Full Circle

Posted on October 11, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Human life itself may be almost pure chaos, but the work of the artist is to take these handfuls of confusion and disparate things, things that seem to be irreconcilable, and put them together in a frame to give them some kind of shape and meaning.”
~ Katherine Anne Porter, author
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fall-cottonwoods-santa-fe *

This is my 19th trip to Santa Fe since we moved back east 18 yrs. ago. Some time back I noticed themes in these sojourns that coincided with what I needed or where I was in life. I don’t know how long it’d been happening, but I could trace it thru a few visits. All my friends calling immediately upon my arrival, filling my calendar the year I needed community. Reconnecting with former healing practitioners the year I needed clearing and clarity. This year it’s about coming full circle. And the layers of them are freaky cool.

For the next week I’m settled in a super nice place nestled in a pine & piñon forest 20 min. outside Santa Fe. On top of a ridge above the tiny village of Cañada (pronounced Caun-YA-da). Population 439. I have no cell service. Internet works best on the kitchen counter at my back, facing the opposite direction from where I work. To get here I drive up a slightly washboarded dirt road. A good friend got me in. She lives across the driveway here on the property. I love that. I’ve always wanted a best friend for a neighbor.

At first I kinda freaked about the lack of contact with the world. My web designer. My friends. How will I do it?! But I learned the landline in the house works. Something I didn’t guess since the house is a second home. And it dawned on me I’m saved from email distractions, because I have to move the computer while I’m writing if I want them. Noooo worries. But here’s the kicker. I’m writing my book in the exact spot I did the <first> final draft of my novel with an editor years ago. In the same chair, at the same table, looking out the same window in this house that this very same friend got me in back then. Full circle.

And in two weeks I’m hosting a private retreat for a writer who’s completing her memoir. A Writer’s Dream Retreat because it’s designed specifically for the individual, and includes lots of coaching from me. The gal who’s coming started her memoir in a retreat I co-facilitated 5 years ago. I started with you, she said. I feel drawn to complete this with you. Another full circle.

And the big full circle, after 18 yrs. I’m moving back to Santa Fe when our lease expires the end of January. A move I’m excited about, and one I’ve fretted over finding a place. I know this town well. Know how I live in it. Where I go. What I do. Know the essentials of what I want in a home and rhythm in life. I’ve tried shifting my head. It’ll all work out fine, has every move, I tell myself. But this move is different, and I know it. We’re setting up two households. Have no fall-back. The thought’s not been far from my mind.

In Whole Foods a woman approached me as I read the label on a small bottle of rose oil moisturizer, started talking. It felt easy. I learn that, like me, she’s moving to someplace she loves where she feels expansive. Like me, growing a business. And then she says, ‘You oughta move into our house since we’re leaving. Our landlord’s great.’ And tho I knew I couldn’t budget her rent, I thought. . .can it really be this easy?

The first morning, as I rounded the bend halfway up the near 1/2 block long driveway, intent to try for cell at the road, before I found out the landline worked, two huge mule deer stood in profile at the top of the drive. Their heads turned, big dark eyes focused on me. Ears larger than their gorgeous black & white faces erect, like gigantic seed pods. I stopped. We watched each other for minutes. Over and over I told them how beautiful they were. Not until I reached for my phone, looked down to set the camera, did they walk on. I knew it was some sort of blessing.

The Native Americans think deer are shaman. Some think them messengers from Gods. Perhaps so. Those deer and I met before the woman in Whole Foods. Before I connected all these full circles. I have a feeling there’s more to come.

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

Tell me. . .what theme might be running thru your life this season?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .days seem to be melting away, even tho I’m present to the moments.

Special Thanks to Lindy Teresi for my home in the woods these 10 days.

