Face to the World

Posted on February 1, 2017 by Heloise Jones

You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees
 for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.  . .
~ Mary Oliver (Wild Geese)
*

I was at my first writing retreat 14 yrs. ago when I first heard the poem Wild Geese by Mary Oliver. It resonated with me because for yeeears I’d walked on my knees for hundreds of miles thru deserts, repenting. My imagination, always wild and vivid, could not lift me from my knees, could not tell me I was okay as I am, that the mistakes I’d made were simply that, mistakes. Something happened last night, tho. I read this poem and a different line stood out, ran true in my soul.

A line that reads “announcing your place in the family of things.” This was a revelation of monumental proportions for me. I sat for a moment, jaw dropped, realizing I’d finally made that hard journey. Shed an old story and skin.

Today the pre-launch of my book went LIVE. The big work was writing a concise, authentic summary of who I am. Not one about the gal who prefers tea to coffee, walking to running, culture to shopping, sunrises to sunsets, quiet to loud. Not the gal who loves nature in explicable ways, and all things creative. Not the one who thrives on beauty and space. But the gal who has the experience and authority to say listen, I may have something you want, even if you’re not a writer.

Who’s still learning. Who gets things done even if she often flies in on the cusp of deadlines. Who put on make-up for the first time in 20 yrs., pieced together a throw blanket and picture in a rented condo, watched the sun as it shifted, and placed blinding light in her face to create a 2 min. video. After trying for 12 hours, the first time in the midst of packed boxes.

Who, instead of having the sojourn she usually has in Santa Fe each fall, wrote a book and hosted a coach & author in private retreat. The author, feeling whole when she left, finished her memoir. And sent this to her huge list of peeps when it was over:

Heloise Jones helped with some of the editing on my book! She truly knows her stuff. She gets down to it, finds the holes and insights to make your story its best. There were many times in our editing process together in which she picked up on a simple line, stopped me and said, “right there, there is the spine of your story.” Then she would crack it all open and give me ideas to bring it home. She really has genius at insight and is fun to work with.

That blew me away.

And biggest of all in the most personal way, the gal who decided to have the courage and kindness to herself & her husband to move across country to live in her Soul Home, Santa Fe, alone.

I will create and give my best self & offers to the world. I’m the gal who didn’t feel she was okay or enough as she is, and tried so hard for years to earn my breath. But I woke the other day in a house smaller than I’ve lived in for decades, without a dishwasher that I’ll miss, happy for way more than a moment.

I use the words love, magic, and angels a lot for a reason. They sustain me and brought me here.

Thanks for being there. Now, let’s spread the word. Whatta ya say? Give a gift to yourself, or someone you know. It’s about our best creative lives!

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

Tell me. . .what sustains you?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I always wanted to say I love my life. I’m almost there.

That pic above is the view from my kitchen window. West, at sunrise, when Santa Fe colors rise up from the horizon. Can you see the snow-called mountains in the distance?

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Journey of a Million Miles

Posted on January 25, 2017 by Heloise Jones

Yesterday we laid plastic on the dirt floor in the garage of my little home in Santa Fe. Covered it with sheet linoleum & lined the wall with palettes in wait for the movers. The house is a huge step back from what I’ve had the past decades. I refuse to say ‘step down’ when I’m thrilled to have it, but it does feel humbling at times. At other times I think how lucky I am it’s been stripped & painted clean, has wood floors, new tile and sinks, baseboard radiators, a room where I can host writers, a garage, + views of the mountains. And it feels good. A Happy House, as my landlord’s mother used to call it.

A week ago I sat in the sun for 20 min. while the movers loaded the van. I did not plan, strategize, or try to figure a thing out. I didn’t like how they dismantled my very expensive sleep number bed and stuffed it in wardrobes, but it was done. I asked they seal the openings despite their assurance there was no dust in the van.

