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A New Story, Part 2

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“Their language sounded like stars would sound, but also like
chunks of lard, and the wind in the trees, and arrows zinging through the air.
I could make no sense of it.”
~ Nancy Peacock (from “The Life & Times of Persimmon Wilson”)
*

I paused sending this to you twice, because there’s been something on the tip of my thoughts that hadn’t flown in, yet. Writing life in the flow, or not flow, can be that way.

The ‘not flow’ seems to be the story. One I’m changing this minute, because shifting my stories about myself, my relationships, and my life is what’s up. And I’m ready.

The ‘not flow’ is because I didn’t achieve what I wanted these last 10 days. I felt anxious. I was falling behind in important intentions! (sound familiar?) I clearly needed breath to see the truth –  big stuff happened amongst the mundane of taxes and whittling piles of admin to-dos. Gifts I did not expect (!) at all.

An author I’ve worked with before asked me to edit part of a manuscript after another professional editor’s been through it. Every editor has their lens, I told her. But she knows I read between the lines. That I intuitively feel & hear the work as well as think my way thru. She needed my kind of help. Nothing out of the ordinary except for one thing. I lost 5 hrs. of notes when I hit the wrong button to save, and I had to redo it.

In the midst of the reprise, I sunk into the presence immersion in process requires. Gave up the story of what that day would be. After I sent the files, I considered what happened, realized long written reports aren’t the way my best work gets done, no matter what others do. Reports leave too much out of what I offer. And drain me. I want to give my best. That slap on the side of an exhausted head gave me   confidence. Decidedly a step forward, and a new story. Mercury retrograde at it’s best.

The other biggie was my sister and 9-yr-old great-niece Finley visiting for a day. They were in Albuquerque for a regional gymnastics meet. Fin is a champion slated for the Olympics. My sister is a mother to her. This was no ordinary visit. I wrote (here) how my sister and I have history, distance, oodles of difference between us. And tho we talk on occasion, I’ve only briefly seen her once since 1993. I knew where I’d take them because my sister shared what Finley liked. And I was excited.

The morning they were due, I glanced at the rain stick in the corner of my office. Immediately I knew I’d give it to Finley. It was a gift from a shopkeeper in the then minute town of Bisbee, AZ. I was driving across country with my son. His girlfriend was in eastern AZ. The short version is our next stop was a hospital in Houston where I’d just learned my mother lay. He wanted time with his girlfriend. The nurses said my mother was strong. I went to Bisbee for the day.

What a magical day. Gifts at every stop. Expensive precious gemstones placed in the cracks between my fingers. Music in doorways. And the rainstick handed me when I mentioned my mother after a long conversation with the gal in the shop. My son and I drove out the next day. We were 3 hrs. from my mother when she died. I never saw her.

I presented the rain stick to Finley at the door. This is special, I said. Holds the energy of your great-grandma. It felt so fitting, like continuing my family line. + Finley’s the light of my sister’s heart. And my sister was the light of my mother’s heart. I guess I held it these 23 yrs. just for her. She loves it.

From the minute we stepped out, Finley showed who she is. She leaned in when I told her how to walk in the desert. Step where there’s no vegetation, don’t crush the plants. Flowers and plants we don’t see can sprout with the slightest rain.

She’s smitten with Indian pottery, sought it out. Without hesitation, declared the pottery room at the Museum of Indian Arts & Culture her fav. I offered her the first pot I bought in NM. A smoke-fired porcelain beauty of a vessel. A sculptured turtle atop the lid. We discussed how it laid in the ashes. Discerned by the smoke the lid was not on at the time. Only after this did she decide she’d take it.

I realized how much Finley reminds me of myself after they left. Her curiosity, interest in the way the world works, her affinity for pottery. The way she ‘knows’ what she likes despite anyone else. Things she showed again and again during the day.

I asked her if she ever thought about falling straight on her face as she learned the gymnastic flips & moves. She looked me straight in the eyes, said, Doesn’t everything important and hard to do have a little danger and risk? My God, I thought. She’s nine. That desire to do her best no matter the cost, her acceptance of costs, also remind me of myself.

