As If It’s the Last Time

Posted on March 31, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
~ C. S. Lewis

Ten days ago I had a near death experience. There’s no outward sign it happened. I have two bruises no one can see, and insides wobbling to find center.

I was 5 hrs. from home and an hour from my destination. I marveled at the surreal beauty of the snow-capped Rockies to the west. How white the snow was. How defined the peaks. I drove with the flow of the early rush hour traffic. Calm. Glad my trip would be over soon. Then, with no warning, the car was vibrating, savagely, and didn’t stop.

My arms rocked back & forth fast & furious, vibrating-jostling-shaking, like you see in movies, the inside of a rocket lifting off to outer space. But this was no lift-off. A thought hit me, so fleeting I couldn’t hold it: I’ve crashed with a semi. Was it instinct, or did I hear the words ‘keep the car straight, keep the car straight.’ My hands gripped tight on the wheel, arms contracted, muscles bulged, I fought the car as I was drug down the highway by the big truck. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t disintegrating, or what had happened.

Finally ripped free, I drove across the left lane to the shoulder. My tire was shredded, the thick alloy hubcap nearly destroyed. The bar on the back of the truck had hooked my fender. I looked at the busy road, the cars streaming by. If I’d not kept the car straight, I would’ve slammed into the truck with force. The second miracle, no pile up or mess other than mine. But those two miracles didn’t register ‘til later.

This is not a story about loss. This is a story about Life.

The what if AAA hadn’t sent the tow truck ten miles in the opposite direction, and hadn’t chosen a body shop they thought close to me, but in fact not. Would there have been someone waiting after hours, willing to take me & a carload of stuff 12 miles to the airport, the only place open or with cars. Because it turns out Spring Break in Colorado means no last minute rental cars. Going to that distant body shop in the tow truck carried me 17 miles closer to the airport. And the young woman who waited, and stayed with me ‘til I was on the road. This crazy AAA snaffu caused me so much worry & anxiety, and what I see now is the blessing in it.

When I checked in at 10 instead of my expected 4, I was shook, tired, and OK. . . disappointed, concerned, and grateful. And my message to the world on Facebook: Hug someone you love. Right now, this minute. And hug yourself.

The following day, shell shocked, I immersed in art and writing with a friend. I felt cocooned at the Degas exhibition in dark rooms protecting the works on paper. I was engaged with the lessons in myth, legends, & icons at the American Museum of Western Art that tied in with paintings. Pleased by the writing exercises that drew out the characters in my novel in progress. Dinner felt special, too. The place was popular, noisy. We said we needed pampering. You can sit longest at this table here, the hostess said. Seating us in a coveted, quiet room booked with reservations.

The next day I woke covered in fear. I laid an hour saying over & over ‘I am OK. I am OK.’ When my meeting with a marketing director went well, I was heartened. Then I slipped into some sort of whirlpool. I drove what should’ve been easy, short distances, and never arrived at my destinations. I made too many trips to rental car places to satisfy insurance and my own sense of safety. I felt I was in a dimensional reality that was not Denver on the ground. Stress felt like a thousand little birds pecking at me. I fell asleep to Gone with the Wind on the TV.

I can’t explain how or why things changed, and they did. Like getting on a new road, I noticed the tap water was easy to swallow, tasted delicious. I never drink unfiltered tap water. I felt lighter, the gray veil dissipated. I was able to reframe to the positive once again, and once more say to folks ‘have a good life.’

At a mineral springs, it didn’t matter we arrived to big wind and noisy road construction off the tub decks. Or that I later had to wait 45 min. for the 4th car. When Skype forced a new download, making me miss my Friday call with little boy in Taiwan, I wasn’t devastated. And at the writing workshop the following day, when 12 people exclaimed Wow after I finished reading what I’d just written to a visual prompt, I felt turned right.

