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Do the Good Work

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As I slowed down things became brilliant. Grass growing through a cement crack, a stop sign
…suddenly mattered, because I saw them.
~ Natalie Goldberg  (from Living Color – A Writer Paints Her World)

On the way to the hair salon, I pass the gourmet creamery that makes small batches of yummy ice cream. It’s impossible not to peek, see what’s on the board. The elevated sidewalk in front of the short row of small businesses is narrow.

This is herb season, so the day’s special flavors are tumeric, black cardamon, and ginger. I chose ginger, surprised cardamon didn’t woo me. I also got a taste of what’s next, but not ready to serve: rose-green tea, and thyme-lemongrass. We can tell a lot about a person by the flavors he creates, I thought.

As I sat eating what seemed too small a taste of sweetness for this heavy heart, I looked at the pristine sky. Listened to the sound of leaves in the trees fluttered and rifled by the wind. I thought about a line I just read in a new book by Sheila Blanchette. How her character described the sound of oak leaves in the wind as like silk rustling. I thought of the morning I believed I heard water running, and looked for the source. Only learned on my way back it was two tall trees shimmering in the breeze. I couldn’t think what the sound resembled that particular day I ate ice cream. Only that it was all around me, that I was surrounded by trees. And how we can go in our minds to where we’re nourished if we let ourselves.

I’ve been very quiet inside for days. Some of the time feeling I’m in a semi-fog. I thought eclipse energy, or the fullness of my new Monday night writer’s group where they show up open, sharing, and bringing their best, even on their bad days. Perhaps it’s me simply needing space inside so I can write stories and poems, I thought. What worked before – writing with others to prompts – hasn’t worked. I was stepping back to a quieter space and it felt like goofing off. My thinking mind wondered what might be falling thru the cracks. And strangely, something else inside me said this pause was completely necessary.

Then Charlottesville. The sounds of division and hate. In counter, the intellectual conversations, points of helpless and hopeless. None of it OK.

I am not neutral on this.

 

What is the whole of our existence but the sound of an appalling love!
~ Louise Erdrich (from The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse)

I’ve been here before, sorta. It rolls in like big ocean waves. I talked here about the hard truths of differences. How I’m the liberal my sister despises and my efforts to understand the thinking. I’ve shared here my stance on immigration, refugees, and value of difference. I’ve shared here what I care about as a heart-filled person. And here what I call my shame points that some call badges of honor. I talked about how loving oneself can feel so hard. And my hopes we turn to the better angels of our natures. My belief we all cast ripples, that it’s our choice what ripples we cast. Neale Donald Walsh puts it this way in ‘Conversations with God:’

“Your life is about everyone whose life you touch.

‘It is about how you touch them,’ God told me. ‘How you touch them determines how you experience your Self–and how you experience your Self determines how happy you are.’

In this sense, my life was about me…but in a *reverse English* kind of way.

I was to pay attention to myself by paying attention to others.
I was to help myself evolve by helping others evolve.
The fastest way for me to be happy was for me to make other people happy.”

The first day of my Monday night group was August 7. We introduced ourselves. I told them they could read my website for the regular stuff. I wanted to share what matters to me in the work I do.

My goal, I told them, is to contribute in creating great reading and writing so people are exposed to something beyond themselves, or their experience, or what they think they know. So they can find, see, and hear fresh perspectives. Can experience the both/and of Life. Meaning the good/bad, and the shades of gray of differences that live side by side. For me, this means using my genius to free writers’ Voices, so they can release their stories. Because the power of connection for us humans is in stories.

Sharing those words, I realized this work I do empowering artists’ and writers’ Voices is my Resistance to division and hate in the world. To the two H’s, hopeless and helpless, too. It’s my contribution that stretches beyond my dot on the planet. Because writers and artists can be powerful. Their influence so strong they’re executed in some countries.

