Category: life

Celebrate the Triumphs

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“We are stars, all of us. Radiant. Brilliant. Shimmering. Each one a sun. Huge. Yet, small. Yet, huge. Tucked into a little pocket of the universe, with a beating heart. Stellar from the inside out.” 
~ Lea Redmond, (from Teacup Constellation, a video)

I love that my sister-in-law always sends occasional & holiday cards thru the mail. Something wonderful about personal mail in an envelope. Love that my birthday card arrived 2 days after The Day, what I call perfect time. Because we should celebrate our birthdays until we forget we had one. Celebrating is important. As are breaks. Something I haven’t done with ease in ages.

One afternoon this week I took off for hours, tho. I’d given the iron to my husband Art since he irons and I haven’t ironed a thing in yeeeears. It was in NC and I wanted a very cute jacket for a photo shoot that had suitcase-pressed wrinkles stream from the shower wouldn’t loosen. I called my textile artist friend. Her iron was space-age. Looked like a high-end running shoe. Her studio was sunny. The window with the lush geranium and cobalt glass in the mobile that matched the paint on the sills and fence outside captivated me. I took pictures. Then we walked around her yard in the sunshine. It was beyond zero zero-scaped, but had wonderful treasures.

 Like a raven at a stone circle around a tree,


and buddha in a spiral labyrinth,

and a statue I made that I gave her when I left Santa Fe in 1998.

I’m urged to take breaks by someone who’s helping me take my work to the world in a bigger way. A day I felt rotten with allergies, she said step away from the computer, take care of your health. I welcomed permission. It worked in restoring my silver-lining self. The next morning I appreciated being dressed immediately upon rising. Having jumped into the shower because the steam helps the sinuses. I appreciated not being at the computer in jammies with bedhead & sleep in my eyes ’til late morning. I appreciated tasting my tea, which I don’t fully do when I’m at the computer. I called the shift a triumph. Something I write about in my book: celebrate the triumphs.

But the day I had a photo shoot, was told to go for lunch afterward, celebrate, I didn’t do it. I walked in the sunshine. Got a favorite sandwich I called a treat to eat at home. Bought juice from the juice bar, another treat. I enjoyed myself, didn’t return to the computer for several hours. But it wasn’t celebrating. It was a pause, something else I write about in the book: the value of pauses. I felt good about the shoot and it was a triumph. It needed more than a pause.

Every day I discover another (new to me) brilliantly creative person. Doing work that brings people together. That changes lives ’cause it empowers, inspires hope, adds something lovely to life in the real world. Exactly what I want my book to do. Exactly what I hope for my own work with others. This past week my discovery was Amy Krouse Rosenthal.

I’ve missed these people & their work because I didn’t take enough initiative to expand my community far enough beyond what I know. It’s thru others that we find others, become aware of darned good work getting done. Others can mirror ourselves, too. The good and not so good.

I read last night Amy Krouse Rosenthal passed from this earth. Something I learned was imminent at the same time I learned she existed. Artist Lea Redmond created a video called Teacup Constellation as a gift for her. Amy shared it with the world on facebook, and I believe she would love it passed on because it carries the heart of her  message within her work.

Watch Teacup Constellation here.  It’s magical.

We must celebrate triumphs and take pauses. Because we need to. We must care for ourselves as we connect with others. As we put our good work into the world. And always, always welcome the reminders.

On the third day of my soft launch for The Writer’s Block Myth, I woke to this in my inbox:
“In addition to hitting #1 in the charts for Authorship and Writing Skills, the book has hit #1 for Publishing & Books, as well as #2 for Writing, Research and Publishing Guides. At the moment, The Writer’s Block Myth is sitting at #584 on the Amazon platform of all free eBooks, which is really amazing.”  That deserved a celebration. And today, the day my book launches does, too.

I’m relearning what I once knew well, grateful for the triumph.

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

Tell me. . .how do you celebrate triumphs? How do you take pauses?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m a fast learner.

