Top Desires & Peak Experiences

Posted on June 30, 2015 by Heloise Jones

“and unwavering. These feet have paused for stars,
for the squeal of new babies, because of shame,
because of sun, and the sound of a blue heron swooping
then landing, then standing. Perched, like I am, in light.”
~ Jean Reinhold (from ‘These Feet’)
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They specialized in signature chops on the Taiwanese archipelago.

Chop

I am Mountain with Far-Seeing Sight
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Stuff’s up. Over and over these past weeks I’ve watched myself shrink back to small. So I signed on for a program focusing on clarity and clearing, reframing and embracing my ideals. It’s gonna take big commitment because the big shovels are out, and digging to China is not in my Top 200 List of desired ways to evolve. Night work (read, dreams), seminars, mindfulness, communication with the unseen, a plethora of short processes I’ve learned over the years definitely my preference. Lesson Two lit my entire internal control panel up red lights.

Choose your top five desires for life and for career, prioritize for each, it said. This after I whittled down to ten from seventeen I absolutely knew I wanted. I can’t have what I want? I pouted. Of course it doesn’t say that, but limiting thoughts in someone following The Rules aren’t rational. Then I went to if I have this, those others are covered. As anyone who’s heard the joke warning ‘be careful what you ask for’ can attest, that premise is not necessarily so. It didn’t stop. I re-lived confusions. Such as every time we’re in a restaurant, my big-manifestor friend says she admires that I know what I want. I finally allowed myself freedom (one of the words I left off) to name SIX for my life: Living from Desired Choices; Grace & Ease; Discovery & Wonder; Love & Connection; Creativity; and Relevance & Success by my own definitions. Since they lumped grace & ease in their examples, I don’t think I cheated. For work: Engagement; Creativity; Relevance; Respect; Success with intent-offerings-creating the life I desire. I crossed my fingers travel and learning were covered. As well as beauty, generosity, and inspiration.

Such general words. I needed to test them against real life. I looked to peak experiences I’ve had. The list off the top of my head surprised me. It didn’t include big stuff like babies and marriages or deaths. Not even my vigil and witness of my father’s passing. My list included simple things, like standing on a street corner here in St. Pete, hearing my name called, seeing an arm wave from a car before I’d even moved down, knew anyone beyond introduction. Firsts, like the James Brown concert at age16 where I was one of a handful of white faces. His performance commanding – no! demanding – I rise, move, and merge with thousands of others, become a cell in the giant, beautiful happy dancing creature with Soul.

It included drawn-out hits, like the coast to coast drive I made by myself where I saw things I’d read about in books, found my soul-home, Santa Fe. And the day in Scottsdale starting in a hot-air balloon, bleeding from one easy, fun thing to the next until 4am. And the ride across 22 mi. of a narrow Taiwanese archipelago on a scooter with my son, the sunlight and sky and water heaven-made.

It included peak relationships marked by a common energetic language between us. The most perfect working partnership I once had, cliques that coalesced for a week or two of a workshop. My group of other twenty-somethings experimenting, growing up, taking the early hard knocks. I thought of the smallest stellar moments, like the twinkling when I realize the perfection of a sentence. And magical moments like the palpable, visible river of energy I received from a Buddha on that archipelago, or the morning the sky turned the color and pearl of the inside of an oyster’s shell.

Here’s the way I see it. In all my peak experiences, alignment to those things on my desire-lists was present within me, and without me. And I was present to them. Whether the flash, or the stretch of time. It’s the best we can do.

Tell me. . .what’s your top desires for life and career? What are your peak experiences?

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Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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One of my favorite cliques. Ten days process painting on Molokai’i.

A secret: I surprise myself daily.
A favorite: Asian food

The Oyster’s Beautiful View

Posted on June 23, 2015 by Heloise Jones

I want to tell you about a cloud and the day the sky became the inside of an oyster shell. How the sun rose all the way to that high place it’s officially day, not as a firey ball, but as a shimmering while pearl. The whole time the air soft, the entire dome of the sky subtle washes of color and pristine mother-of-pearl. The awe in this everyday eye-view of an oyster’s, how beautiful it is.

