A Confession of Difference

Posted on September 27, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“There is something about me. . .I had a feeling that
I was some sort of alien that didn’t quite fit.”
~ Tim Burton, filmmaker
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amy-tingle-swim-2

I’m not sure if it came from appreciating full-tilt the un-selfconscious mind of Neil Gaiman thru his essays and blog posts, wanting one of his brilliant blogs to be the first page of my forthcoming book. Or if it’s my sister-in-law saying ‘all those people are dead” when I said I was the black sheep of the family. Or perhaps a few surprise responses to last week’s blog where I shared my experience getting carried into an altered state, my molecules shifted. Something I don’t typically share with peeps I don’t know. Or if it’s a whip-smart friend who travels in big circles, does big work in the world, sharing she’s an empath, too. But I imagine the article on Tim Burton in Sunday’s paper (which I so, so rarely read!) was the connection that got me thinking.

He was an isolated and lonely outsider growing up. In high school deemed weird. Not exactly my experience, but I moved every few years growing up. Was always reminded for a time I was an outsider. And I got the message early on I was different, like at 18 mos. old early. But I was never directly labeled or pigeon-holed. Because I never looked really weird on the outside.

And I went the opposite direction of Tim’s. I did not find my way to a brilliant showing in the world arena with my weirdness. I let comments hurt – Heloise is different, out there, too much, weird. Even the clearly dismissive comments about my tousled hair, my perspectives, my enthusiasm. Worse of all, I turned the messages inward.

— Too much for some people – too emotive, too curious, too smart. Tamp it down.
— Too particular. Muzzle your desires.
— See the slightest spatial differences – in a framed picture, a graphic, the way a shoe’s made Apologize before you mention it.
— Highly intuitive. Doesn’t matter it’s not the same as non-reasoned emotional. Hide it. Laugh it off.
— Feel things and messages in my body, hear them in my head. Hyper aware of non-verbals. Hide it.
— Cry easily. Whenever touched. Doesn’t matter not the same as being over emotional. Stop those tears.
— Smart. Soften it.
— See connections and linkages in everything. See a thousand shades of gray. Doesn’t matter it makes you pause before answering yes-no, black- white questions. Or that it’s not the same as undecided. Give them the answer. Live with it.
— Dirty kitchen counters make you nuts. Doesn’t matter your desk doesn’t look OCD. Control it.
— Naturally chatty. Muzzle it.
— Shy. Doesn’t matter it’s not the same as socially inept, like a long-ago husband said. Or that you’re not aloof, like a long-ago professor said. Smile. Remember, always smile.
— And this one. . .I was one of the girls in the mirrors shown in Hillary Clinton’s campaign ad. I was chubby, and dark skinned from my Armenian heritage. Looked very ethnic in junior high. Being neither hourglass or rail thin like Twiggy, I never had the idealized body. Was always a tad disheveled. Try to look right.

In other words, tho I’m strong, intelligent, creative, get things done, do good works, love my friends, family, and the world, over the years I’ve made myself smaller. Tamped down my enthusiasm. Apologized for my breath. Saw bad relationships up to me alone to fix. I didn’t allow myself to be who I essentially am. I let myself feel less-than as I shrugged off blank stares to my insights or wit. Bought thousands of dollars in clothing that was not Me. Over-explained myself. Justified why I see things the way I do. Hid my intelligence. Struggled with body image. Even when I was 30 lbs. lighter than my current size-8, I felt fat. Even when my socks coordinate with my outfit and I’m in a tailored suit, I feel sloppy. I still use self-talk to get past feeling frumpy or not right. And I’m one of the lucky ones. I can stop eating sweets and carbs for a few weeks, lose weight. My muscles respond quickly to the slightest exercise.

It took years to realize as many people as there are who don’t see me, there are others who do. That as much as I consider the negative voices, for they may illuminate something to work on, I need to hold the positive voices, too. Because they help me reframe my peculiarities, see past my negative self-talk. See how they may be gifts.

Being particular means I know what I want, and claim it. The way I put my slippers neatly under the sofa can be cute. My shyness made me more courageous. My spatial sensitivity helps people feel comfortable when they’re in my home. The connections I make help people gain new insights, see things they’ve not considered before. My empathy and intuition help me be a good listener, a good activist, a better writer and author, and a better person in the world. And it’s okay I need solitude, because it’s more than being selfish. It allows me to show up 100%.

