The Spirit of the Season

Posted on December 25, 2019 by Heloise Jones

“For it is by faith alone that the Heart hears its own song.”
~ True Kelly
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It’s Christmas Day. The solstice, nature’s turning toward the light, was a few days ago. A tad more than a week before that, the ‘full cold moon.’ This season is a portent time for the ancients.

Of all the December full moon’s many names, I like long cold moon the best. Long for the long nights in the northern hemisphere where I live. And long for how it lingers high above the western horizon before it sets at dawn.

I was once a night person. I loved it when the din of the world softened and the distractions of daytime settled down, I quieted. Whatever frolic I engaged in felt contained.

In the early nineties I moved to the West where far horizons stretched in all directions each day. I became a forever lover of the dawn sky. The earth to sky changing light & color felt magical, special, as if just for me & the birdies singing the sun up. It felt private, like a special connection with my spirit that let me see other realms beyond obvious sight-lines.

Horizons weren’t part of my everyday before that. I lived in low lands, surrounded by trees. And only on visits to the ocean, where I’d stare out to the earth’s curve, did I have that experience. Or, when driving down highways cleared from forests. I still prefer dawns to sunsets. And strangely, this winter I’m embracing the dark nights once again.

My mind settles & drifts in the deep dark these days. I linger in bed, rise later each morning. It’s a time of remembering for me, as I watch the world spin and look ahead.

Remembering. . .the year a winter storm knocked the power out and ice kept me trapped nearly 6 days. I learned the torture of deep cold then, which wasn’t what I thought.

I lived on the steep side of a mountain in Appalachia, the neighborhood carved from the forest, trees still surrounding the yards. I looked out to sky, and across the treetops to the big red tiled roof of the famous Grove Park Inn (Asheville, NC). It was otherworldly in the snow, like a giant hobbit cottage from a Thomas Kinkade painting.

I soon learned torture was not the frigid air, or the shiver in the bones. It was tactile depravation of warmth. Everything touched being so very, very cold –– my skin, clothes, the bed covers I snuggled under, the book I tried to read to pass the time, the spoon & fork, the glass on my fingertips and lips.

Today, whenever I see someone on a street corner rubbing their hands together, I think how their cold nights must feel. I didn’t have the right high-tech gloves, and neither do they.

I’m remembering the Joy I once felt at Christmas, as well. The carols, lights, and decorated trees I loved. Finding personal gifts for each person on my list, knowing they’d love them. Giving them. Remembering now because that joy was lost for years, buried beneath a vast grief since 2006 when my son left for China-Taiwan, and stayed.

He’d been the Heart center of thirty-five Christmas Eves.

The first year without him I bought a gorgeous tree like I always did. And brought the ornaments in from storage. They never left their boxes. The tree never held one light.

The following year, thinking I might find energy for something smaller, I hung a fresh garland of greenery over the double french doors between the kitchen & the room where the tree would’ve been. It also remained bare.

Each year I tried to feel my way back to the Joy I once felt. I went to holiday concerts I’d once loved (Messiah, the symphony, chorales). I attended Nutcracker performances, and traveled to places & cities that made a big deal of the season with decorations & events. I planned holiday meals with friends, served food to the homeless, went to Pueblo dances. I made reservations for special holiday meals at fine hotels & restaurants, and even collected a new ornament or two.

Grief is a strange familiar, tho. What I saw is how its character changes over time. Now, for me, it’s calmed to a quiet companion. And something sparked this year.

I realized I didn’t want to be alone at Christmas, not even over a special meal in a crowd of people under twinkling lights. And I felt an urge for a table-top tree, considered where I’d put it. Until one day, when the fragrance of small rosemary herb trees in Trader Joe’s made me pause, and I tucked one under my arm.

The best is I put out a short string of lights where I see them dozens of times a day. Color & light talking to my Soul.

The card on the table in the picture above is from my son. Something broke between us over the years, causing a deep rift. So, when I saw he wrote the note inside, and read the salutation personal to me, holding great meaning no one else would know, it felt like a blessing & gift.

What I’ve learned is. . .follow your heart in grief, as well as in Joy & other things. Be present with it. Let it be what it is, and recognize it can change.

