher of water on the bedside table. Drifting in and out, I heard the soft cool hum of the small humidifier atop a towel on the floor, noticed the shift in the light thru the blinds at the window, glanced at the bright red numbers on the clock. I felt the hollow of my empty middle, and the cool straight stream of water running throat to stomach inside me each time I had a sip. I noted the 3 count glug from the humidifier when the water in the reservoir dropped, and the click in the radiators when they turned on. Waterwaterwater.

I took no measure of how I felt beyond the weight of the blankets. Gave no thought to what I was missing beyond regret over the talk I really wanted to hear about Georgia O’Keefe’s intentional garb for her persona. My world and being was rest & hydration, care of my body. The only thing that mattered.

The next day I rose with the sun. Fatigued and foggy-brained, I intended to recover that whole day I lost. I was on a roll, had to catch up, my thinking. And the fog in the brain simply wouldn’t clear. It was as if all progress forward and my list of to-do’s floated away on a breeze, and I could only watch.

The hard part is I fought that fog with every half-firing brain cell I had for two entire days. When I finally gave in, I remembered those little details of my day in bed. Marveled at how present I must’ve been to my environment. And I thought back to the Christmas fable of my last blog.

Shortly after I published ‘A Christmas Fable,’ I read a blog from 13 months earlier. I was in Santa Fe for my yearly sojourn. A time I looked forward to every year. I spent most of my days on that trip at the computer writing The Writer’s Block Myth. In the midst of this writing retreat, an author came for a personal 4-day retreat to work with me on her book. I was busy. My favorite drives into the countryside where the sky felt forever and lines of golden-yellow trees ran along waterways were rare. I mostly gazed at the saturated blue fall sky thru windows. Watched aspens and cottonwoods in the garden move thru yellows & golds to dropping their leaves. And yet, the tone of that blog was light, as was the name, ‘Saying the Word Lucky.’ The language vivid. I was present to the writing, and there was joy at the heart of my sharing. A strong contrast to the blog I’d just written where I described a day where I was indeed intensely present in every moment, and yet, not present in the writing.

I went back into ‘A Christmas Fable,’ added sensory details. I saw again the tiny things that touched me, and added them. I asked a writer-friend to re-read and share what she thought. Then, in some strange twist, I never saw her response.

When I rose from bed fatigued and spent the day after recovery, the first emails I saw were hers and another’s. Both about the Christmas fable. Both arriving 4 days earlier, before my two high-five days! I was stunned.

Each said how much the blog touched them. Joy to the heart, tears in the eyes touched them. Writing is connection. Presence in writing is the heart of connection.

I then became present to the series of pauses I’ve gone thru, and continue to be in. Both in life and in writing. I’d not written in a month, a pause that was needed. And I’d not paused in the writing for connection with myself or the reader. That pause also something needed. I caught the disconnect, and still it took the pause with foggy brain to bring me back to the present of what matters right now as I chart this next year.

I don’t know what this extended deep pause is about. It feels like I’m near some sort of new, unknown event horizon. I can make myself crazy, or I can trust it to unfold and focus on the next thing in front of me. What I know is how we are with our writing is how we are in our life, and visa versa. As actress Elizabeth Moss said, “We are the story in print, and we are writing the story ourselves.” And in the writing, we change a little inside. It’s a very good thing. It’s time I get back writing.

I leave you with this wish from Neil Gaiman, and me:

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next <this> year, you surprise yourself.”

Time to surprise ourselves.

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A Christmas Fable

Posted on December 27, 2017 by Heloise Jones

“I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you’ve never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of.
If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”
~ Eric Roth (from “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”)
*

After three years of regular weekly posts, it’s nearly a month since my last blog. I never know what I’ll write before I start. I’ve learned to trust the process, go with whatever’s up. And this past month, a thousand words simply weren’t enough to contain what mattered – the realizations, decisions, and changes inside me.

This week what matters came wrapped in one day – Christmas Day.