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In a Sudden Strangeness

Posted on October 4, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Buried under all the mute experiences are those unseen ones
that give our life its form, its color, and its melody.”
~ Amadeu de Prado (from ‘A Goldsmith of Words’)
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red-apples-orchard

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Each dawn I step out, expect cooler air, humidity lifted. It’s fall. October. The turn past my least favorite season should’ve happened already. But not here, not yet. Tho once a couple weeks ago it felt like it may.

I’m usually in Santa Fe wearing jeans by now. But this year I’m delayed a week. One part of me thinks it okay. That I have no time for studio tours and hugging aspens. Basking in the golden light of sunshine through fall cottonwoods. Driving with friends to my favorite river valley for studio tours. Tasting heirloom apples from all over northern New Mexico.

And my Soul reminds me the silence I crave will greet me each dawn and night my first ten days, as I’ll in the country outside town. No dozen a/c’s vibrating around me. Swarm of traffic, mowers, or leafblowers. That I can look up, see multitudes of stars, the Milky Way coursing over. No lights glaring in my windows. And it will be fall. It’s time to go.

What happened was a new project. After weeks delay and no progress with my web designer. The audio program I had fun creating, that needs to get into the world, still going nowhere. My publisher recommended someone to help. I usually shop around, bootstrap when cash is tight. But after days of back ‘n’ forths with this guy, I made the decision to redesign the whole site vs. patch everything in. It was a hard decision. I love my site. It reflects me in so many ways. But it can’t give me what I need. I put aside The Writer’s Block Myth book I’m writing, and turned to web content and instruction.

4:30am after my decision, I woke questioning the choice. In angst, I asked for guidance. Then questioned what I heard. Was it me or *real.* The little voice answered, ‘I’ll give you a sign you can’t miss in the morning. Go back to sleep.’

I woke not feeling like a walk. I typically stay in when I feel this way, but I looked out the window, saw a weird fat river of cloud running in a straight line, and decided to go out for the fresh air, look at the sky. Above me, on an empty field, stretched a giant wishbone. Down to the slight curve after the fork.

As days melted past, my personal deadlines slipped to the next day and next. I forgot the wishbone, began to question if I’m pushing the river because of physical world needs. Because I know breath in creating something new is a good thing. Even teach the necessity of it. And despite waking to new insight & inspiration each morning, real world needs butted against feelings I may not be doing enough, fast enough.

Something poet Maya Stein wrote this week has stuck with me. She says that as a poet, she gravitates toward the grey areas of things. ‘I’m drawn to ambiguity and paradox,’ she says. ‘I’m fascinated by neither-here-nor-there, by not-only-but-also, by kitchen-sink moments where everything’s in the mix and the boundaries are hazy. I’m far more intrigued by doors than I am by walls.’

I’ve gone back to that paragraph again and again. Feeling there’s something more than the big Me, Too I’m to get. Just now I understand what it is. . .this new website that’s sucked days and hours of thought, that’s caused me angst, is a door. The boundaries are hazy because it opens to big, new territory. And that can be scary. Right now, I’m not in control. But it’s all part of the big cloud wishbone I saw stretch across the sky last week.

On the little tag hanging from the eyelet of my new shoes: Asics is an acronym from the Latin phrase, ‘Anima Sana In Corpore Sano.’ A sound mind in a sound body. I’m taking that intent under my feet. Counting to twelve, keeping still, as Pablo Neruda says.

I pack tomorrow.

*
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whale
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

~ Pablo Neruda (Keeping Quiet)

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

Tell me. . .what would you have wished for had you seen that giant cloud wishbone?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .even as big as that wishbone was, I looked a long time, hardly believing it.

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I’m writing a book about the creative life for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
Get Past Stuck, Complete Your Projects, Have Lasting Creative Freedom.