Because sometimes the brilliant constellation of who we are + the brilliant stars of those we’re closest to are so strong, that when one light of the constellation winks out. . .or comes back. . .a shift can occur that’s inexplicable, even magical. Like Grace.

Love is the Spirit of the Season.

May Love fill your heart & home. . .however it may.

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My Mother’s Day Magic Wand

Posted on May 12, 2019 by Heloise Jones

I got a surprise Mother’s Day gift. It made me cry. It was about a 9 yr. old boy, and magic.

My grandson, born the exact hour and exact minute I was, lives in Taiwan. I saw him for the first time when he was 5 mos. old. ‘He just woke,’ his parents said. ‘He’ll cry when he sees you.’ He turned toward me when I sat on the bed, and smiled.

As a small infant, he looked like a little Buddha. My friends agreed, and called him Buddha Baby when they asked about him.

Later I called him sparkly little boy for his enthusiasm, laughter, wonder of the world, and mind-blowing wisdom that left my heart effervescent, and my Facebook friends saying Wow.

He’s loved reading and making art since I can remember. When he was 7, a package of watercolor pens was his fav Christmas present. The next year, a set of 29 Magic Treehouse books. Before the travels and history of Magic Treehouse, his story passions ran in this order: Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Star Wars, and the Avengers. Regular kid stuff, until you see the deeper messages. They spoke to his soul.

He’s been a happy kid. Animals, people, and super-heroes in his drawings all sport big smiles. He simply can’t make them look mean. One time I noticed what looked like a grimace on a villain’s face, and he loudly sighed with a ‘finally.’

It’s been three years since we had an in-person hug. Let’s just say sometimes things happen that break your heart, and break something between you & others, and tho you tried, there’s not much to do about it. The last visit was wonderful, tho, ’til it wasn’t. And he’s stayed in touch.

For two years he sent weekly postcards. After that, he rose before his parents, & signed on every week to Skype. Now, it’s twice a month. What’s happened is third grade in Taiwan.

With classroom and homework, his work week is often 40 hr. + There’s mandatory sports days, and four intense ‘final’ exam periods per year. There’s art, writing, and storytelling competitions and events. Medals and statues to earn for competitions, the most books read, best behavior, and best student. He shows me his medals. When I expressed surprise at homework over summer vacation, he shrugged and said “It’s the Chinese way.” A part of me goes ‘Jeepers, he’s only in third grade!’

Culture comes up more and more these days. “In Chinese culture…,” he’ll start before he shares his holidays or answers a question. I listen. I want to understand. I know his world’s different.

Then there was the turn. And it was hard for me to hear.

One night I asked what he was doing for fun. “I don’t have fun,” he said. “I study, do schoolwork all the time.” He’d just finished a round of final exams, so I thought perhaps it was a momentary thing. I know he and his parents ride bikes, go to movies, visit farms and other places as a family.

I asked another time if he and his friends played together when not in school. I know he has good friends. When he said no, I asked if that was culture or because they were busy like him. ‘We don’t do that here,’ he said. ‘It’s not Chinese culture.”

When I asked later about books, he said he didn’t have time to read. On art, ‘I draw when I’m bored.’ I was stunned. His sparkly magic was getting squished!

I sent a card illustrated by Pamela Zagarenski (see it above). I love her magical images, and simple, yet profound messages. On the card, an elephant balances on a ring, holds a feather in its trunk. “I found this feather for you. It’s perfect for the wind,” the caption reads. Spread flat, the painting continues. The elephant now tiny, flying high above a hawk, the feather still in its trunk. On intuition, I chose a raven feather from my stacks, slipped it in.

I can’t remember what I wrote. Only that he could fly on his imagination, and that it was a raven feather, rare to find. I left off how some believe ravens are sacred & full of magic. His mother is devoutly Christian. After I mailed it, I worried on the feather being black, how that might be received by her.

The other day his father (my son) sent a video of my sparkly-hearted boy at a storytelling event, with a note: Happy Mother’s Day. Here’s where the magic comes in.

