My Main Ingredient by Kolleen Harrison

Kolleen Harrison Open Hands

As I sat and thought about the topic of “Nourishment” so many things went through my mind. There is nourishment from the obvious stand point of food and water, yet the nourishment I felt really drawn to focus on was my Soul  Nourishment, my Soul Food.

So I began brainstorming with these questions:

  • Where do I fill my well?
  • What brings me happiness?
  • When and where do I feel most at peace?
  • What satisfies my soul hunger?
  • When, where and with whom do I feel most “Me”?

I made a lengthy list of all the incredibly awesome things that serve this purpose and even posed the question on my Kolleen Harrison Family 3Facebook account. A good chunk of the answers were along the lines of face to face connection with family and friends, time in nature, doing something creative, listening to or playing music, spending time with animals, quiet time in prayer or meditation.

I initially planned on compiling a “Top 7 List of Things to Feed Your Soul”, yet as I sat alone today, I heard a tiny whisper say, “Being a Mom is your main ingredient. It is what comes before any of the others. It is what you NEED, so write about that.”

So as I sat, looking around my family room at all the photos that fill that space, I realized how true that sweet little whisper was. My most favorite thing in the world is being a Mom, nourishing my children, loving on them, supporting them, being here for them, helping to protect and teach them best I know how.

Yet, as I took a closer look at all the photos, I realized my mothering is not only limited to my children, it also extends to my friends and others close to me. I find great nourishment in mothering others at their time of need, their time of struggle and sadness, their time of needing love and encouragement, providing an ear to bend or shoulder to lean into. I honestly donʼt know a time I feel more fed than when I am loving another, supporting another, hugging another, encouraging another, protecting another, mothering another.

THAT, is the main ingredient for any soul food recipe of mine.

It is what fills my well.

It is what I am most grateful for.

Kolleen Harrison Circle of Hands

About the Author: Kolleen Harrison

kolleenHarrisonbioKolleen Harrison is a creative living in the beautiful Central Coast of California. She is the Founder of LOVEwild and Founder/Maker of Mahabba Beads. Her passions lie in nurturing her relationship with God, loving on her happily dysfunctional family, flinging paint in her studio, dancing barefoot, making jewelry (that is so much more than “just jewelry”), and spreading love and kindness wherever and whenever she can. You can find her popping in and out at LOVEwild.org or MahabbaBeads.com

Online Friendship: Feeding the Creative Soul by Jeanie Croope

The other day I was responding to a comment on my blog. It was to a woman I’ve “known” for a long while online and after replying directly to the comment, I continued with what would seem more like a letter. Remember letters? Those lovely missives on creamy paper or a carefully chosen card, written by hand, carefully addressed and sent in the post with a stamp?

woman-865111_1920I knew that in due course I would receive a reply that I would answer and the circle would continue. And even before those words were typed, I was excited and eager for that reply.

When I began blogging on The Marmelade Gypsy eight and a half years ago, the last thing I expected was a network of friends who would enrich my life in so many ways. It isn’t that I was a recluse, not by any means. At that time I was working in a fairly high profile job. By day I enjoyed the company of creative and clever colleagues and in the off-hours the company of a variety of good friends. I had a group of wonderful woman friends, all of whom were creative and communications oriented, caring and compassionate. Our conversations were passionate and enthusiastic. My book club consisted of intelligent, spirited women who would be perfectly willing to throw over the literary conversation should one of our “Savory Sisters” require a feedback zone. There were two or three very close friends with whom there were hours of conversation covering every topic and in Rick, a wonderful partner whose presence was always welcome.

I didn’t need more friends. (Well, we all need more friends!) And yet, it was through this group of strangers that I found a unique support system, one that remains non-judgmental, encouraging and unquestionably motivating. I realized that those we don’t know face-to-face can still help provide the nourishment we need to do our best work, to be our best selves, to reach out beyond what we thought we might settle for.

I’ve tried to look more deeply into these relationships — most of which have never been face-to-face — to discover just what it is that I find so energizing about them. Perhaps it is the give and take. When I visit a blog and discover something beautiful or a new technique or a photo, story or outstanding writing that moves me, I come away from the experience enriched. I become motivated to not just “put up a post” but to try to put up one that truly pleases me. It might not be prize-worthy; it may be silly or share a bit of creativity or a family moment, but I want it to be one that pleases me — and that I hope will, in turn, please my readers.

It may well be the encouragement. Not long ago a longtime reader commented on how she had seen my art and drawing improve over the years. I was floating on air for days because I didn’t see that. I saw only that it wasn’t quite what I wanted it to be. It wasn’t as good as … well, as many others. She saw that it was better and I felt as though I could live on those words for a month.

I think most all of us are fed by praise. Genuine praise — not just kind and friendly words but those we know are from the heart. When I see that kind of feedback, I smile. Call it feeding the fragile ego, call it stoking the creative furnace. It fills me up.