Coming home I traveled highway 295 thru high plains, down canyons, and over passes. 14ers (lingo for 14,000 peaks) rose snow capped and jagged above the tree line in front, back, and around me the entire Colorado way. I passed places with names you might see in the Appalachians – Long Meadow, Boxwood Gulch, Buck Creek. Bull Dogger Rd., Bigfoot Museum, and High Plains Ranch definitely said Rockies.

The road was never busy. I was rejuvenated. I wanted to drink the textured golds & yellows of the grasses, so different from the camels and buffs of New Mexico. I was surprised by a Great Sand Dunes National Park, and marveled how at a distance the dunes seemed to ride up the base of the range. Later I heard the snow predicted for my path home came late that day, as if the angels held those laden clouds at bey for me, too.

That night on PBS I watched a show about how we face Death. The last thing I heard before dozing: Greet each moment & experience as if it’s the last time. How that changes our presence in life. In the morning I looked out with thoughts, the last time I see flowers budding on trees; the last time I see the blue sky, wild clouds, the color of sunset and sunrise, birds playing in water; the last time I feel my body dance in a store to music coming thru speakers, me without care who sees; the last time I read a string of words exquisitely strung; the last time I feel kindness from someone I don’t know. As John Travolta (Archangel Michael) said in the movie ‘Michael:’ This is what I will miss most.

I read a piece by poet & educator Laura Hope Gill. She ended with this: “I needed to write this <her piece> because I woke up this morning feeling all full of feeling–agitated, stressed, worried, sad, but also so alive and appreciative of the blue sky, the Canada Geese on the little lake, the gold of my dog’s fur.” She spoke for me. Exactly. All that fullness of feeling. Extreme presence, appreciation, gratitude, and wonder. Like it was all orchestrated. I’m alive.

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

I was taken care of. Special Thanks to Meghan for waiting & staying by my side after the event. To my friend, poet Jane Hillson Allelo, the best guide & companion ever. To author & teacher extraordinaire Page Lambert, who I’m thrilled to reconnect with.

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The Gift of Curiosity

Posted on February 26, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Life on earth is a written language
that is read through the
living of it. . .”
Jamie K. Reaser (from In This Way)
*

Curiosity was the theme at a talk I went to this week. Our name badges had the line ‘I am curious about…’ I finished it with Your story, and what excites you.

Not knowing they built 30 minutes in for mingling, I arrived long before the presentation. Unlike when I’m speaking in front of a group or crowd, I’m shy in these open room meet-n-greets. I followed the other early birds upstairs, found a seat in the rows of chairs.

I like to chat with people sitting beside me at these things, so I turned to a couple, learned it was not their first time at one of these events. I noticed neither filled in the line on their name tag, so I asked. She was curious if I grew my own food. She was a gardener, and used to sell at the farmers market. As we talked, she said the most amazing thing: she didn’t like or appreciate flowers. She only grew them after she realized people would buy them. Function seemed important to her, so I asked if she ever planted marigolds alongside her vegetables to discourage bugs, or if she liked the flowers before they turned to seed or fruit. She shook her head. I’d never known anyone who didn’t appreciate flowers. A tiny purple flower sprouting on a rosemary sprig in my vase thrills me.

It was my turn. I’m curious, of all the stories you have, which would you like to share? He said nothing. She’s trying to be an artist, her words. As I do when I hear writers and artists say the words ‘trying to,’ I asked if she was making art, and affirmed her as an artist. Adding, ‘I wrote a book about this, so it’s dear to my heart.’ She got it! Then surprised me again. For the first time in the year since The Writer’s Block Myth was published, I wasn’t asked what the title of the book is.

Art isn’t necessary like food or clothing, she continued. My eyes widened. She was a fabric artist, found it wrong small art quilts got more money than quilts for the bed. I thought about Amish and Appalachian quilts, the functional Navajo and Turkish rugs, all commanding great price. I said again what’s close to my heart.

Art is a language. It evokes something inside us. It creates connections, within us and between us. Art and writing are so powerful, artists, poets, and writers are executed in some countries, even when their works aren’t blatantly political. ‘Art’s not the same as a burger or salad,’ I said, ‘and it’s still food. It has always been a part of us humans.’

