Walking with Angels

Posted on August 30, 2016 by Heloise Jones

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

heart rock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Big Plans Change

Posted on August 23, 2016 by Heloise Jones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons from a Little Boy

Posted on August 16, 2016 by Heloise Jones

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

WaterWings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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
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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.

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.