And I don’t mean all praise and good words. I am equally motivated by someone’s shared experience or a constructive difference of opinion. “Have you tried this?” Or “That reminds me of …” That kind of dialogue fosters understanding and relationships. It helps us to grow.

I can take a long walk on a beautiful day and let my mind run, perhaps tumbling over a new idea or two that will manifest in words or pictures. I might watch the waves lap on the beach and feel the warmth of the sun and piece together bits of a future composition. And I may smile.

But I can tell you that as I answer a comment and especially one from a stranger who has become a friend over years of shared online interests and ideas, family stories and who knows what, that I am smiling. I am “seeing” a face I may have seen before only in a photo on my computer screen. I am smiling at them and I’m pretty sure they are smiling back at me.

And I am nourished.

About the Author: Jeanie Croope

Jeanie Croope bioAfter a long career in public broadcasting, Jeanie Croope is now doing all the things she loves — art, photography, writing, cooking, reading wonderful books and discovering a multitude of new creative passions. You can find her blogging about life and all the things she loves at The Marmelade Gypsy.

Notes and Words: Finding the Rhythm by Robin Meloy Goldsby

My father plays the drums. He also tells stories. When I was a child, he entertained our family at dinnertime with colorful observations about playing in symphony orchestras, jazz clubs, and burlesque theaters, mesmerizing us with pitch-perfect tales about fall-down drunks, stuck-up divas, and exotic dancers with names like Irma the Body. Fantasizing about my future as a performer, I listened to the rhythm of my father’s words and dreamed that someday I’d be seasoned enough to tell a few stories of my own. But first, I had to learn a bit of piano playing, memorize hundreds of songs, and spend years negotiating the touchy social situations familiar to most musicians.

piano(new)The idea for Piano Girl: A Memoir came to me after decades of working as a solo pianist in roadside dives, plush Manhattan hotels, and European castles. Playing pleasant background music for listeners and non-listeners alike, I kept my sanity by monitoring the human comedies, tragedies, and mundane miracles drifting past the Steinway. After thirty years of scribbling notes on cocktail napkins and in journals, I began writing my book.

With a dose of cautious optimism, I sent a Piano Girl proposal to Richard Johnston, then the senior editor at Backbeat Books. Richard, who shared my musician’s sense of humor, surprised me with a contract, an advance, and a six-month deadline.

Piano Girl received a Publishers Weekly starred review, an endorsement from BookSense, and landed feature interviews for me on All Things Considered, The Leonard Lopate Show, and NPR’s Piano Jazz with Marian McPartland. Henry Steinway sponsored a Piano Girl reading and concert at Steinway Hall; attended by the esteemed William Zinsser, whose wonderful book On Writing Well had been my desktop bible while working on Piano Girl. His hopeful smile in the audience that night cast a magic spell over the evening and soothed my jangled nerves.

Backbeat Books coordinated a book-launch cocktail party at the Waldorf Astoria. NPR taped the event, which attracted friends, industry professionals, and booksellers from all over the country. I wore an over-the-top red evening gown, played “Night and Day” on Cole Porter’s piano, and signed books. Sipping champagne, I checked out the stylish crowd swirling around the piano, stunned that my childhood fantasy had evolved into a book that people seemed to like. I never thought I would be published, much less with my first submission. But sometimes in the writing business, as in the music business, just showing up for the gig—ready and willing to give 100% —reaps huge rewards. The rosy glow of the Waldorf spotlight faded quickly, but I can still feel its warmth.

What I Learned: Memoirists suffer from the curse of too much material. Constructing a solid outline eased the selection process for me. Before I started writing, I knew exactly which stories I wanted to tell.
As a lyricist, I’ve studied the craft of setting words to music. As a memoirist, I’ve learned to work from the opposite direction, by stringing words together and finding a musical flow. Good music features well-placed moments of silence. The same can be said for writing. By revising constantly, I learned to hear the subtle rhythm of my sentences as I arranged the peculiar themes of my life into beautiful or ugly melodies that made sense. Whenever I got a phrase just right, I experienced a whoosh of elation.

The media hoopla surrounding Piano Girl stoked my ego, but it couldn’t compete with the contentment I had experienced while writing—the bliss of finding the lore of a story or discovering the musical threads connecting the chapters of my life.

Advice: Writing presents the same challenges as learning a musical instrument. There aren’t any shortcuts. You need passion, patience, and long hours of practice—every single day— until you get it right. Savor the tiny victories as they’re happening, and you win the artist’s race one step at a time. Don’t wait for the book-launch party to break out the champagne. Instead, revel in the honest victory of each well-crafted sentence. Celebrate! Remember that the joy of writing reveals itself when you make your story sing. Practice as much as you can, and you’ll find the music in your words. It’s there.

About the Author: Robin Meloy Goldsby

Robin Meloy Goldsby author photoRobin Meloy Goldsby is the author of Piano Girl: A Memoir; Rhythm: A Novel; and Waltz of the Asparagus People: The Further Adventures of Piano Girl. Her newest book, Manhattan Road Trip offers a collection of short stories about musicians.