What Happens when a Vision Grabs You

Posted on September 6, 2016 by Heloise Jones

Open your eyes and see what you can with them
before they close forever.
~ Anthony Doerr (from All the Light We Cannot See)
* Stamp

This first issue Susan B. Anthony stamp was given me by a college professor in 1990.
I wrapped it with lots of padding, paper, and tape. Enclosed archives from my time at NC State University. Then unwrapped it, took a picture.
Because it went in the mail today.
This is the story why.
*

In 1989 I returned to school for the fifth time to complete my BA. Until now I felt those previous four attempts were failures in my character. I should’ve worked harder to rise above emotions and circumstances. Been more mature, got my priorities straight. Looking back, I understand the bigger plan of the Universe had nothing to do with failure. Because when I walked away Summa Cum Laude in 1991, final proof to myself I was ‘smart enough,’ I left a legacy. And that never could’ve happened earlier. Because I never would’ve had the activist’s passion or vision that drove me to rise at 4:30am after crawling in bed at 11pm, do the work.

I underline – I was an unintentional activist. My stated mission of a Women’s Center on campus by the time I graduated 2 years later came from new awarenesses. And it was something even those who worked toward it called impossible. North Carolina State University was large (22,000 students). Conservative. Centered on the sciences and agriculture. Women students on campus was only a 20 year, or so, phenomena. It was a time state budget cuts for education were first deeply felt. Full professors held a Bake Sale in symbolic protest. Campus real estate grew more precious. I loved college life, felt so happy and lucky to be there, but I also felt the pain of isolation.

Here’s the letter I sent with the stamp. The last paragraph the reason why I do the work I do now, and still hold hope in a world awash in bad stuff:

Dear Ms. Zugay –

You and I spoke a number of weeks ago regarding my donation of two framed items that were inspirational to me when I was at NC State, dedicated to securing a women’s center on campus. Enclosed is one of the framed items I mentioned – a Susan B. Anthony first issue stamp released on the 50th anniversary of the 19th amendment giving women the right to vote in 1920. I hope you have a place on your walls for it. With the upcoming elections, it’s a good reminder privileges we take for granted were not always here. And often came about only after years of dedication and focus by others before us. I think it’s especially hard for young people to imagine. Call it too many hours on Facebook or whatever, but I think we’re at a crossroads as a society, which makes this an incredibly important reminder.

I’m also enclosing copies of archives from the ‘early days,’ before the Women’s Center. Honestly, I have not looked at these materials in over 20 years. Am not even sure why they remain in my files, except the fact seeing a Women’s Center on campus was a singular guiding light once I decided that’s what had to happen. And that intent infiltrated everything I did as a student. I even still have the research materials for my proposal! Go figure, right.

Before writing this letter, I perused your website again. Looked up other resources on campus. I am so heartened to see all the services the Women’s Center provides. And to see the long list of people on NC State’s Council on the Status of Women advising the provost. Understanding the huge evolution since my time there, I want to share a bit about myself, too. Because it may be inspiration for others who feel an urge to do something greater than themselves in response to a spark inside (should you choose to share).

In fall 1989 I entered school for the fifth time with the intent to earn a BA. I had a son in college. Just left my first ‘real’ job as a corporate advertising account manager. Before marrying my second husband in 1986, I’d been a single parent for nine years after walking away from a years-long physically and psychologically abusive marriage. I had never heard the word patriarchy, but I’d experienced gender discrimination when I couldn’t get a loan for a washing machine without a husband’s signature. And once worked in a fine dining restaurant that didn’t allow women to wait tables at night. A month into classes, I heard young women talk about the risk of date-rape as something they accepted. And I was shocked.

My greatest challenges my first semester, though, were as a non-traditionally aged woman student. My intent was to earn a Certificate in Training and Development as part of my degree, so I would eventually enroll in a number of graduate courses with my undergraduate free electives. But that was down the road, and they all met after 5pm. I sought out Evelyn Reiman, then Director of Student Development, who sent me to Jan Rogers, the Coordinator of Women Student Concerns (Dept. of Student Development). Jan shared a tiny office with a student assistant on an upper floor of the student center. At Jan’s encouragement, I secured a classroom for a support group meeting, put up flyers across campus inviting others to come. That endeavor did not last long, but something else happened. I grew determined we needed a women’s center on campus, with resources to address the challenges women students faced so no one else would feel unmoored and isolated the way I did. I committed to seeing it established before I gradated in 1991.