The day before that I’d had what can only be called a physical breakdown. With packing left to do, I couldn’t get up from the sofa. It was more than fatigue. My body simply couldn’t move. I thought about slaves in the fields, how they must’ve felt this exact way, but they got up, kept moving because their lives depended on it. And I thought about concentration camp inmates. About refugees traveling oceans & long roads across countries. All of them pushing ahead when their bodies say No. I thought of when I rose at 4am, returned home at 11pm while in school so to meet both my scholastic and social activist goals. All of us, lives depending on it. And I couldn’t move. 8pm I recovered, packed ‘til midnight.

We had a last meal in St. Pete at my favorite restaurant (La Vie, Vietnamese fusion.) Thuy, the gorgeous and brilliant owner came by, gave me a hug. “When you come back. . .’ she said. I shook my head No. I’d been a regular at the eatery. One of her first customers when she opened her day spa. She’s opening a third restaurant now. “I wish you were here to still give us love,” she said. I got love back is what I told her. Then I left Florida.

Florida seemed to cling tight as we drove out. We crept in congestion, a 30 min. drive taking 1.25 hr. Then again for miles on a crowded road accommodating a closed highway’s traffic. I thought about a gal’s exclamation how sad I was leaving. ‘Took us 20 yrs. to get here,’ she said, ‘We love it. We’re not leaving.’

All of us have a place (or places) that zing us, whether it’s the road or a spot on the map. I know when it’s time to leave a place because I don’t notice the beauty of it anymore. I felt an energetic pop when we crossed the border line.

Art drove me to Santa Fe. The few times I took the wheel, I didn’t last much more than 2 hrs. I’ve driven coast to coast alone, twice. Driven alone for days across the west and up the coast of California more than once. They were adventures. This wasn’t. This was a run for my life. And I couldn’t have done it alone as I’d planned. Art saved me is the way I see it. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I can drive.’

One of the most stunning features of a winter drive across country is the silhouettes of trees. They look like people – tribes, soldiers, women, men, all sorts. With personalities. Their branches thick, thin, twisted, gnarled, stretching, swooping. Sometimes so very graceful, sometimes angular like an abstract modern dancer, sometimes straight & purposeful. Several mornings we headed out in fog. The trees particularly gorgeous shrouded in milky soup, green grass or black fields at their feet. I thought if ever I was a photographer, I’d travel and take pictures of trees in winter. I never got a good picture.

I saw the most supernaturally bright green grass in Mississippi. Field upon field of it. Carpets that sometimes had cows. Fog and gray winter trees making it more starkly vibrant. Mississippi also has lots of big crosses.

Mobile, Alabama felt like a city from a Philip K. Dick novel. Especially in the tunnel that drops steeply down under the very wide Mobile River. Like being inside a giant worm in that tunnel. I’d like to go back.

The stretch Denton to Amarillo, Texas on hwy 287 is 300+ miles of peace. Flat, quiet, achingly beautiful. Small towns that seem to be going to ghost every once in a while. In Childress we stopped at a locally owned quick stop. The kind with paper boats of crusty fried chicken pieces, long fat greasy hotdogs on a stick, and fried Mexican snacks in a glass case. Muddy trucks in the parking lot and women with small kids in tow. The bathroom’s rough, Art said. I’ve been in bad ones, just let there be toilet paper, I thought.

But it was sparkly squeaky clean! So clean that a clean paper towel on the floor looked like a desecration. I grabbed another towel to lift it to the trash can. When I came out Art was contemplating what to get from the case. ‘That was the cleanest bathroom. I really appreciate that,’ I told the man at the counter. He beamed, pointed to a young gal behind him. ‘Thank You!’ she said. ‘I work on that every day.’ So much pride. I told her if we win the lottery, I’m coming back to share it with her. And I meant it. As we drove off, I kept thinking how my best friend in high school lived in Childress the last time I talked to her.