Here’s the thing. I realize every person feels this way about aspects of him/herself. And I say there’s a reason. The messages from childhood never go away, always haunt with doubt. Even for the strong ones. AND perhaps if we thought about *different* people as simply having a brain that works differently. Or took the time, considered people beyond appearances. Or considered we don’t know what’s going on in another’s life now, or what happened to them in the past. We don’t know motivations. Perhaps if we paused before we judged. We all might have fuller lives. Expand our experience of the world. Expand inside ourselves. See our own selves differently. Experience more appreciation for ourselves and the world. Perhaps even discover a renewed sense of freedom. Even when we turn away from bad apples, see things as awful as first thought.

Pollyanna. Maybe. But it’s a good lens to view the world thru. And is not unconsidered or unaware.

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

Tell me. . .what messages have you received that hurt? How did you move past.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .my astrology chart says I’m a late bloomer.

Image from “Strange Diary or How to Make a Collage” by Amy Tingle

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I’m writing a book about the creative life for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
Get Past Stuck, Complete Your Projects, Have Lasting Creative Freedom.

Getting My Steady

Posted on September 13, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Writing is not life, but I think sometimes it can be a way back to life.
~ Stephen King

desk-jax2
The little bird sign says Believe.

So, what do you do when you feel cramped inside with thoughts of big work in your life. Like downsizing for the fourth time in 5 years for a move across country, and writing a book that the publisher expects in 6 weeks. And you can’t seem to sit still and write…that…book. Chunk away at the mounds of paper choking you down, of course. The ones that feel like they own you, and you don’t want to lug them one more time.

Articles, reference notes, and 3 years of bank statements went out. And the last of my filled stiff-backed spiral notebooks where I wrote all my rough drafts of the scenes in two novels. Wrote poems, starts of stories. Journaled my mind and heart. Took notes at seminars, workshops, and conferences.

I called my husband Art to help rip the metal spirals from my pages. Then, said a prayer for gentle release of all that energy held in my words as I lifted handful after handful into the big, blue recycle bin. The archives from hundreds of hours let go. When it was done, the pages I culled from the lot easily fit in a manila folder.

I say ‘writing’ here, but I bet you see it could be about anything that’s fed and sustained us. How sometimes you have to let something go not because you don’t still love the thing, but because there’s been a shift in your focus. Or a shift in your life. Or maybe it’s just time to see who you are in relation to it today. I know this doesn’t just happen for writers and artists. And the way I’d been feeling all week, it was time to make space. Start anew in getting back to myself.

Labor day seemed to be the turning point. I’d hit the ground running on return from Canada. But that holiday morning, I rose at 7:30. Late. Had a long nap in the afternoon. Went to bed early. With a shut-down brain and both legs bruised (calf in one, knee in the other), I felt no guilt succumbing. Next morning, my husband commented how I’ve gone thru a string of emotional intensity for months. What I noticed was no nightmares for the first time in a week, and my calendar was clean. I announced to my facebook world I was ready to write!

But I didn’t. Jeepers, how many times do we do that, eh? And when someone let me know I spelled a word wrong in an important biz email, which meant I used the wrong word. And I discovered another typo in said email just before she sent another brief missive with more critique. . .well, I sunk low. I appreciated the feedback. But I went to the most irrational, defeatist, dumb place ever: All is Lost.

Two days later, I still wasn’t back on track. My husband woke me way past dawn to ask if I was awake. If I’m sleeping, I’m under the weather, I told him, knowing it true. As the morning progressed, an emotional malaise settled on top of my not-quite-right self. I’ll say here I know how fortunate I am. Can reframe, see both-and in people and the world. Quickly ID blessings and silver linings in dark clouds. And I was stuck.

Part of getting past stuck is acknowledging when things don’t feel good inside. Saying Hello to fear, disappointment, (fill in the blank) when they show up, but I wanted to cry, just for a minute. I wanted to feel like that soft, hazy, fat crescent moon I saw the night before. I wanted what I needed to get out of the funk.

The woman at the haunted B&B on the Bay of Fundy who hears people’s thoughts crossed my mind. I’d asked her what she heard in mine. ‘Love, & a desire for something steady in your life,’ she said.