Goldsby’s career as a musician has taken her from roadside dives to posh New York City venues and exclusive resorts, and on to the European castles and concert stages where she now performs. Robin has six solo piano recordings to her name—Twilight; Somewhere in Time; Songs from the Castle; Waltz of the Asparagus People; Magnolia; December; and Piano del Sol—and has appeared in the USA on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered and Piano Jazz with Marian McPartland. Robin is a Steinway Artist. Connect with her at her website.

Don’t Assume the ‘Good Death’ by Sue Ann Gleason

Screen shot 2016-05-16 at 12.50.37 PM

I am awakened from a dream. In it I can’t stop scratching. I look at my arms, my legs, my hands. They’re fine. There’s nothing there. I have these dreams occasionally. I call them death residue, unfinished business. I know this one is about the time I found him scratching, scratching, scratching and when I pulled up his pajama leg to see what was wrong I found that he had scratched his skin until it bled. There were scabs up and down his legs and no one from the nursing home had noticed. Or, if they had noticed, they hadn’t done anything about it. Until I took photos of those legs and sent them to the nursing home doctor. After that, “lubricate” became a doctor’s order.

Mostly my dad shows up in my dreams as his younger, more vibrant self and we’re sharing a meal or he’s cutting slices of an apple and handing them to us. He loved to feed us. In another dream I’m looking around the table at my family trying to communicate to them with nods, no words, that they should be taking this in. We’re a family again. Like somehow I know this dream is really a ‘visitation’ but they don’t know that. And I want them to know what a gift this is: Dad, alive and luminous and laughing, if even for a moment. If even in another dimension entirely.

My dad died. Twice.

One day he was larger than life, a laughing, loving, effusive man who talked so much you could hardly get a word in. And the next? Flat. No affect. Silent. A stent surgery opened his valves and shut down parts of his brain. The doctors thought it was depression. They tried all kinds of antidepressants to shake him out of the abyss. One drug did just that for a short period of time but it made him manic. On one occasion he purchased a camera, a carpet and a new car. All in one night.

During the manic episode he called me every night for two weeks while my mother escaped to the patio to commune with her Red Hat Ladies. He would talk and talk and talk. Nonstop. I stayed on the phone with him night after night caught in a tangle of grief and gratitude because even though I knew his behavior was extreme, I was grateful to hear the lift in his voice again. I wanted to believe he was back.

It didn’t last.

Pretty soon my dad fell back into the abyss. He lost more and more weight. The spring in his step became a shuffle. Never a very nurturing woman to begin with my mother grew more and more agitated with him, “Pick up your feet when you walk.” “Sit up.” “Drink some water.” “Eat. For God’s sake, eat.”

The Homestead, an adult day care center, provided her with daily support and the most competent, loving group of caregivers one could hope for. But after six years she could no longer bear the burden of his care. I’ll never forget the day she decided to place my dad in an assisted living facility. My sister called me on Skype. Her eyes were swollen; I could see that she had been crying. My father’s words were still ringing in her ears, “She’s kicking me out.” Even in his current state of cognitive decline, with limited capacity to feel and express emotion, my dad still understood abandonment.

I flash back to my very first job. I’m a waitress in a lovely retirement home called Beechwood. The residents there enjoy spacious rooms overlooking gardens. They eat beautiful meals served in an elegant dining room with rosewood tables and candlesticks. I have my own row of tables and I know everyone in my charge by name and by diet.

Ma and Pa Smith are my favorites. 


They walk into the dining room every night like lovers on their first date. I imagine I will one day have a relationship just like that. My sixteen-year-old self has no idea how rare that kind of longstanding love truly is.

At Beechwood, birthdays are celebrated once a month at a big long table placed grandly in front of the dining room, much like the bridal table at a wedding. Steak and cake. Pa Smith waves to Ma from his place at the head table throughout the meal and Ma waves back, a huge smile crossing her lips. Then, Pa carefully wraps his cake in a paper napkin to share with her later in the quiet of their suite. We call their room the honeymoon suite.

Beechwood has two separate units, the retirement home and E-wing. E-wing is where the residents move when they can no longer care for themselves independently. They don’t dine on rosewood tables with candlesticks in E-wing. Mostly, they have trays delivered to their rooms, and on occasion, they are wheeled to the communal dining room where they eat with fellow residents. Meals on wheels.

My dad took up residence in an assisted living facility called The Peaks. It was nothing like Beechwood. Not even E-wing.

I walk into the front lobby and I feel comforted by the giant birdcage and the pleasant arrangement of magazines that adorn the contemporary stone table between two cozy chairs. I fail to notice that the magazines are outdated copies of Runner’s World. It’s been a very long time since any of the residents here needed to know how to prepare for the next big race.

The marketing director ushers me into her office, heels clicking. She assures me that my dad will be well cared for here. “The staff is warm and dedicated.” She doesn’t tell me they are overworked, underpaid, and for the most part, completely ignorant of the specialized needs of the aged.

Next comes the tour.

