Saying the Word Lucky

Posted on November 8, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“…we don’t know what day we’re on. We just don’t.
So we’ve gotta do all we can to make every one be the kind of day
that helps us become who we are. . .I keep learning how powerful it is to say “yes”
to new experiences, to be brave, to ask for help when you need it,
and to just sing your own song in your own voice,
in whatever way that means something to you.”
~ Tamara Mangum Bailie, songwriter
*

One of the things about spending so much time with the screen is missing fall in New Mexico. I get doses. Like the luminescent golden-yellow leaves of a cottonwood still in full coat outside my window. But the shadows have turned edgy, the light moved to that quality you know it’s past fall. Now, dark at 5:47, I feel something’s slipped by. And I’m looking for life past the screen.

I drove to Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs a day after wonky sleep last week. Most of the trees through the valley with the best display were bare. A quiet tangle where I usually see light. I have three fav places for that dose of color and light. This valley after the bend, crossing toward Ojo one of them. It dawns on me this is the first time in 23 yrs. I haven’t seen it. But there were still breathtaking gems scattered here and there. As I drove out of Ojo, big trees in fields either side of me lit gorgeously bright in the late afternoon sun. I didn’t want to leave. Like seriously didn’t want to leave. I spun off the narrow rough-paved road, made a U-turn just to see them once more. Pebbles and miscellany from that turn rattled in my wheel wells for a dozen or more miles.

I went to the Dixon Studio Tour with Ken. I met him 23 yrs. ago when he drove out to the middle of open, undeveloped land where we lived for moving boxes. There’s things about that first home in Santa Fe I still viscerally remember – bluebirds and hawks on the large disk birdbaths, snow, how I stood many nights, my head rocked back, my chest filled with awe as I gazed upon the Milky Way coursing across a field of a kerjillion stars. I haven’t seen that kind of sky since. Ken always has his camera, never minds waiting while I chat with folks. Perfect, because Dixon’s not so much about the art, anymore, for me. It’s the community.

Dixon. . .apple country 45 min. north of Santa Fe. The Rio Embudo running beside it. No place flat. The little village so compressed, no need to drive all of it like on the other studio tours. People walk, mill along the road. I love the New Mexican food at the little eatery where you’re sure to wait 20 min. in line. Daughter takes orders at the register, mama dishes ice cream, pours drinks. Even with the bustle, the gal offered a taste of the chipolte pork, with a smile, when I asked how hot it was.

I love the music in the backroom of the Mission hall, too. Tho we don’t hang around long. A trio – violin, guitar, and this year, a drum. Celtic folk in flavor. Wonderful voices. I meant to write their name down.

We lucked out because there was rain in the desert all day and night before. The thick promise of the sky and desert-humidity delivered. And I heard it was rain-rain and mud Sunday. But lucky us. Saturday, just a few sprinkles like blessings.

Driving home, narrow, curvy 2 lanes, double yellow lines, we come to a complete stop. Mountain on one side. Guard rail at a steep drop the other. Six cars up, a big vehicle overturned on its side, it’s bottom facing us. We hear the sirens coming, on their way. First thought’s someone did something crazy, because that’s what I saw driving up. Crazy. But not so. Tire blew, like exploded, front driver side. Threw the car into the guard rail, and flipped a 16-yr-old girl down against the road.

The wait seemed out of time. Eerily peaceful. Some cars pulled out, went the other way. A few people stood in the road. But there was no running up and down or around. No drama or zing of impatience. I commented once about the barky barks down the valley that didn’t shut up. He commented how the cops & rescue workers weren’t very efficient, and expressed gratitude we were on a portion of the road with fencing against falling rocks. We simply chilled. I watched the light change on the valley, and the blinking red lights on the five rescue/cop vehicles. I could only think what terror that girl must’ve experienced. That she’ll have PTSD for a long time. I suddenly felt very tired, and closed my eyes. 1 hr-20 min. later, everything and everyone cleared, including the glass, we crept by.

The railing was badly mangled. Good thing it held, we said. I thought of my husband walking on a gorgeous fall day, struck down by a car, the guardrail he was rolled along. How grateful we were it didn’t give. As we drove past seven miles of stopped cars, I said we were lucky to be so close to the front. To know what was happening. To get moving so fast. Grateful. We heard the girl’s OK.