Author Barbara Kingslover says it this way:

“A newspaper could tell you that one hundred people, say in an airplane, or in Israel, or Iraq, have died today. And you would think to yourself, “How very sad,” then turn the page and see how the Wildcats fared. But a novel could take just one of those hundred lives and show you exactly how it felt to be that person rising from bed in the morning, watching the desert light on the tile of her doorway and on the curve of her daughter’s cheek. You could taste that person’s breakfast, and love her family, and sort through her worries as your own, and know that a death in that household will be the end of the only life that someone will ever have. As important as yours. As important as mine.”

And then Charlottesville.

I am not neutral on this.

 

Over the past month I created collaborative relationships with two artists in Santa Fe with the intention to co-host workshop & retreat immersions that combine writing and art. One on Sept. 22, a nature immersion. The other March 1-4, 2018 called ‘Madonna: Contemporary Ally,’ an immersion into all aspects of this powerful icon for today’s time. Once solidified, I wondered how the heck this fit my goals. I considered my inexplicable love of nature. The need for something grounded beyond Wonder Woman. And it came to me. . .this is how we go home to Life that sustains our humanity. This is my activism in counter to hate and division in a way that uses my genius. Nature (think, forest bathing in Japan), and the strength of a steadfast teacher centered in principles of nurturing life.

There’s a weekly column called Free Will Astrology. Friday it said I have a cosmic pass to ‘loiter and goof off…to put off making hard decisions.’ That I’m in a time one might call the equivalent of pushing the reset button, re-establishing default settings. Yes, I am.

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“Alone, we are defenseless. Collected, we are sacred.

We will march by the millions. . .
We will be courageous with our love. . .”
~ Sherman Alexie (from his poem Hymn)

Many of us won’t march or join rallies, petition representatives, canvas door to door, wait for an audience outside a closed congressional door, lick envelopes, or stand in freezing weather to protect our beautiful planet & its creatures. Many of us can, do, and will use our genius in ways to do the good work beyond loving those who look like us, think like us. Beyond supporting our own comforts or profit. Beyond railing against others with the same hate we don’t want. We do the good work to sustain the expansion of life, not the contraction. The hard conversations, the listening, the advocacy, the feet on the ground. I know. I’ve done it before. And I know we can.

Look to the better angels.

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”In my dream, the angel shrugged & said, if we fail this time, it will be a failure of imagination & then she placed the world gently in the palm of my hand.”

~ Brian Andreas

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

Photo by Marc-Antoine Dépelteau

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Editing, Life or a Book

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The other morning I thought I’m editing my life. And immediately thought, exactly like editing a book. I’m taking out what doesn’t work or serve, keeping what supports the structure of my life.

I’d just cleared small piles of papers I let accumulate around the house in everyday living. Cleaned screens and windows I intended to clean when I moved into my sweet home months ago. It led me to straighten the storage area in the garage and start to sort through boxes I brought across country, consider what stays and what goes. I know stuff will go. It’s here simply because I had no brain cells or energy left for decisions by the time those boxes got packed. All decisions reduced down to expediency.

I wiped the dust from the lids of the plastic bins I bought, will make those decisions as I transfer things for safe keeping from mice and whatever. As I consider how I’m constructing my life, aka story.

This whittling down to what truly adds value for me comes after four major downsizes in five years. Final edits before I fill in what I’m building now.

I do have a short inventory of what will flesh out my home. A small bookcase, narrow bench for the portal, mulch and large pots for flowers to make my moonscape yard inviting. The additions in the yard not simply for beauty, which is important to me, but a landscape I’m building. Important details.

I know feng shui, and I’m creating flow. I know interiors and design, have been a visual artist, and I’m choosing the elements for the whole.

Our life in the real world is our creative life. We edit it as we edit any work we write. We use the same rules. Editing is a creative process as much as anything we build or generate.

It was uncanny how my activities this week were such a blatant reflection of that editing process. Right after I announced to the world how much I love editing written works.

  • Notice the story a closet or the landscape around you tells.
  • What important details do you pay attention to when editing, either in life or your writing?

