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Trip Slowly into Imagination

Posted on May 25, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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I discovered a small piece of paper the other day in a box with biz cards and notes. A few sentences I wrote at least eight years ago on it. I can tell it’s been that long by the paper – small, vertical, glossy. It’s from one of the small books I carry in my purse for notes, quotes, and miscellany. And this page was from a book I haven’t carried in at least 8 yrs. At the top are these words:

Privilege of staying inside the fog of my own imagination as long as I desire.

What was going on in my life when I wrote that sentence!?

Let me take a break here to say I’m under the weather. A bout of allergies after a most glorious 2-mile hike thru meadows and rock bluffs. I’m caught this minute in a deep down lethargy. A coughy throat that kicks each time I lower my head. Drainy sinuses that turned into a hard spot at the bridge of my nose. + A brain caught on slow. A real drag as I (and much of Santa Fe) just came out of an extreme allergy season that lasted many weeks. A season that hung on people’s lips because many of us mightily suffered. But today, I believe this slooooo is perfect for drifting into my imagination, and extreme presence.

Said admitting it was tough this morning. I scheduled a mini-workshop to give. ugh As I dressed, I thought about the time I saw Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band. How he rocked full-out for 3-1/2 hrs. How I learned later he had the flu. I thought to myself, I’ll just call myself Bruce today.

I didn’t have my usual verve in the workshop. But the participants shared stories in answer to my questions, and had questions of their own, something that doesn’t usually happen. It was fine.

When I got home I stopped a moment to watch poppy petals. They’re so delicate and thin, each is like a little silk scarf. The slightest movement of air sends them sideways, trying to furl. Then they’ll gently roll back, open and show me their centers. Until the next breeze.

The key for engaging with my imagination requires I slow down. It requires I organize my time, fit fun in the mix. It says write with others because it sparks me. Write fiction and poetry, follow stories and images, because it’s not only fun, but I love it. Be present with what comes up, because so much fascinates – how river oxbows form, how baking soda strips hair color, how the clouds looked as if they were painted on the sky the other night. Notice how narrative and all the ways it plays out in lives and cultures is suddenly in front of me in articles and videos. Notice with presence.

As if the Universe agrees, on the three main roads coming home from the workshop, I got caught behind cars that never inched past 20 mph. 3 separate cars, on 3 different two-lane roads, driving far below the speed limit nearly the entire way home. I decided to call it a sofa day.

I think perhaps every one of us needs something to balance our Soul. For me, right now it’s slowing down, engaging my imagination, and living in extreme presence. A practice of trust. Because I have a book, things to share, people to connect with, a business to build. And I haven’t done this slow trip in a very long time. I can do this. After all, I write about it.

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

Tell me. . .What gives you balance in your life?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .For the first time in ages, I read a novel in the middle of the day. It felt really good.

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Writing is Connection

Posted on May 13, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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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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The Value of Pauses

Posted on May 6, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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I hit a patch of molasses with my writing. Not stuck, but slow. Slow to get words on the paper. Slow with edits. Getting up from my seat bunches of times to walk thru the house, only to come back, keep working at an inch-worm’s pace. You get it. Slow.

Didn’t matter what the topic, whether I knew the material or what I intended to write. The challenge was not on the page, but in me. When my little-girl self sent messages of self-doubts, I finally stopped. A pause was in order.

The day was perfect for retreat. Snow fell in heavy, wet sheets, accumulated on the road. Makings for a hearty soup – lentils and beans and split peas, onions and carrots and celery, spices for flavor – were in the kitchen. Even when the sun came out and roadways cleared, I stayed in. I let the wind that whipped the door from my hand and frigid air that sent knives thru my jacket give me the final excuse. It didn’t matter what others did. The calendar was erased, and writing group rescheduled. I needed to find space inside myself.

Perhaps I knew what I needed before the decision, because I’d bought a wedge of my fav double-creme French brie the day before. I’d avoided cheese for many weeks because of allergies, letting wedges of fine cheese mold in the fridge. The brie was a treat.

I settled in, watched the first three episodes of Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale.’ My intention to pause from all Doing. To release expectation, pushing, soldiering thru and focused attention. It wasn’t exactly daydreaming, but it was 100 steps closer than what I’d been doing.

When I felt myself breathe easily again, an article called “Why Idle Moments are Crucial to Creativity” crossed my desk. The article centers on constant engagement with technology and devices. How our minds engage differently when we look at a screen (external attention system) vs. daydreaming (internal attention system). The internal attention being our natural default network in the brain. And the place creativity comes from.