I see a great big white board, the activity schedule. “We like to keep our residents stimulated!” she chirps. Supposedly there are activities throughout the day. Some are in the assisted living wing. Others are in long-term care. 

We spend almost two hours crafting my father’s care plan. “How many showers would you like him to have each week? Three? No problem. We can’t guarantee the days you request, but we’ll do our best to fit him into the schedule.”

“What were his interests? Did he have any hobbies? Oh, he was a watercolor painter? We’ll be sure to make time each day for Sam to draw in his sketchpad. What are his favorite foods? He likes pork tenderloin? Spaghetti? Chicken? Great, we’ll make a note of that.”

I leave the office feeling hopeful, clutching the care plan, a promise that my dad will be nurtured in his new home. The room is ready. It’s time to get him settled in. I imagine this is what it feels like to send your child off to his first day of school. Only this isn’t kindergarten. This isn’t a room full of frolicking children dancing around a loving teacher, cheery music playing in the background. This is a lonely little room with a tired armchair, a threadbare carpet, and a hospital-like bed with a mattress that is a foot too short for its frame. The heat is blasting from the radiator. There is no thermostat in the room. It’s April.

I leave the room to get some air.

The silence in the corridors is deafening—no sign of life anywhere—certainly no sign of the activities that are plastered all over the bulletin board.

As I walk through the long-term care wing I find myself praying my father doesn’t live long enough to enter these rooms. The long-term care wing looks like a war torn hospital. Curtains between beds provide the only privacy for the residents there. White spindly legs peek out from under the covers. It’s 3:00 in the afternoon but it may as well be midnight.

My dad spent thirteen grueling months at the Peaks before I could get him moved to a more appropriate setting.

Ten years is an awfully long time to linger in this in between place. Death before death. Yet linger he did. 

It’s a sunny afternoon. I’m sitting with my husband in an outdoor café. We have just come from his father’s hospital room where we are making plans to move yet another beloved dad into an assisted living center, albeit this one much lovelier than The Peaks. The hospital is releasing my husband’s father to hospice the very next day. The vibration of my cell phone jars me. In the deluge of details we are sorting through to be sure his dad’s transition is smooth if not seamless, I forget that I have a phone conference scheduled with my own dad’s hospice team this very afternoon.

The setting isn’t ideal but at least there is cell reception. And wine. This is supposed to be a ‘routine’ care conference. The hospice nurse tells me later that they had been prepared to release my dad from their care because he had, once again, reached a plateau. But this afternoon they are seeing a serious decline. This time it appears to be his last downward spiral.

“Come.”



My suitcase was still packed. It had made its way from California to Annapolis and now, Colorado. I remember ordering dinner at that cafe and not tasting a thing on my plate. I just wanted to be on that plane which wasn’t leaving until early the next morning. “Eat,” my husband urged, but food was the last thing on my mind. I called the night nurse in my father’s skilled nursing home three times that night. I needed to know he was tending my dad with a wide-open heart and loving hands. I felt pretty helpless actually, but somehow just hearing a voice at the other end of the line and remembering this nurse from my last visit gave me peace enough to sleep, though fitfully, until we could make our way to the airport.

He waited.

As much as I thought I’d be ready for my dad’s passing, I wasn’t fully prepared to say goodbye. He was my anchor, the one I could count on to show me the brighter side of anything and everything. He didn’t die the way I hoped he’d die—the way I hope I’ll cross that threshold—in the comfort of my own home, in my own bed, warm and cozy and cognizant. The reality was that as much as I cared for my dad and fought for his dignity, it was never enough. Even with well-meaning caretakers, so many things fall through the cracks. Those are the dreams that still haunt me.

I had never before had the privilege of holding someone close as they passed.

Dying is, indeed, a sacred act.

My little family gathered together in this liminal space sharing slices of my dad’s life as he took his last breath. Somehow I know he was listening.

About the Author: Sue Ann Gleason

Sue Ann GleasonNourishment guide, SoulCollage® Facilitator, and ‘wise business’ strategist, Sue Ann Gleason is a lover of words, a strong believer in the power of imagination, and a champion for women who want to live a more delicious, fully expressed life. She has been featured in Oprah and Runner’s World magazines and numerous online publications.

When not working with private clients or delivering online programs, Sue Ann can be found sampling exotic chocolates or building broccoli forests in her mashed potatoes.

You can connect with her in a few different places. Delicious freebies await you!
nourished living | wise business | instagram

Everything I Never Knew I Always Wanted by Julie M Terrill

Sonora Dawn, Prickley Pear on Velum

Most of us tend to want our blessings to be wrapped in pretty packaging, leaving little doubt that what has been received is, indeed, a gift. I have found that many of my blessings come in the guise of old crumpled up newspaper wrapped around a stinky fish. My initial reaction might be, “Ugh! I don’t want that!”, but somewhere, buried deep Leonardoinside, there is a blessing waiting to be discovered.

I recently developed a visual impairment due to the side effects of a medication. Surgeries have restored my vision, but for several months I was unable to drive, read, and, most disappointingly, work on my photography.

