Tell Me About the Sky, What Matters

Posted on April 19, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“A man told me there was nothing he would rather keep noticing — and he pointed to the spaces between palm fronds, chinks of turquoise and a few clouds. Just now, into this recollection, wanders an egg on a green dish.”
~ Karen Brennan (from Five Stories)
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Bird Island.1 *

I love Facebook. I get so much from it. Good stuff far beyond the constant yammer of politics and war flying every day from the radio. Shores me up, helps me remember the Chesapeake Bay was once dead and now thrives. Exciting stuff like this fabulous archive of 2500 pigments collected in the first decades of this century by billionaire Forbes, sparked by a damaged old-world painting he wanted restored. COLOR gathered from around the world. That came from things like beetles off a certain cactus, resin from mummies, dried urine from cow’s fed only mango leaves. I love that bright red dragon’s blood really exists. Is found in rattan leaves. Medicine to my artist’s soul that elicits yearning for the list of names and origins.

I love that I’ve stayed in the homes of peeps in New Zealand who I first met on fb. That an entire church in far-off Chicago prayed for us when my husband was run down by a car, because a woman saw it in a comment. (I never made a post) Asked if she could add us to their prayer list. I love I connect with those holding opposite political views, or come from diff cultures, meet in the spaces we share as humans – heart, family, fun, pain, desires, passions, works.

From fb I learn about other writers and works, add to my knowledge of craft and industry. I love I have a forum to encourage & promote brilliant artists and writers, too. Can see my encouragement blossom into works in the world. That fb gave me conversations for a book I’m writing to help carry creatives through the snarlies and frustrations of life, navigate through stuckness so we stay on our feet, live, work and create at our highest level.

Conversations personal and heartfelt about the difficulty creating & expressing stories, thoughts, words in a world that doesn’t understand what it means to have that sort of thing inside you. How you’re challenged with why’s and labels. You’re not a writer, you’re…’. How this solitary pursuit can look selfish when other people want/need your time. That you’re not real because you haven’t hit that magic validation button, publication. Even knowing as we do that stories and words nourish the world. That writers are executed in some places for the power they wield.

So, I asked on fb, ‘What would you like to hear me talk about in my blog?’ Two replied (good in a writer’s world with a staggering level of rejection). One, whatever works for me. The other, I like it when you talk about what matters to you. I like it when you describe the colors of the sky, which was perfect.

Because when I first joined fb (after 2 yrs.! prompting by a writing partner) I decided how I’d show up authentically me, intentional. I cared about so much, I chose how I’d stand, not add to the noise. In time, it evolved into a writing practice creating poetic pictures of what I see and feel, saying my Truth the best I can. Editing as I would any poetic stanza. It got down to this:

I care we see our common humanity. The trolls and nasties are out there, and so are beauty and compassion. I love what Doris Lessing says about existence and forgetting. Deep down love it –  ”No one knows what has existed and has vanished beyond recovery, evidence for the number of times Man has understood and has forgotten again that his mind and flesh and life and movements are made of star stuff, sun stuff, planet stuff; …” – because I see life-lines as spirals. We spiral up (or down, whichever ‘toward wisdom’ means to you). Revisit our stuff. Get a chance to see things differently. Do *it* differently. And it spirals out. Each of us a microcosm of culture and humanity.

I care we see ourselves empowered. That we’re inspired to show up, put our drop in the bucket to create a kinder, gentler world for all of us. Like my friend Sweetie Berry says, “….To see small droplets of water <rain> repeatedly fall to make differences in all it touches…no single drop doing the work but incrementally changing the landscape and the garden. Small things matter…” Because I know our drops matter. That it’s the We together that causes incremental change in landscapes, just like the rain.

I care about the realities of the human world. Because I am not neutral. They push me to speak up unequivocally strong sometimes. As with the recent NC bill, because I love my friends. Wept with joy when equal marriage became law of the land. Love is love, the way I see it. And I vehemently oppose everything in that bill, including the silencing of any voice who wishes to protest (yep, you/us, LGBT or not). And the only way I see to fight it is to support the peeps fighting it. Hate and discrimination are myopic, are not hurt by us stepping away.

