Reclaiming: Queen of the Dance!

Posted on September 22, 2015 by Heloise Jones

The feet remember the dance. . .
The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away,
Everything it lost and found again, and everyone
it loved, the heart cannot forget.
~ Joyce Sutphen (from What the Heart Cannot Forget)
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These are my hands.

Hands
See that thumb, the woman in pink dancing?
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Bone tired after two 4-hour sleep nights, I plopped on the sofa. Art was upstairs. Sheryl Crow on TV. I melted. When Sheryl lit into Everyday is a Winding Road (I get a little bit closer), I drifted to driving across the desert in 1995. Santa Fe to Anaheim for a rendezvous with someone important to me I’d lost track of 20 yrs. before. Sheryl’s album on loop. Me feeling wide open like the landscape and sky I drove thru. I rose from the sofa, and danced.

Oh, my, I used to dance. I’d close the halls down. Beg, even argue, for one more song. I’d set the car rocking car-dancing, goad others to chair-dance. I danced in my living room, danced at concerts, danced where-ever African drums sang. I danced to chase demons. Danced to invite angels in. I once danced eight straight hours at a party. Movement without prescribed form. Without right or wrong. Nothing but my soul showing, body moving, blood churning. I don’t know exactly when I stopped.

I remember incidents. Discomfort hearing a remark how I didn’t act my age as I danced around a pool. Feeling my increasingly soft belly move on its own. Another time disappointment following shocked realization I tired at three minutes. The happy random resurgence over the six years I worked-out in the gym. When I quit drinking, I thought perhaps scotch or wine drove my blood coursing for hours. And at some point I crossed to no longer puzzling how I lost it. I accepted with wistfulness something gone. My soft belly wrapped in self-consciousness, as if others could see through my clothes. As if I looked ridiculous.

What I know is when I was a dancer, my guiding word in life was Experience. I pushed myself past shyness to attend parties. Stretched myself to travel alone. Took any invitation for something new. That by the time I stopped I’d achieved what I thought was important to have – marriage to a stable person, a house we owned in a sweet, historic neighborhood, friends with good jobs, membership and acceptance into an association of respected professionals, furniture I picked out myself and paid for, a straight A college transcript, a budget and the reasonableness to fit within it. I was legit the way I was supposed to be. And in the midst to getting there, the dancing stopped.

Looking back, I see I started a new dance inside myself when my outsides settled. I dove headlong into my artist self – beads, clay sculpture, mixed media, pastels. I listened to silence with an awakened spiritual nature. Studied relationally based psychologies, attuned to nature and mythologies. I know I could’ve done both, dance outwardly while I dove inwardly, but I didn’t. And the richness of awareness I have now I can’t imagine life without.

In that time I also become a walker. My body calling when my energy lags. My better Self beside me in my strides, helping me face worries and frets, reframe if I listen. I say my Gratitudes, feel them in my body with my paces. I return clearer, more present in the world afterwards. One morning just past Christmas last year, on my walk long before any hint of dawn, I noted how some houses stood dark that only the day before shown beautifully with holiday lights. I thought how I’d miss terribly the magic when they were all gone. And a joy rose inside me so that I spontaneously sprung into song, singing over and over in full voice as I walked, Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains, and the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains, Glor-ooooor-ooooor-oooooria, in excelsis Deo. Not caring one bit who heard me.

I’ve seen the video of the dancing Nana often. The last time I saw it I realized I’ve started chair dancing openly in restaurants, again. Thru entire songs. And lately while working, I’ll let a song rip on the computer, jump up and dance. I think it’s time I reclaim the dance. I think it just may save my life.

Tell me. . .What have you reclaimed, lately?

Another journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life
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A favorite: David Byrne
A secret: Nana could be me one day.

Speaking Out Loud

Posted on September 15, 2015 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.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing,
speaking out loud in the clear air.