I learned there really was/is a falls on the Wichita River. Was, as in the natural falls washed out in a flood in the 1800s. Is, as in the falls were reconstructed further up the river, abeit with pristine landscaping unlike anything that would’ve been there before. I wanted to see those falls. A weak attempt to recover some adventure. But we drove on after circling the pot-holed road in the park where they are. We’d missed the tiny print on the phone that said we had to walk a mile in, and Santa Fe was one night away.

I’ll leave you with magic. I got an email from a writer I met in Canada last fall. He has lots of personal cache to market his historical novel beyond Cape Cod where he lives. He didn’t ask, but I spent time giving him tips & illuminating his options. I wanted him to succeed. He has a vision and a passion. His email blew me away:

I have been re-working my second novel, another work of historical fiction set on Cape Cod. I have been going back and forth on which point of view of use. . .Then last night I had a dream in which a guy who I have never seen before came up to me and told me, ‘Ask Heloise.’ That was it: just a guy walking up and giving me that advice, but I took it as a nudge to get in touch with you and get your advice on this point of view question!

A guy he didn’t know in his dream sent him to me. This is the work that I love. And someone in dreamtime help spread the message.

And this. . .

Second day of the drive, feeling really blue and wanted something to help me feel better, I immediately pulled up behind this van. I followed that happy face for miles, didn’t pass on purpose. You can’t see it well, but in the window there’s a little plush happy face with a cowboy hat cocked on its ‘head.’ It constantly rocked back & forth. I said Thank You when I finally passed, not feeling blue anymore.

A week ago was a million years of a journey to here. I’m starting a new & different life. My husband will go to NC for work. It’s good, but sad. My book’s out March 14, day before the Ides of March. I made video about it. My first one. I’m told there will be more. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, I’m told. Same with life, isn’t it?

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

Tell me. . .what journeys have you taken lately?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .a million miles may start with the first step, but we never make it alone.

Thanks, Art.

The Whole of Me, Willin’

Posted on January 3, 2017 by Heloise Jones

there are pieces of me
that stand on mountains
that sparkle
in tide pools
that contemplate
in deserts
that glisten
in city lights
but the whole of me
lies everywhere
and nowhere
at once
~ Rima Z. Kharuf

Day Three. New Year. I missed its turning. 12:09 when I glanced up and thought, Oh, my goodness. I missed the magic moment 2016 closed the door and 2017 popped its head in. I was in the midst of editing my book, knew I’d soon stop and move upstairs, pack a box for my move across country in two weeks, put my head down around 2am. Deadlines on top one another that make me feel like that 70s Little Feat song, Willin,’. . .been warped by the rain, driven by the snow. . .kicked by the wind. . .Had my head stoved in, but I’m still on my feet and I’m still, willin.‘ Metaphorically feeling it, of course, but it’s made me a bit edgy at times.

Tuesday morning now, though, and time to assess what else has been happening inside me while I was in the midst of living my life. The good and best (meaning most magical) stuff is not always what we remember. Our experience not confined to what we remember, either. If we don’t let it be. What I remember about the past week is sitting in front of the computer, squinting down at the 14” screen, editing my manuscript in the way I do with each word and syllable weighed not just for what it says or how correctly I say it, but the way it feels, the rhythm and ring. And how I’d look up at dusk, think I haven’t been outside today. It was my body feeling those lines by Little Feat. In looking back, I see it was not me ‘thinking’ those lines.

I’ve been thinking about the 4-day drive to my place on the planet, Santa Fe. A longing for belonging answered. Been wiggling my thoughts to adventure in that drive, like it used to feel when I was younger, versus the tired and pain it seems long drives leave me with now. And it was a picture by a friend following Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ path (a longtime dream of hers) that sparked the Little Feat song ringing in my head. A shot of a dusty looking place. Route 66 road sign, two low-slung buildings, and a large faded, beat by the elements sign that says ‘Tucumcari TRADING POST.’ The song started like it always does whenever I see Tucumcari or Tahachapi. I’d never heard of those places when I first heard it. I was young, had traveled little. But the poetry of the names, how they rolled off my tongue, made an impression. I arrived in both by accident.