I’d spent a week focused on clouds. My head rocked back as I circled in place whenever outdoors. Billowy clouds. Clouds changing color thru pinks, orange-golds, brilliant whites. Clouds that flickered with lightning. Clouds layered like torn gauzes and silks. Small dark ships of clouds, flotillas sailing swiftly over the bay. On an everyday sort of morning, I looked up to pink tubular trails traced toward the water. Fat trails, uniform, round. As I approached the bayshore park lawn, color blazed through the trees. I didn’t see it was no ordinary dawn until I stood at water’s edge, saw the side-to-side wavy form of a funnel rise from a singular point on the far flat horizon. Spread into a broad orange and gold fan of swirls, folds, and lights filling half the sky. At the top long fingers stretched as feathers that wisped and dissolved to gather again as the trails I followed down. The cloud shifted and changed, darkened and lightened, fascinated for nearly an hour. The point of it’s origin and the stem it grew from intact. Once evenly spaced parallel lines like shark’s gills grew across one side. Another time it turned into an invisible dancer’s skirt. And as daylight approached, it melted, puddled, stretched into a plane of peachy pinks and pearlescence. Like a conch shell, we said. And as the shimmering white pearl of the sun crested and rose, the colors and sky softened, lightened, changed to the inside of an oyster shell. We were inside the shell of the sky’s dome, like oysters, seeing what oysters see every day. It was so beautiful we were speechless. None of us had cameras. Words are so inadequate.

Since then I’ve had two dreams where I sit at a table with fresh, perfect, white vegetables. Last night white Japanese eggplant. Days ago bowls and piles of different varieties. All white. For years I’ve said I don’t want a milktoast life. But this is about so much more.

Transcendence comes through Connection. Can be hard and beautiful, both. Another’s story, another’s view, you sometimes don’t know ’til you’re in it. How many times have you been there?

Little girl, be careful what you say
when you make talk with words, words—
for words are made of syllables
and syllables, child, are made of air—
and air is so thin—air is the breath of God—
air is finer than fire or mist,
finer than water or moonlight,
finer than spider-webs in the moon,
finer than water-flowers in the morning:
and words are strong, too,
stronger than rocks or steel
stronger than potatoes, corn, fish, cattle,
and soft, too, soft as little pigeon eggs,
soft as the music of hummingbird wings.
So, little girl, when you speak greetings,
when you tell jokes, make wishes or prayers,
be careful, be careless, be careful,
be what you wish to be.
~ Carl Sandburg, Wind Song

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Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A writer’s life.
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In Memoriam: 6-17-2015
Rev. Clementa Pinckney
Tywanza Sanders
Cynthia Hurd
Rev. Sharonda Coleman-Singleton
Myra Thompson
Ethel Lance
Rev. Daniel Simmons
Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor
Susie Jackson

Cloudy Stargazing

Posted on June 15, 2015 by Heloise Jones

All the stars were still there.
Cloudy stargazing isn’t terrible.
In fact, it feels like faith.
~ Amy McCracken

Faith3

See the egg?

I’m of an age that when I say ‘aging is weird‘ to certain others, I get nods and insider smiles in return. We consider ‘over the hill’ balloons at 40 ridiculous. We matured during a time physical proximity was a component to finding one’s tribe. When comfort or mirrors of one’s feelings weren’t available with the click of a mouse. I’ve stepped way past thinking I know it all, past achieving more than one outward definition of success. I’ve gained clarity on the lines I won’t cross. Had passion pricked from my chest so often I love the journeys as much as the destinations. I know what I want in big chunks of my life, as well as small everyday pleasures. And as a curious explorer, toe dipper and deep diver, my Universe expands into the Soul-Center of Mystery, what I call magical. I know I’m privileged, and I see gratitude and generosity as responsibility. Privilege the tool given to help, share the spoils in ways that benefit the planet and others. So, with all these awarenesses, I made a public declaration a week ago (read it here) to step out, make my best offers to the broader world.

