Walking with Angels

Posted on August 30, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“Perhaps home is not a place, but simply an irrevocable condition.”
~ James Baldwin (from Giovanni’s Room)
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heart rock

Heart rock, with a thick quartz ring around the entire perimeter.
The ring makes it a wishing rock.
It fits in the center of my palm.
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Yesterday this time I was sieving thru 3 tiers of security and customs in Toronto airport. Even with designated lines and expedited international baggage transfer, it dawned on me how much tougher coming home to the states is to arriving in Canada. And the lines could’ve been much, much longer on a later flight, with so many more planes in the air. I whispered a Thank You for that 5am first flight out of Saint John, New Brunswick.

I’m calling today Part Two Canada. At the end of Part One, I’d split with my guide in a bevy of differences that left me with a week alone on a tight budget in Canada. I was headed toward Prince Edward Island (PEI). This morning, walking before dawn within the ring of townhomes where I live, I saw exactly how angels watched over me from the moment I entered that gas-stop cafe, had tea and pancakes while I regrouped. Oh, gosh, that sounds so Pollyanna-ish, but honestly, they did. My caveat, as a human I knew each one as it happened, but not until this morning did I see the pattern.

A bit about me in travel. I’m an explorer. I rarely read about places before I go except to get a lay of the land and cultural rules of the place. I love ambling, talking to locals. Rarely feel I missed something because each arrival to a gem holds the surprise of discovery that could’ve been dampened by expectations. But I felt bruised and vulnerable last week, my only knowns the east-west parameters I’d travel. And that PEI was famous for mussels (I learned later they’re famous for potatoes, too). My then unknowns: how hard it is to find a room at the last minute, especially in the earliest and best high season ever. Canadians staying home for vacation because of their dollar. US folks traveling ‘cause our dollar gets 22% more in Canada.

I could talk about a lot of things. Like when you go to PEI, know the best food on east PEI is from tiny, off the beaten path take-outs. Kinda gotta know it, or someone who knows it kind of places. And locals agree. Places like Lin’s in Greenwich beside St. Peters. Far off the road. The drive up thru planted crops. Small sign you could miss. Road no one travels unless they’re going to their farm, state park, or Lin’s. Dinner of scallop burgers (think grilled), handout fries and perfect homemade slaw + ice cream made on the island – Big YUM – at a picnic table, looking out at St. Peters Bay. So quiet the gal speaking gently over the speaker startled me.

lobster-roll Or Pirate’s Cove take-out at North Lake, a flat point that boasts a windfarm of 10 super mills & the title Blue Fin Tuna Capital. The buildings, a short row of motel rooms, painted light yellow. Grayed fishing sheds with piles of lobster traps all about. The entire place seeming deserted. How I drove out, but turned around when the little voice said to. Where when I asked ‘How much mayo in your roll,’ a conversation struck. The gal appreciating me, as she’d always searched for a ‘real’ lobster roll, too. One that wasn’t the standard of lobster bits smothered in mayo. Every time she came home from the big city she moved to, she said. Until she finally moved back, decided to make them right. Took over running this one of three pirate-themed shops. I’m not much into pirates, tho, she said. ‘It’s on your sign, that counts,’ I replied. And we laughed before I sat down to a beautiful roll, brimming with large pieces of unadulterated lobster on a bed of organic lettuce picked from a garden out back, a slip of mayo underneath.

But this story is bigger for me. It’s about Home. A theme that’s showed up a few times on this blog over the past 18 mos. And it’s up especially now because we’re leaving Florida at the end of December. Don’t have a home staked, yet. And tho I don’t say anymore that I don’t how I’ll do it, I think about how it’ll unfold nearly every day. But not ’til this morning did I understand I’ve already been shown it’ll be okay, despite appearances.

I visited three inns in Saint Andrews late Mon. afternoon when I arrived. One room only available in each. And I missed my first & second choices by minutes. Because I stepped away to see what better I might find, returned to the room booked. Once to watch a gal pay for it. Even the off-water places – No Vacancy. I gave in to accept a basement room that felt bad, smelled musty. But Jackie at the counter said, ‘You shouldn’t be on the ground floor.’ And she moved things around. ‘These people won’t mind, they’re late arrivals, with friends.’ + I made her day because I was so nice, she said. Angel #1.

Tuesday, PEI was 6+ hours away, not 5, as expected. I arrived on island 15 minutes before the Information Center closed. First time ever I used such a place. 3 rooms available on the east side under $150/nt. 1-1/2 hrs. later I arrived to my bed. The next morning I sat with an author at breakfast. Go figure the luck to talk writing, right? He wants to quit his day job. I shared guidance for marketing & finding an agent. Was surprised again at how little authors know about the biz of being an author. Was reminded the hours of search and study it takes. Reaffirmed once more the value I can offer. + I learned the inn had a cancellation, so I booked a second night. Angel #2

I rested all day Wednesday, relieved I wouldn’t be moving on. Walked 4-1/2 miles thru a park, crossed a floating boardwalk on a gorgeous marshy pond to stand at the top of tall dunes at a red sand beach. And hunted for a bed Thursday night. I couldn’t book the one I wanted online. That’s because we’re full, the gal on the phone said. Then. . .oh, wait, we have one more room. Angel #3.

