Complicated Grief

Posted on June 28, 2016 by Heloise Jones

And then she took her pen in hand and wrote her story down.
She did not find a need to erase anything.
~ Carol Winner, artist

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FBBC - fav

I don’t drive to the bay for dawn much anymore. Sundays my one exception because there’s a possibility of silence, relief from the hum or roar of motor vehicles for more than 3 seconds. A long time when you consider a slow start at a green light typically gets a beep at 2 seconds. I usually don’t turn on the radio when I drive over, either. But the little voice this week said listen. It’s On Being with Krista Tippet. I didn’t resist. I waited for what I was supposed to get.

It was about complicated grief. Born when one has a loss with no resolution, such as a loved one gone missing. Or homesickness, such as with immigrants who lose homes, community, country. Or the foreclosed who find themselves mired lower than ever imagined. All dropped in new territory, both inside themselves and out. All expected to move on, start anew. Grief that exists even as they indeed build a new, different life. Something psychiatrists consider pathological in the person, tho. But the woman on the radio said no, pathological in the circumstance. Yes, yes, I thought. And then, shock. I realized she described what I’ve been feeling. A loss of a life – solitude, travel, craft workshops & writing retreats, community, immersion in writing & dreamtime, familiar fruit trees. My feelings deeper than longing or missing it. And knowing I’m working to get what I love back doesn’t change what’s inside me. Even with all I do – reframe, gratitude, shift. And now, rather than think I’m less-than or spoiled or ungrateful, I have a name for this inside me.

From 2001-2006 I worked beside my son, helped build the business he founded in Asheville, NC – French Broad Brewing Co. I did all the promo. Was print buyer and admin. Connector for sponsorships and events, including the Chamber of Commerce Culinary Showcase. I smoothed over mistakes and personality differences with accounts. Developed an interactive brewery tour, opened the place every Sat. morning for 4 years. When we opened the Tasting Room, I managed it, and the 3 gals who worked there. I LOVED it all. Working with my son. Hearing tour geeks say our tour was their best. Beer geeks saying our beers were the best. The compliments from other brewers across the country saying they couldn’t perfect a lager, ours stellar. Being stopped as I went in, asked if it was my place, saying I’m part owner. When we ramped up the music, I loved that our tiny, close early venue was a fav with the artists. When we got into stores, I loved seeing people in line in front of me with a growler, saying ‘Thank you for liking our beer.’ I simply totally owned it.

After I left, I turned to writing full-time. Learned craft, process, and the publishing biz with the same immersion I did that brewery. Discovered a passion, embraced it. But I grieved the loss of everything I had with the brewery. When I told my husband this, his words were no you don’t. But I did. Complicated grief. I keep a picture from those days framed in my office. The other day I found the digital file.

I use the word Love, a lot. I’ve been thinking about this use of mine, along with my use of the word Magic. Our language betrays us, ya know. In the south, love is often used interchangeably with the words ‘likes a lot.’ She just loves okra. She loves a quiet night with a movie. But I think when I use the word, I really do *love,* vs. like a lot. ‘Cause I think a moment before I type or share it. And when I do, it’s because it vibrates somewhere deep inside me that just fills me up. Like Love. And it’s what I want to pass on when I feel it. Because I can.

Because I know how fortunate I am. On the outside because I have some means and choices. On the inside because I see silver linings and purpose. And now, I have a name for the hurt, too.

The thick, sultry air of summertime Florida has moved in to stay. The birds have stopped singing. These three videos soothed my Soul as I sat with this new information about grief this week. Listen. Watch. Enjoy.

They’re for you, too.

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And THIS MAGIC of animation and words, that I can only give you a link to.

Tell me. . .have you ever felt complicated grief? Even in the midst of your wonderful life.

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

A secret: I owned every album the Beatles ever pressed. And never saw them live.
A favorite: Petals from the crepe myrtles drifted down in a wind gust. Formed a ribbon of pink along the edge of the strip pond 20 ft. off my back door.