The story he told, complete with gestures and different voices, was about a long ago time when people lived in darkness with no sun to help things grow, and they called the ‘mighty black bird,’ Raven (!), for help. How raven brought them two balls of light that stuck to the ‘walls of the sky,’ becoming the sun and the moon. How the people still celebrate raven for his kindness. At the end of the video, you can hear someone say Wow.

I don’t know, for sure, if the feather I sent played a part in him choosing that story. And it doesn’t matter. Because to me it was a message…our connection’s still here. And he’s still connected to that Big Soul of his. It’s not snuffed, yet.

We’re all so very human. We carry lifetimes of stuff . And still, I think what I feel is what so many of us mothers feel…trusting our heart-centered intentions will take root, with hope they flower and fruit in a beautiful way. And perhaps how we see or wish our own mother’s are, or were….listening, giving gifts without judgement or expectation, trusting we’ll find the gem offered. I like to think it, anyway.

Summer 2016, the last time I saw him. It was like holding a jar of stars.

Tell me in the comments what Mother’s Day means, or has meant, for you.

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Just for One Day

Posted on February 3, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“We went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass;
and we each took a pear,
and ate, and were grateful.”
~ Jane Kenyon (from Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer)
*

A group of independently owned businesses took residence in a tired old mall with dead air when the small boutique mall they occupied closed after decades. The new stores so enlivened the place that cool modern sofas now dot the walkways. The cafe tables & chairs outside Starbucks are updated and sport a cheery orange. Trees with tiny white lights create a sweet spot outside the 4 table in-mall Peruvian restaurant. A resurrection that occurred with the influx of a community.

Know this. . .I am not a mall person in the least. The only reason I ever go is it’s the only option. And yesterday, I felt drawn to wander in after lunch. The jumble of a store crowded with clothes, jewelry, and miscellany like a flea market caught me. I stood across the walkway looking for a few minutes, then walked over. For the first time I noticed it’s a co-op.

As with the three other times I’ve popped in, a man called Welcome from somewhere in the store. I return his greeting with How are you? And as each time before, his answer’s one word: Happy. This day I decided to bite. ‘You say that every time. Are you truly that happy?’

‘Oh, yes. I get to be a human being,’ he said. It felt like something I should remember.

I walked to the back where I’ve never gone. Two small rooms with assorted brass bells, sage bundles, statues of Buddha, Quan Yin, and the like. As I stood staring at a bowl of dried gray-brown balls the size of my fist called Rose of Jericho, read how they unfurled when watered, wondered why a person would want one, he walked up beside me. His eyes twinkled. Where you from, I asked. Tibet.

With intention, he riffled thru a deck of divination cards as he talked. ‘My Western friends come in looking for something to help their Soul when they feel bad. I tell them, be like us crazy Tibetans. We lost our country, and we still smile. We’re happy.’

He laid out four cards. The first about Angels around me, as guides.

He plans to build a center unlike any I’ve seen in layout or concept. Healing and the arts, and in the middle, a large tea room with no wi-fi. Because his vision is nurturing our sense of connection with one another. Community.

I confess. I wonder about the future of our planet, and my grandson’s future. He’s only 8. He lives far, far away in Taiwan. What will he have, this sparkly little boy.

We talk by Skype each Friday night. He’s intent we visit at least an hour. I can’t hang up on him. Sometimes he lingers before he clicks good-bye.

He shows me his super hero figures, his Harry Potter wand, his lego creations. He holds the things I sent him, what he calls his treasures, to the camera one by one. Postage is expensive, so they’re small: arrowheads & fossils, buttons and pins, cut glass gems in pretty colors, & feathers. He pulls them from boxes I sent – a carved box from India with white bone inlay. A box with a sliding lid that belonged to my grandmother. It’s top and sides intricate geometric patterns made with different wood laminates. I love his drawings where the animals, monsters, and super heroes always look Happy. Now he reads to me. I catch it when he mumbles thru a word. He spells it so I can help.

It pleases me no end his hobbies are drawing and reading, the same as mine when I was his age. That he loves nature and science like I do, too. We were born on the same hour and minute: 5:47. Perhaps that’s why.

The prize of the night last week was his latest award from school for being the healthiest and best student. It’s elaborate. A large odd-shaped board with pictures of him and headings in Chinese arranged around it. He said he couldn’t translate the words exactly. So I told him to tell me about them. I could see his mouth twitch as he thought.