In the Midst of Community

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“Always Trust Magic,
where purpose and happenstance seem to intersect.”
~ Amy Krouse Rosenthal
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There’s a great article about S. E. Hinton who wrote the book “The Outsiders.” She was 15, looking for a reflection of the world she inhabited and not finding it. She wrote a book. And it was a  bestseller, made into a movie. I saw the movie, never read the book. I wonder now how I might’ve related. Today what I love in the article was this passage:

” ‘I was born without the need-to-belong gene, the gene that says you have to be in a little group to feel secure,’ <she said> Which is maybe just another way of saying that she was a natural born writer — human enough to feel for others, yet sufficiently comfortable with solitude to get the pages down. Her characters, by contrast, embody and implicitly understand the contradictory wages of group identity, its sorrowful stain and addictive comforts.”

Without a need-to-belong gene. Comfortable with solitude. Empathy. hmmm

I moved 3-4 yrs. on average growing up. Not a military brat, so none of the consistency of a base or like experience with others built-in. I never had a crowd of friends anywhere I lived, but almost immediately I connected with a best friend. Sometimes several. I connected with people. Everyone I invited came to my 8th grade slumber party, even the popular girls. And it was a huge success. Those two facts a huge amazement to me. I remember that feeling.

In 10th grade I moved to Houston. My high school was brand new. Built in the middle of Texas plain, nothing around it. Built small enough to draw the district so students were all white. A fact I learned later in the civics class where we explored moral questions. (think of that juxtaposition) One of the classes I assume got the school the distinction of being a model of academics. Got it written up in Parade magazine & other periodicals. But on the ground, it was like any other school.

There were identifiable groups. The popular crowd (mostly lived in big houses; the girls and boys shining, outgoing.) The bikers. The outsiders (the girls adventurous, rumored loose). The surfers (the loners & dreamers with long hair, individuals).

I realize now I made choices. I had invitations into all of them. Dates with popular boys. Overnights and hang-outs with the outsiders. I loved riding bikes, but I found it outside school. I never surfed but they were ultimately my peeps.

Last Saturday I went to a ‘style’ show presented by a master seamstress (with a degree from Parsons, no less) that wasn’t as much about style as design, patterns, luscious fabrics with luscious hand (vintage kimono silks!), craftsmanship in construction that took my breath away with desire. Everything I love. The gal sitting beside me in the tiny room leaned over at one point, said ‘you should volunteer to model.’ We shared asides like old friends from then on. For the entire hour I wondered where I’d met her, she looked so familiar. Afterwards I learned she felt the same way.

Once outside, I wasn’t ready to go home alone and work. I caved to my days-long craving for salmon and popped into the casual place where I know the food is good, got a salmon sandwich.  The fries were thinner than skinny straws, piled high, and cold. I asked the young gal at the counter if I might get hot ones. In minutes she was back. ‘You gotta have ‘em hot,’ she said. ‘Mine are usually cold since I’m working when I get to them.’ They were so good, I picked at the cold pile when the hot fries were gone. With delight, discovered the crispy ones good as chips. On the way out I called to the young gal, ‘I know the secret of cold fries.’ She came over, and we did a high five to the secret.

The next night at a Hawaiian music concert, I acknowledged a comment by the gal next to me regarding a singer’s range. I don’t even know how it happened, but seconds later we were discussing language in song & sharing Hawaii love. Her eyes sparked at the mention of the title of my book. Another secret writer.

In high school, groups were where we learned to create community, and live as a member of community. Where we learned how to act and/or shut up if we wanted to belong. Where lines were drawn for us. Where we learned to bend to the pressures of the group. It starts earlier, but this is where we come into our own in community.

For the loners, like me, we got it from our families and broader society. I wish I’d been one of the strong ones who took their individuality and wore it like a badge. But I was the natural born writer with too much empathy, keen sense of observation, and artistic way of being in/with the world that I never understood why I was OK.

Looking back at the road I traveled to here, I’ve always had community, even friends. Some for a time, some a season, some still there after 22 yrs., some in brief moments. Even during those painful five years of near isolation in Florida. My community in that time was nature and the Divine some call God’s realm and I call the Universe.

But what happened this week. . .the connections, the sense of finding the exquisite point of connection in a shared experience. . .that’s what community is about. For all of us. From there we carry if forward with all the layers.