And then there were Rainbows. A really fat one, rich in color, rising halfway to the sky behind us as we hit the straight-away. We passed a guy beside his car, taking a pic. It was that good. I kinda wanted to turn around, see if I could stand in the colored light that touched the ground. (can we ever?) Then after I dropped Ken, another really wide rainbow halfway to the sky as I swung toward Santa Fe. Newly snow-capped mountains in the background. And then just as I felt the most tired, still two stops to go before home, a tall, spectacular arch. Nothing like a New Mexico rainbow. They’re not like Hawaii rainbows, or Appalachian, or Florida rainbows. Something about the color on that crisp sky, I guess.

How is it that we find our Soul Homes. I don’t reminisce as a habit, but I feel and see my life here like one long continuum, despite the 18 year residence in other places. I remember so clearly those 4 years in the 90s I picked up my friend Jacqueline every other week at 2pm when she got off work. Our drive north and thru the pueblo to Ojo where we soaked & had trout dinners in the little dining room that looks the same now but has gone upscale for dinner. And how the sky looked that night driving back when we saw an UFO. No one believed us, but we know what we saw. Jacqueline is a first friend here, too. I met her on my first Dixon tour 23 yrs. ago.

The Appalachians pull a sense of Home from me when I fly over. I feel a peace and belonging in Hawaii where I glide immediately into the vibe, am calmed. Experience a deep knowing inside when I hear the chants, see Kahiko Hula. But it’s here, this desert. These mountains. This light. This expansive feeling inside me as big as the Universe. The moments I’m so happy just Being. How many times I used the word ‘lucky’ writing this. As if time is on my side tho it flows like a too-swiftly moving river. I think maybe I can find center, again, here.

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

Tell me. . .what’s time feel like for you right now?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .it 4:11am. The second week I’ve written you in the small hours.

Photo: Apodaca by Lou Malchie, Dixon

*
I’m writing a book for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
A Guide to Get Past Stuck & Experience Lasting Creative Freedom

Another Day. Another Chance to Smile

Posted on November 1, 2016 by Heloise Jones

From the sofa, the tree above looks so stunningly graphic against the big sky.

*
Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight.
~ Mary Oliver (from the poem Mindful)

The days are intense and long, and short, all at the same time. I love the bubble of writerly process I’ve been in. Love looking out my window at that tree and cross on the hill, seeing the light come and go. I love the cottonwoods blazed gold here and there, often in lines marking the water traces. The color of fall in northern New Mexico stretching across the landscape to the far horizon I see from my condo. But it’s been intense and long, and short, all at the same time. Not a time like any other I’ve had in Santa Fe.

A writer just left that I hosted and coached for four days – listening and hearing between the lines, following patterns to guide her to deep dives into subtexts in her work. It took a bit to come out of her Writer’s Dream. I fell right into hours on my book.

I’m an old fashioned writer. Will never be one to write a book in a weekend, which seems to be the new fad. I weave words, ideas, and stories in my mind that go down on the page the old fashioned way. With time and breath. Then edit multiple times the old fashioned way with attention to craft, form, and saying it well. What’s different is I’m writing a nonfiction book, and I’m not composing the first draft with pen & paper as I do fiction and poetry. I compose straight on the screen. My notebook replaced by lined pads and printed pages filled with notes from interviews, mapping, points to remember. The writing feels good and not so good. As whenever I’m writing something intentional, engaged in a dance with creativity in the process. Whatever I write is always a tad bigger than I am. And sometimes that stretch feels hard to do. It consumes me like a lover.

I tell authors not to focus on the product or goal, stay centered in the process. Good advice for Life, this presence. But, I confess it’s difficult following my own advice right now. I want it finished, sent to the publisher for what’s next. Want off the screen. I long to walk under the blue sky I see out the windows. Long to walk in the sunlight turned golden by the last canopy of fall cottonwoods. Even tho the work is good and I love it.