Saturday was my husband’s birthday. He had a tooth pulled the day before (no dinner out). Felt tired from the whole darned ordeal (keep it simple). So, we went to the Bosnian-Serb bakery & market he discovered and wanted to show me. Bought sardines packed on the Mediterranean, wild blackberry preserves from Croatia, and a huge greasy pocket of chewy bread with a thin filling of feta & spinach. We went to 5 Guys, a place I don’t frequent but he likes, ate a bucket of fresh-cut french fries. Potatoes something he could comfortably eat & one of my guilty pleasures. As we strolled to the art museum, he looked at me and beamed, We’re going places we don’t have to go. It’s been such a long time since that was true for either of us, we both smiled big and stepped a tad lighter. This, I thought, is what I want more of. What I need for steady.

I’m redoing my website. Moving my novel to a single page. ‘Cause tho I’m a novelist and poet at heart, my biggest work as an author and mentor is helping folks live and love their best creative life. It’s who I am. And it needs to be center stage to the world. The image I’m putting on the header is one of my desk in Jacksonville (see it up there?). I think it says Writer Lives Here all over it. I believe this move is part of getting my steady, too.

Because writing answers Yes to my abiding question, and sustains me. I read like a writer and it stimulates me. I’ve studied craft, process, and the industry with passion, and I still never tire of talking with writers about writing. I don’t know why I write essays best on the computer, rather than in notebooks. I know the studies and brain science say pen to paper grows neural pathways, fosters creativity. But the purge of paper sparked the realization I must write fiction, again. Because listening to the story and characters as I write with pen on paper expands my mind and soul. Even in short writes, beginnings that will never see a middle and end. And I miss it. I need it.

I knew that Seer on the Bay of Fundy read a yearning for Home in my mind. I just didn’t realize all of this was part of it. A year ago, I wrote ‘sometimes a journey leads back to what you know.’ And here I am, cycling thru once more. ‘Cause Life doesn’t run on a line. It runs in a spiral.

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recycle

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

Tell me. . .what gives you your Steady in life.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I say writing, but it’s always been art and creating for me.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth – A Guide to Lasting Creative Freedom.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

Walking with Angels

Posted on August 30, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Perhaps home is not a place, but simply an irrevocable condition.”
~ James Baldwin (from Giovanni’s Room)
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heart rock

Heart rock, with a thick quartz ring around the entire perimeter.
The ring makes it a wishing rock.
It fits in the center of my palm.
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Yesterday this time I was sieving thru 3 tiers of security and customs in Toronto airport. Even with designated lines and expedited international baggage transfer, it dawned on me how much tougher coming home to the states is to arriving in Canada. And the lines could’ve been much, much longer on a later flight, with so many more planes in the air. I whispered a Thank You for that 5am first flight out of Saint John, New Brunswick.

I’m calling today Part Two Canada. At the end of Part One, I’d split with my guide in a bevy of differences that left me with a week alone on a tight budget in Canada. I was headed toward Prince Edward Island (PEI). This morning, walking before dawn within the ring of townhomes where I live, I saw exactly how angels watched over me from the moment I entered that gas-stop cafe, had tea and pancakes while I regrouped. Oh, gosh, that sounds so Pollyanna-ish, but honestly, they did. My caveat, as a human I knew each one as it happened, but not until this morning did I see the pattern.

A bit about me in travel. I’m an explorer. I rarely read about places before I go except to get a lay of the land and cultural rules of the place. I love ambling, talking to locals. Rarely feel I missed something because each arrival to a gem holds the surprise of discovery that could’ve been dampened by expectations. But I felt bruised and vulnerable last week, my only knowns the east-west parameters I’d travel. And that PEI was famous for mussels (I learned later they’re famous for potatoes, too). My then unknowns: how hard it is to find a room at the last minute, especially in the earliest and best high season ever. Canadians staying home for vacation because of their dollar. US folks traveling ‘cause our dollar gets 22% more in Canada.

I could talk about a lot of things. Like when you go to PEI, know the best food on east PEI is from tiny, off the beaten path take-outs. Kinda gotta know it, or someone who knows it kind of places. And locals agree. Places like Lin’s in Greenwich beside St. Peters. Far off the road. The drive up thru planted crops. Small sign you could miss. Road no one travels unless they’re going to their farm, state park, or Lin’s. Dinner of scallop burgers (think grilled), handout fries and perfect homemade slaw + ice cream made on the island – Big YUM – at a picnic table, looking out at St. Peters Bay. So quiet the gal speaking gently over the speaker startled me.

