The Whole of Me, Willin’

Posted on January 3, 2017 by Heloise Jones

there are pieces of me
that stand on mountains
that sparkle
in tide pools
that contemplate
in deserts
that glisten
in city lights
but the whole of me
lies everywhere
and nowhere
at once
~ Rima Z. Kharuf

Day Three. New Year. I missed its turning. 12:09 when I glanced up and thought, Oh, my goodness. I missed the magic moment 2016 closed the door and 2017 popped its head in. I was in the midst of editing my book, knew I’d soon stop and move upstairs, pack a box for my move across country in two weeks, put my head down around 2am. Deadlines on top one another that make me feel like that 70s Little Feat song, Willin,’. . .been warped by the rain, driven by the snow. . .kicked by the wind. . .Had my head stoved in, but I’m still on my feet and I’m still, willin.‘ Metaphorically feeling it, of course, but it’s made me a bit edgy at times.

Tuesday morning now, though, and time to assess what else has been happening inside me while I was in the midst of living my life. The good and best (meaning most magical) stuff is not always what we remember. Our experience not confined to what we remember, either. If we don’t let it be. What I remember about the past week is sitting in front of the computer, squinting down at the 14” screen, editing my manuscript in the way I do with each word and syllable weighed not just for what it says or how correctly I say it, but the way it feels, the rhythm and ring. And how I’d look up at dusk, think I haven’t been outside today. It was my body feeling those lines by Little Feat. In looking back, I see it was not me ‘thinking’ those lines.

I’ve been thinking about the 4-day drive to my place on the planet, Santa Fe. A longing for belonging answered. Been wiggling my thoughts to adventure in that drive, like it used to feel when I was younger, versus the tired and pain it seems long drives leave me with now. And it was a picture by a friend following Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ path (a longtime dream of hers) that sparked the Little Feat song ringing in my head. A shot of a dusty looking place. Route 66 road sign, two low-slung buildings, and a large faded, beat by the elements sign that says ‘Tucumcari TRADING POST.’ The song started like it always does whenever I see Tucumcari or Tahachapi. I’d never heard of those places when I first heard it. I was young, had traveled little. But the poetry of the names, how they rolled off my tongue, made an impression. I arrived in both by accident.

I was driving coast to coast, Durham, NC to San Francisco, to go to hypnosis school. I drove 10 hr. days then. Left time for exploration if something unexpected showed up. Loretta Lynn’s homeplace. The Indian pottery factory an hour off the road where dozens sat at long tables, painted whatever story they wanted in symbols on little factory pots. The legend for the symbols on the wall. And one very early morning I sat eating breakfast in an independent truck stop in Tucumcari that was clearly a favorite by locals and truckers both. It may sound silly, but I felt a wide-eyed wonder to be in that place from the song. A desert place so different from its name like a tropical bird’s.

And Tahachapi – I was headed out of California. The sun had set late but I chose to drive thru the last ‘big’ town at dusk. I remember looking at the lights in my rearview mirror as the road headed up a mountain, thinking perhaps I should turn around. But I’m the kind of road-tripper who follows the highways, open to what shows up, so I was unaware there wasn’t much ahead for hours. Pitch black, I’m driving the mountain. Then I saw the sign, Tahachapi. That same little thrill I’d had in Tucumcari several years earlier tickled my chest.

I stopped in a small strip of a motel. The next morning I learned it was wildflower season. I drove out to find the hillsides covered in blooms that I saw on the postcards in the office. And though I didn’t see blankets of flowers, I stood above a huge curve of train track, the one spot in the country where you can see the end and beginning of a long train at once. I felt lucky when a train came, circled that curve.

So, this week’s really been about poetry. It’s been as Rima Kharuf writes: the whole of me lies everywhere and nowhere at once. I felt beat by the elements of life and at the same time, been reminded of the thrilling adventure and discovery in life. And in the moment when I felt like my house was on fire, a friend offering badly needed help and then making a different choice, another friend showing up with gifts of connection and words I needed to hear, the most wonderful thing happened. As I sat at the computer one afternoon, I noticed I was smiling. Not at something I read or saw. Not for anything I thought about. Just because. . .well, because I was smiling. And I noticed it, and thought what a very good thing.

“None of us are getting out of here alive, so please stop treating yourself like an after thought. Eat the delicious food. Walk in the sunshine. Jump in the ocean. Say the truth that you’re carrying in your heart like hidden treasure. Be silly. Be kind. Be weird. There’s no time for anything else.”
~ Christopher Walken, actor and soul extraordinaire

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

Tell me. . .what poetry do you see in your life?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .when ‘she’ said I’m too sensitive to my environment, I replied I’m sensitive, not too sensitive. That was a first.