The over-arching thing I care about is inspiring people to see more than the hard stuff, even when we’re over-run. Pull myself up in the process. Last week I heard a famous comedian on Fresh Air say as a black man he’s hyper-aware the min. he steps out the door that he’s a target of suspicion and possible violence. I heard how desperate refugees pressed against the new thick-thick wall between Turkey and Syria are shot at, forced away, back into devastation, starvation, and horrific violence. Heard, yet again, commentators analyze Donald Trump. And as I drove down the road the next morning, I thought ‘I am so safe and lucky. So many of us here, so safe and lucky.’

And I care, care, care we see our beautiful planet for the gift she is. How she shows us, gives us, COLOR we can hold in our hands. Every medicine for body and soul. That though it’s not May, yet, so I can’t declare Spring here to stay, daffodils & tulips crowd each other in Asheville and points up the east coast. Trees drip with flowers, the streets sport puddles of petals. The squirrels and ducks are making babies. In fact, so incredibly gorgeous, I can see nature simply doesn’t care. She’s sprung. While the snow falls in Colorado.

And finally, for you Mary Anne Radmacher. Last night as I closed the blinds, the moon, not yet full, reflected twice, like twins in my window so brightly I couldn’t shut her out. I left the blinds open. Went outside to gaze up. Feel the breeze. I heard her say it’s okay I only caught a glimpse of the giant hawk flying low with something large in its talons, a murder of crows chasing it. Because it caused me to ask a man if he saw it so close over his head. Learn he lost his vision, is just now seeing again after multiple surgeries. After complete blackness. (imagine!) And that he’s from the Brazilian Amazon, where they live close to nature and animals, so it was natural his son rescued a baby crow on the edge of death, loved it to adulthood. The hawk brought me to a fellow human I would never have spoken to, otherwise.

I have not been down to the bay in days. Have not sat in silence with nature, noticed things like the chinks of turquoise and a few clouds in the spaces between palm fronds. I must do that now.

Tell me. What matters to you?

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

A favorite: Palm trees. Absolutely fascinating when you really see their differences and how they flower.
A secret: I’ve glimpsed the sky through oak and maple leaves. Now looking thru the spaces amongst palms.

Hard Truths, Sibs & the Universe

Posted on April 12, 2016 by Heloise Jones

kitten-gosling *
“The mystery of grace is that God loves Dick Cheney and me exactly as much as
He or She loves your grandchild. . .The movement of grace is what changes us,
heals us and our world. To summon grace, say, ‘Help!’
And then buckle up.” ~ Anne Lamott, author
*

Each day ends with a string of opened tabs on my computer. Articles gleaned from Facebook and elsewhere. Before bed I skim thru, save potentials to mac’s Reading List. Mostly they go. The other night, one pulled me like a magnet. Despite it being reeeeally long and having a graph in the middle. Despite being way past my bedtime, I was compelled to read it. “I Know Why Poor White Folks Chant Trump, Trump, Trump.” A well written, well researched rare historical sociological review based on economics and psychology. By an author who knows these poor white folks intimately, being a member of the white underclass (her words) herself. She hit my interest nerve. . .the subconscious whys of people and the complexities of context.

The article might’ve ended there, another note in my mind-files, if not for National Siblings Day plastered on Facebook the next day. Pics of loving, happy (lucky) sibs huddled together that I usually note with a wonder what it feels like, now elicited the thought I am the ‘Liberal’ my sister hates with a virulent vengeance.

It’s a true mystery to me how we’re so different. Times were hard for periods in our lives, but my family was never what you’d call white underclass. My parents looked like me. The hard experiences in their lives not on the surface of their personas and appearance. My father, born in New Orleans, quit school and ran away when he was ten. By the time he was seventeen, he’d traveled around the world three times with the merchant marines. He couldn’t spell worth a lick, but had beautiful penmanship, and taught himself everything from geometry to rebuilding a car engine from pieces, from books. He read anything that interested him, including a large volume on the siege of Leningrad. He believed in reform over capital punishment, and unselfconsciously used the ‘n’ word to my great consternation. He sold commercial real estate, was in his sixties before the missing molars in his mouth (pulled years before) were replaced. My mother was a first generation American born of Armenian refugees. Her father built a shoe factory, which carried them thru the depression intact. She worked as a full-charge bookkeeper. Loved to jump in a car, drive. We were democrats. Kennedy lovers.