What I know. . .it’s not just about technology. We need pauses from Doing periodically so our creative juices can flow freely. Pauses are not stasis. They pull you out of the forest so you can see the trees.

What I also know is pauses don’t need to be long to be effective. Those short wanderings thru the house I mention are pauses. And when they didn’t work, I simply needed more time because the issues were bigger than the sentence or paragraph.

You can learn about digital detox from the article. Below are suggestions for building pauses into your writing and creative life. None of them include writing, and all of them feed your writing:

  • Move the body. Take a walk or hike. Get up and dance. Do a yoga pose. Go to the gym or pool. Do the laundry, wash the dishes, dust, or clean the bathroom.
  • Take a sound pause. Turn off all electronics and listen to your surroundings. Walk outside and listen for birds, the sound of water, leaves riffling in the breeze. Or change the music if that’s how you work.
  • Pause from the work at hand. Put the manuscript or story away for weeks or months. Come back to it with fresh eyes and perspective. Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, and I do this.
  • Change the scenery. Take a new route than you typically travel or walk. Go on a drive to favorite countryside or someplace new. Go on retreat away from home, whether 15 min. a day, an afternoon, three days, or weeks.
  • Step away from your active mind. Immerse in something that engages you emotionally. Go to movie, read a novel, a short story, or poetry.
  • Engage in creative play, meaning create something strictly for fun without making judgements or thinking about outcomes. Paint, collage, garden, bake.

As your life goes, so your writing goes. Your creative life and life in the real world are linked. We all need pauses to create at our best.

Photo: Chris Ensey, open copyright

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A Facebook Game for Writers

Posted on April 29, 2017 by Heloise Jones
4

There’s a game circulating on Facebook that’s hit a cord: Of the ten bands in this list, which one have I not seen?

I found the game to be a gold mine. For writing, and for illuminating what every good story can, and should, do.

1)   Like a good prompt, every one of the bands on the lists holds a story. Either a memory for the person who compiled the list, or a reminder of a story in the reader. My clue came from my own response as I considered my own list.

I remembered the first concert that encapsulated me as part of something bigger. James Brown. An auditorium in Houston, small by today’s standards but feeling big. The exhilaration of being in the midst of 2000 people, every.single.person on their feet, dancing as if we were one giant gorgeous writhing animal.

I know there couldn’t have been more than ten white faces in that 1966 Houston crowd. But it didn’t matter. I was young. It was Soul, and we felt it. I can still see where I was in the room, the low stage at the front, the warm palette of golden-tan and wood on the walls. The sea of smiles.

Another, the best concert I ever walked out of. Meaning best band and fantastic, up close seats. Allman Brothers Band. Duke University. They were incredible. Two drummers blasting. The ear splitting, impeccable guitar of Dickey Betts playing ‘Jessica.’ The ride of that song feeling orgasmic and assaulting at the same time. I still say Dickey never topped ‘Jessica,’ but the four of us got up and left. It was simply too loud.

2)  Like details in a story, each band tells us something about the person. Think of the times you walked into a room with music or books in view. Were you compelled to look, even glance, at the titles? Did you notice if the genres were similar? or if it was an eclectic mix? Were you surprised by what you saw?

My music was eclectic. Some expressing a part of me few knew existed until they spent a lot of time and got to know me.

3)  The game engaged the readers. Whether it was for the fun of it, or something inside the reader was tweaked, or like me, it brought out a natural curiosity in patterns. Like looking for clues in a story. The odd detail that time might not explain. People responded.

4) Like a good book or essay or poem that brings something new to a reader’s attention, each list had the potential to expand knowledge of the world for the reader. Consider, did you know every name on the lists? Were you familiar with all of them? I sure wasn’t. And reading the lists of people I like, even tho I know a tiny twinkle of the person & his/her life from social media, it prompted me to explore, listen and hear new music.

I confess it appears I read like a writer. It’s something I indeed do naturally. But that’s not what happened this time. I simply found the lists interesting. Only after a few days and the spite of backlash started, and I saw poet Laura Hope-Gil’s comment (and agreed) – “The rock concert game took me back to when we used FB to get to know things about each other.” – did I realize how the game came straight out of a writer’s guide:

  • Prompts for stories.
  • Use small details to reveal characters.
  • Engage your readers.
  • Expand the reader’s experience.

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Posted in writers, writing | 4 Replies

Finding Home

Posted on April 27, 2017 by Heloise Jones
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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

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