Thursday morning, realizing my old bones needed more rest than I thought, I wanted to make it 2 nights in my new location. Nope, full. Then. . .oh, wait, one more room. It’s more expensive, you have to change rooms. Angel #4. As a bonus, my new room vacated early morning Friday. No packing the bag tightly to wait in the office. By 9am I was in my new room overlooking the river. Angel #5.

Angel #6 delivered me to a big room in a haunted inn in St. Martin’s on the Bay of Fundy Saturday night. I’d searched 10 places, was at the door with my packed suitcase when the little voice said, ‘go back, look one more time.’ The inn popped up first. One I hadn’t seen before. I arrived before dark. In the large hallway at the top of the stairs, I felt chills. An unmistakable tingling of energy that wasn’t God Bumps. What is that, I asked. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said. But she wouldn’t talk about it, except to say she’s seen a man in a top hat sitting in the chair in the large alcove at the end of the hallway. Under the wedding arch, looking out to sea thru the tall arched windows. And I wasn’t afraid, because the energy felt loving. And she’d said on the phone when I booked I’d feel that way.

Every day it was full-at-the-inn, and a room appeared. One that delivered what I wanted. And I was fed, soul & body. Which to me is a sign to carry. Let go of my fret about my bigger search for Home. Can I do it? I don’t know. But I got my wishing rock in case I slip.

BayFundyBeach Low tide on the rock beach in Saint Andrews. Bay of Fundy.
Where I found my wishing rock the last day of my trip.

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

I’m writing a book, The Writer’s Block Myth.
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
*
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.

The Big Blue

Posted on June 7, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“That day I saw beneath dark clouds,
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before,
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.”
~ David Whyte (from The Opening of Eyes)

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deep_sea *

I have this strange relationship to water. Water over my head, even 2”. Water I can’t see beneath the surface. Water rising in nature. A weird internal alarm triggers that neither fire nor big winds engender. True, I’ve not experienced the threat of wild fires, but I saw my own home on fire once, felt the wash of helplessness. Stood in a yard with family as their home burned. And rational or not, I felt I could come out with feet on solid ground. But not with rising water. Even thoughts of the aftermath overwhelm. And when big storms blow in, I check radar, often. Today I’m watching the strip pond 20 ft. from our door. Calculating if I’ll roll up the oriental rugs. Water tables are shallow, streets don’t drain. It’s already over the bank. I’m calm, but I have memories.

We lived in the mountains when Frances battered the NC coast, stalled, in 2004. Heavy rain fell for days. The French Broad and Swannanoa Rivers breached. Sweeten Creek, too. Our brewery in Biltmore Village between them. Flood waters rose to car windows, swept thru merchants’ doors. We watched the drain the length of the brewery floor. The flood outside creeping toward us. Knowing no way to save tanks of beer worth thousands no insurance covers. We could be lost. But we were lucky. Saved by mere inches. And I remember two years in Jacksonville living on the St. John’s River. The impassable streets. How three cars floated to the ceiling of the flooded garage, bumped in a dance in the middle. And 2012 when Issac threatened. Me on a writing retreat in Naples, alone. I’ve done my share of storm watch.

My fear of water over my head is a mystery, tho. I was in 5th grade before I learned to swim, despite many attempts. Passed the 5 min. tread test in college simply out of a greater fear – a required semester swimming in the deep end if I didn’t. But here’s the thing. I love boats. Am courageous. I’ve walked a ropes course 30 ft. up despite crumbling with sobs in fear. Took my young son, left an abusive husband with no help despite fear that stole my breath each night. And two years ago, I swam with wild dolphins in Hawaii for four days, despite my body’s violent resistance, cramped legs that refused release, even with massage. The kicker. I experienced my most profound peace ever in the Big Blue, water 5,000 ft. deep. So crystal clear we looked as if we swam in an aquarium. All around, so blue. With lines of light going down forever, no end.

In my mind I can still see very detail of a painting of a drowning woman in the middle of the ocean. Her wide, panicked eyes above water, her gapping mouth. Debris all around. Sinking ship in the background. Same with scenes from two movies. In White Squall, the brigantine sinking. The savvy sea-faring woman calmly sitting on the floor, trapped in a cabin, rescue impossible. Her face as she looks up, knowing she’s going to the bottom of the ocean. The other from The Piano. Ada, her leg wrapped in a rope, drifting down, down. But I also remember a dream I had. Threatened by an unknown someone, I jump from a partially submerged cage of a platform into a stormy sea. And four whales rise up, say they’ll save me. I also remember the peace in The Big Blue.

