Different Kind of Week

Posted on November 15, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“I didn’t want to compromise the anthemic, hymn-like quality.
I didn’t want it to get too punchy. I didn’t want to start a fight in the song.
I wanted a revelation in the heart
rather than a confrontation or a call-to-arms or a defense.”
-Leonard Cohen, from Paul Zorro’s book Songwriters On Songwriting
*

Nov. 14, 6 days after the election. Last Tuesday seems a million years ago. When you hurt a second feels like an hour. And I’ve grown a pudge about my middle from carbs, my comfort food when stressed. Not endless consumption of Trader Joe’s cheddar rockets and British muffins like earlier this year, but pizza slices, toast slathered with butter, chocolate croissants. I shared this on Facebook, learned many of us have grown new pudges.

I vowed to write and be productive, not to watch election returns, but I found a chart online that updated every 30 seconds. Five hours later I got in bed, a sharp pain in my chest. I knew it’d be close. Knew it could happen. But I guess I didn’t think it would, and my mind tried hard to hold on, not race off into implications for me, mine, the planet, everyone and everything on it. I could fill pages with it, and I’m not a catastrophe thinker. But I learned when my husband was run down by a car & we didn’t know if he’d walk, again or how we’d pay the mortgage, if he’d even have a job when he recovered, and I lost the ideal writer’s life that took seven months to create, that there is only one thing to do: Acknowledge capital F Fear and de-escalate it. Get to work. I rose after little sleep determined. These entries I made on fb say it best:

Nov. 9, day after the election
My father didn’t have formal education past 5th grade, couldn’t spell worth a lick. He didn’t have a full mouth of teeth until he was in his 60s. Most of his back teeth pulled before he was 22. But he was a motivated, self-educated man who cared about people and believed in rehabilitation over punishment.

My grandparents fled genocide in Armenia. Arrived here thru Aleppo with the help of Syrians. They learned English, established a successful shoe factory in MA. My mother was first generation with English as a first language. My grandson is Eurasian.

When I was 13 we lost our home and all our belongings. Our family split for months as my parents found a place for my sister, me, and them in a new state.

All this was my foundation for empathy, caring, understanding, and interest in psychology & sociology. It has sustained me my entire life, despite not having the business head of my grandfather and being far more weird & artistic than anyone in my family. It’s sustained me thru being flat broke on food stamps, to leaving an abusive marriage, to raising a son on my own, thru 5 tries to a college degree, to creating dreams. It is why I have friends of different faiths, colors of skin, countries of origin, and sexual orientation. . .and love them all.

And it is why I’ll never call the folks cheering in the streets today names, tho my heart has bled and bleeds. And why I understand the reasons others do. Why I decided to put good news out as reminders Kindness is not conditional. To remind us that this world is a both/and proposition, the good news with the bad. And despite what I see and understand as good, know in my heart of hearts is right, people see thru different lens and we are here now.

Yes, I am in tears off and on today. And feel fearful because the promised, stated consequences of this election affect me directly in scary ways, + I can see the consequences for our society. But I choose action. And one thing is true whether our definitions of what good is jives or not – I will not tolerate hate, bigotry, or bullying in my backyard. I will face it with respect, and face it down. I am joining others once more to see how we can turn the tide toward a better life for ALL of us. Where all living things can thrive.

Nov. 10, two days after the election
I wrote a blog in the small hours Tues. morning. Got in bed 4:28am after writing it. And somehow, I knew not to post here like I usually do. Knew it was not a day for what I’d experienced the prior week in my journey thru what’s up for me, and the Insights I got. Because it was about the days just passed, as they just were. As we were. As I was, locked away with work on the screen, knowing I was missing fall in NM. Finding luck and traces of beauty, anyway.

And yesterday morning I woke, set to what I do instead of getting locked into spins of fear and projections. Action. Assess what needs doing for me and mine to feel safe. Committing to how I’ll show up in the world as it wobbles. But today it’s tough. I’m responding to privileged bright eyes. And despite being grateful for their positive vibes and good intentions, it’s pushed me to be more open within my bleeding, make the world better for everyone heart as I consider right use of power, what getting things done means, what loving America means.

