. . .throw roses into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster
who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
*

I helped a writer get unstuck. She sends me updates. . .how she wrote three pieces & submitted for the first time in two years. Uses the resource I gave her, found new places to send work. Is developing her writer’s voice & accepts it.
And she sent me this picture of acres of bluebonnets in Texas
that makes the man in the picture look like a bug. A million flowers.
A gift because she remembers I dream of touring flower fields.
*

I’ve been feeling soft, vulnerable. Tender. My grief like a lowgrade fever, the walking kind. Showed up in my blog. The tone low, statements soft. In my fb posts with few creative stanzas. My own words brief in my shares. I knew I spiraled. Today I checked how long. Pulse. One month ago today 49 people gunned down as they danced. And today the city of Orlando ceremoniously moves 49 white crosses gracing the edge of a downtown lake that artist Gary Zanis from Illinois made and planted. They’ll reside at Orange County Regional History Center. History. But anyone can still buy an assault weapon. Pulse Pulse Pulse of blood. And yet, yesterday I felt a shift inside me. A spiraling back up.

As events dropped me to my knees last week, I observed anger spike, more than once. A surprise as it’s not where I usually go or stay very long. But as I drove to my audio session Friday, heard once more ‘guns are in our constitution,’ I pounded the steering wheel, hard. Screamed, ‘You idiot. For regulated militia. Read the damn document.’ And I realized anger held residence. Was not a flash like it usually is. But I needed to read for recording, had to be calm. By the time I arrived, it seemed I was fine. We chatted for an hour like we usually do. Then, my voice betrayed me. Pitchy sharpness clearly present as we listened. I thought to leave, try another day. And for the first time my wonderful Sound Man showed me how he adjusted the sound of my voice with more chest, starts of words softened.

My wonderful sound guy who unplugs in the Appalachian woods every now & then, tromps thru any waterway – tiny stream to swamp to ocean – and has dogs with dog best friends. Who was grateful for the turmeric capsules I gave him. Visited the place I suggested, got what he needed that med docs couldn’t give him. The one who says ‘don’t worry’ when we finish way later than I’m booked for. Who told me this story:

When we were kids (high school), there was a homeless guy named Rat Face we’d sometimes hang out with. He had it tattooed on his arm, answered to it. He was all torn up, all over his body. His legs looked like hamburger. Horrible (shudder). He’d call us, ‘Hey, Dudes. Let’s hang out’ and we’d spend the afternoon laughing and joking. He was always saying ‘when I get my money, I’m gonna buy a house’ and talk about what he’d do. Thing is, he got his money! And he bought a house. Where he built a huge outdoor kitchen in the backyard, fed the homeless. And took homeless in to live with him. He was still messed up, drank beer instead of mouthwash, but he helped others. We’d ride all over Clearwarer gathering expired food from markets and bakeries, take it to him. Later I was part of a core of guys, 15 or so of us, who cooked and fed the hungry for Food, Not Bombs. I got an old mail carrier’s bike with a big metal box to carry the food I picked up. And later, joined an REI sponsored program to teach people how to live in trees, protest logging on public lands. Got arrested along with a thousand other people protesting for civil rights.

I confessed my worry I wasn’t doing enough. Inspiring, empowering, motivating with my words. Helping and nurturing creatives thru snarlies and stuck, to live and love their best creative lives. That I’d once done great things as an activist. Felt guilty for not feeling ‘called.’ I questioned myself, because I care, care, care so deeply. And he told me, unequivocally, this getting arrested and resistance is not work for those who are not called. And somehow I knew he was right. I have my place in the web.

But the next day, awake at my usual 4:30, considering if I’d walk under dark skies lit by porch & street lights. Get on with all to be done. I simply couldn’t bear the oppressive heat & humidity. The computer screen. The sound of the washing machine. The guilt if I read a book, did nothing when so much needs my doing. I stayed in bed. Woke hours later. Still didn’t rise. The clock spun past 8 (so late!), then 9. I tried to take to heart the admonishment by the woman in my dream. Her strong words to shift my head away from my negative thoughts. And yet, I laid there. At 10, I rose. Heavy with grief for the world and worry about my personal circumstances. Barely holding it together.

Later that day a friend shared her self-doubts after a long depression and withdrawal from life. I told her we must have time of peace and rest between changes. So we can hear our own Soul Voice in the midst. Especially us creative folks. Shared how I saw a clip from a movie where a gal talks about an astronaut hearing a maddening knock-knock-knock that he can’t find the source of, so can’t stop. Knows he’ll go crazy listening to it, locked in the tiny cubicle for weeks/months as he is. So he decides to love the knock. And it stops, becomes music. I don’t know about that, I said. But I think it a beautiful aspiration. To find something to love inside the thing driving us crazy. Something for me to try in the midst of life whopping me sideways these past few years, I said. She called it a reflection. I call it Truth.