It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.
~ David Whyte (The Opening of Eyes)
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Going every which way

clouds thru windshield

Beyond the factory tint, the purest blue and brilliant white.

I’ve filled the past four months with podcasts & webinars. Educated myself about online entrepreneurs, thought leaders, and givers. Gathered success tools for my insides and outsides. It’s felt grinding, like all I’ve done, like it took far too long to fine-tune aligning with the right people, ones who don’t amp my anxiety. For the right pieces in the puzzle to show up. I’ve come apart at the seams more than once. Then someone shows up like Hal Elrod, a high energy young dude. And I get what I need. The gaps in my centering – silence-meditate, affirmation, visualization, exercise, reading, writing. The trick to making goals for challenges. The reminder they may be things that scare me, that I don’t want to do, but they make me a better version of myself. That the challenge isn’t the goal. The goal’s what it gives us, makes of us in the process. This bundle of learning’s exactly what he’s talking about. Hearing it named, I immediately felt the stick I’ve been beating myself with – not clear enough, doing enough, fast enough, not enough not enough not enough – drop.

Amy McCracken’s a master storyteller and big-hearted giver. She met her challenge in an xtreme hike this past weekend to raise awareness for Cystic Fibrosis: “We got to the trailhead at 3:30 this morning. It was 42 degrees and raining. We were prepared. The night hiking turned into a (sort of) fun game of decision making with each step–do I step in the ankle deep mud or on one of the really slippery rocks? I fell four times before the sun came up. Still. No problem. It’s a long story (about 15 miles long), but the rain never stopped, the wind picked up, and the temperature was 39. We were all soaked and our hands stopped working from the cold. At the first aid station we found out we were getting off the mountain and not continuing. The whole point of this event is to raise funds and awareness for CF research–and that we did. Coming down I thought about all of Cheeto’s* challenges and disappointments and I felt so lucky to be able to keep her hope alive–even when it’s messy and hard–and not as planned. Today was amazing.” Amazing, she said. All that awfulness. Because the hike wasn’t the goal, wasn’t the point.

I’ve walked toward Venus shining big and bright as helicopter lights in the dawn sky all week. Watched the crescent moon circle her as if in a courtship dance. This morning I thought Venus. Love. Follow love. Life’s too hard, otherwise. And the other night I dreamt I had a book reading. I asked how many waited. Three, a woman said. More than one, I thought, feeling grateful. But a long line stretched out the door of the auditorium. I could see inside the room, the backs of people, the chairs filled. I walked past them down a dimly lit side aisle. Someone handed me a microphone. It didn’t work. ‘Can you hear me?’ I called. ‘Yes,’ the people called back. I talked about Patti Smith. Four points (I only remember two now) – her dedication to her art, her ability to connect. It was hard speaking without a mic. Someone behind me offered hers.

My deadlines for intentions keep shifting. I may indeed be in resistance, because I usually launch once a decision’s made. And I may be fine-tuning my listening. I’d like to think these migrating ‘finish’ lines are working together. That there’s a great weaving of something wonderful going on for my life I can’t see, yet. That love and kindness are involved in the challenges. That the offers I make will feed many Souls, including my own. For I am indeed in the midst of life as David Whyte says – vision of far off things seen for the silence <the mystery> they hold. The heart after years of secret conversing,  speaking out loud in the clear air.
Whatta ya think?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
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Venus Venus thru the palms.
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A secret: I can be good at techy stuff.
A favorite: Seeing patterns, making connections.

*Cheeto in Amy’s story is Alyssa Doene, a beloved young girl with CF. I only knew her through Amy’s facebook posts, and I wept hard when she died, as if I knew her well.

Silent Presence

Posted on September 8, 2015 by Heloise Jones

“I wish for all of us a little silence in which to hear each other, and stillness in which to feel the millions of silenced voices clamoring to tell their stories. And I wish for all of us, the wisdom to not be so destructive, to slow down, to listen. For those struggling to trust their own voices, I wish for you to find safe places for that exploration. They do exist, but you most likely will not find them in the gathering places of the loud.”
~ Nancy Peacock, author

Palm trees in the breeze sound like a mountain brook.
In the dark when a storm’s brewing, they sound like a swiftly running creek.

