Finish This Sentence

Posted on September 17, 2019 by Heloise Jones

The car is where I listen to the radio. Going here to there, catching segments of shows. The best is when I catch one that makes the world more interesting & expand for me (read, not a news broadcast or update on latest crisis).

That’s a rarity where I live & travel in New Mexico, tho. The good ones broadcast during nighttime hours & weekends. Science Friday the exception. But when I catch one, it makes the day better.

My most recent gem was interviews with Native American writers on To The Best of Our Knowledge.

I love diving into the subtleties & layers of culture and sociology, understanding better who people are, what makes us tick. What matters to folks.

I write about finding what matters to you, and teach how to get there. I say how we’re always in the stories we write, and illustrate the ways it shows up. This broadcast with Native writers was about it all. And at the end…different voices answered the question why they write.

In June I was asked that very question in a workshop. I couldn’t answer in one sentence. How does one choose?! When I got home this week, after listening to those voices, I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote, the groceries still in the bag on the counter.

I write to feed my curiosity & wonder, and to hold it.
I write to set my creative soul free.
I write to discover parts of myself,
and stretch.

To reach that place inside that answers Yes to the question ‘Am I OK.’

I write to touch beauty.
I write to touch you,
to have a relationship with you.

I write to fight narrative scarcity,
to show what needs to be seen.

I write to touch the heart,
so you’re never afraid of your own Voice.

I write to tell stories you wouldn’t hear if spoken aloud,
to make a difference.

I write because it tells me who I am,
and tells me who we are. . .in adversity, in good and hard times.
I write to see the both/and, good/bad, black/white of life on earth

I write because it shows me my heart when I’m seeing only holes in myself.

What I know for sure. . .We are made to create, to experience and know life with our whole being – mind, heart, body, spirit. We are made for connection. Writing is connection, with ourselves and each other. As is art, and every other single thing we do.

So, now it’s your turn. Finish this sentence:

I write (or make art, or ) because…..

Share in the comments below. (doesn’t it feel good?)

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Photo: Chihuly Ceiling © Heloise Jones

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)
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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’)
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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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Thanks Giving

Posted on November 24, 2017 by Heloise Jones

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.
~ John O’Donohue (from ‘Beannacht’)

Today is Thanksgiving. I had a blog written, was posting it yesterday. And last night I watched a Frontline show on PBS about children and hunger in the US. I decided I’d post this morning. Instead, I lingered on Facebook for more than a dash, a rarity these days, and looked at my fellow beings across the globe. And was brought back to the moments of my life. Not the big moments or questions, the little ones that are part of the web that makes a life. And I decided I can only share stories. That the words of two poets and people of great spirit say what’s in my heart better than I can today.

“GRATITUDE is not a passive response to something we have been given, gratitude arises from paying attention, from being awake in the presence of everything that lives within and without us. Gratitude is not necessarily something that is shown after the event, it is the deep, a-priori state of attention that shows we understand and are equal to the gifted nature of life. . . Thankfulness finds its full measure in generosity of presence, both through participation and witness. ~ David Whyte (from “Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.”

“When we experience the Beautiful, there is a sense of homecoming. Some of our most wonderful memories are of beautiful places where we felt immediately at home. We feel most alive in the presence of the Beautiful for it meets the needs of our soul.” ~ John O’Donohue (from ‘Beauty)

Little things and stories in which I’ve been both participant & witness:

Each morning I walk I’m pinned to this scene as I come down a hill. The wires disappear. I only see the trees bordering the road, their many textures & colors. And the mountains that stretch across the horizon, the wondrous forever sky, that special blue & salmony pink only here in Santa Fe. Each morning, struck with awe.

Part of my walk is across a very green lawn with giant, old trees. At the end, a rose garden. I walk thru the roses when they bloom. In fall, I walk thru fallen leaves that lie like broad yellow skirts around the tree trunks. Even knowing they’re leaves, I think every time I walk on flower petals. I wish you could see how yellow and magical they are.