She mentioned prehistoric cave drawings. Yes! And it was art. They rounded the bodies of the animals, put figures in different poses, doing different things. Art told their stories. I shared I’d just learned about the Cuerva de los Manos (Caves of Hands) in Patagonia. Wondered out loud what stories those early peoples were telling. Blank eyes stared back at me.

At that moment, 100 people poured in, took seats all around us. The quiet room noisy, I turned away.

I recently bought a book that sits on a table where I see it. The entire book feels like a work of artistry to me. The paper is luscious. The poetry simple and real. The cover & images inside lovely. It’s not art you’d see on my walls, and yet, I feel good when I look on–and in–it. It’s comforting, like certain foods. And the whole feels impeccable, like I envision my own books to be.

I didn’t notice the title until I got home. Leaves. I’ve loved leaf motifs forever. I have leaf finials, leaves on lamps, cards, tiles, and once across my bed on a duvet cover. I got rid of the cover in a move, and regret it. It was soft green with cream colored leaves woven all over with silky threads. Like the book, it held a mixture of things that feed my soul – texture, color, comfort, touch, a sense of home, a particular beauty.

The experience of these things is tied to what defines it in my mind & body beyond their physical bones. Just as we’re defined beyond blood, bones, and skin that holds us together. They’re more than talismans or symbols.

Many years ago I saw a short film that’s never left me. Rain falls in heavy sheets from a thick cloud-covered sky. 10 yr. kids in a classroom tease and taunt a girl who draws picture after picture of sunshine and flowers. We understand this is nuclear rain. They know sunshine and flowers are impossible. One day, they lock her in a closet. Moments later, the clouds part and the sun comes out. The kids rush outside, forget her. She bangs on the door, looks thru cracks in the wall at the sunshine she’s only seen in her imagination, and now can’t experience. Flowers spring up everywhere, cover a field. The kids laugh and play in the sunshine, gathering armloads of blossoms as they run. It lasts only a short time. The clouds close over, the rain falls. Once indoors, they remember the girl in the closet. With remorse on their faces, they unlock the door. One holds out the flowers as an offering.

On Valentine’s Day, in a high school in Utah, every single student received a rose. No one was left out because good people came together, donated time and money to make it happen. A student said the entire vibe in the school that day was one of smiles and sharing. Even the kids who act like they don’t care felt a part of it. What those roses represented transformed the entire school. Because one person was curious enough to see how every kid could get a rose.

At the same time, in a high school in Florida, one beautiful girl got nine bullets in her back as she ran from a shooter. 16 others died with her. The question here is are we curious enough to hear each other.

When the presentation around curiosity began, we were told to exchange answers to what we wrote on our name tags. The beautiful woman beside me was curious where I was from. I answered, thinking as I spoke, of all the things to be curious about in this moment with this theme, why that. There were so many possibilities, her answer could be fascinating. I didn’t have a chance to ask.

I went home, wrote on Facebook: Do you consider yourself a person with a good dose of curiosity about life & the world? Why or why not? What tweaks your curiosity? I really want to know. What people said is exactly what I would say. And it says it all:

Being curious – pursuing the unfamiliar, unknown, and even the uncomfortable opens us up to discovery. . .the view is much bigger. Experiencing nature. Knowing how things work, or grow, and what they turn into. Spirituality. People. And a fellow writer follows her curiosity wherever it leads her, whether it’s how to buy a camel or uranium mining. We’re a citizen of the bigger world.

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

What are you curious about? Share it the comments below.
When writing, let curiosity guide you. See where it takes your story.