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Writing is Connection

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I had the experience the other night of reading a poem I’ve written to a new friend. I haven’t read the poem in a very long time. While reading I got lost in the memories that inspired the verses. Halfway thru, I left the reading, took off on a tangent of the story triggered by an image. Sharing with full enthusiasm.

He might as well have screamed when he said, “Whaaaat? I can’t believe you stopped reading. I was there. Right in it. And you stopped reading.”

I’d forgoten an important tenet of writing, and in turn, reading aloud. Writing is connection. C.o.n.n.e.c.t.i.o.n. And connection happens in the spaces.

In the space between the written word and the reader. The space where you craft words (or read) to engage. And for connection with ourselves, the space between process & thought and words on the page.

I was so immersed in that space connecting with myself, I forgot the listener!

I immediately began reading, again. This time completely present and cognizant. Feeling the words and the dream they spun. And at the end, I felt the magic woven in the poem in a new way.

What happened that night reminds me why we all need to read our work aloud to others, whether it’s raw or polished. Even when we think what we wrote stinks, or not what we intended, or it feels hard to share. Even when we know it’s not finished, the names are not right, or someone may not like it. Even when it’s the best thing we’ve ever done. It’s not only an act of bravery, but it’s a necessary part of being a writer.

Because it takes the words out of our own heads, and often beyond our own judgement. Hearing our work spoken can diffuse the stories we tell ourselves about what we create, and who we are as writers & creatives.

Because reading aloud allows the full expression of connection – to reader & listener, and with ourselves.

  • Take a moment, think of writing as connection. How does it feel to think of writing this way.
  • Find someone you trust to read your work to. Don’t ask if they like it or not. Simply have the experience of hearing your words out loud, and having another experience them. Invariably, something will be shared. Remember, this is not a critique. Take what works, let the rest go, and see if you feel the work differently.
  • When you write in a circle, and you’re not required to read, read every time. Refrain from prefacing your reading with statements such as ‘this is awful, but. . .’ Remember, it’s all raw work. We all have good days and not so good days.
  • Read your journal entries and other work you wrote for yourself aloud. Notice if you feel any differently hearing them. Make notes.

Every time you read aloud, whether to others or for yourself, you expand the work.
Enjoy the process. Think, Discovery!

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Finding Home

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“But the moment I saw the brilliant proud morning shine
up over the deserts of Santa Fe, something stood still in my soul. . .
a new part of the soul woke up suddenly,
and the old world gave way to the new.”
~ DH Lawrence

I’m finally getting more than 3 hrs. sleep at a time. I’ve hit 4 in a row five times already! I still wake tired, but for now, I’ve let go thinking 5:30, gotta get up. And I love drifting back to sleep.

Restoration & Recovery, what it’s all about. Too many successive months of brutal push writing & launching a book, beginning a new journey to a creative life by my definition. Six weeks assaulted by allergies that not only robbed sleep, but my full breath, life rhythms, & clarity. I’m recovering my Happy. Cheer the triumphs, what I say.

Today I’m in a groove moving forward. Ticking things off a list. Not just things, really. But markers toward goals I made by my definition of success for myself. I still fret. Still wonder if it’s enough or I’m too late. But this motion is on the outside. A shift from the motion on my insides so intense I could call this blog Part 3, coming into daylight.

I’ve declared Thursdays for writing, a path back to fiction and poetry, deep loves of mine. 9am memoir class offering great prompts no matter what you write. Afternoons, a prompted writing group a block from home making it easy to go. Workshops when one speaks to me. The first workshop at a place with a cool name – Academy of the Love of Learning.

I’m not sure how to explain the magical cohesion of that writing day. How everything pointed to Home. How the morning was about place, specifically Santa Fe. Write what it means to you, the teacher said. My short answer – Home. Home’s been up for years. I’ve written about it here, and here, and here. Four moves in five years + divesting 80% of one’s belongings can sure bring it up, too.