These days I fight getting contracted with each blow to society (our community) Congress delivers. Each blow stunning in its absoluteness for groups of people, the environment, the commonalities we share. We need Hope to keep going ’cause we’re human, and Hope is fuel for humans. Our communities sustain us.

So, the questions become, do any of us have a no-need-to-belong gene? How do we realize there’s limitation in belonging to this group or that with exclusion to others, that our community is everywhere? How do we move forward and preserve our humanity to others? Even for a moment, how do we trust magic?

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

Tell me. . .your answers to those questions I’m asking?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m in that plane up there. The Full of Me traveling over magical lands.

Image: detail from the painting ‘The Road to the Zobanian Consulate’ (2001) by George Lowe

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Not How the Story Ends

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At any given moment you have the power to say: “This is not how the story is going to end.” ~ Christine Mason Miller
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I used to post vignettes on Facebook about my encounters with homeless people on the street. Tiny stories about once a month. In St. Petersburg where I lived, I saw them whenever I went downtown, which was often. They hung out at a park in the heart of the city, where all the buses came & went. I carried a wad of one & five dollar bills in a zipper pocket of my purse so I could easily reach when they asked. I’m a bleeding heart, but the thing is, I didn’t mind. They kept me present. Not with comparison of how fortunate I am. I remind myself of that daily. But with a vow I made 20 yrs. earlier to look them in the eyes. To remain aware of the humanity in all people.

This week I unwrapped a paperback copy of Merriam-Webster dictionary from the plastic bag that’s held it two years. There’s a story with this dictionary. About struggle and desire for a story in a man named Elvin that I met on the street. And his request I turned down, never had a chance to fix. A loss that kept me from unwrapping that dictionary for two years.

I’d just made a promise to myself that if anyone said they were hungry, I’d buy them food. And as  happens often, the Universe gave me a chance to show I meant it.

I was distracted, intent on my destination. I saw the man approach, noted he looked clean. But it was moments after Elvin said he was hungry and I handed over my usual $2 in response, that I realized what I’d done. I turned, ran  a block to catch up. He was turning away from a couple who’d said no. Do you want a sandwich? I said, pointing to the fabulous sandwich shop next to us. His eyes lit up. What kind of sandwich, he asked. Any kind you want, I said. ‘Even turkey? With mayonnaise and cheese?’ he said. I remember my heart breaking a little in thinking mayo & cheese such a treat as he face showed.

He looked  at me before he answered whenever the gal asked for specifics – cheese, mayo, grilled, side. When he said he’d take it to go, I asked if he might want to eat it there. Hoped my question told him it was okay. I’d seen homeless chased from the shop, even with money to buy. I waited as he considered, was pleased when he decided to stay. And here’s where the story turns.

I saw him to his table, said I had to go. He thanked me, then, ‘What do you do?’ When he heard I was a writer, he said he wanted to write his mother’s story. ‘She’s the only one I know who’s never been in jail.’ Imagine the volumes in that line. I slid into the chair across from him.

I learned he has brain damage. The side of his head caved in by a hammer. That he got $600 disability, $500 of which went for a small room in a house that’s too far from town (read, where the agencies are). He came to St. Pete ‘cause it was ‘bad news’ in the town where he’d lived. Just grabbed what he could carry, left one day. He had one gray t-shirt. You saved your life, I said. He nodded. We made a date for the next time he’d take the bus to town.

When we met, he showed me the tiny pocket notepad he had for writing. I handed him a bag with a big notebook and package of pens. He eagerly took notes in it as I gave him a small lesson on free writes and prompts to help him get started. And asked intelligent questions about writing. I talked to him about what he wanted with this story, told him I’d help get it published. He declined when I offered a sandwich. We went for a coke down the street instead.

I learned he’d lost his cellphone. That he took the offer of a ride to the beach and while in the water, the guy stole his phone & left him without a ride. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said. ‘I knew better. I just wanted to go to the beach so bad.’ He didn’t utter one bad word about the thief. I told him how much I liked him, and totally meant it. He said he liked me, too. We smiled with our new friendship.

Here’s the thing. Elvin asked for only one thing from me that day besides a coke. A dictionary. I confess at that moment I didn’t know how to keep the relationship between us even. I told him I didn’t have one, but I could give him a copy of a synonym finder I had. He seemed OK. We made another date for the next week.