The other day I met Fred, an older man, as I took a picture of large, silky blooms on a cactus. 32 yrs. in the neighborhood, he’s had trouble with strangers, recently a foreigner, he said. I smiled, leaned in, said as if it a secret, my grandmother was a foreigner. He softened. Showed me a cactus in his yard, pointed to his upstairs. They died, used to live in my apartment there, this is theirs, he said. He showed me his whimsical yard art that tells stories – cat stalking a bird on a nest, the bird’s egg a seashell. And a plastic chair dark green like the bushes and overgrown tropical plants it’s tucked amongst. I sit, watch the world go, he said.

Days before, at a show in a tiny planetarium geared for kids, I fell asleep, woke jolted to bright lights, people stepping past. Feeling my real prize Deric, a chatty 11-yr. old passionate about space who started a conversation with ‘How was your day?’ So proud of his knowledge, he repeatedly prompted ‘ask me a question.’ Who told me I looked beautiful. His expressed self-consciousness about how much he talks touched me. I share that with him. We also share a longing to go into space. Afterwards, looking thru telescopes on the roof, I saw Jupiter’s stripes and moons. How red Mars really looks. Was filled with wonder.

I believe we all have a purpose. Some watch the world go by from their chairs, hold a certain peaceable kingdom. Some step out, even when scared. Go into space. I will summon whatever courage I need to look into a whale’s eye, and to meet my purpose. Because I don’t think it’s too late, and I must.

Tell me, what are your fears? What must you do despite them?

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

A secret: Birds and creatures talk to me.
A favorite: A friend who bought the professional video of our dolphin swims says it seems I’m in every other frame.

Special Thanks to Fred and Deric, my young companion who was also proud his name’s a combo of his father’s (Eric) and his mother’s (Deanna).

Angels on the Highway

Posted on October 6, 2015 by Heloise Jones

When you’re on the highway of intuition,
you’re going to be picking up angels who are hitch-hiking there.
~ Matthew Fox

SF cloud w:eye First dawn here. Sun at my back. Moon in a crystal blue sky.
Eye in the cloud.
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When I was a tiny girl we lived in a 100-yr. old house in northern New Jersey. A tall two- story four square covered in blond, most likely asbestos shingles. It had a giant living room the full depth of the house. An open hall without railings on the second floor encircling a wide stairwell. I remember hearing how broken down the house was when my parents bought it. The warnings it could never be leveled on the side with the collapsed foundation. How my father used levers, jacked the house a little at a time, let the old boards settle. Find their true before he wracked them again. My mother often said you’d never guess how fine it was on the inside by the looks of the outside. I remember listening to songs on a record player at the back of the living room, loving my first Alice in Wonderland, the Disney version. Peeking over the sofa at kids in the street on the first ever trick-or-treat. And snakes – on the front path, traveling from the woods to under the side deck, once under the dining room table.

My intuition showed up there first, too. I walked the house at night, never fell off the edge into the stairwell despite no lights from outside or inside. They called me ‘cat eyes’ for seeing in the dark. My father said he’d look up, see me in the window watching him leave for work at dawn. Never a peep before that moment, as if I felt him, he said.

We moved when I was five. Intuition showed up as I got older, too. But I felt no more than a brief notice or unusual recognition of something-someone-someplace. Until recently, when I claimed it.

This is my twentieth trip back to Santa Fe since moving away. The only year I didn’t return I grabbed it as a tonic for my depression, made reservations for January. A time usually brutally frigid in the high desert. But that January the weather softened, warmed as if it was fall, after all. Only once has Santa Fe pushed me away. When I schemed to return for more than an extended visit. And I got the message. This is my place to remember who I am when life scrambles me up. A place where I open, feel expansive, leave different than when I arrived. Like the cave to the monk.

A few years ago I noticed themes in my sojourn, each determined by where I was in my life. A full social calendar the year I craved friendships after a difficult move and a new lifestyle. Nurturing and healthcare the year my heart and mind needed clearing. This year it’s about the work I’m creating. And I’m definitely on the intuition highway. Angels at my elbows.

I could tell a half dozen stories of seemingly magical ways people and things manifest from the moment I step out and about here. I think the best, tho, is one day when I walked with purpose toward a destination and glanced across the street, noticed a store. I stopped to look, not knowing why. Scrunched my eyes to see the clothes in the windows. If that was it. Twice I continued forward, and stopped. Turned and stared at the store. Before I crossed over. I don’t know how the gal who worked there and I dove so quickly into personal conversation. Why our connection was so perfect I felt sparkly. All before I learned she lived in San Miguel de Allende, a city I considered moving to. Had created a writers conference there, led it for years. That she had a similar vision for Santa Fe, was building a business of online courses, ones I could teach. We talked for twenty minutes, not another customer in the store. After we exchanged cards, they poured in.