That afternoon I wrote “How strong is the heart. How much battering can it take from the blood pumping with strong emotion. How long ‘til it wants to surrender. The huff & puff of overworking this central barometer of my Being that needs care & maintenance.”

That night the workshop was a process of spoken word, writing, and painting. The prompt a poem “where i’m from” by George Ella Lyon. My spoken words landed at age 8-9. When I lost family & home for the first time with awareness. Everything else blank, as if those two years were all I was from.

I took a journey in the writing segment. Starting at a slant from the corner of a 12×18″ thick sheet of paper, I wrote intuitively. Changed direction 7 times. I started, “Iam from red oriental rugs and books, stacks of stories.”

I traveled across the page. “Home a four letter word lodged in my chest like a chicken bone – ’til the day I said I am happy. I am from Alone & Angels & Wonder & Curiosity & Willingness & fear & sadness & creatingcreatingcreating. I am from dry winds.”

I wrote on down to  “I am from heart and mind, and space, and the swirl of stars. Deep beyond bone deep longing. Deep where the beat I hear is not my own heart. . .to the light I am from.”

And then we painted on the paper. Without thinking or looking at words, I painted blocks and swirls and lines of richness and wash – COLOR. The facilitator put on Vivaldi’s ‘4 Seasons.’ I don’t remember which one of the four, but my whole body moved with the music. Only after we stopped did I look how the color washed the words. How the blank space on the page held shades of reddish-pink. I remembered thinking it like blood in water, then thinking a flower. My beginnings are covered in green. The deep yellow circle I needed saturated. It was a sun cradled in turquoise & green, washed over the word God and “I am from the Universe, star of stardust. Dust. I am from some days I wish I could remember how to fly and how to walk thru walls. I am from dreams. . .”

I decided not to think myself thru this exercise. The next day the answer to the memory I asked my sister about, the one that’s haunted me for decades, emerged.

With so much interconnectedness, I thought this inner work on Home complete. But two days later, thrilled the restrung & cleaned blinds were going up, I moved the sofa to help. Which toppled the lamp that knocked over a vase with lilacs in water that soaked the edges of fav periodicals I valued enough to bring cross country. Before it crashed and broke the large textured & painted ceramic bowl made by a Santa Fe artist that can’t be replaced. The one I babied thru 6 moves in 22 years. And to top it, the wrong blinds were delivered, so no comfort there.

I watched a BBC documentary about Neil Young after that. Kept glancing at that broken bowl, the large black plastic bags still taped to the window, thinking Home.

But something miraculous happened the next morning. Rain came. Tamped down the pollen that aggravated my allergies. The plants & trees got watered effortlessly. When I opened my computer, an email announced I won a small painting by Lori Walters in a random drawing. I love Lori’s colorful, heart-filled images. They reflect something inside me that makes everything feel OK. You know I don’t believe in coincidence, so for me it was all about Love.

That same day, I stopped at a place 1/2 block from my home to inquire about a permanent venue for my “Writer’s Block Myth” mini-workshops, got a provisional Yes. A day later, when the guy at a restaurant delivered my salad, my notebook open on the table to the page I just wrote across, me playing with the phone to get a picture of my cool view in the place, I got surprised. So, sorry, I’m trying to be creative here, I told him. ‘I’m always trying to be creative. I’m a writer!” he said. His face bright. But I off-handedly said ‘I’m a writer, too. Creative what I do.’

As I ate, I thought how I might’ve engaged him, been more open. I sent him my card. “Wishing you the Best with your writing” written on the back. And during the conversation with the gal sitting next to me (the tables are really close), she says her husband writes, goes to conferences and bookfairs, and asks for a card. A bit later, the waitress comes over, asks if I have another card. Heloise World officially shifted.

Sometimes finding Home is not what we expect. Sometimes Home is a new story of coming back to something inside us. Those five years in Florida as me coming back to my intuition and connection with the Universe. Here, to being fully Me fully supported. Something I knew could be true.

I don’t have to do this alone. None of us do.

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

Tell me. . .what are you from?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .that quote above by DH. Happened just like that for me, too, in 1993. The quote was shared at the end of the workshop.

