Perfect Humans

Posted on May 9, 2017 by Heloise Jones

Can you see the heart in the weeds?

I call myself a recovering perfectionist. A friend recently said I was no longer recovering, that I’ve made it. All I need is to settle into this new way of being. I like to think that’s so. What I do know, I’ve learned a thing a two about perfectionism.

I got two postcards back-to-back from my grandson in Taiwan that really tweaked this whole issue for me. He usually writes every seven to ten days. But these are dated 5 days apart. No doubt for his excitement with his achievements. The list is stellar. It’s easy to understand his pride.

“The day before yesterday was sports day. It was super fun. I had a running race again; this time I won,” he wrote. “My drawing is in the high school; it was chosen. It’s a drawing of a tree with a swing on it and me standing beside the swing. . . Last Thursday and Friday I had exams. I got 99 for math, I got 96 for common sense, and the whole class only I got 100 for Chinese. I was shoked <sic> and happy. I didn’t know that would happen.”

I’m not sharing here to boast, tho I certainly could. He’s only 7. + this all portends well for his future in a culture that’s competitive, with less higher education slots than number of students. I’m sharing because of what happened inside me when I read his cards. After my WOW.

You see, none of his stardom surprises me. He truly is bright, observant, and curious. Truly considers what he sees, and works to make sense of the world in a way that uses his heart and mind.

I want to cheer him. I want to tell him what a star he is. How proud I am. And I want to give him something more. Something to hold on to, and know about himself when he’s not perfect. Something that will stave off perfectionism. The kind of perfectionism that serves bright, curious, exceptional children, but can choke them, too. Like I saw bloom in my 9-yr-old great-niece recently. A medal winning gymnast, Olympics bound, who wanted to destroy poems she wrote that she found less than perfect.

So, I wrote my best hope back to him:

Dear Chevalier – Yea YOU!

Oh, my goodness. You are certainly showing how smart – talented – and fast you are! Remember when you said you wished you were Flash so you could run fast enough to win the race – and I told you ‘3rd was good, just do your best. You’re as good as Flash.’ Well, now you won. Without being Flash. Just being your best right then. And next time, whether you’re 1st or not, you know you’re a good runner.

And your drawing is on display at the high school! You are a fine artist, and everyone can see! You’ll always be a fine artist. You know that now, right? Even when others don’t see, you’ll draw like artists draw, with what they see in their minds. Yea!! With what you see in your mind. Because you’re an artist.

And oh, my goodness – 96, 99, 100 in school exams. I am not surprised. You know why? Because you are curious, and interested in the world around you, and ask questions, and want to learn. All the smartest people are curious and interested in the world around them. They want to learn, like you. Your daddy is like that, too. :-))

So, now you know these other very important things, too. When you do your best, you may surprise yourself. And there’s always a next time to try.

I included a little yellow pin that says Bee’s Knees.

I don’t know if my letter will make sense to a little boy. But he saves all my cards, and one day may read it again. With my reminder, he may remember the conversation we had when he was here about how artists work. May remember how he felt free and satisfied when he did his own thing. He may even remember I told him he was as good as Flash. What I hope he remembers most, tho, is someone praised him for Who he is, as well as what he did.

Because I understand where he’s at. I was in the exact place when I was 5. My younger sister shared she observed the pressure I was under to perform and deliver, all wrapped in praise and encouragement. And decided she didn’t want that pressure for herself. Her way out was to randomly mark the answers on the aptitude tests when she started school. It didn’t bother her they thought her mentally challenged. I imagine the anger our father expressed in her defense probably made her feel special. She chose her path with no regrets.

It took years for me to break the bonds of perfectionism and reject feelings of not-good-enough. To discern when perfectionism serves, and when it doesn’t. To simply let things ride, and know I’m okay, anyway. To quit earning my breath, and understand in my cells my perfection is in being fully who I am – growing, making mistakes, and learning as humans do. I still have bouts when it snags me. But I know how to find my way out.

