The Big Blue

Posted on June 7, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“That day I saw beneath dark clouds,
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before,
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.”
~ David Whyte (from The Opening of Eyes)

*
deep_sea *

I have this strange relationship to water. Water over my head, even 2”. Water I can’t see beneath the surface. Water rising in nature. A weird internal alarm triggers that neither fire nor big winds engender. True, I’ve not experienced the threat of wild fires, but I saw my own home on fire once, felt the wash of helplessness. Stood in a yard with family as their home burned. And rational or not, I felt I could come out with feet on solid ground. But not with rising water. Even thoughts of the aftermath overwhelm. And when big storms blow in, I check radar, often. Today I’m watching the strip pond 20 ft. from our door. Calculating if I’ll roll up the oriental rugs. Water tables are shallow, streets don’t drain. It’s already over the bank. I’m calm, but I have memories.

We lived in the mountains when Frances battered the NC coast, stalled, in 2004. Heavy rain fell for days. The French Broad and Swannanoa Rivers breached. Sweeten Creek, too. Our brewery in Biltmore Village between them. Flood waters rose to car windows, swept thru merchants’ doors. We watched the drain the length of the brewery floor. The flood outside creeping toward us. Knowing no way to save tanks of beer worth thousands no insurance covers. We could be lost. But we were lucky. Saved by mere inches. And I remember two years in Jacksonville living on the St. John’s River. The impassable streets. How three cars floated to the ceiling of the flooded garage, bumped in a dance in the middle. And 2012 when Issac threatened. Me on a writing retreat in Naples, alone. I’ve done my share of storm watch.

My fear of water over my head is a mystery, tho. I was in 5th grade before I learned to swim, despite many attempts. Passed the 5 min. tread test in college simply out of a greater fear – a required semester swimming in the deep end if I didn’t. But here’s the thing. I love boats. Am courageous. I’ve walked a ropes course 30 ft. up despite crumbling with sobs in fear. Took my young son, left an abusive husband with no help despite fear that stole my breath each night. And two years ago, I swam with wild dolphins in Hawaii for four days, despite my body’s violent resistance, cramped legs that refused release, even with massage. The kicker. I experienced my most profound peace ever in the Big Blue, water 5,000 ft. deep. So crystal clear we looked as if we swam in an aquarium. All around, so blue. With lines of light going down forever, no end.

In my mind I can still see very detail of a painting of a drowning woman in the middle of the ocean. Her wide, panicked eyes above water, her gapping mouth. Debris all around. Sinking ship in the background. Same with scenes from two movies. In White Squall, the brigantine sinking. The savvy sea-faring woman calmly sitting on the floor, trapped in a cabin, rescue impossible. Her face as she looks up, knowing she’s going to the bottom of the ocean. The other from The Piano. Ada, her leg wrapped in a rope, drifting down, down. But I also remember a dream I had. Threatened by an unknown someone, I jump from a partially submerged cage of a platform into a stormy sea. And four whales rise up, say they’ll save me. I also remember the peace in The Big Blue.

The other day I met Fred, an older man, as I took a picture of large, silky blooms on a cactus. 32 yrs. in the neighborhood, he’s had trouble with strangers, recently a foreigner, he said. I smiled, leaned in, said as if it a secret, my grandmother was a foreigner. He softened. Showed me a cactus in his yard, pointed to his upstairs. They died, used to live in my apartment there, this is theirs, he said. He showed me his whimsical yard art that tells stories – cat stalking a bird on a nest, the bird’s egg a seashell. And a plastic chair dark green like the bushes and overgrown tropical plants it’s tucked amongst. I sit, watch the world go, he said.

Days before, at a show in a tiny planetarium geared for kids, I fell asleep, woke jolted to bright lights, people stepping past. Feeling my real prize Deric, a chatty 11-yr. old passionate about space who started a conversation with ‘How was your day?’ So proud of his knowledge, he repeatedly prompted ‘ask me a question.’ Who told me I looked beautiful. His expressed self-consciousness about how much he talks touched me. I share that with him. We also share a longing to go into space. Afterwards, looking thru telescopes on the roof, I saw Jupiter’s stripes and moons. How red Mars really looks. Was filled with wonder.

I believe we all have a purpose. Some watch the world go by from their chairs, hold a certain peaceable kingdom. Some step out, even when scared. Go into space. I will summon whatever courage I need to look into a whale’s eye, and to meet my purpose. Because I don’t think it’s too late, and I must.