Two days later, in front of twenty of my peers at a Florida Writers Assoc. meeting, I was tested. There to learn the changing landscape of email queries to lit agents, I was thrilled the presenter chose my letter to critique for the group. Then she asked my name – pronounced Eloise, with a silent H – immediately commented on the pointlessness of unnecessary letters in a name. It’s French, I said, my grandmother’s name. She started reading, slowed down to praise my writing, premise, craft, skill in receiving personal responses from agents. But weirdness followed. Multiple comments I talk too much. Jabs at my quiet corrections when she misread my words. Declaration I love adjectives (two, carefully chosen), code amongst writers for amateur. Bit by bit I slumped, shrunk in my chair. And more than anything she said, that’s what bothered me most. This shrinking. Pissed me off.

I got what I went for re. queries. Know her behavior was inappropriate on so many levels, obviously not about me. But it took time to process. And Peace did not reign in Dreamland where I miss my connection flying because I help a boy, and a shuttle doesn’t take off. No win. Far from home with neither computer nor underwear. Gasp. My dead mother giving me new, size 3 pale yellow & pink flowered panties that appear will fit my size 2 frame. Yes, numbers in my dream. There’s urges from others I make new reservations, but the temple on my eyeglasses falls off, and I discover the bridge broken in two. I ask for superglue. All after fearful running, men wanting to mess with my mind, bursting in the moment I think I’m safe, put down my one treasure – a framed portrait of my son I painted years ago. I need superglue.

Here’s the kicker. Despite my years, my baby girl vulnerable self is still learning not to care about attacks. And my wise woman self is still remembering that though forgiveness for my trespasses, sins, and trip-ups may be hard, I can pardon myself. And in the end it is about me. The buttons pushed. The Universe asking when I make a declaration if I mean it, really mean it. Offering the chance to choose again, grow into it, say Thank You.

Occasionally butterflies flutter at my window. The side with raised blinds, where I can see them. Nothing’s flowering out there. I think they’re messengers.

Tell me. . .what declarations have you made?

No, the egg wasn’t intentional. I puzzled it for a while. I forgot Faith.

Faith2

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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A secret: On a lakeshore in Washington state I asked for a heart rock and found one right there at my feet. A perfect heart bigger than my hand. But I can have the hardest time asking anyone on earth for help.
A favorite: Rocks, and shells, in all states of being.

No Small Happy Life

Posted on June 9, 2015 by Heloise Jones

“It’s not calculated at all. It never has been. One of the things I had to learn as a writer
was to trust the act of writing.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

Movies_Life_of_Pi_Boat_Clouds_Reflection_67582_detail_thumb

I’m grappling with the shape of my life. It’s no ordinary discontent. No gasp of desperation. I live a life enriched by friendships, continual learning and wonder and mystery. I’m fortunate. Grateful for each day, even when it stinks. Even when things get scary uncomfortable. I appreciate the value and satisfaction in an ordinary life as highlighted in the NYTimes The Small, Happy Life. I read about the obituary of a woman who’ll be ‘known and remembered for her pound cakes and peanut butter fudge,’ thought it a mighty fine legacy to be remembered for something you created that gave others pleasure. And yet, I hold something hot in my hands I must give away to a large, very large, circle. Something more than settling into the novelist I am. Something big.

I’ve been here before. As a 39 year-old student at a large respected university with a mere twenty-year history of women students, I learned the word patriarchy, had my eyes opened to the million ways it plays in the world. With a long ago history of abuse by a significant other, I recognized myself in the milieu. I became an activist for women’s issues. Set my sights, forged ahead with steady intent to secure a Women’s Center on campus by the time I graduated two years later. I ignored every warning it was an impossible dream. Believed every minute I would succeed. On the eve of my graduation, the Provost told me the prime space he allocated for the Center was a result of his meeting with me. Oh, it was all of us, I told him. I wouldn’t own even the acknowledgement of my part in the creation of my vision. I stepped back into the shadows. But here I am, again with no calm space inside me. Me and my toolbox crossing a crazy wide ocean of intention, far from discernible solid ground. Each day seeming to progress how E.L. Doctorow and I write novels, “…like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

Two weeks ago I got sick. Bumped from the dogged plan I wasn’t happy in, decided to regroup. Listening to webcasts of accomplished lives by business coaches this past week I’ve felt my stuckness shake loose bit by bit. Then a friend in New Zealand gave a shout-out. You need help, he said. We spent three hours on Skype. Oh gosh, yes, some of it personal. Relationships are that way. The upshot is for the first time since my decision to step out, I feel jazzed, in motion. Feel I’m not alone. I sense a confluence of letting go yeah-but stories and the implicit messages from those living and dead that I’m too much, too loud, too weird. The Women’s Center they said was impossible was a thousand steps, unknown territory, a learning curve. It was focus and persistence and knowing it wasn’t about me. It was One Big Vision. Like now. I can trust the act of doing like I trust the act of writing. Isn’t that how anything’s done?