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Silent Night & Gifted

Posted on December 27, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I climbed into bed at eleven, feeling good to snuggle down so early after a week of insomnia. Then I remembered Tuesday morning. Blog.

It’s the day after Christmas. I had the week to myself. My husband Art gifted a flight to Charlotte by a colleague. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I was behind with edits on the book, and feeling frustrated. Feeling like four feather pillows burst, throwing different colored feathers in the air, my task to gather them into like piles. Once he left, I dived into the book, but I had the hardest time following my own wisdom (the wisdom I write about in that exact book) to focus on process, not product. To let it take as long as it takes to do it right. To be present without expectations. And here it is the day after Christmas and I’m still not done. But I have two piles of feathers pretty much sorted. I know when I’m moving and how I’m gonna do it. And I have unexpected, perfect tech help for what I need to do beyond the book. This last was cause for giving myself an attagirl when I figured how to find a permalink so peeps can see my blog images on social media. I added a high five because the link’s in computer code and my brain was firing off of 3 hrs. sleep. Yeeeaaaa Me, I thought.

The week had moments of Hallelujah, too. Said admitting nothing gets me up with a heart bursting from my chest like the Hallelujah Chorus. Which I heard one evening and indeed jumped into the middle of the room, hands held to the sky, body swaying side to side, me singing at the top of my lungs. Noticing how rusty my voice sounds and how alive my heart felt when moments before it was so quiet.

All day Friday I thought about the yummy salmon BLT I recently discovered at a little place down the road. No regrets I found it on the cusp of leaving, only feeling an intent to enjoy it while I can. But I forced myself back to the manuscript and computer. Fighting the pull of the rare non-humid day with temps below 80*, too. I desperately wanted to be outside. I washed sheets and a blanket, hung them on drying racks in the sun, lingered before turning back to work. When they were dry, I buried my nose in the fresh smell on the sheets, which made sitting at the computer even harder. Just get to page 50, I told myself, then go. Which I did, but I was 30 min. past lunch and the cook wasn’t gonna do it. ‘Get a dinner sandwich and a side of bacon,’ the gal said. ‘It’ll be on a bun instead of bread, and it’s only 75c more.’ I had my salmon BLT and she got a $5 tip ’cause she never let me feel ignored, and it was Christmas.

Saturday, Christmas eve, when I picked up our holiday dinner at the natural foods market, I noticed they left out the kale salad. Long after I got home I discovered they left out the dressing, too. I LOVE homemade dressing. But Christmas morning, after a full 5 hrs. sleep (longest sleep in a night all week), a conversation with the most sparkly little boy in the whole world and my son looking the best I’ve seen him in ages. . .I could only thank the Angels for sparing me the carbs.

I had no tree. There were no gifts exchanged at our home. But I felt gifted the entire week.

A gift in the parking lot at Trader Joes. The title track to Leonard Cohen’s last album. This line hitting me to the marrow – ‘You want it darker, we kill the flame.’ I still feel God bumps when I think, no, we hold the flame. I’m not sure what my response entirely means, yet, but sitting in my car, listening to his deep, deep voice singing in that cadence he has, I knew it held some special meaning for me.

And this by my friend Rachel Ballentine in Albuquerque who writes wonderful poetry and colorful observations of the world around her. I love it because it’s brilliant and beautiful, and is a message of hope and appreciation and awareness:
“because of my eye I’ve been scared, so i tried eating my breakfast with my eyes closed, just to experiment. try it. the birds were a lot louder, the thyme in the omelet was tastier, I didn’t like the toast as much when I couldn’t see it, the coffee was tasty, and i ate much much slower. and not as much. I’d better start making art instead of fb and pouting. I mean, what if???? we have so so so much to be grateful for.”

And this, a poem by a poet of great spirit who loves this planet as much as I do. These words exactly what I will tell you are truer than True:

The Magic of the Season

If you are to learn something of this day,
learn about magic:
how it is real,  and the explanation for everything
that matters most.

I’ve seen it,
and felt it,
and lived it in dreams too grand
to live out in a single life.

And I am all the better for it.

You too are like the star whose entire
reason for being is to
point the way
to the human heart.

~ Jamie K. Reaser (from Winter: Reflections by Snowlight)

The photo above is of a star being born somewhere light years away. A baby star, like us.

I love anything that has to do with space-time continuum, have a dream to go into space before I die. I loved the movie Interstellar for everything in it, especially for how it showed simultaneous realities in other dimensions. Because I’ve experienced them, and wondered if they’re real. I don’t wonder anymore. And so, Christmas day there was so much Love in my heart, and I’m still editing the manuscript.

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

Tell me. . .what do you know is truer than true?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .the entire week was like Silent Night, holy.