Rows of palms through the park. My last half block to the water.
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Lately I’ve needed silent presence with something larger than myself. My concerns re. work have amped into fears and limiting thoughts we don’t have enough, stories I’m not enough. A month ago I moved to a bench by myself a short distance from the small group under a tree I usually stand with at sunrise. The eight blocks I walk to the bay where I hear birds, trees, other sounds, look at the sky, feel the air, let thoughts roll how they may no longer feeling enough. It’s been a good move, having nothing but sky overhead. One morning it seemed I felt a tap on the shoulder, a voice saying ‘look here.’ I twisted to see the full moon hanging in a patch of blue framed by trees. Giant, clear, luminous. Another morning I saw wide pink rays shoot off the horizon like rose quartz roads. They arched across the broad sky, landed in towering billows that flickered with lightning. Author Junot Diaz said, “The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art.” I must look at my life as art.

My first sunrise-watch friend was Jim, a somewhat grumpy older fellow I appreciate even when we disagree and he stomps off. I’m sure we met last year because I told him the booming voice of his giant corgi was just dog talk. And he heard me wonder on mullets, saw me moon over birds, figured I loved nature like he does. We developed an acquaintance with few words. He started bringing me things. First a loan of a Florida nature book. Then gifts like a ‘duckfoot’ shell and shark’s tooth from his favorite FL key. Antique metal tokens and a glass nest egg from his collections. Copies of the NYTimes book review, a couple memoirs. Recently he brought me a bag of magnolia seeds after letting the big pink pods dry two weeks in the sun. He knew I’d love their brilliant red, and bemoaned how the color drained to that of kidney beans as he handed me the bag. Shortly after I moved to my bench, he ventured he doesn’t remember dreams but remembered me in one where I sat as I did that morning. He saw tears stream down my face. Weeping, not crying, your face pure sadness, he said. I had a quiet place in my heart at the time, and it was his dream, so I let it go. Another time he asked if I was okay. I mean spiritually, he added. So uncharacteristic. And one morning the others didn’t show up, the two of us alone, him out-of-sorts, I spontaneously swiveled back a dozen steps after waving ‘see ya.’ Said I want to give you a hug, and leaned in, put one arm around him, pressed my cheek to his face. No permissions. He put both arms around me, hugged me close for a minute. Why did you do that, he asked. Because you needed it, I said. And he laughed. Today I passed Jim heading down as I headed home, the sky still dark. He handed me a newspaper insert, said it made him cry. The insert’s theme is the power of endings. The article I read about Merl Reagle who designed brilliant word puzzles. I read Merl never asked for exactly what was on a menu (like me!). Read Meryl thrived on synchronicity and coincidence (like me!). That good things always seemed to come from these discoveries. Merl was one of my tribe I never knew. And here, the beauty of coincidence in that short piece bringing me to this story about Jim, to seeing the small ways I’m supported. I intended to talk about kindness. Then, again, perhaps I just did.

It’s been a long run of fret and made-up stories of how small I am. My comfort’s knowing life’s not about how often we fall down. It’s about how we get up. My reminder the kindnesses between people. Right now I’m moving toward the good stuff, again. Tell me, what works for you?

Charmin'

Jim got little Charmin’ after his big dog died. He really loves her.
I joke they look alike.
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Another small journey to mindfulness. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A Secret: I see synchronicities and coincidence all.the.time.
A Favorite: Palm trees (a new love).

Writing Novels Like a Hummingbird

Posted on August 31, 2015 by Heloise Jones

When I am really into a novel, I am seeing the world differently during that time –
not just for the hour a day when I get to read. I’m actually walking around
in a bit of a haze, spellbound by the book
and looking at everything through a different prism.
~ Colin Firth, actor

This little bird building her nest mesmerized me.