He may never respond the way I did. My letter may be imperfect. But it’s a gift I can give him today.
Isn’t he amazing?!

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

Tell me. . .what snags you up?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I did go ‘huh?’ on that 96 in common sense, wondering what they based it on.

Like what you read? Sign up for updates in your inbox.

Live your best Creative Life.

The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

Click Here!

Universe Says, Doin’ Alright

Posted on May 4, 2017 by Heloise Jones

“Expect your purpose to unfold in a series of shining moments.
Also, expect it to scare you witless.”
~ Martha Beck

Infamous Mercury retrograde goes direct in a week. The post affect another 4 days after that. I’ve long made the shift from looking at this period with trepidation. As a period where the works of daily life get wonked. To me, it’s a period of review, revisit, reconsider, make over. Before I go on, let me offer a new thought for those who stop here, thinking it a bunch of hooey.

Consider that the swing of the planets and inexplicable energies sit right next to particle physics, quarks, and Higgs boson (the God particle). That it’s all additional information. That it can be quite exciting when faith includes an expanded concept of the Universe and our place in it, and we’re linked to this universe in a way we can’t see. And our language and thoughts have power to change not only what’s in our heads, but the world around us. Like the Bible says it does. Consider the possibility that miracles exist. That coincidence and serendipity are commonplace, and all that makes them invisible is not noticing, or dismissing them as nothing wondrous when you do.

I once read God speaks to us in song lyrics, words on billboards, overheard conversations or something said by a friend, phrases that jump out in a book or magazine. I say thru Facebook, too. Read enough, it’s easy to believe. So many comments ‘just what I needed to hear today.’ I often share the messages and coincidence I see in this blog (like last week, that full day finding Home, and a few weeks before when messages collided like stars)

Here’s my confession. I had a serious moment of self-doubt the other day. I could see it happening and knew it was what I call my little-girl self. The one raised on crazy-making messages of be this, no, that. Whose perfectionism was praised and displayed as a shining banner to family friends. Who didn’t smile when she woke and felt the constant reminder of this flaw. Who was told she was too loud, always heard above the other kids. Who was repeatedly abandoned by the people she knew loved her, and beaten by the man who said he loved her. Who was always a tad behind her best friend Margie Applegate in schoolwork, choir, PE, and looks. Who never had a home for more than 4 consecutive years until she was 30. That girl. The one who bought it. I saw her and thought, nope, I don’t buy it anymore. But she lingered.

When snow and frigid temps arrived, I decided to pull back, just BE. I got the makin’s for hearty soup, signed on to Hulu, watched Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” the entire afternoon. Indoors, alone, Being. Little Doing. I did it again the next day (tho I can’t remember how the day flew). And I rose Monday knowing I choose, I can, I am.

Today the messenger angels swooped in. The personal ones saying ‘Right On’ to my Yes. First, the quote above reminding me the shining moments are real and true. That I feel such purpose, I think ‘next’ when something doesn’t fly right. I’m reminded that scared witless is what just happened, and it will happen again, and again. ‘Cause when you leave what you know so well behind for a better thing you’re positive of but haven’t lived fully, yet, scared happens. It’s only my head and experience keeping me back.

Following the quote was this from poet Maya Stein. She just lost her father, and is sharing parts of his truly remarkable, poetic, and loving correspondence to her on Facebook.

“. . .I admire your courage and curiosity and willingness to take risks. Not just risks about finding the right audience for your work, but risks about love, about life. What you are setting out to do is not just inventive and courageous, but it is also filled with risk: will these people who have invited me be interesting? will my workshops be fulfilling? will I come back home empty-handed and empty-pocketed? will I be bored out of my skull repeating something so many times? Will I be good at what I think I should be good at?

In any adventure– and this is surely an adventure you have created for yourself– there are bound to be surprises; and surprises come in many flavors, as you know. I wish for you the BEST surprises, and that whatever inevitable disappointments may occasionally arise, they will pale in the face of the inevitable successes. What you have to share is worth sharing, and you are incredibly good at sharing, and it is uniquely yours to share. The ultimate success is perhaps just that, the taking of your leap. . .”