Two friends and I went to the traditional dances at Santo Domingo and Cochiti pueblos. Not celebration dances or tourist events as some think. Moving prayers that go non-stop for 24 +/- hrs. Prayers for abundance in what sustains the health and welfare of the entire pueblo: crops, the hunt, Earth itself.

The day started cold. I bundled in two layers of shirts and scarves, long underwear under my corduroys, a high collar on my coat against the wind. The sky was three shades of blue. The clouds seemed to stretch out in three shapes. We were lucky as there was no breeze to slice cold thru our clothes.

Shifts of pueblo residents, men-women-children, ‘performed.’ The drums, songs, movements steady, rhythmic, and constant, even as they transitioned group to fresh group. Those not dancing quietly sat or stood encircling the plaza as witnesses. Many of the women wrapped up to their chins in blankets with colorful native designs. It’s a community prayer. Even positioned a distance away at the far end of the plaza, I felt the beat of the drum inside me and my legs felt to dance with them.

‘I wish we’d been closer,’ I said as we left. And at the next pueblo, as if my wish was a prayer to be answered, we unknowingly stood on the path where they exited the plaza to turn it over to the next group. Little children (deer and ram) darted toward me in streams of 3 & 4. They would’ve stepped on my toes if I hadn’t backed up. They stopped inches from me, bent forward, leaning on stick legs, waiting. Their bodies pulsed with the drum. I could easily touch their greenery festooned heads. I was in their cloud of prayer. As the ‘hunters,’ drummers, & singers who followed came close, they darted away. One little body behind the other, like lights of a firefly trail. Song & sound filled me. My body dissolved. I knew then how they could dance for hours. Community and the earth matter.

It’s the day after Christmas as I write this. Here’s the thing, I went to the dances knowing I wasn’t 100% well in my body. And today I’m under the weather. I felt the exact moment it happened, too. Feeding birds outside, not bundled against the 22° morning. My ears unprotected against the wind. I fooled myself with thinking ‘I’m only out for a few minutes.’ Right before ‘oh-oh.’ It was weird. Like I felt my cells wobble off a too-close edge. This pushing my body with my will is an old pattern. I’ve done it for goals, for others, and this time mere lazy convenience. As the day wears on, a Thank You settled inside for the reminder that presence to what’s important is conscious action, not random thoughts. My health is important.

Nature plays tricks on the eyes in New Mexico. The mountains can move forward, appear huge & very close. Other times they’re distant horizons, and appear as crooked lines against the sky. After the dances, we picnicked at Cochiti Lake. Our backs warmed by the sun. The sound of lapping water like a background song. No one else was there.

Built in the 70s, the lake is a very deep & large reservoir. For perspective, 28’ sail boats are drydocked nearby. Even so, it didn’t appear far to cross. Not until I spotted people on the opposite side of what I thought was a narrow inlet. They were tiny. So tiny they were hard to see! So many illusions. It matters what perspectives we hold. They affect how we see things.

I got seven holiday cards this year. A rarity. Three are handmade. The other four contain touching handwritten messages. My grandson (the official card sender for the little family in Taiwan) included a drawing of Santa in his. They’re connections and precious gifts to me. I have the one from my 98 yr. old friend on my desk. The others are on display, along with a gift from the dances.

To say I was surprised when Santa showed up while they danced is an understatement. I watched as he casually walked in front of the spectators, his back to the ceremony, tossed candy in wide arcs. Every now and then, he paused to reach into his bag and pull out an unwrapped something he handed to someone. Small things, like a cardboard can of Playdoh. To my mind, a reminder not to take things too seriously and appreciate small gifts.

The three of us anglos sat on a bench, me in the middle. He paused in front of us, looked for a moment, then reached in and handed the gift to me: a large gold-foiled holiday popper I’m told contains a tissue-paper hat, a toy, & a fortune or blessing. Makings for a celebration. My God, I know the angels are behind this. So much this past year deserved celebration, and I’ve haven’t.