I think synchronicity and coincidence are simply the Universe showing up to meet us. Always with something wanted or needed, often with answers to questions. And tho I stumble, I finally know not to dismiss random thoughts that make no sense. Because the fruit of the follow-thru usually does. I call it Presence. And it’s fun. Like magic.

Tell me. . .what synchronicities and random coincidence have you had?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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A favorite: Yellow-gold cottonwoods against that special saturated blue of a Northern New Mexico sky.
A secret: I think it’s time I move back. No scheming. It’s just time for a magical, expansive life.

Longing to Jump Tracks

Posted on July 21, 2015 by Heloise Jones

“. . .toward what are we drawing our line?. . .The weight of our bones
in every twinkling star. Brief but wondrous lives.”
~ Amy Tingle
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A Most Perfect Day – 澎湖, Pénghú Archipelago, Taiwan
*

We’d just finished breakfast. I heard him say change of scenery, and the longing that stalks me daily rose. I’m home this year. Prudent because our income’s cut in half and there’s little left to trade. Prudent with continuity as I create a new business, knowing interruptions bring me back to my work with different interests, different relationships to it. And I’m confused, unsure what’s best for my intentions. Perspectives new scenery provide, or continuity without interruption. Unsure if this longing is a desire to run away, or that familiar nudge saying space for answers to questions lies elsewhere.

It’s been intense. Revisiting past travels in a hundred exclamations of discovery and joy in friends’ pics of Italy on facebook. Landscapes in the U.S. with another. Elizabeth Gilbert pricked me with “WHY DO WE TRAVEL?” Sparked a smile with “Traveling is expensive, inconvenient, tiring, time-consuming and sometimes — like all interesting things (sex and creativity, for instance) — it’s even boring. You don’t speak the language, don’t recognize the food, the toilets are confusing, the crowds at the museum are ridiculous, and sometimes. . .situations can get uncertain and scary. Airports can be a nightmare, taxi rides can be life-threatening. You come home jetlagged. . .to 900 unanswered emails, to piles of laundry, to stacks of unpaid bills. . .behind on every single obligation. Why bother?” And I think, I know why. Because despite those reasons, I shouted YES! when she said we break the chain of interchangeable days, ignite, jump the tracks of daily life. We’re compelled to taste the new. sigh Oh, longing.

I had one goal until my mid-30s: Experience (capital E). I pushed past comfort, stepped out with courage for it. I said Yes to things that seemed impossible in my circumstances, like traveling to New York by train for a major Picasso retrospective. When I heard something that intrigued me, I didn’t think why I didn’t want to do it, or why I couldn’t. I leaned in, let it roll around inside, felt how it tickled and settled. Then, well, I got married, rolled into the adjustments of honoring a relationship, into justifications. Lots of stuff happened – explorations in work and learning, moving across country (twice), creating-maintaining-remodeling homes, returning to college, activism, attention to budgets, jobs, caring for others, fulfilling shoulds and oughtas, addressing the oh-so-unexpected, like a house on fire and my husband run down by a car.

This last thing, 6 yrs. ago, was the blessing in horror you read about. I couldn’t think about life the same, anymore. I saw one desire remained on My List my entire life – travel. And the files of articles, stacks of travel mags, travel shows and conversations with friends I devoured seemed pitiful. I made a declaration and reservations. Taiwan to see my son and grandbaby, two weeks in Hawaii on the way back. Gone for a month like I always wanted to do.

I’ve learned that the adage we get stuck in our ways can be uncomfortably accurate at times. That I want more comforts these days, and things seem slightly harder than they used to. That my mistakes sting more, and after 5 weeks, I wanna be home. But immersion in other cultures, connection with different peoples, freedom and discovery journeying through landscapes all run deep in me. I will never catch up. But I can return to places that touched me, do things differently. Be braver. Order food in Taiwan, not knowing what I’ll get. Stay longer. Walk streets in Italy until dark. Roam across Crete. Things time taught me to appreciate.

Two hours after I wrote this, Hilton Resorts called. $167 and a 2 hr. timeshare pitch for 3 nights/4 days in Orlando. Not exactly what I had in mind, but we’re veterans to the pitch, and it’s definitely a change of scenery. And until I sojourn to Santa Fe in October, my essential like the cave to the monk, it’ll do. I know, because I feel lighter, calmer. Just what a gift wrapped as coincidence should make me feel.

Tell me. . .do you ever long to jump tracks, travel the unknown?

Italy 2570

Portofino (Italy) out the window.

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

A secret: I enjoy traveling solo. Next best is with my son.
A favorite: Wandering streets in new places.