Those words were like God speaking directly to me. Every bit.

The star on the cake came in a text from my sister. My sparkly, curious 9 yr. old Olympics-bound gymnast great-niece wrote a poem, wants me to see it. The end, “This bright shining star can lead the way. Nothing can stop it. . .” Wise little girl. She understands.

What I really want you to know is these messages are for you, too. So, go on back. Read them, again. It’s a magical world.

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

Tell me. . .what’s grabbed your heart lately? What’s let you know you’re alright?

Photo: Pamela Nhlengethwa, open copyright

Like what you read? Sign up for updates in your inbox.

*

Uplevel your creative life.

Read what people are saying here.

The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

Finding Home

Posted on April 27, 2017 by Heloise Jones

“But the moment I saw the brilliant proud morning shine
up over the deserts of Santa Fe, something stood still in my soul. . .
a new part of the soul woke up suddenly,
and the old world gave way to the new.”
~ DH Lawrence

I’m finally getting more than 3 hrs. sleep at a time. I’ve hit 4 in a row five times already! I still wake tired, but for now, I’ve let go thinking 5:30, gotta get up. And I love drifting back to sleep.

Restoration & Recovery, what it’s all about. Too many successive months of brutal push writing & launching a book, beginning a new journey to a creative life by my definition. Six weeks assaulted by allergies that not only robbed sleep, but my full breath, life rhythms, & clarity. I’m recovering my Happy. Cheer the triumphs, what I say.

Today I’m in a groove moving forward. Ticking things off a list. Not just things, really. But markers toward goals I made by my definition of success for myself. I still fret. Still wonder if it’s enough or I’m too late. But this motion is on the outside. A shift from the motion on my insides so intense I could call this blog Part 3, coming into daylight.

I’ve declared Thursdays for writing, a path back to fiction and poetry, deep loves of mine. 9am memoir class offering great prompts no matter what you write. Afternoons, a prompted writing group a block from home making it easy to go. Workshops when one speaks to me. The first workshop at a place with a cool name – Academy of the Love of Learning.

I’m not sure how to explain the magical cohesion of that writing day. How everything pointed to Home. How the morning was about place, specifically Santa Fe. Write what it means to you, the teacher said. My short answer – Home. Home’s been up for years. I’ve written about it here, and here, and here. Four moves in five years + divesting 80% of one’s belongings can sure bring it up, too.

That afternoon I wrote “How strong is the heart. How much battering can it take from the blood pumping with strong emotion. How long ‘til it wants to surrender. The huff & puff of overworking this central barometer of my Being that needs care & maintenance.”

That night the workshop was a process of spoken word, writing, and painting. The prompt a poem “where i’m from” by George Ella Lyon. My spoken words landed at age 8-9. When I lost family & home for the first time with awareness. Everything else blank, as if those two years were all I was from.

I took a journey in the writing segment. Starting at a slant from the corner of a 12×18″ thick sheet of paper, I wrote intuitively. Changed direction 7 times. I started, “Iam from red oriental rugs and books, stacks of stories.”

I traveled across the page. “Home a four letter word lodged in my chest like a chicken bone – ’til the day I said I am happy. I am from Alone & Angels & Wonder & Curiosity & Willingness & fear & sadness & creatingcreatingcreating. I am from dry winds.”

I wrote on down to “I am from heart and mind, and space, and the swirl of stars. Deep beyond bone deep longing. Deep where the beat I hear is not my own heart. . .to the light I am from.”

And then we painted on the paper. Without thinking or looking at words, I painted blocks and swirls and lines of richness and wash – COLOR. The facilitator put on Vivaldi’s ‘4 Seasons.’ I don’t remember which one of the four, but my whole body moved with the music. Only after we stopped did I look how the color washed the words. How the blank space on the page held shades of reddish-pink. I remembered thinking it like blood in water, then thinking a flower. My beginnings are covered in green. The deep yellow circle I needed saturated. It was a sun cradled in turquoise & green, washed over the word God and “I am from the Universe, star of stardust. Dust. I am from some days I wish I could remember how to fly and how to walk thru walls. I am from dreams. . .”