Photography is part of my “ness”, a term my kids use to describe the essence of one’s soul. Photography is part of my Mommyness, my Julieness; without it I wasn’t quite me.

I decided still attend an upcoming class in alcohol inks,

discovering a beautiful and vibrant way to express my creativity that did not require visual acuity. Ink paintings are supposed to be abstract or impressionistic. Perfect! Not only was it therapeutic to acquire a new set of creative skills, I’m incorporating alcohol inks into my photographic work, rendering hand-embellished images with a unique dreamscape quality.

Even though I resisted this particular newspaper-wrapped, stinky, dead fish—my temporary visual impairment—it brought gifts I never even knew I always wanted.

Thank goodness I didn’t throw it away.

About the Author: Julie Terrill

julieterrill_bioJulie Terrill is a photographer and writer with a passion for photojournalism. For ten years, she’s told stories of empowerment through the lens of her camera in an array of unique landscapes, environments, and projects – from a shelter for children rescued from trafficking Thailand to Faces of Courage, complimentary portrait sessions she offers to cancer patients in her community. She has been a photographer and facilitator at Beautiful You and has experience with commercial architectural photography, portraiture, and travel photography.

In addition to her professional experience behind the camera, Julie is the parent of seven young adult children, four of whom have special needs. With collaborative projects and thematic field trips, she has used her love of photography to help gain an understanding of their view of the world.

Julie is currently planning for a trip to Ireland, where she is looking forward to capturing the details of Ireland’s thin places and applying for Artist-in-Residence programs with the National Park Service.

Connect with her at: JMTerrillImages.com

Some Days Alone, Some Days Together: The Writer’s Journey by Andi Cumbo-Floyd

Community

I got this message via Twitter today:

I listened to ur podcast w @JamesPrescott77 – I just adore you and could listen to you lots. You make me feel peaceful. – Cindy W. Brandt

Today, I am feeling weak and drained, word-worn and wan.  But Cindy’s message, it’s like a spark that find tinder I didn’t know I had.  “If Cindy appreciates what I have to say, maybe I can keep going.”

***

Yesterday, a friend wrote to three of us, a little coterie of other writers that has formed via the glorious binary of the internet, to tell us how something was being “worked out in him” about publication and about aging and about how this writing thing is wrapped up with our identities in ways we cannot extract and don’t always love.

Within a few hours, we had each replied with words of sympathy and encouragement, sharing our own struggles and fears. Each email felt like someone was pouring a little cool water on the tips of my fingers that had been burned by the writing life.

***

A few weeks ago, I spent three days running into people whose faces had been only thumbnails until we met over the free coffee at a conference.  I greeted, I chatted, I even hugged.  (I’m not a hugger.)  I spent time with people I’ve known for decades and with others I hope to know for the rest of my life.

I came home totally full, absolutely exhausted, and with the first cold I’ve had in 9 months. All of those things came as gifts, tissue-laden and rich, from moments when I could feel the heat radiate from another person’s skin.

***

It is so very easy, in this writing life, to hunker down and “do the work,” to tuck myself away into my office with two heaters, a hot beverage, and five open computer tabs.  I can go weeks where the only people I see are the ones who come to me: my husband, my father, my soon-to-be step-mom, my in-laws.

Sometimes, I must shut myself away, refuel in the solitude and silence of my work.  Sometimes, I need the focus that I can only achieve when I’m spending most of my days saturated in words already written.

Sometimes.

But other times, these notes from friends, these missives of the digital, these conversations over coffee with too much cream and sugar are just as necessary.  A big hunk of fresh-based, coarse bread, a perfectly-spiced slice of meat, and a pear – sustenance for the writer’s journey.

And that’s how I see community – both face-to-face and digital – in my writer’s life.  The times I interact with other people in real, rich, not mediated ways, they are like my traveler’s rations that I wrap in a clean piece of cloth torn from my grandfather’s work shirt.  I carry them with me for the next set of days alone here in this room with my computer.

I wouldn’t survive the journey without them.

About the Author: Andi Cumbo-Floyd

andibio1Andi Cumbo-Floyd is a writer, editor, and farmer, who lives on 15 blissful acres at the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains with her husband, 6 goats, 4 dogs, 4 cats, and 22 chickens. Her books include Steele Secrets, The Slaves Have Names, and Writing Day In and Day Out. You can connect with Andi at her website, andilit.com, or via Facebook and Twitter.

Editor’s Note: If you’re looking for a little face-to-face community to carry you on your journey, Andi is hosting a Writer’s Retreat at her  farm in Virginia.  You can get more details here – http://andilit.com/writers-retreat-at-gods-whisper-farm   Relax, learn, share stories, and help each other find footing for the next days’ walk.

Time to Declare My Word for the Year by Christine Mason Miller

CMM_Altar1

“The first step shall be to lose the way.” -Galway Kinnell

When 2016 arrived, I didn’t ring it in with champagne and party hats. I wanted to sleep more than anything, so I celebrated by going to bed about 9:00pm. 2015 wasn’t a bad year, but it was an intense year, and even though I got a decent night’s sleep as the world said farewell to 2015, I was ready for a nap within an hour of waking up. I’d been CMM_HappyNewYearfeeling that way for weeks, and the first day of 2016 was no exception.