I was driving coast to coast, Durham, NC to San Francisco, to go to hypnosis school. I drove 10 hr. days then. Left time for exploration if something unexpected showed up. Loretta Lynn’s homeplace. The Indian pottery factory an hour off the road where dozens sat at long tables, painted whatever story they wanted in symbols on little factory pots. The legend for the symbols on the wall. And one very early morning I sat eating breakfast in an independent truck stop in Tucumcari that was clearly a favorite by locals and truckers both. It may sound silly, but I felt a wide-eyed wonder to be in that place from the song. A desert place so different from its name like a tropical bird’s.

And Tahachapi – I was headed out of California. The sun had set late but I chose to drive thru the last ‘big’ town at dusk. I remember looking at the lights in my rearview mirror as the road headed up a mountain, thinking perhaps I should turn around. But I’m the kind of road-tripper who follows the highways, open to what shows up, so I was unaware there wasn’t much ahead for hours. Pitch black, I’m driving the mountain. Then I saw the sign, Tahachapi. That same little thrill I’d had in Tucumcari several years earlier tickled my chest.

I stopped in a small strip of a motel. The next morning I learned it was wildflower season. I drove out to find the hillsides covered in blooms that I saw on the postcards in the office. And though I didn’t see blankets of flowers, I stood above a huge curve of train track, the one spot in the country where you can see the end and beginning of a long train at once. I felt lucky when a train came, circled that curve.

So, this week’s really been about poetry. It’s been as Rima Kharuf writes: the whole of me lies everywhere and nowhere at once. I felt beat by the elements of life and at the same time, been reminded of the thrilling adventure and discovery in life. And in the moment when I felt like my house was on fire, a friend offering badly needed help and then making a different choice, another friend showing up with gifts of connection and words I needed to hear, the most wonderful thing happened. As I sat at the computer one afternoon, I noticed I was smiling. Not at something I read or saw. Not for anything I thought about. Just because. . .well, because I was smiling. And I noticed it, and thought what a very good thing.

“None of us are getting out of here alive, so please stop treating yourself like an after thought. Eat the delicious food. Walk in the sunshine. Jump in the ocean. Say the truth that you’re carrying in your heart like hidden treasure. Be silly. Be kind. Be weird. There’s no time for anything else.”
~ Christopher Walken, actor and soul extraordinaire

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

Tell me. . .what poetry do you see in your life?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .when ‘she’ said I’m too sensitive to my environment, I replied I’m sensitive, not too sensitive. That was a first.

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Hope Like a Soft Flame

Posted on December 20, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Most people don’t know there are angels whose only job is to make sure
you don’t get too comfortable & fall asleep & miss your life.
~ Brian Andreas (Angels of Mercy)
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I have the above Brian Andreas gem framed. Gotta tell ya, my Angels of Mercy (as he calls them) have been working overtime. Blessedly, in tandem with Angels who show up to carry me forward. I posted that remark on Facebook and a friend commented I had a great attitude. It requires constant self-talk. . .and angels who show up when I need them, I told her. Which indeed happens often. In fact, this week an offer of tech help came that left me quivering with Gratitude. But honestly, some days it’s just downright hard. I can’t take my eyes from the places in my life where it hurts, and I get overwhelmed or cranky. I have to talk myself up a dozen times on those days.

Today I’ve felt afresh the grief over my son so far away in Taiwan. Christmas is days away, and I have a Christmas card from the most sparkly little boy in the whole wide world, but not one note from his father (my son) who’s been the one I’ve loved the most forever. There’s a poem by Gwen Flowers that ends “. . . grief is not something you complete, /But rather, you endure./ Grief is not a task to finish/ And move on, /But an element of yourself -/ An alteration of your being./ A new way of seeing./ A new definition of self.” I know how fortunate I am, and I feel the alteration of my being all over again right now.