The big gift Finley gave me was a chance to share my wonder and fascination with the world. To express my excitement and appreciations. To share the things I’ve gathered over the years that give me pleasure, and see her pleasure in them, too. Her unself-conscious expressions of love for my sister touched me.  I use the word Love, a lot.


They left nearly 3 hrs. later than intended. Gave up dinner & watching the sunset high on Sandia mountain. Gave up the last meet-up with colleagues. Stayed because my sister had one of the best days ever. I know because I heard her say those exact words to her son. Heart-full is what I say.

Sidebar. . .my sister and I didn’t talk family, politics, or the past. It was easy. I asked only one question. I have a memory: me as a young child sitting midway down the steep stairs in my grandparents’ house. The house is quiet, dark. There’s a big window at the foot of the stairs. The bright light blazes at the window, but I see nothing beyond. Does she remember anything like that? I learned her memories are much more joyful. And that’s a story I can hold just fine.

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

Tell me. . .what surprises have you found in your stories lately?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .my sparkly grandson’s like Finley. Gives me the same freedom.

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Creativity Means Be Curious. Let Go.

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When you’re in motion, 
the form will emerge.
~ Michael Hyatt
*

When I started writing, meaning as a person who showed up regularly & wrote, later called herself a writer, I had no intentions for either discipline or identity. I met the person who led a writing group at a time I realized I’d lost my Voice. A voice I used as an activist on a large university campus, securing a Women’s Center. A voice of a woman who turned in scholarly papers tweaked to personal relevance that professors called platonic ideals. Who was the central liaison between levels of managers & artists & clients in a large corporation. Who, tho shy, expressed herself easily in forums and groups.

The exchange of a defective art print changed my life. I’d bought two small reproductions of strong archetypal, mythical images infused with a connection to the divine mystery painted by a local artist. One arrived as a poorly reproduced color copy, not rich like its giclee companion.

The woman who exchanged the print and I chatted ten minutes in the foyer of her home. I didn’t notice her biz cards on a table until leaving. She led writing circles. No experience necessary.

Each week for 2 hours we wrote to prompts, read our rough work aloud. Responded to the work. And for a year, I left the group mute. Every six weeks deciding I’d quit rather than renew. Each time stayed at the the leader’s encouragement. Until I finally asked the right question that put me on solid ground writing: What do I need to do to engage them?

Here’s the thing. Tho getting no response from the group bothered me, I had no expectations when I wrote. I went to the page curious. I loved the process. I did think when I first started it’d be thoughtful essays. (fifteen years would pass before that happened) But I followed the pen. Eventually through my complex muck of ideas and personal experience, a story with a ‘she’ showed up. A fictional ‘she’  with no name, and a story I didn’t know.

And they continued in a stream after that. Scenes with fictional she’s and he’s that didn’t stop with The End, but with a clear ‘to be continued.’ Each pregnant with possibilities. Curiosity the only thing needed to know.

Curiosity with no expectations led to my novel, too. My first writing retreat was a week long. I wondered (worried) what I’d do each afternoon the others wrote. And every day a short story emerged. Not paragraphs, but pages. I didn’t realize the others thought me brilliant. I thought this is how all writers worked. Once home, I was curious about the little boy in the first story at that first retreat. What would happen if I followed him. Could I write a long story? When I passed 30,000 words, I thought ‘I’m writing a novella, can I do it?!’ At 50,000 words, I knew it was a novel. A novel! And at that moment I thought the book complete, I heard a message it was not and followed more. That book attracted an experienced lit agent within 3 weeks.

Fiction was my joy. I started a second book. When life threw huge fire balls at me – difficult, complicated transitions, house on fire, husband run down by a car – I wrote. And the periods life consumed me for months and I didn’t write, I knew I would one day. Because I knew I was a writer.

But something changed when I could finally settle into writing consistently once more. Fiction was not on the table. Poetic Facebook stanzas and a blog became my practice. Personal stories within essays. What didn’t change is it’s still a process following curiosity without expectation.

Just to show how true this is. . .I’d considered a blog for years. Had the page professionally designed three times. The morning I sat down to do it, I didn’t have a clue what my blog would be. I was driven my intentions beyond the page, but my only intention for the page was to start.

