We are All Storytellers

Posted on September 3, 2017 by Heloise Jones

I have a small window in my shower, the opening positioned right at my upper body. It looks out to the backyard and western sky. I’ve taken to opening it as I bathe. The air outside feels delicious. A cool crispness on my skin within the hot shower. Reminds me of outdoor showers in Hawaii. Last week I saw from my window little birds splashing in the low-sitting platform of a birdbath. Birds taking a bath while I take mine, I thought. Do they know? Today I smelled sweetness & bread baking thru the window from the bakery-cafe a block down the street. I put my face to the screen, drank the aroma. Thought how I often smell bacon & omelets when I’m outside.

Walking across a parking lot the other day, I thought ‘fall has officially arrived.’ The sunrise comes in on a stroll now. Far later than it did two weeks ago. Night no longer waits for 9pm. I noticed the quality of the air appears thinner. The shadows have sharper edges. That I now expect each breeze to be a cool glide like a sheath thru the middle of the 85° heat. I even started thinking my stories of fall in NM – the far-flung studio tours, the smells of chiles roasting in big caged drums and pinon fires, the first snow, different rhythm of my life.

All tiny events. All triggering stories.

I edited two poems almost back to their original rough form this week. Both were free writes in workshops. Each got a ‘wow’ from the teacher. I put back what I’d clipped in my edits on the computer. Slipped back into rhythm that felt right. Told the gut story, trusting the reader, even if cleaned up a bit. I did it with red pen on paper. My body in the writing. Like stories are in our bodies.

I entered the poems in a contest. The journal required a short bio. I didn’t know what to put. The usual Authorly bio didn’t feel right. So I wrote poetry is medicine for me. Both poems are about loss. One as a daughter and woman looking back at her childhood. The other as a mother. I didn’t mention I received a Pushcart Prize nomination for a poem. In that moment as I hit send, recognitions didn’t seem part of the story. I didn’t think about other stories of loss, either. Including my own heritage.

I’m half-Armenian. Food is my only remembrance of my first nine years when I knew being Armenian. Those years when I heard Armenian spoken, the house filled with smells of special foods being prepared for weeks during holidays and funerals. When people shared the ways we were related by heart or blood. We moved when I was nine and all that was lost. What I learned firsthand, before I ever read it as a scholar, is that food and language hold a culture. Even more, how food’s prepared and the words spoken. Their meanings. They hold our stories. Even the blends of everything we are.

I saw an article about a most amazing theatrical production called Oh My Sweet Land. A play ‘about a woman of Syrian-German descent whose search for a lost lover takes her from a sheltered life in Paris to the refugee camps of Lebanon and Jordan and finally into Syria, to confront the smoldering remains of her cultural inheritance.‘ The story unfolds entirely in a kitchen, the actress preparing an actual meal. The genius is each performance occurs in a private home kitchen donated by local citizens, and the actress doesn’t visit the ‘set’ until 30 minutes before she starts. She enters each performance as the character she portrays – displaced, forced to navigate unfamiliar surroundings. Food her anchor as she recounts refugee stories. Other’s stories. Some so unimaginable as reality I can’t even hold them.

The word Ally recently entered my consciousness. I’m co-creating a retreat with artist Kendall Sarah Scott for March 2018 called Madonna: Contemporary Ally. I put the words ‘I am a Writer’s Ally’ on my website. Yesterday a woman I like a lot mentioned looking for allies. I thought how the word like-minded became Tribe in our current lexicon. Tribe a word that goes beyond like-minded to associations on many levels. I looked up Ally online. The first definitions are about war, WWI & II to be specific. As if that was the first use of the word. I wondered if collaborators and supporters could become Allies in our minds. Ally implies a commitment, and perhaps a story behind the relationship, too.

The subtleties of language and story, so powerful.

Many years ago I heard a saying that said volumes to me – “If you want another perspective, stand on your head.”

We are made of stories. And we are all storytellers. Every minute of every day. In the tiny moments, and in the grand arenas. Textures and gorgeous color palettes of humanity & majestic nature wrapped up together. In my world, it’s time for different perspectives. For myself, and for that broad space beyond my dot on the planet.

Notice the stories.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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The Natural Way of Things

Posted on August 26, 2017 by Heloise Jones

I woke early, as usual. Today feeling calm and rested. A nice change. I stepped out on the porch. The stars hang bright here compared to the past 5 years in Florida where I was positive people must be afraid of the dark, their lights blazing all night. Not to mention big city lights obliterating the starry heavens.

I have a neighbor who is genuinely afraid of having his home dark. He’s the only one for two straight blocks with spotlights. They light the street and houses in front of me, pale the stars. He has a spotlight in back, too. My entire yard and white fence blaze. I asked if he’d not leave them on all night. He visibly shook. The day before Christmas, thieves smashed his windows, broke in, he said. I backed away saying don’t worry, I don’t want to be the crazy lady on the street. This morning I regretted those words. I could’ve calmed him, and I want the stars.