I decided not to think myself thru this exercise. The next day the answer to the memory I asked my sister about, the one that’s haunted me for decades, emerged.

With so much interconnectedness, I thought this inner work on Home complete. But two days later, thrilled the restrung & cleaned blinds were going up, I moved the sofa to help. Which toppled the lamp that knocked over a vase with lilacs in water that soaked the edges of fav periodicals I valued enough to bring cross country. Before it crashed and broke the large textured & painted ceramic bowl made by a Santa Fe artist that can’t be replaced. The one I babied thru 6 moves in 22 years. And to top it, the wrong blinds were delivered, so no comfort there.

I watched a BBC documentary about Neil Young after that. Kept glancing at that broken bowl, the large black plastic bags still taped to the window, thinking Home.

But something miraculous happened the next morning. Rain came. Tamped down the pollen that aggravated my allergies. The plants & trees got watered effortlessly. When I opened my computer, an email announced I won a small painting by Lori Walters in a random drawing. I love Lori’s colorful, heart-filled images. They reflect something inside me that makes everything feel OK. You know I don’t believe in coincidence, so for me it was all about Love.

That same day, I stopped at a place 1/2 block from my home to inquire about a permanent venue for my “Writer’s Block Myth” mini-workshops, got a provisional Yes. A day later, when the guy at a restaurant delivered my salad, my notebook open on the table to the page I just wrote across, me playing with the phone to get a picture of my cool view in the place, I got surprised. So, sorry, I’m trying to be creative here, I told him. ‘I’m always trying to be creative. I’m a writer!” he said. His face bright. But I off-handedly said ‘I’m a writer, too. Creative what I do.’

As I ate, I thought how I might’ve engaged him, been more open. I sent him my card. “Wishing you the Best with your writing” written on the back. And during the conversation with the gal sitting next to me (the tables are really close), she says her husband writes, goes to conferences and bookfairs, and asks for a card. A bit later, the waitress comes over, asks if I have another card. Heloise World officially shifted.

Sometimes finding Home is not what we expect. Sometimes Home is a new story of coming back to something inside us. Those five years in Florida as me coming back to my intuition and connection with the Universe. Here, to being fully Me fully supported. Something I knew could be true.

I don’t have to do this alone. None of us do.

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

Tell me. . .what are you from?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .that quote above by DH. Happened just like that for me, too, in 1993. The quote was shared at the end of the workshop.

St. Benedict quote painted by Lori Walters.

Like what you read? Sign up for updates in your inbox.

Go here for a new story about your life in the real world.

The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

How to Observe with Awareness

Posted on April 22, 2017 by Heloise Jones

There’s an elementary school crossing guard here in Santa Fe who always waves as you pass. He’s tall, thin, with dark hair and a mustache, and always seems to have a big smile on his face. In my mind, his name is Jack.

The drive past the school can be frustrating. The street’s narrow. Vehicles in wait for youngsters choke the passage. But as I slow down, right after I think darn, should’ve gone the other way, I look ahead for Jack. And this is the magical part. Each and every time I wait for his wave and smile. And feel happy when I wave back as I creep by. Even knowing by now he will wave whether it’s after his stop sign drops or if the crosswalk is clear. As if he knows how important he truly is. As if that wave with a smile is part of the job. Part of making the world a safer, calmer, friendlier place. Like the young daughter of a Facebook friend observed, “That guy holds the whole school together.” Her reasoning – if he doesn’t help people cross, no one gets to school. If he doesn’t stop cars, it’d be backed up with cars everywhere. Makes sense to me.

What this has to do with writing is in those moments I traverse that block, I’m completely present, observing with awareness. Not just the road or how close I am to the vehicles I pass, but the cues ahead, the man, what’s happening inside me. He makes me smile when he waves. I always feel better when I wave back, and carry my smile another mile.