I decided a quote a good beginning. I chose the one above. Thinking it appropriate for both me and the blog. I chose a picture that represented what sustained my soul – Dawn. Shore birds. I edited & expanded a Facebook stanza about a question someone asked. The blog was short, and true. Since the site was redesigned you can’t see the numbers, anymore, but that post got 42 Facebook shares.

I believe the quote – when you’re in motion, the form will emerge – is another way of saying follow with curiosity, without expectations.

Try this yourself. I promise you’ll drop deeper, and may feel freer:

  • Put away the computer, if that’s how you typically write. Must be pen (or pencil) to paper.
  • Put away your intentions and expectations.
  • Pull out a prompt.
  • Set a timer.  3 min. is good to start.
  • Keep the pen moving, even if what you write are the words ‘blah blah blah, I don’t know. . .’
  • Do not edit, or try to figure it out as you write.

Surprised?

Is that sunrise or sunset in the picture above? Are you sure?

Postscript: I’m at it once more. This time journeying back to fiction. Because I miss it, and it’s fun, and it steps me into new places. I’m traveling the way I  started. Writing to prompts in a group. It’s not easy. I’m out of practice. I’m forced to let go, not compare my writing to others’, not berate myself when what I write is not fiction. It’s hard not to want this to be something more, better, different,  faster, because I’m a writer!

Yesterday a ‘she’ showed up. The scenes appear linked to a novel I edited to essential nubs, but haven’t gone back into. I feel a new story with these characters I love. That they’re changed, like me. When names appear, I know I’m in.

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Illusions

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I woke at 3:30am after a few hours sleep. I’m still suffering from springtime juniper allergies along with half of Santa Fe, and this sleep pattern has persisted for five weeks now. I’m getting better. My guess others are, too, since the stores are now stocked with remedies. But it’s tough, and my day’s booked to 9pm. I wanted to go back to sleep. I didn’t. I lay there awake. A friend who woke at 2:30am wrote she got up, roasted vegetables, made a cake, composed a painting schedule, did laundry, tea, dishes, fb, called her mom twice, sorted oil paint colors and wrote morning pages. I mulled what I had to do – schedule 35 author talks, meet a 10-day video challenge around stories as author-speaker-coach-mentor-workshop leader, gather tax docs for a new-to-me accountant, and create a flier for my upcoming talk this weekend – all by 11am today. I considered I may not write my blog. I left that open.

Here’s the thing. You know that image of the sofa with springs sticking out in all directions? That’s how I’ve felt the past two weeks. Steep learning curves, shifting back into disciplines I’ve relaxed while  adopting new ones. Rising with frogs to eat each day (a new image or me). I had to ask what eating frogs meant – something you want to avoid, or difficult. I was told Mark Twain and Alexander Graham Bell said they ate a frog first thing in the morning and the rest of the day was great. It fit exactly how I feel some mornings.

A few days ago I woke compelled to transform my space. COMPELLED to end what I call ‘camping mode.‘ My task to clear space in a room for a circle of chairs where writers will sit, write, share. Pull from boxes the pottery, small paintings, & treasures I hand-chose because I loved them. Because they give me pleasure when I rest my gaze on them. Some I haven’t seen in two years or more.

When I started I didn’t realize it was the new moon. A time many believe is for wishes and intention in action. As the boxes disappeared from the wall and the room opened up, I started to see the dining table, aka desk, pushed back. The circle of chairs. Was surprised they were in a different place in the room than I’d originally thought.

In the midst of this last bit of home-making, I heard a segment of public radio’s The Best of Our Knowledge that I loved. It was on reading, books, storytelling. I wrote snippets of what I heard on a piece of paper at stoplights. One segment with Indian-American musician Karsh Kale particularly spoke to me. He talked about his music and the fusion of cultures in it. He commented on how we choose daily what perspective we will have. That it affects how we live in the world. Choose was a key word for me. He talked about how music sparks what’s inside us, can expand our experience both of the world and ourselves in it. I loved everything he said and the way he said it. I thought how it all applies to stories and writing and reading, too. All the Arts, in fact.