Celebrations matter. They’re like Thanks You’s & attagirls. I teach this. The popper is my reminder. I’ll know when it’s time to pull the ends, and celebrate.

Another gift of the day sits on my kitchen counter. 4-1/2″ high & so large it fills a dinner plate. Baked in a traditional wood-fired adobe horno oven shaped like a large old-fashioned beehive. The man at the Santo Domingo church who greeted us gave it to me.

The church is also an optical illusion. Outside it looks quaint, even small. It’s made of wood, which is unusual here. Painted white. Simple painted images on the front. When you walk inside, it’s a long, large, dimly lit rectangular hall with very tall, plastered walls. Doors off the sides open to rooms with low ceilings. Perhaps they set up chairs on regular church days, but there was no seating. Perhaps that added to the expansive feeling. That, and the prayers of the dancers that still hung in the air.

We walked the length, oversized modern Christmas decorations above our heads, to an alcove where a small Mary, maybe 15” long, lay on a bed with baby Jesus, a little blanket covering them so only their heads showed. Tiny faded silk flowers at their crowns. An honoring of the human Mary (of course she’d be in bed) that felt sweet. As we were leaving, the man brought us bags of bread. My bag held the giant loaf in the picture, and what appeared to be four huge rolls. My eyes went wide at the abundance. The four rolls were actually another loaf, which I gave to my friends. The bread is a reminder to me of the abundance in my life. How well I am fed.

There’s no Christmas tree at my house. No planned exchange of gifts. And yet, I received a succession of gifts in this one day. Like in a fable. The lessons within the story. Like angels following me, whispering See. See what matters. And here’s the greatest wonder. . .not until I sat down to share with you did I see it all. It took the community of Us for me to fully understand. Isn’t that the blessing of this season?

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

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Follow the Story

Posted on November 29, 2017 by Heloise Jones

“Stories let us find the lesson.
They don’t demand a particular one.
You pick the meaning you are ready for.”
~ Art Jones
*

I started writing late in life. Like, way past qualifying as one of the National Book Foundation’s “5 under 35.” There were periods – recognitions for stories in elementary school, poems coming thru me unbidden as I processed a painful divorce, works in college that earned praises like ‘platonic ideal.’ And yet, it took realizing I’d lost my Voice to deliver me to a writing circle where I discovered what being a writer is. Where I learned to let go of control, follow the work and be surprised. Where I was encouraged to stick with it, and finally asked the right questions to learn my craft. That led me to write books.

Letting go was even part of my process with “The Writer’s Block Myth.” I gathered supporting materials and conducted interviews without judgement, expectation, critique, or organizing. Saw it all dovetail and fall seamlessly into place, in desired order (something I wrote about here).

I’m not saying writing is easy. Only that there’s wisdom in the process beyond the limits of our imaginations. That having a beeline to our imagination is the beginning.

So, whether we outline, hold strong intention, or write as a pantser like me, who rarely knows beyond a loose framework ’til I’m in it, trusting the work gives us more to create with. Because the work has a life of its own.

Let me tell you a story how I know. I believed my novel done when I sat down to compose a log line, the one-liner that starts ‘This book is about. . .” Before I wrote one word beyond those four, I heard the little voice: ‘You don’t know what this book is about.’ I leaned back in my chair, didn’t go on. I wrote 10,000 more words in the novel. Allowed the second protagonist to have her full say. And not ’til then was the book Done. Not ’til then did I see the real & full story revealed.

This process of following the story can be dramatic. One day my husband walked thru the room where I was writing, saw me crying. Why was I crying, he wanted to know. ‘This is so beautiful,’ I said. ‘But you’re the writer. You know how it ends,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know this,’ I told him. ‘She wasn’t in the room where I thought she’d be.’ That scene is still one of my favorites, where even my editor cried on reading it.

Did I mention, yet, that it’s fun writing this way?

I believe memoir (story of memory) is like this, too. The memories like characters in our minds with voices, feelings, and ways they lived during moments of time.