And I bought a dictionary. I labored over getting the right one. Paperback that he could hold with one hand, since one of his arms didn’t work well after the hammer blow. Big type ‘cause his eyesight’s affected, too. He’d said he wanted a job. I called agencies for how he might find one.

I arrived on the minute of our date, flying in with a prayer I’d not be late. Elvin wasn’t there. I waited, walked the block, went to the park where the buses come & go several times. Sat until a gal from the sandwich shop came out, said ‘my friend’ left right before I arrived. I was distraught. I called his father in that ‘bad news’ town, left a message for him with my phone number. The phone number something I’d withheld “for safety.”

Elvin called me twice after that. The first time he apologized for leaving, asked if I could help him. I told him I didn’t have money to give, but I could drive him to the agencies, drive him home if he came to town. That I’d take him to the best Goodwill, buy him some clothes. He said OK, but he wasn’t there next time, either.

The second time it was a phone message. He was finding another place to live closer to town, he said. He’d be in touch when he settled.

I’ve thought about him ever since. I wanted to know him. I wanted to help him write his mother’s story. Wanted to see it published, like he wanted. In my mind it would be a bestseller. I wanted the chance to be in this beautiful person’s presence. 

Because in that brief time we had, he constantly amazed me and made my heart open wider.

And that said, the truth is it was never equal between us. Me, a white woman of privilege. Him a black man with challenges I can never truly know. The distance between us maybe too big for where I was and where he was at the time, despite intentions. I will never know. I left a message for his father only once after that.

I walked the arroyo this past weekend with a friend. I couldn’t help thinking how the water flows like storylines in a book. . .or in a life. Which way do you go?

And how the entire ecosystem of Yellowstone National Park transformed, turned back to health by the re-introduction of wolves, a species once eradicated as a threat. How other species flourished when the wolves came back, and a ravaged river returned to it’s former glory. How our country was replaying this story, but with human beings as the threat.

I unwrapped the dictionary after holding it a hundred times these past two years, unable to pull it out. I think shedding that bag was my declaration. This is not how the story is going to end.

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

Tell me. . .what do you think, how will your stories end?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I still hope to see Elvin one day, despite now living 1789 miles away.

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Another way to change the story.
The Writer’s Block Myth – A Guide to Get Past Stuck &
Experience Lasting Creative Freedome.


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Space in the Real World

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‘Like angels and birds, poems flew to me unbidden as I transitioned through fear in the dissolution of my marriage and faced challenges as a single parent of a young child. Perfectly rhymed chronicles of my heart and thoughts spontaneously sprung from my pen. . .’
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This won’t be perfect. I’m sure I’ll be back to edit. Because I learned I transferred money in the wrong direction between banks, and I’m scary overdrawn. Which means I run to the bank before I wordsmith. Ouch. A too-full mind missing details as I create a new life once more. Time blocked for writing and biz making, then pulled away by surprises with works put out less than perfect, needing rewrites & edits. Writer Life. Real Life, too.

Last week I shared poet Maya Stein’s query: ‘If you were to write 3 poems this week, what would be their titles?‘ One of mine – What Space Looks Like. Space is definitely up for me.

Every other week I get a postcard from my grandson in Taiwan. We don’t Skype so these are my tiny snapshots of his growing up I’ll never see. I send him cards, too, but haven’t figured how to get beyond the little sentences about his storytelling contest where so scared he almost scratched his butt, or petting silka deer at the beach who like him. A huge wave of missing his sparkly love and laugh washed over me with this week’s postcard. I wrote two back to him. And opening the linen cabinet, the blue towel caught me.

My son’s towels were always blue. It may sound crazy since he left home decades ago, but I always have that blue towel in my linen closet. It holds the space of me and him together. Like the stack of cards on my shelf does for my grandson. As I read the news, I can’t help wondering what holds the space of relationships for immigrants & refugees separated from their families. I know it must hurt their hearts like it hurts mine.