Tell me, what are your fears? What must you do despite them?

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

A secret: Birds and creatures talk to me.
A favorite: A friend who bought the professional video of our dolphin swims says it seems I’m in every other frame.

Special Thanks to Fred and Deric, my young companion who was also proud his name’s a combo of his father’s (Eric) and his mother’s (Deanna).

A Diet of Sustenance

Posted on May 31, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT’S
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me-
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.
~ Shel Silverstein (Listen to the Mustn’ts)

I can eat just one cookie, or a small scoop of ice cream and stop. Boggles my 1/2 gallon and handfuls of cookies husband’s mind. But stressed, I dive. Sweets & carbs. Sweet still small bites, but every day, all day. Carbs not so small. Half loaf of sweet apple bread from the gourmet bakery in an afternoon. A box of Trader Joe’s cheddar rockets every two days. TJ’s British muffins sometimes like popcorn. When the waistband gets tight, I wrangle the diet. Last week I knew I made it when I left Trader Joe’s without a refresher box of rockets, and the first ‘muffin’ after my weeklong moratorium was not divine. So much of our health is wrapped up in diet. But it’s not just what we eat. It’s what we see, hear, and do.

Lately my dawn walks are circling the 6 blocks of my townhome complex 3 times. Noting light on the buildings colored alternately celery, terracotta, antique white, sand, Florida pink and that weird pinky-beige in my crayon box called flesh. I hunt clouds, a blush of color above rooftops. Admire the rare blossoms on the crepe myrtles, magnolias, and gardenias that don’t last long in their pruned, manicured state (so diff from me). Some days I step out, walk the neighborhood of tiny, sometimes ranshackle, homes beyond. No feast for the eyes, but a diet of movement.

With surprise, I noticed the streetlight on the corner just outside our complex blinks off as I cross over. Sometimes the one on the other side, too. The others all still on. Light and time no matter. A tiny diet of anticipation. . .will it happen again today. It always does.

Streetlights are one a block in this neighborhood. If I walk halfway up a block and back again, I get a tad of nighttime like God meant it for a few moments. One morning, the sky already brightened, the birds full awake, I stood under a wire, listened to a mockingbird go thru her glorious repertoire. Admired the silhouette of a pine (?) that looked like it came from a children’s book. Tall trunk, round top. When the songtress abruptly stopped, lit to the street steps from my feet before flying to a rooftop ridge, I decided birdsong and night sky must be part of my daily diet.

One evening I saw a commercial plane so low overhead it looked the size of a toy I’d hold in my hand. Its lights big, like a sparkle ring on my finger. What surprised me most was how the roar of the engines trailed, like thunder to lightning. The plane overhead, the sound off to my left, chasing its tail. A tiny diet of wonder.

I watch my diet of words, but my desired diet of silence seems nearly impossible. A neighbor’s noisy a/c compressor buzzing 10 feet from our door. Hum of vehicles constant outside. I sometimes taste it Sundays at the bay when cars only trickle by, and late risers and herds of yakky runners stay home. One Sunday I followed a steady stream of cars at my back to the brightly lit pool where people gathered under tents for a swim meet. Continued up and around to where the palms are three deep. Enjoyed a dose of gratitude as I watched young squirrels drink from small, quarter inch deep puddles on the sidewalk.

A hearty diet of Beauty is necessary for my health. I find it in a pristine magnolia blossom. Not a brown spot or withered edge. Luscious. And right where I could lean in, my nose above the largest petal, inches from the thick cone of a stamen with rows of sleek, stiff ‘curls’ halfway up to the top. The most intricate, subtle texture on it. The fragrance so delicate and exquisite I stood for minutes. Took breath after breath. Or Kirsty Mitchell’s Wonderland book. The smell of Italian ink that still lingers. The feel of luscious paper on my fingertips. The feast of escape in the detail, color, fantasy on the pages. Stories, and a Queen, seasons of death & rebirth, and doors. A feast of fine craftsmanship.

I saw a video of two beautiful people dancing on a layer of water in a French piazza. Water splaying with the glide of their feet. No care who watched. It reminded me of the sorts of things I used to do. How I’m starved for travel and new experience right now.

I never get over the feeling shown in this picture.

Yang's son on the road

Little kid. Big world. Not seeing around the corner, trusting a road laid by others. The wonder and majesty of our gorgeous planet. Big sky overhead that stretches to the stars I’m born of. That I’m one of the lucky ones safe to walk it.