Recently I heard actor and voice-over artist Cameron Gregg in an interview. His words sent a shock of recognition thru me:

All art is selection and arrangement.

Shift perspective. Give new meaning to the human condition, and insight into the different forms human condition can take. Help knit that story together. Think, what is the singular thing that happened in their (a character) life that made them who they are?

My gosh, Yes. In Life, too. Now more than ever.

We’re always in the works we create. We’re documentarians who can’t disappear in the photo or film, our position and person is revealed. Like Ken Burns who says all his work is about waking the dead. That he knows the story he’s retelling is waking his mother who he never saw out of bed before she died when he was a boy. Or in my novel, my retelling a part of my childhood, and connecting to nature, something I love deeply. In life, it’s how we select and arrange memories, pain points, intentions, ideas, beliefs, biases, name it, creating a lens we see the world thru, from which we tell our stories.

All to say what I know writing and life is – showing what it is to be human. That words are important. Observing with awareness is critical to being present. And writing is connection, period. Writers are powerful. Here, said much better by author Richard Bausch. The last sentence the bottom line:

“We think too much about the meaninglessness of existence; we have taken in the idea of life as an absurd proposition, and all our suffering becomes ridiculous. But a writer senses meaning in ‘the mystery of things,’ and reports about the discoveries that come from merely setting narrative in motion, letting people move and breathe and be in the prose, and that is what finally connects us all, across time and distance and the grave itself. We are about SHOWING the human journey as itself, what Conrad meant when he said that above all he wanted to make us SEE. Wanted to make us feel the ‘solidarity of the human family.’ This is why it’s such important work, what Bill Maxwell in a letter to me called ‘this blessed occupation.’ So the reward is in the act itself, of giving forth meaning through expression in this miraculous way, with words. Our coin, our spark and music, the bread of our daily existence. It isn’t work, so much as it is the central element of our nature: our beautiful tending toward expression. Set it into motion again, friends. It’s what we have against the dark—no less than that.”

Everything he says, + we never know who our words will touch, or when. That quote at the top is by my husband. He read little fiction until one Christmas 15 yrs. after I claimed being a writer. That Christmas he asked for a novel. I bought him a short stack of novels and short stories. Now he shares what he reads with me. He didn’t read my novel “Flight” until 8 yrs. after it was done. He carried it to work with him, not wanting to miss a thing. He didn’t read my blog for two years. Now he comments, and subscribed to get it in his inbox. We never know.

It’s the holiday season. The greatest time ever for stories, both personal and seasonal. I admit, some days I’m in the midst of the muck. And my wish remains, now and always, we all live and love our best creative life. It’s what we have against the dark.

Set up a bag, box, or container you enjoy looking at in a place where you see it easily and often. If you’re working on a story or project, put whatever you come across that may apply in it. Do not edit, critique, or consciously think about it once it’s tucked away. If you’re not working on something specific, put quotes, paragraphs, and whatever touches you in your container. Two-four-six weeks later, pull it all out. Prepare to be surprised as you see what stories and threads show up. For your work, and for you life.

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Thanks Giving

Posted on November 24, 2017 by Heloise Jones

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.
~ John O’Donohue (from ‘Beannacht’)

Today is Thanksgiving. I had a blog written, was posting it yesterday. And last night I watched a Frontline show on PBS about children and hunger in the US. I decided I’d post this morning. Instead, I lingered on Facebook for more than a dash, a rarity these days, and looked at my fellow beings across the globe. And was brought back to the moments of my life. Not the big moments or questions, the little ones that are part of the web that makes a life. And I decided I can only share stories. That the words of two poets and people of great spirit say what’s in my heart better than I can today.

“GRATITUDE is not a passive response to something we have been given, gratitude arises from paying attention, from being awake in the presence of everything that lives within and without us. Gratitude is not necessarily something that is shown after the event, it is the deep, a-priori state of attention that shows we understand and are equal to the gifted nature of life. . . Thankfulness finds its full measure in generosity of presence, both through participation and witness. ~ David Whyte (from “Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.”