Because I know the truth of what Buddhist philosopher of ecology Joanna Macy says, The other face of our pain for the world is our Love for the world.

And I see clearly my gifts this past week. How I’m seen, remembered. Know my ultimate dream, my place in the web. Was affirmed I’m on the right path by a full-hearted Yes! as I hung up the phone with a publisher for my forthcoming book, The Writer’s Block Myth. Even the both/and of Life in moments of giggles. The realization everything – chat with my wonderful Sound Man, my response to a friend, gifts, resounding Yes – all angel messengers. The Universe meeting me.

I’m throwing roses to the monster in the abyss.
*

Tell me. . .what resides inside you? what gifts are you given?

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

A favorite: I edited last week’s blog to say what I really meant. Directly.
A secret: Despite dire predictions for our world, warnings of blindness, I still believe we’ll be okay.

Photo: Christopher Sherman

we lost 49 pulses at pulse
not gay or straight
black, white or hispanic
just pulses
this father’s day will be particularly hard on the pulses of at least 49 families
Pray for them
~ Nadine Williams
*

Strawberry Moon over Boca Grande, an island down Florida’s Gulf coast from me.
Today we honor the Moon. She so bright and lovely.
*

Ya know when you have a week that you’re not sure if you feel okay or could be depressed if you let yourself. That you’re angry, but know the futility of anger, unless you turn it to action in the opposite direction of what’s got you. And still you feel as if you’re dog paddling. Moving forward, but strained to keep your face above water, breath free. And one morning you actually wonder how you really feel. Sad & yukky, or what. Yep, that’s me this week. But the very day I lay in bed, thought I could go either way, two messenger angels swooped in. An Australian friend wrote on my Facebook timeline Hope you are having a great day. Well, ah, it’s a choice, I thought. I’m lucky. Shortly after, a private message from a friend in Iowa I haven’t heard from in months, Morning Heloise. Such a beautiful day it reminded me of you. I so appreciate you. Have the best day ever!! And I glanced at how many little heart emojis scroll down my wall. I got it. No tunnel vision.

In one 24 hour period this week I learned that every US postal carrier makes an oath to the government they will deliver the mail no matter what. An oath! That others step in, get it done when one can’t show up. Will help if someone’s delayed to work. I also learned an AR-15 full metal jacket bullet pierces walls. Movie-goers in the adjacent theatre, not in the room, were among those gunned down in CO. And that Yemen, a country associated with war in my mind, is known worldwide for its honey! That honey stores with shelves shaped like honey comb once doted nearly every street corner. My mind shifted. Mail’s no longer delivered by a person, but by individuals consciously living their commitments. And war ravages people who from the outside look to live simply, but are so wise they love and preserve bees.

I’m in the midst of recording 6 mos. of my blogs. It’s illuminating to see which stories repeat. Trauma stories, who I am stories. And statements, such as ‘FL for 4-1/2 yrs.’ One day I thought to delete a story because I’d already told it, more than twice. Then I remember why these stories rose to the top. It’s how I reveal some of what made the real me. And I remember the marketing adage, 5 exposures before people see, remember. Shifted today to 8-10 exposures. That it applies when we’re getting to know folks, especially when we haven’t sat down to a meal together. Haven’t had an exchange or brief conversation. + I’m recording a 16 monthlong journey that’s still counting. A journey of me learning to share private stuff about myself. Dipping toe, foot, leg to full body immersion to Taking Off My Clothes. And when we repeat something like ‘4-1/2 yrs.’, it reveals experience and mindset below the surface. Such as, I’ve never settled here in Florida.

We just gotta look between the lines sometimes. Listen, see, shift perspective. For ourselves, as well as others.

Yesterday was the longest day of the year. A full moon called strawberry because it was strawberry harvest time for the Algonquins. A time of shift in nature.

Birdsong’s carried my Soul for a few weeks now. Helped me equilibrate each morning thru grief and confusion. This heightened awareness to birdsong’s new for me. But no denying the marvel of a mockingbird so full, round, and loud, like its voice should come from the big tree it sits in, not its tiny body. Weird like a full-chested opera out of an 8 yr. old. As I walked this morning, listening, gazing up at the moon, I realized my heart’s finally shifted to purpose. That I had a sign at the bay the other day which I noticed, but didn’t understand.

I didn’t head straight to water as I typically do. I walked blocks listening to birds, enjoyed the added blessing of no roars from vehicles. When I returned to my car, a silent mockingbird perched on my roof rack as a bluejay drank from a  puddle near my wheel, little birds fluttered about. And as if to assure I’d not miss it, the mockingbird flew to the ground, then back to the rack. Sat a long time as I waited in the street, wondered at its silence. Before the auto-lock beeped it skyward to a tree. But I was still dog-paddling, didn’t feel the movement inside me, yet.