When asked how he came to create the music he does, he shared this story.  He was a regular American kid in Brooklyn. But not regular as in there were few or no Indian-Americans where he lived. When he played his American music, his father always played Indian music at the same time, infuriating him. But his father’s intention wasn’t to drown out. It was to include. One could say to expand his children’s experience of the world and who they are.

When I finished listening, I thought ‘my goal is to help you tell your story. Assist you on the journey.”

I used to take pictures of sunrise over Tampa Bay. I have a trove of stunning shots. I’ve begun taking shots at dawn out my windows here in Santa Fe. Here it’s a different kind of beauty than St. Pete. Light and color was so pretty there. These are about the beauty of place. Sorta like Jacksonville where I  studied the rhythms of nature, light, and water as I looked over the St. John’s River below my windows. Place that fills me.

There’s a smallish window at my back, above my head, where I sit at my computer. It faces east. I’ll often look over my shoulder at the sky there. This morning I saw swiftly moving fog across a mountain. I paid no mind for a few moments, until it struck me no mountain exists there. I rose and watched a long time before I pulled out the camera.

As I watched, the Cooper’s hawk I saw on the ground having a meal near my bedroom window crossed my mind. How curious it seemed at the time that this powerful bird took small nips of meat. I’d always envisioned hawks tearing big chunks from their prey with their formidable beaks. But they’re beaks, after all, and the birds are not as large in stature as our perception of them. I re-read the fb post I wrote and found a comment I’d missed: Did you know that blue jays mimic Cooper Hawk calls?

I took this shot of flowers in the snow ysterday.

The flowers are still there. Today in cold, blustery wind. As are the blossoms on all the flowering trees covered in snow last week that I wrote about. The ones I thought were goners.

Every one of these things contain perceptions that are incorrect. Mountain where there isn’t one. Powerful hawks ripping large chunks of flesh. Blue jays crying like hawks. Fragile flowers no match for harsh snows. The word that flashed in my mind as I watched the fog move across the sky in waves was ‘Illusions.’

There may be a flurry of catch-up on Day 5 of the video challenge. I want and need to do it. A long ago memory of a corporate marketing vid I did where the professionals remarked what a natural I am comes to mind now. My trepidation is based on an illusion. Perhaps it really doesn’t matter I sound like I’m underwater with one nostril still clogged from allergies. Perhaps the frogs are illusions, too. And fears.

Here’s what’s over my head as I type this.

An image of Archangel Michael I got in Santorini, Greece. The man asked if I was Christian when I bought it. I told him I was, and more. He understood. A crystal ball made of quartz that shows the world upside down when you look into it. And a fairy door with words on the walls around it. For years I attached hammered metal wings to the fairy door with tape. The wings fell off when I unwrapped it this time. I taped them back on 4 times, and 4 times they fell off. Perhaps it means this door has landed, and all I have to do is open the door.

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

Tell me. . . what illusions do you see?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .the Universe always says Yes when I question if I have time to write this blog.

Learning to Love Life Again

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“Maybe the only letters we need after our names are A.R.T.
They could stand for Already Rocking This.”
~ Jena Schwartz, poet
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A friend calls me Rocket Girl. Why, I asked, would you say that. You’re the kind who’d have a kid on your hip, hold things together and get a dozen things done. For once I didn’t say ‘I don’t feel like it,’ or ‘Oh, I’m so behind.’ I thought, Yeeah.

Years ago I asked my sister, ‘Did you ever feel abandoned when we were left with other people so much growing up?’ Her answer, No, I had you. I asked my husband if he was scared during his rehabilitation after being run down by a car, us not knowing if he’d walk right again (I’d been so scared). His answer, No, I had you. A friend once said after a discussion about a challenge I was having and how I was getting thru, you’re the one who fixes things, makes them work. When I was working at the brewery we’re part owners of, I did it. Did it at the art museum where I worked. They called on me to do it. I do it at home.