Throughout the day I stop & gaze out my kitchen window. My view’s to the west and two mountain ranges, the same ones I see coming down the hill. I watched this tree blaze miraculous gold all fall. It held on when others let go. No matter the time of day or light in the sky, it stood out. Was a gift. It’s gone now, but I have this picture that says it all.

Then there’s people .

Sparkly little boy of my heart in Taiwan. Oh, gosh am I thankful for every second I have with him. Even if it’s Skype. Sometimes not for weeks. Even if hugs in person are 2-3 yrs. apart. I’m just lucky. I get him, + pictures he paints and postcards. And I get to send him cards and tiny gifts he keeps in his ‘treasure box.’ He’ll like the lizard & big rhinestone on this one.

And people I touch, who then touch me. Like the woman beside me listening to the symphony, chorus, and soloists from New Voices of Santa Fe Opera perform the ‘Messiah.’ When my heart rose to the heavens with the Hallelujah Chorus, it was all I could do not to sing at the top of my lungs. I mouthed the words, swayed my body. She asked if I was a musician, I felt the music so. Said she was lucky to sit beside me, be part of that energy. Her words, my gift.

And this. . .

I expected a card or perhaps a small painting from Wendy Davis when she said she was sending me something (she’s a wonderful painter). But I pulled this from the box. With a handwritten note, “I saw this mug and thought of you instantly.” The story stretches back 6 years.

That photo’s from a retreat I co-hosted that Wendy attended. Transformative is the word everyone used at the end. I remember thinking what a fine writer & storyteller she is. Now she’s coming in March to the retreat I’m hosting with artist Kendall Sarah Scott. As she packed the box, her Daily Om email popped up. . . with *exactly* what this retreat is about! Angels at work, I say.

Indeed, I’ve learned to notice angels and say Thank You. As when on impulse I look up from writing an important insight. And there across the room is a ball of light in the hands of my statue. A ball of light like a diamond I’ve never seen before or since. That stayed as I retrieved my phone from another room and took pictures, before it stretched out to a line like every other morning.

So, on this Thanksgiving day, I notice the small moments of my days and the big hearts of people. . .the gifted nature of life.
A heart. A seed. A diamond light.
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Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life

Tell me, what small moments do you notice that you’re present to?

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The Color of Autumn

Posted on October 11, 2017 by Heloise Jones

Fall in my neck of northern New Mexico is about studio tours. Artists across valleys and in small communities display their creations & welcome visitors. It’s a decades-old tradition. Many of us regulars look forward to visiting our favs. Know there may be cookies, apples, or posole. One I’ve attended every year since 1994 is the Abiquiu tour in the Chama River Valley. These days as much for the place as the artists.

The Chama valley is where I take visitors. For me, it glows, and holds the magic of northern NM like no place else. Not even the dramatic stretches beyond that lead to Ghost Ranch. This valley speaks of land and people. Orchards, vineyards, lavender farms, the Rio Chama winding in big loops thru it.

Yellow is the color of autumn in New Mexico. We get a few russets, a bit of burnt orange, but it’s yellow that we see everywhere.

Sunshine groves of aspens that stretch swaths across the high mountains. Luminous golden yellow cottonwoods seemingly lit from inside that line waterways, sprout on mountain sides, cluster in valleys and on old homesteads. Fields & roadsides of sage green chamesa crowned with fuzzy looking yellow flowers. Mediums & neglected patches of ground covered with leggy yellow daisies.

The sky was clear the day we headed to the studio tour. Writing this, remembering how my friend and I felt lucky for such a day, I realize clear skies used to be expected. I couldn’t wait for it when I landed back here during those years I lived on the east coast. Then there was the year of wildfires. The smoke coming up from Arizona, and all directions around Santa Fe. But it cleared. Then (I can’t remember when), I noticed how many days the skies seemed bleached. A shroud of haze hanging on the horizon. It reminded me of my visit to the Grand Canyon five years ago. Me wondering if it would ever clear as the smoke from the electric power plant on Navajo lands continued.

This is smog from Albuquerque that blows up, my friend says. It’s smoke from the entire west up in flames, I think. We are all linked.