I banded with a small core of like-minded faculty and students, became a tireless activist. I recruited, educated, and organized students, faculty and university administration on women’s issues every chance I could. Was one of two student representatives on NC State Council on Status of Women. I announced my intention for the women’s center at the Student Leader’s Retreat after becoming president of the newly formed Women’s Resource Coalition. Spoke at Panhellenic meetings. Founded the first campus-wide newsletter distributed to 16,000 women students and faculty with another student. Centered every class paper on gender when allowed. Researched and developed a proposal for a woman’s center as an independent study that ultimately became the core of the final proposal.

On November 1, 1990 associate professor Dr. Sarah A. Rajala and I were scheduled to discuss development of a Women’s Resource Center with Interim Provost Dr. Franklin D. Hart. Dr. Rajala was ill that morning, so I met with Dr. Hart alone for nearly an hour. I knew the School of Engineering set a fine example in the way gender equity in the classroom and program was addressed and championed. So, I spoke to him from that place, what we shared in our understanding. At the opening ceremony of the Women’s Center, Dr. Hart said his meeting with me was what convinced him to put his full support behind it. At that time I could only think of the miracle I stood in this space I was told was impossible. I told him we all did it.

Because that’s how change happens. Change comes when something opens inside a person that leads to actions never intended. Takes him/her past stuck. When a vision forms that is impossible to let go. It is not a quantum leap until after a series of shifts in mind and heart. I call these shifts triumphs. And say, celebrate all triumphs.

Thank you for doing the good work.
Sincerely,
Heloise Jones

package2
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My Thanks to those who championed me – Evelyn Reiman, Dean Robert Williams (College of Education), Dr. Edgar Farmer (College of Education) – and all those who do the good work.
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Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . .what vision for a better world do you hold?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .tho the magnitude of the Women’s Center presence on campus didn’t hit me until I stood in it, I never once doubted there’d be one before I graduated.

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I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth – A Guide to Lasting Creative Freedom.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

When Big Plans Change

Posted on August 23, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”
~ Allen Saunders
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St Andrews window

I have a vision for a writers retreat in Canada. The Maritimes, a place of natural wonder and otherness-type beauty. So I laid out significant money that was a huge stretch for our budget, a gamble for the future, came up on the invitation of a writer I think smart, talented to help in the process. Who shares a wealth of information about the place and people I find interesting. Saw the whole thing as win-win. Felt really good. Didn’t even sign up for international calling. Within days she and I clashed in a complicated mix of experience and perceptions. I left her a week early. Feeling shaky. Completely vulnerable. I kept reminding myself I’ve done scarier things. Wasn’t really alone, because I’m never alone. I talk to people, and people are nice. But I wasn’t up here for a vacation, and money’s tight. And I hadn’t done the homework. I had someone for that.

In thinking back, I should’ve looked at the map once more for orientation. A slip of the tongue at my question, or my jumble. It doesn’t matter. The fog had been heavy for many miles, and rain was falling by the time it dawned on me I’d gone too long for my intended destination. When I saw the sign confirming the opposite direction, I turned off the highway, pulled in at a Canadian mainstay gas-stop cafe, Irving. The gals there were nice. Considered my options with me for a moment. And suddenly it seemed the only thing to do was hunker down right there. Pull out my laptop, order tea and pancakes, and let the rain fall until I felt calm and adventurous, again. Until I accepted more money would be spent. The intent could be salvaged. That it was one day in the middle of many. Nearly three hours later I left with a huge slice of chocolate creme pie in a box.