Anything can be, Shel says.

What are your diets of sight, sound, feeling, and action?

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

A favorite: The natural world close, out my door.
A secret: I’m starved for the natural world out my door right now, too.

Photo of child: Yang Wen

Vision to Launch

Posted on April 5, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“More than a dozen Pulitzer Prize-winning writers and master teachers will share the most reliable secrets of their craft. . .in a free-flowing sequence of lessons. Participants will experience an inspirational and instructive writing workshop.”
Description from a workshop, Voices of Social Justice & Equality
Poynter Institute
*

Launching Prayers – Chinese Lantern Festival
*

We sat on the front row, where I like to sit. My curiosity only slightly peaked. I’m not a journalist. Each lesson only ten minutes. I clearly forgot TED. I got tons. Insights and tips for writing. Tears from stories, like from from a lesson on observation, the description of the trembling blood splattered shoulders of a man who murdered the mother of his child with a machete. Or schools turned into failure factories from a lesson on the power of simplicity, even in stories born from thousands of hours and documentation. Stuff I can use to write novels and essays, like who we are, really. And where we connect. How this lies in the defining moments of decision and action, the external context that influences our thoughts, emotions, choices – forgotten in our introductions so full of what happened & when. Halfway thru I thought, I want to do this. Can I become a journalist. It was the same feeling I had at Stony Brook Southampton Writers Conference learning from the best, watching performances by the best, when I thought I need to move to New York. And watching an ancillary short for the movie ‘Across the Universe,’ the one where they talk about gathering a team stellar in their field to CREATE, feeling a longing and recognition for that experience of co-creation in collaboration with genius. And like when I saw the images of the retreat center on Maui where author Cheryl Strayed led a writing retreat, uttered the words this is how I want to do my work. Like rarified air I want to breathe. Two days later I was shown more.

Every Tuesday and Thursday night for eight weeks my husband Art went to the Church of Christ fellowship hall. Attended a professional and personal development program called Jobs for Life. His teachers all volunteer members of the congregation. Sunday was Graduation. He asked me to go. They talk a lot about the bible, are pretty regular sorts of folks, he said. They indeed quoted scripture. Had three prayers. Sang three hymns, every stanza. Most dressed like we used to expect one dresses for church. A nice change to my thought. Each person on the team – teachers, coordinators, counselors, volunteers and champions – welcomed me, told me how much they appreciated my husband. We sat with the woman who coordinated the outreach program. Who took the course at another church, learned how to do it. Bought it home. We looked at programs for homeless, battered families, she said. In the end decided the jobs program. Because it’s something that can be built upon, carried forward. That gives participants tools for continued growth on their own. That can enrich whole communities. What I heard. . .they wanted to help people be their better and best selves. And they know we’re not islands.

Out of 30 who registered, eight showed up and finished. I teared up as participants shared what they got from the experience. The painfully shy young gal who’s now considering toastmasters. Her mother, dressed in a white lace dress, a brilliant turban of aquas and ocean, black slippers and socks, walking with crutches, who took the class to support her daughter, found something for herself in the process. The young man with professional athletes for parents who broke his back, was forced down a different path and found mentors. The former drug addict who’ll teach her kids principles she learned. My husband speaking up as a leader. I felt my heart vibrate with the chords of a dozen harmonized a cappella Amens from one of our earlier songs.

Someone recently said I ask a lot of the Universe. Her words shocked me so much I didn’t ask what she meant. When I sat with it, I saw the message as either step up, be bigger, earn what I ask for. Or I expect too much, step down, be smaller. The latter is not an option. Earning is not in anything I’ve read or studied about prayer, spirit, the Universe, or asking. Action is.

We start where we’re at. Hold the vision we’re able.

Those people I met Sunday are as genius to me as the Greats I aspire to. They put in the hours. gather the pages, define themselves toward their vision of their best selves in action. It’s the same path I’m walking.

What vision are you walking toward?