The kicker. . .I’m the family’s black sheep. But my sister (eighteen mos. younger) is the staunch conservative Ted Cruz republican. She despises the president I admire for his class, intelligence, style, family values, and sense of humor, spoofing himself. Expresses full-blown contempt for ‘liberals’ online. This sister who stayed in Houston after high school, married a nice guy four yrs. later. Adores her grandchildren and cares for them with devotion I call holy. The one who once told me she never felt abandoned those times we were left for days to months with relatives and friends because she had me. Who became the only child home at fifteen, after I left. The one I heard my father tell on the phone was the daughter he always admired and loved most, when I was 41. Who believes she’ll rise with Jesus on Judgement Day, being chosen as among the 144,000, but her All One World, different paths to the same God sister and the other seven billion on earth will not. And who’s said many times since we were kids she was jealous of me. I don’t get it.

We talk on occasion. I sent her grandma’s jewelry. Called, held space for her the morning after her best friend and husband died this past month. Her best friend. So huge. Called a few days later, heard the memorial service was filled with grateful people he’d touched. Warmed my heart. She mentioned a visit. That I may get a call she’s in the FL panhandle. It’s been twenty-three years. Feels way more complicated than time with my other republican friends. The ugly parts of our history so close, demanding we look at it. More than an encounter. We love each other, but. . . Call when you’re in Louisiana, I said. Do you see where I’m going here?

We can explain differences that take us one direction or the other, try to understand. Can get close on lots of fronts. But we can’t really figure all the whys. There’re contradictions everywhere. Even those who come from the same household can seem like they stepped off boats from different worlds. It’s hard coming together, even with One World thinking and all our wishes for happy, close sibs like we see on Facebook.

The author in the article says blue-collar working class folks don’t have the time to read economics books, or history books related to economic changes. They rely on narratives, imagery, vague statements and promises to figure out who the ‘best’ candidate is. I’d argue it’s the same for most people. The fact that so many make fun of missing teeth and misspelled words on signs instead of asking why people don’t have healthcare or better education the proof.

I’m over the hate and rhetoric, the name calling, the self-righteous lines in the sand without big-picture taking. In the end we’re all brothers and sisters on this planet. Key word, human. Let’s just say ‘Help!’, buckle up and build a country that belongs to all of us, where no one ever feels like what the gal in the article says those folks chanting Trump feel like, ‘just a poor motherfucker no one cares about.’ We can. Starts with thinking it. Then, stepping into the Heart.

What do you think?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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A secret: I don’t relate to the label ‘liberal.’
A favorite: Lots that Anne Lamott says.

Photo: unknown

Vision to Launch

Posted on April 5, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“More than a dozen Pulitzer Prize-winning writers and master teachers will share the most reliable secrets of their craft. . .in a free-flowing sequence of lessons. Participants will experience an inspirational and instructive writing workshop.”
Description from a workshop, Voices of Social Justice & Equality
Poynter Institute
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Launching Prayers – Chinese Lantern Festival
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We sat on the front row, where I like to sit. My curiosity only slightly peaked. I’m not a journalist. Each lesson only ten minutes. I clearly forgot TED. I got tons. Insights and tips for writing. Tears from stories, like from from a lesson on observation, the description of the trembling blood splattered shoulders of a man who murdered the mother of his child with a machete. Or schools turned into failure factories from a lesson on the power of simplicity, even in stories born from thousands of hours and documentation. Stuff I can use to write novels and essays, like who we are, really. And where we connect. How this lies in the defining moments of decision and action, the external context that influences our thoughts, emotions, choices – forgotten in our introductions so full of what happened & when. Halfway thru I thought, I want to do this. Can I become a journalist. It was the same feeling I had at Stony Brook Southampton Writers Conference learning from the best, watching performances by the best, when I thought I need to move to New York. And watching an ancillary short for the movie ‘Across the Universe,’ the one where they talk about gathering a team stellar in their field to CREATE, feeling a longing and recognition for that experience of co-creation in collaboration with genius. And like when I saw the images of the retreat center on Maui where author Cheryl Strayed led a writing retreat, uttered the words this is how I want to do my work. Like rarified air I want to breathe. Two days later I was shown more.