I got sick within a few days, and it was a bug that made itself comfortable in my sinus passages for a solid three weeks. It wasn’t until the end of the month, when I got in my car for the four-hour drive north to Big Sur for a long weekend with seven soul sisters that the exhaustion finally began to lift. I made sure of that by turning the volume up on my sappiest playlist and letting myself cry as hard as I could for the first hour of the drive. (Thanks, Adele!) I was tired of being sick. I was tired of feeling so tired. I was tired of feeling like I was in a constant race against time.

During those weeks of feeling like I was moving underwater, I felt like I was missing out on all the fun everyone was having sharing their word for the year. All that excitement! All that energy! Everyone fired up and eager to make 2016 the best year ever! I was still recovering from 2015 and wasn’t ready to decide what I most wanted to manifest in the wide open space of the new year. What’s my word of the year? I’d ask myself. Nothing. The cursor in my brain just kept blinking idly, a reminder that in this particular endeavor—making a declaration for my life—I was a failure.

Now that we’re almost five months in, I’ve got my word—not because I decided on it once I started to get my mojo back, but because it keeps showing up on days like today, when I wrap up a big project and I automatically ask myself OK, what’s next?

I used to thrive in situations when someone would ask that question, or any variation of it—When is your next show? CMM_PursuitofMagicWhere is your next retreat? What will you write about next? I prided myself on always having an answer. I’d have my next show lined up. My next retreat would already be on the calendar. A book proposal would be waiting in the wings. Being able to confidently, immediately answer the question “What’s next?” meant I was a mover, a shaker, a woman who made things happen. But over time, it also meant I was a woman who was tired, and frequently left wondering why I felt like my time to rest was always just beyond whatever my answer to the question happened to be that day. Right after regaling my listener with all the impressive feats I was about to accomplish, I would—without fail—follow it up with, “And after I finish that I’ll finally have some down time!”

The word that keeps hovering in my periphery is discernment. Defined as the ability to judge well, I see this word drift through my awareness every time the question of what’s next pops up. If “What’s next?” is in neon, “discernment” is like a fog, trying to reduce its harsh glare. It is a reminder to choose carefully, and that the best answer might actually be “Nothing.”

I’ve been having a conversation with someone this week about recognizing that although we are artistic, creative beings we are not, at our core, defined solely by this. We actually do ourselves a disservice by trying to make our sense of well-being and contentment contingent upon this. I can make artwork, organize retreats, and write books and connect to my core or I can do none of those things and still honor my soul and spirit. If my answer to the CMM_bytheshorequestion, “What’s next?” is “Nothing”, I am still me. I am still whole and worthy and enough.

This is where discernment comes in, as a quiet whisper that doesn’t just tell me it’s OK to loosen the reins on my Very Important Things To Do list. It is also letting me in on a secret I am only beginning to understand, which is that by spending so much time and effort keeping my bag of answers to the question of what’s next full, I might actually be missing out on the most potent opportunities to tap into my core, my soul, my deepest sense of creativity, presence, and joy.

I talked about writing the book I just finished for many years before finally sitting down to write it. What was it that compelled me to finally do it? The sound of my own voice saying, “I just have to write this book!” too many times. I decided it was time to either write the book or stop talking about it. That was more than two years ago, and yesterday I sent my book to the printer.

I feel the same way about the proclamation that always punctuates my answer to the question of what’s next, the part about having some quiet time once this is wrapped up or that is finished. I’ve heard myself say it enough times to know it is time for a change. It isn’t about literally doing nothing, but about creating time for myself to explore and see where the wind takes me. If I’m always deciding ahead of time exactly what I want to work on, I’m missing out on all the discoveries that await me on the detours. I’m eager for some aimless wandering. I’m ready to let myself get lost.

About the Author: Christine Mason Miller

christinemasonmillerChristine Mason Miller is an author, artist and guide who lives in Santa Barbara, California.

Buy her book on Amazon. Go on Retreat . Hire her as your Mentor.

You can follow her adventures at www.christinemasonmiller.com.

The Fleeting Moments of Now by Jeanie Croope

JeanieC_Now (3)

Over the course of the past month or so, reading the inspiring posts on Modern Creative Life, I’ve been thinking more and more about “What’s Next?” There is, of course, a list as long as a garden hose — working in the garden being part of that list! It includes more purging for Goodwill, taking the online art class I signed up for, catching a lot JeanieC_Now (1)of good theatre in our community, a few gatherings with friends and of course the never-ending family heritage project that has evolved into a family history book of shared stories. All too quickly it will be time for summer road trips and joyful days at the lake where I will park myself on the porch with paint and glue and create things.

All these future activities are noble efforts, fine projects or fun activities and I look looking forward to most of them (the basement purging a little less so!)