And I surprised myself. Because tho I align with and believe in the spiritually high vibration of love, the power of it, it’s the love that shows up on the ground I believe is what truly loving America is. In small or large ways. I know I’m privileged, and know this engagement of love on the ground is hard. Because anger spikes inside me. I scream in the car at what I see and hear while I’m driving. The actions of injustice, violence, hatred, disallowing. At what I call willful blindness and myopia. I would never voluntarily get on a plane piloted by someone who’s never flown a plane before, much less a would-be pilot with a documented track record of fraud and lies. Yep, confess. I knew better than to think it would never happen, and now, spinning anyway. Strapped into my seat, decided by those who would, and will fly with that pilot. And it’s brought me to see Love.on.the.ground is the truth of what loving America means to me. I’ve been living with a commitment to Kindness, and now, well, it’s at another level.
I’ll write my book, because I see now it’s actually an act of love. Because it’s a guide that says “I see you. You, the person, are Okay.”

Gads, a hard day today.

Nov. 11, three days after the election
I read a post yesterday about an African-American man who was blocked from leaving the train by two white dudes. They called him nasty racist names, threatened him, and spit on him. Others on the train stood up, offered a hankerchief and solace to the young man after the guys left. The account shot me deep, set me crying all over, again. This morning I woke with the vision of me standing beside that young black man. I saw my face, my stance, fierce. Felt spittle on my face, too. But we stood, together. Am I that brave? I’ve been speaking up for years, but have never had to face a threat to my physical person. Do I hope I never will? Yes. But I guess it may come to this for some of us white folks. And at some level I am that brave, as i saw it, felt it. Committed.

I am not neutral on this.

I cried off and on for days. So much I read on Facebook set tears steaming, I avoided it. But I’ve not stepped away. I am keeping up. Can feel the vibration. And yes, it’s true, part of that vibration is my own vulnerability.

I missed the Super Moon’s big showing last night. But I know, unlike many of us, the moon’s not thrown off its axis. I get another chance tonight.

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

Tell me. . .your comfort foods, or if you’re celebrating, your happy foods.

I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’ve had that shot of sunflowers for months. It fascinated me when I first saw it, because it looked like people with their backs turned. It still does. Or maybe, they’re looking to the horizon. I still believe in miracles.

*
I’m writing a book for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

Saying the Word Lucky

Posted on November 8, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“…we don’t know what day we’re on. We just don’t.
So we’ve gotta do all we can to make every one be the kind of day
that helps us become who we are. . .I keep learning how powerful it is to say “yes”
to new experiences, to be brave, to ask for help when you need it,
and to just sing your own song in your own voice,
in whatever way that means something to you.”
~ Tamara Mangum Bailie, songwriter
*

One of the things about spending so much time with the screen is missing fall in New Mexico. I get doses. Like the luminescent golden-yellow leaves of a cottonwood still in full coat outside my window. But the shadows have turned edgy, the light moved to that quality you know it’s past fall. Now, dark at 5:47, I feel something’s slipped by. And I’m looking for life past the screen.

I drove to Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs a day after wonky sleep last week. Most of the trees through the valley with the best display were bare. A quiet tangle where I usually see light. I have three fav places for that dose of color and light. This valley after the bend, crossing toward Ojo one of them. It dawns on me this is the first time in 23 yrs. I haven’t seen it. But there were still breathtaking gems scattered here and there. As I drove out of Ojo, big trees in fields either side of me lit gorgeously bright in the late afternoon sun. I didn’t want to leave. Like seriously didn’t want to leave. I spun off the narrow rough-paved road, made a U-turn just to see them once more. Pebbles and miscellany from that turn rattled in my wheel wells for a dozen or more miles.

I went to the Dixon Studio Tour with Ken. I met him 23 yrs. ago when he drove out to the middle of open, undeveloped land where we lived for moving boxes. There’s things about that first home in Santa Fe I still viscerally remember – bluebirds and hawks on the large disk birdbaths, snow, how I stood many nights, my head rocked back, my chest filled with awe as I gazed upon the Milky Way coursing across a field of a kerjillion stars. I haven’t seen that kind of sky since. Ken always has his camera, never minds waiting while I chat with folks. Perfect, because Dixon’s not so much about the art, anymore, for me. It’s the community.

Dixon. . .apple country 45 min. north of Santa Fe. The Rio Embudo running beside it. No place flat. The little village so compressed, no need to drive all of it like on the other studio tours. People walk, mill along the road. I love the New Mexican food at the little eatery where you’re sure to wait 20 min. in line. Daughter takes orders at the register, mama dishes ice cream, pours drinks. Even with the bustle, the gal offered a taste of the chipolte pork, with a smile, when I asked how hot it was.

