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)

*
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

Waiting for the Moon

Posted on May 24, 2016 by Heloise Jones

I’d like to tell you that everything I know about love is in the right hand drawer of that table from India book-ending my living room. . .
I’d like to tell you my heart will outlast every other organ in my body.
~ Maya Stein (from Still and Always)
*

Tulips in Snow *

Yesterday evening, so exhausted, I simply wanted to close my computer, lie down. I got up, looked out the window. My only thought, I’m waiting for the moon. It’s been a long day, and I still have much to do. Waiting for the moon seems appropriate.

I’m in a hip season. You know what I mean. The season between the crowds. The one when winter’s not quite over and spring’s not quite here. The time sprinkled with moments feeling good, inviting to the bones like an Indian Summer day, but not necessarily fully defined. A time perhaps where you can tend to things undone without distractions, but you’ve got a hump to get over. In between time. I typically travel in the hip season. Feel sparked with anticipation. And in a weird way, that’s what’s happening now. I’m traveling fast toward the next chapter of my life – work, home, community – and not quite there, yet.

I love solitude, but my life’s felt isolated since moving to Florida 4-1/2 yrs. ago. Being friendly and talkative, I have wonderful encounters with shopkeeps and random strangers. Have a tiny group I gather with for dawn at the bay on occasion. But there’s no one for lunch or afternoon fun. That click bumping acquaintance to friend not happened, organically or otherwise. + my husband and I are so so so different, it’s often difficult despite love and caring. Community’s key for me, so it feels hard. But this week I crossed some energetic line to where I see what’s ahead more than what’s been. Can appreciate how my intuition’s refined. That I learned to share my vulnerabilities, take off my clothes for you. Be grateful the difficulties pushed me to think differently about myself, and my place in the world. Sorta like getting a charge from the Universe. I’m not sure if you’ve ever felt that, but it’s a learning curve for me.

Yesterday I was in the recording studio. My goal, audios of these blogs, and something I wrote to help creatives get past stuck. I’d googled, found page after page of fancy websites of fancy spaces with rates double-triple my budget. I talked to a friend who created her own audios. The time and patience required too counter-productive to my larger goals. Asked another for a referral from her son who studies production. All I need is a room, professional equipment, someone who knows what they’re doing, I said. The next morning, head in my hands (I knew I was supposed to do this) I googled once more. Top of Page One: Rock Garden Recording. Simple website. Rates exactly what I can pay. I looked for reviews. Found a newspaper blurb, “St. Pete’s best kept secret…in business over ten years.” He answered when I called (a rarity, I learned later). Practice, we’ll work thru it, I can help with music, schedule two hours for now, he advised. I felt lucky.

This was one of those things we think will be easy, until we do it. Jeepers, I’ve read on stage in front of hundreds of people, presented to small and large groups. I’m an expert reader of stories to young kids. And it was not easy. Pacing, consistency, breath in the middle of sentences. My voice naturally between hypnotherapist and actor, the right modulation. Not too much or I sound cartoony, too little or I sound flat. Striving for intimacy, on the edge of a conversation tho we know I’m reading. The right inflection for intent. Such as I don’t mean it as a sigh, I mean it’s difficult but good. And no flat fades at the end. The re-records right tone to be woven in. My two hours wiped me out. He says I’m a natural. I have 61 blogs to go. He’s my guy.

Because he‘s my perfect coach. He took care of me with the right kind of head-heart nurturing, and honesty when I said, ‘Hey, I’m older, what does the young dude think.’ Answered he got into it because he couldn’t find someone with their heart in their work when he wanted to record his own music. + (I LOVE this) he volunteers odd jobs, even scrubs toilets, just to sit in, listen as the Florida symphony practices in the best auditoriums. And he’s the guy who records them. He’s like-hearted.

I posted my waiting for the moon on facebook. Someone responded, ‘It’s not like you’re asking for the moon.’ I hadn’t meant it that way. But now, I think perhaps I am. Because I sure fired the rockets. I say, let’s all shoot for the moon. Imagine that.

Have you ever gone for something that felt really big?
Was it a good ride?