A friend shared a goat ate her To-Do list. She was walking on a residential street a block or two off one of the main thoroughfares in Santa Fe. Her mind full of everything that needed doing. When she paused, a goat stuck its nose thru a fence, pulled the paper right from her fingers. Completely surprised her. With total calm, the goat watched her as it chewed her list. That got me thinking to let go of that list and get writing, she said. Her awareness went beyond the goat. It went to observing her bigger picture, and her intentions for writing.

Observing with awareness is one of the key things writers do besides pen to paper & fingers to keyboard. It informs what we know. Our knowledge of people, environments, and the world expands. What we observe informs our work. The details we choose from what we observe affect how we engage readers.

There’s a quote by author Nancy Peacock in The Writer’s Block Myth that perfectly illustrates this. She’s at the beach. With a few details, we know the unfriendly weather and landscape. But it doesn’t matter she’s sequestered indoors, she says. She’s wondering what it would be like for her character to see the ocean for the first time.

Another example in the book is by poet Rachel Ballentine. She describes what could be an ordinary morning walk, but the details she chooses give the reader anything but an ordinary experience. Such as a dead tiny yellow bird, and metal lanyards against flagpoles sounding like windchimes. And with four words of observation, she let’s us know the time of morning and that she’s alone, “. . .everyone was still asleep.”

Observe with awareness.

Sit outdoors and choose one aspect of what’s around you – buildings, people, trees, sidewalk, cars. Collect all the details of what you observe in that one aspect. Do the same indoors.
Look at the sky. Observe how you feel when you see it, and what it reminds you of. What words would you choose to describe it visually so someone can see and feel it, too. I once saw a sheet of dark clouds move over the ceiling of the sky that reminded me of a moonroof on a car closing. Another time, observing hundreds of shore birds of all kinds at dawn, ‘I stand at the altar of birds’ came to me. It was the catalyst for my Pushcart Prize nominated poem.
Look for the ordinary, consider how it’s not ordinary. Perhaps it’s the juxtaposition of details about the thing, such as the beauty of a tiny yellow bird + it being dead. Perhaps it’s something that can feel like a deprivation, but can also hold wonder, such as someone seeing a roiling sea for the first time.
Fiction writers often eavesdrop. Listen. What do you hear? Write it all down. Even snippets and sentences.
Look at details in images, such as the one above. What do you notice about the rosaries? Or about the tree and surroundings? What can you deduce from each detail you notice.

If you’ve started your Evidence Journal, your tangible notes of when you write and do what writers do, record this time when you’re observing in it. The details are what life and stories are made of. Any one can be a prompt.

Like what you read? Sign up for updates in your inbox.

I work with people who have a vision & desire to write.
Sound like you? Go Here.

Want to keep going to the last page?

Get. It. Here.

A New Story, Part 2

Posted on April 20, 2017 by Heloise Jones

“Their language sounded like stars would sound, but also like
chunks of lard, and the wind in the trees, and arrows zinging through the air.
I could make no sense of it.”
~ Nancy Peacock (from “The Life & Times of Persimmon Wilson”)
*

I paused sending this to you twice, because there’s been something on the tip of my thoughts that hadn’t flown in, yet. Writing life in the flow, or not flow, can be that way.

The ‘not flow’ seems to be the story. One I’m changing this minute, because shifting my stories about myself, my relationships, and my life is what’s up. And I’m ready.

The ‘not flow’ is because I didn’t achieve what I wanted these last 10 days. I felt anxious. I was falling behind in important intentions! (sound familiar?) I clearly needed breath to see the truth – big stuff happened amongst the mundane of taxes and whittling piles of admin to-dos. Gifts I did not expect (!) at all.

An author I’ve worked with before asked me to edit part of a manuscript after another professional editor’s been through it. Every editor has their lens, I told her. But she knows I read between the lines. That I intuitively feel & hear the work as well as think my way thru. She needed my kind of help. Nothing out of the ordinary except for one thing. I lost 5 hrs. of notes when I hit the wrong button to save, and I had to redo it.