I love the music in the backroom of the Mission hall, too. Tho we don’t hang around long. A trio – violin, guitar, and this year, a drum. Celtic folk in flavor. Wonderful voices. I meant to write their name down.

We lucked out because there was rain in the desert all day and night before. The thick promise of the sky and desert-humidity delivered. And I heard it was rain-rain and mud Sunday. But lucky us. Saturday, just a few sprinkles like blessings.

Driving home, narrow, curvy 2 lanes, double yellow lines, we come to a complete stop. Mountain on one side. Guard rail at a steep drop the other. Six cars up, a big vehicle overturned on its side, it’s bottom facing us. We hear the sirens coming, on their way. First thought’s someone did something crazy, because that’s what I saw driving up. Crazy. But not so. Tire blew, like exploded, front driver side. Threw the car into the guard rail, and flipped a 16-yr-old girl down against the road.

The wait seemed out of time. Eerily peaceful. Some cars pulled out, went the other way. A few people stood in the road. But there was no running up and down or around. No drama or zing of impatience. I commented once about the barky barks down the valley that didn’t shut up. He commented how the cops & rescue workers weren’t very efficient, and expressed gratitude we were on a portion of the road with fencing against falling rocks. We simply chilled. I watched the light change on the valley, and the blinking red lights on the five rescue/cop vehicles. I could only think what terror that girl must’ve experienced. That she’ll have PTSD for a long time. I suddenly felt very tired, and closed my eyes. 1 hr-20 min. later, everything and everyone cleared, including the glass, we crept by.

The railing was badly mangled. Good thing it held, we said. I thought of my husband walking on a gorgeous fall day, struck down by a car, the guardrail he was rolled along. How grateful we were it didn’t give. As we drove past seven miles of stopped cars, I said we were lucky to be so close to the front. To know what was happening. To get moving so fast. Grateful. We heard the girl’s OK.

And then there were Rainbows. A really fat one, rich in color, rising halfway to the sky behind us as we hit the straight-away. We passed a guy beside his car, taking a pic. It was that good. I kinda wanted to turn around, see if I could stand in the colored light that touched the ground. (can we ever?) Then after I dropped Ken, another really wide rainbow halfway to the sky as I swung toward Santa Fe. Newly snow-capped mountains in the background. And then just as I felt the most tired, still two stops to go before home, a tall, spectacular arch. Nothing like a New Mexico rainbow. They’re not like Hawaii rainbows, or Appalachian, or Florida rainbows. Something about the color on that crisp sky, I guess.

How is it that we find our Soul Homes. I don’t reminisce as a habit, but I feel and see my life here like one long continuum, despite the 18 year residence in other places. I remember so clearly those 4 years in the 90s I picked up my friend Jacqueline every other week at 2pm when she got off work. Our drive north and thru the pueblo to Ojo where we soaked & had trout dinners in the little dining room that looks the same now but has gone upscale for dinner. And how the sky looked that night driving back when we saw an UFO. No one believed us, but we know what we saw. Jacqueline is a first friend here, too. I met her on my first Dixon tour 23 yrs. ago.

The Appalachians pull a sense of Home from me when I fly over. I feel a peace and belonging in Hawaii where I glide immediately into the vibe, am calmed. Experience a deep knowing inside when I hear the chants, see Kahiko Hula. But it’s here, this desert. These mountains. This light. This expansive feeling inside me as big as the Universe. The moments I’m so happy just Being. How many times I used the word ‘lucky’ writing this. As if time is on my side tho it flows like a too-swiftly moving river. I think maybe I can find center, again, here.

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

Tell me. . .what’s time feel like for you right now?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .it 4:11am. The second week I’ve written you in the small hours.

Photo: Apodaca by Lou Malchie, Dixon

*
I’m writing a book for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

More than One True Thing

Posted on October 25, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“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
*

It is 2:15am. I feel tired, but my mind’s awake. It’s not a full moon, so who knows why. I got out of bed to write this, because I know I won’t want to in the morning.

It’s dark in the big open space. Kitchen to my right, living room in front. The only light from the five candlestick bulbs under small parchment shades on the cleanly scrolled chandelier above my table. It’s finished to look like aged metal. The bulbs are dimmed. Papers, notes for the book I’m writing, stack and hug my computer. I won’t make the deadline I initially promised for this book. But I trust it will be okay. I did finally send the full copy for the new website today. Third iteration. Hours that swiped away days. Last I’ll mention it ’til it launches my new face to the world. Feels so hugehugehuge.