Hope Like a Soft Flame

Posted on December 20, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Most people don’t know there are angels whose only job is to make sure
you don’t get too comfortable & fall asleep & miss your life.
~ Brian Andreas (Angels of Mercy)
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I have the above Brian Andreas gem framed. Gotta tell ya, my Angels of Mercy (as he calls them) have been working overtime. Blessedly, in tandem with Angels who show up to carry me forward. I posted that remark on Facebook and a friend commented I had a great attitude. It requires constant self-talk. . .and angels who show up when I need them, I told her. Which indeed happens often. In fact, this week an offer of tech help came that left me quivering with Gratitude. But honestly, some days it’s just downright hard. I can’t take my eyes from the places in my life where it hurts, and I get overwhelmed or cranky. I have to talk myself up a dozen times on those days.

Today I’ve felt afresh the grief over my son so far away in Taiwan. Christmas is days away, and I have a Christmas card from the most sparkly little boy in the whole wide world, but not one note from his father (my son) who’s been the one I’ve loved the most forever. There’s a poem by Gwen Flowers that ends “. . . grief is not something you complete, /But rather, you endure./ Grief is not a task to finish/ And move on, /But an element of yourself -/ An alteration of your being./ A new way of seeing./ A new definition of self.” I know how fortunate I am, and I feel the alteration of my being all over again right now.

So, tonight I decided to think about birdbaths I’ll set up in New Mexico. I always had them when we lived there. Two simple large terracotta-colored plastic dishes that were easy to tip for cleaning. A double-fist sized river rock in the middle of each to keep the wind from blowing it away. One sat off the ground on a pedestal, the other close to the ground on a cinderblock. We had floor to ceiling windows across the front of our first home. I spent hours watching the sky and birds thru those windows. Sometimes lying in the sun on the slate floor laid as passive solar. I saw mountain bluebirds lined along the dish rims. Hawks atop the rock in the middle. Jackrabbits and bunnies in mixed company on their haunches, shoulder to shoulder, drinking during a drought.

At another home I watched birds visit our side-yard from my desk, and once saw a cat fly. really The bath was 20 ft. from a fence, where I was sure the birdies were safe, having plenty of time to fly if anything came near. One quiet summer afternoon, I watched in reverie for long minutes as a titmouse drank and bathed. Then, BAM, cat FLEW from the top of the fence, snatched it. Just like that, too. Immense, drawn-out quiet to startling BAM that left me stunned. Like a needle on a record that skids off the notes of a beautiful song.

In fact, a needle that skids off the notes could describe a theme in my life these past few years. In all the music of blessings and awarenesses, beauty, growth, & gained wisdom. With all the angels, seen and unseen, and travels of body & soul. The yank of the needle from the groove. Strangely, seeing it this way somehow lifts my spirits.

Because, by golly, I’m taking that scratchy record off, letting my Soul choose the next suite of music for my life. I know some parts will hurt, but as I type this, I feel Hope blooming in my chest like a soft flame. Filling me gently like plush petals. And it feels good. Very good. Even knowing there’s no guarantees and my work in the broader world just got bigger.

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

Tell me. . .what gives you Hope in this season.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I seriously believe in Angels.

Poinsettias, Packing, & Layers

Posted on December 13, 2016 by Heloise Jones

What I feared was the immensity of it all . . .
~ from The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd
*

I’m back in Florida. I went from 14* that day I flew out of Santa Fe to 79*. Snow on the mountain & Southwest vistas to sweat & flat lands, palm trees, green grass and water. The shock of so much pavement, weed-whackers and the roaring hum of traffic & a/c’s. It took a day to acclimate. This is Home, I told myself. My stuff’s all around. But that first night, I startled awake, kicked with fear thinking something in the bed! when my husband touched me. Truth is, home for me is the high desert of NM. So, in 5 weeks, I’m moving back.

Last year we packed over the holidays, too. A poinsettia and wreath on the door to say Christmas is here. I surprised myself by writing a different kind of holiday letter. One that reflected something good inside, amidst the angst.

Last week I bought this year’s decorations – a 6” potted poinsettia, a tiny norfolk island pine with a red glittered star on a spike & 4 little gold glittered balls on the baby branches, and a wreath for the door that smells divine. Made me happy, getting those. But today I realize Christmas is 12 days off. I wonder what holiday letter I’ll write this time.