Someone who knows said her calendar is her freedom maker (read, space maker). It gives her permission to stop, step away from work and live with presence in ways that give balance. Because I’ve always been a work-til-the-task’s-done person, I’m still working on the calendar part. But I realized guilt and shoulds swallow my space as much as any thought of not having time. They’re linked. So this week I practiced no guilt as part of claiming space in rebuilding my life.

I met a friend who’s passionate about tea. He created a little tea-room in his bodywork office complete with low table filled with tea pots & small cups + cushions to sit on. I love his gentleness, and how happiness surrounds him since he married his longtime partner last year.

He had three containers lined up, told me to choose. I smelled each. Picked the one that made my eyes light up. It’s complexity excited me. I didn’t know what to think. The leaves were beautiful, too. A mixture of shades in brown, black, sage, & green that touched the artist in me. He told me it was an award-winning oolong he brought back from Taiwan when he toured tea farms. It’s the most expensive tea I ever bought, he said. He shared how tea farms are passed to sons, except this particular farm which passed to the daughter. Because she has the nose, touch, feel of everything tea. Her father still works for her.

We shared our delight and evaluated the infusions. He marked the seconds of ea. brew for future reference. We’ve got to do this tea together, again, he said as I was leaving. And this wonderful man, after sharing his prize, was gracious in thanking me for the gift of tea I brought him. I felt wholly filled with space.

Then a friend surprised me with a $25 birthday gift toward a massage at Ojo Caliente mineral springs. I said Yes to the day she had free. Ojo is part of what we do together. Started 23 yrs. ago when I lived here. Every other week for four yrs. we drove an hour across the NM countryside for a soak. It was on the calendar. What made this really big is for the first time in six years I have friends with me on my birthday. After 18 yrs. celebrating my Santa Fe friends’ birthdays each fall with a lunch or other gifts. We laughed. We put it on the calendar once more. Space carved.

There’s a shot I love of Rachel Ballentine, a poet whose observations of the world around her are so sentient I included one in my book The Writer’s Block Myth. The shot is so intimate, it’s almost as if we’re voyeurs. She looks about five. Her dress is plaid with lace trim, the kind of an era when young girls wore such serious patterns in often serious colors. She holds a brush lightly in her hand. So gently held it appears as if it could slip thru her fingers. The angle as if it might be calligraphy she paints. I love that it’s a brush, because she paints now, too. What I love most, tho, is the expression on her face. It’s one of complete Engagement and Peace. It conveys what all writers and artists know about immersion in the creative process.

That creating is often an intimate experience, especially for writers, and conversely the space is huge inside us when we’re in it. Rachel’s picture shows exactly what creative freedom looks like, for big people and small.

It feels as if the world is losing space right now. Not just info overload, or confusion of what’s real and what’s not, but freedoms lost in a veil of lies and self-serving kleptocrats. Protections of animals and the environment dismantled for the avarice of individuals and corporations. Space to contribute and live healthy lives co-opted as fingers point and bullies threaten anything ‘other.‘ A new set of shoulds being created for survival.

Author Nancy Peacock hits home with this: “The artist is always. . .between two opposite poles. This is what makes the artist. The ability to exist in the center of insanity and still bring something forth – of beauty, of importance, a story not yet told, a line of song, a note not yet sung. Making your art is more important now than it has ever been, and this will remain true for the rest of your life, no matter what happens or does not happen.“

This is my belief. Making art and writing are not selfish or frivolous. They’re necessary gifts in the mix of Life on Earth and create space for all of us. Writers and artists are the Voice for those who can’t say it, hold the Vision for those who need it, are the conscience of society. Sounds lofty, but that’s what I’ve come to believe bigtime.

I wrote a book to support writers and creatives. To help them thru the snarlies of life so they stay on their feet to live, work, and create at their best. Writers and creatives and all of us living in the Real World need space to use what we have. Words are what a writer has.

So, what you can do. . .give a book to a writer. Right now. Because I tell ya, I’m not the only one looking for breath and space.

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

How do you find space in your life? Write me in the comments below.