I love the place where I’m at now. I’m sure one reason is I’m so close to town. But it’s more than that. The zen garden with koi pond and small waterfall out my bedroom door. The big table where I can stretch out and work. I’ve been lucky that way here. The bathroom that looks and feels like a comforting spa room. The raccoon I saw tip-toe along the edge of the flat roof across the way one early, early morning. And downstairs, opening the blinds to a large cooper’s hawk flying into the garden, turning to fly straight toward me. How I watched it sit high in a young aspen in the garden for three or four minutes before it took off. A messenger, the Native Americans say.

Then two days later I stopped in for 15 min. to see an artist friend, get one of her small pottery bowls for my salt. She was planning a quilt. The strips of cloth laid out sparking in me a creative money-making idea I know she’d enjoy doing. And we talked, and it dawned on me I’d just done this very thing with another artist friend. And as she exclaimed others needed this thing I do, I saw how the pictures come to me like a web of links. Not just the product, but where it goes, who wants it. Gave me something to ruminate. I love that I was there 2-1/2 hrs., and we both felt fine about it.

I read this week the word for soil in Lakota means ‘Who we used to be.’ And thought perhaps it explains my inexplicable Love of this planet. But sitting here, seems it’s what I feel in this land I’m in now. Being a Pisces, a water person, it may seem strange that too much drowns me. When it saturates the air, or is the main feature. I need land. This high desert where you see the pattern and color of earth, plant and life upon its surface, the stretch of it forever to meet a forever sky, it’s home to my Soul. Thinking more on it. I am not alone. There’s an inordinate number of Pisces and Scorpios here. And we used to say many years ago we held the water energy for the desert.

I love that on another gorgeous drive to Chimayo with a friend for a late lunch at a fav classic New Mexico place, we sat so long we arrived to the Santuario at 5pm. When a gal came in, said they were closed, she surprised us. It was a Catholic church. Our memory for decades was it never closed. But it’s an even bigger tourist destination now, we reasoned. They have to do that. The prize of that visit, though, was the last rose still blooming on the bush inside the church courtyard walls, beside the tombstones. I held the bloom forward and we took turns breathing its pure rose fragrance. Over and over. So heavenly. And then it pulled away, ripped from it’s limb, held on by threads. I rested it amongst the leaves. Like a broken bird. I was devastated. The last rose of the season. But the gal closing up said no worries, happens all the time. Kids rip them off, toss them about, she said. If you don’t take it, my friend said, I will. I felt it was a gift from Our Lady Guadalupe. It’s still on my desk, now dried tho I haven’t pitched the water it sits in. You can see it, in front of the card by a fav Abiquiu artist that I always travel with.

At least a half dozen times in the less than three weeks I’ve been in Santa Fe I’ve thought ‘I am so happy.‘ Felt it despite the five layers of huge changes I’m in the midst of. And that when someone said ‘Tell me one true thing,’ the one true thing I know clearly is Kindness expands a life. And that includes kindness to myself.

Today after a guided Vision Board class, different than others I’ve done, I looked at the images I’d gathered, put together. Chosen for how they made me feel and the values they represent, not for what they specifically portray. One picture didn’t fit. A home. I chose one over another I really was drawn to because it had open sky around it. Sky out my windows so vital to me. And the one I was drawn to didn’t. Plus it had a wide portal, which would block the sky. But when I got back to my place, that house with open sky just wasn’t right. I pulled out the picture I’d put aside. My thought, I’m manifesting here. I can have both home and sky. And from the same magazine with same-sized pics, I found three pieces of sky that went together and fit the 1-1/2 inch square space where I needed it. Patched them right in. Like magic, alchemically seamless. I believe that’s a message, too. I’m taking it!

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

Tell me. . .one true thing.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I miss having a best friend for a neighbor.

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? Click Here.

Want to keep going to the last page?

Get. It. Here.