I’m living on a hill three blocks from the Santa Fe Plaza for the next month. The incline’s fairly steep. Going down’s magical as I see the western horizon, those golden cottonwoods stretched all the way there. Coming up is a challenge. I’ve learned to look down, focus on my breath as I climb. That I arrive quickly, without needing breaks, albeit winded. That somehow seeing that incline, the distance yet to go, tires me. The other day I put my bag on a low adobe wall at the bottom, took off my overshirt, prepared for the hike. A young man walked toward me. I noted his dirty stuffed backpack, the tattoos on his face, his clothes old but with no tatters. I suspected him one of the homeless I pass gathered in threes and fours. Bits of tales about their encounters on the street caught, but I’ve never been approached for money. So unlike the ragged loners I see in St. Pete.

I confess I immediately wished this guy would not ask for money. That I could just greet him like any other person on the street, and look into his eyes, not see desperation. I wished this as I unzipped my purse, ready to reach for the bills I carry for asks.

He slowed slightly, said Hi as he passed. I looked into his face, replied, ‘Hi. How ya doing?’ He hesitated just a beat, then picked up his pace. ‘I’m dong good,’ he said. ‘Another day, another chance to smile.’

I felt his words. Yes. Right! And we held each other’s eyes for a moment as he walked on. I watched him walk down the block.

Sunday a little boy in Taiwan who is the brightest little magical being, ever, turned 7.

Made me happy all day just thinking about him. Another day. Another chance to smile.

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

Tell me. . .what made you smile today.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’m still really happy, and feeling lucky.

*
A book for people living in the real world.

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

Get it here

More than One True Thing

Posted on October 25, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“None of us are getting out of here alive, so please stop treating yourself like an after thought. Eat the delicious food. Walk in the sunshine. Jump in the ocean. Say the truth that you’re carrying in your heart like hidden treasure. Be silly. Be kind. Be weird. There’s no time for anything else.”
~ Christopher Walken
*

It is 2:15am. I feel tired, but my mind’s awake. It’s not a full moon, so who knows why. I got out of bed to write this, because I know I won’t want to in the morning.

It’s dark in the big open space. Kitchen to my right, living room in front. The only light from the five candlestick bulbs under small parchment shades on the cleanly scrolled chandelier above my table. It’s finished to look like aged metal. The bulbs are dimmed. Papers, notes for the book I’m writing, stack and hug my computer. I won’t make the deadline I initially promised for this book. But I trust it will be okay. I did finally send the full copy for the new website today. Third iteration. Hours that swiped away days. Last I’ll mention it ’til it launches my new face to the world. Feels so hugehugehuge.

I love the place where I’m at now. I’m sure one reason is I’m so close to town. But it’s more than that. The zen garden with koi pond and small waterfall out my bedroom door. The big table where I can stretch out and work. I’ve been lucky that way here. The bathroom that looks and feels like a comforting spa room. The raccoon I saw tip-toe along the edge of the flat roof across the way one early, early morning. And downstairs, opening the blinds to a large cooper’s hawk flying into the garden, turning to fly straight toward me. How I watched it sit high in a young aspen in the garden for three or four minutes before it took off. A messenger, the Native Americans say.

Then two days later I stopped in for 15 min. to see an artist friend, get one of her small pottery bowls for my salt. She was planning a quilt. The strips of cloth laid out sparking in me a creative money-making idea I know she’d enjoy doing. And we talked, and it dawned on me I’d just done this very thing with another artist friend. And as she exclaimed others needed this thing I do, I saw how the pictures come to me like a web of links. Not just the product, but where it goes, who wants it. Gave me something to ruminate. I love that I was there 2-1/2 hrs., and we both felt fine about it.

I read this week the word for soil in Lakota means ‘Who we used to be.’ And thought perhaps it explains my inexplicable Love of this planet. But sitting here, seems it’s what I feel in this land I’m in now. Being a Pisces, a water person, it may seem strange that too much drowns me. When it saturates the air, or is the main feature. I need land. This high desert where you see the pattern and color of earth, plant and life upon its surface, the stretch of it forever to meet a forever sky, it’s home to my Soul. Thinking more on it. I am not alone. There’s an inordinate number of Pisces and Scorpios here. And we used to say many years ago we held the water energy for the desert.