lobster-roll Or Pirate’s Cove take-out at North Lake, a flat point that boasts a windfarm of 10 super mills & the title Blue Fin Tuna Capital. The buildings, a short row of motel rooms, painted light yellow. Grayed fishing sheds with piles of lobster traps all about. The entire place seeming deserted. How I drove out, but turned around when the little voice said to. Where when I asked ‘How much mayo in your roll,’ a conversation struck. The gal appreciating me, as she’d always searched for a ‘real’ lobster roll, too. One that wasn’t the standard of lobster bits smothered in mayo. Every time she came home from the big city she moved to, she said. Until she finally moved back, decided to make them right. Took over running this one of three pirate-themed shops. I’m not much into pirates, tho, she said. ‘It’s on your sign, that counts,’ I replied. And we laughed before I sat down to a beautiful roll, brimming with large pieces of unadulterated lobster on a bed of organic lettuce picked from a garden out back, a slip of mayo underneath.

But this story is bigger for me. It’s about Home. A theme that’s showed up a few times on this blog over the past 18 mos. And it’s up especially now because we’re leaving Florida at the end of December. Don’t have a home staked, yet. And tho I don’t say anymore that I don’t how I’ll do it, I think about how it’ll unfold nearly every day. But not ’til this morning did I understand I’ve already been shown it’ll be okay, despite appearances.

I visited three inns in Saint Andrews late Mon. afternoon when I arrived. One room only available in each. And I missed my first & second choices by minutes. Because I stepped away to see what better I might find, returned to the room booked. Once to watch a gal pay for it. Even the off-water places – No Vacancy. I gave in to accept a basement room that felt bad, smelled musty. But Jackie at the counter said, ‘You shouldn’t be on the ground floor.’ And she moved things around. ‘These people won’t mind, they’re late arrivals, with friends.’ + I made her day because I was so nice, she said. Angel #1.

Tuesday, PEI was 6+ hours away, not 5, as expected. I arrived on island 15 minutes before the Information Center closed. First time ever I used such a place. 3 rooms available on the east side under $150/nt. 1-1/2 hrs. later I arrived to my bed. The next morning I sat with an author at breakfast. Go figure the luck to talk writing, right? He wants to quit his day job. I shared guidance for marketing & finding an agent. Was surprised again at how little authors know about the biz of being an author. Was reminded the hours of search and study it takes. Reaffirmed once more the value I can offer. + I learned the inn had a cancellation, so I booked a second night. Angel #2

I rested all day Wednesday, relieved I wouldn’t be moving on. Walked 4-1/2 miles thru a park, crossed a floating boardwalk on a gorgeous marshy pond to stand at the top of tall dunes at a red sand beach. And hunted for a bed Thursday night. I couldn’t book the one I wanted online. That’s because we’re full, the gal on the phone said. Then. . .oh, wait, we have one more room. Angel #3.

Thursday morning, realizing my old bones needed more rest than I thought, I wanted to make it 2 nights in my new location. Nope, full. Then. . .oh, wait, one more room. It’s more expensive, you have to change rooms. Angel #4. As a bonus, my new room vacated early morning Friday. No packing the bag tightly to wait in the office. By 9am I was in my new room overlooking the river. Angel #5.

Angel #6 delivered me to a big room in a haunted inn in St. Martin’s on the Bay of Fundy Saturday night. I’d searched 10 places, was at the door with my packed suitcase when the little voice said, ‘go back, look one more time.’ The inn popped up first. One I hadn’t seen before. I arrived before dark. In the large hallway at the top of the stairs, I felt chills. An unmistakable tingling of energy that wasn’t God Bumps. What is that, I asked. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. But she wouldn’t talk about it, except to say she’s seen a man in a top hat sitting in the chair in the large alcove at the end of the hallway. Under the wedding arch, looking out to sea thru the tall arched windows. And I wasn’t afraid, because the energy felt loving. And she’d said on the phone when I booked I’d feel that way.

Every day it was full-at-the-inn, and a room appeared. One that delivered what I wanted. And I was fed, soul & body. Which to me is a sign to carry. Let go of my fret about my bigger search for Home. Can I do it? I don’t know. But I got my wishing rock in case I slip.

BayFundyBeach Low tide on the rock beach in Saint Andrews. Bay of Fundy.
Where I found my wishing rock the last day of my trip.