But I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t ask “What’s Now?” “Next” will be there today and tomorrow and the day after that.

But “Now” is so very fleeting.

I realized the other day that spring has finally come to our town. Flowering trees are popping into bloom everywhere, forsythia is abundant and driving through what will soon be an JeanieC_Now (2)arbor of deep green leaves is like now passing through a cloud of soft, misty chartreuse. The world is waking up.

I realized I have been looking so far ahead that I didn’t quite realize what was “now.” And now that I have, I simply want to drink it in like the thickest milk shake (made with real ice cream, please!) or a perfect glass of wine, rich and fragrant.

I looked at my “list of things to do” last night and buried somewhere in the middle was “Call Marie.” Marie is my father’s 92-year-old first cousin and the only living relative left on his side of the family that I know. We’ve talked about going out to the family graves of my grandparents about an hour away for too long. The trip seemed delayed for many good reasons — an illness on her part, weather unsuitable for tromping through a cemetery, busy life that gets in the way.

And it hit me that if I don’t make that “next” now, maybe I’ll call to find it is too late.

And so this morning, I called. And the answering machine picked up. It could be for any number of reasons — a doctor appointment, a haircut, a visit to the store, a nap.

But I will worry until we connect.

“Next” can be so exciting, filled with great expectations.

But “Now” is really what we have at this very moment. “Now” are those moments when you pull the cat closer and JeanieC_Now (4)hear a loud, contented purr as you stroke the satiny fur. “Now” are the moments on the phone with a far-away friend, the warmth of the body next to you as you drift off to sleep, the fragrance of the hyacinth blossom you hold to your nose as you deeply inhale its sweet scent. “Now” is watching in awe as Harry the Heron makes his springtime debut, bringing with him the promise of all the beautiful days that will be “next.

“Now” is hitting redial and leaving the same message.

And so, while I wait, I look at that list and think “what do I do now?” And I click on the link to my online class, find the video for the first lesson and hit “play.”

About the Author: Jeanie Croope

Jeanie Croope bioAfter a long career in public broadcasting, Jeanie Croope is now doing all the things she loves — art, photography, writing, cooking, reading wonderful books and discovering a multitude of new creative passions. You can find her blogging about life and all the things she loves at The Marmelade Gypsy.

The Stories Our Mothers Tell Us by Theresa Reed

Do you ever wonder what your mother’s life was like before you were born? Her heartbreaks, her dreams, her triumphs and tragedies – the stories that made her who she is?

I did. And still do.

In many ways, my mother’s life was an enigma. I grew up in the era where things were not discussed. Skeletons stories-mother-told-theresa-reedstayed firmly locked in the closet, never to be revealed except in those rare slip-ups that would occur when the beer flowed a bit too freely.

So when she died and we discovered the obituary of her father tucked in an old book we were puzzled to see that her name wasn’t listed. Instead, a “Mrs. X” (I don’t remember the last name) stared out at us. What…the…hell. Was she married before she met my Dad? Who was this mysterious Mr. X?

Her last living brother solved the mystery: she was living in sin with a man (a brutal one at that). A shameful thing in that day and age so it had to be covered up with a lie. The pretend husband.

That’s all we were told so that’s the end of that story.

Our mothers choose the stories they want to tell us not the ones we want to know. Even their childhood stuff – we get the little glimpses but never the full story.

One story my mother often told was about the time she hit her baby brother. Enraged, my grandmother chased her around the kitchen table to lay down a beating of her own. But mom was too fast. So Grandma hit her where it really hurts: she took her favorite doll, a little Indian doll with a papoose strapped on the back, and smashed it to bits. Mom said was the worst thing my grandmother ever did because that doll was her everything – and Grandma knew it. It broke the bond and mom had trouble trusting her after that. (Toys are serious biz to a kid.)

Years later, while meandering around in an antique store, I found a doll exactly like the one she described. It was pristine, intact, like brand new. I packed the doll up and mailed it off as an early birthday gift. A few days later, the phone rang and I could barely understand her. She was sobbing with joy, made whole by that little Indian doll.

A few months later, mom was gone. Her other stories are gone too but the Indian doll sits on my shelf, a reminder of her legacy, her story, of who she was.

What stories have I left unsaid for my children? What are the things I choose to tell…or not? Which will they remember?

Perhaps the one on how I broke my leg at two, which was the biggest life changer ever (it’s a long story).

Or maybe they’ll remember the more mundane stupid crap like the “sanitary napkin cast“ or the time I was so desperate to swear out loud that I tried to trick my sister into naming a character in her story “Harry Dick” just so I could have an excuse to say those words out loud (I got in big trouble for that one).

Or maybe they’ll choose to reflect on the carefully curated dark tales that I’ve shared here and there…and wonder how that shaped me into who I am today. Perhaps they will think about the stuff I didn’t share…won’t share. The stories that are still too raw, too personal….too scary.

The stories that I am keeping for me..for now. Maybe forever.

We all have our stuff, both good and ill, but I sometimes wonder what is the balance between oversharing and not saying enough.