Christmas used to be so Big for me. Tree, wreaths, presents, cookies and special foods. I felt it all with full-blown Joy. I loved the lights. Loved giving presents, starting with the hunt for the right one, just for that person. And Christmas Eve. . .the many years with my son. How we shared the kitchen when he got older. Music of the season. The year he gave me Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas music and I couldn’t get enough, had it on loop. The year he flew to Santa Fe, the other three years there he didn’t fly out and I hosted friends for a grand sit-down Christmas Eve dinner. The 8 of us at the core expanding for new boyfriends, new friends, others alone, grown children in for the holidays. Portuguese fisherman’s stew. I was a pescaterian then. On Christmas day, always Handal’s Messiah. Me in the middle of the room, singing the Hallelujah Chorus with the recording at the top of my lungs, the second soprano part still remembered from junior high. Tears streaming down my face as I sing. Then, in 2007 the lights went out from grief over my son 180* across the globe. I’ve not gotten the magic back, tho I’ve tried. Tho last year, one predawn dark morning, I walked down the middle of the street of the historic neighborhood where I lived singing ‘Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’re the plains. . ‘, .my voice rising on Gloo-ooooo-oooria.

One year I packed with a sprained wrist. One year with a sprained foot. This year I’m packing injured, again. Smashed fingers. A bruised thumb and a middle finger split open top & bottom after getting caught in sliding glass door. The middle finger so traumatized my other uninjured fingers throbbed in pain, too. Both on my right hand. (darn) I quickly learned body memory of the keyboard over-rides intention to use diff fingers. Those last new-learned details will definitely go into a novel.

The fourth downsize in five years, I’m seeing thru a new lens. Seeing details of my other lifetimes I hadn’t noticed before. Such as the tattered plastic bag that holds cards.

In the early 80s I helped a friend drive across country from Durham to Denver. It was a time of hand-written letters and notes. I was always on the hunt for a good card to add to my cache. (still am). Anyway, there was a store in Denver strictly devoted to cards. I bought a number, and tho it now sports a tear halfway down one side, the black plastic bag I walked out with has been my keeper for everyday cards ever since. The store was named avant-card (all lower case). Today, 30+ yrs. later, I notice for the first time the address was Writer Square. Writer. Me!

And for years I’ve kept all things Cards (capital C) in a perfectly sized cardboard box. Postcards, Original Art cards, individual specialty cards, keepsake cards, cards I collected of fav ‘local’ artists’ work that I display, and my black plastic bag filled with everyday cards. A glance and I know where cards are by the box, and I just noticed the label on its side. It reads our first Santa Fe address, circa 1993.

I could tape the bag. I’ve thought about it often. I could cover this perfectly sized box with pretty or sentimental images, as a friend suggests. But I like their evolved state. The shabbiness somehow doesn’t bother me. It feels right. Like comfortable history.

When I finished sorting office supplies, saw the small to-go pile, I thought I must be down to love levels. Because I love office supplies. I played office as a kid. Still love wandering office supply stores. I love having the right color & weight of paper when I want it. Love sheet protectors and notebooks and folders right there when I need them. Love having envelopes any size for anything. (I’ve saved all the left-overs from cards, so no shortage!) And yet, I dislike admin. Really dislike it. The dichotomy of this struck me. The shabby bag & box which seems so not Me, too. Me is wearing socks the color that coordinate with my outfit, and no wrinkles except in linen.

Perhaps I’m reaching that place of Being where all of me finally co-exists in peace. Where some things simply don’t matter if what’s there feels right.

Every year Pantone chooses a color of the year. They call it a symbolic snapshot of what they see taking place in ‘our global culture that serves as an expression of a mood and an attitude.’ The color for 2017 is Greenery:
Greenery is nature’s neutral. The more submerged people are in modern life, the greater their innate craving to immerse themselves in the physical beauty and inherent unity of the natural world. . .A constant on the periphery, Greenery is now being pulled to the forefront. . .A life-affirming shade, Greenery is also emblematic of the pursuit of personal passions and vitality.

I find their choice so interesting. I would’ve chosen Red, for burning down the house. But then, that isn’t very hopeful, is it? Hope inspires, which is what we, what I, surely need. An nature has indeed saved me these past few years.

A friend shared her pleasure wearing layers in Oregon vs. the shorts & tees she’d be wearing in Phoenix. I love wearing layers, too. I love jackets & scarves, textures & shapes. When I lived in Asheville, I’d buy my year’s wardrobe in Santa Fe each fall. Pick up sweaters in travels to cold climes. But five years wearing shorts and little skirts in Florida, same-same winter clothes in two short months a year in cold climes, rarely layering beyond a linen shirt, I’ve added few cold weather clothes. I’m ready for new winter duds. 2017 will be new home, new book, new face to the world, new clothes. It’s scary, as in can I do it all? And something to look forward to. Showing up with all of me. And layers.

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

Tell me. . . what does this season hold for you?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .Trust is my guiding light right now.

Saying the Word Lucky

Posted on November 8, 2016 by Heloise Jones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo: Apodaca by Lou Malchie, Dixon

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