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

A secret: Look for those defining moments and outside influences on my About Heloise page in the coming weeks.
A favorite: A capella voices

photo: unknown

Choosing to Do It Differently

Posted on March 22, 2016 by Heloise Jones

This was a day when nothing happened. . .
The chicken’s diminished to skin and skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.
~ from Ordinary Life by Barbara Crooker
*
Spring
*

I’ve changed my path walking by water since moving from the historic neighborhood bordering the bay. Sometimes it’s 12 blocks along the wide bayou that bleeds off the ocean, the far border a large small island with large homes and expansive green lawns. I often miss the sunrise because I can’t bear the quiet between night and the beginning of day shattered by a car. But I’m seeing life in a new landscape. Like two pelicans in the top flimsy branches of live oaks, balancing their heavy bodies as they bob and work those long bills made for fishing to break off a twig (a twig!) for their nests. The pickings so small for how long it took to get it.

The other day I chose to walk a longer path up to the point on the bay. I stopped at the sound of a splattered puff. A dolphin’s breath. The next morning, in a dawn nearly black under heavy overcast clouds, I crossed the grass in time to see a sleek back curve up, then down again. And discovered something extraordinary. Thick rolls of waves like a wake moving in a line. Realized it was a dolphin swimming, the water pushed, not broken. I watched the rolls change direction, come back toward me. My heart beat fast. And then, the white belly beneath the still, silken surface as the dolphin sailed by on its side, six feet below the ledge where I stood, its eye looking up. I was stunned at the discovery of those rolls, watching a dolphin’s clear path below the surface.

In a way, seeing below the surface is the theme of my life since moving to Florida 4-1/2 yrs. ago. I’ve felt alone with no close community of friends. Lunch or dinner with others random occasions. Sunrise at the bay conversations, but no people populating my days. Something new for me. Relationships and community always grew quickly, organically, wherever I lived. Alive and growing after decades, even with distance between us. Recently I marvel at the grand, divine design, tho. How I’ve been thrown to conversations with the Universe for answers to my questions, revelations to challenges. Left to see without distractions our everyday world in ways I can only call magical. I’ve been pushed to step out online. Been pushed to trust my strong intuition, trust myself, even when my humanness blazes first. Been pushed to ask what I really want. Because my outward life as it is ain’t it. And the only way to know is to honestly answer what my part is. The past two weeks seriously tested what I’ve learned. A triple whammy – friendship hitting rocks, crossing trenches and moguls with my beloved son who lives in Taiwan, and facing a decision that requires super scary commitment. The brain cramps and heart cramps tremendous.

I have this friend in NM, Rachel Ballentine, who often ponders aspects of the interconnectedness of our everyday world. She recently wrote she wonders “what did they bring to Ellis Island? how would you decide? what teapot? what embroidery? a child’s tooth? what kettle? what would be in the trunk? what recipes? what pots and pans? what would you bring from your village? what was in the suitcases? what was left behind? what lace? what shoes? and who was left behind? who got to go? who got sent back?” She spoke to me in that pondering.

At 21, I watched my in-laws house burn. My own home once caught fire. I wrote about that sort of loss in my second novel. A girl grabs one thing of personal significance for herself and each of her parents as their hard-built dream home burns to cinders. I’ve wondered as I read holocaust stories. Now as I read about refugees. Wonder as I watch friends move every year, sometimes twice a year, for years in a row. What’s their journey of letting go. And I wonder weekly as I scan my belongings, envision my 4th move in 5 yrs. this December. The one I’ll take across many states that I look forward to. I’ve already shed 1/3, then another 1/4, and another 1/4+. As my eyes rest on an item, I search inside for a feeling that might tell me something. Nothing in my home is just there. Everything once chosen by me for the pleasure or meaning in it. Holding more than the thing-ness.

And that’s what happened with each of the whammies. What do I leave behind. Compassionate honesty? Choosing silence, adjusting expectations, depriving a deeper understanding or opportunity to transcend/fix the disconnects, misread intentions, mis-spoken messages as I’ve done. Distance? Depriving the opportunity to be different with the challenges of family history. Myself? Carrying stuff inside that feeds my insecurities, keeps me small. I don’t need to be right or understood. I just need to see below the surface of myself, see myself moving forward like I saw that dolphin pushing water who had no intention but to see the other. Answer what I want, realize it’s what we all want. Connection and Love, to be seen for ourselves, with compassion in the seeing.

I chose the friendship, if it can be saved. Chose to figure how to swim the trenches so the moguls don’t seem so high with my son, feel expectation of joy holding my grandson in a big hug. And I’m hiring the help I need, tho it costs a bundle. Will face my fears of failure, success, being not good enough, stranded. I choose doing it differently. Because below the surface, I trust I’m gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.

What do you take, and leave behind?