I love that on another gorgeous drive to Chimayo with a friend for a late lunch at a fav classic New Mexico place, we sat so long we arrived to the Santuario at 5pm. When a gal came in, said they were closed, she surprised us. It was a Catholic church. Our memory for decades was it never closed. But it’s an even bigger tourist destination now, we reasoned. They have to do that. The prize of that visit, though, was the last rose still blooming on the bush inside the church courtyard walls, beside the tombstones. I held the bloom forward and we took turns breathing its pure rose fragrance. Over and over. So heavenly. And then it pulled away, ripped from it’s limb, held on by threads. I rested it amongst the leaves. Like a broken bird. I was devastated. The last rose of the season. But the gal closing up said no worries, happens all the time. Kids rip them off, toss them about, she said. If you don’t take it, my friend said, I will. I felt it was a gift from Our Lady Guadalupe. It’s still on my desk, now dried tho I haven’t pitched the water it sits in. You can see it, in front of the card by a fav Abiquiu artist that I always travel with.

At least a half dozen times in the less than three weeks I’ve been in Santa Fe I’ve thought ‘I am so happy.‘ Felt it despite the five layers of huge changes I’m in the midst of. And that when someone said ‘Tell me one true thing,’ the one true thing I know clearly is Kindness expands a life. And that includes kindness to myself.

Today after a guided Vision Board class, different than others I’ve done, I looked at the images I’d gathered, put together. Chosen for how they made me feel and the values they represent, not for what they specifically portray. One picture didn’t fit. A home. I chose one over another I really was drawn to because it had open sky around it. Sky out my windows so vital to me. And the one I was drawn to didn’t. Plus it had a wide portal, which would block the sky. But when I got back to my place, that house with open sky just wasn’t right. I pulled out the picture I’d put aside. My thought, I’m manifesting here. I can have both home and sky. And from the same magazine with same-sized pics, I found three pieces of sky that went together and fit the 1-1/2 inch square space where I needed it. Patched them right in. Like magic, alchemically seamless. I believe that’s a message, too. I’m taking it!

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

Tell me. . .one true thing.
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I miss having a best friend for a neighbor.

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Dropping the Stop Sign

Posted on October 15, 2016 by Heloise Jones

My best friend neighbor Lindy delivered a green drink to me one morning. See it there,
next to the computer. With matching green straw covered in pink polka dots.
In front of the card with a painting by my fav Abiquiu artist.
*

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost.”
~ Martha Graham

Sitting here, the fragrance of fresh sage. I often buy a decorative sage bundle, leave it with a friend when I head home. Today I couldn’t resist. The bundle so fresh its scent lingered on my fingers. The top festooned with a small bouquet of lavender sprigs. It’s heart a puff of ‘straw’ flowers in two shades of purple + a small, deep rose colored dried chrysanthemum. At the bottom, tiny leaves of eucalyptus wrapped in the string. I remember when a friend and I went out to acres of sage, and picked our own, and I learned to wrap. There’s a trick to doing it right. So long ago.

It’s been a different sort of first week in Santa Fe than I’ve ever had. I’m in the country, so not out and about much. I left as the breath of hurricane Matthew hit Florida. Arrived to a text from my sister in Houston – my brother & sister-in-law in the direct path, need a place. They’re on the way to your house, she said. But Art hadn’t been notified. I hooked him up, left cleaning instructions for things I knew he’d miss, and wondered at them traveling three hours thru torrential rains. My brother seriously ill. You haven’t left Florida, a friend said. It wasn’t that. I’ve been thru tropical storms, and floods. And our home is small, and my brother. . .well, not a typical leave-taking for me.

36 hrs. later I woke under the weather. The head-body thing where you feel tired and yukky, but you’re not completely down. So friggin’ rare for me, it was hard to accept. But I moved thru fast, with help from my friend who brought me my elixir – ProPak immune & electrolyte builder. Thought myself ready to do Santa Fe.