Here’s the thing. . .I’ve committed to loving my life again. And that includes big changes. Stepping into arenas I don’t know how to hold together, because they’re new to me and have steep learning curves. I’m a newbie, a baby. And I want to be a different kind of Rocket Girl. Which means I’ll make mistakes, and doing things that push my boundaries. Of all the things I’ve learned in my lifetime, I never learned not be hate making mistakes. The little ones that in the end don’t really cost that much. And the big ones (I’ve done some doozies) that require a full pardon by myself. But in this new incarnation, I’ve even committed to the beauty of mistakes. I teach it. I’m gonna live it. And pushing boundaries looks a lot like Hope to me.

If you’ve read much of this blog, you know I believe in Angels and the swirly amazing interconnectedness of the Universe. That I often call what I experience magic. This magic a combination of my deep & strong intuition and observing with awareness that connection with the swirly amazingness. It often looks much like author Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s definition: where purpose and happenstance come together. I am there. Smack in the middle of that right now. Those stories will come.

Last night I gave a talk at the Southwest Writers meeting in Albuquerque around my book The Writer’s Block Myth. I sold a few books which paid for the room I got thinking breakfast the next day with writers. I forgot to announce the invitation. And forgot a couple other things. But I’m not going to thoughts of squandered opportunity. I’m going to what might be. Seeing it the next time. This is also a shift, a moving forward.

What might be next time. Next. Time.

At home I work at the dining room table in a converted 1940s one-car garage done really well. My vision for the room is a meeting space for writers. Right now, unhung pictures lean against one wall, boxes line another. One of my grandmother’s oriental rugs holds the center of the room. The room is bright, feels good. Two windows are at my back, above my head. When I turn I see the sky. A window across the room offers sky, too, tho it will soon be covered with leaves. I look thru the door and out another window. One morning before dawn I sat down at the computer, forgot to take my break for the beginning of the light. As if Dawn called me, in the middle of a project I thought to turn around. The color in the sky was beginning to fade. Had turned all pastel. It was not the usual. That’s the closest I can get to telling you what loving my life again feels like. The mess of undone and yet to be + big work and the sky calling me all in the same space. In a place that I say often, I love living here.

I can be really goofy when I’m tired. After the talk I went to the restaurant in the hotel. They were empty, shutting down tho 30 min. remained to closing. The guy said no worries, have a seat. I paid right after I ordered so he could close his register. Before my burger arrived, I rushed down the hall to the restroom to wash my hands. Just as I soaped up, a guy walks around from the stalls. ‘Hello,’ he says. blink. Am I in the wrong room, I ask, the thought just starting to register. ‘I think you are,’ he replies. I ran out with wet, soapy hands. My first thought when I entered the right room. . .the women’s is nicer, and a chuckle. I passed on the laugh to the guy in the restaurant. Nice end to the day, I thought.

My friend who calls me Rocket Girl also agrees I’m goofy. That is part of loving my life again, too. Being seen as the fullness of me with right parts. One part not canceling the other. And in a weird kind of way which may appear contradictory, it comes at a time when I split my face to the world. One side – my vulnerable, flawed, moving thru stuck and uncertainties, having a tad of discomfort at times oh-so-human. The other where you learn I have what you want. Doing what all teachers do. We show up in a way you need us, and let you know we understand ‘cause we’ve been there. I think that makes sense.

I’m gonna sign off with something I’ve longed to say for years: I love my life.


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

Tell me. . .how do you love your life?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .never go by appearances. The burger in this old hotel was excellent, and cooked just right the way I like it. Something I don’t say often about burgers.

Rocket Girl Typewriter Key Image created for me by Mary Anne Radmacher

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News Flash. . .It’s Early!

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Hey Folks!  They published the book early.
Which is great!

It’s exciting when your baby comes early and it’s beautiful. You understand, right? 

But it means I’m not entirely ready with the sweet bonus offers inside.

Check back between March 14 & March 21.

In the meantime, get a copy and uplevel your creative life now.
Remember students and friends in your life who write.
And pop over Saturday, Sunday, and Monday for a free download!

The Easy Button takes you there.

“Make an agreement with yourself to live your best creative life. Give yourself your biggest permission slip to claim your dream, create it, and have everything writing means to you.”

 

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