“A white explorer in Africa, anxious to press ahead with his journey, paid his porters for a series of forced marches. But they, almost within reach of their destination, set down their bundles and refused to budge. No amount of extra payment would convince them otherwise. They said they had to wait for their souls to catch up.”
~ Bruce Chatwin, from THE SONGLINES

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

A secret: It’s not easy being human.
A favorite: Dolphins under water

Photo: free share by Ales Krivec

8 More. What Being an Author Taught Me About Life

Posted on March 15, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I am destined to move
at night on the secondary roads
of the American dream.
I took my first off ramp
after years of traveling
under someone else’s direction. . .

Stopping at magical places –
Singing the one Clearest note –

Cracking open an awareness
of things more beautiful
than was once thought possible –
A poetic life.

~ Author Unknown (Goose Creek Road)

Waterfall rainbow *

Blog #52 – One Year anniversary of Getting to Wise. A Writer’s Life. A wonder, as I’d put it off for eight years. Re-designed by professionals, twice, then sitting. Design #3 I launched.

I’m a novelist. I love listening to the story, following the characters. I’m a poet. I love the beats of syllables, commas, and periods. Love the lyrical in language. I’m an editor. I love fitting the pieces together, finding the path to essence and necessity.

And every week for the past year my constant has been to show up here, tell the truth, publish by 10am Tuesday, no matter what. Usually as clueless about what I’ll say as that first morning I sat down to start.

One year. Today I could write about the crossroads I’m at. How I’m visited by an image of a lone person walking across a broad western plain. Not a sad or beaten soul, but one moving steady, with purpose. A person who didn’t choose to buy a horse. And she needs one now. And she knows the kind of horse she needs to get her where she’s headed. An educated decision. Instead, I’m sharing 8 more things being an author underscores for me. The ones that continue to carry me, no matter what.

1) We’re WIP.

Our lives are glorious Works in Progress. Change is the only constant. We grow, evolve, learn, experience. Arrive at the end when we give up, shut down, or die. Like in any book or story.

2) Sometimes we chose an experiment.

My husband’s fond of saying this when I’m angsting. Because, as we know, when the experiment or adventure’s going well, it’s great to be in it. When it’s not, everything feels serious. I can delete bad experiments when I write. In life, the best outcomes for bad ones are learning, growing, changing the story.

3) Take a break, let it rest.

Once an author types <the end> on a WIP, we put it away for a while, hopefully at least three weeks, come back to edit with fresh eyes. The separation creates space inside that allows us to experience the work differently. Same with many things in life, including relationships or jobs.

4) There’ll be good reviews, and bad reviews.

None of them true. They may affect outcomes, but only those we can use to better the story we’re writing of who we are and how we show up matter. The rest are with the audience.

5) You don’t need to be an expert.

We don’t have to know everything, be an expert to know enough, move forward. I read 40 pages about guns and hunting rifles for two short descriptive references in my novel. I’m not an expert on guns, but I know those passages are correct. When I saw the same information recycle in the training materials for online business, found several examples of people successful doing what I wanted to do in a way I aligned with, I wasn’t an expert, but I knew enough to move forward intelligently.

6) Find a way past Stuck.

Amazon has 100 pages of books on writer’s block. I don’t know if this includes the games or journals mentioned in the drop down menu. We look for the way past stuck. It’s no different in life.

7) Pay attention to the Evidence Journal

The journal we’re often blind to. The one that notates our accomplishments. Mirrors our gifts, strengths, weaknesses, hot buttons. Shows us the disconnects between intent and expression, and connection. The one that tells us who’s paying attention, sees us. Shows us who others are. Everything we need to know is in the evidence journal. We just gotta look and listen, see and hear with an open heart and mind. And trust ourselves. That’s the tricky part.

8) Trust permeable boundaries.

Creativity is not about control. We want control of our instruments and tools, but openness to unknown possibilities. To what may show up if we soften our gaze, see more than we’re believe we’re looking for. Hear more than we decided to hear, or think we hear. We step into the realm of allowing ourselves to be surprised, and be led to something new. This Life is our greatest creation. We’re all authors writing stories.

Author (from Merrium-Webster dictionary)
1. one that originates or creates
2. the writer of a literary work (as a book)

What story are you writing? Tell me here, in the comments.

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

A secret: I believe a WIP is the best we can be.
A favorite: Writing this blog.

Photo: free share by Jared Erondu

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