Photo by Polychrome Creative

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Just for One Day

Posted on February 3, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“We went out to the meadow; our steps
made black holes in the grass;
and we each took a pear,
and ate, and were grateful.”
~ Jane Kenyon (from Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer)
*

A group of independently owned businesses took residence in a tired old mall with dead air when the small boutique mall they occupied closed after decades. The new stores so enlivened the place that cool modern sofas now dot the walkways. The cafe tables & chairs outside Starbucks are updated and sport a cheery orange. Trees with tiny white lights create a sweet spot outside the 4 table in-mall Peruvian restaurant. A resurrection that occurred with the influx of a community.

Know this. . .I am not a mall person in the least. The only reason I ever go is it’s the only option. And yesterday, I felt drawn to wander in after lunch. The jumble of a store crowded with clothes, jewelry, and miscellany like a flea market caught me. I stood across the walkway looking for a few minutes, then walked over. For the first time I noticed it’s a co-op.

As with the three other times I’ve popped in, a man called Welcome from somewhere in the store. I return his greeting with How are you? And as each time before, his answer’s one word: Happy. This day I decided to bite. ‘You say that every time. Are you truly that happy?’

‘Oh, yes. I get to be a human being,’ he said. It felt like something I should remember.

I walked to the back where I’ve never gone. Two small rooms with assorted brass bells, sage bundles, statues of Buddha, Quan Yin, and the like. As I stood staring at a bowl of dried gray-brown balls the size of my fist called Rose of Jericho, read how they unfurled when watered, wondered why a person would want one, he walked up beside me. His eyes twinkled. Where you from, I asked. Tibet.

With intention, he riffled thru a deck of divination cards as he talked. ‘My Western friends come in looking for something to help their Soul when they feel bad. I tell them, be like us crazy Tibetans. We lost our country, and we still smile. We’re happy.’

He laid out four cards. The first about Angels around me, as guides.

He plans to build a center unlike any I’ve seen in layout or concept. Healing and the arts, and in the middle, a large tea room with no wi-fi. Because his vision is nurturing our sense of connection with one another. Community.

I confess. I wonder about the future of our planet, and my grandson’s future. He’s only 8. He lives far, far away in Taiwan. What will he have, this sparkly little boy.

We talk by Skype each Friday night. He’s intent we visit at least an hour. I can’t hang up on him. Sometimes he lingers before he clicks good-bye.

He shows me his super hero figures, his Harry Potter wand, his lego creations. He holds the things I sent him, what he calls his treasures, to the camera one by one. Postage is expensive, so they’re small: arrowheads & fossils, buttons and pins, cut glass gems in pretty colors, & feathers. He pulls them from boxes I sent – a carved box from India with white bone inlay. A box with a sliding lid that belonged to my grandmother. It’s top and sides intricate geometric patterns made with different wood laminates. I love his drawings where the animals, monsters, and super heroes always look Happy. Now he reads to me. I catch it when he mumbles thru a word. He spells it so I can help.

It pleases me no end his hobbies are drawing and reading, the same as mine when I was his age. That he loves nature and science like I do, too. We were born on the same hour and minute: 5:47. Perhaps that’s why.

The prize of the night last week was his latest award from school for being the healthiest and best student. It’s elaborate. A large odd-shaped board with pictures of him and headings in Chinese arranged around it. He said he couldn’t translate the words exactly. So I told him to tell me about them. I could see his mouth twitch as he thought.

‘This here is for what I think is my best quality,’ he said. ‘I help people work together to solve problems.’ I couldn’t believe my ears. He’s 8! I asked him to repeat it. I wrote it down. And what he likes? To make people laugh & feel good, and to share. I couldn’t help thinking about this world we live in.

Two nights later I heard about women who left Victorian society to create new lives and identities in New Mexico. They were smart, accomplished, and stifled. One, a brilliant concert pianist, world renown for her skill, who could never perform on stage because it was a realm reserved for men. And there they were in the desert scrub. Riding horses, visiting pueblos and canyons, and camping. I wondered if I’d have the courage to choose the same if in their place. It looked so rugged. I thought how countless millions who never chose it live that way now.