Shift Happens Here

Posted on June 21, 2016 by Heloise Jones

we lost 49 pulses at pulse
not gay or straight
black, white or hispanic
just pulses
this father’s day will be particularly hard on the pulses of at least 49 families
Pray for them
~ Nadine Williams
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Srawberry moon

Strawberry Moon over Boca Grande, an island down Florida’s Gulf coast from me.
Today we honor the Moon. She so bright and lovely.
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Ya know when you have a week that you’re not sure if you feel okay or could be depressed if you let yourself. That you’re angry, but know the futility of anger, unless you turn it to action in the opposite direction of what’s got you. And still you feel as if you’re dog paddling. Moving forward, but strained to keep your face above water, breath free. And one morning you actually wonder how you really feel. Sad & yukky, or what. Yep, that’s me this week. But the very day I lay in bed, thought I could go either way, two messenger angels swooped in. An Australian friend wrote on my Facebook timeline Hope you are having a great day. Well, ah, it’s a choice, I thought. I’m lucky. Shortly after, a private message from a friend in Iowa I haven’t heard from in months, Morning Heloise. Such a beautiful day it reminded me of you. I so appreciate you. Have the best day ever!! And I glanced at how many little heart emojis scroll down my wall. I got it. No tunnel vision.

In one 24 hour period this week I learned that every US postal carrier makes an oath to the government they will deliver the mail no matter what. An oath! That others step in, get it done when one can’t show up. Will help if someone’s delayed to work. I also learned an AR-15 full metal jacket bullet pierces walls. Movie-goers in the adjacent theatre, not in the room, were among those gunned down in CO. And that Yemen, a country associated with war in my mind, is known worldwide for its honey! That honey stores with shelves shaped like honey comb once doted nearly every street corner. My mind shifted. Mail’s no longer delivered by a person, but by individuals consciously living their commitments. And war ravages people who from the outside look to live simply, but are so wise they love and preserve bees.

I’m in the midst of recording 6 mos. of my blogs. It’s illuminating to see which stories repeat. Trauma stories, who I am stories. And statements, such as ‘FL for 4-1/2 yrs.’ One day I thought to delete a story because I’d already told it, more than twice. Then I remember why these stories rose to the top. It’s how I reveal some of what made the real me. And I remember the marketing adage, 5 exposures before people see, remember. Shifted today to 8-10 exposures. That it applies when we’re getting to know folks, especially when we haven’t sat down to a meal together. Haven’t had an exchange or brief conversation. + I’m recording a 16 monthlong journey that’s still counting. A journey of me learning to share private stuff about myself. Dipping toe, foot, leg to full body immersion to Taking Off My Clothes. And when we repeat something like ‘4-1/2 yrs.’, it reveals experience and mindset below the surface. Such as, I’ve never settled here in Florida.

We just gotta look between the lines sometimes. Listen, see, shift perspective. For ourselves, as well as others.

Yesterday was the longest day of the year. A full moon called strawberry because it was strawberry harvest time for the Algonquins. A time of shift in nature.

Birdsong’s carried my Soul for a few weeks now. Helped me equilibrate each morning thru grief and confusion. This heightened awareness to birdsong’s new for me. But no denying the marvel of a mockingbird so full, round, and loud, like its voice should come from the big tree it sits in, not its tiny body. Weird like a full-chested opera out of an 8 yr. old. As I walked this morning, listening, gazing up at the moon, I realized my heart’s finally shifted to purpose. That I had a sign at the bay the other day which I noticed, but didn’t understand.

I didn’t head straight to water as I typically do. I walked blocks listening to birds, enjoyed the added blessing of no roars from vehicles. When I returned to my car, a silent mockingbird perched on my roof rack as a bluejay drank from a puddle near my wheel, little birds fluttered about. And as if to assure I’d not miss it, the mockingbird flew to the ground, then back to the rack. Sat a long time as I waited in the street, wondered at its silence. Before the auto-lock beeped it skyward to a tree. But I was still dog-paddling, didn’t feel the movement inside me, yet.

I tell ya, there’s something empowering with this sort of shift. A both/and of space and clarity. The best way I can show it is to say consider how much easier that word shift feels vs. the word change. I think you’ll get it.

Let’s shift. Whatta ya say?

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

A secret: I don’t usually go to anger. Frustration’s my modus operandi. True Vata dosha.
A favorite: Palm trees. How they sound wonderful in the breeze. Sometimes like a mountain brook, even.