In the midst of the reprise, I sunk into the presence immersion in process requires. Gave up the story of what that day would be. After I sent the files, I considered what happened, realized long written reports aren’t the way my best work gets done, no matter what others do. Reports leave too much out of what I offer. And drain me. I want to give my best. That slap on the side of an exhausted head gave me confidence. Decidedly a step forward, and a new story. Mercury retrograde at it’s best.

The other biggie was my sister and 9-yr-old great-niece Finley visiting for a day. They were in Albuquerque for a regional gymnastics meet. Fin is a champion slated for the Olympics. My sister is a mother to her. This was no ordinary visit. I wrote (here) how my sister and I have history, distance, oodles of difference between us. And tho we talk on occasion, I’ve only briefly seen her once since 1993. I knew where I’d take them because my sister shared what Finley liked. And I was excited.

The morning they were due, I glanced at the rain stick in the corner of my office. Immediately I knew I’d give it to Finley. It was a gift from a shopkeeper in the then minute town of Bisbee, AZ. I was driving across country with my son. His girlfriend was in eastern AZ. The short version is our next stop was a hospital in Houston where I’d just learned my mother lay. He wanted time with his girlfriend. The nurses said my mother was strong. I went to Bisbee for the day.

What a magical day. Gifts at every stop. Expensive precious gemstones placed in the cracks between my fingers. Music in doorways. And the rainstick handed me when I mentioned my mother after a long conversation with the gal in the shop. My son and I drove out the next day. We were 3 hrs. from my mother when she died. I never saw her.

I presented the rain stick to Finley at the door. This is special, I said. Holds the energy of your great-grandma. It felt so fitting, like continuing my family line. + Finley’s the light of my sister’s heart. And my sister was the light of my mother’s heart. I guess I held it these 23 yrs. just for her. She loves it.

From the minute we stepped out, Finley showed who she is. She leaned in when I told her how to walk in the desert. Step where there’s no vegetation, don’t crush the plants. Flowers and plants we don’t see can sprout with the slightest rain.

She’s smitten with Indian pottery, sought it out. Without hesitation, declared the pottery room at the Museum of Indian Arts & Culture her fav. I offered her the first pot I bought in NM. A smoke-fired porcelain beauty of a vessel. A sculptured turtle atop the lid. We discussed how it laid in the ashes. Discerned by the smoke the lid was not on at the time. Only after this did she decide she’d take it.

I realized how much Finley reminds me of myself after they left. Her curiosity, interest in the way the world works, her affinity for pottery. The way she ‘knows’ what she likes despite anyone else. Things she showed again and again during the day.

I asked her if she ever thought about falling straight on her face as she learned the gymnastic flips & moves. She looked me straight in the eyes, said, Doesn’t everything important and hard to do have a little danger and risk? My God, I thought. She’s nine. That desire to do her best no matter the cost, her acceptance of costs, also remind me of myself.

The big gift Finley gave me was a chance to share my wonder and fascination with the world. To express my excitement and appreciations. To share the things I’ve gathered over the years that give me pleasure, and see her pleasure in them, too. Her unself-conscious expressions of love for my sister touched me. I use the word Love, a lot.

 They left nearly 3 hrs. later than intended. Gave up dinner & watching the sunset high on Sandia mountain. Gave up the last meet-up with colleagues. Stayed because my sister had one of the best days ever. I know because I heard her say those exact words to her son. Heart-full is what I say.

Sidebar. . .my sister and I didn’t talk family, politics, or the past. It was easy. I asked only one question. I have a memory: me as a young child sitting midway down the steep stairs in my grandparents’ house. The house is quiet, dark. There’s a big window at the foot of the stairs. The bright light blazes at the window, but I see nothing beyond. Does she remember anything like that? I learned her memories are much more joyful. And that’s a story I can hold just fine.

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

Tell me. . .what surprises have you found in your stories lately?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .my sparkly grandson’s like Finley. Gives me the same freedom.

Like what you read? Sign up for updates in your inbox.

Category: life