”In my dream, the angel shrugged & said, if we fail this time, it will be a failure of imagination & then she placed the world gently in the palm of my hand.”
~ Brian Andreas

Another zen journey to mindfulness. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A secret: I still get those ‘too much’ messages on occasion, and I don’t care.
A favorite: My mother-in-law’s pound cake.

Photo from the film Life of Pi

Step Out of the Plan

Posted on June 1, 2015 by Heloise Jones

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
~ John Lennon

Last week was difficult. I got a cold. Small potatoes, but it’s been five years since a cold rendered my brain incapable of complex math or conceptual thinking. All interruptions to work either allergies or my own doings – surgeries, travel, procrastination, distractions. And last week only one mantra drove me forward: I have a plan, no time to waste. I was preoccupied with my learning curve in work, the necessary but not.fun.for.me stuff I wanted complete. Sick, I turned into a baby of pouts and darns. By the time I went to bed Saturday night I’d completely pummeled myself for NOT DONEs, totally convinced I was a failure.

Upstairs in bed, my husband Art still downstairs watching TV, I pulled out a pad, jotted a list of clear action steps. I numbered priorities without thinking. At workshops, the word dream spontaneously replaced the shorthand ID. Notes on the dream spontaneously sprung from the line. Some of the items big, really Big (who do I think I am!). As I continued the list, I felt my chest constrict when I wrote ID again. I crossed it out, wrote Dream. Air rushed through me as if a pillow just lifted from my face.

When I coach writers I emphasize getting out of their own way. I tell them it’s necessary to step out of the plan, start without intention or expectation for judgement to subside, for their voice to emerge. That writing is, as poet Laura Hope-Gill says, “like swimming in a rough sea, inviting us to move with the story’s inherent and natural rhythm.” That writing in our own voice is as necessary as honing our craft. And I know the same applies to living an authentic life, fully experiencing the moments in each day. I rarely forget this when I sit down to write, or listen for my next blog. But I didn’t remember when I got sick. Not even after receiving answers to questions and assurance all’s well, no matter my angst.

On my first drive out after feeling yukky, I halted a smidge over the line at a stop sign, a clear Oops. The young woman in the other car with the right-of-way laid on her horn. I understood. But she didn’t move. After long moments us looking at each other, I waved her on. As she passed, she gave me the finger. Something I didn’t understand. I admit I don’t get how casually and often young women seem to do that. Admit I tussled inside not to think about it. Not to go in a number of directions in judgement. That it still nagged when I entered the familiar near-empty market.

  At checkout I chose a line with a young gal I didn’t know for how she leaned against her register, a broad easy smile on her face. When I said I’d bag my own groceries, her young companion stepped aside. “She’s got it,” he said. “She’s in control.” There is no control, I quipped. The checker looked at me a few moments, “I always wanted someone who’s lived longer than me to tell me more about life. What they’ve learned.” As I bagged I told her to plan, but know that the magic lies between the control, and there’s really no control. As I left I leaned in, told her to go for the magic. At home I realized her gift of respect and appreciation balanced my encounter at the stop sign. It wasn’t until two days later as I stood by the water at sunrise, heard a small voice say “oh, baby girl. looky there,” did I see the gift I gave myself at the market. The reminder I’d stepped out of the plan when I got sick, no control. Time to get out of my own way, open to magic. Reminder angels, don’t you think?

Another journey in mindfulness. Getting to Wise.
A Writers Life.

A secret: It’s surprising how often getting out of one’s way shows up in conversations I have. I see possibilities zip across minds on the faces.
A favorite: Wandering through a natural foods market.