Dropping the Stop Sign

Posted on October 15, 2016 by Heloise Jones

My best friend neighbor Lindy delivered a green drink to me one morning. See it there,
next to the computer. With matching green straw covered in pink polka dots.
In front of the card with a painting by my fav Abiquiu artist.
*

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost.”
~ Martha Graham

Sitting here, the fragrance of fresh sage. I often buy a decorative sage bundle, leave it with a friend when I head home. Today I couldn’t resist. The bundle so fresh its scent lingered on my fingers. The top festooned with a small bouquet of lavender sprigs. It’s heart a puff of ‘straw’ flowers in two shades of purple + a small, deep rose colored dried chrysanthemum. At the bottom, tiny leaves of eucalyptus wrapped in the string. I remember when a friend and I went out to acres of sage, and picked our own, and I learned to wrap. There’s a trick to doing it right. So long ago.

It’s been a different sort of first week in Santa Fe than I’ve ever had. I’m in the country, so not out and about much. I left as the breath of hurricane Matthew hit Florida. Arrived to a text from my sister in Houston – my brother & sister-in-law in the direct path, need a place. They’re on the way to your house, she said. But Art hadn’t been notified. I hooked him up, left cleaning instructions for things I knew he’d miss, and wondered at them traveling three hours thru torrential rains. My brother seriously ill. You haven’t left Florida, a friend said. It wasn’t that. I’ve been thru tropical storms, and floods. And our home is small, and my brother. . .well, not a typical leave-taking for me.

36 hrs. later I woke under the weather. The head-body thing where you feel tired and yukky, but you’re not completely down. So friggin’ rare for me, it was hard to accept. But I moved thru fast, with help from my friend who brought me my elixir – ProPak immune & electrolyte builder. Thought myself ready to do Santa Fe.

Of the half dozen studio tours each fall, there are two I never miss – Abiquiu and Dixon. It was past 11am on the last day of tour when I left for Abiquiu an hour away. I was detained another 20 min. when the tire pressure light lit. As I finally sailed without stops, I realized I didn’t really want to visit studios. I’m in the trees where I’m at. I wanted the New Mexico countryside. My fav Chama River valley with golden yellow cottonwoods blazing all across it. The mythical work of one artist only. So, I stopped at the lavender farm, enjoyed lavender infused ceylon tea and chocolate cake with lavender gelato on the little tea house portal. Moved on to the Abiquiu Inn to get cards by a fav artist. They had wonderful strawberry-lemon infused water. I could’ve drunk a gallon. Stopped at Bode’s old time mercantile to see my friend who owns it. Made plans for a day together in November. Moved on to the artist. And the vineyard, just because it’s so beautiful there and I could buy homemade biscochitos, the light melt-in-your-mouth anise laced butter cookies I love. I did it differently, and was back in Santa Fe by 4:45, feeling just right.

I’m working this trip. Have the luxury of a large table in front of a window where I can spread and stack files and pages. One afternoon, the little voice said, take your notebook outside. That thought was so far from my mind, I said aloud, really. But I obeyed, and discovered the huge heavy round table on the portal a fabulous place to work. And tho the pines obstruct the view and the portal shortens the sky, it was perfect.

I have a confession, tho. I’m distracted by no-thought, and seems my intentions are continually sidetracked. My book, most specifically, sidetracked again and again by the development of my new super-duper https dedicated better everything experience website. Something kinda exciting. But choosing a web designer is like choosing a dentist. So much is about feel. And tho I mentioned this angst before, now it’s around the new look. My face to the world changing. It takes such a HUGE amount of energy, I get confused what the right next thing to do is. Worry I won’t finish the book by the deadline. And that’s not okay.

But the Universe sent me a message for this, if I can just figure how it fits in my puzzle.

Part One arrived in an email from my husband, saying how courageous he sees me. He lists why, getting some of my history wrong. But I’m not a detailed reminiscer, and I don’t think it matters. It’s about my courage. That night, Part Two. I read this by Elizabeth Gilbert:

“Fear is boring. . . my fear had no variety to it, no depth, no substance, no texture. I noticed that my fear never changed, never delighted, never offered a surprise twist or an unexpected ending. My fear was a song with only one note — only one word, actually — and that word was “STOP!. . .”

If courage is moving forward despite fear, I have it in a ton of ways. Even so, I’ve held fear’s Stop sign up again and again to something bigger than myself. To this that I’m doing now. This Full Circle I wrote about last week. Moving back to my Soul Home. Writing a book that shares what I know with the world. Stepping forward in service lit in spotlights. The stuff I’ve received direct, in my face, messages about over the years and replied ‘No, I’ll stay small.’ I believe this love note from the Universe is about putting that Stop sign down. Now.