And still held this: The magic of the rock beach on the Bay of Fundy. Learning about this place of many wonders from someone who loves it. Finding a perfect heart rock to gift my host of several days. Fresh-made seafood chowder with lobster & fish. Blueberries picked off the bush. Workshops planned. Giant moon, brilliant orange. Black maple syrup so smooth I could drink it as an apetife. An inn on the Bay of Fundy that’s 90% what I want for the retreat. A local specialty, homemade sausage, for dinner. Conversation about writing with 2 sisters who are poets. One, 19, a spoken-word poet with passion, who I already know will do great things in the world for others with her insight, heart, and words. All good.

It’s high season here, tricky to get a room late in the day. I’m moving on to Prince Edward Island (PEI, they call it here). I met a couple who encouraged me to seriously consider a retreat there. ‘The energy is very creative,’ they said. ‘We can help spread the word.’ Angel messengers.

I guess sometimes we’re taken the long (and wrong) way to get where we really need to be, meeting the people we may really need to meet. The other thing I learned. . .if you never hear a person utter Thank You to another soul, good bet s/he’s not my tribe.

I’m still shakey. Still feel bad about what happened. And I’m okay.

St-MartinsRocks On the beach, low tide, Bay of Fundy
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Another Small Journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Tell me. . . how do you ground yourself, shift in the midst of unexpected plans?

I’ll tell you a secret. . .I never thought how tiny wild blueberries might be best in muffins before.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
The creative life for people living in the real world.

How to Strike Gold

Posted on August 9, 2016 by Heloise Jones

To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we put it right; to rest is to fall back, literally or figuratively
from outer targets, not even to a sense of inner accomplishment or an imagined state
of attained stillness, but to a a different kind of meeting place,
a living, breathing state of natural exchange. . .
~ David Whyte
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duck3

Much of Florida floats on water. Ground water inches from the surface. The land pocked with ponds they call lakes. Bayous and coves fingering from the oceans and rivers. Artificial waterways constructed for our use. Acres of swamps. In summer water falls daily from the sky. Inland it used to be a shower that dropped in like a polite visitor, moving on after a decently short time. Along the coast and the peninsula I’m on, it’s thunderstorms and rains every afternoon that drop buckets, cause the groundwater to swell, overtake roads and yards. Allow a manatee to cross streets and thru yards to munch on cultivated shrubbery. This week it’s all about water, and seems to reflect my insides.

One morning as I pumped gas, I noticed a drop in humidity, how good the breeze felt. A sea breeze. Noted with appreciation it wasn’t unpleasantly hot as usual. I watched a crow hop big-leafed floppy limb to big-leafed floppy limb across five waving above the roof of the gas-mart, dropped my gaze to the palms down the road. Thought how if this was your place on the planet, I could see how you’d love it, especially with that sky.

But I hadn’t kept up with the weather. Didn’t register how that beautiful moment portended days of tropical rain. The next day the sky lit up frosted white bright. Not a drop of color. Thunderclouds rose up, gray-tinged white, not gray. Nearly the same value as the sky. A completely white on white landscape overhead I found beautiful. And freaky. Because it was different from the humid white skies of the mid-Atlantic I know. Was not the color of storms. A friend joked it was an apocalyptic sign. Stripped of color as it was, I could see that. What I didn’t see was anger I’ve not expressed.

I’m one who goes to self-responsibility, understanding, frustration, love. I note anger when it rises, and feel my way thru, transform it to something constructive. My lapses are spikes that quickly settle to something calmer to hold. But the anger with family from two weeks ago has no way to channel. A Fuck You rose up inside me, even for the ones I love most in all the world that I always forgive. And I said it aloud to the empty rooms. Fuck you _______. Every time it rose. Like a storm battling the love I feel. The anger pooled like a rain from a stalled tropical depression. My love turned white in the moment. Like the freaky white sky. Still beautiful. And I hoped this rain nourished the ground for something new to grow.