The talk was in the magnificent St. Francis auditorium here in Santa Fe, where the ceiling’s a thousand miles high and frescos cover the walls. The place was packed. I sat beside an older couple, Ann and Jack. We were the only ones on the front row. We chuckled how this seems to usually be the case.

Ann and I chatted briefly about family. She taught school, the kids called gifted & talented. ‘They were very empathetic, and sensitive,’ she said. ‘Sounds like your grandson is one.’ I thought about those happy monsters in his drawings, and his words––I help people work together to solve problems. I felt hope for his future, and the planet’s.

The next morning, tho I intended to rise for the lunar eclipse, I laid still for a long time when I woke. It was 5:15 when I finally glanced at the clock. I raised the blinds in the darkest room in the house, across the hall from my bedroom. In the sky, framed in the window, was a moon with a dark bite out of her. She so bright, the bite so black. I dressed in the dark. Forgetting the drawer was already open, I pulled it off the track when I went for long underwear, dumped the entire contents on the floor. No time. Outside under the sky, it was noisier than in my little house – cars on the thoroughfare a few blocks away, the ding of the train, the beep of a truck backing up in a parking lot. But the dogs were quiet. A rarity in this part of the hood. I considered going to the wide street, walking up the hill for a full open view of sky. But I stayed where it was darkest, standing on the earth. Standing so trees and fence posts blocked backyard lights. I saw the blood moon. The first unobstructed by trees, mountains, or buildings eclipse of my life. And this is what I will tell you. As she cloaked, I felt the world quiet. Like when the electricity in the house goes out quiet. And I thought of long ago people connected to the earth and the hum of celestial bodies, how they must have felt. The electricity turned off. And I stood an hour, ’til my toes hurt. Knowing this Universe and I were one.

Something beautiful.

I hope you sang along.

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

Photo: Kyle Head

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Stories, Our Connective Tissue

Posted on January 23, 2018 by Heloise Jones

So it surprises me now to hear
the steps of my life following me ––
so much of it gone. . .
as though a prayer had ended
and the bit of changed air
between the palms goes free
to become the glitter
on some common thing that inexplicably shines.
~ Galway Kinnel (from ‘The Still Time’)
*

I saw the author of ‘The Artist’s Way,’ Julia Cameron, give a presentation recently. A friend who knows her introduced us. I was thrilled. I’d read her book in the early 90s when it first came out, and participated in a weekly group around the its principles. These groups grew into a worldwide phenomenon, and continue today. When she heard about my book ‘The Writer’s Block Myth,’ she wanted to know more and where to get a copy. I gifted her one. Somehow that felt special.

My take-away of the evening was the value of ‘morning pages.’ Three pages written in longhand first thing upon rising. Clear the mind, get the frets and broiling stuff up and out. What if you write 4 pages, someone asked. We get full of ourselves, Julia said. You’ve hit the real (sometimes hard) stuff by 1-1/2 pages. At three you get the heart of what you need and the magic happens. Seems there’s always a number before it’s too much or something else, doesn’t it? I made a vow to get back to morning pages.

I’ve been thinking A LOT about empowerment lately. This is no secret. I’ve written about it here. I’ve planned a retreat around women’s empowerment. I wrote a book of empowerment for writers and creatives. Behind my thoughts, the power of our words, spoken and written. How our stories are key in the narrative of our lives, and in a society’s narrative. Because stories are the glue of relationships and cultures. They drive us. They guide compassion and fear, biases and action. In the best of worlds, they have the power to light us up inside so we feel strong and confident, and we see we’re not alone. They’re a way to connect with ourselves and others, and have a Voice.

The truth of this is everywhere. I asked the lab tech if it was an iwatch I saw on her wrist as she drew my blood. It was. Do you like it? How do you use it? I asked. The questions I’ve had about this thing I perceived as frivolous, mainly because I couldn’t see a reason for it except as a gadget to further bombard one with info. She changed my mind with her story. ‘I have a special needs kid. He’s sight impaired,’ she said. ‘I get messages from his teachers during the school day. Now I can respond fast when I couldn’t before because our phones have to be off in the lab.’ A moment of connection with another person. A shift in perception for me. And for her, she had a voice, was more than her lab coat to this stranger.