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

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

Lessons from a Little Boy

Posted on August 16, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I’d like to tell you everything I know about love is in the right hand drawer of that
table from India book-ending my living room.
~ Maya Stein (from Still & Always)
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WaterWings

The little family (my son, grandson, daughter-in-law) spent the last days of their trip in the States not far from me. I pulled out the big pad of paper and crayons. Lined up the kid’s books I got from the library. Pulled out the bowl a potter glazed with happy faces. I wore the earrings they sent for Mother’s Day my son said they all chose together. Imagined how tickled little boy would be when he saw pictures he painted and shells he gave me around the house. But he didn’t come, as promised. Two days in a row didn’t come. I did little else but wait in the waiting. Their silence and my wondering like screams.

When the call came saying he could’ve gone to the beach, but he wanted the day and night with us, I drove over immediately. That night I woke from an unplanned nap on the sofa to him in a chair beside me. ‘I’m watching you,’ he said. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I know he watches and notes everything. Even cheese, if it matters. Because I asked, ‘how did you know,’ when he picked it up at the market without hesitation. The spice on the side, he said, rubbing his finger over the pepper. I glanced at the other differently herbed cheeses on display. No mistake he knew.

I also know he lives within tight lines. I tried to widen them a bit for him. I think I did. He now knows why broken shells are gems. That he can color like artists, make things any shade he wants. And if he’s asked what goes in the blank space on his drawing, his idea is the right one.

Walking this morning, I thought how much he loves a pool. How when I warned of deep water he said ‘it’s okay, I got my water wings.’ And he kicked off free. With total trust in those wings. I could use wings like that, I thought. Ones I can count on to hold me up. Let me break seeming boundaries, experience adventure. My husband Art wondered at his lack of self-consciousness wearing two giant clown fish. I thought I could use some of that, too.

You know how you can see where the rain falls in the near or far distance? The gray striated sheet that drapes down from a cloud? Today, from a pink-lit cloud that looked like a giant misshapen heart, tatters of pink sheets. The bottoms wisping to shreds where they fell out of the dawn-sun’s reflection, turned to gray. I watched as the pink faded, thinking the whole scene – weeping bruised heart to gray mist finish – a picture of my insides.

But I’ll be okay. They’re soon back in Taiwan, my week’s a busy one, and Thursday I fly to Canada. On adventure with a enthusiastic Canadian writer, scoping venues for my workshops there next spring at her invitation. She tells me night is pitch black where she lives. I’ll see the stars if the fog doesn’t roll in from the sea. Even with the full moon. I’ve longed to see stars in a dark sky, again. The trajectory’s still going up.

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WaterWings2
Another Small Journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . .what do you trust to hold you up, carry you thru seeming boundaries?

I’ll tell you a secret. . . what I know for sure. We’re all learning from each other, if we pay attention.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

How to Strike Gold

Posted on August 9, 2016 by Heloise Jones

To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we put it right; to rest is to fall back, literally or figuratively
from outer targets, not even to a sense of inner accomplishment or an imagined state
of attained stillness, but to a a different kind of meeting place,
a living, breathing state of natural exchange. . .
~ David Whyte
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duck3

Much of Florida floats on water. Ground water inches from the surface. The land pocked with ponds they call lakes. Bayous and coves fingering from the oceans and rivers. Artificial waterways constructed for our use. Acres of swamps. In summer water falls daily from the sky. Inland it used to be a shower that dropped in like a polite visitor, moving on after a decently short time. Along the coast and the peninsula I’m on, it’s thunderstorms and rains every afternoon that drop buckets, cause the groundwater to swell, overtake roads and yards. Allow a manatee to cross streets and thru yards to munch on cultivated shrubbery. This week it’s all about water, and seems to reflect my insides.

One morning as I pumped gas, I noticed a drop in humidity, how good the breeze felt. A sea breeze. Noted with appreciation it wasn’t unpleasantly hot as usual. I watched a crow hop big-leafed floppy limb to big-leafed floppy limb across five waving above the roof of the gas-mart, dropped my gaze to the palms down the road. Thought how if this was your place on the planet, I could see how you’d love it, especially with that sky.

But I hadn’t kept up with the weather. Didn’t register how that beautiful moment portended days of tropical rain. The next day the sky lit up frosted white bright. Not a drop of color. Thunderclouds rose up, gray-tinged white, not gray. Nearly the same value as the sky. A completely white on white landscape overhead I found beautiful. And freaky. Because it was different from the humid white skies of the mid-Atlantic I know. Was not the color of storms. A friend joked it was an apocalyptic sign. Stripped of color as it was, I could see that. What I didn’t see was anger I’ve not expressed.