St. Benedict quote painted by Lori Walters.

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The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

How to Observe with Awareness

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There’s an elementary school crossing guard here in Santa Fe who always waves as you pass. He’s tall, thin, with dark hair and a mustache, and always seems to have a big smile on his face. In my mind, his name is Jack.

The drive past the school can be frustrating. The street’s narrow. Vehicles in wait for youngsters choke the passage. But as I slow down, right after I think darn, should’ve gone the other way, I look ahead for Jack. And this is the magical part. Each and every time I wait for his wave and smile. And feel happy when I wave back as I creep by. Even knowing by now he will wave whether it’s after his stop sign drops or if the crosswalk is clear. As if he knows how important he truly is. As if that wave with a smile is part of the job. Part of making the world a safer, calmer, friendlier place. Like the young daughter of a Facebook friend observed, “That guy holds the whole school together.” Her reasoning – if he doesn’t help people cross, no one gets to school. If he doesn’t stop cars, it’d be backed up with cars everywhere. Makes sense to me.

What this has to do with writing is in those moments I traverse that block, I’m completely present, observing with awareness. Not just the road or how close I am to the vehicles I pass, but the cues ahead, the man, what’s happening inside me. He makes me smile when he waves. I always feel better when I wave back, and carry my smile another mile.

A friend shared a goat ate her To-Do list. She was walking on a residential street a block or two off one of the main thoroughfares in Santa Fe. Her mind full of everything that needed doing. When she paused, a goat stuck its nose thru a fence, pulled the paper right from her fingers. Completely surprised her. With total calm, the goat watched her as it chewed her list. That got me thinking to let go of that list and get writing, she said. Her awareness went beyond the goat. It went to observing her bigger picture, and her intentions for writing.

Observing with awareness is one of the key things writers do besides pen to paper & fingers to keyboard. It informs what we know. Our knowledge of people, environments, and the world expands. What we observe informs our work. The details we choose from what we observe affect how we engage readers.

There’s a quote by author Nancy Peacock in The Writer’s Block Myth that perfectly illustrates this. She’s at the beach. With a few details, we know the unfriendly weather and landscape. But it doesn’t matter she’s sequestered indoors, she says. She’s wondering what it would be like for her character to see the ocean for the first time.

Another example in the book is by poet Rachel Ballentine. She describes what could be an ordinary morning walk, but the details she chooses give the reader anything but an ordinary experience. Such as a dead tiny yellow bird, and metal lanyards against flagpoles sounding like windchimes. And with four words of observation, she let’s us know the time of morning and that she’s alone, “. . .everyone was still asleep.”

Observe with awareness.

  • Sit outdoors and choose one aspect of what’s around you – buildings, people, trees, sidewalk, cars. Collect all the details of what you observe in that one aspect. Do the same indoors.
  • Look at the sky. Observe how you feel when you see it, and what it reminds you of. What words would you choose to describe it visually so someone can see and feel it, too. I once saw a sheet of dark clouds move over the ceiling of the sky that reminded me of a moonroof on a car closing. Another time, observing hundreds of shore birds of all kinds at dawn, ‘I stand at the altar of birds’ came to me. It was the catalyst for my Pushcart Prize nominated poem.
  • Look for the ordinary, consider how it’s not ordinary. Perhaps it’s the juxtaposition of details about the thing, such as the beauty of a tiny yellow bird + it being dead. Perhaps it’s something that can feel like a deprivation, but can also hold wonder, such as someone seeing a roiling sea for the first time.
  • Fiction writers often eavesdrop. Listen. What do you hear? Write it all down. Even snippets and sentences.
  • Look at details in images, such as the one above. What do you notice about the rosaries? Or about the tree and surroundings? What can you deduce from each detail you notice.

If you’ve started your Evidence Journal, your tangible notes of when you write and do what writers do, record this time when you’re observing in it.  The details are what life and stories are made of. Any one can be a prompt.

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