Every Tuesday and Thursday night for eight weeks my husband Art went to the Church of Christ fellowship hall. Attended a professional and personal development program called Jobs for Life. His teachers all volunteer members of the congregation. Sunday was Graduation. He asked me to go. They talk a lot about the bible, are pretty regular sorts of folks, he said. They indeed quoted scripture. Had three prayers. Sang three hymns, every stanza. Most dressed like we used to expect one dresses for church. A nice change to my thought. Each person on the team – teachers, coordinators, counselors, volunteers and champions – welcomed me, told me how much they appreciated my husband. We sat with the woman who coordinated the outreach program. Who took the course at another church, learned how to do it. Bought it home. We looked at programs for homeless, battered families, she said. In the end decided the jobs program. Because it’s something that can be built upon, carried forward. That gives participants tools for continued growth on their own. That can enrich whole communities. What I heard. . .they wanted to help people be their better and best selves. And they know we’re not islands.

Out of 30 who registered, eight showed up and finished. I teared up as participants shared what they got from the experience. The painfully shy young gal who’s now considering toastmasters. Her mother, dressed in a white lace dress, a brilliant turban of aquas and ocean, black slippers and socks, walking with crutches, who took the class to support her daughter, found something for herself in the process. The young man with professional athletes for parents who broke his back, was forced down a different path and found mentors. The former drug addict who’ll teach her kids principles she learned. My husband speaking up as a leader. I felt my heart vibrate with the chords of a dozen harmonized a cappella Amens from one of our earlier songs.

Someone recently said I ask a lot of the Universe. Her words shocked me so much I didn’t ask what she meant. When I sat with it, I saw the message as either step up, be bigger, earn what I ask for. Or I expect too much, step down, be smaller. The latter is not an option. Earning is not in anything I’ve read or studied about prayer, spirit, the Universe, or asking. Action is.

We start where we’re at. Hold the vision we’re able.

Those people I met Sunday are as genius to me as the Greats I aspire to. They put in the hours. gather the pages, define themselves toward their vision of their best selves in action. It’s the same path I’m walking.

What vision are you walking toward?

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

A secret: Look for those defining moments and outside influences on my About Heloise page in the coming weeks.
A favorite: A capella voices

photo: unknown

Casting Ripples

Posted on March 29, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Driving in the car, I put my cup of hot chocolate in the short plastic to-go glass with meter change, like I always do. But when I lifted my drink, the plastic glass lifted, too.
Money dumped into my lap, slid to the seat beneath me.
I like to think it a metaphor.
*

Purple Eye Holi – day of the Hindu spring festival of colors –
celebrates the triumph of ‘good’ over ‘bad.’
2016, Thursday before Good Friday.
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I watched a man go table to table in the sunshine. He hit, moved on, quick like a hummingbird. I noted him not young, not old, but bent. Wrinkled, rumpled, not dirty. Focused. Under the portico where I sat he asked the folks beside me for a dollar, left without asking me. ‘I’ll give you a dollar,’ I called. He sat at my table, lingered with God Bless You’s before we fist bumped and he left. I thought, I gave him what he asked for. What if he’d asked for more. It was three blocks before I found him on a side road curb counting a puny wad of crumbled bills. My only thought came out of my mouth. ‘Not enough, is it?’

36 hours later, early before stores open, a man asked for a dollar as I ate a sandwich, enjoyed the fresh air. Added the bus is really $2 when I gave him the money he asked for. I said no. But ten steps away, I called, gave him the second dollar. What he really asked for. It’s then I saw the park 1/2 block down. Where the homeless spend their hours, where the buses come & go. The next man never got to ask. He hesitated, spoke in that small voice like they do, started his standard apology. I stopped him. He’d called himself a bum. I was so surprised I asked if I heard right. ‘I do not see a bum,’ I told him. ‘I see a human being.’ But, but…, he argued. ‘You are a human being,’ I said, and gave him $2. His name is Bama, after Alabama. And he walked away a bit taller, a little perk to his step. So evident I questioned for a nano-second if his former slump was real before I thought I may have lifted him up.