So, tonight I decided to think about birdbaths I’ll set up in New Mexico. I always had them when we lived there. Two simple large terracotta-colored plastic dishes that were easy to tip for cleaning. A double-fist sized river rock in the middle of each to keep the wind from blowing it away. One sat off the ground on a pedestal, the other close to the ground on a cinderblock. We had floor to ceiling windows across the front of our first home. I spent hours watching the sky and birds thru those windows. Sometimes lying in the sun on the slate floor laid as passive solar. I saw mountain bluebirds lined along the dish rims. Hawks atop the rock in the middle. Jackrabbits and bunnies in mixed company on their haunches, shoulder to shoulder, drinking during a drought.

At another home I watched birds visit our side-yard from my desk, and once saw a cat fly. really The bath was 20 ft. from a fence, where I was sure the birdies were safe, having plenty of time to fly if anything came near. One quiet summer afternoon, I watched in reverie for long minutes as a titmouse drank and bathed. Then, BAM, cat FLEW from the top of the fence, snatched it. Just like that, too. Immense, drawn-out quiet to startling BAM that left me stunned. Like a needle on a record that skids off the notes of a beautiful song.

In fact, a needle that skids off the notes could describe a theme in my life these past few years. In all the music of blessings and awarenesses, beauty, growth, & gained wisdom. With all the angels, seen and unseen, and travels of body & soul. The yank of the needle from the groove. Strangely, seeing it this way somehow lifts my spirits.

Because, by golly, I’m taking that scratchy record off, letting my Soul choose the next suite of music for my life. I know some parts will hurt, but as I type this, I feel Hope blooming in my chest like a soft flame. Filling me gently like plush petals. And it feels good. Very good. Even knowing there’s no guarantees and my work in the broader world just got bigger.

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

Tell me. . .what gives you Hope in this season.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I seriously believe in Angels.

Poinsettias, Packing, & Layers

Posted on December 13, 2016 by Heloise Jones

What I feared was the immensity of it all . . .
~ from The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd
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I’m back in Florida. I went from 14* that day I flew out of Santa Fe to 79*. Snow on the mountain & Southwest vistas to sweat & flat lands, palm trees, green grass and water. The shock of so much pavement, weed-whackers and the roaring hum of traffic & a/c’s. It took a day to acclimate. This is Home, I told myself. My stuff’s all around. But that first night, I startled awake, kicked with fear thinking something in the bed! when my husband touched me. Truth is, home for me is the high desert of NM. So, in 5 weeks, I’m moving back.

Last year we packed over the holidays, too. A poinsettia and wreath on the door to say Christmas is here. I surprised myself by writing a different kind of holiday letter. One that reflected something good inside, amidst the angst.

Last week I bought this year’s decorations – a 6” potted poinsettia, a tiny norfolk island pine with a red glittered star on a spike & 4 little gold glittered balls on the baby branches, and a wreath for the door that smells divine. Made me happy, getting those. But today I realize Christmas is 12 days off. I wonder what holiday letter I’ll write this time.

Christmas used to be so Big for me. Tree, wreaths, presents, cookies and special foods. I felt it all with full-blown Joy. I loved the lights. Loved giving presents, starting with the hunt for the right one, just for that person. And Christmas Eve. . .the many years with my son. How we shared the kitchen when he got older. Music of the season. The year he gave me Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas music and I couldn’t get enough, had it on loop. The year he flew to Santa Fe, the other three years there he didn’t fly out and I hosted friends for a grand sit-down Christmas Eve dinner. The 8 of us at the core expanding for new boyfriends, new friends, others alone, grown children in for the holidays. Portuguese fisherman’s stew. I was a pescaterian then. On Christmas day, always Handal’s Messiah. Me in the middle of the room, singing the Hallelujah Chorus with the recording at the top of my lungs, the second soprano part still remembered from junior high. Tears streaming down my face as I sing. Then, in 2007 the lights went out from grief over my son 180* across the globe. I’ve not gotten the magic back, tho I’ve tried. Tho last year, one predawn dark morning, I walked down the middle of the street of the historic neighborhood where I lived singing ‘Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’re the plains. . ‘, .my voice rising on Gloo-ooooo-oooria.