How much do we really need to tell? What should our loved ones know?

I hope to tell my children more stories before I’m gone. Funny ones. Happy ones. Maybe a few of the ones that still make my stomach burn and my jaw tighten.

Because those stories are my legacy – and their legacy too.

Those stories need to be told. One day.

What stories are you telling your loved ones?

Originally Published at The Tarot Lady Dot Com. Reprinted with Permission by the Author.

About the Author: Theresa Reed

theresareed200squareTheresa Reed (aka The Tarot Lady) is an intuitive Tarot reader, teacher, mentor and yogi on a mission to take Tarot from hippie to hip.  When she’s not reading tarot, she’s busy helping fellow mystics learn how to create sustainable + profitable businesses. Her first book, The Tarot Coloring Book, is due to drop November 2016.  If you are ready for straight talkin’ tarot and a side of biz whizz, get to her online hood: The Tarot Lady or follow her on Twitter @thetarotlady

The Longing for a New Adventure by Christine Mason Miller

christinemasonmiller_desk

I thought I knew what I was going to write about, but as soon as I typed the first words and saw them appear onscreen in perfect synchronicity with the movement of my fingers on the keyboard, my attention took a sharp left Bud_ChristineMasonMillerturn. I found myself inexplicably, surprisingly fascinated by the sensation of having all my thoughts swoop out of my brain, down my arms, and into my fingertips as if the words were swishing down a slide carved out of ice. How could this possibly feel so weird? I mean, I just finished writing a book. Seeing the words inside my head immediately appear onscreen as I type should feel as mundane as buttering toast. Instead, it felt like magic.

I finished writing the bulk of the book earlier this year.

Since then, I’ve been focused on copy editing, fine tuning, and formatting. This last lap to publishing has taken longer than I’d anticipated, one of many surprises the book has had in store for me along the way. I can’t say I had a many specific expectations when I set out to write a memoir about the spiritual journey I’ve taken with my family, but I’ve still experienced one surprising twist after another, all the way up to right now.

One of them has to do with the phase I’m currently in—getting the book ready to be published. I’m getting a small project_ChristineMasonMillerquantity of hardcover editions printed independently for this first round, which won’t be sold or offered to the public. I made this choice for a number of reasons, most especially because my goal was never to write a book so it could be published and sold to the public. My goal was to write the best book I could write, and I knew this could only happen if I kept the entire process out of reach of anyone but myself, a trusted editor I hired at the outset, and a handful of readers along the way.

I know how things go—when a manuscript or proposal is presented to a potential publisher, the powers-that-be may or may not like the way a story is told even if they like the story itself, at which point a conversation begins about how the book can be revised and re-arranged to suit an editor’s vision. I understand this. Book publishers are in the business of selling books, so they want to do everything they can to reach a broad audience.

But, as I said, my goal wasn’t to write a book in order to sell it to a broad audience. I simply needed to write the book, oridinarysparklymoment_christinemasonmillerand I needed to write it in my own way, on my own terms, in my own voice.

A friend recently asked, “What do you think about most when you envision your book being real?” My answer: “That I did what I set out to do: I wrote the best book I could write.”

Which is why I’ve been startled to observe myself dragging my feet on these final steps. I’m so close! The writing is finished! The only items remaining on my to do list are technical and organizational, and I love organizing! So what’s the problem?

There’s no problem, really. It’s just life. It’s a husband, a family, and a dog. It’s houseguests, laundry, and work. It probably also has a lot to do with my own impatience. After spending more than two years writing the book, I just want it in my hands—now. All this in-between work has felt kind of annoying and, in my irritation, I’ve put my book-related tasks on the back burner most of the time. I wrote the book, I think, Shouldn’t that be enough?

Progress has been slow but steady, and I’m having to practice patience, both with the needs of my home and family as well as my own messy, human ways. I haven’t marched boldly toward the end of this journey. I’ve shuffled along, mandala_christinemasonmillercomplaining frequently. And I’ve let myself get easily distracted in an attempt to avoid thinking about all the little things that still need to be done. But today I turned another corner, which has me mapping out a timeline that ends at the actual finish line, the one that involves holding the book in my hands and giving a private reading in our home. Where the book will take me after that is anyone’s guess.

Which brings me back to my wide-eyed reaction upon seeing the words for this story pop up onscreen like tiny, obedient soldiers with perfect posture. I am surprised to discover how much I’ve missed writing. I thought it would be a long while before I’d have the inclination to dive into any new writing projects after finishing the book, but the ideas are already whispering in my ear. And the sensations of taking a thought from my mind and sending it immediately to the page have apparently been missed as well. I feel the pull of this dance—of the clickety-clack of the keyboard, and the creation of a brand new story.

About the Author: Christine Mason Miller

christinemasonmillerChristine Mason Miller is an author, artist and guide who lives in Santa Barbara, California.

Buy her book on Amazon. Go on Retreat . Hire her as your Mentor.

You can follow her adventures at www.christinemasonmiller.com.