Sunday I was talking with a good friend in Santa Fe. The story, again, how even tho I see the many positive things for my relationship and both of us as individuals, I feel battered from this time in Florida. I kept thinking it wouldn’t get any lower, I said. And then it struck me hard, bright lights on a movie set hard, it’s not getting lower. Since December, the trajectory’s up. Starting with this home, everything I wanted, saw as essential for my productivity in the time I remain here. Clean and upgraded with quality, walls painted with color, kitchen I love, abundant natural light and a sense of space, responsive landlord I trust. And I hired a coach who didn’t help me to what we contracted for, but brought me to clarity and confidence so I’m making offers to help others from a place where I excel. From my zone of genius. And my circle of connections with authors is expanding. And I found the best person ever to record my work. Who also gave me so much beyond the work – conversations and sharing, something to look forward to, settling into challenge and process I love. My sights shifted as if I’d struck Eureka gold talking to her.

I take my dawn walks inside the ring of townhomes in my complex now. A buffer to traffic roar 2 blocks one way and 3 another. Monday I was relieved to discover a break in the steady rain when I woke. The breeze feeling good in the thick air as I walked. I ventured beyond the complex. The little voice said take the shortcut coming back, thru the gate that’ll put me right across from your townhome. But I said no, I may catch a pretty sky over the small lake. Halfway down the block, the rain started. Insistent, this side of heavy. I shaved steps by backtracking to the shortcut. But still arrived drenched. And here’s the kicker, not ’til I got in the shower did I realize how refreshed that rain left my skin. So different from the brutally hard water coming thru my shower head, even with a double filter. In this minute, I call it baptism.

That afternoon I drove to a small villagey-town at the bottom of the peninsula, met a new author referred to me. She’s written a book. I love that she approached the work the way I’d advise. Let it evolve, be what it is, didn’t push her original intent on the work. That she wants to learn craft, make her book better. That she’s smart. Intuitive tho she doesn’t claim it. I found myself wanting to read what she wrote, but I declined her giving it to me. When she asked if I’d edit it, pointed out when I hesitated that I said I edit, I conceded I’d think about it once she made it the best she’s able. But my mind questioned how I’d fit this into so much already planned, and do her right. I feel overwhelmed, can only do the next right thing most days. Some days feel the strain of the gamble in uplevelng. That deadlines are pushing me, instead of me moving steadily, in flow, toward goals. Question myself in the process.

Outside the restaurant streets flooded. I’d parked two blocks up & brought my rubber shoes as prep. But water ran nearly to car tailpipes. Another woman slogging thru said a catfish lay on the sidewalk further up. It surprised me water stretched 6 blocks to the main road, and 33 blocks on the main road before the land rose above it. Water high enough to elicit a mantra ‘keep moving; please, tail pipe stay free.’ When I got home, saw the street to the entrance of my complex flooded extra deep, I decided to go for it. Didn’t stop for the beeps of a car I hadn’t seen coming fast at me. I kept moving. And we easily missed each other, with space to spare. Another reflection. The water on the edge of overwhelm. Me traversing safely thru miles, not stalling. Keeping my date without expectations, tho I knew it may flood.

At the end of the day I talked with my publisher. I expressed my concerns. Reminded him I’d be in Canada 12 days, scoping venues for workshops at the invitation of a writer I’d helped. And he reminded me I’m ahead of the game because people ask for my work, and refer me. I shifted sights once more.

In dreams, water represents emotions. I wish I wouldn’t miss the Persaid meteor showers with this overcast sky. But I’m grateful how the Universe says, look here. We’ll give you a mirror if you’ll notice. And just in case you missed the water thing, the little ducklings you watched grow from yellow puffs will settle in front of your windows, preen and nap, all safe with their mama. More than once be angel messengers. And in case you miss that, note there’s 8. Eight, the number of prosperity.

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

Tell me. . .what mirrors of your life do you see?

I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m still scared.

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth. All about
the creative life for people living in the real world.