One year I packed with a sprained wrist. One year with a sprained foot. This year I’m packing injured, again. Smashed fingers. A bruised thumb and a middle finger split open top & bottom after getting caught in sliding glass door. The middle finger so traumatized my other uninjured fingers throbbed in pain, too. Both on my right hand. (darn) I quickly learned body memory of the keyboard over-rides intention to use diff fingers. Those last new-learned details will definitely go into a novel.

The fourth downsize in five years, I’m seeing thru a new lens. Seeing details of my other lifetimes I hadn’t noticed before. Such as the tattered plastic bag that holds cards.

In the early 80s I helped a friend drive across country from Durham to Denver. It was a time of hand-written letters and notes. I was always on the hunt for a good card to add to my cache. (still am). Anyway, there was a store in Denver strictly devoted to cards. I bought a number, and tho it now sports a tear halfway down one side, the black plastic bag I walked out with has been my keeper for everyday cards ever since. The store was named avant-card (all lower case). Today, 30+ yrs. later, I notice for the first time the address was Writer Square. Writer. Me!

And for years I’ve kept all things Cards (capital C) in a perfectly sized cardboard box. Postcards, Original Art cards, individual specialty cards, keepsake cards, cards I collected of fav ‘local’ artists’ work that I display, and my black plastic bag filled with everyday cards. A glance and I know where cards are by the box, and I just noticed the label on its side. It reads our first Santa Fe address, circa 1993.

I could tape the bag. I’ve thought about it often. I could cover this perfectly sized box with pretty or sentimental images, as a friend suggests. But I like their evolved state. The shabbiness somehow doesn’t bother me. It feels right. Like comfortable history.

When I finished sorting office supplies, saw the small to-go pile, I thought I must be down to love levels. Because I love office supplies. I played office as a kid. Still love wandering office supply stores. I love having the right color & weight of paper when I want it. Love sheet protectors and notebooks and folders right there when I need them. Love having envelopes any size for anything. (I’ve saved all the left-overs from cards, so no shortage!) And yet, I dislike admin. Really dislike it. The dichotomy of this struck me. The shabby bag & box which seems so not Me, too. Me is wearing socks the color that coordinate with my outfit, and no wrinkles except in linen.

Perhaps I’m reaching that place of Being where all of me finally co-exists in peace. Where some things simply don’t matter if what’s there feels right.

Every year Pantone chooses a color of the year. They call it a symbolic snapshot of what they see taking place in ‘our global culture that serves as an expression of a mood and an attitude.’ The color for 2017 is Greenery:
Greenery is nature’s neutral. The more submerged people are in modern life, the greater their innate craving to immerse themselves in the physical beauty and inherent unity of the natural world. . .A constant on the periphery, Greenery is now being pulled to the forefront. . .A life-affirming shade, Greenery is also emblematic of the pursuit of personal passions and vitality.

I find their choice so interesting. I would’ve chosen Red, for burning down the house. But then, that isn’t very hopeful, is it? Hope inspires, which is what we, what I, surely need. An nature has indeed saved me these past few years.

A friend shared her pleasure wearing layers in Oregon vs. the shorts & tees she’d be wearing in Phoenix. I love wearing layers, too. I love jackets & scarves, textures & shapes. When I lived in Asheville, I’d buy my year’s wardrobe in Santa Fe each fall. Pick up sweaters in travels to cold climes. But five years wearing shorts and little skirts in Florida, same-same winter clothes in two short months a year in cold climes, rarely layering beyond a linen shirt, I’ve added few cold weather clothes. I’m ready for new winter duds. 2017 will be new home, new book, new face to the world, new clothes. It’s scary, as in can I do it all? And something to look forward to. Showing up with all of me. And layers.

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

Tell me. . . what does this season hold for you?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .Trust is my guiding light right now.