I tell ya, there’s something empowering with this sort of shift. A both/and of space and clarity. The best way I can show it is to say consider how much easier that word shift feels vs. the word change. I think you’ll get it.

Let’s shift. Whatta ya say?

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

A secret: I don’t usually go to anger. Frustration’s my modus operandi. True Vata dosha.
A favorite:  Palm trees. How they sound wonderful in the breeze. Sometimes like a mountain brook, even.

Photo:  Ronald Kotinsky

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
~ John McCrae (from In Flanders Fields)
*

*

Do you know the remembrance poppy? How the landscape in Flanders was such a wasteland after WWI that few elements of the natural world could survive. Larks and field poppies the exceptions. The poppies considered a weed for their persistent yearly appearance. Their seeds flung by the wind, dormant for years, springing alive in the churned soil, painting the battlefields solid red with flowers. What would we have here for tiny school children so shredded by bullets their faces were gone. Or the 103 men and women, many in love, ripped in seconds as they danced. Colorful wildflowers – children’s colors, gay pride colors? I think it would apply to others fallen as they worked, watched movies, had meals, celebrated. Don’t you? And their families. The ones in living, walking pieces holding promises of prayers as consolation they won the lottery of mass shootings that day.  Do we include them in the remembrance, too?

I’m overwhelmed lately with how many Facebook comments are negative, quick to express how dumb something or someone is. How it’s ALL awful. How entire groups of people are labeled and mocked in spurts of vile. After the violence in Orlando, I’m overwhelmed by the re-emergence of usual arguments regarding assault weapons, too. It’s the evil hearts, unstable minds that should be targeted, not innocent inanimate weapons. I acknowledge it’s a multi-layered issue. But it’s irrational to me, including the one the government’s out to take away all guns. I can’t find where it’s stated as up for consideration. I engaged a gun owning friend to help me understand. ‘We all fear it,’ he said. ‘We feel stronger, that other countries won’t invade because they see our might. Our citizens armed.’ Even after extreme carnage the argument doesn’t soften to logic we register our cars, and for voting. Have licenses to drive, erect buildings. Have waiting periods for medical procedures, both men and women. No solid answers emerge to the questions, what possible use an assault weapon is to a hunter or pleasure marksman? Which invaders does it protect against? And don’t background checks address that argument it’s people to check, too? Fear and perception remain, like a phobia. An armor that kills.

When I started Facebook years ago, the connections and how people showed up pleased me in the best of ways. Even in disagreements. I decided to be conscious there. To ask myself before I hit the post or comment button, do I mean this? what does this contribute to the conversation, to connection? of all the things I’m interested in + all that amazes me, where do I center? am I real here?  It’s now a regular practice, like prayer or meditation can be a practice of awareness and presence. Brene Brown says ‘authenticity is a practice.’ Yes, I think, that’s what I’m doing.

And here’s the thing. I’ve stumbled. I’ve posted 5x day at times, ‘can you see, can you see’ bleeding in my words. I am not Pollyanna. I can rage. Sometimes my first thoughts are indeed ‘of course, you corrupt, ignorant, stupid (fill in the blank),’ reveal my less-than-perfect heart. sigh But I know what holds my head and heart up when I’m screaming inside with overwhelm and grief as I am now, and I can will myself back to that:

Real life reminders good exists beside the bad. Life beside the Grief. The Evidence Journal of eyes open, actions taken, steps forward against devastation, hatred, ignorance, cruelty. Steps that build societies and environments up, not down. That value planet, people, and all living things. That empower. Say we matter. ALL of us. That it’s not just me who thinks it.

There’s a tradition still alive in Appalachia that when a couple marries, the community creates a wedding quilt for them. Squares and rectangles are sewn and embroidered by all members who then come together to quilt the blanket into being. I love that tradition. Every time author Vicki Lane share a new one, always with pictures, I wish it for myself. The community and love stitched in, that I can cover myself with at night.

There is no escape when you look horror straight in the face with eyes open. And we must bear witness. But I believe there’s grace in seeing the good stuff with the Heart open. And to be witness to that is just as important. We can center our action in that. Even if it’s biscuits like food celebrity Chadwick Boyd made, saying, “I made biscuits. Because I needed to. Because they bring people together.”

Tell me. . . How do you turn your sights to positive thought and action?

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

A secret: I have not unfriended my gun wielding friends. Because I know where our hearts meet.
A favorite: The comforts of color and biscuits.

Photo: photographer unknown