“When we experience the Beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming. Some of our most wonderful memories are of beautiful places where we felt immediately at home. We feel most alive in the presence of the Beautiful for it meets the needs of our soul.” ~ John O’Donohue (from ‘Beauty)

Little things and stories in which I’ve been both participant & witness:

Each morning I walk I’m pinned to this scene as I come down a hill. The wires disappear. I only see the trees bordering the road, their many textures & colors. And the mountains that stretch across the horizon, the wondrous forever sky, that special blue & salmony pink only here in Santa Fe. Each morning, struck with awe.

Part of my walk is across a very green lawn with giant, old trees. At the end, a rose garden. I walk thru the roses when they bloom. In fall, I walk thru fallen leaves that lie like broad yellow skirts around the tree trunks. Even knowing they’re leaves, I think every time I walk on flower petals. I wish you could see how yellow and magical they are.

Throughout the day I stop & gaze out my kitchen window. My view’s to the west and two mountain ranges, the same ones I see coming down the hill. I watched this tree blaze miraculous gold all fall. It held on when others let go. No matter the time of day or light in the sky, it stood out. Was a gift. It’s gone now, but I have this picture that says it all.

Then there’s people .

Sparkly little boy of my heart in Taiwan. Oh, gosh am I thankful for every second I have with him. Even if it’s Skype. Sometimes not for weeks. Even if hugs in person are 2-3 yrs. apart. I’m just lucky. I get him, + pictures he paints and postcards. And I get to send him cards and tiny gifts he keeps in his ‘treasure box.’ He’ll like the lizard & big rhinestone on this one.

And people I touch, who then touch me. Like the woman beside me listening to the symphony, chorus, and soloists from New Voices of Santa Fe Opera perform the ‘Messiah.’ When my heart rose to the heavens with the Hallelujah Chorus, it was all I could do not to sing at the top of my lungs. I mouthed the words, swayed my body. She asked if I was a musician, I felt the music so. Said she was lucky to sit beside me, be part of that energy. Her words, my gift.

And this. . .

I expected a card or perhaps a small painting from Wendy Davis when she said she was sending me something (she’s a wonderful painter). But I pulled this from the box. With a handwritten note, “I saw this mug and thought of you instantly.” The story stretches back 6 years.

That photo’s from a retreat I co-hosted that Wendy attended. Transformative is the word everyone used at the end. I remember thinking what a fine writer & storyteller she is. Now she’s coming in March to the retreat I’m hosting with artist Kendall Sarah Scott. As she packed the box, her Daily Om email popped up. . . with *exactly* what this retreat is about! Angels at work, I say.

Indeed, I’ve learned to notice angels and say Thank You. As when on impulse I look up from writing an important insight. And there across the room is a ball of light in the hands of my statue. A ball of light like a diamond I’ve never seen before or since. That stayed as I retrieved my phone from another room and took pictures, before it stretched out to a line like every other morning.

So, on this Thanksgiving day, I notice the small moments of my days and the big hearts of people. . .the gifted nature of life.
A heart. A seed. A diamond light.
*
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life

Tell me, what small moments do you notice that you’re present to?

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Where You Put Your Camera

Posted on November 15, 2017 by Heloise Jones

When curiosity outweighs our expectations, we find more delight than disappointment in the day.
~ Oriah ‘Mountain Dreamer’ House
*

I’m venturing out at night, again. It’s part of my intention to live life beyond work and rebuilding a home. To return to what engages my wonder and awe, feeds my heart, mind, and curiosity.

Tho I feel so very lucky to be here with the privileges I have, my permissions to myself it’s okay to let go betray me. They’ve come with lying on the sofa at the end of a day for too long. I sometimes briefly nod off in the darkened rooms at events. My bobbing head waking me to what I’m missing. Travel, my other companion to such permissions, has been absent for three years.