Alright, I admit it. I get disheartened by what I read and see. Think perhaps I should look into moving to San Miguel like I considered three years ago. Then it comes to me. If I’m thinking about moving, I’ve lost the possibility for my Vision of the society I want to live in, right here in the U.S. The one where people are valued, healthy, educated. The Vision that today is NOT tomorrow. That we have the power to counter the ascension and assumption of Hate, Bigotry, Violence, and War. That millions who vote for this have limited sights, and there’s more to this world than that. I don’t have to acquiesce, accept their view. I can follow others before me who stood up, said enough is enough. We all can. How we see people is a moral issue. How we treat people is a political one. The personal is political, and moral. I’m speaking up.

I am not neutral.

There is no room in this world for hatred, separatism, racism, any -ism. No room for homophobia, islamophobia, xenophobia, phobia of nature. I am for the rights of women, LGBT, homeless, immigrants, refugees, the disenfranchised, all people to live healthy, prosperous lives. Everyone deserves that. I am for Love, any way it shows up. For giving people opportunity to be their best self. I am for respecting nature. Not only because nature’s wondrous and beautiful, but because our survival as a species is intricately linked to her.

I advocate a kinder world.

I post good news moments on facebook. Because good stuff exists beside the ugly stuff we read about that seems so rampant. Because if we don’t see the Better Angels of ourselves reflected, we think terror, horror, and hatred are all there is, and despair settles in. We need the full view.

If you believe change can’t happen, you’re wrong. We don’t have to settle. We can see each other, listen to each other, endeavor to understand those who are different than ourselves. We can see our humanity reflected back. Can celebrate any step toward the world we want to live in because big change is rarely a leap. Believe the power of even small steps because they add up, still take us where we’re headed. We have the power to choose how we show up. Let our fights be smart. If we don’t decide where we put our energy, someone else’ll decide for us.

I had one more chance to do something good that day. A boy, looked to be 14, knocked on my door. Talked so fast I said slow down, tell me why you’re here. I saw the boxes of candy I’d never eat, knew I’d donate, anyway. But I wanted to know why. Going to Universal Studios. Never been. All the kids working hard to raise the money. (his words) Then he added, I talk fast ‘cause people close the door. I got it. Darn, I don’t eat candy, I said. He perked up, offered candles. Got anything my little grandson would like? In three minutes the washable mats were here, brought by his ‘boss.’ Dinosaurs. Perfect. I got what I asked for. And a grinning kid walked away. Going to Universal the only way he could. After he left I googled the org I made the check to. OMG, they do good work. Energy and action, like ripples in a pond.

How do we show up?

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

A secret: They seem like tests, these experiences.
A favorite: This photo of the purple eye. I love it. Beautiful, like I see people.

Photographer unknown

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Choosing to Do It Differently

Posted on March 22, 2016 by Heloise Jones

This was a day when nothing happened. . .
The chicken’s diminished to skin and skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.
~ from Ordinary Life by Barbara Crooker
*
Spring
*

I’ve changed my path walking by water since moving from the historic neighborhood bordering the bay. Sometimes it’s 12 blocks along the wide bayou that bleeds off the ocean, the far border a large small island with large homes and expansive green lawns. I often miss the sunrise because I can’t bear the quiet between night and the beginning of day shattered by a car. But I’m seeing life in a new landscape. Like two pelicans in the top flimsy branches of live oaks, balancing their heavy bodies as they bob and work those long bills made for fishing to break off a twig (a twig!) for their nests. The pickings so small for how long it took to get it.