Photo: Ronald Kotinsky

Remembrance Poppies

Posted on June 14, 2016 by Heloise Jones

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
~ John McCrae (from In Flanders Fields)
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poppies *

Do you know the remembrance poppy? How the landscape in Flanders was such a wasteland after WWI that few elements of the natural world could survive. Larks and field poppies the exceptions. The poppies considered a weed for their persistent yearly appearance. Their seeds flung by the wind, dormant for years, springing alive in the churned soil, painting the battlefields solid red with flowers. What would we have here for tiny school children so shredded by bullets their faces were gone. Or the 103 men and women, many in love, ripped in seconds as they danced. Colorful wildflowers – children’s colors, gay pride colors? I think it would apply to others fallen as they worked, watched movies, had meals, celebrated. Don’t you? And their families. The ones in living, walking pieces holding promises of prayers as consolation they won the lottery of mass shootings that day. Do we include them in the remembrance, too?

I’m overwhelmed lately with how many Facebook comments are negative, quick to express how dumb something or someone is. How it’s ALL awful. How entire groups of people are labeled and mocked in spurts of vile. After the violence in Orlando, I’m overwhelmed by the re-emergence of usual arguments regarding assault weapons, too. It’s the evil hearts, unstable minds that should be targeted, not innocent inanimate weapons. I acknowledge it’s a multi-layered issue. But it’s irrational to me, including the one the government’s out to take away all guns. I can’t find where it’s stated as up for consideration. I engaged a gun owning friend to help me understand. ‘We all fear it,’ he said. ‘We feel stronger, that other countries won’t invade because they see our might. Our citizens armed.’ Even after extreme carnage the argument doesn’t soften to logic we register our cars, and for voting. Have licenses to drive, erect buildings. Have waiting periods for medical procedures, both men and women. No solid answers emerge to the questions, what possible use an assault weapon is to a hunter or pleasure marksman? Which invaders does it protect against? And don’t background checks address that argument it’s people to check, too? Fear and perception remain, like a phobia. An armor that kills.

When I started Facebook years ago, the connections and how people showed up pleased me in the best of ways. Even in disagreements. I decided to be conscious there. To ask myself before I hit the post or comment button, do I mean this? what does this contribute to the conversation, to connection? of all the things I’m interested in + all that amazes me, where do I center? am I real here? It’s now a regular practice, like prayer or meditation can be a practice of awareness and presence. Brene Brown says ‘authenticity is a practice.’ Yes, I think, that’s what I’m doing.

And here’s the thing. I’ve stumbled. I’ve posted 5x day at times, ‘can you see, can you see’ bleeding in my words. I am not Pollyanna. I can rage. Sometimes my first thoughts are indeed ‘of course, you corrupt, ignorant, stupid (fill in the blank),’ reveal my less-than-perfect heart. sigh But I know what holds my head and heart up when I’m screaming inside with overwhelm and grief as I am now, and I can will myself back to that:

Real life reminders good exists beside the bad. Life beside the Grief. The Evidence Journal of eyes open, actions taken, steps forward against devastation, hatred, ignorance, cruelty. Steps that build societies and environments up, not down. That value planet, people, and all living things. That empower. Say we matter. ALL of us. That it’s not just me who thinks it.

There’s a tradition still alive in Appalachia that when a couple marries, the community creates a wedding quilt for them. Squares and rectangles are sewn and embroidered by all members who then come together to quilt the blanket into being. I love that tradition. Every time author Vicki Lane share a new one, always with pictures, I wish it for myself. The community and love stitched in, that I can cover myself with at night.

There is no escape when you look horror straight in the face with eyes open. And we must bear witness. But I believe there’s grace in seeing the good stuff with the Heart open. And to be witness to that is just as important. We can center our action in that. Even if it’s biscuits like food celebrity Chadwick Boyd made, saying, “I made biscuits. Because I needed to. Because they bring people together.”

Tell me. . . How do you turn your sights to positive thought and action?

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

A secret: I have not unfriended my gun wielding friends. Because I know where our hearts meet.
A favorite: The comforts of color and biscuits.

Photo: photographer unknown

The Big Blue

Posted on June 7, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“That day I saw beneath dark clouds,
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before,
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.”
~ David Whyte (from The Opening of Eyes)

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deep_sea *

I have this strange relationship to water. Water over my head, even 2”. Water I can’t see beneath the surface. Water rising in nature. A weird internal alarm triggers that neither fire nor big winds engender. True, I’ve not experienced the threat of wild fires, but I saw my own home on fire once, felt the wash of helplessness. Stood in a yard with family as their home burned. And rational or not, I felt I could come out with feet on solid ground. But not with rising water. Even thoughts of the aftermath overwhelm. And when big storms blow in, I check radar, often. Today I’m watching the strip pond 20 ft. from our door. Calculating if I’ll roll up the oriental rugs. Water tables are shallow, streets don’t drain. It’s already over the bank. I’m calm, but I have memories.