‘This here is for what I think is my best quality,’ he said. ‘I help people work together to solve problems.’ I couldn’t believe my ears. He’s 8! I asked him to repeat it. I wrote it down. And what he likes? To make people laugh & feel good, and to share. I couldn’t help thinking about this world we live in.

Two nights later I heard about women who left Victorian society to create new lives and identities in New Mexico. They were smart, accomplished, and stifled. One, a brilliant concert pianist, world renown for her skill, who could never perform on stage because it was a realm reserved for men. And there they were in the desert scrub. Riding horses, visiting pueblos and canyons, and camping. I wondered if I’d have the courage to choose the same if in their place. It looked so rugged. I thought how countless millions who never chose it live that way now.

The talk was in the magnificent St. Francis auditorium here in Santa Fe, where the ceiling’s a thousand miles high and frescos cover the walls. The place was packed. I sat beside an older couple, Ann and Jack. We were the only ones on the front row. We chuckled how this seems to usually be the case.

Ann and I chatted briefly about family. She taught school, the kids called gifted & talented. ‘They were very empathetic, and sensitive,’ she said. ‘Sounds like your grandson is one.’ I thought about those happy monsters in his drawings, and his words––I help people work together to solve problems. I felt hope for his future, and the planet’s.

The next morning, tho I intended to rise for the lunar eclipse, I laid still for a long time when I woke. It was 5:15 when I finally glanced at the clock. I raised the blinds in the darkest room in the house, across the hall from my bedroom. In the sky, framed in the window, was a moon with a dark bite out of her. She so bright, the bite so black. I dressed in the dark. Forgetting the drawer was already open, I pulled it off the track when I went for long underwear, dumped the entire contents on the floor. No time. Outside under the sky, it was noisier than in my little house – cars on the thoroughfare a few blocks away, the ding of the train, the beep of a truck backing up in a parking lot. But the dogs were quiet. A rarity in this part of the hood. I considered going to the wide street, walking up the hill for a full open view of sky. But I stayed where it was darkest, standing on the earth. Standing so trees and fence posts blocked backyard lights. I saw the blood moon. The first unobstructed by trees, mountains, or buildings eclipse of my life. And this is what I will tell you. As she cloaked, I felt the world quiet. Like when the electricity in the house goes out quiet. And I thought of long ago people connected to the earth and the hum of celestial bodies, how they must have felt. The electricity turned off. And I stood an hour, ’til my toes hurt. Knowing this Universe and I were one.

Something beautiful.

I hope you sang along.

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

Photo: Kyle Head

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The Natural Way of Things

Posted on August 26, 2017 by Heloise Jones

I woke early, as usual. Today feeling calm and rested. A nice change. I stepped out on the porch. The stars hang bright here compared to the past 5 years in Florida where I was positive people must be afraid of the dark, their lights blazing all night. Not to mention big city lights obliterating the starry heavens.

I have a neighbor who is genuinely afraid of having his home dark. He’s the only one for two straight blocks with spotlights. They light the street and houses in front of me, pale the stars. He has a spotlight in back, too. My entire yard and white fence blaze. I asked if he’d not leave them on all night. He visibly shook. The day before Christmas, thieves smashed his windows, broke in, he said. I backed away saying don’t worry, I don’t want to be the crazy lady on the street. This morning I regretted those words. I could’ve calmed him, and I want the stars.

I spoke with little sparkly boy in Taiwan last night. We have a weekly thing going. His mother bought him an alarm clock so he can rise in his morning for our calls. He learned to sign on to Skype. Calls me 8pm my time on the dot. Will ask to stay longer when I mention goodbyes after 75 min.

Last week, not wanting to mention how sleepy he looked, I told him his hair still looked sleepy. He immediately perked up, ran for his Harry Potter wand and tapped his head. Sometimes that’s all it takes. A reframe of words, or knowing it’s not all of us feeling a thing. That we are more, filled with many feelings of this and that.