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Using What I Have

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“The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word.
He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices:
the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art.”
~ Federico García Lorca
(poet, playwright, & theatre director executed by Franco).
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I typically scan facebook for the patterns in what’s been up for me. The sum today is I slept many hours last night, starting 8pm on the sofa, moving to bed at 11:30, & with waking only once, rising late @ 7am. After weeks of scant sleep + insomnia the night before from which I rose, pulled out my courage & contacted folks for book reviews, and others with a dissatisfaction. My publisher told me launching a book is a marathon, not a sprint. But the fact is I’m sprinting to catch up from the late start in the process, and the move to Santa Fe, creating a functioning home with box-lined walls, plastic bins at the ready in the garage for re-packaging from the cardboard mousies love. Sprinting to regain a rhythm in my life.

The other day I went to a movie for the first time in a year. As I pulled from my driveway, I saw clear through the picture window of my little home to the light & view out the kitchen window at the back of the house. It rather stunned me. I thought, this is why I’m here. To do my work with a sense of space and expansiveness outside me and inside me. This does not require a sprint.

By my front door is a ceramic vase with two delicate oriental cranes on it. I bought it in Jacksonville. It’s not my style and made no sense to get it then, nor any time I’ve looked at it in the ensuing 4 years. But I was, and still am, completely drawn to it. Then this. . .

For a year before I returned to Santa Fe, I subscribed to New Mexico magazine. I’ve moved magazines before. They’re heavy & never worth the cost. But the little voice said ‘throw this one in the box.’ Sandhill cranes and the caption ‘Flocking to NM’ on the cover. I flipped through it the morning I pulled it from the box. Read ‘Preparing for Liftoff’ + an 8-pg. spread on writers and indy bookstores. This note stuck out: “. . .the National Endowment for the Humanities has ranked New Mexico first in the nation for the number of working writers per captia.” Those unseen guides, talking to me even in Jax.

A family member wrote on fb I should quit sharing my thoughts about the world and focus on selling my book. (I’m really nice in my posts, focusing on love of the planet & humanity, empowerment) Two people responded. One said she vehemently disagrees. ‘Your influence as a writer is far greater than any of us less articulate folks. Please use it as your conscience dictates.’ Another said, ‘Yes!!! Love your voice and the strength that fuels it.”

I’ve always been an artist, creativity at the heart of every job I’ve had. I asked my mother when she was dying what she remembered I loved to do most when I was a kid. ‘Draw,’ she said. ‘From the time you could hold a pencil.’ At eight, I made folders out of 2 sheets of notebook paper, the front sheet folded down. forming a flap. The sides taped or stapled. I colored pictures with themes on the front – holidays, myths, animals. I wrote stories & drew pictures to fit the themes. My first experience of writer’s block was in 3rd grade. I sat at a brown lunch table composing a poem, prompted by one I saw in a school newsletter. I thought a poem something I could do. But young as I was, I questioned myself, never submitted it. The next year I wrote stories for a book I planned, complete with Table of Contents. At 18, tho, I turned in a blank sheet of paper to my college professor every Friday in response to our single assignment for the day, Write. That failure kept me from having the GPA to continue school. Took 5 tries to get my degree and find my worldly heart. Two while in an abusive marriage. Five. Persistence.

For months I’ve come out with aspects of my past that I’d kept to myself because, well, I felt ashamed about some of it. + I didn’t want to be identified with stuff that happened years and decades ago. . .when I was a diff woman. But it’s all part of my history that informs my understanding of human-Being. Not my identity, but parts of me that’s shared with others who are battered, broke, stalked, on food stamps, dismissed, have homes that burn, lost children, husbands run down by cars, businesses lost, little income for months on end. Who’ve lived in places very different than they’ve known. Have been thought weird or different. All part of human-Being that when turned into something besides fear, opens to empathy.

I’ve not shared my book on facebook the past few days. I’ve shared this:

Let’s support writers this week. I’m all about it. Because words have power.
Writers in other countries have been executed for that power.

Nearly 20 yrs. ago I joined a circle of writers to regain a Voice I’d lost. Writing and all things authorly have been my passion since. I’ve known I was a writer thru trauma, move after move, & distractions. I know the power of the written word for my insides and our outsides. I know the ways we get waylaid. It’s why I use my Voice now. We use what we have.

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

What empowers you?
I’ll tell you a secret: Today I say action with heart.

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