We lived in the mountains when Frances battered the NC coast, stalled, in 2004. Heavy rain fell for days. The French Broad and Swannanoa Rivers breached. Sweeten Creek, too. Our brewery in Biltmore Village between them. Flood waters rose to car windows, swept thru merchants’ doors. We watched the drain the length of the brewery floor. The flood outside creeping toward us. Knowing no way to save tanks of beer worth thousands no insurance covers. We could be lost. But we were lucky. Saved by mere inches. And I remember two years in Jacksonville living on the St. John’s River. The impassable streets. How three cars floated to the ceiling of the flooded garage, bumped in a dance in the middle. And 2012 when Issac threatened. Me on a writing retreat in Naples, alone. I’ve done my share of storm watch.

My fear of water over my head is a mystery, tho. I was in 5th grade before I learned to swim, despite many attempts. Passed the 5 min. tread test in college simply out of a greater fear – a required semester swimming in the deep end if I didn’t. But here’s the thing. I love boats. Am courageous. I’ve walked a ropes course 30 ft. up despite crumbling with sobs in fear. Took my young son, left an abusive husband with no help despite fear that stole my breath each night. And two years ago, I swam with wild dolphins in Hawaii for four days, despite my body’s violent resistance, cramped legs that refused release, even with massage. The kicker. I experienced my most profound peace ever in the Big Blue, water 5,000 ft. deep. So crystal clear we looked as if we swam in an aquarium. All around, so blue. With lines of light going down forever, no end.

In my mind I can still see very detail of a painting of a drowning woman in the middle of the ocean. Her wide, panicked eyes above water, her gapping mouth. Debris all around. Sinking ship in the background. Same with scenes from two movies. In White Squall, the brigantine sinking. The savvy sea-faring woman calmly sitting on the floor, trapped in a cabin, rescue impossible. Her face as she looks up, knowing she’s going to the bottom of the ocean. The other from The Piano. Ada, her leg wrapped in a rope, drifting down, down. But I also remember a dream I had. Threatened by an unknown someone, I jump from a partially submerged cage of a platform into a stormy sea. And four whales rise up, say they’ll save me. I also remember the peace in The Big Blue.

The other day I met Fred, an older man, as I took a picture of large, silky blooms on a cactus. 32 yrs. in the neighborhood, he’s had trouble with strangers, recently a foreigner, he said. I smiled, leaned in, said as if it a secret, my grandmother was a foreigner. He softened. Showed me a cactus in his yard, pointed to his upstairs. They died, used to live in my apartment there, this is theirs, he said. He showed me his whimsical yard art that tells stories – cat stalking a bird on a nest, the bird’s egg a seashell. And a plastic chair dark green like the bushes and overgrown tropical plants it’s tucked amongst. I sit, watch the world go, he said.

Days before, at a show in a tiny planetarium geared for kids, I fell asleep, woke jolted to bright lights, people stepping past. Feeling my real prize Deric, a chatty 11-yr. old passionate about space who started a conversation with ‘How was your day?’ So proud of his knowledge, he repeatedly prompted ‘ask me a question.’ Who told me I looked beautiful. His expressed self-consciousness about how much he talks touched me. I share that with him. We also share a longing to go into space. Afterwards, looking thru telescopes on the roof, I saw Jupiter’s stripes and moons. How red Mars really looks. Was filled with wonder.

I believe we all have a purpose. Some watch the world go by from their chairs, hold a certain peaceable kingdom. Some step out, even when scared. Go into space. I will summon whatever courage I need to look into a whale’s eye, and to meet my purpose. Because I don’t think it’s too late, and I must.

Tell me, what are your fears? What must you do despite them?

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

A secret: Birds and creatures talk to me.
A favorite: A friend who bought the professional video of our dolphin swims says it seems I’m in every other frame.

Special Thanks to Fred and Deric, my young companion who was also proud his name’s a combo of his father’s (Eric) and his mother’s (Deanna).