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

A secret: I’m big on editing. Expect 4 today.
A favorite: Yellow tulips. Just like the ones in the picture.

Photo: Tamara Linse

All Under the Same Sun

Posted on May 17, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
~ Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum
*

freaky big sun Just peeking up it’s taller than one of the multi-story mansions on the island.
*

I finally ordered Patti Digh’s book, the Geography of Loss. It’s been on my list since 2014. I’d shared the intro paragraph from Amazon with hurting friends as comforts. Read some of the pieces, knew it was gorgeous. But after I ordered it, I wondered why I felt moved just now. I thought perhaps because my son’s due for a visit in July, 2 yrs. after the last time we hugged. My desperate grief in the loss of his moving to Taiwan renewed. The incredible sadness still lingering after a fissure that changed our relationship in ways we haven’t had a chance to fully revision, yet. I thought how community’s on my mind. That for days I’ve missed my friends. My tribe. Connection with people I don’t have here where I currently live.

By the time I unwrapped Patti’s book Monday, I was thinking Father stuff. Because my dad, dead since 1993, had drifted thru my thoughts for days. Always coming back to that aha moment I found him reading a fat book on the siege of Leningrad. His reply to my question why, ‘because it’s interesting.’ How that moment defined his character to me. I realize now it was probably the first time I thought books a person read revelatory about them. And like magic, an article on the siege popped up on Facebook. Story about a seed bank there. How scientists locked themselves in the vault to protect the treasure from starving citizens. Chose to die of starvation themselves rather than eat, rob the future. Treasure collected by one of the first scientists to ask traditional peasant farmers around the world why they felt seed diversity was important in their fields. The next morning I heard a dear friend’s father died Monday. 6 days later, heard another friend’s father had brain surgery Monday. Last week’s blog was about noticing. I noticed. Father stuff.

By Wed. night I noticed two back-to-back stories about tribal fabrics made from natural materials. Hawaiian kapa, barkcloth. I watched people in the documentary strip and scrape and pound. Gather nuts and roots and leaves, make dye. Carve delicate stamps for intricate patterns. Each family’s watermark only seen in certain light. Western ideology that superior Europeans introduced sewing cracked open. A couple days later a series of stunning shots of Indonesian women preparing palm and ramie fibers. Weaving fabric that will adorn windows here and abroad.

Noticed in the midst that out of the blue, four friends from afar sent personal notes about how I show up, what I mean to them. One in response to my fb profile pic posted several years ago (!) that placed it back into status feeds. Four Likes for this image people see every day followed. Imagine.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the stories I could tell. Loss, change, identity, home, abuse, validation, craft, persistence, courage, survival, courage, persistence. I hold so many under any of these headings. And how every week I wonder what story will emerge here. This week it’s a fill-in-the-blank from author Mary Anne Radmacher. ‘I live in service to the _______HEART.’ Meaning Essence. Soul. All encompassing. You-Me, where we connect.

Mary Anne repeated words she once said to me,’I love it when you write about the sky,’ and sent a meme. Which took me to remember a shot taken Aug. 2014 on the last flight out of Honolulu before an impending hurricane. The plane empty but for me, the crew, and one other passenger. Along the way I flew over rainbow after rainbow. And not until I chose a shot to share did I see the swatch of blue behind the clouds was in the perfect shape of a heart, a rainbow shooting from it’s center. And I noticed how her fill-in-the-blank showed up the very day I was thinking about the guy I rented my condo in Kona from. How he lived in Santa Fe when I did. Our many overlaps without us knowing.

Comforts for my grief are everywhere. Telling me that even in my solitude, I’m linked. Woven like the natural cloth. Protected like the seeds. Sharing, though not knowing, the heartache of friends for their fathers. That I’m indeed seen, even appreciated. We are tribal animals. Not meant to be alone. Not even when we love solitude as I do.

Last night I stepped from the Chinese take-out to a man riffling the trash, a dirty Chic-fil-A fries carton in his hand. I felt the weight of my bag filled with my hot dinner. He didn’t ask for money when I said ‘are you hungry.’ He wanted to know if there was a church nearby serving food. As I turned to leave, having paid for his shrimp fried rice, he looked me in the eyes, said ‘it’ll come back to you.’ In a flash my whole being softened. I smiled, said ‘it always does.’ I can’t figure that one out. But I think I must know in my Heart it’s true. After all, we’re all under that big freaky sun.