I spoke with little sparkly boy in Taiwan last night. We have a weekly thing going. His mother bought him an alarm clock so he can rise in his morning for our calls. He learned to sign on to Skype. Calls me 8pm my time on the dot. Will ask to stay longer when I mention goodbyes after 75 min.

Last week, not wanting to mention how sleepy he looked, I told him his hair still looked sleepy. He immediately perked up, ran for his Harry Potter wand and tapped his head. Sometimes that’s all it takes. A reframe of words, or knowing it’s not all of us feeling a thing. That we are more, filled with many feelings of this and that.

After he perked up, he told me about a dream he had. A volcano shot candy into the air. It turned into birds when it hit the ground. What a ball a dream specialist would have with that one. I simply loved it. I asked him to paint a picture of his dream, send it to me. Last night he showed me the painting. A dinosaur & Jurassic bird are in the scene, along with a plethora of wonderful birds. There’s also a lizard. ‘This happy lizard wanted to be there,’ he said. Happy, his word.

The sky is pink in his drawing. In my worldview, pink is the color of the heart.

The Oxford Junior Dictionary, geared to 7 yr. olds, purged the following words in 2007: acorn, adder, ash, beech, bluebell, buttercup, catkin, conker, cowslip, cygnet, dandelion, fern, hazel, heather, heron, ivy, kingfisher, lark, mistletoe, nectar, newt, otter, pasture, willow, almond, blackberry, crocus, cauliflower, among others. These words replaced them: block-graph, chatroom, blog, analogue, broadband, bullet-point, celebrity, committee, cut-and-paste, MP3 player and voice-mail, among others. The reason for the purge is they’re focusing on relevancy to today’s children. 1-7 yr. olds.

OK. I understand relevancy. I also understand language shapes our thoughts and view of the world around us. We call others ‘cockroaches,’ they become something to slaughter with machetes. We call others filth and vermin, or terrorists, or leaches, they become something to eradicate. ‘Neighbors, friends, people, helpers, lovers, workers’ have a chance, until they become something other than human.

Same with nature. If flowers can be named, or trees, or birds, they stand out. Are more than background. They note attention, perhaps are appreciated, even illicit interest.

My little grandson will be 8 on Oct. 30. He’s lived in a highrise his entire life. He watches too many movies on TV, in my opinion. With said, during his first five years he lived across the street from a large, immensely beautiful park with a lake designed by a Japanese architect. He went to the park often, and though he wasn’t allowed dirty hands, he was in nature. He learned to see it and name it.

There are no parks close to where he lives now. His parents take him to farms with animals he can hold and feed. They spend holidays on the beach where he snorkels for hours, his hand in his father’s over the deep waters where the turtles and clown-fish swim. And animals show up in so many of his paintings, along with super heroes. What I’ve noticed is the animals all have smiles.

I believe this vision of the world, with animals to marvel over, to see happy in their environments, is the natural way of human beings.

I learned last night he’s not seen the night sky full of stars. ‘I can’t go out in the dark alone,’ he said. ‘Daddy wanted to relax, not go outside.’ When he comes, we will drive into the countryside far from lights, and I’ll show him the Milky Way. I will tell him not to ever be afraid of the dark. There are jewels in it. We just have to see them to know.

Sit on the ground somewhere in nature. Describe what you see, hear, and feel. Such as a bee buzzing the sweat on your cheese. Or the breeze feeling the same temperature as the air.
Notice the color of wildflowers where you live. They are everywhere, even in cities. What colors do you see most often? Here in Santa Fe, they’re mostly yellow & purple.

Photo: Yang Wen

The clouds looked like birds flying in this morning.

Interested in feeling at peace & having fun in nature?
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How to Hold a Jar of Stars

Posted on July 26, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I’m looking for that place now, the kind of place
that puts clocks to rest because something must
come forth to reset everything. . .

Reason doesn’t have roots that run deep enough
to tap the place that I am longing for, that place 
where obvious things cannot be explained.
~ Jamie K. Reaser (from ‘It Will Be in the Silence’)
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jar of stars

I’m honestly grateful I was ‘forced’ into renting a condo close to home. I say forced because the little family from Taiwan (son et al) rented a place 40 ugly-drive minutes away. And it was those min.x2 each day or a staycation to see them. I say grateful because I’ve never done a staycation, and it worked wonders for me.

I stepped away from work. Didn’t go back to the computer for two hours before bed like I usually do. Opened it 2 hours later than usual each morning. Like a real vacation. Who knew? No frets with forgotten items, either. My husband the shuttle. And I discovered I’ve not lost the ability to relax, spend hours (!) sleeping or doing nothing (read, daydreaming) without guilt.