A Diet of Sustenance

Posted on May 31, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT’S
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me-
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.
~ Shel Silverstein (Listen to the Mustn’ts)

I can eat just one cookie, or a small scoop of ice cream and stop. Boggles my 1/2 gallon and handfuls of cookies husband’s mind. But stressed, I dive. Sweets & carbs. Sweet still small bites, but every day, all day. Carbs not so small. Half loaf of sweet apple bread from the gourmet bakery in an afternoon. A box of Trader Joe’s cheddar rockets every two days. TJ’s British muffins sometimes like popcorn. When the waistband gets tight, I wrangle the diet. Last week I knew I made it when I left Trader Joe’s without a refresher box of rockets, and the first ‘muffin’ after my weeklong moratorium was not divine. So much of our health is wrapped up in diet. But it’s not just what we eat. It’s what we see, hear, and do.

Lately my dawn walks are circling the 6 blocks of my townhome complex 3 times. Noting light on the buildings colored alternately celery, terracotta, antique white, sand, Florida pink and that weird pinky-beige in my crayon box called flesh. I hunt clouds, a blush of color above rooftops. Admire the rare blossoms on the crepe myrtles, magnolias, and gardenias that don’t last long in their pruned, manicured state (so diff from me). Some days I step out, walk the neighborhood of tiny, sometimes ranshackle, homes beyond. No feast for the eyes, but a diet of movement.

With surprise, I noticed the streetlight on the corner just outside our complex blinks off as I cross over. Sometimes the one on the other side, too. The others all still on. Light and time no matter. A tiny diet of anticipation. . .will it happen again today. It always does.

Streetlights are one a block in this neighborhood. If I walk halfway up a block and back again, I get a tad of nighttime like God meant it for a few moments. One morning, the sky already brightened, the birds full awake, I stood under a wire, listened to a mockingbird go thru her glorious repertoire. Admired the silhouette of a pine (?) that looked like it came from a children’s book. Tall trunk, round top. When the songtress abruptly stopped, lit to the street steps from my feet before flying to a rooftop ridge, I decided birdsong and night sky must be part of my daily diet.

One evening I saw a commercial plane so low overhead it looked the size of a toy I’d hold in my hand. Its lights big, like a sparkle ring on my finger. What surprised me most was how the roar of the engines trailed, like thunder to lightning. The plane overhead, the sound off to my left, chasing its tail. A tiny diet of wonder.

I watch my diet of words, but my desired diet of silence seems nearly impossible. A neighbor’s noisy a/c compressor buzzing 10 feet from our door. Hum of vehicles constant outside. I sometimes taste it Sundays at the bay when cars only trickle by, and late risers and herds of yakky runners stay home. One Sunday I followed a steady stream of cars at my back to the brightly lit pool where people gathered under tents for a swim meet. Continued up and around to where the palms are three deep. Enjoyed a dose of gratitude as I watched young squirrels drink from small, quarter inch deep puddles on the sidewalk.

A hearty diet of Beauty is necessary for my health. I find it in a pristine magnolia blossom. Not a brown spot or withered edge. Luscious. And right where I could lean in, my nose above the largest petal, inches from the thick cone of a stamen with rows of sleek, stiff ‘curls’ halfway up to the top. The most intricate, subtle texture on it. The fragrance so delicate and exquisite I stood for minutes. Took breath after breath. Or Kirsty Mitchell’s Wonderland book. The smell of Italian ink that still lingers. The feel of luscious paper on my fingertips. The feast of escape in the detail, color, fantasy on the pages. Stories, and a Queen, seasons of death & rebirth, and doors. A feast of fine craftsmanship.

I saw a video of two beautiful people dancing on a layer of water in a French piazza. Water splaying with the glide of their feet. No care who watched. It reminded me of the sorts of things I used to do. How I’m starved for travel and new experience right now.

I never get over the feeling shown in this picture.

Yang's son on the road

Little kid. Big world. Not seeing around the corner, trusting a road laid by others. The wonder and majesty of our gorgeous planet. Big sky overhead that stretches to the stars I’m born of. That I’m one of the lucky ones safe to walk it.

Anything can be, Shel says.

What are your diets of sight, sound, feeling, and action?

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

A favorite: The natural world close, out my door.
A secret: I’m starved for the natural world out my door right now, too.

Photo of child: Yang Wen