Of the half dozen studio tours each fall, there are two I never miss – Abiquiu and Dixon. It was past 11am on the last day of tour when I left for Abiquiu an hour away. I was detained another 20 min. when the tire pressure light lit. As I finally sailed without stops, I realized I didn’t really want to visit studios. I’m in the trees where I’m at. I wanted the New Mexico countryside. My fav Chama River valley with golden yellow cottonwoods blazing all across it. The mythical work of one artist only. So, I stopped at the lavender farm, enjoyed lavender infused ceylon tea and chocolate cake with lavender gelato on the little tea house portal. Moved on to the Abiquiu Inn to get cards by a fav artist. They had wonderful strawberry-lemon infused water. I could’ve drunk a gallon. Stopped at Bode’s old time mercantile to see my friend who owns it. Made plans for a day together in November. Moved on to the artist. And the vineyard, just because it’s so beautiful there and I could buy homemade biscochitos, the light melt-in-your-mouth anise laced butter cookies I love. I did it differently, and was back in Santa Fe by 4:45, feeling just right.

I’m working this trip. Have the luxury of a large table in front of a window where I can spread and stack files and pages. One afternoon, the little voice said, take your notebook outside. That thought was so far from my mind, I said aloud, really. But I obeyed, and discovered the huge heavy round table on the portal a fabulous place to work. And tho the pines obstruct the view and the portal shortens the sky, it was perfect.

I have a confession, tho. I’m distracted by no-thought, and seems my intentions are continually sidetracked. My book, most specifically, sidetracked again and again by the development of my new super-duper https dedicated better everything experience website. Something kinda exciting. But choosing a web designer is like choosing a dentist. So much is about feel. And tho I mentioned this angst before, now it’s around the new look. My face to the world changing. It takes such a HUGE amount of energy, I get confused what the right next thing to do is. Worry I won’t finish the book by the deadline. And that’s not okay.

But the Universe sent me a message for this, if I can just figure how it fits in my puzzle.

Part One arrived in an email from my husband, saying how courageous he sees me. He lists why, getting some of my history wrong. But I’m not a detailed reminiscer, and I don’t think it matters. It’s about my courage. That night, Part Two. I read this by Elizabeth Gilbert:

“Fear is boring. . . my fear had no variety to it, no depth, no substance, no texture. I noticed that my fear never changed, never delighted, never offered a surprise twist or an unexpected ending. My fear was a song with only one note — only one word, actually — and that word was “STOP!. . .”

If courage is moving forward despite fear, I have it in a ton of ways. Even so, I’ve held fear’s Stop sign up again and again to something bigger than myself. To this that I’m doing now. This Full Circle I wrote about last week. Moving back to my Soul Home. Writing a book that shares what I know with the world. Stepping forward in service lit in spotlights. The stuff I’ve received direct, in my face, messages about over the years and replied ‘No, I’ll stay small.’ I believe this love note from the Universe is about putting that Stop sign down. Now.

I met a fabulous, creative friend for lunch who I haven’t seen in years. The thing I love most about him is how often he says ‘I love my life.’ To say those words has been one of my highest aspirations. After he sped off to the airport, the air and breeze was so luscious, the sky so clear and blue, I felt it, close. I wonder if saying ‘I’m so happy’ counts. ‘Cause I’ve had that thought more than once this week.

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

Tell me. . .how are you doing things differently these days?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I still feel wiggly.

*
I’m writing a book for people living in the real world.
The Writer’s Block Myth
Get Past Stuck. Live and Love Your Best Creative Life.

Rose Petals Under Our Feet

Posted on September 20, 2016 by Heloise Jones

“It’s the absence of all the bodies, she thinks, that allows us to forget.
It’s that the sod seals them over.”
~ Anthony Doerr (from All the Light We Cannot See)
*

rose-petal-stage

I don’t take pics during a performance. This is before Deva Premel & Miten came out.
What wonderful heart energy, I thought. Those rose petals beneath their feet.
*

I just read two novels back-to-back set in France during WWII German occupation. It wasn’t intentional to do that. Each showed up as the best option when I was looking for a story to settle into. One in a very small library at the beach, the other in an airport bookstore. I’d heard they were good reads. And how the author showed the characters beyond the dramatic backdrop interested me.

The first is about two French sisters with completely opposite personalities. Their motivations and actions defined and driven by their character. The book’s sympathies center strictly in the French experience of the war. The second is about two young people with very different backgrounds, from opposite sides of the conflict, coming of age in war. Both books were heavily researched. Both were page turners. But my experience as a reader with each was like night and day.