The other day I chose to walk a longer path up to the point on the bay. I stopped at the sound of a splattered puff. A dolphin’s breath. The next morning, in a dawn nearly black under heavy overcast clouds, I crossed the grass in time to see a sleek back curve up, then down again. And discovered something extraordinary. Thick rolls of waves like a wake moving in a line. Realized it was a dolphin swimming, the water pushed, not broken. I watched the rolls change direction, come back toward me. My heart beat fast. And then, the white belly beneath the still, silken surface as the dolphin sailed by on its side, six feet below the ledge where I stood, its eye looking up. I was stunned at the discovery of those rolls, watching a dolphin’s clear path below the surface.

In a way, seeing below the surface is the theme of my life since moving to Florida 4-1/2 yrs. ago. I’ve felt alone with no close community of friends. Lunch or dinner with others random occasions. Sunrise at the bay conversations, but no people populating my days. Something new for me. Relationships and community always grew quickly, organically, wherever I lived. Alive and growing after decades, even with distance between us. Recently I marvel at the grand, divine design, tho. How I’ve been thrown to conversations with the Universe for answers to my questions, revelations to challenges. Left to see without distractions our everyday world in ways I can only call magical. I’ve been pushed to step out online. Been pushed to trust my strong intuition, trust myself, even when my humanness blazes first. Been pushed to ask what I really want. Because my outward life as it is ain’t it. And the only way to know is to honestly answer what my part is. The past two weeks seriously tested what I’ve learned. A triple whammy – friendship hitting rocks, crossing trenches and moguls with my beloved son who lives in Taiwan, and facing a decision that requires super scary commitment. The brain cramps and heart cramps tremendous.

I have this friend in NM, Rachel Ballentine, who often ponders aspects of the interconnectedness of our everyday world. She recently wrote she wonders “what did they bring to Ellis Island? how would you decide? what teapot? what embroidery? a child’s tooth? what kettle? what would be in the trunk? what recipes? what pots and pans? what would you bring from your village? what was in the suitcases? what was left behind? what lace? what shoes? and who was left behind? who got to go? who got sent back?” She spoke to me in that pondering.

At 21, I watched my in-laws house burn. My own home once caught fire. I wrote about that sort of loss in my second novel. A girl grabs one thing of personal significance for herself and each of her parents as their hard-built dream home burns to cinders. I’ve wondered as I read holocaust stories. Now as I read about refugees. Wonder as I watch friends move every year, sometimes twice a year, for years in a row. What’s their journey of letting go. And I wonder weekly as I scan my belongings, envision my 4th move in 5 yrs. this December. The one I’ll take across many states that I look forward to. I’ve already shed 1/3, then another 1/4, and another 1/4+. As my eyes rest on an item, I search inside for a feeling that might tell me something. Nothing in my home is just there. Everything once chosen by me for the pleasure or meaning in it. Holding more than the thing-ness.

And that’s what happened with each of the whammies. What do I leave behind. Compassionate honesty? Choosing silence, adjusting expectations, depriving a deeper understanding or opportunity to transcend/fix the disconnects, misread intentions, mis-spoken messages as I’ve done. Distance? Depriving the opportunity to be different with the challenges of family history. Myself? Carrying stuff inside that feeds my insecurities, keeps me small. I don’t need to be right or understood. I just need to see below the surface of myself, see myself moving forward like I saw that dolphin pushing water who had no intention but to see the other. Answer what I want, realize it’s what we all want. Connection and Love, to be seen for ourselves, with compassion in the seeing.

I chose the friendship, if it can be saved. Chose to figure how to swim the trenches so the moguls don’t seem so high with my son, feel expectation of joy holding my grandson in a big hug. And I’m hiring the help I need, tho it costs a bundle. Will face my fears of failure, success, being not good enough, stranded. I choose doing it differently. Because below the surface, I trust I’m gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.

What do you take, and leave behind?

“A white explorer in Africa, anxious to press ahead with his journey, paid his porters for a series of forced marches. But they, almost within reach of their destination, set down their bundles and refused to budge. No amount of extra payment would convince them otherwise. They said they had to wait for their souls to catch up.”
~ Bruce Chatwin, from THE SONGLINES

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

A secret: It’s not easy being human.
A favorite: Dolphins under water

Photo: free share by Ales Krivec