I have a friend whose son is autistic. Speaking to people, especially in public, is hard for him. She home schools him, and posts some of her experiences with him on Facebook. The kid is brilliant. His response to his environment fascinating. Such as he knows and spells words I don’t have a clue the meaning of. Words far longer than the four & five letter words they had him read in public school. He saw a need, and decided he’ll found a university when he grows up.

I particularly love his answer to a woman who posed the question whether it’s OK to explain her child’s autism to strangers, or if privacy is more respectful and less ‘labeling.’ His spelled response: MY STORY IS SO TOTALLY WORTH NICE PEOPLE HEARING BECAUSE I REALLY LIKE MY DIFFERENT WAY OF SEEING THE WORLD. (caps his) It’s not just his answer I love. I love the message inside it.

He’s a kid with no throwaway comments like you and I have. This one sentence took significant time and energy to say. And it was important to him to share it. Because he wants the world to hear it. He has a Voice, he sees and processes the world differently than most, and he’s empowered with that knowledge. He’s OK. I rather like that he says ‘nice people,’ too. As if he knows some people aren’t owed an explanation of who he is. The simple fact is his brain works differently, his way of communicating is often difficult to understand, and that makes him different. I think different is OK.

It always gets down to how we stay focused and move toward the goals we desire. How we live a creative life. Especially for writers. What’s the secret for seeing and listening with the assumption the story will be interesting, and ignoring, as poet Maya Stein says, the catcalls of the deadlines.

My intent for morning pages the day after I saw Julia Cameron didn’t happen as planned. I wrote 2 pages the first morning. The following two mornings, I forgot. It’s been off and on sporadic since. I heard others’ stories, and wasn’t hearing my own. Then last week, I got pulled deep, deep down into sleep. A nap in the afternoon, and again all thru the night. My dreams full and fat with presence and lots going on. My limbs weighed a thousand pounds when I rose the next day. Mid-afternoon, the BLUES came on with all caps. They curled up inside me, made a nest of my heart. I felt inconsequential and questioned myself, what I’m doing, & not. Those stories felt more real than all the good stuff in my life. At 2:30pm, I decided to write my morning pages.

I followed the pen, didn’t lead when I wrote, as I know to do. I was present and paid attention, resisting the urge to judge words or myself. I connected with both sides of the narratives running thru me. The one that squeezed my heart, and the one that stood in the shadows and needed a Voice. My perspectives shifted. My view of myself grew. I felt the blood move thru my arms and legs once more. I didn’t have answers. I had my Voice back. I wrote myself back up & onto my feet.

I live with these truths. . .Our Voice is our Superpower. Our stories are our connective tissue.
Tell your stories. The true ones. The ones in your strong heart without fear.

In the morning when you rise, write 3 pages longhand – your morning pages. Stick with it, finish the three. Note what you discover, what shifted, and how you feel at the end.

Photo: Jonatan Pie

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Writing My Way Out

Posted on January 12, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Telling stories and reading stories changes you. Both allow one human being to reach more deeply into the experiences of another. Both involve our two greatest gifts:
the tools of empathy and imagination.”
~ Nancy Peacock, author & NC Piedmont Laureate

I’ve been in a deep pause for weeks – from who I thought I was in the shape of my life, and with writing. It’s been insular, and quiet, and pregnant with something I don’t know, yet.

I know the value of pauses. I wrote about it here. Even included a half dozen ways to intentionally pause. And this pause has not been easy to sink into with trust that what matters to me, like connecting with you each week, will be there when I come back. Hovering in the back of my mind is what might melt away.

A pause can be a journey when you soften into it. We come out the other side changed, often with unimagined insights or a valuable shift in perspective. The same as when reading a book, or traveling. And yet, it’s not the same as riding the length of an archipelago in Taiwan on the back of a scooter, or diving into another’s created world.