How do you feel connected to others?

MaryAnne meme clouds

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

A secret: I imagined these two lines as a way you’d get to know me.
A favorite: A friend said she looks forward to reading what’s here, in these two lines.

Maybe It’s Simply to Take Notice

Posted on May 10, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“. . .I don’t know the meaning of life.
But, maybe, it’s simply to take notice.”
~ Jamie K. Reaser (from My Mother Was)

*
*

For months I rose at 5am Tues. to write my blog, edit it down to right rhythm and message by my 10am deadline. But 5 wks. ago I committed to changes that require a different discipline. Gotta listen earlier for what’s up. And over and over this past weekend, it was a pivotal conversation with a friend in the late 80’s. Details lost, but my words, ‘I’ve changed,’ and her response,’So what’ still with me. How that initiated a quest to know, does change matter. My conclusion – Change is the one constant of Life. Today I’d add Love. Thing is, I’m in the middle of big change now. Sometimes it’s a wondrous thing. And exciting when I think about returning to what feels like native ground. Other times it’s far beyond uncomfortable. The promise of being a better person small consolation.

Last week I raised my voice with the gal on the phone at the bank. Could hardly lower it thru the dozen apologies I uttered for my rudeness. I was horrified with myself. I’m nice to telephone customer service peeps. Know they simply answer the phone, that I need only get to the right person. That most know little beyond notes on their computer and perhaps a procedure manual. I’m so nice I once received a basket of fruit as a Thank You. But last week, I lost it. They’d declined two time sensitive payments. No text or phone warning. Five days gone, so no save. While on the phone, I noticed one charge actually went thru. Later learned the insurance co. got their money, too. Calmed, I saw it as a sign how close to the surface my nerves are. Noticed things were not what they seemed. I’m OK. I can’t undo my unkindness, but I can take notice.

We went to Weeki Wachee a few days later. An old Florida attraction from the 40s sporting mermaids, now a state park. I hadn’t been since the early 70s. There was no manmade beach and water park built around the pristine crystal clear river, then. Or kayak launch with people crowded in que. Or river boat. If we sink, the river boat guide said, jump and walk to shore. It’s only 4’ deep. He stood on the platform at the bow the whole way, called ‘kayaks, to your right. kayaks, to your left. make way.’ They looked like colorful bumper cars out there. Two paddled along, didn’t pull over, anchor their oars in the sandy bottom, as instructed. Seemed so oblivious that I spoke my thoughts out loud as we passed. He means you, I said. The guy below looked up. What I noticed was his pained expression. ‘I’m trying,‘ he replied. Too late for me to fix that one, too. But it caught me. . .not what it seemed. Jeepers, we’re all trying.

Facebook has these naming games. Answer the questions, they tell you who you are. I can’t resist. I learned last week I’m a fantasy mermaid. Surprised me, ’til I read You break the seal of a hidden door. Mists envelop you and draw you into a fantastic world filled with magic and wonder. When the fog lifts, you’re virtually unrecognizable. I do use the word ‘magic’ a lot. And sure feels like I’m in the fog.

I’ve had a big dream a long time (like YEARS long time) to visit flower fields. Sunflowers, daffodils, bluebonnets, tulips, lavender, wildflowers as far as my eyes can see. Since coming to Florida, walking petal strewn streets, a picture of cherry blossoms coating the surface of a river in Japan enchanted me, was added to My List of must-sees. Another of a field of soft blue flowers the color of the sky made my heart stop. Like walking on the sky itself, I thought. I added that, too.

This world, so filled with magic and wonder to experience. All the hard stuff in changes is simply the Universe asking if we mean it. Letting us notice we’re OK. We’ll find our way.

What have you noticed in your world?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
*
A puddle of palm flowers noticed yesterday.

A secret: I had no idea palm trees had flowers. My first sighting ever.
A favorite: My husband suggested Weeki Wachee right after I learned I was a mermaid.