After he perked up, he told me about a dream he had. A volcano shot candy into the air. It turned into birds when it hit the ground. What a ball a dream specialist would have with that one. I simply loved it. I asked him to paint a picture of his dream, send it to me. Last night he showed me the painting. A dinosaur & Jurassic bird are in the scene, along with a plethora of wonderful birds. There’s also a lizard. ‘This happy lizard wanted to be there,’ he said. Happy, his word.

The sky is pink in his drawing. In my worldview, pink is the color of the heart.

The Oxford Junior Dictionary, geared to 7 yr. olds, purged the following words in 2007: acorn, adder, ash, beech, bluebell, buttercup, catkin, conker, cowslip, cygnet, dandelion, fern, hazel, heather, heron, ivy, kingfisher, lark, mistletoe, nectar, newt, otter, pasture, willow, almond, blackberry, crocus, cauliflower, among others. These words replaced them: block-graph, chatroom, blog, analogue, broadband, bullet-point, celebrity, committee, cut-and-paste, MP3 player and voice-mail, among others. The reason for the purge is they’re focusing on relevancy to today’s children. 1-7 yr. olds.

OK. I understand relevancy. I also understand language shapes our thoughts and view of the world around us. We call others ‘cockroaches,’ they become something to slaughter with machetes. We call others filth and vermin, or terrorists, or leaches, they become something to eradicate. ‘Neighbors, friends, people, helpers, lovers, workers’ have a chance, until they become something other than human.

Same with nature. If flowers can be named, or trees, or birds, they stand out. Are more than background. They note attention, perhaps are appreciated, even illicit interest.

My little grandson will be 8 on Oct. 30. He’s lived in a highrise his entire life. He watches too many movies on TV, in my opinion. With said, during his first five years he lived across the street from a large, immensely beautiful park with a lake designed by a Japanese architect. He went to the park often, and though he wasn’t allowed dirty hands, he was in nature. He learned to see it and name it.

There are no parks close to where he lives now. His parents take him to farms with animals he can hold and feed. They spend holidays on the beach where he snorkels for hours, his hand in his father’s over the deep waters where the turtles and clown-fish swim. And animals show up in so many of his paintings, along with super heroes. What I’ve noticed is the animals all have smiles.

I believe this vision of the world, with animals to marvel over, to see happy in their environments, is the natural way of human beings.

I learned last night he’s not seen the night sky full of stars. ‘I can’t go out in the dark alone,’ he said. ‘Daddy wanted to relax, not go outside.’ When he comes, we will drive into the countryside far from lights, and I’ll show him the Milky Way. I will tell him not to ever be afraid of the dark. There are jewels in it. We just have to see them to know.

Sit on the ground somewhere in nature. Describe what you see, hear, and feel. Such as a bee buzzing the sweat on your cheese. Or the breeze feeling the same temperature as the air.
Notice the color of wildflowers where you live. They are everywhere, even in cities. What colors do you see most often? Here in Santa Fe, they’re mostly yellow & purple.

Photo: Yang Wen

The clouds looked like birds flying in this morning.

Interested in feeling at peace & having fun in nature?
Writing from the heart. Playing with paint, color & words?
Join me and artist Lindy Teresi Sept. 22.

FREE YOUR VOICE thru Writing & Art
An interactive immersion with nature.
Santa Fe, NM
click here for details

How Life Sings Like Poetry

Posted on August 4, 2017 by Heloise Jones

“In an ideal world, our poets would sing our stories back to us, connecting us through language that’s memorable, moving, often disturbing: our poets would through their poems urge us to awaken and look around us, fall in love again and again with the things of this world.”
~ Kathryn Stripling Byer, poet

I’m a sky watcher. I’m constantly gazing up, marveling at the light & color. Noting when the clouds shift. Marvel when they look like shredded cloth or as if they’re painted on up there. With said, it’s been a while since I spent time with the night sky. This week, 4:45am, opening the blinds without my glasses on, I thought iI saw a reflection of a lightbulb in the window. But I had no lights on inside. I like my day to gently lighten with the dawn. I stepped outside, stood in the cool air, gazed at Venus, big as a streetlight. A comet bright as a low flying jet streaked past. And then, brief and high, another. I thought how I’ll fill my life with more of this sort of love and wonder. Relearn to do it.