Self forgiveness can be hard. Because I know what I missed is extraordinary. A moment that can’t be recovered. It’s sometimes a tug to turn my attention back to the present. This is a key message in my book and workshops. Proof it happens to all of us.

The latest episode was a few weeks ago when I saw an extraordinary humanitarian and photo-journalist. Iranian-French Reza Deghati who works under the name Reza. His vitae includes covers on National Geographic, Time, and Newsweek, + decades of travels around the world, often living in far flung or war torn (read, dangerous) locales for months at a time. Places that are words in the News for most of us in the US, or ghosts in the living rooms of vets come back from their experience.

Reza’s images are intimate, and bear witness to the stories of individual lives. Stories etched on the subject’s face or belongings – a girl’s favorite dolls for sale on a street corner to buy food for her grandmother who hasn’t eaten in three days; a child’s stiff, frost-covered sneakers that needed to thaw before she could go to class; dirt, expression, focus. The faces and postures revealing the details of their stories without words. We don’t need to see the buildings reduced to ash to imagine what being human is for them. Or for all the others with them, trapped in history.

Reza says his goal is to help people tell their own stories. To give them the tools to do it. He spoke of poetry. How he reads poetry every day. I wrote as he spoke, capturing nearly all his words:

Poets have reached the extreme beauty of humanity. They use the same words we all know – and then, put them together into something that touches the heart and mind. Same with the image where you can see the words of poetry. Both take you out of your daily life and put you deep inside yourself.

Wow, I thought. Exactly.

He ended with a thought I think applies to writers, as well. Or any of us, for that matter: “Where do you put your camera? Your brain, your heart, your stomach, or under you belt.”

I asked this question in a workshop. The answers from the participants surprised me. Most began somewhere else (their brain, under their belt, their gut), then traveled to their hearts. And it seemed those, like me, who feels it with my entire body, did not feel disconnected with the heart. It was as if when we’re given the invitation to notice, we all know the heart is our true compass.

I often say writers and artists are powerful. For Reza, a young man documenting the political struggles in Iran in the 70s, he realized photographs were perceived as actual weapons by the Iranian government. He was arrested, spent three years in prison for his photos. He was tortured there, then forced into exile when released. Forced from his native ground.

In a section of Reza War and Peace titled “Thoughts of an Exile,” he writes:

“Within you remains the memory of your lost country, and you may feel disappointment in the land where you are now living, the country you thought would be your promised land and beyond it your way of being free. There remains, too, a feeling of mourning for your native land.

This grief is always with you below the surface, but the longing for your homeland is called up even more acutely by a tangible reminder of your country — a familiar smell, a food that tastes like a dish back home, a countryside that evokes scenes from your childhood. You feel it as well when you hear someone speak your language and you hear once again the melody of your native tongue. For the exile, the joys of the present are full of memories of the past.

I can’t help thinking about Reza as we head into Thanksgiving and the holiday season, a time where connection with family is emphasized. Or thinking about how intimate his images are. How they so often reflect longing for Home. How this season brings Home up for so many of us. How so many feel like exiles in one way or another.

I also can’t help thinking how longing for Home is at the heart of my novels. And how over the past nearly 3 years of my blog, I’ve written Home is up for me 4-5 times. Just this year, during the extreme physical hardship I went thru to get back my soul home, Santa Fe.

The stories we see outside us are nearly always reflections of something that resides inside us. Not word for word, thought for thought, detail for detail, but connection. I believe this reflection always happens when you chronicle the human heart. I work with writers. See it again and again.

In this moment, I see my work with writers as connection in a way I hadn’t thought about before, too. As I hold space for them, ask the questions leading to discovery of what matters for them, offer help so they find the way to say it. . .it’s like Reza who gives cameras to people so they can tell their own stories. It’s my genius, delivering metaphorical cameras. My charge from the Universe. No wonder I love what I do and feel it all magical. Big Heart moments. We’re made of stories, and connection.

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

Tell me. . .Where do you put your camera?

*
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