I read a hummingbird’s nest is the size of a walnut. That they’re so strong they’ll survive being whipped by the wind. And the tiny birds will cling tightly to their nest, protect eggs as a limb’s flung about in wide arcs. I wove that image into my novel. The same way I wove the Granny Woman in, though I don’t claim credit for her. She just showed up. I can’t even remember where I learned about these wise women healers who know herbs, are gifted with ‘the sight.’ I wove in my father, too. His frame, merchant marine days, his love of a yarn and how he opined. But that was invisible to me until I finished the book.

And I wove in something I’m hesitant to talk about, that I avoid mention except as occasional sidebar. The years of battering, the silence I carried. Because though it’s part of my experience, I’m so strongly identified with my redemptive story that it’s not the conversation I want to have. And I see people generally don’t understand the dynamic that exists within so many abusive relationships, nor the aftermath. That regardless of context and process, it’s not a fast track to redemption once one leaves. Mine took three years. And the journey before I left included several years of secretly tucking away $5 a week, looking to therapists for help and not finding it. Until one day I knew I was strong enough, set a date and stuck to it. For many months afterward unable to breathe at night, fear so heavy on my chest. All during this time without help from a soul I knew. Because one did not talk about such things back then. Not even with best friends. Not even when sporting a black eye.

So, in a way, it’s a foreign land uncomfortable for those who’ve never been there because it’s so counter-intuitive to what we know as healthy, as common sense about protecting ourselves from harm. Movies, images, stories are inadequate to fill in. + It was decades ago, is not the story I’m to tell. I weave that experience, my empathetic understanding into the work.

Many of us novelists write like the hummingbird builds her nest. We weave in pieces of experience, wonder-nesses (yes, it’s a word), stories and facts we’ve chased, researched, gathered, chosen. Tamp and settle them into shape and order with our hearts, souls, and minds. Wrap them with the strongest threads of our skills. Create a delicate weaving that when done is a story of perfect proportion, if we’re good enough. If we’re wordsmiths and poets at heart, we feel the beats by reading aloud. Adjust commas, line breaks, phrases. Consider the layers in meaning of words. But to write what we know – being human – we must listen, find the character’s heart, her culture’s heart. After all, what do I share with a ten year boy in the different world of 1952 rural Appalachia, whose only reference for everything rests in the woods and the words of his abusive stepfather? I listen. Then recognition’s sparked in authors and others who come from generations in the mountains.

An agent who rejected me a year ago writes, “I can’t get these people, this story out of my mind.” The reader enters the world, feels it like Colin Firth does. And it doesn’t stop with the page. I must listen to truly see people. For what can I really know of refugees fleeing war and devastation, people of color living under deep-seated racism in the USA, the maligned homeless deemed invisible, or even a right wing conservative. I must find a place in myself where we meet on a human level. Enter into the conversation with myself and/or the other. Experience that story. Said admitting I’m not Buddha, and I have convictions. But it’s a fascinating, beautiful journey. Even when not easy. One I share with you. At least that’s my hope.

What do say you? What journeys have you traveled with stories?

I’ve fallen in love with literature. I try to read for one or two hours every day. I only have one life to live. But in books I can live one thousand lives.
~ Young woman in Rasht, Iran (Humans of New York)

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

A secret: Understanding doesn’t make things easier for me. It keeps my heart open.
A favorite: The perfection of that tiny nest. Like it’s made of porcelain.

The Fires of August

Posted on August 25, 2015 by Heloise Jones

Although we aren’t in immediate danger, fires are springing up all around,
so we’re taking time this morning to pack boxes of pre-digital photos, a few books,
a trinket box of precious family mementos… It’s an interesting process
to decide what you can’t live without. Finally, all memory is made up
of stories that we carry with us, whether the object continues to exist or not.
Let the fires take what things they will and spare the people.
Stories are sacred and survive as long as we are alive to tell them.
We must remember to tell our stories
so that others might find their way through the ashes…
~ Kim Barnes (Moscow, Idaho – August 22, 2015)
-line breaks mine-

kamiahfire_1

“Is there one single thing that you wish you would have taken that you didn’t?”
she asked someone who’d lost it all.