Someone said recently I should work with children, that I have a gift with them. I don’t know how she got that except perhaps from blogs I’ve written, such as here & here. It’s true I like talking to kids. Love the art they make. I’ll talk to any kid around me.

My 7-yr. old grandson lives in Taiwan. We see each other every two years. In late 2015, he started sending me postcards. We now write each other. I have his cards stacked close to my desk where I see them. It’s quite magical how his printing’s changed. The last one so perfect, I thought his mother wrote it. A small way to see him grow, and real.

Recently we started Friday night conversations. There’s a 12-hr. difference, so he rises before his parents, signs into Skype. If he can’t get thru, he’ll call on his dad’s cell. ‘Skype is weird,’ he’ll say. We can only do this on weekends, he says, and we’ll do it all summer he’s out of school.

Here’s the thing. I think this little guy’s in my life so I can have something I never had growing up. We were born the same hour & minute, 5:47 am for me, 5:47 pm for him. What’s the chances of that! + A year ago, the last time they were here, he wanted to spend every night with me long before they arrived. Cried when he thought he couldn’t. He brought me so much joy, I cried when he didn’t.

The magic is simple. It’s not about being a grandmother. It’s about being in awe with him. He’s like me in so many ways. An artist, high achiever, dreamer. Full of wonder about the world and loves learning. We give to each other.

My favorite postcard. Look at that happy goat facing the sun. And that happy bluebird & turtle.

I met 24 yr. old Alex weeks ago when I knocked to ask if she was my new neighbor, could she please not leave her lights (plural) on all night. I’d covered a bedroom window with black plastic, which blocked the fresh air. The walls in my whole house stayed lit. I waited 5 nights to ask. It was already 10:30. She was so sweet. She asked what I’d do when new neighbors arrived, which she wasn’t. Same thing, I told her, and invited her outside to look up the street. All but one of the houses were dark. One dim streetlight for every 2 blocks.

When she looked up, saw the stars, she was amazed to see them so close to town. We talked a very long time, there in the dark late at night.

I learned she had a very bad past, had gotten in trouble. And she turned it around. She listens to podcasts of inspirational speakers, is studying Buddhism, adores her fiancee. She has aspirations to study forensic medicine, be a doctor. She supports herself with her business of rental properties.

She was there to clean and fix her grandmother’s house to sell. Her grandmother having passed at 98, right before I moved in. She invited me to pick the pink roses from her grandmother’s bush any time I want.

Another day I stopped by to tell her about the Buddhist center in the neighborhood. She’d just googled the closest meditation center too, too far away. She showed me what she’d done in the house on a small $500 budget. Her grandmother didn’t believe in traditional medicine, she said, and showed me the back room where her grandmother grew plants in pots for medicinal purposes. The yard had them, too, along with veggies, and greenbeans draped on the front chain-linked fence. A woman I would’ve liked.

Days later, asleep on the sofa with a movie playing away, I woke to my name called thru the screened door. It was Alex with a vase of roses.

She was leaving the next morning, and wanted to thank me for being so kind (her words). She said she felt lucky to meet me. I loved her by then, and wished she wasn’t leaving.

I talk about how writing can sing when it comes together just right. As a writer, there’s no greater feeling for me. I talk about how poetry sings. I realize this feeling of connection with my grandson and Alex is the same song. A song of life that’s brought alive, so I sing inside. It’s called Love.

In Santa Fe, Sikhs held a 4 hr event on the plaza. Dressed all in white & turbans, singing and chants with beautiful melodies. Accompanied by tabla drums, viola, guitars, keyboard, mandolin. Incredible musicians. Yoga, East Indian dancing. Free iced Yogi brand tea, and organic popcorn with the fixin’s. They’re all about feeding people. Even walked around, offered bottles of water. Tables with info on living healthy, their guru on a banner. Love, Peace, Kindness their message. No conversion, just Gratitude expressed for being here, thriving since 1971.

Love, giving, gratitude, sharing. Like my grandson and Alex and me together. All of us so different, and yet so alike. Hearts opening. Imagine that.

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

Tell me. . .what sparks wonder and love in you?

(I dried the roses Alex gave me. They’re in the picture at the top.)

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