I shared my countdown to the little family’s arrival on Facebook with five exclamation points: Blog published. fb ‘briefly’ perused. Perishable items for their breakfast care package. Hair cut. First project discussion with my publisher. Stuff gathered for the beach. Finally, counting the hours, watching the clock for late arrival.

The first three days were pure joy. My heart filled to overflowing. Little boy stayed over, told me so many times he was happy.

I got a jar of stars from him. He showed me how he made them. I want a turquoise one, I said. And pink. So he filled the rest of the jar with pink & turquoise. And I learned we both love stars. And he learned we were born the exact same hour and minute. He 5:47pm, me 5:47am. The exact same ’cause we live exactly 12 hrs. apart.

I let him apply a colorful tattoo on my arm. It surprised me how much I liked the little nautilus, its pretty colors, on my skin. That it stayed for days tho they said it’d wash off that night.

He was a whirlwind of activity. You have so much energy, I said. Where does it come from? My heart, he replied. He’s so sweet, I knew it truer than true. Even when he reduced it, said his heart pumps blood all over his body.

I was so happy, I didn’t even mind the mosquitoes and sweat to sit in the yard at the place they rented. Eat under a dried palm leaf covered umbrella (think tiki), linger an hour longer to talk.

I was grateful. Even to see the moon lift from the horizon. Turning a corner one night just as the clouds moved aside, revealing her fullness SO, so, so huge, otherworldly, like another world hanging off to the side in the sky. Like a companion. Took my breath away.

I walked on the beach for the first time in ages. Watched a bank of white, white clouds billowed over the water in the distance. One above the rest like a funny too-small hat, billowing pink. Watched as the whole bank turned deep pink, lit translucent with light inside as if it was a giant rose-quartz crystal. Noticed each time I turned my gaze down to my feet, a fine shell stood amongst the millions of tiny pieces.

Each time I looked at the water, a solitary bird in view. Egret. Pelican. Skimmer. Heron. Piper. Even the two seagulls were singular. One with a solid black head, one common white. I watched the clouds go golden, rainbows appear in two hollows. As day hit full on, the tops of the billows melted, and one of the rainbows stretched to the heavens. I thought how lucky I am.

And when a heron slowly walked up, stood in front of me five feet away. Eyed me this way and that for long minutes. I thought I gotta look up messages from heron. When it turned its back, stood looking to sea before flying to land a distance away, I thought myself special. Then I saw it far down the beach. Planted smack next to the man fishing. Waiting for a treat. I thought I’d bring little boy the next day. ‘Cause I knew he’d love seeing it up close, how big it is.

Little boy asked why the broken ones when I laid out the seashells. Well, look at this perfect shell, I said. Can you see what’s inside? No, well, look here at the broken one. See, another shell just like it inside. And here, a shell within a shell within a shell. And here, windows. ‘Ooooh. That’s cool.’ He got it. Loving all sorts of perfection.

And here’s where it turns. That night at dinner, something thought healed blindsided without warning. Judgements, assumptions, assignations of motives. Of me. Of everything offered. Perceptions projected. No questions or room for illumination. My daughter-in-law. Artistically gifted, beautiful. Who can be bright like a sunflower. Who remembers I love the sausage lettuce wraps she makes. Who gave me Taiwanese pearl rice in lovely packaging for abundance. Chopsticks chosen for their length & good fortune.

I’d missed the clues. Forgot irrational fear & anger don’t dissolve. Even if it only simmered, didn’t boil, their last visit two yrs. before. Even if I followed all their rules. Because I forgot how mean it was. How the face, words, body, and energy feels & looks like unadulterated hatred. Even tho I know it’s pain. Lies in her history, separate from me.

And finally, after six years of turning the other cheek. Responding with kindness, love, forgiveness. I’m done. I’m committed to compassion and understanding. Hold gratitude for many things in the midst. Will cherish my grandson when allowed. Continue to mend what I can with my son. But I won’t allow myself abused any more. I can live with rejection. My grief, once desperate, then sad, has evolved into acceptance.

The entire next day I was numb. The day after that I cried, letting my emotions, including anger, flow. Flow like a swollen river. Full, but not raging. I decided to focus on the Pure Joy of those three days still in my cells. And perhaps hope for more one day. Because it’s never over ‘til it’s over. And it’s always a choice. + I know she’s sorry.

Tattoo Smiles

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

Tell me. . .what hard things have you held with compassion?

I’ll tell you a secret: I always dreamed of a close daughter from a daughter-in-law. And it wasn’t meant to be with either of the women my son married.

A favorite: Little boy is a lot like me. Curious about nature, and an artist.

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