I’m one who goes to self-responsibility, understanding, frustration, love. I note anger when it rises, and feel my way thru, transform it to something constructive. My lapses are spikes that quickly settle to something calmer to hold. But the anger with family from two weeks ago has no way to channel. A Fuck You rose up inside me, even for the ones I love most in all the world that I always forgive. And I said it aloud to the empty rooms. Fuck you _______. Every time it rose. Like a storm battling the love I feel. The anger pooled like a rain from a stalled tropical depression. My love turned white in the moment. Like the freaky white sky. Still beautiful. And I hoped this rain nourished the ground for something new to grow.

Sunday I was talking with a good friend in Santa Fe. The story, again, how even tho I see the many positive things for my relationship and both of us as individuals, I feel battered from this time in Florida. I kept thinking it wouldn’t get any lower, I said. And then it struck me hard, bright lights on a movie set hard, it’s not getting lower. Since December, the trajectory’s up. Starting with this home, everything I wanted, saw as essential for my productivity in the time I remain here. Clean and upgraded with quality, walls painted with color, kitchen I love, abundant natural light and a sense of space, responsive landlord I trust. And I hired a coach who didn’t help me to what we contracted for, but brought me to clarity and confidence so I’m making offers to help others from a place where I excel. From my zone of genius. And my circle of connections with authors is expanding. And I found the best person ever to record my work. Who also gave me so much beyond the work – conversations and sharing, something to look forward to, settling into challenge and process I love. My sights shifted as if I’d struck Eureka gold talking to her.

I take my dawn walks inside the ring of townhomes in my complex now. A buffer to traffic roar 2 blocks one way and 3 another. Monday I was relieved to discover a break in the steady rain when I woke. The breeze feeling good in the thick air as I walked. I ventured beyond the complex. The little voice said take the shortcut coming back, thru the gate that’ll put me right across from your townhome. But I said no, I may catch a pretty sky over the small lake. Halfway down the block, the rain started. Insistent, this side of heavy. I shaved steps by backtracking to the shortcut. But still arrived drenched. And here’s the kicker, not ’til I got in the shower did I realize how refreshed that rain left my skin. So different from the brutally hard water coming thru my shower head, even with a double filter. In this minute, I call it baptism.

That afternoon I drove to a small villagey-town at the bottom of the peninsula, met a new author referred to me. She’s written a book. I love that she approached the work the way I’d advise. Let it evolve, be what it is, didn’t push her original intent on the work. That she wants to learn craft, make her book better. That she’s smart. Intuitive tho she doesn’t claim it. I found myself wanting to read what she wrote, but I declined her giving it to me. When she asked if I’d edit it, pointed out when I hesitated that I said I edit, I conceded I’d think about it once she made it the best she’s able. But my mind questioned how I’d fit this into so much already planned, and do her right. I feel overwhelmed, can only do the next right thing most days. Some days feel the strain of the gamble in uplevelng. That deadlines are pushing me, instead of me moving steadily, in flow, toward goals. Question myself in the process.

Outside the restaurant streets flooded. I’d parked two blocks up & brought my rubber shoes as prep. But water ran nearly to car tailpipes. Another woman slogging thru said a catfish lay on the sidewalk further up. It surprised me water stretched 6 blocks to the main road, and 33 blocks on the main road before the land rose above it. Water high enough to elicit a mantra ‘keep moving; please, tail pipe stay free.’ When I got home, saw the street to the entrance of my complex flooded extra deep, I decided to go for it. Didn’t stop for the beeps of a car I hadn’t seen coming fast at me. I kept moving. And we easily missed each other, with space to spare. Another reflection. The water on the edge of overwhelm. Me traversing safely thru miles, not stalling. Keeping my date without expectations, tho I knew it may flood.

At the end of the day I talked with my publisher. I expressed my concerns. Reminded him I’d be in Canada 12 days, scoping venues for workshops at the invitation of a writer I’d helped. And he reminded me I’m ahead of the game because people ask for my work, and refer me. I shifted sights once more.

In dreams, water represents emotions. I wish I wouldn’t miss the Persaid meteor showers with this overcast sky. But I’m grateful how the Universe says, look here. We’ll give you a mirror if you’ll notice. And just in case you missed the water thing, the little ducklings you watched grow from yellow puffs will settle in front of your windows, preen and nap, all safe with their mama. More than once be angel messengers. And in case you miss that, note there’s 8. Eight, the number of prosperity.

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

Tell me. . .what mirrors of your life do you see?

I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m still scared.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth. All about
the creative life for people living in the real world.