I met a fabulous, creative friend for lunch who I haven’t seen in years. The thing I love most about him is how often he says ‘I love my life.’ To say those words has been one of my highest aspirations. After he sped off to the airport, the air and breeze was so luscious, the sky so clear and blue, I felt it, close. I wonder if saying ‘I’m so happy’ counts. ‘Cause I’ve had that thought more than once this week.

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

Tell me. . .how are you doing things differently these days?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I still feel wiggly.

*
I’m writing a book for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
Get Past Stuck. Live and Love Your Best Creative Life.

Full Circle

Posted on October 11, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Human life itself may be almost pure chaos, but the work of the artist is to take these handfuls of confusion and disparate things, things that seem to be irreconcilable, and put them together in a frame to give them some kind of shape and meaning.”
~ Katherine Anne Porter, author
*

fall-cottonwoods-santa-fe *

This is my 19th trip to Santa Fe since we moved back east 18 yrs. ago. Some time back I noticed themes in these sojourns that coincided with what I needed or where I was in life. I don’t know how long it’d been happening, but I could trace it thru a few visits. All my friends calling immediately upon my arrival, filling my calendar the year I needed community. Reconnecting with former healing practitioners the year I needed clearing and clarity. This year it’s about coming full circle. And the layers of them are freaky cool.

For the next week I’m settled in a super nice place nestled in a pine & piñon forest 20 min. outside Santa Fe. On top of a ridge above the tiny village of Cañada (pronounced Caun-YA-da). Population 439. I have no cell service. Internet works best on the kitchen counter at my back, facing the opposite direction from where I work. To get here I drive up a slightly washboarded dirt road. A good friend got me in. She lives across the driveway here on the property. I love that. I’ve always wanted a best friend for a neighbor.

At first I kinda freaked about the lack of contact with the world. My web designer. My friends. How will I do it?! But I learned the landline in the house works. Something I didn’t guess since the house is a second home. And it dawned on me I’m saved from email distractions, because I have to move the computer while I’m writing if I want them. Noooo worries. But here’s the kicker. I’m writing my book in the exact spot I did the <first> final draft of my novel with an editor years ago. In the same chair, at the same table, looking out the same window in this house that this very same friend got me in back then. Full circle.

And in two weeks I’m hosting a private retreat for a writer who’s completing her memoir. A Writer’s Dream Retreat because it’s designed specifically for the individual, and includes lots of coaching from me. The gal who’s coming started her memoir in a retreat I co-facilitated 5 years ago. I started with you, she said. I feel drawn to complete this with you. Another full circle.

And the big full circle, after 18 yrs. I’m moving back to Santa Fe when our lease expires the end of January. A move I’m excited about, and one I’ve fretted over finding a place. I know this town well. Know how I live in it. Where I go. What I do. Know the essentials of what I want in a home and rhythm in life. I’ve tried shifting my head. It’ll all work out fine, has every move, I tell myself. But this move is different, and I know it. We’re setting up two households. Have no fall-back. The thought’s not been far from my mind.

In Whole Foods a woman approached me as I read the label on a small bottle of rose oil moisturizer, started talking. It felt easy. I learn that, like me, she’s moving to someplace she loves where she feels expansive. Like me, growing a business. And then she says, ‘You oughta move into our house since we’re leaving. Our landlord’s great.’ And tho I knew I couldn’t budget her rent, I thought. . .can it really be this easy?

The first morning, as I rounded the bend halfway up the near 1/2 block long driveway, intent to try for cell at the road, before I found out the landline worked, two huge mule deer stood in profile at the top of the drive. Their heads turned, big dark eyes focused on me. Ears larger than their gorgeous black & white faces erect, like gigantic seed pods. I stopped. We watched each other for minutes. Over and over I told them how beautiful they were. Not until I reached for my phone, looked down to set the camera, did they walk on. I knew it was some sort of blessing.

The Native Americans think deer are shaman. Some think them messengers from Gods. Perhaps so. Those deer and I met before the woman in Whole Foods. Before I connected all these full circles. I have a feeling there’s more to come.

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

Tell me. . .what theme might be running thru your life this season?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .days seem to be melting away, even tho I’m present to the moments.

Special Thanks to Lindy Teresi for my home in the woods these 10 days.

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

Have a book to finish, or questions about your writing? Click Here.
Wondering what’s up next? Events page has all the News.