I’m not sure what’s going on. I had two days change of scenery. One full day of which I let go all intents ‘productive,’ making my second busy writerly day okay for vacation. Everything normal, until my first night home. I slept hard that night. Deep deep down hard all the way to the edge of dawn. Woke floaty, unfocused. I even let my hair appointment slip past. gasp And I napped, deep deep down hard. In it relived painful rejections by my first husband. A man I forgave decades ago in a state of grace. But in my dream I told him I hated him. Words I’m positive I’ve only uttered once to another soul. Worms boiling up. And floaty continued. I dreamt I drove carts down open hallways between shelves and stacks of boxes and books, all dead-ends or wrong direction. Again and again forced to back up. Then a simple map of lines on a white sheet of paper was laid before me. ‘Here,’ a voice said, ‘go in at this point. See. It’s connected to all the other roads.’ I remember the entry’s at the lower right side.

I’m working hard toward a Vision these days. Studying and looking for where I fit in the landscape of authors, coaches, and others with successful offers in the world. How I can bring who I am and what I know, and do, to benefit others. A goal I’ve held a long time, now can’t put off. We’re healthy, but getting kicked by surprising transitions of life. The kind that feels downright scary when I let my internal story carry it to all possible outcomes. And I’m feeling resistance.

Fires are not new to that region of the country where Kim Barnes lives (read her stunning essay ‘The Ashes of August’), but this year they’re fierce and plentiful. Reading her posts brings up memories of a few summers back in New Mexico. Fires on three sides. Two of them close. The obliteration of blue from the sky. My horrible allergic reaction to the smoke with chemicals. How some nights the sun set blood-red, the air yellowed like end days depicted in movies. A line of cars on the roadway one evening, people looking up. And the time I woke at 3am to my own home on fire. Hidden but for the power outage, the smell of burning electrical, the haze you could question for middle of the night. How when I pulled down the attic stairs after praying “please, not in the walls,” saw the flames, the ceiling brilliantly lit flickering gold, a wash of helplessness flowed over me like gentle water. My life could change forever right now my only thought, after how beautiful. Apocalyptic moments. And I’ve attached the word apocalyptic to this transition I’m in. One of Kim’s friends sees something different in these wildfires. “Some years ago I was driving in a remote corner of Wyoming at night with my daughters,” he wrote, “when the road ran along a ridgetop pointing us at a giant blood-red moon just rising. On either side were wildfires burning in the night, It was pitch black, no lights of houses or barns, no other cars in sight. We stopped and got out and felt were witnessing the dawn of time.” Kevin Taylor saw Creation. Apocalypse or Creation, associations we get thru image or experience, or both. Lightbulb! We can choose.

I had my palm read once. The woman said I have so many unseen guides and guardians, I would rise to the top of a tsunami. Could be true. I’m lucky enough to look up just as sunset on the Gulf colors the sheet of clouds overhead, turns the air golden or pink. Lucky enough to sometimes get out, stand in it before it fades, watch bats fly by. And just now, lucky I popped over to facebook, read this by Christine Mason Miller: Trust your dream. . . the one feeding you, pulling you, whispering in your ear, ‘Go this way, try that way’. . .all you have to do is let her lead. Christine’s talking about a Vision. Maybe my Vision drew that map. Whatta ya think?

Another small journey to mindfulness. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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A Secret: I saw my first lotus at Epcot three years ago. It was a spiritual experience.
A Favorite: Waterlilies and Lotus flowers.

Photos:
Fire by Anthony O’Brian, taken from an eatery in the small town of Kamiah, Idaho
Lotus Flower in Ritan Park by Dan on Flickr