Our last stop on tour was the lavender farm. We sat at a table on the porch of the small wooden dwelling they call their teahouse. We sipped lavender tea, looked out on fields striped with rows of short domes of pruned lavender under a solid blue sky lifting to heaven. Light filtering thru the cottonwoods at the borders tinged the air golden.

A half dozen people sat or strolled about, quiet and mellow. So, when a woman came onto the porch and brightly proclaimed the sun strong for this time of year, she stood out. Not from here, my friend and I said. The sun’s always strong in the high desert, even in winter.

In 1993 I drove across country to live six weeks in the Berkeley Hills above San Francisco and get a hypnosis certification. I rented a small room in a house high above the bay, and 6 days a week drove over the mountain to the small town of Lafayette. It was a really small town then. Not having near the wealth that predominates the township now. I don’t remember much about the place, except the 2 pump gas station I filled up at. The first time I pulled in, I got out of the car. A guy who looked and spoke as if of middle eastern descent came over, chastised me, told me to get back in the car. It took me a moment to realize he was going to pump the gas. Full service stations had all but disappeared in North Carolina where I lived. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not from here.’ The next moment has never left me. His expression and demeanor immediately changed, softened. His voice turned quieter, kinder. I’m not from here. He’s not from here. We shared something, including understanding that feeling of ‘not from here.’

This wasn’t what I thought about when the gal walked by where we sat, tho. ‘You’re covered with flowers,’ I said. She looked down at her blouse and the large, vibrant, clearly defined flowers on a white background. I guess I am, she said. She was from Charleston, SC, a place I know. We chatted briefly.

Somehow it came up – yellow is the color of autumn in New Mexico. I told her how the trees seem to be lit with thousand watt lightbulbs at certain times a day. She quieted as she looked across the grounds and up the mountains in the near distance. Noted one tree tinged russet. Then said she thought she’d hang around, not return to Ghost Ranch right away, as planned.

17 yrs. later, while in Bluefield, WV doing research on the coal fields for my second novel, a friend offered to help me see what I was looking at, as she put it. She interpreted the landscape and culture, gave me perspectives. Like the sun is always strong in thin air. My experience of the place and understanding of where I was shifted in magical ways. I wasn’t thinking of this, either, when I greeted the woman from Charleston.

In fact, I’m not sure why I spoke to her. It might’ve been a way to mollify my initial dismissal for myself. And I think it’s because I felt something in her besides the space she took. She truly was earnest and engaged with being there. And completely unselfconscious about it! I simply wanted to share what I love, that I’m always in awe of, so she could love it, too.

In the end, I gave her a way to see what she was looking at, like my friend did for me in West Virginia. And a way for us to connect, like with the guy at the gas station in California.

The experience at the lavender farm has dogged me for days, and just now I understand why. I talk often about observing with awareness. Awareness the key word. That experience illuminated a whole new level of what awareness means. It’s more than presence and noticing. It includes the meaning we don’t know. It includes the Other – nature, human, place, culture. It’s allowing our understanding to expand.

It’s the heart of the work I do with writers. Allowing their relationships with themselves, their work, and their lives to deepen & shift toward what they desire. Because unless a hurricane drowns your world or a fire swallows your life whole, change happens in shifts. And presence to the creative process is about flow. Constantly changing in small shifts.

It’s the questions answered in the retreats and workshops I offer, such as the women’s retreat with amazing visionary artist Kendall Sarah Scott that’s happening on the full moon in March. Questions such as how do we go toward what we’re drawn to? How do we see all that we look at, and engage with awareness? How do we take what we see, and deepen our relationship to ourselves and this world that seems to burning, drowning, and crumbling in so many corners? How do we find our allies, the ones who support us feeling stronger, more alive, connected, and full of good stuff?

It’s a journey.

Tell me. . .What sparks you when you look around?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .The field of alfalfa really was this green, the sky really that high, and those trees really that luminous.

**Special Thanks to my angel messenger this week: The woman from Charleston, covered in flowers.

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