Last week, thinking the December pause was over, I had two strong days flying toward goals, feeling gloriously in the flow of my two words for 2018 (Connect & Commit). I told myself ‘I’ve got this’. . . then, Bam. Violent, ugly, mean, ravaging food poisoning the very night of my high five with myself. Dehydrating fast, my legs crunched into excruciating cramps in the midst of it. All night it had me, giving me no rest ‘til 5:30am.

I didn’t move from the bed for the next 24 hrs. I slept. A glass & pitcher of water on the bedside table. Drifting in and out, I heard the soft cool hum of the small humidifier atop a towel on the floor, noticed the shift in the light thru the blinds at the window, glanced at the bright red numbers on the clock. I felt the hollow of my empty middle, and the cool straight stream of water running throat to stomach inside me each time I had a sip. I noted the 3 count glug from the humidifier when the water in the reservoir dropped, and the click in the radiators when they turned on. Waterwaterwater.

I took no measure of how I felt beyond the weight of the blankets. Gave no thought to what I was missing beyond regret over the talk I really wanted to hear about Georgia O’Keefe’s intentional garb for her persona. My world and being was rest & hydration, care of my body. The only thing that mattered.

The next day I rose with the sun. Fatigued and foggy-brained, I intended to recover that whole day I lost. I was on a roll, had to catch up, my thinking. And the fog in the brain simply wouldn’t clear. It was as if all progress forward and my list of to-do’s floated away on a breeze, and I could only watch.

The hard part is I fought that fog with every half-firing brain cell I had for two entire days. When I finally gave in, I remembered those little details of my day in bed. Marveled at how present I must’ve been to my environment. And I thought back to the Christmas fable of my last blog.

Shortly after I published ‘A Christmas Fable,’ I read a blog from 13 months earlier. I was in Santa Fe for my yearly sojourn. A time I looked forward to every year. I spent most of my days on that trip at the computer writing The Writer’s Block Myth. In the midst of this writing retreat, an author came for a personal 4-day retreat to work with me on her book. I was busy. My favorite drives into the countryside where the sky felt forever and lines of golden-yellow trees ran along waterways were rare. I mostly gazed at the saturated blue fall sky thru windows. Watched aspens and cottonwoods in the garden move thru yellows & golds to dropping their leaves. And yet, the tone of that blog was light, as was the name, ‘Saying the Word Lucky.’ The language vivid. I was present to the writing, and there was joy at the heart of my sharing. A strong contrast to the blog I’d just written where I described a day where I was indeed intensely present in every moment, and yet, not present in the writing.

I went back into ‘A Christmas Fable,’ added sensory details. I saw again the tiny things that touched me, and added them. I asked a writer-friend to re-read and share what she thought. Then, in some strange twist, I never saw her response.

When I rose from bed fatigued and spent the day after recovery, the first emails I saw were hers and another’s. Both about the Christmas fable. Both arriving 4 days earlier, before my two high-five days! I was stunned.

Each said how much the blog touched them. Joy to the heart, tears in the eyes touched them. Writing is connection. Presence in writing is the heart of connection.

I then became present to the series of pauses I’ve gone thru, and continue to be in. Both in life and in writing. I’d not written in a month, a pause that was needed. And I’d not paused in the writing for connection with myself or the reader. That pause also something needed. I caught the disconnect, and still it took the pause with foggy brain to bring me back to the present of what matters right now as I chart this next year.

I don’t know what this extended deep pause is about. It feels like I’m near some sort of new, unknown event horizon. I can make myself crazy, or I can trust it to unfold and focus on the next thing in front of me. What I know is how we are with our writing is how we are in our life, and visa versa. As actress Elizabeth Moss said, “We are the story in print, and we are writing the story ourselves.” And in the writing, we change a little inside. It’s a very good thing. It’s time I get back writing.

I leave you with this wish from Neil Gaiman, and me:

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next <this> year, you surprise yourself.”

Time to surprise ourselves.

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