In the sisters’ story, I was pulled in close, viscerally thrust bone-to-bone into the deprivations and cruelty. Ground so hard I skimmed over concentration camp scenes. Something I rarely do. I finished still wondering, as I have for decades, at what appears to be blind inhumanity. A wondering that’s niggled me despite many essays read that explore and explain the psychology and sociological influences. A wondering that prompted me to answer ‘I don’t know’ when someone recently asked if I believed in Evil, because my head knows the reasons such disassociation happens inside people, and how fear & character allow willful blindness, but Evil seems beyond reason. What I read in the novel seemed in the realm of beyond.

The language in the second book was so beautifully poetic, and some of the scenes so full of perfectly constructed lists placing me there, that I felt distanced from the horror. Strung out in a beautiful dream that wasn’t right. As I read, I understood on a new level how the rise and fall of the German Reich happened. A sympathetic human level, if you can believe that. The author showed me incrementally, in small details, in very short chapters that switched effortlessly between the people on each side. Every awful thing, each decision made that we think we’d never make, digested as I was carried forward. Held in a tight line of cognitive dissonance the entire time, with me not fully realizing it.

Until a simple line about a boy stepping on a land mine and ‘disappearing in a fountain of earth.’ I paused after that line, reread it several times. I could see the dirt rise high, arch and fall. Hear the cascading sound of granules showering the ground. My mind knew it was awful, and yet, the way he said it held a terrible beauty. He didn’t have to describe a thing. Not even the soft pink mist of blood.

That line, the boy disappearing in a fountain of dirt, was where I’d stopped the day I drove an hour to Sarasota for an evening of sacred chant with Deva Premel and Miten. I felt lucky to get tickets. I heard they only booked a few US engagements this year. I sat on the 8th row in the Performing Arts Center that sat only a thousand. No one in front of me. Only 2 phones glared before being snuffed. I felt extra lucky.

Toward the end Deva & Miten invited us on stage with them. Perhaps 200 of us went up. Miten led the men in a two line song about being the ocean. The women sang one word over and over with Deva – Hallelujah. When Miten said, sing to yourselves, I put my hands over my heart and sang with abandon as I swayed side to side. I felt my blood rise, run fast and strong. Felt my heart beat under my palms. Heard it pound it in my ears. And then my head lifted right off my body. When we stopped singing, I had to leave the stage. Everyone else stayed put. Miten was speaking. I was in an altered state I didn’t want.

I’m not sure how to convey the spectrum of experience after I left the building that night. Driving home in a sort of no-worry hyper-presence. Completely ungrounded the next morning. Unable to focus with care on anything. But I didn’t want to give a day to coming back to earth. ‘I have work to do, the clock ticks’ bobbed inside my floaty brain, and I wanted to meet that commitment. At 2:30pm, knowing beef would bring me back down, I drove out for hamburger.

Something has changed inside me. As weird as it sounds, my molecules spread so far apart they rearranged themselves when they came back together. I know it. And not believing in coincidence, that night as I picked up my novel I thought for the twelfth time there must be a reason I’m reading these two particular books back-to-back.

The last chapters of the book are an extended epilogue. We get a final wrap of each character and the connections between them. As I read I felt those chapters unnecessary. A device. Thought his editor was too much in love with his writing because there was no other reason they weren’t edited out. They steal something from the reader, I thought. But then, tears started. I saw they were like the fabled diamond in the story holding water and fire, immortality and death both. Illuminating a truth.

We are all connected. The possibility of the best and worst of humanity inside most of us. The choice how that’s played out not necessarily easy. But it’s a choice, whatever the motivation. And whatever happens, life moves on. We move on. Everything that’s happened in our lives becomes part of who we are. The past can either seal us under sod, or we can soften to all that remembering in our hearts, stand helpless to empathy for others. That’s what I got.

I still have to coax myself to trust I’ll be okay, come out upright on the other side of big changes in my life. Fear still sits in the corner, waiting to win. But I don’t think about resigning or quitting, any more. Don’t doubt I’ll get where I intend to be, do what I committed to do. That’s what I carry.

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

Tell me. . .what do you carry from the remembering in your heart?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .I’ve only just begun to tell you all I’ve seen.

I’m writing a book – The Writer’s Block Myth.
About getting past stuck, living and loving your best creative life.

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

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